Mr. and Mrs. Shrek and The Tale of the Neighborhood Tart.

Hey…ya’ll!

I actually began this post yesterday until my booze-soaked self could no longer comprehend what the hell I was typing. Yep, I was drinking, thinking, and typing again. It was Saturday–all freaking day long–and not a damn thing to do but suck suds. Somehow I managed.

I didn’t get the chance to go see my son yesterday, and Pissy was more pissy than usual because of it. The old man is STILL fucking with the water pipe in the yard, if you can believe it, and so he’s been digging all weekend. I guess I can’t complain too much, he did take me out to breakfast yesterday morning. Oh yeah…Pissy loves her breakfast pork, doncha know. We were actually getting along, it didn’t take a safe-cracker to get me to crack a smile (could have something to do with the fact that greasy food just puts me in an overall good mood),  and all seemed well with the world for a while…then I saw her. Ugh!

My husband refers to her as Mrs. Shrek. Though I don’t normally make fun of others, I never disagree when he does this, and in fact will encourage him at times. My bad! Oh, get over it! It’s behind her back! We would never say it to her face. Well, we wouldn’t, but I might! I’m not sure if I’ve told this story before, but if I have suck it up cause I’m telling it again. She aggravates me enough it could be told many times over and it will still NEVER be enough.

Now I met this bitch…er…woman through her husband, who was introduced to us by his best friend. Following me so far? Don’t get lost, k? We’ll call his best friend Honda or some shit, cause frankly I don’t think he deserves the name of the OTHER motorcycle that he carries. Friggen poser! Any-hoo, this was probably about a year-plus after we moved to the sticks, had done well and fine all by our lonesome, till I ventured out to one of the shitty, little towns nearby to apply for a job one afternoon. Crazy, freaking, little town had a one-way that wound around the damn main square, and once I got on it everybody kept pulling out of their parking spaces in my way and I couldn’t turn off it. “Round and round she goes and where she ends up…..” The same damn place, cause I couldn’t get off it, that’s where! It took me forever to rid myself of that merry-go-round of insanity, and damn near swiped a car doing it. Well you know I wasn’t applying for shit after that, so I started heading back home in the same direction I came. Okay, I did make a detour as I was passing by a small town on the way, and went in search of the nearest hole-in-the-wall to fetch a beer…or a dozen. Pissy has no problem walking into a strange place, drinking and mingling. What can I say…it’s a gift! It just so happens this is where I wound up meeting Honda…who apparently didn’t have a damn thing to do during the day either but drink and shoot pool. Good sign…good sign…when a man is lolling around the bar in the middle of the afternoon.

Now I’ll shoot pool with anyone. Makes no difference to me. You want a game, it’s on! Problem is when you do this there’s always small talk. Okay, no problem. I’m never at a loss for words. So of course he starts asking me the standard shit of whether I’m new around here, blah..blah..blah.., at which point I’m quick to add married, transplant from the city, looking for a job today, but drinking beats the hell out of going around in circles and looking for an address, etc. One thing led to another… “So wherebout’s do you and your husband live?” (It’s never quite enough in the country to tell them the town, they need to know the damn road to see if they know anyone you might know. Stupid, hick-shit.) Well, I figured not a biggee, I told him, and of course….Oh my gosh, his best friend lives on our road!  I’m thinking Okay…so what! Well, he sort of invited himself over to introduce us to our neighbor, and really how could I say no? I mean, I thought perhaps it would be good if my husband and I met someone that lived close by. ((Groan))

Mr. Shrek and Honda show up at our house later that afternoon on a couple 3-wheelers drunk off there asses. Yes, I prepared my husband! Now I probably should have taken the drunk-off-their-asses as a bad sign, but we like our beer, I managed a biker bar for heaven’s sake, and I just figured Woo-Hooneighbors who party too! My husband’s first impression of Honda was that he was wannabe-ish if that’s even a word (my blog I’ll make it one). Mr. Shrek he found to be sort of a blow-hard loud-mouth…but eh, beggars can’t be choosers, right? Of course, curiosity was killing me and I wondered what Mrs. Shrek would be like.

