Sunday, December 2, 2018

THE BEAUTIFUL GREEN TREE





Easy reading is damned hard writing.            Nathaniel Hawthorne(1804-1864)


Growing up in Montreal, oh, what a blast on a cold, wintry day!  Blustery squalls, spinning like berserk Tasmanian Devils take your breath away.  It takes a half an hour just to get dressed in winter stuff and get out the door!
And it’s really bad after a big storm, when we get a major dump of snow.  It’s one of my chores, and my three sisters, to shovel out a parking space on the street, for my dad.  It needs to be cleared in time for him to park, when he gets home from work, around dinner time.  And, my baby sister really is useless because she is pretty little.  She doesn’t get an allowance yet either, because she doesn’t really do any chores, but then again, she doesn’t really know what an allowance is either.  She just likes to be outside with her three big sisters, which lasts maybe ten minutes and then she starts banging on the door, (she’s not tall enough to reach the doorbell), to be let into the house. 
Even with three young girls and six strong arms, our shovels are kinda small and sometimes it takes us a whole two or three hours to do after we get home from school.  Believe me, winter in Montreal pays, because even though my allowance is only a nickel a week, sometimes, if my mom’s feeling rich, it might go up to a dime if we have to shovel a lot.
*********
The approaching Christmas holiday is knocking on frosty windows and my school chums are breathless with excitement in anticipation of THE BIG DAY!  There is a Christmas tree in our classroom.  It’s a beautiful live tree, the greenest of green and has a pine scent that sure beats the stuff my mom puts in the mop water, when she washes the kitchen floor.  What a treat it is, going into my classroom for a week or two!  The fresh piney aroma smells so much better than wet socks and chalk.                 

My classmates and I work feverishly for days, making all the decorations for the Christmas tree from ‘scratch’.  Construction paper, twisted and turned and folded and scissored into wonderfully creative shapes and sizes, casts a rainbow of colours from the top to the bottom of our beautiful green tree.  Popcorn garlands and candy canes are especially fun to hang, with everyone sneaking a piece here and there, even the teacher.  The best decoration is saved for last.  The glowing white angel crowns the highest branch and looks upon us with peace and serenity.  What a fitting place for the guardian angel of our beautiful green tree!   



                                                                       
*********
A few days before Christmas break, the beautiful green tree would get to go home with someone.  The teacher asks us to write our names on small pieces of paper and one by one, we put them all in one of the kid’s toques.  Slowly rummaging around in the hat, the teacher finally pulls out that one special name and it was MINE! 
My excitement knows no bounds!  Dragging the beautiful green tree, now bare of all its glorious decorations,  I enthusiastically trudge toward home along slushy sidewalks, my head and tree barely visible above the snow banks, standing like sentinels guarding a castle.  I burst through the door and can hardly contain my glee as I announce to my mom, “I won the Christmas tree!  Isn’t it beautiful?” 
The look on my mother’s face is hard for a seven-year-old to understand but what came next isn’t.  “We’re Jewish.  No Christmas tree is coming into this house.” 
Shoulders sagging, eyes filling with tears, I struggle to understand what had gone so horribly wrong.  How could my beautiful green tree make my mother so upset?  I ran to my room, which I share with my three sisters, sobbing as if the world was ending. 
My dad got home from work a while later and I could hear my mother telling him about the beautiful green tree and how it arrived at our house.  Listening to their murmuring voices rising and falling, I doze off, exhausted from crying.
 My sister wakes me up to tell me supper is ready.  As I walk sullenly through the living room, what to my wondering eyes did I see, but my beautiful green Christmas tree, standing proudly in the corner.  A hand-lettered sign, simply proclaiming “Chanukah Bush”, propped on its branches, its one and forevermore only decoration.                                   
                 
                                       



© 2018 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.
















Saturday, October 13, 2018

THE NOT-SO-NAKED CHEF Part II


Turning around, I ramble over the dunes, working my way closer to the parking lot and my car.  It’ll be good to get home, ditch the bag of gross-me-out garbage and take a shower.
 ***** 
Continued from Part One

Ah, there’s nothing like a refreshing cool shower on a hot summer day.  I put on fresh undies and one of my long, t-shirt type nightshirts, knowing that I’m home for the evening.

