Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Memory Lane

The Matron's creative juices are more or less visiting the Bahamas.

So she's traipsing through the past for material.

When the Matron and her husband moved the crew into their current home, they were in love with the neighborhood -- a gem nestled above the city with a vast regional parks and (from her window!) a panoramic view of the entire city. All the houses were tidy and well-maintained and neighbors included golf pros, newspaper reporters, free-lance theater professionals, the Assistant Attorney General and other interesting ilk.

Except for the house next door.

This particular property was populated by people who seemed to hold no real jobs but held guns. Not that the Matron is fundamentally against guns (okay, she is) but should any 12 year old have a hand-gun in his pant's pocket? Let's just say that's not a rhetorical question.

The house was -- is -- owned by a single mother (call her J) with two adult sons. The problem was her boyfriend who brought with him two teenage boys from a previous relationship. The boyfriend, we'll call him K, was a big believer in all things dangerous. Not only did he carry a gun (and his kids did) but he had a 15 foot boa constrictor in the living room. NOT KIDDING.

Stryker: "Mom, can I go next door and pet the snake?"

Stryker: "Mom, can I just HOLD that gun?"

Stryker: "Mom, can I go with K on his motorcycle?"

Stryker: "Mom, do you like K's tattoo?"

To make the situation more interesting -- not that living next door to a life-threatening reptile and an ammunition factory wasn't fun enough -- the boyfriend fought with everyone all the time: his sons, the girlfriend, the neighbors. J was also a player at that table. Therefore, the Matron will forever be grateful to this household for introducing her to the term "small dick bitch" which is what you call your boyfriend at 3 am after a case of beer.

Now, the Matron is a good Buddhist and has been trying to disengage and not judge for many years. She worked hard to be friends with her neighbors, even while searching the internet for child-size bullet proof vests.

Still -- this very event occurred.

One day a large truck showed up. Turns out K was leaving.

Matron: "Really? You're breaking up?"

K: "Swear to Satan. I am f$%% going to Afghanistan and shoot something."

Matron: "With your children?"

K: "They're armed and ready to roll."

Yes, yes, she's prone to hyperbole. But it was that bad.

So when the truck left -- and the gun-wielding men packed up their rats (did she mention that?) and snake, and the block became suddenly silent -- she walked into her kitchen and fell to her knees.

FELL ON THE FLOOR.

Matron: "I believe in Jesus! Thank you Lord!!!"

Stryker: "Does this mean we have to go to church now?"

No honey.. . . . but you won't get squished by a 15 foot seventy-pound snake or shot in the neck, either.

10 comments:

Cheri @ Blog This Mom!® said...

Those neighbors? They moved two doors down from us at our last house. K used to walk up and down the street shirtless, with a knife strapped to his back. It was a really quiet cul-de-sac, and most of the people living there had owned their homes for over forty years, including the owner of the house he lived in. The owner of the house he lived in was the mother of his girlfriend (who still lived at home with him and her three children).

I really feel ya on this one.

When they moved? The collective hallelujahs could be heard south of the equator.

MidLifeMama said...

You had to have rats - to feed the snake. And you all were WAY to big for any 15 foot boa constrictor to be concerned with. No seriously, I watch a LOT of nature channels. But the guns...guns are over the line.

Kristen said...

We had neighbors- with a 2nd story porch parallel to our bedroom window- who found all sorts of things to do at 3am. Stereo blasting? Check. TV up at max volume? Check. Screaming baby? Check. Adults arguing? Check again. Now- it was also all at the same time most nights. Learned lots of new insulting phrases...

One night we called the police- the woman screamed and screamed and screamed at that poor police officer. Cuffing her, hauling her struggling self down the stairs, and directing her into the back of the squad car did not reduce the screaming. Even when the car door slammed, we (laying on our stomachs, peering through the smallest window crack for fear of being seen) could still hear her.

Oh, the headache she must have had. We slept soundly that night.

kmkat said...

I am thinking a 15-foot boa constrictor could do a number on a 6-yo child. Good thing he moved. Poor Afghanistan.

Daisy said...

Praise the Lord!

MJ said...

What a relief! And here I was poised to encourage you to bullet-proof your house!

the Mof said...

I have been reading your blog over the last year and always get a smile but have never before commented-- but this one -- I love it!!

My very good friend and her hubby are in the process of moving house as they cannot stand their neighbours and their antics any longer. I am going to show them your blog and let them see that their situation isn't as bad as yours was. America or Australia it seems that there will always be neighbour problems

Green Girl in Wisconsin said...

Small dicked bitch. I'm still chuckling. Thank goodness the riff raff are leaving town--Praise God/Oprah/Allah/Buddha!

Ulrike said...

That sounds beyond awful and I think I am extremely glad that gun ownership is very restricted in Australia.
I am in awe that you still tried to get on with these neighbours.
..and what kmkat said: poor afghanistan.

Aunt Snow said...

Small world! I am surprised to hear that my neighbor and his girlfriend moved all the way to Minnesota and then to San Diego near Cheri!

We lived in a historically black urban residential neighborhood in Seattle, and our neighbor saw himself as an "urban homesteader" living in "Fort Apache" - yes, he really did call Seattle's Central District "Fort Apache." In 1993 when the Rodney King trial caused the LA riots, our neighbor was waiting with barely suppressed glee for the mobs to storm his ratty-ass bungalow. Needless to say, the gracious, settled, older black families that lived on our block ignored him.