grumble grumble grumble

So, here's the thing: I've done the roommate thing both successfully and not before. This is sort of one of those in-between situations. Bil and I've lived together for well over a year and a half now, and we're very compatible (if not a bit... messy). And our last roommates in CA K. and P., were excellent roommates. When they weren't outright entertaining and fun, they were fighting like cats in one or the other's room, which was, in and of itself, quite amusing. We had good times for the year that we lived there with them. We survived the Spruces, the company housing over the summer. And now we're living with some of the people who we met there. They are good people. But I'm starting to think that I might not be roommate-compatible with them.
I really hate being made to feel guilty and being told what to do. Really. I hate it. And often times, I am finding myself grinding my teeth together in anger/annoyance at this. There'll be a note on the fridge: "June Cleaver: O.: you clean this part of the house. B. & D.: you clean this part of the house. We have done the rest." Well howdy-fucking-do for you! I work full time -- I logged (between two jobs) 45.5 hours last week, not including time spent planning a lesson (for Job #3 -- teaching a class on Fashion Design), commuting the 45 minutes from one job to another, trying to plan a wedding, and being sick. Really fucking sick. I'm tired. And I never cook anymore. Which brings me to my other favorite note: "We did the dishes today. Plz remember to do your dishes when you make the mess." Which would explain why, when I find this note after work periodically, in the evening, there are dirty dishes the aforementioned "we" have left in the sink. Which renders it useless unless I want to do their dishes.
The thing is, I know that we all have busy lives and such, but these notes and the notes calling for a household meeting that I see an hour before the meeting is scheduled to begin are very frustrating. They instantly put me on the defensive. They make me feel like a fuck up (which is still debatable, at this juncture).
Today I found a note scrawled on a piece of paper towel in the kitchen instructing me and/or Bil to let the neighbor's dog come up and hang out in our house until the notewriter gets home, as the neighbor, L., is out of town. This is the first that I've heard of L. going away, and I am not in the mood to play pet sitter tonight. Plus the dog scares the shit out of my cat, with whom, I would ideally like to curl up for a quiet evening. If the roomies have taken on the responsibility of taking care of the dog for L., then I don't think that this responsibility would be passed off on me, especially as the dog is rambunctious and typically tries to rip my arm off multiple times when going on a simple tour around the block. The dog's cute, but he's not my responsibility. I have cats because they are more self-sufficient. They don't need my undivided attention. They sleep 20 hours a day. I really like cats.
Additionally, the roommates will on occasion make me feel uncomfortable in my own house. This is really not cool. I don't care what you're doing in your bedroom, but please, keep it in the bedroom. I don't want to have to wait to use the one bathroom in the house (shared by five people) because you're fucking in the shower. Is this so much to ask? sheesh. Also, remember to flush the toilet. There's this little lever, on the left side of the tank... it's silver... you know it? Pull down. Make the badness go away. Please? What grade are we in? Oh, that's right, we're adults!
I'm really ready to get a place just for me and Bil and our cats and our fish... Then, when I'm sick, there will be no one who says, "Hey, let's invite everyone we know in the Boston Metro area over for a party tonight. Who cares that it's a Monday night? Let's get loud and wasted!"

grumble grumble grumble.

I'm in a crappy mood because as I was leaving work today, I was chatting with a co-worker, and a customer trundled right into me, and not quickly mind you. I jumped aside, thinking of my pockets being picked, and yelped, "Excuse me!" He walked another five or so steps, turned around, looked at me, eyes blurry in his scabby, peeling face, and shouted, "DON'T YOU KNOW THE RULES? YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY!" Then he turned on his heel and headed out the door as I said to his back, "FUCK OFF, ASSHOLE!" and checked that my belongings were still in my pockets (they were). Sometime around three in the morning, I'll come up with some witty comeback that would have served me so well in that situation. Alas.

that is all.