My Incredible Stare of Death
Apr. 2nd, 2004 02:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonOkay, I have to say in my defense that I am not the one who ratted on Girlfriend and Boyfriend in apartment 207 and got them Talked To. If I have a problem with a neighbor, I prefer to talk politely to them myself as that's the adult thing to do and these situations always seem to get uglier once the manager gets involved. (Plus, you can never be sure the manager will be on your side or want to get involved.) This principle of mine will probably lead to me being shot dead one day or beaten with a bat, but I'm just not a stoolie, see. My other neighbors had no such compunctions, however. They turned the 207s in for all their carrying on. A real group effort.
And trouble is, since I'm the one who talked to them about noise, the 207s assume it was me who ratted them out, and I guess they figure I've got some Incredible Mojo Power for the manager to have come down on them so strongly on my say-so. Since they were practicing Extreme Aversion towards me before they got Talked To, this has not appreciably changed my relationship with them—but it sure has been peaceful since our Russian manager gave them the former-Soviet strong arm. I can actually get some sleep on weeknights. Yay for my team!
As karma would have it, 207 and I have assigned parking right next to each other in the parking garage. I've always found that very funny for some reason. Anyway, as I'm pulling into my space the other night, Boyfriend (who just got back from a long time out of town) opened the door and stepped into the garage. He looked up, saw me and got the most startled and chagrined look on his face. He averted his eyes as if my Incredible Stare of Death might shrivel something delicate just by a look. He did a rubber-legged double-take and swerved behind his truck to hide on the opposite side from my space. I found the whole thing so funny I almost drove the car into the wall laughing. Maybe that's what Boyfriend was so afraid of—that I was such a Gorgon of Anger I'd run him over given half the chance.
Whatever. I got out of the car suppressing my giggles as best I could and the jackass was still hiding behind his truck, the part of the cabin between the window and the truck bed where my Incredible Stare of Death couldn't reach him. He froze, like a tiny mammal waiting for the T-Rex to move on by. I got the groceries out of the trunk of my car and he was still back there, not moving, and I'm sorry but I just couldn't help myself. I started whistling really loud, "My Boyfriend's Back."
I admit that was probably wrong, probably bitchy, but he was acting like such a damned goofball I just couldn't help it.
After retrieving my groceries, I switched my whistling over to "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life" from the Life of Brian crucifixion scene. Not that I was thinking of crucifying anyone, I'd just heard a report on Life of Brian on the radio and somehow it seemed appropriate. But I was laughing all the way upstairs in the elevator and wondering what the hell could have caused such really strange behavior in Boyfriend.
This morning a possible explanation occurred to me. Boyfriend's odd behavior happened Wednesday night. Tuesday morning was the hideous sink incident. As I recall the traumatic events of that morning, I remember that at a certain point the post-Soviet manager's post-Soviet wife and I got into a real shouting match. It was about 7:30 in the morning and the water was coming over the sink onto the carpet and I had to bail the sink to keep the carpet from getting more soaked and she refused to call the plumber out on an emergency basis.
"It's not an emergency. Only your apartment is involved." (Neecheevo, comrade.)
Then she had the nerve to wag her finger at me and tell me that if I'd put anything down the sink, I was going to pay the plumbing bill. I explained to her—in a rather loud voice, I'll admit—that I hadn't put anything down the damned sink. I explained that because my apartment was the last in line before the gunk left the building, I was the one who always got nailed with the backups.
"Anyone upstairs could have put something in this sink!" I yelled—and by this time I was furious because she'd wagged her finger at me several times and still insisted this wasn't an emergency. My volume was right up there with Mr. Karaoke.
"Someone upstairs put something in the sink?"
"I don't know! But it wasn't me!"
"Who lives directly above you? Apartment 206?"
"No! It's apartment 207!" I shouted, causing the building to wobble on its axis, I think.
