Neighbourly Love

            Last Thursday I ran a last-ditch practice session on my ribs for my best friend and his wife. In the process of wanting to serve more than meat for dinner, I had to run out for some sides. While I was sitting in the parking lot at Sobey’s someone approached my front door and rang the bell. She looked unsure of herself and extremely nervous. She stood on my front step gnawing on her nails, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. I read it as suspicious, sketchy. Then she rang the bell again. Remembering that a) I wasn’t at home and b) can interact with other humans through my security system app, I opted to have a dialogue with her.

            “Can I help you?” Yep, I hadn’t actually thought this through and my customer service side emerged.

            “Hi, yeah, I live just next door and um I just wanted to let you guys know we’re having a party on Sunday because um I’m getting married. And um so we’re going to have like music and everything. And I just wanted to uh see if bothers you like if you can just call me and that way we don’t have a problem.”

            “No, that’s not a problem at all. I’m sure that we make our fair share of noise at times. So, you go ahead and celebrate. Congratulations! Enjoy!” I watched her face go from cautious, concerned with careful listening to the biggest smile I have seen on someone’s face lurking at my front door.

            “Thank you so much!” She promptly cut across the lawn to her house without providing me with a number or name to complain to.

            Now, you may be surprised that I don’t know my neighbours. I know the neighbours on the other side. We were forced to introduce ourselves because of the fence building extravaganza last summer, which involved giving the option of chipping in for their respective sides. The nice couple who lives on the side who contributed are Darren and Cindy. The other side, from which this lovely young bride-to-be lives, is known as the “slumlord house.” Their landlord rents with reckless abandon and opted not to pay for any of his side. However, this family has been living there for almost as long as we’ve lived in our house.

            Their yard isn’t usually in the most stellar shape. They have a vine climbing over the back fence which can be considered noxious by some botany circles. The fence itself is in dire need of replacement. The lawn is rarely mowed. Canada thistle has taken over the front flowerbed. Occasionally there is construction debris strewn about in the back yard. The gate has been repaired numerous times. And the skunk has been known to make their yard home.       But the residents are hardcore football fans and cheered very hard for Mexico in the last World Cup. And they’re otherwise lovely people. Whose names I have no idea. Wade might, but I don’t have to interact with them more than retrieving an errant soccer ball out of our back yard when the kids don’t climb over the fence themselves. The father greets me politely when we happen to be outside at the same time. It’s a nice coexistence.

            Fast forward to today. Sunday.

            We came home after a weekend of smoke, meat and beans. We were dirty, greasy and exhausted. The alarm system alerted us to visitors about an hour before our arrival at home, so we knew there was a vehicle encroaching on the driveway. We could see people loitering about on the front lawn. We knew what was going on.

            We thought we knew what was going on.

            I jumped out of the car and took the dog inside and came back to start unpacking. Wade was up the ladder unloading the Thule box on the roof of the car. “Our house really stinks.”

            “Shhhhhh. The wedding is about to start.”

            “Ah what now?”

            “There’s a wedding going on now.”

            “Okay, has the bride come out yet?”

            “No, I think she’s still inside.” At this, I covertly walked around the big pine tree in the front yard and peered, incognito, through the boughs, past the open shitty gate into their back yard. There was a big white tent set up. I saw a row of chairs and people, a congregation if you will, occupying the chairs.

            “Sweet mother of pearl,” I muttered to myself. Then I recalled the conversation with the bride. That they would be having a party. This was way more than a party.

            We carried on quietly with unloading our car and getting our lives put back together. However, curiosity did pull me to my guest bedroom overlooking the back yards. There was not one but four big what tents set up in the yard. I questioned where all the crap went that was usually there. Specifically, the firepit. It looked as though it had disappeared entirely. There was also a large buffet of delicious looking food on their deck. Impressed at the TLC-esc conversion of their yard from crap to glamerous, I went back to continue helping Wade.

            Once we were all done, I went upstairs and laid down on my bed to just relax before getting into the shower. That’s when the ten-piece mariachi band fired up. Their volume was akin to an orchestra playing Carnegie Hall and they were looking to blow the roof off. Adriana was alarmed. I laid there in complete mirth. Again, replaying our conversation in my mind. She had mentioned “like music and everything.” That suggestion was an epic understatement.

            I heard Wade tell Adriana to come upstairs to watch them play. I held her on my hip and together, we watched. The men were in the normal regalia of a mariachi band, without the hats. There were three guitarists, a harpist, two trumpets and a four-piece string section. One of the string gents sang too. The bride and groom shared their first dance as we looked on.

