A repulsive riddle

What has:

Clutter that magnetically collects more clutter.

A permeating, foul odor. 

A magical sink (and surrounding counters) full of dishes that dirty themselves.

Cupboards in which even a small amount of organization is an impossibility.

Stacks of unused boxes, bags, cartons, and containers.

Half-emptied sacks of groceries.

Old coffee cups.

A recycle bag whose adopted home is the middle of the kitchen floor.

Forgotten tea.

Unfinished laundry and accoutrements.

A garbage can that often rivals Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout's.

A sled.

Used water bottles.

A broken chair.

Old magazines, ads, and newspapers. [some of questionable content]

Shriveled strawberry stems. 

Etc.

Etc.

Etc. to the millionth power

Etc. some more

Answer: G-pod the Third


Sigh.

A moving experience

As I was lying in bed last night in my half-organized new bedroom, my tired muscles pleasantly adjusting to my recently-acquired memory-foam mattress topper (yes--I live in luxury, what can I say), I was thinking to myself for the five-hundred twenty-sixth time* how very much I despise moving. It's not so much the hunting or the planning or the contract-signing that I mind--but more the moving process itself:

The cleaning
the sorting
the packing
the sorting
the packing
the running out of boxes
the realization that I might have a small hoarding problem
the sorting
the packing
the cleaning
the trips to the dumpster
the packing
the hefting
the loading
the cramming
the stuffing
the shoving
(whew)
the unloading
the reloading in a why-didn't-I-see-this-large-item-much-much-earlier exasperation
the shoving doors closed
the pretending to be able to see out the rearview mirror
the traveling
the unloading
the unpacking
the finding of storage space in an already-inhabited apartment wherein items in kitchen cupboards and coat closets have apparently been producing offspring for fifteen years
the trips to the dumpster
the finishing unpacking
the organizing
the adjusting.

And yet.

I continue to subjugate myself to this abhorrent process. I have lived away from home for six years, and somehow have managed to inhabit eight different apartments during that time. I have lived in an apartment with no air-conditioning during the summer, whose thermometer didn't register triple digits, so the temperature just read "03." I have lived in a 3-bedroom apartment with 6 girls and 1 bathroom. I have lived in a couple of g-pods.

As I reflected back on my numerous places of residence (admittedly, some were more fondly reflected upon than others), I found myself becoming restless. Rather than drifting off to peaceful slumber in luxurious foam-mattress-topper comfort, I lay wide awake. Minutes ticked by.

So what does one do when one can't sleep? Well, it makes me feel a little "sheepish" to admit this, but...I started counting roommates. (Baaahaha, don't I just come up with the greatest puns?!) 

And so, in chronological order, I began to tally. LaShel, Cecile, Alice, Brittany, Kathryn, Chelsea, Allison, Michelle, Summer, Courtney, Ingrid, Shelley, Chelise, Whitney, Hailee, Missy, Lizzy, Courtney (a different one), Ashley, Nyssa, Mary, Erica, Coco, Karen, Stephanie, Desiree, Teri, Hillary, April, Christina, and Jihye.

All in all, I have lived with 31 roommates (and that's not including those I lived with in multiple apartments or for multiple years). Whether this is something to brag about or not, I'll leave you to decide...

Ah, relocation. Such a moving experience.

*I know you're thinking, "Wow! She has kept track?!" Yes, yes I have. Ask me to show you the tally sheet sometime. Fair warning, though--if you do ask, it might take me a while to find it, and I might offer you a cupcake to distract you.

"CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF"

Aha! You thought this was going to be another g-pod post, didn't you?!

Well.

Thankfully, it is not.

If you take a second look at the title of this post (though you probably don't need one, as it is blaring at you in all caps), you will notice that there is a suspicious appearance of these curious little things called quotation marks.

I know that almost every blogger and his or her dog posts a rant at one time or another about proper grammar and its usage (well, those people and their dogs who understand what proper grammar is, anyway). However, as grammatical atrocities seem to be nearing the status of "rampant plague" these days, it is in behalf of all humankind that I join myself to these ranks of grammar ranters, though I intend not so much to rant as simply to point out how very silly the overuse--or perhaps the more appropriate term would be misuse, though both words amply apply to the following example--of quotation marks is, and convey to you my continual astonishment at how these kind of horrendous grammatical deformities get themselves onto engraved signs and plaques.

Early this afternoon, I was on break up on the top-secret ___ floor of the library in the top-secret employee break room, eating my top-secret snack with my top-secret co-worker, who happened to be dining on top-secret enchiladas that somehow got snuck past security.

When she finished her enchiladas, I walked around the corner with her into the small, galley-style kitchen (top-secret, of course) so that she could wash her now enchilada-less container. What immediately assaulted my eyes is the picture I have posted below. I warn you: this picture is not for the faint of heart nor the weak-minded.

Don't be fooled by all of those quotation marks--this is not a placard to commemorate your elementary school's cantankerous lunch-lady's favorite sayings. This is actually a public-information placard posted in an educational institution whose specific purpose is to house and preserve the written word.

Alas.

