Kelly's first love broke her heart. He seemed a nice enough guy at first - cute and smart, a year older. She adored him. Kevin was her first real boyfriend... and as the months went on, they seemed like they would be a long-term couple. They lost their virginity to each other, despite efforts by both sets of parents to make that as difficult as possible.
About a month before their one-year anniversary, he unexpectedly broke up with her over the phone. He wanted to do it in person, but she made him tell her. She happened to be grounded for poor grades, and his excuse was that he wanted to be with someone with whom he could spend more time.
Kelly was devastated. How could he do this to her? That night he went to a party hosted by someone at a rival high school. Word came trickling back that he was "all over" a girl at the party. That, of course, only added insult to injury.
Nearly a year has passed. He has since been dating Hannah, a girl that Kelly knows and likes. By the time Kevin and Hannah started dating, Kelly had mentally decided to move on, dating here and there, although nothing serious. I don't think she was ready to open up her heart to anyone else.
The other day Kelly said, eyes wide, "Kevin and Hannah broke up! You'll never guess why!"
"They broke up? Why?"
"Remember that girl that Kevin was all over at that party he went to after he broke up with me?Turns out that the girl from the other high school had an STD. Herpes. Hannah had asked Kevin if he had tests to prove he was 'clean' before they had sex and he lied and told her he was fine. Now Hannah has herpes!" And the entire school already knew.
I could see it in her eyes - sweet karma for Kevin, an unfortunate situation for Hannah.
"Well, I gotta do homework. But I was debating if I should send Kevin a text? It's his birthday."
I asked, "What would you text him?"
She grinned. "'Herpe' birthday."
We looked at each other and shook our heads at the same time. "Nah, I didn't think so either," she said.
Friday
A Rough Year for Kelly... Part I
This past summer, my daughter Kelly got her first "real" job at a pizza shop. She had earned money before, washing cars and sweeping driveways and babysitting... but this was the first job where she actually was on a time clock and got paychecks with taxes taken out.
She was thrilled one night to be chosen to man the cash register at the front of the store. It was much more exciting than bussing tables and wiping down the salad bar. It was her first time doing the register on her own. She called me about 15 minutes before her shift ended to tell me that she was doing well and that she would be ready to be picked up at 9 p.m.
There were flashing lights bouncing off the glass and concrete as I pulled into the parking lot. Police cars surrounded the pizza shop. Through the glass I could see Kelly talking to two cops, who were listening intently to what she was saying. Oh geez, I thought. Is she in trouble? Did she try to take money out of the register?
A few minutes later, she walked out and got in the car. "What's going on in there?" I asked.
"Oh, about 10 minutes ago some guy came into the store, pointed a gun at me and told me to give him all the money," she said calmly.
Her demeanor was so ... unruffled. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to be held up at gunpoint. I quickly realized she was in shock and had not fully absorbed what had just happened.
"Weren't there customers in the store? And other employees?"
She nodded. "Yeah, but it all happened so quick that it took people a few minutes to figure out what was going on." The robber had told her to get the manager, who cleared out the safe and put it all in the getaway bag - a Nike backpack.
When a crisis happens, some people instinctively become very calm and are able to keep their heads in order to get through the incident. I never thought Kelly, who can be a typical high-maintenance teenager, would be this way. But she stayed quiet, following orders, doing what she needed to do to keep herself and her fellow employees safe, all the while taking close notice of everything about the man, from his clothes to his physical description (tuft of blonde hair peeking out from underneath the ski mask) to his exit strategy.
I don't think they ever caught the robber. It was a ballsy and well-coordinated theft. Kelly worked at the pizza place just a few more weeks before giving notice.
She was thrilled one night to be chosen to man the cash register at the front of the store. It was much more exciting than bussing tables and wiping down the salad bar. It was her first time doing the register on her own. She called me about 15 minutes before her shift ended to tell me that she was doing well and that she would be ready to be picked up at 9 p.m.
There were flashing lights bouncing off the glass and concrete as I pulled into the parking lot. Police cars surrounded the pizza shop. Through the glass I could see Kelly talking to two cops, who were listening intently to what she was saying. Oh geez, I thought. Is she in trouble? Did she try to take money out of the register?
A few minutes later, she walked out and got in the car. "What's going on in there?" I asked.
"Oh, about 10 minutes ago some guy came into the store, pointed a gun at me and told me to give him all the money," she said calmly.
Her demeanor was so ... unruffled. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to be held up at gunpoint. I quickly realized she was in shock and had not fully absorbed what had just happened.
"Weren't there customers in the store? And other employees?"
She nodded. "Yeah, but it all happened so quick that it took people a few minutes to figure out what was going on." The robber had told her to get the manager, who cleared out the safe and put it all in the getaway bag - a Nike backpack.
When a crisis happens, some people instinctively become very calm and are able to keep their heads in order to get through the incident. I never thought Kelly, who can be a typical high-maintenance teenager, would be this way. But she stayed quiet, following orders, doing what she needed to do to keep herself and her fellow employees safe, all the while taking close notice of everything about the man, from his clothes to his physical description (tuft of blonde hair peeking out from underneath the ski mask) to his exit strategy.
I don't think they ever caught the robber. It was a ballsy and well-coordinated theft. Kelly worked at the pizza place just a few more weeks before giving notice.
Monday
My Neighbor Just Got a "Golden Parachute"...
This morning, my husband blew a gasket.
I heard loud voices coming from outside my house this morning as I was rushing to fill my thermos with coffee for the drive to work. My curiosity was short lived as my husband stormed into the house railing at length after talking to our neighbor Price (Katie's dad, for those who've been around a while). Apparently Price was doing what Price always does – he runs over to our house to brag about something. Normally we patiently let Price share his good news and then he goes away for a few weeks until he has something new to brag about.
This morning, however, there was no way my husband was going to keep his mouth shut at Price's "good news." According to Price, his bank is "working with him to forgive a big chunk of the principal on his mortgage and get him into a lower rate."
Why was my husband so angry at Price's good news?
Price bought his house a month after we bought ours. We actually wanted to buy his house but crunched the numbers and decided that it would be a wiser decision to buy our house instead, which was about $25,000 less.
The money that Price used as a down payment came from an accident he sustained while in the Army. When he bought the house in January 2003, his mortgage was $165,000 – pretty good for a 4,200 square foot house on a road like Peach Street. With 13 children (yes, 13 biological children – his wife doesn't believe in birth control and yes, she knows where babies come from because she is an ob/gyn nurse), nine of whom were living in the house, it was a blessing for them to move into a home and have some room to grow.
Price and his wife refinanced later that same year for $226,400. They used some of the $61,400 they pulled out to make cosmetic changes to the house – then went on cruises, "date nights" and concerts. In January 2005, they pulled out another $40,000. More cruises. More dinners out. As property values soared, they upped the ante in January 2007, refinancing and pulling out another $110,400. Price started to brag about his weekly massages.
Each time they pulled out money, Price would run over to tell us about his new truck, or the next cruise they were going to go on, or how much money he spent partying with his buddies. My husband once asked him if he was concerned that he was pulling every penny of equity out of the house, and Price responded, "I don't care about leaving anything to my children. I am going to live life to the fullest and then sell the house when there isn't any more equity to tap." Mind you, he never takes his children on the cruises or out to dinner. They eat ramen noodles, hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly, and mac and cheese.
Price's mortgage is set to adjust in January. He's been trying for months to get a lender to look at him. But he is swallowed up in credit card debt and his credit scores are low. His last few loans were pushed through using (inflated) stated income – his wife works for a hospital and he, like my husband, has a landscaping business. There is no way he should have qualified for the loans if he 1) told the truth about how much income he made and 2) if the lender actually required proof of his income.
