a batslie kind of day...

One of my good friends, let’s call her Kayla, and I caught up last week for drinks and she told me about her boyfriend and their apparent, “house rules”. Basically things that they (although, really, it’s her) set out for more convenient and smoother living. Things like immediately doing the dishes after cooking or vacuuming every other day or making sure you put your clothes back in the closet. On hangers and shit.

I’m only vaguely familiar with this concept, even me, as a diehard roommate-having individual for at least 10 years prior to TB. And even then it seemed fairly simple, like, life rules: don’t do anything douche-baggy while you live with me. I’m fairly laid back as long as you realize that I live here too. People with siblings (or boarding school kids) make fantastic roommates. This concept carried me far, which is why that even when my last (and favorite) roommate threw herself an after-birthday party (filled with 20 year old hipsters) at our place without telling me, I basically just took a shot, and called over some booty. I wasn’t even pissed when the cops came. Or that she was wearing my silk slip as a dress. I mean, she never ate my hummus, so I was thrilled.

And Kayla made me think of all the complaints I’ve been hearing and fielding lately from my friends who live with their significant others. Mostly they’re straight girls, and the immediate response from them when I can’t offer up any complaints is, “Well, you’re both girls, it’s so different. It’s so easy.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

That shit is a million times harder than living with a boyfriend. And yes, as a confused and greedy bisexual, I know this.

First, I love how you assume that girls=neat and tidy. You know what I’d rather do that clean my floors or do the dishes? Play some goddamn Nintendo. Watch ‘Gossip Girl’ on Netflix or ‘Parks and Recreation’ on Hulu. Read Dan Savage’s new book ( SO GOOD)  I hate doing the dishes. And they are the last thing on my mind to do after I cooked a fantastic dinner, a from scratch salad, or crispy Oreo cheesecake thins for the office. Seriously? I’m exhausted. And I painted my nails earlier, so I’m NOT doing the damn dishes.TB basically comes home from work at 2 A.M. and tosses her clothes all over the floor before collapsing into bed and leaving her PBR can on the nightstand.

My life is clothes on every surface, empty glasses and bottles, my cat’s furballs floating around the occasional corner…sometimes I give a shit. Sometimes I clean them up with gusto. But just as likely is the fact that all those things will sit there a week until one of us just gets fed up and does something about it. And TB doesn’t even care that I never cleaned the house (and I’m the one who sits home all day).

In fact, I bet we both are twice as messy as Kayla’s boyfriend (I know I am, easily. I mean, our bathroom looks like Sephora had a sale and rabid foxes were fighting for the last eyeliner/hair goo, and I frequently leave the curling iron on). But the thing is, neither one of us really cares about that shit. We don’t live in an IKEA show room. We live in a fucking apartment, with two twenty-something girls who fuck, and neither is particularly prone to tidiness (unless it’s my kitchen, and god help your sorry ass if you move around my spices and flours) 

“House rules”

How dumb.