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It wants to be ugly, but it just can’t. It can’t — it’s too brilliant. It starts out good, then kind of goes south and comes righ back around to good again.  I need this couch.

I don’t love it here, but I hate it less than I did last November. I’d go as far as to say I don’t even hate it. It’s… acceptable. For now.  I would like it more if there weren’t things like huge centipedes and fist-sized black widows, insane electric bills and a lack of friends. I feel very isolated, despite having a view of America’s Playground from my bedroom window.

The year has flown by very quickly, so I know the next will. We committed to 2 years, but now that the first is almost up, we might actually stay in Las Vegas longer than planned. There’s nothing I want more than to go home — to go back to moisture in the air, buildings with character, better Mexican food and my social life. However, we’d also be going back to higher rent for less space (which we’re alright with), but Mike needs to be able to transfer with his job or find another job that’s willing to wait for him to relocate. So the move kind of hinges on those options being available.  Staying allows us to save more money, allows Mike to advance further in his job and gives us the opportunity to take some trips we’ve wanted to take, but might not otherwise be able to afford.

I have explored the city more and discovered areas of town much, much, much better than the one we’re currently in. Our house is nice — big (maybe too big) and new-ish — but the general area is kinda of… meh (says the spoiled Southern California girl). Lots of heavy BOOM BOOM bass on the car stereos, myriad dogs barking and sirens — so many sirens. The retail/commercial areas leave something to be desired, as well.  Like functioning ghost towns, there’s lots of empty and spotty retail spaces and we have to drive 5 or more miles to find a decent grocery.

We’re thinking, if we stay, we’ll move to Summerlin/The Lakes area — the southwest side of the city. It reminds me of SoCal Lite — lusher landscaping, more greenery, more palm trees, better retail offerings and it’s close to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s — the only places in town I can find lively produce. It’s also a bit closer to The Strip for those times I do want to go over there. It’s considered one of the more affluent areas of town, I think, but we can likely get a comparable place for around the same price we’re currently paying. Now that we’ve been here for a while, we know what we want and what we don’t:

MUSTS

• Covered patio. We don’t have one now and our back “garden” is basically useless space with a concrete slab.
• Backyard that contains more than just gravel. It’s so not gratifying to weed rocks. At least in a proper yard, when you weed, you’re able to enjoy the scenery afterward.
• Big tub (I can’t part with my big tub)

WISHLIST

• Wood burning fireplace
• Pool (maybe — it depends on the costs to maintain such a thing, but I wouldn’t hate having one)

NO, THANK YOU

• Water closets (our master bath has a toilet in a tiny stall with a door — I feel like veal in there)

We’ve got another year to go before our lease is up here — but I know with work and travel next year, time will zip by.  We’ll likely hire an agent to find something for us so we can pretend we’re on House Hunters — except I won’t quibble over the wall color.  (Seriously, why do they always bitch about the hideous colors? There’s this stuff called paint, Mensa.)

Anyway, we’ll see what 2012 brings. The point is, despite me missing California so much it hurts, I’m not ready to throw myself off the roof just yet.  Vegas isn’t so terrible.

I hate that term — how Neaderthal-ish.  Do you intend to go out and club dinner and drag your wife around by her hair?  Man cave. Give me a break.

I appreciate that everyone has a right to privacy.  Everyone needs some personal time without their significant other — or even a roommate — around. You need space, I get that. I cherish my time alone because ultimately, I was always really content living alone and while I’m happy, it is an adjustment living with another person 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

The standard argument I’ve heard is, “The wife/woman/girlfriend/significant other gets the rest of the house to decorate and do with what they want, I just want my own space that’s mine to put up my action figures/sports crap/ugly leather recliners so I can watch the game/play Magic the Gathering/jerk off in peace.”

While I can appreciate the desire for said space — what makes men think “the woman” gets the rest of the house, especially if they have kids?  Does the woman get her own “lady hut”, too?  Why do the men get to escape to a “man cave” that’s just for them when the woman is stuck with the messy living room or the kitchen and potentially screaming children? Where does “the woman” go to read her magazines/watch her programs/use her vibrator without interruption?  Why do only the men get to ‘escape’?

Now, I actually DO have my own space — my office is my domain.  But it is for work — I don’t hang out in here.  But, I decorate it how I want —  it’s pink and girlie and I have all my crap up that I probably, for aesthetic reasons, wouldn’t display in the rest of the  home.  Just as I wouldn’t love it if mikey hung a Fathead of DarthVader on the living room wall, I refrain from hanging hot pink velvet curtains in the living room.

