Neighborly Common Decency Is Dead

The other night, one of my neighbors (who seems like he might be hopped up on something given how fast he talks) came pounding on my front door at 11:30 p.m. I would have been rattled by anyone coming to the door at that hour, but his furious knocking and loud announcement of his name nearly shot me off the couch into the ceiling. In addition to telling me our tenant had left her headlights on, he proceeded to talk almost unintelligibly, at top speed, the entire way down our front stairs and back across the street to his house. And it wasn't a whisper. I'm sure the rest of the cul de sac appreciated it immensely...

This was followed by last week's incident where our lower neighbor cut the hell out of one of our orange trees without asking. I walked down to get the mail and our poor little tree had been sliced in half. Apparently it's unclear whether the planter is on our property or his, but still, you'd think he'd have the decency to at least mention it before hacking it away.

Our Santa Ynez neighbors are pretty much the polar opposite.

When we were spreading gravel in part of our front yard, one of our neighbors drove over in his tractor to help us. The other neighbor reprogrammed our sprinklers for us when he noticed they were on all day. Countless others introduced themselves to us when we were first up at the house pulling weeds on a weekend.

It makes me wonder what kind of neighbors Mr. W and I really are.

I don't go out of my way to get to know my neighbors. Not so much because I don't want to but just because I'm not quite sure how to do it. Deliver a basket of muffins? Borrow a cup of sugar? I feel like it's too late for any of that in Hollywood now. I think it'll be easier in Santa Ynez. I think Mr. W and I will have some sort of block party when we move up permanently.

We were talking on the phone last night, and because it was our 2-year anniversary, I was reminiscing about last year's caveman outfits. For some reason, I said that we should wear them one day when we're doing yardwork at the new house—just to get some additional use out of them. Of course, we died laughing, playing out the various possibilities that went with that scenario. And Mr. W said the neighbors would probably just say, "Look at them. They're from LA..."

Because NOT Doing Sparks More Regret Than Doing

A couple months ago, I had my nieces over for a slumber party and shopping trip to The Grove. As we walked toward the entrance of Abercrombie & Fitch, not only was I hit in the face by a wave of store cologne (seriously, when did retailers decide to start assaulting your nasal cavities like that?) I was also blinded by the fleshy six-pack of a young Abercrombie model standing near the doorway.

The nieces became squirrelly immediately.

There was a photographer standing next to the model and when she asked us if we wanted our picture taken with him, I knew the answer. I could have easily said "no thanks" and proceeded on with the girls in tow—they were pretty embarrassed and wanted to just continue shopping. But I knew the feeling of regret that would come with NOT taking advantage of an opportunity like that.

So we posed and smiled; the girls giggling nervously. The poor nineteen-year-old hunk shuddered when I put my arm around him and my frigid elderly hand made contact with his warm, muscular back.

I have the picture on my desk and it makes me laugh every time I see it.

When I was in high school, my aunt took my cousins and me to see a stage production of Grease. I can't even remember where we went or how old I actually was, but I do remember that when given the chance to go up and dance to 50s music on stage, I was to shy and embarrassed to go. And it bugs me to this day.

I hate having regrets.

It is this kind of life experience and emotional wisdom that propelled me into sewing caveman costumes for Mr. W's and my anniversary trip last weekend. I knew if I didn't do it, I would regret it for all eternity.

Aside from the uncomfortable mattress and overly stuffed pillows, the Caveman Room did not disappoint. With rock walls, floor and ceiling, and a leopard-skin bedspread, it definitely had a Flintstonian feel.

Behind the TV, we even had a lovely in-room waterfall. It would have come in handy the evening before (we were staying in a different room that night) when the couple two doors down from us screamed at each other and slammed their door a dozen times around midnight. We could have used the running water to drown out the sound. Or perhaps try to drown them.

I was most impressed by the two wood-carved clubs that rested in iron holsters on either side of the bed. When we first checked into the room, I went to the bathroom and when I came out, Mr. W was lying on the bed with a club slung over his shoulder.

The Caveman Room's greatest amenity, however, may be its motion-sensor waterfall urinal. The Madonna Inn is actually famous for its waterfall urinal in the main lobby. But lucky us, we had our very own.

In spite of his feelings of mortification and possibly sheer terror, Mr. W humored my craziness and agreed to wear his outfit (after a whole day of wine tasting). I think deep down, he knew if he didn't, he would regret it forever.

Although we took several pictures together, wielding our wooden clubs, here is the only photographic evidence I have been authorized to share:

  

As my mother would say, "TMI." Happy Friday! Don't not-do anything you'd regret this weekend!

Ooga Booga and Other Caveman Anniversary Sentiments

I am pre-writing and scheduling this so that it posts while Mr. W and I are on the road. See, I don't want him to know about the sneaky (and likely to be terrifying) surprise I have for our one-year wedding anniversary trip to San Luis Obispo this weekend.

Right around the time of our ceremony last year, Mr. W informed me that he had booked The Caveman Room at the Madonna Inn (where we got engaged) for our first anniversary. I cannot believe it's already time for the trip. The last 365 days have absolutely flown by. 

I made a joke back then about how The Caveman Room (yes, I believe it warrants initial caps) would not be complete without costumery. So I got to work figuring out how I could possibly construct a loincloth for my poor, darling, shy husband.

A couple weeks ago, I remembered that I had more than one article of leopard-print clothing in my Halloween bin in the garage. So I rifled through it one day, found a dress and a skirt (both velvet, tres chic) and cut and sewed them into proper caveman and woman attire.

Mr. W is probably going to have a stroke when I whip these out of my suitcase.

Even if I can get him drunk enough to put on the homemade Tarzan Banana Hammock, (again, initial caps totally necessary there) I will not be posting pictures. You all can just use your imagination.

Have a great weekend!