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Yucky Yicky Yugh Neighbor

October 2nd, 2006

I called the city on my neighbor last week. And the county. And then (because I was on a roll, obviously) Animal Control. If she keeps being so rotten to her aged mother, I’m calling Elder Control, too. (Wait, I don’t think that’s what it’s really called.) Yee-haw, virtual high-fives to me for finally getting up the nerve to do this AFTER SIX YEARS OF HER.

As those of you who regularly read this blog know, I have two neighbors: Angel (Wacky Nekkid Neighbor) and Devil (Evil Neighbor). I am sorry to be so simplistic, but there is just no way around it. I am in Purgatory. Apparently I was really rotten as a child and this is payback.

So we have Evil Neighbor here, scaring off my contractors; and here, where she criticized the name we’d picked out for son and insisted we choose another; and here, where she was nice and almost saved my life and then here. In that post, she goes right back to being Evil Neighbor.

I guess she’s never heard that rule about once you’ve saved someone’s life you’re responsible for them forever. Or maybe she has, and she’s interpreted it as “torment them forever.”

The point is…

Her yard: It stinks.

The rusty chains and chicken wire in the driveway: Are dangerous.

Her pond: Has no pump and is full of mosquitoes.

Her garbage: Is attracting rats.

Her ass: Is too damn big.

Some T-shirts: Should not be tucked in.

Her voice: Is really loud, especially when she’s shrieking at her poor, hapless, 90-something year old mother.

Her bile: Spills over the driveway and tries to ooze under my door. I keep it at bay.

Also, her paranoia is astounding. And paranoia is a little bit catchy. Because I’ve always been kinda wiggy (ha! Understatement. I can hear my friends clearing their throats, loudly…), but since I’ve lived next to her, I have had to work extremely hard to not wig. As in:

The water tower by our house. She calls me at 11 p.m.: “You have to call the police. There are people climbing on it! I think they’re up to something!” (Her exact words, no lie.) Me: “YOU call the police.”

On the neighbors, who were meth-heads (and have since moved, thank God):

Evil Neighbor, on the line: “YOU HAVE TO CALL THE POLICE. HE’S BEATING HER.”
Me: “YOU call the police, you’re the one hearing it!”
Me: “Well, you’re going to feel pretty bad if someone ends up dead, aren’t you?” (Click.)

Do you think I’m heartless? I’m not. There had been, I dunno, three other occasions when she’d actually convinced me to call, and I later regretted it. Do not tie up the emergency line, people, except for real emergencies. Just sayin’. (Heh heh.) The meth-head beating was an emergency, absolutely, but 911 wants to talk to the person who actually is hearing and/or seeing what’s going on, not some second-hand, “My neighbor told me…” They won’t send a car out for calls like that. Half the time they won’t send a car out to my neighborhood, anyway.

Me: Just your voice. arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. “No.”
Evil Neighbor: “It sounds, like, kind of, A HELICOPTER!”
Me: “Maybe your washing machine is off balance.” (or your brain…)
Evil Neighbor, calmly: “No, I always unplug the washer and dryer when I’m not using them.”

Dear Lord. Help me, Jeebus. Are you wondering, “Why do you even pick up the phone, WM?”

To that, Internet, I say, I do not know. But I do know that I was the one calling her last week, to ask her nicely, please pretty please, would she hose off her patio because the smell of dog urine was blowing right into my kitchen window. The only reason I didn’t spend the entire summer retching from the stench was because I would wait until she left for work, then run out and hose it off myself. How sad is that? I have enough chores, thank you.

Also? It was one of her days off, so I couldn’t just hose the patio down. SHE NEVER GOES ANYWHERE EXCEPT TO HER VERY PART-TIME JOB. AND COSTCO. Plus? It was a warm day. You get what I’m saying? Blech. When I asked, she screamed, “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU! I JUST HOSED IT OFF!” (Lie, lie, lie.)

Me: “Hose. If. Off. Or. I. Will. Call. City.”
Evil Neighbor: (Click.)

The county hasn’t come out yet, but Vector Control is not amused. Nor is Animal Control. (She keeps her dog in a tiny mudroom; when she lets him out, she snaps a leash on him, tosses him out the backdoor, and he is allowed to pee and poop only on a tiny section of her patio. Thus, the smell. This qualifies as “animal neglect.”) The city already came by. They’re opening a case on her, and monitoring it. Told me to call them if she’s acting up and they’ll be right out. The reason they’re not taking more action is because she spent the entire weekend cleaning her yard! Can you believe it? She made her kid come home from college to help. I think she knew I meant it, about calling the city.

Good. Now if someone would just disconnect her phone.


  1. edj says

    If you do your purgatory now, you don’t have to do it later.
    This is how I picture it: a long line at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter reading off names. “John Smith? 135 years. Tara Cordell? 69 years. Hector Hively? 269 years. Planet Nomad? Come right on in, welcome.”
    And everyone would murmur, impressed. They would think I was some sort of saint.
    And I would mutter at St Peter as I passed, “What’s up?” Cuz I am in the know re: the sainthood thing and how that’s not quite an accurate picture of me especially in the realm of, oh, motherhood and patience with bickering children, for example.
    And he would say, “People who lived in Mauritania have already done their time! Come right on in and see the fall colours!”

    October 3rd, 2006 | #

  2. Wacky Mommy says

    So that’s the way it works!

    October 3rd, 2006 | #

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