When a locked door isn’t just a locked door.

Tonight I returned home to my place of residence to a very, very alarming and troubling find.

A locked doorknob.

We do not lock the doorknob because there is no key. Only the deadbolt gets locked.

There’s another angle, a terrifying one, that I’ll get to anon.

In the meantime, after inserting my single key into the doorknob JUST to be very sure that it didn’t work (it didn’t), I was left asking: What to do?

What to do.

So I rang the doorbell. A few times. It was only 9:30 but my roommate(s) are in bed usually around 9. Plus the one who’s been a terror to me lately, the tyrant, listens to CDs through headphones to fall asleep. So she wouldn’t hear the doorbell.

I considered my options. Hop a wall and go through the backyard through her bedroom door. This of course would not only set the three dogs off to raging protective barking but my figure crossing her room would frighten her no end. And tick her off. Which is the last thing I need, she’s been a real bitch lately.

I considered also removing the screen from my bedroom window and slipping in — fortunately a viable option because in this heat I had the sliding window open so I wouldn’t need to break glass (not that I would).

My third and final option was to hop the wall and see whether a side door was unlatched. It was. So fortunately I was able to enter without disturbing the peace.

+ + +

Which of two roommates locked the doorknob that ought never be locked I can’t say. What I CAN say is that it is more than a mere oversight. My dictatorial roommate (and house owner) has been a living nightmare for me. Subconsciously she wants to lock me out and have me go, of that I have NO doubt. So locking the door “accidentally” … not so accidentally after all.

= = =

Moreover, and importantly, I lived with a female roommate in Denver who, I discovered, had some really serious issues, some, coincidentally, that run parallel to those of my current roommate.

She was very mentally unstable and just not nice. I came home one night to discover that she had changed the locks on me. In a blizzard. I was left homeless. Worsening matters, I was to start a new job the next morning. There is much more to this story that I don’t care to recount, it’s still very painful the years later.

The TRAUMA of coming home and finding the locks changed and having NOWHERE to go (no friends, I was new in town) in a nice Colorado blizzard … it has always stayed with me.

So when I came back tonight to find not the locks changed but a lock that’s never locked locked, barring my entry … it frightened me really really badly. It’s too close for comfort or trust in my roommate. She could be as capable of going off the deep end into really irrational actions (like that Denver roommate).

I’m walking a tightrope as it is. The walls are closing in — FAST. And the hostility from her is rising daily. I fear what she’s capable of.

So getting a job is a priority and now so is finding another living space. The timing is far from good. But like I said, I fear what she’s capable of. And I DREAD DREAD DREAD paying the June rent due in a day or two. It’s buying me more time in hell.

What is wrong with women that they are so unstable, vindictive, ungiving, narcisstic, controlling and/or viscous for no good reason? (Is there ever a good reason for having those characteristics?)

That’s my troubling ending to an otherwise OK day. I’m gonna try to sleep now; up early tomorrow for a job interview (food service so don’t get excited). I hope it works out. I need a job to quiet my shakes.

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The Home “Dawn” Sticks Her Foot in My Mouth

Many people just shouldn’t have roommates.

My roommate’s one of ’em.

Ritalin Roommate I’ve nicknamed her but I reckon soon an even more fitting name will emerge. The Friendly Tyrant. The Loud Tyrant. Not sure.

If a Friendly Tyrant seems incongruent, trust me, it’s more than conceivable! It’s common. Many tyrants through history have been charmers. Guys who ruled with a smile and “joviality” with their iron fists tucked inside velvet gloves. Take President Obama. Please.

While I’m not equating my roommate with Obama or Stalin or any other world-famous dictators, when it comes to one in the home, it’s too close and personal.

A dictator in the home sucks the life outta me. Unfortunately, this is not an unfamiliar scene. I was raised in a home with an extraordinarily controlling and dictatorial father who had his thumb on everyone. Especially me, because I fought back.

