In My Head
I am OLD.
Sure, I'm only 28, which doesn't sound old on paper (or onscreen, as it were). But don't laugh! I am dangerously close to treading into curmudgeon territory these days. Let me explain.
Last Sunday around 11 p.m., I was in bed, watching a documentary on ancient Egypt on the History Channel. I was sandwiched snugly between my two cats, Bailey and Sebastian. The Huz was in one of the guest rooms, watching The Godfather. Our bedroom was dark, save for the comforting bluish light emanating from the TV. I was beginning to drowse off when...
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! whacka-whacka-whacka THUMP! from outside the house.
I gritted my teeth and turned up the volume on the TV slightly, waiting for the assault on my eardrums to end.
Ten minutes passed and the noise still hadn't subsided, so I tore out of bed and stomped over to one of the bedroom windows. Peeking out on the street from behind the cellular shade, I witnessed about a dozen boys, among them the three sons of our next-door neighbors, playing basketball in our cul-de-sac.
At quarter past eleven. On a SUNDAY NIGHT.
Actually, I stand corrected. Not all of them were playing ball. Three of them were circling the cul-de-sac on their bicycles, wielding flashlights, which they proceeded to aim into a number of windows in the other houses on the street--ours included.
What pissed me off the most is that our neighbors, the parents of three of the boys involved, were standing outside in their driveway, chatting and laughing and not paying a whit of attention to any of these kids. Am I wrong for thinking that these people are complete assholes?
If it were a Friday or Saturday night, I'd feel differently. Sure, 11 p.m. is still pretty late to be making that kind of ruckus, but I think a little leeway can be given on weekends. But on a Sunday night? When most, if not all, of the neighbors on our cul-de-sac have to go to work on Monday morning? That's just wrong. And the parents should know better than that.
So I called the police to file a complaint. I gave my name, address and phone number, described the problem, and told them I wanted to remain anonymous (yeah, I'm a pussy). The dispatcher agreed that it was way too late for kids to be outside playing basketball on a Sunday night, and assured me that a local officer would be stopping by shortly to talk to them about it.
Cackling like an old witch, I hung up the phone and went into our darkened master bathroom, where I could sit on the edge of the tub and spy on the street from between the tiny louvres on the plantation shutters in the window without being spotted.
But the police NEVER came. Nice. Our tax dollars hard at work. Like Sunday nights are so fraught with crime in freaking Limerick, Pennsylvania that they couldn't spare a single stinking cop to do a five minute drive-by. Please.
I swore I would never, ever be the evil bitch on the block who called the police on the kids. I swore I'd never, ever be the busybody neighbor who spied on everyone else through the blinds in the window. So much for that.
Damn whippersnappers! Now, where did my glasses and Geritol go...?
Labels: bitching, neighborhood stuff, premature mid-life crisis
