As I was pulling into my driveway this evening, I noticed something on the far corner of my front lawn that looked like a mound of crumpled up paper towels, trash of some sort — maybe in a white plastic bag or three, or who-knows-what.
I parked, wheeled my trash barrels out to the curb and made a beeline for the heap of chaos. As I walked toward it, I noticed that my neighbor’s dad was on the front porch watching me approach The Pile.
Once I was upon The Pile, I realized that I was looking at approximately five baby socks, a crumpled up white t-shirt, a pair of white shorts and whatever else was hiding underneath. (At least someone understands the concept of separating their colors.) Since my neighbors have a baby, I figured the socks must be theirs, and that a laundry mishap had occured — either when transporting laundry to or from one of their cars.
I picked up a sock and called over to the neighbor’s dad, asking if the stuff was theirs. (I didn’t really care that it was on my grass, but I figured they’d miss it before too long and would probably want to know where their socks had run off to.)
“I don’t know, what is it?” he semi-barked.
He made his way over and I indicated that it was laundry, and that there were a few baby socks in the mix.
“Why would that stuff be mine?” he asked.
“Well, you have a one-year-old grandson. I have a cat. And this wouldn’t fit me,” I explained, holding up a sock.
He rummaged through the pile some more, and came upon a bra. He slowly lifted it up for inspection. For a split-second, I thought that perhaps the heavens had taken pity upon me and finally bestowed on my person a bra to forever end my cup/strap woes and brassiere rantings. I also thought for a moment that I heard angels singing. But then I snapped out of it — no girl would ever be so lucky to never have to bra-shop again.
Just as we were reaching the point of total confusion, my neighbor arrived home from work. He saw that we were wondering what the deal was with The Pile, and offered an explanation.
“Oh, those were on the street by my car when I came out to go to work this morning. I was going to throw them away. Apparently people see a crappy yard and think they can just get rid of anything over here.”
(Note for the sake of context: their front yard has been under construction (i.e. dead, brown, weedy) for about two years.)
So while I appreciated his explanation, a few more questions now came to mind:
Were you going to throw them away, oh, I dunno…this year?
Was there something that rendered you incapable of walking the 20 feet back to your trashcan at that moment in time to throw them out like you indicated you wanted to do?
If they were on the street by your car, and near your yard that you just called crappy, why did you throw them in my yard? I’ll take the bra if I must, but please keep the baby socks on your side.
While I’ve hung a “line-dry only” shirt outside a time or two before, why make me look like I also air-dry my unmentionables in a pile on my grass (in the front yard, no less) under the hot afternoon sun?
…there’s seriously been a bra on my grass all day long? Sigh.
I decided to stop wondering such logical things, and to chalk it up to neighborly shenanigans. OK, that, and laziness. Regardless of what the deal was, it provided a good laugh and a topic for tonight’s post. What’s funnier is that somewhere in Anaheim, there’s a woman running around bra-less.
And for as much as I complain about mine, I’m pretty glad it’s not me.
Tonight I am thankful to still have all my [ill-fitting] bras in my possession, to no longer have The Pile on my front lawn and to have had the chance to get home a little early and experience the explanation for myself. Had I come home any later, the scene of the crime might’ve been cleaned up. Good, good comedy.