Okay, this post title is a lie. Well, at the very least, it is misleading. I have had many, many roommates in my life, starting with my little sister and continuing right on up through this year. Many (most?) of them have been odd, a few have been total freaks, a very few have remained my best friends in the whole wide world. But, thank God, none of them have stolen my identity, fallen in love with me, or tried to have me killed. I like to think that that's a pretty good track record.
I mean, I, clearly, am the perfect roommate. I never do anything annoying, like date 45 year old South Bend police officers and bring them around the dorm room while my roommate is passed out on the couch deathly ill on a Saturday night, surrounded by tissues and blankets and watching a ridiculous movie (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and most emphatically not in the mood to be joined by your creepy cop boyfriend while he waits for you to get ready for the evening. I also don't make a federal case out of it when someone eats all my cheese, although I did once read my roommate the riot act after finding out that she ate the last of my bread and eggs, and I'd been planning on making French Toast and I had no other food in the apartment because my mother and sister were visiting and I'd been staying with them but then they left and it was Easter Sunday and for some reason no stores were open and I had been planning on making french toast and HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT EAT SOMEONE ELSE'S FOOD? Yeesh, I'm still angry about that.
So this time, it's adios to the roommate life. I'm striking out on my own. I found a delightful studio and I am making the leap! Sure, I have no furniture. And sure, this means I'll have to kill any bugs I might find on my own (but I already do that, so INBD). But it also means for the first time in my life, I have my own bathroom. If it's a mess, it's my mess. Same for the kitchen. No more having to wash someone else's dirty dishes before I can cook my dinner. If there are dishes in the sink, they're my dishes. No more keeping a running tally of how many cans of Diet Coke are mine in the fridge, and how many belong to my roommate, and whether's she drank one of mine or I drank one of hers. If there's Diet Coke in the fridge (and believe me, there is always Diet Coke in the fridge) it's MY DIET COKE. Does life get any better than that?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
It Happened in Brooklyn...
Yesterday I ventured out to my soon-to-be borough for the second time ever. I've got to get out more! I loved it. I never, ever thought I'd like Brooklyn. Like SATC's Miranda (as loathe as I am to commiserate with such a heinous bitch) or Grace in the pilot episode of Will and Grace (as loathe as I am to commiserate with such a shrill harpy), I thought moving to Brooklyn meant giving up all hope of a life like Hollywood promised me. Afterall, no one lives in Brooklyn. No movies (at least none that I'd want to emulate) are set in Brooklyn. If the movies are to be believed, the best thing about Brooklyn was the bridge into Manhattan.
And maybe that's still true. I spent the afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge park with my blanket and my peanut M&M's, reading in the sun about Bill Bryson's travels in Europe. The park was lovely- lots of green grass, huge flat rocks to sit on, a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower Manhattan skyline, a breeze off the water of the East River. They show free movies in the park on Thursday nights in the summer, and in honor of the 125th anniversary of the opening of the "Grand Lady of Brooklyn" (the bridge), each night this weekend. Last night it was "It Happened in Brooklyn," a 1947 musical romantic comedy starring Frank Sinatra. While I'm not so sure about the "comedy" part (lots of ethnic jokes at the expense of an Italian janitor), I love old movies like this. (Actually, anytime Frank sings is good enough for me.) But Frank Sinatra's character loved Brooklyn. He was proud of Brooklyn. He wanted everyone to know that he was a proud Brooklyn-ite.
And it hit me. I want to be a part of that. I want to find a place that people are proud of and I want to be a part of it. Now, this movie is sixty years old. Maybe there's not so much to be proud of in Brooklyn these days. But maybe there wasn't back then. Maybe Frank loved it anyway.
And maybe it's okay to love a place that's not perfect. I spent so long hating my hometown, for so many reasons. Its painful dullness, its nosy denizens, its painful struggle to believe in a glory long-past while refusing to acknowledge its own steady decline. I don't love it there, but I might be learning to respect it more. There's nobility in a lost cause, even if it's painful to watch those I love go down with the ship.
So I'm giving Brooklyn a try. I'm older and I'm (arguably) wiser now, and I'm no longer looking for perfection. There's a beauty in reality that gets lost in utopia, a beauty I've never recognized before. Encouraged by the movies, I thought Manhattan was utopia. It's certainly not, but I'm no longer looking for it. Here's hoping I find my beauty in Brooklyn.
And maybe that's still true. I spent the afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge park with my blanket and my peanut M&M's, reading in the sun about Bill Bryson's travels in Europe. The park was lovely- lots of green grass, huge flat rocks to sit on, a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower Manhattan skyline, a breeze off the water of the East River. They show free movies in the park on Thursday nights in the summer, and in honor of the 125th anniversary of the opening of the "Grand Lady of Brooklyn" (the bridge), each night this weekend. Last night it was "It Happened in Brooklyn," a 1947 musical romantic comedy starring Frank Sinatra. While I'm not so sure about the "comedy" part (lots of ethnic jokes at the expense of an Italian janitor), I love old movies like this. (Actually, anytime Frank sings is good enough for me.) But Frank Sinatra's character loved Brooklyn. He was proud of Brooklyn. He wanted everyone to know that he was a proud Brooklyn-ite.
And it hit me. I want to be a part of that. I want to find a place that people are proud of and I want to be a part of it. Now, this movie is sixty years old. Maybe there's not so much to be proud of in Brooklyn these days. But maybe there wasn't back then. Maybe Frank loved it anyway.
And maybe it's okay to love a place that's not perfect. I spent so long hating my hometown, for so many reasons. Its painful dullness, its nosy denizens, its painful struggle to believe in a glory long-past while refusing to acknowledge its own steady decline. I don't love it there, but I might be learning to respect it more. There's nobility in a lost cause, even if it's painful to watch those I love go down with the ship.
So I'm giving Brooklyn a try. I'm older and I'm (arguably) wiser now, and I'm no longer looking for perfection. There's a beauty in reality that gets lost in utopia, a beauty I've never recognized before. Encouraged by the movies, I thought Manhattan was utopia. It's certainly not, but I'm no longer looking for it. Here's hoping I find my beauty in Brooklyn.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
She Works Hard for Her Money
I'm trying something new. It's called "A job that doesn't suck." Novel idea, isn't it?
That's right, I got a new job! One that doesn't require me to put in 80 hours a week for tiny, tiny wages. One that respects my right to personal time, my right to privacy, and my right to not spend my days hawking an alternate post-graduate option to college seniors who dread seeing my name in their inbox.
I had a great interview last week, and they offered me the position within two days. I'm leaving the non-profit org. world and entering the realm of higher education administration... I'm thinking this is my true calling. I love telling people what to do. If I couldn't be a college administrator, I'd be a high school guidance counselor-- or even better, a college counselor, telling students where they should go and what they should do with their lives. I can't keep my own life together, but I can certainly tell other people what's wrong with theirs. I mean, I even talk back to the characters on Melrose Place (for example, Jo Reynolds, do you really think it's a good idea to let crazy Kimberly Shaw deliver your baby in secret? Seriously? In what universe was did that seem like a good idea? Dumbass.)
So, a new job, a new start. I'm staying in the city, but as my new job is in an entirely different location, I'll be making a move. Look for upcoming stories about apartment hunting, getting to know a new area of the city, and whether or not my new job lives up to the expectations I've set for it. In my interview, my new boss made reference to himself as "The Devil Wears Prada," but only on those rare occasions that everything goes wrong. I told him I think I can live with that. We'll have to wait and see how right I am.
That's right, I got a new job! One that doesn't require me to put in 80 hours a week for tiny, tiny wages. One that respects my right to personal time, my right to privacy, and my right to not spend my days hawking an alternate post-graduate option to college seniors who dread seeing my name in their inbox.