G-POD the Second

I once lived in a g-pod. When I moved out of this g-pod, I did rejoice muchly. I entered a (mostly) blissful living existence in which my environment was clean, there was very little drama, and my roommates were kind and considerate of others.

But I should have known that such an ideal way of life couldn't last forever, let alone more than one semester.

With that introduction, we now begin the saga of G-pod the Second.

Beginning of spring term: my dear, wonderful roommate, Alice, moves out to head to Montana for a summer internship. Into her place moves Tiffany (*name has been changed*), whose previous residence was Heritage Halls. Though slightly apprehensive about living with a person who is still quite freshly out of high school and the freshman dorms, I don't immediately suspect that things will soon be not-so-very-pleasant. For the time being, all is fine and dandy.

Until.

A couple days later, I come home to find a stranger surfing the internet whilst lounging on my couch with a pillow and blanket, all of her worldly possessions stacked around her in what was once my apartment's small but adequate living room space. A folded mattress is stashed in the corner of the room, and a big green tote occupies the coffee table, its innumerable contents spilling onto the floor. A sleeping bag and several miscellaneous objects litter the other couch. I notice a hairbrush precariously resting on top of the refrigerator. A feeling of panicked anxiety enters my mind as my days of toxic rubbish smotherization (i.e. crumbled cracker crumbs, dirty dishes, used tissues, soiled socks, bits of trash, etc.) in the g-pod suddenly flash before my eyes.

"Are you one of my new roommates?" I ask apprehensively. "Did you buy the available contract?"

"Oh, hello!" she replies, seeming slightly startled. "I'm one of Tiffany's friends. And no, I'm not a new roommate." But before the rushing feeling of relief had quite calmed my racing heartbeat, she adds, "I'll just be staying here for the summer."

"Uh? What?" I ask, thoroughly confused by her apparently oxymoronic statement.

"Well, I'm doing this sort of camping study abroad thing."

"Camping study abroad?" I thought to myself. "What, camping on our living room couch?"

"Hmmm, okay," I said, deciding not to judge things too quickly and inquire further later.

************

Several days pass. The apartment becomes increasingly filled with rubbish. I ask illegal-roommate (Helga, for our future reference here, seeing as she is [as one of my coworkers put it] "practically a Viking invader") in a very nice manner if she could please clean up her (I was very tempted to use the word CRAP, but did not) because I couldn't have the apartment in such a state when teaching piano lessons. She kind of nods her head, but her eyes stay glued to the computer screen, and her earphones stay clamped on.

I come back from work just in time to teach one of my Friday afternoon piano students. He arrives for his lesson, along with his mother, but there is not even a place for her to sit on the couch, as nothing has been cleaned up whatsoever. I apologize, and realize that something has GOT to be done.

But then, suddenly, Helga disappears. Unfortunately, not all of her stuff disappears with her, but Helga has, for a few days at least, departed our abode.

************

A week passes. The apartment is cleaned up and livable once again. I begin to wonder if I had misinterpreted Helga's intentions about staying for the summer. But alas, no.

She returns.

How do I know she is back?

I come home Monday night and can barely open the front door for all of the revolting clutter lying everywhere in the living room. Piles of dirty clothes, smelly camping gear: it is quite awful, no exaggeration. Even G-pod the First doesn't compare. But things only get worse from here. I go to the kitchen to find something for dinner and open my cupboard. Food that had been there hours before has now mysteriously disappeared. I go upstairs to take a shower. My bathroom towel is not only soaking wet, (um, ew?) but also has mysterious pink stuff smeared all over it. What is the pink stuff? I don't even want to know. I retrieve a clean towel from my bedroom and take a shower. I climb in bed, (Tiffany dozing in the bunk bed above me, though she has left the light on), and glance at the clock: almost midnight. I wonder where Helga is, as she is not occupying her usual space on the living room couch and the hour is late.

A while later, my question is joltingly answered: the doorbell rings. As anyone who has ever visited my apartment or rang the doorbell knows full well, this particular doorbell is loud enough to awaken the dinosaurs from extinction. So, naturally, I grumble to myself about the complete lack of common courtesy some people seem to possess, turn over, pull my covers a little tighter, and assume Tiffany will get up and let her friend in. But, as the last tones of the doorbell die away and the ringing in my ears begins to grow fainter, no stirrings come from the bed above me. And then the pounding on the door and a voice yelling up at our window begins. Before I have time to pull back the covers, the doorbell rings again. I go downstairs and open the door, and Helga enters without so much as a "thank you." I go back upstairs to bed.

(Grammar alert: I'm changing tenses. Writing about the past in the present is officially no longer amusing me.)

Yesterday, while at work, I received a text from my other roommate, Ashley--one of the most mild-mannered, kind, thoughtful roommates anyone could possibly ask for. But mild-mannered, soft-spoken Ashley was no more. The text she sent me was a message that was nearly six texts long, an explosion from someone who had finally had the last straw. Her 21st birthday is today, so she had invited some friends over last night to celebrate a little early and obviously didn't want them to have to wallow in filth. So she'd asked Helga very politely to clean up her mess. But did she? No. Not only was the apartment still a filthy mess, but now also beginning to smell. No, not just smell. Reek. Is there anything more disgusting than the smell of ripe body odor?

