Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

I suspect the weird looks I’ve been getting at the coffee shop all week have had to do with how I’ve been dressed. Whereas I’ve been tooling around in the same workout clothes and ratty old Nikes, everyone else appears to be ready for lunch with an ambassador. Seriously, it’s like every woman in the AC is channeling Grace Kelly, with superstarched Peter Pan — collared blouses or twinsets, pencil skirts, or tailored pants, finished off with kitten heels or ballet flats. And the jewelry? Don’t even get me started on the jewelry. Charm bracelets and pearls and, oh, my God, the diamonds! I’m talking studs the size of horseflies and solitaires big enough to skate across.

A woman last week must have been sporting twenty-five carats between her neck and wrist alone. So I said to the guy in line behind me, “I bet she’s having a bling-uccino.” Then he looked at me all blankly, so I pretended I was talking into my Bluetooth instead.

My point is, I don’t understand how these gals manage to be so pulled together at ten o’clock in the morning, at Starbucks of all places. I can barely remember to put on pants before I have my coffee.

Anyway, I notice our new, sporty neighbor doesn’t have any kind of obvious welcome gift with her either, unless the enormous SUV stroller containing two apple-cheeked toddlers is meant for us, in which case. . thank you?

I handle the introductions. “Hi, I’m Mia, and this is my husband, John MacNamara. But most people call him Mac.”

“Do you have dogs?”

Wow, Abington Cambians don’t waste a lot of time with conversational foreplay, do they?

“Um. . yes, we do,” I tell her. “They’re on the back porch right now. Their names are Duckie and Daisy. Did you. . want to meet them?” I can’t imagine where she’s going with this until I glance down at her sleeping children. Oh. I bet she’s concerned about the pit bull, so I need to put her at ease. “Please don’t worry; they’re totally sweet and docile unless you’re, like, a pork chop or a squirrel.”

Lululemon’s expression darkens. “Do you, by chance, have a doggy door?”

“We do.” Pride practically radiates off Mac as he replies. With a little elbow grease — and a lot of swearing, so very much swearing— Mac successfully completed his first DIY project here yesterday. 86The door works like a charm, and the dogs are delighted to have a say in whether or not they go outdoors.

“I see. Then please take this.” Lululemon roots around in the storage area on the back of her Bugaboo.

Ding, ding, ding, jackpot! The new neighbor does have a welcome present for us! So maybe this lady isn’t that great at conversation, and perhaps it would have been nice if she’d told us her name, but I don’t care, because we’re getting a present! Hooray!

Lululemon hands Mac a small blue-and-yellow bottle. Ooh, what is it? Some kind of small-batch Scotch? A wee container of yummy dessert wine? Possibly an exotic bath soak?

Mac turns the container over and up and down. “WD-40?”

“Yes. Your door is banging open and closed and it’s clearly in need of a lubricant. 87I’ll thank you to fix it at once, because your dogs are disturbing Calliope and Gregor’s afternoon nap.”

As we stand there, astounded, Lululemon executes a perfect three-point turn and trots up the drive and onto the street.

“Calliope and Gregor?” Mac’s expression vacillates between shock and awe.

I reply, “Don’t look at me, dude.”

We try to shake off the incident, chalking up Lululemon’s attitude to toddler-based exhaustion and a desperate need for carbohydrates. Then we spend a few minutes discussing furniture placement with the movers before the bell rings again.

“I’m almost afraid to answer it,” I tell Mac.

This time there’s an old man — ancient, really — standing in the center of our porch, and he doesn’t look happy.

Of course he doesn’t.

Even his wrinkles are frowning. We joked about buying a welcome mat that said, GO AWAY, but now that seems like it might have been a wise investment.

Before we can say anything, the old guy begins to wave an eagleheaded cane at us. “Tell your kids not to park in my driveway,” he hisses.

“Is someone parked in your driveway?” I query. I thought everyone here arrived via the moving van, but I double-check. “Hey, guys? Anyone parked anywhere other than this driveway?” I confirm they haven’t and turn back to the visitor. “If someone’s there, it’s not us.”

He scowls so hard his jowls tremble. “I didn’t say there was someone there now, missy. I said I don’t want your kids parking in my driveway.”

Mac is utterly confused, so I field this one. “I promise that won’t be an issue, sir, as we don’t even have kids.” Because I’m polite, I don’t add that if we were to reproduce, by the time our children were old enough to get a license, he’d be dead.

His beady little eyes dart back and forth beneath fleshy lids. “Well, keep it that way.” Then he totters off our porch and proceeds to slowly traverse the cobblestone path. When he gets to the street, he kicks our mailbox.

“Did you sign us up for a reality show and not tell me?” Mac demands.

“I tried to get us on Property Virgins, House Hunters , and My First Place , but no luck,” I admit. Apparently the producers at HGTV aren’t doing a lot of episodes where first-time buyers purchase starter mansions.

When the bell rings for a fourth time, I send Mac out to oil the doggy door. I’m a lot better in confrontational situations, since I’m not so quick to escalate.

Although, really, odds are good that someone’s going to bring us a damn casserole soon and that we’re finished with all the Negative Nellies. We’ve already been yelled at by neighbors on either side and across the street. Surely there can’t be anyone left in our immediate proximity who has reason to dislike us without even having met us.

You know what?

There are a lot of angry people in this neighborhood.

My shoulders are killing me. Between yanking open the heavy front door and tensing up when strangers yell at me, I’m in desperate need of a massage.

By the time the bell rings for the fourteenth casserole-free time, I’m spoiling for a fight. I’m tired of being told that my driveway needs to be power-washed, that I’m remiss in planting my purple ornamental cabbage to show support for the high school’s baseball team, that I put my recycling in the wrong kind of bin, and that the moving van needs to be repositioned because it’s causing “an uncomfortable glare while I’m trying to watch Wheel of Fortune .”

How is everyone around here so mean? These people live in amazing houses on the most beautiful street in the coolest town and yet no one’s happy? How does that work? At this point I don’t blame this home’s caretakers for not keeping it in better shape; there’s no pleasing anyone around here, so why bother?

Despite the pain radiating up my shoulder, I whip open the door with all my might. “What now?” I bark into the shocked face of Liz, our Realtor.

“Is this a bad time?” she asks, then tentatively offers me an enormous basket filled with lots of wine and cheese and serving accessories.

I apologize profusely, call Mac, and crack open one of the bottles of pinot. 88We move to the couch, where we give her a rundown of our afternoon.

“I don’t get it,” I cry. “Everyone seemed really nice up here when we were looking at houses. What went wrong?”

“Why don’t we have any casseroles?” Mac adds.

“I don’t really know what that means, Mac,” she replies. “But I’m afraid what you’re saying makes sense. After the closing I ran into the trust’s attorney at Starbucks. I found out that if the trust wasn’t able to sell this place by April first, there was a plan to turn the property over to the community.”