One. Take out the garbage when nothing more can safely be stacked atop it, or it resembles that talking trash heap from Fraggle Rock.
Two. Be sure to scrape the four-day-old hamburger grease off the plate before you put it in the dishwasher, then smack the raccoon that was hiding under it.
Three. Do not dip the Ritz Crackers (and subsequent fingers) directly into the community peanut butter jar.
Four. Clean the bathroom when the tub's color is no longer apparent, or the bather smells worse than he did before he took a shower.
A wise man once said that cleanliness is next to godliness, and despite some rules such as those above, my abode is no Mt. Olympus. In the past, a constant battle was waged between myself, the obvious Danny Tanner of the house, and my roommates, who I once believed were both raised by wolves in some remote Yukon wilderness, gobbling the bloody carcasses of caribou.
I would lock myself in my room to escape the mounting piles of pizza boxes, dirty dishes and gym socks. I spent most of my time there last year, alone in solitude, whispering sweet nothings to my stuffed plaid body pillow.
The irony of the situation was that at any given time, more food products could be found scattered throughout the house than were in the refrigerator and cupboards combined.
The three of us kept to ourselves a lot last year, each holding a chip on our shoulders as we meandered from room to grudge-filled room. Some days I would visit friends and marvel at the upkeep of their living room. I would spread out lavishly on their clean, crumb-free carpeting. I would gleefully inhale fresh, stank-free air. Then I'd be forced to return to my humble abode carrying only a bottle of Febreze and a frown.
When you put three guys together that all have a different meaning of "clean," you're bound to run into a few problems. But, in time, I have learned the give and take, and so have they.
My philosophy to maintaining a peaceful house is to compromise on some things but stand firm on things you really feel strongly about. For instance, I tried my hardest to not pester my roommates when they didn't replace the empty toilet paper roll, but when I found used dental floss on the living room end table, I would snap, Incredible Hulk style.
Anybody living in a shared environment must remember the important of choosing battles wisely. If I had complained about each thing they did that bothered me, I would probably be at the bottom of Lake Lansing instead of writing this column. Not only that, but trying to see the situation from another person's point of view also is important. While I liked to maintain a spotless living area, perhaps they were happy with not having to listen to parent's orders anymore.
And, in some ways, I even have learned to appreciate the mess. Like the chaotic modern artistry of Jackson Pollack, the amalgam of spaghetti-sauced counters and Cheeto-laden living room carpet has taken on new beauty, representing life and death, love and hate, nature and destruction. As I gaze upon the crumpled Qdoba bag intermingled with the spilled brown syrupy liquid of a Coca-Cola Classic, I can't help but ponder my role in the grand scheme of life. And much like Pollack, it has all driven me to drinking.
On one occasion, the artistry became more apparent. One fateful night, after losing a big poker hand (with four-of-a-kind nines!), I became infuriated. The first thing my brain registered was a package of Oreo cookies on the card table. In an enraged tantrum, I tore the sandwich cookies from their peaceful wrapping and took out my anger, chucking them mindlessly at the living room wall.
When the dust had settled, and my friends had returned to their seat from rolling on the floor in laughter, our eyes were drawn to the odd sight before us. Upon the wall, a lone cookie, smashed beyond belief, had stuck.
We decided to keep it there, where it has been ever since. In fact, it has become the centerpiece of guest discussions, not to mention our living room. Now, a month and countless hours of observation and scientific deduction later, we have only one explanation for the anomaly - Oreo Double Stuf.
All in all, this year we've already developed into a more cooperative, big ol' happy family. A family that listens to one another. A family that cares. A family that eats Kraft Easy Mac or frozen pizza every damn night.
Don Jordan, a State News intern, can be reached at jordand3@msu.edu. E-mail him nice things, or he'll spray you with Febreze.
