People who volunteer to be the President of a condo board should be sainted. They should get the medal of honor. They should be able to have sex with any famous person, living or dead. It’s a thankless job.
Condo board members shouldn’t have to pay for a drink for the duration of their tenure. They should be allowed to steal my remote control, inhale my Trader Joe’s caviar and take a shit in my toilet. I should be massaging one of them right now, but I need both my hands to type. I’m irrationally symmetrical.
Some of my neighbors treat our condo board members like teenagers treat their parents. They yell at them in the driveway. They send them vitriolic I HATE YOU! texts. They refuse to answer emails with pertinent questions that are time-sensitive. They make viable death threats.
As a person who benefits from the condo board but does nothing to help them, I see myself as a middle-aged non-striver who lives in her parent’s basement, accepting that my mama is still toasting my Pop-Tarts. I suck, but I’m not the worst. I send polite emails, telling the terrorized board I’m on their side. I’m not a hero exactly, but I am an ally.
Dear Board Prez.,
I heard Bob sent you death threats, Melanie dumped over your compost in protest to raised assessments and Cindy just set your car on fire. I know you‘re a volunteer who lives here and wants the best for everyone. I don’t agree with their behavior. I’m one of the good guys. I’m so sorry our loser neighbors are harassing you. Let me know if I can drop off a beer or call the fire department. I memorized their number when I was little.
Best, Amy
I used to be on a condo board. They were demented. I once sat next to a woman who seemed normal, hoping to avoid proximity to the serial ranter. Instead, I spent two hours with this woman's mouth stuck in my ear, whispering about how rich her thirteen-year-old daughter’s boyfriend was.
It would be one thing if she were just talking, but she was pressing into me, hot breath feverishly accompanying her droning on about this trust fund baby schtupping her daughter. I suggested she tell the group. She giggled, grabbing my arm with her greedy paw.
I folded forward complaining my back hurt. She leaned over and continued her steamy teen porn. I lit a cigarette, cracked open her mouth, and blew smoke into it. She inhaled and said she missed nicotine. I told her I had COVID, the first strand. She thanked me, said she needed antibodies.
I initiated a coughing fit, hacking a loogie into my coffee cup for my grand finale. She rubbed my back and suggested I quit smoking. Nothing silenced her until I said, “Rich guys keep prostitutes on retainer. Make sure your daughter is practicing safe sex.”
I missed the next meeting. Another neighbor told me the woman dominated the meeting complaining about my dog. She wasn’t wrong. I did walk through the courtyard at three a.m., screaming at my dog to take a shit. Nobody told her to sleep with her windows open and she could have moved her bedroom to the other side of the courtyard. We were in a dance.
Another reason I stopped joining boards was because of a woman who showed up and talked about squirrels in her walls all night. I couldn't sleep for a week thinking about those same squirrels in my walls. All that time, I’d thought they were rats.
One day, I’ll join a board just in case there is a condo committee in Heaven. I haven’t figured out how I’m getting through those pearly gates yet — not sure if my virtues have outweighed my sins, so I’m hedging my saint bucket. I only have one steadfast rule for being on a condo board now. I get to quit after the first death threat. I’m sure St. Peter will understand.