I’m sitting in my Parisian apartment at the moment, cuddled up on the couch with my dog, and I can’t help but be thankful for the fact that I have the entire place to myself. In the past five years, I have not lived with a roommate and I can honestly say that I do not miss it at all. Now, this is not to imply that I have lived alone-I have certainly lived with boyfriends, but living with them is not the same. Arguments over things like toilet paper and cleaning supplies don’t happen when you live with a boyfriend, because in general you are both spending money from the same or equal pots anyway. Or at least that has been my case. Roommates however, are a whole different situation. Before my many failed attempts at domestic bliss, I lived with some of the strangest creatures that have ever walked the Earth.
I once lived with a guy who lit the kitchen counters on fire with a blowtorch because he believed this to be more efficient and reliable than simply spraying 409. This individual also wore driving gloves while crusading around in his automatic Pontiac Grand Am, and had special hand signals he would periodically use for various road signs. When I asked him why his gloved-hands were dancing about on the steering wheel, he explained that the action convinced him that his brain had received the intended message of whatever road sign was lurking in the distance.
I also once lived with a guy who hid popcorn kernels between the carpet and the wall to test whether or not I was properly vacuuming the house. He drew sharpie lines on his milk carton, and was a fan of the ever-popular note system. You know the one, someone is too much of a pansy to just confront you on an issue, so they write out their concerns on a long line of post-its and put it on your door. Talk about something I don’t miss, post-it notes and that guys impromptu two o’clock in the morning rave parties. Yuck.
So as I snuggle in a bit closer to Indy and listen to her snore against my feet, I have to say-a bulldog has got to be the best roommate ever.