Hurricane I

For those of you who do not know, Mr. Picky is one of my roommates. He's a 50 year old union worker from West Virginia, West Virginia being analogous to East Tennessee. He watches mascara, and he's had a the Bill Clinton quadruple heart-attack special. He is also as picky and as fastidious as an old biddy, which is an obvious source of conflict. If food falls on the floor, I pick it up and eat it. If food falls on the floor, he throws it away and Lysol's the floor. (I'm not being melodramatic, I've seen him do it.) He also does this weird falsetto voice sometimes when he's requiring something that he knows is weird, like he's kind of kidding, but he really isn't. He referred to himself as Mr. Picky once in that voice, and I will continue to call him that because he is.

Mr. Picky does not cook, he just heats up frozen food or gets take-out (quadruple bypass what?). I do cook, but it's difficult. Not only is the kitchen smaller than a dorm kitchen (the oven door cannot open all the way because there's a wall in the way), but I don't always have time to scour the kitchen after I use it, and apparently, anything less than a full on Lysol scour is bad.

Both Wednesday morning and today, I made eggs and bacon on this enormous frying pan that if far too large for this kitchen and I have no idea why we own it. I was in a crazy hurry both days so as I ate, I cleaned the pan et al even though it hadn't had time to cool yet. I didn't have time to wait, and I was trying to be a good roommate and not leave the pan in my room to clean later in case someone else needed to use it. Apparently, I did a bad job because after I left the kitchen, I heard him investigating it. A couple minutes later, as I'm putting my contacts in, Mr. Picky comes and stands in the hall by the bathroom and says, "You got a minute?"

"No," I said, "I'm running horribly late for a meeting at 11."

"Well, then I'll say it right here," he said, and says that I didn't clean the pan well enough, there's a previous pan I didn't clean, there's splatters all over the stove and, "I'm an old fucker with heart problems and I can't afford to get sick."

Right. Is that the reason we don't own a vegetable peeler, but we do own two toaster ovens, a rice cooker and a George Foreman? Anyway, I seriously didn't have time, so I just left.

When I came home, I locked myself in my room, changed clothes and checked my email. I haven't gotten good sleep in about two weeks, and my limbs just feel heavy. I just wanted to fall into bed. I hear Mr. Picky in the hallway, stalking me to pin me down to harass me further about the kitchen. I didn't turn the light on, and I just tiptoe around because I'm not in a mood to deal with him. I would definitely say something that could get me kicked out, and I don't want to deal with that either.

I crawl into bed and I'm about to pass out when I hear him come down the hallway and pause by my door. I thought for a minute he was going to go away, but no, he banged on the door and yells, "INDIA? WE STILL NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE KITCHEN!!"

"I'm sleeping!" I yell back, trying not to be cranky, but I know I sounded irritated. He says sorry and shuffles off again. I am so not in the mood for a 15 minute lecture on how I suck. See, if any one of you delivered that lecture, it would take two, maybe three minutes. Mr. Picky. talks. so. damn. slowly. and. then. in. case. I. missed. something. the. first. time. he. repeats. himself. a. couple. of. times. So I'm not getting up for that.

I think he's gone now, and in his absence, I've cleaned the kitchen again. Maybe I need new contacts, but I can't see what he's all upset about. If there had been a big blob, that's one thing, but mostly the issue is that the house smelled like bacon, I think. Like, I'm not allowed to have popcorn because he doesn't like the smell (and oh, I miss it so) so maybe that's the issue. I'm not sure, because he cooks bacon, but then he also leaves dishes in the sink as he eats, but I get in trouble for that too. So I wiped everything down, cleaned everyting again and OD'd on the Lysol so that he'd smell it whenever he came home. And I'm hungry, but I don't want to cook before he comes home and smells the Lysol so I'm eating crackers and peanut butter.

Post nap, I'm still a little sleepy, but I'm not as cranky anymore. Also, I may have a drink. This is a fabulous location, and the apartment is pretty and I can get through this. I just need to be very calm.