Meeting new people sucks. It’s always so weird. All the questions go through your head as you are trying to make that good first impression. Do they like me? Do I have something in my teeth? Are my pants unzipped? Are they swingers and if so would they want us to join? I don’t know how I would handle that question but it would probably go something like this:
Sorry, my wife and I have been watching that show Swingtown and naturally assume that all of our new neighbors are closet freaks waiting to bring us into there sensual lair.
It’s always so awkward making new friends so when we had the chance to go to the neighborhood pool party we thought that this might be a great chance to break the ice with a bunch of people we don’t know. We want to be good neighbors, honestly we do. But it’s weird when you are the new kid in the lunchroom.
I try to be very friendly when we do stuff like this. I make the jokes and see if I get an honest laugh or just one that covers up what they are really thinking such as “This guy is a douche, get me out of here.”
I choose not to wear a bathing suit to the pool party. No need freaking people out with the abundance of my back hair on the first date. That’s more of a third date kind of thing. By the way, I caught a gray hair on my back the other day. Again I ask God, what the fuck man? I’m already bald, do I really need this to.
Hossmom and I show up with the two kids in tow. Hossmom is pretty good at things like this. Not so much the meeting new people thing but obsessing until each member of her family looks groovy. My daughter was looking smashing in a dress and my son had his Hawaiian party shirt on, very cool. At the very least, the kids don’t look like street rats begging for spare bread.
Little Hoss has a hissy fit as soon as we get there as she wants to jump into the pool right away and is actively trying to shed her shirt. A vision of her being in highschool and doing this at some lake with boys around jumps into my head. If Jason Vorhees could just take care of the rest of them and leave my daughter alone, I’d appreciate it.
We get her changed into her swimming pool and we head to the little 2 foot area. I figure this is a good place to meet people with little kids like mine. Maybe my daughter will dunk some other 2 year old and there you go, instant conversation.
As it happens, she does. Bingo, I’m making friends.
The neighborhood looks to be a pretty tight group of people. Almost immediately I am labeled: The guy in the blue house that’s from Texas.
It freaks me out that people seem to know this as I haven’t really talked to anyone before. They all say that they saw our plates and that’s how they knew we were from Texas and not, as I believed at first, that Texans are just more imposing and awesome. That’s right Kansas, I said Texans are awesome.
We all make small talk and soon we are being introduced as the Bluehouse Texans. And it also seems that everyone we meet knows a lot about the history of our house. That it was foreclosed on, that the people before us got a divorce, things like that. It’s almost like they are holding back though.
“Oh, you bought the bluehouse?” they say as their eyes wander away.
First off, I’m not that boring that I can’t hold your attention. I’m funny guy, love me.
So since I know that I’m not boring, my mind comes up with another reason why we are getting this look. They obviously know something more about my house that they feel uncomfortable talking to me about. And somehow, even though I just moved here, I feel responsible for whatever secret this is.
It could be the whole Indian burial ground thing although that’s not very original, but still, a possibility. But as we have had no Carol Ann’s talking through the TV set I don’t think that’s it.
It couldn’t be a murder because someone would have told us that one. Like the same people who didn’t tell us that Fannie Mae doesn’t pay their closing costs. Sure.
My personal bet is a brothel used to operate out of here and it got busted and one of the ladies of the evening was Angelina Jolie. That one I like and I entertain myself in lulls of meeting people by wondering how much she would charge and how a guy like me could hook something like that up. I’m guessing a I need a million dollars and some abs. I’ll get right on both of those as I’m continue to not work for any money and don’t do crunches.
Finally the last couple we meet makes a slip of the tongue and I get the secret out.
“Ya know, they used to have that house painted the most awful brown. It was hideous.” She says.
“I’m sorry” I reply.
Again, I have no idea why I’m sorry about something like this that occurred before I moved in. It makes no logical sense that I would offer an apology but I did and I have no idea why I did this. Brown. Our house used to be brown. That’s it, that seems to be what no one wanted to tell me. I don’t really know why this is.
Maybe I’m just reading to much into this. Or maybe I’m not reading enough into this.
What if “brown” is code for “we’re swingers and would love to take the bluehouse Texans for a ride.”
Saddle up darling, this bronco bucks.
(Editors note: that may have been the dumbest closeing line I have ever written.)