BECAUSE I SAID SO

I was never in a sorority. I wanted college to be a place where I could do whatever I

wanted. I didn’t want curfews, bedtimes, and chores. I didn’t want designated dinner times or required chapter meetings. I wanted ice cream for breakfast and Taco Bell at 3 am. I would earn the freshman 15 on my own terms, not by a social institution, thank you. I had enough sisterhood with two clothes-stealing sisters growing up.

THE SORORITY HOUSE

WRITTEN BY JULIE BURTON / PHOTO BY JAMI BOWMAN

But why am I explaining my 20-year-old thoughts on Greek life? Because I’m living in a sorority house. Life has a way of getting Greek letters up on your home. Tampon, anyone?

I recently moved out of my two-bedroom apartment of two years and into a small rental home. I wanted my teenage daughters to each have a bedroom and a place we can blast sorority classics like Prince’s “P*ssy Control” as loud as we can without anyone complaining below us.

It’s a house of three women. We wear approximately the same size clothes. We have the same size feet.

Cereal is always an option for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and 3 am. You’re sure to find crusted bowls of microwaved mac and cheese under beds. You’ll also find hidden White Claw cans and the occasional frozen vodka in the freezer because someone failed chemistry. Everyone must help on chore day because the house mom won’t put up with filth or failing chemistry grades.

We share makeup, facial products, shampoo, and loofahs. We have our own razors and toothbrushes, but I have a feeling there’s always that one roommate who steals someone else’s in a pinch. The kicker? We have one bathroom. A single room with a bathtub, shower, and toilet for three women with enough hair in the plumbing to make a fourth woman. Visitors? Forget it. You’re not getting in. You’re not in the sisterhood. There’s a tree and a bucket outside.

The outside … my rental house came with plenty of driveway space plus a detached garage. The previous owner hooked up lights and its own heating unit for their workshop.

My sorority sisters took one look at it and said we should name it the she-shed. No! The Sorority House. Inside the sorority house you’ll find: a leftover twin-sized bed with mattress turned into a couch. A small loveseat that is too big for the house. A table with red Solo cups and Ping Pong balls. A ladder ball set. A disco ball. And plenty of space to dance to ‘90s hip hop. What can I say? I raised my girls right when it comes to music choices.

I was never in a sorority, but all of the sudden I’m living with a bunch of females on scheduled nights of the week. It smells like Bath and Body Works and Yankee candles. Only in this sorority house, I’m the house mom. And I still say Taco Bell is okay for dinner.

Julie Burton is an Overland Park mom, writer, K-State lover, and bacon-hater. She is a blogger and contributing author to the humor book, But Did You Die?: Setting the Parenting Bar Low. Burton’s also been named one of the Today Show’s “funniest parents.” And yes, she really does hate bacon. Please don’t drop

her as a friend. Follow Julie at: julieburton.blog • facebook.com/julieburtonwriter • twitter.com/ksujulie • instagram.com/ksujulie

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