There’s a lot about my roommate, who’s female, that’s paternalistically oppressive. It’s her way or shut up. At 61-ish and seasoned by life, she should really know better. You don’t treat your roommates like children — children who shouldn’t be seen or heard.

She talks a lot about respect. “This is my house, you should respect that. You’re not respecting me or that this is my house.” Those kind of comments.

Here’s an observation:

Mafia dons, including Obama. What’s their No. 1 MO and rally cry? Respect. They insist, nee demand, respect. In truth, however, it ain’t respect. It’s intimidation. It’s bullying. It’s “Do As I Say or You’ll Find Yourself Swimming in Concrete Up to Your Eyebrows.”

Thing is, my roommate doesn’t see that. What she HAS is a need to be in near-absolute control. When a roommate, well, me, doesn’t “fall in line,” I’m perceived as provoking.

If say I leave the front door open to allow cool air to relieve the trapped heat and she wants it closed, she’ll shout to me across the house to shut the door and then “slam!” No please. No kindness. No courtesy even. No coming to my room, knocking on the door and requesting that the door be closed for X reason.

That’d be way too thoughtful and considerate and … wait for it … respectful.

How ironic that the woman who DEMANDS respect is the last to give it.

So yeah, she’s a tyrant and extremely unpleasant to live with. UNfortunately, I just can’t move right now. I need employment first.

Moreover, I do continue to scan the craigshitlist housing ads. Gawwwwwwwd is it slow out there so even if I DID have a job, the slim pickins and highly competitive housing situation impede a hasty escape.

For now, I’m stuck. Trapped. Unable to move, literally, and unable to breathe or speak except when I’m away from the house, which is most of the time. By being sooo controlling, she sticks HER foot in MY mouth. Anything I say is perceived as argumentative to her dictates. WTF, I cannot win for losing. Neither can I lose to win.

I HATE that I’m paying no small sum for this borderline abuse and toxic environment. A prison cell would be cheaper but gettin’ that room requires deeds I’m not really down for.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my mind chewing on the right nickname and keep writing. It’s about the only form of expression available to me for if I don’t voluntarily shut my mouth (and I do, for survival), it WILL be shut for me, thank you roommate.

Damn, I can’t wait for the day I get to bid adieu to this bitch!

By the way, I looked up don to see whether it’s strictly male. No mention was made, just the definition of “powerful Mafia leader.” I doubt there’s been many — or any — female dons through history. It’s not her name but I feel it appropriate to start calling her Dawn.

Craigslist gives it up for the cockroaches of life.

What’s up with craigslist?

Craigshitlist I mean.

I wonder whether the powers that be are aware of just how awful they’ve become.

How their job sections have been overtaken by the virulent virus of spammers. How their personal ads have become cesspools of people up to no good, indeed a very conservative way of putting it. Trolls.

I wonder whether they’re aware that the creepy and the crappy outweighs the considerate and the helpful.

Is it that they’re unaware? Or they just don’t care?

Either way, it’s a crime. Long, long ago, craigslist was a novel creation, a convenient way to connect people looking for roommates, jobs, for goods to buy and goods to sell and more.

But like anything else, when it’s not tended to, the system is downgraded. It collapses into its own decay and demise. The rodents and the cockroaches (read: spammers) move in, build their nests and then there’s no getting rid of them.

With proper monitoring and proactive enforcement of positive policies, much of the cumulative garbage and crap were preventable. Not all of it, mind you, for a gargantuan task that was.

What craigslist powers that be failed to do through time was stand on the side of right.

When spammers moved in, they failed to walk the talk about flagging.

But that’s not the worst of it. Craigslist failed to side with the good folks — those of us who DO flag the shit ads. Those of us who DO post ads alerting users of ads from phishers and spammers.

Those walking and breathing viruses are always one step ahead. THEY flag these posts aimed at alerting others.

And craigslist goes right along, falling in step with those phishers and spammers who make it a daily practice to flag helpful alerts that craigslist then proceeds to delete.

