One of the worst things about my apartment (besides mentally unstable Monica) is the 80-year-old faucets. Apparently in the Roaring 20s, people were unfamiliar with the concept of "pleasantly warm," "gradually heating up" or "temperatures under 756 degrees."
Every once in a while I'll see a news story about some kids having to get skin grafts because of their old pipes and I can feel their pain. (Not literally, because I'm smart enough to turn on the hot water and leap across the kitchen in one fell swoop. Stupid kids.)
But in a figurative sense, I'm right there with them in the hospital ward.
The pipes also have this thing where every other month or so they unleash a torrent of rust on an unsuspecting handwasher or showerer, so that it suddenly looks like you're showering in blood. You can use your powers of deductive reasoning to assume that the water at casa de Kate doesn't taste too good. I have to import all my beverages, which is quite a pain since I live five flights up and have those cartoon arms that swoop down when I make a muscle.
This is a good time to note that I also appear to be the designated den mom. Monica is in charge of leaving crazy notes; Good Roommate added the pet cat; and I rearrange the living room furniture, hang the Christmas lights, clean and buy supplies. And before you say I'm just picky or something, note that when I was barely around this summer, the toilet had a brown ring in the bowl at water level, the cat hair eliminated the need for hallway carpeting and the shower was so gross the landlord actually cleaned it one day when she popped in.
So, although I like to do me some good scrubbing, I'm not a neat freak. (Though I do have my peccadilloes. I only clean the toilet while naked, right before I shower to ensure I don't get toilet germs on my clothes. I realize this makes no sense, since my clothes come in close proximity to a toilet several times a day. I also just realized this is probably someone's very specific fetish and I'm about to get some weird Google hits.)
Cleaning gripes aside, I know it's not too much to expect of my roommates to buy toilet paper occasionally. "Just stop buying it and let them fend for themselves" you say. I've tried. I don't know what they do but I always crack before they do. Can I really be the roommate who starts keeping her toilet paper under her bed? That's one step from using a label maker for my food.
All this led up to a perfect storm of awkwardness tonight, which finds me at my local grocery store stocking up on big bottles of Pellegrino and economy size bundle of toilet paper.
The cashier and I made eye-contact (I'd previously been on a seven-year no eye-contact streak) and I made a face that conveyed, "Yep, that's my night. I'll be drinking insane amounts of water and sitting around waiting to pee."
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3 comments:
See, if you moved to Boston, on Saturday nights you could drink lots of water, use TP, AND look at the girly mags in Carly's bathroom. Just sayin'.
Also, it would infuriate me if my roommates weren't trading off buying stuff. They'd have a strongly-worded note coming their way.
Yeah, pretty sure I can do without girly mags. I've thought about writing a note, but then all of a sudden I turn into Monica and I'd rather be out the money.
who know this importer of this toilet tissue in USA?IF Know,can you tell me?many thanks.
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