Anyway, upon moving to New York, I lost total control over my domestic bliss. Here's a recap of the arduous apartment hunting saga, but suffice to say, after sleeping on our amazing friends' futon for two weeks, The BFF and I had to take whatever we could find.
The apartment itself was newly renovated, in a convenient location, and just what we needed at the time. We immediately found two other people to take the additional bedrooms, and just when we thought we had it all figured out, it came to our attention that they were terrible.
More about our challenges with Brandi can be read about in the Psychoface Dieting Guide here, but before her pal Ruby came into the mix, we co-habitated with a guy named Kris (name changed to a more hilariously feminine/Kardashian spelling to protect his identity. Okay fine, it's just to make me giggle.)
Anyway, Kris started out fine. He had a job working at a big bank, which led to introductions to his cute FJO friends and a spot in a Hampton's share house. (Both of those things turned out to be, um, learning experiences.) But at the start, it seemed great to have a live-in guy friend who I could hang out with at home (he secretly loved the same tween-appropriate shows I did) or go out to bars and clubs, especially considering The BFF had already landed herself a boyfriend. I probably should have known things weren't going to end well when he started suggesting we go to Tonic, the bro'iest (read: worst) bar in Murray Hill (or ever).
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| You can tell just from the sign font that it is terrible. |
And boy did things start to unravel soon after. By unravel, I mean, I got to know the real him. All of a sudden every female face that graced our TV had to be evaluated on whether or not he would "hit that." I'm sorry, did I ask you how attractive you found the reality tv star? The mom schilling toothpaste? The NY 1 news reporter? Little Jenny Humphrey? That's right, no.
Luckily that I grew to tune out, but his temper was another story. My "favorite" memory was how exasperated he reacted when I had the audacity to start a DVR'd episode of Gossip Girl while he was "still cooking dinner." Mind you, our kitchen was literally a wall within our living room full of appliances. And he was 26. And straight. But this didn't stop him from walking over to the TV to manually shut off the screen until he was ready to sit down "so he wouldn't miss anything." Oh the humanity.
Although I guess I should have been happy that he was at least cooking his own food for dinner that night, because more often than not I would come home to find a little pile of my string cheese wrappers all over the couch. I will go ahead and offer full disclosure that I am not the best roommate. I am not the tidiest, I leave dishes in the sink, and if you have something delicious taunting me in the fridge, I might sneak a bite. (Or in the case of The BFF's trailmix, I will tear into it like a squirrel.) BUT at least I have the decency to hide the evidence!
His overall immaturity was magnified by the fact that he slept in a glorified fort. Having no choice but to take the smallest room, he decided to "make the most" of his real-estate and loft his bed. Did I mention it was a queen sized mattress that touched three of the four walls? It was no small loft job either, he needed a three-level step ladder to get in it. Whenever I had friends over and he wasn't home, I would open his door to show it off. "Can you believe this?" I would cackle. It was the worst. And it suited him perfectly.
Finally, though, toward the end of our lease, he made the (smart) decision to move out and get a place with a friend. Since it was his responsibility to find someone to take over for the last month, he held an open house, forcing him to clean for the first time since we moved in. Up until that point he had:
1) Never touched a broom.
2) Never took out a bag of trash.
3) Never bought toilet paper ("You girls use way more than I do, it's not fair for me to have to buy it.")
His complete inability to be helpful, courteous, or respectful made my blood boil. When he left, I told him that *IF* he ever found someone stupid enough to marry him, I would WARN her of her future hell she no doubt faced.
And I had my chance. Soon after he
I haven't spoken to him in years except for awkwardly running into him at the 2009 PGA US Open event with my cousin, aka the time I made the bold statement that dating a professional golfer would be way better than any other athlete because you get to travel to beautiful places and, more importantly, they don't have groupies, could I have been MORE wrong?
Since then I have only seen updates on Facebook, including cliche Central Park engagement shots that made me question my faith in the world. How could this overgrown, Play Station FIFA game blasting frat boy find someone to settle down with?? Howwwww?? Whyyyyyy??
And now, as of last weekend, he is married. From my stalkerish observations, the wedding looked quite nice. They make a cute couple, and although this little shuffle down douchebag memory lane might not make it seem like it, there are no hard feelings...
But boy are there so many unanswered questions, including, but not limited to: Maybe he matured? Maybe in the proper environment it is possible to retrain a guy to live like a normal human being? If so, how do you do it? Maybe I might find someone? Would it be a nice gesture to send a gift? Perhaps some trash bags? I wonder if you can get them monogrammed?
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