We live in an age of forgetting.
roommate
The Not-So-Great Cookie Caper
Jun 10th
The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry. Especially if the mouse or man is lazy and likes to browse on the Internet before laying his plan.
My roommate Meghan left a box of peanut butter cookies unattended on the counter. My plan was to remove them all from the box except for one half-bitten cookie, and leave these Post-It notes in the box:
Brilliant, right? I wouldn’t actually eat the cookies. I would hide them in the pantry and give them back when she found the notes. Minus the half-bitten cookie. And the one cookie Box-To-Pantry transfer fee. And one more because I was hungry.
I went upstairs to write the Post-It notes, got slightly distracted, and when I went downstairs the cookies were gone. She was gone too and either hid them or took them with her, so I couldn’t use any of my usual tricks to get cookie access. Tricks like “Do you mind if I take a photo of your cookies?” and “Are those the cookies that got recalled? I’ll take then upstairs and check the label for you on Google.” (Yes, recalled….recalled to my belly!)
I had to settle for hiding the Post-It notes in her room, which is entirely unsatisfying as it has nothing to do with cookies. And I couldn’t use a substitute food, because the cookies were the only junk food she brought in the house in the past month. “Stole your kale!” doesn’t quite have the same ring.
My other roommate, Roo Roo, pointed out that I played a similar but more successful prank on him months ago. Downside: he no longer brings doughnuts home.
Hmm. Maybe it’s for the best this one didn’t work out.
Live a Morning as My Roommate
Aug 31st
My roommate R. was saving his one and only doughnut for breakfast the next day. I woke up before he did this morning, swiped the doughnut, and put this in the box.
Taken with my roommate's camera
He was a good sport about it. Which disappointed me. So I said, “R., you didn’t think I really ate your doughnut, did you? I’ll show you where I hid it. Come on.” I led him to the kitchen, where I said, “I hid it right here…IN MY BELLY!!!”
Ahh. That felt good. Got to start the morning off right.
R. is a cool, laid-back guy, and laughed. I retrieved his doughnut from its underground bunker after that and gave it back to him. Also, props to M. for not giggling before R. opened the box. It was a huge milestone for her, and she knows why.
BBQ Memories
Jul 6th
I’m still not used to being an adult. I expect others to step in and stop me from doing dumb things, like getting really drunk while trying to grill at a party, an activity that is a challenge for me at my most serious and sober.
My roommates and I held a BBQ on the 4th. The first few hours are clear. Then I started drinking Red Stuff and my friends and family, deciding for some odd reason that was the moment to give me more trust than all past experience warranted, left me at the grill alone. In charge of all the food.
“Where’s Jason?”
“I don’t know. Hey, what happened to all the Red Stuff?
I remember waking up the next day and revisiting the grill area. The floor is littered with squished vegetables, meat juice stains, and empty packages of hot dogs. I study it like a crime scene, and pick up the bag of charcoal. “How is this empty? It was a new bag.”
Flash of memory: I’m pouring the whole bag of charcoal onto the grill while laughing manically, like a super-villain fueling the rockets of his mobile volcano base. Vague images of hamburgers charred on the outside, raw on the inside. Something…very bad happening with chicken wings.
Another flash of memory: I walk into the kitchen, and my Mom is hitting a pan and yelling at people. They like that she is yelling at them, and listen to what she says.
I asked my my roommate, Roo Roo (not his real name), what that was about, and he related this story.
It’s late Saturday evening. R.R. was trying to get everyone to leave the house and head down to Roo Roo’s Secret Spot in D.C. to watch the fireworks. He got some of our friends to leave and stand outside, but there were a lot of stragglers he couldn’t get out of the house. So he asks the stragglers’ Queen, my friend Kate, to round everyone else up and get them out the door.
Kate decides to employ a better strategy, which is to walk straight to my Mom and ask her to get everyone to leave.
The reason this is a better strategy is because my Mom likes being in charge. She’s 4’11”, but when she makes an announcement, people listen to her. So my Mom grabs a pan and begins whacking it while yelling, “OKAY, EVERYBODY OUT OF THE HOUSE, TIME FOR FIREWORKS.”
And it works. Mom said we’re leaving, and that meant all of her temporary kids were leaving too. A few minutes later, the house was empty. We never made it to R.R.’s Secret Firework Spot (which I’m not even sure ever existed) but we had a good view standing on the National Mall.
