Postcards From the Hedge

You’ve probably forgotten all about my neighbor Tom. The guy who moved next door. The guy who used to peek in my windows all hours of the day and night. Given my lingerie fetish and my habit of walking around the house in my underwear I took great exception to his nosiness. This is the guy who made a pass at me during the Superbowl when I was just trying to be friendly. Yeah THAT guy.

Tom promptly made enemies with the man who lived on the other side of my unit and occasionally they’d disturb the peace screaming over the parking situation. He said he was fighting for “our parking spaces,” meaning “my” spot and “his.” I told him I didn’t give a damn where I parked – the Association had been clear for years about there NOT being assigned parking – and would he PLEASE LEAVE ME OUT OF IT.

“I’ll make you a part of this,” he said.

“Dont. Just DROP IT.”

I started to avoid him. I stopped working on my yard when he was home. I offered to pay Bunny to cut the grass instead, and when she refused or it got too long Tom went ahead and just cut it himself while doing his own perfectly manicured lawn.

I answered the door without my wig whenever he knocked. The shaved head didn’t seem to faze him.

His nosiness intensified: During neighborly conversation he’d make mention of what time I left in the morning and what time I got home at night, as if I should be impressed by his ability to keep tabs on me. He told me I shouldn’t spend so much time on the computer. And why did I keep my curtains closed all the time? What was wrong with me? Was I a mushroom?

Did I mention he was stupid, too? “I like my privacy,” I said stiffly, and left it at that.

Then I became annoyed. I decided I shouldn’t be a captive in my own home, so I opened my curtains but blocked his view by putting furniture and plastic plants in places that made it difficult for him to see in. I also created an imaginary boyfriend and made mention of him whenever Tom asked me what my plans were. I let the privacy bushes on the sides and front of my house grow tall and wild even though I broke out in hives every time I brushed up against them (I’m allergic to pine). I thought he took the hint because he started behaving himself after that. I figured we could go back to being neighborly so long as he respected my boundaries. Maybe I’M the one who’s stupid!

(My heirloom tomatoes should really be in my back yard)

Collaborating on a backyard landscape project seemed like a good idea. Our townhome association doesn’t allow us to build fences or plant hedges that act as fencing, but small landscaping projects are OK so long as they don’t require construction permits. I wanted a back yard garden, and I also wanted privacy. What little sun my back yard received came from Tom’s yard’s direction so I made him a deal: I told him I was going to buy a trellis or two and if I planted vegetables on our property line he could eat as much as he wanted. He said “deal” and offered to help with the raised beds.

Then. It. Started.

I bought a few steel trellises and propped them up between our properties thinking, OK, some vines and voila! I had a little bit of privacy – he couldn’t see in my windows without walking to the back of his own property – but it wasn’t a “fence” so I was still legal! Yay! He hated them. “Take those back to the store,” he ordered me. “You can’t afford them. I’ll make you something better.”

I beg your pardon? Who was he to tell me what I could and could not afford? I probably made more money than he did! A few days later I found out he’d been laid off from work and figured he was just projecting his money anxieties on me, and I didn’t want to rub it in so I didn’t say anything beyond “I don’t take orders from you.”

Without a job to keep him occupied Tom became preoccupied with his own yard and everyone else’s too. He started making noises about joining the Board of our homeowners association so he could ensure everyone was maintaining their properties “appropriately.” He told me I had to get approval for my trellis and my garden, and that the lawn ornaments in my back yard were “illegal.” I told him to pound sand. HIS lawn ornaments were illegal because he put them in his front yard where everybody could see them. Mine were in my back yard where they were allowed, or hidden under my bushes in the front yard so that no one could see them from the sidewalk. You actually have to come up to my house and peek into my bushes to see them.

“But mine are aesthetically pleasing,” he said.

“You are not the arbiter of taste here,” I said. No. The whole point of relegating lawn decorations to the back yard was that there was no accounting for taste and thank GOD! Tom’s taste, if you want to call it that, is painfully boring. Norman Rockwell boring. Weekend timeshare boring. And the saddest part of all is that he’s so PROUD of it. He’s actually proud of his banality. The man has no clue. I couldn’t say anything though because it would have been insulting.

(They’re hiding)

Not that he gave me the same consideration: Next was a letter, postmarked and in my mailbox, itemizing in detail what he wanted me to change about my property and why. He also enclosed a copy of the letter he received from the Homeowners Association about the complaint he filed, in which he included me, against my other neighbor.

That was IT. I marched straight from the mailbox to his house and started screaming at him like a CRAZY WOMAN. I don’t even know what I said!!! I had PMS though, big time, and I wasn’t about to take any CRAP from this MAN over what I DID with MY PROPERTY. We didn’t speak for a week, and I felt awful about whatever it is that I said, but at the same time I was pissed. I mean, I felt bad for the man because he lost his job but who the hell did he think he was?

He’s making nice now: Offering to cut my grass and caulk my foundation and install my new garbage disposal. “I might be able to afford to retire,” he said to me this afternoon. Oh great, I thought, now he’ll be underfoot all the fucking time. And I really can’t install the garbage disposal myself (it’s too heavy), so I’m weighing the pros and cons: Do I pay for the plummer? Do I let Peeping Tom in my house? Or do I start returning Mr. Redford’s calls?

I’ll wait until AFTER the full moon to decide.