Because my neighbors? Sweet Lord. We moved to
We moved to
And really? It’s a cute house. It really is. It has a big front porch. It’s a really pretty brown color. And it has three bedrooms, which was my only drop-dead requirement at the time. (I have since learned that having a massive amount of closet space is a requirement since I have a husband who hangs on to every single piece of clothing he’s ever owned, ever. But I digress.)
Jason claims that living on the end of a dead-end street is a big plus, but actually? It’s not. Because everyone uses our yard for their parking lot and/or turn around place. The ice cream truck will come down our street and get stuck in our yard and has made huge, really ugly holes in the yard and ruined our grass. We’ve repeatedly asked her not to do it, but she won’t stop. It’s not like it’s the public street we’re asking her not to use. It’s our YARD. She doesn’t even have a boss we can call and complain to, because she owns the freaking truck. I’ve really considered putting big metal spikes in the ground, but that just might be mean. Also, it would probably pop her tires and then she’d want to come in and use my phone and since I’m a generous person I’d probably let her and she might stab me with a sharpened popsicle stick or something for popping her tires in the first place. And, frankly? I just can’t take that chance. People rely on me to pay the mortgage and cook dinner and crap like that.
There are also a lot of children on our street. Since I have two children, this also probably seems like it would be a big plus. Again, it’s not. Because I make my children, you know, BEHAVE and ACT RIGHT. And apparently that’s not a requirement for living on my street.
A few days after we moved in, we were accosted by the family who lived across the street. By accosted I mean I opened my door at 7am to take my children to school and there were two children, dressed in pajamas, on my porch playing with my children’s outdoor toys. I asked what they were doing and they looked at me as though I had sprouted three heads and said, “Playing!” (I mean, DUH!) I asked them why they weren’t getting ready for school and they advised me that their mom and dad were still asleep. I sent them home and told myself that this was a rare, weird occurrence and that I would see the mother later that day and explain what had happened and she would probably be really embarrassed and it would never happen again.
But yeah. Not so much.
I saw the mother later and she seemed friendly enough, in a crackwhorish kind of way. I explained to her that her children were on my front porch when I went outside at 7am. She said nothing. I said they had told me she and her spouse were still asleep and she was like, “Yeah. We were.” Okay. She then advised me that the people who live catty-corner from our house (and directly next door to her) were disgusting, dirty, nasty people who tried to look at her little girl while she was in the bathtub. She said, “We had to put curtains up!” I declined to tell her that I thought curtains were probably a good idea anyway, or at least blinds, because you don’t need the entire neighborhood seeing your business. But whatever.
I then met the people who actually live in the house she was referring to. One is a woman who is in approximately her 50’s and the other person living in her house is her father, who is quite old. They told me they had to put up a fence around their property after living there for over 40 years without incident because the kids who lived in that house were coming over and stealing their things, wrecking their flowers, and writing on the side of their house with magic markers.
About two days later our whole family was outside together. My husband was building a receptacle for our trash bins. The trash trucks come on Monday and we had bought two large cans to sit by the curb. We had observed that every single week trash was strewn all over our road by large, roaming dogs (we later found out these dogs actually belonged to residents of our street who did not bother to put collars or leashes or anything on them…fancy. They also don’t spay or neuter. Because it makes the dogs lazy. Sigh) so we decided to build a wooden receptacle that would hold the bins. We also put bungee cords over the top so that animals couldn’t get the lids off.
While my husband was building, I was sitting on our porch and the kids were in the yard, throwing a Frisbee around. Within fifteen minutes there were eleven children in our yard. Eleven. Not a parent in sight. I had met exactly one of the mothers. These parents did not have a clue if we are serial killers, if we are child molesters, liked Blue Grass music or anything. They just sent their children over to our house to play so they wouldn’t have to be bothered with them.
Immediately, I could see why they didn’t want to be bothered with them.
