Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Too Late
Sipping wine with my partner in crime.
I was never so popular in my building as when I was moving out. Outside of the homeowner meetings I chaired, my conversations with 80 percent of my neighbors was limited to answering their questions about board matters during an elevator ride, or sharing some polite, “We’re acknowledging each other’s presence because it would be awkward not to,” chitchat while collecting mail or taking recyclables to the trash room.
In the weeks before David and I moved, we received several invitations. Most of them were from neighbors who had become our friends over the years, with whom we had outstanding balances for overdue hangout time. I assured this friendly crowd that we are still local, and we will have plenty of opportunities after the hubbub of moving to continue our friendships. These invitations made me feel glad that I had managed to grow relationships with such good people in my tenure as their neighbor and self-proclaimed HOA Board Bitch.
It was the other invitations that made me raise a brow. As I mentioned, "most" were from neighbors who’d invited me to their homes before. People with whom I’d already clinked glasses, helped get in the building when they locked themselves out, shared plants, collected mail, and all those neighborly, friendly things people do. But from the few whom I’d only seen at meetings or in the hallway, a sudden social offer when I had one foot out the door seemed odd.
Perhaps they’d always meant to invite us over, but kept putting it off, the way we do with relatives when we take it for granted that they’ll always be there. Or maybe they wanted one final chance to pick my brain on all things building-related, and root out some of the gossip I’d accumulated over the years by being one of the few people brave and/or stupid enough to volunteer my time to handling homeowner issues for so long. I like to assume it’s the former. In which case, my moving out was seen by some as a kind of death. (Moving, death in the family, divorce, and job change are supposedly the four most stressful things that can happen to a person.)
David said the invitations reminded him of funerals. “Why is it that families only get together during a funeral?” he asked. I joked that it’s because they don’t like each other, but I knew that wasn’t the truth. It’s because we get busy, and we think we’ll always have a chance to see each other later, so other obligations continue to take priority. My cousin Jeffrey had tried for years to organize a family reunion in upstate New York. But it was only after he died, as one of the firefighters who rushed into the first tower on 9/11, that the rest of the family finally organized the trip in his honor. It’s an old, tired question, but its relevance is unfailing: Why do we wait until it’s too late?
I understand that people want to be nice. But to me, taking the “last” opportunity to have a neighbor over for the “first” time seems kind of pointless.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Too Late
Too Late
Sipping wine with my partner in crime.
I was never so popular in my building as when I was moving out. Outside of the homeowner meetings I chaired, my conversations with 80 percent of my neighbors was limited to answering their questions about board matters during an elevator ride, or sharing some polite, “We’re acknowledging each other’s presence because it would be awkward not to,” chitchat while collecting mail or taking recyclables to the trash room.
In the weeks before David and I moved, we received several invitations. Most of them were from neighbors who had become our friends over the years, with whom we had outstanding balances for overdue hangout time. I assured this friendly crowd that we are still local, and we will have plenty of opportunities after the hubbub of moving to continue our friendships. These invitations made me feel glad that I had managed to grow relationships with such good people in my tenure as their neighbor and self-proclaimed HOA Board Bitch.
It was the other invitations that made me raise a brow. As I mentioned, "most" were from neighbors who’d invited me to their homes before. People with whom I’d already clinked glasses, helped get in the building when they locked themselves out, shared plants, collected mail, and all those neighborly, friendly things people do. But from the few whom I’d only seen at meetings or in the hallway, a sudden social offer when I had one foot out the door seemed odd.
Perhaps they’d always meant to invite us over, but kept putting it off, the way we do with relatives when we take it for granted that they’ll always be there. Or maybe they wanted one final chance to pick my brain on all things building-related, and root out some of the gossip I’d accumulated over the years by being one of the few people brave and/or stupid enough to volunteer my time to handling homeowner issues for so long. I like to assume it’s the former. In which case, my moving out was seen by some as a kind of death. (Moving, death in the family, divorce, and job change are supposedly the four most stressful things that can happen to a person.)
David said the invitations reminded him of funerals. “Why is it that families only get together during a funeral?” he asked. I joked that it’s because they don’t like each other, but I knew that wasn’t the truth. It’s because we get busy, and we think we’ll always have a chance to see each other later, so other obligations continue to take priority. My cousin Jeffrey had tried for years to organize a family reunion in upstate New York. But it was only after he died, as one of the firefighters who rushed into the first tower on 9/11, that the rest of the family finally organized the trip in his honor. It’s an old, tired question, but its relevance is unfailing: Why do we wait until it’s too late?
I understand that people want to be nice. But to me, taking the “last” opportunity to have a neighbor over for the “first” time seems kind of pointless.