What is the point then of the good folks posting warning ads?!

There is none. And that’s the point. Craigslist ISN’T monitoring. It’s asleep at the wheel. It doesn’t care or has stopped caring.

And the result is what we see today: Craigshitlist. They gave up the good fight. They gave it up for the cockroaches of life.

Renaming Craigslist to Craigshitlist

I’m so damn sick of the craigslist jobs — “jobs” — category that I could scream, strangle someone or both!

Anyone who uses craigslist for job opportunities — “opportunities” — should know of the rampant — R-A-M-P-A-N-T — scammer ads that’ve taken over the category. As a very longtime and regular craigslist user — forced into daily regularity by a lack of employment — I can really speak to how downgraded craigslist has become over the years. Some 95 percent of the job ads are bullshit, written by cockroach scammers.

Craigslist is become craigshit list. Craigslist is the enabler.

How so?

Granted, with so many spammers run amok, the craigslist powers that be can’t possibly keep up with ’em all and delete the ads accordingly.

Craigslist HAS to rely on its users to flag the shit ads. And I do and I know others do, regularly and faithfully.

I personally also post ads warning others of ads that are proven scammers. I copy-paste the BS crap replies that these scamming/phishing “employers” send in response to your resume submission.

And what happens EVERY TIME? The scammers flag YOU. Yes, they flag those of us who are fighting the good fight, warning others of the CRAP BS ADS.

And then craigslist deletes YOU. You being the good guy. YOu being the person serving as the eyes and ears for craigslist by posting the Spam Warnings and Alerts that they can’t, won’t or don’t.

I am so damn fed up with doing the right thing on craigslist — only to be penalized by having my helpful ad flagged by the shit scammers and removed by craiglist!!!

I am done. I’m done doing what’s right. Done waiting for CRAIGSLIST to do what’s right by deleting the SCAMMERS and not those of us who are fighting that good — albeit endless — fight.

I wrote my complaint to the powers that be. Will they respond? Who’s to say. I won’t hold my breath. Doesn’t matter anyway. Craigslist has gone sooooo downhill that I can’t be bothered any longer to contribute my part to fix it.

Like cream, the shit always rises to the top and takes over. Craigslist job ads are no exception.

There’s a special place in Hades for spammers.

And not far behind is a place reserved for those who enable them.

Toot, toot, all aboard! Have fun on your ride, craigshitlist enablers.

M is for a maybe move

It’s neither a decision I wanted to make nor one that could’ve been predicted when I moved into my current digs last month.

Given the untenable roommate situation, it is best that I put pedal to the metal, find a new place to live and physically complete the move by Saturday, June 7, at 4:56 a.m. PST, when Mercury turns retrograde.

That’s 12 days from now. Sounds like a lot but it is NOT. It’s a landlords’ market here BIG TIME. Hell, it took many many months just to land this rental room. Not that miracles never happen. That’s prob’ly what it’ll take for this to happen.

The situation’s made tricky and confining by, yes, that dearth of housing. Moreover, there’s the looming 3-1/2-weeklong Mercury retro starting June 7, which from that point excludes all of June for securing lodgings — unless I’m willing to take on the MR effect, which I’m really not.

There’s also that niggling contractual term requiring 30 days’ notice. That has potential to either extend my stay longer than I want or force double rent should I find new digs. Yuck to each!

The retro’s definitely a force to be respected. However, it really doesn’t leave me much time to get a place found, a contract signed and a move made by June 6.

Unfortunately, even that best-case scenario doesn’t liberate me from my current lease. And I know my roommate will not be generous or understanding about letting me out early even if she could get a new tenant in the next day or two — which she could — and suffer no financial loss. Rental rooms are THAT much in hot demand here.

My thoughts on the matter are sound, reasonable and logical. However, they won’t win the day with a roommate who has shown strong irrational actions and dictates.

Anyhow, I’m committed now to the search for a new place that’s affordable (less than I pay now) with immediate occupancy. I’ll give it my best effort.

