SweetWitch
Green Goddess
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2005
- Posts
- 20,370
Okay. Maybe “love” is too strong a word, but it sounds nicer than “loathe”.
Back-story setup: A few weeks ago, my much-beloved neighbor succumbed the economic climate and decided to sign her beautiful home over to the bank rather than continue to struggle making ends meet. It was a tough decision and I hated to see her go. So now her home is empty and the two-story, much-used playhouse out back is fair game.
Which brings us to the present day—a day, I might add, that started before 6 AM. The playhouse is right outside my bedroom window. Some neighbor boys decided it would be fun to get up before the freaking sun and play construction worker. They borrowed some of their dad’s tools and went to work.
WTF? It’s not even sunrise and the little brats are hammering and pounding away at this thing. The resulting noise pollution woke first my child and then my husband and I. Of course the neighborhood dogs joined the chorus. Before long there was a cacophony of racket designed to rob everyone of much-needed Saturday sleep-in time. I suddenly decided that I hated little boys.
Now, I try to be a good neighbor. I don’t yell and go into fits over such things because it’s not good for local relations. I growled a bit and grumbled and stumbled to the bathroom to wash my face.
Once I got the glue off my eyes and managed to get the kid away from the TV, I glanced out the window. The boys were carrying firewood away from my wood pile. Damn. How many times do I have to tell them that it’s not safe? How many times do I have to remind them to leave stuff that doesn’t belong to them alone?
After a yell out the door to tell them to put it back and keep clear of the pile, it was time to start in on the house. Holy shit! The kid was only up for about 15 minutes before me. How the hell did she do that much damage in so short a time? Time to hit the warpath.
Sensing the trouble in the air, my husband wisely decided to take his family out to breakfast. Good thing, too. He was next on my hit list.
Back home, I saw the mess in the garage. I could barely get the car in, and with so much water standing in the yard, gardening was out, so it was time to clean the garage. The things I found! I won’t even go into it, but suffice it to say, I was pretty angry at the state of affairs—especially when I discovered how much of the shit in there belonged to all the neighbor boys. It’s all neatly piled in the yard now with a sign that says take it home by Sunday night or lose it forever.
Taking a break from the garage work, I decided to slog through the yard and see how much damage was done by all the rain. That’s when I found the big pile of trash the kids had carried from the playhouse and put in my yard. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so angry, seeing as how they had filled my burn barrel (thinking it was a trash can) and piled the rest neatly in three huge piles, but damn! This was the last straw. Time to talk to the parents.
So, I got all the firewood out of the playhouse (in 7 trips) and stacked it back up. I drove down the road to speak to the very hot and hunky Ken about his children. No luck, no one home. Double damn.
I got back home to discover someone—during my short absence of 5 minutes—had nailed my mailbox. It was lying in the road, gasping out its last breath. Triple damn. My mail was scattered in the mud.
After asking my child if she had seen anything and watching her blasé shrug, I threw up my arms in disgust. The mailbox—looking a little worse for wear—is back on the job. It only took a sledge hammer and the vent of my growing frustration to put it back in place.
Back in the house to fix lunch, I discover that the little hurricane has been at it again. When I went looking for her, I saw her clear down the block at the bad neighbor boys’ house. I had just told her not to go over there. Of course the little twit spilled the beans—since they were now home—about how angry I was. Time-out time. “In your room until I tell you to come out.”
The lunch done, house back in order and supper on the table, there’s a knock at the door. By this time, I’m very tired, very cranky and ready to let someone have it. Hot Ken was at the door with one of his errant boys in tow. Shit. I don’t want to deal with this now.
There’s a long discussion, the boy sent out back to clean up the trash and promises that I’ll be able to get some rest tonight. Hah! Believe it when I see it. I know his boys. Then he took a look at the big old dead tree in my yard and decided that it needs to come down. Now! Oh, hell. That’s all I need to deal with. He volunteered.
This tree is situated between the corner of my house and the corner of my other neighbor’s garage. The only place to safely drop it is in the street. To fell it correctly takes real experience. Hot Ken? How do I know his capabilities? The man was nearly salivating at the prospect. Apparently he’s a closet lumberjack.
Of course, the thought of watching his muscles bulge as the sweat trickles down his naked chest is tempting, but I declined his offer. I really don’t need a lawsuit on my hands.
Supper’s cold by the time he left. So, after nuking, we finally sit down to eat. I’m no longer hungry. I’m just tired. The kid is whining. The husband is bitching. The cat is howling. The neighbor boys are hammering away in the playhouse again.