My husband to Price, incredulously: "You mean to tell me that you spent the last five years using your house like an ATM, and now I'M going to have to foot the bill for this?"
Now I have been following the arguments on both sides of the housing rescue proposals. I do believe there are folks who were deceived by unscrupulous lenders. But I do not believe that is the case for most of the people who are overextended. I received my mortgage broker's license in 2003, just as the housing boom was starting to peak, intending to do it as a side job for supplemental income. But I found I couldn't do the business – because people wanted me to put them into loans I knew they wouldn't be able afford after a year. But they didn't want my advice. They wanted that mega house, and I chose to leave the industry knowing that there were plenty of brokers who would get them into that too-good-to-be-true loan.
I have three homes, so I guess that qualifies me as a real estate investor. I put down 10% or more on all of them when I purchased them – money that my husband and I had saved over a period of years. The last home I bought was purchased in early 2004 – just before the home prices became ridiculously out of reach. Just before closing on that house, I was told that a $43 medical charge-off had popped up on my credit report and that the loan would now have to go through as a 3-year ARM instead of a 30-year fixed rate. After running the numbers, we still felt that it was a good business decision and proceeded to close on the loan, knowing that we would need to be sure our credit was in tip-top shape in order to refinance at the end of the three years.
The next several years had their share of challenges. Four months after we bought that home, we discovered that the house had a sinkhole. After a year and a half of wrestling with the insurance company, the sinkhole was fixed. We got the erroneous $43 charge removed my credit report and made sure every bill in our house was paid on time and our debt-to-income ratio was low, which made our credit scores jump. Our mortgage adjusted and we had to pay the additional $400 a month until we were able to get refinanced into a low, 30-year fixed loan – but we didn't complain, because we had prepared for that situation by squirreling away money to cover that increase. (We would have been able to refinance earlier but for the fact that we had tried to sell the house, and the lenders made us wait six months from the date we pulled it off the market.)
We have had three families in the home during that time. Last night, we had to say goodbye to the current tenants, both of whom lost their jobs and had to move in with friends because they had no way to feed their two small children. We knew they were having difficulty making ends meet and tried to help them by lowering their rent to below market value – all the while putting aside money in the likely event that they would have to break their lease and we would have an empty house until we found new tenants.
After weeks like today – my 16-year-old daughter was a passenger in a car accident on Monday and badly hurt her knees (we don't have health insurance – that's a story for another day), my tenants are leaving a house they loved, my husband is constantly sore from the grueling work he does – we often think about how nice it would be to go on a cruise. Or replace our 20-year-old mattress, so that he can get a restful sleep. Our teenage daughters would love to get their clothes at Hollister and Abercrombie like their Boomer-children friends. My oldest daughter watched as all her friends got $300 homecoming dresses and $80 hairdos as recently as last year – she borrowed her dress and I did her hair. We decided not to upgrade to a bigger vehicle, because the car we would have traded in is in great condition and will be paid off in two years. The entire family is conscious about our energy usage, and my teenage daughters can probably discuss the economy and credit better than many Americans.
So... we own three homes. Between them, we have earned more than $324,000 in equity. We had many offers and solicitations to tap into the equity in our homes, but knew that once the advertised teaser rates were up that we wouldn't be able to afford the loan, so we turned them all down. We will go on a vacation – when we can afford to pay for it and not charge it. We will buy that mattress when we have saved the money for it. The girls save the money the get for gifts and babysitting and buy clothes and trinkets when they can... unlike their friends' parents, we don't give them everything they ask for.
When and where do people who work hard and are fiscally responsible get rewarded?
We are not rich. We live within our means. We pay our taxes. (Can I just interject here and rant about the fact that Price does not have to pay his property taxes, which should be around $10,000 a year, because he is "disabled"... yet he lifts weights and runs 7 miles each day and works in one of the most difficult manual labor businesses in Florida – landscaping.)
Price is not the only one in my middle-class neighborhood who has lived foolishly and extravagantly. Is it an age thing? My husband and I are in our 30s. There are many other Boomers in my neighborhood who have done the same thing as Price. Every time the girls came home with a story about one of their friends at school who just got a new Blackberry or Hollister outfit or Louis Vuitton purse, we looked them up in public records and confirmed that their Boomer parents had pulled more money out of their homes.
Is this really true, folks? Are my taxpayer dollars really going to bail out the Prices of the world?
If so, I want out of this country. I want to go somewhere where my family is rewarded for busting our butts and being financially prudent and paying my bills and extending help where we can to people like our tenants. I don't want a golden parachute - I just want people to be held accountable for their decisions, as I am. I don't want to pay for everyone's party when I patiently toiled and waited for the playing field to be leveled after the free money was gone. I am not better than everyone because of the decisions and sacrifices we have made. We never felt that what we were doing was anything more than what people should be doing - working hard, not getting overextended in massive debt.
Or maybe the Price is right... and we were just too stupid to figure out how to game the system.
I heard loud voices coming from outside my house this morning as I was rushing to fill my thermos with coffee for the drive to work. My curiosity was short lived as my husband stormed into the house railing at length after talking to our neighbor Price (Katie's dad, for those who've been around a while). Apparently Price was doing what Price always does – he runs over to our house to brag about something. Normally we patiently let Price share his good news and then he goes away for a few weeks until he has something new to brag about.
This morning, however, there was no way my husband was going to keep his mouth shut at Price's "good news." According to Price, his bank is "working with him to forgive a big chunk of the principal on his mortgage and get him into a lower rate."
Why was my husband so angry at Price's good news?
Price bought his house a month after we bought ours. We actually wanted to buy his house but crunched the numbers and decided that it would be a wiser decision to buy our house instead, which was about $25,000 less.
The money that Price used as a down payment came from an accident he sustained while in the Army. When he bought the house in January 2003, his mortgage was $165,000 – pretty good for a 4,200 square foot house on a road like Peach Street. With 13 children (yes, 13 biological children – his wife doesn't believe in birth control and yes, she knows where babies come from because she is an ob/gyn nurse), nine of whom were living in the house, it was a blessing for them to move into a home and have some room to grow.
Price and his wife refinanced later that same year for $226,400. They used some of the $61,400 they pulled out to make cosmetic changes to the house – then went on cruises, "date nights" and concerts. In January 2005, they pulled out another $40,000. More cruises. More dinners out. As property values soared, they upped the ante in January 2007, refinancing and pulling out another $110,400. Price started to brag about his weekly massages.
Each time they pulled out money, Price would run over to tell us about his new truck, or the next cruise they were going to go on, or how much money he spent partying with his buddies. My husband once asked him if he was concerned that he was pulling every penny of equity out of the house, and Price responded, "I don't care about leaving anything to my children. I am going to live life to the fullest and then sell the house when there isn't any more equity to tap." Mind you, he never takes his children on the cruises or out to dinner. They eat ramen noodles, hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly, and mac and cheese.
Price's mortgage is set to adjust in January. He's been trying for months to get a lender to look at him. But he is swallowed up in credit card debt and his credit scores are low. His last few loans were pushed through using (inflated) stated income – his wife works for a hospital and he, like my husband, has a landscaping business. There is no way he should have qualified for the loans if he 1) told the truth about how much income he made and 2) if the lender actually required proof of his income.
My husband to Price, incredulously: "You mean to tell me that you spent the last five years using your house like an ATM, and now I'M going to have to foot the bill for this?"
Now I have been following the arguments on both sides of the housing rescue proposals. I do believe there are folks who were deceived by unscrupulous lenders. But I do not believe that is the case for most of the people who are overextended. I received my mortgage broker's license in 2003, just as the housing boom was starting to peak, intending to do it as a side job for supplemental income. But I found I couldn't do the business – because people wanted me to put them into loans I knew they wouldn't be able afford after a year. But they didn't want my advice. They wanted that mega house, and I chose to leave the industry knowing that there were plenty of brokers who would get them into that too-good-to-be-true loan.
