I abhor the people across the street with every fiber of my being. I have an abhorrence for them that I usually reserve for celebrities who bow in front of you with their hands in prayer position like they're saying namaste.
Namaste my ass, you nincompoop.
For six months, we had these kids living across the street and they were lovely. One of them even helped me when Edsel ran off early on, when the gate got left open--and yes, I actually did try to find Edsel, who by the way had run off...to the rest of the yard, and I couldn't see him. That young guy and I traversed my whole neighborhood, asking "Have you seen a medium-sized yellow dog who looks like he might be soft in the head?" to everyone we saw. When we finally turned down my driveway to call the authorities, the proper authorities, there was Edsel, smiling at the end of the drive.
The point is, they were nice kids, and then they left, and now in this past month these
have moved in, and they regularly--regularly!!--sit on their porch at 3 a.m., scream-laughing and talking at the tops of their lungs, playing music, their devil music, without a care in the world.
The other night I called the police on them, just like I'm my old neighbor Alicia, who used to threaten everyone with "call[ing] the police on your ass."
But did they care? Clearly no, because last night was another scream-laugh night, and it woke me up, and it disturbs Tallulah, who needs everything just so, and have I mentioned she's figured out the dog gate? They're gated in the dining room at night, with their dog beds, and the other morning I opened the bedroom door expecting to see the usual cacophony of cats, which I did, but there among the three meowing, purring, rolly amoeba cats was a big smiling dog. o hullo...
Usually Ned puts the fear of death into her and she skulks downstairs, and now in the morning when she's up here with me being my blog muse, when Ned comes out of the shower she crosses the bed and gets on my lap. Just in case he's gonna get mad, and I guess what we've done is confuse that dog, but anyway, she's figured out the gate.
So not only was I awakened by Screaming Trees over there across the street, old Down By The Old Mill Scream, by Sabrina the Screamage Witches, but now I had Talu scratching at the door and moaning.
I have written them a letter in my mind, which I will type up and mail to them, just like I'm my grandmother who I've turned into, and then I will smoke my More cigarette and stare pointedly out the window at them from my chair, which actually is the very chair Grammy sat in when she smoked her Mores. I own that chair now.
My point is, I was gonna get on here this morning and answer some of the questions you sent me the other day, but I slept in because NO SLEEP LAST NIGHT and namaste THIS, and when I finally grumped out of bed, Ned said, "Do you hate the neighbors, then?"
"I have half a mind to write them."
"Oh, THAT'LL help." Ned has a rare talent for taking my bad mood and making it worse.
"What's on your ankle?" he asked, as I stamped angrily to the bathroom.
"I thought you HATED Jane Austen," he said.
"I don't HATE Jane Austin. I'm just not INTO Jane Austen. Someone sent me these. They're pretty." I turned my ankle about so I could admire my Jane band-aid.
"You SOUNDED like you hated her on your blog," said Ned, who all of a sudden reads my blog when for years he did not.
"I was starting my period," I said.
"You're ALWAYS starting your period."
So, because I was busy dragging the body to the river, I did not have time to answer your questions today, and for that I apologize.