The Clothes Line Wars
“Hey, I found your knickers in my rose bush again!”If that man doesn’t stop stealing my undies from the clothesline and pretending the wind blew them into his yard, I swear I’ll kill him. Since he moved in next door, a breeze mysteriously appears every time I hang out laundry, and wafts something over the fence from my yard to his.
I reached over to grab my favourite pair, a bit ragged, a bit greyish, having lost the tightness of elastic around the edges. Sort of like me, actually.
“I could bring them over...a cup of tea would be an apt reward for rescuing such a daring undergarment.”
I refused to jump to catch the panties that dangled from his fingers like a handkerchief. My knees don’t like to jump any more, and I’m sure he’d just love to see the parts of me that jiggle jump along with me. So I turned, defeated, and headed, pantie-less, to my back door.
“Hang on, hang on...”
I must say, his aim was immaculate, and I grabbed the soft cotton off my head. I shouldn’t have looked back, but I did, and there he was, bent over with silent laughter. I was pleased I made it back to the safety of my kitchen before I too burst into giggles.
(2)
Well, if he wants war, I guess he`s getting war. I wonder what makes him think his laundry is safe on the line when mine always seems to unpin and levitate at will. So, on this breezy sunny April day, while his clothesline leads a merry dance with his socks`n`stuff, while he`s busy at work doing whatever it is he does at that damn TV station, I get busy rearranging everything in an eye-catching manner.
One sock, one jammie pants, one dishcloth. One pair of drawers, a couple of red tulips from my dying bouquet of spring flowers, another sock, one of my granny`s flannelette nighties from the trunk up in the attic, and a bright red wig left over from Halloween, all the more delightful as it holds a bloody head inside. Another sock, an Australian kangaroo flag (don`t ask), and two blown-up condoms (I`ll never do that again.)
I wish he had a longer clothesline. I`m just going to get a bottle of wine, white I think, and sit on my patio while the sun sets at the far end of my beautiful ocean. I may look like a sweet little old lady, but looks can be very deceiving. As he would know if he ever dug up my dahlias.
(3)
You know what that monster did this morning? He rang my doorbell at seven o’clock, when I was in the process of seducing Johnny Depp (who I may add, was in full pirate costume), and when I stumbled to the door in my ratty, holey, best-in-the-world honeymoon robe (which is only 38 years old), he was standing on the porch with two cups of – would you believe it – McDonald’s coffee and a greasy paper sack. The smile that left one side of his face and landed a bit askew on the other wavered only slightly when he beheld my waking-up face, void of makeup and probably not even resembling a female member of our species.
“Breakfast for milady?” He dipped his knee in a courtly manner, as if he were a very poorly cast Cinderella, and I had no choice. I slammed the door in his face, and trying not to laugh out loud, rushed upstairs. Clean jeans, cotton T-shirt, brush teeth, brush hair, splash of water and swipe of lipstick, and Voila! My usual ordinary self stared back from the mirror, with a sparkle in her eyes that had been missing for years. Ran down stairs. Opened door.
There he stood, holding the drink tray and bag just like a grade schooler waiting in line for lunch. I stepped aside, and he walked past me and made his way to the kitchen.
“Stimulant? Diuretic?” he offered as he passed a large paper cup of coffee to me. “Sugar and cream if you want it, I don’t know how you like it.”
Well, that was a bit comforting. He may know what size underwear I wear, but he doesn’t know everything about me. I’m sure all he needs is time.
“Heart attack?” he passes me some sort of McMuffin, which was the cause of the grease stains on the paper bag. Hmmm. I wonder if two years of eating clumps of dried hay for breakfast would go up in flames if I ate this fatty greasy deliciously smelling bundle of egg and sausage. And cheese.
“Truce?”
Ah. I guess he didn’t like his ClothesLine Art Installation. I thought it was pretty cool myself. Much more original than the Panty Draped Rose Bush.
