Hello, and Welcome to My Crib

Finding the perfect roommate is like searching for buried treasure with a plastic spoon. You know it is an impossible task, yet you just keep chugging along with hopes that the next potential candidate proves to have at least a few redeeming qualities that could make your home life manageable. In the last 4 years I have had 7 different roommates, well 10 if you now count my parents and sister. Each have taught me something, and no two were the same. I like to think these people were put in my life for a reason. . but other than to provide slight fear and a nervous laugh when recalling our experiences, I got nothin. Now granted, not all were bad! I did have some good times and still keep in contact with a few of them today. But at the same time, I’m also fairly positive MTV or even BRAVO could’ve made a killing off producing a reality show on my dorm life, sorority life, and home life experiences with roommates. Why, you may be asking? Well lets get some popcorn and take a trip down memory lane, folks.

I’d like to go on record for saying I am fairly easy to live with. I keep to myself, I shower regularly, and due to not being able to cook I never make a mess in the kitchen. I’m actually pretty prime real estate in the roommate market if we’re being honest here. But somehow, someway, I always ended up with the most absurd living arrangements.

Freshman year of college I moved into my first dorm. “Apartment style and centrally located on campus” as the housing office would tell you. But this dorm became nicknamed, the Dungeon. Now disclaimer that it didn’t actually look like a dungeon, because my mom and I totally bought out Target beforehand and did some Extreme Makeover Home Edition worthy work to make it livable. However, to access the Dungeon you first went up a hill, swiped into the building, went DOWN two flights of stairs, and through a heavy door into a small corner of the building. Our apartment backed the hill to the parking garage, so my view was that of the undercarriages of cars daily. However the living room had a nice big window! Which allowed people walking by to glance down into our humble home with looks of pity. Which happened often. We eventually stopped opening the blinds.

My roommates that year consisted of 3 other freshman girls. Each of us randomly selected to become a little family and try to survive being away from home for the first time on our own, together. Roomie 1 was a quiet girl, who kept to herself and studied long hours in the library. She later met some guy who conveniently lived across the street and seemed to enjoy his dorm more than our Dungeon. Roomie 2 was also quiet, and worked several jobs. She kept weird hours, had an extremely controlling and tattooed boyfriend, and shed more than a chia pet (Do you have any idea how many times housing had to come unclog our showers..) . But she was friendly, so she received a birthday card from me that year. But then we had Roomie 3. Roomie 3 had it all. Her room alone was stocked up with enough electronics, food, appliances, and necessities to last World War III and whenever her mom came to visit, she brought food. Downside to Roomie 3? She kept her bike in our living room. You may be asking, why not outside? Why not locked to a bike rack? Weeeell, she had tried that. Three times to be exact. And to this day I’m not sure if she was being targeted by the local bike-stealing gang or what, but man did she have bad luck. The first bike had the seat stolen and the back tire. The second bike fell victim to losing its handle bars and basket. And the third bike lost the chains and a tire. I like to think somewhere riding around campus is a makeshift bike of all her previous bikes put together, only because it amuses me. But when she was gone on weekends I did enjoy riding her bike around the communal living room outside our apartment.

Sophomore Year brought me to yet another apartment style dorm on campus. This one closer to my Greek House and the Police Station though. I nicknamed this one, the Cell. Our apartment was on the fourth floor, but the elevators never worked. So everyday was leg day. And you had to strategically plan your grocery shopping to either avoid any & all heavy objects or enlist a friend to help you carry everything upstairs while crying and cursing the housing office for hating you enough to assign you to the Cell. My room was two feet smaller than the year before, and some idiot downstairs would repeatedly punch holes in the hallway walls. Pretty sure he was friends with the guys on the second floor who set up a mini-golf course throughout the building during finals week.

The Cell brought me 2 new roommates and the return of Roomie 2 from freshman year. My new roommates however, Roomie 4 and Roomie 5, had been best friends for awhile now and couldn’t have been more thrilled to be living together. Roomie 4 was from out of state, incredibly short, and very mellow. Roomie 5 was local, incredibly tall, and had a father that I’m fairly positive could’ve been on Sons of Anarchy. Both girls went out a lot, came back in the wee hours of the morning, and somehow always managed to be eating tacos. (Something I actually had respect for if we’re being honest). However the downside to Roomies 4 & 5 was that our doors were never locked and the oven was left on constantly into the night, which sorta freaked out Roomie 2. .  so she jumped ship and left me. In comes Roomie 6. This one had a weekday boyfriend AND a weekend boyfriend. Weekday boyfriend used my towels. Weekend boyfriend ate my Eggos. It was a very rough semester for me, as you can imagine.

Towards the end of Sophomore Year God had answered my prayers! A spot had opened up in my sorority house on campus and I WAS FREE! No more dorms. No more random roommates. No more half naked men eating my frozen waffles. LIFE WAS LOOKING UP! So into the Penthouse I moved. The Penthouse was what I called my third floor room in the house, which was the largest by layout design and overlooked the Greek Parking Lot and walk way to our house. It was the largest room I’d been in to date, but I did have to share it with Roomie 7. Roomie 7 was a quiet sister of mine, who studied often, was local and went home almost every weekend. Downside to Roomie 7? Sleep Apnea. So I would lay in bed awake most nights listening to her snore, but then shoot up in panic when she stopped thinking she’d died. Happy to report we lived together 2 years and she never quit breathing on me. You da real MVP roomz. 

But now? I’m living back home. With Roomies 8-10. Roomie 8 wakes up at 5am everyday to feed the dogs and head out to work. Which by default means I wake up at 5am everyday, however she does manage to make a mean Grilled Cheese when asked and keeps my clothes smelling nice. . So we’ll give her a pass on this one. Roomie 9 is gone all day working as well but comes home and commanders the communal television for 2-3 hours at night. Which by default means I get to watch shows like Wicked Tuna or the dreaded Mary Tyler Moore Show (something I may add that was produced before I was EVEN BORN). However he does pay my car insurance and has yet to ask me for a rent check, so we’re going to let this one slide as well. But Roomie 10 takes the cake. She’s a hormonal 13-year old who makes me understand why monkeys throw their poop sometimes. While her sense of humor amuses me, god help anyone in a 10 foot radius when she doesn’t get her way or is asked to do a chore. Roomie 8 asked her to unload the dishwasher last night and what proceeded could be comparable to the Britney Spears 2007 meltdown. But at the end of the day she’s a decent kid with some potential. A work in progress, but she’ll get there in time.

It’s an odd transition moving back home. You go from living on your own and making your own rules, to feeling obligated to be home by that high school curfew and keeping your room clean. But being home has its perks. For instance there is always parking available. I never have to worry about starving because I was too lazy to go to the store that day. And my clothes can be left in the dryer as long as I want without being stolen. SO in conclusion, maybe Roomies 8-10 aren’t so bad. . at least, not for now. . .

 

1 thought on “Hello, and Welcome to My Crib”

  1. Pretty sure we could get you a book deal with your musings! I wish I had thought to write about my roommates-#1-failed out, #2-failed out, #3-you got it. See a pattern here? I think it means I was a very fun roommate! Keep writing!

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