I spent three hours yesterday packing up my apartment after church. Granted, most of the time was spent boxing up my ridiculous amount of books and taking down my Christmas tree.
Yes, in April.
For those of you who don’t know, Rob and I bought a house March 31. Coincidentally on my birthday.
It’s a beautiful, old Victorian mansion with a few minor problems, but we are excited to do the projects… together.
It’s okay to vomit. Everyone else does.
For the past three months, I’ve been living in Rob’s GORGEOUS downtown condo. It’s on the 10th floor of a great building overlooking the Mississippi River and the St. Anthony Falls. Because Rob and I hole up in Minneapolis for months at a time, I haven’t been to my apartment in just over three months. Not even to stop there to pick up books, clothing, to take down my Christmas tree, nothing.
The last time I was there was in February with Rob. We spent two nights, two nights we will never get back and our noses will never forget.
My roommate had rotting cans of tuna scattered around his room, a litter box that had never been changed (going on four months), MY dishes with crusted on, decaying food, and trash piling up. It was so bad, Adam my roommate, was reduced to sleeping on the floor in the living room.
I threw some trash bags in his room, cleaned the cat litter (to the cat I TOLD him not to get), and walked the smelly cans of tuna OUT to the curb. I was hoping that he would catch my hint.
I walked into the apartment yesterday and almost threw up from the stench. I wouldn’t even allow Rob to come with me and help pack because I was afraid of the mess I would find. That, and Rob hates tuna with a passion to end all passions.
There were FIVE, FIVE cans of rotten tuna cans scattered across the house.
Apparently, he couldn’t contain the mess inside his room. I mean, there is only so much trash one room can handle before spilling out into the rest of the house.
There was food CRUSTED onto dishes left in the sink, on the counter and on the stove, there was trash littered from the kitchen to the living room, and worst of all, his cat has peed in every box, on every blanket and destroyed my yarn box.
It, literally, looked like a squatter lived there.
After walking through the apartment, a sinking feeling started in the pit of my stomach.
Oh. My. Goodness.
What about the bathroom?
I didn’t even want to look.
I did. And I was disgusted.
After that, I resigned myself to packing my room and most of the house.
Here’s what my room looked like AFTER I packed:
And another view:
Did you notice that I never really finished painting my room? I ran out of paint, for one, and for two, I met Rob shortly after I started painting and then we moved into together… You know how it is.
But, thankfully, the man I got to take over my lease doesn’t like the navy and wants to repaint the room. Saves me from having to finish the room before I turn over the lease.
Here is all the crap I cleaned out of the room:
All those boxes?
Books. Hundreds and hundreds of books.
But, wait! Did you think that was it?
Granted, one or two of the tubs came from the living room, and the formal dining room table is buried somewhere in the back, but yes, one COULD say that I have too much stuff.
One could say that, but one won’t.
That means you, Rob.
Remember the Christmas tree I mentioned earlier in the post? Are there a few of you who don’t believe that I had my tree up until April 4?
The proof is in the living room.
Do you notice my yarn basket? Is it appropriate for me to tell Adam (my roommate) to untangle it? I mean, you’re looking at a good $200 worth of yarn there and I sorted each skein BEFORE I put them in the basket.
As for the kitchen, here is what some of it looked like. Notice the trash on the floor? Classssy.
No, I didn’t take a picture of the rest of the kitchen. I am too embarrassed to show you, and that says a lot. That tells you just how disgusting the kitchen is.
But, not as disgusting as this:
How can a person live like this?
The plate on his “nightstand,” the one with ketchup? THAT WAS THERE IN FEBRUARY. I don’t even think you can legally call it ketchup. Soliders in Iraq are even scared to touch it.
This is the one and only time I wish computers had Smell-o-vision. The smell, friends, the smell is horrific.
Not as horrific as this:
HOW IS IT THAT YOU DON’T NOTICE THE GRIME AND DIRT EACH TIME YOU TAKE A SHOWER?
I almost feel the need to burn the shower curtain. But, I won’t because that bitch was $50 and it’s coming home. With me.
It only took me three hours to pack what you saw in the dining room, and afterward I sent this to Adam:
“Dude. Your cat has been pissing everywhere. On my blankets, in the boxes, on my tree skirt. If Tom found out, he’d kick your ass out. The apartment is disgusting. I picked up old, rotten cans of tuna in the living room and Tom saw your room and he said it smelled and was a disaster.”
Please note that, yes, I do use punctuation in my text messages… it’s only polite.
He responded with:
He had better start packing because the lease is solely in my name and I’m kicking his ass out and finding another roommate for the new guy.
And, yes, I am keeping my lease.
I’m going to cash flow that place. The rent is only $700 a month (+ utilities), and that is ridiculously cheap for the neighborhood and the size of the apartment (1,400 sq ft). I’m going to charge $1000 a month and pocket the rest.
Make that money, money.