Then there was the Chicken Wing Incident of 2009. I got a Cooks’ Illustrated book on grilling for Christmas and was trying their recipe for grilled chicken wings for the first time.
It had lots of illustrations and easy-to-follow instructions on preparing the wings, brining them, making a two-level fire, and so on. I had never brined something before, and I was particularly proud of doing that. I hung around the kitchen holding the bag of brining chicken for a few minutes, hoping someone would ask “What are you doing?” so I could casually respond, “Oh, you know, just brining” while then running away before anyone could ask me what brining does.
After the brining finished, I roped a few people into helping me put the chicken on the grill, and then turned away for a few minutes to chat.
Unfortunately, the Cooks Illustrated book, detailed as it is, does not have a section of what to do when the entire bed of chicken wings gets engulfed in a mountain of flame and catches on fire. As my roommate told me later while laughing, “Man, you were freaking out!”
I grab the tongs and start flinging burnt chicken wings into the general direction of the platter as fast as I could. One of my roommate’s friends, K-Ro (everyone gets a fake name today) is moving the platter back and forth to catch them flying in the air. I’m yelling: “This is horrible! It’s ruined. This is the worst grilling job ever.” All of which were probably true, but a little hysterical.
Major plot point: as I’m flinging the burnt chicken on the platter, one of the wings falls to the ground, which K-Ro picks up.
I take the chicken to the kitchen to peel off the burnt parts. For years, my Mom (who works for the FDA) has grilled into me that charred food is cancerous. And I don’t want to give any of our friends cancer, so I start peeling the burnt parts off as best as I could.
As I’m doing this, I notice that K-Ro has rinsed off the burnt chicken wing that fell on the salmonella-infested ground and was now eating it.
I had many reasons for doing what I did next. Drunkenness. Irritation at the wings being ruined. But most of all, a personal commitment to looking after the health and safety of our guests. So judge me not when I tell you I whacked the chicken wing out of her hand while yelling in my most righteous voice, “No! Poisonous!”
Bad move. She was pissed. Perhaps that’s something I could have done to a friend I’ve known for a year, but I barely knew her. Her face hardened, and she said, “Don’t you ever do something like that again.” Then she turned around and walked across the room, as far away from me as possible.
In my drunken haze, I realized I did something bad, but couldn’t quite piece together what it was. “Me want chicken go bye-bye, and it did. What wrong?”
Which is a good sign that if we have a BBQ next year, I’m drinking less, if at all. Also, I’m buying more food. R.R. and I didn’t have a chance to eat any of it, which I guess means it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Although I clearly remember the first batch of burgers being burned on both sides, with the cheese completely bubbled off in the heat, yet somehow still raw in the inside.
I also heard some stories secondhand from other guests, but I don’t quite remember the details. There was something about a romantic date with a dog, and who knows what else. If you have something to correct or share, leave a comment.
Woo Hoo
Jul 5th
Robot monkey justice has been achieved.
My roommate Meghan added silhouettes of a monkey and robot facing off on a hillside in the background. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, this is the original post. Photos:
You can see the mural on the intersection of Half Street and M Street in SE. Walk down Half Street (towards the Nationals stadium) and it will be on the right. It will be painted over a week from now, so head over soon if you want to see a cool mural with a dab of robot monkey flavor.
Robot Monkey Update
Jul 4th
My roommate and her friend is about 85% done with the mural. Beautiful? Yes. Some may even call it stunning.
One small problem though. It is missing a certain flavor. A certain statement on the conflict between beauty and violence. The never-ending battle between serenity and chaos.
It is missing some mutha-fucking robots and some mutha-fucking monkeys.
They are finishing the mural today, the 4th of July, the figurative birth of America and the freedoms it offer. May this day also mark the birth of something I hold as dear to my heart: a monkey and robot beating the crap out of each other in my roommate’s mural.
A Travesty Unfolding
Jul 1st
My roommate and “friend” Meghan is painting a mural over the 4th of July weekend. She mentioned she was thinking of ideas for the mural, and I kindly suggested a well-thought out, multi-layered concept involving monkeys, robots, and lasers.
I also created a narrative framework for the idea, richly describing the outdated robots and sentient monkeys who banded together to fight the ruthless cyber-monkeys, who are like the Borg, except with more lasers and more monkey.
I also said she could add a kitten kissing a Puggle, because she likes that girly type of shit.
