Monthly Archives: March 2014

don't let your dirty dishes define your relationship

War is hell, especially when you share a bathroom with them


Don’t let your dirty dishes define your relationship. 

“This year things are going to be different. We’re going to all pull our weight. We’re only going to drink on the weekends and never run out of toilet paper.”  There is a beautiful glimmer of hope that surrounds a new roommate situation. Too often that promise of a tranquil home slowly turns into the situation that many of us know too well: the roommate war zone.

There’s that pot that has been “soaking” for maybe a week now, a slew of passive aggressive post-it notes and the ever delicate balancing game of “how much trash can I stack on the can before it falls.” I think my personal record was well over a foot before I caved and took it out.

Whether you live with your besties or the least sketchy person you could find on Craigslist, it’s all fun and games until someone got drunk and ate your leftovers.

They should have made room in the high school curriculum on how to be a good roommate. It’s a class I certainly did not take. My late night post-bar meals have often left our kitchen atrocious, I have to be reminded to put pants on when we have a guest and must take credit for a good percentage of the post-it notes.

I live with three other women, and not one of us is perfect. Imagine a small house with four very big personalities and only one bathroom. Patience gets tested, especially when your roommate is taking a shower and you really, really have to pee.

My mind wanders to a wonderful dream of having a place to myself where I don’t have to put my name on my groceries and have the freedom to recklessly watch crappy TLC shows without judgement. The grass is always greener on the other side, I just happen to not be able to pay the utilities by myself on that side.

As I stand proudly with all my medals from war, I realize just how pointless the entire thing is. When we lower our weapons, it becomes clear why we chose to live together in the first place. We saw something in each other that said, “yeah, I could totally see you at your worst and love you nonetheless,” and the biggest pile of dirty dishes in the world wouldn’t change that. Maybe its just that we got so caught up in the “war” that we never realized that we had been on the greener side of the entire time.

This is me on a Saturday night these days....

Living in Partyville, USA

Dear God, it’s a Tuesday!  Where’s my cat? Did I bolt the door?

As the sun goes down in this small college town, my anxieties grow as the anticipation of the night nears me. My hope of a good night’s sleep has now become a mere fantasy. I hear the sudden loud beat of a terrible song that’s probably degrading to women and it has begun. The overpowering grunts and groans echo into the early hours of the morning as the seemingly endless hoards pass my house and call out to each other.

Why the hell did I HAVE to live downtown?

It’s my fourth year of living in the downtown area of Chico, and the party is over.  It was all fun and games until my classes got harder, the hangovers became crippling, and my stomach could no longer handle the late night delicacies’ of Jack in the Box.  I now enjoy the finer things in life like Harry Potter movie marathons and telling drunken freshman to stop peeing on my house.

Chico, CA: AKA Partyville, USA. It’s the land of the dollar drinks where the streets glitter with the glass of discarded beer bottles. I wanted to be right in the middle of the action, to never miss a thing.  My search ended with a quaint place conveniently located in walking distance of the bars and all the late night pizza I could eat.   What more could a girl ask for?

The promise of a legendary college experience is so enticing; it can cloud the judgment of even the smartest of us. I never imagined passing the carcasses of burnt couches on my walk to class, the occasional chanting of “CHICO! CHICO! CHICO!” and rioting outside my window, or that blaring sirens would eventually turn into a nightly lullaby.  How could I? I just wanted to have an epic time.

Now I’m old, my bed is warm and those cheap bottles of vodka make me cringe. I once was one of the party zombies that plagued the downtown area, but now I long for a good night’s sleep and a front yard I can go barefoot in.

As I go out into to real world after graduation and search for a place to live, I will know to avoid places like Partyville, USA. No matter how much sleep I loose or how often I hear Ke$ha blaring at 3 am, I know that after I leave I will miss it in a way.  I will pass by a porch with a couch or beer pong table on it I will always remember the time I lived where the streets glittered with the glass of discarded beer bottles and smile.