Roommates Not Wanted!

What I'm Listening To: Cavorting by the Corteeners

Ahhh, roommates. All of us at one time have had one...or two...or maybe more, and maybe all at the same time! My time on this earth has been domestically shared with some wonderful, and not so wonderful people, who've provided me with some very funny stories over the years. Since I was spared having to share a room with my sister through most of my childhood, we'll start at the beginning of my roommate odyssey...college.

I was first introduced to the joy that is having a roommate when I started college. My very first roomie was a lovely girl I will call Kim. (All names and places have been altered slightly to protect the innocent...namely, me!). Kim was supposedly the prettiest girl to ever hit this teensy school (have you guessed where yet??). And since I was Kim's roommate, I got to live vicariously through this celestial creature, the Midwest's answer to Cindy Crawford. "Hey, can I come to your room?" some hot guy would whisper drunkenly in my ear at the local watering hole as I sipped my vodka gimlet. OMG! A hot boy wants to come to my room? Oh yeah!! But of course, this request was often followed by the charming phrase, "I hear you live with Kim! She is so hot!!!" *rolls eyes* So regardless, I left after my sophomore year.

I transferred to a huge state university my junior year, and since I thought living in the dorms with the freshmen might be a good way to meet new people, I braved the roommate scene again. Bad move. Another cinder-block dorm room, another "hottie" roommate. This time around I was stuck with this blonde bimbo who wore clouds of Joop perfume and thought that she was all that and a bag of chips because once she danced with Screech from Saved by the Bell at a club in Chicago. When she forced us to install bunkbeds in our room, and then insisted I take the top one, that started us on the downward spiral. Each morning I was greeted by another fresh bruise on my skull when I whacked my noggin on the ceiling since, duh, I forgot I was on the top bunk. Again. Arrrrggggh! After she called me uncouth during one of our many bicker sessions about her horrible and loud music addiction and annoyingly loud telephone conversations while I was studying, that was about the end of the line. So I forced this president of the Toad the Wet Sprocket Fan Club to help me hang up my life-sized Red Hot Chili Peppers poster on the largest wall available -- you know the one, where they're nude except for the strategically-placed sweat socks? -- and then finally I felt we were pretty much even. Ha. Suck on that, chickie!

After I finally graduated from college, I scooted off across the country to California. Yes, truly the land of the nuts and flakes. And I think all the nuts wanted to room with me. Since rent was astronomical for even a one bedroom apartment, I had no choice but to start the roommate cycle again. My Californian roommates came and went in this order: The Narcissist, who totally got off on me watching her get dressed, undressed, and then dressed again; The Lesbian, who couldn't make it through an evening at home without burning at least 10 sticks of Nag Champa incense; The Ageless Klepto, who decided that my closet, my computer and basically everything in my room was for her personal use and who wouldn't tell me her age for love or money; and finally, The Stripper. Or as she liked to call herself, exotic dancer. ha!

Many of my favorite roomie stories involve The Stripper. When I was first interviewing for a new roommate after The Lesbian left, it seemed impossible to find someone decent to live with. They were all too pretty, or too dirty, or too weird or just not right. But I like The Stripper, mostly because she seemed cool even though she had these freaky 3-inch-long bright red fingernails. When I asked her what she did she told me she was a "night auditor at a bank", whatever that meant. But one late night after she moved in, when I caught her leaving the apartment wearing a huge blonde wig, Lucite shoes and a teensy dress that didn't even cover her tootie, she 'fessed up.

So we sat down at the kitchen table, and it all tumbled out. She was a dancer, she said. And seriously, lil ol' innocent me was like, "A dancer? Like what, ballet?" She giggled and said, no, exotic dancer. At a gentlemens' club downtown. After she told me how much she made a night, I was shocked! I stepped back and took a good hard look at The Stripper, who was at the most 5'2", had a flat chest and dishwater blonde hair. This woman was making THAT much money? Come on!! But when she showed me her stacks of singles, her dancer's wardrobe of shaggy Farrah Fawcett wigs, skimpy dresses and a shelf-load of strappy platform sandals that made my feet hurt just looking at them, well, what could I say? Hey, if you can pay the rent, I can deal.

After that, our time as roomies seemed to get silly. Like her perchant for adopting stray animals, including a white cat she named Fancy, after the cat's food. Very original. Or the loud spanking sounds that often emanated from her bedroom, followed by yelps of manly delight at all hours of the night. An interesting creature, to be sure. When she finally got engaged to one of the bouncers at her club, I even got an invitation to their destination wedding in, you guessed it, Vegas. Whoohooo. Sadly, I did not attend what I'm sure would have been quite the wild bash, spankings and all.

When I moved back home, I promised myself one thing: no more roommates. And I stuck to it until I got married. But I have to say that living with another person is a total learning experience. You learn how much you're willing to put up with. You learn how passive aggressive you can truly be. You learn about sharing, stealing and "hey, you weren't gonna eat that, were you?" So for all of you readers with roommate stories, I'd love to hear them! And to all of you still living the roommate dream, good luck with that. At least you'll have funny stories to tell at the bar! ha!