During my rambles and ablutions, I finally decide what I'm  going to make for dinner.  Pan-fried, thin sliced T-bone steak from the local grocery store, in a little butter and fresh-picked corn-on-the cob and cucumbers from the local farmer’s market. New potatoes smashed with milk and butter, complete the picture.  Yum, yum!  My tummy is now in full rumble.

Turning the stove on, a bit to the high side, to sear my meat, I melt a little slab of butter and let it caramelize before I carefully place the still slightly frozen steak in the pan. 
Checking on the progress after a minute or two, I notice one part of it isn’t lying flat.  So I take my fork and press down on the uncooperative edge.  BAM!  A huge projectile of hot grease and butter comes shooting out from under the thin-sliced steak, and scatters like buckshot into hundreds of small pellets.  Their size notwithstanding, they are plentiful and they nail me and everything in their path.  The velocity of the many buttery, blobby missiles is astonishing.  Not only does it splatter me from the base of my fingers to almost my shoulder, along the inside of my right arm, but also hits the refrigerator which is about four feet behind me.  The noise is incredibly loud, so loud I think I jumped a foot.

I am absolutely gob-smacked and gob-covered.  For a good minute or two I stand there, covered in the now-cooling hot grease, and wonder what in the feck happened. 


Grabbing a paper towel, I carefully blot the globs, knowing better than to wipe.  As I examine the damage, I realize that I am very lucky that the trajectory of the grease was at about a 45° angle, instead of 90°, because then it would have blasted my face and that would have been horrible.  As it was, it soaked through my t-shirt in places and even managed to singe one of my lady parts.  Sigh! 

Wanting to eat my dinner, while it’s still hot, I put on a fresh 
t-shirt and chow down.  Only it didn’t taste as good as I thought it should.  Maybe I was in shock?


After I clear away the dishes, I google how to treat a grease burn, ‘cause it’s been a long time since I had one of those.  Of course, the first thing you should do, after blotting, is run cool, not cold, water over the burn(s) for about 5 minutes.  Uh huh, a little late for that but I did it anyway.   It's interesting to see that the worst areas, besides the lady part, are the two biggest burns, just below where my t-shirt sleeve ended – the furthest body part from the pan. That’s weird.

Luckily, I keep a well-stocked first aid supply cupboard and usually an antibiotic cream in the fridge but, for the time being,  I slather myself in real aloe vera (I have three very healthy plants) and leave all my parts uncovered. Nowadays the advice for burns is that you can keep them covered or not.  Back ‘in the olden days’, we were told never to cover a burn.  I guess modern technology caught up with first aid, along with everything else.


After I finish slathering all the visible regions, I lift my T-shirt and check out the lady bit.  Hmmmm, my right side sure took the brunt of those greasy projectiles.  Of course, the part which sticks out the furthest, (i.e. the boob), took a pretty direct hit.   Also, about half of my poor tummy looks like a nicely patterned speckled trout.  I just keep cutting the aloe leaves and slopping on the gel.  I am very thankful that aloe is one of the few plants that I can actually keep alive and it grows abundantly.

Deciding to go ‘old school’, I leave all my parts aloe-slathered, but uncovered.  Sleeping that night could have gone a whole lot better.  About half-way through my very restless attempt at reaching REM sleep, because things are rubbing against the burns, I figure it’s the 21st century and decide to give today’s way of thinking a try.



 
I raid my first aid bin and assemble everything I think I’ll need.  I cover all my singed parts with fresh aloe, and sterile gauze pads.with one exception – have you ever tried to bandage a boob?  Uh huh, doesn't work that well.
I wind yards of gauze bandage around the worst areas on my forearm and upper arm.  Now that was interesting – ever try to do that kind of thing with only one hand?  At least it’s my ‘good’ hand although I couldn’t quite get the gauze strip wound tight enough.  About a half mile of the hospital-grade tape finishes my amateurish efforts.



