I'm Not Wild About Harry

Harry is a neighbor who could make even Mr. Rogers cry. It is one of the great mysteries of life how Harry snagged a mortgage on what was once a showplace; decorated by an Artiste in a gold Lexus with a license plate that said "le peche." The couple who hired The Peach to decorate the showplace spent about 75% of their waking hours beautifying yard and pool, and the other 25% sipping perfect martinis poolside, with Frank Sinatra crooning in the background. Harry, well, he has "worked" in the yard once since he moved in; when the grandkids were coming to visit and it was impossible to enter the house through the front door because the bushes had grown through the railings and across the steps. After he cut the bushes (with a box cutter) he reverted to his normal routine, sitting by the algae-green pool with a bottomless beer, smoking assorted things like, but not limited to, cigarettes and cigars; and throwing the butts into the "swamp."

Harry gives new meaning to the concept of MacGuyvering. For instance, when the glass panel in his front door shattered about a year ago, he covered the opening (inside and out) with clear packing tape. You can hardly tell, except for sometimes the "glass" comes unstuck and flaps in and out of the house with the breeze. Then there's his clever solution to the "algae pond," which has been a problem for a few of the neighbors, resulting in complaints to the county and a few (unpaid) fines. Forget pricey pool chemicals. When it gets green enough to cause comment - approximately every 10 days or so - Harry just pulls the plug, then runs the hose for a few days to refill it.

Which might have something to do with the fact that his water bill has apparently been, um, neglected for some time. Like long enough to earn him a disconnect. I wasn't aware of this, and would have been very happy in my ignorance-is-bliss; had the county not accidentally cut off our water instead of his.

The very day after the air conditioning decided to take its annual summer vacation. Don, our amazing Fix-It Guy, is very proud to have coaxed 21 years (so far) out of our antiquated HVAC system. Once when the "fan basket" (who knew we had one?) broke (or that they could break?) Don told us not to worry. He saw one on the ground behind the Dairy Dip in Hopeville, and he would fetch it. So I can't exactly entrust the system to anyone else. It likes Don. Don likes it. But Don can't get out here until the first of next week because of a crisis with the A/C at the Sizzler; and so we swelter.

With no water. Not having a clue why we were dry, I called the county water department. There is an outage 3 zip codes south, says the Customer Service Representative; after I have been assured that this conversation could be monitored for quality assurance. I replied that I didn't think that was close enough to affect us. "Please hold a moment" gave me enough time to log in to on-line banking, check that I had paid the water bill (whew,) see that it had been processed by the water department (double whew!) and bake two batches of chocolate chip cookies with coconut chips instead of the chocolate, and walnuts rather than pecans. And let the dogs out twice.

Finally, the Customer Service Representative returned, thanked me for holding, and explained that our water had been disconnected "in error." But she was going to write a "Service Ticket" and it would be "Highest Priority" and someone would be dispatched posthaste to turn the water on.

I gave thought to dragging our hose to Harry's pool deck, site of his outdoor faucet, to hook it up and collect the water that was Rightfully Ours so that I could at least flush; until a cursory peek out of an upstairs window yielded the following:

The pool deck was inhabited by a very large woman in a hot pink bikini and a thick coating of very shiny oil sunning herself (and swatting flying things) by the opaque, emerald-green, uh, hole in the ground.

So I deadheaded gardenias instead. In the 100 degree heat. Sweated myself silly, sure I'd have a shower waiting. Came back inside to find, 3 hours later, no water. I called the county again, and got a different Customer Service Representative (probably second string, because all the regular folks were at lunch) who told me this was all news to them, there was "no report on our account." She took the information grudgingly (because she didn't get to go to lunch until the Important Customer Service Representatives returned) and I could tell she thought I was scamming her. Again, she promised me "highest priority."

