sparkle and fade

You (the rare few who actually read this blog) may have noticed that I've been changing my mastheads a lot lately. I've decided that I'll be using the current theme as my standard template - deviating from this only when a particular event occurs that requires a segue from my banner.

This design is called "sparkle and fade" and I like it because it is both dark and colorful at the same time. Also, the background behind the title reminds me of stadium lights that need to be replaced and the title reminds me of sparklers at the 4th of July.

I'll still be debuting new mastheads at www.iamtrish.blogspot.com, but I'll only update the look of this site every once in a while, returning to this template in the interim periods.

A lot has been going on lately, I'll be more explicit in the upcoming week.

maladies #2: hello humanity

Note: Throbbing is not good. I don't read "romance" novels (a.k.a. smut), but I have seen enough copy to know that they often cite a "throbbing" member as being a good thing. From what I can tell of male anatomy, if a part so cherished by its owner felt like my lower back is feeling right now (throbbing), the owner would never, ever, ever want to participate in any activity that would cause such a response.

So, my chiropractic appointment went well, if by well you mean that much pain was derived from a fifteen minute session with the promise of future sessions yet to come. My numb lower back is now awake with sensations of two years of pent-up irritation. But, [good news]: I can feel. This reminds me of a line an ex-boyfriend once used when I broke up with him "At least I know I'm human because I can feel, I can feel my broken heart." Is it wrong of me to mock this? Nah. But, hey, at least I know I'm human.

Also, drum roll please...........my legs are once again the same length! Woo hoo dilly.

maladies #1: second opinion and realizations

I went to see a new doctor last week because I have continued to have problems with my hips since a series of three surgeries conducted over three years (2002-2005) to correct a disorder termed coxa saltans (a.k.a. snapping hip). Due to the rarity of the syndrome, there is no specified effective treatment method.

My previous doctor (an orthopaedic surgeon) was great, but given his profession and my lack of response to "conservative treatments," he opted with the surgical route. He told me to do stretches and yoga in an effort to continue my recovery. Well, that was apparently wrong and those courses of action have made things worse. I don't exhibit symptoms of the original problem (at least not to such a noticeable degree), but there is a myriad of other problems that have sprung up.

My pelvis is out of alignment, causing one of my legs to be longer than the other. Oh happy day. It is a surprising realization to know that your previously symmetrical legs have become lopsided. I am now paranoid that I have been slowly transitioning toward some sort of gangsta walk for the past two years but that everyone has been too nice to tell me. Wait...let me rephrase that...too nice or that they enjoy mocking me behind my back too much to tell me that I've been walking with a Quasimodo limp and a gangsta lean. Anyway, tomorrow afternoon's chiropractic appointment should correct that ailment.

My new doctor has prescribed physical therapy to include "aggressive adductor, glute, and abdominal strengthening" to try to keep my bones in place and to tighten muscles in an attempt to keep them from snapping willy-nilly wherever the fuck they want. The soonest I can get in for that treatment is the end of August. Until then I have been given a list of activities of which I am to avoid. Pretty much the only thing not on the list is walking. Yay for walking! I'll keep you posted.

brush with creativity

I would like to share a link to some amazing Photoshop brushes, which I use when I update my mastheads. Go to http://www.designfruit.com/ to nab them for yourselves.

I recently used them on a friend's banner at http://www.smalltownme.blogspot.com/. While you're there, check out her posts (she's well worth the read).

For the rest of my headings (of which there are a couple that I don't like to claim), go to http://www.iamtrish.blogspot.com/. There are a few there that have yet to make an appearance on this site, so you're getting a sneak preview.

charitable summer

Today I awoke to the man angrily sifting through our closets. Apparently, he has "misplaced" his social security card, which he needs to submit to his new employers. This requirement angers the man because as a US citizen, why should he have to submit to having his social security card copied and kept on file? Shouldn't his selective service card work in it's place? What different does one scrap of paper make to the system?

