World’s Worst Roommate
I once met a girl named Winnie (not really) who became the world’s worst roommate. All seemed well at first; she was a premed with me and she seemed perky and fun. The first hint of trouble was when we began looking for a place together – NOTHING satisfied her. We checked out place after place, house after house and apartment after apartment – no go. One place was too high, one was too big, one was too small, one had too many windows for marauders to break into. It was like The Three Bears all over again, except with buildings instead of porridge. We finally found a place. Then we had to sign a lease, and because we were young college students with no credit rating, we had to each find a cosigner for the lease. My dad agreed, but she could find absolutely no one. I admit this was not her fault, but it was a sign of things to come.
When we moved in, she promptly took the bigger better bedroom because “she had “found” (in great big sarcastic quotes) the apartment. She borrowed my clothes without asking. She ate my food. She had an awful boyfriend who seemed to exist only on paper; he only called but never materialized, leaving her frustrated and sobbing. She piled up dirty dishes in the sink and left dirty dishes all over the living room and common areas.
Then she really did it. Without permission, she brought home a dog. We even had a clause in our lease stating “no pets”. It was a little yippy dachshund whom she named “Megan”. What a bizarre name for a dog. The dog was cursed. She couldn’t have picked a worse one. It was completely incapable of being housebroken, and it yipped and yapped at every little noise. She doted on the thing. Every time it made a puddle on the rug (which was daily) she poured salt on it and vacuumed up the salt with MY dustbuster. Stench. Sour urine blasted out the vent holes every time it was used, despite her protests that she cleaned it out regularly, and despite my asking her not to use it any more. She wasn’t going to bother to buy a vaccuum of her own.
The whole thing came to a head at Christmas time. She told me she had found someone to take care of the dog in her absence and left town. I went home for Christmas, believing that the dog was taken care of. I returned to the apartment some days later to pick something up and there had been NO DOG SITTER. She had shut the dog alone in the laundry closet, with a pile of food just dumped on the floor and a bowl of water, which was empty. The dog had crapped and peed all over the laundry room, then found a way to shove open the door and escape into the apartment. Of course, she had CLOSED the door to her bedroom and mine was left open, so the freaking dog got into my room and chewed up all my stuffed animals and pooped and peed on my bed for good measure. I was beyond furious. There were still quite a few days left in our vacation, so I called every kennel in town until I found the most expensive one. I put Megan there, and let Winnie know that if, on her return, she wanted the dog back, she was going to have to pay a hellacious bill. Score one for me.
She only escalated. She neglected the dog terribly. She continued to use the dustbuster. The dishes got dirtier and worse. More and more of my food and clothes were missing. But the final straw was our trip to Disney World.
It sounded like a good idea at the time (I don’t know why). Maybe I had visions of us mending fences while on a whirlwind tour of Florida. Her mom lived in Cocoa Beach and we were going there first. The plan was: we would each bring our respective boyfriend and take a friendly trip of four. Keep in mind at this point, I had never met her boyfriend despite living with her for months. Well, of course her boyfriend backed out of the trip at the last moment. I decided that he was an imaginary boyfriend, since I had never once even spoken to him on the phone. But my boyfriend was going. Next problem: not only was Megan the dog going with us, but she had obtained ANOTHER dog, a stinky Shih Tsu, which she was bringing for her mom as a gift. So we had two little stinky yappy dogs in the back seat, neither of them housebroken. Fortunately, we took her car.
The trip was a disaster. Surprise. She became jealous of the attention that my boyfriend and I paid to each other and complained of being left out and feeling like a third wheel. To appease her, I rode most of the rides at Disney World with her, leaving my poor boyfriend out in the cold. Fortunately he understood and was very good natured about it. I have pictures of that trip, and when I got into the scrapbooking craze, I scrapbooked two pages of our trip entitled “The Disney World Trip From HELL”.
Soon after that we parted ways. But she had one great big surprise left in store for me. I made the mistake of letting her move out on a weekend without me there and she took ALL my stuff. She took all my cooking supplies and my nice pots and pans. She took the food from the pantry. She took half of my clothes. She took furniture that was mine. And I never heard from her again. Last I heard, she’s a pediatrician somewhere. And I’ll tell you what. I would never EVER take my kids to see her. Not if she was the last pediatrician on earth.