I've recently put two bedrooms in my basement up for rent online, and one of them has already been rented by Trixie.
Trixie isn't her real name, but in the course of my living with her, I will refer to her as 'Trixie'. This moniker is a derivative of the stereotype to which I associated her the moment I opened the door. Standing next to her was her 'Bro' boyfriend, and thus may he be forwith known. If you are lost in the blatant generalizations here, please see: http://stuffhipstershate.tumblr.com/post/179591308/bros-and-trixies-it-could-be-said-that-the
I didn't know how to say no to her. I don't know how to say no to anyone really, because I'm a sucker for looking good and reliable. I don't like to be the bad guy unless it is the most beneficial for me. The last thing I need is a stuck up snob from California thinking I'm a stuck up snob from Salt Lake City, because clearly we all know that people from California are always the snobs while people in Salt Lake are... actually, they're really awful here too. (To be fair, I've lived in California, but I'm not a Californian in really any sense of the word, but I do have experience with stereotypical Californians.)
Now I'll be stuck living with this girl, and while it may be a nightmare, I think blogging about it will lighten the situation and make it more tolerable. To be fair I have lived with airheaded females before who turned out to be really nice and good fun to be around, but those were short term flatmates in a distant country. This is a girl living in MY house for gods know how long. I have a very high tolerance for people, but this might be my breaking point.
Let's actually begin this story, shall we? Once upon a time I placed an ad on Craigslist and KSL for roommates. I specified that I would not take calls, but KSL requires you post a phone number anyway. I got two calls. The first call went like this:
"Hello?" (Here my voice cracks as my eyes adjust and note that it's eight AM on a Saturday. Bleeding bastard.)
"I am Michael. Like basement."
Like basement? What the f- ooooohhhh "It's for females only."
(Pause) "Oh." (Again) "Wife is female."
Are you kidding me? "Well, then your wife can live here. You can't."
"But-"
"NO." *Click*
The second call was from a woman looking for a place for her daughter. She seemed to be vaguely familiar with what I had advertised because she didn't ask stupid questions that would have been easily avoidable upon reading my very neatly written ad. However she had failed to notice the last sentence that stated that phone calls were unacceptable. Based on this simple principle I should have taken the call politely and told her the rooms were occupied, but no. Apparently I can't live up to my own laws. I also should have caught on to the fact that it was the mother calling and not the daughter, but no.
Really? You need your mom to call for you? Okay, so I depend on my dad to walk me through things sometimes, but those are things like buying a house, not inquiring about rentals. How old are you, and why can't you do things for yourself? Mom also mentioned that she was worried about where her daughter would end up because it's a dangerous world. Um, you DO get that this is Utah, right? So then after I passed with her over the phone, Mom informed me that I would be called that afternoon by Trixie. I was imagining that this girl was meek and maybe a bit awkward from years of being locked in her mother's house for her own protection.
Trixie called and the appointment made. She brought Bro, recently returned from his mission, and this is where I'm struck by their appearance. Trixie is super tan. Her hair is dark and stiff from the gobs of product residing therein. Her eyes are caked in mascara and dark eye shadow, attaining that ever coveted 'smokey' look. Her brows are meticulously shaped into wickedly elegant arches and her lips shimmer. Her form is petite and perfect, her hooker boots adding to her height.
To compare, I had hardly any makeup on, my hair was pulled back in a ponytail, my Tshirt sported a beloved character from some beloved childhood show, and my feet were clad in bunny slippers. I'd only been studying all day, why bother?
Bro was sporting a backwards cap, a baggy shirt, and some baggy jeans, "Sup".
This guy had just gotten off his mission. Now, from what I can tell about missions, they are the most life changing two years anyone can spend in their up-to-that-point short existence. Thrust into a foreign culture and expected to sell God to people who could care less and probably think you're gay or from the government, you really have no choice but to grow up a bit, right? Maybe learn how to deflect all that negative energy being directed at you for your white shirt and tie because everyone either hates the gays or the government or both. Then the expectation is for you to come home and be a bit older, a bit wiser, and a bit more grown up. I'm pretty sure that coming back as a 'bro' is like putting a banana in a blender for thirty seconds and pulling out the tree from whence it came.
"Hi," my heart sank because I was letting two neanderthals into my home, but I consoled myself with the fact that they wouldn't stay long and she probably would decide that I was too neanderthal for her. Was I wrong. Unfortunately for me, these rooms are amazing. This house is amazing, and while I may sometimes look like I've just crawled out of a cave, I have very excellent taste. My cave is always the best.
I showed them downstairs, and in a whole fifty seconds, she spun around, said it was cute, and was out the door. Done. Dun... DUN!!!
Over the next few days, Trixie would call or text, asking my questions like whether we had cable or if she could park in the garage or if it was okay if Bro was over all the time (she promised they wouldn't do anything, winkwink), etc. I was polite enough, still certain this girl was toast.
And then she said she was ready...
TO BE CONTINUED
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