Before ya'll go ape shit and start hatin' on me, let me fill you in. Let me tell you about The Queen. When we bought this house, we really did get a hell of a deal. Yeah, it needs some TLC, but considering the market at the time, we couldn't understand why it was so affordable. Recently renovated, double lot, new furnace, street parking for two vehicles. Plus, the previous owner kind of just up and.....ran. It wasn't long before we started to discover why.
When I was pregnant with #5, and a mere eight months after we moved in, I was in the midst of one of several ultrasound appointments when the technician began to read thru my chart. My address caught his eye, and he asked me how I liked living next door to The Queen (slut). Apparently, the look on my face that must have read you-have-your-dildo-cam-pointed-at-my-hoo-hoo-and-you-know-my-exact-neighborhood? was enough for him to continue. He filled me in, telling me that his brother-in-law was actually my house's previous occupant. He also said that she was a big part of his decision to sell it. Small world.
Incessant phone calls at 6AM over parking are one thing. Complaining about the proximity of the rose bushes I planted and her backyard fence could be tolerated. McDonald's cups left on my front lawn by her visiting adult grandchildren were ignored, along with the rage I so desperately wanted to vent. But this past May? I just......couldn't take it anymore.
I was standing in my foyer that morning, awaiting the arrival of my niece, when I saw The Queen (whore) pick something up from her sidewalk (cigarette butts), and throw it onto mine. In an instant, that music from Kill Bill? Started playing, loudly, in my head. As malevolent as the day she was born, she got in her car and drove off. But not before stopping to place an orange construction cone in her parking space. A parking space, which happens to sit next to the driveway she never uses. The driveway, which is the entrance for the garage, which she also never fucking uses. A parking space, which she sweeps with a (witches) broom, the moment someone else uses it and leaves. Seconds later, my niece happened to pull up as I flew out the front door. She jumped out of her car and asked me what was going on. And since she was closer to it than me, I instructed her to bring that fucking cone into my house.
I went about my day as happy as a clam, knowing that the sudden disappearance of her majesty's illegal parking space saver would be enough to throw The Queen's (pig) wig off kilter for the rest of the year. Until 3:45PM, when #4 came in from school. Visably upset, she told me that The Queen (succubus) cornered her as she walked up our front porch steps, and began ranting about her precious fucking cone. Again, that fucking music, playing in my head. I proceeded out back with the basket of laundry that I was about to hang on the line before the shit hit the fan. And it did. Hit. The. Fan.
I was busy hanging clothes and scheming further retaliation when I felt the presence of her highness's unibrow behind me. Behold! The bitch, in all her glory, spewing shit from her lisped vocabulary in my general direction. With her nose held high and her nonagenarian eyes squinted shut, she stuttered with anger as she tried her best to form a complete and logical sentence.
Now, for as much as I would love to go into detail about my reply, I can't. You see, I used words that even I am too embarrassed to repeat. But let's just say that it helps to know people. People know people. And people grow up with other people's now-adult children. Now-adult children who were once instructed by their mother to do some very, very bad things as kids. Very bad things that can get some mothers banned from their position as an ordained minister in a local Catholic church. Let's just say that this knowledge came in incredibly handy. Let's just say that on that warm, sunny, May afternoon, my neighbors got waaaaay better entertainment than Netflix could ever provide.
It's been eight months since the day of reckoning. Eight very quiet and peaceful months. Aside from, you know, the occasional hang-up phone call or dirty look that clearly reads I-know-you-stole-my-cone-and-there's-not-a-damn-thing-I-can-do-about-it-because-it-was-in-direct-violation-of-the-Township's-littering-ordinance-anyway. You could hear a pin drop. Or, the Queen Of England next door.
I know I always have the option of selling my house. But this time? This time, it's personal. And I'll be damned if I'm leaving the neighborhood first. I also know that I haven't seen the last of her yet. There's a reason why someone that vicious and detestable lives as long as she has. She's so evil that even Lucifer doesn't want to be her neighbor.
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As much as I would hate to admit it,,,ya kinda a miss the ole lady in a wierd and yet evil way.
ReplyDeleteAh hell,who am I kidding,,DOWN WITH THE QUEEN!!!