I don't really see that this would be any kind of inconvenience on a normal day, a day when the man wasn't throwing a fit because he "can't find anything in this damn house." To be honest, the man's filing system consists of Rubbermaid totes and an old Five Star binder. This leaves something to be desired. What is desired is knowing where the hell his social security card is so I don't have to wake up at the butt crack of dawn to a feisty man frantically searching for his social security card like a squirrel strung out on crack looking for the last acorn he planted before winter.

This search is prompting the man to do some reorganizing. I LOVE reorganizing. I like putting things into boxes, armed with my label maker and a tote full of file folders. The man is also going through all of his clothes and will be tossing or donating the things he does not wear (which consists of 85% of his wardrobe). I, too, will be getting rid of my unloved clothing. I can still wear the same clothes I wore in the eighth grade so I have held on to a number of pieces that I wouldn't dream of putting on my body for the simple reason that "they still fit and you never know when you might need a glow-in-the-dark alien t-shirt that reads Take me to Your Band Leader (which I received as a gift from an aunt when I was twelve)."

So, as you may have guessed, I will be spending the weekend going through boxes. I've never completely moved into the house because the roommate and the man already filled the house with their belongings prior to my arrival. I have a number of totes filled with random junk still sitting in my old bedroom at my parents' house. I've already purged a number of crates, but there are still many left to be sifted through. My goal for the weekend is to create a more functional space in the office where I can actually work. The hope is that we will also be donating some of the furniture we have been "gifted" from Nick's well-meaning grandparents. I may be including a pictorial for your viewing pleasure.

realizations

I visited my parents two weekends ago and found a cd holder containing all the cds I used to listen to the "first time the man and I dated," which was in winter/spring/summer 2002. I was working for my parents' business and listened to cds from the moment I woke up until I went to sleep. I listened to the same cds in the car and on the four-hour commutes to visit the man. Let's just say that I annoyed anyone who happened to be in my presence because they were required to listen to my rotation of music. I had to burn an additional copy of each disc so that I could have one in the car and one for at home/work. Back to the found cds - they were the copies that I had buried in a drawer at the end of the summer when the man and I parted ways.

I must admit that I was the one who decided to, in a complete act of cowardice, end things by cutting off all contact. This wasn't too difficult because we lived in different states and I was starting my senior year of college. I had been in 20-year-old "love" with the man, but the timing was wrong and I was in many ways too immature to behave in a healthier way. I decided that a clean break was needed before some event occurred to take the decision out of my hands. Long story shorter, the "breakup" was very hard on me and I haven't listened to any of that music since then. Until now. Even though we've been dating again for somewhere between 2.5 and 3 years, I am only now able to stomach listening to the music that reminded me of the bad place I had been in at the end of that summer - and the subsequent mistake of the next relationship into which I leapt.

Back to the present. Now, in my new car, I have all six cds on rotation and listen to them daily without regret. I can now see that the man and I would never be in such a good place now if we hadn't split up then. I did a lot of growing up in the two years (nearly to the day) that we weren't in each other's lives and I can see that ending things was the most responsible decision I could've made. Perhaps by not acting like a civilized adult and discussing things with him then, I left an opening for us to begin speaking years later.

I'm happy to say hello again to the cd collection that I kept buried for nearly five years. This is my "new" summer 2007 playlist (previously titled "Summer '02"):

Atticus: Dragging the Lake (various artists)
Blink-182: Cheshire Cat
Blink-182: Buddha
Blink-182: Dude Ranch
Blink-182: Enema of State
Blink-182: Take off your Pants and Jacket

new office

I have a new office at work - an office with a large window TO THE OUTSIDE! Yes, that statement does require all caps. My previous, quite spacious office had two gigantic windows with a view to the inside - a view to a community area surrounded by other offices. Oh, but I could see outside windows from my huge office, just past the cubicles ten yards away, if I stood just right and contorted myself into a crookedy position. I didn't do this quite often because I was caught once by a passerby who probably thought I was either having a seizure or practicing office calisthenics. There were blinds on those two windows (that I suppose were installed to maintain the illusion of privacy), but if you have windows to the inside people expect that you allow them to view unobstructed into your work area. But now, in my smaller office with a view of the parking lot and landscaping, I can shut out the stares of the nosy nellies.

