You were the first person we met the day we moved here. In the beginning, you seemed to be a pretty good neighbor. You and JB borrowed various lawn equipment from each other; sometimes, he’d cut your lawn for you, and other times, you’d use the leaf blower to rescue our driveway from the ever shedding tree we all despise.
Over the last three years, I have tolerated your game days…during which you watch whatever football game happens to be on that day in your tricked out garage, drink lots of beer, and cuss so loudly my kids come running in the house terrified. When I have family visiting, and they ask me where all the F-bombs and various other colorful words are coming from, I just point in the direction of your house and suggest that perhaps the game isn’t going so well for you today.
I looked the other way when you built a bicycle ramp out of plywood for my kids and your grandson to use. I didn’t like it, but because it wasn’t too tall I tried not to freak out about it…since you were already making comments about me being too overprotective. Nevertheless, I bandaged your grandson’s injured knee for you, when he fell off YOUR creation.
Lately, you are even grouchier than usual…and I’m not going to hold my tongue much longer if you continue to yell at my kids about riding their bikes on the side of our house because you say the grass won’t ever grow there if they keep it up. (Funny, it was okay when they were jumping off the ramp you built.) It’s MY yard, not yours, they can ride their bikes there if they want! I don’t like smokers, but clearly, some of your grumpiness of late is apparently related to you quitting cigarettes and beer at the same time.
For all of our sanity, I recommend you pick one of those habits back up.
The “Little Firecracker” Next Door.