Roommate Debate

This evening while I was sitting around recovering from a cold and shooting the shit with my roommate, I reflected upon how lovely life can be when you get along with the people you live with. This is probably true for many people, but for me, living the architecture student lifestyle, my roommates have always been an incredible outlet for me, often becoming my closest and dearest friends over time.  On the other hand, the stress of school and work, when combined with a bad roommate(s) can be toxic.  The messy, the passive aggressive, even the smelly--all forms of miserable house mates that make your life a living hell.  Fortunately for me I have never had a truly horrible roommate, but I have had a number of odd individuals along the way. I have surely done some strange shit myself so I am not exempt, but, in no particular order, are the oddest habits I've encountered over the past seven years.

We all have our unique tastes in music.  In fact, this very evening in the privacy of my own room, inclined by some strange school-induced suicidal mood, I started listening to My Chemical Romance.  So yes, we all listen to music that may or may not match the taste of the ones with whom we live.  This particular roommate, however, very much enjoyed listening to her music without headphones in shared spaces, and tried to convince you that you, too, enjoyed her music--particularly the tracks of the Icelandic nature.  Bjork?  Sigur Ros?  What's wrong with those guys?  No no. I literally mean Icelandic nature. What this particular roommate listened to were Icelandic soundscapes filled with chimes, and whistles, and the sound of whooshing winds and crunching snow, and it very much concerned me. The first several times she played it, I'll admit, I was intrigued.  I thought, "how cool of this girl to not give a shit and listen to what she wants."  This is until she played it every single night. She would listen to those tracks on loop for hours and hours on end, regardless of what she or I was doing , and it eventually became really uncomfortable to be around.  Nevertheless, these songs--noises...whatever we want to call them--seemed to bring her so much peace and enjoyment that, because she was such a great roommate in every other sense, I never said a word. This one is on me.

That is the thing: I have always had the mentality that if something in my home irritates me, it's my problem not anyone else's.
Dirty floor bugging you, Stephanie?  Clean the floor.  

Wine glasses aren't clear enough for you?  Wash them yourself.  

Want to make dinner but the only frying pan is locked in your roommates room?  Go out and buy your own damn frying pan. 

This roommate had a love--nay-an obsession with bacon.  In the short time we lived together I don't think I ever saw her eating, or any evidence of her having eaten, anything besides bacon.  About every three days she would fry up a 10lb bag of bacon and take it into her room, and this pan would not re-emerge for days.  I don't know if she was sustaining herself over those several days with her enormous supply of bacon, or if she would eat it all in one sitting then let the pan fester.  I have NO IDEA.  All I know is that the pan went into her room with 10lbs of cooked bacon and would stay there for nearly seventy-two hours until it was hung back on the hook for however long it took until the next batch.

What happens behind closed doors is not my business.  If roommate #2 wanted to shovel bacon in her gullet, that's her right! However, when roommates leave their doors open their actions become public.  Those behaviors become a part of the collective living experience, so when another roommate that would invite over her boyfriend, leave her door open, then sit on the floor and make animal noises at him, it took everything I had not to record that shit and put it on youtube.  Barking, oinking, meowing, and mooing that possibly started as a cute game eventually turned into some strange sort of foreplay for them, and just the sounds of a typical Wednesday for the rest of us.

Then, of course, there was the roommate that actually had an animal.  This particular craigslist find was a self-employed, pot-smoking, ferret owner.  Since I kept my bedroom and bathroom doors closed, having her little friend roaming around the house rarely bothered me.  That is until the night she was leaving for Bonarroo. I was on a conference call, sitting in an arm chair next to the wifi router, piled below my laptop, my tablet, and a stack of sketches going over some designs with my professor when the roommate started carrying baskets down the stairs.  
"I'm going to leave the door open!" she yelled, ignoring the fact that I was on the phone.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see her transporting things out of the house, a bushel of produce, a trunk of oversized costume props, a duffelbag of drug paraphernalia, etc.  On her third or fourth trip down she stopped in the doorway: "Can you watch him for a minute?" she commanded while tossing her animal's leash over the back of my computer.  Before I could even react she was out the door and I was on babysitting duty.  Understandably, in her mind I was just sitting there, so I put the leash around my wrist and carried on with my meeting.  For a few minutes everything was fine, then without warning the struggling at the other end of the leash stopped.  Realizing instantly that the ferret had escaped his harness I leapt toward the open front door, dropping my computer, phone, and papers in the process.  
"He's loose! Blank, he's off his leash!" I shrieked as I watched his little tail fade into the darkness outside.  Immediately, my roommate and a half dozen friends from the minivan were running down the street after a ferret.  I watched helplessly from the door for a moment, then assuming they had things under control I scrambled to pick up all my belongings and return to my meeting.  When my roommate came back in a few minutes later with her pet, I put my call on silent to apologize and explain that he had escaped.
"You know, Stephanie, it's fine" she snorted with the utmost disgust.  "I'm just not going to let you watch Rudolpho ever again."
I think that was totally fair.

