Sighing, I said, “Who knows? We must have some seriously bad karma.”

Over the years, we have had numerous conversations about our predilection for attracting neighborhood stalkers. You know, the kind of neighbor that stops whatever he or she is doing in their backyard to listen intently to round two of our “Where did we go wrong?” argument about our oldest son or round 9,999 of “Your mother said that? What was she thinking?”

Our neighbor is such a stalker. His life must be colossally boring because he is endlessly fascinated by ours. My poor husband, Mike, tries to mow the lawn when the guy is at work so he can avoid any contact.

The man, Sam, is like fly paper. Once he comes over, he sticks around until you ask him to leave. One Saturday afternoon, Sam invited himself over. The idiot actually told Mike and me that he planned on killing his wife. My husband’s eyes just about turned into marbles and rolled out of his head right onto our driveway. My response went something like this:

“Sam, I hope you realize that you just made Mike and I accessories to first-degree murder. If anything happens to your wife, I’ll be singing like a canary.” I was eyeball to eyeball with him as I said this, and I’m ashamed to admit that I sort of grabbed the collar of his shirt.

I guess I must have been having some sort of prison flash-back. I guess the implied threat worked because he scuttled away and we didn’t see him for months. We seriously considered becoming hermits, thereby curtailing our neighborhood interaction to a minimum, but that can only last for so long. We do have to eat.

Unfortunately this appears to be a recurring pattern in our lives. Recently, I offered to give my son Anthony’s friend a ride home after school. For some reason, the boy’s mother saw it as carte blanche to use me as her daycare provider of choice and resident therapist. I really do like my son’s friend, so I put up with this. However, I find it odd that absolute strangers feel comfortable in providing me with the intimate details of their lives on very short acquaintance.

With every fiber of my being, I know that I am not the slightest bit interested in hearing about her love life, impending divorce, or her adult-novelty business where she gives “pleasure parties” (I kid you not). At times, I am sorely tempted to ask, “Do you want some cheese with that whine?”

She is in a self-imposed rut and foolishly picks the same man each and every time. I mean they have different faces, but inside THEY ARE THE SAME MAN.

I wish that I had the gumption to just say, “Look honey, maybe this marriage thing isn’t for you and, until you work this out, maybe birth control might be a good idea.”

Cruel, yes. Judgmental, yes. Unfair? I don’t think so. I’m a firm believer in the “you pays your money, you takes your choice” rule of life. Sooner or later, we all have to pay the piper for our foolish mistakes. Your luck is going to run out and your karma bill will come due. But I remain silent because I love my son, and I really do like his little friend.

It seems to me that today people mistake common courtesy for overtures of friendship. As I consider friendship a gift that should be nurtured and cherished, it is not something I offer lightly or casually. This attitude might be antiquated and hopelessly old-fashioned, but my husband and I have followed this creed since the dawn of time. I am no longer that fiery first grader chattering away about my new best friend (back then I changed friends about as often as I changed my underpants). Our generation is the generation that stays (remains constant) and this has filtered into the way we relate to others.

My companions are women that I can have real conversations with on a variety of different topics. If they need me, I’ll be there in a flash as they have often been there for me. There is true history here. We are allies who have weathered both tragedy and beauty. We act as both cheerleaders and consciences. Because there is true love and affection in these tangled webs, we do not take advantage of our good natures or muddy the waters with ulterior motives. In essence, we are a support group (without the bad coffee). To put it in admittedly bluntly obsolete terms: they are my kindred spirits, and I am blessed to have them in my life. And, thankfully, none of them gives pleasure parties.

Kathleen Mary Rowe-Glendon