String Theory

Evidence!

I never had to clean up after myself. Ever. Growing up you take for granted that your mom cleans up after you. You could slide head first into home just to feel like a hero, cut yourself jumping over a fence and shit yourself because you ate too many Walking Tacos from the Skiles Test Little League concession stand (literally a bag of doritos with chile meat poured inside, I know AWESOME) but if you threw said vomit stained, shit/blood covered dirty clothes in the dirty clothes it was guaranteed to come out looking immaculate.

See I grew up in a semi-affluent area during the 90's when all the dads were bringing in low 6 figures, the moms were "raising the kids" and as long as you batted above .400, hit 70% from the free throw line and scored a goal per game not much was asked of you. Needless to say I never learned "chores" or "how to clean up after myself."

This behavior was reinforced when I got to college and had legal slaves cleaning up after me. Except these people you didn't even have to treat with civility like a mother, so after 18 years of an awesome mom, and 4 years of slaves, when I moved into a house at the age of 22 sans a mom or pledges clearly I was doomed.

My first few years operated under a general understanding that nothing would get clean ever unless it infuriated the other roommate to no end and he (or his girlfriend) would eventually crack and clean it up...or pay for a maid to come clean it. Needless to say I was much better at this waiting game than most, I do not need cleanliness to be productive or happy, and laying on the couch is always going to take precedent over picking up broken glass in the kitchen.

Lately I've become a much more considerate roommate, but there are still things that I shrug off. A burnt out light bulb, eh the other 3 still work. The carpet is stained, eh whatever, if I schlep over to Lowe's to rent a carpet cleaner I'm just going to get drunk and spill again. But I keep my mess in my room (my writing den is a landfill of coffee cups, cheap wine bottles and about a thousand beef jerky wrappers,) because I'm evolving into something of a grown up that is at least aware of the feelings of others.

But now a new roommate has moved in and for the first time I'm not living with exclusively my best friends. I can't just expect her to play the waiting game with me while AIDS slowly infests our apartment and hope she cracks first and cleans the whole thing, that would be unfair.

For example, yesterday I discovered our sink is clogged and the disposal doesn't work. A rational person would have immediately called a plumber, but instead I walked to the bathroom and grabbed the toilet plunger and used it on the clog in the sink. Miraculously it worked! Big win for me! I washed said sink afterward in case there was any lingering bacteria, and I felt like the problem had been solved.

Of course it hasn't been solved because the root of the problem is that on St. Patrick's Day we did a bunch of shots of Jameson from glass Kirloys shot glasses and when I drunkenly cleaned the apartment I'm sure a few of the shotglasses shattered and fell through the drain, breaking our disposal. But fuck it, it won't clog again for a few days and then I'll just plunger it again.

Later in the day I went to take a piss and when I tried to flush the toilet the flushing level literally snapped off...Fuck. So I opened the top tank and upon further inspection I realized the contraption that lifts the plug to let the top water flush into the bowl thus creating the scientific process of a toilet flush was no longer being lifted.

Again, I probably should have just called a plumber, they probably fix shit like this in 30 seconds. But alas, I felt it a path of lesser resistance to find an old pair of shoes, and rig a shoelace tied to the plug that will flush when said shoelace is pulled. I was actually quite proud of myself. This is a handy innovation, look at me, might as call me fucking MacGuyver.

Later in the evening as I was doing a load of laundry (whites and colors not separated of course) I had a realization. If I lived alone I would probably be content with my shoestring toilet and my plunger sink for the rest of eternity. What if I had some babe over to watch a movie, we have dinner and wine and when she's doing the dishes (gender stereotype holla!) afterwards she notices a clog in the sink and I come heroically in with a toilet plunger...or she has to go pee at some point in the evening and I say, don't worry just pull the shoestring when you're done.

This is not how adults are supposed to live. So this morning after conducting an hour long interview with my healthcare company assuring them that I do not use tobacco or drugs nor am I sexually active, I called a plumber and my problems will be fixed tomorrow. And my landlord has to pay for it!

This is fucking sweet!

So you're saying any problem with my apartment that isn't an egregious violation of my lease, my landlord has to completely and in an expedited manner fix at no charge? Why would you ever want to fucking own?

I think my aversion to calling my landlord to fix things is because in the past I've always had an unspoken understanding with my landlords: I'm going to rage this place to the ground and do lots of horrible things here at all hours of the day, but I'm never going to bother you.

Well the thing is, I've tamed down quite a bit so I shouldn't just endure a broken heater because I'm afraid my landlord is going to find a beer can or something. I'm 26 AND I live in California, everything short of murder is legal here.

So roommates, visitors and people genuinely interested in my emotional development I can proudly report that the string flusher will be gone at 10am tomorrow morning. That said, I know for a fact I'm going to grind some more shot glasses in the garbage disposal so I should probably keep an extra plunger under the sink just in case.