I’ve always tried to be a good person. I try to be considerate, to understand what people are going through, why people behave the way they do. While being empathic has helped me in my career, it has done crap when it comes to living in my neighborhood.

Here I am on a wonderful Sunday afternoon, the first one of hopefully many this year and I realize what a social outcast I’ve become. DeAnn and I have pretty much known that it would be tough to have friends up here since we don’t do the usual things (drink, smoke, go to church, play in any sports, etc) so we really don’t fit into the muppie set (mortgaged up to my pituitary gland types, of which thankfully we are not one of those).
But I look at my kids and with the exception of a couple, they are wonderful kide to be around. I get to listen into their conversations sometimes and to watch them defend the picked-on kid, be friendly to everyone, and just have fun without doing something totally stupid, dangerous, or evil is great to see.
But I guess I don’t see it in me. I know everyone on this block, all the parents and the couples and we don’t really talk to any of them. When I was a kid in Chicago, I knew all the neighbors. Some of them were really cool, others were older and just kept to themselves. Out here on snob hill, everyone talks to everyone else except us. We invite people over, but never hear back, strike up conversations but get dismissed with a parting wave. And the ones we do become friends with tend to part quickly because we are different (this we have been told by people on the outside who know our neighbors, we’re the Weird Wohlgemuths).
I guess I’m venting this to the outside world since the insular one doesn’t care. Maybe when the kids are gone DeAnn and I can seriously think of moving someplace nicer. Or maybe we’ll lose the moniker. Don’t take bets on either one……