Going Potluck

I went “potluck” in college my freshman year and somehow ended up with an amazing roommate. She was clean, didn’t bring weird boys around, and she was always up for a late night ice cream run.

Then, one day my mom mailed me some of her delicious Seven Layer Cookies. I was thrilled. I think I actually ran up and down the hallway of the dorm yelling, “EVERYONE! LOOK! SEVEN LAYER COOKIES!” over and over again. (I’m still shocked as to why I lost touch with so many of the gals on my freshman hallway.)

Fast track a few days later and I was heading home from class and looking forward to munching on one last Seven Layer Cookie. Then, as I peeled open the Rubbermaid container, I saw it: crumbs. All crumbs. Awww, hell no. I’m not sure what happened next as I believe I blacked out. My perfect potluck roommate was no longer perfect. She ate the last cookie.

Suddenly everything she did began to bother me. Had she always been a mouth breather? Did she have to leave her socks so close to my desk?

Nowadays, I’m in a similar situation only it’s with a man (eek!), and I’m normally the one who eats the last cookie. Lately the theme around the house has been “where do all these bobby pins come from”? A valid question. I’m not sure how I came up with the ability to magically throw bobby pins all over the entire house, but I do. I make messes. I leave crumbs on the counter. I’m not afraid to leave clothes unfolded for a few days. Am I a terrible roommate? Eh, possibly. Or maybe, just maybe, that’s why we work. Maybe a few socks that didn't make it into the dirty laundry bin is what he needs every once in a while. And maybe knowing that clothes that make it into their drawer look nicer is just what I need, too.

But I’m not making any promises on those bobby pins.