Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Gross Carpet

From Polly Math, who is unimpressed with his shitball shag rug,

Like newborn foals on untested legs, we ascended the cracked risers to his apartment, atonally slurring "Blurred Lines" with intent. He scooped me into his arms and carried me into his bedroom. In the morning, with limbs entangled, I woke-up groggy and in need of a bathroom and a glass of water. I know; I’ll slip out and take care of business, then slip back and see what’s up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet screeching to a stop inches short of his floor. Hell no, I’m not stepping on his carpet. It’s funkier than the inside of a rented bowling shoe during a Lysol shortage. How did I never notice this before? 

Frozen, balanced awkwardly off the side of this island of springs and sheets afloat upon a veritable crime scene I wonder, where the fuck are my shoes? 

I am dehydrated. I have to pee. 

I frantically eyeball the room scanning for my silver Via Spigas. Seriously. Where are my goddamned shoes? My mojito-mangled memories from last night aren’t hocking up a clue. I mentally run through our homecoming. Oh yeah. The great Saturday Night Scooping. Was that on purpose? The horror. 

Like an oasis in the desert of a shitty Queen Village apartment, I realize the hardwood in the hallway is too far for a straight jump.  

I'd kill for a beanbag chair to jump on 

With urgency growing, it’s about now that, contrary to what I remember of last night, I realize my years of childhood gymnastics had been for nothing. The ironing board, standing as a silent witness to his filth, might have served as a balance beam from which I could have vaulted out the door, if a front handspring was still an option. Where’s McKayla Maroney when I need her? If only I could traverse his bookshelf, run Parkour off his dresser, or Spider-Man his walls. What I really need right now are some sweet Cirque du Soleil skills. 

If you want to play “Name That Stain!”, I’ve got the floor for you. Does this dude not own a vacuum? File that under “Questions I don’t ask because I can’t handle the truth.” I could die of dehydration, but this bladder won’t wait. Saints alive! What the fuck did I just step in?! Newsflash: Carpet is not supposed to be crunchy. If I wanted dog fur stuck to my foot, I’d get a dog. You couldn’t pay me to check for crawling things, but it doesn't take a genius to know we’ve entered Groupon territory. Stanley Steem what’s left of this low pile, Gomer!

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Things in His House That Make Me Sad: The Lack of a Window in His Bathroom

We've reached that point where it’s acceptable for me to engage in activities in his bathroom and maybe, maybe even leave a few items in there. I’m not gonna go all How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days on him and cram Costco-sized boxes of tampons everywhere, but I’m pretty sure a toothbrush and a razor are acceptable. This interesting turn of events leads to me occasionally getting ready at his place, which in turn, has led me to VERY MUCH notice his lack of a bathroom window.

I’ll be primping and pampering and hair-drying all up in there to look special for our date/bar outing/whatever when I am reminded of why I hate blow drying my hair – it gets so fucking hot in this grease fire of a bathroom. Normally, I could just open up a window and--bam, airflow yo!--but NO. Now not only is the mirror fogged up from my shower and his, but the hot air from my hair dryer is turning his tiny, little, sad bathroom into a full-on sauna.

It looks like a neighborhood haunted house with dry ice “special effects” mingled with some middle-aged lady’s dream spa day up in this bitch. How’s a girl suppose to look her flyest when she can barely even breathe? Instead of my tresses looking Charlie's Angel-esque replete with soft curls and glossy sheen, my locks looked like an agitated cat's tail. I'm getting upset all over again just thinking about it. 

Let’s not even get started on the lighting going on in this place. First off – there is none, save for one glum like, five watt light bulb flickering hopelessly above. This whole room looks like its part of a horror movie set. I’m not completely convinced he didn’t steal this right off the set of Carrie or "American Horror Story."

While I can appreciate the cinematic greatness of well-crafted movie sets, I cannot appreciate the way I exit this bathroom panting like a dog. This bathroom is claustrophobic and I you can bet your bottom dollar that I will blame his ass when I inevitably die of heatstroke.

