Gobble gobble gobble and welcome to this, weeks 18, 19 and 20 of LEAH LUGS CRAP AROUND THE WORLD. These past three weeks were what I would call the eye of the storm, meaning that I was burnt out on going out and instead spent my time watching movies and eating pasta (activities usually reserved for long upstate New York winters) but topped off the weeks with an insane explosion of activity. What, you ask, did all this activity involve? I, and my bullet-list tendencies, am glad you asked:

1) I am treated like a child, un-paying serf/untouchable by my flatmate
2) I begin to fear I am not respected and have no rights in the boundaries of my flat
3) I am told I am not respected and have no rights in my flat
4) I rebel against my flatmate/landlord
5) I put dishes in a dish rack (and yes, this is related to the above)
6) I make a Thanksgiving feast and dance around in Dorothy shoes.
7) I get yelled at for making a Thanksgiving feast and dancing around in Dorothy shoes.
8) I close a microwave door.
9) I am yelled at for closing a microwave door.
10) I dance around in my Dorothy shoes, but in the privacy of my own room.
11) I consume a large Thanksgiving feast, though not dancing, once again in my dorothy shoes.

Ah, you must be thinking, what is all this intriguing mess Leah is only glossing over in this week's rather strange and difficult to understand bulleted list? Well, my friends, I shall tell you everything right from the beginning, which I am told by a good friend of mine, is a very good place to start. Ah yes, the story that is to follow is a tragic one of spurned hopes, of potential for happiness withered from a full, luscious fruit into a dangling prune of mocking disappointment, of a girl searching for a home in which she could store all her lugged crap and a crazy Malaysian landlord/flatmate whose name began and ended with KING (seriously, his name is Rajah). Because after all, my friends, this is weeks 18, 19, and 20- Crazy Flatmates and Feasts O' Plenty.

The beginning, as some of you may recall, lies somewhere within the first two weeks of my arrival in London. After several action-packed days of flat-viewing (ahem, running away from flats in places that scared me), I stumbled upon an impossibly posh flat located in an impossibly posh area going for an incredibly possible flat. After three days spent casting spells against malevolent dwarves (landlords), fleeing fire-breathing dragons (creepy local men), and crossing myself in the rituals of all the major religions against diseases stored in dank, dark caves (moldy rooms), I found myself in this "impossible flat", complete with a clean room, a leather couch, a modern kitchen, a sparkling bathroom, gardens, fountains, and mostly, a very nice, welcoming Malaysian flatmate/landlord (Rajah). From the moment I stepped into the apartment, I breathed deeply and thought, "Home! I'm finally home."

Oh how true that statement was. Well, at least for the first month, when Rajah was visiting his wife in Malaysia (don't ask me about their living situation, I don't know how one maintains a pregnant wife and two kids in Malaysia while working in London, not that I'm passing judgment.... but what's up with that?) and I had the flat entirely to myself. Ah, 'twas a lovely, blissful month. In the oppressive heat of summer, I bought feasts of mangoes, baguettes and cheeses, switched on the TV and lay out on his long white leather couch, chewing, watching, sighing, and loving life. I even invited a friend over and cooked a feast for us so that we might enjoy the couch, the balcony, the views of the fountains and pretend we were posh, despite Rajah's request that I never have any friends over (which should have been my first clue that the situation wasn't as ideal as I had thought). "Isn't life bizarre?" I asked my parents and commented to my friends. "Only a few weeks ago I was back in upstate New York, having a panic attack about my future, and now here I am, stuffed full of good food (from Waitrose!) and entirely reclined on leather surfaces. Ah, life is a paradise!"

Indeed, a paradise it was and unlike Adam and Eve, I revelled in it fully thankful for what I had (though I stayed away from figs as I had already spilled some mango on the couch). Life was good, life was wonderful, life was awesome (god-like awesome, not California surfer dude awesome).

And then something happened. Rajah came back.

With the echoing noise of a key twisting in the front door lock, my life in London would permanently change. Suddenly I was living again with a stranger and couldn't be bothered with the small talk that would be required of me should I want to use the leather couch. "Oh well," I thought to myself. This was the end of the good life I lamented and then quickly chastised myself for being a spoiled brat. After all, this wasn't my flat, and I couldn't expect the landlord to have stayed in Malaysia (with his wife and kids AHEM) forever. So I gathered the bare threads of my tattered maturity and adjusted to Rajah's presence, retreating into my room and reading book upon book rather than having to make small talk with a stranger in the place in which I lived while watching TV. That's just what people with low budgets do, right? They rent an apartment, they live with strangers, they cope, and life moves on.

