for any of you keeping score…

batshit has left!! gone, hallelujah, kyrie, ojala and all the rest.

she stole the curtains from the living room, my plant hanger, slashed the couch and trashed the bedroom.  that’s the initial inventory, anyway.  hopefull, that’s all. 

i start interviewing possibilities tomorrow.  well the first one came today and is very promising.  a full slate tomorrow.

either way, i’ll be spackling/ sanding/ painting soon.

end tally: i’m out over $300.  but, you really cant buy piece of mind.  imagine!  not having to lock my bedroom door when i go to the bathroom. 

heaven.

back into the frying pan

so, friends, batshit has her departure date.  this coming saturday, she will be moving out.  where she’s going i know not, and frankly don’t give a hot damn. 

i will be around both for the safety and integrity of my apartment, to collect the keys and also because my new bed is being delivered that day (woo hoo!).  i will not be helping.  normally i would offer, and even now feel compelled because i’m a sucker and an asshole, but i’m not aggravating my shoulder for someone  who would likely not piss in my mouth if were dying of thirst.  i still have the cactus needles in my hands to back up that supposition.

so, i’ve been asking around and around, and assume my friends have been doing the same, but to no avail.  it’s a weird time of year, and no one seems to know anyone.  which leads me, at long last, to my point:

last night, i posted my apartment on craig’s list.

i know!  i didn’t want to, but i guess i have to.  it seems to be a modern necessary evil when social networks fail.  i can’t blame it all on an anonymous internet server, though.  i guess my interviewing process wasn’t rigorous enough.  i’m not sure how i’m going to change that this time.  besides getting and actually checking references, i mean.

but then, when you think about it, anyone can get someone to vouch for them.  a friend or sibling posing as a former roommate- how would i know the difference?  the whole thing involves a healthy dose of trust in a perfect stranger and the risks inherent in that cannot be avoided.

unless, of course, anyone out there has a polygraph or some sodium pentathol i can borrow?

top this, passive-aggressives!

so it seems that batshit was packing just to get me.  she has compiled a massive stack of boxes and plastic bags in my dining room, but shows no signs of going anywhere.  i’m beginning to think they’re empty.  you may be saying to yourself “methinks isosceles is a bit paranoid.”  i probably would have said the same thing a few months ago. 

but, it seems, this is how they roll in the sixth circle of hell.

batshit chronicles, part: oh, too many to count.

all joking aside.  i can’t sleep.  i’m actually grinding through the fiberglass nightguard i paid $500 bucks for to keep me from grinding my teeth.

my entire body hurts.  when i lay down at night, my neck is so stiff it feels like i’m wearing a brace.

no packing last night.  though, she is moving my things around, juuuuuuuust a little bit. 

maybe i should check and see if she’s taken my copy of gaslight.

step right up! place your bets, folks!

cslewis suggested we start a poll about batshit’s departure date.  $5 in, winner takes all. 

in the interest of equity, here’s what we know.  she’s started to pack.  several large boxes in the living room.  has emptied out the library, dining room, some stuff in her room, bathroom.  it doesn’t appear anything has moved from the kitchen.

tie breaker question: how will batshit leave?  in the middle of the night?  with a note? an email?  a check for outstanding bills (sorry.  kidding) nothing?  keys on the table? 

backup: what item of mine will she steal- you know she’s going to take something.

the sweet, sweet sound of packing tape

yay!

(don’t even think about humoring the small part of me that wonders if it’s all a ploy to make me nuts by having stacks of boxes every where).

in honor of my new favorite sound, please enjoy the lovely bret and jemaine doing as i shall from now on: equating tape and love.

the batshit chronicles, parts III & IV

oh, internet, where were we?

ah, yes.  i woke up on wednesday, eyes nearly swollen shut from crying (NOT like me) and headed to work.  after consulting a couple of attorneys, i wrote an email to batshit informing her of her thirty days notice (i needed to put it in writing, thought it best to do from a safe distance and cc:ing signore ar, 0f course).  it felt good.  i spent the rest of the day dreading getting a response and not getting a response.