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Things in His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack of Glassware

When I asked him for a glass of water and he handed me a shitty red Solo cup, I took a preemptive pause and a deep breath before gingerly bringing the plastic cup to my lips. This, combined with the paper-plated Hamburger Helper resting precariously on my lap, was not doing him any favors in the Pleasure Town department. Have I mentioned that we weren't at a backyard BBQ yet? No, we were in the middle of his kitchen. Why we were eating off the type of plates sold in the same aisle as toilet paper, I had no idea.

Fuck these dishes in their plastic face!

I'm not a religious person, but I started praying like hell that he wasn't still using the same cups from college and just givin' 'em a spin through the dishwasher every now and then. (Confession: I washed solo cups in the dishwasher in college. It wasn't acceptable then and it sure as hell isn't now.)

How does a grown-ass man, with a grown-ass job not own real cups and plates? His reply, "These do the trick." They most certainly DO NOT, my friend. I think surely he owns at least a few real cups and plates. I flung open the first cabinet to my right and what did I find? Paper cups, napkins, and plastic silverware. It looks like he just raided some poor family's Saturday picnic spread. Someone--an ex-girlfriend, his mother--must have purchased him at least one IKEA dish set at some point in his life, right? RIGHT?

I start flinging open cabinets like I was expecting to find Ryan Gosling hiding within, but instead all I saw were assorted items not even meant for the kitchen. One cabinet was actually full of paperwork! Paperwork for Christ's sake! Does he not own a desk? A filing cabinet? A binder left over from his 10th grade history project? Maybe if he actually had room available in his kitchen cabinets, more kitchen-like items would exist there.

Instead, when all was said and done and the Hamburger Helper was getting cold and all the cabinets had been thrown open, I'd found a total of six shot glasses in his kitchen. That was the extent of his glassware: six shot glasses, all with stupid sayings written on them like, "It's Beer o'clock" and that "One Tequila, Two Tequila" crap and that just makes me sad.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Grimy Cups

You know what I like? Being friends with a guy who cooks. Want to know what’s even better than that? Being friends with a guy who cooks, is adorable, AND has an awesome kitchen. Quickest way to kill my dream of being one of cute couples that hang out in the kitchen? His grimy cups.

Let me explain: back during my university days, I had a group of friends that would dedicate one night a week to movie night. Everyone would make a dish and pile in over at whomever’s apartment was the most accommodating (re: clean) and with enough comfortable seating for everyone. Lucky for me, the cutie of the group had the apartment with the best seating.

So there I was, flirting with the cute chef in his kitchen while daydreaming about being that indulgent couple that hangs out in the kitchen. He offered me a drink while I imagined us feeding each other pastries, freshly baked from our oven. I’m thinking that I’ve hit the foodie jackpot.

Then he opens the cabinet that houses his cups. His grimy cups. Those scaly, scuffed-up, slice-your-mouth-open plastic cups.

You know the kind:

• Where you can tell, from the discoloration, someone was drinking red Kool-Aid at some point several uses ago.

• Where you can faintly smell the dishwater detergent crammed into those cracks and crevasses every time you take a sip.

• Where you can clearly see the scratchy and fuzzy reminders of months (years?!) of constant chewing around the lip.

Seriously, ew

I put on my poker face and politely accepted his frayed and scummy cup. I tried to hide my dismay as I surveyed the damaged goods, hoping there’s a spot on the lip of the cup that’s not too icky. I failed miserably and ended up parched for the rest of the night.

Needless to say, I started bringing my own drinks after that.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Shitty Blank Walls

From Liz, who realllly can't stand his shitty blank walls:

There’s nothing quite like the first time you go to a guy’s place. Is he clean like the husband in Sleeping with the Enemy? Is he messy like your nightmare freshman roommate? What kind of amenities does he keep around? It doesn’t have to look like an Ikea showroom, but it’s nice to see some personality in a person’s living space. Which is why I hate when he has blank walls. 