There was also a roommate who had so many visitors that there were about two months when I was consistently living with 3-7 people in my two-bedroom apartment. After the second visitor left I confronted her about all her company explaining that it was overwhelming to always have so many strangers in the apartment. "I pay rent too."  Yes, she did, and I didn't own the couch so I left it at that.

Lastly, there was the worst roommate I've had.  And I don't list her as the worst because she was messy, or mean, or zero fun, or an absolute nightmare of a person.  I call her the worst of my roster because she had sex with her boyfriend in our shower ALL THE TIME. Now this may not seem like such a big deal for many of you, but when your bedroom shares a wall and a vent to the bathroom you can hear everything.  So not only did I have to use this shared shower, but I had to endure listening to every squeal, whisper, and giggle that accompanied the relentless thuds against my bedroom wall at all hours of the day.  Even after I asked her to be respectful and even after the other roommates agreed it was absurd and asked her to stop she and her boyfriend made no efforts to slow their...productivity.  I eventually moved out, and needless to say I don't feel bad about using her personal brita filter to purify vodka. 

Thank you to the absolutely phenomenal roommates I have had.  I hope that my time with each of you has been as pleasant for you as it has been for me.  I know I suck at doing dishes, but you know I could be a whole lot worse, you ungrateful little shits.

#RavenclawTowerForever

Dogs Aren't People Too

"You know it has fur," I mock every time my friend describes putting a blanket on her dog while on the beach in sunny San Diego.  "But her teeth are chattering!" she whines while probably online shopping for a pink knit sweater and booties for her small whatever-breed-it-is.

Growing up in a family that hunts animals for food--you can all calm down, it's Pennsylvania--I have less sensitivity toward pets than your average person may have.  This is not to say that I don't love my animals, that they don't have feelings or emotions or wants or needs, but the fact of the matter is they aren't people.  My cat was eighteen years old when she died.  I had that animal for most of my life and I loved her with all my heart, but even after all that time she was still a pet who had far outlived her life-span and a happy treasure I was willing to let go. By no means am I a cruel pet owner, nor am I a bad person for holding my rank on the food chain.  If a deer wants to wield a rifle and feed me kibble and make me sleep on the floor, I'll cuddle that linoleum willingly...I did it enough in college anyway.

We now interrupt this daily scheduled bitching to announce that someone who doesn't much care for talking about her own beloved pets, sure as FUCK does not want to hear about your little rat, random person in the supermarket.  

Alright, friends, stay cool.  If I've met your animal, or child (the two can be interchangeable in this case), and have formed a relationship with your animal...or child...I will look at your photos and listen to your stories and suck it up for the sake of our friendship.  However, complete strangers wanting to show me photos of their pets is where I draw the line.  

 The first recent incident of this was while I was waiting at Starbucks and two undergraduate girls in front of me where giggling and cooing over instagram photos of one another's cats while we stood in a line that never seemed to move.  They gasped and choked and sniffled at these photos with which they were enamored.  When after a few more minutes the line had barely progressed, one girl reached her phone in front of the nose of the handsome man in front of her. "Isn't this the funniest thing you've ever seen?!" she squealed at this poor bystander.  With a scrunched face, the man swiveled, nodded, and mumbled something before turning around to give his order.  Obviously feeling snubbed, the two girls then proceeded to evade 

Top: Ebony (RIP), Bottom: Misty

embarrassment by performing the same routine on everyone

around them.  Neither the lady behind the counter nor the young girl and her boyfriend studying nearby had any reaction.
"You have to see this!  I swear it's the most hilarious thing you'll see today," one of them finally announced to me.  
"Please do not put that thing near my face.  I have no interest in looking at your cat," I said coldly while her cheeks turned a deep red.  "Your loss," she growled, "and by the way it's a chinchilla." Having misunderstood that the hilarity was lost on the rest of us, they still decided to place their order under the alias of their pets.  I don't remember the names.  Muffy and Cooter, no doubt. 


