This is another episode of Tales From the RV Park, stories from the RV parks where I’ve camped. Disclaimer: These stories are fictitious, happened in nightmares, are hearsay, and/or are what others recounted to me. I am part Irish, so there is likely a good deal of exaggeration. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. There is no relation to persons living, dead, or in jail, even if you think so. In other words, don’t bother trying to sue me.

I apologize for the delays between posts. Things have been too busy (one of the reasons is detailed below). I’m also starting a new venture which, if it goes as planned, will mean more traveling for me. *happy dance* I will keep you all posted… pun intended. 

The RV park I moved in to less than two months ago has lots of well-maintained grass, a few highly desirable trees, laundry, rec room, a pool, and a river running along the edge of the park. By the looks of it, the park is lovely… from the outside.

It stayed that way for my first seven weeks there, until the owners decided to move in a large group of pipeline welders working in the area.

Before you think I have anything against pipeliners, or welders in general, I do not. However, this particular group is of a different breed, somewhat below the level of trash.

One recent Friday evening, I arrive home from work and find I have new neighbors. The gal, about 25 or so, was outside unpacking. I introduced myself and we had a nice conversation. But by the end of the conversation, I realized she was a hard-core partier. To each his own, my partying days are long behind me.

During the conversation (and this should’ve been my first clue, but I AM blond), she said she didn’t like the rules and specifically planned to break a few of them. Me, being a good neighbor, told her that all of the seven people who own or work at the park live on site and they are quick to tell the owners what rules are being broken. She immediately asked – and had me repeat it – where each one lived.

She also complained about having paid too much for an item for her RV at the park store, so I told her the nearby stores that carried the same items for less, and also where to get cheap propane.

A few hours later, Saturday morning at 12:45 am, I hear a woman yelling – and she sounds close by, in my yard close by. I get out of bed, look out the curtains covering my door, and turn on the porch light – illuminating the new gal’s bare butt popping a squat (“peeing”, for those of you older or younger than the slang term) in my yard!

(You all know how I feel about my yard.)

She will henceforth be called Pissley.

The sudden beam of the porch light, which clearly illuminates her white-trash ass and her “activity,” did nothing to end her peeing. Pissley continued peeing, finished, and pulled her pants up (not bothering to wipe – and lets all just say “EEEEEW” together).

Meanwhile, I’m watching this unfold, mouth hanging open. Shocked.

And then I’m pissed. East Coast pissed. (For those of you who are new or not paying attention, I may have lived much of my life in California, enough that I’m considered a Californian by all accounts, but I was born in New Jersey.) If something disturbs me, I will be calm for a long time. But when I get pissed, I get really pissed.

I got dressed, grabbed a flashlight, and went outside. East Coast pissed.

She and her husband are sitting in the yard of their trailer, partying. I go over to them and yell, “I SAW you PEEING in my yard! What the F*$# are you doing PEEING in my yard?!!”

Pissley replies, “I’m sorry,” in a deadpan tone, lacking all sincerity. Completely devoid of shame.

Me, “What the F*$#?! Why the F*$# are you peeing in my F*$#ing yard?!!”

Pissley, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to go in my trailer.”

Me, “Then piss in your own F*#$ing yard!!!”

Pissley’s crack-addict husband pipes up, “We’re sorry. It won’t happen again.”

And that’s when I realize they have BOTH been pissing in my yard.

I yell, “Stay in your own F*#$ing yard!!” as I stomp back to my rig.

It’s 1:00 a.m. and I leave a voicemail at the park office. They return my call when the office opens in the morning, seemingly very interested and ready to throw the pee-ers out.

Guess what? The pee-ers get only a warning. You want to know why? Because they are part of a huge group of 20 to 30 pipeline welders that will be working in the area for two years and staying at the park – paying extra. None of the rules the park touts as part of it’s strict standard of operation apply to the welders in the “cash cow” group.

What do I get? The crack-addict husband pissing on my door the next night!

Again I call the park office, they come over and tell me that I’m obviously not happy there and I should go.

Wow. The owners of this “nice looking, ‘family'” park would rather have a group of rowdy party animals they can’t control for an extra $25-50 each per month than risk asking one of them to leave. The manager even said she was worried that if one was kicked out, they would all go. So the quiet, friendly gal who keeps her site clean has to go.

So I left. I am back in Cow-Chicken-Oil Town. *sigh* But I’m back near the same lovely spot on the water I had before, and I have NO peeing neighbors.