Yesterday afternoon, I rented a room in my house to a 27 year old young man who just moved from out of state.
Those of you who read my previous post about taking in a tenant just realized I now share my home with two twenty-something males. If I have to get creative to pay the mortgage, I might as well enjoy the scenery.
The second I had the signed rental agreement in hand, I remembered something I needed to share with my new housemate.
“You know how I told you I’m pretty quiet and don’t have a lot of houseguests or loud parties?”
He gave me a wary look, probably wondering how binding the rental agreement would be if he tore it up and ate the pieces. “Yeah?”
“That’s all true,” I assured him, “Except for this Thursday night.”
“What’s Thursday night?”
“A party. With a lot of women. One men aren’t allowed to be at.”
He frowned. “What sort of party is that?”
How does one explain the concept of a Pure Romance Party to a strange man one has met mere hours before, and who, for the next few months anyway, will be sharing the laundry room and the good skillet?
“It’s sort of like a Tupperware party,” I said carefully. “Only instead of salad containers, think of sex toys.”
“Think of sex toys?”
“Not right now,” I added. “I mean, you don’t have to think about them now, or ever, really, but they will be in the house on Thursday evening. So will a lot of women consuming large quantities of wine and passing the sex toys around for perusal and purchase.”
I couldn’t read his expression. That’s probably because we’d exchanged a total of eighty words at this point, and seventy of them had to do with rent and background checks. I honestly wasn’t sure if he was preparing to flee or preparing to look under my sofa for the hidden camera.
“The thing is,” I continued, “men aren’t allowed to be present for these things, so you probably want to hide in your room or go to a movie or something. And I can’t guarantee your safety if you show up in the living room and get swarmed by two dozen women hopped up on estrogen and Pinot Noir.”
I gave him my best smile and handed him a house key. “So here you go. And welcome. I’m really not a pervert or a party animal.”
I’m pretty sure he knew I was lying about at least one of those things.
Nevertheless, he took the key and retreated to his room, where he’s probably busy installing a deadbolt as I type this.
It's possible I'm the worst landlord in history.