Monthly Archives: October 2013

New house, some problems

After 3 ½ years, I officially moved out of the frat house last month—which I’m sure I haven’t mentioned.  It was something I’d been considering for a while and finally committed, sadly confessing my betrayal to the boys the day before I signed my new lease, swayed by promise of my own bathroom and a dishwasher.  The boys kept saying things my last night in the house like “you’ll be just down the street” and “we’ll still see you all the time” instead of throwing themselves on the ground sobbing, wrapping their arms around my ankles and begging me to stay.  It was weird.

But anyways, I really am just up the block in a small row house with two rooms on the second floor and a finished basement, which is where I reside.  With my own bathroom, guys, my own bathroom (and as such, with the absence of a shower schedule and knowing I had exactly 18 minutes before Roommate B would be banging on the door because it was his turn to shower, I have been late almost every morning)!

I live with girls now as well, which really isn’t so bad—there are more than four plates in the cupboard, we have things like a turkey baster, and a pizza stone and decorative plates on the wall.  There is not a sports poster in sight.  There are two cats—Gracie and Sam.  Sam has yet to come downstairs because Gracie is a bully.  Like a serious bully.  She held me hostage in my room for a whole half hour the day I moved in, swatting and hissing and blocking the my path upstairs until I established my dominance with the help of a broom.  She also likes to stand on the shelf near the front door and sneak attack me when I come home.  There is also a little dog named Lily that hops more than walks and is a touch on the dumb side.

Other marked differences—when I ask my roommates “how was your day?” I get more of a response than “fine” or “terrible” or “good.”  It’s more of a high and low of the day situation with girls.  There is more than just beer in the fridge, which I have mixed feelings about, and no designated mini fridge in the living room solely for more beer.  Sports have not been on the TV once.  And there is only one TV in the living room.  And now I actually have to do stuff.

When I moved into the frat house Roommate A told me—no female in his household would be mowing the lawn, which was just fine with me. I hate mowing lawns.  So I happily obliged, and didn’t even once consider mowing the lawn for the 3 ½ years I lived there.  When something broke, they fixed it.  When I couldn’t reach something on the top shelf, they retrieved it.  When I set the toaster oven on fire, I walked into the living room and said “Roommate B, I set the toaster oven on fire.”  That’s not to say that I’m not completely capable of these things of course—I was raised in a “don’t be a helpless girl” household, and would’ve put the fire out if I was home alone, obviously, but they always said they’d just take care of it.  And then they did.

So Monday—I had plans to make quiche and relax like a mother fucker and enjoy a quiet evening at home.  I put the quiche in the oven and was all ready to start watching Sons of Anarchy with ALL the lights on when I realized the 10 small ends off the asparagus and a couple egg shells I tossed in the sink had clogged the disposal.  And then I realized I had to fix it.  I tried baking soda and vinegar, a plunger, the power of positive thinking and a whole bottle of Draino before quitting for the night.  Google told me that the Draino may take 24 hours, so I crossed my fingers and went to sleep.

The next night I came home and we were in the same situation.  I’d had a couple cocktails.  I was in a great mood. I was looking forward to crawling into bed at 9pm with my book and going to sleep early.  But no. I had to shove my hand down a drain full of Draino and fish for hunks of food.  I had to attempt to snake the drain.  I had to put a bucket under the sink and take apart pipes.

I tried.  My roommate tried.  We texted her boyfriend.  We sent pictures.  I googled things.  I splashed gross water on my business dress, because a true lady snakes her drain wearing a business dress and pearls.  And nothing.  I could taste the Draino in my mouth.  I can still take the Draino in my mouth.  We finally caved after an hour and emailed the landlord, asking them to send over their plumber.  And while the dishwasher and my own bathroom and the decorative plates on the wall are great, I missed the days where I could really be a helpless girl at my leisure.  And the frat boys too, of course.

By the way—anyone know how to get the smell of Draino off your person?  Anyone?

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A different version

Blogging when you’re in a relationship is mundane.  No one is interested in 200 words about how I made us homemade spaghetti for dinner and then we sat on the couch and watched Homeland, which has gotten weird by the way, and then went to bed early.  That is boring.  But for a long time that boring evening, or a version of it, was also incredibly satisfying to me.  Comforting.  There was something about the intimacy of familiarity that I loved.  Habits and routines that you create with another person.

But sometimes those habits and routines are not developing in the same direction.  And while I one day very far from now will want lots of babies underfoot and most likely marriage and a very big life.  He was satisfied with what he already had and understood, small and insular, just by himself.  He told me he wanted to be friends.  I told him to go fuck himself.

I took back the pot I used to make spaghetti, mostly out of spite, and the casserole pan I bought, yet to be used.  And the tart pan I used to make so many frittatas on Saturday mornings, because he wasn’t going to use them anyway.  And because there was something in that childish “this is mine” rage that satisfied me.  I threw out my toothbrush and gathered my things.

I texted my boss and told her I was going to be late the following morning, due to a wicked hangover or because I’d been arrested egging his house.  One of the two.  An old man told me to smile as I stomped down the street on my way home, upset and carrying all my things.  I drank beer and ate pizza and smoked cigarettes on a friend’s rooftop.

And I cried—75 percent of the tears for my failed relationship.  Knowing this time that when I said “I never want to see you again” there was force and anger in my voice that wasn’t there the last time we’d had this conversation.  Because we’d had this conversation before.  And 25 percent for having to once again go on first dates.

I repeat the cliché lines in my head, the stock words of comfort from loved ones—it’ll get easier, one day at a time, you can do better, I’m so sorry, he didn’t deserve you, what an asshole—knowing that I will pick myself up, and dust myself off, and again start shaving my legs every day.  I will find a brand new version of a comforting, boring evening at home with a different person.  A different recipe, a different couch, different shared habits.  I will have that again.

And he will have many, many frequent flier miles.

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