Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Weekend update

Last night, I let normal roommate know what went on with ho-bag roommate while normal roommate was out of town. Since the festivities did include attempted sex in normal roommate's bed and the consumption of all of normal roommate's food, normal roommate was pissed off at ho-bag roommate and commiserated with Rita roommate. Rita roommate felt a little better for some time, but exciting potential roommate confrontation did not happen, and pretty soon normal roommate was normal again after ho-bag roommate gave her $10 to compensate for the resource depletion. Rita roommate, on the other hand, was not to be appeased, and used ho-bag roommate's really expensive shampoo last night.

Unfortunately, it turns out that ho-bag roommate apparently does not bathe, because she had almost no shampoo left, and no body wash at all. Thus, she is quite literally a dirty ho.

On the other hand, my hair looks nice today.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

The roommate I never had

Unlike what seems to be the majority of college students, I have never been sexiled. I have never been accidentally not sexiled and had to witness what I otherwise would've spontaneously sexiled myself for. I have never been included in what normal people should be sexiled from. My college roommates have had their flaws--unncessarily high hygiene standards, tendencies to recite Greek paradigms out loud, etc--but they have not been vacuous alcoholic skanks.

Here in Washington, I also have roommates. One is a nice, smart girl from NYU who's interning at the White House. The other is usually out drinking and doesn't come home, but when she does, she's quiet about it and doesn't wake us up, so she's alright. Or, was alright.

This weekend, normal roommate was out of town for some conference, and drunk roommate had two of her friends visiting from out of town. Upon meeting them, I noticed that they appeared to lack certain all-important brain functions like thought and sense and so on, but they were supposed to crash on the couch for a couple nights, and I figured this would only be a minor inconvenience. After spending two hours coaching each other in pre-drinking preparations, ("Ooh, yeah, I like what you're doing with that outfit! It's sooo you!") ("Someone blend my make-up for me!) (Omigod my deoderant melted! Can I still use it as a liquid do you think?) they finally did me a favor and disappeared, and I read for a while and then went to sleep.

At about 4 am, they returned, except the party was larger now and included an extra girl and guy. And it was drunker. Significantly drunker. Actually, I thought the guy was maybe retarded from the sound of his voice, but then I figured he was just really trashed. First, they took some time to eat all of my normal roommate's food. (Fortunately, all of my food required preparation, and they were clearly too drunk to operate kitchen appliances.) Then after much shrieking and giggling (of the drunk, as opposed to ballerina, variety), they set about apportioning sleeping arrangements.

My dorm has two rooms--a bedroom and a living room. There are three beds in the bedroom, and a couch in the living room. It would've all worked out, but now there were two extra barely conscious bodies to put up. One of them came into the bedroom, counted the beds, and concluded that it would be perfect--five people, five places to sleep. Except, you know, not really, because I WAS ALREADY SLEEPING IN ONE OF THEM. This did not bode well for me, and I prepared to kill whoever thought he was going to make use of my bed.

Upon discovering this complication to their otherwise excellent computational abilities, it was decided that someone would have to share a bed with the drunk guy, who was quite drunk indeed and not saying a whole lot except, "I'm not gonna make it." and "Ughhhhh." (You can see why I thought he might be retarded?) So, they prepared to get into bed, but they had great difficulty actually locating it and situating themselves on it. They fell onto the floor their first couple attempts, and then crashed into my bed. Drunk/retarded boy needed to be undressed when he began to protest that he couldn't sleep in pants. Finally, they managed to both get themselves into normal roommate's bed at the same time (but backwards, with their feet on her pillow). Then proceeded to get busy. I was not actually watching this, because it was dark, and I was pretending to be asleep, or dead, or in a hole deep underground so that I didn't have to be in any way a part of this spectacle. However, I did hear the snarfling.

Apparently, so did the girl in the third bed, who yelled at them to stop. They giggled. They banged something (maybe their heads?) against the wall.
"God, is that girl on drugs? How can she still be asleep?" they asked in reference to me.
"I'm actually not asleep," I replied. "I just didn't find it necessary to announce that to you."
"Oh! Sorrrry! Ughhhhh..."
After that, they seemed to basically go to sleep.

