Friday, June 15, 2012
Committee of the Center of the Street, TWARTED?
It is indeed a sad day on our street, and not because the Cookie's have given notice on our impending move.
The Committee of the Center of the Street was almost thwarted in its mission to gossip about everyone on the block and thus solve the problems of the world. The villains are the two evil Les-boxes, Frigid and Frigita who moved in our neighborhood recently.
The Committee attempted to form last night upon the return of Helicopter Sandy who has been in Oklahoma with her aging parents. Helicopter Sandy saw us on the front porch with the two Bob Wolf(e)'s and waved us over.
"So what's been happening for the past couple weeks?" she asked.
The husband told her how the two evil Les-boxes called the police on us for shoo'ing their overly friendly cat out of our yard, and Sandy, who is a retired helicopter cop was stunned.
"They did what?"
"They called the cops because they didn't want that mangy cat in their yard," said Bob Wolfe.
"It walked into our house and gave Mr. Peepers an almost heart attack!" said Bob Wolf.
Mr. Peepers is their older Newfoundland, a sweet beast who tips the scales at well over 90 pounds.
"Did the officer tell them to go pound sand?" asked Helicopter Sandy.
"Pretty much," confirmed my husband, who loves everyone, but not the evil Les-boxes.
"That cat, craps in my yard." We looked at the overgrown grass in her yard.
Just then we heard a door close and we all spun around to see Frigid and Frigida on their front porch, then coming down their stairs and heading for us like Hitler headed into Poland.
"Is there something that the neighborhood needs to know?" asked Frigida, the more malevolent of the two wanted to know.
"No, there's nothing going on, why?" asked Sandy. Poor Sandy, she did not know what kind of Hellish buzzsaw she was about to walk into.
Frigid, who is Norweigan, and has all the charm of an ice cube, spoke: "Well, you are standing in front of our house, and people are talking and periodically look at our house, which in a non-verbal sense indicates that you are talking about us. And we don't appreciate being watched, and we don't appreciate the non-supportive community around us."
The Bob Wolf(e)'s were ill at ease, and their fists clenching. A couple weeks ago Frigid, in her off putting manner, had taken the two to task for grilling outside because the "fumes from your charcoal fire pollute the air and they make Torsten's asthma activate. That causes Torsten the pain. You would be more healthy if you took up a raw vegetable diet."
"We aren't in front," said Bob Wolf.
"Of your house," finished Bob Wolfe.
Sandy - never for want of words - responded to Frigid by saying "Who are you?"
In fact, the two are known as the "two anti-social women" on our street. Neighbor's have tried in vain to invite them to their homes for dinner or drinks when they first moved here, but the extension of the hand of friendship was slapped away. Then, about a year ago, the two began to become pains in our sides. Frigida is brittle and prone to perseveration. Frigid, is the more quiet, less hysterical, puppet master type. Frigida also speaks in an unsettling accent - a monotone that is a disconnect from her beautiful, but facial features.
Frigid and Frigida introduced themselves and their son Torsten, a turkey baster baby who the husband and think is going to have some expensive therapy in his adult years. He is at once the Golden Child of the neighborhood, and the bane of our existence.
"Now if there is nothing of importance, then you should disband," commanded Frigida.
The five of us looked stunned.
"Well, what are these looks for," she said as a comment, not a question. "If there is nothing of importance, then you disband. Scatter to your houses." She made a shoo'ing gesture, much like I had tried to shoo their cat. "This is a public street and you impede the traffic when you stand out here and tell tales."
We started to talk again, about ourselves and the two women, and Torsten, didn't budge.
"We are not leaving to our own house until this party disbands," stated Frigida, her voice beginning to escalate as she dug in her heels.
One of the lessons in life that I have learned is that you can't deal rationally with irrational minds. So we ended the meeting of the Committee of the Middle of the Street and then promptly called a meeting of the Sub-Committee of the Cookie's Front Porch, where beer and cheese doodles would be served.
Another of the key lessons in life is that you have to know how to pick your battles. And moving our little get together wasn't so much of a retreat as it was different approach. In the middle of the street, they can be a nuisance. If they dare mount our front stairs, then its called trespassing, and I'll call the police on the Quisling's.
So while we enjoyed ourselves with our neighbors, Torsten was fed a tit from one of his Mom's while the other glowered at us.
We won't miss Frigid and Frigda. But we most certainly will talk about them.