The Lion, the Witch & the Lack of Wardrobe

So there I was inside my house, minding my own business, when there’s a solid knock at the front door. It’s Sandy — my neighbor of over thirty years — from across the street.

You know the type: late fifties, short, built like a baked potato with attitude, rocking a “First Choice” haircut and a face that looks like she just broke a tooth on a frozen cat turd.

I open the door. Steam practically hisses out of her ears.

“Are you hard of hearing?” she snaps, hands on hips.

I blink. “Uh… not that I know of. What can I do for you, Sandy?”

Apparently, my boyfriend Rick had parked his car in front of my own house. The crime of the century.

She starts in about how her son’s “learning to drive” and how we “agreed not to park there.” And she was right. But, that was months ago. We were being nice while the kid figured out reverse. I didn’t realize Sandy had felt entitled to a lifetime lease on curb space.

Sandy jabs a finger toward the street. “I’m having trouble backing in!”

I glance past her. Her maroon Cadillac was already backed in, in the usual spot. Perfectly straight.

“Looks like you nailed it,” I say.

Wrong answer.

“ARE YOU GOING TO MOVE THAT CAR OR WHAT?”

“Nope. Not right now I'm not.”

She explodes. “FUUUUUCK YOU!”

Now I’m annoyed. Having grown up in the '80s, I have dealt with my share of neighborhood bullies and have no problem standing up for myself. I wasn't sure what Sandy had been smoking that day, but I figured it was pretty strong if she was coming in hot like she happened to be.

“If you keep up this bullshit, Sandy,” I say evenly, “I’ll pull my Denali Dutchman up the side and it'll be parked there for a year.”

She starts swearing, calling me a whore, a slut — all the hits from the ’80s insult playlist.

I was shocked. Her venom brought tears to my eyes. Not to mention my young daughter was watching this play out from the downstairs window, probably filing childhood trauma under “things adults do for fun.”

“You know,” I said, “I just heard people talking about you and Bob down at the liquor store.”

That hit a nerve. She stopped mid-rant, eyes bulging.

“You heard about ME, bitch?” she screeched, and unleashed a barrage of fresh insults about my sex life which, to be honest, were a lot more adventurous than the reality I know.

“Yes,” I said sweetly. “I heard you were NICE.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish on land. Then she spun on her heel and stomped back across the street.

I think it’s over. Spoiler: it’s not.

Now here comes Bob — her husband — waddling across the lawn like he’s auditioning for Grumpy Old Men 3.

I sigh. “Bob, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m pretty sure Sandy’s mad about something that isn’t a car.”

Truth? Earlier, I’d been mowing my lawn. Bob had waved. I didn’t feel like waving back.

Apparently, that’s grounds for a Westsyde turf war.

Now they’re both at the edge of my yard, vibrating. Bob squints down at me and says, lip curled, “Dumb bitch. She’s broken.”

I smile. “You don’t know me, Bob. But that does give me an indication of where you are at mentally.”

After a few more minutes of absurd shit and abuse, I’ve had it.

“Wow,” I say to Sandy. “That’s how your man treats women? If he talks to me like that, I can only imagine how he talks to you. If you ever need to get out, my door’s open.”

Then I turn to Bob. “I’m fairly convinced you’re an absolute pussy.”

They blink.

“Hold on,” I say. “There’s something you don’t know. Be right back.”

I go inside and wake Rick up. He’s grumpy as hell, throws on Morty — his prosthetic leg — and marches out in bacon-and-egg boxers like a jacked-up, one-legged Vince Neil. Honestly, Morty looked offended to be woken up for this bullshit.

By the time we get outside, the neighbors have vanished.

Rick stands in the middle of the street and bellows, long and low, drawing out the ‘awww’ sound like a foghorn with feelings: “BOB! You coming out? Or am I GOING IN?”

Crickets. The mailboxes seemed to hold their breath.

Then Sandy comes tearing out of her house, mascara streaked, sobbing — and flapping, “DON’T HURT HIM! JUST LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Rick just stares. I just stare. We are fists up, fighting stance ready to throw down. I guess when they realized it was no longer two-on-one they decided to turtle, which was probably wise. Seeing the threat evaporate, I drop my fists, but before I go inside I look her dead in the eye, coolly,

“Just remember, you knocked on my door, bitch.”