The risks of roommates, rentals and rice cookers

When I moved out of my parents’ house – contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t kicked out – to head off to Cal Poly, San Luis Obipso, I began what I like to call my adventures in R&R: Renting and roommates.
My early days were blessed with roomies I remain friends with to this day, but eventually my little bubble burst and reality sometimes smacked me square across the face.
Now, I admit, I’m not the easiest person to live with; I do not make a good roommate. I’m well aware of this. I’m slightly obsessive about cleanliness and organization (OK, a lot obsessive) and I don’t care for clutter – I’m definitely a minimalist. Those traits generally don’t sit well with college students who keep pizza boxes on the living room table and books scattered on the floor.
Knowing this about myself, I shook it off and thoroughly enjoyed my college years and the cold pepperoni pizza, and tried not to let dishes in the sink and the stacks of papers, binders and books get to me.
And generally I didn’t.
In fact, a couple years into college I shared a large home in Arroyo Grande with two male friends – we purchased an old pool table, foosball and air hockey table and our place became the “it” spot. There was rarely a weekend that went by we didn’t have friends over enjoying barbecue and beer – and a pretty messy house afterward.
But it was all part of the college experience – and it was a blast.
That is, until one of the roomies bought a rice cooker.
And that rice cooker became the bane of my existence.
The mold that thing grew when it sat out on the counter for days – with cooked, moist rice still inside – was unbelievable. My former housemate, Calvin, and I had many talks about the scientific experiments he grew in that rice cooker, but we still ended up with a large batch of fresh mold in the kitchen nearly every week.
Then there was the downstairs room I rented in a woman’s home in Los Osos. All was well until – unbeknownst to me – her teen daughter returned from juvenile hall the following month. Let’s just say the two didn’t get along and there were screaming matches and things being thrown against walls at literally all hours of the night. Friends helped me escape with boxes of my stuff after just a few months. And just to avoid any hassle, I never even inquired about my deposit.
But one of my favorite “almost” experiences is a story I still love to tell after all these years.
While still in college, I’d seen a room for rent in a home and had gone back a few days later to put down a deposit and sign the six-month lease. The husband and wife were there as I toured the house again, checked out the backyard, where I noticed a type of in-law unit, and was ready to write out a check.
I read over the lease (yes, I’m one of those people) and actually had pen to paper when the husband put his hand out to stop me, saying there was one thing I should know before I signed.
And, boy, it was a doozy.
Turns out, he and his wife were porn actors – and not just actors, they owned a small adult film company and shot movies in the house as well as the in-law unit I’d noticed in the yard. They wanted to make sure I would be OK having their crew and “random strangers” regularly coming in and out of the house, to and from the in-law unit, and so forth.
I still wonder how my life might be different if I’d went ahead and signed that lease.
Even though I didn’t, I still find humor in some of my adventures. Being well past those college years, I’m my normal obsessively clean and anti-clutter self. And these days, I’m perfectly content at the little place in San Martin, where I’ve been for many years – just me and the dog.
And I think that’s best for everyone.