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Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Saturday
Nov242007

In Which Max And I Call Out The Fuzz

My best friend is most certainly Max. Serge, that travelin' bastard, is all over Europe so he doesn't count anymore. It's me and Max. We sleep together, eat together, walk together, watch television together. He prefers talk shows like Larry King and I'll be damned if he isn't a Nancy Grace fan. He pretends like he's mocking her, as if he's watching ironically, like a hipster wearing a Phil Collins T-shirt, but I secretly think he likes Nancy. I prefer crime shows like Cold Case, Snapped and Forensic Files and CSI (Vegas only, that overacting David Caruso can suck it, I'm a Grissom girl).

So, last night Max and I decided to call the cops on our neighbor. She's crazy, you know? Not crazy in an endearing, eccentric way. Crazy Norman Bates-style. But wait! Let me explain! Come back with me, if you will, to a time during the summer when Serge arrived home to find our hose snaking across the front yard into the neighbor's house. There was a note on our water faucet.

Dear Neighbor,
Our water has been shut off.
We hope you don't mind if we use yours.


Um?

We figured her home had been foreclosed and she was in the process of clearing out her belongings. But July fell away into August and still she remained. Never venturing out during daylight hours, only shambling around after dark. She is in her forties, frazzled brown hair that hangs across her face, wears housecoats over jeans and giant men's work boots and tops the whole sloppy mess off with a shapeless, black winter coat. She clomps noisily around her property at night attending to yard work that never seems to improve her home when sunlight comes. I think that's because she spends a significant amount of time raking the driveway. Yes, I said raking the driveway. Can you imagine a more blood-curdling activity? Also, she vacuums. Vacuuming at odd hours, and constantly, CONSTANTLY, moving shit from her house to the garage and back again.

Now, I'm a good-natured gal... Okay, I'm not... But I'm a live-and-let live kinda gal. She wasn't bothering me so I paid her no mind. Until last night. She decided a rake wouldn't suffice for the usual nocturnal driveway activities and proceeded to drag her vacuum out. To the driveway. At two in the AM.

My pussiness has been well-documented on this here blog... And so, when the three o'clock hour found me tossing, turning and cursing the crazy lady from next-door, you know exactly what I did; bitched at Max for another half-hour whilst peering between the slats of my blinds shooting deadly looks at the back of Crazy Lady. When I realized my eye daggers weren't working, in a completely out-of-character-move, I just up and called the damn cops.

Max and I hit the lights and took up post on our front couch, peering into the dark night, eyes peeled for the patrol car allegedly being dispatched to Crazy Lady's home. We wanted to watch big bust go down.

5 minutes after calling cops: Vacuuming her driveway at night, fucking nutter. Who does that, Max? I mean, seriously, who does that?
10 minutes: Damn. She's probably all poor and lonely and I'm a raging bitch for calling the police.
15 minutes: I should call back and say everything's okay, no need for police here.
20 minutes: Wait! It's been 20 minutes. What's taking so long? What's keeping Utah cops so damned busy? Angry return missionaries scorned by lost love? Elderly people dying in their sleep? I am waiting right here until those fuckers show up. We'll show this crazy bitch!
25 minutes: But she'll know it's me who called the cops on her! How awkward! I'll just run out and meet them when they arrive and tell them everything's cool. (rush to bathroom and wipe zit cream off face)
30 minutes: That bitch is STILL vacuuming. Stop! Sweet Jesus STOP!
31 minutes: Shit. I hope she's still vaccuuming when they get here, otherwise they'll think I'm an asshole. Like, when your car is making all these noises and when you finally take it to the mechanic it doesn't make the fucking noise.
40 minutes: They're here! They're here!
42 minutes: That's it? Keep it down after ten o'clock? That's all they've got?