I came home from work today and there was underwear in the backyard. But it wasn't my underwear, or Raphael's underwear. It was our new neighbors' underwear which had apparently blown off the wall between our yards where they had draped it to dry. Or for other reasons. (Who can really say why anyone drapes underwear over anything?)
Did I mention that the meth-dealers next door moved out earlier this summer? Apparently they stopped paying their rent. Maybe because they had to stop dealing meth in order to get the cops to quit showing up at all hours of the day and night. But who knows. I don't presume to understand the complicated logic of meth dealers for the same reason I try not to conjecture about why underwear ends up where it does.
Now we have whole new neighbors who have a baby. Seems on the up-and-up. Wholesome and all that. I'd take baby-crying over the sounds of domestic violence-related china-smashing and scream-swearing any day. And if the worst thing that happens neighbor-wise for awhile is wayward underwear, I'm totally okay with it.