Why is it that I only see my cute neighbor when I look like a sweaty field hand? I mean how does he know the exact moment to emerge from his cologne-scented bachelor pad to see me looking my worst? Recently I took Abbs out, my hair frizzy and my heaving bosom without the benefit of a foundation garment so he naturally took his dog out then too. After he spotted me, he walked half the distance between us and started making polite chit chat. I panicked that he’d turn to stone if he looked too closely at me so I turned on my heel and literally ran back inside, mumbling something about needing a bag to clear up Abby’s poo. Sexy, right? Now when I see him he just waves and offers a watery smirk, having undoubtedly pegged me as the anti-social neighbor with saggy breasts. Nobody tries to borrow a cup of flour from me without getting emotionally scarred!
Won’t You Be My Neighbor?