the inevitable rant about the housemates
(you knew it was coming, eventually.)
I'll try to keep this short but eloquent. And maybe even go for funny, although I might be too mad about it.
After many, many seasons (what are they up to now -- 12?) of The Real World, we're all highly aware of what happens when you stick seven (or nine) people between the ages of 18 and 22 in a house for a semester: people get pissed off.
People also get pissed, which leads to their housemates becoming pissed off.
Yesterday was Guy Fawkes Day, also known as Bonfire Night. There were fireworks, and pretty much the entire city of Bath turned out to see them. (Our neighbours in Widcombe have been setting off fireworks since last weekend, apparently gearing up for this weekend. Shiny!) There was also, naturally, drinking. (Because what's a better combination that open flame and alcohol, really?) I came straight home after the fireworks, because I needed to a) do homework (surprise) and b) call home to console Mom about the election.
All was well until about 12:30, when people came home from the pub. First, they were just upstairs, which was fine. Downstairs, I was on the phone in the dining room while Jeff was on his mobile in the kitchen. Jeff finished, and came back to his computer at the table; I didn't feel like moving to the kitchen, and neither of us cared. Kept talking.
Suddenly, five pairs of feet come thundering down the stairs. There's yelling. First one in shushes the others; then #9 comes in, yelling even louder. (#9 and her posse also yelled at us out the window of their flat, overlooking the bridge. We pretended we didn't know them as long as possible -- because who wants to be known as the loud American this week? -- but eventually had to wave in order to shut them up.) She seems not to notice that I'm on the phone, and goes into the kitchen to cook something that smells positively noxious.
Everyone else settled in for a loud chat, while I continued trying to talk. Couldn't go in the kitchen (noxious smell -- overpowering artificial butter flavor -- was making me gag), couldn't go upstairs (assumed someone else was in the TV room, prompting the exodus to the dining room), wasn't about to just hang up on Mom. Could have bitched at people to shut up and move (and should have, honestly), but didn't, because they were drunk and it probably wouldn't have made a difference. Finally finished, noted the pile o' pans in the sink with a sigh (dirty dishes being the cause of a near-meltdown from the Quiet One earlier that day), and decided it was time for bed.
I was fine -- a little peeved, but otherwise fine -- until I got upstairs and found that although the TV was going full-blast, the living room was deserted. I started up to my room, but just got angrier thinking about it, and stomped back downstairs, intending to yell (no matter how ineffectual it would be). Fortunately, Jeff talked me down (unfortunately, he also had to hear a five-minute rant -- poor kid). I gave up, and went to bed mad.
The last straw was this morning: I came downstairs to discover that someone decided it would be reeeeally funny to turn all of the furniture in the dining room upside-down. And there were still dishes in the sink. The good news is that Murph was already awake, and had set some of the chairs upright before I came in. I had some warning, which was a bonus -- otherwise, I would have needed to storm up the stairs and punch somebody in the face. As it was, I got out some of my anger by moving the comfy chairs back, and aggressively wiping down the table. And now, post-rant, I feel even better.
We will be having a small family meeting about this, however. Considering that we're getting into paper-writing mode again, this will emphatically not happen next weekend.
PS. Look! I found a political Python icon that I stashed months ago in my Photobucket account. I like.
In other news, I'm wearing my tan sneakers with black trousers, and feel very English today.
I'll try to keep this short but eloquent. And maybe even go for funny, although I might be too mad about it.
After many, many seasons (what are they up to now -- 12?) of The Real World, we're all highly aware of what happens when you stick seven (or nine) people between the ages of 18 and 22 in a house for a semester: people get pissed off.
People also get pissed, which leads to their housemates becoming pissed off.
Yesterday was Guy Fawkes Day, also known as Bonfire Night. There were fireworks, and pretty much the entire city of Bath turned out to see them. (Our neighbours in Widcombe have been setting off fireworks since last weekend, apparently gearing up for this weekend. Shiny!) There was also, naturally, drinking. (Because what's a better combination that open flame and alcohol, really?) I came straight home after the fireworks, because I needed to a) do homework (surprise) and b) call home to console Mom about the election.
All was well until about 12:30, when people came home from the pub. First, they were just upstairs, which was fine. Downstairs, I was on the phone in the dining room while Jeff was on his mobile in the kitchen. Jeff finished, and came back to his computer at the table; I didn't feel like moving to the kitchen, and neither of us cared. Kept talking.
Suddenly, five pairs of feet come thundering down the stairs. There's yelling. First one in shushes the others; then #9 comes in, yelling even louder. (#9 and her posse also yelled at us out the window of their flat, overlooking the bridge. We pretended we didn't know them as long as possible -- because who wants to be known as the loud American this week? -- but eventually had to wave in order to shut them up.) She seems not to notice that I'm on the phone, and goes into the kitchen to cook something that smells positively noxious.
Everyone else settled in for a loud chat, while I continued trying to talk. Couldn't go in the kitchen (noxious smell -- overpowering artificial butter flavor -- was making me gag), couldn't go upstairs (assumed someone else was in the TV room, prompting the exodus to the dining room), wasn't about to just hang up on Mom. Could have bitched at people to shut up and move (and should have, honestly), but didn't, because they were drunk and it probably wouldn't have made a difference. Finally finished, noted the pile o' pans in the sink with a sigh (dirty dishes being the cause of a near-meltdown from the Quiet One earlier that day), and decided it was time for bed.
I was fine -- a little peeved, but otherwise fine -- until I got upstairs and found that although the TV was going full-blast, the living room was deserted. I started up to my room, but just got angrier thinking about it, and stomped back downstairs, intending to yell (no matter how ineffectual it would be). Fortunately, Jeff talked me down (unfortunately, he also had to hear a five-minute rant -- poor kid). I gave up, and went to bed mad.
The last straw was this morning: I came downstairs to discover that someone decided it would be reeeeally funny to turn all of the furniture in the dining room upside-down. And there were still dishes in the sink. The good news is that Murph was already awake, and had set some of the chairs upright before I came in. I had some warning, which was a bonus -- otherwise, I would have needed to storm up the stairs and punch somebody in the face. As it was, I got out some of my anger by moving the comfy chairs back, and aggressively wiping down the table. And now, post-rant, I feel even better.
We will be having a small family meeting about this, however. Considering that we're getting into paper-writing mode again, this will emphatically not happen next weekend.
PS. Look! I found a political Python icon that I stashed months ago in my Photobucket account. I like.
In other news, I'm wearing my tan sneakers with black trousers, and feel very English today.