I need a drink. Or a valium. Or a really big gun…
Back-story setup: A few weeks ago, my much-beloved neighbor succumbed the economic climate and decided to sign her beautiful home over to the bank rather than continue to struggle making ends meet. It was a tough decision and I hated to see her go. So now her home is empty and the two-story, much-used playhouse out back is fair game.
Which brings us to the present day—a day, I might add, that started before 6 AM. The playhouse is right outside my bedroom window. Some neighbor boys decided it would be fun to get up before the freaking sun and play construction worker. They borrowed some of their dad’s tools and went to work.
WTF? It’s not even sunrise and the little brats are hammering and pounding away at this thing. The resulting noise pollution woke first my child and then my husband and I. Of course the neighborhood dogs joined the chorus. Before long there was a cacophony of racket designed to rob everyone of much-needed Saturday sleep-in time. I suddenly decided that I hated little boys.
Now, I try to be a good neighbor. I don’t yell and go into fits over such things because it’s not good for local relations. I growled a bit and grumbled and stumbled to the bathroom to wash my face.
Once I got the glue off my eyes and managed to get the kid away from the TV, I glanced out the window. The boys were carrying firewood away from my wood pile. Damn. How many times do I have to tell them that it’s not safe? How many times do I have to remind them to leave stuff that doesn’t belong to them alone?
After a yell out the door to tell them to put it back and keep clear of the pile, it was time to start in on the house. Holy shit! The kid was only up for about 15 minutes before me. How the hell did she do that much damage in so short a time? Time to hit the warpath.
Sensing the trouble in the air, my husband wisely decided to take his family out to breakfast. Good thing, too. He was next on my hit list.
Back home, I saw the mess in the garage. I could barely get the car in, and with so much water standing in the yard, gardening was out, so it was time to clean the garage. The things I found! I won’t even go into it, but suffice it to say, I was pretty angry at the state of affairs—especially when I discovered how much of the shit in there belonged to all the neighbor boys. It’s all neatly piled in the yard now with a sign that says take it home by Sunday night or lose it forever.
Taking a break from the garage work, I decided to slog through the yard and see how much damage was done by all the rain. That’s when I found the big pile of trash the kids had carried from the playhouse and put in my yard. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so angry, seeing as how they had filled my burn barrel (thinking it was a trash can) and piled the rest neatly in three huge piles, but damn! This was the last straw. Time to talk to the parents.
So, I got all the firewood out of the playhouse (in 7 trips) and stacked it back up. I drove down the road to speak to the very hot and hunky Ken about his children. No luck, no one home. Double damn.
I got back home to discover someone—during my short absence of 5 minutes—had nailed my mailbox. It was lying in the road, gasping out its last breath. Triple damn. My mail was scattered in the mud.
After asking my child if she had seen anything and watching her blasé shrug, I threw up my arms in disgust. The mailbox—looking a little worse for wear—is back on the job. It only took a sledge hammer and the vent of my growing frustration to put it back in place.
Back in the house to fix lunch, I discover that the little hurricane has been at it again. When I went looking for her, I saw her clear down the block at the bad neighbor boys’ house. I had just told her not to go over there. Of course the little twit spilled the beans—since they were now home—about how angry I was. Time-out time. “In your room until I tell you to come out.”
The lunch done, house back in order and supper on the table, there’s a knock at the door. By this time, I’m very tired, very cranky and ready to let someone have it. Hot Ken was at the door with one of his errant boys in tow. Shit. I don’t want to deal with this now.
There’s a long discussion, the boy sent out back to clean up the trash and promises that I’ll be able to get some rest tonight. Hah! Believe it when I see it. I know his boys. Then he took a look at the big old dead tree in my yard and decided that it needs to come down. Now! Oh, hell. That’s all I need to deal with. He volunteered.
This tree is situated between the corner of my house and the corner of my other neighbor’s garage. The only place to safely drop it is in the street. To fell it correctly takes real experience. Hot Ken? How do I know his capabilities? The man was nearly salivating at the prospect. Apparently he’s a closet lumberjack.
Of course, the thought of watching his muscles bulge as the sweat trickles down his naked chest is tempting, but I declined his offer. I really don’t need a lawsuit on my hands.
Supper’s cold by the time he left. So, after nuking, we finally sit down to eat. I’m no longer hungry. I’m just tired. The kid is whining. The husband is bitching. The cat is howling. The neighbor boys are hammering away in the playhouse again.
I need a drink. Or a valium. Or a really big gun…
