“Why Is My Vibrator In The Kitchen?” And Other Housemate-Induced Rage Blackouts

It is not until you find your vulva’s second-favorite buddy in a shared space, where you blatantly DID NOT LEAVE IT that you realize life hasn’t prepared you for such a moment.

Feb 19, 2013 at 2:00pm | Leave a comment

Today’s tale begins innocently enough.

The hero of the story is yours truly, returning from winter break on a frosty eve. I had been toying with the idea of becoming A Whole New Me for 2013, and, with the vision of a Harder! Better! Faster! Stronger! self fresh in my mind, I made a decision that would change everything: I decided to clean up the apartment a little.

Perhaps I’ll wipe down the counter, I thought, humming as I paced around the kitchen. Perhaps I’ll go really crazy and Swiffer the floors!

O, naïve one! O, young, beautiful fool! What I wouldn’t give to reclaim that time of blissful ignorance. But come, now, let us forge bravely on with the tale.

Floors first, I decided. I reached for the box of Swiffer pads, which we (inexplicably) keep on the counter, next to the drying rack.

My hand closed around my vibrator.

image

“Why Is My Vibrator In The Kitchen?” And Other Housemate-Induced Rage Blackouts.

It is not until you find your vulva’s second-favorite buddy* in a shared space, where you blatantly DID NOT LEAVE IT because what kind of a person do you think I am, that you realize life hasn’t prepared you for such a moment. Like, I have blown literal hundreds of dollars on magazines over the years, and NOT ONE has ever ran a story called “How to Cope When You Find Your Vibrator Next to the Windex.”

Lacking protocol, precedent, and a game plan, I did the only thing I could think to do. Which was to charge into the common room, where my housemates were sitting, brandishing the not-UN-dildo-like vibrator in my fist like a scepter.

Red-faced, nearly hysterical with horror and laughter, I shrieked, “WHY. IS MY VIBRATOR. IN THE KITCHEN.

I hope this pivotal moment in my personal history will be memorialized for posterity. I envision an oil painting: mouth ajar, brow furrowed, one hand reaching to the heavens with a two-toned purple phallus in its steely grasp.

The creepy creep responsible for relocating my vibrator remains a mystery to this day. But this story, at least, has a moral, and that moral is: living with a bunch of people can be the goddamned worst sometimes, even if you really like them. I mean, I’m not exempt from that, either (I’m a housemate, too, mind you), but seriously. The worst.

Aside from other people touching your shit, like your sex toys, there are two other things that drive me up wall about this apartment life. Here’s what they are and how I deal with them. Disclaimer: I cannot necessarily recommend my methods in good conscience.

HEY, SORRY, BUT COULD YOU TURN YOUR FUCKING THIRD EYE BLIND ALL THE WAY DOWN?

No disrespect to Third Eye Blind! Somewhere on this very computer is a quasi-incriminating video of me squatting on a tabletop and belting “Semi-Charmed Life” amidst Solo cups.

But, like, the walls are thin here. The ceiling is, I suspect, little more than a sheet of cardboard with some paint slapped on. My chandelier (what up, I sleep in a converted dining room) trembles at the mere suggestion of bass.

And, you know, maybe I don’t want to hear your Third Eye Blind at three in the morning. Maybe I am in a No Doubt kind of mood. Or a SLEEPING kind of mood. Or just an EXISTING kind of mood, and I don’t want to listen to any music at all.

Plus, the slightest bit of noise makes me lose focus. There are some really loud birds outside right now, and I’m just sitting here, loathing them. Loathing all birds, in fact, just because birds are jerks and I can.

The “Got Noise? Can’t Focus” thing is a huge problem, because I spend 95% of my life writing things and I like to write in bed. In lingerie! (I want all of you to think I’m a sexy freelance writer, and not the kind who falls asleep next to half-eaten bowls of oatmeal, which I totally did not do yesterday.)

Sometimes I will actually ask the offender to turn the music down, because I am a totally mature adult or whatever. But other days, I’ll whine to another housemate until THEY request that the volume be lowered. Like, on my behalf. And once, I selected the Taylor Swift station on Pandora, jacked up the volume, and placed my laptop near the vent so EVERYONE COULD SUFFER AS I HAD SUFFERED.

I would like to tell you that that last thing worked, but honestly, I don’t think anyone even noticed. God, I feel impotent.

SO, LIKE, I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT THIS FORK ISN’T MINE

Dishes are a hot-button issue in every household, yes? Nobody wants to load the dishwasher and nobody wants to empty the dishwasher. Nobody wants dishes to sit in the sink, but nobody wants to wash a dish that isn’t theirs. Very few people actively want to wash even their own dishes. (I date someone who seems to enjoy it; they do exist.)

Dishes dishes dishes. They suck.

image

This isn’t even staged.

I will admit, I can be bad about dishes. I’ll clutter the sink for too long, and then chastise others for cluttering the sink for too long, like a total dish-pocrite. And if I unloaded the dishwasher last, I will absolutely refuse to unload it for half a week, because “I just did it, like, yesterday, OK? And these aren’t all my dishes. It’s really Other Housemate’s turn.”

I don’t know what it is about dishes. When I am standing over a full sink, I am a kindergartener. I am biting back the urge to scream, “I’m RIGHT, you’re WRONG. I’m SMART, you’re DUMB,” as a teacher explains, for the 17th time, that/how/why life isn’t fair.

Life, whatever. But dishes? Why can’t dishes be fair?

My number-one coping mechanism for dish injustice is making passive-aggressive remarks whenever anyone is in earshot -- loud, pointed comments about how “I’d run the dishwasher now, but so-and-so left a ton of crap in the sink, sooooo...” Lately, though, I’ve started this new thing where I unload the top rack of our dishwasher and ask another housemate to unload the bottom. Because, somehow, that seems fairer to me. Communication! Compromise! Adulthood!

Now, tell me: do you live with housemates? Roommates? A significant other? (What’s that like?) Is your fuse as short as mine? How would you cope with these situations?

*Shout-out to my boyfriend’s penis. #1 VBFFAE (Vulva Best Friend Forever And Ever)!

Rebecca’s behaving like a small child at all times on Twitter at @rebsanti.