I know most men aren’t into home decor, so they figure “the woman” gets that honor and therefore “controls” the rest of the house, but that is simply untrue.  My opinion is that couples should decorate mutually.  And while mikey trusts me with my design choices, I do usually ask for his opinion if I’m choosing a statement piece for the living room  – like a rug or a piece of furniture.  And fortunately, we both have somewhat quirky tastes, so it works out. Not always – I’m not saying I love having 20 Domos in the living room, but I don’t hate it (I love Domo, too) and it makes him happy, so we have 20 Domos in the living room.  It’s mikey’s space, too.

So, I don’t totally understand this sudden surge for the “man cave”? Is it because they feel like their wife takes over? Do they feel emasculated in their own home?  Why do a growing number of men feel they need to escape from their spouse and family into their own domain when they get home from work or on the weekends? Isn’t that when they’re supposed to spend time with their family?  And when do women get their own space, away from their husband who doesn’t listen to them talk anyway, away from their kids?  You’d need a house with 2 extra bedrooms just to accommodate everyone’s “personal space”, but doesn’t that defeat the whole point of living together?

The only way I can abide a true man cave is if the woman has one, too, or the guy’s wife decorates with country ducks and dried flowers and has her scrapbooking crap spread out across the living room. Then he has my permission to set up a compound in the backyard for all I care.

I haven’t really wanted to talk much about it here because I don’t want every post to be “Boo hoo, Vegas sucks.”  I made a choice to move here — I didn’t have to, I could have stayed where I was, but I thought it was the right thing to do. I was pretty adamant about it, if you recall.  Mostly, I think I was talking myself into it.  But if anything, it’s made me really appreciative of California, even moreso than when I moved back to San Diego from Texas in 2003.

Don’t get me wrong, Las Vegas has had some perks — I got to see snow fall, which is rare for me and I love that. And the mountains are quite pretty. It’s not awful.  People do live here and have happy lives, I just don’t think it’s the place for me, personally.

I’m a vibrant person, a social butterfly. I love friends, I love talking to people and I lost of a lot of that interaction (and a lot of what makes good blog posts) when I started working for myself at home almost 8 years ago.  But I still had some social interaction, going out with my best gays and hitting up karaoke on occasion in San Diego. Now, I’m kind of a hermit, which has me a little depressed and that goes against every fiber of my being. I don’t do depressed.  I just keep twisting it positively and trying to think of it as a stepping stone to something else.

For now, we can save money…. though, I don’t know how much we’ll actually be able to save living here. So far, I’m not really seeing much savings or a huge difference from California. If nothing else, this adventure is a lesson in what I do want and what I don’t.

It really comes down to cost vs. worth.  I used to think California was just ridiculously overpriced. And it is, but is it worth it?  Yeah, it kinda is. San Diego is probably the most beautiful town in the country. Ok, I’m biased — but it’s my home and I’m a very proud San Diegan.  It’s worth the price for consistent weather, the year-round flip-flops, the ocean, and one thing I’ve missed a lot — the lovely Southern California sunlight… the way it looks in the afternoon, in the mornings… it’s just home to me. I miss chirping birds year round. I miss fresh air. I miss grass. I miss colors.

It’ll do for now and luckily, mikey is here. If he wasn’t here, I’d go insane. Well, if he wasn’t here, I’d not be here at all, but I’m grateful that he is. We keep each other company and he puts up with all my bitching, so hats off to him. He’s a good man.

I just need to schedule some “long weekend” trips back to San Diego to get my fix and arrange for friends to visit (because everyone wants to visit Vegas, right?).  Two years will go by quickly and hopefully, we can make the move back to California.

Somewhere in between, I’m sure I’ll find my juju again. It’s still here, it’s just hiding… in a casino, most likely.  Next to a fat lady with an oxygen tank and Hoveround.

I really like our house, but the surrounding commercial/retail area is kind of… meh. Shabby. Run down. I call it a Living Ghost Town because there was so much development and expansion in this area pre-Bush, but when the economy bottomed out, it hit North Las Vegas pretty hard.  So there are lots of new commercial buildings and strip malls that are empty with for lease signs all over.  The only close grocery is Walmart because all the others couldn’t compete and closed down. It’s a little depressing.  But, I just keep telling myself that I’m spoiled coming from Southern California. San Diego is probably one of the best cities in the world, certainly in the United States,  and a fairly affluent one at that, so I’m trying not to judge.

