Scott & Robin

Last night, Jimmy and I had a laugh about our neighbor, George. He’s a well-meaning man in his early-to-mid 60’s. He’s married to a woman who is just as well-meaning as he is … It’s a lovely combination. However, since we moved into the house, three years ago, George has thought my name is ‘Robin’. One time, I heard him call Jimmy, ‘Scott’. The Robin thing makes sense: 5 letter name, starts with an ‘r’, sounds like a bird. But, Scott?? That’s J’s middle name. How on earth would our neighbor know that?

Sometimes, I feel as though J and I both lack that part of the brain that helps adults stand up for themselves. Lately, I’ve tried getting better at it … ie: telling my other neighbor he can leave my property OR stop talking badly about our president/government. I was pretty proud of myself for that one. But, for some reason, neither J nor myself can bring ourselves to correct George when he calls us Scott & Robin.

This whole thing just makes me laugh. It’s one of those little things that makes me happy to be alive. Seriously … I think discovering quirks about people, and being polite enough to not call them out, is an art. Just like when someone insists a song is by a certain artist (even though you know it’s not), you could correct them (and make them feel stupid), or you can just agree and move on. Ignorance is bliss.

When/if we move away from this house … I’ll miss George. I’ll miss the way he always interrupts our yard work with his own fatherly advice. I’ll miss having a neighbor who is so passionate about his property/yard. I’ll miss running in to him on my morning jogs. Mostly, I’ll miss my alter-ego, Robin. I bet she’s feisty.


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