It occurs to me that before this shouting match, I'd heard them moving around upstairs. Afterwards, the quiet of the tomb up there. I'll bet they thought I was complaining about them again, going all medieval, all postal, all psychobitch on the manager's wife because of something I claimed they'd done. No wonder Boyfriend cowered under my Incredible Stare of Death.
Sometimes my life seems like the script of a really bad sitcom. Which is just about the scariest thought I've ever had.
And trouble is, since I'm the one who talked to them about noise, the 207s assume it was me who ratted them out, and I guess they figure I've got some Incredible Mojo Power for the manager to have come down on them so strongly on my say-so. Since they were practicing Extreme Aversion towards me before they got Talked To, this has not appreciably changed my relationship with them—but it sure has been peaceful since our Russian manager gave them the former-Soviet strong arm. I can actually get some sleep on weeknights. Yay for my team!
As karma would have it, 207 and I have assigned parking right next to each other in the parking garage. I've always found that very funny for some reason. Anyway, as I'm pulling into my space the other night, Boyfriend (who just got back from a long time out of town) opened the door and stepped into the garage. He looked up, saw me and got the most startled and chagrined look on his face. He averted his eyes as if my Incredible Stare of Death might shrivel something delicate just by a look. He did a rubber-legged double-take and swerved behind his truck to hide on the opposite side from my space. I found the whole thing so funny I almost drove the car into the wall laughing. Maybe that's what Boyfriend was so afraid of—that I was such a Gorgon of Anger I'd run him over given half the chance.
Whatever. I got out of the car suppressing my giggles as best I could and the jackass was still hiding behind his truck, the part of the cabin between the window and the truck bed where my Incredible Stare of Death couldn't reach him. He froze, like a tiny mammal waiting for the T-Rex to move on by. I got the groceries out of the trunk of my car and he was still back there, not moving, and I'm sorry but I just couldn't help myself. I started whistling really loud, "My Boyfriend's Back."
I admit that was probably wrong, probably bitchy, but he was acting like such a damned goofball I just couldn't help it.
After retrieving my groceries, I switched my whistling over to "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life" from the Life of Brian crucifixion scene. Not that I was thinking of crucifying anyone, I'd just heard a report on Life of Brian on the radio and somehow it seemed appropriate. But I was laughing all the way upstairs in the elevator and wondering what the hell could have caused such really strange behavior in Boyfriend.
This morning a possible explanation occurred to me. Boyfriend's odd behavior happened Wednesday night. Tuesday morning was the hideous sink incident. As I recall the traumatic events of that morning, I remember that at a certain point the post-Soviet manager's post-Soviet wife and I got into a real shouting match. It was about 7:30 in the morning and the water was coming over the sink onto the carpet and I had to bail the sink to keep the carpet from getting more soaked and she refused to call the plumber out on an emergency basis.
"It's not an emergency. Only your apartment is involved." (Neecheevo, comrade.)
Then she had the nerve to wag her finger at me and tell me that if I'd put anything down the sink, I was going to pay the plumbing bill. I explained to her—in a rather loud voice, I'll admit—that I hadn't put anything down the damned sink. I explained that because my apartment was the last in line before the gunk left the building, I was the one who always got nailed with the backups.
"Anyone upstairs could have put something in this sink!" I yelled—and by this time I was furious because she'd wagged her finger at me several times and still insisted this wasn't an emergency. My volume was right up there with Mr. Karaoke.
"Someone upstairs put something in the sink?"
"I don't know! But it wasn't me!"
"Who lives directly above you? Apartment 206?"
"No! It's apartment 207!" I shouted, causing the building to wobble on its axis, I think.
It occurs to me that before this shouting match, I'd heard them moving around upstairs. Afterwards, the quiet of the tomb up there. I'll bet they thought I was complaining about them again, going all medieval, all postal, all psychobitch on the manager's wife because of something I claimed they'd done. No wonder Boyfriend cowered under my Incredible Stare of Death.
Sometimes my life seems like the script of a really bad sitcom. Which is just about the scariest thought I've ever had.