Ohhhhh… This is Getting Good.

by Lisa Donovan

I have been negligent to you, my faithful blog readers. I have not been fully disclosing the greatness I live around, day in and day out. I have not told you, yet, about my across the street neighbors. How I have gotten this far as a blogger and not mentioned them is beyond me. But, this past Saturday, they became too good to keep a secret any longer.

I have to start from the beginning. A quick little glimpse into the kind of madness that is breeding over there.

When we first moved into this house, we were in love with the neighborhood. For those of you who don’t live here in Nashville I’ll fill you in: East Nashville is a changing neighborhood. Stereotypically, all other Nashvillians treat E. Nashville as a place for crazy artists and musicians who don’t mind living near criminals and junkies - however, if you live here, you know that none of that is true. We love our little spot here - it feels like a cozy burrough in Brooklyn.. lots of great cafes and shops and parks. Anyway.. This clarification stands as a point that, even though we are a neighborhood in a state of gentrification and lots of great changes are being made, there is still one family here that… well… behave as if it is a trailer park. And I live right across the street from them.

It’s a family of five. A mama, a papa, two girls and an eldest son that seems like he has great potential but is trapped in home that resents him for wanting anything better than a Harley and a broken down boat in the front yard (which his papa proudly displays… I’ll get back to the Harley nonsense in a minute). The two young girls, probably around 13 and 15 years old, have, apparently, taken to my husband. They are, from what I can tell, quite smitten with him. At least, that would be my assumption since every time he is in the front yard, they start doing a strip tease for him. Intriguing? Not so. See. These girls both have the shape of girls going through puberty - and not, at all, in a good way. Don’t get me wrong - I can’t mock them for having no control over the awful shape that puberty has cursed them with (picture an egg, a very large egg, with toothpicks as legs and arms and a really bad wig with circa 1986 hair style) BUT I can blame them for trying to dance like J.Lo while grotesquely tweaking their nipples at my husband the day we moved in. There was a lot of unnecessary ass rubbing and grinding on the front lawn - and all for my handsome darling.

That happenend quite a few more times - but only for John. I got a lot of rocks thrown at the car and middle fingers flung at me. I don’t think that liked that I openly gaffawed at their “show” for my husband. And, I really don’t think they liked that I ran to get the camera to capture the show for my friends.

Anyway. We really started to have problems when the overall wearing patriarch of the family started to come out around midnight-ish to “work” on his Harley. He would dutifully wrap his Harley dew rag around his head, put on his Harley boots, hike up his overalls dust off the confederate flag patch positioned very elegantly on the back pocket and get to work making everyone within a five block radius angry as hell. I want to make something clear. He never rides the damn thing. He never actually gets tools out to make any repairs. He looks at it. A lot. And, during the night, when all the rest of the world is asleep, he decides that he will rev it up. All night. For hours on end. Just sit on the damn thing and rev the engine. over. and over. and over… and over… and over.. and over… I. Hate. Him.

OH oh oh oh… And one night, he and his crew of drunken merrymen decided they were going to bring out a makeshift drag car from the back yard (which, I’m pretty sure consists of some lawn mower parts and an old shell from a rusted out Chevy) and race it up and down the street - until 3 in the morning.

So. There’s some history. Fast forward to this past Saturday. My family and I were having our Christmas preparation day - we went to the old Belcourt Theater and watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” together.. Had lunch at a French bakery and drove an hour out of town to a tree farm to pick and cut down our own tree. My son, very proudly, helped saw it down himself. Anyway.. We were having a blast.  The weather was uncharacteristically warm that fine day. We were all in short sleeves and skirts and celebrating the great 65 degrees that we probably won’t see again until May.  And, apparently, we weren’t the only ones. The strippers - eh - I mean young ladies across the street were celebrating in their own way.

They had strung up their volleyball net and were playing a very innocent and sweet game of volleyball. Sweet and innocent, that is, until we pulled up. Apparently the sight of my husband made them hotter than hades because they, as he was taking the tree off the top of our car, decided they had to bust out the hose, turn it on full blast and start squirting each other in the chest and, again, tweaking their nipples for some male attention. I walked out to my husband in a near vomitous state and my son asking me “mommy, what is wrong with those girls”.. I ushered my son in with my hands over his eyes (the nipple tweaking wasn’t as offensive as the plus fifty pounds that puberty, or something, obviously wasn’t letting these girls let go of).  The last thing I remember seeing was the eldest girl on her stomach humping the grass with her mouth open for extra sex appeal.
And there you have it. My neighbors. Thank god we only have three more months of living near them. But, I have a feeling when we buy our first home, something might be lacking. No. I won’t miss the midnight Harley swansongs. No. I won’t miss the drag racing up and down the street. But, I might, just might, miss watching these two delicate flowers grow up to be the classy women they are so obviously destined to be…….

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This entry was posted on Monday, December 18th, 2006 at 10:25 am and is filed under Daily Living. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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