We moved to a cul-de-sac in 2018 as young thirtysomethings progressing to the next relationship level. We were surrounded by families, retirees, and widows. While they were perfectly pleasant, we didn’t have much in common with them.
Over the years of attempting to bond, my husband M has helped with chores around neighborhood, all with a smile and a beer with the blustery husbands on the block. Their wives are … fine, nice enough but not enough to be BFFs.
Through all this, we were perceived as “not social enough” because we don’t have kids to play with theirs, we didn’t want to (inevitably) be forced to take charge of the next block party, we didn’t invite them to our wedding (why would we), and we certainly didn’t want to go on a street group camping trip.
Seriously. They all went on a camping trip together and didn’t understand why we might not want to join them, basically a group of strangers we are obliged to be near in our off hours.
Well, SOMETHING happened on that camping trip, because after that, everyone started getting divorced.
One by one, the husbands vacated the block and moved into nearby apartments. The women stayed behind in the houses and learned how to move on.
Except … they didn’t.
This group of desperate housewives apparently never learned how to Google during their decades of marriage. Instead, they’ve co-opted my husband to do their grunt work.
Now, M’s weekends are peppered with texts and calls asking, “Can you help with…” or, “I have to move this…” or, “Do you want to take…” or—I swear to god—”There’s a strange truck in front of my house, can you take a look?”
I would gladly offer support or aid, but they only text him. Not once have I been asked for assistance, despite the fact that I’m always pleasant and folks regularly see me out helping M with much of the labor THAT THEY REQUESTED.
Frankly, it’s becoming intrusive. The final straw was being bombarded with texts at 9 am on a recent Saturday. They wanted him to move furniture, and he wasted more than two hours waiting for a truck to deliver the goods.
My husband is very skilled and has turned working with his hands into both a method of saving money and saving his sanity during hectic times. I’m so proud of the fact that between the two of us, we can build and maintain a nice home. But I want to build MY home, not Karen’s or Martha’s or Tiffany’s. They already had homes to build, and still could if they really wanted to.
So seriously, Pick-A-Little-Talk-A-Littles. I’m done letting you deprive me of my nights and weekends. Either get some movers, or get your own damn husbands—because mine’s taken.
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