Imagine my surprise – nay – delight when, walking out of my apartment, I noticed her door was swung wide open. I realized, as I stood gawking, that in all my months of inventorying the junk she’d leave on the stoop, I’d never really gotten to see the inside of White Trash Woman’s apartment.
I had imagined it would be kind of dark and dank, maybe like the Castle Grayskull, or like my armpits after a long, satisfying run. The walls, I thought, were probably lined with the million kinds of Wal-mart brand beverages she’s so fond of. Pizza bones, like relics of a forgotten civilization would litter the floorboards, occasionally finding respite with a greasy chicken wing in the cushions of the couch WTW bought in 1982.
And it warmed the cockles of my heart to get to glance inside. This was my moment. This was my Shangri-La.
It wasn’t exactly as I had imagined it. It looked, to my eyes (squinting without glasses) a lot like my apartment – taupe carpeting, one long hallway with adjoining rooms. I did notice, however, it was filthy. It looked like a bomb had gone off, as crates of paper, toys and cloths were strewn haphazardly about the living area.
“What a dump,” I murmured, all smug like.
“Excuuuuse me?” a voice called back.
Oh snap.
Busted.
A pre-pubescent black girl was hunched against the steps, eyeing me just as intensely as I had been eyeing her stuff. I couldn’t believe it. This was the first time I’d seen her, but I was fairly sure I was in a stare down with the one and only, White Trash Daughter.
Slightly horrified and at a loss for words, I did the only thing I could think of. I quickly flipped open my cell phone, put it to my ear and said “Oh heeey you! I’m so glad you called!” Then – because it was such an important call, and it really wouldn’t have been proper to converse in the open – I had no choice but to skitter off the walkway, away from White Trash Daughter and the mysteries of her abode.
When I came back a few hours later the girl was still brooding on the stairs. In the time I’d been gone, mounds of trash had collected around the girl – it was more than I’d ever seen White Trash Woman put out before, at least at one time. And then it struck me –duh, White Trash Woman and her kin were packing up camp. The White Trash Family, they were moving.
And as I stood, blinking in the faces of the neighbors I’d imagined thousands of times, but never met in person, something else occurred to me:
1. White Trash Woman is not white.
2. Urinal cakes – They aren’t just for pissing on. Apparently some people use them for air fresheners to keep down the smell of decaying pizza bones. After three hours with White Trash Woman’s door open, why the entire breezeway smelled boys-room fresh!
So dear hannihaus readers, White Trash Woman is really gone. As quickly as she came into our lives, she’s now vanished. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I guess. Would anyone care to say some kind words about the dearly departed?
Hänni,
Damn I love you. You make me laugh everytime!
Spicy Pants! – And I love the ‘Smack. Thank God for snarky women!
ha! the two coolest chicas know each other? why am I not at all surprised?
LOVED this entry. faboo! So damned glad your rid. I hope the axiom “The enemy you know, is better than the enemy you do not know.” does not apply in this case. ‘
Cheers!
I am just picturing you running for dear life while the youngster chases you about the complex, your cell phone still attached to your ear.
You sillygoose.
P.S. You said, “Castle Greyskull”. I love you.
May her trailer roll on to greener pizza bone filled pastures…
By the power of Greyskull!
Laurenbove – Thanks for the mad props. Yeah Spicy and I go waaaay back… well by a couple months at least.
She’s my Westsaaaide honey.
AmandaB- ooh I think I called it “Grayskull”. Is that the wrong spelling, technically speaking? And yeah, I didn’t stop to think maybe the phone thing was a bit suspicious, given that it never RANG before I “answered” it.
ScottyGee – Yes, let’s hope that trailer’s both swift and far traveling!
Hilarious entry and I thought stuff like this only happened to me. Just the two words “urinal cakes” had me laughing out loud. Who writes about urinal cakes? Who names those suckers such an oxymoron, some moron I’d guess….
May your new neighbor be clean.
ugh – You know, urinal cakes come in quite the decorative variety. Maybe she was a collector.
Farewell, Not White White Trash Lady.
I’ve done the fake phone call thing to get away from someone once as well. And as I walked away having my fake phone call, a real phone call came in and I looked like an asshole.
So, use with caution, Hanni darling.
Don’t worry about the phone not ringing… it was on vibrate. No one is the wiser. Well… except all of your readers.
In my current apartment last occupants a large dirty lady, much like Hanni’s former neighbor, had a urinal cake in the bedroom, that’s right, IN THE BEDROOM. I can’t get that bastard off the wall. She superglued it – the bitch. Now, every time I go to bed, it’s the last thing I have to look at. It’s sad. Very sad people!
MaryBishop – Apparently *I’m* crazy enough to write about urinal cakes. How about that?
Mrtl – Do they really come in decorative varieties? I think you’re just saying that. But here’s an idea – *you* could start designing custom cakes and sell them along side the rhinestone-encrusted peri-bottles. It’s like a His and Her gross-bathroom-accesories thing. Forget about embroidered towels, the next time I go to a wedding I’m bring urinal cakes and ass-cleaning spray bottles. Cheers!
Miss Marisol – d’oh, hadn’t even considered the idea of someone calling in whilst on fake call. That’s probably because no one ever calls me, except Maaa.
Erin – Yes, vibrate, that’s it! The phone was on vibrate. I really didn’t look like an idiot after all, when obviously running away from a 14-year-old girl… oh wait.
Dima – You poor thing! Do you work out? I know sometimes after a rigorous bout of yoga, my knickers could knock the fleas off a dog. I’m wondering if something like that could knock the urinal cake from your bedroom wall. Hmmm.
Ooh, after an hour of soccer would work just as well I think. I’ll try that next time. Honestly though, I’m afraid of touching the thing. I always hated those thing. Why ruin the word cake? WHY?