One of our neighbors (not the mulch stealer) who shall remain unnamed, called 311, the City of Minneapolis Information line on us.

As I sat filling out reams of paperwork for The Big One’s Kick Off Meeting for the Minnesota Boychoir I saw flashing lights in my eyes. Painfully aware that my neurological system is on overload, I thought nothing of it and did the usual dog shake to get myself centered again. Still flashing.

There she was. The transit cop. Affinity is not a word I would use for my feelings around transit cops. When my cousin was killed by one in an ugly domestic in New York, I stacked the stereotypes and the hatred in my body. I approached this one with caution.

“May I help you?”

“Just trying to get the trailer off the boulevard.”

“That’s ours.”

“We got a complaint through 311.”

“Ah. The neighbors. Could we just move it?”

“Sure. Just attach it to your car and you can leave it here forever.”

Yeah. Car. Okay. Let me think that one through.

“We don’t have a car. Could we just push it up the hill into the yard.”

“Sure. I have to wait though.”

So, Dancer husband with the bad shoulder and I with my chest pains and shortness of breath (not to mention the dizziness and vibrating eyes) pushed that bad beast into the yard where it awaits the arrival of the housing inspector.  Anyone need some dried up old pine boughs for a nice summer fire?  I’ve got some I need to get rid of asap.

I love my neighbors. Even the mulch stealer. But the neighbors in the dollhouse next door — their perfect dog whose poop doesn’t smell and the lawn where weeds never grow. Those I could live without. The last issue brought out the shaken fist over Devil Baby peeing on a tree. That was the day of National Night Out and she and her husband who ALWAYS attend stayed in the house with the drapes drawn. The drama before that was the issue of our awning up against OUR house.

“I can’t get behind it to weed. You have to move it.”

My house. My awning. Technically, my weeds.

I moved the awning. Her shaking fist scares me.