Thus, the descent of my occupation in the posh flat had begun, going from "Amazing" to "Not Bad and Still In a Posh Area for a Reasonable Price."

But oh, how far that pleasantness hill would drop. As it turned out, this hill was less of a hill and more of a "slow steady descent down the side of a mountain which ends in a sheer, sudden drop to the deepest pits of HELL." Along this descent, Rajah was always frustratingly polite, though condescending and chauvinistic in his manner. After a week of returning home, he inquired politely, "I am finding I am taking out the rubbish quite often. Why is it you are never taking it out?"

"Oh," I responded, entirely puzzled. "I've been meaning to take it out when it's full, but you've been taking it out when it's half-full, so I never have the chance to do it. I can take it out then though if that's when you want me to."

"That would be good," he replied, and everything was sorted. For a few days.

"Yes, Leah," Rajah began another time. "I have decided the toothbrush holder is making a mess so I am taking it out. And I am putting up a rack for our shower things on the side of the shower. I do not want you to put your toothbrush out on the shelf or your things on the side of the tub. It makes things too cluttered Also, you have been using the towel rack, but see how I do not have my towel on it? That is because the towels mark up the rack and we do not want to cause it damage."

"Okay..." I said, once again a little puzzled. I wanted to respect the rules of his flat, but did he not realize I was paying rent here and should have I say and where I put my stuff? Couldn't someone paying £500 a month live some place put her towel on the towel rack if she wanted to? Was it really that big deal of a deal if my Pantene Pro V didn't fit in the shower rack (which it didn't) and I put it on the side of the tub? Well, apparently it was, because throughout the course of the next couple of months, anything I placed in the wrong place was shoved hastily (and angrily, I would assume) back in the "right" place, even if that meant knocking over all the rest of my shower items in the shower rack.

These things may all seem like minor annoyances, but when two people live together and are not friends who regularly communicate, such issues begin to build and build. Before long, Rajah and I were greeting each other in grunts and I found him glaring at me in the kitchen over issues whose existence I couldn't even begin to see (one such issues, I would find out later in our final confrontation, was that I sometimes left a crumb from my bread on the counter, missing it when I sponged it down). Our relationship only further deterioriated with Rajah's tendency to only speak to me to make some condescending polite "requests". These requests began to pile on one after another. Don't wear your shoes in the house, don't use this towel, don't use this mug, don't use this plate, put the towel here when you're done, turn on the extractor when you boil water or else the condensation will get in the kitchen (imagine that, water in a kitchen!).

The "requests" accumulated until finally I hated seeing him so much that when I needed to ask him for something, I simply left a note, which worked fine until one day I received an answer to my question and an additional line that said, "When are you moving out? I thought you said the first, not the 15th!"

Ah, yes, as it turned out, good old Rajah had gotten my move out date wrong, claiming that I had told him I was leaving the first of December, despite the fact that in the contract it clearly stated that I could stay until the 31st, a date that I had set so I could stay until at least mid-December. For three weeks we debated back and forth on this date with me arguing that I did not say this date, that kicking me out then would effectively make me homeless in a foreign country for two weeks while I still had to work nine hours a day, that he could just get a friend to check me out of the room (this, he said, was the snag, that he had to be there to check me out but he had booked a flight for Malaysia on the 5th), and finally, that it was illegal to kick me out before the date in my contract. To this he said, look in the contract, because you are a sharer, not a tenant, I can kick you out at any time for any reason as long as I give you two weeks notice, and I am being quite generous by giving you a month. Alas, I looked in the contract, and there it was in plain wording, the very last sentence of the entire three paged document. He could kick me out whenever he wanted. I had read the whole contract- why had I not seen that?

And just like that, this impossible place didn't seem so impossible anymore.

After that, our relationship simply disintegrated, like the edge of that aforementioned cliff to hell. After I argued with him for so long about the contract rather than backing down ("moving my toothbrush", would be a good term for it), Rajah became obsessed with showing his power in the situation. His requests became more frequent and more ridiculous, culminating in his demand that I place the sponge on the left side of the sink rather on the right side and that I not use the dish rack because it cluttered things up too much.

