Submission for Production Consideration
To: Michael Cipiti, Producer
From: K. Kirton Niner (“Shimmer”), Publisher, DoesThisHelp®
Date: [Insert Today’s Date]
Subject: Submission — “Confessions of an Unincorporated Boundary Queen: Tales From the Creekerhood”
Dear Michael,
As publisher of DoesThisHelp®, I’m submitting the attached humor column for your review and production consideration. This essay is drawn from my real-life experience living on an unincorporated land patent in Arizona—where the only HOA is an urban legend, and boundary issues are an everyday adventure. It’s designed to bring laughter and a bit of perspective to audiences who know all too well the challenges of property, community, and common sense in America’s wild west.
Thank you for taking a look.
Best,
K. Kirton Niner (“Shimmer”)
Publisher, DoesThisHelp®
doesthishelp.com
Confessions of an Unincorporated Boundary Queen: Tales From the Creekerhood
By K. Kirton Niner (“Shimmer”)
There’s a particular kind of peace that comes from living in an unincorporated patch of Arizona desert. It’s the sort of peace you have to fight for—one neighbor, one county notice, one missing cat at a time.
Take a morning in Rancho del Oro: I step outside and find my neighbor’s trash cans have once again migrated onto my property, as if my land patent were merely decorative. On a good day, someone with a clipboard—never an official, mind you, but always with opinions—will drop off a “friendly reminder” about property boundaries. The joke is, there’s no HOA here—never has been, never will be. This is unincorporated land, where the only association is between those who mind their business, and those who don’t. In the Creekerhood, the only thing more fictional than the HOA is the idea that “property lines are just suggestions.”
My “working cats”—employed for rodent control—have a turnover rate that would make a temp agency blush, thanks to the “coyote” next door who, on closer inspection, looks a lot like a dog with an alibi and a taste for mischief. Out here, wildlife is less “nature” and more “ongoing neighborhood dispute.”
And then there’s the unique joy of tech support. I call for help, get connected to a polite stranger with an accent—location unknown, could be Mumbai or Maricopa—and every time, the advice is the same:
“Have you tried turning it off and on again?”
If I had a nickel for every scripted answer, I could fund a proper fence—if only I could get a straight answer on where to put it.
Online, I’m a Google Local Guide with 25 million views, but my most viral photo is a Target parking lot. Meanwhile, my actual local expertise on bobcats, land patents, and wildland gardening gets less attention than my neighbor’s DIY driveway (now winding creatively around an APS transformer, because who needs public safety when you’ve got creative license?).
Every week brings a new “inspection” notice from Maricopa County, a neighbor who wants to annex my WiFi, and at least one unsolicited suggestion that I let someone pave the arroyo, “because it’ll look so much nicer with succulents from Home Depot.”
If ignorance is bliss, then this block is paradise. And if you’re wondering who’s in charge, it’s the person who still remembers the difference between a private boundary and a public invitation.
So here I stand—armed with a land patent, a sense of humor, and a cat named Snow who refuses to unionize. I keep my boundary marked and my patience thin, living proof that you don’t need an HOA to have rules; you just need the will to enforce them, and maybe a good local guide badge—if only for the irony.
Author Contact:
K. Kirton Niner (“Shimmer”), Publisher
DoesThisHelp®
doesthishelp.com
End of Submission
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