Here I sit in my Fortress of Solitude (aka: the bedroom which doubles as my office) listening to my boyfriend's mother yell at one of her dogs while her husband rearranges some of the clutter (aka: all their shit) in the garage. I live with my boyfriend, his mother and step-father, a house mate, three dogs and two cats. It wouldn't be that bad if we weren't all crammed in a tiny three bedroom ranch style house with only one bathroom (which happens to be the size of my big toe). How did I come to live in this shit situation you ask? Let me tell you...
Two years ago, I moved in with my on-again off-again boyfriend. For the sake of our sanity, and the sake of our privacy, we'll call him Chip. Chip and I had/have a rocky relationship depending on the day and how much sleep we've had. Lets just say that some days we're best friends and some days we want to rip off each other's faces off and nail them to a wall. I think that pretty much sums up our relationship. For the last two years though, we have been together exclusively without any break ups, which I consider a win on our part.
Anyway, we moved in together when his parents decided to gather up all their belongings (which mostly consist of NASCAR memorabilia and Dale Earnhardt tribute items) and move to RedneckVille, NC. Chip and I moved into a small, one bedroom apartment in my hometown right across from a shopping center where I managed to get a part time job at a beauty supply store. For that first year, we were Ozzy and Harriet. We got up in the morning, brushed our teeth, and gave each other a kiss before we each went to our respective jobs. We came home at night, watched our shows on TV (before we canceled the cable out of frustration), and went to bed. Like anyone living in an apartment for the first time, we dealt with interesting new life challenges like when the tenant above us dropped a big one into his toilet, causing it to overflow, thus causing dirty "poop" water to seep into the floor and into our unit.
Generally speaking, the year went fine...Until we decided to move. I had our new apartment all picked out; A luxury unit on the top floor of a shiny new building complete with granite counter tops and a washer and dryer right off the kitchen. I drooled when I saw the pictures on aparments.com and nearly wet myself when we got approved for the unit. Our current lease was ending, we had joyfully told the property managers that we would not be renewing, and I was whistling away whilst I carefully packed our things into boxes stolen from behind the Walmart across the street. That was when Chip decided to drop the news on me that he didn't want to move into another apartment and was planning on picking up the mortgage on his mom's vacant house in Ghetto Town. At first, I was heartbroken. Goodbye granite counter tops, goodbye twenty-four hour fitness center, goodbye cool swipey beeping entry key, we shall never be together.
Somehow, Chip convinced me that this rent-to-own house deal was a good idea and the remorse for my dream apartment was replaced by thoughts of semi gloss interior paint and throw pillows. Also, let me mention that he told me I could either move to Ghetto Town with him or move back into my mom's basement. A vivid memory of waking up to the sound of my grandfather's cowboy boots stomping across the floor at six in the morning burst into my brain and I decided that Ghetto Town was the lesser of two evils.
At first, living in Ghetto Town wasn't so bad. It was nice to be able to update things around the house (Chip installed a new bathroom faucet while I played General Contractor and watched). Chip didn't have to use two keys to come inside after work anymore, I got my own room for my office, and we didn't have to listen to our above floor neighbor's three children obnoxiously running back and forth at ten o'clock at night. However, I just couldn't get used to the house. Fast forward a year later, and I'm still in the same boat. Except now my boat has shrunk to a small dinghy and I have to share it with four people and five pets.
As I said before, Chip’s mom and step-dad moved to RedneckVille, NC to live with Chip’s sister. Well, apparently, things weren’t going very well in RedneckVille because they got evicted. I know what you’re thinking, “What kind of daughter evicts her own mother?” The smart kind, that’s who. Dear ol’ mom and dad are the type of people that feel that they shouldn’t have to work anymore (they’re fifty) and that they should be able to sit at home in the comfort of their rickety garbage picked furniture watching recorded NASCAR races all day long. They feel that hanging a couple shelves around the house and washing the windows once a year should equal free living. Still not getting the picture? Lets put it another way; Mom quit her job because the people she worked for were “mean” and step-dad hasn’t had an actual job in over four years. Probably because he’s afraid of those drug tests, but lets not get nasty.
When they got evicted, we had just allowed their longtime friend, lets call him Jack, to move in because he was having room mate problems himself. All was well because Jack and his large cow-print dog stayed in their room most of the time, and when he did emerge, he provided much needed comedic relief. Don’t get me wrong, I find my daily routine very comical with the way I constantly run into doorways and spill things upon the boob area of my shirt…But Jack just added a little bit more to the equation. The bliss lasted a whole week before they showed up. I showed my enthusiasm for the situation by promptly leaving the house for the whole day and then following that up with a night of drinking with my girls at our favorite bar because I decided that liquid frothy comfort was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Anyway, that’s how I ended up here in my cramped little room where my bed is approximately eight inches away from my dresser, so every time I need a clean pair of socks, I need to lay across my bed and pull out the drawer. I figure that if I can figure out a way to tunnel into the bathroom and have pizza continuously delivered through my window, I’ll never have to leave this room. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the garage to find the appropriate tunneling tools and maybe one of those hats with the flashlight on it.
