Life update, ho hum.
So, this is what has been going on.
Roommate Ashley (who is constantly on the road but also the owner of this place, so) is moving to Edmonton this summer. So to help cover costs, we need a third roommate. Fine, fine.
We found this guy. His name is Darren. He's from Quesnel. He seemed okay when we met him. Told him then that a big thing was that parties were a big no-no. Besides the fact that (acting) landlord (aka, Ashley's dad) doesn't want parties, my alarm's set for six every morning. Also told him that yeah, you're responsible for your own food/dishes/toiletries/whatever, although you can use my dishes since you don't have any.
Week and a half in, this is what happened.
On this past Wednesday, I informed him that on Thursday night I'd have to watch my eleven-year-old sister for a few hours. He acknowledged this.
Thursday, I get home. Darren's got a few friends over. Fine, whatever. They go out, I start on supper, they get home with beer and coolers and Darren's girlfriend. I remind him that yeah, hi, my sister? Darren tells me that he totally remembers, right, this isn't going to turn into a party or anything. I head upstairs out of the way until Erica shows up about an hour later.
We stay up there except for a brief period where we come down to make a pot of tea to share. Although, I wanted to check on what was happening downstairs, because they were getting a bit loud. Now. It's worth mentioning that the stack of dishes in the sink was getting very high--and it was almost entirely Darren's. He hadn't done dishes once. I'd pointed out to him earlier that he really had to wash some dishes (and really, he had no excuse for not doing them. He'd just had a couple days off work) and he agreed that he would. This time when I came down and looked around for space to wash out my bowl from supper, and discovered things much worse than an hour and a half earlier, he said not to worry about it, he'd do it for me, since he'd sprung all these people on me, and they were going to do dishes.
Erica left, I came down to do something on my computer (which is in the living room) and talked vaguely with them while they drank their booze and watched and mocked a movie. About 10:30 I was getting sleepy, and irritated, and they had found Ashley's Jenga drinking game and were excitedly setting that up. I went to bed.
They were loud. They kept me up. At this point, there was no denying that this was a party. A small one, but a party.
Friday morning, alarm goes off at six, as usual. I shower, I dress, I head downstairs to check my email and the weather forecast before work, and the first thing I see is the massive pile of shoes at the door. Five pairs of men's shoes (one mine, one Mike's, one Darren's, and two unfamiliar) and one pair of strappy high-heels (Darren's girlfriend Lindsey's). I look up, and see someone sleeping on the couch, and someone else on the floor.
The entire party had stayed the night. Darren hadn't said a thing to me.
I saw red. Absolutely. Turned around and marched right back upstairs before I did anything regrettable.
Went to work. Came home. Darren had, himself, gone to work. I took one look in the kitchen and all my anger came rushing back.
Dishes hadn't been touched. In fact, every single square inch of available counter space was taken up by stacked dirty dishes. Both sides of the sink were stacked high. Empty bottles filled what little space was not dirty dishes, despite the fact that we have a place to stack recycling and Darren knows where it is.
I was angry, and frustrated, and hungry, and I could neither clear enough room to actually make anything nor bring myself to do Darren's dishes for him, and I had a series of furious crying fits/panic attacks, and eventually ended up ordering hot wings because my other option was "move everything out of the way to try to get to my kettle and make ramen."
Around 9:30, Darren got home from work. He cheerily called up the stairs to greet me, said that I should have hung out with them longer! I reminded him that hey, I had work. He said, oh I hope we didn't keep you up.
Something in me snapped.
Yes they had kept me up. And if he was going to have that many people over, then he really had to let me know first, especially if I have to work, especially if they're all going to spend the night, and especially if I told him I had to watch my eleven-year-old sister that night. And while I was on the subject, another thing, did he see this kitchen? I can't do anything in this kitchen, and he really had to take some responsibility for his stuff and not let things get like this.
I didn't scream, but I was blindly furious. Darren's got four or five inches on me in height, but I swear I saw him cringe.
"I was going to do them tonight," he said.
"Please," I said.
"Okay."
"I am really not very happy with you right now," I told him, and fled back upstairs, because my heart was pounding like I'd run a marathon, too angry to be able to even be capable of seeing anything, but I know where the steps are without thinking. There's fourteen of them, and I know where they bend.
He did the dishes. It took him more than half an hour. When he was done he came up and spoke to me through my door to let me know he'd done them, that the kitchen was cleaner than when he'd found it (a slight exaggeration). I sort of sighed and told him that when I got home I hadn't been able to make supper because of the mess, and he said "oh," and went to his room.