Some questions don’t need an answer. I just smiled a Mona Lisa smile and kept on chewing. Let him wonder what that smile means.
Some people don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for.
(4)
My garden was, I admit, being neglected somewhat, when a lot of my waking minutes were taken up with thoughts of this guy next door, this supposedly-semi-retired-but-still-live-on-FRFM- every-day from 5 to 9, the Wake Up Voice of the City. Supposedly. Personally, I can wake up perfectly well in silence, even though I have developed a taste for the country music that accompanies his mindless patter.
Not that my thoughts are entirely about HIM, actually, but more of an action plan regarding the on-going battle with my travelling underwear. After my unique, and I must say rather creative, display on his clothesline last week, I thought maybe a truce had indeed been reached, but three days after that, I had to hire the young man from next door to climb on to my roof and rescue my only pair of black panties, part of my Victoria’s Secret 5 for $25 collection, which were flying from a pole attached my chimney.
And now, today, when I finally went to the back yard to weed my dahlias, what, or maybe I should say, who, did I see in his back yard but a long blonde bimbo wearing a Band Aid of a bikini, spread out on a Porky Pig beach towel like a squirt of liquid cheese on a cracker.
So let’s see, he not only has an underwear fetish, he’s also a pedophile. Why on earth would a young lady...oh, I see. That was probably no lady.
I turned toward my kitchen door, but obviously not fast enough.
“Hey! What’s up?”
I looked over my shoulder and saw him running up to the fence, dressed, thank heavens, in shorts and muscle shirt, which did indeed look quite nice on him, regardless of his sick and twisted habits.
“Nothing’s up. I’m going to have my tea.”
“Oh that’s lovely. I’d kill for a cup of tea. Hint, hint.”
At this point there’s nothing I’d put past him.
“I see you have company?”
“Julie? Oh I guess you haven’t met Julie, have you, she’s just finished college and is taking a break before she starts work. Hey, Julie, come and meet my neighbour!”
Julie jumped up, shoving her overflowing bosom back into the top of her suit. I couldn’t help but purse my lips and just refrained from saying, ‘Tsk tsk.’
“Very young, isn’t she?”
He started to laugh. “I guess you think she’s young enough to be my daughter,” he said.
“Julie, I’d like you to meet my new friend, Abby. And Abby, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Julie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Julie. I’ll go put the kettle on.” I spun on my heel and hightailed it to the kitchen before he noticed my face turning bright red.
I have a feeling he’s not going to let me forget this very easily.
(5)
A very well-dressed young lady left his house this morning, clutching a brand new portfolio in one hand and a travel mug of something in the other. Obviously trying to impress, maybe ready for a day of job interviews. She might do better if she wore what she barely had on yesterday. But I regress.
Turning around to check the 4” heel of her stiletto, she saw me by the front door as I picked up my paper.
“Hey, good morning,” she called. “Wish me luck! Final interview with this place downtown!”
Ah, I thought. Cocktail lounge. Strip club. Lap dancer.
“I’m sure you’ll do well, Julie. But good luck anyway.”
“Yeah, I’m not as sure as you, though. No one wants to hire you unless you have experience. It’s tough getting a foot in the door.”
Experience? To wrap yourself around a pole? Well, I guess the job market is competitive in all areas. Maybe she’s wearing her bikini under that new suit, and she’ll have no trouble getting more than her feet in the door.
With a little wave over her shoulder, she ran to catch the taxi at the curb, and I went back to my kitchen to finish my morning coffee and read the paper.
(6)
At eleven o’clock, a loud banging on the back door brought me helter skelter to the kitchen. When I looked out the pane of glass in the door, all I could see was a huge box with two hands supporting its base. I didn’t have to wonder who was behind this box – if anyone had entered my back yard by way of the street, I would have seen them as they passed in front of the bay window. So this intruder had to jump across the fence, although how he did that carrying this box is beyond my imagination.
I didn’t realize he was using the door to help support the box, so when I opened it, he stumbled in, almost knocking me over in the process.
