Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Welcome to the neighborhood.

Today commenced what could be a vicious series of satirical rants covering a single subject: my HOA. As a proponent for the downsizing of government, it is no thrill of mine that my Homeowner's Association bleeds me dry while offering in return alleged services that I have yet to see.

And so I commence.

This evening, while helping myself to a bowl of uterus preservation miso soup with extra tofu, I came across a plain white envelope with the return address to a PO Box located in who knows where. (Apparently, the menial task of creating a nuisance in the homeowner's daily life has been outsourced.) Reluctantly, I began to tear away at what must have been NASA approved adhesive expecting to see a charming $67 bill alongside a newsletter reminding residents to keep their dogs and children on leashes.

I was wrong.

Please examine the following. Some parts have been altered to protect the identity of the blogger. Because it's a "secret."

RE: Lot#XXX -- "Unfenced Area" Landscape/Bark Replacement

Dear Ms. CheeseFriesRants,

During a community inspection on October 19, 2010, it was noted that your yard was in need to maintenance, specifically, your bark needed to be replaced.

My first reaction: "WTF, I have bark?"

Immediately, I verbally compose my soon-to-be-written response:

RE: Lot#XXX -- "Unfenced Area" Landscape/Bark Replacement

Dear Ms. Scribe of all things HOA,

I do not know where my bark is. Please advise.

Instinctively, however, I decide to venture out into my front yard to investigate the alleged lack of bark presence.

Indeed, I have a plot in which bark resides. However, the HOA and I differ in opinion as to the appropriate ratio of bark to dirt per square inch.

The letter then proceeded to inform me that I am in violation of section B-4 f) of the Association's governing documents.

I guess I should have read those.

In my defense, my chihuahua hand was already shaking from signing the 800,000 other loan ad title documents, 60% of which described me as "an unmarried female." Well thanks for rubbing it in, Federal Housing Authority. It's agencies like you that have driven me to eat my daily dose of soy product so to preserve my reproductive system for the long haul.

Please replace your bark with the similar color and style no later than November 4, 2010.

Not only do I have to augment my bark to dirt ratio, but I also have to replace it according the exact color scheme which her Majesty's HOA has selected. And I have a deadline. Well at least they said please.

Can somebody tell me where my $67 a month is going? As I have learned through this emotionally taxing ordeal, it's not paying for bark. My bet is that it goes straight into a slush fund harbored by the HOA Workers Union to keep it in power. Backed by the Committee for Worthless Crap (CFWC), the Union is no doubt involved in back-room deals with corrupt, embezzling politicians.

My options for response are twofold:

1) Ignore the above letter, and wait to see if the HOA is all bark and no bite. Yes, that pun is intended.

2) Replace the bark, but continue to gripe. Upon completion of bark replacement, silently form a mutiny to overthrow the regime in the name of Patriotism.

I'll elect for the latter. Readers beware, the HOA lake may soon find itself tasting a hint of Lipton Chamomile.



Thursday, October 14, 2010

My dating life is like the last piece of bread in the loaf.

I just learned a very valuable lesson: when you have a craving for pizza and beer, don't attempt to satisfy said craving with a Lean Cuisine Deluxe Pizza and an MGD 64. No amount of calorie cutting is worth such a flavor tease. As I wash down the rubbery imitation cheese atop a dry cracker with hops hinted water, my entire being is overwhelmed with regret. 64 calories, yes. But it's 64 calories of watered down crap.

The upside? I can drink all 6 of them and not feel guilty. That's the point right? Quantity over quality?

I am reluctant to say that I have come to that awkward age that all single girls in their mid-twenties fear most. The ring-check stage. As I age toward the impending doom of 25 and a half years old (at least it's not 26, thank God *cough*), I have become accustomed to this disappointing practice. See a handsome, potentially date-worthy young gentleman? Before you smile and bend over to show your 13 ounces of cleavage, you have to check the hand. And the older we get, the most sparkle we see on those left hands, am I right ladies? It catches our eye and as our heart drops into our bowels and our stomach tries to fall out of our butts, all that goes through our minds is "Another one bites the dust."

And even if you're lucky enough to meet a seemingly eligible male not sporting the ring of death, that's only the first hurdle of many. While he might not be betrothed, 9 times out of 10, he's on some other girl's leash. I strongly believe that all males in a committed relationship should wear some sort of beacon that will indicate he's unavailable. This would make the life of the single girl tremendously easier. Even better, those that are single should be searchable by a simple smartphone app. Walk in to a room, search the app, and all of a sudden you have half the pre-conversation research done.

I'm all about efficiency here. SingleFinder, coming to an App store, near you.

I'm beginning to see the advantage to the arranged marriage. It's just like having reservations for dinner. You're at least guaranteed a table. And you're sure to have some dinner. Or at the very least, and appetizer or two.

At the rate I'm going, I might as well be anorexic. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about calorie cutting my junk food craving for the ultimate protection of my girlish figure that society has told me I need to snare what very well may be Earth's last single guy.

Facebook continues to baffle me with the live updates of who just declared themselves "in a relationship," "it's complicated," or the ultimate "engaged." I swear, I don't know how some of these people find each other. The coldhearted, the mean, the obnoxious, and the clinically insane are shackin' up, while I -- perfectly sane, only obnoxious some times, warm, and friendly -- spend my Saturday nights putting together Ikea furniture to the sound of America's Country Countdown. There is something wrong with this picture.

Somebody, please tell me "when you least expect it" is going to occur. I need to know if I should freeze some eggs or not.