I have three homes, so I guess that qualifies me as a real estate investor. I put down 10% or more on all of them when I purchased them – money that my husband and I had saved over a period of years. The last home I bought was purchased in early 2004 – just before the home prices became ridiculously out of reach. Just before closing on that house, I was told that a $43 medical charge-off had popped up on my credit report and that the loan would now have to go through as a 3-year ARM instead of a 30-year fixed rate. After running the numbers, we still felt that it was a good business decision and proceeded to close on the loan, knowing that we would need to be sure our credit was in tip-top shape in order to refinance at the end of the three years.
The next several years had their share of challenges. Four months after we bought that home, we discovered that the house had a sinkhole. After a year and a half of wrestling with the insurance company, the sinkhole was fixed. We got the erroneous $43 charge removed my credit report and made sure every bill in our house was paid on time and our debt-to-income ratio was low, which made our credit scores jump. Our mortgage adjusted and we had to pay the additional $400 a month until we were able to get refinanced into a low, 30-year fixed loan – but we didn't complain, because we had prepared for that situation by squirreling away money to cover that increase. (We would have been able to refinance earlier but for the fact that we had tried to sell the house, and the lenders made us wait six months from the date we pulled it off the market.)
We have had three families in the home during that time. Last night, we had to say goodbye to the current tenants, both of whom lost their jobs and had to move in with friends because they had no way to feed their two small children. We knew they were having difficulty making ends meet and tried to help them by lowering their rent to below market value – all the while putting aside money in the likely event that they would have to break their lease and we would have an empty house until we found new tenants.
After weeks like today – my 16-year-old daughter was a passenger in a car accident on Monday and badly hurt her knees (we don't have health insurance – that's a story for another day), my tenants are leaving a house they loved, my husband is constantly sore from the grueling work he does – we often think about how nice it would be to go on a cruise. Or replace our 20-year-old mattress, so that he can get a restful sleep. Our teenage daughters would love to get their clothes at Hollister and Abercrombie like their Boomer-children friends. My oldest daughter watched as all her friends got $300 homecoming dresses and $80 hairdos as recently as last year – she borrowed her dress and I did her hair. We decided not to upgrade to a bigger vehicle, because the car we would have traded in is in great condition and will be paid off in two years. The entire family is conscious about our energy usage, and my teenage daughters can probably discuss the economy and credit better than many Americans.
So... we own three homes. Between them, we have earned more than $324,000 in equity. We had many offers and solicitations to tap into the equity in our homes, but knew that once the advertised teaser rates were up that we wouldn't be able to afford the loan, so we turned them all down. We will go on a vacation – when we can afford to pay for it and not charge it. We will buy that mattress when we have saved the money for it. The girls save the money the get for gifts and babysitting and buy clothes and trinkets when they can... unlike their friends' parents, we don't give them everything they ask for.
When and where do people who work hard and are fiscally responsible get rewarded?
We are not rich. We live within our means. We pay our taxes. (Can I just interject here and rant about the fact that Price does not have to pay his property taxes, which should be around $10,000 a year, because he is "disabled"... yet he lifts weights and runs 7 miles each day and works in one of the most difficult manual labor businesses in Florida – landscaping.)
Price is not the only one in my middle-class neighborhood who has lived foolishly and extravagantly. Is it an age thing? My husband and I are in our 30s. There are many other Boomers in my neighborhood who have done the same thing as Price. Every time the girls came home with a story about one of their friends at school who just got a new Blackberry or Hollister outfit or Louis Vuitton purse, we looked them up in public records and confirmed that their Boomer parents had pulled more money out of their homes.
Is this really true, folks? Are my taxpayer dollars really going to bail out the Prices of the world?
If so, I want out of this country. I want to go somewhere where my family is rewarded for busting our butts and being financially prudent and paying my bills and extending help where we can to people like our tenants. I don't want a golden parachute - I just want people to be held accountable for their decisions, as I am. I don't want to pay for everyone's party when I patiently toiled and waited for the playing field to be leveled after the free money was gone. I am not better than everyone because of the decisions and sacrifices we have made. We never felt that what we were doing was anything more than what people should be doing - working hard, not getting overextended in massive debt.
Or maybe the Price is right... and we were just too stupid to figure out how to game the system.
Friday
The Stick is in the Yard...
My oldest daughter thinks Laura is a battered wife. Whenever we see her, she's always alone, her tall, thin frame bent over in a permanent state of resignation. She never makes eye contact with anyone, preferring instead to look at the ground at the first hint that someone might want to say hello.
We used to see Rob, her husband, often, working out in his garage or washing his car. No one has seen him lately. Laura is the one who does the yard and walks the dogs.
I think the past few years have been difficult on the family. Their son Doug, a bright, handsome kid who could knock a baseball out of the park, was constantly in trouble at school and was eventually suspended when he got caught with marijuana. We had heard through other neighbors that Doug had tried to attack his dad when Rob was allegedly going after Laura (hence, the "battered wife" tag).
About two years ago, we ourselves had a run-in with the family. We came home one day to find the back window of our Jeep had been shot out by what appeared to be a paintball gun. It didn't take long for us to pin down the culprit – Doug and one of his friends – based both on eyewitness accounts and historical knowledge that they regularly shot at things (like trees) with a paintball gun. When confronted, Laura was adamant that her son would never have done such a thing – however, her son's friend 'fessed up to his dad and paid for the window to be replaced. (Doug continued to deny his involvement.)
There have other displays of odd behavior over the years. Once Rob blew up at the neighbor whose backyard bordered his, throwing things over the fence while screaming that they needed to stop throwing things at him. Other neighbors were hanging out at their house and the free-flowing alcohol was a lubricant for a good fight. Naturally, the cops were called. It was probably the highlight of their day.
Today there was a stick in the yard, a for sale sign that hung as forlornly as Laura's head. Sometimes when there are familial problems, just moving somewhere new is a breath of fresh air. But they may be trapped there for a while. The market keeps sinking. They probably won't get what they are asking. And worse – the beast of a house that was built practically on top of them is an immediate deterrant. Yes, the McMansion – the nearly three-story house that glares down on their backyard like Jack's beanstalk giant. There is no hope of privacy as there are at least eight windows in the McMansion that directly overlook their property.
One would think that there would be some regulation or at least consideration of what such a large building would do to its neighbors' property values. But it seems that for the McMansion residents, bigger is always better.
So the realtor.com listing just shows a picture of the inside of the house and its hardwood floors – probably because there was no way to take a snapshot of the front of the house without capturing the McMansion looming behind it.
Perhaps it's Laura's time to finally break free of the prison she's called home for nearly a decade.
We used to see Rob, her husband, often, working out in his garage or washing his car. No one has seen him lately. Laura is the one who does the yard and walks the dogs.
I think the past few years have been difficult on the family. Their son Doug, a bright, handsome kid who could knock a baseball out of the park, was constantly in trouble at school and was eventually suspended when he got caught with marijuana. We had heard through other neighbors that Doug had tried to attack his dad when Rob was allegedly going after Laura (hence, the "battered wife" tag).
About two years ago, we ourselves had a run-in with the family. We came home one day to find the back window of our Jeep had been shot out by what appeared to be a paintball gun. It didn't take long for us to pin down the culprit – Doug and one of his friends – based both on eyewitness accounts and historical knowledge that they regularly shot at things (like trees) with a paintball gun. When confronted, Laura was adamant that her son would never have done such a thing – however, her son's friend 'fessed up to his dad and paid for the window to be replaced. (Doug continued to deny his involvement.)