“What on earth are you up to? For heaven’s sake, put that box down.”
He leaned over and dropped the box on the floor, then stood up with a huge grin on his tanned face. How he gets a tan in May is beyond me – I guess he uses a tanning salon. Probably thinks he’s a star, being on the radio and all. Eye candy for his enormous female fan base. Guess I know who his daughter takes after, anyway.
“What’s in that box?” I asked, as his hand swept over the top in a Vanna-like gesture.
“Just what it says,” he answered, laughing. “I just finished shooting a commercial for Happy Pal dog food, and they gave me a year’s supply.”
“Why on earth are you bringing it here?” I asked. Puzzled. “I don’t have a dog.”
Just like Santa, with a wink and a nod, he disappeared, but not up the chimney – out the door and over the fence in a leap and a bound, and my heart sank to my knees and an ominous feeling blanketed itself around my shoulders.
This time the front door bell rang, and I rushed down the hall to answer it. The first thing I saw was this huge, hairy beast attached to my neighbour’s hand by a leash.
“Oh no,” I said. “No, no, no. Definitely not. Never.”
His foot stopped the door as I tried to push it shut, and before you could say Jack Rabbit, the two offenders were in my hallway.
“I can’t keep him. My daughter’s allergic. It would only be for a few weeks, until she gets her own place.”
“No. No. NO.”
“Why on earth did you get a dog if you couldn’t house him?”
“His owner brought him to the studio for the shoot, but he was turned down for the part. Wouldn’t listen, and peed all over the set. The owner got ticked off, kicked at him, and just left. What could I do? I had no other choice. Really. Besides that, he really likes me.”
As if on cue, the red monster beamed up at that tanned face, and I swear I saw a “Gotchya” look in its eyes.
“Please? Can he stay here for a little while? Please? You won’t even know he’s here, I’ll walk him and he can stay in the back yard in the daytime....Please?”
Oh my, it’s been so long since my son pleaded with me to keep the ‘puppy that followed him home.’ That dog ended up eating everything in sight, including my sealskin slippers and my couch.
“I’ll stop fooling around with your underpants...”
Well.
(7)
That damn dog finally went to sleep – about two o’clock this morning, after running around the back yard five times, watering my dahlias, and producing an enormous heap of obnoxiously smelling excrement right underneath my bedroom window, which is usually kept open for the healthy night air. Ha.
He finally settled on a pile of old winter coats – again from my attic, thanks Granny Pru, for the props I am beginning to need on almost a daily basis – in my back porch, and I finally settled on my pillow top queen sized bed for much needed sleep. Until six AM, when a loud and mournful wail brought me to a sitting position before my eyes opened. I try not to swear or curse, but a long chain of not-so-delightful words ran through my brain, a long-ago memory from my short-tempered ex-husband.
Dragging on my housecoat, I stumbled downstairs, only to collide with the ninety-pound Irish Setter/St Bernard cross who greeted me with howls and yowls and wet wide swipes of huge tongue aimed at my face. I forced my way to the door and opened it, releasing this creature from hell, who once again started his laps around the back yard. Leaning against the door, I took a deep breath, aiming for a state of calmness.
I couldn’t bang on my neighbour’s door and insist on him bearing responsibility for his vile creature, as his voice was the first thing I heard when I turned on the radio. It didn’t even strike me funny when the next song he sent spinning through the airwaves was Every Dog Has His Day by Toby Keith.
A glance through the kitchen window showed the brute lying on my favourite lawn chair, happily chewing the dishcloth I had pinned on the clothesline last night.
Bloody hell, like father, like son-of-a-bitch. It’s not swearing, it’s the truth. I never swear. But since Willy Wonka moved in next door, I can see me losing some of the lady I’ve tried so hard to become over the past 30 years. Shit.
(8)
I was waiting for him when he got home.
“What is that damn dog’s name?”
“Paddy. Why?”
