There are times in life when risk-taking is absolutely necessary.
I know that I, personally, am a firm believer in sticking my proverbial neck out and going out on a proverbial limb, so I recently decided to take the proverbial bull by the proverbial horns and move into an apartment.
Before the plot thickens, I must reveal a crucial piece of exposition: I moved into a bachelor pad.
My roommate, Dave, lived in the apartment with Frank, his best friend since junior high. This meant that, along with being men, they knew each other to a degree at which neither was repulsed by the other's everyday dirt, grime, and probably (though they were gracious enough not to leave visual evidence) bodily functions.
Time flew by, and before they both knew it the time had come for Frank to venture into the great unknown to student teach.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was eagerly searching for a home away from home that did not require the masochistic tendencies necessary for another year of dorm life. Dave and I agreed that we would be roommates on the basis that he would let me paint Wonderbread bubbles on the walls.
I arrived a week after spring classes ended with my parents, my blue Ford Taurus and a U-Haul trailer attached to The Little Ford Windstar That Could. Dave ran out to greet us and we began moving many large, awkward pieces of furniture up the flight of stairs.
My mother and I inspected the kitchen first and found that the boys had not one but five bottles of ketchup, not one but three jars of peanut butter, and not one but twelve boxes of popcorn.
You might be thinking, "Well, Miss Critical-Pants, it saves money to buy in bulk." That may be so, but it is customary, in a sane household, to finish one bottle of ketchup/jar of peanut butter/box of popcorn before opening the next.
We almost immediately learned that, although Dave and Frank obviously idolize popcorn, they shun toilet paper.
Also, in the dining area adjacent to the kitchen there were approximately seven billion packages of Ramen noodles. I don't remember much after that because I was having a daydream in which I bolted all of the cupboards closed except one containing nothing but Ramen, peanut butter, popcorn and ketchup. I would unbolt the cupboards when and only when Dave and Frank removed their respective putrid filth from the bathtub via plutonium.
At any rate, Dave went to work right after we had gotten everything up the stairs, so my father spent two days assembling things that would never, ever in a billion trillion years look like they do on the boxes while my mother and I scrubbed and organized and exerted aspirated fits of disgust.
Finally, two days and a bottle of Drano later, I am putting the finishing touches on my home away from home. Now instead of looking like a bachelor pad, the apartment looks like a bachelor pad with a female resident. No matter. Home is where the proverbial heart is.
My advice to women who are considering moving in with a male friend?
Start looking now for a reliable plutonium dealer.
Write to Aleshia at aahaselden@bsu.edu
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