My flatmate Dean is an annoyance, which I’ve mentioned a few times. He’s as extroverted as I’m introverted, and he endlessly wants to talk. And he likes to cook, so he’s frequently in the kitchen. And my bedroom door opens into the kitchen, and I dread turning the doorknob, because Dean frequently has something on the stovetop or in the oven, or he’s not even cooking, just sitting on a chair in the kitchen waiting for me to step out of my room so he can talk at me. If he’s not in the kitchen, and I’m in the kitchen alone, I try to be very quiet, because if I make any noise he’s likely to come out of his room to talk at me.

Nothing’s in that first paragraph that I haven’t said before, but any time the topic is Dean I figgur a brief recap is necessary, so that was it.

Today’s Dean complaint is minor, so trivial I’ll sound like an idiot telling you about it, but I am an idiot so here it is:

When I came out of my room to poop this morning, Dean was in the kitchen, of course. He basically lives there, keeping a bedroom only as a formality. As I walked toward the john, I debated in my head whether to say “Good morning, Dean,” loud and angry, which I usually do — loud because he’s nearly deaf, angry because he’s alive — or just walk to the john without saying anything.

Before I’d decided, Dean spoke: “Today is my Friday,” and my eyes rolled so literally I’m pretty sure I heard them.

Dean is older than me and I’m retired, but he still works, part-time in the kitchen at the Hilton Park Hyatt Saint-Regis Four Seasons Marriott Ritz Carlton Hotel downtown. He’s there three days most weeks, sometimes four if they’re busy. His workdays are Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, and sometimes Thursdays.

I don’t want to know any of that, but know it I do, because Dean keeps everyone posted:

On Sundays, like today, Dean always says, “Today is my Friday.”

Tomorrow, Monday, he’ll say, “Today is my Saturday.”

On Thursday, he’ll say, “Today is my Sunday, or, “Tomorrow is my Monday,” unless he’s scheduled to work on Thursday, in which case he’ll say the same thing on Wednesday, and then on Thursday he’ll say, “Today is my Monday.”

Usually, though, he says, “Today is my Monday” on Fridays.

On Saturdays he says, “Today is my Wednesday,” meaning it’s the middle of his work week.

And on Sundays, the Calendar of Dean begins again.

When Dean said to me this morning, “Today is my Friday,” I knew he’d say it again to my other flatmates, Robert and the new guy, if they emerged or passed through the kitchen on their way to the bathroom. And indeed, an hour later when I was in the kitchen making toast, Robert came in, and Dean immediately said to him, “Today is my Friday.” Our new flatmate hasn’t come out of his room yet today, but when he does, he’ll be briefed.

Reading about the days of Dean’s week, you might think it sounds like an amusing quirk, but believe it or not, after years of Dean’s daily day-of-the-week announcements, it’s become tedious. I’ve stopped saying anything in response, but Robert and the new flatmate sometimes engage, which gets them the recitation of Dean’s entire schedule for the work week. I’ve heard his schedule hundreds of times, many times spoken to me, many more times spoken to the other flatmates, and sometimes spoken on the phone, because Dean has his phone conversations in the kitchen.

Would you like to know Dean’s work schedule? Oh, you wouldn’t? Well, tough shit, neither would I, but I have it memorized:

Dean works part-time in the kitchen at the Hilton Park Hyatt Saint-Regis Four Seasons Marriott Ritz Carlton Hotel downtown. He’s there three days most weeks, sometimes four if they’re busy. His workdays are Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, and sometimes Thursdays, which means that if today is Sunday, it’s Dean’s Friday.

8/9/2026

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There’s no air conditioning in our house. We’re in Seattle, a city that rarely reached the mid-80s when I was a kid, 90° once or twice in August, at worst. Open a window, plug in a fan, and you’d be fine.

The city is hotter now, for reasons well-understood but aggressively ignored. Temperatures in the 90s are common, all summer long apparently, and have I mentioned? There’s no air conditioning in our house.

With three fans blowing, all of them aimed at my head, and me taking multiple showers daily, my room is comfortable — but only in my recliner. If I stand up to get a book, the fans are no longer blowing straight at me, the heat suddenly hits, and holy hot-crossed buns, it is hot.

It’s holy hot-crossed buns in my flatmates’ rooms, too, but if the front door and back porch doors are left open all day, the kitchen and living room stay comfortably cool. And so in the summer, one by one, my flatmates migrate out of their sweaty sticky bedrooms, grab a seat in the kitchen, and talk, all day.

And all day, I’m stepping into their conversations. Not every time I leave my room, but it feels like it. My only door opens to an alcove off the kitchen, and when I open it, there they are, two or three of them, talking again.

♦ ♦ ♦

The same breeze that keeps the kitchen cool keeps the living room pleasant, too. There’s a couch and two well-stuffed chairs, but nobody uses the living room except to walk through on their way to the kitchen.

Why? I dunno, but the kitchen is where conversation happens in our house, and my flatmate Dean is the host of The Kitchen Talk Show. He sits by the microwave, in the soft chair that’s missing one of its five wheels. I never sit in that chair, because of the wobble, and because I’m not part of the talk show, but Dean spends half his life in that chair and for him it doesn’t teeter.