Sighing tiredly, I head back to bed.  I’m pretty wound up from all the first-aiding, so I turn on the TV and hope to be lulled to sleep listening to the Food Channel.  That didn’t work.  Now I’m hungry ‘because I didn’t really eat much of my dinner after that greasy ‘appetizer’.  It’s about 3:00 a.m. at this point and I know that whatever I may eat now will only come back to haunt me, so I forego the very early a.m. snack and try to get a little comfy. 

I turn off the TV and turn on a soothing CD, something that’s titled, “You Can Heal Your Life”.  How appropriate.  I hope it’ll heal my body along with my life.

Boy, am I ever glad I don’t cook naked.



© 2018 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION




Friday, September 28, 2018

THE NOT-SO-NAKED CHEF





Boy, am I ever glad that I’m not The Naked Chef!  If I was, I’m sure that what happened the other day, could have and would have been much worse.  It started out so ordinarily, just an ordinary kind of day, oh about four or five days ago … 

*******************



It’s rather nice out today, sun shining brightly, the odd fluffy white cloud tumbling slowly across the vivid blue sky and best of all, no humidity.  It seems like there’s been a humidex warning of about a thousand every day for weeks.  I decide to take advantage of this beauteous day and get some errands done, which I have been putting off because I just don’t feel like moving when it’s so humid. 

Going for a walk over by the beach makes me feel virtuous and I think, hopefully, it will offset the last ten days or so of slothfulness.   I wander down the beach, picking up trash as I go.  I come prepared and keep one of those dollar store grabber thingies and rubber gloves in the trunk of my car, along with an assortment of garbage bags.  

You know, it’s pretty disgusting what people leave behind, after enjoying a summer day at the water’s side.  I’ve hauled broken down beach chairs and busted up, moldy beach umbrellas to the trash because whoever owned them couldn’t be bothered.
On occasion, I’ve fished out big chunks of what appear to be solid foam insulation from the waves and which the shore birds seem to believe is something to eat.  They must think the orangey-pink colour means worms or some other delectable morsel – NOT.


These day trippers would have had to go right by the trash cans to get to their cars but yet, they just can’t be bothered to take their garbage with them.  “Leave it for the people who get paid to clean up after us”, has been heard.  What??  You have a maid?  Butler?  Manservant?  Must be nice.  I only have me and believe me, I DO NOT get paid for cleaning up the beach.  And no, nobody asked me to do it.  I do it out of outrage at the pigs (apologies for the insult to pigs) and concern for the kids and dogs and shore birds and assorted wildlife.

Rusty Beer Cap
I think of all the young’uns having a ball, running through the sand.  They’re not looking where they’re going, or where their feet are landing.  Imagine a bottle cap (usually from beer, which shouldn’t be on the beach anyway) and which are usually rusty and mostly seem to land bottom side up.  Do you know what that fluted edge can do to a young foot when they step on it hard enough?  It’s like a hot knife through those tender feet.  Same for dogs, who also shouldn’t be on the beach but people ignore that rule also.

And you just gotta love those cigarette butts too, with all the nasty, toxic chemical-laden filters.  The filters are made out of a kind of plastic.  It’s very slow to degrade in the environment[i] and typically a cigarette butt will take anywhere from eighteen months to ten years to decompose, depending on conditions.  And believe me, I see this every time I beach-comb.  A lot of what I pick up are these almost perfectly intact one inch poison pellets, as I’ve come to think of them.  
Used Cigarette Filter
I can just imagine all that nicotine and tar and other crap[ii], which is sucked into the filter by supposedly sentient human beings.  Although, according to what I’ve read, filters are pretty much useless.  They are effective enough to trap some of the tar, nicotine and other chemicals but create more of a problem than they’re worth. People douse their butts in the sand, which may be swept into the water and then back to the sand, all the while leaching out whatever they’ve absorbed.  They are considered a biohazard[iii] and place some of our marine life in jeopardy. Almost TWO BILLION pounds (907,184,740 kilos) of butts wind up as toxic trash every year. Little kids and sometimes dogs and birds think they make a tasty treat. 
                                                                                                                                
Get me off of my soapbox!  Suffice to say that I hope I’ve seen it all, right down to the used prophylactic laying limply in the damp sand.  YUCK!  I use a nearby stick to pick that up, not wanting to contaminate my grabber any more than it needs to be.

