I’m spraying Neighbors-B-Gone around

by allthoughtswork

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There is a U-Haul backed up to my neighbor’s front door this morning and I am hoping so hard, I think I broke my perky.

Are you familiar with the term “white trash?”

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I saw the giant toddler of a man put an entertainment center shelving unit and a gamer’s chair in the back of that U-Haul, which means he is leaving, at least. That means no more yelling, threats, intimidation, guns, cops on the front lawn, and that fucking ugly piss-yellow Chevy LUV truck gunning its engine every goddamned morning at dawn because A. He doesn’t have the patience to let it warm up for three minutes like the rest of the neighborhood, and B. He’s thinks loud noises lengthen his penis. You should hear him on the Fourth of July; dude thinks he’s in porn.

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If any major furniture goes in, that means she’s leaving as well and the kids and the gigantic hounds from hell will follow suit. Don’t get me wrong, they’re sweet dogs, they’re just the size of King Kong, each one of them, and they’ve never been trained, walked, or played with so they’re stressed and high-strung and their barks could penetrate granite. Mind you, these are Dogs Number 5 and 6. The clan has cycled through several large breeds in the past decade that have shattered noise ordinances, bit the baby, and gone to live with a nice family on a big farm somewhere, if you know what I mean.

The instant I see those people removing a queen sized bed and bed frame, I’m buying champagne.

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8 Comments to “I’m spraying Neighbors-B-Gone around”

  1. Update: It’s late at night, all their vehicles are gone but one, and it’s dark and dead silent over there. I’m tentatively victorious.

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  2. YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

    They’re gone for good. The silence is pure bliss. And, yes, I sure the hell am drinking to TONIGHT!

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  3. It’s the next morning and I was able to rise at dawn and enjoy my morning in peace for the first time in fucking YEARS!

    I’ve been a prisoner in my own home for so long that finally having the source of evil removed feels like being gifted with a new residence. I’m going to spend this fine fall day working in my garden and relishing my freedom.

    Relish, relish, relish.

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  4. Oh well. It’s a week now since my family and I moved house. We packed everything up, organised some transport, loaded the dogs into my trusty yellow pickup, and off we went.

    i was sorry to leave, it had been a nice quiet neighbourhood, with good, dependable friendly neighbours.

    It was unfortunate that the nice lady from next door hadn’t been around so that I could say goodbye. I suppose she’ll miss us now that we’re gone; after all, you never know what sort of degenerate undesirables she might have to put up with in the future.

    Still, never mind. Only a couple of weeks to go until we start our new life in the UK; a place called Birmingham, and I believe that our new neighbour there is such a nice man, who has three small dogs that can play with ours.

    We’re really looking forward to it – what an adventure it will be.

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  5. Nice try, Nobbly. Here’s the real story.

    I happened across the mom as she was dropping off the key for the last time. We talked for two hours, comparing notes. Boy, what a story.

    The big bully she (still inexplicably) lives with has been diagnosed with diabetes and a scorching case of bipolar disorder. He’s agreed to zero therapy but is on so many medications, Big Pharma must send him a Christmas card. He regularly throws fits to get what he wants and ten employers have told him to fuck off in the last fifteen years, so he’s basically her third dependent. Thankfully, she’s smart enough to put the new lease and all her property in her name only and she never married the guy. And she made him get rid of his guns years ago. Wish I’d known that; I would’ve slept more soundly.

    The teen-aged boy, his child with her, is too scared to be around him and actually chooses to go grocery shopping with his mother rather than stay behind to on work on cars with his dad, something he actually enjoys doing. The older girl, not his kid, is looking the hell forward to graduating high school so she can escape the house altogether.

    The duplex they were in next door has a crumbling foundation, standing water in the crawl space after every rain, black mold in most rooms, and an electrical situation so dangerous that wires actually burned through the wall at one point. Rather than fix any of these egregious, illegal conditions, the owner and landlord, a relative of hers, ignored them for years and abruptly decided to sell the place out from under her without telling her. He basically called her up one day and asked, “So, when can you be out?” She started receiving the new owner’s mail in her mailbox before she even started packing. She could have legally stayed for 90 days but she was so pissed, she just pulled up anchor and moved on. I don’t blame her for a second. With friends like that, who needs enemas?

    The people in the other half of the duplex were ousted in the same fashion although they leveraged the law and decided to stay another month. The man of the house is currently on crutches from very recent ACL surgery and can barely move about. The owner knew this when he gave them zero notice.

    The owner also concealed all of the above code violations from the new owners. They are apparently “friends” of his who somehow trusted him enough to inspect the place for them (are you fucking kidding me?) and then charge them an indescribable amount for that rotting 1960s pile of crap: $500,000. I met them briefly a few days ago. Apparently, three very loud Mexican families who party a lot (their description) will be packed into that one building. Not sure about the legality of that headcount but the homeowners association, which is famously racist, will no doubt eat them alive. It’s the kind of association that fines you for a dandelion in your lawn.

    Needless to say, I have already begun to pack. I’ve tolerated living in a crap building with a horrible landlady next to discourteous people who do not take adequate care of their pets for too long. (The new owners informed me they have a collie fitted with a shock collar.)

    Speaking of which, the former renter told me her giant dogs now have a larger yard to run in. Which is nice because they have never been, nor will they ever be, played with, trained, or walked, so the running may help. Anyway, now they can bark out their stress about it all they want and it will be drowned out by all the other dogs barking unhappily in the new neighborhood. It’s the kind of neighborhood where you put extra locks on all the first floor windows and several deadbolts on the door and all the dogs are rotties and pitties.

    So, no, Nobbly, I did not get to say goodbye to those dogs. I spent many happy hours, however, petting them and loving on them whenever I could find a moment when the kids and her were home but the bully was not. They were sweet dogs, full of loneliness and anxiety–kinda sums up the entire clan, really–but unfortunately that didn’t mitigate the severe PTSD I have from a large, loud dog of a similar breed that mauled my face years ago and sent me to the hospital with so much blood gushing down my body, people thought I had been knifed. The sound of that guttural, predatory, Cujo bark is burned in my psyche.

    Despite that incident, which I bore alone with zero support, I pet every dog that walks by on the front sidewalk whenever I am out gardening. Everybody knows me and stops so their pooch can get some ear scratches. There is one in particular, Gordy, that I will surely miss. His owner, Gene, takes prodigious care of him, walking him four times daily, rain or shine, and has successfully coaxed him over the careful course of two years from an abused rescue mutt who was too scared to approach anyone to a sweet little pooch who just now has begun to lay down and allow me to scratch his belly, though he still trembles a little.

    Unlike Gordy, I have had to rescue myself, getting over the night terrors about dog fangs coming at my eyes and jaw, and teaching myself gradually how to live with trauma. I did it all alone and I did a damned good job. And I deserve to live in a place that doesn’t constantly trigger flashbacks that cause my spine to convulse with each random, machine gun-like bark.

    So, fuck you.

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