I’ll hope that the housing gods smile upon me in the next few days, when I REALLY need this to happen.

And I’ll hope that wherever I go, if I go, will be a space supportive — which, sadly, I still define simply as “won’t hurt me.”

Or imprison me.

That’s the latest. More to come soon.

Note to roommate: “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am. You’re the boss, ma’am.”

I was awakened from a deep sleep around 8 this morning.

Was it from the sound of the neighbor’s weed-wacker? A barking dog? Kids screaming in play on a Sunday morning?

None of the above.

Was my roommate talking on the phone. Really loudly (her normal range). In the living room. Which is just outside my bedroom.

That is inconsiderate.

She’s the owner so obviously knows my bedroom’s right there! She also knows I’m a night owl and late riser. Yet those ceased to exist — if indeed they existed. I would LOVE to be able to say something to her. Make her aware of the situation and simply request that she take her call to another part of the house. Which is very easily accomplished (with her office, bedroom and backyard out of earshot in my room).

In fact, I was surprised to hear her on the phone in the living room; she normally doesn’t conduct them there.

Like I was saying, I would LOVE to be able to mention it. But I can’t. I cannot. I don’t trust her response. She has a temper and as other recent events indicate not reliably fair or rational. One “misstep” on my part could send the whole housing situation crashing down and next thing I know, I’m evicted. Which I cannot afford on any level.

So I have to swallow everything she dishes out. Whether her actions and dictates are inconsiderate, mean, borderline abusive, irrational or simply stupid, I must comply. I must keep my mouth shut. I must bow and abide. “Yes, mammm. You’re the boss, mammm.” With which she immediately concurred when I said it in jest the other day.

“You’re the mistress, mammmm.”
Yes I Am.

It’s an insult to my intelligence, kindness, thoughtful and cooperative spirit to reside with someone who assumes lordship and dictates as if I were a 5-year-old child.

It’s an insult to my independent and capable self who has lived through A LOT A LOT with no help from anyone and in fact, moreover, hardships and brutalities inflicted by others!

It’s an insult to be forced into this Obedient Child – House Mistress role at age 57! WTF?!?

= = =

Unfortunately, can’t move. Handcuffed by circumstances — lack of employment being key. Can’t get my own place with a source of income for landlord’s paperwork.

And definitely do NOT want to trade in yet one more roommate situation for another. That’s dumb. That’s jumping from the frying pan into the fire. That’s not the solution, as indicated by a truly rugged roommates’ history.

The SOLUTION is: LIVE SOLO.

EMPLOYMENT is the key.

Please, universe, please, bring me my job. Now. Being without an income and work that I so need to be doing are making matters really really tight. Bad. Stressful. Uncomfortable. Imprisoning.

I need my freedom from unemployment and I need my freedom from this unhealthy living arrangement.

THANK YOU!

The Ritalin Roommate and Other Unpleasantries in the “Home”

Many of my roommates get nicknames known usually only to me.

Biker Dude.
The Stalker.
The Psycho Loon.
The Dangerous Bitch.

My current roommate is the Ritalin Roommate.

To my knowledge, she isn’t on ritalin and I’m not suggesting that she should be. I don’t support the MASSIVE and RAMPANT overprescribing of drugs and the rush to medicate everybody out of their health, wellbeing and minds. )Backing away from the hot topic of the American society’s love of & dependence on meds.)

Ritalin, as you probably know, is used to calm so-called hyperactive kids. (Backing away from that discussion too.)

My roommate’s not a bad person but a tightly-wound GO GO GO person. Only time I’ve seen her calm is while watching TV at night. There’s a frenetic energy in how she speaks and moves. I’m quickly fatigued, even exhausted at times, by her presence and interactions.

Because the situation’s soured recently (per prior posts), our interactions are now virtually nil, by (my) design. I spend little time at home and when I am there, I’m locked away in my two rooms in “my” section of the house. On occasion I MAY step out into the side yard.