At the other end of the microwave table, either ‘L’ or Robert sits in another chair, which has all its wheels. That one’s my chair, on loan to the kitchen since a year ago, after Robert went tumbling down when the wheel broke on that first chair.

There’s a third chair across the kitchen, between the two refrigerators. It’s hard metal and nobody likes it. It’s only used when the other two chairs are occupied, which seems like all the time when it’s roasting in our rooms, like today. Like it has been for weeks.

♦ ♦ ♦

From about 10AM until 8PM, nobody’s never in the kitchen, a double-negative which means someone’s always in the kitchen. Most often it’s Dean, my very talkative flatmate who has nothing to say and never stops saying it. I open my door and he’s there — the man with the missing shut-up switch, in the chair with the missing wheel.

If he’s alone, he’ll immediately start talking at me, and I’ll either ignore him or grunt a few words. He’s one of life’s great displeasures, but you grow accustomed to him, like ants at a picnic or bums downtown.

If Dean’s not alone, if Robert or ‘L’ is in the chair at the other end of that table, a conversation will be underway, but whatever the topic they’ll drop it and say hello to me, as I walk toward the bathroom for a pee or a shower. “It’s Doug!” and “Nice to see you,” and “Come out and join us.” Very welcoming, but still… I didn’t come out to join. I force a smile and say hi and then I’m in the bathroom.

It’s more of a problem when my destination is the kitchen, to make a sandwich or zap something. They’re right there with me, so it’s rude if I don’t have something to say.

But what am I supposed to say? Invariably they’re talking about Dean’s cooking, or the weather (“Sure is hot”), or about baseball, football, or hockey. I know the names of the local teams and want them to win, so I can lightly participate in those conversations, while spreading mayonnaise. But I don’t like it.

♦ ♦ ♦

Yesterday, I came onto the set of Dean’s talk show, and ‘L’ was the guest. When I was introduced (“It’s Doug!”), I said howdy and even smiled, and then stepped into the bathroom for a thorough evacuation of my bowels.

By the time I’d flushed and come out, Robert had joined the panel, sitting in the hard-metal chair, waiting for his chance at the bathroom that was thick with my fumes.

The three of them were talking about baseball, and as Robert rose and walked past me toward my stink, he asked what I thought of a new pitcher the team had brought up from the minors. He said the player’s name, and I said flatly, “I don’t know who that is,” and he chuckled and closed the bathroom door.

That was the cue for ‘L’ to start telling Dean and I all about the new pitcher, reciting his minor league stats, and sweet jeebers, I do not care.

If it was Dean telling me the guy’s Double-A earned-run average, I would’ve walked into my room and closed the door. It was ‘L’, though, and I don’t hate ‘L’, so I politely took my place on the hard-metal chair and listened for a couple of minutes. Now I’m an expert on right-handed pitcher Prelander Berroa, but I still don’t care.

Finally I fake-smiled and said thanks, gotta go, and added, “You guys should try the living room some time.”

That’s my usual tagline as I’m leaving the talk show. One room thataway, there’s a couch and two plush chairs. “On a couch, I might sit and talk a few more minutes,” I said, and meant it.

I’m not much for talking, but I can be cordial to Dean, with effort, and there’ve been a few effort-free conversations with Robert, and I might like getting to know ‘L’ a little better (like, it starts with ‘L’ but what’s your name again?).

Wouldn’t mind a conversation, but it has to be an option, not a requirement. When I open my door and they’re there in the kitchen, conversation is required, and I hate that.

♦ ♦ ♦

Haven’t explained the above to Robert or ‘L’, because they’d misunderstand, think I’m insulting them. That’s what happens, almost invariably, when I try explaining to people what it’s like being an introvert:

How talking drains my energy.

How a few minutes of talking is OK, but too many minutes is a panic.

How I abhor talking about nothing.

Many, many times, I have tried explaining such things, but explaining it involves talking, so it never works. The only people who’ve understood what I meant were other introverts, and they, of course, understood it without needing the explanation.

If I tried explaining it to Robert and ‘L’, which I won’t, I’d say: I’m an introvert. Look it up, and then look at the layout of this house we share. I cannot leave my room without walking through the kitchen, and when it’s hot out, people are always talking in the kitchen, and everyone says “Hi Doug!” as I open my door, and you expect me to converse, but I’m an introvert. Look it up.

If you would please talk in the living room instead of the kitchen, you’d be fifteen steps further from my door. None of the chairs would teeter. And best of all, I wouldn’t be stepping into the middle of your conversation every time I twist the doorknob. Give me that much breathing space, and I might join your conversations, sometimes.

♦ ♦ ♦

But I’m not going to say any of that to my flatmates. It’s just, my life as an introvert. I close the door and eat my sandwiches, sometimes I talk to myself, and occasionally I talk to Dean, when there’s no way around it.

7/20/2023
Republished 8/9/2026

our 92nd weekly open mike

Let’s see what happens when your host (me) has nothing to say. Step right up, speak your mind, tell a story, sing a song, whatever.

8/8/2026

Anything goes

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