Rat-Faced Roommate

This story is about a roommate that I had in college; and one of the main reasons that I now insist on living alone.

For the sake of privacy, I'll call her Lina. Since she was a random roommate, the odds of her being cool were statistically against me, but,I decided to keep an open mind. Until she walked in and I realized she was the fucking personification of a rat. As in, her top lip didn't even cover her front teeth, so when her mouth was in a relaxed position, all you saw were two big chompers.

To say that our relationship was strained is an understatement. One night in the beginning of the year she let a known coke dealer named Frankie into our apartment unsupervised, and I woke up in the morning missing my laptop, camera, and perfume. The fact that I was in such a drunken comatose that I didn't wake up while he was doing this is worrying; though irrelevant to the matter at hand.


Lina was passionate about cooking, and would cook for anybody who could stand to sit across from her for an hour and stare at her ugly rat mouth chomping on pasta. Italian food was her specialty, and she could bread chicken cutlets faster than a Cambodian child stitching Nikes in a sweatshop. It was a systematic process which often seemed to overload her pea-sized brain. Because Lina and I were at odds for the majority of the year, I was never invited to these get-togethers. I wouldn't have cared at all except for the fact that my bedroom was directly off of the kitchen, so as she was making calls to get anybody (read: anybody) to come over for dinner, my emaciated form would be laying on the bed writhing with hunger as the smell of marinara sauce wafted under my door. Too bad for Lina, I would come home drunk every night and eat the leftovers anyway, so fuck her.

During second semester, Lina developed a crush on a guy named Mike who lived in our apartment complex. He was the epitome of a male-chauvinist asshole, and she loved it. He would literally barge in the house and order her to cook from him. She would be sitting on the couch nibbling on a block of Swiss cheese, or doing some other rat-like activity, and he'd go "Lina you fucking slut where is my chicken parm?" This was their typical night:

• Lina cooks while Mike screams profanities behind her and grabs her ass. She wards him off with a spatula.
• They eat while she chatters on and he feigns attention.
• They go into Lina's room where all I can hear are yelps from the rat and strange grunting noises.
• He grabs his shit and leaves.
• She cries and eats leftovers.
  

So one night, Lina and Mike, who at this point had been "seeing each other"- to the extent noted above, got in a big fight. She felt terrible about it, and so the next day called him promising him dinner; and the best part; he didn't have to come over to eat. It would be hand delivered a la Lina. I don't know where the fuck she found a bowl big enough to hold all the spaghetti she made, but it was about twice the size of an upside down lampshade. On top of the pasta were about 10 chicken breasts. She covered the carbohydrate monstrosity in tinfoil, and walked it over to Mike's apt to give to him and his roommates in an attempt at reconciliation.

Skip to the next morning.

I'm laying in my bed at 10am when I hear a blood curdling scream that could only have come from the rat herself. Then I hear gasping sobs marked by inaudible curse words. Since she had already woken me up, the least I could do was humor myself and go out to see what was going on.

So there is Lina, standing outside the front door, barefoot, standing IN THE ENTIRE UPTURNED BOWL OF SPAGHETTI. It was priceless. Apparently, Mike, at some point during the night had decided that this would be hilarious (I don't entirely disagree). She had innocently stepped outside in the morning and into the mass of pasta, the situation exacerbated by the hours of time she had spent on this dinner. I actually felt bad. Not bad enough to help her scrape 5 lbs of spaghetti off the ground, obviously, but bad enough that I got her a trash bag and stood on in awe and embarrassment for this poor girl.

To date, it is the most humiliating act I have ever seen against another person. I will never forget it.

Cottage Cheese Update

"The Letter That Never Got Sent" is about to be sent. Consider it in the mail. Why? Because I opened a container of cottage cheese thismorning (still Breakstone 2%) and it was whaaaack. The entire thing. And I was hungover, which made me even more pissed off. When I'm hungover, all i like are eggs, cheese, or a comination of the two. I frantically dumped the top layer into the sink, thinking that the rest would be quality. It was all slop.

I was considering returning it to my local grocer, but I know that the dumpy 16 year old behind the Customer Service desk could not give a shit about my cottage cheese woes; and rightly so. I would like to speak to somebody with a vested interest in the future of Breakstone. After some investigating, I found that they are actually owned by Nestle, so at the present time I am unsure about where to direct my letter. Investigation pending...

Random Convo

Day at the pool... (as I'm drinking a bottle of Miller Lite)

Security Guard approaches in stealth mode: You know what I do to girls that drink out of glass bottles at the pool, right?

Me: No, I don't actually.

Security Guard: Throw them in the pool.

Me: You know what I do with glass bottles?? (as he's walking away)

Security Guard: No, what?

Me: Crack skulls.

Totally unnecessary seeing as he had become a non-threat at this point and my beer/self were in no apparent danger. However, I couldn't help myself. The timing was perfect.

The Letter That Never Got Sent

Dear Breakstone,

I have been an enthusiastic consumer of you Breakstone 2% Cottage cheese product for almost 2 years now. I tried almost every product on the market before settling on yours. I was on a quest for the perfect texture, taste, and consistency. Truthfully, when I tried yours, I knew I was home. However, these past few months have proven to be a troublesome time. Are you mis-treating the cows?? Three times in the past 6 months, I have opened up a container of cottage cheese, excited to delight in the sensory overload which only Breakstone can produce, to find myself, only seconds after putting a heaping spoonful in my mouth, spitting it all over the counter/sink/self. It was horrendous!

It tasted like I was suckling off a cow's teet and a pasty white sludge was draining into my shocked palate. Do you not have taste testers at your mythical dairy factory? Are there not rigid standards which must be adhered to before your products get sent out into the market? I thought maybe the first container was a fluke; an oversight by the higher-ups perhaps. But three?? That is more than mere coincidence. I demand quality in all of my dairy products. Until you fix whatever troubles may be plaguing you staff, your cows, or (dare I say) you staff-cows, I will be switching brands. I know that I will not enjoy my breakfast as much, but at least it will be consistent and I won't be retching in disgust for the rest of the day. Please return to the high standard of quality that I know you can achieve.
Sincerely,
A disappointed customer.

PS. There is a possibility I could be paid off with a lifetime supply of cottage cheese.

The Best Cups For Drinking and Driving

As much as road safety is a concern for me, getting drunk (often in a speedy and efficient manner) is a more pressing concern to my reckless, alcohol-indulging self. Years of experience have shown me the importance of choosing the right cup when embarking on a night of drunk driving. In an effort to help out my fellow readers, I have compiled a list, outlining the positives and negatives of the standard beverage holders.

1. The Solo Cup.
The Classic. This cup has been helping frat guys get laid since the dawn of the drinking culture in American universities. However, it does have many practical uses outside of the college party. First of all, it tells your friends, "I'm here to party". How often do you see a red solo cup that isn't filled with beer/mixed drink/ vomit? Its surprising durability and ability to hold over 16oz of liquor make it a fine choice. While perfect for the house party, I would not recommend this cup for the car. Just as it serves as a notice to your friends that you are well on your way to getting fucked up, it tells the cops the saaaaaaaaaaame thing. Pull up to a stop light drinking out of a Solo Cup and you will be pulled over faster than you can take another sip. Keep this cup at home. Unless you want to throw the cops for a loop, which I often do- use the solo cup in the daytime, and fill it with water or juice. Seeing an officer of the law while doing this has the same euporhic effect as the first few months of using your id after turning 21. It's a real mindfuck for the po's.

2. The Used Water Bottle
I can only reiterate this concept so many times: only clear beverages go in the water bottle. This means vodka/tonics, gin/tonics, or for the real crazies that think they have their drinking and driving down; Everclear and Sprite. This way, when you get pulled over, that half empty Poland Spring is so unassuming that the cop won't even think to check what's in it (granted you can hold your shit together while he's talking to you). No mixers that stray from the clear. It's just asking for trouble, believe me.

3. The Glass
A bad choice all around. You have to be pretty ballsy to do this. It is telling people that you are so confident with your drunk driving skills that you didn't even think to take something more discreet. In fact, when you leave with a glass, it is usually something you stole from somebody else's house, because you didn't care, maybe didn't like them that much, and know that they will never see it again. We rarely bring glasses from our own homes. Why? Because we know they're going to end up crushed to smithereens on the side of the highway during a moment of clarity, when we toss them out the window realizing how bad of an idea they actually are.

4. The Protein Shake Bottle
My personal favorite. Its large size is perfect for the 4 shot drink when you really want to get blitzed. Maybe you have an awkward social function to attend, maybe you just got off of work and your friends are light years ahead of you in alcohol consumption. Whatever the reason, I highly recommend adding one of these cups to your personal collection. They come with a lid and so are highly spill proof. They are so big that there is ample room for an indulgence of ice and mixer. It's a real toss-up as to whether the cops are going to find this kind of item suspicious. I'd say if you're a big guy and have a copy of "Men's Health" on your passenger seat, then you're in the clear. Otherwise, proceed with caution.

5. The Bottle the Drink Came In
This is obvious but needs to be mentioned. If you're taking swigs out of that bottle of Captain, you better be ready for the consequences. You are either driving to the highest bridge you can find to jump off, or your life sucks so bad that you don't care what happens to you. I have never heard of any stories ending well in a situation like this. If any readers know of anything to the contrary, I'd be interested to hear about it.

Moral of the story: Drive safely. And I don't condone drunk driving.

The Playdoh Living Room

So the professor of my writing class makes no secret of how intolerant she is of us as a group. She constantly points out our "unprofessionalism" and inattentiveness during class. Her solution: treat these 20somethings as children, and they may actually grow up. Au contraire. The first day of this semester she arrived with a Playdough multipack, including 20 mini-tubs of every color under the sun, cookie cutter shapes, and rolling pins. I could tell instantly that this semester was going to be better than the last.

"I am sick of everyone browsing the internet, chatting, and generally not paying attention during class. This is playdough. If you feel like you can't pay attention; use this. I don't mind."

What! This was the best thing since free pizza on Tuesdays!

Only a few of actually have ever used the playdough during class. More specifically, only myself and Law School Friend #1 have used it consistently, every single class period. That is why we have the skills that the others only dream of. The key to a good playdough designer includes nimble fingers, creativity, and patience, amongst all else. (note: Friend # 1 ran into alot of trouble with a lampshade for our endtable today- her dedication to this 1/4 centimeter piece of craftsmanship was truly inspiring). We worked straight through the hour long class, here, I am proud to show you our final creation.

The Clay Living Room

We couldn't believe how well it turned out, to be honest. The key was that Friend #1 has small hands, and so was really able to excel at the detail-oriented items that this picture do not do justice to (note: plates, knives, forks on the kitchen table. Fruit bowl, end tables, and lamp). I on the other hand, really found my calling with the furniture pieces. (I made the couch, kitchen chairs, and area rug). The best part of all of this?? My teacher could not do one god damn thing about it! It was her idea! IT was the great Playdough Backlash of 08'.

When class ended, we were so proud of our finished product that we did a photo shoot, capturing the room from multiple angles (in the right lighting the cat looks alive). We even gave guided tours to the 2 or 3 lingerers who were legitimately impressed with what we had accomplished. Professor feigned amusement, but I know she was cursing us on the inside. Our next project: an Amusement Park. Stay Tuned.

The Modelling Stint

When I was ten, my mom, always a sucker for money-making scams, decided that I could potentially be very lucrative to her, and so enrolled me in modelling classes in Boston that claimed to take clumsy toothless children and turn them into child stars.

6 Saturdays, 200 black & white head shots, and $4000 dollars later, I was a certified model through the Cameo Kids Modeling Agency. What does this mean, you may wonder? Well, besides a closed circuit television commercial for Campbell's soup, in which I was eating out of a clearly empty bowl, I didn't have too much going on. My career was about as happening as Stephanie Tanner's after the cancellation of Full House.

Sure, I had a few stints here and there. I was in a shoot for Met Life magazine posing on a basketball court, and a couple of other minor roles, but nothing serious. Lets just say it was taking me longer than I thought to pay off the new Huffy. All of this is pre- "big break". When it came, it came hard and fast. My classmates turned green with envy. The pay was good, the job was easy, and the rewards... well, they would launch me into print modelling stardom.

It was a shoot for McGraw Hill, the text book company. Specifically, a fifth grade math book. I remember the day vividly. I could hardly sleep the night before. I was picked up after first period by my driver (Parental Unit #1) and whisked off; the starlet that I was, to an undistingishable office park on the outskirts of Boston. Since I didn't know what they would make me wear, I brought plenty of outfits in the event that they wanted me to put on a runway show or strike some poses. So I arrive, and there's 4 other kids there. It is a scene from a fucking United Nations ad: The Asian male, the little black girl with cornrows, a dorky looking white kid in a polo shirt and glasses, and me. What was my role? I wondered. I would soon find out.

A mock classroom had been set up- equipped with a chalkboard and roundtable where we would be sitting. Feeling unsure of myself in the hideous duds they put me in, I was apprehensive about where I was supposed to sit. I was not yet a seasoned model at this point. The woman running the shoot took me by the arm.

"You're going to be sitting there" she pointed.
She obviously was mistaken.
"Sorry, where?"
"In the wheelchair" she said impatiently.

"You want me to sit.. In. A. Wheelchair"??? THIS was my big break?? They wanted me to play a retard in a fucking wheelchair?? Wait until the kids at school got wind of this..

Ten minutes later and after much convincing from my mother, I sat in the wheelchair and smiled meekly at the Asian, who at this point had already constructed a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of the blocks on the table. Who said stereotypes aren't true?? I played the part well, refusing to take direction and making obscene gestures throughout the entirety of the shoot. Lets just say I never got another job offer from the company. My career ended as quickly as it had begun.

And for the record: this 1995 McGraw Hill basic math book is no longer in circulation, so don't even try to locate it.

The Arrest

When I was 17 years old, I was arrested for shoplifting. Now usually this could be chalked up to a case of juvenile delinquency, if only I weren't a freshman in college at the time. It is harder to justify when you are a college student at home over Christmas break, because you are expected to know better, and rightfully so. I had dabbled in petty theft when I was younger, but never anything too serious.

Well, the day before Christmas break, a girl in my dorm who I never had liked (she was a part-time prostitute and a full time slut) gave me a Christmas present. And a fairly nice one at that. Shit, I thought. Now I was obligated to get her something. One afternoon around the end of break, I decided to go to the mall to do some post-holiday shopping. While perusing the racks in Macy's, my eyes were drawn to a wall of fantastically ghetto Tommy Hilfiger apparel that I thought would be perfect for this less than savory character (we'll call her "Jenny") who had bestowed the gift of giving upon me. However, the thought of actually spending my own Christmas money on this girl was difficult to stomach. I found a hooded sweatshirt that I thought would serve the dual purpose of carrying around her portable weed stash and covering her massive breasts (the perfect gift, you could say) and brought it into the changing room. Along the way I also grabbed a 3 pack of white Tommy athletic socks, with the logo on the ankle. In the changing room, a small moral dilemma ensued. Should I just shove this shit into my purse and dip out, or just shell out the $40 odd dollars on this purchase. Needless to say, I chose the former option. With a racing heart, I walked out of the changing room, down the escalator, through the maze of perfume and makeup counters, and out into the open mall. Home free! Or so I thought. I was about 50 feet from the Macy's entrance looking at jade necklaces at a stall, when two sweaty heaving fatasses came charging at me, grabbing me on either side by the arms.

"I think you have something that doesn't belong to you, Mam".
"Uhhh, I stammered, red as a beet, as I made eyes with the vendor of the jade necklaces".

They made me open my bag, pulling out both the sweatshirt and the athletic socks. There are two issues that really get to me to this day about the situation:
1. The fuckers waited until I was halfway through the mall before apprehending me
2. I stole a Tommy Hilfiger hoodie and accompanying socks. Could there be ANYTHING shittier to steal from a department store? I was embarrassed. I pictured myself standing in a courtroom with a judge listing off the merchandise, to a room full of fellow criminals who would scoff their heads in disgust at my dismal takings.

The two dragged me back into the store, and brought me through a long hall to some sort of 'interrogation room'. I use the term loosely because the windowless room consisted of a card table and 3 chairs. They sat me down and told me to wait, that someone would be with me. When alone, my first order of business was to do something with my fake id, which was sitting in the place of my license in my wallet. Still handcuff free at this point, I quickly pulled the id, and afraid of getting strip searched, stuck it in my underwear. Seconds later, the two thugs who had caught me came back into the room, followed by a fat female who was head of security. She certainly had enough brawn for the entire staff.

The three hooligans proceed to verbally berate me as I broke down into tears. It was about 5:00 pm at this point, and I had to babysit at 7. I knew I probably was not going to get this process sped up. They also refused to let me phone home. So anyway, the manager started emptying the contents of my bag onto the table.

"Birth Control??" she hissed. "Are you having sexxxxx?" I swear that venom came out of her mouth.
"Uh no" I replied. And I know for a fact that you're not either you fat bitch, is what I wanted to say, but didn't.

Minutes later, the arresting officer arrived. I don't need to elaborate on the details. He cuffed me and marched me through the shop and out to the cop car. One notable point- as we were cruising through the parking lot, me and Officer Dickhead, an elderly woman flagged down the cop because she had locked her keys in her car. This is seriously what the cop said to the poor woman-
"Back up mam, I have a prisoner in this vehicle". She jumped a mile and scurried off.

Four hours and two psychological exams later, my dad arrived to pick me up. The disappointment in his face said it all. My mom ended up having to go and babysit for me that night, telling the child's parents that I had a flat tire. All in all, I only ended up having to write an essay, and was banned from all Macy's stores for 1 year. It was literally the most humiliating day of my life, and I will absolutely never steal anything again. I learned my lesson. The point was drilled home even farther when I had to take a Greyhound bus from my college to home for my court date at the end of January. But that is a story all to itself.

The Car Wash

One day in high school, my best friend had picked me up to drive to another friend's house. Off of the main road, we saw signs for a free car wash, and, in the spirit of never turning down anything that is free, we decided to stop by. The car wash was run by a youth group from South Carolina who were promoting some sort of religious endeavor. My guard immediately went up. I have never been a fan of organized religion, and become all the more skeptical when it is being flung upon me by devilish little children.

The group had been travelling by coach bus, apparently hitting up all the states along the eastern seaboard. I have honestly never seen such enthusiastic tweens in my life. I would venture to say the pastor was partaking with them in some sort of lewd sexual activities on the bus. Anyway, I didn't really know what were were supposed to give them in a form of a donation, because they were refusing to take money. I hastily put the two crumpled dollar bills that I was planning on giving for a donation back into my wallet. We sat in my friend's saab while soaped up 12 year olds got frisky while sponging down the car. One of the girls (a ginger with a mouthful of neon green braces) indicated for us to roll down the window. In the thickest southern accent I have probably ever heard, she said

"Instead of donations, we are asking if you would please join us in a prayer circle".

Oh fuck me. I have a tendency for laughing at extremely inappropriate times, and I knew that I was totally going to lose it. Not to mention, we are at a hillbilly Chevron station off of a busy road, and I don't want anybody I know to see us. We reluctantly stepped out of the car, where a pre-pubescent boy held out his hand for me to step into the circle, which was about 20 people deep (my friend and myself being the only outsiders). The minxy ringleader just happened to be the afore-mentioned ginger, and she pulled out a laminated card with a picture of Jesus on the cross, and a prayer or scripture of some sort printed underneath. She began reading the first line (I distinctly remember her saying that Jesus would forgive us), and then slowly but surely, the rest of her little minions started joining in. The only thing that would have made this prayer circle more cult-like was if a man in a white cloak appeared from out of the ground bearing a candle and holy water. The complete and utter awkwardness of the situation was too much.
I burst into fits of hysteric, uncontrollable laughter the second I made eye contact with my friend. There was nothing I could do. The persistent ginger brushed off any offense she must have taken by this outburst, and kept reading, her voice never wavering. I kept apologizing profusely in between fits of laughter. After what seemed like an eternity, the prayer ended. We jumped into the car and sped off. Amen.