So I am moved into my new house. It is quite lovely; my friend Betsy, who came to help me move, actually likes it better than the other one because it has a nice winterized sunroom and it’s closer to downtown, but as I told her, because this is how we are: “You have no taste or appreciation for nice architecture or home decor so your opinion means nothing to me.” But in any event, it made me feel better, sort of like a girlfriend telling you she likes your new boyfriend much better than the louse you’ve been pining for. Even if you know she’s talking out of her ass to make you feel better, you appreciate the effort.
The new house is also cursed with something the old house wasn’t — Vernon and Minnie Trimble.
We should have realized something was wrong when the owner of the house, a lovely, kind man named Bill, became seemingly possessed by some kind of demon when Vernon Trimble came wandering into his garage. Betsy and I were dropping a few things off the day before moving day, chatting happily to Bill, when his entire demeanor changed as Vernon showed up. “What NOW, Mr. Trimble???” he hissed. Betsy and I slowly backed out of the garage, fearful that Bill was secretly a closet psychopath who was mean to old men. Oh how wrong we turned out to be.
Minnie Trimble soon came running across the street and introduced herself to us with all sorts of “our Lord Jesus” talk. Betsy fled for the car, where her Percocet stash was hidden (essential for moving, I have discovered), as Minnie shouted after her: “God bless you for helping, Betsy!” Immediately Minnie wanted to know my last name and cringed slightly when I said it — some people assume it’s a Jewish name, even though I’m not Jewish. She recovered, told me it was a “splendid!” name, and proceeded to run down the entire ethnic makeup of the neighborhood, including this choice bit of information: “John and Jenny Lee live at 1205. They’re very friendly for Orientals. Just splendid!” She then handed me her business card. It was emblazoned with a large cross. Minnie Trimble is a Christian marriage counsellor. I am a two-time divorcee, something I look forward to divulging to her.
On Moving Day, Betsy came over right at 8 a.m. and had not stepped out of the car and she saw Vernon Trimble come scurrying out of his garage pushing a lawn mower. He soon powered it up and began mowing my lawn just past eight on a Saturday, waving cheerfully at Betsy.
In the hours to come, Minnie Trimble was over at my new house at least a half dozen times, even as movers trudged in and out of the house with large pieces of furniture while I sweatily ran around giving instructions and organizing furniture.
She would walk right into the house and start marching around, checking things out. She wanted to know what “male voice” she could hear in the sunroom with Betsy (it was the fucking cable guy.) She brought a bottle of ginger ale with a bow on it, and then when I mentioned Canada Dry, and hour later she brought a second bottle of ginger ale, this one Canada Dry. She came by to offer leftovers. She came by to try to figure out the nature of my relationship with Betsy (opportunity lost — I didn’t think to say: “She’s my girlfriend, and we’re getting married in Toronto next month.” Bad mistake.) She came by to try to figure out why my children weren’t with me and what happened to my husband. She came by to try to figure out what church I went to. IT WENT ON ALL DAY.
By the end of the day, I lost my patience as she asked me to come over to her house so she could take me on a “grand tour.”
“Millie,” I said. “As you can see, I am now in my nightgown. I have been on my feet since 6 a.m. It’s very kind of you to offer, but I am very beat right now and Betsy and I need some time to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I shut the door as she was still talking. Thirty seconds later she knocked again.
“Yes, Mrs. Trimble?” I sighed.
“I’ll have you know that Vernon mowed your lawn today!” she said.
“Betsy mentioned that, Mrs. Trimble. That’s very nice of him,” I said.
“That’s Vern Trimble!” she replied. “That’s the kind of man he is!”
She remained standing on my doorstep, staring at me defiantly.
“Mrs. Trimble, please thank Mr. Trimble for me. But I don’t expect him to ever do that again. I just assumed Bill asked him to do it as a favor; perhaps it was something he couldn’t get to before he moved. In any event, thank him for me, but let him know it’s not necessary for him to do it again.”
The next day, Sunday, there she was at 9 a.m., knocking on my door on her way to church. This time she had a hand-written card upon which she had written out the names and details, including some phone numbers, of every person living on the block. After church, she knocked on the door again, and this time I pretended I was on the phone to my mother amid some kind of crisis and so NO, she could not come in to provide more information to me about the house I’d rented, since Bill and his wife had left a long list of things I needed to know.
She scurried away, calling over her shoulder that she and Vern intended to go back to church on Sunday night, where they would pray for my mother.
That’s right. I am living across the street from lonely Christian mentalcases. A few short days ago, I did not know Vern and Minnie Trimble existed. And now I sense I am going to be constantly hiding from them, turning the lights off, cranking up the music, pretending I don’t see or hear them on my various doorsteps.
Check in soon for the next instalment in “My New Life With The Trimbles,” when Minnie Trimble actually takes me on a tour of her home, a terrifying, musty old museum/shrine to Jesus Christ.
August 3, 2009 at 2:03 pm
They sound better than Satanists. Or Mormans.
August 3, 2009 at 2:38 pm
I disagree. I have known a Satanist, he was funny and minded his own business, and didn’t flinch at a “Jewish” name or refer to Asians as being “nice for Orientals.”
August 3, 2009 at 3:14 pm
I’m go ahead and bow out of this discussion. The Devil is nothing to joke about.
