Every year, right around the beginning of April, my mother goes on a cleaning rampage. She attacks dust like Jack Bauer attacks threats to national security, only instead of having various pistols, C4 and spy equipment in her handbag, she rocks out with dust cloths, a lot of elbow grease and her vacuum of justice.
Unfortunately, if dirt is the equivalent of terrorism, my house on College Ave. might as well be bin Laden's lair. Jack Bauer (my mom) isn't here to do the dirty work, so the only way my housemates and I can be rid of this squalor is to step up and do it ourselves.
The first obvious problem with our house was trash buildup. We got so lazy at one point that the two small wastebaskets in the bathroom were not used for things like floss, tissues and scraps of paper; rather, they were overflowing with calzone boxes, beer bottles and Chinese food leftovers.
Our common room was reminiscent of the aftermath at Chernobyl, and there had to have been radiation based on the stunted growth of a certain roommate in that vicinity.
Our basement is literally the foulest place in the Greater Boston area, and about 200 people will still come to party and not think twice.
The thing that really put me over the top, though, was that when I went to carry a barrel full of trash outside, about a half-gallon of "trash juice" fell on my exposed leg. I now need to get tested for six different STDs, and I think the flesh-eating virus is making its way up my quads.
The bedrooms of the house are the easiest to maintain, but a few of my roommates apparently wanted to perform a rendition of the "Barforama" scene from "Stand by Me" to the chagrin of their belongings.
Inebriation does some funny things to people, and apparently, my roommates figured they'd save our toilet some trouble by vomiting in their own respective rooms.
The first roommate mistook his soup bowl for a puke bucket, and he woke up with a bowl whose contents looked disturbingly similar to the soup found at Carmichael on Wednesday nights. The other roommate aimed for his shoe and succeeded, but the sheer amount of puke caused a splatter effect that can only be compared to trying to pour a full gallon of water into a solo cup from the top of a ladder.
The stain looked like a mix between Carrot Top's hair and a bottle of V-8. It was also permanent.
It had to be cut out with a Swiss Army knife, and now the carpet has a four-by-eight square missing and has since been covered by a welcome mat from my house that has purple and pink butterflies on it. Pimp.
Mr. Clean attempted to clean our bathroom. Now he has a mullet, full facial hair and showers bi-weekly. The problem in our bathroom is leakage.
The toilet apparently is a devout Catholic and gave up flushing correctly for Lent. Our plunger has seen more action than Wilt Chamberlain and has had to deal with more crap than A-rod at Fenway.
With newspapers and magazines strewn about the floor, the toilet's hideous water somehow caused a few caused a few pages of the Tufts Daily to stick to the floor as if it were a paper mache project.
No reading material? Look about three feet forward and you can catch up on the men's basketball title run - it's plastered onto the tiles.
Ours is the only bathroom I've ever been in where it's even gross to wear your ratty shower sandals.
I'm considering resorting back to my old-school BK Knights so I can brush my teeth without being
infected.
If I were at home, my bathroom would be spotless and smell of rich lemony goodness instead of the remnants of putrid, old beef on a
stick.
Also, I am privileged to say that my family prides itself on comforting, padded toilet paper. Toilet paper is more of a myth than a reality at school, and there's no worse feeling than Hodgdon's napkins as a substitute.
At home, I never have to worry about waking up and finding a pile of throw up behind my couch or in my microwave (unless, of course, the Sox or Pats are in the playoffs; then it's a 50-50 shot).
In general, being at home means being comfortable and clean, like normal human beings, and that is a luxury I have come to relish.
But then again, if I lived at home, I wouldn't have anything funny to look back on.
