So not the people in my neighborhood.
We live close to the university where Hubby got his PhD. When I first moved in with him, it was also convenient for me because it was only a mile from my former place of employment. Now that I’m driving all over town for work, it doesn’t really matter much. But, since we only have one car, it helps that Hubby can get most places he needs to go on his bike.
Convenience aside, the problem is with some of the people in our neighborhood. Because we’re so close to campus, most of the people who live around here are college students. There are a few exceptions, like the older woman who I’m guessing has lived in the same house for decades. Then there are the sex offenders (so lovely to have access to this kind of information online) who live on our block. Occasionally, I see kids on our street, but this is rare, and they’re usually unsupervised.
Last night was a prime example of the usual happenings in our neighborhood. It’s the weekend before Halloween, so of course, someone was having a house party. I’m sure there were slutty costumes and tons of alcohol involved. But all I cared about was the noise. First of all, something about the acoustics of our street makes any party sound like it’s happening right outside our bedroom window. This one, for all intents and purposes, actually was.
After a long week, all I wanted to do was go to bed, but there was no way I could have slept through that racket. I could hear everything, including one girl yelling at someone to get out of her way, and voices counting in unison for what I presume were the obligatory keg-stands.
Long after I had crawled into bed, white noise machine and radio blaring, Hubby called the police, about 1 am. They showed up and broke up the party in about five minutes. Yes, we are that crotchety old couple, apparently.
Thankfully, parties like that don’t happen every weekend, like they used to a few years ago.
The other delightful people in our proximity are of the social deviant variety. The other night, Hubby went for a bike ride, and just a few blocks from our house, was assaulted with a bat of some kind. According to him, a car pulled up way too close, he tried to get as far over to the right as he could, and then whack! At first, he thought the car itself had hit him, but when he looked up, he saw the passenger waving a baseball bat out the window. He wasn’t able to get the license plate number or even a good description of the car before they sped off.
I, however, am not.
I want to get out of here so badly. Which, of course, we can’t do until Hubby gets a job.
In sucking-it-up news, I finally accompanied Hubby to the growers’ market today, something I hadn’t done since my meltdown in August. There were two reasons I wanted to go. One, last weekend, when I requested Hubby bring home some yummy squash, he came home insisting only one seller had any, and presented me with a couple of zucchini. And two, this morning was the Pitty Parade. There were some gorgeous pups there, some in costume (which I have mixed feelings about–they were cute, but really?). I tried to focus on the dogs and not the ubiquitous babies, bellies, and one-of-a-kind onesies. There were also pit bulls for adoption, which, again, if we lived somewhere different, I would have loved to adopt. Especially this sweet little guy:
Then we took a walk by the river to see the beautiful fall foliage.
I realize there are worse places to live. Even in our city, we could live in an area frequently featured on the news because of meth labs, stabbings or shootings. We’re lucky to have a roof over our heads at all. I just feel like this neighborhood is more evidence that we’re being held back, not living up to our potential. Like moving out of here is one more step into our real lives.