Secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bully

Ever since I was a child I've been a champion for the weak. My sense of empathy seems to be a bit overdeveloped. Seeing any creature in pain tears me apart.

I know I'm a strong person, so I've never thought of myself as a victim.

Even now, when I live near a secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bully.

Yep. This man has gotten it into his twisted little brain that I'm a ready target for his bullying. He thinks I'm the victim type.

Well that certainly shows a lack of intelligence on his part!

For more than six years every wave, every smile, every offer of friendship I've sent his way has been rebuffed. Usually with a sneer.

He makes friends with the other neighbors, waves merrily and says a chatty 'hello'.

But me, I get a sneer.

Secretive! No one else in the neighborhood even suspects his true nature.

Maybe he doesn't like blondes. We are rather scary, after all.

He's demonstrated his bully tendencies on multiple occasions, when he's ambushed me in the driveway to yell about imagined grievances. I've noticed that he choses his time wisely. He never attacks when my husband is at home.

As a matter of fact, he's never said a single word to my husband, or subjected him to a sneer.

The chicken hearted bully!

For the past six years he's run an "irritation campaign" against my family. He has a whole series of inconsiderate things he does on a regular basis, all while we're not looking.

Most--like letting his dog "go" in our yard, parking one foot too far so there is no place for us to park, and letting his bushes grow over so that our shared driveway becomes unuseable--could be mistaken for accidents.

But I know these things aren't accidents because during one of his rants he told me that he did them intentionally. He actually bragged about it, with a smirk.

Creepy!

Frankly, I wish this bully would drop the secretive, creepy part and just stick to the yelling. I could handle out-and-out confrontation much better, since the ammunition he tries to use against me is as fragile and insubstantial as those cheap bubbles they sell at the dollar store.

Pop. Pop. Pop. He's yet to get the upper hand in any of our direct confrontations.

His problem is that he doesn't think things through. Anger bubbles up from a volcano hidden in his spleen and bipasses his brain completely.

So pop, pop, pop and all his ammo is gone.

I'll admit that having a bully so close makes my life more stressful. Home should be a peaceful place, a sanctuary where joys are embraced and trouble forgotten.

But it is what it is. I'll do my best to ignore the miasma of poison he sends my way and enjoy the home my husband and I have worked so hard to create.

And if he ambushes me again, I'm ready. I'm always ready. I'm not a victim, I am a fighter. Usually I fight for the underdog, but hey, I'm sure I've got a little scrappiness left over to fight for myself.

Because if the last six years are any indication he'll throw his abuse my way again.

It's what all secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bullies do.

A daughter's words

Motherhood told through a daughter’s words.

Ma ma. Mamamamamamamamamamamama. Ma ma ma.

No! Just mommy!

Mommy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?

Mommy, you don’t need to hold my hand. I’m a big girl.

Mama, will you help me with my homework?

Mama, will you fix my hair?

Mama, will you help me with my project?

Mama, will you take me shopping?

Mama, will you drive me to my friend’s house?

Please don’t talk to my friend’s parents! I’ll be so embarrassed.

Mom, can I borrow some of your clothes? I have a project at school and I need to look old.

I need to borrow the car. I’m going to a friend’s house. See you later, Mom.

Mother, I need a dressy jacket. Oh, is this all you’ve got? I could never wear any of these, they’re so out of style.

Mother, are you really going to wear that? Out of the house?

Sorry I can’t come to dinner, Mom. I’ve got plans.

Wait, Mom! You’re holding the baby wrong.

Mom, can you watch the kids? You’d never believe how much work it is to raise children!

Oh no, Mom, the books say that is the wrong way to raise kids!

Oh, Mom! How did you ever put up with us when we were teenagers?

Mom, I love you!

A DIY in a HSTDI world

As I turned the corner I noticed a man in my neighbor's driveway busy taking the car seats out of the neighbor's car. As I continued walking, he continued removing bits of the car. Before I drew level with my neighbor's house a good portion of the interior of the car was strewn about the front yard.

I couldn't help but be curious. Then I noticed the truck loaded with cleaning supplies parked in front of my neighbor's house and I realized what was happening.

The neighbor was having the car detailed. Right there in the driveway. The car was stripped bare, naked for all the world to see.

I looked away, somewhat embarrassed. I had never seen a car detailed in such a public manner before. It felt almost like I had pulled back a curtain and discovered the someone taking a shower. Like my very presence was an intrusion, an invasion of privacy.

I hurried back to my own house. As I closed the door I thought about the many different workers I passed every day as I walked my dog and I was struck by an epiphany.

I was a Do-It-Yourselfer living in a Hire-Someone-To-Do-It neighborhood.

No wonder I sometimes felt so out of place!

The people of my neighborhood have groceries delivered, hire contractors to remodel, maids to clean their house, dog walkers to exercise their dogs, landscapers to mow their grass, and even nannies to raise their children.

And those are just the things I know about. For all I know many of my neighbors may have personal chefs who prepare a daily menu of nutritious and tasty food while a personal assistant pays their bills for them.

The odd thing is that I don't live in a ritzy neighborhood. I have no idea how all my neighbors have so much disposable cash.

Part of me wonders why they don't just do the work themselves. The other part of me is jealous.

I probably should do a little digging in my yard. The only explanation I can come up with is that my neighborhood is built on an oil reserve. Maybe I can find my own source of disposable cash.

GUSHER!

Learning to fly in Tweetland

In March I wrote about my efforts to jump into social networking on Facebook. I compared it to walking a tightrope across the ocean.

Now I'm tackling Twitter (twitter.com/veronicatabares), and have found it's pretty much like jumping off a cliff. I'd better learn to fly pretty fast, or I just might regret it.

I've had a Twitter account for a couple of years but it was extremely lame. I had twelve followers, and I followed about nineteen people.

So a couple of days ago I decided it was time to get my act together. I prettified my Twitter page and contacted an acquaintance who said she could help me find a few followers to get me started.

After a day she contacted me to say I now had several thousand followers. I thanked her and went to take a look.

Sure enough, I had thousands of followers, and as I watched the number kept inching higher.

Nettiquette (or should I say twitteriquette) requires me to return the favor and follow my followers. So I began the tedious process of clicking on each follower, reading about him/her, and following the ones who seemed appropriate for me.

After about an hour I looked and found I had only followed about 150 people. At that rate I'd be spending weeks just following.

So I took a short cut and randomly followed the next 50 people. Then I turned off my computer. I was done for the day.

This morning I opened my Twitter account and found some very suspicious feeds. It took very little checking to discover that one of those last 50 people I had randomly followed was a very bad choice. I blush just remembering the posts I read.

So it is back to the slow and steady approach. I will check each and every person I follow from now on.

I plan to reciprocate with as many of my followers as I can, but it might take me a while. As of this morning I didn't have several thousand, I had many several thousand of followers.

Gulp!

I wonder how many of them are real people?

I guess I'd better start flapping my arms. It's time to learn how to fly around Tweetland.