Why I was, am and always will be a Country Girl.

Neighbors. It's all about neighbors.

If you live in the country your neighbors are far enough away that they live 'over yonder.' And when you drive by their house, they wave. And when their garden is ripe and ready, you are the recipient of all that is good and juicy and hand picked. And when they see you, they pull you into their sweet, chubby arms and hug you and tell you how scrawny you are and how you need to put some fat on your bones. Then they pull up a chair and y'all sit down for a spell and catch up on everything that's happened in the last week, or month, or year.

And, if your neighbors are really good, when you're a tween and the foreign exchange student that is currently residing at your house ticks you off so bad that you have a knock down, drag out fight in the middle of your front yard, and then you get in trouble for a tussle that SHE started--you can sneak up to that neighbors house and they will let you cry on their shoulder. They will rub your back as you sob about how no one loves you, or understands how your life sucks. And then once you fall asleep, they will cover you with a blanket and let you hide out until your family comes looking with worry-filled eyes. (Payback is sweet.)

But we were only speaking hypothetically.

Now. I'm going to tell you an actual story, because we both know that's what you came here for.

We are a camping family. However, between Husband's job, our new callings and all the activities our kids are involved in--we haven't set up our tent in over a year.

Oldest Daughter was lamenting this fact and so, suckered Husband into putting up the tent in our backyard. We roasted marshmallows in the chiminea before we snuggled down, all six of us in our sleeping bags. Or rather, on top. It was hot! I read them a story from the New Era. Husband regaled us with one of the many camping stories from his youth and then it was lights out.

But apparently the neighbors didn't get the memo.

The house next door must have some kind of magnetic pull for unwed couples with small yippy dogs. Did I mention that I hate small, yippy dogs. They're small and they yip. Did you see True Grit? That part where the guy kicks the kids off the front porch? It made me laugh until my stomach ached.

That's what I want to do to small, yippy dogs.

And both couples that have occupied that house have them.

To be fair, the first couple was very nice. We loved them. Never had a bad moment between us. And their dogs weren't too annoying. And then they moved.

The neighbors that took their place are okay. Except for the one time Girlfriend decided to sunbath in her bikini, right next to our fence, when Oldest Son was outside. But other than that, no big complaints.

And then last night happened.

So there we are at ten thirty, snuggled down when the girlfriend let's the dogs out into the yard. I get that. Dogs have to pee, too. She turns the back porch light on, and I flinch. That song about One Little Light in the Darkness, and how bright one light can be--well, let me tell you--it's true. That light was bright and I was starting to worry that she was going to leave it on all night. But about twenty minutes later, she started yelling for 'Sherman!" over and over. Finally the yipper ran up the stairs, she let him in, and turned that light off. By this time, my kids are breathing gently, as is Husband. In two minutes, I was right along with them.

Until 12:30 A.M. when these neighbors decide to have a party on the back deck. Mind you, our tent is huge and extremely visible from their yard. There is no way they could have missed it. So there they are with a couple of friends chatting it up like it was lunch hour. And I thought, "Are these people for real? Can they not see our tent? They know we have four kids. Have they lost their minds?" Of all the places they could have talked inside the nice cool house (a house much bigger than ours) they had to come out and talk right here by our sleeping children.

I sat up and glared at them. Don't worry, they couldn't see the glare. Probably. Yeah. They couldn't. But they could see me. And they kept on talking.

Then they added a dash of swearing to their talking. To be more specific--the F-Bomb.

Can I tell you that I hate the F-word? Any time I hear people spew this word I think dark, evil thoughts about them. And I heard it four times in less than twenty seconds last night. You remember how Joseph Smith stood up in Liberty Jail and rebuked the jailers for using such atrocious language. Well that was me last night.

In my heart.

I didn't actually say anything because I knew I had to live next to these people. I sat up and glared again. I know they saw me that time. And thankfully for them, they turned tail and ran in the house. They must've been able to feel my Joseph Smith like ferocity.

Yeah. I'm sure that's it.

Anyway. I'd say it's about time for us to move.

I'm not cut out for this city stuff.