You can stop laughing.

Anyway, I’m going with the flow and while I was a little cranky for a couple weeks, not knowing where anything was and feeling like a fish out of water, I’m finally starting to settle in and get used to the streets and where stuff is.  I still haven’t explored the whole city and couldn’t tell you how to get anywhere outside of a 10 block radius, but I’m feeling more like myself… and less of a snobby brat.

One thing I’ve found is that the people I’ve met while out and about have all been really nice. I’ve had surprisingly great customer service here (except for Coco’s) and the people I’ve met at the post office, the Target, the grocery stores… all very kind, smiley people.  A woman yesterday even came up and tucked the tag inside my sweater.  That’s where Las Vegans (Las Vegasans? Vegians?) trump a lot of Southern Californians, who often have more than they could ever want or need and are still pissed off most of the time.

I live in what I guess is a duplex, but it feels like a regular house. We only share one wall with the neighbors, but it’s one of those 5 foot thick firewalls, so I never, ever even know they’re there. Once in a great while I’ll hear their garage door open or close, but unless they’re outside in the backyard talking loudly (like you do sometimes) it feels like a free-standing casa.

We’ve not officially met the neighbors — the ladies that share our building/wall are a group of black ladies that drive a big fancy pickup and a Cadillac and have these crazy blonde curly weaves.

It’s… a look.

I’ve only interacted with them once when I was in the garage — they smiled, we waved and said good morning and that was that.  Haven’t seen them up close again. I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t bring over some wine or muffins or something, but I’m not very Bree Van deKamp and I’m not really one for getting to know the neighbors in a rental situation. I like being friendly and on good terms, but I don’t like people in my business and they may very well not care for someone in theirs.

Next door is another duplex (this community is made up of them) and my kitchen window faces their front door/porch area. I’d not seen anyone there since we moved in and I assumed that it was empty, but the other morning, I was making coffee by the window and a heavyset black woman in tight grape-colored sweats came out to dump her recycling. She looked up at me and made eye contact, so naturally, I smiled happily and waved at her… just a neighborly greeting.

Oh my god, the sneer I received almost burst through the window and singed my eyebrows off. I have no idea why she threw me that look, but I was suddenly embarrassed I’d attempted contact, for some reason. I looked away and continued to make my coffee. I thought, “Well, maybe she didn’t see me. Maybe it’s darker in here than it is outside and she didn’t even realize I was standing here.”  But when she came back to her front door she looked right at me again, directly in the eye, so I gave it another go. I smiled and nodded, skipping the wave. This time, she scrunched up her mouth and nose like she’d just smelled dog shit and slammed her front door.

She’s not getting muffins.

I love it, don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice to be able to spread out a bit. I feel a little like I’m back living at my parents house, as there elements similar to my home growing up in the ‘burbs. I keep expecting to come up the stairs and see my stepsisters arguing over who has a cuter Kaboodle or who used the last of the Aussie Sprunch Spray.

The thing is… we don’t have enough stuff to fill this place, which gives it a kind of empty feeling.  It’s also so quiet and dark at night that when Mike is gone at work, I feel super isolated. I flip on every outside light and double lock every door and window. I also am totally unfamiliar with the sounds of this new place… the home and the neighborhood.  I’m sure it will pass.

The “not having enough things” issue gives me anxiety, too. I want this to feel like a home… warm and inviting. And considering I’m here all day long, every day, I need it to feel cozy. That will cost money, of course, but more of a concern to me is having that much stuff. It makes my heart race — it freaks me out. It feels so… adult.  It feels a little stifling and all I can think every time I buy something is “Great, more stuff to pack for the next move.”

I’ve never been a big “saver”.  This has been to my detriment, as I sold and/or gave away a lot of things in my 20′s that I wish desperately I could get back.  But in general, I’m not a big “keeper”. I don’t keep meaningless things for ages and ages.  I don’t think I’m in any danger of being a hoarder. The very thought gives me palpitations. I’m not a neat freak by any means, but I hate too much clutter for too long.  And having moved at least 20 times since I was 17, the concept of acquiring more stuff than I can schlep in my turtle shell makes me sweat a little.

