Note: This is a letter to my Hillbilly Neighbors. Please refer to my January 1 post for a primer.
Dear Hillbilly Neighbors,
You and your "like six" (apparently you can't count because I've never seen more than five at your home at any given time) children are starting to wear on me. I'm thrilled for you that you saved your ducets from your third shift GED or high school diploma required job to move from Kentwood Estates (ever notice how most trailer parks are called something "estates?") to the west side of GR and next door to me. Thrilled. You moved your "like six" kids from one bad school district to an equally bad school district, but, whatevs.
When your kids told me you regularly eat "shit on a shingle" for dinner I tried to laugh, though the mental image had me gagging. When your son Maverick (yes, Maverick, as in, "Tower, this is Ghost Rider requesting a fly by.") shoveled snow from your sidewalk on to mine I was slightly irritated. But then you all just had to take it to the next level.
For example, that time you killed your puppy. Yes, that poor puppy you bought on Craigslist (don't get me started on people who BUY dogs.) who is now buried up against my fence. That one. Because "like six" kids isn't enough, you decided to buy a puppy. One that needs to be housebroken and trained in all things. You bitched about its constant crying (which I could hear inside my house - if I lived in your home I would cry constantly too.) and neediness, despite the fact that it was the sweetest little thing and would lay quietly in the arms of Little James. I went away for a few days on business, and came home to find Little James knocking at my door with a different dog in tow. Little James was anxious to tell me how the puppy apparently hanged himself off your raised deck. Frankly, I don't know if I believe the story but, regardless, the dog is dead. And your poor "parenting" skills are to blame. What a waste.
Then there's Booby Brian. I call him Booby Brian because he is about 13 and is so morbidly obese he has breasts. Yes, breasts. However, what really offends me about Booby Brian is his propensity to point his flip camera phone toward my house and, presumably, tape me. Yep, when I caught Booby Brian not once, but twice, with his camera phone pointed in my window I had HAD it. When I tried to talk to you about this, you told me he is "EI" (I think YOU are emotionally impaired.) and that none of your kids have the capability to record video on their phones because you removed that feature. Really, well you must think I'm an idiot, especially when Little James showed me video footage of the now dead puppy on his phone less than a week after you told me none of your kids could use their phones for photos or videos.
Speaking of Little James, I've asked him to stop coming over and ringing my doorbell when he gets home from school. He doesn't get it so please help me out here. As I've explained, I have a hectic work schedule. If I am in my home and it is before 5 p.m. on a weekday, guess what, I am working. I'm likely on the phone and don't need my doorbell ringing and dog barking.
Also, using your kids to ask me for favors is not appreciated. You know, when you made Little James ask to borrow my rake a month ago I obliged and simply asked him to return it. The next day I found it laying in the middle of your backyard. Four days later, when Little James came by for his regular visit, I had to ask him to return it. No "thank you for letting us borrow it" or anything, he just put it over the fence.
So, when you sent Little James over on Thursday at 2:58 pm, two minutes before my 3 p.m. conference call on my first day home from work travel in seven days, I will admit I was not friendly. When he asked if you could borrow my lawn mower I was taken aback, especially since Booby Brian worked the block this winter trying to drum up business for his summer lawn cutting service (with what lawn mower? Mine?). So yes, my answer was, "You know, I have to get on a conferene call in two minutes." and I closed the door. I then hid in my house the rest of the evening to avoid you. But you didn't stop there. On Saturday morning I pulled in my driveway after running 20 miles. I was sore, sweaty, exhausted and before I could get out of my car I was highly irritated when I heard Booby Brian say, "Kock knock." I stopped, one shoe on, one shoe off, water belt in hand, staring at him. When he asked, "Can we borrow your lawn mower?" I stood there and stared at him for what felt like an eternity before finally saying, "I just ran 20 miles and need to get in my house." In other words, leave me the hell alone, kid.
Here's the thing, Hillbilly Neighbors, if I had never gotten my rake back it wouldn't have been the end of the world but I know you would have kept it since I had to ask for it back. The rake was a great test case for future requests (which I just KNEW you would have...). So, no, I'm not lending you my lawn mower. I don't want to have to ask for it back.
While we're on the topic of things I don't want, let me add some requests. First, for the love, please tell your kids to stop ringing my doorbell on weekday afternoons to talk to me about nothing. I don't have time and I don't care. Second, when I'm trying to sit peacefully on my front porch/in my back yard, don't try to strike up a conversation with me about your hillbilly hobbies. I don't watch NASCAR, I don't listen to country music and I don't eat "shit on a shingle." Finally, I really don't want your kids looking in my windows. Is this too much to ask? Perhaps this was a fun kid activity in Kentwood Estates, but it doesn't fly here on the west side.
This is likely the first of many (and I mean many) open letters I will send your way this summer.
Sincerely,
Your irritated neighbor
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment