Very few people, relatively speaking, know just what kind of a nuisance it is to file a nuisance lawsuit - or any other kind of lawsuit. What's most surprising is that there are people who make their living suing others (and I'm not talking about the lawyers.)
Anyway, keep in mind that almost every step of this procedure gives the other party about 30 days to respond and fire back. First, the Complaint or Pleading is filed with the court and served on the Defendant. Some offers and counteroffers are sent back and forth to see if settlement is possible without the Defendant filing a Response; if so, a Stipulated Agreement is signed and filed with the court.
Alas, my antagonists are so steeped in mean and marinated in nasty that they made a laughable offer to move the ice machine if I would leave them alone. I would have jumped at that offer about, hmmm... March or April of 2008 - over a year ago! But here is the analogy:
You work for someone and he owes you a dollar but refuses to pay. You work some more and he owes you two dollars, then five, then ten. An enforcer comes along to make him pay you, and he offers you one dollar to settle the debt. It's totally incredulous.
Since my neighbors told me to fof off all those months ago, I pursued every City of Manteca ordinance imaginable - and collected enough rejections and rejection letters to fill notebooks from imperious city minions (no civil servants there!)
Last December I finally found the reason Lynda Allen is so small, hard, mean, and ugly.
Beginning in 1987, Lynda and her life partners started living a lie. Six years later she parlayed the verbal lie into a documented lie. Three years later it took her four more years to leverage the documented lie into a court ordered lie. For the last nine years she has been jealously guarding her house of cards, built on a foundation of lies, against anyone and anything that dared to whisper a breath in her direction, especially anyone with the temerity to peer over her fence. Her prime directive for twenty-two years has been to prevent anyone from unearthing her foundation of lies, and she goes into berserk Alpha female attack mode whenever someone gets too close.
Back in the present, the Queens of TLC filed a Response and accompanied it with three sets of Interrogatories and a Demand to Produce (Documents and Artifacts). The court procedure tries to find out all about who this guy is who wants to sue and what's his beef. So, even though I live, breath, sleep (not!), and dream these facts, it took a while to wade through those forms.
Now it's my turn. The draft Interrogatories and Demand to Produce allow me the opportunity to have T, L, and C go through the same research hoops I did - and either confirm my timeline or disprove it. However, they must have documents either way. No stories spun out of thin air or lies told by warping timelines will be acceptable now. I do not know what documents they showed Manteca's clueless boys in blue a year ago last March, but this time the Alpha bitch had better have the right papers to show to people who know what they are looking at and looking for.
The stakes are now the ousting of the whole illegal business operation instead of simply moving the icemaker eighteen months ago.
$10 now instead of the $1 she could have gotten away with back then.
.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Chasing Tails in Tight Little Paranoid Circles
Pop Warner Football and Cheer started up this week - and it goes on interminably through next December. (But that's for comment some other time.) The line of parked cars along the street is broken in two at the gate next to my driveway, although regularly some brain dead late driver thinks that that primo open spot (my driveway) was saved just for them. (But that's for comment some other time.) When darkness arrives, parents pile their kids into the cars and they all go away... except last night. One car refused to start. A small, older Ford Focus was locked up and left on the street right in front of my fig tree.
Getting ahead of the story a little, morning light revealed it had well-worn seat covers with Hello Kitty logos, Hello Kitty stickers in the back window, and a pink ribbon decal for breast cancer awareness on the back. Likely some unfortunate mom had to hitch a ride for herself and her kids to get home last night
As you know, from midnight to first light, Theresa (which may actually be spelled Teressa), Lovely Lynda, and Corky Corky are up banging, hauling, and yakking around their property, getting the roach coach ready to roll at 4:30 a.m. Well, it rolled on time - right out to the sidewalk, where it stopped for a moment. L and C climbed out and walked down the street to stand behind the car parked in front of my house. Like St. Peter at Heaven's Gate, Lynda had her logbook open and ready, quill poised over page, and took dictation from Corky of each of the characters and numerals that comprised the license plate number of the unsuspecting Ford Focus owned by Hello Kitty.
Had they seen the indications of female ownership? Did they assume that a woman stayed the night in my house? Perhaps there is a potential witness for the Plaintiff here? Not to worry - they have friends in the police department downtown who will run a plate number and reveal the owner's name.
Let T, L, and C
Getting ahead of the story a little, morning light revealed it had well-worn seat covers with Hello Kitty logos, Hello Kitty stickers in the back window, and a pink ribbon decal for breast cancer awareness on the back. Likely some unfortunate mom had to hitch a ride for herself and her kids to get home last night
As you know, from midnight to first light, Theresa (which may actually be spelled Teressa), Lovely Lynda, and Corky Corky are up banging, hauling, and yakking around their property, getting the roach coach ready to roll at 4:30 a.m. Well, it rolled on time - right out to the sidewalk, where it stopped for a moment. L and C climbed out and walked down the street to stand behind the car parked in front of my house. Like St. Peter at Heaven's Gate, Lynda had her logbook open and ready, quill poised over page, and took dictation from Corky of each of the characters and numerals that comprised the license plate number of the unsuspecting Ford Focus owned by Hello Kitty.
Had they seen the indications of female ownership? Did they assume that a woman stayed the night in my house? Perhaps there is a potential witness for the Plaintiff here? Not to worry - they have friends in the police department downtown who will run a plate number and reveal the owner's name.
Let T, L, and C
Monday, July 20, 2009
Homework, Legal Forms
Form - Interrogatories
Special Interrogatories - 1
Special Interrogatories - 2
Demand for Production (of documents and artifacts)
Request for Statement of Damages
Special Interrogatories - 1
Special Interrogatories - 2
Demand for Production (of documents and artifacts)
Request for Statement of Damages
"We Don't Talk..." - Lynda's Nonverbal Style
Yesterday was another beautiful Sunday morning. Hmm... Four weeks ago Lynda and Corky disrupted what I had hoped to be a quiet breakfast out front... Two weeks ago Lynda and Corky again disrupted my breakfast. What do you think are the odds they will disrupt breakfast this week?
If you guessed 100%, you are right.
Gail, the woman who obtained Corky's dog two weeks ago, came walking down the sidewalk with the dog. When she approached my yard I hailed her with, "Is that Cody?" and she responded with a Yes. We introduced ourselves (since my socialite neighbor hadn't introduced us two weeks ago) and we talked about the dog and the fig tree we were standing next to. It was a quick and friendly exchange.
Cody, however, nearly pulled Gail over by suddenly lunging against his lease and pulling her back up the sidewalk toward Lynda's house. Our conversation ended abruptly because sad, lonely Lynda had come out onto her front lawn and called Cody over. The Dr. Phil wannabe, who two weeks ago tried to belittle me for having no friends, saw me out front and deliberately sabotagued an interpersonal relationship at the moment of conception. She, of course, will claim she only wanted to follow up with the dog and his new owner, but her (lack of) social skills belie the claim.
If you guessed 100%, you are right.
Gail, the woman who obtained Corky's dog two weeks ago, came walking down the sidewalk with the dog. When she approached my yard I hailed her with, "Is that Cody?" and she responded with a Yes. We introduced ourselves (since my socialite neighbor hadn't introduced us two weeks ago) and we talked about the dog and the fig tree we were standing next to. It was a quick and friendly exchange.
Cody, however, nearly pulled Gail over by suddenly lunging against his lease and pulling her back up the sidewalk toward Lynda's house. Our conversation ended abruptly because sad, lonely Lynda had come out onto her front lawn and called Cody over. The Dr. Phil wannabe, who two weeks ago tried to belittle me for having no friends, saw me out front and deliberately sabotagued an interpersonal relationship at the moment of conception. She, of course, will claim she only wanted to follow up with the dog and his new owner, but her (lack of) social skills belie the claim.
Another friend of mine walked by a minute later, stopped for a half-minute exchange of pleasantries, then continued on past the koffee klatch next door.
The next puzzle for the practiced manipulator was, "How do I prevent this woman from talking to that evil man over there as she passes by him again?" Pretty obvious, huh? Lynda escorted Gail and Cody almost to the fig tree. Lynda then led Gail in turning away into the stance that says, "I need to tell you something important and confidential." For a few intense seconds, Lynda bent Gail's ear so badly I'm surprised it stayed attached, then they parted and went opposite directions. My unpleasantly gained experience with Lynda's verbal style made me feel truly sorry for this poor woman. Gail glanced furtively at me as she hurried by, her ears dripping and her brain stunned from their force-fed injection of virulent speech. There was no way Gail could absorb the viperous poison just delivered and speak with me seconds later, so I let her go without word or gesture. She was innocent of a larger conflict not her own, and to be abused in such a despicable manner by a truly awful excuse for a human being is demonic.
I saw Gail again this morning on her walk. She appeared to have pulled through her near-death experience and we spoke briefly. (Because Lynda is taking notes, nothing was mentioned about my NFH's.) You see, not everyone I meet for the first time has to receive a catering truck load of s - -t.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Three Days and Three Nights of Noise
In June of last year (2008) the icemaker was broken for a blissfully quiet week. After it was fixed, it ran continuously for days. That same thing happened again this year, this weekend.
I went riding on Friday, July 3rd, because most of the USA had the day off as a holiday. When I returned in the afternoon, the neighbors' Icemaker From Hell had been repaired - and it hasn't been quiet for the last three nights and days. Of course, that is entirely contrary to Ms. Allen's statement in front of the Manteca City Council on March 3rd, when she said:
"I have my refrigeration man [here] that can tell you about the ice machine that's not really a problem because it doesn't run all night. I go to bed at seven, shut it off. I leave at four in the morning."
The machine absolutely DID run all night for many, many nights during the hellish summer of 2007 (for which I have no notes) and also during the summer of 2008 (for which I do have notes.) She may have left at four a.m. (now 4:30 a.m.), but notably omitted mentioning the 6:15 a.m. startup of the machine by the property's third occupant. Shortly after that meeting, "Sleepy Head" Allen moved her bedtime to 8:00 o'clock, along with the corresponding shutoff of the icemaker.
These "public statements vs. private actions" clearly illustrate her lack of truthfulness. Nothing she says can be taken as the truth - or as any part of the truth. To her, truth is very similar to situational ethics: something to be decided at the moment and, depending on the audience, give as little information as possible to buy off the listener.
. . . two days remaining on the revised Response deadline . . .
I went riding on Friday, July 3rd, because most of the USA had the day off as a holiday. When I returned in the afternoon, the neighbors' Icemaker From Hell had been repaired - and it hasn't been quiet for the last three nights and days. Of course, that is entirely contrary to Ms. Allen's statement in front of the Manteca City Council on March 3rd, when she said:
"I have my refrigeration man [here] that can tell you about the ice machine that's not really a problem because it doesn't run all night. I go to bed at seven, shut it off. I leave at four in the morning."
The machine absolutely DID run all night for many, many nights during the hellish summer of 2007 (for which I have no notes) and also during the summer of 2008 (for which I do have notes.) She may have left at four a.m. (now 4:30 a.m.), but notably omitted mentioning the 6:15 a.m. startup of the machine by the property's third occupant. Shortly after that meeting, "Sleepy Head" Allen moved her bedtime to 8:00 o'clock, along with the corresponding shutoff of the icemaker.
These "public statements vs. private actions" clearly illustrate her lack of truthfulness. Nothing she says can be taken as the truth - or as any part of the truth. To her, truth is very similar to situational ethics: something to be decided at the moment and, depending on the audience, give as little information as possible to buy off the listener.
. . . two days remaining on the revised Response deadline . . .
Friday, July 3, 2009
Snow on the Roof
We will all probably get there someday - some gracefully, most accepting life's change, and a few kicking and screaming in an all out effort to stop the progression.
Upon returning home from work yesterday, I discovered Bill, the refrigeration guy, perched precariously on the pitched roof of Lynda Allen's outbuilding and a mostly disassembled condenser of the ice machine. (The unit is like a car's radiator.) The big metal fan blade was off to one side, the fan motor was balanced on one edge of the metal box, and Bill was using his electric drill to remove more metal screws from the guts of the beast. It was a very warm evening. He went up and down the ladder so often that his client, with a streak of compassion as wide and deep as the nearby San Joaquin River, urged him to slow down and take it easy and plied him with cold beverege and promised him something with holladaise sauce for dinner.
C'mon! The guy has pure white hair, an ancient ticker, and is doing vertical ladder laps just so Medusa can have a few hundred pounds of ice every day! And she wants to kill him with her cooking. It's probably Theresa's cooking, though; Lynda is merely the genius businesswoman and truck driver.
Since I can no longer glue my eye - or a camera - to the proverbial knothole in the fence to watch the ground level action, I listened and imagined {. . ."Give me a T! Give me an L! Give me a C! YeeaaaaAA, BILL!" . . .} "Do you want us to turn the power off?", "Do you want us to turn the power on?", "Is there anything we can do for you, Bill?", "Slow down, take it easy." The harpies circled and crooned continuously. They must really, REALLY want that "free" ice. The only problem is it is not "free" - they make their neighbor pay dearly for it.
Despite the yammering and yapping down below, for Bill took things apart and put them back together again for at least an hour-and-a-half. The frequent trips up and down were mainly to punch the machine's ON button and listen for a few moments until the startup sequence failed. From the time I started counting, at least ___ attempts were made to wake the dragon. Various pieces were taken off and replaced, meters were employed then put away, more than a few grunts and Harumphs were articulated and, of course, a lot of heavy breathing from the rapid elevation gains on the ladder. For a while it appeared he may have been on to the problem, but other times he lost a few hairs from scratching his snowy white head while appearing to think.
After 7:30, the dragon ladies' chorus changed to "Go home, Bill," and "Enjoy your holladaise sauce."
Upon returning home from work yesterday, I discovered Bill, the refrigeration guy, perched precariously on the pitched roof of Lynda Allen's outbuilding and a mostly disassembled condenser of the ice machine. (The unit is like a car's radiator.) The big metal fan blade was off to one side, the fan motor was balanced on one edge of the metal box, and Bill was using his electric drill to remove more metal screws from the guts of the beast. It was a very warm evening. He went up and down the ladder so often that his client, with a streak of compassion as wide and deep as the nearby San Joaquin River, urged him to slow down and take it easy and plied him with cold beverege and promised him something with holladaise sauce for dinner.
C'mon! The guy has pure white hair, an ancient ticker, and is doing vertical ladder laps just so Medusa can have a few hundred pounds of ice every day! And she wants to kill him with her cooking. It's probably Theresa's cooking, though; Lynda is merely the genius businesswoman and truck driver.
Since I can no longer glue my eye - or a camera - to the proverbial knothole in the fence to watch the ground level action, I listened and imagined {. . ."Give me a T! Give me an L! Give me a C! YeeaaaaAA, BILL!" . . .} "Do you want us to turn the power off?", "Do you want us to turn the power on?", "Is there anything we can do for you, Bill?", "Slow down, take it easy." The harpies circled and crooned continuously. They must really, REALLY want that "free" ice. The only problem is it is not "free" - they make their neighbor pay dearly for it.
Despite the yammering and yapping down below, for Bill took things apart and put them back together again for at least an hour-and-a-half. The frequent trips up and down were mainly to punch the machine's ON button and listen for a few moments until the startup sequence failed. From the time I started counting, at least ___ attempts were made to wake the dragon. Various pieces were taken off and replaced, meters were employed then put away, more than a few grunts and Harumphs were articulated and, of course, a lot of heavy breathing from the rapid elevation gains on the ladder. For a while it appeared he may have been on to the problem, but other times he lost a few hairs from scratching his snowy white head while appearing to think.
After 7:30, the dragon ladies' chorus changed to "Go home, Bill," and "Enjoy your holladaise sauce."
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Quiet Options
Despite Lynda Allen's adamant refusal to remove - or move and enclose - the icemaker, the machine decided on its own to take a break. It ceased operating sometime last Monday and has been quiet for three days so far. (May it be so forever. God be praised.)
What choices does its unfortunate demise present to the poor, grieving catering truck driver, whose entire body and soul (and social graces) have been dessicated by. . . (oops!) dedicated to the thieving ways of a cut-throat business. (Did that come out right?)
Her options are many:
1. Gather her coven of crones, buy a ouija board, and hold a seance to determine the machine's future - or place a pox on it. She has already practiced her black arts on her neighbor (- and his future looks dismally bleak.)
