I never thought I'd have six

My suite is packed with stereotypes. Then again, seven college female twenty-somethings with backgrounds as comfortable as D.C., exotic as China, and backwards as Alabama rewriting the college experience allow for a fair amount of material.

Together we're vocal, democratic, religious, athletic, conservative, quiet, studious, artistic, prox-biting, creative, and relatively insane. Individually, we're the Indian goddess, the Punk Rock Princess, the strong silent type, the basketball die-hard, the definition of work-hard-play-hard, and a wayward American Eagle model in denial. After a brief stint labeled as up-and-coming Carrie Bradshaw, my roommates have decided, despite all my desperate pleading for recognition in another area — any area, that my label will be "room mom."

"Mom." Not exactly the nickname that I expected to follow me from my days at Princeton. I'm flattered —I love my own mother, the woman who has braved traffic and natural disaster to ensure that the orange slices appeared on the sidelines, fresh and just in time for halftime. She defines "self-sacrificing" and "eager to please" all the while being as strong willed, determined, and successful as I can ever hope to be. It just seems strange. "Belle" I could have handled. "Princess" — maybe. "Girl that shares her bed with a constantly growing pile of clothing," yeah, I could see that. But "Mom?" How did I get that one?

True, I rarely return to school without a few tins of fudge or cookies and birthday celebration planning usually falls on me but lots of roommates handle that stuff. Still, my roommates are insistent. They began their lists — demanding that I take a backseat in this column and allow them to layout exactly why I'm labeled as the "mom" — under protest:

"You listen for hours, make me stay in and do work. You answer the phone all the time — you even hand out snacks when everyone's around at night." Hm. I'm beginning to see how my unique "sexy college coed" label got lost somewhere.

"You never do laundry without asking if anyone has 'emergency wash' clothes." "You put us to bed those nights that we're, um, slightly altered — you aren't going to use this list for anything are you?" Call it Mom's Revenge ladies.

This past week alone I've spent three nights in McCosh with roommates and friends, victims of the snow and water polo roughhousing along with two nights in the hospital holding hands with roommates getting stitches and EKGs. While I insisted that any roommate would do any of those things, one roommate piped up and smiled through her stitches, "uh uh — you checked to make sure I was breathing after my heart tests when I still wasn't awake at 3 in the afternoon — MOM!!"

But a room with seven girls really must be a team effort. When tears arise the common room fills and somehow a Tom Cruise movie materializes. We've all spent hours attempting to decipher boys as well as size them up and intimidate them a little as they venture into our lair. I mean, what boy wouldn't feel a little twinge of fear upon receiving this Valentine's Day warning: "Mr. Kappel, may I inquire what your plans are for this evening with the lovely Ms. Johnson? Alright, well, since AJ's daddy and big brothers aren't around to take care of her, I am here to say: Have fun, be nice, take good care of her, and make her smile . . . or I will kick your ass with my steel toed boots. Have fun, dear!" Right, and I'm the Mom here.

This room has seen brownies gone terribly wrong, an attempt to straighten "half Jewish hair," and the strange results of mixing ADD and an oral fixation. We've doctored busted lips, cut fingers, and broken hearts. Everyone talks, everyone listens and at three in the morning, somehow everyone is always awake.

Yet still, the label of mom falls on my shoulders. "Come on AJ, you gave everyone Christmas socks for holiday presents — even the Jewish girls!"

So maybe my Mario Kart skills are lacking and true, I do always select Peach. "You let me wake you up to ask you questions." "You actually talked to the weird guy who wouldn't leave me alone at the Street." "You stop me from putting small things in my mouth when I'm out of it . . ." some are just too strange for justification.

"Mom." I can handle that. It's not the nickname college coeds dream about as teenagers when they're looking forward to post-high school years, but it could be far worse.

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So fine. I'll be the mom. Not a problem. Besides, what it detracts from in sex appeal it makes up for in illogical reasoning. I'll never have to answer another question again. From now on, it's "Because I said so. That's why."

Ashley Johnson is a sophomore from Florence, Ala.