Welcome to the Hotel Gal-ifornia

Several people have posed the perfectly understandable question of what the hell I was thinking by committing myself to an apartment in New York when I wasn’t finished living in New Hampshire. The reasons are several, complicated, and somewhat personal, but part of the answer I jokingly give is that I’m afraid I’m getting eccentric bachelor syndrome and run the risk of becoming weird by living by myself too long. It’s one of those half-jokes that a number of my male friends who have spent some time living alone all seem to get. I mean, you might not really get weird just by being male and living alone, but there are certain, uh, lifestyle habits involving hygeine, housekeeping, eating off paper plates, and such that seem to be a common experience.

Now, I think I’ve found the female version.

I just moved in to my seventh residence in six years here, an apartment in Lebanon, NH which I’m sharing with a female grad student in my department who, like me, returned to school after a bit of a “break.” Actually, it’s more accurate to say that she’s sharing it with me; it’s her apartment full of her stuff and I’m staying here mostly out of her generosity. Now, let’s go back to that “full of her stuff” part for a sec. Full of her stuff means, full of the GIRLIEST bunch of stuff I’ve ever seen assembled under one roof. We’ve got your dried flowers, silk flowers, candles, cats (3), pictures of cats, pictures of cute, anonyous children, pictures of lighthouses and johnboats and seagulls by the shore, kaliedescopes, windchimes, small plush toys, millions – literally, I think – of family snapshots, figurines (oh, the figurines!), pots of potpourri, wall sconces, vinyl houseplants, lacy curtains, fragrant bath accoutrements (mysteriously, in rooms that are not the bathroom), empty bottles made of colored glass assembled tastefully to catch sunlight through the windows, stained glass dangly thingies hanging in the windows, woven baskets, refrigerator magnets, furniture with intricate floral patterns, blankets with intricate floral patterns, dishes with intricate floral patterns, and throw pillows with intricate floral patterns. My god, the throw pillows – you gotta throw half a dozen of them off the couch just to make a place to sit. Every single coffee mug on the mug-tree (of course there is a mug tree) features either flowers, hearts, baby animals, or some combination thereof. And did I mention candles? You could light up the National Cathedral with the candles in this place. Smell it up, too, because they’re all scented. That’s an advantage, actually, because between the scented candles and the potpourri and the flowers, the cat pans are noooooo problem. And glitter – lots of stuff with glitter in it or on it, like some faeries got drunk and trashed the place. Seriously, I expect to see Stevie Nicks come twirling through any time now. Even the food is girlie: as I write, there’s a tray of cupcakes sitting on the counter. Cupcakes.

The thing is, I’m not really making fun. I can honestly say that it’s the homiest and most tastefully appointed grad-student apartment I’ve been in. But its particular charm happens to be a hyperfeminine one. We all know what happens when men get to define their own space without a moderating female presence, and it usually inolves unpleasant smells and frightful accretions in the bathroom. Now, I think I can see what happens when the tables are turned, and while it’s a lot more pleasant, I couldn’t really say it’s less exteme in its own way.

Since I’m a temporary resident, there’s only so much I can do to add a little toilet-seat-up yang to the fluffy-pink-floral yin here, but I’ll do what I can. I started by burning a frozen pizza in the oven this weekend, and I’m careful to always load the dishwasher wrong.