Eighteen years ago, Joe and I purchased a home in a quaint little suburb that has been great for raising kids. Good schools, great neighbors and a short drive from all that makes life easier—Target, HEB, Office Depot, a 24-Hour Walmart—and the most relied upon for science projects and history dioramas, Hobby Lobby. (With two hormonal teenagers in the house, having a restaurant 2 miles away that serves the strongest margaritas in town is a bonus.)
Across the street is an adorable family with four children all under the age of six. The family next door are dear friends. We consider their 4-year-old one of the family. She thinks our house is an extension of her own. Three houses down the street live a friendly couple with a 3-year-old daughter and twins that are not yet a year old. Hannah is fortunate to be in hot demand for babysitting.
Olivia has several friends within walking distance, including three classmates determined to form a band. A few doors down lives a talented young singer who competed in this years school talent show with Olivia.
(They kicked it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFyeuRNXALU )
We do not have a neighborhood newsletter, but we have an e-mail group that shares all critical information. Anything from the latest criminal activity to who’s kid is selling girl scout cookies. Recently we had a feral hog issue that lead to a series of e-mails that were quite entertaining.
Wild hogs began roaming through the neighborhood rooting up sprinkler systems searching for water. They were causing quite a mess and a bit of a scare. Being a diverse community, you can image the variety of options offered up to get rid of these intruders. That is when the e-mails got heated.
Capture and release?
Shoot to kill?
Live and let live?
Kill and butcher?
If anyone had hosted a barbecue a la My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I would have been there, fork in hand.
Disagreements and all, we are a close group that look out for each other.
Which is why I chose one evening to e-mail the FBI.
There was an issue with a house in our neighborhood. It was an issue that was beyond something the local police department would investigate. So I got online, found an e-mail address for the FBI and sent a message with my concerns. (Hand to heaven, I had NOT been drinking.)
Five minutes later, our phone rang. Joe handed the receiver to me. A James Earl Jones double on the other end stated, “This is Agent So-and-So with the FBI. We just received your e-mail.”
I cracked up.
Joe is not the type to play practical jokes and he had pulled a good one. Laughing into the phone I replied, “Yeah, right!” and continued to guffaw.
Then I looked at Joe’s face.
Looked at his face again.
He was giving me The Ojo.
It was not a joke.
It was seriously the freaking FBI.
I stopped laughing and had a brief no-nonsense conversation with an agent whose tone emulated that of Mufasa. Well, he did most of the talking.
He never laughed.
I am confident my name is on A List.
Say what you will about our government—our FBI has game. If you doubt me, send them and e-mail.
And if you are interested in moving into my quaint, friendly little suburb—the house that I e-mailed the FBI about—it is currently for sale.