Oof. That's a LOT of blank space, fella

Nothing makes me feel like a guy could maybe possibly be a serial killer more than when I go to his house and all the eye can see is just white, blank wall. If there’s an errant Phillies poster or two, okay, fine. He just doesn’t know how to decorate a non-college dorm, which is not attractive but at least he feels some compulsion to not leave his walls completely empty. Hell, I’d be okay with a life-size mural of Marilyn Monroe doing a keg stand in a party full of dogs playing poker if that meant that he didn’t have blank walls. 

If there’s just nothing at all, I’m really quite worried that I’m about to be stabbed in the throat and stuffed in a box. And guess what! Easy cleanup because he has NO POSSESSIONS TO SPLATTER MY BLOOD ON. 

It actually upsets me if he doesn’t feel the need to put anything up on his walls. Is he Monk? Does he have a thing about super clean spaces? If his landlord has something against nails, just go to CVS and get some sticky poster tabs! This is a simple fix! The upside to his blank walls is that without decorative distraction, his exits are completely visible. And I just remembered that I have to leave...right now. 

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack of Hand Soap

From Marielena, who just wants a convenient post-loo suds situation: 

No hand soap? Really? Really.

What? Where’s the? How do? How does he? Where’s the damn hand soap?!  

That was my thought process when I went to my guy’s house for the first time. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly: He had a good job, nice shoes, good taste in women (heyo!) and whiskey, but what was up with the no hand soap?! Maybe he just ran out and didn’t have time to get a new bottle? Ew! Dirty!

It’s always strange going home with someone you barely know or are in the process of getting to know. There's a million questions running through my head: Is his apartment gross? Is his cat friendly? Is there a Silence of the Lambs murder pit in the basement? O, the courtship dance! O, the ancient push and pull!  

Not having basic necessities like soap or, god forbid, a fresh looking toothbrush, is just one of those big red flags that screams, “I’m an adult baby!” And, real talk ladies, we all know that dirty paws + the pink = UTIs = NOPE.  

I had to keep reminding myself that he’s cool and nice and that I could do this. I ended up using some of this Dove 4 Menz body wash/shave gel/toothpaste/shampoo/ nonsense to clean my mitts and went back to drinking Laphroaig and watching “Breaking Bad” with him on his couch.  

But you can bet your bottom dollar that I made sure to save the HJ’s for the next time when we were at my place with the full arsenal of C.O. Bigelow at our disposal.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: The Lack of Trash Bag In His Bathroom Trash Can

From Julia, who'd really appreciate a little liner-love, bathroom trash can-wise:

The bathroom is a magical place. You spend DAYS of your life in there, whether you’re brushing your teeth or texting on the toilet. I’ve made a lot of life decisions and observations in my bathroom. It’s a place for solitude and an escape from the stressors of day to day life. (Unless you’re taking a pregnancy test. In that case, Godspeed.)   

My bathroom is perfect, complete with toothpaste on the mirror and eight different almost-empty bottles of conditioner. But his bathroom is my dealbreaker. It’s not the fuzzy off-pink toilet seat cover or the fact that he uses a beach towel to dry off. It’s not even the crummy bath mat. No, it’s the trash can without a trash bag. The things that go into a bathroom trash can are the worst items in the world. This is a standard that applies to men and women.  

My face when I notice his lack of trash bag

The idea that he, at some point, is going to have to take the trash can and use his hands to dump out what’s in it sends me screaming. My mind races through potential situations. What if there’s a piece of gum stuck at the bottom with a hair attached to it? Does he pick it out? Is it stuck to something else, maybe a cotton swab or a mysterious tissue? Without a trash bag, we’re opening up a lot of possibilities. 

A stray bathroom hair could make its way to any area of his house, and the thought of encountering one without warning is downright terrifying. “SURPRISE! I know you’re in the living room drinking wine and listening to Paul Simon on vinyl, but here’s a boatload of random hairs!” I just did a body shudder at the thought. 

These are visions that can’t be unseen. Normally, I can look past the dollar store plastic shower curtain, but sorry bro, you gotta bag your trash can the fuck up.