Mr. and Mrs. Shrek both showed up at our house the following night unannounced drunk off their asses. See a pattern forming here? This was the picture I got when they came in my house together: She was short, predominantly of Indian nationality, takes no consideration whatsoever to how she dresses, and has no neck. I mean stout, and has no fucking neck! It just sort of sunk down into her shoulders, or some shit. He was short, a braggart, and Jewish. I mean you can’t miss the fact he was Jewish because his parents made sure of it when they named him, and the braggart part…well lets just say that was self-explanatory too from the get-go! I thought, unique, surprising, sassy-coupling. No, actually I didn’t give a shit if they were purple and orange people at the time, it’s merely just a description of what I saw. Now the first thing I noticed upon their arrival other than said description was that they had no problem bantering in the home of people they had just met. This wouldn’t have been so bad, but they are LOUD. And I do mean they will try and talk over the other and the more they do this the louder they get…cause they are…well…drunk and stupid. Despite this though and any reservations we may have had, my husband and I  trying to be good neighbors invited them over the upcoming weekend to have cocktails and crack a new keg in the keg-cooler. We had plans to entertain some guests and thought this gesture would be the neighborly thing to do.

Now I wasn’t looking so hot when they just rudely stopped by that first night I met her. Why would I? I was in my home, I was settled in for the night, had washed my face of any makeup I might’ve had on, and to be honest the old man and I had just been playing a little slap and tickle on the couch before they arrived. Yeah, so my pony-tail was all askew and I looked like shit, alright! Well when she comes in the night of our get-together the first thing she says to me is  something to the extent of  “You’re really pretty. I would never have recognized you.”Or some shit like that. Like what…I’m a complete troll without the makeup and my hair ironed out?  I let it slide though, figured she worded it wrong, and just went about introducing her to Pandora Patty and the others that were here. Then I go to take a seat in my late mother’s, antique wing-chair that sat near the fireplace and she literally runs over, tells me to get up, that she wants to sit there, and begins to make this big deal about how much she loves old wing-chairs, how she’s always wanted one, etc. Weirder than shit, to be honest. Pandora Patty was sitting on the floor with her back up against the front of the couch–cause her leg deals her a fit when she sits on anything too soft since the motorcycle accident–so I took a seat on the floor next to her. She sort of looked at me like where the fuck did you find this creepy broad? I just told her that I was trying to play a good hostess, if she wanted the damn chair that bad it was okay with me, and yes, my weird meter was going crazy too.

I wish that was the end of it, I truly do, but this broad was/is a whack-job from hell. I have no idea how my husband and I remained social with her and her husband as long as we did. They’d stop over, run out of their own beer, start drinking ours, talk and talk, argue and argue, till their beers would get warm, would toss them wasting half the can, and pop open another. Which I might add pissed my husband off to no end, because we absolutely do not believe in beer-abuse in this house. And as if the rudeness of just stopping by unannounced, arguing at our home, and wasting our beer wasn’t enough, you had to listen to him talk incessantly about how smart he was at this or that, how tough he was, blah, blah, blah… and put up with her trying to take the shit you owned right out from underneath your nose, and don’t even get me started on having to listen to her sing every time there was music playing because she thought she was the next Gretchen Wilson. Ugh! I hate karaoke and this was ten times worse! This broad had absolutely no manners and tact whatsoever. I questioned constantly whether she could possibly be that much of an idiot, or completely void of proper social etiquette due to in-breeding.