You perverts out there (you know who you are), you are probably thinking that I can look up porn on company time now that I don't have to worry about people snooping all up in my biz-nass. But, no, you degenerate freak...just because you like to peruse sites that tout big busty babes doesn't mean that the rest of us suck up company time that way. Also, I work for a religious institution where it is quite possible that I would be eternally damned if I were to misuse work hours in such a way and I don't think a few cheap thrills is worth an eternal dance with Beelzebub.

Anyway, today is my first day in my new office and thus far I have been extra productive. I actually think it is because my door is closed and people can't tell if I'm here. I've been so productive without the drop-in time sucks, in fact, that I am able to take a coffee break to e-mail in this post. What a thrill to actually be able to take a well-deserved break and to spend it toeing the line of prohibited computer usage by updating my blog. Oh, I'm a power hungry danger glutton now that I'm in my new digs. Mwah ha ha.

Note: for those of you who do not know this, I do not have Internet access at my home due to the unfortunate "dial up only" availability in my area. Thank you coffee shops and your wireless service. I am a usual patron of th Muddy Moose coffee shop and their Internet connectivity.

updates

As of today, Monday, July 16, 2007, the following things have not happened:

• the sky has not fallen
• the roommate has not moved out, nor is he planning to
• my office has not become fully-staffed
• the mystery plant I transplanted has not shown its identity
• I have not completed my thesis
• Cat Named Jack has not grown out of the "kitten stage"
• Cat Named Jack and Jammer have not become friends
• Orpheus (my beta fish) has not died
• the man and I have not taken a real vacation, or even a fake one
• I have not convinced my friend Kristen to move back to WI
• I have not won the lottery
• I have not gotten rid of the furniture that we have been "gifted"
• birds have not stopped shitting on my car on a daily basis
• I have not been back to MN
• I have not been promoted
• much to the dismay of my family, I am neither engaged nor married
• I have not been struck by even the smallest desire to produce offspring
• I have not partied like it was '99 since it was '99

err on the side of calling your roommate an asshole?

The house is now a place of discord and overwhelming tension. Apparently, the man has finally had enough of the lazy fatbody lying on the couch day after day after day. For months we've viewed the fatbody roommate not as an equal in terms of household actions, but rather as our mentally handicapped, 6'5", 300 lb. child. We would clean up after him, walk around turning off lights and appliances behind him, and deal with his annoying ramblings about how he "could have been a member of the "genius club" had his IQ been 10 points higher." Oh yes, he has said that. I'm not sure how an online Tickle IQ test could get you into a genius club, or if said genius club even exists, but I can tell you that hearing those words come out of the mouth of a guy who may or may not have even graduated from high school is quite a trip.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. The man blew up at the lazy fatbody roommate Monday night. The verbal beating began just in time to keep me from watching Big Love, which was quite irritating. I'm not condoning the man's behavior because I don't believe much productivity can come about from a verbal assault on a man with ten times less mental capacity for rational thought. The man didn't mince words in telling fatbody that he should move out. As of yet, two days later, no sign of moving has been exhibited and the man has been completely ignoring fatbody's existence.

As you can probably glean from my post regarding my new vehicle, I have a car payment in addition to my other bills. Now is not the time for us to be going halfsies on all bills, or rather, now is not the time for me to be upping my allotted bill-paying budget. Yes, we will probably be saving a lot of money for natural gas and electricity, but will it be enough that I can still afford HBO, or satellite tv at all? Now that I've become spoiled with my extended cable package, I don't know if I can go back to network channels only.

Only time will tell if the roommate actually takes the not-so-subtle hint and decides to move out. Until then I will wish that I had grown up in a less civilized family that was full of tension and yelling...perhaps if I had not been spoiled with a happy upbringing I would have the basic skill set to handle the yelling and tension and not behave like a frightened child hiding in a closet waiting for her parents to quit fighting. No, I didn't hide in a closet, but I did call my friend Pam to keep her apprised of the situation in case the roommate got his fat ass off the couch and decided to kill us in our sleep.

brush that mayo off your shoulder

I went to Summerfest in Milwaukee this past Saturday to see a few bands with my best friend from high school (Pam) and two of her siblings. We saw Live, Papa Roach, and Guster. Papa Roach was great, Guster was not. I'm not saying that I don't like Guster, but I am saying that if you are going to see a live show outside in the summer, you probably don't want to listen to music that makes you want to do any of the following (all of which listening to a few songs by Guster made me want to do):

• huddle in the fetal position while sobbing and rocking back and forth because of the pain...oh the pain of being a little emo person alone in the big, bad world
• become a cutter (though all I had was a cheap, plastic beer cup and my car keys, neither of which is a good cutting instrument) because of all the sadness of past relationships gone sour and the knowledge that despite anything we do, we all die alone...alone without a friend, and all we will have is depressing music reminding us that we all suck
• wail because I can't even become a cutter...because of the lack of sharp objects in this big, bad cruel world

After leaving Pam's brother at Guster, we went to Live and Papa Roach. Both were good, but Papa Roach was much better.

I became hungry and I ate half of a sub, all while balancing two beers in one hand. Somehow I managed to get mayo all over my shoulder. Yes, that takes talent. When you don't even realize that you have globs of mayo on your bare shoulder, that should probably be a sign that you don't need to drink the two beers you have precariously perched in one hand. But, you can't be a waster in a society such as ours. If I learned anything from listening to Guster, it is that the apocalypse is bound to come at any moment, and if it is going to happen, I'd prefer to be completely drunk at the end, so I drank those two beers despite already being plastered.

Oh, and you know you have a good friend when they are willing to wipe mayo off your shoulder all the while mocking you for being a cheap, sloppy, mayo-drenched drunk. Thanks!

i made a baby

Okay, so maybe not a human baby...and maybe I didn't make it...but it is mine and it is my baby. Welcome Fifi into the world: Fifi was born in 2006, but I only adopted her yesterday. She is Liquid Gray Clearcoat Metallic (as you can see from the above photo). Isn't she pretty! She wasn't cheap, but adoptions never are these days. At least I didn't have to travel overseas to do it though.

Fifi is 168.5 inches long and weighs 2632 lbs. She's a little younger than I was looking for, and she comes equipped with a number of fancy extras, which I didn't need...but come on, it's not her fault that she's pretty.

Anyway, welcome to the family!

end of an era

It's done. I've done gone and sold my car. It was a very nerve-wracking experience. I would liken it to selling an annoying cousin - you care about the person, despite their quirks, but you sell them anyway and suffer some trace amount of remorse later. I know it had to be done in order for me to be able to afford a new(er) car, but I'm suffering from separation anxiety anyway.

For the interim before I can afford said new(er) car, I will be driving my parent's spare vehicle (late 90s Buick Lesabre). It's a bit larger than my Neon, but it will get me from point A to point B, so I can't complain. However, I do feel like I've aged fifty years every time I get behind the wheel and complaining is one of the tendencies of the octogenarian set, so perhaps I should be complaining...perhaps it is a prerequisite for driving a Buick...

sweaty non-balls and perverted truckers

Things I would like to do at work today, but can’t because I’m too busy and don’t want to get fired:

• Not work
• Not work while sitting outside pretending to work
• Drive my car to the shady spot at the edge of the parking lot and take a nap in the back seat
• Get the blanket and pillow out of my car and sleep in an empty office while pretending to be at a meeting
• Use “spring fever” as a reason for taking sick time

Reasons why "going home" didn't make the list:

