The rumors are true. We are leaving New Ro and setting sail for the northern reaches of Mamaroneck, a town I once mispronounced as "Mama-ro-neck" after getting desperately lost there on the way home from Newport about, say, twelve years ago. (As a side note, I would like to apologize to all and sundry for hooking a piece of the Newport house's porch with the tail end of my 1984 Volvo and dragging it clean away as I left. I still can't imagine how it happened! I hope the check I wrote sufficed.)
I have held a certain sense of pride as New Ro's wee little voice of vitriol-sometimes-love from the trenches, but I'm sure I'll always have a bit of the New Rochellian in me. "Rochelle! Rochelle!" I'll sing idly while doing the dishes, a la Seinfeld. I'll come down and wander the aisles of the Stop 'n' Shop on Palmer Avenue, forlornly seeking Shuffles in the bagging area. Maybe I'll even come back to my street and toss an egg at a speeding car.
As if in farewell, a woman just slowed in front of our driveway, opened her maw, and expelled a great cloud of smoke. She then flung her cigarette onto our lawn and roared off to her own driveway down the street. "Goodbye, neighbor," I wept.
So what awaits us in Yo' Mama-Roneck? I sure do like the fact that it's diverse and kind of quirky, just like our humble hometown of New Ro. And friendly! We already have one neighbor who graciously offered us the use of his house whenever the mood strikes us. "Come on in and get yourself a cup of sugar, a drink, whatever!" he shouted, when we met. He stuffed all sorts of things into my hands, including icy-cold bottled water (it was a hot day) and hot coffee (I had an infant and he knew I needed it). "Just walk in the back door," he added. "No need to call." Another neighbor heard we signed on the house and dropped off a gift-wrapped banana bread, even though we don't move for about three weeks. Now that's unparalleled niceness. (Supernanny made a stealth mission and claimed the bread.)
I was also delighted to see that Mamaroneck has its own rather shopworn mannequin in the window of a store offering specialized bra fittings, although she hasn't fallen quite as low as the Craftform broad. Give her a few years and a couple of abusive boyfriends. She will be duly photographed. Hi Ho the Derry Oh, I'm off to enrage another entire township of citizens! (By the way, when was the last time you had your bra fitted? I did this as a teenager. An older, pinched-faced woman dragged a measuring tape around my bust in a most humiliating manner. I have been far too scared to repeat the experience and therefore I am sure I am wearing the wrong bra size. But I digress.)
There are just so many things I'll miss about our neighborhood. For example, a posse of boys on bikes rode through some time back, and the conversation as they passed was without price. It went something like this:
Boy One: My ball got squished! I got one ball left!
Boy Two: Screw yer ball!
Boy One: I went over a bump and my ball flew off.
Boy Three: Titties and ass! Titties and ass! I'm a-gonna get me some titties and ass!
Boy One: My baaaaaallll.... [Fading into distance. Exit stage left.]
Boys of Mamaroneck, can you do better? I challenge thee!