I'm Right I'm Right I'm Always Right
One morning, before nine (this was a couple of years ago), I was coming back from a jog--sweat pooling in my pits, yesterday's mascara smeared under my eyes, wearing my son's old East Side Tigers gymshorts and a Taco Bell t-shirt--and my neighbor on the corner, where our little court meets the road, pulled beside me in his minivan and introduced himself as though we hadn't met at the Testa's Memorial Day cookout some months prior and hadn't occasionally waved and exchanged small talk.
I found myself reminding him, pointing out my house--"you know, down there at the end...with the pop-up camper...husband Greg....hundreds of kids..." before it occurred to me he was actually hitting on me. It was an odd thought, and I checked myself: Why would a man try to pick up a middle-aged woman in the street while the school buses were still running? Why would I even THINK such a thing? But it was just a feeling.
Now, if it had been, say, 8 p.m. and me in hot pants drinking MaiTais at the Bamboo Lounge, it wouldn't have freaked me out. But as it was, this disturbed me greatly, and I reported as much to Biggy. He, as usual, thought I was nuts.
Since then, I've always referred to this neighbor as Skeevy Alan, to which Biggy responds by rolling his eyes, because his wife is delusional and thinks all men are scumwads who want to molest her.
So--yesterday morning, on the way to work, the Q100 morning show was talking about this website, dontdatehimgirl.com, and I made a little mental note to check it out when I got home from work (As it happens, I was too busy to do it while I was AT work).
Once home, I pulled up the site, did a search for Georgia, expecting to find my ex-husband's profile, which oddly enough didn't pan out. But what I did discover made me squeal so loudly with glee that Biggy came running downstairs to see what I was right about this time.
That's him. My neighbor. Skeevy.