Not that I’m not happy to be here… I am. I like being with Mike and having a chance to see friends who visit Las Vegas — who doesn’t visit Las Vegas? And I love having a nice house for quite a bit less money than my apartment rent in California and the chance to save some money and reduce what minimal debt I have.  These are all good things.

I’m sure once I make some friends and find my locals and get in my own groove here, I won’t have this panicked feeling inside.  Realizing I can’t just “go home” takes a bit of getting used to… and I get a little jealous when I hear of things happening in San Diego without me, but that’s normal, too, I think.

So far, it’s not been bad, just different and a little lonely.  But it’s only been a week.  I just need to give it time.

One major opportunity I can’t talk about yet, which is killing a big mouth like me, but I promised and I’m only as good as my word. I also signed legal stuff, so there is that.

Another big thing is… well, I’m moving.  Yes, again. But this time, I”m not just going across town, I’m moving to Las Vegas!

I’ll give you a second to insert any in a series of anticipated and oft-heard protests:

• But San Diego is so beautiful!
• But what about your friends?!
• But Vegas is so… Vegas.
• Once you leave California, it’s really hard to get back.
• It’s so HOT there!
• Are you insane?!

Done?

I know all these things, but for me, it’s important to make decisions that are good for me and for now, this is a smart move that will allow me to take on less work so I can pursue other interests.  Some of you may know that mikey got a job up there recently and moved there in June. I decided to follow when my lease was up, which is at the end of November.  Here’s the part where some might ask “but… why?”  I can’t say there aren’t going to be some adjustments to living in the desert and away from my San Diego life, but here are just some reasons that are both positive in general and good for me, personally.

• I have a great support system there already. mikey, obviously, who I miss when he’s not around. So does Lulu. Also one of my very best friends, Heika (some might remember her as Macgeezel) — she’s from Vegas and her family, whom I am close with, still live there. Unfortunately, she doesn’t, but I may get to see her more often. There are also some of her Vegas friends that I’ve gotten to know over the years and mike’s got some friends there, as well.
• It’s CHEAP, people. I live in a beautiful, gorgeous city. I grew up here, San Diego is my home. But it’s crazy-ass, mind-blowing expensive here. And as a freelancer, that is tough. Vegas, on the other hand, can provide, for about 30% less than my rent currently, a place 3x the size, newer, in a beautiful new area. And actual house, even.
• To that end, a very large apartment or a house allows me to have an actual office, with a door. It allows me to separate work and life a little better.  Plus, paint!
• No state income tax.
• There’s a Kids Expo in Vegas every year, which means I’ll likely be able to talk Kathy into crashing in our guest room.
• There’s always something to do. Any time you want to do it.
• I’m California-adjacent. It’s only a 5 hour drive back to San Diego or an hour flight. I can come back any time I want and considering I won’t have to work as a hard, I’ll actually have time to do that. Plus, despite living in one of the most beautiful cities, I never really see it that much, as I spend most of my time in my apartment. So, this will allow me to actually enjoy San Diego… as a sort of tourist.
• I’ll probably get to see my friends from other cities more often, as just about everyone wants to go to Vegas, right? People go to Vegas, so it’s likely I may see my friends from all over (even those as close as L.A.) more than I do now.

I already went through all the hemming and hawing and “omg, the heat!” and “I’ll miss my gays” and “what the hell am I going to do in the desert?” hand-wringing.  And I will miss my friends here so much it hurts my insides.  Badly. But I have to move past that part (or rather, stuff it down and cover it with Ben and Jerry’s) so I can be excited about this new adventure.  (I’m already trying to convince Daniel and Richard to move there, too.)  I’m only 36 years old, it’s not like I have to live in Vegas forever. And I’ve left California once already… I lived in Texas for over 3 years and came back to San Diego. Nothing is set in stone, but if I ever want to buy a home anywhere, especially if I want to do it in this very expensive city, I need to start making some changes.

I’m starting to get pretty excited about the change — I’ve always been open to change. But, I’m a little overwhelmed right now — so much is going on and it’s coming really fast.  I’m up to my neck in projects, but I have to dash up to Vegas in early October for an overnighter to pick a place to live. Then within 6 weeks or so, I need to pack this entire apartment, and move to a new state… with a bunny. (That should be interesting.) And all the while maintain my workload.  This is where I take a shot of something strong, followed by a pep talk while sticking my head between my knees.

