Neighborly Birthday

Today is the birthday of my friend Neighbor B. Neighbor B, as you all know, may as well be a member of my blood relations, he means so much to me. And so the day he was birthed, that's a big day in my life. And you know that I have to give a shout out to my birthday peeps, so here I go.

First off, let me tell you this. Neighbor B is not big on celebrating his birthday. He's just an understated dude and doesn't go in for celebrating hisself. Now, you all know how I feel about birthdays, and for years now I have been chasing Neighbor B down and figuratively force-feeding him his birthday. That's right, I'm not above bullying people in an entirely unladylike manner, especially on this subject. But, now that I have this blog, I can express all those mushy feelings I have towards my loved ones right here and not badger them and smother them like Pepe Le Pew always did with those poor sexually harassed cats. Hmm. Wait a minute. I just associated Neighbor B's birthday with unwanted cat/skunk love. This was not my intent. I apologize. Let me start again.

One of the first times I hung out with Neighbor B, we played this game. It's called "Loaded Questions." You draw a question, everyone else writes down their answer, and then you have to guess whose answer is whose. It was during this very game that I started to love Neighbor B. I remember it down to the very question. It was: "what was the worst fashion trend you ever succumbed to in your life?" The other people playing the game had lengthy, mortifying answers, like "floral gunny sack dresses with a turtle neck underneath, with large gold chains on the outside of the turtleneck and metallic gold shoes" or "loud, baggy hammerpants with a pink and purple design, like something Hulk Hogan would wear." I mean, really excruciating, true-confession stuff. And then, there was Neighbor B's answer. "Tank tops." That's it. That is the worst thing he could come up with. He had once worn tank tops back in some early bare-armed heyday and that's as fashion-faux-pas-ed as he was going to get. You have to love a guy like that. You just do.

The other thing that has to be said about Neighbor B is that there is a part of me that wonders if he is part robot. Not a robot in a scary, post-apocalyptic way. An android style, benign, Data-like robot. Let me make the case. He is very involved with all-things technical. He's probably got some sort of program running right this very moment that washes and dries his clothes, feeds the birds in his yard, makes doughnuts for breakfast and wipes his nose. Whenever you go to his house, there is always some sort of project going on of the technical variety, and it almost always involves wires, cords and cables. He seems to tend to his cords like a mother bird tends to the twigs that make up her nest. He rearranges them, he moves them around, he fondles them. And when he's done, they do something fantastic and automated. It's awesome. So when I joke that Neighbor B.'s house is merely a facade for the operation he is running where he single-handedly rules the world, I am only 40% joking. I have never in my life seen anyone do so many different things just with the use of cords alone. I am very glad that he uses his android powers for good and not for evil, or else we'd all be in big trouble, you guys.

There was a time when Neighbor B was my actual, geographic neighbor (as opposed to the more existential neighborliness that we feel for each other now). We lived in a side-by-side duplex, and the wall that separated us was not the most soundproof wall in the world. Every day, at some point, Nordic Boy and I would pause for a second because we heard a sound. At first, we were all like "what is that?" After a while, we figured it out. It was Neighbor B, next door, working with his cords. As he worked with them, they were being jostled or slid across the wall, creating a soothing, ambient sound, not unlike the wind in the trees. From that day forward, it was a welcome sound. When it would start, we'd look at each other and say "...cords..." which was really shorthand for "ah, Neighbor B's home. And he's up to something with his techie projects. All is right in our world." It was like he was communicating some sort of greeting to us through the wall, even if he didn't know he was doing so. Rustle, rustle, hey guys. Rustle, rustle, how are you? We even took to nicknaming him "Russell Cords" in honor of his rustling sound. The rustling of the cords was one of the things I missed the most when Neighbor B moved away.

Happy birthday, Neighbor B. I love you to bits. (See how I worked in the techie-talk there? I said "bits." Did you catch that?)

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl