As in Jerry Springer…the TV show we loved to hate because it was trashy—but oh-so-watchable. And why was that?
Perhaps because from the safety and comfort of our living rooms, we could watch the raunchy guests, wearing plaid lumberjack coats and rubber boots, battle it out on stage—screaming, swearing, finger-pointing and saying the nastiest things imaginable to each other—knowing that we would never stoop to that sort of boorish behavior. Oh no, we would never partake in such low-brow attempts at solving problems.
Hah.
A few years ago, shortly before Christmas, I was a Jerry Springer guest, right down to the plaid jacket and muddy rubber boots. I wasn’t on TV, no. I was on my own doorstep, having it out with my neighbor…as other neighbors undoubtedly watched from the comfort and safety of their living rooms.
Nice.
The worst of it, though, was that it was my actions that led to the confrontation in the first place.
But let me explain…
Ever since I’d moved into that house, eighteen months earlier, I’d had concerns about that particular neighbor…loud music, old fridge in back yard (a three year-old child lived in the house, so probably not a good idea), rusted old pick-up truck in driveway, spilled kitchen garbage left in the front yard for weeks, mysterious comings and goings from their large shed in the back yard…you get the picture.
But instead of dealing directly with my neighbor, I fussed and fumed and complained to whoever would listen about the mess, the noise and the possible drug-related activities next door.
I expended vast amounts of mental and emotional energy despising her AND making plans to sell my home i.e. moving away from the problem instead of solving it.
Well, one thing led to another and Child Services was called.
The next day, the kitchen garbage was cleaned up.
The day after that, there was a very loud pounding on my front door. Uh oh.
I took a deep breath and opened it. There she stood: my now steaming-mad, tattooed 22-year-old neighbor.
She looked at me and her eyes narrowed.
“I know it was YOU that called Child Services,” she hissed.
“Actually,” I said, “it wasn’t.”
Technically this was the truth. I didn’t call them. But I certainly had a hand in having them called.
“I know it was you,” she continued, “because everyone else around here knows what I have in my shed.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“REPTILES!” she yelled.
“Oh,” I said, rather quietly.
“I am NOT dealing drugs back there! You can come over right now and take a look.”
“Fine,” I snapped.
I went back inside and put on my blue plaid jacket and dirty rubber boots. When I was on my front step again, my neighbor made some comment to the effect that I should be more careful before I go calling Child Services on someone.
To which I looked her in the eye and said, “Oh, my dear, the call wasn’t made just because I thought you were dealing drugs out of your shed. The call was made because you are raising a child in a pig-sty and I’m sick of living next to a garbage dump.”
Her mouth dropped open. I’m surprised she didn’t hit me—that would’ve been really Springer.
“I was wrong about the shed,” I said, “and I’m sorry about that. But the way you’re keeping your property is unacceptable.”
We stomped in silence over to her place. After climbing over the low gate (because the latch was broken), down the crumbling steps, past a couch (also plaid but after having been exposed to the rain for a year or two, not looking so good anymore) then around multiple toys, we stopped in front of the fridge.
She looked at me and said, by way of explanation: “I didn’t know a fridge was dangerous for a kid.”
Obviously, the phone call to Child Services had mentioned the fridge.
“Well, now you do,” I said.
Then I (albeit rather dramatically) swept my arm across the backyard mess and asked, “Is this how you want to live?”
“No!” she said.
“Well then, why don’t you ask for help? I’m your neighbor and although I’ve done a lousy job of it so far, I can help.”
This was met by a slightly less hostile look. We then went inside the shed. Yup, it was full of reptiles all right…bearded dragons, boa constrictors and the like. Then she yanked up the lid of the freezer and pulls out a cookie tray, holding it out towards me.
“See!” she said proudly, “These are dead RATS, not dope!”
Sigh.
After a rather extensive tour of the shed (all the critters had names, so I was formally introduced) we’d both calmed down considerably. She then showed me the inside of her house. It was kinda cute…and pretty tidy.
“I’m a single mom,” she said. “I’m a cook and I’m doing my best to make ends meet. I don’t have a car, so it’s tough to get rid of all that junk. But since the Child Services visit, I’ve arranged to have it taken away.”
I nodded.
“I get why you called Child Services,” she continued. “I figured you were concerned about my son.”
“I am,” I said. “But to be honest, your loud music is also driving ME crazy. And frankly, I don’t know he can stand it all day either.”
She sighed and tried hard not to roll her eyes. “I’ll try to keep it down,” she said.
A few days later, we exchanged Christmas cards. I gave her a Safeway gift certificate to buy leafy greens and bananas for her shed-creatures; she gave me a picture drawn by her son…and her phone number in case her music got too loud for my liking.
Over the next week, the rusty truck and other front-yard garbage disappeared. As for the fridge? Well, it was moved so that at least the door faced the fence, so the kid couldn’t climb in.
And what did I learn through all this?
1) Speak up sooner…don’t let a situation fester
2) Be wary of making assumptions
3) Sometimes things do have to go Springer before they settle
4) Resolving an issue can bring a sense of peace
5) Anger, resentment, fear and judgment require far more energy than empathy, understanding, humor and lending a helping hand
At the end of the day, I’d like to think my neighbor also learned a valuable lesson about being a struggling young mom: people are watching, people do care, and people will speak up when something doesn’t seem right…even if it takes awhile.
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Originally Published on Pink Gazelle
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