Surprise. (not.)

So, I'm a little to post this. Mainly because I wasn't really planning on mentioning it. But then I figured, if Ashley meeting Paris Hilton warrants a post. . .

(Jan. 2005 File Photo. 'Cuz, you know, at this point I have a lot of those.)

. . .so should the news that one of my best friends got engaged last weekend. Congrats to my friends and and new neighbours, Brie and Mark!

(Not like this is shocking news. After all, we're talking about a couple here who have a change bucket in their living room for their reception's "open bar fund" and had the colours for their wedding picked out 4 years ago. I guess the most gossip-worthy aspect is that Brie proposed to Mark. But I'm thrilled for you guys, and I promise I'll throw a few pennies in the bucket the next time I come over.)

She Was Me

It's simple to forget that anyone came before.

I live in the magazine lab. I'm here, spreading my germs, spreading the love, spreading my eyes across the Internet for that one key piece of information that will make my story a story. I've spent $120 in the past two days on a new digital recorder (for fact-checking file purposes) and a doohickie (that's the technical name, of course) that hooks my recorder into the phone. (Up until this point I've just been able to take shorthand notes, but we're in the big leagues now.) I'm kind of excited with the purchase--the blackmail prospects are endless!

I knew my interview subject today was a Ryerson grad, so the small talk portion of the interview, which has never been my fortay (usually I have a terrible tendency to say something along the lines of, "Okay, I'm going to launch right into the questions if that's alright with you") was unbelievably easy. She had been here before. She understood.

"When you were still in j-school, what kind of writing were you interested in doing upon graduation?" I asked her, the first in a long list of questions. "Not what I did I actually ended up doing when I graduated!" she laughed. "I worked for trade magazines, but I was more interested in writing about women's issues. I was the editor of McClung's."

"Really?" I said. "That's funny, because I'm actually the editor of McClung's this year."

She graduated in 1994. The magazine celebrated its 15th anniversary this year. "I'm glad to hear it's still around!" she told me.

"Yah, and we're not even photocopied anymore--we're a full-colour glossy magazine."

Later, Canice and I found ourselves wading through the back issues, the distorted grainy pictures, the 800-word features. And the masthead pages--full of unfamiliar names.

Ryerson doesn't have the gothic architecture, the professors who time forgot, or the ivy-covered buildings that crowd the University of [City or Province name here] campus. We have a glass structures named after massive corporations, a building from the '70s lined with high school lockers that is currently missing a ceiling, and a hot dog vendor who everyone calls by his first name. We're surrounded by high tech equipment, young instructors and a comraderie that isn't necessarily affectionate, because we all know we're going to be stepping on each other's toes 3 years from now.

It's easy to forget that anyone came before.

(The only way to have ownership over something is to forget that you aren't the first and that you won't be the last.)

Update

Update: According to the pharmacist, it's likely *not* pink eye. Pink eye is usually really itchy and has much more discharge than I have right now. That's the good thing.

The bad thing is I still don't know what's wrong or what to do about it.

My eyes have swollen since I got up this morning. This afternoon, I was in the magazine lab and pointed it out to a classmate. 'They don't look swollen," she consoled me. "Um, well, I have huge eyes normally, remember?" She looked again. "Holy shit, your eyes are swollen," she said upon further examination. "They're normal-person sized!"

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, where I'm certain they're going to tell me that I'm a "healthy young girl" and that my body will fight it off. (Liars.)

It's time to bunker down for yet another wonderful and wild year of Jessica's mystery ailments! (Seriously, now. Body? What's up with you? Why can't you get some identifiable illness for once, instead of coughing up blood/dizziness that lasts a month/mystery eye infections?)

Gramophones and Leprosy

Sonja and I went to see Andrew Bird at the Opera House last night.


Although I'm a bit of a music snob and completely into music for all it's worth, I'm not completely into musicians. When I was in high school, I used to scour the Internet for the latest bits of gossip about my favourite artists. But then I stopped. I don't know what sparked it, but I think adding the visual to the audio was completely unneccesary. Knowing about musician's lives didn't add to the music for me; it just took away from it. For me, video truly did kill the radio star.

With that being said, I had no idea Andrew Bird was a master whistler. Which is kind of embarassing, I suppose, seeing as this is what he is known for, and probably where he earned his monicker.