• My commute has gone from the standard 20 minutes to over 45 minutes due either to road construction or the "back way" I am forced to take as a result of road construction
• If taking the route with construction, being forced to drive less than 5 mph in a car without working air conditioning
• Truck drivers are perverts. When wearing skirt and tank top (both of which were less revealing when worn at full length in office setting) in an effort to not sweat off the balls I don't have, truck drivers feel the need to honk and rev engines to let you know that they appreciate your lady parts (despite the fact that they are completely covered by clothing)

neon, neon, who knows how long, how long, how long she can go before she burns away

The title of this blog is from "Neon" by John Mayer...and I can answer the question, because I know the answer. 160,000 miles. That is how long my car will go before she burns away, at least how far she will go with me, because I'm putting her up for sale. Why, you ask? Did I mention that she has nearly 160,000 miles on her?

I'm much more saddened by this than I thought I would be. Don't get me wrong, the prospect of a "new"-er car is great but I have had a lot of memories with my Neon. The old girl, she just ain't what she used to be and it's time for a change. If I sell her before I can afford a replacement, I will be driving my parents' spare car for the interim. The very short interim, I hope, as their extra vehicle is a huge Buick (that screams old person, or rather has a raspy whisper of old person because old people don't scream as much as young people, or so I assume). It's a nice car and it has air conditioning and cruise control, two extras that my Neon decided were too much work to maintain and did away with years ago.

She's not going for a lot of money, but she still has some good miles left in her. I hope her new owner treats her well and that she sees some action before being put out to pasture.

reap what you sow

Garden items the man wants to plant:

• 100-pound pumpkins (who the hell knows what we'll do with these, but I've been informed that "they look cool" and that that is reason enough)
• popcorn (I don't know how to make popcorn that isn't prepackaged with buttery goodness in a microwave-safe bag)
• tomatoes (which the man will not eat)
• peas (another vegetable that the man will not eat)
• green beans

I've been told that the tomatoes and peas are "for me." I'm all about having a garden, but all I can see is a butt load of vegetables that the man won't eat and 100-pound pumpkins with their guts smashed out lying all over the yard after Halloween. Because, come on, what do you do with 100-pound pumpkins if you don't smash them?

downtown boots

The man's mom and stepdad stayed with us for the past week. They left yesterday. As much as I like them and it was nice to spend time with them, I was not accustomed to having to share my living space with anyone but the man and the two quadrupeds. Our "refuge"/den/space away from the remaining roommate was set up as a guest room so that they could take advantage of all the amenities we usually take advantage of (the TV w/ HBO, and the space away from the remaining roommate). I am oh-so-gleefully-ecstatic that we have the second floor to ourselves again that I spent much of the afternoon walking around the upstairs sans clothing. I think the cat was also taking a cue from my behavior as he was taking the opportunity to share in the exhibitionism. Cat Named Jack was extremely content to run around the open rooms again and lie flat on his back to expose where his balls would be if they hadn't been removed. Oh yes, he's a gentleman. He only assumes that position when he is comfortable with his surroundings, which means that he only does that when the man and/or I am around to make sure no beings get all up in his shit.

I am sad to see the man's parents go because the man is always more at ease when they are around. Unfortunately, they live in Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain, so we don't get to see them more than twice each year. While the family dynamic is drastically different than my own, I enjoy seeing where the man "came from" and his mom and stepdad are really cool people. It's always a pleasure to be around people who won't get up in arms over a few scattered obscenities. When you can call out your boyfriend ,in front of his mom, for being a dick, you know you are around good people. Oh, and they try to win Jack's affection by buying him gifts. This has yet to work, but at least they try. Jack only hissed at them three times during their stay.

Oh, I neglected to mention that they bought the man a pair of cowboy boots. I am not overly-excited about this as I have always had a certain distaste for boots of the cowboy variety. The man is not a cowboy boot type of person, or so I thought. I also neglected to mention that the man wanted a pair of cowboy boots. Nice boots, he said. Downtown boots, he said. What the hell are downtown boots? For those of you who do not know (among whose ranks I also fell until yesterday), anything with the adjective downtown means "nice" or "to be worn for going out." Cowboy boots to be worn for going out...I am not entirely enthused or convinced that this is a desirable turn of events. I will be interested to see how long it takes for me to get the man to join me in walking around upstairs in nothing but underwear - but he will have to wear his downtown boots. Fancy.

sidekick

For some reason I've had marriage on the brain lately. I am still on the fence when it comes to whether or not I see the merit in it. I think I would like the idea of it being an end to any concern of infidelity, but that is not necessarily a guarantee (obviously), and I am not very concerned with that anyway.