I had a great interview last week, and they offered me the position within two days. I'm leaving the non-profit org. world and entering the realm of higher education administration... I'm thinking this is my true calling. I love telling people what to do. If I couldn't be a college administrator, I'd be a high school guidance counselor-- or even better, a college counselor, telling students where they should go and what they should do with their lives. I can't keep my own life together, but I can certainly tell other people what's wrong with theirs. I mean, I even talk back to the characters on Melrose Place (for example, Jo Reynolds, do you really think it's a good idea to let crazy Kimberly Shaw deliver your baby in secret? Seriously? In what universe was did that seem like a good idea? Dumbass.)
So, a new job, a new start. I'm staying in the city, but as my new job is in an entirely different location, I'll be making a move. Look for upcoming stories about apartment hunting, getting to know a new area of the city, and whether or not my new job lives up to the expectations I've set for it. In my interview, my new boss made reference to himself as "The Devil Wears Prada," but only on those rare occasions that everything goes wrong. I told him I think I can live with that. We'll have to wait and see how right I am.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The One Where I Learn about People like Janice...
Today I learned a very important lesson: People like Janice really do exist.
Janice, the bane of Chandler Bing's existence, who I, being a sheltered, small-town Catholic girl, always thought was a bit of an exaggeration. It was on my walk home, outside a restaurant somewhere that I heard it. This...voice. It can only be described as... nasal. She was braying, people. That's the only way to put it. The woman sounded like a donkey. She was whining to some man named Andre and it came out like "Aaaaaaaaaaannnndreee." Just imagine the high-pitched nasal whine. I had no idea that there actually are people who talk like that.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I discovered that there are people who really do talk like Tony Soprano when I met the broker who showed me the first apartment I ever saw in NYC (a $4000/month, converted 3 bedroom, 1 bath, with no living room-it was a real winner!) She had an accent that sounded like a pretentious high-school drama student from Iowa who believes that the thicker the fake accent, the better her chances of getting noticed by the Hollywood talent agents who, she is certain, have nothing better to do than attend suburban school-district productions of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." Oh please, you know exactly which girl I'm talking about. Every high school had that girl.
I always get annoyed when I go back to the Midwest and all these redneck hicks in my hometown start making passive-aggressive comments about my choice of habitat and asking me why, if I want to be a "big time city girl" so much, why I don't talk like a "New Yawker?" Now I'm starting to wonder if I should cut them some slack (actually, nah. No slack for the rednecks!) But after all, it does appear that these Hollywood accents do exist in at least a few real people. So thanks, Hollywood, for another one of those "sort-of true" facts of life that lull me into a false sense of security and seduce me into forgetting, however briefly, just what a liar you really are.
Janice, the bane of Chandler Bing's existence, who I, being a sheltered, small-town Catholic girl, always thought was a bit of an exaggeration. It was on my walk home, outside a restaurant somewhere that I heard it. This...voice. It can only be described as... nasal. She was braying, people. That's the only way to put it. The woman sounded like a donkey. She was whining to some man named Andre and it came out like "Aaaaaaaaaaannnndreee." Just imagine the high-pitched nasal whine. I had no idea that there actually are people who talk like that.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I discovered that there are people who really do talk like Tony Soprano when I met the broker who showed me the first apartment I ever saw in NYC (a $4000/month, converted 3 bedroom, 1 bath, with no living room-it was a real winner!) She had an accent that sounded like a pretentious high-school drama student from Iowa who believes that the thicker the fake accent, the better her chances of getting noticed by the Hollywood talent agents who, she is certain, have nothing better to do than attend suburban school-district productions of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." Oh please, you know exactly which girl I'm talking about. Every high school had that girl.