I'd hate to be "lowest priority", which might be sometime after the next ice age. (Oh, Ice! Glorious ice! I would wallow in ice! I would crunch it, caress it, worship it!) Four more hours passed, and closing time for Customer Service was imminent. I called again and got yet another Customer Service Representative, who assured me that my "report" was "in the system" but I had to be patient. There were Many, Many Important Things that had to be attended to by the people who turned water off and on. I told her that I had small children at home (didn't mention that they had four legs and fur) and that I had to make their dinner. And that, if someone didn't show up soon, I would call back every three minutes until someone DID show up - and I would cry.

I think the Customer Service Representatives were getting tired of toying with me at this point. Fifteen minutes later a woman came to turn my water on, but she did not turn Harry's water off. I think her job is "On Only." An "Off Only" technician, or possibly an "On/Off Technician" is required to "Off" someone, which is clearly more dangerous than "Onning." Plus, the "Onner" was talking on the phone, so she might have been just too busy ordering dinner to "Off" Harry, even if she was qualified to do so.

Really, I don't care. No more Evian in the dogs' water bowl. I can wash lettuce for a salad. And I can rinse off that dang gardenia juice. Best of all, we can flush. Life is good.

Helicopter Parents (hovering, hovering...)

We were Free Range Children. If we cleaned our rooms to minimum hygienic standards we were Free To Roam for the rest of the day, until the streetlights came on. There were a few rules. We were not to go into the houses under construction (but we did.) We were not supposed to play in the creek (but we did, and then we stayed in the woods climbing trees until our clothes dried out so no one would know.) We were not supposed to climb trees. (But we had to do something while our clothes dried out.)

When our children came along, Free Range was no longer in vogue. Something Terrible in the form of Scary Strangers would happen to children allowed to play in their front yards, so we fenced in the back yard and put up a swing set. We read books to our kids about shadowy men in shiny cars asking them to help find lost puppies. We turned pages advising that children should scream "Fire" if someone kidnapped them, even though we thought it would work better to shout, "Hey this person is kidnapping me!" (The Experts promised us that "Fire!" attracted more attention. And The Experts never told us what the kids should scream if there was an actual fire. "Stampede!"? "Free Ice Cream!"? "Hey, Macarena!"?) And we embraced Children's Television, which kept the darlings safely in the living room with Mr. Rogers, The Electric Company and Oscar The Grouch.

Is it any wonder a generation of children on the lookout for lurking Scary Strangers, trying to remember what they were supposed to shout, would grow up to embrace The Disposable Toddler Helmet? Buy 'em like disposable diapers, slap one on your newly toddling toddler because, dang, she is toddling, and that fireplace corner could be SHARP! Oh, My God, she's veering off that way! Thank goodness she's wearing her Disposable Toddler Helmet!...You can even use the link to sign up to carry them in your retail establishment. Perhaps, for example, you own a grocery store. You could offer them as freebies, right next to the sanitizer wipes, for anyone who dares to put a child in the "child seat" (with safety strap) of the buggy, instead of the AWESOME (and sanitized daily) Plastic Race Car cum Shopping Cart, capable of blocking Aisle Two completely even if little Maddie is not reaching out for the Chocolate Chex. (I really want to know who was in the focus groups for that one. Women with cramps and a migraine so bad that they couldn't cook breakfast because the sound of cracking eggshells was too loud? Perimenopausal women wearing T-shirts that say, "I'm out of Estrogen and I Have a Gun"? Who else would think Chocolate CHEX was a good idea?) I also think there is a market for a Disposable Toddler Helmet Vending Machine. What kind of parent wouldn't cough up a few tuppence for the peace of mind afforded by Disposable Toddler Helmets? Because if your little one should happen to reach for the Chocolate CHEX and overextend, or Heaven forbid, her brother pushes her out of the Plastic Race Car cum Shopping Cart, it is a good six inches to the floor and there is no recycled rubber chip padding.

I think that the next frontier is disposable goggles. In case a child learns to USE A FORK, which might put an eye out. Or runs with scissors, or chases his brother with a stick. Until then, I have two words:

Bubble Wrap.

Oh, I need two more:

Duct Tape.