The Homeowner's Association

I live in shivering, quaking, rigdly infuriated fear of the Homeowners' Association. Like I've mentioned before, I live in a "Country Club Community", and while we are not even remotely fancy enough to be Golf Members with, I don't know, the baby-hunting rights you get when you drop 15k in initial fees and then $500 a month after that, we are "Sports" Members. What that means is that we are allowed to play tennis if the courts ever get built, and go to Special Social Events That The Rest of the Plebes Don't Get To Go To, but we are only allowed to play golf on weekdays, kind of like letting your freaky Uncle Fester out of the house but only in the backyard, only on weeknights past midnight so he can raise his aggrieved, disfigured face to the moon and howl. Or whatever. Okay, that was kind of a tangent, but when you live in a Kuntry Klub Kumunity, the people who share your amenities can, and often are, some of the most uptight, megalomaniacal, asshole pricks on the face of the planet, who can stand nothing, and I mean nothing, that is, in any way, different or unusual. Hence this whole thing, not just talking to you about how I can play golf on Tuesdays at 10 AM.

AAaaanyway. We took a week off from work together, in order to bond and also do some gardening, because my lofty plans for my house were to rip out all the faux-deserty-Southwesternish stuff that had been left there that we had not already exorcised from the flower beds, and my husband had this fantastic dream to build a new flowerbed by the side of the driveway and, I don't know, fill it with tulips and shit. He has a lot of fantasies that he retains, unhindered by such inconsequential things as "Hardiness Zones."

It is the policy of our Homeowner's Association that all landscaping and visible changes to the house or yard or backyard or even if you are maybe walking naked in front of your window, that these things must be 30 days approved, with advanced notice and a nominal $50 fee submitted, which will not be refunded, regardless of approval status (note: this is the same HOA that replants every median at least 6x a year because they don't know what else to do with all the fucking money they have, and you know, dropping rates isn't an option). Our philosophy, after installing Floyd, was "oh, go fuck yourselves" and figured it was better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.

So, we said fuck it, dug up a lot of stuff, planted a bunch of new stuff, dug up a bed, planted a plum tree, you name it, we went apeshit on our yard. Which looks lovely now, I might add. Well, lovelier. We are having a bit of a weed situation.

But I was convinced, every time a car drove slowly past our yard (we live on a corner lot, a little bit down from the mailbox, and often people drive by our house to turn around), that they were the HOA Gestapo, writing down that our mulch was black, not dark brown, and that we had exceeded our allotment of front yard trees, and the questionable nature of a plum tree qualifying as a native tree to our location.

Having gotten snippy letters on bright green Kinko's Birthday Party-style cardstock reminding us to "please edge your lawn" or weird, blackmaily pictures taken at 8 AM Tuesday morning of our trashcan left out on the curb (Monday is trash day) reminding us in no uncertain terms that we don't give a fuck that you both were sick as hell, move your goddamned trashcan inside, assholes, I am constantly all aquiver that we are going to receive the Remove That Fucking Tree letter from the HOA. And yet, at the same time, I kind of hope for it, in a Norma Rae moment, where I can stand up and tell all those uptight 65-year-old assholes to stick it up their pooper and I dare them to take me to court.

I'll probably just get rid of the tree, though.

Floyd

One of the most aggravating, soul-sucking, hateful things to do in the entire universe is gardening in the suburbs. Technically, in our neighborhood, you have to file a request with the HOA (each filing has a fee, which I think is anywhere from $25 to $50) whenever you make any "landscaping" changes. That essentially means that anything that isn't in a flower pot will, technically, cost you an extra $50.

"Fuck that", we say. Figuring that we can risk it and not spend the money, or pay the money and run the risk of not getting approved, we figured, better to do and get punished later than get shut down by the Robot Corps of Engineers.

We live on a corner lot, with three (3) officially sanctioned tree species, all native but non-invasive. One (1) of these trees died. By which I mean, it stopped growing. We are in a fairly new development. Our house was built in the 21st century, so the tiny little trees are still relatively small (although relatively less small that our neighbors, being that we bought one of the first houses on the block). Said tree was not growing leaves and looked ugly and gross, so we cut it down. With a chainsaw. After an aborted first try which made us incredibly confused why the chainsaw wasn't working (turns out the geniuses at our local Giant Orange Store Where Nobody Helps You put the chain on, oh, backwards. We did almost start a trunk fire, though. It smelled nice), we got a correctly assembled chainsaw (this time, with gas!) and cut it down.

Here is something that you might not know. Stump removal, even of a smallish tree with a trunk diameter of oh, let's say, 12", is not, well, easy. It is, in fact, incredibly shitty. Especially when that stump is on a hill. It took us sitting on either side, rhythmically kicking the trunk to either side, like an arboreal, stationary version of those oldentimey hand cars.