But even more, I'd have to say that Andrew Bird is the best all-around musician I've ever seen live. Hawksley Workman puts on the most entertaining shows, Ted Leo is the best guitarist I've ever seen, but Andrew Bird is capable of playing possibly every musical genre, and playing it well. (However, this was not the best show I've ever seen. I'm not quite sure what musician garners that honour. Andrew Bird himself, as a personality, kind of bothered me. He seemed to have an air of hubris combined with his eccentricity. He's the kind of guy who never had to fight for a music deal--he probably had it handed to him. But when you're that accomplished of a musician, I suppose a little egoticism is in order.)

He had a double-sided gramophone on stage that was miked, and when Andrew Bird pressed a pedal, it would spin rotationally. He sampled one of those children's barn-yard animal noise toys. He could whistle each note on his xylophone dead-on, and when he was playing his violin like a violin (rather than like a guitar, which is what he did for half the show), he could make it mimic his voice and vice-versa.

Also, if you're trying to figure out what to put in your parents Christmas stocking, an Andrew Bird album is a sure bet--one fifth of the crowd last night had grey hair and bald spots.

It was phenomenal.

And then I woke up this morning with pink eye.

I successfully avoided my annual third-week-of-school-cold by popping Cold FX pills like there's no tomorrow, but I knew my good health was too good to be true.

I've never had pink eye before, so I have no idea how I even got it. Possibly from failing to remove eye makeup? Or perhaps from my bad habit of continuously sticking my fingers in my eyes to readjust my contacts throughout the day?

Well, today is glasses on. I can't get in to see a doctor until tomorrow morning. The Internet advises that I shouldn't go to work, since I'm highly contagious, but I'm set to interview the former editor of Chatelaine today (thankfully, it's a phone interview, but I need to use the phones at school). And today is the first masthead meeting for McClung's. (I was going to bake brownies for everyone at the meeting, but that's been chopped off my list of things to do.) And today I have to write assignment letters, and do research and hopefully do more interviews. And I have to write assignment letters for McClung's winter issue.

The worst thing about pink eye, apart from having to replace all my eye makeup (and all I own is eye makeup), is not what it looks like. It's the fact that people shudder in fear, that they too will be inflicted with the dreaded zombie eyes. I might as well be a leper.*

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*Leprosy isn't actually contagious. But that's beyond the point.

Queries

Every passing hour or so, the dead air becomes alive with the sound of a very distinct, one-syllable word, borne of sheer frustration.

There are cue cards all over the wall above my desk. I remember, almost fondly, buying those cue cards. They were for a first-year psychology class at the University of Alberta. I wrote a term on the front and information on the back, to create flash cards for studying subjects I couldn't quite wrap my mind around. I'd pull them out on breaks and bus rides to quiz myself, until the information was nearly solidified in my mind.

Ah, those were the days.

Now the cue cards always read, "This story will show that. . ." in bold black sharpie. Known facts and figures have been replaced with questions, queries, pieces to the puzzle I'm trying to put together.

Instead of memorizing information, I'm trying to create information. But instead, I'm just gutterly, repetitively, throwing my new favourite one-syllable word out into the silence, hoping it will make everything all better, just like when you stub your toe and that one word is the salve to make everything better.

Fact for Friday: Three's Company

I'm still getting used to having neighbours.

I guess this is what it means to live on Queen Street West. The noise of raccoons and people crawling on my roof to smoke crack (the people, not the racoons) has been replaced with pounding music, furniture being re-arranged and strange voices.

On Wednesday night, I went to bed at midnight. As soon as I turned out my light, music started up full blast next door. Jazzy, bluesy stuff. I initially enjoyed it, until one o'clock rolled around and I was still awake. And then, my neighbour started hammering stuff into our shared wall.

I very unceremoniously banged on the wall with my fist.

Last night, around 2:30 a.m., I woke up to moaning. At first I was concerned. "Natty must be having a nightmare. Maybe I should wake her up," I initally thought. But the moaning didn't cease. It was constant. "Did she bring a guy home with her?" I wondered groggily. I walked out into the hallway and there was dead silence. Back in my room, the moaning continued, rising and falling and then there it was: the definite noise of two bodies slamming against each other. I let out my own groan, but it wasn't one of pleasure, and I laid back, staring at the ceiling. The moaning continued for an hour, the woman tremendously loving every moment with her silent, phantom lover.

