In the past year or so, I, and several of my closest friends, have finally cracked into a segment of society that at one time seemed impossible that I'd ever be a part of.... New Yorkers Who Can Afford Apartments Without the Financial Aid of a Roommate. I suppose it was the next logical step as our careers slowly advanced us into higher income brackets, but until it actually happened to me, I was convinced that I would spend the rest of my life sharing a bathroom with a person that I didn't really even like.

As I got settled into my new apartment, it became more and more apparent how lucky I was to live alone. Simple pleasures like walking around naked, and being able to store food in your refrigerator without fearing it be eaten by a roommate with the munchies, were just some of the things I excitedly shared with my friends regarding my new found freedom. These discussions of the benefits of living alone naturally led to talk of some of the nonsense that we had to deal with in some of our former living situations. After my departure from my parent's comfortable abode, I lived with a series of roommates, one crazier than the next. The insecure lesbian whose girlfriend would get mad at ME if I took too long in my own bathroom and the houseful of rowdy college boys who would habitually hold 3am skateboard competitions in the room immediately above my bedroom, were just a couple of the many wackos with whom I've shared a common space. No one however holds a candle to my most infamous roommate of all...Norma.

I had been living in New York for about 3 months when my alcoholic law student of a roommate decided to take a job with a small law firm in Kansas. Left with an apartment that was no longer rent controlled (and a salary that didn't allow for a 300% increase in rent), I was forced to find an alternate living situation. I couldn't have picked a worse time go on an apartment hunt in the city of New York. The internet age was in full swing, and decent apartments were as equally as rare as they were expensive. When placing a call to a number plucked from what was hailed as a "brand new ad," it was not uncommon to hear the words.."I'm sorry, 125 people have already called about the room. We're not taking any more applicants." I looked at "rooms" in converted studios, which were really just glorified closets separated from the rest of the apartment with a flimsy sheet. I saw one bedroom apartments where six 20-somethings shared a 400 square foot living space. (My share of the rent would have been $1100.) It was truly frightening. The market was booming and I was seriously panicking. I finally ran across an ad that sounded promising. In fact, it sounded too good to be true. Someone named Norma was looking for a female non-smoking roommate to share her big two bedroom apartment on West End Avenue in the 80's for a mere $450 per month.

When I rang the buzzer at the front door of a beautiful pre-war building, I hoped for the best, but expected the worst. When Norma answered the door, I was pleasantly surprised. She was a stout woman; approximate 70 years old, with a nice smile and a seemingly pleasant demeanor. She conducted the interview in a large (and immaculately clean) living room. She asked me some standard questions, showed me the nice (and big!) room that was for rent, and sat me down to tell me a bit about the rules of the house.

1. No boys were to enter the apartment. Ever.
2. Strict levels of cleanliness were to be met at all times.
3. No food outside of the kitchen.
4. No visitors unless prior approval had been given by Norma.

Strict? Yes, but I was desperate. At that point I was left with about four days to find a new home. I had this horrible vision in my head that involved me sitting on the curb outside my soon-to-be ex-apartment, surrounded by my paltry possessions. Out of sheer desperation, I decided take the apartment. After all, the neighborhood was great and the price was definitely right. I figured, what the hell, I can put up with anything for $450 an month.

I have never been so wrong in my life.

I arrived on moving day laden with my belongings and knocked on the door to my new home. I heard someone unlocking about 75 deadbolts and chains, and when the door finally opened was surprised to see a very odd looking stranger standing before me. After a double and triple take, I realized that the stranger in question was in fact Norma, my new roommate. Gone was the stout, friendly 70 year old, and in her place was a bald, fat, grouchy, old freak. A surgeon's mask covered a large portion of her face, but her bald head was in clear view. A housecoat circa 1964 covered her plump body; blue velvet slippers adorned her liver spotted feet.

"Take of your shoes!!" she screeched at me through the mask.

Scared as hell, I followed her command, and stepped into my new apartment. It was much as I remembered, save for the path of garbage bags that ran from the front door of the apartment to the door of my room. She informed me that she was worried that my boxes would scratch her floor, and asked that I stay ON the plastic path at all times. I wondered if the garbage bags were going to be a permanent feature.

After I settled in, she called me into the living room to re-discuss the rules of the house. I was more than a bit shocked when she handed me her hand-written, photocopied, 20-page booklet of rules and regulations. Inside the booklet were not only rules, but also detailed instructions regarding how I was to go about cleaning up after myself. I had to scour the bath after each and every use, I had to spray Lysol in the toilet every time I used the restroom, and any pot that was used not only had to be scrubbed with precision, but had to be scrubbed with the correct sponge (All the pots had their own specific scrubbers or sponges). Unfortunately, this was just the tip of the iceberg. There were instructions about how I was to open and close the front door, information regarding the exact placement of all the dishes in the cupboards, and rules about how I was to tear off the sheets of paper towels.