Adriana suggested we should go down and be with the celebration, mostly due to seeing two small children.

            “No sweetie, we just got home and we have things to finish here and we’re pretty tired.” She squirmed in my arm and asked to stand on the bed. Then promptly started to use it as a trampoline. I shooed her back downstairs and started toward a much-needed shower. Wade came upstairs and told me that the father of the bride had come to ensure that his daughter had cleared the party with us and to invite us over. Wade was slightly cleaner than I was but neither of us had seen the inside of a shower since Friday morning. After giving me his account of the father, he promptly budded in front of me for the shower. When I finally had my turn, I was in there a long time.

            The band was still playing when I got out. I listened for a bit and then decided to retrieve our (mine and the bride’s) interaction on the camera. There was no indication of the magnitude of the party. I went downstairs to make dinner. They eventually switched from the live music to a loud music player, which drowned out most of the conversation at our house for a few hours.

            But, like any good neighbour, they began to wind things down around nine o’clock and by ten the wedding was over. The tents were dismantled, the chairs and tables folded up. The bride and groom presumably gone to somewhere fancy to start their new life. The yard resumed its mundaneness and peace and quiet settled over our piece of the neighbourhood. I kind of hope there are more children having weddings in their yard, for the cleanliness and the mariachi band.

            Did she have to ask for our (my) blessing to make the noise involved in celebrating the beginning of her new life? No. But the enormity of her big day combined with my complete oblivious nature made for a hilarious end to my weekend, to say the least.

           

           

           

           

Cheese Monster

            I joined a book club. It was started by my favourite duo from the podcast Stories We’d Tell in Bars. I was sucked in by the allure of more hilarity from these two beautiful women (Jen Lancaster and Gina B.) and the hope that I would get knocked out of my Songs of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones to the uninitiated) loop. I’ve read that series three times and am patiently waiting for George R. R. Martin to finish this epic saga.

            I was waiting on the books I put on hold at the library and found a recommendation that everyone seemed to be ranting about called Lie to Me by J.T. Ellison. It’s a thriller. It’s not bad. It took several weeks to get. I put off reading it religiously. It’s due tomorrow.

            The library sent me the reminder e-mail yesterday and I checked how many pages I had left to read. In short, half the book. I attempted to renew it. There is a massive line of people behind me waiting patiently. No dice on the renewal. So, there were two options left. Do as Elsa said and let it go. Or read the shit out of that book. I opted for option two.

            Where does the cheese come into this story? Well, I admit that by making my choice I went rogue on parenting. Again.

            The child was happy as a clam with too much screen time, as I read my book. But, as always happens with reading, a nap soon followed.

            “Mama, I’m hungry,” she said as she poked at my corpse like body.

            “Go find something to eat and don’t make a mess.” Clearly, I was mostly asleep and happy to remain that way. She scampered off to forage in the kitchen. I may have added something along the lines of have an apple, since there is no drama involved in her obtaining one off the counter.

            A few minutes later I heard banging around and the scraping of an unfamiliar object on another unfamiliar object in the kitchen. I assumed she had grabbed the stool out of the bathroom to make the arduous climb to her gummy worms. This strange sound made me wake up, but was not alarming enough to get out of bed to investigate. I went back to reading.

            About two chapters later (they’re short) she came upstairs and climbed back on the bed.

            “What did you eat?”

            “Cheese,” she replied as she stretched out taking up as much of the king size bed as her tiny tot body would allow (most of it).

            “Did you cut it?” I didn’t recall drawers being opened.

            “No.”

            “How did you eat the cheese,” she now had my full undivided attention.

            “I bit it.”

            “What now?”

            “I bit it.”

            “You just took the cheese out of the fridge and just went to town on it?”

            “Noooo.” She was beginning to think she was in trouble with my line of questioning. The lies began to flow. But how could I punish her for my dereliction of duty?

            “You’re not in trouble,” I said as I got out of bed to go to investigate. “You actually bit the cheese?”

            “Yep.” Now the pride was starting to shine through on her face.

            I went downstairs. On the counter was the generic zippy bag which had contained half of a large block of Cracker Barrel Old Cheddar cheese. Or Old Nippy (said with a boisterous old prospector voice) as it’s known in our house. The cheese was pushed out of the dog’s tongue destruction field radius. I was happy with that. I picked up the cheese and wrapper. The wrapper was soggy. The cheese had been mauled. She consumed an alarming chunk of what was left.

            My eyes drifted to the shelf with the laxative of days gone by. I briefly considered mixing up some “special juice” right then and there. I restrained myself. Instead, I laughed. Then I took a picture and sent it to Wade. Then I threw out the wrapper and amputated the well enjoyed remains of the cheese.

