Wizz Kids
Yo ho, y’all! I’ve got a question and am hoping the expats here have some answers. You see, I’m currently holed-up in a "guest"... or rather, "gaijin"... house, to those more comfortably familiar with local, xenophobic epithets. Basically, that means I rent my own room, but share bath and kitchen quarters with a constantly changing cadre of quixotic and quirky hoi polloi.
Sure it has its perks. Mostly, my fellow housemates are gracious guitar n’ cigar wielding generation X gypsies, drinking wine into the wee hours of the morn, telling tales of backpacking from Biloxi to Bangkok, and that time they thumbed through all of Europe on 1 pair of undies.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like it - I was once one, too, and may my recently acquired 9-to-5 modus vivendi be damned! So, when the wind blows in some new world-wanderer, I welcome him or her with open arms, offer a nice fruit n’ cracker basket, and give an earful of handy advice... Never know when these fresh-of-the-boat bohemians need directions to the nearest Book-Off!
Yet, since my front foyer’s a metaphorical revolving door, it’s damned hard to establish guidelines for what’s good behavior, rules for regulation, respect, and most importantly, whose turn it is take out the trash. Sadly, I hang my head in shame for the times I’ve most definitely exhibited symptoms of slackers’ syndrome: leaving dishes to soak for three weeks straight, letting wayward mail pile up en masse. Still, in the end, I feel that I redeem myself with frenzied bouts of manic cleaning sprees... so what if someone else hasn’t scraped the soap scum strewn across the shower room mirror... C’est la vie! But never fear, for I am here! Mr. Mi Casa Su Casa, to the rescue, with a wet-wipe in one hand, and grim determination in the other.
Regrettably, though, one of my most recent roomies leaves me less than enthusiastic about spick-and-spanning, since he’s what I like to call a dripper, a dribbler (and I ain’t talkin’ about coffee brewers or the Boston Globe Trotters). In other terms, there’s a splasher in town... Someone who sprays pee left, right, on, and under the communal commode like an uncut male kitty looking for in-heat hornballs. They might have "Dicks" in common, but even Vice President Cheney has better aim. In fact, I’m so incensed, angered, and indignant... I wrote a poem:
When I need to number 2,
And walk into our lil’ loo,
I’m really quite befuddled
To see your yellow puddle!
But perpetrator, do not fret.
It happens to us all, I bet.
So please remember, when you tinkle
If you miss - by chance, you sprinkle,
Be so kind, and very neat.
Get the tissue - wipe the seat.
I’ve done it, too - I won’t be sore,
Unless you fail to wipe the floor.
Unfortunately, poetry in this situation (as in life, and in an econ exam) gets me nowhere. What should I do, people!? Here are the options, thus far.
A) Confront the culprit directly. Good choice, in theory, but the biggest dilemma lies in the fact that I don’t actually know who does it... Sure, I have my suspicions, but they’re based entirely upon Sherlockian powers of deduction. Dates, time, surreptitious observations - not exactly evidence that would hold up in high court. In addition, the one I suspect seems to be a good guy... nice guy, salt-of-the-earth type folk. To wrongly accuse him would mean spending the rest of our stint in awkward avoidance.
Oh... Hello. How are you?
Yes... I am fine... And you?
I am equally fine, as well...
...[cricket cricket]...
Yes, Tokyo is nice. But I must go home soon.
Me, too. How much longer urine Japa - - doh!!!
Or, B) post an open letter to all residents. This is another model solution, but I’m already known ‘round these parts as the "note-writing king". Every time I’m out of town for more than 12 hours, or the local ten-and-yen (re: five-and-dime) has a super savers’ sale, or even just to put up a friendly reminder of my annual "Tsunami Drill n’ Chill" barbeque... I’m the first person chiming the proverbial bell. Plus, anonymity’s out of the question. After all, my Sailor Moon stationary and signature pink glitter pen are household icons.
Besides, if I did, what manner of mentioning should I make this out to be? Do I go with the direct approach... Perhaps a blood-stained rag scrawled with the words, "You drip, I snip!" and a stick-figure cartoon of me holding scissors and a severed penis? Oh no, that won’t do!! I’m really more a diplomat, a peacemaker - a slow poisons-kind of killer, anyway. Perchance then, a nice embroidery above the bathroom throne would be in better taste... like little needlepointed cherubs with "God loveth the clean" in a bold pink cross-stitch?
