I went to an open house on Sunday of a free standing condo in my target area and price range. Loved the place except for the carpeting
and paint which are easy enough to replace. They have a beautiful dog walking
path, perfect for Levi and me. Flat as a pancake and it starts within 50 feet
from the condo. I asked about the dog policy in the community of 50 condos and
found out you can’t even put in an offer on the place until you get approval on
your dog from the condo board. You fill out a form, provide a photo and DNA of
your dog and wait for them to call you in for a doggie interview. DNA? Okay, I
do get why they want a poop sample for residences who might make a habit of not
picking up after their dogs but why would you have to pay to provide and process one before you’ve even made an offer on a house?
I called the condo management company the next day to see if
I could get more information on their dog rules like weight and breed
restrictions, etc. I know many places have a 25 pound limit and Levi is 27
pounds and he’s got nothing to lose. The woman started rattling off restrictions
pertaining to keeping birds inside your condo. Birds! Inside! Only one per
condo. In my wildest dreams I never dreamed condo boards would get that deep
into your pet business. Then she started in on cat rules but I was still
processing that they have a bird rule and I didn’t hear what she was saying about felines.
Finally, she got to the paragraph on dogs and it was vague on size and weight saying only words to the effect that everything was at the discretion of the board.
You can’t have underground fencing---duh, you don’t own the land---or tie a
dog by your back door. You have to walk it every single time. And anytime they
want, the board can vote your dog off the island. “Put your condo up for sale or
take a trip to the kill-shelter,” they could order. “Last night your dog peed
ten feet short of the dog walking trail and we have yellow DNA in snow to prove
it.” But the condo board are all lovely people, the manager told me when I
balked a little about the each and every time rule. Yes, lovely people who get bent out of shape about someone having a
cage full of parakeets.
On the way home I stopped at the Guy-Land Cafeteria and an
old guy struck up a conversation with me while the cashier was off chasing down
change for 100 dollar bill from a customer ahead of us in line. “I see you eat
breakfast anytime of the day,” he said. “I do. Especially when I come here.” “Me,
too,” he replied. Then he went on to tell me about the wife he lost who always
made big breakfasts on Sundays and how he can’t seem to make everything come
together at the same time when he tries to make breakfast at home. “Don’t feel
bad,” I told him, “I’ve been trying to do that my entire adult life and I still
can’t do it.” I visualized him taking out a pencil and crossing me off the list
of possible lady friends. Seriously, though, I don’t know how long ago he lost
his spouse but it was still painful for him to talk about his loss.
The Guy-Land Cafeteria does get a few women customers and
this time there was a table with four generations in attendance. When the
youngest one got hungry her mom took her to the bathroom where I found the young mother still
sitting on a toilet stool fifteen minutes later. It made me sad/mad to see her there
nursing with toilets flushing around her. One of my great niece-in-laws is militant
about (discreet) breast feeding in public places and I admire her dedication to
the cause. I've followed some of the Facebook discussions on the topic and I can’t believe how much attitudes have changed since
I was a kid when I often saw breast feeding mothers. When did it become
disgusting to so many people to the point that we have to have a movement to
bring back the notion that breasts are not pornographic when used for the
purpose they were intended?
After lunch I stopped at the dollar store to pick up some
things for a Red Hat Society tea later in the week. We’re packing Christmas
gift bags for nursing home residents again. As I paid the cashier she asked me
if I wanted my (seven cents) change. “As opposed to what?” I asked thinking
there must be a charity box for change near-by and she was suggesting I donate
it. “Well, a lot of people don’t want their small change,” she said. This was
the fourth time this year that's happened to me and at three different
places. One time my change was seventy-something cents! All I could think of to
answer back was “Yes,” but I wanted to ask the cashier where all that extra
change goes at the end of the day. What ever happened to having retail registers balance at the end of the day and cashiers couldn’t leave until they did? I’m
age-challenged to understand why/how this ask-people-if-they-want-their-change thing
came about. Wanting my seven cents made me feel both church mouse poor (as if I really needed it) and Mr. Scrooge
rich (as if I didn't want someone else to have it) at the same time. I couldn’t decide which but it wasn’t good either way. ©
