We had some company over the weekend. A young friend of mine and Hubby’s came over, and he brought some of his friends with him. One of them was a guy who lived across the road from us at our old place.

He mentioned that our former landlords’ son, the one who we were kicked out so he could move his trailer in there, said that someone had broken into his place. I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for sure, but I call B.S.

Why, you ask? For one thing, I know these people’s track record. The landlady (and I use the term “lady” loosely here) said that the reason she was asking us to move was because they needed their son up there to help them out. Said that her husband was in poor health, and he needed someone to look after him and do the outdoor work. To hear her tell it, he should have been in a bed 24/7 wearing adult diapers. Yet I am all the time seeing him out driving around by himself. Fancy that.

Also, in the two and a half years that we lived there, no one ever bothered us except them. Their punk grandson set off my truck alarm once, and they were constantly trying to cause trouble. But other than the crap we had to put up with from them, we had no problems.

If someone did break in there, I’m betting it was the guy’s brother. He is in and out of jail all the time. And if someone didn’t, they’re probably just saying that in an attempt to get someone they are angry with in trouble. Maybe things went sour with their other renters? Who knows. And I know I shouldn’t care. But I must admit I’m still bitter about everything that went down. I don’t let them know it, though. Any time I talk to anyone who I think might talk to them, I keep my chin up and try to look and act like the happiest darn person in the world. That’s the best way to get under their skin.