Digging in

You'd think sleeping and eating and having sex and dreaming less than 10 feet away from someone would mean you had things in common, got along, waved hello, looked out for each other.

 

Anyone who knows me will know I'm a glass-half-full person, all the way. I'd rather find things to like about someone than things to dislike. I'd rather get along than pick a fight.

But sometimes, people pick fights and you have no choice but to respond.

Let's take my neighbor, for instance. I've lived next door to the bastard for 10 years now. Ten years! You'd think sleeping and eating and having sex and dreaming less than 10 feet away from someone would mean you had things in common, got along, waved hello, looked out for each other.

You'd think.

It all started when he moved in. Really; he and his wife weren't here more than a month and he's suddenly having a fence put in…on my property. I confronted; he resisted. I got a stake survey—something they tell you you're supposed to do (you being the operative word here, dear neighbor; you're the one putting in the fence, you're the one who's supposed to spring for the survey, cheap bastard) before you ever erect a fence. I spent the $500 to prove to him that he was, indeed, eight inches onto my property line.

Hey, I'm no dummy; I went to real estate school. I know that if you let someone utilize your property as their own for three years (or is it two? Real estate school was a long time ago), it becomes theirs. Legally. I wasn't going to devalue my property by letting a not-nice new neighbor have part of my land.

So that was it. Because I wouldn't "share," I was an instant asshole. Despite his presumptiveness. Despite the fact that he didn't pay for the damn survey. Despite the fact that the first words he spoke to me were in response to my question about the fence.

So for 10 years now, he's been ignoring us when we wave hello. Still, we try; we're neighbors, right? We can surely put this behind us.

When we got a new roof last month, the roofer left his ladders overnight—on our neighbor's property. He did come to my door that time, demanding that we move the ladders. Which I, being home alone at the time, couldn't do by myself; I assured him that as soon as Jim got home, we'd take care of it.

Not half an hour later, there's another knock at my door. My freaking neighbor; he's so impatient. Well, guess what? It was the POLICE. My neighbor had called the police. To report my roofer's ladders being on his property.

What the fuck???

I should also probably point out that, after calling the police, he called the roofer himself. The ladders had been moved by the time the police arrived.

And yet here I was, with the police on my porch, feeling like the kid who's been caught doing something wrong.

Why is it that when people are assholes to us, we feel responsible, as if we could have done something different, better? If someone doesn't like us, it must be our fault, right?

Well, fuck that. Sometimes people just don't like us. I know I can be a bit harsh sometimes, but I'm one of the nicest people you will ever meet. I'll give you a second, third, fourth chance. I hate to hold grudges; it's too much negative energy, in my opinion. I'd rather get over it, move on.

But not my neighbor. He'd rather be the world's biggest prick, treat me and my husband like we're sub-human, of no value, no consequence.

But you know what, dear neighbor? We're not going anywhere. Keep your negative energy; we don't want it.

Be the first to comment

Leave a Reply