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Don't you love it when life reminds you of Shakespeare? In this case, the quote was from MacBeth: "Full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing."
Modern-day translation: Scott, the landlord (and Rikki's dad) called a meeting involving himself, Rikki, his girlfriend Sandy, and myself, to deal with "issues." Excellent, I thought. Maybe there will be actual communication! Scott, you see, is not so good at the communicating. What he is good at is letting something drive him crazy until he explodes and leaves a hostile little note on the whiteboard by the phone. And that only happens if it does indeed drive him sufficiently crazy. Which means that since I've moved in, I have gotten very little indication of what I am doing wrong, what I am doing right, and whether or not he does, in fact, hate me and want me to die. That might be a bit dramatic, but lack of input makes me nervous.
So, in stark contrast to Rikki's sulking (she is so immature; it's not nice, but it's true, and frankly it's her parents' fault, but I digress) I was kind of glad about it. Because yay, input!
Ha. Hahaha. HA HA HA HA HA.
See, I had forgotten to take Scott's style of elocution into account. He talks in circles. Many, many circles. Many, many nonspecific circles. He really likes the word "issue." So we didn't get, "Don't do this, keep doing that, and try doing the other thing." We got . . . okay, hell if I know, I took my level of attention down to about fifty percent thirty seconds in.
All I really got out of it is that, rather than leaving my dinner dishes to drip dry, I should dry them and put them away. But he can't just say that. He tells us - five times in a row, with different words each time - that he is tired of putting away dishes that he didn't make, and they're not his, and he has to put them away. Except NO HE DOESN'T. Unless, of course, he simply forgot to mention the guy holding a gun to his head. He can let them sit there and rot if he really, really doesn't want to put them away. But he would much rather put them away and then tell us eighty-seven times about what a martyr he is. He's a born-again, so I bet if I handed him a cross and some nails and maybe gave him a hand up there and passed him the hammer, he'd know how to do the rest.
So. Yes. From now on I will dry my dinner dishes and put them away immediately. I am glad to have specific feedback. I could have done without the accompanying drama.
(On the other hand, I did appreciate Sandy's attempts to inject humour, and her directness when she spoke. I like Sandy.)
Oh, yeah, and remember earlier when I said I could hear them through the wall? Yeah, that was actually me hearing them through the FLOOR. Scott's renovating, so right now, the kitchen, which is below me, has no ceiling to muffle sound. Combine that with their naturally loud voices, and it's litte wonder I thought they were on the same floor as I am. *g*
By the way, that MacBeth quote I mentioned at the beginning is preceded by the line "It is a tale told by an idiot." Just sayin'.
Modern-day translation: Scott, the landlord (and Rikki's dad) called a meeting involving himself, Rikki, his girlfriend Sandy, and myself, to deal with "issues." Excellent, I thought. Maybe there will be actual communication! Scott, you see, is not so good at the communicating. What he is good at is letting something drive him crazy until he explodes and leaves a hostile little note on the whiteboard by the phone. And that only happens if it does indeed drive him sufficiently crazy. Which means that since I've moved in, I have gotten very little indication of what I am doing wrong, what I am doing right, and whether or not he does, in fact, hate me and want me to die. That might be a bit dramatic, but lack of input makes me nervous.
So, in stark contrast to Rikki's sulking (she is so immature; it's not nice, but it's true, and frankly it's her parents' fault, but I digress) I was kind of glad about it. Because yay, input!
Ha. Hahaha. HA HA HA HA HA.
See, I had forgotten to take Scott's style of elocution into account. He talks in circles. Many, many circles. Many, many nonspecific circles. He really likes the word "issue." So we didn't get, "Don't do this, keep doing that, and try doing the other thing." We got . . . okay, hell if I know, I took my level of attention down to about fifty percent thirty seconds in.
All I really got out of it is that, rather than leaving my dinner dishes to drip dry, I should dry them and put them away. But he can't just say that. He tells us - five times in a row, with different words each time - that he is tired of putting away dishes that he didn't make, and they're not his, and he has to put them away. Except NO HE DOESN'T. Unless, of course, he simply forgot to mention the guy holding a gun to his head. He can let them sit there and rot if he really, really doesn't want to put them away. But he would much rather put them away and then tell us eighty-seven times about what a martyr he is. He's a born-again, so I bet if I handed him a cross and some nails and maybe gave him a hand up there and passed him the hammer, he'd know how to do the rest.
So. Yes. From now on I will dry my dinner dishes and put them away immediately. I am glad to have specific feedback. I could have done without the accompanying drama.
(On the other hand, I did appreciate Sandy's attempts to inject humour, and her directness when she spoke. I like Sandy.)
Oh, yeah, and remember earlier when I said I could hear them through the wall? Yeah, that was actually me hearing them through the FLOOR. Scott's renovating, so right now, the kitchen, which is below me, has no ceiling to muffle sound. Combine that with their naturally loud voices, and it's litte wonder I thought they were on the same floor as I am. *g*
By the way, that MacBeth quote I mentioned at the beginning is preceded by the line "It is a tale told by an idiot." Just sayin'.