There have other displays of odd behavior over the years. Once Rob blew up at the neighbor whose backyard bordered his, throwing things over the fence while screaming that they needed to stop throwing things at him. Other neighbors were hanging out at their house and the free-flowing alcohol was a lubricant for a good fight. Naturally, the cops were called. It was probably the highlight of their day.
Today there was a stick in the yard, a for sale sign that hung as forlornly as Laura's head. Sometimes when there are familial problems, just moving somewhere new is a breath of fresh air. But they may be trapped there for a while. The market keeps sinking. They probably won't get what they are asking. And worse – the beast of a house that was built practically on top of them is an immediate deterrant. Yes, the McMansion – the nearly three-story house that glares down on their backyard like Jack's beanstalk giant. There is no hope of privacy as there are at least eight windows in the McMansion that directly overlook their property.
One would think that there would be some regulation or at least consideration of what such a large building would do to its neighbors' property values. But it seems that for the McMansion residents, bigger is always better.
So the realtor.com listing just shows a picture of the inside of the house and its hardwood floors – probably because there was no way to take a snapshot of the front of the house without capturing the McMansion looming behind it.
Perhaps it's Laura's time to finally break free of the prison she's called home for nearly a decade.
Thursday
I hate my HOA...
It's actually not the home owners association for the home I live in - it's the HOA for the home I USED to live in, which I converted to a rental after I moved to my house just a mile away.
In the short six months that I've been involved, this HOA has made me want to vomit, scream and publicly disparage all of the board members.
If you've ever been involved with an HOA, you know that in many cases, it all boils down to this: POWER.
I will be the first to agree that apathy is a common and terrible thing, and the fact that anyone is willing to donate their time to a community cause is commendable.
The key word being "donate."
Donating time is not something that our HOA board members do. In a number of ways, they are totally compensating themselves for their time... despite bylaws that state that board members are not to be compensated.
* Newsletter editor keeps all advertising revenue to compensate for his time in designing and preparing the newsletter for publication. Never mind that the ad revenue averages between $900-1,000 each issue, and I have quotes from other graphic designers that would do the same work for $400.
* Board member who coordinated the neighborhood's first big (and pathetically underpromoted) community event - Spring Fling - got "reimbursed" over $900 for "receipts" that had not been turned in at the time of my inquiry (which was approximately two months after the event). Oh, and supposedly the cost of the event was totally covered by sponsors - but they won't release the names of the sponsors or the amount collected.
Oh, I could go on and on. And maybe I will, in another post.
The latest example of idiocy: the board member who coordinated Spring Fling provided some content for the quarterly newsletter on alternative energy sources for home owners. It was suspiciously well-written, and the only attribution was "Forwarded by [board member]."' After a ridiculously short search on Google, I found the exact same article on a number of realtor blogs.
I advised the board member that any articles we copy from other sources must be properly attributed. After asking the board member for the source, he replied, "She says SHE penned the article."
My response? "Huh. Well, she may be concerned to know that her article is everywhere on the 'Net (none of which have proper attribution to her)." And included about 10 links I found to the exact same article.
My hunch is that it is an article available to all realtors for marketing to consumers. Cool! Great! Let's attribute properly and not give copyright lawyers unnecessary work. But let's not take credit for writing something that clearly isn't your work.
As I'm writing this, I feel a twinge of pettiness and bitchiness. But this is my blog, and I can be petty. It's just part of life on Peach Street.
In the short six months that I've been involved, this HOA has made me want to vomit, scream and publicly disparage all of the board members.
If you've ever been involved with an HOA, you know that in many cases, it all boils down to this: POWER.
I will be the first to agree that apathy is a common and terrible thing, and the fact that anyone is willing to donate their time to a community cause is commendable.
The key word being "donate."
Donating time is not something that our HOA board members do. In a number of ways, they are totally compensating themselves for their time... despite bylaws that state that board members are not to be compensated.
* Newsletter editor keeps all advertising revenue to compensate for his time in designing and preparing the newsletter for publication. Never mind that the ad revenue averages between $900-1,000 each issue, and I have quotes from other graphic designers that would do the same work for $400.
* Board member who coordinated the neighborhood's first big (and pathetically underpromoted) community event - Spring Fling - got "reimbursed" over $900 for "receipts" that had not been turned in at the time of my inquiry (which was approximately two months after the event). Oh, and supposedly the cost of the event was totally covered by sponsors - but they won't release the names of the sponsors or the amount collected.
Oh, I could go on and on. And maybe I will, in another post.
The latest example of idiocy: the board member who coordinated Spring Fling provided some content for the quarterly newsletter on alternative energy sources for home owners. It was suspiciously well-written, and the only attribution was "Forwarded by [board member]."' After a ridiculously short search on Google, I found the exact same article on a number of realtor blogs.
I advised the board member that any articles we copy from other sources must be properly attributed. After asking the board member for the source, he replied, "She says SHE penned the article."
My response? "Huh. Well, she may be concerned to know that her article is everywhere on the 'Net (none of which have proper attribution to her)." And included about 10 links I found to the exact same article.
My hunch is that it is an article available to all realtors for marketing to consumers. Cool! Great! Let's attribute properly and not give copyright lawyers unnecessary work. But let's not take credit for writing something that clearly isn't your work.
As I'm writing this, I feel a twinge of pettiness and bitchiness. But this is my blog, and I can be petty. It's just part of life on Peach Street.
Monday
Who is the Midnight Lurker?
It was just after midnight when I realized my husband and I had fallen asleep downstairs watching television, and I gently woke him up to head upstairs to bed. That's when I saw the car.
Small. Gray. And lurking outside my house.
Ever so slowly, the car drove around the bend to the end of the cul-de-sac. The snail's pace of the vehicle triggered both curiosity and alarm. Who is that? What are they doing?
The vehicle rounded the circle at the end of the cul-de-sac and backed into the driveway of the couple I call the Professor and Marianne. The headlights went out. Ah, I thought. Must be a guest.
Upstairs, as is my habit, I went to check on the children and glanced out the hall window. From that vantage point I can see the entire street. And there was the car again, now idling outside my house, driver's side door cracked open. And then through the darkness, I saw a bearded man emerge from the shadows of the McMansion, get into the car and quickly drive off.
My first thought was that he looked an awful like Mr. Drew. Ernie, as we called him. Except he was somewhat thinner. Could he have been spying on Mrs. Drew? Her house - the one he had put so much love into redesigning, with the marble floors and outdoor kitchen we referred to as "The Temple of the Grill" - was just on the other side of the McMansion.
I remembered the near-hysterical ramblings of Mrs. Drew when the divorce proceedings started... showing us arrest records for Ernie that implicated him in a past arson attempt. If it was indeed Ernie, and he was in fact skulking around his old house, was he planning to do something so dastardly?
I waited a few moments, pondering. There was no flickering flame or loud explosion... just my tired imagination worn out from being overworked so late at night.
Small. Gray. And lurking outside my house.
Ever so slowly, the car drove around the bend to the end of the cul-de-sac. The snail's pace of the vehicle triggered both curiosity and alarm. Who is that? What are they doing?
The vehicle rounded the circle at the end of the cul-de-sac and backed into the driveway of the couple I call the Professor and Marianne. The headlights went out. Ah, I thought. Must be a guest.
Upstairs, as is my habit, I went to check on the children and glanced out the hall window. From that vantage point I can see the entire street. And there was the car again, now idling outside my house, driver's side door cracked open. And then through the darkness, I saw a bearded man emerge from the shadows of the McMansion, get into the car and quickly drive off.
My first thought was that he looked an awful like Mr. Drew. Ernie, as we called him. Except he was somewhat thinner. Could he have been spying on Mrs. Drew? Her house - the one he had put so much love into redesigning, with the marble floors and outdoor kitchen we referred to as "The Temple of the Grill" - was just on the other side of the McMansion.