Saturday morning, I got up, came downstairs, checked the shoes by the door (this is habit for me, I don't know why. Even when it was just me and Mike I'd always check to make sure he'd come home. I guess I like making sure where people are. Or I'm just neurotic) and noted that Mike hadn't come home that night. Huh. A glance out the window confirmed this: no car. I was making myself a cup of tea when he did come home. He'd gone right from work to a coworker's house, had a few beers (which I mocked him for. I've never known him to drink beer ever) and played Street Fighter all night. This sounds insanely late to anyone who doesn't know Michael, but he gets off work around 1:30 am or sometimes later. He's usually in bed around six or seven. He's completely nocturnal. After a bit of, "I hope you're not drunk now, what with the driving and all," "... no of course not," I was then able to tell him about my, er, altercation with Darren the night before.
Mike was in agreement about the state of the kitchen, and shared his own bafflement when he came home at 2am the previous night and found people all over the living room. He also saw my point about how I was concerned that he was doing this when Erica was over.
The dishes were done, but he'd inexplicably moved one of the dishracks to make room for his booze bottles, which were still on the counter. I did move those so I could move the dishrack back, because I couldn't get at my kettle. Don't get between me and my tea.
Mike went down to bed. I finished my tea and caught the bus to work.
I went to bed Saturday night around 11:00pm, with no sign of Darren.
Sunday morning, I woke up around quarter to seven, came downstairs just after eight, checked the shoes and discovered: hey, Darren's still not here. He never came home. Um. Well.
Went out, had a haircut, some grocery shopping, stuff that had to be done. Got home around 3:30, and Darren was still nowhere to be seen. I plonked down in my room for a while, door open.
Darren showed up around 4:40. He cheerily and voluntarily informed me where he'd been. He'd gone out drinking the previous night, had a few beers, and ended up sleeping "at someone's house."
"... someone?" I asked.
"Oh, I met him at the bar, and we hit it off. Made friends! So I spent the night there, and I just came back to get something, and now we're going out again. Not drinking, I mean. But we're going to go get clothes and things."
So he left. I stared. I'm so baffled by this I don't even know where to begin. I'm at an utter loss.
And I came downstairs this morning, and checked the shoes. Darren did not come home again.
I'm both dreading and anticipating the explanation.
Roommate Ashley (who is constantly on the road but also the owner of this place, so) is moving to Edmonton this summer. So to help cover costs, we need a third roommate. Fine, fine.
We found this guy. His name is Darren. He's from Quesnel. He seemed okay when we met him. Told him then that a big thing was that parties were a big no-no. Besides the fact that (acting) landlord (aka, Ashley's dad) doesn't want parties, my alarm's set for six every morning. Also told him that yeah, you're responsible for your own food/dishes/toiletries/whatever, although you can use my dishes since you don't have any.
Week and a half in, this is what happened.
On this past Wednesday, I informed him that on Thursday night I'd have to watch my eleven-year-old sister for a few hours. He acknowledged this.
Thursday, I get home. Darren's got a few friends over. Fine, whatever. They go out, I start on supper, they get home with beer and coolers and Darren's girlfriend. I remind him that yeah, hi, my sister? Darren tells me that he totally remembers, right, this isn't going to turn into a party or anything. I head upstairs out of the way until Erica shows up about an hour later.
We stay up there except for a brief period where we come down to make a pot of tea to share. Although, I wanted to check on what was happening downstairs, because they were getting a bit loud. Now. It's worth mentioning that the stack of dishes in the sink was getting very high--and it was almost entirely Darren's. He hadn't done dishes once. I'd pointed out to him earlier that he really had to wash some dishes (and really, he had no excuse for not doing them. He'd just had a couple days off work) and he agreed that he would. This time when I came down and looked around for space to wash out my bowl from supper, and discovered things much worse than an hour and a half earlier, he said not to worry about it, he'd do it for me, since he'd sprung all these people on me, and they were going to do dishes.
Erica left, I came down to do something on my computer (which is in the living room) and talked vaguely with them while they drank their booze and watched and mocked a movie. About 10:30 I was getting sleepy, and irritated, and they had found Ashley's Jenga drinking game and were excitedly setting that up. I went to bed.
They were loud. They kept me up. At this point, there was no denying that this was a party. A small one, but a party.
Friday morning, alarm goes off at six, as usual. I shower, I dress, I head downstairs to check my email and the weather forecast before work, and the first thing I see is the massive pile of shoes at the door. Five pairs of men's shoes (one mine, one Mike's, one Darren's, and two unfamiliar) and one pair of strappy high-heels (Darren's girlfriend Lindsey's). I look up, and see someone sleeping on the couch, and someone else on the floor.