Tonight, when I returned from dinner with Ulrika at Sweet Lulu (where the server accidentally poured an entire glass of guava juice down my shirt and into my lap), there was a reasonably attractive bearded guy in his late twenties ringing the doorbell at my place.

"Hey, are you Scott's neighbour?" he asked me, referring to the neighbour that Natty and I share a hallway and entrance with.

"Yah, but he's m.i.a right now," I told the guy, "this is all hearsay on my part, but apparently he randomly took off and is driving to Vancouver." Scott just went through a messy breakup, apparently. The guy kept asking me more questions about Scott, "I don't really know," I finally said, "I actually just moved in myself, so I don't really know Scott."

"Oh, really?" he said. "I actually live just down there."

"Down where?"

"Right next door," he said, "above that clothing store."

"So does that mean we share a wall?" I asked him.

"Yah, I guess so," the guy told me.

My brows furrowed as I connected the dots. "So, were you the one having REALLY LOUD sex last night?" I asked him, rather bluntly. In retrospect, I realize this is something you probably aren't supposed to ask someone you only met 2 minutes earlier.

His whole face flooded with blood. "Yah," he said shyly.

I ignored his obvious embarassment. "Well, I hope she was a one night stand and not your girlfriend. I don't know if I can deal with that on a regular basis."

"I'm so sorry," he said, avoiding the question.

"Don't be sorry. It sounded like you were having fun. So, is she your girlfriend? Like, is this going to be a regular occurrence?"

"Um, not really."

"It was a one-night stand?"

"Not really. It was a friend, and it was the first time it happened," he responded, still not meeting my eyes. "I don't know if it will happen again."

Oh, good work me. I had somehow managed to take an awkward situation and make it that much more awkward. Here this poor guy was; he'd obviously drunkenly slept with just a friend and was still wallowing in the confusion about that, and then I come along and decide to engage him in an in-depth conversation about his sex life moments after meeting him.

We chatted for a bit longer, and then parted ways. "I guess I should get going. I'll try to keep it down next time," he told me, smiling. "I'm so embarassed."

"Don't be," I told him. "You don't have to keep it down. But she does."

I'm the boss.

This is going to be a blog about journalism. This is going to a blog about the pitfalls of j-school. This is going to be a blog that is dedicated to all the third-year students who have no idea what they are getting themselves into.

I still don't own a bike.

This means that every morning, the very moment I wake up, I'm faced with the first major decision of my day.

I can choose to sleep in an extra 20 minutes, spend a bonus 10 minutes getting ready, wear a nice dress and heels to school and pay $2.75 to take the streetcar to school (and another $2.75 to take the streetcar home). Or, I can stop hitting snooze a little earlier, rush to get ready, forgo the shower despite my greasy hair, slip into a pair of jeans that I've been wearing for the last three days straight, and spend 40 minutes walking to school (and 50 minutes walking home--because I'm never late to get home, so I don't have to walk quite as fast).

Lately I've been choosing the latter option. I'm poor and the 40 minute walk (which translates to walking roughly seven kilometers every day) has been a relief for my back, which is aching after spending six hours in lectures, two hours in groups meetings and impromptu meetings with my profs, and another two hours hunched in front of a computer finalizing the McClung's masthead.

It's nearly 9:00 p.m. and it's time for dinner; another brief break before I settle into an evening of doing research (again, hunched over my laptop) in preparation for the RRJ masthead meeting tomorrow, and struggling to get through another 100 pages of a novel for my English class.

Behold! The next eight months of my life!

(But the truth is, I walked home with a sense of satisfaction tonight. "I get shit done," I thought, having a mental interview with a fictional future employer. Not that I would ever use profanity in an interview, of course. But school has started, and I'm back into it full-swing. For the first time in the last five years of my post-secondary education, I truly feel like I'm giving it my all.)

Another day, another dollar (in debt)

I was walking to meet the Collective for sushi* on Thursday night, when something made me stop dead in my traps. Sitting on the Horseshoe's patio were two unmistakably familiar face. It was Phil and Lauren, of Raymi the minx fame. The whole situation felt peculiar, although I couldn't pinpoint why. I'm not a huge fan of Raymi's blog, although I'm sure she's an interesting persona, but I'm still a semi-regular reader of her site. There's a certain familiarity you get from voyeuristically reading about someone else's life on a regular basis.

