I’ve felt compelled to set fire to my Town House on a few occasions. Once when every single glass, dish and piece of silverware was dirty and spilling from my sink for a straight week. Once when stinkbug carcasses littered our floors during that cruel transition between beautiful scenic fall and fuck-it’s-cold fall. And most recently this weekend, when my home became a halfway house for the 25 unwashed members of the Yale Ultimate Frisbee Team.
At first, the prospect of hosting a couple dozen Ivy League men seemed appealing to me and my one other sex-deprived housemate. Everyone knows Vassar women and Yale men go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong. We’d be going steady with them in no time (Read: engaging in mediocre coitus)!
One of our other housemates, the co-captain of Vassar’s Ultimate team, even tried to set us up for success. As he planned for the tournament, he gave us options, weighing in on degrees of attractiveness and trust fund-havingness. So, we did our research. We examined group photos. We pored over rosters. And finally, we hiked across the great expanse of the TH circle for our first ever sporting event, where we loudly objectified them in the most brilliant reversal of patriarchy this world has ever seen.
However, as they filed into our TH after a day’s worth of running, panting and chasing after a frisbee—or am I talking about the Puppy Bowl?—the only thing that came to mind was “Too Many Cooks.” Truly there were too many cooks in the kitchen, spoiling the stirfry. They wanted to know when they could shower, where they were supposed to sleep and why I was still dressed in the soccer mom outfit I had carefully, perhaps misguidedly, curated for ~spectating~ earlier that day.
Then, to both my horror and relief, all 25 of them proceeded to shower. They mostly kept to themselves while my housemates and I had dinner. They chatted about the merits of Gatorade versus Powerade and which one is most appropriate to dump over your teammate’s head in 35-degree weather. For a moment, I held onto the fragile hope that at least one of them would be fun to hang out with, interesting to talk to or worth kicking out of my twin-sized bed in the cold light of day. But alas, my Symbolic Order was shattered as the Real intruded in the form of 40 more people entering my house, pulling the table cloth out from underneath us so they could play a drinking game.
What followed was a blur of people chanting, shotgunning beer and chasing shots with spoonfuls of the rice abandoned on my stove. As Frisbee players from three other colleges filtered in and out of my house, it became a gas chamber of body odor, farts and warm Rolling Rock. I sequestered myself in my room or at my neighbor’s house, considering emerging with a weapon and chanting, “Thin the herd! Thin the herd!” Instead my housemate Febreezed someone in the face.
Sometime later I made my final escape, choosing to enjoy the rest of my Saturday night like a normal person whose eyes didn’t roll out of their head every 10 minutes. I laughed. I danced. I didn’t cry at the thought of the pool of beer on my kitchen floor.
But then I went home. Entering my house, I swung the door into three bros. I saw that they were all snug in their sleeping bags, lining my floor from wall-to-wall, down the hallway and up the stairs. Unsure of what else to do, I gently and quietly crushed all of their skulls on the way to my room and slipped into my bed, where I fell into an even deeper fugue state.
When I woke up, they were gone. If they hadn’t left a jersey and a pair of boxers behind it would’ve been like it never happened. (If only.)
On Sunday, another one of my housemates walked in and asked us if it was okay if we hosted five women from a Smith a capella group. We chanted, “YES ALL WOMEN” as “Too Many Cooks” looped for the seventh time.