I come out only for drink or food either when she’s in bed or not home or, barring those, safely involved in her tasks in her area of the house.

It’s a crappy way to live, a imprisoning way to live. However, since she’s made it abundantly clear that the kitchen table is off limits for lap-topping and the kitchen is to be used ONLY for cooking and the so-called common living room is hers, I’m relegated to my rooms.

Ritalin Roommate is an apt nickname for her. The Mistress is as good, if not better, now that I think again. She dominates and lords over my presence in every part of the house, excepting my rooms, INCLUDING the so-called shared common areas.

That is really really unfair. And it creates a Parent-Child dynamic with the parent DICTATING to the child what will and will not occur and what will and will not be permitted in the house.

Well, not every parent is like that but mine was. My childhood was hell under the thumb of a father who was extraordinarily oppressive. Inhumanely oppressive. Hard words to write but if the bondage fits …

I am 57, my roommate 61 or 62. She is WAY old enough to know better than to treat her renters like dumb children. She is WAY old enough to know that respect — her buzzword, ironically — kindness and consideration make for if not a happy home, then a well-functioning one.

Shit. This stuff is really weighing on me. Unfortunately, I’ve no choice but to endure. AH-GAIN. Just isn’t the right time or circumstances to make a move.

Plus Mercury retro is right around the corner (June 7 – July 1). And since I have to give 30 days’ notice, in probability I’m looking at 2-1/2 more months there.

I can’t take it. I’m not enjoying my “home” life and I’m not enjoying this lack of employment one bit.

With home not a place of respite and stress coming at me from ALL sides, those ubiquitous American meds are startin’ to look pretty good! (not really) What I’d like to say to my roommate is: Give me liberty drugs or give me death!

Downtime. Not in a good way.

Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.

Headache, headache, everywhere, nor any drop of relief.

I’ve written before of migraines, a subject of which I know much too much and yet still know not my triggers or, equally vital, tools of avoidance.

Today isn’t about migraines but headaches (and the differences are HUUUUUUGE). Today I’ve got “a regular headache,” for lack of a better descriptor. It’s, however, not a “routine headache” eased by aspirin, anti-inflammatory or homeopathic remedy. I tried.

I get headaches very very frequently these days. This one doesn’t have the crushing head-in-a-vise pain of many of my headaches. And it’s not a migraine.

And it’s not a headache relieved by eating — tried that — or increased water intake.

If I had to describe, I’d say it’s a medium-level tension headache. In other words, the vise is on but it’s not been tightened to crushing; it’s a “mere” constant hard pressure.

Yikes. Even that’s no fun.

My headaches have grown so frequent that I’m concerned. If I had insurance, which I’ve not had since 2004 — a moot point since Obama is purposefully DECIMATING our marvelous health care system — and a decent job — again, moot since Obamacare’s eradicating employer plans CONVENIENTLY after the coming midterms — I’d go get checked. Which is a LOT for me to say because I am DOCTOR UNFRIENDLY. I will do EVERYTHING I can possibly do NOT to go, including getting super super super super sick. I’d get an MRI just to make sure there’s nothing going on inside the brain or skull that I need to know about.

I’m up there in the years and like my friend Harley says, “Aging ain’t for sissies.” So true. Fact is, I shouldn’t be getting headaches like this and I can’t help but wonder or fear the possible reasons.

But then again, we shouldn’t have a Socialist Marxist destroying the American health care system and country as a whole. But what the hell can I do? I didn’t vote for the Darth Vader motherfucker from the Dark Side.

+ + +

In other news, 1-1/2 months living here and looking for work and still unemployed. Nothing more I care to add.

+ + +

In still other news, things at home have gone south (per two prior posts), never to be returned to their former “innocence” — again for lack of a better word. I know now who I’m living with — a Mistress of the House who stubbornly refuses to listen to acknowledge or appreciate me (apart from the fact that I clean up after myself in the kitchen). She’s the Boss. She’s the Issuer of the Dictates, the Enforcer of the Rules. She holds all the cards. Goddamn, I’m treated like a 9-year-old child by a mean mommy and daddy!

