Color-coded Sponges

Some of you may remember references I’ve made to my 2nd roommate, Kyla.  While I will hold off on a roommate profile until after she leaves next month, I have one story that simply cannot wait.

Kyla is a bit… uptight.  She has a tendency to agonize over minor things.  For example, one day before work, Kyla freaked out about an ant that was crawling on her blender (the outside, mind you).  “Blend ‘em…” Carl sleepily grunted from the dining room, “…more protein.”

I found this amusing.  Kyla did not, and proceeded to wash out her already clean blender.  These kinds of interactions are common, and make living with Kyla all the more interesting.  And here our story begins:

Mother’s day weekend, my landlord decided it was cool for her daughter to host 44 classmates at the farmhouse for an after-prom party.

Yep, don’t have the space to properly elaborate on that one.

Anyways, she asked if we would tidy up the kitchen and bathroom for the impending “guests.”

Sure.

I figured a half-assed attempt to make the kitchen look presentable was generous, if not overboard.  Kyla, on the other hand, was apprehensive.  “What if we don’t clean well enough?”  So that evening, she went out and bought rubber gloves and sponges for deep cleaning.  Which seemed excessive.  But whatever makes you happy, Kyla.

You know what makes Kyla happy?  Color-coded sponges.

Yes.  Kyla spent money to buy color-coded sponges.

“Red is for the counter…green is for the stove–but I’m NOT using blue, because I refuse to waste these sponges on THAT bathroom.  They weren’t cheap, you know.”

Oh, I do know.  Because you proceeded to tell me about the sponges for several minutes, Kyla.

I feel as though conversations about sponges should last at most 15 seconds; slightly longer if said sponges live in pineapples under the sea.

I naturally gave Kyla polite but generous amounts of shit for the colored sponges.  Not because she bought them.  Not because they were color-coded. Not because they were more expensive.  I gave Kyla shit because she was afraid one of the 44 prom children would steal them.  From our counter.  Or stove.

But NOT the bathroom.

I couldn’t help myself.  “You seriously think a bunch of high-schoolers will steal your sponges, of all things?”

She seemed taken aback by my comment.

“You never know.”

Kyla brought the sponges upstairs to hide during the party.   Luckily I was not around to witness the onslaught of prom teens, nor the horror I can only imagine Kyla felt as she barricaded herself in her room, surrounded by 44 rambunctious adolescents.  I did, however, feel a little giddy at the thought of Kyla recounting the evening as only she could.

When I returned the following day, I was disappointed to learn the party was tame.  I rinsed dishes, saddened as she recounted the dull evening.  And then something hit me.

“Kyla, have you seen the sponge?”

“No…huh.  That’s weird…”

Now I know what you’re thinking: Kyla got rid of the sponge to make me feel like an ass for teasing her.  And you’re probably right.  But either way, we have a scenario on our hands:

  1. Kyla threw away the sponge, and is pissed enough to not come clean about doing it.
  2. A teenager got his or her prom party adrenaline rush stealing our sponge.

I see problems with both situations, namely:

  1. If Kyla forms vendettas from sponge-teasing, what the hell is she plotting with the countless other things I’ve given her shit for?
  2. “Hey, Brittany, you’re looking pretty hot tonight in that prom dress. What’s say we go to the unoccupied bed upstairs…take it off…and go steal sponges?”

Either way…

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