Day before yesterday, I finally dragged B out to Keystone for the third time this season. The first time, he made a run, then one of the group we were riding with fell broke his arm and B spent the rest of the day at the medical center with him. The second time was at night, and we had fun, but everybody but B and me got really cold, so we took them home after four runs. And day before yesterday, we had the day off, but B, with his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, made four runs, then came home and rotated tires, changed oil, fixed broken chairs from our units, did everything but fun, day-off things. Athough he did have a point when I pointed this out to him, and he scowled and asked, just when he was supposed to do these things, if not on a day off? We're trying to take one day a week off while it's "slow", only ten or so cleans and checkins a day, instead of the mad rush we get in to when it climbs to over twenty. But after next week, our spring break rush kicks off, first with Valentines day, then President's Day, then March. It feels like we are still in the middle of drawing that relieved breath of last April. Where did our year go? Why are Marches only spaced eleven months apart? The one part of our job that burns out property managers faster than many other professions is the fact that one spends an entire winter becoming incrementally more stressed out and busy, and when one thinks one cannot handle anymore, then March hits. If we could have March first, while we were fresh, then the rest of the year, this would be a pretty cushy job.

But it was fun, even though he whined about the snow conditions. It was just the two of us, always a rare treat. Don't get the idea that we resent the fact that there are ALWAYS people around. If they weren't, we would hardly know what to do with ourselves. Like I say, they are probably the reason we do not have kids yet. But, they are ALWAYS there, which means they witness the good, the bad and the ugly of our relationship. We are the recipients of advice that runs the spectrum from "get a clue", to "get a life," to "get a therapist," to "get a room". We have learned to pretty much carry on as we normally would, in spite of having an audience. The only thing we lack, it was suggested the other day, is a crew of makeup artists and a bevy of camera men.

The residents, full and part time, of our suburban abode, are every bit as disfunctional as the worst, most lame, most faky-dramatic reality show on TV- that, incidentally, we never watch. Perhaps because we do not feed off of voyeurism, or perhaps because we do not secretly wish that we were young, and packed into tight spaces, with no elder, moral accountability... because we already are. We generate our own adrenaline rushes, our own stinging one-liners, our own inedible piles of disgusting muck, which we attempt to eat anyway. (It's called condo-kill, and it comes in many forms. To the rich, it may be a delicacy. To us, it's a dare. Caviar, pate', cheeses in all stages of molding rottenness... plus, the ongoing gamble about the things we actually hope will be edible, and not kill us. Deli meat? sniff it, nibble it, wait a day... if all remains intact in the bowelular regions, recommend it to the rest of the household. Dairy products? It all comes down to personal preference. If there are fingerprints in the cheese, ya may want to shave off the outside layer. As for pickles and peanut butter, well, do as we say, not as we do. Two things that are notorious for double-dipping, for sticking one's fingers in after performing a host of disgusting activities (you may have to spend a few weeks with us to gain a complete understanding of what these things might emcompass), but both are so well-loved around here, that one sometimes just closes a mental door on all the whatifs, and carries home an opened jar of said wonderfullness.)

When one lives in a housefull of twenty-somethings (with one eighteen year old we still try to protect), nothing is sacred. No subject is off limits, although one must honor a raised hand, and a horrified, "Enough! Don't want to know!" One also knows to shut up when one realises that everyone else has fallen silent, and is interupted in the middle of a particular enlightening monologue with, "Thank you for sharing that with us."

And one does not simply clean house as one would with a house full of children. Or cook, or do laundry. One must clear all decisions with the other (as many as) eight people who also share the space you have just designated as the spot the toaster is to live. Or whatever it is that you have just moved to a new spot. Rest assured it will mess with somebody's system, not that you knew they even had a system until you messed with it. Asking for permission to use the washing machine is a popularity builder, especially if you agree to wait while someone else does their last two loads, "cause this is the fourth day in these jeans, and they'll fall off if I try to wear them tomorrow, too." As is using the knock-off brands of condo-kill laundry soap, to leave the gentler brands for those with sensitive skin. As is emptying the lint filter when you are done, and shoveling the driveway when it snows, or sweeping the floor. Nobody actually does these things, so when they turn up done, it sometimes gets blamed on the cleaning fairies, or the elves that live under the couch.

In parting, I have one bit of advice about living with a crowd. Do not, under any circumstances, announce more of your intentions than you absolutely have to. In particular, do not announce that you are dieting. You might think that nobody will notice, but with as many as sixteen eyes belonging to as many as eight people, somebody will always see the Nutella on your toast, the peanut butter on your apple, the Hersheys Kiss you thought you were sneaking. There will be as many as eight diet police hanging on your every move. And if you try to justify just why you turned down a third slice of pizza, everybody will call you a bony little winch, and tell you to shut up before they tie your skinny self in a knot. It's just not worth it.