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Tuesday, May 09, 2006

The Girl Next Door

When you live next door to a whack job, your life sometimes feels like a sitcom. Looking outside of yourself, you wonder, "Is this real? Where'd these freaks come from?" All too often I find myself shaking my head in disbelief. We've had some doozies over the years, yet leaving this neighborhood to go even farther out into the middle of nowhere, still doesn't appeal to me much.

One lady, Lulu, who thankfully, has since moved away, called the police on us. She told them that we had tunneled through her garage wall and stole her frozen food.

Police have to investigate all reports of break-ins, regardless of how outlandish they sound. When the sheriff came to us and told us why he was there, we had trouble not laughing in his face. He had some history with her and knew she was nuttier than a shithouse rat.

As he backed out of our driveway, I reminded him to put an APB out on the bag of broccoli and Pizza Rolls.

About a year and a half ago, we got Denis, who again, thankfully, moved away. He is another whacko. A harmless whacko, but a whacko nonetheless. He was the type you we would see outside religiously on Sundays at 7 a.m. drinking an Old Style over an open fire. I guess you can't drink all day if you don't start bright and early. He burned all of his trash, lawn debris, and as a volunteer at the VFW, retired flags also by burning. He kind of reminded me of Beavis and Butthead, "Fire, fire!"

It's a little nerve-wracking when someone who drinks beer first thing in the morning, always has a fire raging in their yard.

Exit stage left, Denis. Enter stage right, Mike. He likes the drink too. He can often be found trying to fix his car with a tool in one hand and a Miller Genuine Draft in the other.

One day, not too long ago, we pulled into our driveway to find Mike mowing our lawn. He was on a ride-on mower, one hand on the steering wheel, the other wrapped around a beer. I guess the dude doesn't read the bible, because it clearly states, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's lawn."

I swear to Blog, that guy was mowing at top-speed. Whipping around the trees in our yard like it was the lawnmower races and he was shooting for first place in the obstacle course. Mr. Lane and I looked at each other before getting out of the car. As I quickly hopped out of the car and ran toward the front door, I said to my husband, "Tag! You're it."

I went straight to the kitchen to hide. When I looked out at the backyard, I could clearly see, Mike had been there. He might as well have just mowed his fucking name into the grass. All the mow lines were wobbly and there were two empty Miller Genuine Draft cans on the ground. Folks, our yard isn't that big to be able to down those two plus the one he was working on when we drove up, especially at the rate of speed he was going.

When Mr. Lane finished talking to Mike, he came in the house and said, "Mike was trying to do you a favor so you would cut his hair."

"Cut his hair?! How does he know I can cut hair?"

"Oh, I guess I might have told him."

"Damn you!"

It wasn't long before Mike was sitting in front of me with his nappy ass head. He was so smelly, B.O. and beer, plus his hair was matted and dirty and he had grass clippings stuck all over him. I feared he had small woodland creatures living in that mop of his that would jump out at me. I made a mental note to kick Mr. Lane's ass. Practically gagging all the way, I managed to wash his hair and cut it and have him out of our house in 15 minutes. His smell, however, stuck around much longer.

When I finally got a chance to really checkout his crooked lawn cutting skills and pick up his beer cans, I noticed he mowed over our entire garden. I wish I knew that before I did his nappy hair. I would have returned the uneven favor.

Mike stopped me in the driveway this morning, asking if I would cut his friend's hair. I quickly lied saying, "My scissors are too dull. I need new ones before I can do anyone's hair." I don't know why saying no is so difficult. I hate that about me. I wish I had the balls to say what I was really thinking, "No fucking way, pal. If he is your friend, he is likely a smelly, nappy-headed, nasty just like you, so, fuck that."

His friend arrived shortly after I went into my house. He was driving a ride-on mower down the street. I swear to Blog, on everything holy, if this guy touches my lawn, I will totally pull an Edward Scissorhands on him.