Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Webster defines the word “association” as an act of: ”associating, co-operation, fellowship, community, agreement, friendliness, partnership and camaraderie.”Obviously, he never lived in a house that included a homeowner association, or he would have added, “kerfuffle and brouhaha.”

Since 1964, homeowner associations have become a common irritant in the USA. In 2010, the Community Associations Institute estimated that HOAs governed 24.8 million American homes and 62 million residents. Associations provide services, compel homeowners to pay a share of common expenses, regulate activities, levy assessments and may, depending on state legislatures, impose fines. Association boards may appoint corporate officers, or officers may be elected by the membership---and then they have meetings---lot of contentious meetings.

Another survey, conducted by a home improvement trade organization of over 3000 people, discovered that two-thirds of the residents found their HOAs annoying, and 19% were in a declared “war” with their HOA. 54% said they’d rather live next to a “sloppy” neighbor than deal with their HOA. The problem in a nutshell is that neighbors are telling neighbors what they can and cannot do with their property. The only way it might work is if a disinterested management company is hired to do the dirty work, but then the board has to agree that everyone follow the rules.

So who in their right mind would agree to serve on an HOA board of directors? Absolutely no one! However, sometimes, unsuspecting lambs are led to neighborhood slaughter by being convinced they can provide an appreciated service.

A year after moving into my neighborhood, I agreed to serve as secretary on our HOA board with four old codgers who nurtured a long-time grudge against each other. After the first deluge of profanity, I brought a tape recorder to meetings. That helped with the language problem but not the dancing. When someone suggested that all homeowners should pay for their own water, one of the old guys did a Rumpelstiltskin jig screaming they’d have to take him out in a body bag first. He ended up paying for his water but not the baggie. I quit after a cocktail hour call from a woman accusing me of taking away her First Amendment rights. I never did find out what she was yelling about.

So here is the rationale that prompts people to seek this masochistic job:

Everyone should follow the rules to get along.

Everyone should follow the rules except me.

We should have no rules

We should save association money for a rainy day.

It doesn’t rain that much here, so we should spend all the money.

I used to be a school crossing guard, so I want that power again.

We need to hire professionals to fix things.

I am very handy and can fix anything with chewing gum.

I have been sent by a Higher Authority to save this neighborhood.

 I miss kindergarten and enjoy throwing tantrums.

Esther Blumenfeld (hermits have the right idea)

Let's Talk

The art of conversation has become a technological hodgepodge of texting, twittering and tweets that can all be organized with a hash tag. No eye contact is required. It’s communicating with your mouth shut starting with e-mails. Looking at the bright side, this is technologies revenge on those who never wrote a letter home. For people who are really into developing their thumbs, there is even a U.S. National Texting Competition.

For those of us who enjoy talking, there are still telephones that, for the time being, still include this capability. However, I recently found out that a person has to be very careful when actually speaking aloud.

A few weeks ago, I was chatting on my (land line GASP!) telephone with a friend. Suddenly, her voice sounded as if she had her head in a bucket. I probably should have asked her if she was washing her floor, but instead, I said, “I can’t believe your brother-in-law has stayed with you for a month. Why don’t you tell him to go home?” After a moment of silence, my friend said, “Because you just did.” Unbeknownst to me, she had switched to speakerphone to clean up his spilled Cheerios. Speakerphone. Whoever came up with that miserable invention? It is just a distant relative to the old fashioned party line which was much more fun anyway.

When I was a kid, we shared a phone line with a bunch of other people, and I could listen in on all of their conversations. When mother said, “Get off the phone,” it didn’t necessarily mean I was talking to anyone, but it honed my listening skills.

Call waiting is another annoying invention. The same person, who complains about being put on hold while waiting for a computer geek to answer, doesn’t hesitate to put me on hold when receiving another call. Admittedly, the new caller might be more interesting than I am, but when put on “Hold” I hang up.

And, what’s up with the friend who calls me on her cell phone to tell me that she can’t talk because she’s out of range and then everything goes silent. Why did she call me?

Smart computer innovators have now made it possible to see the person you are talking to on your computer screen. That is a nice feature, if you haven’t just stepped out of the shower.  One day, my son called and said, “Hey, Mom, what are you doing?” I held up the toilet brush and replied, “Guess!”

Esther Blumenfeld (call me sometime)

The Pleasure Of Your Presents

When I was nine-years-old, there wasn’t anything I wanted more than a bicycle. My tenth birthday was in a week, and everyday, my Mother happily told me that she and Dad had saved up and gotten me a very special present. I was so excited because I knew that finally I would get my shiny red bicycle.

On the morning of my birthday, I ran downstairs and on the breakfast table laid an enormous, brightly wrapped box. My Mother and Father were beaming, and urged me to open it. So, I unwrapped my bigger-than-I-was World Book Of Knowledge. How was I going to ride that thing down the street?

My parents were so excited and happy with the gift, that I enthusiastically thanked them, excused myself (telling them I wanted to start reading it right away) lugged the albatross book to my room, and immediately shoved it under the bed. The following year I got my blue bicycle.

