That kid – the one that I’ve fed enough cookies to to momentarily convince to be my life partner- is back, having been safely deposited on this side of the country by an on-time – and only one-third-full – flight on the second-to-last day in October. I’m very happy to have him home.
In fact, the only thing better than having your roommate return from the opposite coast? A two-for-one special.
That’s Matty on the right – one of Dave’s good friends from medical school, who’s come down to Philly for a few weeks to snuggle in our bed. Also, take care of a whopping one patient in the pediatric intensive care unit during an away rotation that makes medical school look like a joke. But mostly, snuggle.
You should know that Matty is very much the eligible bachelor, and that he does a lot of boyish things. He works out and eats meat and, like Dave, follows up any mention of my female-based social life (wine date with a new friend; shopping trip with a college roommate) with one simple question: “did you make out?”
(I’ve come to realize that that knee-jerk response is totally the litmus test for homosexuality. And really wish I had employed it before I agreed to date that theatre hipster kid at Penn.)
Still, despite Matty’s blatant heterosexual preferences, he has a well-documented softer side. He picks up my references to obscure lines from obscure rom coms. He harbors an innate love of all my favorite ‘G’ shows- Glee, Gossip Girl, and (wait for it) Gilmore Girls. He seems to truly enjoy my pear bread. And, most importantly, he hates organized sports.
Needless to say, he’s been a welcome addition to our home, especially during football season. Finally, Dave’s the odd man out! There’s no use in even bothering with our typical roster of HGTV shows – Dave and my pre-established middle ground in the war between Dawson’s Creek re-runs and Eagles games – because Matt’s totally already switched the channel to Dancing with the Stars! And he’s the guest! So we have to watch! Bring on the ballroom dancing and Bristol Palin!
Dave, coincidentally, has taken to evacuating to the bedroom, where our other television lives, in order to dodge the refuge of reality tv and teen dramas that Matt and I have built in the living room. Occasionally, he’ll make an appearance in our side of the apartment, momentarily breaking up our sing-along session of the moment (we’re pretty into Glee’s version of “Teenage dream these days), with pounds of his jersey-clad chest and the announcement of some score or statistic that neither Matt nor I seem to understand, let alone care about. Tonight, it was some incoherent recitation of yards run and touchdowns thrown and something about that guy who hurt those dogs.
“How many homeruns did they hit?”
I love this guy.
In addition to having the second-best taste in TV in our apartment, Matty is a wonderful house guest. On Friday, he showed up with a literal trove of treats, fancy olives and smelly cheeses and a crusty baguette and no fewer than four bottles of white wine from the fancy place up the street I’m not allowed to grocery shop at. I toasted Matty’s generosity with one glass of wine, laughed extra hard during our re-play of the previous night’s 30 Rock, devoured most of the cheese and then pomptly fell asleep before making good on my promise to cook us all a big dinner of salmon and potatoes and asparagus.
When I finally came to, it was nearly nine o’ clock, and things felt different. Matty was gone, having abandoned his lame roommates for the Philly bar scene, and it was just me and Dave, no WB shows buzzing in the background. A tad disappointed, I plodded back into the kitchen to claim the second half of baguette and settled in for a night of House Hunters with the original second member of Apartment 4.
After all, I have to face reality eventually: Matty’s not going to be around forever. In a week, his rotation will be over, and then it’s back to the opposites-attract twosome who moved into this place last July. After three weeks alone and two weeks with a boy who doesn’t make me watch Monday night football, I guess I’m going to have to get used to that whole compromising thing again.
Unless, of course, the boys match in the same city.
Bring on the two-bedroom? I’d totally do this for three years.