Making lemonade out of lemons.
We hate our neighbors, that's no secret. As far as the eye can see, we hate every last one of 'em, with the exception of some of Jarrod and Abigail's friends' parents, and we can't really speak about the neighbors we don't know. We've only lived here almost 7 years and we're still waiting for some to acknowledge our presence. But for those immediately surrounding us, we Despise our neighbors, with a capital D.
By transfer, we also hate our house. Well, Amy hates the house because she really hates the neighbors; I don't mind the house so much except that it's located in our neighborhood. We loved the place when we first moved in. Amy busied herself planting and watering and watching things grow. I busied myself watching her busy herself with those things. It was a great arrangement. We were both excited to plant the Confederate Jasmine, 1) because it grows quickly, and 2) because it smells so damn good! In no time it took off, and this is what we have. You have to duck to get to the doors, which is not much of an inconvenience. The several real estate agents who have failed to sell our house tell us to cut it back, but we think it's charming. Perhaps if the agents ever bothered to actually show the house to potential buyers, we would entertain the idea of pruning a little.
Obviously we rarely use the front door, only on the occasion that someone who doesn't know we never use the front door rings the bell. I went out to sit in the rocking chair on the front porch to read this afternoon, and was surprised to find these lovely little vines growing through the screen door. Some would probably pull them away, but I say "What the hell?" I'll just close my eyes and pretend I live in a cottage in the French countryside.
