I’m not ready for a roomie
My odds of winning a housing lottery just jumped considerably, and not just because I’ve taken the desperate tack of pairing up with another buyer to bid on a two-bedroom unit.
Our bid is one of 28, as opposed to my usual odds in the stiffer competition for one-bedroom units. As a single bidder on a one-bedroom condo, I’m as likely to win as hell is to freeze over.
I have a nagging suspicion that home ownership at Centennial is in the bag for both of us, thanks to Life’s Little Ironies Rule No. 42: You can’t always get what you want, but you’re a shoe-in for what you don’t want.
What I don’t want is a roommate. I’ve been drinking straight from the milk carton for much too long to stop now. I suspect she feels the same about me, though I know nothing about her chilled-beverage ingestion practices.
In fact, it occurs to me I don’t know much about her at all, which is a bit worrisome. The stuff I do know worries me even more.
I know she doesn’t drink alcohol, and that I’ll probably be increasing my consumption in response to cohabitation. I know she’s a size 4 (because she tells me all the time) and that she can open a box of Girl Scout cookies and then not eat them all at once. Clearly, we will need separate cupboards with locking mechanisms to keep ourselves on our respective wagons.
I know she has a black cat and a bald dachshund with a bad attitude, that I’ll be accessorizing my wardrobe with paw prints and pet hair.
She tells me the dog enjoys sausage and pepperoni, but assures me he doesn’t fart much. “What about you?” I ask.
I also know she has a CD of English sea chanteys, which will mysteriously disappear shortly after we set up house together.
We have no idea how the joint financing thing would work, but have reached agreement on a more important matter: If either of us brings anyone home for the night, it will never be discussed outside the cardboard walls of our humble abode.
Still in negotiation is furniture and kitchenware, and who will have to unload what when we combine two households into one.
Since we rarely have a conversation without arguing and already sleep in separate bedrooms, albeit in separate apartments, I figure it will be a lot like being married. Swell.
It all began innocuously enough: The two of us musing about how much easier it might be to win a two-bedroom unit, for which single individuals aren’t permitted to bid. The list of bidders for a one-bedroom is always three or four times longer than the list of couples vying for a two-bedroom condo.
We could go in together on a two-bedroom and, as residents of the complex already, enjoy a priority to win one-bedrooms there after a year’s time.
In a margarita-fueled burst of misplaced enthusiasm, I suggested we go for it, on one condition: It would have to be one of the rare two-bed, two-bath units. I’m not sharing a bathroom with anybody but Mr. Bubble.
Wouldn’t you know, it was like a month later when a two-bed, two-bath unit popped up in the weekly listing of digs for working stiffs. We put in a bid that has been troubling me ever since. Since we’re both having second thoughts, we’re gonna win for sure.
This just in: An 11th-hour in-house bid on the two-bedroom has been submitted. We’re not going to win. Thank God.
There’s a good chance Janet Urquhart will pay rent for the rest of her life. Her column appears on Fridays.
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