I’m thinking about investing in a camera after we get settled up there. I think a good way to introduce myself to the city is to photograph it.  Plus, I really, really want to see if I can get into The Neon Museum. Given how much I love mid-century Americana and all that swanky stuff, I think Vegas might be a fun place for me to explore with a camera. Hey, maybe I’ll even find a dumpy dive I can sing in!

I only ask that no one tell me anything bad about living in Vegas. I really don’t want to know. I probably know most of them anyway from my many trips there.  But feel free to share good things!  I’m always open for that.

He’s always been super friendly. My front door is right at the top of the stairwell, so I often see him walk by through my ‘ice cube glass’ windows near my desk.  When I moved in, he complimented me on the happiness my yellow hibiscus brought him when it bloomed.  And I thought how nice it was that someone even noticed besides me.  He looked like a nice old man, what I envision a “grandpa” to be.

Cut to a week or so later, when I’m tempted into downloading a Sex Offender Locator app for my iPhone. You can see where this is going.  Grandpa indeed.

Not only are there a handful of the usual within a 5 mile radius, there’s one right on the floor of my building. A couple clicks later and I’m looking at the nice man who likes my flowers.

I made sure to read the offenses because I know there are issues with some of the placements of people on those lists — some 18-year-old’s girlfriend was 17 and she had a vindictive dad or… whatever.  I’m familiar with that set-up, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t that. Not only was he old, the offenses were all… icky. It made me sad to think that this seemingly normal man is a pedophile. Or was a pedophile –  have no idea of that sort of thing gets cured, but his mug shot wasn’t from 40 years ago, that’s for sure.

So, I decided that since I didn’t know the whole story (not that one could really defend that kind of behavior, but I don’t know the particulars and don’t want to), I would pretend I just didn’t know this tidbit and continue to be pleasant.  I’d avoided him through some stroke of luck and only saw him once or twice in the last few months since I found out.  Except…

Recently, it seems like I’ve run into him a lot.  Since the new year, I’ve been crazy busy with work and not left the house much. I’m a hermit lately and one day a couple weeks ago I was getting into my car for the first time in a while and the Friendly Pedophile was just getting out of his.  “Oh there you are!  I’m so glad to see you — you know, I almost stopped by your place the other day to see if you were alright.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Oh? Why did you think I wasn’t alright?”

He smiled that big grandpa smile and said, “Well, your car isn’t always here. I usually see your car come and go a lot more and I noticed your car hadn’t moved in several days. I thought you might be ill. I almost came by to check on you, but I thought that might be presumptuous.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. If I didn’t know what I knew, I would still think it a bit odd though kind, but knowing “grandpa has a magic lap”, even though I’m not his type chronologically, made me a little weirded out.  I smiled and said, “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m well, though, thanks! I just work from home.”  DOH!  I mentally smacked myself in the face for divulging that bit of information. What a maroon.

About a week later, I was sitting at my desk with my headphones on, singing at the top of my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shape walking past my ice cube windows, which I generally ignore, but the shape paused, backed up and stood there for a sec, then waved at me.  It was the Friendly Pedophile and he’d caught me singing Taylor Swift.

A few days ago, I was down at my car, digging through the mail I keep throwing in the backseat, looking for a missing 1099.  When I got in my car, I noted that FP’s car was in his space, but he was not around.  Yet suddenly, silently, he sidled up to me with his grandpa smile, holding an armful of cheap dishtowels from Costco.  “You better clean out that red car there, missy!” he jovially chided.

A little startled, I turned and laughed politely… like you do.  It was like he saw me go to my car… or maybe it was a coincidence.  But he proceeded to tell me how he got all those towels for only $10 at Costco, that they’re thick and what a great deal!  I told him I’d check them out the next time I was at Costco and let the conversation trail off with “have a good day” as I continued to look for my paperwork.

Normally, I’d think he’s just a nice old man who doesn’t get a chance to talk to very many people. I never see him with anyone else. And it makes me a little sad for him, as a fellow person. But then I’m reminded of his mug shot and how gross and abhorrent those things are, that I figure he’s made his proverbial bed.  I can only assume he thinks I don’t know and I probably won’t ever let on that I do.

So, for now I’ll just keep my eyes peeled for him and continue being polite. He’s a human being, after all.  Though I do feel like I’m observed more now than I’d like or realized.

Oh! There he goes… past my window.   This time, no wave, but then, I’m not tempting him with the siren call of a teenage country singer.

