Conflict Resolution
So here's a situation I'm faced with, having little template with which to reference it.
I have roommates now. They're lovely, esp. my Englishman: in fact the paradox of the living situation is that I get along better with the 24yo straight hotel manager whom I met two months ago than I do with the 24yo gay theatre development director that I've known for three years.
So last week I tell them one night, "Hey, need you to bring rent home Monday night so I can put it in the bank on Tuesday and write the check on Wednesday." British boy brings me rent on Sunday afternoon, and we love him for it. Theatre boy is no response Sunday, no response Monday, no response Tuesday. So at bedtime I say, "Do you have a present for me?" And he gives me this blank, mildly perturbed look. And I say, "The rent please?" And he blanches before saying, in a slightly edgy tone, "I've got it, I just, I forgot to take it out of the bank today, I mean I can write you a check tonight if you want." And I said no, that would take five days to clear and I need to write the check myself tomorrow, just bring the cash home tomorrow. Fine. I'l write the check online Wed. night.
So this morning I say on the way out the door to him, very breezily, "Have a great day! And don't forget about the rent." To which he snarls "Do you think I'm a moron? I don't need to be reminded to bring the rent home!!!"
All this before I set out on the 30 minute walk to work, people, which was, for the record, in the windy rain today. My socks are still damp some six hours later.
I am so stupefied that I kind of stared at him agape for a minute--I'm sure it would have been amusing in different circumstances. Then I just walked out the door because nothing I could think of to say was anything even approaching moderate, or pleasant, or Buddha-nature. Which of course was a mistake because I spent the better part of the morning seething. My therapist told me I have rage issues. Or rather, I told her I had them and she hastily agreed. My roommate, on the other hand, has issues around mothers, and around money. (I will withold the litany of jokes and cranks about living with a gay Jewish boy from Long Island, because some things are as easy as they are inappropriate.)
So what do I do? 'Eviscerate' is of course the first action verb that comes to mind, but that is not the correct answer to the question, What Would Jorge Do?, which all my Tampa friends ask themselves in time of crisis. But I also cannot roll over and let this twaddle continue in my own goddamn house, in which I handle all the bills and leases, and do all the housework too for some reason.
The existential angst of communal living. A little shack out on the Isle of Man is not out of the question, people.......
I have roommates now. They're lovely, esp. my Englishman: in fact the paradox of the living situation is that I get along better with the 24yo straight hotel manager whom I met two months ago than I do with the 24yo gay theatre development director that I've known for three years.
So last week I tell them one night, "Hey, need you to bring rent home Monday night so I can put it in the bank on Tuesday and write the check on Wednesday." British boy brings me rent on Sunday afternoon, and we love him for it. Theatre boy is no response Sunday, no response Monday, no response Tuesday. So at bedtime I say, "Do you have a present for me?" And he gives me this blank, mildly perturbed look. And I say, "The rent please?" And he blanches before saying, in a slightly edgy tone, "I've got it, I just, I forgot to take it out of the bank today, I mean I can write you a check tonight if you want." And I said no, that would take five days to clear and I need to write the check myself tomorrow, just bring the cash home tomorrow. Fine. I'l write the check online Wed. night.
So this morning I say on the way out the door to him, very breezily, "Have a great day! And don't forget about the rent." To which he snarls "Do you think I'm a moron? I don't need to be reminded to bring the rent home!!!"
All this before I set out on the 30 minute walk to work, people, which was, for the record, in the windy rain today. My socks are still damp some six hours later.
I am so stupefied that I kind of stared at him agape for a minute--I'm sure it would have been amusing in different circumstances. Then I just walked out the door because nothing I could think of to say was anything even approaching moderate, or pleasant, or Buddha-nature. Which of course was a mistake because I spent the better part of the morning seething. My therapist told me I have rage issues. Or rather, I told her I had them and she hastily agreed. My roommate, on the other hand, has issues around mothers, and around money. (I will withold the litany of jokes and cranks about living with a gay Jewish boy from Long Island, because some things are as easy as they are inappropriate.)
So what do I do? 'Eviscerate' is of course the first action verb that comes to mind, but that is not the correct answer to the question, What Would Jorge Do?, which all my Tampa friends ask themselves in time of crisis. But I also cannot roll over and let this twaddle continue in my own goddamn house, in which I handle all the bills and leases, and do all the housework too for some reason.
The existential angst of communal living. A little shack out on the Isle of Man is not out of the question, people.......