This morning, they all got up at 9 am to get to some brunch thing, but drunk/retarded boy did not seem to have recovered at all from last night's adventures and demanded to be left in bed. That was a fabulous plan--me and a drunk retard in a bedroom alone. What more could I want in life? Apparently, this dawned on someone else, who vetoed the plan: "Leave him with the girl? She's sober! Is that safe? What if he does something?" What if, indeed. Finally, it was decided that one of them would stay behind in the third bed. Naked, apparently. I'm not sure what the strategic value of that was. Maybe her ass needed air.

The minute the brunch people left, I jumped out of bed and got dressed to get the hell out of my dorm. I noticed that my toothpase had been used. I hid the remainder. Then I hid all my food that didn't require refrigeration. I made my bed so that if one of them felt inclined to get in it, I would notice, and could later bludgeon them with a pipe. And then I dashed out.

I used to think I wanted a roommate like this because it would make my life interesting, but now I realize I would also likely be in prison for murder. And that would be really bad for my GPA.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Urban safari

I was walking home from the metro station last night after dinner with the lovely Julia, and it was pretty nice out for once, so I thought I'd take a walk around the neighborhood before I went home. As I turned onto a side street, a small creature scurried into a bush. Pigeon? No, it was too coordinated to be a pigeon. Squirrel? No, it lacked the requisite bushy tail. Rat? Yes, that's right. Big, fat rat. The walk was promptly aborted.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

More food economics

Three and a half weeks into my stint of starvation and boredom, also known as living on my own in a pigeon city, I have realized that I am purposely not being as frugal as I could be. While I am not exactly spending wild nights at hot clubs (actually, I am; I just never blog about it), I am also not living off ramen noodles and crackers, as I had previously planned to do. Instead, I'm buying many TV dinners. Now, TV dinners are not expensive, but yesterday at the grocery store, I checked out the difference, and while ramen noodle soup is 33 cents, a TV dinner is $2. Every evening, I am eating $1.66 more than I need to be. This adds up. To precisely $59.76 over six weeks, excluding the one day a week I eat Chipotle because it is the food of the gods. (And I did just calculate that, thanks.) That's relatively...not that much but kind of more than I would like especially in a lump sum like that.

Let's just put it this way: If you ate only a cup of ramen noodles every day for six weeks, you would spend precisely $13.86 on food. In total. Add in a carton of orange juice so that you don't develop scurvy, and it's still under $15. That is less than the skanky pair of jeans I bought from the clearance rack at Gap last week. (Ok, maybe you'd need to eat two cups on some days, but you see the thrust of this argument...)

The point is, I think Lean Cuisine and Hot Pockets are worth that extra $1.66 in doesn't-taste-like-cardboard goodness. Also, they have catchier names than Cup Noodles, which is really uninspiring and borderline illiterate. And I think that makes me kind of a spoiled middle class whiny child (to distinguish between simply a whiny child, which I always am, without reference to class).

My parents would settle for ramen if they were in my position. In fact, they would probably spend the hours it takes to comb through all the Sunday advertising circulars to clip the 5-cent savings coupons for ramen and then only buy it when it was on sale for 10 cents a cup at the grocery store across town. And then they would send away for the 7-cent rebate. I'm vaguely aware that my parents' current financial standing is actually the result of various factors that are mostly unrelated to their compulsive thrift, like working full-time jobs and investing money and so forth, but the actual experience of watching their militant frugality made a strong enough impression on me that I might half-seriously ascribe the purchase of our house to several years worth of 30-cent-off coupons on pickles. I would very much like to be like my parents in this matter (in contrast to many other matters in which I would like very much to be the opposite of my parents), but I think I've been using moisturized toilet paper too long to settle for anything below Lean Cuisine.

But just because I can't actually spend like my parents (or, scrimp like them, as the case may be) doesn't mean I can't worry about money like my parents, except it does mean that my worry is totally meaningless. Because let's be honest--I also buy the occasional Starbuck's chai latte and the twice-weekly bag of Charm's Blow Pops, (which have a really terrible product name, incidentally) in order to have something to chew on while I read because that is a bad, obesity-inducing habit I've developed over the years. So really, I spend unnecessary money all the time. And then I stress out over it. All those years of thrifty upbringing, and all I have to show for it is residual guilt. Oh, my whitebread suburban angst. Woe is my life.