Sailor and I have been in the crappy rental house for 9 months now and we have yet to hook up the TV. Mostly because we’re too busy to watch, anything we’re interested in is online anyway, and we generally find that there are much more interesting things to do with our time.

Like spy on the neighbors.

Actually, the neighbors in this hood kind of suck and aren’t at all interesting, but there’s a single exception and that is the family across the street. The house is enormous and beautiful and the landscaping is wild and gorgeous. I feel only mildly guilty that they have to look at such a crap-hole like our rental. The view from my porch being infinitely better.

But the residents of the abode is what gets me. They’re perfect. Husband, wife, two kids (boy and girl), replete with dog. They are charming. They are cheerful. They are kind. And they are the best neighbors ever.

I hate them immensely.

No. Retract. I don’t. I’m too utterly fascinated to hate them. Let’s start with the kids. Teenagers who please-thank you-and ma’am me to death. What’s not the love? The puppy (a Pitbull mix) aside from being cute as hell (is Hell cute? hmmmm), is terrifically well-behaved. The wife, aka Skort Mama (I’ve yet to see her in anything else), is long, lean, tanned, and sinewy, like she plays tennis all day long. Only she doesn’t. I never fail to see her gardening. All the time. She’s doing it as I type this.

Put the peice de resistance is the husband. I like to call him “Executive Polo”. The man is in possession of a bazillion different polo shirts. I know this to be true because I’m keeping a log. No joke. Day 59 and not a single repeat. Khakis too. Every day. Perfectly pressed. Utterly perfect.

It freaks me the hell out.

Executive Polo helps me haul groceries out of the car and up to my porch in a downpour. In 70 feet, I’m drenched. He only has a single drop of rain on the left lens of glasses. WTF?

Executive Polo and Skort Mama are weeding the garden (by my calculations it takes up the front yard and is about 1500 sf). It’s nearly 90 degrees out and they’ve been at it for hours. I walk across the street to drop off mail mistakenly delivered to my house and Executive Polo (yup, sporting khakis and the shirt), has not one drop of sweat, not the faintest stain of flush, and not a single damn speck dirt on his knees! In fact, his khakis are still retaining a crease! He looks like he could go straight out to dinner. And of course, Skort Mama smells like the flowers she’s been snipping for an arrangement for a sick friend.

What is dangerously close to being the final straw was last night, when talking to another neighbor whose dog strayed into my yard and who had clearly rolled in poo, Executive Polo arrives home. The dog breaks free, makes a beeline for EP and is circling him like crazy rubbing his filthy being all over the poor man’s legs.

And you guessed it. The shit didn’t stick.

I repeat: Shit does not stick to this man!!

Sailor thinks I’m nuts, but he’s been gone the entire summer. He has not seen what I have seen. And clearly I can not take it anymore. Either this family is dipped in Scotch Guard or the Stepfords are living across the street. I’m about two steps away from peering in their windows at night to confirm my suspicions that they don’t sleep but rather plug-in for recharging.

Seriously, if they weren’t so pretty, and nice, and so effing delightful, I’d have to find a way to eliminate them.

There’s only so much I can take.