Don’t Call Me Honey
My landlady, I despise her with a passion that I have not heretofore experienced with another human being. I have no idea why I hate her, it’s not like she meant it when she accused me of lying to her about paying my rent on time, nor did she act with malice when she complained about noise (a justifiable complaint) when we had too many guests over and then proceeded to accuse us of running a crack den (no, landlady, a party with people having a good time does not a crack den make). And I’m sure she meant no harm when she judgmentally told me one morning of how my boyfriend reeked of “drunkenness” when he said hello to her in the hallway the night before, after having TWO beers. I mean, maybe it is my fault that I don’t live my life like the puritans from the 17th century. Maybe I shouldn’t have guests over and perhaps I blew it with God by having a glass of wine on a Saturday night, that's just awful, someone should slap me.
The thing is, she likes to call me Honey.
“I got your rent check and it’s missing $12.50, honey.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Wait… 12.50? Why 12.50?” (I forgot that she raised the rent).
“Well, $575 and $600 don’t make $1200, and that’s what you owe, honey.”
“Oh! Right. But doesn’t that mean I owe you $25 instead of $12.50?” (I am way too nice).
“Oh yes, yes you do! You owe me $625 and you only gave me $600, you didn’t give me enough money! Honey.”
“Yes, I’ll…”
“I am going to give you half an hour to get down here, and if you’re not here by then, I will have to charge you a $50 late fee! Honey.”
“No problem, I’ll…”
“Because you didn’t give me enough, and you owe me money. Honey.”
“Yes, I just forgot, I’ll be there.”
Maybe… just maybe she IS a bitch, honey.
My landlady, I despise her with a passion that I have not heretofore experienced with another human being. I have no idea why I hate her, it’s not like she meant it when she accused me of lying to her about paying my rent on time, nor did she act with malice when she complained about noise (a justifiable complaint) when we had too many guests over and then proceeded to accuse us of running a crack den (no, landlady, a party with people having a good time does not a crack den make). And I’m sure she meant no harm when she judgmentally told me one morning of how my boyfriend reeked of “drunkenness” when he said hello to her in the hallway the night before, after having TWO beers. I mean, maybe it is my fault that I don’t live my life like the puritans from the 17th century. Maybe I shouldn’t have guests over and perhaps I blew it with God by having a glass of wine on a Saturday night, that's just awful, someone should slap me.
The thing is, she likes to call me Honey.
“I got your rent check and it’s missing $12.50, honey.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Wait… 12.50? Why 12.50?” (I forgot that she raised the rent).
“Well, $575 and $600 don’t make $1200, and that’s what you owe, honey.”
“Oh! Right. But doesn’t that mean I owe you $25 instead of $12.50?” (I am way too nice).
“Oh yes, yes you do! You owe me $625 and you only gave me $600, you didn’t give me enough money! Honey.”
“Yes, I’ll…”
“I am going to give you half an hour to get down here, and if you’re not here by then, I will have to charge you a $50 late fee! Honey.”
“No problem, I’ll…”
“Because you didn’t give me enough, and you owe me money. Honey.”
“Yes, I just forgot, I’ll be there.”
Maybe… just maybe she IS a bitch, honey.
posted by J @ 3:28 PM
4 Comments:
At 6:30 AM,
Maria Elisa said…
I can't believe that someone as sweet and inocent as you could ever elicit such a nasty response from anyone. She must be a bitch . . . but not the good kind . . . she must be a biatch.
At 9:22 PM,
J said…
awwww, thank you Maria! That felt really good to hear (er..read). Because I really don't know what I ever did to her for her to hate me, I just have no idea. Even my roommate is befuddled, she can't figure out why our landlady hates me either!
At 10:56 PM,
K said…
(i secretly think she hates you because she thinks you're me)
At 7:23 PM,
J said…
WHY? What a silly thing to think. She loves you, and rightly so. Silly.
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