And this, folks, is where the battle truly began. I may have argued with him about the move out date, but up until then I had followed his rules closely, afraid to break any of them lest I be forced into moving. But this? Banning me from using the dish rack? That was the final straw and so the first phase of my rebellion (passive aggression) truly began. While Rajah ate his perfectly prepared dinner at his pristine glass table (which, by the way, you're not allowed to pull away from the wall because it makes the living room look "too awkward"), I cleaned a plate and then wrung the sponge out dramatically, squeezing and pulling it in every which direction to make sure that it left absolutely not one drop of water on his spotless counters and then placed it carefully in the exact spot he had showed me, measuring it up against the line of the sink so that it was a perfect distance between the dish rack and the sink. Then, sighing overdramatically as if the task at hand was the worst one I could possibly be assigned, I let my body flop in the direction of the towel and drew it over the plate, continuing to sigh and flop around as I scrubbed the plate dry, occasionally waving the towel in the air as if I were a ribbon dancer to show Rajah, LOOK! I'M NOT USING THE DISH RACK! I'M NOT DISOBEYING YOU! HAPPY?!

That week, however, was a bad week in which I felt I was being incredibly disrespected in several different aspects of my life. Normally, if you live in a good home, it doesn't matter how much disrespect you get outside of the home, once you step into it, you can relax and recover. Now with the Rajah situation, I couldn't do this. I had no place of refuge and slowly began to feel myself losing my mind and feeling horribly about myself. In a matter of days, my self-confidence dipped to dangerous lows until finally I uncovered the root of my feelings in an email conversation with one of my good friends here, Claire. Throughout my time living in Rajah's place, I had worked to accommodate him, arguing with him when I thought what he asked me to do was ridiculous but often relenting to keep the peace. I thought doing such a thing was okay because who cared? I was just leaving anyway, what did it matter if I couldn't put my towel on the towel rack? But then I realized, this was hurting me, this was making me feel bad about myself. As so, I had to do something to take back my self respect.

That's right, I had to use the dish rack. This, after all, was what bothered me the most- that I was living in a place where I paid rent yet I was being told (as if I were a child! a serf!) that I couldn't use the dish rack. Who did he think I was? Certainly not a living, breathing, rent-paying human being! Something had to be done!

So, with the Claire's encouragement to support me ("You use that dish rack, girl!") I went home, made and ate my dinner and, with Rajah still at work, I slowly approached the dish rack, fingers tingling with nerves. As I approached the dish rack with the plate outstretched, I began to have second thoughts. "It's okay," I thought. "I don't really need to use the dish rack. Is it so much to just dry it? I don't want to make him mad." "LEAH!" the other side of me shouted back. "It DOES matter! Suck it up, put the dish in the dish rack, and feel good about yourself!" I took a deep breath. Yes, I was right. This was something I needed to do. For me. So I gathered myself up, tilted the plate, and slid it into the rack. I released the dish slowly and let out a long breath. There it was, a beautiful but fearsome sight. My plate sitting in the banned dish rack. "You did it, Leah," I told myself. "You did it." For a moment more I sat there and admired my handiwork, proud of my achievement, feeling a sudden swell of self-confidence. Then I heard Rajah's key in the door, was shocked by a shot of adrenaline and sprinted into my room before he could see me and my shameful act.

As I sat in my room, my heart beating a million miles a minute, I couldn't help but wonder if he would knock on my door to inform me of his displeasure. Screw it. The important thing was, I had used the dish rack, and I have to tell you, folks, it was the most liberating using a dish rack had ever been.

Rajah didn't confront me about that first dish, nor the second or the third, which caused me over the weeks to become bolder and bolder with my use of it. By the end of the several weeks, I was even putting dishes in the dish rack right in front of him, knowing he would probably not dare to comment on my use of it, given that he disliked reminding me of things a second time. Ah, yes, I could feel the tension rolling off his body as I put the plate in the dish rack, his eyes darting nervously back and forth and likely thinking to himself, "What is she doing? Haven't I told her not to use that? The clutter! The clutter! Oh the humanity!"

As I took back more of my self-respect by standing up to him, he had to devise more and more ridiculous ways to assert his dominance over me. For instance, in one particular attempt to take back some of his pride, he knocked on my door and asked me if I knew how to use the heater in my room.

Me: Yes, Rajah, I have used heaters before.
Rajah: I am just wondering though if you know how to use this one.
Me: Yes, Rajah, I flick the power strip on the wall, then the "on" button on the heater and set it to the temperature I desire the room to be at.
Rajah: Here, let me show you how.
*At this point he entered the room to find my clothes draped all over the heater*
Me: The heater isn't on right now Rajah because I'm drying my clothes, but yes I do know how to use it.
Rajah: This is very dangerous, you cannot have clothes over the heater, it can start a fire.
Me: I know, Rajah, that's why the heater isn't on. I didn't want to start a fire.
Rajah: But yes just so you know it is very dangerous to do this when the heater is on.
Me: Yup, I know that, like I said, that's why the heater isn't on right now.
Rajah: Okay, but it is very dangerous.
Me: Yeah, I got that.