Image from RealityTVGifs

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack of Ice Cube Trays

Well, this is some goddamn bullshit. When I opened his freezer door, it was more bare than Courtney Stodden's ass cheeks during a pumpkin patch-themed photo shoot in there.

Seriously, this was his freezer in ass cheek-form

There was nothing in it! How can his freezer be so bare? Did he just move into his house four hours ago? I was expecting a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff, a bag of vegetable dumplings from Trader Joe's that he never got around to making and a limp bag of frozen peas, but nothing? Are we in a doll's house? Is this fridge even turned on?

While having a bare freezer was semi-alarming on it's own, more distressingly, there were no ice cube trays. How am I supposed to chill my beverage with this egregious lack of ice? My whiskey on the rocks is now sadly, disappointingly, regrettably sans rocks. Fuck that noise! I can't go through life with all of my beverages served neat. I'm just not that kind of girl. *lone tear falls down my face*

I didn't realize how much I liked having ice in my life until it was taken away so abruptly. On a scale of one to pumpkin patch-themed photo shoot, how crazy would I appear if I brought my own ice cube trays over to his house? Hell, I'd even go for a jokey ice cube tray he bought for a Halloween party six years ago at this point, anything to chill this cocktail I'm hastily assembling before we head out for dinner.

I slammed his empty freezer door in frustration and was surprised at how light his door felt. It was like trying to slam a styrofoam cup down on a table. That annoyed me too. Fuck this surprisingly light freezer door to hell! Get some ice cube trays up in here, sir. I like to chill my drinks while we chill. Is that so wrong?

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Drawer Stuffed Full of Take Out Menus

This drawer is basically the Wild, Wild West of his house. I have no idea what sort of madness I'm going to encounter once I stick my paw in there. There are several fistfuls of delivery menus jammed into a drawer roughly the size of a medical textbook. I can barely open it!

Once I yank the menus out and haul the pile to the kitchen tabe, I notice that he has several duplicates. Some are outdated, some are torn. Some have unidentified stains. Some restaurants have since closed or have been shut down. I have no idea why he still holds on to these greasy menus. Someone should tell him that they're not family heirlooms meant to be passed down from generation to generation.

He does know that he doesn't need to keep every oily take out menu shoved through his mail slot, right? They only way they'll get the boot is if a) he moves and tosses 'em all out in one fell swoop or b) I take the ten minutes to go through and pare down the herd.

Sure, he'll roll his eyes while I organize his menu collection but I don't care. I like a neat menu drawer. And, I like a carefully curated pile of 10 - 15 menus showcasing the best local restaurant take out options available: sue me.

Image via

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: The Litter Box In His Bathroom

This litter box is a duo of stink: It stinks nostril-wise and it stinks life-wise. Just being within ten feet of his bathroom, I can feel the litter particles banging around my brain like stinky microscopic pinballs. I'm gagging just thinking about it.

His bathroom smells like SARS, monkeypox and the bird flu banging in a pee ditch at Burning Man. Why is this litter box so close to the toilet? I have to bury my mouth and nose into the top of my shirt like I'm kicking over a bloated corpse just trying to bust out a quick #1. It's stupid!

And, it's not just the smell thats unholy; nothing is worse than stepping out of his shower and onto stray kitty litter pebbles. It's almost impossible to avoid. I'm hotstepping all over the place. I'm in pebble hell! I'm basically krumping just trying to get solid footing on the tile floor. 

I know his apartment is small. I know there's literally nowhere else to plop the litter box, but it's still a bummer. And that just makes me sad.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Shitty, Thin Bath Mat

I wanna kick this ugly bath mat in the dick

Well, that's a rough looking bath mat. I didn't realize that such a small patch of fabric could be so depressing! It's the Patch Adams movie of fabric patches. I don't wanna step on it which is lame because that's its only job: to be stepped on. That's even more depressing! It's matted and dirty and thin, like how the Les Miserables girl looks. What's her name? Eponine? Man, she was pathetic. She gave her life for some guy who friend-zoned her. Not smart, lady. Not. Smart.