Around 4:30, my tummy starts making the faintest of rumbling noises, which is when I realize it’s getting on for dinner time.  And that’s when I start thinking about making dinner, or …?  Eat out, which is something that I rarely do.  Not only is there limited choice close to home, but it can also get really pricey if you do it too often. 

Sighing and remembering my monthly budget’s slightly negative balance and it being only the 20th of the month, I decide to make my supper.  Even bigger sigh.  Ten more days until the bank account is topped up and I have to cook dinner and clean up after it.  Double whammy! 

Turning around, I ramble over the dunes, working my way closer to the parking lot and my car.  It’ll be good to get home, ditch the bag of gross-me-out garbage and take a shower.

To Be Continued …




© 2018 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT OR IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION 









[i] Christian Science Monitor,
Earth Talk – Little cigarette butts make big litter impact
November 18, 2009
By The Editors of E Magazine
[ii] Ambio. 2017 Apr; 46(3): 361–370.
Published online 2016 Nov 14. doi:  10.1007/s13280-016-0851-0
PMCID: PMC5347528
PMID: 27844421
Environmental impacts of tobacco product waste: International and Australian policy responses
Lucinda A. Wallbank,1 Ross MacKenzie,2 and Paul J. Beggs1
Copyright © Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences 2016
[iii] M Register, Kathleen. (2000). Cigarette Butts as Litter—Toxic as Well as Ugly. Bull Am Litt Soc. 25.

Saturday, June 23, 2018

SURVIVAL









Piping Plovers hatch

Four chicks all wet and wobbly

Only Wylie now









Photo credit Neal Mutiger

© 2018 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.




Wednesday, June 13, 2018

NEW AND IMPROVED?


  
My daughter was born almost 44 years ago.  Today, when I was walking by the credenza, on which I keep a few framed photographs, her newborn baby picture, the one taken right in the hospital by one of those professional outfits, caught my eye. 

Why, you ask?  Well, firstly because it’s black and white.  And secondly, because I started wondering how many people still keep framed photographs on display in their homes.   Then I started thinking about how much this world has changed during my lifetime.  Who woulda thunk it?

          

My daughter arrived during ‘the transitional decade’ in the photography field, about three or four years too early, before colour became more common place and more importantly, economical for the average ‘Joe’ to afford.   

Now, modern technology, is as I like to describe the world I’m living in now, offers so much.  It’s quite bewildering and somehow, to me, somewhat incredible, yet not.  It also, I believe, could very well be the end of society as we know it. 

At least my daughter was born during the time that people actually still took ‘pictures’ and got them developed.  They would occasionally enlarge one or two of their favourites and have them framed, showing them off around their home, sometimes completely covering the top of that old, massive, heavy-as-hell stereo/TV cabinet combo.  
  
You know the kind I’m talking about – big, old black and white TV in the lower middle of the unit, sometimes concealed behind swanky sliding doors.  The record player would be in the top centre and sometimes, there would also be a built-in am/fm radio, usually on the right-hand side.  On the left side, there may be a handy bar area, with built-in compartments for a fancy, crystal decanter and matching highball glasses.

My middle grandchild, her nose out of joint, once asked why there were so many pictures of her older sister on display and hardly any of her.  I told her to ask her mother about the coming of the digital age. 

With the availability of affordable computers, cell phones and digital cameras, our world has changed, and not necessarily for the better.  Oh sure, cell phones come in handy, especially when you slide off the road during a blizzard but it’s only really helpful if you know where you are.  That’s where a GPS comes in handy, although, these days I think ‘smart’ cell phones have a ‘find me’ feature.  My cell phone, is a little ‘flip’ phone which I get teased about, a lot.  The only thing smart about it, is the person using it.