The entire party had stayed the night. Darren hadn't said a thing to me.
I saw red. Absolutely. Turned around and marched right back upstairs before I did anything regrettable.
Went to work. Came home. Darren had, himself, gone to work. I took one look in the kitchen and all my anger came rushing back.
Dishes hadn't been touched. In fact, every single square inch of available counter space was taken up by stacked dirty dishes. Both sides of the sink were stacked high. Empty bottles filled what little space was not dirty dishes, despite the fact that we have a place to stack recycling and Darren knows where it is.
I was angry, and frustrated, and hungry, and I could neither clear enough room to actually make anything nor bring myself to do Darren's dishes for him, and I had a series of furious crying fits/panic attacks, and eventually ended up ordering hot wings because my other option was "move everything out of the way to try to get to my kettle and make ramen."
Around 9:30, Darren got home from work. He cheerily called up the stairs to greet me, said that I should have hung out with them longer! I reminded him that hey, I had work. He said, oh I hope we didn't keep you up.
Something in me snapped.
Yes they had kept me up. And if he was going to have that many people over, then he really had to let me know first, especially if I have to work, especially if they're all going to spend the night, and especially if I told him I had to watch my eleven-year-old sister that night. And while I was on the subject, another thing, did he see this kitchen? I can't do anything in this kitchen, and he really had to take some responsibility for his stuff and not let things get like this.
I didn't scream, but I was blindly furious. Darren's got four or five inches on me in height, but I swear I saw him cringe.
"I was going to do them tonight," he said.
"Please," I said.
"Okay."
"I am really not very happy with you right now," I told him, and fled back upstairs, because my heart was pounding like I'd run a marathon, too angry to be able to even be capable of seeing anything, but I know where the steps are without thinking. There's fourteen of them, and I know where they bend.
He did the dishes. It took him more than half an hour. When he was done he came up and spoke to me through my door to let me know he'd done them, that the kitchen was cleaner than when he'd found it (a slight exaggeration). I sort of sighed and told him that when I got home I hadn't been able to make supper because of the mess, and he said "oh," and went to his room.
Saturday morning, I got up, came downstairs, checked the shoes by the door (this is habit for me, I don't know why. Even when it was just me and Mike I'd always check to make sure he'd come home. I guess I like making sure where people are. Or I'm just neurotic) and noted that Mike hadn't come home that night. Huh. A glance out the window confirmed this: no car. I was making myself a cup of tea when he did come home. He'd gone right from work to a coworker's house, had a few beers (which I mocked him for. I've never known him to drink beer ever) and played Street Fighter all night. This sounds insanely late to anyone who doesn't know Michael, but he gets off work around 1:30 am or sometimes later. He's usually in bed around six or seven. He's completely nocturnal. After a bit of, "I hope you're not drunk now, what with the driving and all," "... no of course not," I was then able to tell him about my, er, altercation with Darren the night before.
Mike was in agreement about the state of the kitchen, and shared his own bafflement when he came home at 2am the previous night and found people all over the living room. He also saw my point about how I was concerned that he was doing this when Erica was over.
The dishes were done, but he'd inexplicably moved one of the dishracks to make room for his booze bottles, which were still on the counter. I did move those so I could move the dishrack back, because I couldn't get at my kettle. Don't get between me and my tea.
Mike went down to bed. I finished my tea and caught the bus to work.
I went to bed Saturday night around 11:00pm, with no sign of Darren.
Sunday morning, I woke up around quarter to seven, came downstairs just after eight, checked the shoes and discovered: hey, Darren's still not here. He never came home. Um. Well.
Went out, had a haircut, some grocery shopping, stuff that had to be done. Got home around 3:30, and Darren was still nowhere to be seen. I plonked down in my room for a while, door open.
Darren showed up around 4:40. He cheerily and voluntarily informed me where he'd been. He'd gone out drinking the previous night, had a few beers, and ended up sleeping "at someone's house."
"... someone?" I asked.
"Oh, I met him at the bar, and we hit it off. Made friends! So I spent the night there, and I just came back to get something, and now we're going out again. Not drinking, I mean. But we're going to go get clothes and things."
So he left. I stared. I'm so baffled by this I don't even know where to begin. I'm at an utter loss.
And I came downstairs this morning, and checked the shoes. Darren did not come home again.
I'm both dreading and anticipating the explanation.