The Neighbors

Last weekend I moved to a new apartment. Having chosen to stay in the same ecclectic neighborhood in Louisville (yes, believe it or not, we have an artsy, diverse group of residents and independent businesses,) I'm only five minutes from my former apartment. Although only five minutes away from the condo association board meetings, strict rules about time on the communal treadmill, and memos for bad behavior (such as leaving your linens on the line to dry for THREE days instead of the acceptable TWO) of the old place, I'm convinced that I've moved five LIGHT-YEARS instead of minutes.

The neighbors of my new home involve a cemetery, a home for severely disabled adults, a chicken coop as big as my bedroom and an old-school liquor store with a beckoning neon sign that rivals any on the Vegas strip!

Now, I don't claim to be the most politically correct person. In truth, I'll go for the easy laugh and the funniest story every time. So, what's a girl to do...

Despite having sworn I wouldn't "break the seal" by venturing into the across-the-street-liquor store before living in my new place for at least a week, my cheap wine-loving side did, in fact, yield to the enticement of the "wine closeout sale" prominently posted on that giant neon sign glowing outside my front window.

So, I shopped and bought a few bottles of "closeout" wine (hey, I'm always in favor of supporting local business,) and the kind gentleman behind the counter offered to carry out my purchases for me. As I was shamelessly playing the part of the gentle southern woman in a short skirt and high heels, I considered his kind offer. Afterall, he didn't have to know that looks are deceiving, and thanks to my robust German roots, I am a freakishly strong woman!

Then, I took a closer look at my knight in shining armor, that old-fashioned southern gentleman, the Clark Gable to my Scarlet who kindly offered to carry my four bottles of wine out of the store for me... Gleaming at me, as if it was lighted from the very heavens (well, it was the tint of a "gloss" rather than a "flat" flesh tone,) I noticed that this kind sir had a prosthetic arm from the shoulder down.

Panicked, I debated between my excitement over having some help with my heavy purchase and my wild imagination thinking of everything that could go wrong in this scenario. Of those thoughts, I pictured the disabled (I know, I know, but I warned you about my un-PCness) man confronting me, the more than capable faux "southern belle," about carrying my things myself. I also pictured a completely worst-case scenario involving the poor guy struggling to carry my things, jimmying his "faux" arm loose and the damned thing (his gloss-finished prosthetic) bouncing down the parking lot, eventually landing in the gutter, never to be recovered (without city officials being called and severe public embarrassment on everyone's part.) Let's remember, I live directly across the street from this place and would, no doubt, face this man every day whether I wanted to or not.

With these thoughts in mind, and back to this man's loaded question, I politely declined his offer of assistance. On my own, I hauled that heavy box of wine bottles across the street to my new apartment.  Not only that, I vowed to avoid that liquor store from now on given the conflict of interest in our unavoidable proximity AND I pledged to look at people with disabilities in a new way.

I'm proud to say, I've kept one of those promises. But I am going to run out of wine soon...