I always get annoyed when I go back to the Midwest and all these redneck hicks in my hometown start making passive-aggressive comments about my choice of habitat and asking me why, if I want to be a "big time city girl" so much, why I don't talk like a "New Yawker?" Now I'm starting to wonder if I should cut them some slack (actually, nah. No slack for the rednecks!) But after all, it does appear that these Hollywood accents do exist in at least a few real people. So thanks, Hollywood, for another one of those "sort-of true" facts of life that lull me into a false sense of security and seduce me into forgetting, however briefly, just what a liar you really are.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Who's the Boss?
You know, it's really not fair. I mean, Hollywood has lied to me about a lot things. Relationships, city life, college, the list goes on and on. But one of it's biggest fibs, I'd have to say, always involves the job search.
I mean, the Hollywood heroine always gets the dream job, and it always falls right in her lap. She meets someone on an elevator, and next thing you know, dream job, cute boyfriend, great apartment, life is perfect. She storms out of her crappy old job, and suddenly people are beating down her door because they respect her so much (yeah, right. Has anyone ever seen this happen? If I could think of one instance where it worked in real life, I'd have bitch-slapped my current job to the curb months ago.) Even when Hollywood purports to show the difficulty of job hunting (The Pursuit of Happyness, I'm looking at you), massive obstacles are overcome and everyone is employed and financially secure by the end of the 108 minute run time.
What Hollywood never showed me was the people who would never call back, never even acknowledge my resume. Okay, fine, I can live with that. Even worse are the people who phone interview you, and then you never hear from them again. But what really, really gets my goat are the people who drag you through hoop after hoop, make you take tests, provide writing samples, fly down to Washington DC for a personal interview that winds up being this awkward meeting in a coffee shop during which you discuss nothing of substance and nothing relating to your actual ability to do the job, but where you can tell the interviewer is evaluating based entirely on whether or not she thinks you'd fit in if she invited you to a Christmas party with all of her sorority sisters (hint: I would NOT.) Then, after all that, you still kind of want the job even though it's clear the boss is a wackjob, but the work itself would be really interesting and look great on a resume, but the manager proceeds to tell you at the end of the interview that she is then leaving the country for 3 weeks and will "try to be in touch, but can't make any promises" so you spend the next month emailing her just to try to figure out where things stand, and she takes her sweet time getting back to you, puts you off for another week, and finally emails you back to say that she just can't offer you the job because she "needs someone with more experience creating systems in an international context." and you're like "The what with the what, now? A) Why didn't you actually ask me about that sort of experience in my interview, you twit. How do you even know that I don't have it? B) You will not find any more experience than I have at the salary you are offering, you twit and C) You are a twit. That is all."
Banging my head against a wall. There's no way I can stay in the position I'm in now for another year. Something's got to open up soon, or it's back to the midwest with me... and if that happens, I'm not sure I'll ever make it out again.
I mean, the Hollywood heroine always gets the dream job, and it always falls right in her lap. She meets someone on an elevator, and next thing you know, dream job, cute boyfriend, great apartment, life is perfect. She storms out of her crappy old job, and suddenly people are beating down her door because they respect her so much (yeah, right. Has anyone ever seen this happen? If I could think of one instance where it worked in real life, I'd have bitch-slapped my current job to the curb months ago.) Even when Hollywood purports to show the difficulty of job hunting (The Pursuit of Happyness, I'm looking at you), massive obstacles are overcome and everyone is employed and financially secure by the end of the 108 minute run time.
What Hollywood never showed me was the people who would never call back, never even acknowledge my resume. Okay, fine, I can live with that. Even worse are the people who phone interview you, and then you never hear from them again. But what really, really gets my goat are the people who drag you through hoop after hoop, make you take tests, provide writing samples, fly down to Washington DC for a personal interview that winds up being this awkward meeting in a coffee shop during which you discuss nothing of substance and nothing relating to your actual ability to do the job, but where you can tell the interviewer is evaluating based entirely on whether or not she thinks you'd fit in if she invited you to a Christmas party with all of her sorority sisters (hint: I would NOT.) Then, after all that, you still kind of want the job even though it's clear the boss is a wackjob, but the work itself would be really interesting and look great on a resume, but the manager proceeds to tell you at the end of the interview that she is then leaving the country for 3 weeks and will "try to be in touch, but can't make any promises" so you spend the next month emailing her just to try to figure out where things stand, and she takes her sweet time getting back to you, puts you off for another week, and finally emails you back to say that she just can't offer you the job because she "needs someone with more experience creating systems in an international context." and you're like "The what with the what, now? A) Why didn't you actually ask me about that sort of experience in my interview, you twit. How do you even know that I don't have it? B) You will not find any more experience than I have at the salary you are offering, you twit and C) You are a twit. That is all."
Banging my head against a wall. There's no way I can stay in the position I'm in now for another year. Something's got to open up soon, or it's back to the midwest with me... and if that happens, I'm not sure I'll ever make it out again.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Mama said there'd be days like this...
Some days, it's enough to make you want to smash your television (that is, if you are prone to rage, like me. And if your television actually belongs to you, not your roommate-- it is not a good idea to smash your roommates belongings... even if both the roommate and the offending property deserve it.)
I mean, when was the last time that you watched Carrie Bradshaw spend her Saturday popping in and out of 3 different Duane Reade's, desperately hoping that one of them would still have that life-altering Spring drug of choice, Claritin? Did she ever have to deal with surly pharmacy employees wondering why you could possibly want the box with the 50% more free (um, gnarly checkout woman, perhaps because I am going to be living off of this stuff for the next 3 months, and I do not have an unlimited income, and I will demand every single free pill that I can get. It's not like you're not gouging me already. And it's not like it's any harder for you to pull that box of the shelf instead of the other one. And finally, I would like to share with you a little saying that we from the midwest hold rather dear, and which this city could sorely stand to embrace: Because the customer is always right! And for that matter, I have every right to ask if you have the $.99 birthday cards. Do I look like I'm made of money? I'm going to wipe that sneer right off your face!) Lucky, lucky Carrie Bradshaw.
Likewise, did our intrepid friend Carrie ever, EVER, devote the remainder of her Saturday to hanging wet laundry around her 3 person, 400 sq. ft. apartment because some nitwit jammed the laundry card machine, leaving her with no way to dry the two soaking loads she had just done. Why, oh why, oh why, can't washing machines take change anymore? Did Carrie ever have to dry her clothes by hanging them off of every surface, chair and doorknob in the apartment, as well as laying them out on her bed (thereby preventing any hope of actually sitting anywhere in the apartment?) No, she did not. Lucky, lucky Carrie.
I mean, when was the last time that you watched Carrie Bradshaw spend her Saturday popping in and out of 3 different Duane Reade's, desperately hoping that one of them would still have that life-altering Spring drug of choice, Claritin? Did she ever have to deal with surly pharmacy employees wondering why you could possibly want the box with the 50% more free (um, gnarly checkout woman, perhaps because I am going to be living off of this stuff for the next 3 months, and I do not have an unlimited income, and I will demand every single free pill that I can get. It's not like you're not gouging me already. And it's not like it's any harder for you to pull that box of the shelf instead of the other one. And finally, I would like to share with you a little saying that we from the midwest hold rather dear, and which this city could sorely stand to embrace: Because the customer is always right! And for that matter, I have every right to ask if you have the $.99 birthday cards. Do I look like I'm made of money? I'm going to wipe that sneer right off your face!) Lucky, lucky Carrie Bradshaw.
Likewise, did our intrepid friend Carrie ever, EVER, devote the remainder of her Saturday to hanging wet laundry around her 3 person, 400 sq. ft. apartment because some nitwit jammed the laundry card machine, leaving her with no way to dry the two soaking loads she had just done. Why, oh why, oh why, can't washing machines take change anymore? Did Carrie ever have to dry her clothes by hanging them off of every surface, chair and doorknob in the apartment, as well as laying them out on her bed (thereby preventing any hope of actually sitting anywhere in the apartment?) No, she did not. Lucky, lucky Carrie.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
28 Days
I've finally had an epiphany. I finally figured out why I don't have a man in my life.