Her response? Non-existent! She didn’t even acknowledge my Shakespearean epic, which I wrote gratis for her, another kindness because she absentmindedly forgot to ask me for my ideas (problem corrected).
As a compromise, I asked her to add just one monkey OR robot in her mural. It can be the new “Where’s Waldo?” “Where’s Robot-Monkey?” She could earn millions. No response.
It’s really hard to watch a friend make a bad decision and be powerless to stop it. Monkeys, robots, and lasers are the trifecta of Cool Stuff to Put in a Mural, but it appears some of us are still stuck in Plato’s cave.
But good luck with your mural, Meghan! Whatever it may be.
“I Am So Nice”: Pancake City Contest
Feb 20th
I gave my roommate a gift today. Just for being him.
I guess I don’t have a good reputation because before he opened it, he said “It’s probably a mouse.” Ouch! You make one lapse in judgment and the whole world sentences you to life imprisonment in the Bad Guy jail.
What is it? That’s the contest. Whoever guesses what’s inside (or gets close enough) will win a prize. The prize’s quality will be slightly better than what’s in this package.
Two clues: the content(s) is releated to something most of us do at least once a week. The package is lightweight. If no one gets close, I’ll give more clues. Good luck!
Syntax the Cat
Oct 15th
My roommate, David, left town for a week. I told his cat, Syntax, that David abandoned him and doesn’t love him anymore, and he should start hanging out with me. I don’t know if he understand English, so I was signing at the same time. He got the message. He’s lying in front of my keyboard right now.
When David moved in, he said that Syntax knows how to open doors. That’s not entirely true. Syntax knows how to reach up and jiggle the door handle until you get so annoyed that you open the door for him. I say “God damnit, cat!” about once a day.
Art and Joan, You’re Getting Your Mail!
Apr 19th
Four months ago, a few weeks before Christmas, my roommates and I received a red envelope at our home in Washington D.C. The address was a little off. We live on 10th St. S.E. The letter was addressed to 10th Ave E.
And it was addressed to West Fargo, North Dakota.
Oopsie!
I assumed it was a Christmas card and, as a responsible citizen, quickly showed it to as many friends and family as possible, took a few photos of it, and promptly forgot about it for the next five months.
That is a slight exaggeration. I did reinsert it into the mail slot. The mail carrier didn’t pick it up. Hey, buddy, I don’t blame you. Not your state, nor your problem. I tossed it on a pile of junk mail, made a vague notion to do something about it, sometime, preferably soon, like before May.
And I did! I unearthed it while cleaning up a few days ago, beating the deadline that I have a very clear memory of probably making. I took action, removing the red missive from the pile of old Val-U-Pak coupons and letters of various importance for former housemates that they have no chance of receiving unless they get severe amnesia, turn to a life of crime, and then break into the house, creating a confusing and awkward moment for all when they see a pile of mail addressed to themselves, on top of our liquor cabinet and weighed down by an old, rotting onion.
The letter in hand, I vowed to make one more attempt to guide it back into the U.S. Postal System. Now is not your time, little one. This time, I would ensure the post carrier took the lost letter by writing “Misdelivered” on it, because evidentially “North Dakota” wasn’t vaulting over the Try Again bar.
I gave up after writing the “M”. I only had a red pen, and since the envelope was red (I give no extraneous details!) the writing was illegible.
What to do? Get a black pen, you say? Well, cowboy, here’s the problem: the black pen was upstairs. I was downstairs. Lazy people don’t go up and down the same flight of stairs unless it’s an emergency. The practice is inefficient, and once we start, who knows what horrible chores our feet may take us to?
Instead, I left it on the dining room table, where one of my two roommates would surely see it and handle the situation, or at least have a dark-ink pen.
Alex ended up having the right equipment + gumption to do the job. I provided supervision, namely asking “Do you have a black pen?” and “Would you mind writing ‘Misdelivered’ on this letter?” I pointed out my red M, lest she think I was lazy and didn’t follow through with my tasks. I also stopped her from opening the letter and peeking inside. She’ll claim she was joking, but I think my tut-tutting and a weak bond of paper and glue were all that was protecting Art and Joan’s perverted secrets.
Art, Joan, your letter is on the way. I hope your friendship with the sender is still intact. If it isn’t, that’s okay, because you two would have to be big jerks to break a friendship over a missed Christmas Card. Merry Christmas. I’ll assume you’ll write a wonderful thank you note to me, and that it will get lost in the mail.
