My House Is A Mess
Yes, I offered them shelter, a place to live, including my soon-to-be husband. There is no denying my culpability. Had I realized the burden their presence would create in my life, would I have willingly embraced their entrance into my quiet life?
Did I mention, that aside from my husband, English is not the native language of my roommates? The words they have learned are few, but they effectively convey their intent or need. When communication is lacking, a tilt of a head, a loving look, or a quick touch on my arm or leg suffices.
For the most part, they are a congenial bunch. Some of them join me on the couch to browse the morning paper. Occasionally, I remind them I get first dibs on each section as I pay for it. Sitting on it to prevent access is not permitted. Nor is ripping sections of articles I have not read.
I do not wish to malign their characters or habits, but they are a messy crowd, husband included. Sometimes I feel like I live with a broom, dustpan, or vacuum cleaner permanently attached to my hands. Do my roommates care? I doubt they even notice my attempt at maintaining a semblance of cleanliness. Am I the only one who sees the crumbs on the couch, the toys left on the staircase to trip over, the magazines tossed on the floor, the dish left with the dried remains of a meal, or the trail of dried mud from dirty feet?
Pointing out a mess to one of my roommates is greeted with “What?” “OK,” “Wow.” “What happened?” or total indifference.
Meet some of my roommates
I cannot vacuum when they are sleeping and my roommates sleep a lot.