Monday, December 30, 2013

Tattle Tale

I have funny, funny neighbors here on Kissimmee Park Road. In fact, one of my funny neighbors, oh let’s call him John Donut, a member of my church, called to inform me about a change in a church meeting time. Instead of giving me the Christian update, in a Christian way, my funny, funny neighbor decided to have some funny fun with the crazy lady of Kissimmee Park Road. 

That would be me—the crazy lady.

Funny, funny stuff this.

He pretended to be a code enforcement officer.

Rattling off an official sounding name and title, he asked, “Is this the Zern residence?”

In my bathrobe, wet hair slapping against my forehead, I said, “Sure. You bet.”

“I need to inform you of the county codes about leaving your yard un-mowed.”

Please be aware that I was in my bathrobe because I’d just showered after chopping, burning, weeding, edging, planting, seeding, mowing, and whacking at my yard. A fat drop of water raced down the bridge of my nose.

“I’m sorry. What? Are you sure you have the right house?”

“Yes, pretty sure. Last owners . . .” he paused as if referring to some kind of official record. Oh, he was good. “Umm . . . the Reynolds?”

“You’re saying that my grass is too long. Did I hear that right? We have six acres of grass. Are they all too long?”

“Yes, Ma’am, you can’t be letting your property get out of control like that.”

“Are you sure you have the right house?” I repeated, flipping wet hair out of my pupils.

“Quite sure. In fact, I’m parked right outside, and may I say that you need to tell that lazy husband of yours to get off the couch and mow his yard.”

Slyly I asked, “Are you sure that the problem isn’t with my neighbors?”

“No, in fact, they’re the ones complaining.” I heard what might have been a muffed chuckle, but I was too busy preparing to rat out my neighbors to notice.

“Oh really!” I trumpeted. “My neighbors are complaining. Which one? The guy on my left who has decided to start his own personal landfill or the guy on my right with his eighty-nine diseased goats? Hmmmmmm! Would you like me swear under oath about it? Would you like me to swear? Period.”

And there it was—the rat out.

I’ve always wanted to believe that I was the kind of person that would risk arrest, torture, and death by Nazi’s rather than spill the beans about Anne Frank. But now I know. I am the kind of person that when faced with a practical joke would sell out everyone with fences adjacent to mine to a FAKE county code enforcement officer. It’s true. 

I am a tattler.

And shame on me for ratting out the landfill guy and the goat man.

Linda (I’m telling.) Zern

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