Roommate, Where Art Thou?
A staple of finding new digs in this town is the potential roommate meet-and-greet. This is my story…
Meeting people from the “housing” section of Craigslist is kind of like a job interview, but the questions all concern self-assessed personal hygiene, and your stance on food organization. Searching for rooms in the past, I’ve been invited to play tennis, consume beers, and discuss religion with complete strangers. The routine is half real estate, and half blind date.
This one’s name was Noelle and she greeted me with a handshake while explaining how uncharacteristically sick she had been lately. In my attempt to make a good impression, I extended my hand, and smiled warmly, while making a mental note to not touch my face for a while, in case she had hand-ebola, or finger herpes. You never know.
As soon as we entered the dining room, I noticed a weed pipe sitting on the dinner table. No shock really, I’ve currently got three strategically placed pipes in my bedroom alone; you can usually tell how depressed I am by the proximity of my paraphernalia to my pillow; if it’s on the dresser across the room, most likely I’m puffing on the way out some where and smiling with the world; if it’s on my nightstand, that means I am in a state of general world-fear. Healthy, I know.
No sooner had my eyes fallen on the glass, than my host nodded at me and challenged, “So what do you think of that?” The mildly boastful threat caught me off guard, like she expected me to tell on her or something. “You mean, you smoke r-r-r-eefer? I’ve seen educational filmstrips about rebels like you! I’m telling my youth group leader!”
“That’s okay,” I responded coolly, not letting on how much or little I smoked. You see, in the pot-smoking community, there are levels of acceptable usage, and with this taunt, Noelle may have been trying to figure out which category I fell into: functional stoner, or doesn’t leave the bed stoner. I happen to be one of each.
Weeks passed. I did not end up getting the place, and I’ll be honest, it bothered me. In my attempt to appear legit, had I totally betrayed my true pothead self? Did my putting on of professional appearances cost me the chance to live in my natural “420 friendly” habitat? Oh well, at least I didn’t get hand-ebola.
Meeting people from the “housing” section of Craigslist is kind of like a job interview, but the questions all concern self-assessed personal hygiene, and your stance on food organization. Searching for rooms in the past, I’ve been invited to play tennis, consume beers, and discuss religion with complete strangers. The routine is half real estate, and half blind date.
This one’s name was Noelle and she greeted me with a handshake while explaining how uncharacteristically sick she had been lately. In my attempt to make a good impression, I extended my hand, and smiled warmly, while making a mental note to not touch my face for a while, in case she had hand-ebola, or finger herpes. You never know.
As soon as we entered the dining room, I noticed a weed pipe sitting on the dinner table. No shock really, I’ve currently got three strategically placed pipes in my bedroom alone; you can usually tell how depressed I am by the proximity of my paraphernalia to my pillow; if it’s on the dresser across the room, most likely I’m puffing on the way out some where and smiling with the world; if it’s on my nightstand, that means I am in a state of general world-fear. Healthy, I know.
No sooner had my eyes fallen on the glass, than my host nodded at me and challenged, “So what do you think of that?” The mildly boastful threat caught me off guard, like she expected me to tell on her or something. “You mean, you smoke r-r-r-eefer? I’ve seen educational filmstrips about rebels like you! I’m telling my youth group leader!”
“That’s okay,” I responded coolly, not letting on how much or little I smoked. You see, in the pot-smoking community, there are levels of acceptable usage, and with this taunt, Noelle may have been trying to figure out which category I fell into: functional stoner, or doesn’t leave the bed stoner. I happen to be one of each.
Weeks passed. I did not end up getting the place, and I’ll be honest, it bothered me. In my attempt to appear legit, had I totally betrayed my true pothead self? Did my putting on of professional appearances cost me the chance to live in my natural “420 friendly” habitat? Oh well, at least I didn’t get hand-ebola.
Labels: LA Survival Guide
posted by Clem Rorsch at
Monday, April 21, 2008
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