J and I have been sitting having a lazy Sunday evening, and a few moments ago, there was a knock at the door. We both looked at each other with this WTF? look on our faces. Who could possibly be knocking on our door?
I went to the door and peered out the peephole to see our next-door neghbor, so I opened the door, and he handed me a plate of lovely assorted baked goods. Apparently his teenaged daughter went on a baking spree last night, and they thought they should give some to us to welcome us.
I have never in my life been given a plate of cookies or brownies or any other goodies when moving into a new home. Hell, the last place J and I moved into, the neighbors promptly pulled down the tailgates of their giant trucks and popped open some beers to watch the crazy lesbians mow their lawn. One woman across the street smiled broadly upon learning we were finally moving out after seven years. It’s not that we were bad neighbors; we just weren’t gun-toting, duck-shooting, flag-waving hicks like they were. We were freaky queer folk. So no, they didn’t bring us cookies.
But here, this man and his daughter who share walls with us thought about us, welcomed us, and made us feel like we’re finally home.