Pickles & Motor Oil | Post 497

Pickles,

I have good news and bad news.

Good news: I have a path!

After less than a month of clearing away stacks of unopened boxes and letters, there is now a full path from the front door all the way to the bedroom.

If I keep this up, I could eventually sit at the kitchen table again. And—you know—find things.

Speaking of finding things, I’m amazed at how many things I’ve uncovered already. They weren’t lost; they were buried. And silly me, I’ve ordered multiples of the same items while the originals were hiding from me. I guess that’s how I end up with stacks of boxes and can’t sit at the kitchen table.

But I digest…

So the other day I finished my day’s stack of boxes. And honestly, it does feel like progress—mostly because the bulky boxes are gone—even though I now have nowhere to put all the stuff that was inside them. So I’ve been setting it all in a separate pile.

The irony being, of course, that I’m going to end up with piles of stuff instead of stacks of boxes.

But sorting everything and finding proper homes for it will have to be next year’s project.

Anyhoozers, I felt good about finishing for the day. I broke down the boxes, stacked the cardboard near the front door, and then—after midnight—I snuck out and threw it onto the heap around the side of the trailer. I don’t do it during the day, because I don’t need all these nosy neighbors visually undressing me in my bathrobe and slippers.

So I’m scurrying back in—trying not to make noise or be seen—when I find a letter taped to my door.

This is where we get to the bad news: I’m being surveilled.

Right there for God and everyone to see. Not even in an envelope. Lord strike me dead if any neighbors saw this, even though they’re probably in cahoots with our surveillance-state government anyway.

Well, it may as well have been written in bright red letters while singing a song to attract everyone’s attention. Why not hang a banner across the trailer that says: CLARA’S A BIG FAT MESSY PIG.

It was from Ned J. Pendergast, a Code Enforcement Officer.

Yes, you’re on blast, NED!

It cites a whole laundry list of conditions and violations.

“The Department of Neighborhood Services has received a complaint…”

Blah blah blah, a bunch of creepy government codes.

“The following conditions were observed and/or reported…”

Ohhhh, I’ll tell you right now who “observed and/or reported” it. It was that Shirley next door. And I know she doesn’t read this blog, so I don’t mind telling you she’s got a neck like a giraffe the way she cranes it to look into my affairs—and everyone else’s.

And speaking of affairs, I could also tell you about the highly suspicious gentleman who shows up like clockwork on Tuesdays and Thursdays shortly after her husband leaves for work. I’ve seen some code violations over there that would leave Ned writing letters to beat the band.

“Accumulation of materials on and around the exterior of the property, including but not limited to discarded packaging, containers, and household items.”

Fine. Fair.

But let me be clear, Pickles: I am not a hoarder, no matter what the neighborhood whispers. I’m just… a little behind on my cleanup. And certain someones would do well to educate themselves on the nuance.

“Obstructed access pathways, which may impede safe ingress and egress.”

If the GD government knows so much, then they should know there is now—as of last week—a clear pathway. I just told you about it. Perhaps I’ll include this very post when I write back to Mister Smarty-Pants, along with photos to prove it.

Now, I don’t know if it’s a safe pathway.

But I can get through, so it’s a pathway.

And I can promise you this: that Shirley did not complain to the city about “ingress” and “egress.” That woman can barely string together a coherent sentence, let alone speak like she’s living in the 1700s.

“Potential health and safety concerns arising from the prolonged storage of refuse and personal property.”

My health and safety are just fine, thank you very much.

If someone decides to go prowling around my garbage heap and gets themselves chewed up by a critter, then that’s on them. As far as I’m concerned, they got what was coming to them.

I didn’t invite them over. They know what they did.

Ned tells me I have to remove and dispose of the trash, clear the pathways, and restore the property to neighborhood standards.

Since when has this neighborhood had standards?

Not since I stopped having help. Not since Mark left.

I wouldn’t be in this cruddy mess if I wasn’t trying to keep up with everything by myself. I was doing just fine until someone GHOSTED and left me holding the bag.

I am working on it. OKAY?

I’m making progress, and I don’t need a bunch of neighbors hootin’ and Ned hollerin’ at me like I’m some kind of public menace.

Besides, let’s talk about these “standards” for a second.

What about the bikes and tires in other people’s yards? The broken-down cars on cinder blocks? Hell, the Callaways have a discarded toilet sitting out by the street.

A toilet.

But I’m the problem.

I’ll clean it up when I’m good and ready, and nobody is going to make me move faster.

And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—I was rereading the letter the next day, still fuming, when my fitness tracker beeped at me.

It gives me a heart attack every time, like I’m supposed to leap into action or something.

“Take a moment to record how you’re feeling,” it said.

It made a soft little meditatey charm sound.

It has the worst timing.

I’ll tell you how I’m feeling, Mister Mouth.