I remembered the near-hysterical ramblings of Mrs. Drew when the divorce proceedings started... showing us arrest records for Ernie that implicated him in a past arson attempt. If it was indeed Ernie, and he was in fact skulking around his old house, was he planning to do something so dastardly?
I waited a few moments, pondering. There was no flickering flame or loud explosion... just my tired imagination worn out from being overworked so late at night.
Thursday
Peach Street = Teenage Wasteland
Cathy came running over to my house last week. Cathy lives four houses down from me, and once upon a time our families were extremely close... so close that we considered them part of our family.
Once a high-flying executive for one of the nation's largest auto manufacturers, she decided to stay home with her two children - switching roles with her husband Lou, who had been a disgruntled stay-at-home dad. That switch might have happened because Lou had had a fling and moved in temporarily with his other girlfriend... after reconciling, Cathy and Lou moved to Florida to get a fresh start.
Two more children joined the family. The stress of four children, her self-imposed isolation and unresolved emotional issues on both sides of the relationship have taken its toll on Cathy. Her expression is perpetually sour, as if she is smelling something bad.
Anyway, back to the visit. I was surprised to see her as we had not talked in about three years. That's because we had worked on a business deal with Lou, who ended up totally screwing us out of $1,400. As the dutiful wife, she defended her husband, even as his business fell apart due to a crack-smoking partner who embezzled thousands of dollars from Lou's business. Over the years, she has driven past my house thousands of times but refused to wave, resolutely sticking her nose in the air as she passed by.
"I wanted to let you know that Sarah Morgan's mom is trying to get in touch with you over some pictures she found on her daughter's phone and Myspace," Cathy said.
Yes, I had already seen them. Teens partying, taking pictures of themselves taking pictures in the car. And we had already disciplined our own 16-year-old daughter for the stupidity of 1. horsing around in a car taking pictures and 2. posting the pictures online.
But for Cathy, it was clearly about more than just photos. What is going on in her house, she shared, is half typical teen and half angry confused young man. Her 16-year-old son John, who has witnessed countless fights between his parents, some of which have involved scary acts of physical aggression, had just broken the front window of the house in a fit of rage. She looked alone, tired... and in need of reassurance that it was going to be okay.
For a brief moment, it was as though the past three years were washed away. It seemed like she was offering a glimpse into her window of pain as penance for the damage to our friendship. And I listened. Empathized. Validated her motherhood.
The entire conversation was maybe 15 minutes long. But in that short time I felt much of my anger dissolving. In the scheme of things, $1,400 is not a lot of money. I had spent the equivalent of at least that much in mental energy being angry about the situation. And frankly, what had upset me most was not the money - it was the feeling of betrayal and the loss of the relationship.
Yesterday I passed her as I was driving out of the neighborhood on my way to work.
She waved.
Once a high-flying executive for one of the nation's largest auto manufacturers, she decided to stay home with her two children - switching roles with her husband Lou, who had been a disgruntled stay-at-home dad. That switch might have happened because Lou had had a fling and moved in temporarily with his other girlfriend... after reconciling, Cathy and Lou moved to Florida to get a fresh start.
Two more children joined the family. The stress of four children, her self-imposed isolation and unresolved emotional issues on both sides of the relationship have taken its toll on Cathy. Her expression is perpetually sour, as if she is smelling something bad.
Anyway, back to the visit. I was surprised to see her as we had not talked in about three years. That's because we had worked on a business deal with Lou, who ended up totally screwing us out of $1,400. As the dutiful wife, she defended her husband, even as his business fell apart due to a crack-smoking partner who embezzled thousands of dollars from Lou's business. Over the years, she has driven past my house thousands of times but refused to wave, resolutely sticking her nose in the air as she passed by.
"I wanted to let you know that Sarah Morgan's mom is trying to get in touch with you over some pictures she found on her daughter's phone and Myspace," Cathy said.
Yes, I had already seen them. Teens partying, taking pictures of themselves taking pictures in the car. And we had already disciplined our own 16-year-old daughter for the stupidity of 1. horsing around in a car taking pictures and 2. posting the pictures online.
But for Cathy, it was clearly about more than just photos. What is going on in her house, she shared, is half typical teen and half angry confused young man. Her 16-year-old son John, who has witnessed countless fights between his parents, some of which have involved scary acts of physical aggression, had just broken the front window of the house in a fit of rage. She looked alone, tired... and in need of reassurance that it was going to be okay.
For a brief moment, it was as though the past three years were washed away. It seemed like she was offering a glimpse into her window of pain as penance for the damage to our friendship. And I listened. Empathized. Validated her motherhood.
The entire conversation was maybe 15 minutes long. But in that short time I felt much of my anger dissolving. In the scheme of things, $1,400 is not a lot of money. I had spent the equivalent of at least that much in mental energy being angry about the situation. And frankly, what had upset me most was not the money - it was the feeling of betrayal and the loss of the relationship.
Yesterday I passed her as I was driving out of the neighborhood on my way to work.
She waved.
Is the McMansion Doomed?
When I first moved to Peach Street, my house faced a nice corner lot that was vacant. For someone who gets neighbor claustrophobia (I like having lots of space around my house), this was the perfect setup. The lot seemed small – way too small for someone to actually build a house on the lot. So it became the site of a killer Peach Street Fourth of July block party and a place for pickup ball games for the kids.
Two years after we moved in, a frenetic bidding war erupted over the lot and it sold. And then builders started to lay the foundation. And then the walls went up… 30+ feet of walls. There are decorative lights built into the soffit all around the house, which light up our small street like an alien spaceship about to take off.
Everyone had a nickname for it. The Prison. The neighborhood Wal-Mart. I just called it the McMansion. The traffic down our little cul-de-sac increased 70 percent from looky-loos who would just stare at the massive concrete structure with their mouths agape. Neighbors from several streets over started losing weight as they extended their evening walks to include a spin around Peach Street.
It was like a big cosmic joke. We had been so convinced that if anyone actually DID build on the lot, it would have to be a very small house. Not only did someone build – they built UP, erecting the biggest darn house that could possibly have been squeezed onto such a small piece of land. It reminded me of my high school days when I would have to put on my jeans by laying down on my bed, sucking in my breath until I could inch my zipper all the way up. (Oops. TMI.)
The McMansion is a very nice house. It actually looks a lot like the big Scientology complex in Clearwater, minus the roofline cameras. And the family that moved in is nice, too. Bill, the owner, built the house himself using his contracting company.
But neighbors talk. And my neighbor John, who is friends with the owner's best friend, says Bill is not sleeping. The housing market here is shot. Contracting work is down to a trickle. The bill on the McMansion is over $600,000… and real estate prices here have tanked. It is the proverbial white elephant… and it's very, very hungry. I can't even begin to imagine what his air conditioning bills are… especially with that massive 28-foot atrium in the middle of the house.
They've lived in the house just over a year. Last year there were lots of parties as they "broke in" the new house. This summer, however, has been ominously quiet.
Peach Street is hurting.
Two years after we moved in, a frenetic bidding war erupted over the lot and it sold. And then builders started to lay the foundation. And then the walls went up… 30+ feet of walls. There are decorative lights built into the soffit all around the house, which light up our small street like an alien spaceship about to take off.
Everyone had a nickname for it. The Prison. The neighborhood Wal-Mart. I just called it the McMansion. The traffic down our little cul-de-sac increased 70 percent from looky-loos who would just stare at the massive concrete structure with their mouths agape. Neighbors from several streets over started losing weight as they extended their evening walks to include a spin around Peach Street.