i left work without one, and without getting as much done as i wanted.  i’m exhausted and distracted and i am not my normal ass-kicking self.  i’m trying to shake it off, but internet, you know i’m good at many things, but not that. 

i picked up my laundry after alighting from the subway and trundled home with my granny cart full of clothes.  as i reached my home, i saw batshit and her sister, with papers in hand assailing signore ar with a lot of idle threats, aspersions cast at my character and general nonsense.  they were telling him they went to a lawyer and that it was going to be a long and ugly road to get batshit out.  she brought up her “signed, legal document” many times.  i think it’s safe to say that batshit has had little experience with documents, mistaking the ones with typing and ink on them them for a legal version of achilles’ shield. 

i’d recreate the conversation, but it’s long, and irritating.  let’s just say it was like a mash-up of an episode of cops and the conversation at the mad hatter’s tea party.  salient points:

• signore ar is having none of this- he repeatedly stood behind me noting that i’ve lived here nine years without a single problem, two months after batshit moves in, hell is breaking loose, hence batshit might be the issue,
• batshit’s sister is as crazy, if not more, than she is,
• batshit called me “that.”  as in “i’m scaaahed a huh.  look at the size of me and look at the size of ‘that’ (pointing past signore ar at me)”
• batshit can really turn on the waterworks when they suit her; she should get out of fashion and get into acting.
• i’m a horrible person, apparently, because i “attacked” batshit when she walked in on sunday.  attacked= asked for help,
• batshit is capable of brushes with reality.  she had a moment of clarity when she realized that i was trying to offer help to her the night before and had she not freaked out, she’d have had help finding a place, and have had moving men, for free.  trust me, it was a brief moment, but it was there nonetheless,
• for the sake of signore ar’s sanity, i agreed to two months for batshit to get the flock out. 

january 15th is allegedly d-day.  pray for me, kids.  because i do not trust this bitch as far as i can throw her.  and rumor has it that this “that” could really get some yardage if she tried.

she and her sister came up, dried off the crocodile tears, and left.  i thought they were leaving for the night and settled into the living room to watch some tv and try and relax.  the locksmith came over, added locks to my bedroom and closet doors, and i assured worried friends that i was safe for the night because bs had left.  ha ha.  spoke too soon, as usual.  she came back later, noticed i’d changed my locks and was mumbling and cursing to herself.  it was only the next day that i noticed she’d already done the same for her doors. 

*****************************************************************************

in the morning, she played another plastic bag sonata and left before i’d admit i was up and get out of bed.  i knew i wouldn’t be home after work to ask her for my bills back, so i left a nice, short, polite note asking for her to leave them for me so i could pay them.  with her check, of course.

i got home late and tipsy and saw the bills on the table.  no check, of course, no explanation, just the bills.  i called all the utilities and added extra security/ changed account numbers/ and removed the cable box and wireless router from the living room.  i mean, fuck.  if she’s not going to pay for this shit, she’s not going to get it for free. 

when i woke up in the morning, i said “thanks for the bills.  i noticed there was no check.”

batshit: i don’t get paid till the end of the month (bullshit.  today’s the 15th).  i can’t pay till then. 

me: then tell me that.  i can wait if you tell me.

bs: well, theah’s nothing out theah, so i don’t know what i’d be paying faw.

me: um, the LAST month?  the one in which you used ample electricity, cable (DVRing the hills, say yes to the dress, tmz, pageant place, godknowswhatelse) and the internet; i’d switched providers because she’d asked.

then, i prudently walked away before any escalation was possible.

ready for the punchline:  i got home today and there was a check on the table for forty four dollars.  the memo on the check reads: october electricity.  the best part?  her share was actually forty four dollars and fifty seven cents.  i mean, seriously?  does shorting me fifty seven fucking pennies really give her any amount of satisfaction? 