Now there were plenty of instances where my weird meter went off the charts where she was concerned, and I also began to wonder if she were testing me with her rudeness at times to see how I would react…you know, as if it were a pissing contest or something. There was one instance when she stopped down, it started to get chilly, I put on a sweatshirt, and she asked me if she could get one too. Okay, no big deal I thought…even though you’re what…right down the road from your own house? I went and grabbed her one, she then informed me she liked the one I was wearing more, and actually told me to take it off  so she could wear it. What? Did I hear her right? Like who the fuck is going to call the fashion police late at night when we’re standing next to our garage in the middle of nowhere? Well you know I told her no!  Goofy bitch! Then there was the stool incident. I had a tapestry foot stool that she was mad about. Get me? I mean every single time she came in my house I heard how much she loved that foot stool. How she wished she could find one like it, on and on and on. I’m not kidding you. Finally one day I told her “Take it. It’s yours.” I mean, good-freaking-grief already. I swear she looked at me funny, looks around to see if her husband is nearby, and then tells me “Oh I shouldn’t because my husband will be so mad if you give it to me, cause he’ll think I asked for it or something.” No, you annoyed the hell out of me, is more like it. I just told her to take it, don’t worry about it, and if he asked I would tell him that I knew how much she liked it and gave it to her. My husband was not a happy-camper later when he asked where it went.

This generosity never stopped, people! Now don’t get me wrong I don’t mind doing for others, but hey…don’t come over to my house and tell me you want shit, okay? I mean she’s trying to clean me out of Rubbermaid water containers we weren’t using that were stored in our barn–and I was nice enough to give her a couple of them–but geeze…the ones we had ran anywhere from a hundred to two hundred dollars a piece. She was always asking for this and that, they were constantly inviting themselves over, and then of course the arguing the whole time while they were drunk. Worst than that though, was when they’d invite us over to their house to grill out and we were forced to listen to them argue while waiting for the meal to get done. Oh, you know my husband finally said “No more!” I, on the other hand was not that smart.

It was three years ago about this time when our friendship ended. Right after my DUI when I found myself stuck in my house. She’d popped by one afternoon, we had a beer together, and she’d asked me to go down to her place for a bit. I figured what the hell, told her okay, but I was only staying for a couple. I mean, I figured it’s half mile down the road and I don’t have to make a night of it or anything. We  pull into her drive, I notice there’s a couple of guys putting a new roof on her house, and we go inside. We drink a couple of beers, chat for a bit, and then in walks her obnoxious husband–who clearly my husband tolerated more than I did–and his cousin from Florida that happened to be one of the men that was roofing the house. Now her hubby doesn’t say boo, and is only in the house long enough to tell her that he has to drop one of these guys off at home, before he leaves. The goofy-ass cousin, however, decides he’s going to stay behind to partake of cocktails with us girls. I thought, cool…a distraction from whack-job who’s now getting drunk and attempting to pull the karaoke card again. Wrong!

I should have left. I know that now. But at the time I’d been cooped up for a couple of months already in the house, and welcomed the opportunity to get out and be around some people. And we would’ve been fine if she wasn’t so damn neurotic, but she reads something into everything. This is probably where I should intervene in the story and tell all of you that she and her hubby are peculiar in the way that neither has friends of the opposite sex for fear the other will think they are cheating. I’m not joking. If a woman approaches him in the bar just to say hello he will tell her she needs to go away because his wife will kick her ass if the woman doesn’t, and vice-versa. A) I don’t think truth be known either of them can actually fight their way out of a wet paper bag. B) I hate to break it to both of them, but no one else would want them! So I guess you could understand why when she started playing her Gretchen Wilson cd, and he and I began carrying on a conversation that had nothing to do with her or her singing, she would jump to conclusions that we wanted each other. In my world you have to be closer than having a kitchen island separate a man and a woman and have flirting going on for there to be an assumption of indiscretion, but apparently in her world it takes nothing more than two people of the opposite sex talking about their lives, and my telling him that I have relatives that live in Florida. Are you all following me? Yeah, whack-job big-time! She’d never make it in a biker bar where random tits are being flashed and it’s common place for married women’s fannies to be slapped.