It was like a big cosmic joke. We had been so convinced that if anyone actually DID build on the lot, it would have to be a very small house. Not only did someone build – they built UP, erecting the biggest darn house that could possibly have been squeezed onto such a small piece of land. It reminded me of my high school days when I would have to put on my jeans by laying down on my bed, sucking in my breath until I could inch my zipper all the way up. (Oops. TMI.)
The McMansion is a very nice house. It actually looks a lot like the big Scientology complex in Clearwater, minus the roofline cameras. And the family that moved in is nice, too. Bill, the owner, built the house himself using his contracting company.
But neighbors talk. And my neighbor John, who is friends with the owner's best friend, says Bill is not sleeping. The housing market here is shot. Contracting work is down to a trickle. The bill on the McMansion is over $600,000… and real estate prices here have tanked. It is the proverbial white elephant… and it's very, very hungry. I can't even begin to imagine what his air conditioning bills are… especially with that massive 28-foot atrium in the middle of the house.
They've lived in the house just over a year. Last year there were lots of parties as they "broke in" the new house. This summer, however, has been ominously quiet.
Peach Street is hurting.
Wednesday
Mrs. Drew gets a nice dose of karma
You ever get those childish, hateful thoughts about people who really get you cheesed?
Of course you have. At least, I'm sure you had those "I hate my parents I hope they get hit by a bus" thoughts at least once when you were a kid.
I have to admit that even when I was trying to be more relaxed and even-tempered, doing hours of yoga and tai chi, I'd still get these kinds of negative ideas (that's public relations talk for "wishing really evil crap on people"). I'm not proud of it... just honest about my humanity.
And the crazy thing is, for a while I thought I had some kind of supernatural powers. I would think things and they would happen. Like I have this one neighbor who is always 'roided up and likes to run over to my house and brag about things. One stormy day I was thinking how delicious it would be if lightning hit my neighbor's house. I didn't REALLY want lightning to hit his house. It was just a fleeting wisp of thought that evaporated as soon as I thought it. But then... BAM! To my utter shock, lightning actually did hit his house. It didn't do any real damage - but it cracked his bathroom mirror. I thought about the symbolism of that and thought maybe some higher power agreed with me that he was a self-centered braggert.
Not long afterward, another neighbor that had cheated us out of $1,400 (long story, maybe another post) drove home on a new motorcycle probably worth $1,400. As you might imagine, it made my blood boil. Oooh, I thought. Nothing good is going to come of that. He's going to wreck on that bike. And sure enough, a few weeks later he wrapped his motorcycle around a pole. He was damn lucky - a few cracked ribs, contusions... just enough bodily damage to make me think I should probably do whatever I could to keep any not-nice thoughts locked up far, far away from my consciousness.
Ah, but Mrs. Drew practically gave me a hairpin with which to pick that lock. For years she had used my husband's service to maintain her lawn. She never was one of those payers that paid on time, but because she was a neighbor, we cut her some slack. We knew she was going through some difficult times dealing with her mother's recent hospitalization. Two months, then three months went by without payment. We sent her a notice that we would have to stop maintaining her property until she paid something. We knocked on her door. Tried to call. After getting no response, we stopped service.
I think she thought she could do it herself. We saw her and her recently-hospitalized mother taking turns yanking a small push mower through the tall grass. It took them HOURS to finish the front lawn. The blazing Florida sunshine can be murderous.
That was the last time I saw them out there. Since then, I've seen the neighbor boy cut her yard once. My nanny said she thought that perhaps Mrs. Drew had suckered another lawn business into providing service, billing monthly of course. And then I thought to myself... she's going to lose that house.
The winds of karma returned. Turns out that Mrs. Drew's house is, like many Americans, now sliding into foreclosure. The lis pendens has already been issued. The eyebrow-raising part is that this house, a fortress of marble and granite, had been completely paid off, thanks to the former Mr. Drew, who had come to America on a boat from Cuba and built a successful construction company. After some nasty divorce proceedings, Mrs. Drew got the house... and promptly borrowed against it. There were parties galore, with roasted pigs and loud Cuban music. The house got another facelift, inside and out.
The writing's on the wall. Somewhere, Mr. Drew is smiling. And we are just shaking our heads wondering why Mrs. Drew couldn't just be a good neighbor and tell us that she couldn't or wouldn't pay for our services, instead of taking advantage of our kindness.
Of course you have. At least, I'm sure you had those "I hate my parents I hope they get hit by a bus" thoughts at least once when you were a kid.
I have to admit that even when I was trying to be more relaxed and even-tempered, doing hours of yoga and tai chi, I'd still get these kinds of negative ideas (that's public relations talk for "wishing really evil crap on people"). I'm not proud of it... just honest about my humanity.
And the crazy thing is, for a while I thought I had some kind of supernatural powers. I would think things and they would happen. Like I have this one neighbor who is always 'roided up and likes to run over to my house and brag about things. One stormy day I was thinking how delicious it would be if lightning hit my neighbor's house. I didn't REALLY want lightning to hit his house. It was just a fleeting wisp of thought that evaporated as soon as I thought it. But then... BAM! To my utter shock, lightning actually did hit his house. It didn't do any real damage - but it cracked his bathroom mirror. I thought about the symbolism of that and thought maybe some higher power agreed with me that he was a self-centered braggert.
Not long afterward, another neighbor that had cheated us out of $1,400 (long story, maybe another post) drove home on a new motorcycle probably worth $1,400. As you might imagine, it made my blood boil. Oooh, I thought. Nothing good is going to come of that. He's going to wreck on that bike. And sure enough, a few weeks later he wrapped his motorcycle around a pole. He was damn lucky - a few cracked ribs, contusions... just enough bodily damage to make me think I should probably do whatever I could to keep any not-nice thoughts locked up far, far away from my consciousness.
Ah, but Mrs. Drew practically gave me a hairpin with which to pick that lock. For years she had used my husband's service to maintain her lawn. She never was one of those payers that paid on time, but because she was a neighbor, we cut her some slack. We knew she was going through some difficult times dealing with her mother's recent hospitalization. Two months, then three months went by without payment. We sent her a notice that we would have to stop maintaining her property until she paid something. We knocked on her door. Tried to call. After getting no response, we stopped service.
I think she thought she could do it herself. We saw her and her recently-hospitalized mother taking turns yanking a small push mower through the tall grass. It took them HOURS to finish the front lawn. The blazing Florida sunshine can be murderous.
That was the last time I saw them out there. Since then, I've seen the neighbor boy cut her yard once. My nanny said she thought that perhaps Mrs. Drew had suckered another lawn business into providing service, billing monthly of course. And then I thought to myself... she's going to lose that house.
The winds of karma returned. Turns out that Mrs. Drew's house is, like many Americans, now sliding into foreclosure. The lis pendens has already been issued. The eyebrow-raising part is that this house, a fortress of marble and granite, had been completely paid off, thanks to the former Mr. Drew, who had come to America on a boat from Cuba and built a successful construction company. After some nasty divorce proceedings, Mrs. Drew got the house... and promptly borrowed against it. There were parties galore, with roasted pigs and loud Cuban music. The house got another facelift, inside and out.
The writing's on the wall. Somewhere, Mr. Drew is smiling. And we are just shaking our heads wondering why Mrs. Drew couldn't just be a good neighbor and tell us that she couldn't or wouldn't pay for our services, instead of taking advantage of our kindness.
Monday
The Pee Pee Nazi
After 2 1/2 years, my handsome son finally appears to be getting the potty training thing. He really resisted at first – peeing with glee on the carpet, the tile, the leather couch, his Thomas the Train take-along set ("But Percy needed a wash-down!").
This past weekend, we did the "potty training in less than a day" program. Woo hoo! It worked! He has been using the potty like a champ and letting us know that he has to pee. Considering that diapers are ridiculously expensive ($40/box), this achievement would save us over $100/month.
