Having read and commiserated with Kentucky Girl’s plight on Fucktard Day, I went on my way chortling at all the crazy ass drivers on the road and crazy ass fans at hockey games. You know – the people out there who irritate the hell out of you at the time, but who you don’t have to personally deal with on any real level. Generic assholes.
Then, I picked up a copy of the recent strata meeting minutes for the townhouse complex we live in.
The front page was unusual: it was typed in bold, idiot sized print and used short, simple language to emphatically encourage everyone to read the minutes as they contained important information on the day to day running and financial aspects of the strata. Really, it is in everyone’s best interest, it suggested, that they read the following pages.
Duh. But, whatever. Upon flipping the page over, though, it all made a little more sense…
For some unknown reason [full moon, blue moon,, general bitchiness??] there were a tonne of dumb ass complaints, requests and assumptions made on the part of my neighbours and fellow owners scattered throughout the minutes. Owners were expecting the strata to pick up the tab for damages after their bathtub overflowed. Others felt a common area tree should be removed as it provided “too much” shade. Another complained that the yard work began far too early in the morning – at 8:30am. Yet another was kind enough to inform the council that they planned to alter the green space behind their unit.
Apparently, the strata concept is way beyond some people. Strata owners: you are no longer renting from your landlord. There is no one you can call when your toilet gets plugged and have them come over and fix it for free. You do own your place, and are therefore responsible for the stuff inside it BUT you have to ask permission for anything outside. Of course, there are exceptions: structural stuff and roofing and the like. But, jeez, if your individual hot water tank dies of old age or your dog pisses on the carpet, please don’t ask the entire complex to pay for your wet vac.
And so, the epiphany: not only are the idiots out there, but, it seems, I also get to live among them.