“Because I couldn’t very well go up and down the street yelling, “Here dog, here dog,” could I? Your damn beast jumped the fence an hour ago and I don’t know where the hell he is. But that’s your problem now, not mine.”
The tanned face paled, and another damn beast jumped the fence and took off down the sidewalk.
“Here, Paddy, Paddy, here boy...”
I guess the dog hadn’t gone far. For some reason I suppose he didn’t want to come home to me, because he sure came running to Mr DJ man, and almost toppled him over with enthusiasm. I felt a small tinge of relief when the two of them arrived in my front yard – one drooling and one sweating.
“Hey, Paddy, go say sorry to Abby.”
And wouldn’t you know it. That red monster leaped over to me, lay down belly up and squirmed at my feet.
“Woof!”
Actually, that was kind of cute. I suppose.
It’s strange how things can grow on you.
“I’ll take him home with me for the evening. Julie’s gone out to celebrate her new job, so she won’t be home til late. Paddy and I’ll be out in back anyway, we’re barbequing dinner, aren’t we, boy?”
I wonder would Paddy be using the tongs or the brush.
“You wouldn’t want to join us, I suppose? I’ve got a couple of great steaks, mushrooms, the whole works, thanks to the promo I did at the Shop Til You Drop Market this afternoon. Please? Paddy would really like you to come, wouldn’t you, boy?”
“Well, thank you, but I already have plans for dinner. Did you say Julie got the job? At the bar downtown, was it?”
“Bar? No, not a bar. She’s already passed the bar. She’s got a junior position with The Bosley Law Group. Great starter job.”
I don’t know when I’ll ever learn, if at all I will. Why, at this time in my life, when everything was going so smoothly, did this man and his daughter and his dog drag me into a puddle of misconceptions, foot-in-the-mouth situations, and generally embarrassing moments?
“I’ll bring Paddy back around ten, okay? And if you change your mind about dinner – I’ll give you a leg up over the fence. See you later!”
(9)
Sometimes, even when you’re startled awake at six in the morning, and you trip over your bathrobe belt on the second last step, leaving your mind and body jarred into clarity, because your monstrous red lodger has decided to howl at a non-existent moon, sometimes you do start the day laughing.
Because when I saw the back porch covered with a thick layer of goose feathers, and a future America’s Funniest Video contestant covered with a thick layer of the same, I couldn’t help it. Seems like Grandma Pru had at least one down jacket in Paddy’s bed, and seems like he couldn’t resist the lure of the wild.
The mess can wait, Dad is certainly cleaning this one up.
Ruffling the long-haired coat wasn’t much fun for me, but Paddy seemed to enjoy it, groaning and stretching while I finger-combed most of the feathers away. He ran outdoors in delight, and rolled around in the dewy grass, managing to dislodge more feathers, giving my lawn a definitely mouldy look.
Last night turned out nicely, I must admit. I was sitting on the back porch enjoying a cup of tea, when a solidly made paper airplane came lopping over the fence and landed splat in my cup. How in god’s name did he manage that? When I looked up, I caught the top of his head as he ducked down, obviously trying to hide his identity. I don’t know what’s wrong with the man, really. He should have been born ten years ago, not fifty.
Another paper airplane came soaring, and this one made a clean and dry landing at my feet. I bent over to pick it up, and unfolded it to read the words scrawled around the creases.
How do you like your steak? Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Hop over. Mac & Paddy
What does he think I am, a kangaroo?
The smell drifting over the fence was very tempting, and I realized how hungry I was. In comparison, my Campbell’s chicken soup lost its allure, and I went indoors to freshen up.
Well, sort of freshen up. Pretty blue blouse, long swirly white cotton skirt, and rhinestone flip-flops. Hair brushed, lipstick, just a touch of mascara...
Instead of climbing the fence, though, I walked around the front, and entered his back yard through the gate. Wouldn’t you know it, he had his patio table all ready with two place settings, and a bottle of wine chilling in a ...well, I guess an ice bucket, but to me it looked like a young woman’s torso.