My newest GPS (I only buy GARMIN), gives me verbal directions to wherever it is I’m going and it also has a small field at the bottom, which tells me where I’m at – bonus!  I frequently don’t know where I am when I’m out jaunting, even with this great feature, because I forget that it’s there.  In a way I think I liked it better back in the ‘olden days’.  I used to get so mis-directed that not only did I not know where I was but I didn’t even know what direction in which I was travelling.  Somehow, being so totally lost was an adventure and, eventually, I always made it home.
  

Luckily, if I slide off the road and don’t know where I am, my GPS has a ‘WHERE AM I?’ feature.  This not only tells you your elevation but also and more importantly, it gives you your coordinates in longitude and latitude degrees, which pinpoints your location precisely.  Useful to have, so emergency services can find you.  That particular feature came in handy a few years ago when I slid into very deep tire tracks, cut into a muddy road, used mostly by farm tractors, in the back of the beyond, around Glen Huron.  That experience taught me to never go off-roading (not intentional believe me) during a rainy, spring season.  I was in those muddy ruts up to my hubcaps (nowadays called wheel covers, I believe) and even my friend, a homegrown farm girl, who drove tractors from the time she could reach the pedals, couldn’t chivvy us out.  The tow-truck operator used the coordinates to find us and was able to tow us out from about 100 feet away (about 30 meters) from where we were stuck.  There was no way in hell he was going to drive his freshly washed white tow truck through the muck to get any closer.  That’s one adventure I will always remember.  I have not been back to that road since.

I also have a digital camera, which is slowly, but surely, being challenged by smart phones, which have a built-in camera and some even take high quality images.   Even my little flip phone has a camera but I can tell you that downloading the photos and sending them is quite complicated and it makes my head hurt trying to figure it out, so I rarely use it for shooting.   

The days of having to pay for developing are dead and gone.  Now we have free software, which enables us to fix (edit) our images, and then transmit them immediately to all our friends and family.  Talk about instant gratification.  I can tell you that makes me very happy, since I describe myself as an enthusiastic amateur photographer and rarely go anywhere without my camera at my side.  I have discarded hundreds if not thousands of images, which just aren’t very good.  Back in the ‘olden days’ I had rolls of film developed, good and bad pictures alike and paid a good buck for the service, only to throw out half the photographs.
                                                                                            

Nowadays, if anyone has a question, the resounding response is, “Google It!”, and I do, for any number of topics.  Over the weekend for instance, I was able to fix my toilet seat and feel very proud of myself for being able to do so, after I 'Googled It' to figure out how.   
             



I have a weird kind of soft-close seat I’ve never had the pleasure of adjusting before.  It was pretty simple, once I knew how.  I’ve also printed out the instructions to keep for the next time I think I’m going to toboggan off the porcelain.        

So many inventions, so little time, especially when you’re in your early 60s.  But along with all the inventions, comes change, big change.  Good, bad or … Stay tuned.



© 2018 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.  

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

CAVEAT EMPTOR







In almost the same amount of time it takes to have a baby, based on the average of 9 months, my life changed.

Way back in September last year, I decided to sell my house, which I had purchased about 5 years before.  My house, brand new when I bought it, (although used as a builder’s model for a couple of years) is situated in a land lease community, just north of Toronto.  Described as a retirement community, it was where I planned to live until I died.  And then I moved.

I still remember my move-in day vividly, a flawless spring day in 2012.  The movers arrived at my new home well
before me and, when I finally got there, they said, “No wonder you wanted to move here.  Look at that blue, blue sky and smell that fresh air.  We’ve been listening to the birds singing and squirrels are playing everywhere.”   Sofie, The Wonder Dog, was equally impressed and nose to ground, checked out her new territory.  

I really loved it there, but, regretfully, that feeling only lasted about a year, until we were sold by the original developers and owners, I’ll call MomAndPop Co.  They owned and ran 'The Park' for over 40 years and treated the owner-tenants like they were part of their Family. 

About a year after I moved in, ‘The Park’ was sold to a BIG land lease company, I’ll call LL Biggie Co.  Land lease communities are not all they’re cracked up to be.  This is especially true when ‘The Park’, which sprawls out over 300 or so acres, was now owned by a very large company, based here in Canada, whose only concern seems to be making its deep pockets even deeper.  And never mind some of the other people who inhabit ''The Park’ who fight hard to control owner-residents and the local politics, masquerading as a homeowners association.  This particular ‘Park’ is larger than some villages.  Population-wise, there's about 1,200 homes, in which some 2,000 tenants are contained. 


