MORON-ko

So, Hiroko moves in with Shelly and I on November 3rd. That date will be important for reference later.

She seemed to be...um... around a lot. Like I couldn't figure out when she worked. I had two jobs at the time; I was a special Ed Aide for emotionally disturbed children from 8:00 in the morning to 2:00 every day, then worked four days a week (and sometimes weekends) in a residential program for mentally ill adults from 4:00 to 11:00 at night. She was always at home. Always. Asleep when I left in the morning, often taking a nap when I got home from the first job, usually partying when I got back from the second job. Now, I know I was gone a lot, so I supposed she could be working while I was gone.

Nope.

Turns out she wasn't exactly a "Tennis Pro" at all. She had been hired by the club to teach tennis, yes, but not as a pro. She worked as often as someone signed up for lessons. Which, come to find out, wasn't too often. She instead, was totally digging the Santa Barbara party scene. What that is exactly, I can't speak to too well, since I was always working my ass off, or was too tired from the working off of my ass to do anything else but sleep. In hindsight, I know it entailed quite a bit of drinking, smoking, cocaine snorting, and sex with guys who bought her things. But I get ahead of my story.

She was a leech. Big time leech. Anything edible in the kitchen was fair game, as far as she was concerned. Notes, pleas, requests to refrain from other's food went unnoticed. An example:

The kids I worked with during the day were from third grade to sixth grade. One of our class projects was a garden. We planted many of the same vegetables as the Chumash Indians (the tribe from this area), as we were also studying California and local history.

We took care of that beautiful garden like nobody's business. One of our successful crops was corn. We ate fresh corn, boiled it for corn on the cob, and went through the whole process of removing the kernels, setting them out properly to dry, and then grinding them with a mortar and pestle to make cornmeal.

The kids were so proud of themselves. I took the cornmeal home to make cornbread for the class, so we could enjoy the fruits of our labor. I made the cornbread from scratch, it came out beautifully, and left it, covered with tin foil on the counter. I left a note stating "please don't touch, this is for my class tomorrow." I went to bed.

Next morning, you guessed it, about a third was missing out of the pan. The tin foil was crumpled in the sink, and the culprit was sleeping it off in her bedroom. I had a hard time picking up the pyrex dish; I yanked it up, and there was a long string of green gum (spearmint?) attached to both the bottom of the dish and the top of the countertop.

Did I scream? No. Did I go slap her silly? No. I had no time for that. I quietly and quickly made a Jiffy brand box of backup corn bread, and sped off to work. I did leave a nasty note for Moron-ko, which is the name I had started calling her in my head. Some serious thought was now being addressed to my moving out.

That afternoon, she bought me a Hershey bar and said she was "sorry," but it just looked so good," and she had been drunk. As if that was an acceptable way to apologize. I then asked her about the wine I was missing.

"Oh, I'll buy anah dah one fo' you. Why ah' you so worried?"

I love wine. Growing up in wine country's backyard, I was spoiled early. I would spend money on wine before most regular food back then. I didn't have many good bottles, and the ones I had I saved for special occasions. She helped herself to whatever I had, and then (after repeated requests) would replace it with some crap from the grocery store. If Two-buck Chuck had existed then, she'd be all over it.

So, my wine got moved to the closet in my room. She figured it out quickly enough, and just started going into my room.

"I don' know wha' the big problam is. I say I will get you more."

It was like she was from another planet, where everything that was said, really wasn't meant.

"Stay. Out. Of. My. Room." wasn't clear enough.

The deadbolt lock I bought for the the bedroom door seemed to do the trick, however.

Meanwhile, Shelly, my other roommate, worked all the time and never seemed to be around when these ridiculous events were happening. She knew Moronko wasn't a great roommate, but didn't think it was such a big deal. The fact that she slept at her boyfriend's house most nights might possibly have something to do with that.

We decided to have a party. The three of us were in the kitchen the morning of the fete, and Shelly and I were going to the store.

"Well, if we each put in 20 bucks, that should be plenty (Okay, so it wasn't going to be a big party, but remember, it was twelve years ago)."

Moronko looked at both of us, "Oh no. Ah don' ha' that much. No."

"Uh, well, what do you think is fair then?"

"Well... ah don' think... ah jus' won' be part... you guys ha' the parteh by your self."

Great.

"Oh come on. We've planned this for a week."

"I sorry. Ah jus' don' ha' any money right now."

So, whatever... I know this sounds ridiculous, but when I told Shelly I wanted Moronko OUT... Shelly just got all surfer-dudish on me, and told me to relax. At least she had paid the rent. Did I really want to go through looking for a new roommate?
"Becky... just chill."

I tried. I did.

Of course, Moronko was there for the party. She said she'd "stay in her room." How weird was that? She asked a guy over, and we heard her tell him on the phone, "bring som' beer. Bring good stuff..." And of course, this guy did.

Moronko appeared out of her room just as one of my friends showed up, a little early to help. We opened a bottle of wine, one of my good ones, and Moronko asked, "Can I have a glass?"

The fucking nerve. Before I could scream at the top of my lungs at the silly bitch, my friend, unaware of the earlier conversation that morning, had already poured her a glass. Back to her lair, Moronko went.

You do remember that this woman was 33 years old? It wasn't as if she was some princess from a sheltered kingdom, trying to get by without servants for the first time. As I write about her, I'm amazed I put up with her for as long as I did.

Twenty days. That's how long it took between her moving in, and my putting in my notice. Of course, it was a whole month more I had to spend with her, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.