I'm so sick of the kitchen wank that goes on in this house. Why? Every last bloody bit of it is somehow directed at me.
For those of you who don't know (which is probably many of you), I'm currently living in a college dorm with 5 other girls, one of whom is named Becky. Becky and I seem to have naturally clashing personalities, which is never a good thing when you need to live together. I have done my best to avoid any clashes with her by keeping my personal opinions to myself and trying to be as polite as possible. She, however, seems to hold none of the same respect for me, especially when it comes to that goddamn kitchen.
Take today, for example. I'm laying in bed, ignoring any knocks on my door because I'm tired and trying to sleep, when Becky comes up and knocks, saying something about milk. My ears perk up much like a cat's, because when you mix food and Becky, it can only spell trouble. Sure enough, as she decides I'm not there and starts writing on the white board on my door, I hear her start ranting to Megan (another roomie) about how I drank almost half of her milk.
Pause. Rewind. Listen in slow motion.
I drank almost half of her milk. Not, "I think she might have taken some of my milk by accident," or "I need to ask her if she drank any of my milk, she might have thought it was hers." No. Nothing that gives me the benefit of the doubt, or even gives me a chance to defend myself, just, "She drank almost half of my milk." She goes on to say how we drink the same brand of milk, and she just knew she should have written her name on the carton, because she just knew that I would think it was mine.
Watch. Zee. Twitch.
She finishes writing and leaves, still ranting a little while Megan listens politely, and I roll over to finish my nap.
Fifteen minutes later, I get up and walk into the living room to get a glass of water, and say hi to everyone while Becky is there watching TV. I stand in the kitchen and finish my glass, giving Becky every chance to say something. She doesn't. So I finish my glass, and walk back to my room, and read what's on my board.
"Kelly, you drank a LOT of my milk. Just thought you'd like to know. -Becky"
I turn, head back for the living room and say "Becky, I didn't drink any of your milk." She asks me if I'm sure, explains how almost half her carton is gone, and someone told her that I had brought some milk downstairs to Mel's apartment. In turn, I explain how the milk I brought to Mel's was mine, and we finished it making waffles, and I haven't had any since. She accepts this, we agree to start putting our names on our cartons so there's no future confusion, and I leave to erase my white board.
Now, all of this would be minor and not worth ranting about if it didn't happen all the time. Whenever there's food missing, or rotting, or dishes left on the counter, they're mine, and Becky's the one who always feels the need to confront me about it in the worst possible way. I admit I'm no neat freak, and I tend to let dishes pile up longer than my other roomies. However, my other roomies seem to be able to say "Kelly, can you do your dishes, we need the sink for X," a hell of a lot more politely than Becky. There's always something a bit condescending about Becky.
One particular instance from last month comes to mind. I walk in the front door after a long day of class, to be immediately confronted by Becky and another roomie, Hillary. The first thing out of Becky's mouth is, "Hey Kelly, can you throw away your orange, it's starting to rot." Now, as I do not generally eat oranges and certainly don't buy them, this all seemed rather odd to me. I explained that it wasn't mine, and both she and Hillary seemed a bit stunned, as if it had to be mine and I was lying. It turns out that they had given everyone else in the house the courtesy of asking if it was theirs, and everyone had answered no. By process of elimination, it must have been mine. Never mind the fact that any other roommate could have been lying, or that they really did owe me the same goddamn courtesy to ask me if it was mine before immediately accusing me of leaving rotting oranges on the counter. They disregarded this, and with a tone that suggested that they really didn't believe me, they asked if I could just throw it out anyway. As much as it obviously irked me, I pick my battles, and an orange was too stupid to start a confrontation over, so I chucked it in the trash. They were apparently too inept to do so themselves.
Thinking it's all over with, I head toward my room only to have Becky use her next breath to say that my garlic was going bad too. I informed her that I only had one bulb of garlic that I had gotten at the co-op two weeks ago, and that it couldn't possibly be going bad. Garlic doesn't go bad for a very long time, as any mediocre cook should know. She then snapped at me, saying that there was probably something wrong with it because it was starting to smell (garlic? smell? what a novel concept), and that she specifically remembered me buying more than one bulb of garlic.
I seriously had to stop myself from smacking her. My garlic wasn't bad, and I had ONE bulb, thankyouveryfuckingmuch, because even my receipt says so. Her oh-so-specific memory is specifically faulty, it seems.
Anyway, that's my rant. I just have to console myself with the fact that I only have one more semester left living with her, and then I'll be able to get an apartment with Dru, a girl who I believe is quite possibly my long lost twin.