And, not too long after LL Biggie Co. bought ‘The Park’ and which they used to advertise as ‘One of Ontario’s most beautiful retirement communities’, it's now being marketed and targeted  to ‘mid-age couples and singles looking for an exceptional adult lifestyle community’.  Its location so close to Toronto, and lower purchase prices, makes it attractive for unenlightened commuters.

One day, not too long ago, surfing the net, I came across an article where one of the company’s regional directors made a comment, that, to this day I’m still shaking my head over.  Apparently he thinks that owing your own home, and because it has a yard, this will protect you against the politics.  Apparently, this protection is lacking if you’re a tenant in an apartment or you own a condo.  Huh?  

You ARE a TENANT in a land lease community.  At least in a
condo you have input as to what happens in your complex.  In a land lease community, YOU NEVER have a say, ever!  The land owners can do whatever the hell they want, doesn’t matter the cost, and then hike up the rent by asking for an ABOVE GUIDELINE INCREASE, which may happen every year, to pay for the work.  AND, they are usually awarded at least a big chunk of what they want, if not all of what they're asking for). So, boy, in my opinion, is this LL Biggie Co. regional director ever wrong.  

And I can tell you, that if anything, the politics are THE WORST I have ever experienced in any community I’ve lived in as an adult, with power-hungry megalomaniacal cliques ruling the ‘Park’ through their roles in a homeowners association, tentacles spreading wide to encompass the zombie sheep, the naïve and the unwary.  The 
LL Biggie Co. director who said, “Unlike renting an apartment or even buying a condo, with all of the politics that can come with that, a land lease program gets them their own home with their own yard.” [1] (McLean, 2016) has obviously never lived in one of 
LL Biggie’s communities.  And, I would like to know, just how does owning your own home and having a yard protect you against the politics?  Does that make sense?  It doesn’t make sense to me.


[1] Property Biz Canada 



[2] meg·a·lo·ma·ni·a
   (mĕg′ə-lō-mā′nē-ə, -mān′yə)
n.
1. A psychopathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.
2. An obsession with grandiose or extravagant things or actions.




[2] The Free Dictonary by Farlex 


What is a land lease community you ask?  Hmmmm, good question.  I describe a land lease community as a place where you buy and own your house but the land underneath it and all around it, is owned by someone else, in my case,  a company called LL Biggie Co..  Said company is supposed to maintain the grounds and common areas, including storage sheds and provide the necessities of living, like snow clearance, road maintenance and functioning infrastructure, such as water and sewers and garbage collection.  You pay a monthly rent for the land, on which your house is situated.  You also pay your house taxes to LL Biggie, which then remits to the town, so you never see or get a tax bill from anyone.  Getting a value from MPAC (Municipal Property Assessment Corporation) may be problematic.  You also pay for your other utilities, such as heat and hydro, internet and telephone.  Even getting decent TV service is a problem, because the service provider for The Park has a monopoly on cable TV and you have no choice as to which company to use.  I was told by the president/owner of the cable company that “We don’t have time for customer service.”  My response was, “Well, then I hope my cable TV service is perfect.”  It wasn’t.

Essentially, you don’t own the rocks and dirt under your house, which may make it, oddly enough, pricier for insurance.  Sometimes A LOT pricier. One company I contacted, quoted me $4,000.00 a YEAR for my not-quite 1,100 square foot house, rocks and dirt not included.  Obviously, they did not want my business.  For some reason, insurance companies seem to place greater value on the strata under your house, rather than on the structure itself.  I am still gob smacked over that one but don’t really care anymore, because I have moved and most definitely not to a land lease community. 
                                          