After much toil and trouble, the stump was removed, and we were ready to quest for a new tree. Yours truly has always had a fantasy to plant a great, gorgeous icon of the South that would shade my lawn and provide a convenient place to fan myself and bemoan the state of things over a mint julep. Off to the nursery we went. Fortune befell us - sometimes, kids, procrastination works in your favor. Since it was, for my climate, far past optimal tree-planting time, there was a half-off sale on trees. Hooray. And so, after searching, I found a lush, 10' tall tree with one seed-pod thingy on it, evidence of a blooming-age tree (this is a good thing, as these trees apparently take forever to bloom when they're small).

After purchasing the tree, we attempted to cram it into our midsize Sport SUV. This actually turned out to require dropping the passenger-side seat all the way down, shoving the tub part (you know, the root part, the container that the tree lives in) way up to the front windshield, the back door open, and my devoted husband leaning out and hefting up the top part of the tree to prevent it from dragging on the ground.

Only when the tree was already loaded in the car (look, it took a lot of work) I noticed, in pink chalk, was scrawled "Sold: Floyd".

Whoops. Well, I thought, it's not really my fault that I didn't see it and the store sold it to me, right? And it wasn't like I was about to take that fucking tree OUT again and put another one in. Fuck Floyd, we thought, and took the tree home, and planted it.

After a couple of weeks of uncertainty, our tree (obviously, named Floyd) is now doing very well and is slowly growing new lovely leaves and I am hoping will bloom in a couple of weeks. I still feel bad for old Person Floyd, but I would like to believe that this tree in particular would have died in whatever horrible location he would have put it in. More likely though, the person got totally screamed at. Sorry, nursery employee. Sorry, Floyd. The tree is good, though. We might be able to arrange visitation rights.

Malaise

I have been having weird dreams lately, mostly about motherhood. I don't currently have children, and for a long time, did not think that I wanted any. I am slowly changing my mind, because apparently, regardless of what my rational brain thinks, my lizard brain, that is directly piped into whatever shit my ovaries are laying down, is all "dame un bebe, por favor".

So I woke up the other night, kind of weirdly creeped out, having just dreamed about breastfeeding my cat, who was sleeping, innocently, in between my husband and I, and thought "oh holy crap, what the fuck is happening to me?"

I am currently affected with some variety of life ennui that is causing me to hate everything around me. I hate my house, I hate my job, I hate my coworkers, I hate politics (well, I hate Hillary Clinton, because I love Barack Obama), I hate everything. I hate that my country club is getting sold to someone, and I don't know how that's going to work. Either it's going to be totally mellow and awesome or it's going to be horrific and buttoned up, and they are going to charge even more at the club dining hall for stupid buttered pasta with garlic.

Maybe I should just crap out a couple kids, stay at home, and join the Junior League. I don't really believe all this crap about it being the hardest job in the world. I'm pretty sure it's hard for the first couple months and then you can like, leave them on the floor while you watch The View. And besides, what are au pairs for if not to wheel the kid around the park and cry about their Swedish boyfriend?

No, no, on second thought, I am pretty sure that I might have to kick my own ass if I stay home with my kids and have an au pair. I could get a Roomba, though, right?

I am so bored. Bored, bored, bored. Maybe I should get some golf clubs and actually, you know, use my membership privileges. Or maybe I can convince that guy I work with to have a torrid supply closet affair. I know my husband won't mind.

More drinking

I am trying out Drunkorexia. At least, I did. The other night, when I went out drinking irresponsibly and drank many beers (oh, double foul) without eating a single thing all day.

Turns out, 6 pints + > 24 hrs. of no food = drunk as hell. You'd think I'd have figured it out, but I'm going to be honest with you, I have not really ever been the kind of girl to skip meals.

I've lost like, 7 pounds though, so that's good, right?

My husband and I are planning on starting a running regime. We will get to be lucky little cookie cutter couple in running shoes together. It's very romantic.

Martinis

Well, so far so good.

Which is not to say that I'm not availing myself of the occasional beer (when hanging out with the in-laws, I'm afraid the "no beer, no cigarettes" rule does not apply. I am not made of stone). But, for the most part, I am trying to turn myself both into a classy broad who makes herself a martini and screams at the television during the New Hampshire primaries, and also become a better alcoholic. How soon before the taste of vodka does not make me shudder like a 16-year-old drinking her first non-Zima?

So far, the vodka's we've tried:

Grey Goose. First, I'm not linking to the original site because it makes you say if you're 21 or not and for some reason alcohol websites are full of flash animation, and it's like, hey dopes, way not to understand your audience - someone who's that committed to look up a brand of booze on the internet does not have the patience or single vision to click on the tiny little "skip intro" sign. Second, Grey Goose is totally the Bose Stereos of vodkas. There is no reason on earth that this vodka should cost as much as it does. It is mediocre at best.