I enjoy shopping for gifts, and make it a rule never to give someone a present that I wouldn’t enjoy receiving myself. That’s why a few of the gifts I have purchased never got to the intended recipient.  But I digress--

December is a heavy-duty gift-giving season. Some people give homemade bread, cookies, cakes, parsley. Yes, even parsley. I was told that two little girls found out that Aunt Bonnie liked parsley. They collected the garnish off of several dinner plates, put the green stuff into an envelope and mailed it to Aunt Bonnie, “With lots of love.”

Of course, December is a make or break opportunity for many merchants. However, it’s almost a new year, and stores are still offering big discounts. Owners are still touting their merchandise. Perhaps it would serve us well to take stock and separate the sublime from the ridiculous.

Some of the advertisements in my local newspaper have gone way overboard. “Come in and receive a free gift.” Aren’t all gifts free? Buyer, beware! I can understand why a store would urge you to buy an “adorable wallet”. After all, you do need a place to put your adorable credit cards, and that extremely cute money that they covet.

However, on the same page were “Discounted Holiday hearing aids.” You could get those just in time so you wouldn’t miss Aunt Shirley’s complaints about her gastritis at Holiday dinner. There were several other ads on that page. There was one for a “Decorative bone for Fido,” and a dentist urged, ”Stop tooth pain for the Holiday.” My favorite advertisement was one that promised, “Direct Cremation---$650 Complete.” Now there’s a gift, for that special someone, who has absolutely--- everything.

Esther Blumenfeld (Gift me the pleasure of your company)

Say What?

After returning home from a trip, I thought I should catch up on all of the news I missed, so I turned on my television set, and listened, as a man said, “It’s time to ask, ‘What do you really want from your toilet paper?”’ I don’t think it was Wolf Blitzer, although he is a very thorough interviewer.

I’m not in the habit of conversing with my toilet paper, but I guess I’d ask a roll or two, “Do you really enjoy hanging from trees on Halloween?” Or maybe I’d finally find out their preference for being rolled over or under the toilet paper spindle before being torn to shreds.

In case I run out of things to say to my toilet paper, another voice on my television set urged me to go to a local department store to find out--- “What speaks to you?” I went to the store and quickly discovered that it wasn’t the sales people. I listened for a while and thought perhaps I heard a pair of jeans swearing at me from the dressing room, but it was only a woman whose zipper was stuck. I wondered if it was Diane Sawyer, but decided she wouldn’t urge me to talk to inanimate objects after her experience interviewing an abundance of empty suits.

On my way out of the store, I made the mistake of walking through the Cosmetics Department. Magically, young women in smocks appeared, and not only were they talking but were spritzing me with all kinds of stinky perfumes, and making rude remarks about my face. As I ran the gauntlet, one after another begged to make me over. I said, “I don’t want to be anyone else.” After the third, “I could give you a beautiful makeover,” I finally replied, “I just had one. Can’t you tell?”She sprayed a new fragrance by Calvin Klein into my eyes, and I ended up smelling pretty good but blinded. By now, I just wanted to go home and talk to my toilet paper.

That evening I listened to the sweet beeping of my microwave oven. In four minutes I had a hot meal. It said, “Beep, beep, your dinner is ready.” That speaks to me.

Esther Blumenfeld (My tea kettle is whistling at me. It likes me just the way I am)

Party Time

Parties can be a mixed bag of nuts including the guests. Sometimes things go as planned. Sometimes---NOT!

When my son, Josh was in second grade, he brought home a birthday party invitation from a classmate named Helga. Her father was a visiting professor from Germany, and her mother was obviously a very formal lady, who had ordered engraved invitations for the entire class. Josh was on time for the party, and I noticed tables set with linen and formal ware, when I walked him to the door. Two hours later, when I picked him up, he came running out of the house with his arms laden with boxes. “So, how was the party?” I asked.  “Best party ever,” he replied. “No one came but me, so I had two pieces of cake, and won all the prizes.” From Josh’s viewpoint, the party was a huge success.

However, at the next gathering he was hit in the head with a stick, when the blindfolded birthday boy missed the piñata. Even though Josh was awarded extra candy and an ice bag, he didn’t think that was as much fun.

I have given parties when some guests arrived early, some late and some never showed up. One couple arrived at our front door a day early, took one look at me in my robe and slippers and said, “This must not be the night.”

I have been to parties where the hostess arrives late, but attended one event where the hostess never showed up. The most memorable party I attended was held in a mansion in Chicago, where I left doggy doo footprints on their plush white carpeting. That was one heck of a grand entrance. The butler cleaned off my shoes. I threw them away when I got home. They should have had smaller dogs.

The worst get-together I ever attended was when my husband and I arrived at his boss's home, and either the boss had forgotten to tell his wife we were coming, or they had locked horns right before we got there, because she only came out of the kitchen once, slammed a thermos of coffee, and a coffeecake, (still in the box) on the table, and left. Never saw her again.

I won’t tell you about the time my mother wrapped a leftover sardine around a piece of lettuce in her centerpiece, and my grandmother picked it up, took a bite out of it, and shouted, “Stop eating! The food is poisoned.”

Esther Blumenfeld (Surprise! The hostess is selling Tupperware.)