The biggest advantage, I believe, buying a house in a place where you don’t own the land, is that the price of the house may be lower than a conventional, comparable home, BUT, remember you have to pay monthly rent.  I can say that since LL Biggie bought out MomAndPop Co., the rent has been going up by leaps and bounds.  The Landlord & Tenant Act limits annual rent increases in some communities, depending on when ‘The Park’ was built, until the tenant moves. Then it’s open season on how high the Park owner can jack up the rent. Doing a little simple math – say monthly rent is $500.00, multiply that by 12 months, then multiply that by 5 years, that equals (Ta Da) $30,000.00 on top of what you originally paid for your house and which doesn’t include your taxes.  And believe me, that’s just a basic figure – calculate in a rent increase of about 1.8% (average) for each of the 5 years and add an Above Guideline Increase (AGI) of say, 1%.  Still think your bargain is still such a bargain? 

With a starting rent of $6,000.00 per year, over the course of a few short years, using an average annual increase of 1.8% per year (which landlords can raise the rent by rote, without having to get approval from the Landlord & Tenant Board and now you’re paying about $6,650.00 over those years.  But wait, there’s more …

NOW, for example, add an average 1% annual award for ABOVE GUIDELINE INCREASES on top of the ‘usual’,  and that equals an additional $255.00 (or approximately 56%) after just 4 years.
  

      SUB-
   ANNUAL      TOTAL            ABOVE
    RENT        NEW   GUIDELINE           SUB-        NEW
END OF RENT/           INCREASE      ANNUAL   INCREASE          TOTAL      ANNUAL
YEAR YEAR 1.8%        RENT 1.0%              INCREASES        RENT
1 6,000.00 108.00 6,108.00 61.08 169.08 6,169.08
2 6,169.08 111.04 6,280.12 62.80 173.84 6,342.92
3 6,342.92 114.17 6,457.10 64.57 178.74 6,521.67
4 6,521.67 117.39 6,639.06 66.39 183.78 6,705.45
450.61         254.84 705.45


So, now you’re up to $6,705.00, or $705.00 MORE than when you moved in 5 years ago.  And if you keep doing the calculation over 10 years and 15, your skin should be starting to crawl right about now with the implication.  I can tell you that the annual increases for CPP and Old Age Pension DO NOT even come close to covering the average, annual rent increase.  Now, ADD an ABOVE GUIDELINE INCREASE,  which LL Biggie will apply for every year and most likely will be awarded, on top of it.  I ask you again, is your bargain house such a bargain?

The number of listings for my former little village, which I see on the local real estate site and LL Biggie’s website, seems to be at an all-time high.  Some of the places have been languishing on the market for 6 months or more, including my old place, which ironically had been purchased by LL Biggie Co..  I don’t really wonder why.  Methinks that LL Biggie’s bad rep (greed) is starting to catch up with them.


Also, keep in mind, that because you don’t own the rocks and dirt, equity will usually take longer to accrue and may be lower than a conventional house, especially in an older place which needs updating.

And then, add the 30% or so increase in my house tax, which the town imposed.  When I called, I was told that ‘they’ changed the business model as to how the taxes were calculated and, man, my bargain house was not such a bargain anymore.

All-in-all, my 5 + years of living in LL Biggie land, was an eye-opener and the drama still continues to this day.  Between yesterday and today, I got 3 robo calls from LL Biggie Co., because of what turned out to be a water main break and a subsequent boil water advisory.  Uh, oh.  Not good.  I am very glad that I’m not living there anymore.  That happened a few times over the short time I lived there and now again.  Obviously they’re not maintaining their robo call list either, since I haven’t lived there in 6 months.

Do your homework, people, before you buy anything and especially when the $$$$$$ are in the hundreds of thousands.  The impact of the stress living in a place where the owners worship money and the homeowners group worships power, may be very detrimental to your health.  I doubt very much I would have bought where I did, had the new (current) owners been in power when I was looking.  
CAVEAT EMPTOR.       



Swimming anyone?  Many ‘pools’ like this throughout the ‘Park’.



                   Storage sheds are not being maintained. 
                    What do you think this does for your property (house) value?



\
This is the way they clear the roads, clear the roads, clear the roads …



    The bitterness of low quality lingers longer than sweetness of low price


© 2018 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.