Can you stand another page about Dean, my uber-extroverted flatmate who won’t shut up?

In my room in this shared house, the only way to the toilet & shower, the laundry room, or the front door is by passing through the kitchen, but arghh! When I step out of my room and into the kitchen, Dean is there and eager to talk at me, almost literally always.

And I mean literally literally, not figuratively literally. I keep track. Over the past three weeks, Dean has been in the kitchen 58% of the time when I’ve been there or passed through, and another 32% of the time he’s come into the kitchen after me. That’s 90% — a 9 out of 10 chance of Dean, every time I open my door.

When I come out to pee, he’s there, or he’s there when I come out of the bathroom. When I come out to eat, he’s there, or comes out while I’m making my sandwich. When I come home, he’s virtually always in the kitchen.

I won’t say he’s stalking me, because I don’t think it’s personal. He’s mentally ill, that’s all. Dean is happy only when he’s talking to someone, and I am very tired of being his someone.

When we see each other, I say ‘hello’ because damn it I was raised with good manners, but Dean takes ‘hello’ as a green light for conversation, and immediately launches into whatever’s on his mind. And it’s always boring — he tells what he cooked at the restaurant yesterday, recites moments from his childhood in some rural town, or yesterday’s ball game, or updates me on the fly infestation near the trash bin, and the difference between salted and unsalted butter, etc. None of it’s of any interest to me, and I usually don’t respond. Not responding doesn’t shut him up, so sometimes I say “shut up,” which he always takes as a joke.

Once or twice weekly, my groceries are delivered, and when Dean sees the sacks he always says, “ShopPING?” He says the first syllable normal, then raises his voice at least an octave and doubles the volume on the second syllable. “ShopPING?”

My groceries have been delivered at this house hundreds of times, and never once has Dean seen my bags without saying, “ShopPING?” I have capitalized, bolded, italicized, and underlined the last four letters of the word, but typing simply cannot convey how aggravating it is.

As I take groceries out of the bags and put them away, Dean provides running commentary on whatever I’ve bought. “Oooh, low-sodium salt… Oooh, almond milk…”

I have told him many times politely, and several times very loudly, that I’d prefer no comment about my groceries, but it never stops. I can’t/won’t complain every time he does it, because I gotta live with this man, and don’t want to be at war with him.

But I also don’t want to talk about the veggie burgers and potato wedges and popsicles as I’m putting them into the freezer, and the raisin bread and fake butter and pickle slices as they go into the fridge, and the chickpeas and canned fruit and mustard as it goes onto the shelf. So I usually say nothing.

When Dean’s not in the kitchen, I put away the groceries fast as I can, because he could appear at any moment. If the bathroom is my destination, I walk lickety-split to get there. If I’m in the kitchen to make a meal, I avoid the floorboards that squeak and handle any pots, pans, plates, or cans very gently, because any noise pulls Dean out of his room and into my face.

If by unnatural luck I’m still alone in the kitchen, I think to myself, “Here it comes, Dean’s about to open his door and step into the kitchen and start talking,” and that’s exactly what happens more often than not.

And now, this morning’s Dean experience:

Groceries were due between 7AM and 9AM, a minor frustration in itself, because I would’ve preferred to have the groceries delivered the previous evening. The Mariners played a ball game last night, though, which is excruciatingly relevant, because whenever there’s a sporting event involving any local team, Dean sits at the kitchen table for hours, watching the game on his laptop. It would’ve been 100% Dean if groceries were delivered last night, so instead I scheduled delivery this morning, gambling that Dean might not be in the kitchen.

Of course, Dean was in the kitchen. He got up at 5AM and started cooking, as he often does, meaning it would be Dean’s kitchen for the entire morning.

The store always leaves my groceries on the porch, and as I passed through the kitchen to get to the sacks, Dean started telling me about the tree out our kitchen window. It’s always blossomed only in springtime, but now it’s blossoming a second time, in late summer.

“Global warming is a bitch,” I replied, still walking, and it is. Among the millions of words I’ve heard in four years of Dean’s endless talking, that’s among the most interesting things he’s said. Still didn’t want to talk about it, though, not with him.

When I returned from the porch carrying two bags, I braced myself for what I knew was coming. “ShopPING?” And of course, he said it, like you’d say it to a 2-year-old: “ShopPING?”

I said nothing, but seethed while unloading the groceries, as Dean gave a play-by-play on everything coming out of my bags. Enough already: I stopped, stood, stared at him, telepathically screaming but still silent. As always, whether I say something to Dean or don’t, nothing gets through to him, so I said nothing, as he continued describing my groceries.

Then I showered, getting ready for a day of taking care of my mom. When I came out of the shower and into the kitchen, Dean began telling me about the meat he’d bought, at such a low price because it’s past its expiration date, and he’s going to make a marvelous steak au poivre or some such fancy French dish, and maybe I’d like to join him for dinner. I would rather starve, but I only grunted as I walked past him and into my room, and closed the door.

Often, closing that door on Dean, I remember the guy who lived in my room before I moved in. Dean has told me about him, several times: “He was a normal guy, at first. We could talk, never a problem, but the longer he lived here, the less he said. I don’t think he said anything at all to me the last six months he lived here.”

The first few times Dean told that story, I hadn’t yet understood, but now I know. The guy who lived in my room before me was desperately trying to keep his sanity, same as the guy who lives in my room now.

Wish I had that long-gone guy’s courage, to go months without speaking to Dean, but I can’t do it. No matter how mental he makes me, it’s very difficult to walk past someone I live with without saying “hello” or “hey,” especially when he says “hello” or “hey” first, but saying anything starts Dean talking.

In the glorious silence of my room, I got dressed, and checked the bus schedule. When it was time to walk to the bus stop, I stepped out of my room again, carrying my backpack, and Dean said in baby talk, “Oooh, are we out and about today?”

And I nearly lost it, or did lose it, depending on how ‘losing it’ is defined. Very loudly, very nearly screaming, I replied, “Yes, I am going out and about today!”

Then I locked my door and beelined through the kitchen and onto the porch… and realized I’d forgotten my bus pass. Ah, crap. I’d have to go back into the house, into the kitchen to get to my room.

And of course, Dean would still be in the kitchen, and he’d say something stupid or kindergarten ‘clever’ about my rapid return. What would it be? “Back so soon?” Or, “Hello, stranger, where have you been for so long?” Or, “How can I miss you when you don’t go away?” Whatever he said, it would be stupid, and I didn’t want to hear it.

Needed the bus pass, though, so I walked into the house and into the kitchen, and Dean said, “Oh, did you forget something?”

“Yes, yes — I forgot to put rat poison in your food, but if you keep reminding me by never never never shutting up, I swear I won’t forget again!”

All that was screamed in my head, but I somehow resisted saying it out loud, because I don’t want to be the main suspect, and I do have a box of rat poison…

8/27/2026

itsdougholland.com
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