I hate our neighbor. She hasn’t actually done anything to me personally, but that is not the point. Every time I drive past her house, I get angry. I’m dangerously close to retaliating.
Now would be a good time to point out I’ve never met her. I am also assuming it’s a woman who lives in this house. But I’m pretty sure only a mean girl could be this provocative.
By now you’re probably wondering what she did that’s so horrible. It’s not terribly easy to explain. But the long and the short of it is this: she decorates.
I don’t just mean she throws some mums and pumpkins on her front porch. I mean her porch looks like something from Southern Living or Better Homes and Gardens. She changes her door decorations regularly. She has a birthday cake, mesh (I have no idea what you call it) thing she puts up when I suppose it’s someone’s birthday in the house. She has Razorback stuff for game days. Her current pumpkin-shaped one read, “Happy Fall, Y’all!” She has freaking throw pillows on her perfectly angled rocking chairs.
I imagine the inside of her house is also perfectly decorated and always tidy. I bet she doesn’t eat her dinners out of take-out cartons on a card table in folding chairs. I bet she never has a bad hair day. Her children always behave. I’ve become certain she is thin and happy. Who can keep up with all this stupid perfection?!
Sure, she has to have problems, like everyone else. But she’s so fabulous, she finds neat solutions to solve them between the third commercial break and the credits. She probably has no idea how she tortures me. In fact, I believe she is decent person, who would take it all down, if she knew the pain it causes me. But then, when I’m driving home from the grocery store, her throw pillows taunt me. Her pumpkins mock me. Her hay bales demand retribution. This is personal.
But, if you see her front yard covered in toilet paper, it was absolutely not me.