Posts Tagged ‘house’
Couches are like cats. Once they’re outside, they don’t easily go back inside.
One of the typical hang-outs for my circle of friends has a collection of ratty couches we keep outside, on the concrete patio or unmown grass. It’s perfect for barbeques, as long as you don’t mind your cushion full of dirt, spiders and dried cat urine.
For whatever reason, a roommate at that house I helped move decided to bring one of these couches along for the ride to his new school district. After a year-and-a-half as an outside couch, he’s going to bring it inside, to his spacious shiny new apartment. I know that new middle school band directors don’t get paid much, but this still has to be a bad idea.
Even as we loaded it on the truck, it leaked filth onto the floor of our U-Haul. One of the guys, full of charm and wit, said:
I have never seen couches shit.
We all have, now. This is one couch that won’t easily go back inside without stinkin’ up the place. It’ll need two bottles of Febreeze and three days worth of vacuuming before it even nears cleanliness.
If ever I visit, I hope I don’t catch any diseases.
Moving to The House wasn’t my idea. It was suggested to me by my former landlord, who worked in concert with a former resident of The House.
Officially, I’m moving of my own volition because she wants to give my room to her father, who is in ailing health. This may be and probably is true. I can’t help but feel that she and I parted on the best of terms, and I have no idea why.
I’m more-or-less respectful, I’m financially stable, I don’t snack on their food and I keep to myself. I don’t hog their televisions, game consoles or laundry room.
Even so, I can’t help but think that the owners of the house don’t like me very much. It’s something about the way I’m reluctantly introduced to their friends when we cross paths in the kitchen; it’s something about their polite laughter when they hear me say something they think is a joke; it’s something about tired and disappointed faces I see out of the corner of my eye.
This could all be some kind of self-constructed illusion, but I couldn’t help but feel an undercurrent of resentment — I couldn’t help but feel as if there’s something else going on, beneath the surface, to which I’m am totally oblivious.
In my experience, there always is. Rather than dwell on it, I move on, ignoring, forgiving and forgetting suspicious behavior, habitually chalking it up to my feeble personal paranoia. I’ve been ignoring, forgiving and forgetting a lot, though — their effectiveness dulls quickly.
Here’s to hoping they hold out a little longer.
I took an impromptu week off to collect my thoughts, as well as to regroup my enthusiasm for this blogging thing. I didn’t want to just go through the motions of pretending to have something to say when, in the past few weeks, I’ve been doing absolutely nothing.
For now, this nothing period is over. I’m back in the blogging game, and plan to have something to say every day. If nothing else, blog should help me keep my wits about me, and to stop my early onset feeblemindedness.
Another helpful exercise: I’ve moved to a new place. We call it The House.
Years ago, when I first entered college, The House was the place to be. Simply put: party central. Years, and pressure from the signatory renter, have since dulled its allure to the party-going crowd. If it weren’t for the few dirty living areas and a makeshift room created by drapes and a massive piece of particle board, you might not even guess that college kids live here. Until, of course, you look at the front lawn.
Every other house on our street has perfectly manicured, lushly green lawns. Ours has dirt, one big tree and a few sparse patches of crabgrass. Instead of kitchy lawn ornaments or colorfully seasonal banners from Longs Drugs to decorate our front yard, we have cigarette butts, one plastic camp chair and the remnants of fireworks from July 4, 2007. Instead of gleaming sports-utility vehicles and lovingly new minivans, we have four cars in varying degrees of crustyness: two in the driveway, one by the curb, one across the street.
Even on our street, lined on both sides with too many homes to count, it’d be pretty easily to pick out The House.
