Road Sweeping

One of the weirder things about living in our beautiful incorporated village is how it works. We live on a road that stretches from the Town of Huntington all the way to Long Island Sound. The Town is responsible for the road up to the village boundary a couple of hundred feet from where we live. The Town paints double yellow lines down the centre of the road, puts in storm drains, and sweeps the road regularly. As soon as you reach the village all of this disappears. Every time it rains, our road floods because we have no storm drains. The road is full of debris because it is rarely swept. And we pay extra village taxes for this, happily of course because we live in a beautiful incorporated village. Nuts, but not especially weird.
But wait. Once a year, after all possibility of snow has evaporated, the road sweeper is hired to sweep the beautiful village road. Back and forth it goes, for several days, sweeping the sand, mud and leaves left behind after the ravages of winter. All day long I hear it, sweeping back and forth, back and forth, leaving our road so nice and clean befitting the beautiful incorporated village. Except that it only sweeps the village roads. Our house is on the corner of a cul-de-sac and the main village road, and the cul-de-sac, despite the fact that it has the same name as the main road, is in fact a private road. So it doesn't get swept. At all. Ever.
At sometime Steve will go out and scoop up the mud and grit by hand, and sweep the road with a broom, and clean out the grate to the storm drains that we have because we are on a private road.
Nuts and weird and very expensive.

Crazy cocktail time

6:30pm is cocktail time here and I was just cutting up limes for a well-deserved vodka and tonic when the dogs started barking like crazies. As this happens roughly ten times a day: the UPS guy, Fedex gal, Rob the mailman, landscaper, neighbor's landscaper, other neighbor's landscaper, the neighbor opposite's landscaper, their contractors, a jogger, a dog walker, I tend to ignore them. But this was late for any one other than a walker so I looked out and I could see someone or at least the shirt and tie of someone who I presumed had something to do with my neighbor's renovation project. SO I yelled at the dogs to shut up and went back to mixing the drink.
Then I looked out of the window and I saw a bunny streaking across the lawn with Jefke in hot pursuit. I didn't want the cat to get the rabbit so I ran outside in my fluffy slippers and sweats screaming at the cat in the hopes of distracting him. That was when I became aware that another neighbor was driving up the cul-de-sac and can see me in my fluffy slippers having a meltdown on my drive. So dignified. Anyway, his car got between the rabbit and the cat and he sat there long enough for the rabbit to get away. I waved and the cat followed me back up the drive towards the house. Whereupon my other neighbor came to see if I was ok as she heard the screaming. OK by now I am mortified.
However, it turns out she was coming over anyway as she saw someone lurking about my property (which was what disturbed the cat) and wanted to check if I was alright.
Well I think whoever it was was probably just lost and my screeching scared them away.
But the weirdst thing was she said it was "a black kid" and I thought "oh, no not a missionary at cocktail time".
I think I've got a little racist living here and I really need that cocktail now.

Happy Birthday?

As if turning 50 wasn't traumatic enough, Steven received another poke up the arse from his HMO in the form of a birthday letter. In addition to wishing him many happy returns, they also urged him to go get a colonoscopy. A truly depressing letter within an accompanying leaflet that portrayed six elderly people all happy and smiling; presumably at the thought that a tube up the anus would protect them from colon cancer. Go tell that to the forty year olds who died of the disease.