So, Svetlana thinks her job is absurd. Poor, poor Svet, you have yet to even dip your toes into the ponds of horrifying delirium I dive headfirst into every morning. You want to talk homeowners associations? I AM two associations. This is puzzling to me as the closest I've come to owning a home is being on a one year lease and paying $195 a month rent. Also, if we look at Google's definition of association: "A group of people organized for a joint purpose: "the National Association of Broadcasters"." This confuses me for two reasons, not only am I not a group of people (I'd probably win more fights if I was), I also have no idea what my purpose is other than apparently destroy trees and ruin afternoons.
Now, my tasks as an association are fairly simple, or would be if I could do anything without the approval of Ol' Junior. Woman wants to put a small vase outside her window with a few sunflowers. She calls and asks if it's okay. I tell her that of course it fucking is and not to waste my goddamn time (albeit with much sweeter words). I recount the story to my boss who scolds me. Obviously, a simple conversation was not enough, for I was no longer simply a man, I was an "ASSOCIATION!" now. So, I call the woman and ask if she could please send a letter, as a formality, requesting the placement of the sunflowers (which at this point I imagine were growing geriatric and flaccid). I call the woman yet again and ask for the letter, which she politely agrees to and sends. My boss tells me to "add it to our records". Just as I am begin to wonder why we would ever need a hard copy of this conversation, he makes another request. He asks that I write a letter to the woman confirming that we received her letter and that we approve of her TINY FUCKING VASE. This is a fucking loony bin.
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| gottagetoutofheregottagetoutofheregottagetoutofhere |
The next tale is remarkably similar, but I feel it necessary to show not just the depth of insanity I endure, but the frequency. So, Tony tells me he overheard that someone had installed iron bars at their backdoor. I call to investigate and the man politely explains to me that these bars do not obstruct the exit and are quite tasteful. I request photographs and tell him maybe I can work it out. He sends the photos, and the bars are rather tasteful. He includes his five year old son in one of the pictures, which makes me sick to my stomach, but wins my boss over. In any reasonable business, this is where our story again. But since I have the luck of a giraffe on a hill wearing a tinfoil hat in a thunderstorm, the bullshit commences. He wants me to first send the gentleman a letter saying he was violating code and needed to remove the bars. I show this letter to my boss five times until he has corrected (read:misspelled) enough of the words in it to be up to his bizarre and exacting specifications. He also demands for it to be printed each time before reviewing it. Now since he frequently uses his computer for other purposes, there is only one conclusion I can draw. Motherfucker wants to fight Captain Planet.
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| Bring it on, asshole. |
The man, being excessively polite and patient at this point, writes us a letter asking for permission. My boss decides his letter isn't professional enough and has me forge a letter from him to us. This undergoes six (SIX!) revisions. I then finally send him a response to his letter, approving his modification. This letter, seemingly the most important, is not even looked over. Here's the punchline, and it's an uppercut from a bodybuilding gorilla; he claims this entire process is "for our records". I have asked every employee here where I should be putting this correspondence. As far as anybody knows, the answer is: my ass. So far, I've been finding nooks and crannies to stash this shit in, but I think we all know how this is gonna end.
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In lieu of flowers, please punch my boss in the fucking liver.
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One last office oddity. This is a reasonably accurate transcript of a conversation between a tenant at one of the shopping centers I help manage, and I about a rather, unusual problems. His statements, like his demands, shall appear in bold. (Translated from broken Spanglish).
Hey! I need to speak to the boss!
He's out right now, could I help you with something?
Nobody told me about these goddamn iguanas! My wife has a phobia! She saw one and now she had to go to the emergency!
I'm sorry to hear about it. What can I do for you?
If you think I'm paying full rent, you're insane! I'm not paying to run a business out of a zoo!
So, you want to pay less rent because of an iguana?
And big lizards! All the time!
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um. this might warrant a rent adjustment
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Well sir, I don't think there are any reasonable measures we could take to avoid. And if you check your contract, you'll see that the tenant is responsible for pest control.
I'm surrounded by fucking lizards! Don't give me that faggot shit bro!
Listen, bro. I can have a new tenant replace you if you'd like. BIGGEST LIE I HAVE EVER TOLD.
Oh no no. But what the hell am I supposed to do?
I've heard primates are particularly adept at chasing down reptiles and defeating them. Don't tell my boss this, but why don't you rent a chimpanzee to take care of it? I won't say nothing.
Are you fucking with me?
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I gave him the number to Primate Products Inc., who likely spent the next three days laughing at him. All this has occurred while my boss has told me not to worry about a housing tenant who is using an indoor gas generator to power an external a/c unit while blocking all exits with rigid iron bars creating a situation that makes the Hindenburg look like a Brinks armored car driving through a school zone.
tl;dr My job's weird. God, please give me a scotch.
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