Well she freaked. And I do mean freaked! Right in the middle of our conversation she walks in front of me, sort of put her hands out into a stop position and says “I can’t have this in my house.” He and I just sort of look at each other puzzled, like…have what in your house? She then begins to appear emotional, or some shit, tells me that I am married, that my husband is their friend too, and that she can’t have this kind of thing going on in her home, right in front of her, and behind my husbands back. Now he and I are beginning to get the just of it and are saying, “No, no, no…you’ve got this all wrong.” Unfortunately, during drama-queen’s reigning moment of glory her husband appears, now he gets sucked into it, and I got pissed. I mean pissed! I told all of them I didn’t need this crazy-ass shit and was walking home. Of course she tried to come after me when I walked out the door to give me a ride, I told her it was half a mile, she was drunk, being an idiot, and I didn’t want or need a ride, and continued walking. Then the goofy cousin pulls up on the 3-wheeler, apparently oblivious to the fact I lived so close, and when I pointed out our acreage down the road, told him it was close and I would be fine, he pulled away too.

My husband was standing outside the garage when I came stomping up the drive and asked me what was up. I told him, and of course out of curiosity to what I can only assume was to validate that there indeed would be no reason to suspect that my intentions were bad, he asked what the cousin looked like. I told him: Short, slightly balding crew-cut, bit stout and a little thick around the middle, little bit of a hick around the edges, but that he’d had a great sense of humor and I really enjoyed our conversation. Well after hearing that he just shrugged it off. For one, he knows my type and I am all about bad-boys, ponytails, Harley riders, and ink. For another, when I want a man I make no bones about it and there’s no guessing to it, and also he knows I wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and cheat half a mile from home at our neighbors house that he’s friends with. Ugh! At least he has some common sense.

You know, after this I just intended to let it slide. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. My husband knew I wasn’t intending on doing anything wrong, so frankly I really didn’t care what they thought. I kinda figured actually it was a good excuse not to have to socialize with them anymore. I mean, I thought I had a damn good reason to be pissed. I found another. Not long after that Mr. Shrek showed up on our property and greeted my husband in the drive. He told him that he felt my husband needed to know exactly why he had kicked me out of his house, told me to go home, and told his wife he didn’t want me back down there. My husband told him that he’d already heard my version of the story, believed it, didn’t like his wife either, and just thought it best if they stayed down on their end of the road. My husband, always the easy going one, the peacemaker who finds the simplest way to handle complicated issues. I wish I were that intelligent and calm. Unfortunately, I’m not! When he came in the house, and told me what he had said, my reaction was…Umm…what? SAY WHAT? Oh no he didn’t just lie all over me like that! I was FURIOUS! He had to stop me from going down there and dragging her ass out into the yard and beating it with a warning attached to keep her damn husband on a leash and a muzzle on his lying trap. Oooooohhhhhhh!!!!!!!! But, as my husband so rationally pointed out, they were and would remain our neighbors, we had to live in this town with them, and the best thing to do was simply ignore them. Sooo…this is what we’ve done for the past three years. Fortunately, I can count only a few times that we have passed each other in the store. They must be doing most of their trolling around after dark. 

So anyway, we pulled up yesterday at the local Dollar General, my husband spotted her car pulling in right in front of us, and almost made a quick U-turn before I stopped him. I know it’s not because he fears her making a scene or trying to approach us–because she dodges me in the aisles–but rather he’s afraid I might just get a hair up my butt and decide to take the opportunity given to pound the shit out of her in the feminine products aisle, or something. Yep, Pissy has PMS! Well, he didn’t have to worry. The first thing she did when she entered the store was beat feet to the managers office to visit with her for a few, and stayed there till we had picked up our few items and were out the door. Chicken-shit! To tell you the truth I don’t know why I’m still so angry given the fact they did me a favor. After all, I don’t have to deal with them anymore. And I guess I should also give her a break. She’s burdened enough with looking like a troll-doll 24/7 and carrying around that personality.

Moral of this story: Hell, I don’t know if there is one, other than if red-flags are waving like crazy when you meet someone it’s probably a good idea to heed them. That, and if you make friends with someone and realize that you are their only friend and no one else really socializes with them, this should be enough of a clue to tell you that there’s probably a damn good reason behind it. So yeah, I’m now tagged a Tart, people. And although I don’t think I really earned it–should’ve seen me work the bar and tips, I earned it then!–I guess I’d rather be considered a pretty Tart than a Shrek with scruples.