August 3, 2009 at 3:25 pm
I don’t believe in the devil, and I’m an atheist, so that’s why none of this really offends me. I am intrigued and fascinated; the only thing that offends me is the implicit racism and how apparently sometimes devout Christians don’t seem to know what true Christianity is supposed to be about. Acceptance, tolerance, loving all of God’s creatures, etc.
August 3, 2009 at 2:08 pm
OMFG, please keep a log of their lunacy, as it will make excellent fodder for a novel or screenplay one day.
August 3, 2009 at 2:43 pm
There were many times when Betsy and I just looked at one another, and said: “This is like something out of a movie. This can’t be real. People would think we were making it up.”
I have e-mailed the owner, asking him: “Is there something I need to know about the Trimbles?”
I am definitely keeping a log. The only reason I agreed to the tour of the house is because I knew how hilariously terrifying it would be — and it was, signed George W. Bush photos and all.
Although I also now feel sorry for poor Minnie; she is obviously not right in the head. I suspect Vern’s a dog and she’s been driven slowly mad.
August 3, 2009 at 2:11 pm
Oh my God, Trix! I’m a small-town Midwesterner and I’ve never met anyone that nuts.
We need to start dreaming up ways to freak them out/piss them off.
August 3, 2009 at 2:12 pm
1) Rent some very out there erotic sculpture and then ask Minnie if it would look better out on the lawn.
2) To thank her for the ginger ale, buy her a copy of Christopher Hitchens’ new book.
3)Play Patti Smith’s “Gloria” every time she comes over.(“Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine…”).
August 3, 2009 at 2:25 pm
@3) Or Dragonette’s “Jesus Doesn’t Love Me” and introduce it as quaint music from Toronto.
August 3, 2009 at 2:16 pm
Ahahaha! She’s praying for your mother! I don’t know why that gets me more than anything else, but it does.
August 3, 2009 at 2:17 pm
I suppose because if anybody ever sounded like they needed prayer, it’s Hagatha, but not for any reason Minnie Trimble would dream up.
August 3, 2009 at 2:48 pm
Oh, imagine the joy if your New York crew rolled down to see you in all our minority-feminist-lesbian glory.
August 3, 2009 at 2:56 pm
That WILL happen. Oh yes it will.
There is a black family living right next door to me and I haven’t seen them yet. They must hate her; they still have the Obama sign on their lawn and she told me during the house tour that her “prayers were answered and God heeded my call” when Bush got elected the second time. I cannot WAIT to get their take on her.
August 3, 2009 at 4:03 pm
My thoughts exactly! Please put the California Buttercups on the guest list for the housewarming party. SBJ, M, Road Trip!
August 3, 2009 at 10:51 pm
ooh! she should put up a’marriage equality’ sign on the lawn!! it will keep Vern from mowing it.
August 3, 2009 at 11:25 pm
Holy queer balls, I love you so.
August 3, 2009 at 9:49 pm
Yes! Large house party at yours is the best way to fix this I think.
August 3, 2009 at 2:57 pm
I can be there by Monday night to install the porn-series Jeff Koons pieces facing out your front windows. I assume that your hip-hop dj will be there by then, conducting a music festival on your lawn, and that the strippers and drug dealers will have set up their operations in the garage and driveway. (You DID clear out the garage so the strippers could install the poles, right?)
August 3, 2009 at 5:44 pm
Next time Hagatha invites herself down for a visit, ask Minnie and Vernon to “show her around.” Hagatha finds out what Karma means.
August 4, 2009 at 1:42 pm
That is deliciously evil. But what if they hit it off and become great friends? Trixie would never know a moment’s peace ever again.
August 3, 2009 at 10:50 pm
is it too late to buy a menorah?
ask her if she likes andrew blake porn as much as jesus does…
August 3, 2009 at 11:26 pm
OMG. You are perfect. MARRY ME! Again. Again!
August 3, 2009 at 11:28 pm
This could really and truly get very ugly. The lesbians need to descend on your block with a fervor and vehemence like nothing before. I’ll bring lingerie, porn and Bourbon Slush. And knives. Oh! And butter and champs.
Y’all take care of the boom box, Sharpies and sexy panties and we’ll show ’em how it’s done.
DO NOT MESS.
August 4, 2009 at 12:28 am
Bourbon slushies are so much fun!
August 4, 2009 at 1:00 am
Leave a copy of Richard Dawkins “The God Delusion” in full view, get a sensor light so you can anticipate their visits and sit down and watch the full series of Bewitched to see how best to deal with Gladys Kravitz.
I don’t think that Verne is to blame for Minnie’s behavior, fundamental Christians are often a similar breed of crazy. Emphasis on MENTAL.
August 4, 2009 at 7:00 am
WOW. Just bloody hell!
August 4, 2009 at 8:14 am
WOW! What a nightmare you have on your hands! I would go absolutely nuts over it, but I do think you should flaunt just about every culture counter to theirs that you can think of at this point.
August 4, 2009 at 9:41 am
I think you need to invite Hagatha down for a visit and then let Mrs. Trimble have a chat with her.
The only other suggestion would be to answer the door naked.
An old friend of mine was telling me about some similar neighbors that he has acquired. They watch him whenever he leaves the house, shows up and so on. They often leave their door open. “Where is he going?” “I don’t know. But he has alcohol with him”. Maybe it is novel for them to live next door to a gay man.
August 4, 2009 at 11:28 am
Hmmm, maybe you should give up the notion of tact and blare this song with the door wide open: