Motherhood Uncensored

Welcome to the [dis]pleasure dome

Of the many joys I experience living in the suburbs, I savor the privilege of getting up in arms about important life issues the most. Like the HOA, who will actually take the time to inform you with a typed, stamped letter that your unauthorized garden stones are in code violation.

Then there are the foreclosures on my street, that wouldn't be so bad except a few of them have taken to using Facebook to update their friends (and former neighbors) about their exciting endeavors, like new cars! amazing vacations! fabulous view from our awesome house! all made possible now since they don't have to pay a mortgage.

Except they conveniently leave that last part out.

But lately, the neighborhood has been divided over a pool dome, or bubble, or whatever word you use to describe a gigantic cloth balloon encasing our neighborhood pool, which allows the local swim team to practice during the winter months, and gives access to residents at certain times which no one seems to know.

Dontcha wish your dome was hot like mine?

It seemingly just popped up one day, unbeknownst to most of us, which I think is everyone's biggest issue. The HOA approved a pool dome that looks like a gigantic pair of ripped, torn, and stained maternity underpants to be strapped down around the pool and then blown up with hot air but don't you dare let your lawn grow an inch too high.

And on any given day, the dome will be down, then up, then down again, sort of like a 14-year-old boy's penis, creating a liability issue.

Then there's this issue that it interferes with house sales, which in other circumstances I could get but when people are ditching their homes for greener pastures, I'm pretty sure the big bubble over our pool will not deter people from the "pay what you can" asking prices.

So, with neighbors divided and a committee formed in protest, it's no surprise that the kids are well aware of the infamous dome, mostly because we drive by it every day and it's become a source of entertainment.

Will the dome be up or down? Spot the new stain! What shape does that rip look like?

But then, just a few days ago, Quinlan decided to start a newspaper, The Atlanta Lanta, inspired by Kit the American Girl doll of all things, and handed me her first article.

"The Dome's End" 

An illustrated editorial piece about the pros and cons of the pool dome, ending with breaking news that it might be replaced by an actual indoor pool structure soon, deflating the divisive issue once and for all.

I wanted to put a photo copy in everyone's mailbox. And get her on the docket for the next Civic Affairs meeting because she's had the best take on this whole pool dome debacle that I've read.

And she's seven years old.

Then Quinlan asked me what issue she should tackle next. "Maybe your slow Internet, Mommy?"

I like the way this girl thinks.

Besides, today's pool dome and crappy Internet service might be tomorrow's women's rights and world hunger.

Everyone's gotta start somewhere, right?

4 dollars

I rarely carry cash in my wallet these days, and if I do, it usually ends up in the hands of my children, who seem to think that my purse is their mystery grab bag. I've become accustomed to the kids screaming "I found money!" when in actuality, they just pulled it out of my wallet.

But when I travel, I need real money, so I actually had a few bucks in my bag that they had yet to get their grubby hands on.

I was a little distracted when I pulled up to the stop light, but even in my changing the radio station, which was blaring a medley of quite possibly the worst 90s songs ever, I saw the man asking for money. It's a frequent sight in Atlanta, and one that I'll never be able to ignore, especially with kids in the car who are all to curious as to why the man is holding out a cup on the corner.

Or the mom of 3 boys standing at a busy intersection holding a sign asking for help to feed her children.

I don't think about the reasons that put them where they are. Or how they're going to use the money. Or if they really actually need it.

I just know that you have to be in a pretty low place in your life to resort to begging.

I had my window down and as the man walked up, he said "hello." I looked over and remembered that I had cash, so I grabbed a dollar, but then realized I had four, all of which I'd be perfectly fine without. I thought of all the change my kids have gathered that just sits in boxes and drawers around my kitchen that I've had to rip out of Bridget's hand before she eats them.

And so I gave it all the cash to him.

"Go get out of the sun!" I said. "Hopefully this will help a little."

"Thank you," he replied, looking surprised. "This will feed me for the day!"

We exchanged first names, and then he walked away. Waving at the cars, saluting to the truck driver in front of me, pointing to the sky.

Returning home an hour later, I looked for him, but he was gone. Maybe on another street. But maybe sitting in the air conditioning eating lunch somewhere.

Four dollars to make someone's day. To give someone a little bit of food (I hope).

Money well spent.

God Bless the HOA

Every other month or so I get a nastygram from our neighborhood Homeowner Association aka the HOA.

This month, it was five.

I'd take them a little more seriously if they hadn't sent us one when we first moved in telling us that the fence in our backyard that the builders put in as part of our closing was a violation.

Or if they actually did something.

Oh, I stand corrected. They do turn off your Internet if you forget to pay your monthly dues.

I did that when my husband was deployed and my head was up my ass and they told me to go pay my bill online and it would get turned back on.

"With what Internet service shall I pay my online bill?" I asked. I finally called and paid over the phone.

It only took three full days to get my service back. Longer than I had been overdue on my payment.

They're notorious throughout our neighborhood for sending letters for everything from a barely overgrown lawn or *pine straw that needs to be replaced, to your garbage can being visible or your satellite dish being positioned just slightly too far north.

Ha, okay. Not quite. But close enough.

No basketball hoops, non-patriotic flags, or any of that sort of nonsense.

I pledge allegiance to the flag, of The University of Georgia. GO BULLDOGS!

Not without permission from the HOA, Motherfuckers.