But that's not what made me feel awkward--what made me feel strange was that I know the same thing has happened at parties to me, but vice versa. People have spotted me, recognized me, and I can immediatly see spelled across their face that they know way more about me than perhaps I'd like them too. Or more accurately, they think they know more about me.

Basically, passing Raymi on the street was the equivalent of meeting Melissa for the first time. Or whenever I see Gill.** Digital turns to analogue. I considered going up to say hi, but as I know Lauren doesn't read my blog, I kept walking. I figured it was a waste of time to say hi to someone who I don't know, and who doesn't know me. So there it is. We shall remain in the same digital spheres. (I guess this is what happens when I finally join the rest of the world and move west of Yonge Street.)

When I mentioned this scenerio at dinner, (in between all the journalism-related conversations that sounded roughly like this: "Jess Rafuse couldn't come to dinner because she's covering a murder case--and it's only her second day on the job!") Ashley brought up reading C'est What , who randomly happens to be in the same blogging social circle that Melissa, Lauren and I belong to. The others girls at the table were confused. Chloe and I tried to explain. But this picture probably serves that example best: in Chloe's blogging circle, name signs are totally normal and a necessity for validity (I suspect). In my circle, they're non-existant.

Imagine that. I belong to a social circle full of people I've never met, never spoken to and probably never will.

Enough about blogging. This blog isn't supposed to be self-referential constantly. Moving onwards.

September 22nd is CarFree Day. On Friday there were some people celebrating prematurely on Queen Street; two men knocking croquet balls into the streetcar tracks, and a mime on a bicycle playing badminton with a man in a top hot.

The stack of books on my floor was beginning to drive me insane.

So Junior came over to put my shelf up for me.

Julia is here visiting. (And we got a couch! Delivered! Yay! Furniture! Now we just need a kitchen table and chairs and we're golden!)

And finally, let me introduce to you all, my new roomate Natty, who has quickly fallen in love with my DVD collection (Freaks & Geeks and Arrested Development) and my obsessive baking.

Two weeks ago it was vegan zucchini cranberry muffings. Last weekend was carrot cake with cream cheese icing. This weekend it was vegan banana bread chocolate chip muffins (well, I admit the chocolate wasn't vegan, but that's a technicality) and apple cinnamon muffins.

I'm out of control. Nat and Brooke think I'm trying to fatten them up.

Other than that, McClung's is taking over my life. I spent all weekend sifting through masthead job applications and preliminary story pitches for the magazine. And quite frankly, I'm pretty sure the solution to my stress levels and workload is clear: more baked goods.

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*I used to be deadly opposed to the concept of sushi as a meal, since I don't think a cold food constitutes dinner. That is, until I discovered the joy that is tempura vegetables. I'm a changed woman.

**Gill is roomate's with my friend and classmate Carla. She had a class and did a project with my old roomate Katrina last year. On top of this, she grew up with and is friends with my roomate Natty. We read one another's blogs, and we've met once or twice, but we have yet to have a full-on conversation. Kind of strange, when you think about it.

Baring my music on my sleeve

Hot Date?

Andrew Bird- September 25th*
Minus the Bear- October 1st
Ted Leo and the Phramacists- October 7th**
The Weakerthans- November 8th
John Butler Trio Band- November 13th

*Already have tickets: Sonja and I are going, but company is welcome.
**Dependant upon my location during Thanksgiving.

It was all a dream, tiny dancer

I didn't take my camera to the Girl Talk show tonight, but I didn't need to. As it stands, I'm pretty sure the night is premanently engraved in my mind as the biggest dance party I've ever seen.

Picture this: The show is sold out, and the room is packed to capacity. Anyone who's been to a concert at the Phoenix knows that a sold-out show is 3,000 people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting for and inch of room and a glimpse of the stage. But this isn't a concert. This is Girl Talk.

Instead, all 3,000 (or whatever the capacity of the Phoenix is) of those bodies are pulsating. The floor feels like it's going to cave in under the weight of all 6,000 moving feet, and not a single person is standing still. But it isn't just your par for the course head bobbing that's going on. Even in the furthest reaches, from the front of the stage, to the doorway to the bathrooms at the back, everyone is dancing. And everyone is dancing hard. The room smells like the collective body odour of the masses, and steam is rising thick above the crowd. Shirts are removed, straightened hair turns curly, and the air is so heavy with fake smoke and heat that it's difficult to breathe.