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

batshit chronicles, part II

suffice it to say that my earlier post “apparently, helping someone in need is not in the lease” was not the end of the story.  hopefully, parts II and III will be.

damn.  i hope there only are parts II and III.

so, after contemplating the events of sunday, i had a long day on monday.  i went out to dinner with colleagues from japan at union square cafe (sidebar: get the pear and gingerbread parfait.  it’s insane. and i don’t eat desserts).  i then met up with dear friends to see no country for old men which is, incidentally, also insane.  just fantastic all around.  i got home late, and so did not see batshit.  i had heard her on her cell phone singing happy birthday loudly outside my door at 7 am, but i didn’t see her.

the next morning she really upped the stakes in the passive aggression game.  since i was in bed, i couldn’t see what she was doing, but this is what i have been able to deduce based on what i could hear.  she must have lined up plastic bags on the table and counters (squeezed in between her bags of cutlery, tap lights and trays for non-existent toaster ovens, of course).  i imagine it was set up much like one of those glasses-filled-with-water-that-you-play-on-the-rims scenarios.  anyhoo, after lining up said bags, she began to play what must have been a ten act opera for forty five minutes.  let me tell you, it’s no birdsong, but it certainly does kill the need for an alarm clock.

i spent tuesday worrying and tensing, which we all know is no good.  when i got home, i decided to try and talk to her about moving out.  her moving out.  i’d heard of some places, cheaper even than mine, and was ready to offer to pay for moving men because a) moving is seriously a pain in the ass, b) i’m basically a nice person and have some muddy emotions about asking someone to leave two and a half months after moving in and c) i cannot wait to be rid of the bitch.

first, i talk to signore ar, my lovely and rather hilarious landlord.  he doesn’t like fusses, but he’s behind me 100%.  i’m the “a-boss.”  oh.  did i mention one of signore ar’s more endearing qualities is that he actually sounds like a cartoon eye-talian when he talks?  it’s pretty seriously awesome. 

next, i go to knock on her partially open bedroom door.  [batshit] i say nicely, do you have a minute?  bs: for what?  me: to talk? bs: i guess so.  she opens her door.

i awkwardly, but nicely say that we’re clearly both not happy and i doubt that she wants to be miserable for the next ten months of her lease either.  she stares.  i suggest that she “might want to consider mov”- before i can get it out, and the offers i had devised and mention above, she screams”i have a legally signed document that says i can stay and it’s my choice when i move,” cackles, and slams the door in my face. 

i said “[batshit], come on.  please?  let’s talk.”

bs: “no. i am nawt having this convuhsation.”

me: “why?  let’s talk and figure this out.  i’ve heard of som- ”

bs: “NO. grow up.  i’m not having this conversation. you wanted a roommate and you got one.”

me: “yes, i did.  but i wanted someone with whom i felt comfortable and is stable and-”

bs: “oh my gawd! i nevuh judged you aw called you names.* you aaah so immatuah.”

me: “c’mon [batshit] let’s talk.”

bs: whipping open the door “STOP TALKING TO ME AND GET AWAY FROM MY DAW OR I’M CAWLING THE COPS.”

me: zunh?

i walked to my room, got my keys and went down to talk to signore ar.  between sobs i told him i had to move.  i couldn’t (sob) live with her (sob) for ten (sob) more months (waah waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah sob).  he says, no, you stay, you’ve been here nine years (eight really, but who’s counting?).  besides, this isn’t rent controlled and she doesn’t have a term on her lease, she gonna give me two thousand dollars by herself.

eeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.  what?  she doesn’t have a term? 

no kids, she’s month to month! huzzah!  yay! are you sure?

yes, he’s sure.  he shows me a copy of the non-notarized, non-witnessed lease.  through my sobs i look it over.  i say ok.  he says you stay.  i say ok, i’ll talk to a lawyer and see what we have to do.   he doesn’t let me leave until i smile.  he’s a very nice man.

i go back upstairs, wiping the tears and snot from my face and head towards my room, pausing only long enough to lock the front door and note that batshit is watching TMZ, which she tivos, in the living room.