My favorite was when a neighbor of mine got a letter about the decorative stones in her yard. She had not received permission to put said decorative stones on her yard so therefore she was in violation of code 813: DON'T PUT DECORATIVE STONES IN YOUR YARD, BITCH, BECAUSE THEY MIGHT OFFEND SOMEONE.

Makes perfect sense to me. Decorative stones are the devil's eggs.

Of course, our neighborhood is speckled with dead trees, piles of dog shit, and jungled lawns on all the model homes.

Exemption #4718 of the HOA Handbook you will never read: Dead foilage and animal excrement

I'm beginning to wonder what exactly my near car payment sized dues are going to every month.

Oh right. The home phone. The cable bill. The sort of clean pool.

And the postage and paper they waste sending the damn letters which I am always careful to put away in my filing cabinet, aka the recycling bin.

Which, I was just told, I need to keep in my garage.

*Here in the South, it is common to use pine needles as mulch. Don't ask. I still can't quite figure it out myself. They even make the plastic kind. I'm in the wrong freaking business.

Cheerleader nation

Here in the South they start the cheerleading phenomenon pretty darn early, which I suppose is like anything else, really, except the whole screaming spirit and pom pom shaking in a short skirt and pigtails at the ripe young age of 3 seems like overkill.

Okay, okay. I know cheerleading has come a very long way, and to be fair, I've watched my fair share of competitions in awe of the amazing talent that these girls (and dudes) posess. I've never been able to do a handstand without crumpling to the ground in a big heap of weak body parts, so for that, I give many props.

Or stag jumps.

But I have to admit, that there's a big part of me that wonders why these parents don't channel that energy, enthusiasm, and athletic skill into, say, athletics?

Cheerleading started out as an all male activity (who knew?), but quickly turned into a predominantly female activity due to the dearth of female collegiate sports for women.

And while it was originally aimed at rallying the crowd, which in many cases it still does, it's seen mostly at male sporting events, with women being held high above the crowds holding big horns and signs or being tossed into the air doing splits.

And is it me or are the outfits getting smaller and more belly revealing?

The truth is, I can appreciate the abilities these girls have, as well as the way this activity has become much more than something cute on the sidelines, and yet, I still feel as though it perpetuates negative stereotypes of women regardless of whether it's part of our country's tradition and heritage or not; at its very basic core, cheerleading is rallying the crowds at male sporting events.

Why not gymnastics? Or a dance team? Or basketball? Or the slew of other equally expensive activities for girls?

Granted, if my girls (or boy) wanted to be a cheerleader, I'd support their choice (which seems to be the difference I suppose, at least in how I rationalize this whole thing - them choosing versus parents choosing).

And if that's the biggest challenge I face with them, then I'll consider that a blessing. I mean, they could want to do beauty pageants.

Heh.

But that doesn't mean they'll all get a well-prepared women's history lesson while I'm buying stock in nude tights and corker ribbons.

Couples who fly together stay together

I'm reminded why people fly after attempting another road trip to the beach with my family.

It's only 5 hours! It'll be fun! We'll play car games and the kids will sleep and we won't even need the dvd player. HAHA!

Except I'm married to a pilot, who hates to drive anywhere, and I have three children crammed into the backseat of my trailblazer who are firmly against car games and car sleeping.

Even with the assistance of Benadryl.

Oh yes I did.

In the long scheme of things, the drive really wouldn't be that bad, if we could actually leave the house on our planned departure time.

Or better, my planned departure time.

You know you're in trouble when you've got the entire car packed with your stuff and the kids stuff and 4000 beach toys and your husband yells "I'll be done packing in a minute."

Sigh.

Once we're on the road, I should expect that we'll have to drive back to the house at least three times so when it's only twice (once for his wallet, once for his jeans), I'll be thankful.

Too bad he didn't remember the huge cooler of beer and milk until we got outside of Savannah, or when we were taking the long scenic route to Interstate 75 because he got that confused with 85.

I realize they do intersect at one point North of Atlanta (the brilliant road planning at work again), but seriously, he flies with these ridiculously complicated maps. You can't see that 75 and 85 are very different roads?

Thankfully, our computer being charged by our cigarette lighter lasted through one entire DVD (and one long extended tour of central Georgia) before completely crapping out.

We don't need no stinkin' DVD player!

Yeah right.

Aside from listening to my son ask for food the entire trip and my daughter proclaim her lack of intelligence because she couldn't figure out how to play the alphabet animal game, the best part is always trying to determine where to stop.

We discuss where would be the best resting point for at least an hour before it happens, and each time we decide that wouldn't be the good one, we drive to the next one and it's always worse.

In this case, it was a shitty gas station infested with flies, which we spent the next 40 miles shooing out of the car at 75 mph with the windows down.

The kicker was when we finally got to about 4 miles from the beach and my directions said go "Left to 17S" and left was marked 17N.

"It says go left but that's North!" I said.

"Well maybe you should learn how to read!" he replied, obviously frazzled from a long, awful ride, one which takes him just under 20 minutes to fly.

"Well... maybe you shouldn't be... um... an... ASS!"

Yeah, I said it. I did.

So, needless to say, I probably won't be getting laid on this trip.

But on the bright side, the view is practically orgasmic.

Thank you Jekyll Island Authority for sending us on this awesome trip. Although if I lose my sanity... Eh well, it's already half gone.