A Guy’s Guy

I’ve never lived with a real guy before. With Grant, he was a metrosexual, so his beauty products were equal to mine. He cleaned up after himself, and never let the bathroom get real. You know what I mean. He might have left the kitchen a wreck most days, but the bathroom was his sanctuary just as much as mine.

Duncan is one of those men that has never heard of Comet, leaves his dirty shorts hanging in the bathroom to dry on the back of the door, and tends to make yellow stains on the toilet that I clean up, not because he’s lazy, but because it would never occur to him that was a problem. He just doesn’t notice.

Because a) we’re not married and 2) I believe in equality, I don’t care whether the toilet seat is up or down. I figure that he shouldn’t have to remember to put the toilet seat down for me because I don’t have to remember to leave the seat up for him. Where it is is just where it is, you know? However, it would be nice that whether the seat is up or down, it’s clean.

My room looks somewhat akin to the CIA or the FBI thinking that I have papers hidden somewhere that they have to find by turning everything upside down. It’s not necessarily unclean, just unkempt. If I had a guest coming over, I could get it spotless in less than 15 minutes. I need to put the clothes in the hamper and take down the recycling, but other than that, I’m golden. I’m trying to keep everything in some semblence of order because my therapist says it will help, and I’m willing to try anything. I wish I could get back the “anal Annie” attitude I developed in my Portland apartment, but apparently that OCD was short-lived, probably because it was tied to that time in my life, and that time in my life is never coming back, either.

My point is this. As long as I take my dishes downstairs so that I don’t get bugs or mold, I could give a shit what my room looks like. Sometimes my crazy spatter is heavier than others. But I would never in a million gazillion years let that spill over into a common area of the house. My space is my space. Our space is our space, and never the twain shall meet.

I have always had this attitude in group houses, and it has served me well. Duncan is thisclose to getting a reprimand from Hayat, because I’m not going to confront Duncan. Hayat can be “the heavy” a lot better than I can. She is a ball-breaking tornado in a tiny body, and I just love watching her do it. 

It’s kind of a spectator sport. 

When she’s on the telephone, I pretend not to listen so that I get to hear her order people around at work. She is very, very good at what she does, although privately I call her “Chandler,” because I’ve lived here since April and I still don’t know what that is exactly. It has to do with spreadsheets.

I should have taken a picture of the bathroom before I cleaned it. Hindsight is 20/20. All I’ll really have to say is “yellow stains” and she’ll get the picture. Duncan is an attorney who is trying to get into the CIA (really) and always studying for some kind of exam. I’m not sure what that exam entails, because I thought that if intelligence wanted you, you’d know it.

I have a CIA baseball cap that my dad bought for me at a tourist shop, and it gives me no small amount of pleasure to fuck with people about it. I mean, come on. If you’re actually in the CIA, why in the everliving hell would you advertise that fact? Apparently, some people don’t know that.

This one lady said, “are you really in the CIA?” I said, “yes. In fact, it was really easy. I just took a Blockbuster Video application and crossed out ‘Blockbuster Video’ and wrote in ‘CIA’ at the top in crayon, dropped it in the mail, and ‘voila!’ I can’t take credit for that Blockbuster Video line.  James came up with it in high school when one of our friends wanted to be in the FBI. But it’s a good joke, so I lifted it for my own amusement.

The woman looked at me wide-eyed, like she couldn’t tell whether I was kidding or not and just walked off. I just thought to myself, “…aaaaaaand, my work here is done.”

My next touristy purchase is going to be the t-shirt that says, “NSA: The Only Agency That Cares Enough to Listen.”

In case you’re wondering, the crayon was “Burnt Sienna.” I don’t think they would have taken me if it had been “Cerulean.” Although, you are totally screwed if you want to join the CIA, because Blockbuster Video closed all their stores, and Best Buy just won’t cut it.

Good luck, Duncan.  Maybe I’ll lend you my hat if you’ll clean the fucking bathroom.


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