Pubescent Prowlers Perturb Proud Property Parent

One of the things I take great pride in these days is the grooming of my property. Particularly because of all the new flowers, plants and landscaping I’ve installed over the past three years. And though I spend most of my time in the backyard by the pool, I also make a point of keeping the front yard as colorful and vibrant as I can.

The neighborhood schoolchildren, however, seem to feel my front yard is their personal property to play on, climb over and tear up. During the winter, I don’t pay much attention to them, but come the Spring, when all the new growth is just starting to happen, I keep my eyes peeled every day at 2:30 to watch for the oncoming slaughter. And sure enough, the kids climb on my rock wall (potentially dangerous), cut through my yard, pull on my trees and pick through my flowers. I got so fed up one day that I opened the second story office window and screamed at them to get off my property.

Yes, I became “THAT GUY”---the guy you remember from your childhood who used to yell at you when you stepped on his grass. The annoying older neighbor who seemed to value his precious rose bushes more than your ability to have fun picking through them. And now I completely understand where “that guy” was coming from. After all, the neighborhood kids didn’t pay for all the mulch, and sod, and flowers and plants and trees and fertilizer and irrigation and watering and general upkeep. They just look at my yard as a fun place to play.

Naturally, I was going to do everything in my power can to put a stop to that. So I began sitting outside on my front stoop every day from 2:30 to 3:00 to make sure no one laid a foot on my stone wall or tore a branch from one of my newly blossoming trees. And for a few days, everything seemed to be fine. Then I began to get so bogged down by work, I couldn’t monitor the kids on a daily basis any more. Some time went by, and then one day I happened to be glancing out my office window, when I noticed that the local children had slipped into their usual bad habits. So once again, the window flew open and my screaming voice could be heard echoing throughout the land to “please stay off the grass, and stop pulling on the flowers.”

The kids, for the most part, listened to my pathetic pleading and stuck to the sidewalk for the next few weeks. But there were still a few who would try to sneak up on the wall, or cut through the yard. So for those few occasions, I tried to ignore it. Until one day, when I saw a little boy pick up one of the rocks on our stone wall and throw it on the pavement below him. Meanwhile, his much older sister, who was standing not three feet away, didn’t even try to stop him. (And he was even throwing the stone in her direction.) And when I came running out of the house to reprimand him for it, they both looked at me as if I was crazy.

That’s when I decided to take further action. I began taking pictures of the daily offenders from my office window. I figured I could send them to the Principal of the school, believing that if anyone had influence on these kids, it would be him. And one day, thankfully, I actually got a picture of a kid tearing up an entire bush of flowers. (Well, not thankfully for me, but thankfully for the necessary “evidence” of my complaint.) I sent the group of pictures, along with a well-written diatribe to the Principle, whose only response was “I’ll talk to the children.”

The next day, sure enough, I observed the principle standing in front of my house, waiting for the children to arrive. He spoke to them for about ten minutes on respecting other people’s property and how they shouldn’t cross the lawn. I heard many of the children answer that they never crossed the yard and didn’t know why I complained so much. One girl even began snapping her fingers in a triangle motion, no doubt berating me for having a yard at all.

The talk helped for a few days, perhaps even a week or two. Then the climbing and defacing began all over again. So now I sit on my front stoop again every day with my cell phone and a magazine, daring anyone to touch anything that even looks like foliage. I can’t wait until June when school is out, so I don’t have to constantly disrupt my day in order to defend the integrity of my property. But such is my life in the suburbs.

But that’s just me. Do you have any issues with little prowlers on your property? (And I’m not talking about the squirrel or raccoon kind.)

Bird Bits--House Hunting

Please click on the photo above to watch a short one-minute movie from the "Bird Bits" series entitled "House Hunting." In this episode, a Cardinal realtor is showing a Robin some new bird house options.

Wearing Out the Work-At-Home Wardrobe

My commute to work is a short one. I roll out of bed, step into my slippers, and meander down the hallway into my office, which is literally ten feet away. It is not a stressful or difficult journey, and I don’t have to interact with anyone along the way. Except maybe a few cats, whose only interest in me involves the distribution of their morning meals. Once that particular ritual takes place, they remain fairly quiet for the rest of the day.

