How I Make Neighbors Cry

First of all, if making your neighbor cry is your goal, it’s always best to find one that is hyper-sensitive, and possibly a semi shut-in. I suppose a drunk will work too, as drunks can go from “fighty” to “teary” very quickly.

Second…have a damn good reason to make her cry, or you just come across as an asshole. I’m not an asshole. I had a DAMN good reason.

There is a family across the street whom I affectionately call “The Bumpus Family.” I won’t name the kids, but one of them is named after one of the 5 boroughs of New York City, which seems to be all the rage (or was 6-8 years ago). And they have dogs. 2 dogs, to be exact. They also have an electric dog fence in their back yard. On exactly 1 of the 4 sides of their backyard fence. No more, no less.

Needless to say, with their digging ability, and their ability to determine that they won’t get an electric shock every time they dig under 3 of the 4 sides of their backyard fence, our neighborhood often looks like one of the scenes from the move “A Christmas Story,” when the dogs are running through the Parker’s house (minus the stealing of the Christmas turkey). Most of the people on our block have discussed these dogs, and how they have managed to survive without getting hauled off by animal control. This past weekend, the Bumpus family went to Disney World, leaving the grandparents in charge of the dogs. The dogs got out the day they flew out of town on Thursday, and came back home on Sunday when the family got back and the kids hauled them back home.

Recently, a line was crossed when I went from my house into my garage (the garage door was open) to walk out to the driveway to get into my car, before driving to work. I was quite surprised to see a dog walking around my wife’s car in the garage, ignoring me. I closed the door to make sure my cat didn’t dart out (she hates dogs) and heard this dog panting and walking just outside the door. Once the noise went away, I walked out to my car, threw my briefcase in the back, and walked across the street to the Bumpus House.

After ringing the doorbell a couple of times, a very nervous mom and daughter (the daughter is in middle school, so her bus is later and she was still home) answered the door. The father had already gone to work. I started by asking them if they knew where their dogs were. I received a blank stare in response. The ensuing conversation went like this:

Me: I walked out of my house this morning and found your dog in my garage.
Mom: I’m awful sorry, we…
Me: Your dogs spent the weekend walking around the entire neighborhood, as far as two streets away.
Mom: You see, we were out…
Me: I have a right as a homeowner to be able to walk to my car, or even into my garage, without having a neighbor’s dog in my garage.
Mom: I’m really sor….
Me: Neighbors up and down this street have been talking about these dogs, and a few of them have suggested calling animal control.
Mom: I’m…
Me: I am tired of seeing your dogs up and down the street running around, and I especially don’t want them pooping in my yard. Please do something about it immediately.

At that point, I left the porch.

That night, while preparing to sit down to dinner, the phone rang. It was Mr. Bumpus, the father. He called to apologize for his dogs being in my garage, but apparently, what ticked him off the most was that after I left, his wife called him, extremely upset, because I was, and I quote, “rude, mean, and sarcastic.” Obviously, his wife doesn’t know what that word meant, because sarcasm is, “oh, I just LOVE it when your dogs run free everywhere.” As I told him, I was blunt, to the point, and I wanted to make sure I got my point across.

Can you believe the balls on this guy? He calls me to make me feel guilty for upsetting his wife, and he told me that if there’s an issue with the dogs, I should go see him. Apparently, his wife is very sensitive, and cares what people think (and is apparently concerned now that the neighbors think they’re trailer trash). He, on the other hand, does not care. My response? “Sir, that’s where the problem is. If your dogs continue to run free, they will be picked up by animal control and you will be ticketed, and if the dogs have no tags, they will be put down. So you SHOULD care what people think. As for me, I will not apologize for talking to your wife. I am not going to wait until YOU get home if your dogs are in my yard in the morning. It does me no good if the problem is happening right there.”

He kept alluding to the fact that his wife was very upset, and felt intimidated, and couldn’t get in a word in edgewise with me talking this morning, which leads me to believe she was an hysterical mess. I think he was surprised when I explained to him that I was not there to discuss, nor debate. I was there to tell them to do something about their dogs. Why their dogs were running loose was irrelevant to me. But, I did not tell him to go to hell or pound sand, as our daughters all play together, and if I was a dick to him, then he would tell his family what he thought, and his daughters would take it out on my daughter, and then there would be a war.