I may be thinking about matrimony more because of my trip to Detroit for my nephew's baptism last weekend. My grandma is not too keen on me living in sin with the man. I had decided before I left for the trip that I would not limit my speaking of the man or our house to ward off any discomfort. Instead, I spoke of him no more or less than I ever do. And since I don't have much of a social life outside of work and the man, I had a healthy dose of man tidbits to share. Oh yes, I just said "man tidbits" in a non-dirty way. I was not sitting around revealing any jungle gym sex comments to my grandma. She seems to have resolved herself to silence in regard to her disapproval. I'm okay with the festering judgment as long as it stays festering.

In recounting stories of the man and myself I came to the conclusion that there should be a term between boyfriend and husband. As I have indicated that marriage may not be an option for me, fiance is not a suitable alternative. I wish there was some other term than "partner" that applied to happily unmarrieds. I think partner sounds too cowboy-ish. But wait, I think I may take the Western theme even further and go with sidekick. Of course, this should only be applied to the man, as I am obviously the alpha of the relationship (or so I like to believe).

I wonder how the man will like it the first time I introduce him as "my sidekick"? He dropped the girlfriend label as an introduction...it is only fair that I retaliate with his new title of sidekick in the same way. Oh yes, it will be done.

happy birthday, baby

Cat Named Jack is officially one year old this week. Next Mother's Day will mark the one year anniversary of the fateful day the man spied a tiny, dirty wad of kitten on the side of the road and the day that we added a ferocious dingo bobcat to the family.

Jack is no longer quite as vicious, but this side of him still manifests itself on occasion. Since the departure of the dickbag and his girlfriend (aka our former roommates), Jack has been freewheeling around the second floor of our house and has now adopted their old room (our den/refuge) as his room. Their departure and the addition of two rooms to his kingdom have made Jack a very content being.

The last few months have marked an increased appreciation of "nice" attention and he's become more of a cuddle ball and less of a bastard asshole intending to rip my flesh from my bones. I do believe in miracles.

pagan

My nephew (Broderick, a.k.a. Brady) now weighs the same amount as the Cat Named Jack. Of course I told my brother this, and, while he found it slightly amusing, I believe he also finds it annoying that I made a reference to the connection between an infant and a feline. I’m not saying that Jack is as important as a baby, but…wait…yes I am.

This may be one of the reasons that my brother and his wife had decided that I would be unfit to be Brady’s godmother. I am the one who asked my brother, before Brady’s birth, who the godparents would be. He threw out a couple options, myself not included. Upon hearing that I wasn’t a contender, I explained that I would have thought it odd had my sister-in-law chosen me to be in charge of their child’s spiritual wellbeing. My sister-in-law and I are quite different, as I may have mentioned previously. She finds me to be crude and most likely believes that I would be a bad influence. I don't feel that her reasoning has anything to do with spirituality, of which we have some common thoughts, but rather because my church attendance is limited to Christmas Eve and I live in sin and use naughty words quite regularly.

During a recent phone conversation I asked when the kid would be baptized, as he will soon be to big to fit in the baptismal font (although I don’t actually know how they do it, maybe they drop the kid in, or dangle him by his heel like Achilles’ mother did). They still don't have a date picked because they are waiting to see what would work for the godparents. Of course this begged the question of "who are the godparents?" This led to the most surprising statement of 2007 (ranking only slightly ahead of the roommates' decision to finally move out). He said “Bill and you,” meaning that his brother-in-law and I will be the chosen ones. Perplexed, I asked him to repeat. He said “Y-O-U. You.” Obviously, the lack of sleep due to new parenthood had thrust them into insanity, or the little one has already pissed off all likely candidates and they are scraping the bottom of the barrel. The former is more likely than the latter.

