One of my best friends in DC, who will here be known as Little Hispanic Girl or LHG, and I played with the idea a few months ago of moving in together. We were ready to take our relationship to the next level (oh my). LHG and I went as far as to scour Craigslist, visit windowless English Basements, and assess the most important part of any residence–closet space.
We fell in love with the first apartment we saw together. The exposed brick, the little yard, the proximity to bars and parks, the kitchen she and I would never use because we never cook–it was perfect. However, after some reconsideration, a price hike, and some slight coldness on my part to LHG, we opted not to do it.
The timing wasn’t right for this step, so she and I stayed in our respective locations, separated by the S2 and S4 bus routes, or a green line-red line transfer.
As my devoted gingermermaid fans are well aware, I have since moved into my own abode, and it has promised to be a great decision. Still, those who know LHG also understand that she and I are essentially the same person, she’s just in a shorter Hispanic form and I am in a taller Ginger-er form. She’s me with a tan and 4 inches off the top.
If LHG and I had moved into together, we would have cut our expenditures in half and maybe simplified our own daily routines.
LHG and I are no strangers to shopping and the practice of exchanging plastic for goods. At any time of the day on any day of the week we can be found rampaging the racks of our favorite stores, strutting down the little halls of a fitting room area, or with our faces pressed up against a shop window coveting the decked out mannequins’ get-ups. If there is a reason we can’t shop together and we must go at it alone, we’ve been known to exchange picture text messages with a caption such as:
“Should I get this?”
An iMessage discussion of the cost and overall usefulness of the ball gown or other superfluous item we wish to purchase is held and almost always, the smell of plastic burning can be detected from miles around as we enable each other to buy, buy, buy, even separated by state/district lines.
Most commonly we do shop together and when we both approach the register, our hands full of various fabrics, half the stuff is exactly the same, only that one will live in my closet and one will live in her closet. Yes, the size, the fabric, the cut, the shirt itself–exactly the same. There was even the strange occurence where LHG received a dress as a gift from her mother in New York in the exact same color and size as the one I had bought the week before. Creepy.
Had LHG and I lived together, we would manage to buy ONE of each item and share it, applying those important life lessons learned from kindergarten and managing to save money towards something more practical.
This might be the most ridiculous representation as to why we should be sharing common areas. Upon signing a lease to my apartment where I now live and am happily writing this blog post from, LHG came along with me to look at furniture. She wanted some things for her apartment, I needed everything for mine. I researched and found a special furniture event in which we would receive huge discounts, delivery, and free food and other stuff!
After sitting on numerous couches and chairs, all the while lamenting over our lack of funds and getting ridiculously excited about loveseats (which we turned into dirty banter) she and I ended up buying the exact same couch. The last two in the warehouse, in fact.
Imagine if we lived together. We probably could’ve bought one! What a money saver.
Living with someone means never having to pay rent and bills on your own and always having someone there to bitch to or at. Nothing like a LHG to live with who loves you unconditionally even when you’re grumpy and short on cash and refuse to clean the bathroom.
LHG and I have been known to paint the town not only red, but several other shades of the color wheel. Living together, we’d do what we would do anyway, go home together, maybe eat some peanut butter, dance through the apartment, then sleep it off and do brunch the next day. Boys optional in the mix. We’d always be safe on the way home, and knew that if the other person didn’t return or disappeared, and it was seemingly out of the ordinary, to get a search party going.
Maybe it’s better we didn’t do that, we would’ve search partied each other long ago and often, and wasted valuable tax dollars.
We work only blocks away from one another and could even tandem bike to work. We both need to arrive at 9am, so she and I could opt to be bus partners, walking buddies, or cycle cohorts. In addition, we could program the coffee maker in the morning to make enough java for the both of us and she could pack me a lunch (with a note inside)!
I guess the only conflict to resolve may be the issue of sharing a bathroom.
Essentially, living together would’ve been a great way to cut down on our consumption of goods and spending of money. However, perhaps it could’ve been the cause of a war as well. Maybe I’d want to wear the polka dot skirt on Monday, and she was already wearing it. Or maybe I spilled something on the white button up shirt and lied and said she did it. Perhaps the enabling of shopping would only increase, making rent harder to pay.
To be honest, it probably would’ve been kind of awesome. I know how much I need my Little Hispanic Girl in my life, and even if we dispute something ridiculous, because that’s been known to happen with the likes of me, we are always copacetic.
Nevertheless, now she always has a place to stay with me in the city, we can still do clothing swaps, and going out for a drink or two is always in our cards.
My next move is to make her move into my building. Having my cake and eating it.