Apparently, I’ve received the neighborhood seal of approval on the improvements to my home. My next door neighbor stopped me this morning to compliment the work.
My trailer park mailbox — the one that habitually fell over at the slightest breeze — has been replaced by a stuccoed concrete block monolith. A beautiful Moroccan porch light glows in the home formerly occupied by the motion-sensitive light that only flashed passing cars. And the matching sconces flanking the garage welcome me home each evening.
But he’s especially impressed with the new open air sitting room and the other work I’ve done in the back yard.
I smiled broadly as I imagined what my home’s facelift had likely done for the property values in our little neighborhood.
But my face’s sunshine quickly morphed into the deep purple-gray Chambourd covering my front door. I strongly suspect what I perceived as appreciation of my new patio was a hint that tending its garden in my T-shirt and granny panties every morning had not gone unnoticed.