It's like a really bad episode of Standoff
“Anger ventilated often hurries toward forgiveness; and concealed often hardens into revenge.” ~Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton
Well, I’m speechless. I’m rarely speechless. With the amount of hot air that exudes from my mouth and the way sentences flow from my fingers, I am the last person who has nothing to say. But oh my hell, it’s Tuesday. TUESDAY. And last night after coming home from a perfectly lovely dinner at Vidalia (eh, Bistro Bis is better) I went into the kitchen to find the wine opener and lo, it was still a disaster area and the Pillsbury doughboy must be having a motherfucking field day.
And you ask the requisite ‘Where was your roommate?’ Well, she was at home in the living room cuddling with her boyfriend on the couch and then they stood up and they began canoodling in the middle of the living room for, while I stood and poured my shiraz and silently cursed her and willed her to clean her shit up. They stopped briefly so that she could ask whether or not I enjoyed peanut brittle. Though on occasion I do partake in that buttery and nutty good stuff, I pursed my lips together and sighed then clenched my jaw so that I could politely decline. But if I hadn’t been feeling polite I would have said something to the effect of: “Yes, I would really like some Peanut Brittle, but what I would really enjoy right now is a clean kitchen. So unless that Peanut Brittle is also some sort of new fangled Clorox cleanup sponge, I would like for you to clean you fucking flour off the god damn counter and then shove the peanut brittle up your ass.”
But like I said, I am feeling polite. I haven’t even been my usual passive aggressive self because I don’t know what to think. What if it’s there for the rest of the year? Why should I be the bigger person and clean it up? It’s not my mess. If it were a few crumbs, then fine, OK, I’d grumble and move on, but there is flour in places that there shouldn’t be flour and how one manages to get chocolate on a cutting board that they weren’t even using, is beyond me. But oh my hell…(breathe)…What do I do? Because this is out of hand and it’s now Tuesday morning. Oh yes, Tuesday motherfucking morning and I’ve been to the gym, showered, etc. and she has checked her email, made breakfast and I sat and watched her glance around the kitchen, while I burned a hole into the back of her head with my eyes, because how do you glance around the kitchen, sigh and then keep walking?? HOW?
I just don’t know anymore, and I swear to God, if she leaves for
Labels: gruyere with that wine