Parallel (universe) parking
A kid, a dog, and a car do not equal happiness
The Chilean neighbor across the street married a Russian lady he met on a “marry a Russian lady because American ladies think you’re too weird even though you have a good job” website. He’s a true eccentric (cotton balls in the ears, unpopped pimples, cycling shorts with black socks and brown sandals, he polishes his mother’s Mercedes every week then tucks it back underneath a protective cover, and before he was married he showed me his teapot collection — not a euphemism, just a large teapot collection).
His wife hates him, you can see the lightning bolts flashing from her eyes all the way across the street (also, she yells). He complains to anyone who will listen about her not embracing motherhood in the way he thinks she should.
They have a toddler and a small furry black dog. The husband puts on his too-short jogging pants and black dress shoes, slings his purse over his shoulder and takes the dog on a walk in a dog stroller. When he returns home he puts on blue latex gloves and washes the dog’s ass before he takes it into the house. The toddler also has a stroller, but he walks more than the dog.
The wife learned how to drive, but not how to park. She drives a blue Smart Car. It takes her at least nine attempts to pull up to the curb with no cars ahead of her or behind her. She usually leans across the car, opens the passenger door, and glares at the curb while she parks.
They are both small people with big anger toward each other that spills out of their house and into the world. The grass is greener on my side of the street, and we don’t even have a lawn.