            She had the grace to wait twenty-four hours to request cheese again after finishing off the amputated leavings.

            When I asked her what she wanted to eat for dinner after the cheese incident, she requested carrots and cucumber. This rendered the laxative moot. So far.

            To add to this, today, I pulled the butter out to make her some lunch and it looked extremely chewed.

            “Did you eat the butter?”

            “Maybe Ringo ate it.”

            “Are you sure you didn’t eat it yesterday with the cheese?”

            “I didn’t eat it.”

            “Promise?” The pinkie was out. It’s the great deflater of lies. She stepped forward with confidence and curled her little pinkie around mine.

            “Promise.”

            I sent a text photo to Wade.

            He did it.

            Instead of grabbing a knife and being civilized, he got in touch with is inner caveman and tore off chunks of butter.

            You think you know someone.

            One minute they’re navigating life predictably, the next they’re manhandling butter in a way that looks like child bite marks. All in the interest of food lubrication.

           

Uninvited Guest

            Full disclosure: I was not at home when the following occurred. This is a second-hand account of the events of one warm Wednesday evening. Like a dentist extracting a stubborn wisdom tooth, I patiently pulled the details out of Wade. The details of which lingered like a gossamer blanket over the entirety of my house for a few days.

            The dog was put out for his nightly ritual of pooping and sniffing. But on this night his usual routine was interrupted by something. Something which caused him to not just bark, but to rear up on his hindquarters and bay at the intruder. Wade was upstairs preparing a bath for the child, presumably to make her mellow out so she would go to sleep quickly. Curious by the ferocity of our beagle’s cries, he proceeded to the closed guest room window.

            What he saw was the dog fixated on the three bins for recycling, compost and garbage (blue, green and black in colour and in that order, left to right). The dog would pace a few metres to the left but would quickly return to the spot between the garbage bins. Then he saw what the dog was losing his marbles over. A skunk.

            Being the intrepid scientist that he is, he began to record the account on his phone. Sadly, the focus on the video was the window itself and the video quality was akin to being at the optometrist with all of the lenses on the fancy chair in place. Blurry A. F. He sent it to me. I watched it, confused as to what I was looking for. Then I saw it. What looked like a saucy weasel sashaying between the blue and green bins.

            From text:

            Me: WTF?

                    It’s blurry

                    Weasel?

            Wade: Skunk

            Me: Fuuuuuuuuck

                     Did he get sprayed?

Then he gave me the cliffs notes of how he, single handed, removed the scourge of the nose from our yard. I got the Steve Harvey version when I got home.

            After watching the dog freak out at the skunk for a little while, Wade decided that it wasn’t a welcome addition to the fauna of our back yard. The neighbours can have it, but we don’t want that shit in our backyard. Huh, kind of like some people and a safe injection sites. I digress.

            He went outside, through the wide open back door, where the skunk was. Puzzling out what to do, he grabbed the rake. He noted that the skunk continued to spray its ass concoction intermittently. His bright idea was to open the back gate with the rake, allowing the skunk to scurry the fuck out of there. The rake is a standard yellow wide leaf raking contraption. The tines are plastic and, well, rather weak and flimsy. His attempts to jimmy the lock with one of the tines were unsuccessful. And causing more distress in his new stinky BFF. As a result, more stink.

            Being the good Canadian that he is, he went back into the house and retrieved his trusty hockey stick. What he found out later was that there was a gap under the fence which is probably how the critter gained access. We assumed we have the Fort Knox of backyards. So naïve. A second thought crossed his mind and he opted to grab the hose to actively avoid hand to ass combat. He deployed a steady stream to the skunk. Skunks don’t like water. It booked it out of the yard through the hole it had dug. The gate and bins were left covered in skunk stench.

            Relieved of the skunk, he went back to his fatherly duties.

            Then I came home. It was raining a little. I got out of the car expecting stink. My nose was met with the beautiful smell of freshly fallen rain. I opened the garage door. A faint skunk smell lingered. I was hoping that would be it but knew better. I opened the garage door on what I would imagine the inside of the scent glands on a skunk would be like. It grew worse the further into my house I went. It went from “oh yes, a skunk has been unhappy here,” to “a skunk’s ass has been lit on fire in here.” In the middle of the scent that you could cut with a knife sat my brave husband. Freshly showered, in clean pajamas and eating frozen pineapple. Both fans and the TV were on full blast.

            “So, tell me how you got it out of the yard,” I said as I leaned down to give my dog a sniff. He was unscathed through the entire incident.