Oh, I hate our neighbors.
Oh, I hate our neighbors. Hate hate hate.
Tonight it’s not the constant blocking of the driveway with a parked car
(their front door opens onto the only egress from our parking spaces,
and, well, shit, they don’t need to pull their car past their door and
into their space); it’s not the blocking of our car (just our
car) with a second car parked behind their big red Camaro in its
tiny space; it’s not the tens of children — related in some obscure way to
the family — who show up early on Saturday to make a ruckus on
their patio (right under our bedroom window); it’s not the late-night
parties that the family’s troubled youth conduct into the wee hours
while Mom and Pop are gone.
No, tonight it’s the laundry thing. I promised Erin I’d wash her
corduroy jacket for her trip to Dallas tomorrow, and the washer and
dryer have been in constant use since 5:30 PM. I was finally able to
sneak in my wash after their last wash (at 9:45, which by my reckoning meant I
could be done by 11:15 or so); but, as is their custom, they forget about each
load at each stage for about 20 extra minutes, ensuring that the pipeline is
suitably stalled at all times. My wet laundry is sitting in the washer,
waiting for their dry cycle
(oh, just started by the way) to finish (35-45 mins.). I’ve got to get
up at 7 to take Erin to the airport, and I want to sleep …
and I promised her that jacket.
People at Be always used to say “Don’t be a hater.”
But they always meant it facetiously, knowing full well that being “a
hater” is sometimes the only way to keep on loving something else.