Closing Time
My roommates have moved out of my house. I leave at the end of the month. As the House Married Couple, my roommates would always be in charge of all matters domestic. They liked it that way and it was fine with me, too, what with my insanely busy work schedule. It was even finer with me that included in this rubric of all matters household-y, were dealings with our landlady. Or Crazylandlady, as we called her. I’ve had crazy landfolk before, but they’ve always erred on the side of negligence. Crazylandlady errs on the side of extreme, punctilious interference along with unreasonable expectations.
She used to live in the house, you see. During her weekend visits to us, which would take place bimonthly or so, she liked to stand in various rooms sighing and pining for the days of her residence.
The first weekend I hosted one of these visits solo, was when my roommates were out of town. As misfortune would have it, Crazylandlady’s old bedroom happened to be mine, and she had me stand with her there for about five minutes while she gazed out the window, waxing nostalgic on the view of the tree in the backyard. She also noted aloud that the carpet used to look a lot better, and wasn’t that a lot of dust on the shutters! All without directly implicating me. This was a Saturday, by the way. A perfectly good Saturday afternoon.
My roommates both have dust allergies and cleaned frequently. They also took on extra tasks that renters—being, err, renters-- usually don’t handle, at her behest. Like cleaning the gutters. They also took it upon themselves to clean and unclog the fishpond out back, and then they planted a garden there. All of which took place without a single word of praise from CrazyLandLady.
Now that they’re gone and I’m her focal point of contact, however, subject to multiple daily phone-calls, here’s what I get to hear about, in 20-minute diatribes: The stovetop, it’s filthy; It needs to be replaced. I wander into the kitchen and look at the two or three foodstains which I wipe off with Simple Green while she continues to rant. My method of coping: I do not argue or agree. I do not defend or deny. I just maintain silence till she’s done. And I’m hoping I’ll be able to manage this when I return home tonight to face her in person, along with her army of painters and insect-sprayers. I will look her plain in the eye. Neutral. I will not be enmeshed; I paid no deposit to live here, and in two weeks I will be gone.
My roommates have moved out of my house. I leave at the end of the month. As the House Married Couple, my roommates would always be in charge of all matters domestic. They liked it that way and it was fine with me, too, what with my insanely busy work schedule. It was even finer with me that included in this rubric of all matters household-y, were dealings with our landlady. Or Crazylandlady, as we called her. I’ve had crazy landfolk before, but they’ve always erred on the side of negligence. Crazylandlady errs on the side of extreme, punctilious interference along with unreasonable expectations.
She used to live in the house, you see. During her weekend visits to us, which would take place bimonthly or so, she liked to stand in various rooms sighing and pining for the days of her residence.
The first weekend I hosted one of these visits solo, was when my roommates were out of town. As misfortune would have it, Crazylandlady’s old bedroom happened to be mine, and she had me stand with her there for about five minutes while she gazed out the window, waxing nostalgic on the view of the tree in the backyard. She also noted aloud that the carpet used to look a lot better, and wasn’t that a lot of dust on the shutters! All without directly implicating me. This was a Saturday, by the way. A perfectly good Saturday afternoon.
My roommates both have dust allergies and cleaned frequently. They also took on extra tasks that renters—being, err, renters-- usually don’t handle, at her behest. Like cleaning the gutters. They also took it upon themselves to clean and unclog the fishpond out back, and then they planted a garden there. All of which took place without a single word of praise from CrazyLandLady.
Now that they’re gone and I’m her focal point of contact, however, subject to multiple daily phone-calls, here’s what I get to hear about, in 20-minute diatribes: The stovetop, it’s filthy; It needs to be replaced. I wander into the kitchen and look at the two or three foodstains which I wipe off with Simple Green while she continues to rant. My method of coping: I do not argue or agree. I do not defend or deny. I just maintain silence till she’s done. And I’m hoping I’ll be able to manage this when I return home tonight to face her in person, along with her army of painters and insect-sprayers. I will look her plain in the eye. Neutral. I will not be enmeshed; I paid no deposit to live here, and in two weeks I will be gone.
posted by Alice at 2:23 PM
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