Second: Ciroc which is distilled from grapes, is in a very nice bottle and taste like someone dipped a medicine-tainted ballbag in it. My husband likes this vodka, because he likes ballbags and medicine.

Third (and currently): Finlandia. This has more of the vodka benefits, which is to say that the gross rubbing alcohol flavor is at least slightly drowned out by the olive juice that I am currently making my martinis with in a 1:1 ratio with vodka. I will experiment around until I find something ideal.

Please do not mention gin to me. I went through a gin phase and I just don't have the patience for that anymore. If I wanted to drink a Christmas wreath, I would.

I almost choked to death on the olive toothpick last night. I might have been playing the PS3 and zoned out on Benadryl, and tried to eat the last olive off the toothpick no-handed, thinking it would be frictiony but instead it flew off the toothpick in the opposite way and I almost inhaled a festive red little wooden stick of death.

Hooray martinis!

New Year

Just a couple of thoughts:

I am not a big enacter of resolutions. Why set myself up for failure? thinkest I. I am, in my heart, a lazy, underaccomplished Lothario with less drive than desire, and resultions just go to show how little I grow in a year-upon-year scenario.

My spouse and I have begun writing letters to ourselves at the new year, establishing things we're concerned about, achievable goals, etc., and then read them the previous year. We're supposed to wait until the new year but we usually read them when we're taking out the Christmas decorations (which is, in fact, the handiest place to store them).

No letters this year, although I am sure I will be forced into it, like I am with many things that end up being worth it.

A couple of things on my plate for attempted resolution:

1) I caught a glance of myself on New Year's Eve wearing red Adidas capri-length track pants and a blue-and-white-striped t-shirt. I looked like a braless tubby American Flag. Also, I looked like my mother, a little bit (although to be fair to her, she has less clashing taste). I should point out that I was at home, drinking some champagne and lounging about indolently, and nothing says indolent like my fat ass in clashing clothes and lack of supportive undergarments.

It's time I take matters into my own hands. I'd like to perhaps have the option of giving birth to a non-Maury baby at some point, and also not lose, like, my feet.

So, it's all Weight Watchers and martinis, and no beer and pasta for Tubsy over here.

It's a good thing that I have discovered the true and firm glory that is the extra-dirty vodka martini. I know, I know, it's so very 1997 of me. It's just, you should really see this belly.

Christmas

I never noticed it before I moved out to the 'burbs, so I'm not sure if they're just a recent development or if it's only a thing out here, but prior to Christmas, there are slews of median-cluttering signs ostensibly one's ability to hang Christmas Lights (and how to badly stencil). "We Hang Christmas Lights" followed by a number, which, I guess, if you call, summons some people (I like to imagine that it's one person, accustomed to the Royal We form, and then I think about how I should start a business of people dressed as luminaries who perform odd jobs - I could call it "DisplomaServants" or something like that) to come clamber about your HOA-adhering-pitch-level roof with a staple gun and a string of lights, in order to ensure that you, friend, will meet the Neighborhoodly Unspoken Requirements for Belonging.

There are some people on our block who are not Christian, culturally or otherwise. I believe they celebrate Diwali, but it's really a guess because honestly, how much research am I expected to do, and it's not like I'm going to tromp over there and ask them why the fuck they hate the baby Jesus. I bring this up not because I believe that, far from it, in fact, as anyone who knows me knows my disdain for religion goes far enough to be extreme (not far enough, however, to preclude ornaments and presents and gluttony). I bring it up only to point out that their house is the only inhabited one on my block that has not been decorated for Christmas. It is conspicuous in its inconspicuousness.

Which all brings me back around to the Unspoken Law of Decorating For Christmas. Which is, Do It, Preferably Hiring Some Underpaid DomestiServant To Hang Custom Measured Lights For You And Then Stick An Inflatable GeeGaw On Your Lawn At Least Or We're All Going To Think You Murder Children.

Being that my household is firmly morally opposed to paying for many things other suburban people seem to think worthy of paying for (such as: light changing, sprinkler repair, fence refinishing, brake pad replacement, tree removal/installation, landscaping - although lawn upkeep is a hiring offense, and one that I am happy to pay for), we installed our lights ourselves.

Thus, our lights are only on the first floor of the house, accessible via height with the help of a 4' ladder, and wrapped around everything that didn't move or have what appeared to be visible bugs inhabiting it.

It's bright as hell, and I am pretty sure the outdoors(ish) power squid is going to start a calamitous fire one of these days, but it does the job. The neighbors are comforted with our minimal efforts to fit in. Invisibility is key.