In short, it was ridiculous.

[Oh, and just for the record to the anon commentor from a couple of days ago who really annoyed me: just because I attended a venue with alcohol served in it, does not necessarily mean I was drinking. I know this is shocking, and difficult to comprehend, but it is possible to go to the bar without drinking. It's a revolutionary concept, really. Of course, I did need to snort cocaine that was bought with my trust fund at various points throughout the evening, but it doesn't matter, because I didn't drink. Right?]

Weekend in Review

Happy Birthday to the one of the classiest girls I know.

Clearly.

The night started off at Smashley's apartment in the gay village. In attendance were, of course, the regulars.

While we may look like polite journalism students, I'm pretty sure we scared the other half of Ashley's friend's that showed up. Then again, we're all friends with Ashley, so I suppose we couldn't have scared them too much.

From there we went to Tiger Bar.

And we danced.
Yup, that sums up the evening.

And then yesterday was V-Fest.

We were mainly there to see our lady of the moment, M.I.A. Although, I have to admit, I was pretty taken to her awesome sparkly pant-clad back-up singer.

Other favourite of the day: Mute Math. We skipped out on Interpol to watch them play, and weren't dissapointed.

(The briefness of this post is directly correlated with the reading and homework I'm supposed to be doing right now. Sorry, kids.)

Let There Be Light!

This morning Nando came over bright and early. No, he didn't come over so we could commiserate about hangovers. He was here to do the impossible. He was here to change my lightbulb.

In a matter of moments, he did what no other man has been able to do for me free of charge (wow, that's a loaded statement). In a matter of moments, he changed my lightbulb.

Life is getting better.

Week in Review

I've been trying to enjoy these last few moments before I'm surviving solely off empty library floors, codeine and the journalism support group (aka my masthead.)

Last Sunday night, I went to watch Charles and some of the boys play at Brickworks. It was an evening of cherubs with indie haircuts and boys who unintentionally emulate Bob Dylan. It was a night of jokes about Adam Smith and Calvinism that were appreciated by all--but went right over my head. It was a time when I started to realize that my university days are drawing to a close--and that's not entirely a good thing.

Hey, look! It's Sasha. I haven't seen her for 8 months. And hey, it's our new friend Chris! Hi, Chris! Thanks for overlooking our social awkwardness and eating bread pudding at House on Parliament with us!

The night ended with dancing on the dock to keep warm in defense of the evening's condensation.

The day after being terrified by my first masthead meeting of the year, was spent in the sun on Gould Street.

It was Club's Day. And let me tell you, things that are not fun: trying attract volunteers to a relatively unknown student publication, all the while yelling over the pounding music of two student groups trying to outdo the other with excessively high auditory levels of their equally horrid ethnic music.

Canice was sitting across the street, hitting on cute boy bike messengers. I, meanwhile, was attempting to defend feminism to the few people who stopped at my table. (I copped out of most of these arguments by claiming that I couldn't hear my attacker's arguments--which was entirely true. My ears were ringing.)

The only thing on my side: the cover of the winter 2006 issue, which was picked up by numerous passerbys. I'm sure several guys who grabbed it are going to be dissapointed by the contents within.

And tonight is Ashley's 24th birthday (we're both part of the old journalism ladies club). I'm celebrating the last few homework sparse moments by drinking Superwine. (Vodka + Crappy Fake Wine = Superwine! It's pretty much every parent's dream.) Because nothing says a party like Superwine.

In the dark

It's Thursday night, and I've been assigned eight dozen readings all within the first two days of class. However, I can't complete any of them because the lighting in my room is too dim in the evenings. I tried going downstairs to read, but discovered that our donated midget couch is too small for me. (Last night I layed down on the living room floor to read a book.) I would just buy a new couch, but I have no way to get it from point "a" to point "b." Sure, I could pay a delivery guy, but why buy a couch from Salvation Army for $20 and then spend $75 on its delivery? So, basically, I have no furniture, and I'm sitting in the dark.

Tonight, I hate being a student enough that I'm almost crying.

I'm so frustrated that I can't even change a lightbulb, let alone find studs in walls, use the right screwhead for anything, or afford to own even the shabbiest of furniture.

