Two nights ago, I had a terrible headache of the please-I'm-begging-you-to-stab-me-through-the-ear-with-some-scissors-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery variety. After some Excedrin and a nap, I felt much better, and decided to further sooth myself by painting one of my bedroom walls (home improvement is my favorite hobby). I'm happily painting away, all dressed up in my painting pants (I deliberately spill paint on them from every room I've ever painted, like so many brightly colored memories. Also I'm a big klutz.) My cell phone rings and I see that Hot Heather is calling. "Are you at home?"
"Then why aren't you answering your door?"
I must have been in the painting zone or something, because sure enough, I opened the door to find Hot Heather and Vicodin Jim standing on my porch. They had brought with them a laundry bag full of clean clothes, a bunch of spiked belts (punk-rock kid wardrobe staple, you must own at least 6 and wear at least half of them at once), a box of girly, fruity toiletries, another box full of shoes, and some DVDs. I was perplexed. "Is it my birthday? Or have you two finally decided you can't be seen with the preppy girl in public, and brought me some punk clothes so I can play dress up?"
"I'm moving in," Jim announced.
Queue headache rebound.
OK, it wasn't as big of a surprise as I'm making it out to be. Jim has been complaining more and more often about the antics of Jimmy O (et al.), the condition of his apartment (squalor) and the status of his material possessions (missing). He peppers these laments with little comments like these: "I'm getting out of there, by hook or by crook." "I should just crash over here." "This storage room you have is pretty big." "I love your neighborhood." and my personal favorite: "You're my best friend." All of this is designed to manipulate me into thinking that I want to have a roommate, and that said roommate should be Jim.
Amber and roommates don’t go well together. Ask Heather – she’ll remember my wacky college roommate experiences. I’ve proven this to myself over and over again. I like peace. I like quiet. I like my stuff to be where I left it. I like to walk from the bathroom to my room without any clothes after I shower. I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day. Roommates are not conducive to these desires.
Unfortunately, I also have two huge personality defects: a mothering complex and an inability to tell people no. So there is Vicodin Jim, standing on my doorstep with his clothes in a bag, deliberately trying to look pathetic. My poor little friend. Trapped in a filthy apartment in a shitty neighborhood with a cokehead roommate and no heat or stove because the landlord won’t pay to have the gas line to the house fixed. Giving me puppy dog eyes and the ever-persuasive but always fictional promise: “Just for a while until I find a place…”
With a deep sense of foreboding I reply, “Can I help you carry anything?” I am Amber, Captain of the Idiots, and he is Jim of Borg. That is, resistance is indeed futile.
Yesterday, he is singing to himself gleefully when I get home. He’s cleaned out my storage room and shoved most of my stuff in the attic. The bathroom smells like apples or something. I find him piling crap into my medicine cabinet and talking to either me or himself, I’m still not sure. “Strawberry body wash…. razorblades ….make up bag….nail polish…”
“WHAT??? Is this Heather’s crap or something?”
(Indignantly) “NO, it’s MINE. I have to have nail polish for shows, so that I look bad-ass. And I’m wearing black eyeliner and black mascara every day now, ‘cause it makes me look all goth.”
“Fine. But strawberry body wash? I don’t even have shit like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I get to smell nice just because I’m a guy? Huh? HUH? Now, let’s see…deodorant…body spritz…”
I shake my head sadly and go to my room to change. I’m standing in my bra with my skirt unzipped before I realize, oh yeah, I have to shut the fucking door now. Thankfully Jim is still unloading his Channel No. 5 or whatever the fuck he’s “spritzing” himself with.
Five minutes later, I’m in the kitchen looking for something to drink before I go out and run some errands. I notice that I am missing both the half gallon of milk and the carton of orange juice that were in there when I left that morning. I also notice half a pizza in my fridge. I check the freezer. Just as I suspected – he’s eaten my drunk pizza. He yells from inside the bathroom (6 feet away) “Hey, let’s go get some dinner!” Oh yes, lets. Dinner of course means “let’s eat somewhere expensive and then stop by my old house and pick up more of my crap and then have Heather come over and bring Napoleon Dynamite and whine until you agree to stay up all friggin night and watch it”. In 24 hours, I am already going insane.
The good news is that I KNOW this will lead to some excellently funny posts, probably almost daily. My loss is your gain, people. I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!
Seriously though, body spritz?