My ongoing subversive plot to get kicked out of suburbia continues to bear fruit. Yesterday, a Municipal Enforcement and Community Standards Officer paid a visit to follow up on a complaint. I suspect the snitch was the same neighbour who ratted out my non-compliant cats. Anyhow, the egregious offence is the Lift-Rite that lives in the driveway. It’s been hanging out there for some time now, awaiting a forever home that has not materialized. It looks more forlorn with every passing year. No wonder the neighbour was concerned about its welfare.
The enforcement officer and I had a good chat about the Lift-Rite and its presumptive right to occupy its own little slice of suburban heaven. The Lift-Rite is a thing that lifts things. Near as I can tell, its closest relative is a forklift, but without a driver’s seat. It’s about ten feet tall and you can kind of tell it was once yellow if you look very closely at the edges of the rust-coloured bits. Apparently Lift-Rites are not allowed to live in suburbia. And neither are trailers, Mr. Community Standards informed me, but so far the trailer has dodged a summons to appear in court. Regardless, what I’d like to know, and probably what you and everybody else wants to know, is where do other suburban people put their Lift-Rites? It’s mystery, for sure.
The rules and regulations concerning what one is allowed to do, and more importantly not do, on their private property in suburbia are infinite. They should provide a Welcome Wagon package that clearly outlines the myriad things that are forbidden, but I guess it would cost too much money to print and bind the (abridged) thousand-page document. I would not be surprised if the town specifies the colour of the flowers you must have in your hanging baskets. Fortunately, I have not bumped up against that one yet because I don’t bother with hanging baskets. Oh. Wait. I bet if I looked closely enough at subsection 1.2.5.001 of the property standard related to front entrance embellishments, I’d discover that hanging baskets are mandatory. My bad. Add that to your list, Community Standards people.
One thing that does not appear to be a concern to the folks at Community Standards is garbage. Not the garbage that makes it way to the curb every second Wednesday, suitably encased in a can (although I dare say they might object if I decided my garbage can should be shaped like a unicorn and festooned with glitter). I am referring to the garbage that lines the thoroughfare that leads from the high school to the purveyors of fast food that huddle in the plazas that flank the main drag.
In the defense of the litterers, there are no public garbage disposal vessels along the way, probably because their aesthetic does not meet community standards. Hence, the kids have no choice but to throw their McChicken boxes and Big Gulp cups and chocolate bar wrappers on the sidewalk. The media would have me believe the youth of today is highly in tune with environmental issues. And are all vegans and temple-of-the-body acolytes. My eyes tell me that’s not true. At least not in suburbia.