The Roomie Series Part I

Hi Everyone. I’m writing to tell you/vent about my new roommate. “New roommate?”, you ask,”Since when?” That’s a good question, my friends. Let me tell you about it.

I received a call on Sunday afternoon from my landlord explaining that I would be getting a new roommate and that she would be moving in the very next day. You could imagine my shock, as I had no idea that this situation was even a possibility, let alone a fact. But I was sort of okay with it because I had just cleaned the condo from the wonderful party I hosted on Friday; I figured I was more or less prepared for her. Little did I know that there was more to it. Much more.

As it turns out, my new roommate is 49.That is not a typo, people; in fact, let me type it out for you so you get the full effect: forty-nine years old. This, THIS, I was not prepared for.
“She is a professor coming to York to do some research,” he said, “and she is looking for a quiet place to study and do her work.” I was speechless on the phone. I went over in mind what it would be like to live with someone my mother’s age and I became very worried. My landlord kept talking. “She is to live in the small room,” he stated, and then he asked me if I was available to meet her the next evening at six to let her in. Dumbfounded, I replied,
“Yeah, I guess so.” Apparently, her flight from Alberta came in around that time. When our phone conversation ended, I was furious. I felt it very inconsiderate to room a university student with a older woman, especially with insufficient warning. Well that’s that, I told myself, and then I called Jon and ranted for a long time.The next day, I reluctantly came home in between classes to make sure the place looked decent for my new roommate. During classes, I complained to Michael Gaspar about how awful this was going to be, to which he replied,
“Maybe it won’t be so bad.” Mike’s positivity, although initially unwelcome, started me thinking that maybe it really wouldn’t be that bad at all. Maybe she was cool, like a character from Sex in the City. Maybe she was a quirky woman that told interesting stories. Just maybe…

I got home before my new roommate arrived and I was getting excited to meet her. When she rang the doorbell, I opened the door to find a short woman in front of me with a suitcase.
“Hello!” I said, “Come on in”. She stood there for at least 15 seconds, which I found very awkward. She looked confused, and then she finally came in. “I’m Jen, nice to meet you”. I reached out my hand to shake hers. She didn’t grab it.
“Ooooh,” she said, almost like a sigh, and then put down her suitcase. I asked her another question and she stared back at me with that same confused expression. To my surprise, she doesn’t speak English. That flight from Alberta? That was a stopover from IRAN!!!!!! Oh yes, my friends; I tell you no lies. I am living with a 49 yr old woman that I can’t understand. I don’t even know her name (I believe it’s Manigeh, but who knows?)

It gets better. Apparently, my landlord neglected to tell my roomie that the room she is renting does not have windows. She did not like this very much and is now residing in the room next to me that is reserved for the roommate (I know about) who is coming in April. When she walked into the room she is now sleeping in, she turns to me and says,
“Blanket?” Great. She knows a word. Manigeh chose not to bring her own. Luckily, I have a spare blanket and I am able to offer it to her. “Pillow?” Terrific. Another word. We’re on a roll. I went into my room, took my spare pillows (not the throw pillows; the extra ones that are meant to make your bed more full) and offered them as well. No “thank you”s thus far; she’s not there yet in her vocabulary. I’ll give her time.

It has now been one full day living with the Iranian woman who, I can only assume, is named Manigeh. I am still alive, but I am not well. There is no more singing, no more music, no noise period. As I write, she is asleep in the room (with a window) beside me. I imagine my landlord is at home too, curling up to his English-speaking wife, who is also ready to dream of sugarplum fairies and ice cream cones.

Well I’m glad I got that off my chest. If you’re worried about my well-being then please continue. I am miserable.
Love, your furious friend, Jennifer H. Sorlie

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