I guess I just wish I had someone to help me right now.

Paris' Personal Shopper

Whenever I go home to Alberta, one of the first questions I always get asked is, "Did you meet/see any celebrities in Toronto?" Ummm. Sure, I meet a lot of obscure musicians and writers that I've been fawning over for years prior. But celebrities in the "we only adopt babies from foreign countries and floss our teeth with golden thread while holding our pet monkeys" sense of the word? No.

However, most of my friends in Toronto seem to have more encounters than me.

For instance, last night, Smashley was Paris Hilton's personal shopper at Aritizia.


The only reason I decided this was truly blog-worthy was because the pose Ash clearly conned Paris into making is pretty hilarious to me.

This one's for you K-Flo, since the celebrity question always seems to be your favourite.

Lightbulb Update

I'm sitting in my room trying to get homework done, and my eyes are aching because I'm working under minimal light.

Frustrated, I removed everything from the top of my tall dresser (which is surprisingly sturdy), and discovered that I could almost reach...something taller just needs to be under or on top of the dresser. However, we have no chairs in our house, or anything the dresser could sit under or on top of. In addition, I am terrified of heights. Natty has offered to climb whatever structure we create out of furniture, but she's only about 5 feet tall.

Solutions?

Go!

Greetings, New Neighbourhood

Seriously, who even knew that people celebrated Labour Day?

I mean, I know about the classic kind of celebration as in, "Hey Sunday's like a Friday now--let's get trashed and cause a ruckus!"

But I had no clue that Labour Day would result in a 3 hour long, "Whooo, we're workers!" parade, complete with tin pan drums, marching bands, and continuous loud music.

I also had no clue that this would happen right in front of my house, in the morning, while I was trying to sleep. I guess it's just a good thing that I didn't classically celebrate Labour Day last night.

Homecoming

In a mission to avoid the food-crusted-on-as-thick-as-mold-on-old-coffee-filter-stove at 518, I jumped at the opportunity to go to London for a couple of nights when Courtney invited me.

So on Tuesday night we boarded a surprisingly packed 10:30 p.m. bus, and spent the next day lounging beside her Dad's pool before Brie's "Goodbye London" party.


Yay! Friends!

All my commentary about the night is being self-censored.

Basically, it was a lot of fun, and I missed my 11:30 a.m. bus on Thursday morning.

A little woozy, I went home and dropped off my bags before I headed down the street to my new home to see it for the first time.

Yes, that's right, the first time. Oh, and did I mention that I was scheduled to move in for the following morning and had never seen my room before, even in pictures? True story. I'm adventurous like that.

Here's the deal: My new roomate, Natty*, has been in Europe all summer. Her old roomate, Brooke, is going overseas in a month (she's living here until the start of October). But I needed a place to live and Natty needed a roomate. It seemed like a sweet deal when I heard about it (washer & dryer, patio, sunroom, living room, 1 and 1/2 bathrooms, two floors, right on Queen Street West) so I jumped on the deal and agreed to live with her without ever seeing the place.

Until the day before I moved in. Natty warned me on the phone, "Your room needs to be painted. There's spackle on the walls." I thought she was just being picky or exaggerating and figured the room probably didn't really need to be painted.

Until I saw this. And then I noticed the 20 foot ceilings. And wondered how I was going to possibly paint them. And then I noticed all the random screws and nails in the walls."The light's burnt out," Natty told me. Icing on the cake.

I cried a little. But just on the inside.

Fourteen hours, two coats of butterum paint, multiple bruises and three hundred dollars later, it's starting to look a little bit more like home. However, the lightbulb is impossible to change--we couldn't get the fourteen foot ladder I rented (and hauled all the way home) up the stairs. If anyone has any ideas, please let me know! (There's a screw in the ceiling, so there must be a way to reach the top of a 20 foot ceiling without a ladder!)

This puts the massive ceilings in perspective. Yet another room without genuine windows, but it's still a step-up from my den of a room in China.

Once we get the place put together I'll post more pictures.

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*Fun fact: I pronounce all double "T"s as "D"s. Kitten=Kidden. Little=Liddle. Little Kitten=Liddle Kidden. Natty=Naddy. Kind of embarassing when you're living with someone you've only met roughly on three occassions prior to living with them.