cringe . . .

the other night was our annual Homeowners Association meeting. I generally go to watch the fireworks. I know, I know, I should be there out of civic duty, but, nope . . . it's the fireworks that gets my blood stirring. With only thirty six households tucked away in this small enclave, this isn't exactly the stuff senatorial dreams are made of. At the last meeting, one of my less beloved but certainly more exuberant neighbors threatened to quit as chair of the association three times before she realized that no one was imploring her to stay and finally really did quit. Ha! She also tried to usurp the Secretary which caused yet another donnybrook. Let me tell you, there is great entertainment value to be had in this microcosmic political venue for a bored housewife.

While she decided not to grace us with her presence, another neighbor with a meticulously manicured lawn, took up the slack with a tirade about the condition of his neighbor's yard. Three sentences into said rant and I felt my first cringe. You see, while he was displaying photos of the offending weeds, recalcitrant leaves and mold encrusted tiles, at each shot, I was cringing, each deeper and more intense than the first, until I found myself wishing I could merely slither under the table only to reappear after said meeting was adjourned. If he was upset about his neighbors yard, he would be all but apocalyptic about mine. Where a photo showed two dead banana leaves, I have an entire dead tree, where they showed small patches of weeds, I have fields! Now if you've followed this blog for very long, you know my house is never going to win an award from Good Housekeeping. No, I don't qualify for an episode of Clean House . . . everything being rather neat and orderly, but the dust bunnies and cobwebs . . . ah, those are rampant. And so my philosophy or rather lack thereof sort of filters out into the yard. Before you even go there, no, you won't find an old tufted sofa/rocker on the front porch sporting errant springs and missing stuffing, there are no vintage 1952 washers, no rusted wheelbarrows, no stacks of half used paint cans. But there are weeds to be pulled, sidewalks to be edged, and the truth be told, my yard is in much worse condition than the offending neighbor's. And as they decided to forward said neighbor with a copy of the covenants clearly stating that should the yards not be kept to standard, the association will right the wrong and send the owner the bill . . . I will be the one hiding behind my front door waiting for my bell to ring, to receive my notice . . . cringe.