Have you ever had a neighbor who felt as though everyone was focused on them? You know, the type that can not seem to get enough attention and will not stop until they have made your life an absolute nightmare? Introducing Miss Evil, my favorite nickname for the one and only Annabelle, who brings you this little slice of suburban hell! This woman thought it was okay to come onto my property and use my house as her personal dumpster while I was away. However, if she believed I would just accept it, she was in for more!
I will draw you a picture for you. I am Kristie, 33, and I am wed to Adam, my incredible spouse. Like the hero he is, he is serving in the Marines and defending our nation. Bobby and Pete, our two darling little rugrats, are one and three years old. Not to mention our three furry members of the family—Toby, Ginger, and Snowball—who rule our home like kings and queens. It appeared to be the kind of location where one could actually hear birds singing instead of automobile alarms blasting, so we had recently moved to this peaceful little neighborhood.
I saw it as the ideal place for the cats to finally experience their best outdoor life and for the youngsters to run around and make friends. Up until the day of our first garbage day, everything went according to plan. Everything, even the poopy diapers and potato peels, had been neatly packed and placed in our brand-new trash can.I felt like a responsible adult the next morning as I pulled that bad boy to the curb at the crack of dawn. I came back inside and clapped my hands, saying, “Alright, kiddies.” “Who is up for a little retail therapy?”
“Me! Me!” Bobby just gurgled contentedly in his high chair, but Pete shrieked. We backed into our driveway after a morning of kid tantrums and shop therapy. That is when I noticed it: my once-immaculate patio suddenly appeared to have a landfill explode on it. “For the love of everything that is holy, what?” With my jaw almost hitting the floor, I murmured. A mound of trash covered our hallway, my lovely white marble corridor that I cleaned every day. You name it: decaying food, soiled diapers. Everything had been pushed through the cat flap and letterbox as if some insane Santa Claus had paid a visit.
“Mom, that smells bad!” With a theatrical nose grip, Pete made an announcement. “You can repeat that, child,” I said, attempting to contain my gag reflex. It looked like a scene from a sitcom as I stuck my head out the door. Observing us with curiosity and sympathy were all of our neighbors, who were either standing on their lawns or peeping out of their windows. Mrs. Johnson yelled out to her from across the street, “Hello, Kristie!” “You got a pretty welcome wagon there, huh?” With my mom radar pinging off the charts, I marched over to her. “Mrs. Johnson, could you please tell me who did this?”