I’m a little cautious about writing this. I highly doubt any of my neighbors know about my blog (except for a friend,) but if one should find out, it could be dangerous. One never knows what kind of malice can come to her for spilling the secrets in her tales from the ‘hood.
But I’m a brave soul, so I’ll do it for you. If I should come up missing or maimed, it was the man next door that did me in.
On a rainy morning mid-September we moved into our new home. A skinny little old lady from across the street came over to welcome us to the neighborhood. Despite her crazy eyes and the distinct smell of her morning cocktail lingering on her breath, she seemed nice enough. I mean, everyone needs a morning cocktail now and then, right? Her parting words were a warning to “Watch out for the family next door. They, and their brood of trouble making boys are riff-raff of the worst sort. Call the cops and CPS as much as you need to. Everyone is used to it.”
Well thank you, Gladys. I issued warning to the children, “DO NOT, under any circumstance, fraternize with the neighbors till Mommy has a chance to check this out! There will be consequences if you don’t obey!”
As time went on, every single neighbor we met told us the same thing. We live on the back street of a quiet little development for the most part. There’s a rowdy kid here and there, some with minimal parental supervision that just annoy me, but mostly, it’s good hard working families that are normal enough. Except them. No one ever came out and told us they were the resident drug suppliers, but it didn’t take long to catch on.
Now, you may recall that Jim and I were reputed to be the neighborhood drug dealers in our previous neighborhood. I ran a daycare of 6 families from home and there was constantly traffic in and out of there. Jimmie had a funky little corner of our garage set up as a home office (because the daycare kicked him out of the spare room and there was no peace and quiet in there anyway.) In the winter he hung a brilliant set of tarps and whathaveyou in the corner so he could keep the heat in. It basically looked like the most ghetto grow room one could construct. It was fabulous. To top it off, two houses down actually was a grow house, so when it was harvest time the whole neighborhood smelled suspiciously skunky. (I can’t even make this stuff up. And we lived in a nice area!) Anyway, we found out that a couple of the neighbors were convinced we were the dealers. It was awesomely funny and really pissed me the hell off at the same time. I digress…
So, a few weeks after living here I noticed the dad of our craptastic neighbors never left for work. Well, everyone has their problems. Okay. Their house, which used to be the nicest on the street, looks like the crack house it probably is. The back yard is basically a garbage dump. I’m not kidding. Jordan ran back there one day to get his friend (who was playing there) and when I followed after (to kill him for it) I almost threw up. Not one square inch wasn’t covered in garbage. I wanted a hazmat suit and a hot bleach shower.
Anyway, we quickly noticed an odd traffic of cars in and out of their driveway. And I realized how easy it was to assume that we were drug dealers in the old neighborhood. The same five or six people at the same times of day, sometimes multiple times per day, started showing up- same as a daycare drop-off/pick-up schedule. The only difference was, the clientele was a little shadier in this pick up line. No mommies dressed in slacks and heels. No Daddies wearing their company’s logo golf shirts.
Nope, what we have here is a lunatic neighbor that rides her kid’s pedal powered go-cart down the hill to score her daily boost. There’s people who leave their running cars in the middle of the street to run inside for a quick bump and then lose all track of time and leave it there until it runs out of gas. In the middle of the road. With children playing all around it. Mommies in their pajamas in the middle of the afternoon (yesterday’s pajamas mind you) and Daddies that look like they’ve been beat with a golf club are my daily entertainment.
But best of all, is the bus stop drug deal. Every morning Mr. Daddy of the Year walks his littlest child down to the bus stop just like the rest of us SAHMs. The only difference is, every morning there’s a lady sitting in a car waiting for the bus to pull off. And every morning, he walks over to her for his daily exchange. And, I’m not going to lie, every morning my heart breaks a little for both of them. And I want to bitch slap them both. Mostly the latter.
I’ve seen the lady in question put on quite a show many a time. One morning she was bouncing up and down in her seat so hard her whole truck was shaking violently. The kids were all terrified. Yesterday morning she was literally chewing on her steering wheel- I. am. not. kidding! Today, they were so freaking obvious about it I almost said something. I literally wanted to knock them both in the head with a crow bar and tell them to stay away from my babies’ bus stop. I just can’t take it anymore.
Fortunately, according to the Bus Stop Chatter, foreclosure/auction will occur on Friday and we will all soon be free of this nightmare. Please, dear baby Jesus in a manger, let it be true. I don’t know how much more I can take. I just don’t. If it is true, rest assured I will provide detailed recounts of that little escapade. I highly doubt it will go down without incident. Oh, and can someone please watch my back? Thanks.