By Orit
June 11, 2005
Her eyes are blue, icy like the seas of Antarctica; her blonde hair soft and thin as a Scandinavian baby's; her skin white and pink -- like snow tinged with blood.
She is Israeli, but she looks like she came straight from Ashkenaz, the Pale of Settlement.
She is my roommate, but I'd like to call her the Ice Queen.
I had thought my roommate days were over, until I learned that even in Tel Aviv Jews expel Jews. After four months of living in my studio apartment, my landlord informed that I had 60 days to leave so that he could remodel the building.
I decided to take my premature evacuation as a blessing in disguise. As the Hebrew saying goes: "Change your location, change your luck."
I convinced myself of the benefits of living with a roommate. It was more cost effective -- cheaper rent and split bills. The burden to buy toilet paper and to do sponga (the dreaded, old-fashioned Israeli mopping) wouldn't all fall on me. And more importantly, I wouldn?t feel so alone. I had caught myself contemplating purchasing a cat to keep me company -- the foreboding of my future as a true spinster.
When my then future-roommate interviewed me, I felt the "click." A law school graduate and business school student, she was my age and seemed put together, rational, neat, albeit very busy. She told me in advance that her boyfriend sleeps over often, but I said I didn't mind as long as I didn't feel like he lived there. The place was well-kept for Israeli standards -- it had wall to wall carpeting and a great balcony -- and she seemed nice enough. I took it.
But slowly, slowly, I started wondering if maybe living with a cat would have been preferable. In the beginning my roommate would call me everyday to bug me about silly logistical questions: "What time do you wake up in the morning? I want to make sure we don't clash in the bathroom." "Can you make sure you're home when the cable guy comes? I'm too busy." My moving-in seemed to fulfill functional purposes that suited her needs and busy lifestyle.
As time went by, we hardly spoke with each other about anything other than doing dishes, taking out the garbage, or tallying the bills.
After about a month, she began to make irritating comments. "You talked on the phone too loud when I was sleeping, and I really don't think you're clean enough."
It seemed that she wanted to live in a museum.
Wanting to keep the peace, I said I'd try to improve. I shrugged off the episode, until she called me one day, interrupting my outing at a Tel Aviv food fair, with the following message: "The apartment is not pleasant to me. You left the garbage bag in the kitchen; it smells. You leave food in the dishes in the sink. I just don't like it."
Again I appeased her just to save face, but then added: "What bothers me is that we hardly talk to each other. That should be more of a problem. We only talk about the dirty dishes. You don't have to be my best friend, but there should be some warmth."
"It's nothing personal," she argued. "I'm going through a hard time with work and now I have tests, and I just don't have time."
I went even further: "And I feel like your boyfriend lives with us. He's with you whenever you're in the apartment. It's like I have two roommates."
"Coming at 11 pm and leaving at 7 am is considered living with us?" the sharp, lawyer-tongue retorted.
"It's more than that."
"Well, that's the status. I told you he sleeps over. You had agreed. I can't change that."
It wasn't worth the argument, and I wanted to avoid confrontation. I decided to swallow things I couldn't change, but which were bearable, rather than live with ongoing tension. I figure it's good practice for marriage.
But the tension subsided the next day when she apologized. She realized her outburst was exaggerated and blamed it on the odor in the kitchen.
Then she sweetly invited me to order-in dinner with her -- and her boyfriend, of course.
We ate, we spoke, it was nice, and it seemed that we'd be able to work things out. We really have no choice in the matter. We're stuck with each other until at least November.
But even with all our clashes, I'm surprisingly happier now than I was living alone. I've traded a cat for a catfight, but it beats waking-up in the morning wondering if there's civilization in the heart of Israeli civilization.
Looking on the bright side, perhaps with time the ice will be broken, and my half-Sephardic blood will warm hers. And maybe I'll learn from her to be less appeasing and more assertive.
If not, I'll have to go with my other basic instinct and consider adding a new accessory to the kitchen: an ice-pick.
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