A couple of days ago, we got another missive placed in our mailbox. (Illegal, btw.) Another diatribe written on her computer. I'd like to post the entire content, but it wasn't technically addressed to me. At least it seems that despite my failing to preface my remarks to her through the magic of Hockey-Fan Voice with "DumbA$$" she managed to get the message I don't want her messing with our, er, stuff. Meaning our rubbish bins, to use the splendid Englishism.
Effie has outdone herself. The letter starts with a complaint about the "loud female voice" (thank you, two weeks later) outside her kitchen window (where she likes to watch our comings and goings--our front door is right next to it) and wanders off into accusations of "ambush" and passive aggression. She accuses us of acting like teenagers. So funny. I need to carry a mirror with me so she can see who's really to blame for her own misery. She never once mentioned the part in which I also told her in that "loud female voice" to stop staring at us long enough to leave our (stuff) alone.
She goes on to accuse all of our neighbors of having barking dogs and being too ignorant to have heard of Ceasar Millan. Apparently, she's a cable telly watcher. Miss Smarty-Pants apparently hasn't balanced her source of truth with Victoria Stilwell or Temple Grandin. Yup, read 'em, even though I've never owned a dog. I should mail her my copy of "Animals Make Us Human" in which Grandin directly disagrees with Millan. Too high-brow a thought? Maybe.
Best part of all of this: the letter is copied to the landlords--but only to the wife. The husband is subject to these same accusations, too!
Time for us to hire a U-Haul truck and let her think we're moving. We have enough stuff to donate; it would be worth the money.
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