How Powerful is a Penny?
Feb 13th
This isn’t the beginning of a financial advice column on how to scrimp and save your way to being a millionaire. This is the beginning of a column, and possibly on-going series, on how to annoy your roommate with pennies.
When I got home, I saw some pennies on my drawer. I dislike pennies. They’re like herpes: never around when you need them, and always there when you don’t. Okay, that’s nothing like herpes. There’s a cure for herpes. But there’s no cure for pennies.
There’s no cure for herp–
Shut up. I read it on Wikipedia. Anyway, I saw the spare change and had a though that has occurred to many, if not most, of my readers: how can I use these to annoy my roommate?
I decided to see how many pennies I would have to throw at her door before she opened it to investigate the sound. My hypothesis is that it would take three pennies thrown intervals of 10-15 seconds before she opened the door and screamed at me, assuming I didn’t run into my room and pretend to be sleeping when I saw her door crack opened.
The equipment was simple: me, pennies. The procedure was simple as well: Throw penny. Wait. Giggle. Repeat.
Result: It took four pennies. On the third penny, I knew I was close, because I heard her exclaim, “What is that?” The fourth penny did the trick. As a bonus, I no longer had four pennies.
Conclusion: There were several factors that contributed to my roommate opening her door after four pennies. One, pennies hitting a door make a loud and unnatural sound. Two, my roommate is smart and curious, making her disposed to investigate unusual sounds. Three, my roommate was unfortunately awake pre-experiment, shortening the length of this innovative excursion into the realm of psychology.
In case there are any science goobers out there, I know this isn’t a real experiment. It can’t be repeated. The best I can do is throw pennies at my other roommate’s door, but she lives around the corner and down a long hall. That’s why experiment #2 will measure the correlation between scream volume and #of Cheez-whip topped pennies on well-trained rats.
Where Have I Been?
Dec 9th
Sorry for the lack of posts recently. Last week, I had my 30th birthday party. It’s the first time I went out with friends for my birthday in almost a decade. For much of my life, I felt like I didn’t have many friends that liked me enough to come to a birthday party, so I rarely had one. I feel blessed to be in a different place in my life now.
Also, two months ago, I vowed to myself that I would move out of my Mom’s place before my 30th birthday. I was a day late, but I did it: I moved to NE D.C. It took a lot of hard work and\or me doing absolutely nothing while an opening came up in my friend Meghan’s place and she asked if I wanted to move in. This just goes to show you that if you have a specific goal and focus intently on it and/or scratch your balls while random events in life conspire to deliver your goal to you, you can achieve anything. I am submitting a longer version of my inspiring story to Parade magazine (Motto: “Thank God We’re Free”).
The house is big, old, roomy, and has lots of neat quirks about it. There are cupboards everywhere, some of them 10 feet above the ground. There are about 3 dozen light switches in the house, none of which do what I expect them to do. For example, the garbage disposal light switch has three settings: Off, On, and Really On. Off and On do nothing. Really On, lifting the switch a little bit past the On position, like turning to the 11 setting on a Spinal Tap speaker, activates the disposal.
I like the place a lot, and both my roommates are awesome. We don’t have Internet access though, and won’t get it until next Friday, so I haven’t been able to update the blog or do much besides check my email at the library occasionally.
When I have had Internet access, I was on the Internet for at least 2-3 hours almost every day, mostly playing online poker or reading poker web sites. Occasionally I would watch TV. We have neither Internet access or a TV at the moment, and I’m really surprised how little I miss it. I haven’t been bored or going through withdrawal symptoms, as I do sometimes in the past. I’m happy in a way that the DSL won’t be activated in a week. The only hassles are checking my dog walking schedule, posting on the blog, and checking my email, the total of which I could do in 15-30 minutes. I like being disconnected, although the second we get net access I know that I will likely fall in my old time wasting habits.
I’m going to try to upload something I wrote about the new James Bond movie before the post becomes irrelevant with time. Besides that, I doubt I will be able to update the blog. Check back in a week. I hope to have a few substantial posts ready to go by then.
Room Huntin’
Sep 10th
I’ve been responding to several group housing ads a day with little luck so far. One of my roommates said he has been getting a 1 in 10 response to his emails. I told him, “Well, that’s what happens when you smell” but that was hypocritical of me to say as I’m getting the same ratio of responses. And I haven’t showered in a week.