Ashley proceeded to give the apartment a thorough cleaning. She stacked all of Helga's belongings in one corner (she was very kind not to put them outside), and left a long note telling her that we'd had enough and that she was no longer welcome to stay with us (though she hadn't even asked in the first place, anyway).

When I got off work and came home, the apartment was sparkling clean, and completely silent, though it still smelled. I opened up a window to get a draft of cool, rain-freshened air to begin airing out the stench, and walked into the kitchen, where I found Helga sitting silently at the kitchen table. No words were exchanged. I went upstairs where Tiffany was sitting in our bedroom. She was silently doing homework. I went to bed, and when I woke up this morning, the apartment was still clean. There was no sleeping Helga sprawled on the couch.

Though her stuff is still piled in our apartment, I believe she may have learned her lesson: when one is a guest, one should act like a guest.

For ye unbelievers

If you weren't previously convinced by the loathsome descriptions with which I provided you of my G-POD living experience, I now have proof that I was not the only one who found the vortex of toxic waste quite disgusting: the first thing that one piano student's mother said today as she walked through the door of my new apartment was, "Wow! It's so clean!!!" followed by "You're very lucky you got to move."

Amen.

And there was much rejoicing

as I waved auf wiedersehen to the dear old g-Pod. Oh joy, rapture, bliss! Ecstasy is mine! Good bye, garbage. Good bye, pit. Good bye, doom. Good bye, chances of an early death by toxic rubbish smotherization.

I liiiiiiiiiiiiive!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So tell me what mortal needs my protection, Great Ancestor. You just say the word and I'm there. And let me say somethin'. Anybody who's foolish enough to threaten our family, vengeance will be miiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

700 points extra credit if you can name that movie. (Yes, I'm a munificent extra credit point giver--munificence is just one part of my magnanimously marvelous personality.)

Psh! No, writing all those essays for my grad applications didn't give me a big head in the least. What are you even talking about?

Okay, soooooooooooo.

I officially submitted my last application at 10:55pm on Monday. (I'm not going to put any exclamation points after that sentence, because not even infinity would be sufficient.) This was such a long and grueling process (not to mention expensive--more than $600, to be exact) that now round one is over and the ball is no longer in my playing field (i.e. I'm waiting to hear back from each of the schools as to whether or not I am invited for a live audition and interview), there is an odd sort of contradictory void in my existence. Over the past few days, I have felt indestructible and free as a bird, though I have actually been buried alive by the things that were once deemed second-priority. Which was pretty much everything except grad applications. And yes, finals are next week. Eek. <---That's a word I don't use very often, so I hope you fully comprehend the gravity of my situation.

And to conclude my post, how about some random, joyous trivia?

Time remaining till I move out of the GPOD: 13 days and COUNTING.

I live in a g-Pod

You know the song "We all live in a yellow submarine" by the Beatles? Well, yesterday afternoon as I was strolling home to my apartment to teach a piano lesson, this particular music was pleasantly running through my head.

Until, that is to say, I arrived at the front door of my apartment and pulled the keys out of my coat pocket. As I unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the door open, I despairingly gazed at the Garbage Pit (yes, with capital letters) that is my living room. Suddenly, the excellent song I had been rather enthusiastically humming to myself morphed into the following:

We all live in the Garbage Pit of DOOM,
Garbage Pit of DOOM,
Garbage Pit of DOOM.

I won't give you all the dirty details of what may be found in this Garbage Pit of DOOM for fear of making you cough up your dinner, but suffice it to say that my apartment could easily be mistaken for the local landfill.

Now, I'll have you know that this is not due to a lack of attempts on my part to clean it--at least twice a week, in fact, as I cannot very well have students and their mothers wallowing in dirty socks, candy wrappers, used tissues, little bits of paper and cardboard, dirty dishes, cracker crumbs, and the like. Really and truly, the Halloween banner hanging haphazardly by a few pieces of Scotch tape in our front window says it all, (in blazing purple letters on a metallic silver background, no less):

"Beware! Enter if you dare!"

Of course, most people, upon knocking on our door, assume in blissful ignorance that this sign is, in fact, no more than a mere declaration of the apartment residents' festive spirit. What these innocent bystanders do not realize, however, is that they are actually standing at the brink of a black hole, and that if they set foot through the door, they may very well be sucked into a whirling vortex of death. Or perhaps a more appropriate wording for the latter part of the previous phrase would be "may very well become instantaneously smothered by a highly dangerous and toxic amount of rubbish."

Sadly, this condition in which the living room exists is not confined to that space alone. It spills into the kitchen and upstairs to the bathroom and bedrooms. I thought that at least my corner of the bedroom was safe from the onslaught of refuse, but alas, upon glancing under my bed, I found a pair of dirty...well, you can probably guess...that definitely wasn't my own. EW.

Yes, on a cleanliness scale of 1 to 10, my apartment ranks at approximately a 29,377. On a good day.

To use a new German phrase I learned today: Ach du Schande!!! [For crying out loud!] Pick up your trash, people. Pick up your trash.