Warning: This is going to be one of those tiny-violin posts. I know. It’s fine. I just need an outlet. And for that, my faithful readers, I thank you most profusely.

Anyway.

To set the scene, I have some sort of funky sinus thing going on. If it’s not better by Monday, I’m going to the doctor, but I really don’t want to because I have gained 10 pounds since I was last there, and I would prefer not to deal with it. Regardless, I feel like crud, and I have generally been in a surly mood.

So to try to snap myself out of this mood today, I decided to put out my Christmas lights. This is something I love doing, usually because it involves working logistically to make sure everything looks cool without visible wires anywhere. My husband has zero interest in doing this, so it’s my baileywick. And that’s cool.

But I realized, once again, why I’m never outside my house when I’m home. And I started thinking that it’s a freaking shame that we dropped damn near $200,000 on a house and can’t use the yard. Walk to the shed…dogs next door go ballistic. Then dogs behind us go ballistic. Creepy-looking teenagers cut through the yard to see the waste of space kid next door…and then proceed to smoke and preface every. single. word. with “motherfucker.” I mean, not that “motherfucker” isn’t a great epithet. It is. And sometimes nothing suffices like a nice, crisp “motherfucker.” But not when there’s a little kid standing right next door.

I’m really not trying to be all “poor me.” Because we’re lucky that we are paying our mortgage and not going under (knock on wood). But it sucks. It sucks that my kid can’t play in his yard. It sucks that we don’t want to have anyone over because they’ll either be barked or motherfuckered at. It sucks that we have this sticking point, that it bothers me so much. It sucks that as nice and normal as we are, we are stuck living near complete and utter trash. It sucks that I have friends who enjoy their neighbors, get together for cookouts and drinks, trade babysitting, and here I am, feeling isolated (but wanting to be completely isolated from these people) and as though we made a mistake, and wanting to love where I live.

Sean wants to consider selling, but, well, haven’t I described an absolute oasis? If we want to move, we *have* to make a profit on this house. And I don’t think that’s happening soon. But as I stood there in the rain, trying to match my lights to my greenery, I wondered what on earth the point might be.

I’m fine. I’m done. Boy. Am I done.

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