So, once again, issues with neighbors rears its ugly head. I really think we need to move within the next year.

Everybody knows that smokin' ain't allowed in school!

I pulled out of my driveway today and went to the end of the street, where I made my usual right turn. As I approached this intersection, I could see the high school-aged boy that lives next door to me (the younger brother of the tramp that likes to throw loud parties). He was sitting in the front yard of the house, presumably waiting for the school bus (I didn't realize that's where the high school bus stop is, I'm usually on my way to work a little earlier).

He was on the side street, his back to me, and as I approached, I could see that his hand was up to his mouth, and a puff of smoke had plumed away from his mouth. As it is still September, I knew it wasn't his cold breath, so I knew right away David was puffing away on a cigarette.

As I came to the stop sign and turned (yes, it was a rolling turn), I saw his arm drop. When he recognized me, he waved, and I returned the wave. I could see that neither hand held a cigarette. So, once I passed him, I looked in my rearview mirror. Sure enough, David reached between his legs, and I saw him pick a cigarette off the ground and continue smoking.

It's been 20 years since I began my senior year in high school, but I can see not much has changed. Many teenagers still smoke, and many of them are still sneaking it. And, amazingly, they think they get away with it. This alone makes it funny. And it's even funnier if young David thinks he can get away with it at home. His dad is not a smoker (which means he has a sense of smell), so chances are his dad knows exactly what David is doing at the bus stop.

And if not, I wonder if I can parlay this fact into a chance for some free lawn care in return for my silence?

Naturally, I'm interested in hearing your smoking stories, and if you got caught. I never smoked in high school, but I did try it 3 or 4 times in college (alcohol was involved, and even while drunk I knew I did not enjoy it).

Dear Neighbor Girl: Update

Many of you read my Open Letter to the Neighbor Girl, who enjoys throwing down with a houseful of guests, drinking shitty beer, and going “Woooo”, and “Fuck” at 2AM.

The lifeguard at our pool, a nice guy of about 19, knows her. And does what he can to stay away from her. Apparently Drunk with Partly Slutty is the way she lives her life.

Also, she just finished high school. She did not, as I thought, just finish her first year of college, she just finished her senior year in high school.

You might be wondering, “So Steve, what does this mean?” Well in my twisted sense of morals, what this means is the next time her dad is out of town and she’s getting shitfaced on Natural Light and being loud and obnoxious at 2AM, her dad is getting a phone call. Her dad will be told to “listen to this,” and he will hear her party from up close (I’ll be standing outside their windows). And, her dad will be given a choice. Shut the party down immediately, or the police will do it.

I guess, knowing she’s not just underage but high school underage changes things for me.

Dear Neighbor Girl,

I realize you are 18 or 19, and in your eyes an adult. I realize your dad is out of town, and having just finished your freshman year at the local state university, you want to blow off steam. I also realize that you definie blowing off steam as "drinking copious amounts of cheap macrobrew beer," using the word "fuck," every other word, and using the official Drunk Girl Mating Call ("WOOOOOO!") constantly throughout the night, with about 2-15 of your closest friends.

However, I would like to offer the following suggestions:

* When this social gathering is taking place, please understand that while you do not have school on the following Tuesday morning, the folks next door might very well have to work (I say "might," because there IS a chance they are unemployed, but you don't know that do you?) that morning.
* Because of this, having this party until 2:30AM in the back sunroom of your (dad's) house with the windows open might not be the best way to generate goodwill with your (dad's) neighbors.

I do appreciate the fact that unlike your last part, I did not have to throw cans of Natural Light from my front yard into your (dad's) front yard. Unfortunately, when my 10 year old daughter comes into my room at midnight complaining that she can't sleep because you are having a party, that doesn't make it better. If anything, tossing empty beer cans into your (dad's) front yard is kind of fun in comparison.

I know for a fact that your dad is a born-again Christian. This is not to suggest he doesn't enjoy having fun, I know he likes the occasional decent beer, and while he's kind of a goober, I know he likes to kick back and have fun. However, I'm reasonably certain if he's not the kind of guy that will decorate the house for Halloween due to the un-Christian atmosphere of that day, he probably wouldn't like his daughter walking around his house, beer in hand, yelling things like "Woooo!" and "Fuck that fucking shit!" with 2-15 of her closest friends.

