Trashed and canned...

And here we go. Here the hi, ho, and derry damned "o" we go.

Ahh, suburbia. I moved to the 'burbs to get away from being afraid to walk to my car in the dark, the fear of having said car stolen or broken into, avoid being mugged another time, because I was sick of living in poetically old properties fraught with electrical issues, and because I was sick and damned tired of buying new hubcaps every six months or so. It was a big step, as I'm really not of a suburban mindset. I don't drive an SUV, and don't plan to. I don't know who the Joneses are, and have no intention of keeping up with them. Having abandoned the "Westside Barbie" persona I tried to fit into when I thought it was time to (ahem) grow up (PUH-LEEEEEZ), I am decidedly not tanned, nor do I have a "French manicure" or appropriately "pretty" colors on my toenails. Didgeridoo Boy? He's less of that mold than I. But, nevertheless, we live firmly in the middle of the 'burbs. And most of the time, we like it.

Trash day, though, is a bit of a bear. We live in the center unit of a row of three townhomes, which are situated so that their back sides are down a hill. Our trash can is to be stored under our deck. Our neighbor has a path cutting across his yard that we're to use when we take the trash can up to our driveway. Lately, though, this path has fallen into disrepair. Not only is it covered in a jungle of weeds (what's up with the owner of that property not wielding a weed whacker?), it is *sinking*. There are two holes. Didge fell twice the last time he rolled the trash can over it. Hard.

So we were told by an HOA board member to put the can to the side of the building, where our path-having neighbor stows his even though he's not technically supposed to. Never mind that. I moved the can there yesterday. This morning?

It was right smack dab in the mother flippity fucking driveway behind Didge's car. Now, I'm all for rules, provided they're not stupid. But bullshit? I don't tolerate bullshit, and neighbors who like to play HOA police are high on the list of things that comprise pure bullshit. (Some rules make sense - like cleaning up after dogs and not having refrigerators and toilets sitting all about one's yard.) It is a testament to my re-established yoga practice that I calmly wrote a note stating that we were told to put the can there due to the condition of the path and rolled that puppy all the way back to where I'd put it yesterday. Slapped that note on it, sashayed back up to my house, realized I had just done that in my pajamas and a pair of Havaianas, and had my coffee. I congratulated myself for remaining excessively calm, for me, AND for remembering to put tape on the note before prancing out the door in a black cami and sugar skull-printed pajama pants. And Havaianas.

If they do this again, I am going to the floral department of a nearby mega grocery store, and purchasing the most obnoxious helium balloons I can get my mits on. I hope they say things like "OLD FART" and "YEE HAWWWW" if I need to do this, because I am going to tie them to the trash can and leave it right the bloody hell in the driveway. When those balloons go limp, I'm going to get more. I might decorate it for the 4th of July, with streamers and sparkly things, and maybe some flashing lights that mimic fireworks. I might set up a gogo cage on top of it and have Didge give free, every-evening performances in a spangly red, white, and blue banana hammock.

Hell, I might do all of that anyway just to see the looks on people's faces.

Off to patrol the driveway. I need to see who's moving the can so I know where to send the surprise package of fun toys from the adult bookstore. The card will say, "These might help you relax a bit."