Loathe Thy Neighbor

It can often take a miracle to locate the seemingly perfect neighborhood. A quiet suburbia locale with immaculately manicured lawns, awe inspiring views, and perfectly pressed citizens who pride themselves on their humble abodes. A community that would cause Stepford wives to hang their heads in shame by the baked goods and well mannered offspring that reside behind rose bushes and plantation shutters on Utopia Way. Finding such a gem is like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow…or is it?

Although we can choose where to dwell, we can’t choose those who inhabit our vicinity. Unfortunately, most communities don’t come with a warning label that you may inadvertently find yourself living within an ear shot of domestic violence or the never-ending frat party. Not to be outdone by some of my personal favorites: The Anti Pooper Scooper, The Trash Nazi, The Amateur Knife Thrower and the creator of The Dickmobile.

Home is where the heart is, except when besieged by unruly, rude neighbors, in which case heartburn and heartache will ultimately reign supreme. Surely one would realize that being cordial to those who stroll along the same sidewalks would be at the very least polite. What is not neighborly however is having unknown cars towed and dialing 911 to report a disturbance before you’ve even unloaded your 1973 child abduction minivan! Such impetuous actions will do nothing more than cause turf wars, and there are those who are just itching to go to battle with ill-mannered newcomers.

Like a lioness stalking her prey, I’ve been keeping a close eye on the resident snitch since his arrival. Within days he’d managed to peak my curiosity with his collection of hundreds upon hundreds of white office storage boxes that were suddenly lining my adjoining driveway. Q-Ball doesn’t appear to be the accountant type or one who would be so organized as to keep every receipt and tax record since he acquired his work permit. As a matter of fact, he more closely resembles someone who’s just been released on parole. What could possibly be in all of those boxes?  Body parts, souvenirs from his victims, excess license plates, perhaps?

And then along came Saturday and the mystery was solved.

Startled awake by the rumblings of unknown voices, I was shocked to find that my quaint little cottage had become a parking lot that likened the border crossing into Tijuana. Blurry-eyed and without an ounce of coffee, I could barely ascertain the likes of what appeared to be strangers rummaging through the unmarked mystery boxes. My inquisitive nature had reached maximum capacity…what could Hannibal Lecter Jr. possibly be in possession of that the habitual garage sale goer would find of interest?

Upon closer inspection it is more probable than not, that my neighborhood peddler is of the illegal kind…more specifically, one who has hijacked a 99 cent store. Not only is the suspected former Property of the State selling off his goods that “didn’t cost him a thing,” but he’s chosen to pawn off his hefty assortment of panty pads, toothbrushes, shampoo, razors, body wash, Pringles and Nutri-Grain bars all for the low-low price of 1 dollar each.

Now, being a glass half-full kind of gal I’m reaching deep to find the upside to my newly acquired resident flea market. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I will no longer be burdened with the chore of stocking my Emergency Preparedness Kit. Seriously, I’ve decided that if there’s an earthquake, I’ll simply loot the looter! As an added bonus, with his stock of Depends, running water to flush the toilet won’t be an issue either.

Needless to say, I’d welcome back The Peeping Tom with a fresh basket of homemade cookies, a glass of warm milk and open curtains…at least he didn’t disturb my sleep or plan to pay his rent with a monthly swap meet!

Am I the only one living amongst questionable characters, or do you reside on Perfection Place? Is Nosey Nelly your neighbor or do you fear walking the dog after dark? And most importantly, who’s watching your neighborhood watch?