So, please know this....I once tolerated your Natural Light cans in my front yard, because it gave me satisfaction throwing them back, especially if you missed them and your dad came home and saw them. I again tolerated your loud party through your open windows, because I remember (amazingly) what it was like to end the first year in college and celebrate both the success, and access to alcohol. However, the next time I am up until 2AM on either a weekend or a weeknight because I'm hearing "Wooo!" all night long, one of the following (or a combination of the following) will happen:

* You will see a crazed Suburbanite male, possibly in boxers and sneakers, outside your house with a boom box playing German Biergarten Musik, with the volume on ELEVEN.
* Any empty containers left in my yard will be held by me, removing your opportunity to do early morning cleanup, until you are gone and your dad is home, at which point I will stack these containers in a pyramid shape on the railing of your front porch. If no containers are in my lawn, I will get them from your garbage can. If I have to, I will use my own from MY recycling can and totally frame your ass.
* Your dad, whose cell phone number is programmed into my phone, will receive a phone call from me at 2AM at which point I will say, "hey Rick, are you home? No? Then who are these people?" And I will either send him a camera phone pic of your party, or simply hold the phone up to his house so he can hear you yell, "Woooo! FUCK!" I might even lie and say, "Rick, your daughter is running around your backyard shirtless while all the boys at the party are yelling "Go Chelsea! Go Chelsea! Go Chelsea!" Or, even better, tell him one of those portable stripper poles is set up in his sunroom, and you apparently have amazing leg muscles.

Hopefully we are both in accord on this issue, and there will be no further transgressions.

Warmest Regards,

Steve

The Bus Stop

Each morning, I go outside as my elder daughter, Thing 1, goes to the bus stop across the street and waits for the school bus. I'm usually out there with mug of coffee in hand, and I walk down the driveway to get the newspaper and hang out, reading the front page, waiting for the school bus, and just in general being there in the event bullies jump out of the bushes and scare the kids.

Thing 1's bus stop is one of the last ones on the route before the bus heads off to the school, and often times, throughout the year, a car will come zooming up behind the bus and drop off a kid or three, who apparently missed the bus. The school is only a five minute drive away, but it's a hell of a lot easier to deposit the kids at one of the last stops in the neighborhood. Often, the mother is slightly disheveled, hair not done, sometimes wearing slippers or whatever Crocs were sitting by the door.

Today, a red Ford Expedition pulled up behind the bus, and the mother got out to open the back door to let 3 kids out. She was wearing pajamas, which consisted of tight grey pants, almost in a yoga pant style, with a thin grey top, showing a midriff of about 3 inches (no lower back tattoo...I looked), spaghetti straps, obviously no bra, and hair that was hastily pulled back in a pony tail. This of course showed off lots of shoulder, neck, and a grand display of chest salad.

My brother, who lives in the heart of New York City, can't imagine living anywhere other than a big city. I, on the other hand, could never live anywhere other than Suburbia. Especially during the school year. When the weather is warm.

Any escape might help to smooth
The unattractive truth
But the suburbs have no charms to soothe
The restless dreams of youth
-Neil Peart, as sung by Geddy Lee, "Subdivisions"

Geddy obviously never experienced the joy of watching a pajama-clad MILF trying to catch a school bus for her kids. Of course, he's from Canada, so they were probably wearing coats even in June. However, in the Desperate Housewives era, I'm perfectly fine living in a subdivision.

Sharing with the Neighbors

Recently, we purchased some kind of large plant for the backyard, and it came in a cheap plastic pot that you usually discard once you get the plant in the ground (don't ask me what kind of plant....I think it began with an "H").

The disposable pot was left in the backyard until garbage day. We got a ton of rain recently, and forgot about it, and it filled up with water (along with a bit of potting soil still in it). Yesterday, my wife picked it up and carried it to the side of our backyard, where there are some trees, and dumped it out. Out poured the water. Out poured the potting soil. And out poured a very dead rat, covered in potting soil.