One boy (shockingly, the child of the mother I mentioned earlier) picked up a hammer and told me he was going to hit my car with it. I told him to put the hammer down immediately and he was NOT going to hit my car with it. He grabbed the hammer and ran toward my car, hitting the (rubber) bumper. I took him by the arm, took him to his house, and told his mother, who said, “Okay.”
His sister took my daughter’s bike and rode it up the street. I informed her (I might possibly have actually yelled this at her, causing two small children to flee to their own homes) that it was not her bike and she needed to get off of it immediately. She said, “But I like it.” I told her she had her own bike and she was not to ride my daughter’s bike anymore, especially without permission. She then went onto my porch. I told her to stay OFF the porch, as I had noticed some small nails that were still exposed and hadn’t had a chance to nail them in soundly. She came on the porch anyway, grabbed a pair of my daughter’s shoes, and ran off with them.
I, again, went to her house. I told her mother that she had stolen my daughter’s shoes and they were, in fact, currently on her feet.
She said, and I’m totally not kidding:
“I don’t know that they aren’t her shoes.”
I said, “Did you BUY her a pair of shoes like that?”
She said, “No.”
I asked, “Well then why would you think they were her shoes?”
She replied, “Well, I don’t know. Someone could have given them to her.”
I walked over to the little girl, took hold of her leg, and held her foot up so that the woman could see that I had written my own daughter’s name on the shoe (before you accuse me of being a freak…she had been at day camp that summer and writing her name on her things ensured she came home with them).
She was not impressed.
“How do I know that’s your daughter’s name?” she asked, clearly ignoring the fact that it wasn’t HER daughter’s name.
“I’m telling you it is,” I said.
“Well, how do I know that your daughter didn’t GIVE my daughter those shoes?” she queried, thinking she had found a loophole that would enable her daughter to keep those Hello Kitty sparkly sandals that didn’t even fit her feet.
“She didn’t,” I said. “Furthermore, she’s only five years old and she’s not allowed to make decisions about what she gives away. I’d like her shoes back now.”
Reluctantly, she made her daughter take off my daughter’s shoes and handed them over to me. As I was leaving, I heard her shout out the door,
The girl came BACK to my house almost immediately. She came up and sat on my porch, once again. I asked her, once again, to leave.
She got up and when she did, I could see that she had peed on my porch.
PEED ON MY PORCH.
I AM TOTALLY NOT FREAKING KIDDING.
She was seven years old people! She wasn’t a toddler that had a wee-wee accident! She was in the second grade!
The next day? The mother came over and asked me if my daughter could join her Girl Scout troop. I politely declined. I didn’t tell her that I didn’t think she, a woman who changed live-in boyfriends as frequently as she changed her underwear and had knock-down drag out fights in the front yard with said boyfriends, would be an appropriate role-model for my daughter. Also? Since her own daughter was seven and couldn’t control her personal urination and somehow they live in some kind of alternate universe in which it is acceptable to pee on someone’s porch? I don’t think she’s a good role-model for any child, anywhere, at any time.
I just thought that would be overkill.
After a few months of finding the children in the street every day (literally, playing in the street) wearing only underwear when it was thirty degrees outside, I finally called Child Protective Services. Who did absolutely nothing. The woman from CPS? Was extremely incredulous that I had even called. As though this was common behavior and *I* was the crazy person. It was then that I began to wonder if I was crazy. That was also right about the time I started crying and hating to come home.
One day, the people were gone. Just gone. My neighbor told me that they had been stealing power (how you steal power, I just have no idea, but apparently they were) and hadn’t paid their rent in some time and in the middle of the night they packed up and were gone. Also? The current “dad” had broken into the house across the street (which is also a complete crackden and makes me wonder why poor people want to steal from other poor people, but I’m saving that whole tirade for my Presidential campaign) and he was in jail. Sweet.
Some equally fun people moved in after that. And I could go on for years about the stories these people have provided me, including them yelling at me what a fat-ass I am, and various calling the police stories.
I can’t wait to move.