Otherwise, I arrive at my work without any of the anger or anxiety that sometimes accompanies the morning commute. It is a true blessing, not to mention a real money saver on tolls, take-out lunches, and office birthday parties. (The ladder being a double-edged sword, as you’re no longer asked to contribute to the birthday present fund, nor are you given any more birthday presents either. Que sera, sera!)

Anyway, the casual relaxed atmosphere also means that my office attire has been significantly pared down from a colorful assortment of designer clothes and expensive shoes to a few old t-shirts and a growing supply of lounge pants. Yes, lounge pants. I know they’re just glorified pajamas bottoms, but I really love them. I have a pair in every color, pattern and print imaginable. And now I finally understand why the much lampooned “house dress” was such a favorite among housewives in the sixties and seventies. You could literally walk around with everything hanging out, without actually having everything hanging out.

It also explains why one of my drama teachers in college insisted on wearing a pair of sweatpants to work every day. His standard outfit was a white polo shirt, sweat pants and tennis shoes. He directed many of the musicals at school, so I guess he never wanted to feel constricted should he suddenly need to launch into some kind of intricate choreography, or demonstrate a proper arabesque. Not that he ever did. Being a rather large overweight person with a prominent stomach, his range of dance technique never strayed far from the traditional cakewalk, a device he utilized in almost every musical he directed. (Including the annual Nativity reenactment, which was no easy task! Imagine a chorus of sheep, goats and Wise Man doing the cakewalk across the stage behind the Manger. Pure inspired lunacy.)

But as a role model for untraditional work attire, the teacher was a ground-breaker. And though at the time, I found his clothing choice to be somewhat undignified for a man of fifty-five, I totally understand now why he did it. Comfort, pure and simple. Now I’m not suggesting that every office environment change their attire to gym clothing, but if you’re a work-at-home individual like myself, comfort is key when it comes to what you wear around the house.

Not to say this overly casual wardrobe doesn’t have its drawbacks. For instance, any time the postal worker or UPS man knocks on my door with a delivery, I must quickly change from lounge pants into jeans because I wouldn’t be caught dead answering the door in lounge pants. Especially since I tend to wear the same shirt and pants for several days in a row, a practice which has been observed and commented on by more than one of my neighbors. Talk about embarrassing.

But before you accuse me of being uncleanly, I assure you that I do not wear clothing that has experienced any sort of spillage or staining due to food or drinking mishaps. Nor do I lie around in perspiration infested garments that make me smell like a litter box. If the clothing doesn’t smell good, I don’t wear it. I’m not a sloth, after all. Just a very relaxed and happy employee.

But that’s just me. What is your favorite work-at-home attire?

The Germination of the Garden Geek’s Green Thumb

If someone had asked me five years ago whether I had any interest in gardening, I would have laughed in their face. Being a loyal New Yorker, I’d never intended to leave the confines of the city until my crumbling body finally rotted and withered away to nothing. Even then, I probably wouldn’t leave. So gardening didn’t seem like something that would ever be included in my resume of experience.

But then, circumstances changed in my life, and I was given this amazing house in Plainfield, NJ—complete with a yard, and plenty of room for gardens, trees and other such adornments. At first, I was overwhelmed by the prospect of taking care of such a massive amount of space. After all, I came from Manhattan. The most lawn I’d ever seen was between the sidewalk and the curb, and even then it was somewhat patchy. I also had horrible memories of helping my parents weed and maintain the family garden when I was younger. After a particularly close call with the churning blades of a Rototiller, I’d made a solemn promise never to enter the confines of a garden again. (To this day, I still have vivid nightmares about being pulverized by the churning blades of an old-fashioned nut grinder.)

