Today we interviewed for flatmates.
There is always something to laugh about when you interview for flatmates.
Like Alex. Alex comes in and I can hear his voice from the front door even though I am standing on the back deck. Soo let's him in while I perform social acrobatics with the potential flatties, keeping everyone talking, finding out information, reading energy, interpreting the movement of hands, the changing of stance, the mirroring of body language. Moosh, my cat, is lying quietly alert on the deck, helping me sieve people out by offering her soft, shiny, appealing coat up for scratching, to see if we have any lovers in the bunch.
Alex bowls, really bowls, out the french doors on the deck and I say: hi (big warm smile like you know i do), i'm clare. he shakes my hand and says; YEAH, so DO YOU WORK NORMAL HOURS THEN OR LIKE WHAT?
He is wearing a crisp white v neck tshirt, reminiscent of dylan perry circa 1991, crisp blue jeans, a silver snake chain, and spikey aggresive hair. Not that any of that matters, but just to paint a picture. By aggressive I mean the type of hair that looks as if it has been puuuuuuled, and pulled, in straining, tense fists.
I say, oh like.. blah blah blah and explain my work hours. And he's like RIGHT YEAH WELL THE REASON I ASK IS..
The caps are to illustrate his voice, it's loud, much louder than is necessary, and it's rough, not sexy rough like those old guys in the speights ads (good on ya mate) but rough like one of those green pot scrubber cloths, and it's imbued with male aggressiveness, sorry boys, I can't think of another way to say it. Being male doesn't automatically make you aggressive, but there is no aggressiveness in a woman like the particular type of aggro you can get in a man.
His voice punches into you, little. swift. jabs. Like how a frenemy will punch you and say it's a joke but it hurts just a little too much to be funny and you still have to laugh it off.
I say, yeah why DO you ask? Because my radar has automatically identified him as someone I will never know or see past this few minutes, and I decide this has great potential to be entertaining.
And he says IT"S JUST THAT I"M NOT INTO ALL THAT NIGHT SHIFT TYPE OF SHIT.
He says it like there's some humour in it that we will all find. There isn't. He says it like he's talking to his mate at the pub, two guys sitting on bar stools commiserating about how shit everything is. I don't think he can even see me, though i'm standing before him, do i look like your whinging mate, mate?
(Interlude: It isn't until after finishing and posting this blog entry that the story is pieced together for me, soo tells me how he saw my massage table in the hallway and said who's was it and she said clare's and so he came bowling out the door essentially asking me if i was a PROSTITUTE. Yeah.)
Aha, i say in soothing tones, yes i completely understsand, well, no, not me! (friendly grin) I work perfectly normal hours. He nods, as if to say i've passed Assessment One.
Three other potential flatties are standing on the deck with me and everyone is silent in sheer delight of how obnoxious this guy is.
And I mean look, he's probably nervous, he's probaby really nice, his mum probably kept him in nappies too long, locked him in a cupboard, fed him only packeted risotto, put down his cat. But in the same breath, WHATEVER! he aint moving into my sanctuary of oestrogen and soft cats and quiet noises and caring smiles. Nosirreebobbamcdoodleydoo!
Unfortunately my brain is too full of holes to remember what he said next, but in essence he fired a few more testing jabs at me, little one to the nose, little soft one under the ribs, asking me how suitable i was to guage whether he might want to dein us with his presence on a permenant basis. And then, without even glancing at anyone else, says, WELL ALRIGHT THEN, YEAH SEEMS ALRIGHT, SO, YOU WANT MY NUMBER OR WHAT?
Oh delight.
I say yes definitely, write your name on that piece of paper and your number and specify which room you'd prefer with a tone that intimates that the world stopped turning the moment he turned up because i had never known perfection before this moment. And he does. Soo is so awesome too, she's all dancing around him light on her little dancing elf yoga feet pretty as a poppy shining in the sun, as if we are all just entranced, just so pleased to have met him.
And he STROPS on out the door. His legs are not close enough together. Isn't that a subtle but crystal clear body language signal. It says: I. Am. The. Boss. It says: i am in charge of you, me, and this whole business. It says, my balls are so big that i can't shut my knees, and by balls I do mean balls. It says: submit.
And you know what it is that I exactly don't do monday to friday or weekends, all public holidays and statutory days? Submit.
As soon as the 'viewing' was over Soo and i say simultaneously: so what did you think, then laugh, and then both say 'that guy ALEX!!' and do imitations of him in fits of laughter.
Also there is Anna. Oh anna. Anna is pretty, she has a very short 60's mod boy hair cut and a big black boho dress with a waist belt and a black cardy and those terrible but in fashion shoes that we all wore in the early nineties, the nothing shoes, no features, just a sole, canvas top, one lace. Anna is a fretter.
She is pretty and i want to like her because of it. Funny that ahy? But the truth is, like babies, we all like to look at pretty faces. And by god if you live with someone you more than have to look at their face, you know what i'm saying. It is So personal, living with someone. You touch their fallen dead hair. Need I say more.
Anna talks in stops and starts. Anna's breathing pattern is not rhythmic. Anna is about 23. Anna looks past you when she talks. Anna plays constantly with a piece of paper in her hands, no not plays, that suggests enjoyment, anna's hands WORRY a piece of paper, they have twisted and twisted it until the paper has become first hard, and then soft.
Her hands are red raw from eczema, lined and sore looking. And I will tell you something that you won't know because you are not a naturopath. Disorders, diseases, and illnesses, belong to personalities. There is a 'chronic fatigue' type. There is a parkinsons type. There is a cancer type. There is an Alzheimer's type. There is a high blood pressure type, oh dudes, there is even a fat type, and the more it a person has in their personality, the fatter they get. I mean no disrespect in saying this, i only say what we all see. Repeatable enough events to be considered truth.
And there is an eczema type. And they are irritated by the world. They are irritated, and underneath it they angry. They seeth a little. Eczema is a volcano, it's crust shifting. My heart goes out to every one with this health condition, which includes my mother. And even she will tell you, when she gets really pushed to her limit at work or whatever it should be, eczema flare up.
Anna, dear anna, is negative. a real negative nelly. i ask her what she does and she says graphic design and then tells me how hard it is and how much it sux and she wishes she didn't have to do anything for money. I say oh it must be finished soon though? and she says: not til march, SEE YOU LATer summer! and rolls her eyes to the sky with a big 'gee i got ripped off' sigh. The young lady lives in a world with not even a speck of silver lining on any of her clouds. She complains about her house, house in general, the weather, moving, looking for flats, on and on she goes.
When she leaves soo and i look at each other and soo says, she's quite... critical.
And that is all that is needed to be said.
We get so savvy at meeting and judging people that the last girl who comes in, when she leaves i just turn my head and look at soo and she looks at me and that's all we say. Oh and then soo says, i liked her friend. I'm like yeah totally. At least WE are on the same page, same time zone, same universe.
The girl who's friend we liked, talks over me. I don't get it. Where do people get the idea that talking over somebody is okay? It says two things: one, it says i am not listening to you. There is no way you can be listening to someone when you are talking over them. Which in turn says, i don't count what you have to say as useful or beneficial, intersting or valuable. Two, it says, i don't respect you enough to even pretend that i am listening while you speak. Not even PRETEND. Shucks, we all formulate thoughts as other people talk, but if you are half decent you keep returning to their thread of speech, and give it at least a smattering of consideration. You AT LEAST make a small guesture of acknowledgment that they actually said something, a very tiny head nod, eyebrow elevation, say 'ahuh' or for god's sake just BLINK. The effort involved in blinking? Trust me, it's worth it to make you not look like an asshole.
So yeah. She's from belgium too. THis is an issue and I can't quite put my finger on why. It might be because our last flatmate was german and this was kind of an issue. She had a slightly skewed value system to ours. Like she borrowed my surfboard and covered it in this really aweful, glue stuff, that i suppose was meant to be wax, just like, shit loads of it, and got it full of black sand, and didn't try and clean it off. big lumps of it, it's a real F**king nuisance, and the board was freshly waxed, like, brand new wax job on it. Secondly, she broke a fin, but hey, she got it replaced, okay ones grey now but i'll get over it. But after that i said i didn't want to lend it out anymore, and she took it out anyway, without asking, for her german friend to use, who had never, ever surfed before. just like, so much nah bro. so i dunno, i don't want to tar every european with the brush she left me, but i'm cautious. It wasn't that more than the talking over me thing though. Come to think of it she stood with her legs to far apart too.
Okay well this blog entry is starting to go on a bit. Starting!? you snort. :)
And we still need a flatmate!
better get my hungover ass out of bed and go find one.
wish me luck baggins, wish me luck.
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