S.R.Claridge writes Mystery and Romantic Suspense novels. Her work has been said to have the energy of Dan Brown, the mystery of Mary Higgins Clark and the humor of Janet Evanovich. Claridge novels will take you to the edge of your seat, keep you guessing until the very end and ultimately warm your heart. It is on the pages of every S.R.Claridge novel that Mystery and Sensual Suspense collide.

For more information on bookings, interviews and upcoming releases, please visit the author website and Facebook fan page.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Grass, Grass...Kiss My Ass!

I overheard someone in our neighborhood quip about how long my grass was. Now, keep in mind that it’s only been nine days since it was last mowed, so it’s not like we have knee high weeds or anything. Why hasn’t it been mowed in nine days? Because my husband has been on the road for work and hasn’t been home. I’m not opposed to cutting the grass, but when we divvied up our husband/wife, male/female household responsibilities, grass sort of fell under his umbrella. I do it on occasion just like he helps with laundry or dishes when needed; but for the most part we have our defined roles in running the home.

True, the grass is longer than normal, but I figured it could wait a couple more days until my husband returned and could mow it. You see, I’m not sitting on my ass eating bon-bons all day so for me to squeeze an hours worth of mowing time into my schedule isn’t easy and there are some days when it’s virtually impossible.

However, since I overheard the comment, and in some feeble attempt to prove we are conscientious neighbors, I decided to mow the grass this morning. I had to get my daughter up, ready and off to rehearsal first and feed my son; then I began mowing. It was 9:00am.

Upon returning into the house I had a voicemail from the HOA telling me someone had complained that I was mowing “too early”. Those of you who know me can fill in the blanks as to my expression and verbiage upon hearing this message.

And… there’s the snap.

You see, I’m one of those neighbors who doesn’t even notice my fellow neighbor’s yards. I don’t know how many trees they have or the type of grass, how often they mow or water or fertilize. I don’t care. They can let their weeds grow sky high. I don’t care. In fact, unless they plant something that is physically killing me in some way, I won’t complain. It’s their yard…they can do whatever the hell they want with it. I’m more concerned about their mental, emotional, spiritual and physical well-being than I am about anything growing in their yard!

That being said… it’s a weekday. It was 9:00am. I didn’t mow at 6:00am on a Sunday, though I just might next time. I find the fact that someone complained quite outrageous and actually laughable. It was a blessing (for them) that I didn’t receive the call, because if I had I would have gladly shared my feelings on grass:

If you think my grass is too long. I don’t care. You should be thinking about more relevant things in life.

If you think 9:00am on a weekday is too early to mow my grass. I don’t care. Unless you work the night shift, you should have your lazy ass out of bed before 9:00am on a weekday.

If you want my grass mowed every five days then I invite you and your mower to come cut it.

And to all the ridiculous entities out there who are strict on rules that fall under a non-sense heading… I’m not following. You know the rules...only a certain colored flowerpot in your yard, only approved flags on your home, you must be quiet by a particular hour, no "ugly" cars allowed in the driveway for too long a period, and the list goes on, and on, and on, and on. A list made by uptight assholes who have nothing better to do in life than complain. Well... I'm not following your anal rules. You can fine me, but I’m not paying. You can call the police. I don’t care. I’ll take a seventy-two hour jail sentence, with three square meals a day that I don’t have to cook and all the girlfriends I could ever imagine. You call that punishment. I call it vacation.

I'm in my forties. I'm female. I'm hormonal. If you still want to nit-pick come do it to my face... but a little advice... I wouldn't if I were you.

You don’t like my grass… kiss my ass!

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