Tell me why I shouldn't be upset his young nephew had poor aim; he hosed the toilet cover, seat and floor; or that his sister had gotten sick on the rug last week and the house smelled like a zoo. Who was expected to clean up the blow chunks in the tub and on the floor? I had to resort to bleaching the kitchen and bathroom (including shower) in order to rid the place of its odor. Then WASH the stuff as plastic bags couldn't contain the odors. Why should I be concerned that I got stuck with the brunt of it? Then could never catch up in order to cook, let alone change out of my shorts or take a shower, for example.
Tell me why I shouldn't be upset when he insisted the first guest (a ditzy woman I can't stand on a good day) wasn't to arrive until four, the rest at five, when I distinctly overheard him tell her in a tedious 1 and 1/2 hour egoflaming-gabbthon, to arrive at three. The rest, at four. No matter that I actually heard him say three and four, but apparently I needed it on tape in orter to prove it: when I corrected him, he blatently denied it. I said, Right, if she comes at three I'll fuckin' kill you! He said no way; she's coming by Bart and by bus from the City...FLW Don't worry: she'll be late.
Tell me why I shouldn't be upset when she arrived extra-early, smearing her posh English accent all over the house at a pitch, that even the deaf could hear her innermost thoughts. Luckily she was dim as a nightlight, but she was the other side of useless in the kitchen (one wonders how she managed to make it to mid-life crisis, let alone, ride a bus across town on her own) but she was useful enough to monopoloze all his time while he was still trying to call guests and clean up (read: shove papers into bags; slam (kick) bulging closet doors tight.) Then drooled all over him like a demented boxer. She did look a bit like Robert Mitchum's daughter sans the cauliflower ears.
Tell me why I shouldn't be upset that I had to ransack the laundry for a change of clothes because I didn't dare open my closet door in the living room with all the guests sitting there so cozily...the door, spring-loaded for action with the gravitational weight of clothes just waiting to jump from and uneasy confinement onto an unsuspecting guest or floor. Me looking like Shirley Valentine wearing her tea in her lap.
Tell me why I shouldn't have gotten upset at last night's party because Neil's other sister insisted on dragging out all the shabby (and fragile) glassware (that I won't even use) out of the cupboard to concoct midori champagne cocktails handing them out to the kids as well, no matter that I had clear plastic glasses for the occasion...and it WAS a paper plate party after all. Telling me: It's MY brother's HOUSE! I'll do whatever I please. And so she did. Apparently my living here for 2 years has no validity whatsoever.
Apparently none of these examples are valid complaints.
To chill out, I went down to the lake to visit the ducks until darkness fell on my foot and broke it. By that time most of the guests had gone home... I was MIA at my own party. A cast of one. And nobody noticed.
What I should've said: Warning. I am a writer. Everything you say or do will be dutifully recorded and possibly used against you in a court of words. But I was so flabbergasted, I was at a loss for words.
6/15/99
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