Remember the Tacky Water Bottle people from across the hall?  Well, last Friday, I received a notice on my door from the apartment management, letting me know I’m in violation of their “common areas” policies with my water bottles.  While I wasn’t thrilled to hear this — I mean, where else are you supposed to keep them in an apartment? — if that’s their policy and I’m in violation, fine. I’ll figure something out.

So I called the office to let them know I was going to comply and ask for suggestions on where I might keep them, since it’s a month’s worth of water.  I was connected with the manager, who informed me that I was issued the violation primarily because there were “several complaints” about my water bottles “blowing over and rolling down the hallways very noisily” and neighbors were having to “round them up” for me.

I like to consider myself a lady, but I have to quote my father here and cry, “Horseshit!”  Total, utter nonsense.  And I told her so. I said, “I’m happy to comply with your policies if that is the case. It’s not the most convenient thing, but if that’s your rule, that’s how it goes.  However, I can tell you with about 99.9% accuracy that those ‘reports’ are hogwash. I am home all day, every day and my desk is right on the other side of the ice cube glass window/wall from those bottles.  I sit right there.  If there were anything blowing anywhere, especially noisily, I would have heard it. If there were someone out there rounding up my anything, I would have seen them.  I know you can’t tell me who it is, nor do I really want you to, but if it’s the neighbors across the hall, I have an idea of what this is about. “  Then I briefly recapped the interaction on the 4th of July.

She told me I can store the bottles on my patio and I, as obviously retaliatory as it was, informed the management that “if we’re going to go there”, then the neighbors across the hall aren’t exactly angels, rummaging around in their storage unit (in the common area of the hallway) loudly at 1am every night. I also mentioned the constant stream people going in and out of their apartment loudly (which is directly across from the ‘ice cube glass’ wall, so I’m constantly distracted by it), multiple times, at all hours of the day from dawn until midnight, causing me to speculate how many people actually live there.  I also mentioned that their guests occasionally peer in my glass wall/window, sometimes even putting their hands up to block the side glare.  Into my apartment! They can’t see anything, even with the lights on, except shapes, but I feel kind of skeeved by that!   I told her that other than that one interaction, I’d never spoken with them and didn’t want to start a feud with my neighbors, but that I wouldn’t stand for fabrications and again, “if we’re going to go there”, then I would also no longer stand for morons peering into my apartment.

The pleaser in me wants to say, “It’s my fault, I probably shouldn’t have provoked them by embarrassing their friend.”  But then I remember, “Hey! She was the one being a jerk… sure, I could have left it alone, but why should I be punished because someone else is an asshole?”

I really am frustrated with ‘prick’ being the default personality in society lately. I realize that’s kind of a broad statement and wholly unfounded, but… it’s not far off.  It used to be that people were generally good and you’d occasionally run into a prick. You could easily blow it off when that happened, “Eh, they’re just a prick. No big deal.” But when you’re faced with prick after prick after prick, when even kids are pricks, sometimes you can’t shrug it off.  Someone needs to be put in their place.

Despite what I told the management, I really don’t want to start anything with my neighbors. I moved to a big complex for a reason and want to be left the hell alone. So I don’t want to stay on her radar.

And I don’t think she’s actually going to do anything about my complaints. I think she was just letting me vent.  I promptly moved my bottles, but now every time those people come out the door, I think of ways I’d like to smite them.  I’m more of the “living well is the best revenge” type, but it didn’t stop me from considering everything from sardines in their storage unit to anonymous gift subscriptions to Donkey Lovers Monthly.

But the next time some frat boy peers in my apartment, someone’s junk is going home in ziploc.

I hear them talking and one of the women says REALLY snidely, “Oh my GOD, someone keeps their water bottles on their front porch? How TACKY!”, then they all start filing down the stairs. When they see me, they all say excuse me cordially and one woman was extra sweet — Texas style. Meaning, covered in bullshit, bless her heart.

I smiled back and said jovially, “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m just the woman with the tacky water bottles on her porch.”

They looked uncomfortable and kept walking. But at the bottom of the stairs, I heard one of the women exclaim, “I am SO embarrassed.”

Good, lady. If you’re going to talk shit, keep your voice down or be prepared to be called on it. They’re 5 gallon bottles of delivered spring water, where do you suggest I keep them? Those capris you’re sporting are tacky, but you don’t hear me complaining.

I feel a little bad for firing back and embarrassing her in front of her friends — I could have let it go. But… I didn’t.

No high road for me today I guess. Given the expression on their faces, the low road is more scenic.