So my family and I are walking through our neighborhood on the public easement between the golf course and houses last night. We had our clubs so we could practice chipping shots along the way. Not bothering anyone, mind you. It's a very large easement.
"Mommy, gotta go pee."
Right in the middle of the easement, a good block away from our house.
Now anyone who's ever potty trained knows that when a 2-year-old says he has to pee, HE HAS TO PEE. Right then and there. "Just hold it for 10 minutes honey" is NOT an option.
So after looking around to see if there would be anyone around that might be offended, and seeing no one, I helped my son drop trou. His chubby buns were facing the house behind us in case someone inside should happen to be offended by his 3/4" tinky winky.
I waited. Sometimes it takes a few seconds for him to relax and let the pee flow.
Like so many men I've seen over the years who try to sneak in a pee on the golf course behind my house, my little boy started to pee on the grass.
And then YOU came out. Still in your work button-down and pants and your uptight corporate attitude, rushing out with a cell phone plastered on your ear like you were in the middle of some earth-shattering business deal. Mr. Important. You were extremely agitated about my son peeing, despite the fact that we weren't even on your property.
"What are you doing? Can't you do that somewhere else? I like to walk back there."
Jesus. The kid squirts out maybe four tablespoons of pee, he's almost done, and you want me to relocate him mid-pee because you WALK BACK THERE on property that doesn't belong to you?
"Dude. He HAD TO GO." My husband, the protector.
"Why are you here doing that… Come on, I don't want you to do that." God, the guy was fucking annoying. Did he really have nothing better to do than bitch about a 2-year-old that didn't want to pee in his pants??
"Look," I said. "We have just started potty training. We are still quite a bit aways from our house. I have no change of clothes for him. He HAD TO GO. He's almost done." (That was true – by this time my son was totally frozen up.)
But the guy still wouldn't let it go. Bitch, moan, bitch, moan.
My husband was starting to fume. "What is your problem? Why can't you be fucking nice? We're neighbors, you jerk. We live right over there. Why do you have to be such an asshole about a 2-year-old that had to pee?"
He and my husband exchanged more words. The guy's attitude became more arrogant and threatening. "Yeah, YOU'RE the father of the year." My husband, who works out like crazy, was so ready to take on this skinny excuse for a man. But we could see the game Mr. Baby Boomer was playing. He just wanted an excuse to call the police.
"You WANT to make this a big issue? Come off your property and we can settle this." My husband was seething.
I grabbed my husband's arm and made him start walking away. Of course, my son soon had to pee again since he got all bunged up from Mr. Asshole's rant. So we stopped, this time on the easement by the cart path. As my son stood there, goodies hanging out, trying to pee, two carts drove by. The older guys in the cart chuckled. I smiled back, half embarrassed, half amused.
Once he was done peeing (completely this time), we started to walk again. We turned around, and there was Mr. Douchebag, walking off his property directly toward us, still on the damn phone.
Now I'm not a guy, but apparently that is guy-speak for "let's settle things." My husband dropped his clubs and took off running toward him. Immediately the guys that had just passed us on the cart path rushed over. "We're cops! Stop right now!"
Are you kidding me??
I had my daughter watch my son and ran over to talk to them. After explaining why Mr. Fuckface was so put-out, the cops said incredulously, "So he's mad because your son was being a 2-year-old?"
Yup. It's really that stupid.
"Well, that guy is not worth your time. You were doing the right thing by walking away."
So walk away we did. But Mr. Dickweed cheerily yelled out, "I'm on the phone with the cops right now!" In case you were wondering, YES HE DID call the cops. We saw the flashing lights from the next hole. I feel bad for the cops in our neighborhood. Lots of Baby Boomers with "me, me, me" attitudes who get their tighty-whiteys in a wad over the dumbest stuff. I wonder what the cop wrote in his report. "Stupid asshole fears for his safety because a 2-year-old pee'd near his backyard."
As for YOU, you heartless bastard. Dude. You live on a freakin' golf course. The fact is, WE WEREN'T EVEN IN YOUR YARD!
It's an unfortunate fact of living on a golf course that people are always walking around on the course. Do you have any idea how many people have walked through my property over the years? How many guys try to sneak a peek through the trees at the females of the house as we sunbathe by the pool? How many of them have pee'd IN my yard because they couldn't hold it in any longer? One neighbor uses my yard as a cut through to walk his dogs every stinkin' night.
Besides, do you really think a 2-year-old's pee compares to the dogs that crap and pee in your yard because you chose to have no fence?
Not only that, but I have seen YOUR SONS drive their motorcycles all over the golf course FAIRWAY – which IS private property NOT owned by YOU. You are such a stupid, disrespectful, mean, self-righteous hypocrite. Father of the Year.
Well, I've looked you up. I know that you got divorced and your ex- wife lives in a $700,000 house with her new husband and that probably eats you up. I know you are living in that house that you didn't even buy, but some family member was nice enough to sign you over on the deed and now you've refinanced. Most of all, I know you are completely intolerant and selfish and if you are not compassionate enough to understand that toddlers CAN'T always hold their pee in the middle of a field, then I completely get why you're a bitter and lonely man.
Instead of bitching, maybe you shoulda just offered your bathroom?
This past weekend, we did the "potty training in less than a day" program. Woo hoo! It worked! He has been using the potty like a champ and letting us know that he has to pee. Considering that diapers are ridiculously expensive ($40/box), this achievement would save us over $100/month.
So my family and I are walking through our neighborhood on the public easement between the golf course and houses last night. We had our clubs so we could practice chipping shots along the way. Not bothering anyone, mind you. It's a very large easement.
"Mommy, gotta go pee."
Right in the middle of the easement, a good block away from our house.
Now anyone who's ever potty trained knows that when a 2-year-old says he has to pee, HE HAS TO PEE. Right then and there. "Just hold it for 10 minutes honey" is NOT an option.
So after looking around to see if there would be anyone around that might be offended, and seeing no one, I helped my son drop trou. His chubby buns were facing the house behind us in case someone inside should happen to be offended by his 3/4" tinky winky.
I waited. Sometimes it takes a few seconds for him to relax and let the pee flow.
Like so many men I've seen over the years who try to sneak in a pee on the golf course behind my house, my little boy started to pee on the grass.
And then YOU came out. Still in your work button-down and pants and your uptight corporate attitude, rushing out with a cell phone plastered on your ear like you were in the middle of some earth-shattering business deal. Mr. Important. You were extremely agitated about my son peeing, despite the fact that we weren't even on your property.
"What are you doing? Can't you do that somewhere else? I like to walk back there."
Jesus. The kid squirts out maybe four tablespoons of pee, he's almost done, and you want me to relocate him mid-pee because you WALK BACK THERE on property that doesn't belong to you?
"Dude. He HAD TO GO." My husband, the protector.
"Why are you here doing that… Come on, I don't want you to do that." God, the guy was fucking annoying. Did he really have nothing better to do than bitch about a 2-year-old that didn't want to pee in his pants??
"Look," I said. "We have just started potty training. We are still quite a bit aways from our house. I have no change of clothes for him. He HAD TO GO. He's almost done." (That was true – by this time my son was totally frozen up.)
But the guy still wouldn't let it go. Bitch, moan, bitch, moan.
My husband was starting to fume. "What is your problem? Why can't you be fucking nice? We're neighbors, you jerk. We live right over there. Why do you have to be such an asshole about a 2-year-old that had to pee?"
He and my husband exchanged more words. The guy's attitude became more arrogant and threatening. "Yeah, YOU'RE the father of the year." My husband, who works out like crazy, was so ready to take on this skinny excuse for a man. But we could see the game Mr. Baby Boomer was playing. He just wanted an excuse to call the police.
