the situation

I know that I'm not easy to live with.

My freshman year of college, the first time I ever had a roommate -- who, by the way, was my closest friend on campus at the time and an absolute BREEZE to live with -- I got so angry with her over the fact that she never pulled the curtains closed in front of her closet when she left in the morning that I actually confronted her about it. About curtains. Not being closed. It is a damn wonder I have gone this long without being institutionalized.

My sophomore year, when I was rooming with one of my sorority sisters, I accused her of eating my generic brand honey nut cheerios without asking me. Looking back on this incident I completely understand the expression of utter bewilderment on her face, because I feel similarly as I stare at 20-year-old me and say, honestly? Cheerios are that important? What. The. Fuck.

Luckily, since then I've gained a little perspective. And though I haven't been able to completely shed some of my obsessive tendencies, I at least know now to call a cheerio a cheerio and loosen up my sphincter just a tad when it comes to really stupid shit that's not worth bickering over.

However.

I presently live with a smoker. This does not bother me, I've spent much of my life around smokers. When we moved in together, she told me she smoked, but she would take it outside. I said that sounded good to me, we signed on the dotted line, and here we are about six rent checks later. In the past two months or so, I have started to bank on the fact that once a week, I will open the front door of my apartment only to swan dive directly into an ash tray vaguely masked with incense and air freshener. I never say anything, because she has friends over, and they're likable folks -- the last thing I want to do is be That Bitchy Roommate. I always tell myself I'm going to say something later, but I never do, mostly because save this weekly rendezvous, our paths rarely (if ever) cross.

Last night, however, the ash tray became the smokers' lounge at an airport, so full of gray cloud you wonder if there is any oxygen left in the room, or if it's all carbon dioxide and tar residue. Because my door is always closed, my room stays (relatively) unscathed, as long as I get in and out quickly and stuff a towel at the base of the door to block the draft. The worst part is that inevitably, this smokers' party occurs on Sundays, the day I work a nine hour shift and am desperate for something to eat and to crawl into bed. And preparing food in a smoke-filled kitchen is not my idea of a good time.

I've been that person who complained about every little (ridiculous) thing, and I am not that girl anymore -- but this definitely needs mentioning. The problem is that I've avoided these types of confrontations for so long that I'm not even sure how to broach it. The writer in me wishes I could just put a note under her door, but I'm not interested in winding up on Passive Aggressive Notes. So where do I go from here? Leave your best roommate advice in your comment.

cheers,
elizabeth