Suffice it to say, life with Norma was NOT easy. I spent the majority of my time in the apartment hiding in my room and avoiding her. This was fortunately not difficult, as she kept very odd hours. She slept until early afternoon every day, and stayed up until the wee hours of the morning. She liked to watch a lot of television, and would tape programs during the day while she slept so she could enjoy them at night. Her biggest passion however was professional figure skating. She taped all the events, and took detailed notes while watching the competitions. I tried to steal glances at the yellow legal pad which she used for her notetaking...I was never certain but I'm pretty sure she pretended to be a judge, scoring the competitors as they performed their routines.

I would try to slip in and out of the apartment as quickly and as quietly as possible, for if I was to wake her, or encounter her at all, I would be treated to a lecture about how she found a grain of rice on a pot that I had scrubbed incorrectly (...and oh by the way I used the wrong sponge!!). I would lie still in my bed pretending to sleep as she pounded on my bedroom door shouting about how I had forgotten to wipe down the mirror after brushing my teeth. (When I would finally leave my room, I would find that she had taped to my door the "how to clean the bathroom mirror" page from her handbook.) As I stayed with her longer, I quickly began to realize how crazy she actually was. If she hadn't been so annoying and cruel, I would have probably begun to feel sorry for her.

I began to spend as little time as possible in the apartment. This wasn't a difficult task during the week since I worked during the day, but the weekends were a bit more of a challenge. Fortunately for me, a coworker of mine found himself in a similarly horrific living situation, and the bonds of our friendship were cemented over many a beer while complaining about our respective roommates. (The problem with his roommate was a combination of her horrific smell and the fact that he was pretty sure that she was a prostitute.) The Gin Mill on 83rd & Amsterdam offered a 12n-6p all you can drink special on Saturdays and Sundays, and J. and I spent many-a-day there avoiding our problems at home. The beer made it easier to deal with Norma, and I would stumble home following these drunken outings and fall blissfully asleep to the sound of her wild cheering for whatever ice skating competition happened to be on that day.

It wasn't until I began breaking all her rules that our relationship became particularly strained. I didn't make the conscious decision to rebel, it just sort of happened. After a particularly nasty lecture in which she accused me of moving her porcelain horse figurines (I actually DID move them, I wanted to see if she would notice...she did), I stormed out of the apartment to purchase some dinner. In an act of total and utter rebellion, I hid my slice of pizza in my purse and squirreled it away to my room. While eating pizza in my room that night, I tasted freedom, and I began to revolt. I started breaking rules left and right. I had a friend over without getting her presence in the apartment pre-approved through Norma. I intentionally put pots back in the wrong places, and I sometimes put my food on Norma's side of the refrigerator. I once even left a hair on the sink. My biggest offense was when I snuck my boyfriend into my bedroom for some forbidden lovin.' For that mistake, I was forced to listen to an hour-long lecture about how the man that I let into the apartment could have KILLED her. "Killed her dead," she explained to me with very serious look on her face. This talk was followed by an even longer lecture about sex, the nature of which was so disturbing that I find it difficult to speak about to this day.

After I snuck the boy into my room, I figured I should probably cut my losses and begin looking for a new apartment. I naturally couldn't find anything as cheap as Norma's, but figured the money I'd save by not having to spend entire weekends in bars would pretty much make up the difference. A former co-worker of mine was losing his current roommate, and I quickly jumped at the chance to take her spot. Fort Greene was a far cry from the fancy Upper West Side, but at the time it seemed like an oasis in a desert of crazy. I was really nervous when I arrived at the apartment on the day I was going to tell Norma about my imminent departure. Though she was a complete nut, I still didn't want to leave her in the lurch, and I felt a bit bad. Fortunately, the scene that I met with upon opening the door alleviated all my hesitations.

I entered the apartment, and was hit with what can only be described as gale force winds. For a reason that was to be explained to me shortly, she had turned about 10 fans on at full blast and had pointed them directly at the wall that separated her apartment with that of the next door neighbor. She pressed her ear to the wall and whispered, "They're trying to poison us with noxious gases. The fans," she said, "they keep out the fumes."

"Come again?" I asked.

"The neighbors. Can't you smell it?" She sniffed the air and glanced furtively around the room. "They are poisoning us through the wall with an unknown gas. Here...put this on." She handed me a surgeon's mask.

I sniffed the air once, and said..."Norma...we need to talk."

About 20 minutes later I stepped out of the apartment and heard Norma yelling behind me, "How can you do this to me now! I'm in danger!! We're being poisoned I tell you!! POISONED!!" I ignored her, and continued out the door. I was a free woman once again.

As I entered the hallway, the next-door neighbor's door opened. A strong scent of incense wafted out of her apartment. Noxious fumes...nah...more like Nag Champa. I smiled, and left to go meet J. a the Gin Mill to tell him my exciting news.