My secret existence

I've come to the conclusion that I'm just not a person who should live with other people. I'm a terrible housemate. I wasn't happy at my other apartment because it was too dirty. Now, dare I say it, I'm not happy here because it's too clean! Yes, you heard me, it's too clean!!!

So maybe it's not exactly the cleanliness that's the problem. The problem is that we, the renters, are expected to act as if we do not live here at all. If we show any signs of our presence, we are left notes on torn strips of paper taped to whatever wrongdoing we've committed.

At first, I got a lot of notes as I tried to understand which items were compostable versus recyclable and which items count as "personal garbage" to be thrown away in my bedroom versus "not personal garbage" which is safe to throw away in the kitchen. For example, when I first moved in, I realized that I didn't have a fitted sheet for my mattress, which is larger than my last apartment, so I bought a fitted sheet and threw the plastic wrapper in the kitchen garbage. It was promptly removed with a note that said "personal garbage". Or another example: I had a box from something (also when I first moved in, can't quite remember what), so I flattened it and put in the recycling can in the kitchen, which also received a "personal recycling" note. I then determined that everything that is not food related must be personal garbage or recycling, so I've been doing pretty well on not getting any food notes.

Well, the other day was a very noteful day, apparently. I was feeling lazy one day as I finished up the peanut butter in the broken container that Laura had left behind, so guiltily, I threw it in the garbage instead of the recycling. I was so conscious of my wrong decision that I intentionally put it in the bottom of the can so that I wouldn't get a note. But hear out my logic, okay? We aren't allowed to use dish cloths or sponges or hand towels and have to use paper towels to wash and dry dishes and our hands, and I just didn't feel like scrubbing peanut butter out of a broken container with a paper towel. Please do not judge me; I swear I try really hard to live sustainably, but it's easier said than done sometimes. (How cliché!)

Apparently, a peanut butter coated container cannot hide at the bottom of the can. I received a note, "Please wash and put in recycling." Dammit. Laziness never wins when your trash is constantly inspected. So I brought the container to my room until I got up the motivation to grease up some paper towels, which further ebbs on the whole sustainability thing: I waste so many paper towels on dishes and keeping the kitchen clean. Anyways, that's not my point here.

Fine. My every action is monitored; my trash is searched; fine.

Laura visited me for a week, and as I walked through the living room one day, I noticed a note on the chair that Laura had sat in as we watched The Big Bang Theory the night before: "Please smooth out the blanket when you are done sitting."

I swiped up the paper and went to Laura, "You got a note!" I laughed. Laura smoothed out the blanket covering the living room furniture, and the room once again looked as if no one had ever entered it. Ever.

It's such a strange way to live. I sneak around in my own living space! When I come home, I shut the gate as quietly as possible and tiptoe up the deck stairs so that the Yorkie puppy will not come yapping loudly at the sliding glass door. I love puppies; I do. Just not yappy ones, and she's always behind the glass anyways because I go in through a different door, so I experience none of the cuteness of the little dog, except for gawking at how small she is. And just because she is behind the glass does not make her yapping any less piercing.

So I sneak around. I tiptoe. I look both ways before exiting my bedroom. I shut off all lights and signs of existence and wipe every counter twice and wash my dishes before I even eat my food and put my kettle back in the cupboard when it's still hot. I sneak up the stairs to grab my mail. I carry my shoes to the door. I take my shoes off when I'm still outside, even if it means getting my socks wet. I've become obsessive about cleaning up after myself in fear of "the note".

And then there was this morning. The rest of my housemates aren't bums, so they get up and go to school or work or whatever it is they do while I mosey around. I had an interview this afternoon, so I decided it would be a shower day and that I would take some time to get ready and look nice. The bathroom is divided into two sections. One part has the sink, the garbage can, and the counter. The other part has the toilet and the shower. I got out of the shower, wrapped in my towel, and opened the door to the other half of the bathroom to walk to my room.

My landlord was standing right outside the door. Right outside the door. Used to never seeing any sign of her existence save for the notes, her presence was the last thing I expected as I exited the shower. I jumped back, "Oh my gosh!" dropping the nightgown that I was holding, but thankfully, holding onto my towel.

"Just emptying the trash. Sorry to frighten you," she laughed.

Shaking, I walked to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror and took a deep breath. Patience. Patience.

And God knows I'm trying to be patient. It's not easy trying to pretend like you aren't alive. It's even more frightening because I don't have cell phone service in my room, so contact to the outside world is limited. AH! I might just be going stir crazy. I mean, who complains that something is too clean?! And at least all of the notes are polite; they say "Please".

So here I am: in my room, leaned over at my computer typing away into cyberspace. It's evening now, so there is no light coming into the apartment. Being in the basement, there usually isn't much light anyways, but it's now especially dark and cold.

I remember being afraid of the basement when I was a kid. Heck, I'm still afraid of the basement at my parent's house in Pennsylvania, especially at night. I'm trying not to be afraid of the basement here because, well, it's my home: it's where I pretend not to live, which is a funny thought because during summer days off from the school year, Derek, Katlin, and I used to play "house" in the basement sometimes, pretending to live like adults. Regardless, I never thought I'd say it, but I miss my big blue house in the woods with skylights and a woodburner. I miss the smell of the woodburner, even the smoke that would sometimes back up through the vents.

I cooked a vegetable patty the other day. I had the oven fan on high, as required. When I was done, I turned the fan off, washed my dishes, and retreated to my room to eat. When I took my empty plate back to the kitchen, there was a note on the fan, "Please leave the fan on for ten minutes after cooking too!" I miss the smell of fresh cooked food in the kitchen.

I miss being able to walk around in anything and nothing. I miss sitting my dishes on the counter or in the sink to be attended to later. I miss throwing my coat on a chair when I walk in the door. I miss hanging my towel in the bathroom. I miss hand towels and dish cloths. I miss being in a home that feels lived in. And I miss having friendly faces to greet in the morning or at the end of the day. That's right. I may never admit it again, but I am homesick. And Mom, I hope that you miss my coat in the kitchen and my junk on the steps and my shoes at the door and my dishes in the sink because I sure took it for granted.

But shhh, it's a secret.