It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You

Pup and I live in a mostly sweet little neighborhood of 1960s housing in a part of Minneapolis that is neither totally the hood, nor very swanky. Just a middle-class neighborhood full of diversity and hope. Growing younger all the time which is fantastic!

Our neighbors are great. I wouldn't call our street the kind of street that is in each other's faces all the time, but we're a fairly friendly bunch.

Then the Hillbillys moved in. A motley crew. I wouldn't have thought much about them except the youngish man that owns the house made certain to come over and introduce himself. A talker - letting me know how "people come and go" a lot because he's so generous to all his friends. And how he's on disability for some physical thing so he's home most of the time. A little alarm went off at the time for me, but I did squash it down a bit.

My schedule is rather fluid and since our office window faces the street the Hillbilly's house is in full view when I'm working or goofin'. I noticed a lot of traffic coming and going. You know - car pulls up, a guy (usually) hops out, goes into the house, is out in about five minutes. Yep.

We even witnessed the police do an early morning raid complete with battering rams. But, as I've said, it was back to business in a day or so. Blech!

Last week Pup got stuck just off the street while plowing (I kvetched charmingly about it in a post) and two of the Hillbilly's came on the front stoop to watch and smoke.

So yesterday I'm innocently watching K-Spud in the afternoon. He's taking a little snooze on the couch in his little co-sleeper bed, I'm watching Ellen or lurking on Facebook - something totally useful I'm certain!

I text Pup a photo, but through the magic of Awesome Google Photos (or some such feature) it took my snaps and made this for me . . .

I think I laughed for a half hour. Had to hold the Spud so he could drift off back to sleep. In spite of Gigi still shaking with laughter. He'll get used to it. Poppy and I are so classy!

Is schadenfreude going to send me straight to hell? Will I see any of you smoochie-hoochies there? Please come visit me.

Texting

I took Pup to the eye doctor. He hadn't been for about 10 years and we figured he might need me to drive him home after handsome Dr. H dilates his eyes. Which the good doc did.

So . . . I'm out in the waiting room, paging through my new Ikea catalog and I get a text message from Pup.

Pup: They checked the wrong eye. They gave me a patch for the brown eye.
Pup: I'm scared. Come rescue me.
Me: You are bad!!
Me: Tell Dr. H to PLUG your brown eye. You don't need it. :)
Pup: Biggus Dickus is waiting for you.
Me: Oh? Have I met him?
Me: You behave! Dr. H is a nice man.
Pup: I have to poop.
Me: The brown eye has spoken.

Yes, between the two of us, our real-age is about 24. That would be 12 times 2.

I can't lie, the man makes me laugh. He's as inappropriate as a garter-belt on a baseball pitcher (thank you Bull Durham).

The world is made for people who aren't cursed with self-awareness.
~Annie Savoy
Bull Durham