My Roommate, My Brother. by Violet

No Mushroom clouds yet… but it is very strange living with my brother again. I haven’t lived with a blood relative since I moved out of the house for the dorms- close to six years ago. My roommates since have been all shapes and sizes- and I have learned a lot from each one of them. I enjoy having roommates- never a dull or lonely moment.

So I knew for a long time this moment was coming- when Ace would pack up his polos and claim the territory which was once my second living room. But now it’s a reality- living next to my brother- having to go through his room every night and every morning just to get to my room. It has definitely put a damper on my style. I leave every morning earlier than he does and usually come in later, so it’s not frequent yet that I see him. But when I do see him, we have strange interactions. So far they have consisted of eating, quoting Home Alone constantly, eating, and giving him the number to the Mexican breakfast burrito place down the road in our barrio.

Well-last night, I made dinner for him and Nick, even after Ace had already had a full meal with my family at 5:00. But hey, 3 hours later- that boy needs sustenance. So once the chicken casserole is out of the oven, I dish him up a plate and knock on his door- trying to go forth with the roommate situation with a servant’s heart (ha). He promptly opened the door as if he had been waiting behind it for my knock and announced that he would be served at the dining room table. Well of course! I should have known he’d rather be served like a prince- silly me, I really am an awful slave of a sister. Well after he finished his 7th meal of the day, he proceeded to lay his dishes on the counter while I was washing.

Here comes the life skills training for the day: I told him the least he could do was wash the dishes that he used. He tried to tell me that he wouldn’t have used dishes if it was him- he was perfectly fine with eating straight out of the casserole dish. He reluctantly scrubbed off the plate, fork and knife… in a manner that a monkey would .. and placed them right back into the dirty water. “Why would you put them back?” I asked, and he said “What else do I do with them?”. Without yelling somehow- I explained to him the concept of drying off dishes and putting them back in the cabinet. How many times do you think I can go through episodes like this at my house without pulling my hair out? Or much less pulling his hair out? Anyone ready to place some bets?