2. Pay her good friend and staunch supporter, Bill, the refrigeration guy, who uses his company's truck on weekends and holidays to make a little extra money on the side, to come out yet again to cobble the wires, hoses, gears, switches, and other junk back into a coolly operating contraption. After all, he has fixed it untold numbers of times over the years. (Keep pouring money down that machine's rathole.)
3. Buy more fencing material and rebuild the Berlin Wall around 810 Fishback Street to keep the rest of the world at a defensible distance. Make it six feet thick and twenty feet high and top its length with razor wire. Place machine gun turrets, search lights and sirens every few feet. Loose a half-dozen viscious junkyard dogs in a no-man's run to discourage an assault by one particularly damned irritating neighbor (oh, wait... that last one is already in place.)
4. Not pay the refrigeration guy, but instead hire an attorney and file a Response to the noise nuisance lawsuit. Although, hmmm... that might be a hasty action, fraught with peril to her beloved ice machine, the relentlessly broadcasting centerpiece of her illegally operating business. Hasty? She has been successfully cheating and intimidating everyone for twenty-five years already (so why worry about a mere one week deadline?)
5. Have her customers pay her with more chickens. She could convert all the abandoned cars, trucks, roach coaches and walk-in freezers to chicken coops and sell eggs and fertilizer. OK, this might run afoul (yuk, yuk) of Manteca's Municipal Code, but since the City Farters (sp?) only pass laws they will never enforce, who cares?
6. Polish up her belly dancing (or lap dancing) skills. Along with her two cronies, the trio should be able deploy their assets to "fix" the outcome of any legal actions by investigators, law enforcement officers, prosecuters, judges, and even whole juries. (Ooh... ooh... Imagine, their opening number costumes could be the summer daytime uniform described in the previous post!)
Ah, yes! Her options are endless, limited only by the exclusionary blinders she has worn for all these years and the tiny, circular path her neurosynapse impulses travel. Even the yappy dogs have a larger repertoire.
.
What choices does its unfortunate demise present to the poor, grieving catering truck driver, whose entire body and soul (and social graces) have been dessicated by. . . (oops!) dedicated to the thieving ways of a cut-throat business. (Did that come out right?)
Her options are many:
1. Gather her coven of crones, buy a ouija board, and hold a seance to determine the machine's future - or place a pox on it. She has already practiced her black arts on her neighbor (- and his future looks dismally bleak.)
2. Pay her good friend and staunch supporter, Bill, the refrigeration guy, who uses his company's truck on weekends and holidays to make a little extra money on the side, to come out yet again to cobble the wires, hoses, gears, switches, and other junk back into a coolly operating contraption. After all, he has fixed it untold numbers of times over the years. (Keep pouring money down that machine's rathole.)
3. Buy more fencing material and rebuild the Berlin Wall around 810 Fishback Street to keep the rest of the world at a defensible distance. Make it six feet thick and twenty feet high and top its length with razor wire. Place machine gun turrets, search lights and sirens every few feet. Loose a half-dozen viscious junkyard dogs in a no-man's run to discourage an assault by one particularly damned irritating neighbor (oh, wait... that last one is already in place.)
4. Not pay the refrigeration guy, but instead hire an attorney and file a Response to the noise nuisance lawsuit. Although, hmmm... that might be a hasty action, fraught with peril to her beloved ice machine, the relentlessly broadcasting centerpiece of her illegally operating business. Hasty? She has been successfully cheating and intimidating everyone for twenty-five years already (so why worry about a mere one week deadline?)
5. Have her customers pay her with more chickens. She could convert all the abandoned cars, trucks, roach coaches and walk-in freezers to chicken coops and sell eggs and fertilizer. OK, this might run afoul (yuk, yuk) of Manteca's Municipal Code, but since the City Farters (sp?) only pass laws they will never enforce, who cares?
6. Polish up her belly dancing (or lap dancing) skills. Along with her two cronies, the trio should be able deploy their assets to "fix" the outcome of any legal actions by investigators, law enforcement officers, prosecuters, judges, and even whole juries. (Ooh... ooh... Imagine, their opening number costumes could be the summer daytime uniform described in the previous post!)
Ah, yes! Her options are endless, limited only by the exclusionary blinders she has worn for all these years and the tiny, circular path her neurosynapse impulses travel. Even the yappy dogs have a larger repertoire.
.
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