PLEASE NOTE: I’m well aware that bitching about your roommates via a blog is not only dangerous, but extremely trite and pass?. But please, allow me this one selfish indulgence; perhaps you’ll see why…
For past three years I’ve lived in three different places: Journal Square in Jersey City, Bay Ridge in Brooklyn, and now, the upper west of Manhattan, in the outskirts of both Harlem and Columbia University. I’m especially happy to live in the city again since I no longer have to deal with a hellish late night commute (the MTA seems to consider 11 pm “late night” and a good time to shut down most trains), so now I can now have a social life that won’t kill my will to live.
But for the third apartment in a row, I unable to prepare a home cooked meal whatsoever. Why? Because my roommates are, for a lack of a better term, utterly disgusting. They leave the kitchen in such an abhorrent state that preparing just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is literally an hour long affair involving an exhaustive (and often ineffective) attempt at decontaminating just a small area of space to work with.
I live with a married couple who are not from this country. The husband is a scientist and a nice enough guy. The wife on the other-hand is constantly making bizarre and rude comments in broken English, such as “You are fat because you eat” or like when she saw my iBook, “That is such a girl’s computer! Hehehe!!!” There’s quite a few other notable idiosyncrasies, but it’s their eating habits which I’ll concentrate on…
Anyway, every single day when I come home, no matter what time it is, they’re always boiling something in oil. It’s bad enough being in the city when it’s like 90 out in the streets, but it’s totally unbearable when you come home and the living room is extra 100 degrees.
If you touch the walls in the living room, especially near the stove, you’ll notice a film of grease, about a quarter of an inch thick or pure fatty oil. It’s as if the walls were made of pure margarine. And then you’ll be washing you hands for, no joke, ten minutes, and it’ll still be sticky.
And then there’s the smell…. you know how in every apartment building in the city, there’s that one unit that constantly has the smell of food wafting out, and it always stinks? I live in that apartment. Granted, I can close my bedroom door, but it doesn’t keep the aroma entirely at bay. And invariably, my room will fill with the stench of starch or shellfish, which I’m very allergic to, hence my anger. But even if I wasn’t allergic, who the hell likes the smell of shrimp, especially when it’s rotting in an uncovered trash bin anyhow?
By the way, for all of those who think I’m being narrow minded, or even racist, don’t even start. I’m half Asian and I know most of our food is offensive to the senses. I grew up in Korea, I walked the streets, and they did not smell good. I have my favorite foods, some of which smell good to me, but I never assume others will agree, which is why I do my best to keep everything well contained. Sorry, but you don’t have to be American to know that no one wants their food being incidentally touched by tentacles. And for God sakes, if you’re gonna eat eye balls, try to store them so they’re not starring at the next person when goes to get a simple glass of juice.
All of this make it impossible to make a meal. Do you know how unbelievably frustrating it is to not be able to make your own meal in your very own home? And for three years in a row, and in three consecutive apartments no less?! Each has had similar, unusable kitchens, and it really pisses me off. And costing me a fortune as well; eating out is expensive, everyone knows that. And unhealthy of course. For those who’ve wondered how and why I’ve caked on the pounds recently, now you know the reason.
It’s not like I haven’t asked them in a very kindly fashion to do something about the repugnant mess that they make (though their choice of food is their choice of food, so there’s no changing that). But they simply nod and smile and ignore me. I could clean up after their mess to “set an example”, as often suggested by friends, but I know by now from past roommates that such tactics never work; you just end up becoming the maid.
But this past weekend, I had enough. For the first time in six months, both of them were out of the apartment, on vacation (never being in the apartment by myself is another annoyance, but I digress…), so I decided to seize the opportunity and finally clean the kitchen. The primary target would be the covering right about the oven, there’s so much caked on grease that about two dozen hairs are not only stuck on, but they’re lacquered on. And after 2 cans of scrubbing bubbles, an entire bottle of industrial strength cleaner, three rolls of Bounty, and hours of intense cleaning, I barely made a dent. The oven still have way too many pubic hairs on it’s cover to be of any use (or even approachable).
But what’s really gotten me pissed, hence the rant, is that a number of my pots, pans, and dishes, all of which I haven’t used once since moving into the apartment in February, had grease caked on them as well; the cupboard space I was given is right next to the oven and I’m guessing whenever my roommates cook, the grease is somehow getting inside. I tried in vain to clean them, but ended up having to throw them out. They were totally ruined and now I’m livid.
So what can be done? Simply sit and fester (and bitch about it online, which I must admit, is rather cathartic) until I can find another place to live I guess. But the headache of looking, as well as impressing strangers enough so that they’ll want to live with you, is something I really can’t bare to do yet again, at least not so soon…
