To the master,
We need to have an honest talk about what’s been going on down here.
I know you and your friends think this is your place. And yeah, maybe it used to be.
Look, I don’t know why they put the bedrooms in the basement when they renovated. Maybe they should have left it vacant for you guys. I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m just telling you this place down here is off-limits now. It has to be.
I hear you. I’m not sharing well. I know that. It’s just that you guys have so many legs, and you seem to be multiplying. It ruins the mood, you know, when I’m in bed, reading a book, looking up, and two of you are just on the ceiling looking down, little leggy voyeurs.
And, I mean, it’s not just me. Jess bought stuff from Pottery Barn. She doesn’t want you all over it.
I try to convince myself that your friends up there won’t move while I sleep, that there’s no risk of them falling on my face, walking themselves into my nose, nesting, taking over my brain. And then, right before I turn off the lights, one of them moves maybe one inch, just enough to make me think they might fly down and make a home in my ear.
I hear you. It’s warmer in here. You don’t bite. Whatever. Maybe we can compromise. I mean, can you keep your gang in the laundry room? I’d only see you guys on occasion—just when I have a load in. I’d be into that, as long as you agree not to make a leap for it when I’m folding.
I agree. I’ve been passive-aggressive about this whole thing. Sometimes I run away from you. Sometimes I’m violent, and I’m totally ashamed of that, and I send my apologies to the families affected by the magazine-shoe-weapon thing. I know that’s not cool. I know it’s not right.
I’m just trying to do the right thing and to find a way for us all to be happy. And I’m just saying I think you need to make some concessions, too.
Thanks,
Meredith Goldstein
Roxbury, MA