Tag: Roomates

Rise and Scowl

“How are you feeling?”
“Like a military academy, bits of me keep on passing out.”
-The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

I, to grossly understate it, am not a morning person.  I like to think I’m usually slyly sharp with a Katherine Hepburn-esque wit and sarcasm, but when I’m cranky I’m flat out vicious. 

I'd support a movement to have the day start at 10am
I'd support a movement to have the day start at 10am

Actually I don’t mind mornings as such, I just hate getting up.  Or rather, being woken up before I’m good and ready to do so myself.  During freshman year, Jenni and I had a friend who for some reason disdained to eat the cafeteria food graciously bestowed upon us (that was uttered with said biting sarcasm, by the way) and usually cooked her own breakfast.  Also inexplicably, although more reasonably so, Jenni had what amounted to a fully stocked kitchen under her dorm room bed complete with mixing bowls, blender, and assorted spices.  Our friend Sunny would raid this horde everyday to make herself breakfast, which I had no objection to.  But at 6:00 in the morning, which I did.  

Sunny is a naturally loud person at normal times but at that ungodly hour of the morning…let’s just say I found it a particular trial.  After about a week of trying to swallow my frustration and try go back to sleep after pots had been clanged and crockery clattered, I couldn’t take it.  Unfortunately the very next morning Sunny spaced and not only showed up earlier than usual, but accidentally flipped on the lights (at 5:30 in the bloody morning!) when she tiptoed into our dorm room and made such a ruckus under Jenni’s bedthat I erupted.
“Morning, C.,” she chirruped brightly, “Want some breakfast?  I’m…um…uh…”
“Sunny?” I murmured darkly.
Get.  Out.”
She didn’t enter our dorm room again without my permission, daylight or not, for the rest of the school year.  Apparently I bare an uncanny resemblance to a Fury at 5:30 in the morning.

exerciseMy latest bone to pick with mornings is my workout schedule.  J. and I have started working out together, but on weight lifting days the only time we can seem to manage is early mornings, other times are just too crowded at the gym.  Today was the first attempt at the new time.  I HATE it.  There were about three other girls, all with their respective boyfriends like me, who had to navigate the rows of testosterone soaked equipment with our dinky little 5 and 10 lbs weights while these Hulk-wannabes hefted my entire body weight in each arm for arm curls.  Every once and a while some guy let out a roar that sounded suspiciously like he was giving birth, and most spent an inordinate amount of time checking themselves out in the mirrors.  If I hadn’t been so cranky/clueless I’d have thought it was hilarious.  Unfortunately nothing is funny that early, not even to me.

I’m sticking with it, hating something and giving it up aren’t necessarily mutually inclusive, but I have spent the day encased in emotional ice and venom.  With aching muscles.  Watch out, I bite.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

“I hate the word housewife; I don’t like the word homemaker either.  I want to be called Domestic Goddess.”

I was up past midnight cleaning my flat for our semesterly cleaning check, even though out of sheer laziness our complex management simply decided to forgo it last Fall.  Slowly over the years, as I’ve grown up and moved into a place relatively my own, I have become convinced of a fundamental war between good and evil: order and chaos locked in eternal combat, and their battleground is housekeeping.  I’m pretty sure the Apocalypse will happen in my apartment.

I am become Cleaning, the destroyer of sanity
I am become Cleaning, the destroyer of sanity

There are divine entities at work too, I’m positive.  There is a malicious God of the Dryer who demands the sacrifice of socks to appease his hunger.  These hapless cotton victims vanish into an alternate dimension never to be seen again, that’s the only explanation I can satisfactorily come to.  I bought two dozen a couple months ago, I’m down to nine (not pairs, total).  Also, my flat in particular is plagued by a Dust Demon that periodically covers all it sees with a tangible layer, courtesy of a filthy vent (thanks, management, for helping us out with that).  Another entity is our resident Garbage Disposal Goddess who is by turns benevolent and heartless, currently the latter.  Thankfully for us all the Second Coming of the Vacuum redeemed us all (three months after it died, a brighter shiny new version arose to take its place).

Perhaps I'm overreacting?
Perhaps I'm overreacting?

I’m sorry to say my flatmates aren’t always the cleanest (neither am I, but at least I try!) and occasionally they call Domestic Divine Wrath down upon us.  The most recent and notable example is my flatmates leaving two plastic jugs of milk (I’ll call one Sodom and the other Gomorrah) out on the counter for at least 5 days.  I woke up one morning, late as usual, and was scampering about to get to work on time when upon entering the kitchen, I found the jugs had exploded all over my counter.  Something resembling the unholy love child of cottage cheese and sour cream had erupted everywhere and I was late to work because I had to clean it up or asphyxiate.  I suppose that makes me a great crusader at some level but at the time all I was was pissed and, I feel, righteously angry. 

This little incident broke the camel’s back for me.  When J. came over that night I snapped, very uncharacteristically, “I’ve decided we should get married.  Next week.”
Kudos to him, he understood perfectly.  He just sighed and asked, “What happened?”
I will say one argument in favor of matrimony and child bearing would be the eventual slave labor offspring provide doing chores.  Maybe that’s the reason my mother had four of us.

Anyway, after several hours scrubbing, chemicals, vacuuming, and many socks sacraficed, my flat looks pretty good.  The forces of Good have prevailed, for a week at least.