For the sixth day in a row, my neighbors have parked their ugly-ass white caravan in front of our house.
Hey, I’m no street-parking snob. I lived in Boston and parked my car on the street for years, moving it every second Tuesday, April through October, for street cleaning.
I am down with street parking.
But my neighbors have taken street-parking too far. Now, it's just not cool.
1. They park their crap-a-van in front of my house for a week at a time. Without moving it. (Doesn't anyone in that house go to work? Stop at the grocery store? Pick up dry cleaning?)
2. They completely ignore the fact that THEY HAVE THEIR OWN DRIVEWAY (that is long enough to accommodate AT LEAST 3 cars).
3. They don’t park that metal machine in front of THEIR OWN HOUSE.
And, to make matters worse, when they park in front of my house, they park like assholes – making it so that no other car can park there (seriously, you have to park right in the middle of that huge curb space? WTF?)
So why does this ridiculousness warrant enough importance for me to write about it? Because on Sunday my driveway was filled with leaf blowing equipment and I had to park my NEW CAR on the street (which I would normally be very cool about). BUT, since my neighbors’ two white caravans were taking up the five closest street spots, I had to park about 3 houses down. In front of a stranger’s house.
Oh, and while I’m on the subject of my neighbors, let’s talk about how the wife (who’s pregnant with her fourth child – can’t wait for her to pop this one out, she can’t even handle the first three) ALWAYS feels the need to talk to me. And she starts every conversation the same way:
Her: “I don’t want you to think I’m spying on you or your yard, or that I just always look and see what’s going on over here and what you’re doing, but…”
But, obviously you are super nosy. And you stare at my house and yard out your windows. (I’m waiting for her to tell me I need a new bathrobe – which I do)
Oh, and they put their trash out a good 36-48 hours before trash day.
I do everything I can to avoid talking to them. I practically run from the car to the front door to escape any interaction.
When they do trap me, I mutter a quick hello and dive at my door, fumbling with the key in the lock.
I’m afraid that if I stop long enough to talk to them, I’ll take a look at their empty driveway, front lawn littered with toys, curb over-flowing with trash, oldest son peeing in the front bushes (I KID YOU NOT) and not be able to control myself:
"You Have A Driveway. Use It.”
(In the most neighborly way, of course)