It's simple really. In fact, it really should not have taken me this many years of bad nighttime soap opera addiction to get to this point. But that's just it. For my addictions, there's no rehab. And rehab is where, apparently, women go to meet men.
I know. You're all thinking, "Duh."
I mean, how did this escape me? All those years of celebrity tabloid reading- have I learned nothing? All those hours with the OC, 90210, Desperate Housewives, and one day, during a routine re-viewing of Melrose Place, it hits me. I too could meet an alcoholic, sex-addicted yet hot enough to overlook these faults pro football player if I could just get to rehab.
Sorry, Grandma, I know that this is not what you had in mind at Christmas when you sat me down for the annual "When I was your age, I already had a husband and 3 children" speech and you told me to put myself out there. I know that you meant I should attend a singles' dance (do those still exist anywhere on earth outside the pages of "The Rules?") or volunteer at a hospital so I can meet a nice doctor (Clearly Grandma does not watch Grey's Anatomy, or she would know that hospitals are dens of iniquity, not places to meet "nice Christian men.") But I think rehab is the best option for me.
After all, rehab is like adult summer camp, and we all remember how the relationships flourished at summer camp. I myself snared one of Camp Takehee's most eligible sixth-grade boys (of course, if I were smart, I'd have never let him go. Depressingly, those fleeting few weeks probably constituted my last fully functional relationship. Listen up kids! It's all downhill from there!) The close quarters, the forced interaction, the lack of distractions- it's the perfect place to start! And you already have something in common. Sure, it's addiction, but no relationship's perfect.
And to top it all off, you get free time off of work! And it's (in most cases) covered by insurance! Who needs a spa when you can get an all-expenses paid 28 day vacation with plenty of vulnerable men?
So, Sandals Jamaica, cancel my spring reservation. Rehab is clearly the place to be!
It's simple really. In fact, it really should not have taken me this many years of bad nighttime soap opera addiction to get to this point. But that's just it. For my addictions, there's no rehab. And rehab is where, apparently, women go to meet men.
I know. You're all thinking, "Duh."
I mean, how did this escape me? All those years of celebrity tabloid reading- have I learned nothing? All those hours with the OC, 90210, Desperate Housewives, and one day, during a routine re-viewing of Melrose Place, it hits me. I too could meet an alcoholic, sex-addicted yet hot enough to overlook these faults pro football player if I could just get to rehab.
Sorry, Grandma, I know that this is not what you had in mind at Christmas when you sat me down for the annual "When I was your age, I already had a husband and 3 children" speech and you told me to put myself out there. I know that you meant I should attend a singles' dance (do those still exist anywhere on earth outside the pages of "The Rules?") or volunteer at a hospital so I can meet a nice doctor (Clearly Grandma does not watch Grey's Anatomy, or she would know that hospitals are dens of iniquity, not places to meet "nice Christian men.") But I think rehab is the best option for me.
After all, rehab is like adult summer camp, and we all remember how the relationships flourished at summer camp. I myself snared one of Camp Takehee's most eligible sixth-grade boys (of course, if I were smart, I'd have never let him go. Depressingly, those fleeting few weeks probably constituted my last fully functional relationship. Listen up kids! It's all downhill from there!) The close quarters, the forced interaction, the lack of distractions- it's the perfect place to start! And you already have something in common. Sure, it's addiction, but no relationship's perfect.
And to top it all off, you get free time off of work! And it's (in most cases) covered by insurance! Who needs a spa when you can get an all-expenses paid 28 day vacation with plenty of vulnerable men?
So, Sandals Jamaica, cancel my spring reservation. Rehab is clearly the place to be!
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