It was a sweaty, hot day in NYC. I stepped off the train in Brooklyn, blocks from my home. After having to transfer 3 times because of construction on the MTA lines. And before that, having been on a train for 2 hours traveling from Philadelphia. Where it was standing room only—FOR TWO HOURS.

It was a miserable trip. The number one thing I wanted to do was hop into the shower and scrub the smell of train off my body. Yes, “train” is its own scent. I slid the key in my lock expecting to be greeted by my dogs…but instead sitting in my family room was a group of 5 people–and Sean standing there with a beer.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day today!?”

I gritted my teeth, nodding and forcing a smile.

I said my hello’s to the guests, asking them not to get too close to me…I didn’t want to be an ungracious host. I just really, really needed a shower.

I slipped into the bathroom and peeled the damp clothes from my body. It felt like taking a layer of skin off. The steam from the shower filled my nostrils and I immediately felt better. I noticed 4 different used towels hung up around the bathroom. Unsure at which ones were used by Sean’s dad (who had visited for the weekend while I was out of town), I grabbed the towel that I had been using before I left. It needed to be washed, but one more use wasn’t a big deal.

After cleaning up and hanging out a few hours, the guests left. I wandered around, grabbing random bits of pieces that needed to be laundered. Approaching the bathroom, I yelled to Sean: “Which towels did your dad use in here?”

He came up behind me. “Why?”

…blink…

…blink, blink…

“Because we need to wash them.” It seemed so obvious to me.

He paused again. “I don’t know. Just wash them all.”

Breathe, Colleen. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean, I don’t know. He probably just used whatever was in there.”

“…but…but, my towel was also in there. The towel I just used today as well.”

“So?”

“So?!?!?! It’s my towel! MY towel! I DO NOT share my towels…particularly not with your dad!”

The conversation went on like this for about 30 minutes. Me: BECAUSE IT’S GROSS! Him: But, why? It’s just cells. Me: BECAUSE IT’S GROSS!

He couldn’t understand why it was a big deal..but I was really disgusted that he really didn’t get why it was considered so gross. In my experience and opinion…if you go to someone’s house, you either bring your own towels, or you expect to be given a clean towel that you will use for the weekend. YOU DON’T JUST USE WHATEVER TOWELS ARE AROUND AND HAVE BEEN USED ALL WEEK.

Apparently Sean doesn’t know how to be a good host. A host launders all pillowcases and sheets after a guest leaves. All towels given out should be clean and folded.

We finally came to the agreement that “because of social rules, we need to give guests their own towels, pillowcases and sheets” but I could not get Sean to admit that not doing so is disgusting. He claims that the couch is more disgusting than a used towel.

Anyone else have thoughts or opinions? I always believed that this was just proper etiquette when it came to house guests.

So basically, if you come to stay at our apartment, make sure I’M home when you come for the weekend. It’s the only way to ensure clean towels.

As a comic book artist, Sean needs a lot of photo references. And because he prefers to not steal exact poses from other photographs that aren’t his (It’s a fine line, but he considers it stealing art. I pretty much agree), he asks me to photograph him in various poses for the male characters, and he poses me for the female characters.

So, here I am, on my hands and knees with my body curved in the shape of a “C” but looking straight up, pretending to be one of the hippies begging for money in his next issue. As you can imagine, it’s not the most comfortable pose, but I endure for art’s sake. And Sean is SOOO picky about these things, he’s all: Good, tilt your chin up…good, now move your pinky finger down. Uh-huh and lower your shoulders. Good…”

By this point, my arms are starting to cramp and my back is bursting into spasms.

Me: Take the damn picture, Sean!

Him: Hold on…just move your hand to the right.

I do as I’m told.

Him: Move it to the right.

I move it more to the right.

Him: To the right…

I move even more to the right. By this point my arms is now completely outstretched.

Him: I said your RIGHT!

Me: This IS my right!

Him: Oh, oops. I mean your left.

Seriously? Someone in this apartment needs to go back to grade school. And believe it or not, it’s not the girl crawling around on all fours, who considers chocolate cake to be a good choice for breakfast.