Tuesday, August 29, 2006

The OC in DC

It’s over….my 9 month stint living as a fabulous, single woman living alone in the nation’s capitol has come to an end.

Now before you break out the keg stands and silly string, I would like to clarify that I am STILL fabulous, STILL staying in DC, and alas... STILL chronically single. I am however no longer living alone.

AND before you gasp in horror, wondering how I could ever end my domestic celibacy after the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre of 2006 chill out. (For those of you who don’t know, my last roommate went crazy and beat me to a bloody pulp before checking herself into rehab for substance abuse problems and anger management issues.*) The rising cost of tea in china, and a 20% rent increase along with a strong aversion to packing and relocation were all contributing factors leading up to my decision to invite a relative stranger to live in my home.

I was prepared for the transition (or so I thought). I leased a storage unit in the building, (since all my winter clothes, holiday decorations, beach chairs, and boxes ‘o junk including mardi gras beads, random pictures and souvenirs of a sorority days-past; were all being kept in the 2nd bedroom). However, last week was hectic…and Friday night is a blur but I thought “it’s ok. if I sleep off my hangover I’ll get up this afternoon, move the stuff out of the room and clean the apartment in time for her arrival on Sunday.” Great plan.

Until I awake to some god awful ring-tone Saturday morning (while drunk, apparently I thought it would be funny to set my ring to “oops I did it again”). The caller ID flashing I number I didn’t know so I shut off the phone, shoved it under my mattress and attempted to resume my “Let’s ALL take shots!” coma. I was almost successful, when I hear my apartment door open.

#($ @(!& @#)(#

Even redheads have bouts of blonde-like brilliance – and apparently this was mine. Yep, you guessed it, the roommate had scheduled a Saturday arrival and the Britney ring was her calling to tell me she was on her way.

GASP - #()$*@( #(%)@(#*$)(@$*(#

I sit straight up, look in the mirror and cringe – Let me paint you a picture:
big, sexy hair from the night before was definitely still big, but nowhere NEAR sexy. Instead it was frizzy and smelled of Marlboro Lights; apparently I didn’t have time for eye makeup remover as I resembled Ricky the Raccoon (oh you know the look, you know it well); top it all off with an oversized, faded t-shirt that, yes, you guessed it, I had put on backwards and inside out (and I’m actually impressed that I managed to do THAT!).


I threw on some shorts, a hat on the sex-hair, ran my face under the faucet along with a quarter container of Noxzema, swiged some Listerine and let’s not forget the citrus- mango body splash (college shower, anyone?), open the door to my room, and there is not only my new roommate but her boyfriend, her boyfriend’s sister, brother-in-law AND their two week old infant!


What could I say? “Welcome to my apartment. My name is Red. I am hung over, my sh*t’s all over your room, there are empty bottles of wine on my counter…and I look like the creature from the black lagoon. But please, do come in.”

I was, of course, wildly apologetic, and started cleaning like a French maid on Viagra.

*Sigh* – not to fret, all is well. We christened our domestic union over a bottle of Zin and bonded over a mutual love of dry humor, salacious gossip, sex & the city, well constructed blogs and fat-free desserts.

Luckily my new roomie, a vision in Lactose and Lily Pulitzer, is very forgiving (a trait I’m sure she’ll exercise more than once living with me). Oh! And she looks exactly like Rachel Billson!

Sorry, fellas, she's taken

So welcome, roomie with your brightly colored bedspread, big smile, caffeine addiction and love of discounted, fabulous footwear.

Truly the OC has come to #1403.

*I’m serious, I looked like a battered house wife in a Dolly Parton video


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