"You WANT to make this a big issue? Come off your property and we can settle this." My husband was seething.
I grabbed my husband's arm and made him start walking away. Of course, my son soon had to pee again since he got all bunged up from Mr. Asshole's rant. So we stopped, this time on the easement by the cart path. As my son stood there, goodies hanging out, trying to pee, two carts drove by. The older guys in the cart chuckled. I smiled back, half embarrassed, half amused.
Once he was done peeing (completely this time), we started to walk again. We turned around, and there was Mr. Douchebag, walking off his property directly toward us, still on the damn phone.
Now I'm not a guy, but apparently that is guy-speak for "let's settle things." My husband dropped his clubs and took off running toward him. Immediately the guys that had just passed us on the cart path rushed over. "We're cops! Stop right now!"
Are you kidding me??
I had my daughter watch my son and ran over to talk to them. After explaining why Mr. Fuckface was so put-out, the cops said incredulously, "So he's mad because your son was being a 2-year-old?"
Yup. It's really that stupid.
"Well, that guy is not worth your time. You were doing the right thing by walking away."
So walk away we did. But Mr. Dickweed cheerily yelled out, "I'm on the phone with the cops right now!" In case you were wondering, YES HE DID call the cops. We saw the flashing lights from the next hole. I feel bad for the cops in our neighborhood. Lots of Baby Boomers with "me, me, me" attitudes who get their tighty-whiteys in a wad over the dumbest stuff. I wonder what the cop wrote in his report. "Stupid asshole fears for his safety because a 2-year-old pee'd near his backyard."
As for YOU, you heartless bastard. Dude. You live on a freakin' golf course. The fact is, WE WEREN'T EVEN IN YOUR YARD!
It's an unfortunate fact of living on a golf course that people are always walking around on the course. Do you have any idea how many people have walked through my property over the years? How many guys try to sneak a peek through the trees at the females of the house as we sunbathe by the pool? How many of them have pee'd IN my yard because they couldn't hold it in any longer? One neighbor uses my yard as a cut through to walk his dogs every stinkin' night.
Besides, do you really think a 2-year-old's pee compares to the dogs that crap and pee in your yard because you chose to have no fence?
Not only that, but I have seen YOUR SONS drive their motorcycles all over the golf course FAIRWAY – which IS private property NOT owned by YOU. You are such a stupid, disrespectful, mean, self-righteous hypocrite. Father of the Year.
Well, I've looked you up. I know that you got divorced and your ex- wife lives in a $700,000 house with her new husband and that probably eats you up. I know you are living in that house that you didn't even buy, but some family member was nice enough to sign you over on the deed and now you've refinanced. Most of all, I know you are completely intolerant and selfish and if you are not compassionate enough to understand that toddlers CAN'T always hold their pee in the middle of a field, then I completely get why you're a bitter and lonely man.
Instead of bitching, maybe you shoulda just offered your bathroom?
Tuesday
My Neighbor Steve....
My neighbor Steve is an odd bird. He even kind of looks like a bird, one of those flighty ones that flit about in the late evenings, maybe like a bat but with blonde hair and tight lycra shorts.
At least once a week I'll catch Steve doing something that makes me do a double-take. Like last night. He was washing his truck by the light of a single spotlight by his garage door. At midnight.
Steve has a day job working at a church. Married, two teenage daughters. Seemed normal when I first met him and he's always been pleasantly polite. But for whatever reason, he likes doing house chores late at night. Last week I caught him trimming his hedges with what appeared to be tiny manicure scissors... this time by the light of the spotlight on the other side of the house, because it was 1 a.m.
At least once a week I'll catch Steve doing something that makes me do a double-take. Like last night. He was washing his truck by the light of a single spotlight by his garage door. At midnight.
Steve has a day job working at a church. Married, two teenage daughters. Seemed normal when I first met him and he's always been pleasantly polite. But for whatever reason, he likes doing house chores late at night. Last week I caught him trimming his hedges with what appeared to be tiny manicure scissors... this time by the light of the spotlight on the other side of the house, because it was 1 a.m.
Monday
Katie's Latest Misadventure
It started with a text that my 16-year-old daughter Kelly got from her ex-boyfriend. "You're never going to believe what I just saw..."
The brilliance of texting is that a short two-sentence blurb can lead to hours of entertaining snark. So it was with this text about Katie, the 16-year-old girl that lives three houses down. I guess if over the past several years she hadn't been such a self-absorbed, mean, vengeful, manipulative bitch, we would have laughed about the situation and moved on. Instead, the jokes kept rolling off our tongues… they were tart like key lime pie but so sweet that we couldn't seem to stop them – nor did we necessarily want to.
I told my co-workers about the latest Katie story, and they listened with shocked rapture. I looked at their faces – big eyes, mouths in that "O" shape that accompanies all scandalous stories. That's when I started thinking that maybe my corner of the world – Peach Street – which I always thought was just a micro chasm of a larger, very screwed up world, might actually be a uniquely interesting place.
Back to Katie. Katie is the middle child of something like 13 kids. Pretty, kind of Jennifer Garner-ish, with a 1000-kw smile and personality that jumps out at you like a pseudo-friendly Rottweiler. Seems Katie was doing some nude "exercises" with her boyfriend on the floor of the men's bathroom at our local YMCA. Someone walked in on them, and Katie's very religious mother got a very uncomfortable phone call from the Y's CEO.
Yes, 16-year-old hormones and strict (almost strangulatory – is that a word?) upbringing are a tough combination. And if it was anyone but Katie, I'd probably have forgotten it by now. But Katie has been the bane of MY daughter's existence, and has both overtly and covertly tried on numerous occasions to make her life miserable. What can I say – I love my daughter.
So we created all kinds of imaginary scenarios to indulge our mildly evil thoughts. Like all of us lining up in front of Katie's house singing, "It's fun to get laid at the YMCA." (With arm motions and costumes, of course.) And on and on. (Feel free to add your own.)
Ah, just another day on Peach Street.
The brilliance of texting is that a short two-sentence blurb can lead to hours of entertaining snark. So it was with this text about Katie, the 16-year-old girl that lives three houses down. I guess if over the past several years she hadn't been such a self-absorbed, mean, vengeful, manipulative bitch, we would have laughed about the situation and moved on. Instead, the jokes kept rolling off our tongues… they were tart like key lime pie but so sweet that we couldn't seem to stop them – nor did we necessarily want to.
I told my co-workers about the latest Katie story, and they listened with shocked rapture. I looked at their faces – big eyes, mouths in that "O" shape that accompanies all scandalous stories. That's when I started thinking that maybe my corner of the world – Peach Street – which I always thought was just a micro chasm of a larger, very screwed up world, might actually be a uniquely interesting place.
Back to Katie. Katie is the middle child of something like 13 kids. Pretty, kind of Jennifer Garner-ish, with a 1000-kw smile and personality that jumps out at you like a pseudo-friendly Rottweiler. Seems Katie was doing some nude "exercises" with her boyfriend on the floor of the men's bathroom at our local YMCA. Someone walked in on them, and Katie's very religious mother got a very uncomfortable phone call from the Y's CEO.
Yes, 16-year-old hormones and strict (almost strangulatory – is that a word?) upbringing are a tough combination. And if it was anyone but Katie, I'd probably have forgotten it by now. But Katie has been the bane of MY daughter's existence, and has both overtly and covertly tried on numerous occasions to make her life miserable. What can I say – I love my daughter.
So we created all kinds of imaginary scenarios to indulge our mildly evil thoughts. Like all of us lining up in front of Katie's house singing, "It's fun to get laid at the YMCA." (With arm motions and costumes, of course.) And on and on. (Feel free to add your own.)
Ah, just another day on Peach Street.
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