(It's OK, you can shudder, I know I did when I heard this story)

I'm guessing the rat climbed in for some stupid, suicidal reason, and couldn't get out and drowned.

The disposal of dead animals tends to lie on my back. When our cat Kramer died a couple of years ago (while sleeping on our bed), I had to lift him up and wrap him up to dispose of him at the vet. When our neighbor's very large Ridgeback/Doberman mix died, I helped another neighbor (the owner is a small woman and is not moving a dog that is sheer...ahem....dead weight) move him out of the house before their daughter came home from school and saw the dead dog on their kitchen floor.

On another occasion, a bird flew into our back glass door, breaking it's neck. I recalled my disposal method on that occasion, and decided to dust that one off and try it again. It involved this:

At 9PM last night, under the cover of darkness, I went outside with a shovel. I scooped the rat up with the shovel and carried it back to our back fence. Because of the shape of our streets, there are four houses that border our backyard, and two others whose backyard is maybe 20 feet away. So, perfect lacrosse style, I flung the dead rat hard, trying to clear the immediate neighbor's backyard and landing it 2 houses away in thick brush.

Unfortunately....because when dumping dead animals, there's almost ALWAYS an unfortunately....it hit a low-hanging branch in the yard next to mine, which stopped the rat mid-flight, causing it to drop right there, less than 10 feet from our fence. So there lies the rat, not far from our fence (fortunately covered in fallen pine needles, and if not, then I'll throw a shit-load over so that it is), much too close for my comfort. Not that it'll come back to me, but just because I don't want dead things near my house, it skeeves me out.

Litterbugs

I rushed home last night from work to change into soccer gear, grab Thing 1, and head off to the soccer field where I coach her team. On the way down the driveway, I noticed a Coke can in the small garden that we have around our mailbox. Kind of already knowing the answer, I asked Thing 1 if she knew how it got there.

T1: Chelsea left it there. (Chelsea is the eldest of three girls who live across the street.....whose name should also be Bumpus, as they also need to live far in the country, with no neighbors).

Me: Did you ask her to throw it in the garbage?

T1: Yes, but she wouldn't do it.

Me: Would it embarrass you if I took the Coke can tomorrow morning to the bus stop and handed it to her and made her throw it away when she got to school?

T1: Nope.

Me: OK, consider it done then.

I left the can there, planning on picking it up this morning and handing it to this littering bumpkin, but my wife saw it last night and threw it away. However, a point still needed to be made, as this was not the first time they have left garbage in my front yard. Her sister left a can of Dr. Pepper there a few weeks ago. I knew it was her, because I saw that she had opened the top very slightly and was sipping it through the crack, and squeezing the can as she went. A can with this exact description was later found in my yard.

This morning, I walked across the street to where the bus stop is, and called for Chelsea.

Me: Did you leave an empty Coke can in my garden?

Chelsea: (obviously thinking quickly) *shakes head no*

Me: Everyone saw you leave it there (by everyone, I mean she was ratted out by my daughter)
Chelsea: Continues shaking head no.

Chelsea's sister: Yeah, I saw you leave it there last night, don't tell no lies, Chelsea! (I do believe that thump you heard was the bus running over Chelsea...both axels).

Me: If you have garbage, I have garbage cans, toss it out there. Otherwise, next time you or your sisters leave trash in my front yard, I'm carrying it across the street and leaving it in your front yard, and then I'm telling your parents why it's there. Understand?

All three sisters nodded their understanding.

I relish the day when I get to walk across the street, hand their white trash mom a bag of garbage, and tell her, "I believe this belongs to you, your daughters left it in my yard."

Tornado Warning

There were tornado warnings all over the NW Atlanta metro area tonight. In the 9 years I've lived in this house, none of those warnings have been for areas as close to my house as tonight.

While calmly getting dressed and moving my cell phone, wallet and keys to the innermost part of the house (I wasn't worried, but it's still good to be prepared), I had one thought going through my mind:

Wouldn't it be funny if the Bumpus family (not their real name, but it's a great name for people who need to live way out in BFE, not in a subdivision) lost their brand new deck in a tornado?

Of course, if it was that close, that would mean my new gutters, that I hung myself, would also likely go flying, but if they lost their deck it would be worth it.

