This month I’m participating in NaNoWriMo. Since I won’t have as much time to blog, I asked some of my favorite bloggers to guest post for me – and some of them were actually willing to do it. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do; they have become my friends through this crazy little thing known as the internet, and I’m grateful for their support. -Tricia
As a neighbor, I suck the suck of 10,000 Hoovers. I’ve lived in this same house, in The Bubble, on this same corner, for nearly 9 years. You’d think in a community that’s known as the “Front Porch” type, where everybody has a rocking chair or quaint little swing, that I’d know my neighbors, right?
I am a recluse, koo-koo-kachoo.
When Tricia asked me to write a guest post for this here fantabulous bloggarooni, two thoughts crossed my mind: One, my blog is notoriously contentless. Really? You’re asking me to guest post along with all these other amazing bloggers? Girl, whatever you’re smoking, walk some over to my house and share, will ya? Self-depreciation aside, though, the pressing thought was, wow, how far we’ve come from that Ambien-induced stupor in which we officially met.
See, there’s this book club that, when the moon and Jupiter are in perfect alignment with Orion’s belt, I attend. A couple of years ago, it was just getting off the ground. I’d only been once, there had been wine involved, and, honestly, names just didn’t stick. (I’m not only a recluse, I’m a forgetful recluse. Especially when there’s a nice red in the house.) As time for our next meeting rolled around, I kept getting Tweets from one of the members, whom I knew only as TPO, whatever that meant, whose avatar was Joan Jett.
Let’s keep it between us that I had/have NO idea who Joan Jett is, okay? I don’t want to lose whatever cred I still have around this joint. Anyway…
The meeting neared and Joan Jett was flat out stalking me. “You’re coming to book club, right?” she’d ask, then hashtag, “#acrossthestreet.” Well, duh. It’s The Bubble. Everyone is across the street. “You ARE coming to book club,” she’d demand, then hashtag, “#acrossthestreet,” and I’d roll my eyes. “You better come to book club!” she’d threaten, then hashtag, “#nextdoor.” Right, sister. I know who lives next door to me, and you ain’t next door. She couldn’t be the older couple on one side – I knew them. The newly single dad was out. The nutty scrapbooker was too busy to be in book club. And the party people in the party house catty-cornered to us were…well, I was pretty sure Joan Jett didn’t live there. Besides, I’d think I’d have noticed if she did because our video baby monitors had been interfering with each other for years. I’d know that nursery anywhere, and I’d certainly know if Joan Jett, whoever the heck that is, lived there.
I shot off some lame (and coincidentally true) excuse that I couldn’t because my husband was out of town on business and I didn’t have a sitter for my preschooler. She retorted that she was pretty sure the baby monitor would work at her house. I figured she was off her rocker because how could she possibly know where I lived since I’m practically a diurnal vampire. The light, how it burns!
The night of book club rolled around and I tucked my daughter, Earl, into bed and settled in to watch some truly crappy TV. I also took my nightly Ambien.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
I was laying there engrossed in some kind of Dateline: Psychics in Tutus when I heard raucous laughter from the party house. I stopped. Muted the TV. Wait. That cackle. I knew that cackle. But it couldn’t be, because the cackler was at book club. And I knew book club isn’t wasn’t there, across the street. It couldn’t be…could it?
I flew to the window and threw back the sash, and much to my wondering eyes did appear but a very pregnant party person and 8 hooting bookclubbers.
Oh. My. God. I’d lived next door to this woman for six years and we’d been tweeting for months before I realized – Joan Jett lived in the party house! And there, on the party porch I could see from my bedroom window, stood my book club! What in the…?
Of course, we know how this story ends. I did what any rational, sane person would do 30 minutes after taking Ambien, of all things. I threw on a robe, fell over my shoes, and flew out of my front door, bare feet pounding the pavement to the party house. “OH MY GOD!” I shrieked. “YOU’RE TPO! I HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE TPO! HOW DID I NOT KNOW YOU WERE TPO!?!?” Trust me. My voice was worth all the caps.
“Um…maybe because I don’t look anything like Joan Jett?”
And that’s how it all started. Years after we should have met, I met my neighbor and now dear friend, who one day asked me to guest post for her blog.
Now if only I could figure out what to write about…
Known around the ‘hood as the Emmy Award Winning Massage Therapist and around the internet as Unfamous Seuss, Susan is a mom and a habitual over-committer who always finds a way to do as much as possible from the sanctity of her own couch. Her life would benefit greatly if brought to you by the letters N and O, but she’s pretty keen on the chaos that keeps her warm (and awake – hence the Ambien) at night.