After a week more of similar such incidents, my confidence was again low and my anger was again high, so I decided to plan a rebellion once and for all. For weeks I tried to think of things I could do that wouldn't actually damage the place (I wanted to be able to get my security deposit back) but that would teach him a lesson. Perhaps, when I was checking out, I could take all the dishes he owned out of the cupboard, stack them in the dish rack and then run very quickly away! No no! I'd take the sponge, put it in on his pillow and tack a note to it asking, "Is this the proper place for the sponge?" (impossible to do anyway, since he LOCKS HIS ROOM).

And then it hit me, the perfect opportunity for revenge- Thanksgiving. Oh man, would I give him something to be thankful for. It just so happened that in a bout of homesickness I had arranged an informal Thanksgiving for the lab in which I worked and had promised to make two pumpkin pies, two pecan pies, two apple/cranberry crumbles, and a load of cupcakes. In my mind, it was the perfect opportunity to mess up the kitchen while he was at work, to create horrors in his home.... and then clean it up nicely so he'd have no idea.

So this is precisely what I did. The day before Thanksgiving I took off from work, bought some new CDs, put on my favorite pair of pleather, bright red ballet shoes (my "dorothy" shoes), unload every piece of cookware in Rajah's cabinets, and made a gigantic mess. To the passionate screams of Razorlight and The Kooks, I threw flour haphazardly around the kitchen, I soaked spotless forks in cans of cane syrup, I dropped an egg on the floor and "forgot" to clear it up, I took a heavy pair of scissors and stabbed/pried open a can of pumpkin when the can opener wouldn't work, and mostly, with the music on high, I danced in my little red dorothy shoes. And when I mean I danced, I mean I really danced. With my shoes on. In the house. I danced and I cooked and I sang and I danced and I cooked and I sang some more, until evening began to fall, my deserts were finished, and it was time to clear it all up before Rajah arrived home from work. With the music and my dancing shoes still on, I switched modes and scrubbed the floors, scoured the pots, sponged the counters until the only evidence of the days festivities were a now extremely dirty drying towel (which I left hanging in its filthy state on the oven just because I knew it would anger him), a fridge stuffed full of pies, and a kitchen that smelled suspiciously of baked goods. Ah, at long last, I had had my rebellion and pecan pie sweet it certainly was!

Of course, two days later Rajah and I had our worst argument yet, a screaming match in which he gave me hours in which I could use the washing machine, yelled at me for leaving the towel dirty (see! told you it would anger him!), criticized my use of the dish rack despite asking me not to, and told me that I had embarrassed and disrespected him in front of his sister the other day when I closed the microwave door too loudly. This time, though, I didn't take it and screamed right back. I told him it disrespected me, to be told these things, that I was paying rent for god's sake, that he wasn't doing me any favors by having me live here, that I was a human, that I had rights, that is complains were those of someone who wants the rent of someone living in his flat but not the hassles of having live with another human being, that he was crazy. As I expected, such arguments were utterly useless, even when I repeated them again in our much calmer version of the fight the next morning, when I finally said, "You know what, Rajah? We clearly don't like or respect each other. We have five days before I move out. Let's just stay out of each other's way until then and try not to interact." This he agreed to, and then started chatting to me amiably about his wife and kids, as if nothing had happened, further confirming to me that this man was totally insane.

So that, my friends, was the saga of Rajah, a saga that just goes to show you never know what you're in for (and that you should get a well-paying job, buy your own place, and never NEVER live with ANYONE ever AGAIN). As a result of Rajah's craziness, I am now getting ready to move into the house of two family friends, John and Carol, who heard my dilemma and very kindly offered me a room. In fact, later on in the very same night that Rajah and I had our screaming match, John called to arrange details for my move in.

"Just one more thing," I asked John with tears welling in my throat after we gotten things sorted out. "Would it be alright if I used the dish rack while I was there?"
"Yes," John replied without hesitation. "But you can't use the microwave."

And that is the horrible story of Rajah the crazy flatmate.

Character of the week: My friend Claire, who has helped me throughout the Rajah misadventure, and who has now readily adapted the term "give him the dish rack" into her general word usage:
"I don't think my boyfriend respects me." "Girl, you better give him the dishrack!"
"They didn't want to give me what I paid for but I told them what was what." "Good for you! You totally dishracked them!"
"Hey, what's up? Why are you crying?" "Oh my god, he wants to dishrack me!"
etc. etc.