Dear Old Neighbors,
Let me just start off by saying you were the best neighbors. The best neighbors.
Royce and Linda with your two kids and your two Bernese Mountain Dogs. You invited us on bike rides and over for turkey burger dinners. And you, Karolina, with the body of a model and the face of an angel and the personality of my best friend. After you guest starred on House, you talked to my mom about it for 20 minutes in the front yard. It was precious. And Kumail, you're a total big shot now, you and your lovely wife Emily. After being hilarious on Portlandia, you'd think you would have been an A-hole to me after I scraped your white Honda with the front of my car. But when I saw you at LaMill and confessed my crime, you both just laughed at me. To be fair, it wasn't the fanciest Honda. I hope a big time comedian like you is at least driving an Accord by now. You deserve it.
And Michaela. Oh, Michaela. The best neighbor ever. You never wore your shoes inside the house. You gave us gift cards when we picked up your mail. You never balked when Rob set up his kit and started banging away on the drums like a lost Blue Man. And we could always tell when you were in a writing frenzy, because that's when you blasted Bon Jovi. It was adorable.
Dear New Neighbors,
I mean, we finally have a driveway. No more double-parking in the two-way street that should be a one-way street, flipping on the hazards, and unloading groceries like the Flash after a Costco run. It's perfect as long as there are no more than four cars in the driveway. And yet you, you who is one person, manages to squeeze three cars onto your side of the driveway. And then, sometimes you lose the key to that third car! The one I need you to move so I can get to work!
Yesterday, when I was complaining about you to some friends, Rob said, "Well, she's not that bad. She doesn't blast rap music at two in the morning."
(Rob. Why? Why did you have to say that?)
Because he's right. You don't blast rap at two in the morning. You blast rap at seven in the morning. You blast rap at seven in the morning from that third car that's squeezed into the driveway.
But guess what, neighbor. Rob's had enough. He's declared war on your ass. Music war. And you don't want to start a music war with a guy who has two sets of drums, a butt load of guitars, and a grudge.