The Bumpus Family Porch

Here's a really crappy photo of the front deck/porch that I discussed a few entries down. It really is a fantastic looking deck. It just needs to be on the rear of the house.



This photo was taken by my new phone....ooops, sorry....my new Blackberry.

Yes, that's right. I said it. Blackberry.

(audience: Ooooooh. Ahhhhhh.)

In my next photo of this house, I will attempt to capture the ambiance of the two pit bulls wandering the yard, like East German Grenztruppen patrolling the Berlin Wall, except scarier.

Cue the Banjos

There is a family in my neighborhood that really should not be living in a suburban subdivision. They should be living far out in the country. Probably in a trailer (sorry...."Mobile Home"). With truck tires in the yard, turned on the side, painted white, and filled with potting soil, where they can grow geraniums, cabbage flowers and/or weed. And, to paraphrase Jeff Foxworthy, directions to their house should include "turn off the paved road."

They keep their yard so poorly that it's an eyesore. They mow it, but not as often as they should. They have a shed in the backyard where they keep lawn equipment, but it's overflowing with crap. This is because of another little problem.....they took their garage and converted it to an extra bedroom or two, because there are so many people living under that roof. There appears to be a grandfather, a mom, a man in his early 20's, a teenage daughter, a young boy, and a toddler (the toddler might belong to the teenage girl). There might be more, but I don't know how many actually live there, because there are always about 4-5 cars out in front of the house. Their biggest form of entertainment, besides going to their daughter's fast-pitch softball games (which as everyone knows is brutal entertainment on par with watching "The Road Warrior"), is sitting on their front porch area, smoking cigarettes, watching cars drive by, and occasionally reach into a cooler of beer. It's like "King of the Hill" without the alley, the exterminator van, or comedy. Oh, and on Independence Day and New Years Eve night, they blow off about a thousand dollars worth of fireworks....from their front yard and the street.

This weekend, they built a deck onto their house. They did a quality job too, they got a Bobcat (which they ran until 10PM on Friday night, and fired it up again at 7AM on Saturday) and leveled the yard, and anchored it to their foundation, leveling the beams, etc. It's a very nice looking deck. Unfortunately, they built this deck on the FRONT of their house. It looks like any back deck you'd see on the back of any house in the area, where the family can relax, including deck chairs, cooler of beer (no grill yet), etc. But it's on the fucking FRONT of the house!!!

Here's the kicker....this house ALREADY has a back deck. They have a rather decent one, in the back yard. It's surrounded by grass that hasn't been mowed since May 2008, I'm guessing, and it overlooks a backyard patrolled by two pit bulls. So, this retarded family can't use their back deck, because the pit bulls will eat the toddler and the young boy, so they build a deck on the front of the house. Most of us, if faced with a similar situation, would opt for safety (removing the pit bulls), privacy (cutting the grass, planting hedges) and classiness (not having their shit in the front yard, and keeping mom off the front porch when she's wearing her ugly pajamas).

But not them. They live a "living on 40 acres, out in the woods, where nobody can hear our victims scream" lifestyle (much like the kidnappers in "Fortress" or the hillbillies in "Deliverance") in a nice suburban setting.

If only the housing market was better and we could sell the house and move.

Raising Daughters

This could be a challenge. I'm not sure if the challenge is to maintain a level head, or to avoid killing a teenage boy and going to jail. I have a few years to worry, but it's coming.

Next door to me is a single dad with a 16(ish) boy (and an 11 year old daughter that normally stays with her mom). Kitty-corner to us is a married couple with a daughter, about 15 or 16.

Apparently, the boy next door has been relentlessly pursuing the neighbor girl, and she wants nothing to do with him. Yet he continues to call, or hit on her at the bus stop. Apparently, his pursuit of her hit a crescendo recently, when he called the girl up and told her, "I'm not feeling that well tonight. Want to come over and give me a blowjob?"

When the mother of this girl relayed the story to us, I tried to imagine what I would do if my daughter was the recipient of such a call. Unfortunately, after "Murder," I pretty much came up with a blank.

When my elder daughter, Thing 1, was born, I was told by a co-worker (who also has two daughters): When you have sons, you only have to worry about one dick. When you have daughters, you have to worry about Every. Dick. On. The. Planet.