Anyhoo, his bath mat sucks. It's more trampled than the front row at a free Justin Bieber concert. Sure, having this shitty mat is better than stepping onto his crusty, cracked bathroom tile floor but it's not that much better. The thing is musty and stiff and there's zero shag to it. And, it never completely dries. It just stays sorta damp forever. That's not natural and I don't trust it.

Here's the thing: I've experienced great bath mats before; ones that feel like your toes are being greeted by a warm, friendly dog; ones that conform to my foot like I'm stepping into a vat of velvety cookie dough. So the fact that this bath mat is so lackluster is a major bummer. And, that just makes me sad.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: The Lack of Interesting Reading Material In His Bathroom

I'm stuck in this bathroom for 2 - 5 minutes so it'd be nice to be exposed to a little culture while I'm at Whizzingham Palace. I suppose I could peruse Twitter on my phone but I was hoping for an old issue of GQ to broaden my horizons while I'm here.

But if--god forbid--I leave my phone in another room, I'm forced to scrounge around and scan the backs of shampoo bottles and a box of Q-tips to stimulate my mind. I might as well be in a gas station.

I'd even take an old issue of Rolling Stone at this point. That's fine. Hell, even an alt-weekly newspaper would suffice. I'm not super picky. It doesn't have to be hot off the presses either; as long as there's an interesting letter to the editor or sassy advice column in the back, I'm happy.

One day, I'd like to pop into some dude's Piss Castle and see new issues of Vice neatly stacked near his toilet. Maybe he has some artsy magazines I've never even heard of! Dare I dream? It almost seems too far-fetched. I'd settle for far less. All I'm saying is that I'd like more reading options while I'm here than the back of a nearly-spent tube of St. Ives Apricot Scrub.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Toothbrush Holder Filled With Gross, Old Toothbrushes

Take a look at this motley crue of blown out toothbrushes. Why does one man have so many gross, old toothbrushes in one place? Give these fuckers a little room to breathe, guy.

They're all huddled together like they need each other's body warmth to survive. Maybe they're re-enacting scenes from the movie Alive? It looks like it. They're all crammed into the crusty metal toothbrush holder like it's a holding pen in a Carson City prison and they're more haggard than Russell Brand after a long nap. It ain't right!

And another thing, how on earth did they get SO blown out? Is he brushing the mud off his work boots with them? Does he tenderize meat with them? Don't tell me that his teeth made the bristles splay out like my babysitter's bangs because, I swear to god, his toothbrush holder looks like an '80s MTV VJ convention held in a telephone booth. I didn't even know that toothbrushes could curl like that. They practically have mermaid hair.

The moral of the story: No ones needs--let me count 'em--TEN gross toothbrushes in one container. Trim the fat. Toss these fuckers out.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Old, Crusty Jars Of Hair Product

Well, look at this little pot of L'Oreal nonsense nestled in amongst his rusted razors and dusty plastic combs. I was hoping to find an errant Q-tip in here but since I've stumbled on this goo, now I feel like I'm discovering a new life form. How could I not investigate further?

Of course I'll unscrew the top and take a sniff because I'm a masochist. The little bits of dried gel flake off, dusting my clothes in a fine, chalky powder. I'll wince as the particles waft up my nose. It smells like what can only be described as an armpit high-fiving the Adirondack mountains.

Maybe I'll even put a dab between my fingers and roll it around if I really hate my life. It has a gooey, sticky texture, like a giant's booger. 

I'd consider tossing it in the trash but I know that'd be overstepping my bounds. Maybe he likes having it there in case he needs spiky hair for a Halloween costume? Who knows. I'll just toss the tub back in the drawer, wash my hands and pretend that this little crusty product run-in never happened.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: Wavy Mirrors From Ikea

Oh god, I hate these fucking wavy mirrors. I can't stand seeing them tacked up on his wall like a shiny tribute to cooked bacon. How am I supposed to fix my makeup in these with a straight face? They look like armor plates for giant tapeworms.

