By Melodie Campbell
I was watering the lawn the other day when I made this
profound observation: names are completely irrelevant when you live in the
suburbs. Here’s a typical weekend conversation
around our house:
DH (translates to Dear Husband, or – ahem - Dumb Husband,
whichever fits the mood): “I was just
talking to Riley’s parents. Did you know
that Ollie’s family has moved away?”
Me: “Riley the
Sheepdog, or Riley the Beagle?”
DH: “Sheepdog. The
people who live beside the guy with the three blue bins.”
Me: “I hate what
their neighbours have done to their backyard.”
DH: “The couple with
the two hot tubs?”
Me: “No. On the other side.”
DH: “The blue garage
door people.”
Me: “Right. Eddie says they bought a huge trampoline.”
DH: “Who’s Eddie?”
Me: “Married to yoga-pants-wife
who drives the red Porsche.”
DH: “Oh. That jerk. The
guy who waters his lawn on banned days.”
Me: “No, that’s the jerk
next door to him. The house with all the windows.
DH: “Huh?”
Me: “Across from the
people with the cats.”
DH: “Oh. I know who
you mean. Beside the garage sale people.”
Me: “That’s
right. They’re always having garage
sales.”
DH: “That’s where
Ollie used to live. Wonder how much they
got for that place?”
Me: “Ollie the black
Lab or Ollie the Pomeranian?”
Which begs the questions…I wonder what they call us?)
