No one is particularly good at confrontation, albeit the people who are good at confronting others tend to do so with a gusto a relish that I do not care to be the recipient of. I, however, did not learn that the best way to handle a problem is to address it directly until well into my twenties -- and quite frankly, I'm still only marginal at it.While I was waiting to develop my confrontation skills in my twenties, I practiced the art of passive aggressive behavior. You know, not-so-subtly telling someone that they suck.
In college, I had a roommate and we shared an apartment for about a year and a half. She was a nice girl who tolerated my smoking and drinking habits, but she had these fish...
The fish were a gift she received from her boyfriend on Valentine's Day. So guess what she named them? "Val" and "Tine." (Oh, I'm sorry -- did I just hear you vomit a little bit? Its okay, I did too.)
Val and Tine lived in a tank that looked more like a giant flower vase. It had blue rock things in the bottom and little trees sticking out of them and some other random crap people think fish like (do people think fish have decorating sense?).
The tank lived on our rarely-used kitchen table and the fish swam and pooped and crapped up the tank until the thing had accumulated a slimy, brownish-green, poo-and-food film on it. The film spread and gained thickness and grossness and a personality and a stomach and a full-on life of its own. Soon, Val and Tine were no longer visible through the tank-flim monster and I feared the film would get hungry and just say "eff it" and eat them both.
Speaking of eating, did I mention this tank lived in my kitchen? As in: The place where one makes food (occasionally -- usually just Tombstone pizzas, but that's neither here nor there). The tank provided me with an excellent diet plan. I would walk into the kitchen to make something (read: a pizza) see the tank, vomit, and decide to abstain from eating for another day.
One day, my roommate asked me if I would take care of the fish while she was out of town for the weekend. I agreed. I fed the fish and the Film Monster at the pre-ordained times on Friday. I did this again on Saturday.
On Sunday we had a floater.
Dammit.
But could you blame the fish? If your name was Tine and you were swimming in a sea of poorly- decorated excrement-water and spending your days avoiding a giant Film Monster, wouldn't you want to just give up the good fight?
So now what to do. Roommate would not be home until the evening. Do I get rid of the fish? Flush it? What if she wants to say goodbye one last time? What if she wants to bury it somewhere special? Hold a funeral? Say some last words? How do I explain that not only did the fish die on my watch, but that I didn't kill it, The Film Monster probably did or it was a suicide, oh and by the way I flushed it down your toilet and that may be why its a little backed up right now.
What would you do? Huh?
I'll tell you what I do:
I decide to pretend I never saw it. Yup. I order myself a pizza, sit on the sofa, turn on Law and Order and work on the Walrus of a Lie I'm planning to tell.
Roommate comes home.
"Ohmygod! Ohmygod!"
Me: [very concerned] What?
Roommate: Did you know Val died?
Walrus Lie now reduced to Goldfish-Sized Lie: I thought Tine died, so I'm not actually lying when I say:
"I had no idea."
Roommate: Did you feed them?
Me: "Yes! Of course I did!" [Not a lie. Doing okay so far.]
[Roommate is not convinced. Is looking at me like I am a fish-hating murderer.]
Me: "Look, I mean, the tank was really filthy. I think that probably contributed to his demise."
Roommate: "So why didn't you just clean it?"
What.
I mean, you have got to be shitting me, right? Does she not realize that I have absolutely no affection for these boring-ass "pets"? Furthermore, does she not realize that no one volunteers to clean up other living being's poop?
Shortly after Val's death, Tine kicks the bucket and heads to the giant sewage-filtration system in the sky and we are left with just the Film Monster.
Film Monster sticks around for about a week before I take tank and Monster outside on the deck and leave them there.
A week goes by. My roommate walks past the tank, filled with water and muck, 57 times a day. Does she move it? No. Does she clean it? No. Does she throw it in the dumpster? No.
So you know what happens? It gets really effing cold out. So cold water freezes. You know what happens when water freezes?
It expands, folks. It expands and shatters the glass tank and blue-rocks spill out all over the deck like intestines. Little trees and orange castles litter the deck like carnage of some natural disaster. Its like a welcome mat, only instead of "Welcome" it says something more like "Things Die Here."
So its, you know, real welcoming and all.
Still, my roommate does not clean it up.
People come over. They ask the obvious:
"What the eff is that?"
Oh, its just the shattered remains of my friendship with my roommate. No biggie. Just step over this way.
The glass and guts and slime stay there for a week. Neither one of us is talking about the giant heap of blue and green detritus spread all over our deck, right next to our front door. In fact, neither one us is talking.
We are locked in an epic cold war battle of Who-Can-Ignore-the-Biosafety-Hazard-On-Our-Front-Porch-the-Longest.
One day, to send a message, I put a Heafty Cinch Sac on her pillow.
It occurs to me know that the message I may have been inadvertently sending was: If you don't clean that shit up I'll smother you in your sleep.
Woopsie daisy!
Whatever, it still didn't work.
Eventually, our landlord comes over and informs me that we are violating Section 4: Code 52: Line 9 of our lease agreement that says something to the effect of "Tenant shall not leave gangrenous fish tank remains on front porch."
Fair enough.
I pull up my big-girl panties and confront my roommate when she gets home from work, like a mature adult:
"Dude. When are you going to clean up the shit out there."
She says: "I didn't put it out there. You clean it up."
This is it. This is the Film Monster that broke the fish's back. We have it out. I mean, we fought with passion just short of hair-pulling and bitch-slapping.
In the end, the confrontation was a good call. We calmed down. We made peace. We both cleaned up the fish tank remains.
And I learned from this experience. Now, when I want something done, I'll send a message less subtle than a trash bag on the pillow. Eff the passive, let's go aggressive:
I'll put the whole damn bio-hazardous mess on there.
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