Little Girl, Big City

Roommates, Schroommates. suck it up and get over it.

I once had a roommate who would leave old burritos on the floor. We had a bunk bed. And guess who would jump off in the morning to get a footload of three-day-old beans and cheese? That’s right- THIS GIRL.

She would also hook up with guys on the bottom part of the bunk bed. If the bunk bed’s a rockin, don’t come-a knockin! Oh, wait. That’s right….IT’S A BUNK BED YOU WHORE! She would come back to our tiny dorm room at 2 or 3 in the morning raging drunk. And when I say raging, I mean throwing things and yelling bitter resentments while she tries to punch you. I  hate to admit it, but I used to pray she would drop out of college. 

For most of you, the fact that I’m even writing about roommates has probably already turned you off from this post. Because, guess what: roommates suck. 

Yes, they can be fun and nice and teach you things about yourself. You can stay up until 4 o’clock in the morning eating captin crunch and watching old episodes of Golden Girls. You can go out on the town and laugh until you cry. 

But there’s a dark side to what seems like a pretty simple relationship. When you live with someone you see the best and the worst in them. Much like a close friendship. But here’s the catch: THERE’S NO WHERE TO RUN. When that worst part of them is showing (and I don’t mean their Plumber’s crack) you just have to suck it up and live with it. 

Either you both want to work things out so you try to appease the other person, or at least one of you gives up and just does whatever you want, which starts a whole messy downward spiral that will make both of you miserable.

And by messy, I mean messy. 

One of my current roommates is loud and funny and nice. You can tell she was the popular girl in high school. What you can’t tell by looking at her is that she steals things. Not borrows clothes, but takes dishes. Cups, silverware, towels, you name it. Gone. I think she takes them in her car intending to bring them back and then just throws them away? 

You also can’t tell from looking at her pretty little face that she will never clean your bathroom, or buy toilet paper or paper towels. She’ll use all your tampons and medicine and expect you to buy her more. 

She has a way of doing the dishes that somehow leaves them dirtier than they were to being with. I don’t know how she does it, but it’s some sort of horrible talent of filthiness. 

Here’s the thing: I’m a roommate too. And since we can all agree to some extent that roommates suck, I can therefor deduce that I suck as well. 

No one ever thinks he or she is the bad guy. We all like to sit up on our high horse and notice everything that the other person is doing wrong. We can point out our own faults, but there’s always a reason for them. “Well, yeah, I didn’t do my dishes yesterday, but I was late to work and I normally do them.” or “My room isn’t dirty, I just haven’t done laundry.”

You get the point. Everyone thinks they’re the victim. And even though I’m the one writing this rambling post with a semi-moral at the end, I still feel like a victim. 

Since I’m poor, it looks like I’ll have to live with roommates for a long time. I’m going to give myself the best advice I’ve heard all year: suck it up and get over it. 

I’ve seen the future, and it looks like coffee

I gave up coffee for Lent.

“But Sarah, you’re not even Catholic!” is what you’d be thinking if you gave a crap what I gave up for Lent.

I know, I know. I just like the idea of giving something up for a period of time to prove I can do without. I should have been a monk. 

The problem is, I’m addicted. How many times have I heard people say “I’m SO addicted” and thought, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Caffine, schaffine.”

But I’m not addicted to caffeine; I’m addicted to coffee.

To the rich, bold, tangy, acidy, smooth, warm, liquid heaven that I depend on to sustain me through the day.

The plan was simple: don’t drink it for 40 days, then I will no longer be addicted, and can enjoy it on occasion.

I had a non-stop headache for the first 4 days. I’m not kidding. Have you ever had a 96 hour headache that no medicine could cure?

I couldn’t help looking at the world as a dark place full of horrible people trying to steal away my happiness. I gave dirty looks and said sassy (putting it lightly) comebacks to co-workers. I’m surprised no one pushed a cup of coffee in my hands and told me to snap out of it.

I chastised myself later, but while the headache was raging, my inner bitch was on full alert.

After my head survived the first week, I was fine. If by fine I mean constantly daydreaming about coffee. I would close my eyes and see a mug of coffee in my hands. I could taste the french vanilla, hazelnut, or butterscotch creamer. I could feel the warmth in my palms. In short, I was lusting after coffee.

I’m going through a period of uncertainty in my future. What do I want to do with my life? Well, I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure: whatever it is, coffee will be part of it. 

A writer: I picture myself at the computer with a mug in one hand and the coffee pot within arm’s reach. Stay at home mom: I picture inviting neighbors over for a cup of joe while we talk about what trouble our kids have been getting in to. 

My french teacher keeps imploring us to find something we will want to invest our lives into. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far….I love coffee, reading, writing, and cats. Now if I could somehow combine that into a super-career, I would be set for life. Until then, I’ll break Lent because there’s no use in giving up one of the only things you’re passionate about to prove a point to yourself. Right now, I have a mug of that sweet brew in hand, and a keyboard in front of me. I’m off to a great start.

The Most Miserable Game Of Hide-N-Seek You’ve Ever Heard Of.

I like to keep things hidden. Not in a fun way, like burying valuable items deep in the ground or swaddling random objects in blankets and stuffing them in the darkest parts of my closet.

More like burying legitimate feelings deep inside my chest, until it gets tighter and tighter and I feel my anger boil up- the words spilling out of my mouth before I can turn off the flame, hurting both myself and those around me in the process. Or like swaddling memories with unknown willpower and stuffing them in the darkest parts of my subconscious.

It’s not healthy but it is a tad on the dramatic side. When am I going to blow up? I don’t know and neither do you! But I do know that each time I say, “No problem” or “It’s ok” or “Don’t worry about it” my shoulders get a little more weight added to them. I walk around with a pain in my neck until I collapse under my inability to say no. Then everything falls and I just let myself go. What I really need to be saying is, “That actually really hurt my feelings” or “This is incredibly selfish of you and inconvenient for me” or “No. You need to do your job. I’m tired of doing it for you.”

Instead I just blow it off. It somehow still manages to affect me. To affect and effect me. Grammar geek anyone? No. Okay, I’ll keep going.

This somewhat mediocre self-realization came about tonight. My friend got taken advantage of YET AGAIN by a co-worker who needed a ride. Sounds simple, right? I mean, what’s the big deal? The big deal is this dude has not had a car for years. He depends on other people for rides and they feel obligated because who wants to be the person who leaves their co-worker hanging? Not me, and certainly not my friend.
Here’s where the frustration comes in: this dude chooses not to buy a car. He can. He doesn’t because he just gets rides every day. He doesn’t pay gas money, he isn’t grateful, and he’s even a jerk about it. My friend has to cancel plans we have because his co-worker asks him last minute. My friend has to go out of his way to drive this dude anywhere and everywhere. Correction: he doesn’t have to. He chooses to. And that’s what makes me mad.

Tonight set me off for some reason. What would normally be mild irritation turned into a full-blown attack on this dude’s character. He’s not a bad person, but he is inconsiderate. He needs to grow up and buy a car. It’s not the end of the world.
But it got me to thinking. Most of the time, the things we dislike the most in other people are parts about ourselves that we dislike. I don’t make people give me rides. But I am the person who always gives rides. Why is it so hard to say no?

I have yet to figure that out. I may not know how to change my unhealthy tendency to bury my feelings, but at least I’m aware of it. And even though I’m hiding, at least I’m not the one who’s always seeking. If I had to choose, I’d rather be the giver than the taker any day.