Supergenius HQ is located in a row of townhouses. There are four in my row. Two luxurious corner spots with actual yards, and two squeezy, teeny, slum spots with the equivalent of a postage stamp making up the yard. For real, I’m pretty sure I could lay down in my “yard” and my head would be resting on my driveway while my feet rested in my neighbor’s driveway (the neighbor with the luxury spot).
In general, I don’t mind my neighbors. They are nice enough, quiet enough, and occasionally loud enough to provide a source of entertainment. Like that one time the Car Salesman at the end (in the other lux spot) had a barbecue where someone was absolutely giddy about selling “a fucking Sebring.”
But when the weather is nice and the windows are open, it’s everything I can do not to go outside and take a hatchet to the woman next door to me, oh she of the giant yard and actual patio that fits furniture on it. See, when the weather is nice and the windows are open she stops smoking in her garage and takes to smoking in my yard, I mean my postage stamp. It drives me nuts. And it’s not even so much that she’s out there smoking and I can smell it, or even that she talks quite loudly on her cell phone while smoking in my yard, I mean my postage stamp. But it’s that she’s got an entire actual yard to smoke in and yet she chooses the six square feet of grass outside my front window. She has yards and yards of yard. So why my small patch of Earth?
I don’t get it. It feels like some sort of violation or more sense of entitlement. It’s as though (and I’m making this all up) she thinks that since she has the big yard with all the grass, she is the master of all the grass near her domain.
But she is not! And If I were crankier, more aggressive, or not trying so hard to hear her cell phone conversation, I’d ask her to smoke in her own yard.