The other rule was to always keep the left sink clear so I could do dishes, clean out the coffee filter, fill the brita, and have room to wash food. To this day, I wake up from my nap and the left sink is full. Every fucking day. And I don't say a word about it. I did a couple of times, but was accused of being inflexible and selfish. So I lost the left sink battle.
Doc has little quirks, as do we all. One of his is recycling paper towels. He will dry his hands with one, then put it in another pile, to be used to clean something up, then another pile to clean messier things up, then a final pile that will go to his bathroom to clean it. I can't take the various piles of paper towels. They always are arranged on my counters, taking up room. I usually can't take it and pile the dirty ones on the right of his counter and the clean ones on the left.
This is not enough of a distinction for him and I got a big, long, slow-talking, condescending lecture about the paper towels today. And how I was to leave them alone. We went into the kitchen and tried to discuss things, when I brought up the counter space he promised me, and pointed out a bunch of stuff he had on the counter that could be put somewhere else, leaving room out of the way for the paper towels. He turned to me and yelled, in my face, "Now you've made me angry!"
I walked out of the kitchen with my tail between my legs, grabbed my bowl and a smoke and went outside to be away from him.
When I came back in, he snottily asked, "Are you ready to tell me what's wrong, now?"
"You got really angry, so I took myself out of a harsh situation."
"No, you were angry."
"That's a lie."
"Don't call me a liar," he snapped, "What makes you think I was angry?"
"Um, you screaming in my face that you were angry?"
"I didn't do that."
I got up and went outside again. When he followed me out, I came inside and locked myself in the bathroom until he had gone in to take his shower. He thinks he can just deny shit and get away with it because I'm ill. Yes, even the angelic Doc takes advantage of my illness on occasion. He is a master at making me question what memories I do have.
So, I have a pound of ground meat to cook off tonight, which I will do, and clean the dishes he made. And then I wash my hands of the kitchen. I will go in for coffee and water and to bake my frozen food, but no more cooking in that hoarder's paradise. It's not the fucking Great Depression, and he's getting germs all over with those fucking paper towels. I want no part of it.
I'm almost done with the living room. His clothes dominate. Then there is the scheme of towels and tshirts and throw pillows loosely wrapped with pillow cases and blankets that he's made of our lovely damask couch because the fabric is itchy. It drives me insane. I feel like I live in a fucking dorm room. And he has so much shit on the coffee table that I'm not to touch that I can't clean the dust off the table.
Remember a couple months ago I said I was going to help him clean off the dining room table? I threw away used paper towels, and everything else, I just sorted and piled up. It took him two weeks to cover all the piles of sorted stuff and the last 6 weeks have been a litany of, "Where is X?" and, "Why did you have to touch things?!"
I am embarrassed of my home. I hate it. Everything is so trashed and messy and I can't do anything about it. It's really wrecking my peace of mind. And he just doesn't get it. I need order. I need organization. Hasn't he seen my hard drives? My room? And at my requests, I am told that I am being selfish and unbending. Because I think a jar of nothing but pickle juice should not sit on the counter for a month.
I wrote this down because I will have forgotten it by tomorrow morning. And I don't want to forget. I want him to stick to his word. I let him have random paper bags piled up all over, some "burn bags" full of tissue for the firepit, others, recycling bags. And I never seem to put the right refuse in the right bag. So, lecture. When all I want is a home free of small paper bags of garbage.