This is NOT an old draft. Repeat, this is not an old draft. This is new – from today. You’re welcome. (Or, I’m sorry – but I’m not really sorry, so ha!)
I experienced a selfish delight today that I didn’t even know existed. I’m not sure if I’m proud of it because I haven’t had the chance to examine it closely. I probably won’t examine it closely – I don’t love admitting I might be slightly, morally wrong. It’s a thing – go read the earlier posts.
Backstory: I loathe, hate, despise, abominate, and all-the-other-synonyms-for-hate doing dishes. I would rather run unclothed through a rose bush in snow. That will be important in a few paragraphs.
Also, we have neighbors who are retired. The husband tends to stay inside or keep to himself, but the wife helps another neighbor across the street with an adult, special needs son. I know it must be a struggle for them, and my heart goes out to our across-the-street-neighbor and the challenges she faces, especially as her son is non-verbal, so he gets frustrated, too.
I’m not sure what my next-door neighbor does to help my across-the-street-neighbor unless she’s administering meds or some sort of home health care. She does wear scrubs a lot, which makes me think she is a retired nurse or works PRN to pay bills because she rarely leaves the house other than to walk across the street. I asked her once what she did for a living (or had done), and she told a story that had so many twists and turns that no author from O. Henry to Chuck Palahnuik to Jodi Picoult could follow it. She never did answer the actual question. Doesn’t matter.
She’s into everyone’s business, and while it does – occasionally – appear helpful, that doesn’t mean it’s necessary. She also still has a grown son living with her who can’t figure out how to keep his pants above his crack even with a belt, harbors another human who is possibly one of Crack-Attack’s kids, and whether it’s the grown son’s kid or not, the grandson is uber-annoying because he sits in his car, thumping Eminem songs from when I was in high school, and does nothing but vape. Any time we hear the thud and rattle of Y2K’s illest base, I guarantee it is followed by the gentle waft of Blu Raz Cotton Candy or the sweet zephyrs of Smurf Cake.
I’m not joking, that’s the actual name of it.
This is annoying on two levels: (1) I work from home and his busted speakers turned to a volume level of eleventy-five are disruptive and distracting, and (2) on the four nice days of the year when Kentucky weather cooperates and I can open the windows all day, I don’t need his second-hand vape offal ruining the fresh air. It triggers migraines from all the chemicals and reminds me why humans are distastefully unappealing – at least the ones who are incapable of adulting or who are not yet at the age where adulting is feasible. For a bonus, (3) I might suggest it would be better for my neighbor lady to focus her loving attention on raising her grown son and his vaping, maybe-progeny (he’s got to be someone’s kid) rather than butting into the rest of the neighborhood’s business. But I’m not in charge, so, the first and second will have to suffice.
Overall, they’re not horrible people – they are actually quite nice compared to some former neighbors we’ve had – but annoying on a few levels and each in their own way. The lady, though – I just… she’s not awful, she’s nice, but… this is
going to sound petty, and it probably is, but…
Well, she mows her yard twice every week from April through October and every. stinking. time. she decides to use her lawn tractor instead of her weed-eater (that’s a weed-whacker for the northern bunch) and she mows a crooked line IN MY YARD. It looks like someone turned a blind zamboni driver loose on the rye – the liquid kind and the rooted kind.
She has been doing this for at least 6 years. I have asked her to stop at least twice, point-blank.
Let me be clear: it is not her yard, nor is it even the “property line.” She legitimately crosses the property line, which is helpfully marked by trees planted by the old man who used to live there, and who gave her a tour and pointed out the tress ON the property line (I was there – I heard/saw it). She is the human equivalent of Mr. Magoo and drives that lawn tractor like George Jones down a back-road before the hangover sets in. She smiles while she does it. Her blades are set so low that she’s scalping the grass, so there is no way to cover up the serpentine stripe she scrapes across our side yard.
So, so strange. (Yes, my problems are stupid.)
Also, we have our mowing crew mow all the way to the property line, do all of the edging professionally – including around those trees – and have told her at least twice that we do that in addition to me asking her to stay on her side. She still mows that blankety-blank crooked line down the yard twice per week. Do I care that much about the yard? No. I bought this house because it is next to a field that can never be added to the subdivision, which means it will always be on a dead end and I will only ever have neighbors on one side. My introverted heart delights in the thought. It has a giant picture window that is great to read by while saving money on the electricity bill, an open floor plan that flows easily from kitchen to living room so it’s easy to spend time with friends and family on the rare occasion we invite them, and it has three bedrooms of generous size for a house this small, along with two bathrooms.
And separate bathrooms save marriages. (Feel free to write that down somewhere so you see it often. Trust me.)
I care because – again, two reasons – (1) my husband goes bonkers every time he sees that loopy line, which means I have to hear about it and I can’t do anything to fix it other than go nuclear (not a great way to treat neighbors, and probably-most-certainly NOT what Jesus would do), which means I have to see it AND listen to why it’s so hideous all the time, and (2) she always mows it in the middle of the morning when I’m working. She even asked me about my work schedule, then proceeded the next day to start mowing at exactly the time I explained how busy I am. I kid you not.
Fast-forward: today was one of the four nice days of the year when I could open windows for more than 30 minutes because the temperature was under 80 degrees but above 60.
She was not mowing, thank goodness.
I had to run the dishwasher a couple of times to get through all the dirty dishes that have piled up over the past week (maybe two), and I had to do a few of them by hand, because I like my expensive cooking utensils more than I hate dishes. It’s a close race, in case you were wondering.
Our dishwasher came with the house over 12 years ago and needs to be replaced. The detergent dispenser lid is broken so all the soap gets used too quickly, making pre-scrubbing a requirement. The spray element thingies are a bit clogged – probably from mineral build-up, but there are other options I prefer not to explore. Most of all, though, it is loud. I don’t mean loud in the way you can hear some dishwashers splash water along the plates.
I mean when the wash cycles start, it’s loud in the way an industrial wood-chipper sounds when fed enough sheet metal and plate glass to outfit a two-story building, with the added grinding noise of a blender slogging through modeling clay.
*Note: Please don’t ask me how I know what that sounds like. My childhood was weird and we probably should have been better supervised, but hey – natural selection was at work, and none of us died, so that’s good, right? Thanks in advance.*
I complain about it all the time and have asked for a new one for Christmas if my husband would rather buy that than the jewelry I wanted, it’s that bad.
Anyway, I started a load of dishes after opening the front windows today. Our next-door neighbor was outside in her driveway, having just come back from the across-the-street-neighbor’s house.
She was tending her mums.
If I’m being authentic and if I don’t self-reflect from a moral standpoint, I will say I took great delight in seeing her jump every time the wash cycle circled back around after a rinse cycle. It startled her. She even looked over her shoulder a few times, vexed and wondering what was happening behind our closed front door. If she’s half as neurotic as me, or anything like Mrs. Kravitz, she was imagining all kinds of scenarios and nefarious plots.
I smiled and waved from the picture window.
If it keeps hitting anywhere between the upper-50s to mid-70s, I might start doing dishes every day.
I’m so excited.