Naturally, I procrastinated for a long time, hoping the mounting forest of weeds, vines and other assorted yard debris would somehow transform itself into a beautiful garden all by itself. Or perhaps a family of small elves would take it upon themselves to landscape my property for me, while I sat upstairs in my room making shoes. As neither of these scenarios appeared to be happening, I ultimately decided to tackle the terrain myself. For weeks, I pulled weeds and raked leaves and cleaned garden beds, until I was finally able to see the actual property underneath all the ground cover. And it wasn’t such a bad piece of land at that. Plenty of potential. All I needed now was decide what to do with it.

Luckily, my neighbor Ramona was a wealth of information when it came to gardening, and felt no compunction about forcing…er, offering her opinion at every opportunity. She was a great help when it came to deciding what kind of plants to get, where to put certain flowers and trees, and generally giving me some great advice about landscaping. And to my shock and surprise, I found myself actually enjoying every minute of it. It’s an amazing evolution to watch something grow from seed to seedling to sprouting flowers soaring ever upwards to the sky. Truly one of life’s little miracles, and I foolishly took it for granted most of my life.

But now, I’m hooked. I love tending to the garden and making my property look as nice as it possibly can. Last Fall, I even planted tulips for the first time, and was like a silly schoolboy this Spring when the stalks actually started appearing. Not only that, but the tulips grew to about two feet and had the biggest blossoms I’d ever seen. (Which isn’t really saying much, because I’d never paid much attention to flowers before. Now I greet them with a new kind of respect.)

I also finally understand why some people say Spring is the best time of year, and why the annual rebirth of the backyard is one of the most exciting personal pleasures you can experience. I haven’t bought a pair of Crocs yet, and I don’t have a subscription to Mother Earth News, but I am definitely a born-again Gardener. Now if only I could get my bank account to have a successful germination as well. Is there a Miracle Grow out there for that kind of green?

My Vet is Killing Me!

When did the cost of taking care of an animal exceed the cost of taking care of yourself? Recently I’ve taken my cat Chase on a series of unfortunate visits to the local Animal Hospital. I say unfortunate, because I’ve spent more for Chase’s healthcare over the last six months than I have for myself over the last ten years. It’s unfathomable that a little cat could require so many tests and shots and examinations that an average visit costs between $600 and $900. For a cat! I can go to a regular doctor and pay less. (Unfortunately, my healthcare plan doesn’t consider Chase a "significant other.")

And because Chase was recently diagnosed with diabetes, I now have to give him two shots of insulin a day. Plus, all the ongoing tests he must get, the special food he has to eat, the other medicines he must take. It’s like I’m caring for an invalid parent. And while I’m very sympathetic to his situation and needs, the cost of keeping him healthy is going to put me in the poorhouse.

And diabetes isn’t the first major issue I’ve had with Chase either. I once spent over two thousand dollars for a series of tests that ultimately determined the reason for Chase’s sickly demeanor was because he had a mild case of gas. What? You couldn’t just look at him and tell me that? You had to run his blood work so many times I needed to take out a small loan just to pay for the results?

I remember when going to the vet meant a quick check-up, maybe a blood test or two, and then a nominal fee for the whole visit. You didn’t pay a Vet as much as a regular doctor because you weren’t dealing with humans, you were dealing with animals. But now the Vet has assumed a different status; a snotty sort of superiority that makes you feel guilty if you don’t want to pay for that extra urine analysis or a dissection of his stool sample. Not to mention the ridiculously high fees they charge for “waste disposal.” (How can anyone justify $7.50 for waste removal? You throw something in the trash can and you’re done. For that, you get $7.50? I should be so lucky.)

I also have a sneaking suspicion the receptionists in a Vet’s office get a sadistic pleasure when they tell you the price you'll have to pay for the visit.

“And the total for today's exam is…,” they say, inserting a huge pause before dropping the bombshell. “Ten thousand, four hundred dollars and twenty three cents.”

It’s like they get some kind of high every time they get to deliver the bad news. And if people freak out, so much the better. On one visit, I actually witnessed someone faint in front of me when the receptionist gave her the total. And after they carried the poor woman out of the reception area, I believe they added on a fee for “waste removal” as well.

So I guess the question becomes, when does your pet become more of a liability than a pleasure?