Help! My Son Has a Roommate from Hell
Writing in the Globe and Mail, David Eddie hears from a reader whose son's roommate is bullying him to move out. The reader writes:
My 23-year-old son has moved in with a friend to share rent and expenses. After a few months, during which things went well (except for one incident for which he has apologized and not repeated), the roommate has started to harass him to move out. This harassment includes bizarre things such as spying on his activities, texting my son's girlfriend of his comings and goings, refusing to let certain people over, threatening to complain to the landlord and shouting.
They both have their names on the lease. We think he may want to get another friend to move in instead. Our son is at a critical time in his university studies and does not need the stress of having to move or find another roommate. Any thoughts on how to resolve this issue?
Eddie responds:
Madam: If I understand correctly what's going on out there lately, my first order of business is to congratulate you on having a 23-year-old who's already moved out.
Mazel tov!
Ah, your son's plight brings me back. One's 20s can be much so fun: going to clubs, jumping around in “mosh pits,” “stage-diving,” “crowd-surfing.” Girls shouting “woo-hoo” on the dance floor at parties, sometimes even festively popping off their tops...
(That's the part about being in my 20s I miss most: There's far too little festive “woo-hoo” shouting and top-doffing on the dance floor at parties these days for my taste.) Having roommates, however, wasn't my favourite part of that era. Not that there was anything wrong with the fellows I lived with. Au contraire, they were great guys.
It's just that cohabitation is tough at the best of times. It's hard enough to keep it friction-free when the person you live with is someone you love deeply, have sex and/or children with, and have vowed in front of a religious or nautical figure to cherish, honour and obey till death do you part.
But when you have a roommate, you're just living with some dude. Some dude who comes come home drunk and scarfs down the last eight inches of your kielbasa, washed down with your last beer, while he farts and burps and watches TV.
Some dude whose idea of housework is to clean his electric shaver with your toothbrush.
Some dude whose idea of cooking is to put a can of spaghetti in the microwave, is surprised when both explode and are destroyed, then slouches off for a nap.
Honestly, it's a miracle these types of arrangements ever work.
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