It’s a doomed arrangement and a matter of time — and timing — until I can wave bye-bye and be on my merry way. Or merrier.

Getting a job is first and foremost for without a source of income, no landlord will rent a studio/private space to me. And not just ANY job but a job that PAYS. It costs to live solo.

I could go on but suddenly I’ve hit a wall. A wall of a headache. It’s like that with my headaches, when thinking is brought to a grinding halt by stultifying pain or ache. Pressing on becomes an impossible task.

Downer post as a consequence of an unrelenting headache. The result is always DOWNtime but not in a good way. 🙂

And the noose tightens another 3 notches.

Prior post is about a line drawn in the sand carpet.

Today’s is the end’s nearing.

You have to read the prior post to appreciate the thumb and restrictions I’m under at home the residence. Can’t really call it “my residence,” the mistress of the house is that dominating and controlling!

The past few days, I’ve been doing my laptopping at the kitchen table. The table’s in its own space adjoining the open kitchen and is rarely used save as a drop-off point for groceries or the like.

I’ve been sitting there for a good and valid reasons, none worth detailing. I much prefer that space by the window for the natural light than my “study” that I rent because it’s rather dark and depressing and unhealthy for my brain chemistry after years of suffering the Great Depression in the cold damp sunless gray Pacific Northwest.

You know the saying, “Children should be seen and not heard”? The house mistress view runs parallel: “Roommates should not be seen and not heard.”

So it was no surprise — in fact, I sensed it was coming — when today she asked: “Is there a reason you’re using the kitchen table instead of your room?”

I don’t know why she bothered asking. She wasn’t interested in the answers one bit. It took all of 5 seconds for her to jump on me and boldly disregard any explanation.

What she WAS interested in is telling me that the kitchen table cannot be used for computer work. Yes, the kitchen area is a common area (for the three of us roommates). FOR COOKING. FOR COOKING. She shouted.

There will be NO laptops at the kitchen table that no one uses.

So the table’s off limits. The living room — which in most homes is shared space — is off limits. Because that’s HER space and where she and her friend/roommate and the dogs watch TV. I can go watch TV in my little study.

Oh, and the huge backyard’s off limits. I can pass through IF need be en route to the garage.

Yep, the noose just tightened 10 pulls.

Like I wrote: Roommates shouldn’t be seen and they shouldn’t be heard. And I’m paying for this. And I’m paying for this?

I’m so damn sick and tired of roommates. I go that route only because I HAVE TO. Believe me, if I could afford to live alone, I would.

However, for THAT to happen, I have to first have a job! And not just some crap shit lame job that pays minimum wage — been there done that for 10 years now! I need a REAL job with a REAL income! And the first thing I’ll do is slip outta the noose of my roommate’s making and go find a place where I can BREATHE.

Damn.

Incidentally, as she barked her rules and demands at me while walking away from me down her hallway, I shouted in return: “OK, OK! You’re the boss!” — in a moment of levity.

“That’s right!” she returned, seriously.

Handwriting’s on the wall and it spells M-O-V-E.

A noose around my contributor’s neck

She drew a line in the sand carpet, my roommate did.

And there’ll be no stepping over it.

I’ve lived in the Amityville Houses of Horrors as far as roommates. Not lumping my roommate in with the mad ones, the insane ones, the truly bitchy and dangerous ones — all females, btw. Compared to them, she’s a Roomie Poster Child for Reason, Sanity and General Fairness.

But as we all do, she has issues, highlighting the truth that you never really know someones until you live with ’em.

= = =

The line in the carpet.

Shortly after moving in (a rental room in her house), I noticed the house was in need of cleaning, i.e., vacuuming and particularly dusting, the desert state of Arizona being the dust bowl that it is.

