Liveblogging my roommate's hookup

For the last 8 months or so, a friend of mine has been living in our basement. It's cool.

The one issue that never really came up (that's a bad pun...you'll see) is the problem of...well, let's say overnight guests (see? Bad.) The bulk of the problem comes from the fact that I really don't want to have to explain to the 5 year old what that strange woman with the rumpled hair and the roommate's dress shirt on is doing in our bathroom at 7AM. Luckily, we had one thing going for us in this regard...the roommate is terrible with women. Ok, two things. Not only is he generally terrible with women, I don't see a whole lot of women being attracted to the following scenario at a bar: so, you're almost 40, you're an unemployed member of a profession generally seen as recession-proof; you live in what is essentially a dorm room in the basement of your friend's house, and you want to go back there now? Ok, sure, where do I sign up?

But all that has come to a tragic end this evening. Because the roomie has just brought someone home (to his infinite credit, he called ahead and asked if we minded). A rough timeline:


3:30 PM The roommate departs. Who leaves for a date at 3:30? What are they, 70 year olds hoping to catch the senior special over at the Old Country Buffet?


3:31PM I forget about the whole thing for about 6 hours.


9:30PM Phone rings. Seeing the roommate's number, I look for a comfy place to sit as he gives me the tale of woe about how bad the date went while he waits for another friend to show up at the bar.


But no, this is the "uh, you mind if we come back to the house? I'll take your stunned silence as a 'yes'" call. They are to arrive in about 20 minutes.


9:30:30PM My wife, hearing the plan, nearly sprains something rolling her eyes. She decides to go to bed. In retrospect, this is why I married her. She is much, much smarter than I.


9:40PM Because I am the most awesome wingman in the history of wingmen, I rush downstairs to the roommate's room, and clear a rough path from the door. He's not what you might call a tidy person, so this is no gimme. I initially went down there to make sure there was no stray dirty underwear sitting out, but then decided it would be a mitzvah if I helped a brotha out.


This is not without it's cost. First of all, I don't want to know why there was an unopened bottle of squeezable mayonaise on the nightstand. Second, no human being should need that many tubes of Carmex, and I shudder to think how those two facts may be related. But I digress.

I clear off the bed, feed his cat (not a euphemism), and turn off the computer monitor. I briefly consider dimming the lights and turning on the stereo, but I'm running out of time, and I can't immediately recall where my "Barry White's Greatest Hits" CD is. Plus, that'd be a little on the nose. Don't you think?

9:50PM I'm back upstairs on the couch. They arrive, through the back door (again, not a euphemism). I am thus spared the awkward "uh, hi, what are you kids up to?"


9:52PM The roommate runs upstairs to use the restroom. "Did you clean my room, or were we robbed?" He is appreciative, but that might be the Labatt's talking. In fact, the Labatt's is not only doing the talking, it is also controlling most of the central nervous functions at this point.


9:55PM Having unfortunately paused the DVR, thus muting the sound on the TV, I'm treated to my first noise. Oh great, I think to myself....she's a screamer.


9:55:03PM Correction: that was him. I think. This could be a long night, what with me needing to attempt to forget I just heard that.


9:59PM Well, that was quick.


10:10PM The roommate emerges, naked (GAH!) No, wait, he's got pajama bottoms on. Close call there. He is entirely too pleased with himself. Which is unusual in that usual he's pleased BY himself. He gets a glass of water, walks toward the living room, and gives what I'm sure he thinks is a "Victory is mine!" arm raise salute kind of thing that actually looks more like Tommie Smith and Juan Carlos at the Mexico City Olympics, or maybe Nixon's farewell wave after a fifth of Old Granddad. I am simultaneously appalled and bemused. Then it's back downstairs for mandatory cuddling.

10:15PM Or not. At least I know this will be quick, and thankfully, the hockey game I'm watching is sufficiently interesting, if not quite loud enough. C'mon, Vancouver, let's make some noise!

10:20PM Up til now, I've been afraid to go into the kitchen, which is where the door to the basement is. I fear the noises, I fear the awkwardness of who might come up the stairs, and so on. But dammit, I'm hungry, and I need a sandwich.

10:22PM Ok, sandwich acquired. Ugh, forgot the chips. Cover me, I'm going back in.

10:35PM Footsteps on the staircase again. Multiple. Oy. It's both of them. They are fully dressed, back in bar costumes, and headed out, but she just wanted to meet the people he lives with. Because I'm still eating my sandwich, I do not stand up to greet them. I do notice, however, that in my haste to get in and out (ha!) of the kitchen, I made the sandwich on my 5 year old's Spiderman plate.

She seems nice, in a "just barely not drunk enough that I need to have my roommate arested for date rape" kind of way. The three of us chat for a few moments, and when the roommate mentions the 5 year old, she is surprised that there is a child in the house, despite the fact that she is literally standing in the middle of about 30 Hot Wheels that we neglected to clean up at bed time. She also says "oh, but he's probably asleep now, right?" I look at the clock to make sure it is actually nearly 11PM, then mentally cross off the list titled "Possible Jobs Held by the Person I'm Talking to" the entries "rocket scientist," "brain surgeon," and "day care professional." At least it's a good bet that she didn't notice the Spiderman plate.

10:45PM They depart, and it's unclear if he's taking her home or if they're going back to the bar. Nonetheless, the idea that has just hit me requires swift and immediate action. After all, straightening up the room was a good deed, and I just can't let that stand.

10:50PM You know that old computer paper with the holes along the side that comes in a big continuous perforated sheet? My in-laws had a box of it laying around and gave it to my son for his burgeoning art career. So I borrow a 6 foot or so section of it, and, using the boy's Crayola markers, make a large George-W.-Bush-on-the-aircraft-carrier banner reading, of course, "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED" complete with suggestive rockets and fireworks. Careful to avoid looking at anything too closely or touching anything, I hang the banner over his bed.

12:05(ish)AM Having just barely drifted off to sleep, I am briefly awoken by the sound, two floors down, of hysterical laughter mixed with unspeakable profanity, both directed at me. Mission Accomplished, indeed.