When we moved houses recently, our new neighbors on either side came over with invites, coffee, and stories about our house’s history and the neighborhood. It was lovely, but I couldn’t help wondering what I would find to write about. I thought wistfully of the good old days back in America: guns, swat teams, plenty of blog fodder…
So in honor of ThrowbackThursday, here is a repost of a blog from a few years ago.
My daughter and I were heading home from the movie when the police stopped us at the entrance to our little slice of Seattle McBurbia. They said there was a Situation. I explained that I absolutely had to get home or in about nine months there would be a Situation at my house. My son and his girlfriend had left the theater before us and were undoubtedly back at the house already. You could practically see the hormone clouds from the bottom of the hill where we were stopped. In fact, I could look up that hill and see that the only lights on at our house were in the spa room. You know, the one with the hot tub that I tried to get the last owners to take with them because we were from the Midwest. (We do hot dish, not hot tub.)
I tried to tell the nice officer that I wasn’t ready to be a grandmother. Almost two hours went by. The spa room dimmed, as if the only lights left on were those under the water surface in the hot tub. I started picking out baby names. When we finally made it back to the house, two innocent (but slightly damp) teenagers insisted that they had just been sitting around wondering what kept us. And hey, how weird was it that neither of their mobiles had registered incoming calls. Or texts. LOTS of texts.
Next day I discovered that our next-door neighbor had met some process-servers at her door with a display of the weapons that her gun-dealing current gentleman caller kept around. Now, our neighborhood was like some Walt Disney version of ultimate suburbia, so this neighbor was a bit… different. The day we moved in, she had come over to make sure we weren’t anything undesirable like Asians or Jews. (I told her she’d hit paydirt– we were both, and were thinking of renting out the basement to a black and hispanic gay couple.) In my defense, I didn’t know she kept an arsenal in her house. A week later, we met again when we arrived home to discover that she was just cutting down the last of our row of beautiful old trees on one side of our yard. So she could keep an eye on us.
A few weeks went by after she ran off the process servers. I was over in the next town picking up my daughter when my husband called and casually suggested that we might want to stop and grab a latte somewhere. Could this be the same husband who would wait in Burger King’s interminable line for a crap cup of coffee rather than pander to my addiction to overpriced caffeinated beverages with fake Italian names? “Who is this really?” I asked, figuring that pod people had also mastered the phone system. Just then my phone buzzed a call from my son. He said that people with automatic weapons and SWAT signs on their backs were pouring through our bushes toward our neighbor’s house. He wanted me to tell his father, who was standing in the picture window, drinking a cup of awful coffee and watching the show, that maybe he should get down.
Sadly, they took my poor neighbor away and some accountants moved in instead. There went the neighborhood.
Who was your creepiest neighbor ever?