“Hey, there you are! Just in time, too, come sit down,” he said, the now familiar grin spreading over his face. Paddy padded over and sat by my feet, looking up at me with a similar grin, and I hoped that the peculiar occurrence of dog and owner looking alike was going to happen between Paddy and Mac, and not Paddy and me.
After all, we were sharing custody right now.
(10)
That DAMN DOG!
You know, I live by myself, at least I did until that MF, SOB and whatever other initials fit, moved in, albeit part-time temporary. So I don’t do laundry every day. I have no need to.
So it wasn’t until this morning, when I loaded the contents of my laundry basket into the washing machine, that I realized I was missing every single pair of unmentionables I had thrown in there over the past week.
‘And where did you find them?’ you may be wondering.
Where else, but in that damn dog’s pile of granny coats, a colourful lacy cushion of Veronica’s Secret, La Senza, La Vie en Rose, Zellers (cheapies I wear while gardening) – all with the crotches chewed out.
This time I WAS mad enough to hop over that damn fence, with crotchless panties under one arm, and my kitty-cat clothespin bag in the other. When I was done, ten silky (and two cotton) knickers fluttered in the sunshine, each with the gaping hole artfully displayed so passersby could enjoy the new art installation.
...
No matter where I was in the house, I always knew the minute he got home, because Paddy announced his arrival. First a little woof, then one minute later a joyful bark, an excited howl half a minute after that and there he’d be, walking down his driveway after his hard (hah) morning stint on the radio. Usually he just hopped the back fence, attacked Paddy with a bundle of ear scratches and back rubs and silly dog words, then bounced up my back steps with the greeting of the day for me.
Only today, he must have done a quick detour, first to his clothesline, then to my front door, where he actually rang the doorbell. Now that was really strange. I wondered what was wrong. When I opened the door, he just handed me my laundry, pegs and all.
“I guess we’re going shopping,” he said, with not a word of apology.
“I guess I’M going shopping,” I answered. “But I don’t have to guess who’s paying for it all.”
In spite of the trip to the mall to replenish my undergarments, yesterday turned out to be a fine but strange day. After dinner, Paddy took Mac and me for a walk, or should I say run, in the park. It is gorgeous this time of year, with the birches wearing their new leaves and the ducks nestling near the lake with their bundles of babies. This small bit of country is a bit of heaven in the middle of the city.
Paddy, not being content to walk, pulled and tugged at his leash until Mac had no choice but to run with him. I chose to sit on a bench near the water’s edge and bask in the peace of this serene place. The setting sun was transforming the western sky with a blast of pinks, oranges, and reds, and the scuddy clouds overhead were slowly turning black as they welcomed the night. A gentle breeze, a hint of lilacs in the air, and to top it all off, a mad dog barrelling around on four ungainly legs, with a red-faced man jerking at the end of the leash and barely keeping upright as they rocketed along the path.
Life is good, and Karma is fantastic.
After a while, Paddy dropped near my feet, the entire length of his tongue hanging out on the grass between his paws, and Mac collapsed in a sweaty bundle beside me. We sat still for about half an hour, and then headed out of the park.
Halfway home, Mac stopped short, and said, “Come here.”
“I AM here, you nut,” I replied, laughing.
“No,” he answered softly. “Come here.”
I looked at him, and he leaned over and kissed me. That was a surprise.
I can’t describe the feeling that shot through my surprised body. All I can say is that this kiss was The Kiss. Soft lips, gentle breath, inquiring tip of tongue, what more can I say than that.
Seems like Mr DJ Man’s mouth was good for more than pattering about country songs and dog food.
I stepped back speechless and hightailed it home to the bottle of wine in my fridge.
Oh crap. I’m too old for all this. This morning I woke up from a dream where our underwear was alternating on the clothesline, and even three cups of coffee and a bran muffin can’t erase that image from my mind.
I think I’ll make a spa appointment for today. And maybe get my hair done.