I can't believe this design has not only endured for so long, but it's wound its way into so many guys' living rooms. Can someone explain their appeal to me? Because having mirrors that look like instructions for using a hand dryer in a public restroom isn't the best look for any abode.

And nothing screams, "my mom bought these for me freshman year of college while we went to Ikea for the first time ever" than these bad boys. They should've been ditched along with his Adidas flip flops the second he received his undergrad diploma.

All I'm saying is that I don't need his mirrors to remind me of Taylor Swift's hair. They're goofy, like owning a copy of Howard the Duck on DVD. No one needs to own that movie in a modern format just like no one needs to see these wave-tastic Ikea mirrors. I'm taking a stand on this one, fellas! The only thing left waving will be me when I chuck these shitty mirrors to the curb.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack of Dental Floss

I knew it was a longshot, but I asked if he had any dental floss I could borrow. He thought about it for a few seconds which wasn't a good sign. If he was a regular flosser, he'd KNOW if he had any instinctively. He'd be like, "Dental floss? Sure thing."

The fact that he said, "I think so, let me check," didn't bode well either. He rummaged around his bathroom cabinet for a bit while I sat on his bed.

I considered my options. The best case scenario would be him bounding into the room with a blue box of Satin Tape. Satin Tape is the Bentley of the dental floss world. I'm pretty sure it's made from a combination of unicorn manes and Miley Cyrus' baby hair. Seriously, it feels like giving your teeth a backrub when you use it. This is my favorite brand and I hoped that maybe he had a box that he swiped from his parents' house or something.

The second option would be him walking into the room with the thin, waxy discount floss that shreds inbetween your teeth and makes your gums bleed almost instantly upon contact. Using it feels like you're asking your mouth to do homework on Sunday night when it'd rather just veg out and watch TV. I hate that kind, but I'd tough it out. It was probably a relic from his old roommate.

The third and more likely option would be that he didn't have any at all and that I'd have to get used to the stray broccoli shard trapped between my teeth.

He came back into his bedroom a few minutes later, frowning. "Sorry. I couldn't find any."

"That's cool. Thanks for looking." Floss request: DENIED. And, that just made me sad.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His "Wet Bar"

No funny fishes here. Frown.

I'm putting wet bar in quotes because while he advertised that he had a wet bar back at his place fully stocked with whiskey, vodka, rum, and gin, it turned out that his "wet bar" was just a half-dozen dusty bottles under his sink. HIS motherfucking SINK! This is no bar. I felt SWINDLED with this bar description!

I was genuinely excited that he'd have a some kind of home bar set up. I thought, where on earth did this guy get a bar? Did he inherit it? Did he win it on the Price is Right? Did he salvage it from a sidewalk sale? I pushed those questions aside and happily schlepped to his house with visions of exotic mixers dancing in my head.

I hoped he would have something a cool uncle would have tucked into the corner of his den. I expected shticky barware and an array of shiny strainers and bottle openers. Maybe there'd be tiny umbrellas to perch on the rim. Maybe there'd be a wooden stool so I could cross my legs and flash him a smile while he shook out a few martinis. Maybe there'd be that novelty singing fish mounted on the wall like Tony Soprano had. Maybe there'd be a tikki cocktail mixer like Mrs. Robinson used in the Graduate. I couldn't wait to see it.

But, sadly, no. None of these things were present. My bar dreams were DASHED as soon as he opened the cabinet door under his sink: "Here it is!" he proclaimed boldly. My face couldn't hide my disappointment. WHAT A ROUSE!

"So, what's your poison? I can make whatever you want on the rocks. Haha." Yup, laugh it up. There weren't even any mixers! Sorry, but ice doesn't count as a mixer. 

The only bar here is my bar for dating guys without a bar, and I refuse to lower it. His "bar" gets an F and we all know that spells BARF, which is frankly, what I wanna do when he asked if I wanted a drink from under his shitty sink.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Overflowing Recyclables Bin

That fraud. Look at him, flying around town like Captain Planet, trying to take pollution down to zero. He loves to brag about the five hand-painted recycling bins he commissioned some random artist to make for his kitchen. He went out to celebrate when the city started recycling cardboard. And he even yelled at the little old man next door when he spotted a Pepsi can in his trash.