The second time something like this happened I was in Petco, which is a slightly more understandable setting to encounter people that like to talk about animals.  My mother and I wanted to give Misty a bath before the holidays, and not having the facilities to handle a bucking, twitching 50lb dog took her to the nearest self-wash station.  When we arrived the bathy-ma-thing was occupied so I waited while Mom went to pay.  Unsurprisingly, the nearest employee, a teenage girl with thick-rimmed glasses and eyebrow piercing, came dawdling over wanting to pet our dog.  We exchanged brief conversation about the protocol for dog-washing and which shampoo was best, then got right down to the facts.  What's her name? How old is she? Is she a rescue? How long have you had her?  And so on and so on.  I answered each prompt, but looked, the whole time, at my dog instead of the girl hoping she would understand my pain and pee on the floor.  When the young lady finally ran out of questions she stared at me, willing me to ask her about her dog while I craned my neck to see if my mother was on her way to save me.  
"This is Duncan." She shoved her phone at me.
"Cute.  How old is he?" 
"Duncan.  Duncan is three, but he has as much grey hair is Misty here." (My dog is 11yo)
"Poor fella," I chortled, trying to fit in.
"Duncan," she repeated as if I hadn't caught it the first three times. "Yeah...Duncan is such a rascal."
Where was my mother?  Testing chew toys?  Hiding in the car?  I waited angrily as Petco employee continued to tell me unsolicited stories about Duncan, until I finally had ingenious and diabolical idea to 'accidentally' let Misty off her leash.  In an instant she was free, and off she went, my noble steed, running toward the hamster cages.  
"Oh shoot!  This one's a rascal too!" I shouted as I went chasing down the aisle after her.  By the time I returned so had my mother who was, of course, now being shown photos of Duncan; it took all of me to not leave her in that predicament.  Thirty minutes later when we had finished washing, drying, and fluffing our pooch we were ready to leave when the girl returned. Knowing she only had the sweetest intentions, I nudged my mom, "Crap. Say something nice to her.  I don't know how to be nice to her." 
"Merry Christmas, sweetheart.  And Merry Christmas to your puppy too."
"Duncan."
Thanks for clearing that up.

Pets are a great topic for first dates or for awkwardly long car rides, but talking about pets is barely less generic than discussing the weather.  Caring about the weather, though, is at least something I can relate to.  I find it so difficult to muster up the energy to feign enthusiasm over something I simply do not care about, which can be problematic since people tend to care very deeply about their pets.  Some folks take it very personally if, like me, you insult their obsession with their animals.  Again, let me state that I love my dog, but aside from this post I don't really care if you know it or not.  People who spend excessive amounts of money on their animals are people I just cannot relate to. I'm sorry; your dog is a yorkie, not a freaking Clydesdale.  

I will leave you with a lesson from one final example:

If you are at TJ Maxx and you observe a family purchasing a dog bed, please do not take that as license to ask them about him or her.  If you are at TJ Maxx and you observe a family purchasing a dog bed, please do not take that as license to tell the family about your dog for whom you have an actual twin size mattress even though it's only a small terrier.  If you are at TJ Maxx and you observe a family purchasing a dog bed, please do not take that as license to tell the family about how your two cats are now so old and confused that the eat the dingleberries that fall off your dog's ass.  DO NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO THAT. Please.

bitch hates taking pictures with me

Stupid Cupid: Part Deux

The Christmas season is my favorite time of year, and while I adore spending time with my family and friends, I do not relish the barrage of questions from the extended family regarding my current relationship status.

"...but you're such a beautiful young lady there must be a guy in your life!" followed by the uncomfortable glance at my mother who must disappointingly corroborate my story.

In the past this has never really bothered me. I have always explained away the issue by telling Cousin Charlene I couldn't choose between the eight boyfriends I'm stringing along or explaining to Aunt Ethel why I don't have time for one anyway.  However this year a different kind of exchange took place. At a sorority reunion the day after Christmas (see, bitches, you thought you were safe) when giving a formal 'life update' I playfully told my long lost friends I was, of course, single, but planning to start exploring my sexuality.  Now, while I am so proud to say that there was immediately an overwhelming acceptance of this news I was, in fact, joking.  I realized it was once again time to share some of reasons I am still without a boyfriend and to squash the sneaking suspicions of those who think I'd be better off with a lady.

So in the spirit of being a good sport, I give you the much anticipated return of the nightmare that is my dating life.  Fortunately for me, none of these examples are nearly as nauseating as last years' batch, but I hope they entertain you nonetheless.

He sent me this message in October...

Freddy Spaghetti

New York City does not have a reputation for being the friendliest place on earth, so when a (clean) stranger strikes up a conversation with me on the subway I am always pleasantly surprised.  He and I had gotten on at the same stop and he had slyly made his way to my end of the subway car.  He was tall, unconventionally handsome, and wearing a fitted suit so naturally I had already noticed him.

"You look like you're doing something exciting tonight," he leaned over and said in a deep voice with a thick Brazilian accent.  I swooned... and realized I should wash my hair and wear makeup more often. He was a Columbia MBA student, a semi-professional rugby player, and couldn't take his eyes off me.  We spoke for a while, he even stayed on my train when he should have taken the express, and it seemed like the makings of true love.  Before my stop he asked me for my number and if I would like to get lunch later that week, an offer I aptly accepted.  

Several days passed before he finally asked me if I like Italian food and would be willing to meet him on campus after his class the next afternoon.  We met up and exchanged pleasantries. As we started making our way to lunch I realized we were headed toward another school building, and trying not to be rude I asked him where he was taking me.

"You said you like Italian right?  The dining hall has a pasta special on Fridays so I thought we could go there. I have a meal plan."  

Now, I am not terribly picky when it comes to food, but anyone who has been to college can relate to the image of an over-sized, multi-line dining facility when it's filled with hundreds of undergrads in their pajamas as a not-so-ideal first date venue. As we walked in I told him I had never been there before and asked what was good, but before he could answer he darted off to some unidentified line and left me standing awkwardly by the fountain drinks with the 18 year old who was mixing together four flavors of soda.  By the time I had my food he was nowhere to be found and I had to wander through the hall until he finally stood up and waved to me from the far corner.  Trying to salvage our time together I began asking him about his friends and his hobbies, but the conversation quickly devolved into him asking if I had hot friends I could bring to his next rugby game, then inviting me to his school's happy hour before promptly revoking the invitation for some reason I couldn't hear through his full mouth, and telling me his uncle is an architect and he thinks it's a useless profession.  When we had finished our meals he seemed to sense my aggravation and asked me to sit tight while he fixed a to-go plate before he would walked me back.  Luckily we left with a mutual distaste for one another and I never heard from or saw him again. 

The Captain

As a full time architecture student it is easy to guess that I don't have a ton of free time to spend seeking the perfect mate.  So when another student comes across my tinder I give them more than a glance before deciding which way to swipe.  I, like most people, treat tinder as a game more than a place to find a boyfriend, but when law students from my hometown message me I am slightly more inclined to pay attention, especially when the message is coming in the middle of the day and not in the form of a booty call.  Even though he wasn't an "ideal" candidate, The Captain and I spent an entire day messaging back and forth sharing school war stories and the great things about Pittsburgh.  By the end of the day my fingers and patience were worn, so I extended the invitation for coffee.  He responded with a counteroffer to come to his school's happy hour the day after next.  I was a little hesitant and asked if I could bring a friend if he was serious, which he told me would be alright.  We signed off saying we would both be busy the next day so we would talk the day of the happy hour. 

When Thursday morning rolled around I texted him with a simple message asking if drinks were still on.  Minutes passed, hours passed, I got the hint and told my friend that there would be no happy hour that evening and went on with my day.  Then around 5pm I received this unpleasant confirmation: 

"Sorry, sweetheart. This ship has sailed."  

First, let me make a quick public service announcement to all my male readers out there,  DO NOT call a girl sweetheart.   

At no point did I ever press after that initial message so, second: if you are a pasty, overweight, and generally boring, do not assume that a girl wants your dick so badly that you need to send such rude followup messages to get your point across. 

Stage 5

For those of you unfamiliar with the practice of online dating, there is a certain amount of back-and-forth that typically takes place once you begin talking to someone.  These exchanges are sometimes dragged out over days, sometimes weeks, and you end up becoming pen pals with someone rather than their 6o'clock.  I started talking to Stage 5 on a day I happened to have very little work, and we got along splendidly.  He didn't quite meet some of my physical standards, but was very funny, and his quick-witted banter was enough to get me to ask him to drinks that night. 

As usual, I was running a little late, so he was already at the bar when I arrived.  We hugged, I explained my tardiness, and was about to climb up onto the empty stool next to him when he choked back his drink and told me to wait.  Assuming he must have asked for a table, I stood quietly while he squared his tab at the bar.  I was observing the room when all of a sudden he grabbed my hand and told me to follow him and say nothing to no one.  "Rape. He's gonna rape me," I panicked to myself as we sailed past the booths of dining middle-aged couples.  Walking unquestioningly into the kitchen, he led me past the cooks and the freezers, through a storage room, and out into what must have been the enclosed courtyard of the building.  It was three stories high, decorated with a bunch of antique found objects and filled with some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen.  The table of tall foreign models smiled at us while the fedora-fitted bartender poured us some cocktails.  To say the least, the place was really freaking cool.

And so was Stage 5.  He was a photo editor for Vogue from a somewhat rural part of Virginia and we could relate on a lot of levels.  We shared anecdotes, we gossiped, we made fun of the bartender's hat; it was great.  The evening was a blast, that is until he put his hand on my knee and I remembered I was supposed to be romantically interested in this guy, which I was not. When we finally left I was sick to my stomach; this guy was nice and really seemed to like me, but I just wanted to be friends.  A simple goodnight kiss on the cheek and the promise for a call later in the week was a good sign for me to get my shit together and figure out how I was going to let him down gently.

Several days later I finally got up the courage I needed.  I called him, but was met with a text message saying he didn't like talking on the phone.  Phew* I can do this an inhumanly as possible. The conversation went something like this:

"Hey, Stage 5.  I had a ton of fun with you, but I think we would be best off as friends.  Is that something you would like to try?"

"But you asked me out."

"Yeah? To get to know you, which I think I do and you're awesome, but I don't think I want to keep dating you.  I'd really still love to hang out as friends if that's something you want."

"It's not.  I thought you liked me.  I feel like you made it kind of clear that you liked me. I think you should spend some more time with me and give me another chance before you blow me off like that."

I made it clear?  I made it clear by...asking him out first?  I can admit that I was tipsy and flirty and what have you, but this reaction should have been an obvious red flag.  Knowing, however, that I had really hurt his feelings I left things a little open ended.  One night he asked me to dinner, but I had an evening class and couldn't go.  A week or so later he invited me to a party, a very fancy, high profile party, that in all honesty I would have LOVED to attend.  Yet my shitty school schedule couldn't really permit staying out until 4am schmoozing on a Monday night so I politely declined.  His reaction was over the top.  He sent me an avalanche of text messages (which I should have saved before dropping my phone into a puddle) decrying my academic pursuits telling me they were worthless since I would never know what it's like to love another human being and how life isn't worth living unless I foster the relationships I've already made.  Our relationship.  Our three week relationship that consisted of exactly one date.  On and on the messages went explaining how I was wasting my time, and on and on I let them go.  My only response was to tell him to enjoy his party.  He texted me the next morning apologizing, that he must have been drunk (at 4pm on a Monday?).  I didn't respond, and was met with more anger.  A couple days later he messaged me again to tell me his family would be in town and invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of his rich/famous artist brother.  

"I think that would inappropriate since we're not really dating and since I'm not sure I even want to be your friend any longer, but thank you for the invitation.  I hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving."

I didn't hear anything from him for a few weeks, until he tried to ask me out again. And then wished me a Merry Christmas.  And then wished me a happy new year.  Then asked me out again.  Then asked me if I had Valentine's day plans.  I finally just told him I was dating someone and he sent me the last message I have ever received from him:

"Yeah...maybe that's something you should tell someone before you lead them on for three months."

Dickhead.

Thor

Bergen, Norway is a small city about the size and population of Cincinnati, so I never expected to see the tallest, fittest, most beautiful man in all of Norway there in line for a restroom in the basement of a hipster bar.  Lacking all subtlety, I was pretty obviously staring at this fine specimen as he went into the unisex bathroom and nothing changed when he came back out.  He glided past me back into the bar, but must have doubled back because in an 
instant he was by my side with his hand on my arm breathing Norwegian into my ear.  

"Sorry?..I don..." I stuttered, cupping my hand to my ear. 

Now bent eye-level with me, he pushed back his long blonde hair off his chiseled jaw and repeated himself in Norwegian.

"Oh no sorry!  I only speak English."  I admitted with an apologetic shrug.

He stood upright and smiled...and my God what a smile.  
He leaned back toward me and put his hand on my side. I was dying. This could not be real life.

"There's no toilet paper in there."

And then he walked away.
Ladies and gentleman, my life.

As always, I take the good with the bad.  I went on a number of great dates with really wonderful guys over the last year, and while I am still optimistic, here are some of the reasons I will probably end up alone with a cat:

 I am 88% concerned for myself.

If by big toys you mean, like, go carts...then yeah.

Lucky me.

Yeah, definitely.  This sounds totally safe and legitimate.

I'm honestly more upset that he used "u" instead of "you."

I am still unsure if he was trying to ask me on a date or offer me a job.

HERE I COME, 2015!