My roommate’s also suuuuper busy so I thought I’d give her a housekeeping hand.

MISTAKE.

When the mistress of the home returned from her errands and found me standing on a tall chair liberating 1/2 inch of dust from a picture frame, her first response wasn’t one of gratitude: “Why, thank you so much for doing that!”

It was a bold and direct: “You’re taking over my house!”

{For the record, I’ve had dozens of roommates by force of economics and not once has one complained about my doing housework in THEIR homes!}

A lengthy conversation soon ensued. I understand that we were, still are, new to each other and that establishing ground rules is part of the cohabitation process. I appreciate that she approached and opened the dialogue and let me know what’s what in her house.

In short, this is her house and cleaning it, excepting my rooms, is her responsibility. In her mind, coming home to find me dusting was an insult to her in her lax housekeeping of late.

Good Lord! The thought, nee the concept, never entered my mind — nor would it have! I simply saw tasks that needed doing and I did them and I wanted to help out a lady who’s super-busy and hasn’t had time to clean.

Per our conversation, I was no longer to clean or contribute to the house — which is SO MY NATURE, I repeat, IS MY DEEP NATURE TO CONTRIBUTE — except in my rooms and the kitchen. Period.

I may vacuum only a designated small portion of the entire living room carpet by the front door since it adjoins my room.

I cannot, however, vacuum into the adjoining 8 feet of carpeted path to the kitchen, a path we all use in entering the house, because it falls in the living room that is deemed her space.

Neither can I vacuum the living room just because I’ve got the vacuum out or I’m being helpful or thoughtful or it needs it. (With three active people and three dogs in the house, it could stand a daily vacuuming — not that I would.)

No. The line in the carpet is drawn. I can vacuum no farther than the edge of the coffee table; the remaining 90%, including the common pathway, I must leave alone for her to do.

However, in a dialogue that couldn’t have been more thorough and exacting in establishing house cleanup rules, as for the kitchen: “Have at it!” Her exact words. Repeated.

That’s integral.

Why?

A few days ago, I was mopping the kitchen floor, which, as an aside, gets very dusty with the dogs and people and patio door that opens to dirt right there.

The roommate entered. And burst out: “You’re taking over my house!”

Not a comment of gratitude. It was cutting. It cut me down. It disempowered me. It kneecapped me in both who I am and the need to be of service and contribute in the house we share.

And, significantly, it contradicted her enthusiastic “have at it!” in kitchen cleaning THAT WE HAD AGREED UPON.

Felt like I’d been broadsided. The wind knocked outta me, I hardly knew how to respond. There WAS no response. I was speechless.

Then, when my brain and mouth caught up to each other again, I said lightly: “This isn’t just any mopping. This is a special one.”

It was with water infused with the light of the full moon the day before.

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t listening. She didn’t ask. She wasn’t paying attention. By that time, she’d tuned me out. Possibly was stewing in her anger about how I was taking over her house.

I felt so cut and hurt that I got away ASAP and have felt nothing but REALLY bad since. Depressed and angry. A skoosh mad at myself that I didn’t speak up and REMIND HER that SHE herself had said “Have at It!” in the kitchen chores.

More I was and am mad at her. For being ungrateful. For lacking gratitude. For being cutting. For being hurtful.

And for going out of her way, albeit unintentionally, in signaling that this is not my home. That I’m a renter and child and she the owner and mistress.

“Respect,” she’d said in our extended discussion on house rules. “It’s my house and you need to respect that and me.”

Well, what about you respecting me? What about abiding by the ground rules that you yourself defined so clearly?! What about keeping your mouth SHUT when you see me mopping a floor LIKE YOU SAID I COULD DO instead of cutting me down?

+ + +

This has left me so damn depressed. And starting to scout out new digs. A mere 6 weeks after moving in.
{sigh}
{fuck}
{hoping for a reprise and miracle that a buddy’s studio will still come available next month; will know next week.}