I got tired of sending a personalized email to each person, so I wrote script to scan the ad and incorporate the info into an automated response. Example:
“Hi, I’?m JASON. I saw your ad on CRAIGSLIST for the open room in your BUNGALOW/PLEASANTLY SIZED DWELLING. The description of your BUNGALOW/PLEASANTLY SIZED DWELLING sounds really nice. I’?ve always wanted to live in your LIVELY IN A NON-THREATENING WAY neighborhood.
It seems like we also have a lot in common. For example, I share your interest in QUIRKY HOBBY I DON’?T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT BUT SAW A PBS SPECIAL ON LAST YEAR. I never thought I’?d find someone else in the D.C. area that shares my deep-held love for MATING HABITS OF THE MANATEE.”
Wolf Turned Into Dog
Aug 1st
Still browsing craigslist for potential rooms. Nothing too interesting since my last post, although I noticed that the hybrid-wolf guy now has a dog. I’m half-tempted to see the house, just so I can meet the pet and have this conversation:
ME: “Your dog looks different from most dogs. This is going to sound weird, but is there any way that he is half-wolf?”
RENTER: “Yes! That’s amazing. How did you know?
ME: “I have a special connection with ‘dogs’.”
RENTER: “Why did you make the air quote sign when you said ‘dogs’?”
ME: “I’M ON TO YOU, WOLF BOY!”
Moving Soon
Jul 19th
There’s a 95% chance I’m moving in the beginning of September. My roommates and I live in a house that’s falling apart, and we’re all in places in our lives where we want to obtain the American dream of living in a place with a fresh coat of paint.
I’m browsing ads on craigslist for places in Arlington or Alexandria. A lot of the places have “special features” that are always mentioned off-handedly at the bottom of the letter. Like…
“If you’d like to talk about it…please drop me an e-mail and tell me a bit about yourself. Here are a few pics…not the best as I need a fisheye lens…but you get the idea. Thanks and best of luck to us all. Oh, I have a wolf hybrid. He’s very mellow and stays in my bedroom in the basement for the most part…so, no other pets…unless they are in aquariums…sorry.”
PROSPECTIVE RENTER: “I like the place a lot, but I’m very concerned about the wolf hybrid. Is he, um, aggressive?”
OWNER: “Oh, no. Not at all. He’s very relaxed. I keep him securely in the basement most of the time. You’ll barely know he’s here. “
PROSPECTIVE RENTER: “Sounds good. Just curious, what is he a hybrid of?”
OWNER: “Most of his fur his gray, but his head and tail is white.”
PROSPECTIVE RENTER: “Wait. So by hybrid you mean his fur is two different colors?”
OWNER: “Oh, yeah. He’s 100% wolf.”
PROSPECTIVE RENTER: “Lovely. I gotta go.”
Then there’s the 2BR apartment looking for 4 roommates. For those who have fond memories of living in a dorm room.
One of my favorites: Club Kemper. I can’t even tell if this is a real post. How did their old roommate make it to graduate school in that house?
Another Random Assortment
Jan 23rd
The election results for Canada’s next Prime Minister will be announced tomorrow. Which brings up an obvious question: Canada has elections? Good for them. Just like a real country.
(Look, I need a warm-up people. You don’t serve aces without some practice, and Canada’s my automatic ball machine.)
“Lay, Skilling Ask to Postpone Trial”
How’s 2017 work for everyone? No? Shit.
My roommate was watching a History Channel show on “USOs: Unidentifed Submerged Objects.” Essentially, they’re UFOs that swim under water. Here’s a typical line from the show:
NARRATOR: “Some researchers believe that the lost city of Atlantis is the home base for USOs.”
How many takes the narrator went through to say that without snorting milk through his nose, I don’t know.
The show references an event many years ago on a dark night (of course) where “hundreds of objects burst from the ocean and flew into the air.” One of the producers found a 911 recording of someone calling in about the event. Here is the beginning of the dramatic conversation, which I swear I am not embellishing a bit:
OPERATOR: “911.”
CALLER: “Has anyone reported anything unusual tonight?”
OPERATOR: “Uh…..can you be a little more specific?”
CALLER: “Anything involving lights?”
And was the caller arrested afterwards for crimes against humanity? No. And some say there is justice in the world.
Recent Comments