THE ODD OLD COUPLE NEXT DOOR IMPROVE THEIR HOA, a continuing saga

The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”

            Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”

            “Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”

            “If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”

            He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”

            How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.

            The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”

            As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”

            She groans. “Why would I want to?”

            In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.

            After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).

            “What?” he asks.

            She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”

            “No,” said the old man. “Why?”

            “She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”

            The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”

            “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”

            “What? What?”

            The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”

            He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”

            “Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.

            “Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.

(Perhaps to be continued)

The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”

            Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”

            “Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”

            “If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”

            He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”

            How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.

            The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”

            As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”

            She groans. “Why would I want to?”

            In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.

            After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).

            “What?” he asks.

            She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”

            “No,” said the old man. “Why?”

            “She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”

            The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”

            “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”

            “What? What?”

            The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”

            He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”

            “Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.

            “Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.

(Perhaps to be continued)

The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”

            Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”

            “Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”

            “If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”

            He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”

            How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.

            The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”

            As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”

            She groans. “Why would I want to?”

            In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.

            After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).

            “What?” he asks.

            She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”

            “No,” said the old man. “Why?”

            “She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”

            The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”

            “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”

            “What? What?”

            The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”

            He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”

            “Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.

            “Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.

(Perhaps to be continued)

2 thoughts on “THE ODD OLD COUPLE NEXT DOOR IMPROVE THEIR HOA, a continuing saga

  1. I liked this very much..(smiling)

    On Mon, Feb 1, 2021, 3:27 PM Bonnie McCune, author wrote:

    > Bonnie McCune posted: ” The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his > second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors > in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels > out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand ” >

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