Roommates: Love'm or Hate'm

My living situation has vastly improved since the days of the Crazies. It feels like a million years ago that I was living in an apartment with a “family friend” from Austin. A past life ago that I had to vacate my bedroom every time my roommate (referred to sporadically in this blog as the Daughter) announced that her parents (the Mister and Missus) were coming for a visit.

I’d forgotten how unbearable things had become. I used to stand outside the door to our apartment, holding my breath, listening for telltale sounds of life within, one hand frozen just above the lock, clutching my key, hoping I wouldn’t hear anything.

But of course, the Daughter was always there. She really had nowhere else to go. In retrospect, I find this sad. At the time, I just found it annoying.

You know in Pirates of the Caribbean, how Bootstrap Bill decomposes into the side of the ship and becomes a part of the wall?

I used to tell people that it wouldn’t surprise me if the same thing happened to the Daughter. I could just picture her fused with the cushions, an extension of our couch.

She went through a phase after she lost her job where she lived permanently on the couch in the dark, watching CSI. Of course, all of my friends knew about this habit of hers because I complained about it incessantly (sorry, y’all …) Anyway, I got to wondering once…

ME: I got home yesterday evening and guess what the Daughter was doing... What's that? Did you say, "watching CSI?" How did you know?? She stayed home all day yesterday because she's "sick." When I went to bed - she was watching CSI. When I woke up this morning to get ready for work - she was watching CSI. SERIOUSLY!!! Do you think it's humanly possible to watch every CSI episode ever made? I mean, there has to be an end at some point, right??

LB: Common misconception. There is actually a never-ending supply of CSI thanks to a spin-off for every major metropolitan area, every type of crime, victim, ethnicity, weather-condition, time period, weapon- the list goes on. I would think that much CSI would really start messing with your head. She is probably going to start getting really paranoid and weird- oh wait.

Clearly my friends loved the Daughter as much as I did. But – back to the point – I am proud to say (without sarcasm this time) that my friends actually DO love my post-Daughter era roommates (affectionately referred to as “the rooms”).

And, of course, so do I.

We actually enjoy hanging out with each other. I pause outside the front door and hope for an apartment full of people instead of an empty one.

This morning, one of the rooms and I ran into each other while getting ready for work. We’re all on pretty different schedules, so this rarely happens. And as she walked out the door, after we exchanged “have a good day!,” I remembered how I used to hide in my room while getting ready for work, emerging only after the Daughter had left for the day.

My one year anniversary with the rooms is coming up in March – obviously, we’re planning a date. And looking forward to another year of awesome.

So in closing, I'd just like to say:    Love you girls!

N.S.F... EVER.

Apparently one of the rooms (roommates) and I had an extra good time last night, judging by the mysterious stain on the shower curtain. I feel like the action leading to the evidence is one you should generally be able to remember. But none of us do - or just aren't copping to it.

Either way, I find myself wondering if we should be more responsible at this stage in life. Sometimes I feel like my 20's have just been an extension of my college boozing days. Well, more or less compressed into weekends and the occasional Thursday night. I mean, I do have a job after all...

And in case you didn't know, my wonderful alma mater has earned the title "#1 Party School" on several occasions. Transfer that kind of training into a place where bars line every block and stay open until 4am (LP calls this Disneyland for grown-ups) and what can you expect?

Anyway, the rooms and I threw the offending shower curtain into the washing machine and forgot about it. No harm done.

Which was certainly unlike my last experience with unexplained "messes" in the bathroom - the one that traumatized me for life. I'll give you the short and to-the-point version that I shared with friends and Momma J the next day:

"Apparently, The Daughter and/or one of her family members believes that it is appropriate to use the toilet brush as a plunger, thereafter replacing it (and other ... large... things…) in the holder."

I blame The Mister. It's just the kind of disgusting thing he would do.

