On December 21, I (un)officially moved into my new digs in P-town. I currently have one roommate (the third girl moves in next week), who, on her own, has three large dogs and one little feisty cat. The cat, named Ethel (sp?) has an insatiable obsession with my bed, claws me and whines whenever I try to move her and is at this moment walking back and forth across my laptop, begging for attention.
The cat's ok. While roomie #1 (henceforth known as R1 to protect her identity) was away in Kentucky for the holidays, the cat and I bonded. I like to think this little claw-er / biter / spitter actually genuinely likes me. But I know it's just because I'm in the room she likes. She has a thing for laying on top of ANYTHING that's lying around -- whether it's my book on top of my bed, the pillow next to my head while I'm sleeping, my bathrobe on the bathroom counter -- then she looks up at me with this look that says, "I'm the queen here, and don't you forget it."
The weekend I moved in, Portland was in the midst of a veritable blizzard (from which I had to be rescued twice). Thus, we moved in in such a frenzied hurry, that we left a couple of marks on the walls and some crumbs on the counter. Oh yeah, and we also used the towels in the kitchen to wipe some stuff up from the counter.
This wasn't a big deal - or at least it wouldn't have been had the following incident not occurred. On our way up to Portland, we figured out that we wouldn't arrive in time for R1 to be there when we showed up, as she had to work. So she said she'd leave a key and kennel the dogs "because I'm concerned about them not knowing you - they're very protective of the house," she said (or texted actually).
In the midst of the move, and having seen the two big dogs stuck in their sorry cold cage in the garage, I texted R1 asking her if I could "let the dogs out because they look sad." "Yes," she replied. "If you could let them out to go poddy (sic) that would be great."
Now, we weren't even speaking a foreign language here, but something got lost in translation. We (me, parents, bf's hubby) all assumed (when you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME) that she meant we could let them out period. As in, we don't have to kennel them anymore, because they're not going to bite us. That was the original reason for kenneling them. Right?
Wrong.
Oh, how very wrong I was.
I was set to be snowed in with the Best Friend that night and the following night, so we let the dogs go potty, left them in the house and went on our way.
That night, I got a call from R1.
"Did you let the dogs out?"
Duh.
"Yes...Was I not supposed to?"
"I always keep them kenneled."
"Oh, I'm sorry. It was a mis-communication. I feel terrible."
"There is pee and poop EVERYWHERE."
"Wow. Really....?"
Actually, this is the short version of a 30-minute long conversation with R1, consisting mostly of apologies and damage control for something that was a simple misunderstanding. I felt bad, really. But I was more upset about not being able to fix it and not being able to prove that I wasn't some irresponsible wack-job roommate who was set to cause her more anguish than her previous one did (if that's possible).
So I decided to make good.
While she was in Kentucky, I vacuumed the ENTIRE house -- and let me tell you, it was disgusting; three dirt containter empties disgusting -- and washed all the windows and dusted the living room and cleaned the kitchen.
Ok, so really, I don't have a life. But she was so happy, so incredibly happy. Not just that the house was cleaned, but that I had proved that I am who I say I am. And I'm not a psycho wack-job. And I didn't just do it because I wanted her to like me (I'm not a fan of drowning in pet hair), although showing her love was a big part of it.
Just goes to show how a little bit of love can go a long way.
The cat's ok. While roomie #1 (henceforth known as R1 to protect her identity) was away in Kentucky for the holidays, the cat and I bonded. I like to think this little claw-er / biter / spitter actually genuinely likes me. But I know it's just because I'm in the room she likes. She has a thing for laying on top of ANYTHING that's lying around -- whether it's my book on top of my bed, the pillow next to my head while I'm sleeping, my bathrobe on the bathroom counter -- then she looks up at me with this look that says, "I'm the queen here, and don't you forget it."
The weekend I moved in, Portland was in the midst of a veritable blizzard (from which I had to be rescued twice). Thus, we moved in in such a frenzied hurry, that we left a couple of marks on the walls and some crumbs on the counter. Oh yeah, and we also used the towels in the kitchen to wipe some stuff up from the counter.
This wasn't a big deal - or at least it wouldn't have been had the following incident not occurred. On our way up to Portland, we figured out that we wouldn't arrive in time for R1 to be there when we showed up, as she had to work. So she said she'd leave a key and kennel the dogs "because I'm concerned about them not knowing you - they're very protective of the house," she said (or texted actually).
In the midst of the move, and having seen the two big dogs stuck in their sorry cold cage in the garage, I texted R1 asking her if I could "let the dogs out because they look sad." "Yes," she replied. "If you could let them out to go poddy (sic) that would be great."
Now, we weren't even speaking a foreign language here, but something got lost in translation. We (me, parents, bf's hubby) all assumed (when you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME) that she meant we could let them out period. As in, we don't have to kennel them anymore, because they're not going to bite us. That was the original reason for kenneling them. Right?
Wrong.
Oh, how very wrong I was.
I was set to be snowed in with the Best Friend that night and the following night, so we let the dogs go potty, left them in the house and went on our way.
That night, I got a call from R1.
"Did you let the dogs out?"
Duh.
"Yes...Was I not supposed to?"
"I always keep them kenneled."
"Oh, I'm sorry. It was a mis-communication. I feel terrible."
"There is pee and poop EVERYWHERE."
"Wow. Really....?"
Actually, this is the short version of a 30-minute long conversation with R1, consisting mostly of apologies and damage control for something that was a simple misunderstanding. I felt bad, really. But I was more upset about not being able to fix it and not being able to prove that I wasn't some irresponsible wack-job roommate who was set to cause her more anguish than her previous one did (if that's possible).
So I decided to make good.
While she was in Kentucky, I vacuumed the ENTIRE house -- and let me tell you, it was disgusting; three dirt containter empties disgusting -- and washed all the windows and dusted the living room and cleaned the kitchen.
Ok, so really, I don't have a life. But she was so happy, so incredibly happy. Not just that the house was cleaned, but that I had proved that I am who I say I am. And I'm not a psycho wack-job. And I didn't just do it because I wanted her to like me (I'm not a fan of drowning in pet hair), although showing her love was a big part of it.
Just goes to show how a little bit of love can go a long way.
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