Either way, I need to be proactive... Usually I’m the type of person to just rattle and hiss, quietly sit on the problem and wait it out - however, in this case, where I’m sitting’s probably wet. And like the lovely smells wafting from my water closet, it’s not gonna just float away, no matter how many windows one opens.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
A pissed-off potty mouth
Sure it has its perks. Mostly, my fellow housemates are gracious guitar n’ cigar wielding generation X gypsies, drinking wine into the wee hours of the morn, telling tales of backpacking from Biloxi to Bangkok, and that time they thumbed through all of Europe on 1 pair of undies.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like it - I was once one, too, and may my recently acquired 9-to-5 modus vivendi be damned! So, when the wind blows in some new world-wanderer, I welcome him or her with open arms, offer a nice fruit n’ cracker basket, and give an earful of handy advice... Never know when these fresh-of-the-boat bohemians need directions to the nearest Book-Off!
Yet, since my front foyer’s a metaphorical revolving door, it’s damned hard to establish guidelines for what’s good behavior, rules for regulation, respect, and most importantly, whose turn it is take out the trash. Sadly, I hang my head in shame for the times I’ve most definitely exhibited symptoms of slackers’ syndrome: leaving dishes to soak for three weeks straight, letting wayward mail pile up en masse. Still, in the end, I feel that I redeem myself with frenzied bouts of manic cleaning sprees... so what if someone else hasn’t scraped the soap scum strewn across the shower room mirror... C’est la vie! But never fear, for I am here! Mr. Mi Casa Su Casa, to the rescue, with a wet-wipe in one hand, and grim determination in the other.
Regrettably, though, one of my most recent roomies leaves me less than enthusiastic about spick-and-spanning, since he’s what I like to call a dripper, a dribbler (and I ain’t talkin’ about coffee brewers or the Boston Globe Trotters). In other terms, there’s a splasher in town... Someone who sprays pee left, right, on, and under the communal commode like an uncut male kitty looking for in-heat hornballs. They might have "Dicks" in common, but even Vice President Cheney has better aim. In fact, I’m so incensed, angered, and indignant... I wrote a poem:
When I need to number 2,
And walk into our lil’ loo,
I’m really quite befuddled
To see your yellow puddle!
But perpetrator, do not fret.
It happens to us all, I bet.
So please remember, when you tinkle
If you miss - by chance, you sprinkle,
Be so kind, and very neat.
Get the tissue - wipe the seat.
I’ve done it, too - I won’t be sore,
Unless you fail to wipe the floor.
Unfortunately, poetry in this situation (as in life, and in an econ exam) gets me nowhere. What should I do, people!? Here are the options, thus far.
A) Confront the culprit directly. Good choice, in theory, but the biggest dilemma lies in the fact that I don’t actually know who does it... Sure, I have my suspicions, but they’re based entirely upon Sherlockian powers of deduction. Dates, time, surreptitious observations - not exactly evidence that would hold up in high court. In addition, the one I suspect seems to be a good guy... nice guy, salt-of-the-earth type folk. To wrongly accuse him would mean spending the rest of our stint in awkward avoidance.
Oh... Hello. How are you?
Yes... I am fine... And you?
I am equally fine, as well...
...[cricket cricket]...
Yes, Tokyo is nice. But I must go home soon.
Me, too. How much longer urine Japa - - doh!!!
Or, B) post an open letter to all residents. This is another model solution, but I’m already known ‘round these parts as the "note-writing king". Every time I’m out of town for more than 12 hours, or the local ten-and-yen (re: five-and-dime) has a super savers’ sale, or even just to put up a friendly reminder of my annual "Tsunami Drill n’ Chill" barbeque... I’m the first person chiming the proverbial bell. Plus, anonymity’s out of the question. After all, my Sailor Moon stationary and signature pink glitter pen are household icons.
Besides, if I did, what manner of mentioning should I make this out to be? Do I go with the direct approach... Perhaps a blood-stained rag scrawled with the words, "You drip, I snip!" and a stick-figure cartoon of me holding scissors and a severed penis? Oh no, that won’t do!! I’m really more a diplomat, a peacemaker - a slow poisons-kind of killer, anyway. Perchance then, a nice embroidery above the bathroom throne would be in better taste... like little needlepointed cherubs with "God loveth the clean" in a bold pink cross-stitch?
Either way, I need to be proactive... Usually I’m the type of person to just rattle and hiss, quietly sit on the problem and wait it out - however, in this case, where I’m sitting’s probably wet. And like the lovely smells wafting from my water closet, it’s not gonna just float away, no matter how many windows one opens.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
A pissed-off potty mouth