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.
Thursday
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?
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