What About Me?

I have a new roommate moving in tomorrow. What happened to the last, you might ask? What else? She found herself Mr. Dreamboat and is moving in with him. The roommate before her did the same thing. I have this influence on women—it appears. The first one, let’s call her, Melinda, had her quirks. The first day she moved in, I announced that I was going to take a bath and left the common area. I had the lights down low in my bathroom and was soaking in the soothing jet tub, breathing in the aroma of the essential oils that I pour in, when suddenly I see Melinda at the doorway holding my cell phone out.

“It’s your son.”

I covered myself best I could and to address the shocked look on my face she said, “Your phone was ringing and I saw it was your son, so I thought I would answer it in case you wanted to talk to him.”

As the weeks went by with this new roomie, other things became unsettling. She straightened up my room, for instance.

“You know, Adrienne, you really should make your bed every morning, because then you will feel so much better throughout the day!”

Another time I noticed my picture of a polar bear was missing. I had taken it off the wall above my bed and was going to rehang it. She noticed me searching around and then said that she hoped I didn’t mind, but she figured I didn’t want it anymore and has it hanging in her room.

My paperwork, my writing, would be stacked in a different piles and furniture was rearranged. I arrived home during week three of her occupation to find my living room was completely redesigned.

“Wow,” I said as I dropped my purse and books to the floor in shock.

“What do you think? Like it…?”

I had to admit that it did look great. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but never got around to it, but this woman was something else! The nerve.

She was also intrigued by my online dating, chatting on the phone and meeting men at coffee shops. She began to pay more attention to her appearance. I came home from work one afternoon and she asked if I would help her dye the roots of her hair. I complied.

“This is a lot of fun rooming with a woman!” she squealed.

Sort of, I thought.

Next, I noticed perfume as she sauntered out the door to the local supermarket. Then I detected ‘the look’ women get when they have been bitten by the love bug. You know, that goofy smile and eyes that look off into the distance?

She finally let me in on her little secret. She was chatting up the store greeter and they were now dating. To make a short story shorter, after one successful tryst in the bedroom next to mine (please God, if you have any mercy, help me forget noise from that passion pit!) she sat me down and told me she was moving out. Just like that. She lasted only six weeks, a new record set.

She stiffed me $300.00.

What about me?

But there’s more to this roommate story. The next woman whom I let into my home, my life, beats any fictional story I could ever dream up.

I admit I was desperate for the extra income and after the dead silence my ad received for three weeks. I finally received a call from Suzanna. She was a little wisp of a thing, standing barely five feet tall, and so thin I could see her bones protruding from her shoulders. She had a tattoo at least a foot long that snaked around the back of her neck and down her shoulder. I felt compassion after hearing her story of a recent serious illness which she survived. She was in a recovery house and very appreciative of a nice place to hang her hat.

At first, all was quiet. We were very respectful of each other, shutting doors softly at night and not flushing the toilet during sleeping hours. Then the cracks began to show. Because she wasn’t working, she didn’t have regular hours or, I should say, her hours were the opposite of mine. She’d rise at noon and shuffle around in her housecoat, retreating outside to smoke. She’d often eat chocolate cake for breakfast that she’d baked late the night before. She hated exercise, but I understood—she’d had surgery which removed part of her lung.

Suzanna was an artist at heart and painted lovely abstract pictures in oil. I encouraged her and she arranged an impromptu studio on the patio, where she could paint her heart away and smoke.

One evening, I was channel surfing in the living room. “Hey, Suzanna, take a look at this!” I called to her.

We both stared at the screen at women strippers who were pole dancing.

“I was a stripper,” she announced with her eyes transfixed on the TV.

When I am shocked I often say nothing. I said nothing. I tried to imagine this woman pole dancing. It must have been some years ago, I surmised.

Suzanna also has children and she told me about her son who had been incarcerated at a maximum security prison. Twice.

“For what, Suzanna?” I asked, fearfully.

“Oh, grand theft. He keeps stealing cars. And because he can’t drive, he crashes them and then gets caught.”

I began to feel nervous.

“Don’t worry, Adrienne. These guys do live by a certain moral code. They don’t steal from family or friends.”

Somehow that did not appease me.

She too, like the former roommate, watched in fascination as I talked into the night with perspective suitors. I showed her the site I was on and helped her navigate to registering an account and adding a profile. One day, I showed her an image tip: take used coffee grounds and exfoliate your hands. Afterward, the skin feels silky smooth and coffee has an oil which can be felt. Suzanna took it to new levels by regularly showering with it, exfoliating her entire body, face included, and even scrubbed her hair with java. I peeked into her bathroom one day and to my dismay coffee grounds were dusted all over the tub and floor. Oh well, I thought, the bathroom will have a healthy sheen.

Suzanna loved to collect junk and her bedroom began to look like those who are featured on the TV reality show, ‘Hoarders.’ I caught glimpses of the disarray when she came and went.

“I have to get at my room, I know,” she would confess. I responded with a nod and a silent prayer for help.

One evening, she put on her coat and shoes and said that she was going for a moonlit walk.

“Really, Suzanna? That’s wonderful. You’ll sleep so well tonight,” I smiled at her, proud of her sudden attempt to get some exercise.

She smiled in response. She returned five minutes later with a sheepish grin on her face.

“I forgot my flashlight,” she revealed.

“Oh! Are you going bin diving?” I suddenly realized her intentions.

“Yeah! There’s some great stuff in this town.”

I began to wonder if Suzanna’s behavior would affect my neighbors. What would they think of this woman, deep in our trash bins with her feet hanging out.

I swear it was only three weeks of online dating that she met Mr. Rock&Roll. The first date was a meet and greet. On the second one, she didn’t return home for three days. Then she was home for one night and disappeared. I haven’t seen her since. She finally texted me after two weeks, saying she was sorry for stiffing me one month’s rent, but she can’t pay me and she is living with Mr. R and R.

Just like that.

What about me?

I have another roomie moving in tomorrow. I said that she better watch out because I have a history as a lucky charm for any single woman looking for a man. She just smiled.


What About Me? © 2011 Adrienne S Moody. Read the latest Adrienne exploit on Now.readthisplease.


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