it has begun

This will be the third summer that I've spent in my house, which is located in very blue collar, family oriented, under-educated but relatively friendly street. Since most of the houses on the street are like mine - pretty small and too old for central air conditioning - there is a considerable amount of outside activity throughout most of the summer months, most of which is enough to make my eyes roll and my facial muscles twitch. Technically it's still spring, but summer has officially begun, at least on my street, and here's how I know:

1. Ren and Stimpy come out to play.
Like the first spring crocuses signal the end of winter, the emergence of the two women who live in the yellow house across the street, affectionately nicknamed "Ren and Stimpy", emerge from their home to take up near-permanent residence on their front porch. Ren, in her eighties, and Stimpy, her middle aged, spinsterly, and possibly mentally challenged daughter, reign during the summer months over our street, proudly wearing their mumus as they silently monitor all events occurring during daylight hours. I know it's going to be a good day when Ren grabs her bowl, places it over Stimpy's head and starts cutting her hair in perfect 90 degree angles.

2. Fireworks house lights 'em up.
Across the street and two doors down lies a house with a seemingly endless supply of fireworks and a complete lack of common curtsey. Long before and after the 4th of July, regardless of day or hour, fireworks ignite like, er, fireworks interminably across the street. Fireworks are fun when they are big, colorful and put on by professionals, but I've never understood the appeal of the small fireworks that are basically just loud, sound-making annoyances. Understandably, Chloe goes nuts whenever the fireworks start a lightin', which is a large reason why I'm unashamed to admit that I live in secret hopes that someday there will be a small (i.e. no permanent damage) "accident" at Fireworks House and I can enjoy my summer months in peace.

3. Redneck house throws a three-month long fight/pool party.
Two doors down lies Redneck House, which houses four generations of people who don't know how to communicate with other human beings without screaming and a generous sprinkling of profanities. Redneck House is tiny, yet apparently no one has ever moved out since I've counted at least 10 permanent to semi-permanent residents. Since there are so many occupants, it makes sense why they spend so much time outside, although I wish they didn't enjoy blaring the country music radio stations in their backyard while they soak the summer months away in their above-ground, backyard pool so much. I know it's going to be a bad day with Redneck mom chases Redneck daughter out of the house, calling her a pot-head and threatening to call the cops so they will take her children away from her. (Well, that's not exactly true. I usually pretend I have some "gardening" to do on those days so I can watch the drama unfold.) I hate to say it, but Redneck mother might be on to something, since Redneck kids (of which there are many) appear nearly feral to me. God, I hate Redneck House.

Seriously, who needs television when you have a picture window overlooking Alexander Street?