Cheap Apt : New York :: Skyscraper : Texas

Like I said before, this whole blog thing started because I wanted to – no HAD to – share my ridiculous stories of the New York fam that took me in (so to speak). The Crazies rented an astronomically-priced apartment for the Daughter in the East Village. They offered to charge me a fraction of the rent as long as I was willing to give up my room every “6 weeks or so” when they decided to fly up from Texas to visit.

6 weeks my ass. It was actually more like every 3 weeks or so that I found myself displaced onto the couch. At first I didn’t mind, as I hadn’t yet experienced the full extent of the crazy. After a while, I got tired of finding The Mister’s smelly shirts hanging in my closet, and politely going along with The Missus and her attempts to make me help her analyze The Daughter and her downward spiral.

But there were perks, so I stayed put. Expensive dinners, a few shopping trips, and LOW RENT were among the reasons I stuck it out. Along with the endless fodder produced by their visits, which I used to entertain my friends.

Forgive me for sounding shallow, but we’re not talking low rent in some crap apartment. That would be low rent in a duplex apartment with, a huge living room/kitchen/half-bath downstairs, and 2 huge bedrooms/full bath upstairs. For just the two of us. Well, and the Mister and Missus when they came to visit. If you live in New York, you understand what this means. Amazing.

(The courtyard in the middle of my old apt complex)

What can I say, real estate is a precious commodity in this city. It was worth disinfecting my room every 3 weeks or so. Well, most of the time.

And, let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t have cleaned it that often otherwise …

Psychic? Or just plain psycho ...

My move to New York City was predicted by a psychic. I had never spoken with a psychic before. Technically, I still haven't consulted one, although this particular psychic maintained a recurring guest role in my day-to-day life for quite a while.

While I'm not sure that I believe in psychic abilities, I can say without a doubt, that I believe most things happen for a reason, and that others are just meant to be. I always envisioned moving to the East coast post-graduation, and knew that I would eventually make it happen. The "how" escaped me for a while, but I persisted.

Interviewing for jobs across the country wasn't easy. I wasn't being taken seriously and I'm sure that the nervous, frenetic energy I harbored crept into my voice during the interviews that I did manage to secure. I stuck with it, and eventually found a job, immediately quiting the internships I had taken in an attempt to keep busy and productive during my job-quest.

Even though I had been out of school for 9 months, I finally felt like the next phase of my life was about to begin.

And once the realization sunk in that "moving to the East coast" actually meant moving, I started to panic about the housing situation. Sure, interviewing for jobs was hard, but finding an apartment would be impossible …

Cue mysterious phone call from a family friend, informing us that another mutual friend was roommate-hunting for her daughter. Not only was it perfect timing, but (as I may have mentioned) seemingly preordained as well. After contacting the mutual friend to inquire about the room, Momma J – was told the story of the psychic prediction.

After having problems filling their empty room, the family consulted a psychic. “Not to worry. A girl with long brown hair, that your daughter already knows, will move into the apartment within three months."

Because, naturally, who wouldn't consult their psychic when having problems finding a suitable roommate for their daughter?

And as predicted, here I am living in the City. New York and I shared the first year of our relationship intertwined with one of the most amazingly eccentric, astoundingly bizarre, "old money" New York families. While I lived with the Daughter, Momma J was back in Texas with the matriarch of the family, fondly (as far as I can tell) referred to by her husband as "the Missus."

The original purpose of this blog was to serve as a chronicle of my life with the crazy Daughter. Of course the Mister and Missus played a big part in that story as well. While I’ve since moved on from my relationship with the family, the crazy has pretty much remained a constant in my relationship with New York – how could it not?

Even though I’ve moved out of that first apartment – and on from the idea of keeping a blog about it – I still find myself bolting out of bed in the middle of the night to scribble notes about stories I want to write down and develop further. After months of this, I’ve decided to push aside my laziness and actually act on my impulse to write it all down. After all, I’ve always enjoyed writing as a form of catharsis, having kept journals on and off for as long as I can remember.

So welcome to my first foray into blogging (unless you count that emo-teen-angst Xanga blog I had in high school …) Hopefully the ramblings of one Southern girl turned City (one among many others, I know) will entertain – at least a little.