Bill, my godparent counterpart, is also without child. Perhaps they chose to spread the duties around so that those of us who are childless will not end up living in retirement homes with no one to visit us. Now, Brady will be guilted into visiting his godmother/aunt Trish, and I will call him Henry and pretend that I don't know who he is, just for my own amusement because I will be old and people will expect that I be senile.

Long story short, I’m the kid’s godmother. My brother confirmed that there isn’t much responsibility attached; since they already go to church each and every Sunday. Godmother is pretty much an arbitrary title that will only serve to justify the already copious amounts of gifts I bestow upon the baby. Plus, now I am able to add it to my business cards if the opportunity ever arises. And, if the kid grows up to be spectacular, which he likely will because we share genes, I can stake more claim to him. After all, his parents are just his parents, and I, the heathen that I am, am both aunt and godmother. Double bonus.

limerick

There once was a woman named Trish.
Dead roommates were her only wish.
Rather than them stopping breathing,
She's settling for them leaving
and that is something she will truly relish.

Well, I haven't posted about the horrors of home for fear that by some horribly slight chance, one of the worthless dickbag roommates (two of the three fall into this category, the other does not) would happen across this blog and miraculously learn to read something other than the back of a pack of Marlboro's and make my home life even more miserable than they had previously. By worthless dickbags, I mean the roommate and his live-in girlfriend who pretends not to live with us so that they can get by with paying very little rent and even fewer utilities (I can count the times they have actually chipped in for utilities on two fingers). Oh yeah, and they've lived there since the man moved in over two years ago - approximately 8 months before I moved in.

Their contributions to the household are as follows:
- occupying three parking spaces in the driveway (one of which is in the garage)
- occasional purchase of toilet paper
- leaving dirty dishes in the sink and refusing to wash said dishes
- smoking in their bedroom, despite the man's rule that smoking is not allowed in the house
- slamming doors at all hours of the day and night
- leaving trash in the upstairs hallway
- throwing cigarette butts off the balcony into the flowerbeds
- refusing to clean the bathroom (leaving me to clean up their nasty pubes, trust me...I know what I'm sporting and that those aren't my short and curlies or the man's)
- failure to operate an electric toothbrush without leaving the bathroom bespeckled with their likely herpes-stricken Colgate foam
- abuse of the Cat Named Jack to the point that he must remain in our bedroom and that he hisses whenever he hears one of them speak, despite the fact that he is on the other side of at least one wall
- leaving their rice cooker half-full of cooked rice...and then waiting until said rice grows fungus the color of a Gay Pride parade banner and then shrugging when asked why they haven't cleaned it
- doing a minimum of 13 loads of laundry per week, laundry that (when wet) smells like ten kinds of raunchy, putrid ass...and then leaving said laundry to occupy the washer and/or dryer for days at a time (and we are afraid to touch this laundry as no one in their right mind wants that stench to come into contact with one's flesh)
- fighting about everything and anything at the drop of a hat in the hallway, in the bedroom, on the balcony...wherever and yelling obscenities foul enough to make Andrew Dice Clay blush

I would continue, but I'm getting exhausted. And...ta da! They are finally moving out. It came to the point that I had decided to move out in the upcoming months if they weren't gone. I even went so for as to look at apartments for me and my feline and fish friends. Unfortunately, it went on so long because the roommate owed the man so much money, that he was afraid to kick him out as that would result in nonpayment of many, many monies.

But, like I said, it is finally over as they will be vacating the premises in the next month. They will not be replaced, which means the man and I are one step closer to living like adults. At least now we have more of a housemate than a roommate. To be honest, I think having one roommate is a good thing, not only fiscally: the man and I are both friends with the roommate and it is easier to cook for three than two (and he is a good cook).

Anyway, ding dong the dickbags are almost gone.