The Daily Durvy

When Alex and I were looking for our First Apartment Together, we made several appointments with complexes all over Davis. We each had a few requirements. And by a few, we had one each: he wanted a living room with a wall big enough for his 42-inch television, and I wanted a walk in closet. Stereotypes at their finest.

What we both underestimated was the power of a well-proportioned kitchen. Why would we go look at kitchens? We were (and are, don’t get me wrong) a couple of dumb college kids, punch-drunk with the idea of moving in together. We barely looked at the apartments; we were too busy looking at each other and thinking about all the, uh, christening we would get to do WITHOUT ROOMMATES.

We found an apartment with a large living room, a large bedroom (enough space for 2 desks!) and, best of all, a. Walk. In. Closet. I still hold that having that closet has saved our relationship on more than one occasion. Not only because there is (usually) enough space for BOTH OF OUR SHIT, but it is also the only place that you can go and close the door and not have to hear or look at the person you are mad at. Does that sound dangerously like a temper tantrum? You bet it does.

As previously mentioned, in all the euphoria surrounding an apartment that met all two of our combined requirements, we missed the fact that our kitchen is the size of my left foot. There is literally a refrigerator, a sink, and stove and nothing else. The little counter space we do have is dominated by a toaster oven that Alex insists is too small (“How am I supposed to toast enough bread to eat??” he asks. To which I respond, “NO ONE EATS AN ENTIRE LOAF OF BREAD AT ONCE DUMBASS.”) and my coffee maker, which, no I will not keep in cupboard because our cupboards are all taken. All of them. There isn’t even enough space to keep a proper set of mugs. Cooking in there is a pain, and absolutely impossible if another person is just INNOCENTLY trying to help.

Basically, cooking in our kitchen is a one-person job, which sucks when it’s my turn to cook.

Today, Alex and I decided that it was time to reorganize our kitchen, and I must say for being a kitchen that is too small to really stand in, we had a lot of shit packed in there. We pulled out an entire years worth of unopened canned food, prepackaged lunches, and unopened spices and other general unexpired items that we had – I swear to god – intended to eat and use. So we put everything in bags and made a few phone calls, and we are going to donate a whole bunch of food to a homeless shelter close to our apartment. After seeing all that food that effectively went to waste, Alex and I decided to be much more careful about how much food we buy, because really, while I can afford to sit here in my beautiful apartment and bitch about my small kitchen, there are so many others whose kitchens are empty or non-existent, and I am only happy that I can help in some small way.

“John!”

“Wha?”

“The guy who plays Jim on The Office. John Krasinski.”

“Right. I thought you meant like, Jon, from AEPi. I thought you were having a sexual fantasy about him.”

“Nope, but I’m about to have a sexual fantasy about John Krasinski.”

“Goodnight, beezie…”

Alex and I are not inherently neat people. We are, in fact, messy people. I like to think that he is the messier one, but when we get right down to it, he is not. While I cannot stand crap all over the floor, I think nothing of leaving the tables and couch covered in my latest project. He will leave diet coke cans on every available surface. I can deal until I see one without a coaster and then I go postal on his ass, screaming WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU HAVE A COASTER AGAIN??? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?

It’s only funny until it occurs to me that he probably is trying to kill me so he can have the the better side of the closet back.

Since moving in together, our shit has multiplied. I mean, literally. I feel like our clothing is sneaking off together when we go out for bagels and fucking profusely; before you know it BAM! SOCKS! BABY SOCKS ARE EVERYWHERE! AND NEVER IN PAIRS! Our computer cables are at the point of having grandchildren and if I see one more cable that charges something or converts something into something else I might just lose it. The coasters won’t even matter because I will be DEAD ALREADY.

And while the sock babies and the coasters are excitement enough, Alex and I are also in the habit of routinely walking around the living room and kitchen naked or in just underwear because we can. Because there are no roommates lurking out there watching bad reality television while we’re trying to be naked. It is wonderful. More pros include the ability to make dinner at 1 in the morning, starting spontaneous dance parties while cleaning and not having to ask someone if a) the slightly rotten fruit is theirs or b) why they drank the last of my raspberry vodka. While the second one is no longer a problem, regardless of living situation, it is a question I have had to ask roommates before.

Every once in a while, usually when we just wake up, Alex and I like to acknowledge the fact that we are lucky enough to live in such a beautiful home together. Sometimes we just remember that we have a couch or that everything in the refrigerator belongs to both of us, and sometimes we like to dance around the living room naked, just because we can.

I am a perfectionist.

There. I said it. Not that this is news to anyone that knows me… Spend five minutes in a room with me and you will be subjected to lint picking, and, if there are things hanging on the wall, a long-winded analysis of how perfectly (or not perfectly) aligned each object is.

That being said, Alex and I have been working on a few home-improvement projects for my apartment. And because I cannot paint or put wallpaper featuring Greg Grunberg’s face up or do anything else fun, I have opted to fill every single inch of available wall space with framed art.

(As a side note, I am very picky about the art that I put up. I generally feel weird putting up anything that I didn’t make myself. Which is really stupid, almost as stupid as the Marshmallow Blaster, which is actually stupidly awesome.)

In any event, because I have a Big Strong Man living with me for the summer, I have him do all of the grunt-work. He does the nailing, screwing, hanging, assembling, lifting and arranging. I supervise. And because I am a perfectionist supervising means I watch him like a hawk and make throaty irritated noises every time I think he’s doing some unperfect. Which is a lot, because in addition to being a perfectionist I am also a control freak. Yes, I have a highly trained therapist and an unlimited supply of Prozac, thanks for asking.

Alex is generally a really good sport about the whole thing.

He normally responds with a sort of “I-love-you-but-I’m-about-to-kill-you” look, not unlike a look one might give a child who keeps asking the same question over and over. A look that says “if you want to make it to age 22 you better take your throat noises elsewhere” or perhaps “if you want this relationship to work you best run along and stick your finger in an outlet before I do it for you.” It is a look I get often, and I often am amazed at his restraint when it comes to me. More often than not I am commenting on the straightness of the pictures he has hung or his tendency to fart during otherwise romantic moments or the truly impressive amount of chest hair he has. And he hasn’t killed me. It’s a miracle!

But while I am the neurotic one, he is the charming one, the one who hangs pictures perfectly, especially when I’m not in the same room and preferably when I’m not in the same city.

He refrained from laughing when I smacked my face into the wall so hard that I now have a lump under my eye brow. And he barely cracked a smile when I used a pack of frozen edamame to stop the swelling because I have no ice.

Oh yeah, he’s a keeper.