 *eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee 

lo, if this were only it.  stay tuned, batfans, for tomorrows installment of the batshit chronicles…..

apparently, helping someone in need isn’t in the lease.

so, many of you, dear friends, have been asking what happened this weekend to destroy my recent spate of happiness.   or, to put it another way: how i discovered my new roommate was bat shit crazy.

my beloved and beyond divine previous roommate, sunny d, left me and our domestic bliss at the end of this past august.  i fault her not because she found love and i could not possibly be happier for her.  that left me in quite the quandary, because not only did i have to find a new person to share my incredibly cozy home, but i knew, hell, everyone knew, that i would never find any to equal sunny d.  or her absolutely perfect predecessor, sileva.

i asked around and around in the two and a half months sunny d gave me for a friend of a friend, but to no avail.  forced to turn to that seemingly necessary evil, i put a brief ad on craigslist.  i had many respondents, but chose one who seemed to fit the bill: a non-smoking female who loved the neighborhood, had a good job, a boyfriend close by (with whom she “often” stays) and a very nice demeanor. 

i was a bit rushed in the process because i had to leave for over six weeks of travel a week before the move out/ move in date, so i probably didn’t investigate as i should have.  although, i’m not quite sure what i would have done differently- called vinny parco, p.i.?

when i returned from six weeks, three trade shows and eight countries on the road, the new roommate, let’s call her batshit, still had not unpacked.  boxes everywhere, piles of plastic bags in multiple locations, clothes in the dining room, i couldn’t even get into the library.  it should be noted that i did come home for a couple of days here and there, to welcome her, tell her where we could displace some of my belongings to make hers more at home, clean out closets, etc.  to no effect, alas.

the situation was making me tense.  i’ve been spoiled, yes, by six years of comfort, but then it is my home, and that’s as it should be.  now, for the entire time i’ve been in the place, it’s been a “shoes off” apartment- street dirt in the bathroom grosses me out.  i informed batshit of this clearly, twice, before she moved in.  also, i informed her, to the letter, what the monthly bills ran us. 

the foreshadowing to this past sunday consisted of the following:

1) month one.  the bills come.  she writes a check but says she can’t do this every month because she’s on a tight budget.  we “need” to switch our internet…. ok.  you knew what the deal was, but i’m reasonable.  i switched to her preference the NEXT DAY.

2) ten weeks into this, she’s informed me that she’s windexed the air conditioner filter (twice!), but the freaking plastic bag of forks and knives is STILL on the counter.

3) she’s always wearing her street shoes in the apartment.

to this last point, i casually, and politely say “[batshit], can we go back to not wearing shoes in the apartment?  it’s one of the few rules i told you about and the bathroom floor is gross.”  her response was that she doesn’t want to walk around barefoot- no one’s floors are that clean.  i suggested she wear socks or get slippers, like entire continents do.  ok, i didn’t say that, but c’mon, people.

two weeks later, i am cleaning.  i don’t clean very often ( i keep things neat, but don’t clean) because when i do, i go anal and wipe down every surface and object and it takes me forever.  i’d gotten up early, gone to home depot, put up two sets of curtains, repotted some plants, watered all the others, and then started the clean up.  i have many, many plants.  not creepy poison ivy of batman comics number of plants, but a nice, fresh air, green apartment amount of plants.  including about eight or ten large ones on a table in my kitchen, which gets the most light.

whilst on my hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor, the legs of this aforementioned table go out.  the shelf comes crashing down, breaking two bowls my sister hand made and that i love.  i duck my head under and up and balance the table on top of my noggin while holding the table top steady with both hands.  i begin to ponder what in the hell i’m going to do with this situation and the sixty or so pounds of chlorophyl, soil, terra cotta and water on top of my head.  just then, the door opens and i call out “[batshit, come help me, please! this is going to fall!]

batshit (with her sister in tow): um, i have things to do, i can’t…

me: please, just for a second?  it’s kind of urgent.

she goes in her room and puts some things away and then comes over

batshit: what do you want me to do?  what is this?

me: the table’s falling, can you just help keep the top steady while i quickly fix the legs?

batshit: i have a schedule and a lot of things to do.  i can’t be here right now. 

me: seriously?  this is about to come crashing down.  bowls are already broken, and your plants stand (next to my table) is in danger of damage.

batshit: whatever, i have to go.

this is a long one folks, click below for this week's unbelievable  conclusion....