But really, instead of taking pollution down to zero, he's just turning his apartment into a fucking landfill. It’s pretty incredible actually. God knows how he managed to balance all those empty milk containers on top of each other in perfect Jenga formation. I’m dying to investigate but the sour milk smell of that bin keeps me 10 feet away at all times.

I had no idea a person could drink so much Gatorade but every time I come over, it’s like a dozen more empty Riptide Rush bottles have been added to the pile. His artsy fartsy recycling bins aren’t even necessary anymore because his collection has started to creep into the rest of the kitchen. Last time I put my beer down on his counter, it took me six tries to find the can that actually had beer in it.

I’m tempted to get him out of the house for an hour, throw it all in a dumpster, and tell him Al Gore stopped by to pick it up but I’m terrified he’ll have a hoarders-style breakdown about losing his precious plastics. I wish that this is the week where he finally takes everything out on trash night, but he'll probably just use his intense TV schedule as an excuse. Again. Or I can find a friendly homeless person who’d be stoked to inherit this holy grail of all recyclables. I mean, it's probably worth a fuck ton of nickels at least.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Ex-Girlfriend's Tampons That Are Still In His Closet

Pic taken from TamponCrafts.com

From Erin, who doesn't need to see the tampons from girlfriends past.

I'm extremely pleased that he doesn't get that icky feeling when the words "tampon" or "cramps" are introduced into our dinner conversation. Maybe he grew up with cool sisters or has a politically active mother or maybe he read the Feminine Mystique once in college. However, he crossed the line from an being an open-minded gentlemen to a slightly-odd punk when I found an old box of tampons in his junk drawer. They were nestled in amongst his scotch tape and dental floss. Great.

Your ex-girlfriend is gone, buddy, and so is her Aunt Flow. He either doesn't do much spring cleaning, or he is convinced that if the funsticks stay, she'll somehow come back, retrieve them, and give him another shot. Either that or he is trying to send a message to any woman who enters his bedroom: this is a no-babymaking lair.

I do him the courtesy of not wearing my ex-boyfriends' t-shirts when he's around, I would think that courtesy would extend both ways.

It's funny; this happened to me once. I found a crusty, corroded box of Tampax waaaay in the back of my dude's bathroom closet. I fished 'em out and said something like, "You planning on making some vampire tea later?" He said, "Ew, gross. Those are like, a million years old. Toss that shit away." So I did, with relish. Ya hear me? WITH RELISH!

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Scratchy, Low-Quality Ikea Comforter

Great Scott, that's a shitty comforter!

To paraphrase the Aaron Nevile and Linda Rondstadt powerballad, I don't know much, but I know this shitty comforter. This bright color pattern, this cheap feel, this thin fabric: it's from Ikea, isn't it? IT IS. I knew it. I fucking called it.

For the record, my comforter is fluffy and light, like Doctor Emmett Brown's hair. It's a neutral color because, unlike this guy who invited me over, I don't need orange rectangles and burnt sienna ovals on my bedding. He's a design nerd, I get it. His bed doesn't have to rub it in my face every time I peek inside his room.

Since he's had the thing since freshman year, it's dotted with cigarette burns from almost a decade of late night gab fests with a parade of ex-girlfriends. It feels like I'm brushing up against a hobo's crusty nostril every time one of those burns scratch my skin. 

I'm not sure if they pass these shoddy bedspreads out to guys at their art school graduation or what, but they're as omnipresent in dudes' rooms as harsh overhead lighting. They go hand-in-hand, like an unpleasant peanut butter cup. Not to be dramatic, but the one-two punch of a shitty Ikea bedspread and crummy lighting is my own personal version of Guantanamo Bay. After five minutes, I'm heavily sighing as I keep a tally in chalk on his wall of how long I've been stuck in his room. And, that just makes me sad.

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