Worst Roommate Ever: The Sequels

I wrote an article for xojane.com for their Worst Roommate Ever column. It was published. The gist was: I had a roommate who could see auras. She talked to the cat. In a past life, the cat was a warrior. She kicked my boyfriend out in the middle of the night, then after some back and forth and changed stories, she kicked me out. We’d lived together 6 weeks.

I sent a draft of it to J for him to review. This is the feedback I received:

J: I emailed you a rewrite of the story. Spiffed it up a bit. Your roommate was actually an alien bounty hunter and your boyfriend was a quadriplegic who you beat when he talked back to you. Sheba is no longer a cat, but the ghost of a great warrior who, spoiler alert, reveals your roommate to be an alien, possesses your boyfriend’s wheelchair and crashes into bounty hunter alien roommate, knocking her out the window where she crashes, loses her memory, and you convince a doctor to keep her medicated and isolated in a correctional facility for the criminally insane. You’re welcome.

C: That’s fine. Except I’m not sold on the bounty hunter thing. I think alien antique seeker? Snake oil saleswoman?

J: The sequel is about the “ghost chair” where Sheba goes riding around fighting aliens with unwitting quadriplegics.

C: Yes, that’s totally the sequel! Can you flesh it out more?

J: Since you’re a feminist, I was thinking the aliens could be trying to collect vagina lips as trophies. And the ghost chair is stuck in impound. So you, the protagonist, must bribe or manipulate the security guard but then you end up falling in love with him because he’s sensitive and respects your authoritah as a woman.

Most of the story can be lame conversations about how you feel about each other, instead of explosions. Then the relationship doesn’t work because you have goals and he lets you go, reluctantly. The story closes with you eating chocolate ice cream and saying something like “I’ve earned this,” or “Who would have known those alien bastards were sitting on decade’s worth of weight-reducing ice cream?!”

C: They were? Bastards!

FatFreeIceCream

How aliens get dates: Ice cream.

J: The third movie is about evil ice cream makers trying to silence everyone who knows about the alien ice cream so they can continue their evil plot of making ladies feel bad about themselves do they’d say yes to the dates with evil ice cream owners.

C: Making all of us fat!

J: …only, they forgot one thing: A wheelchair possessed by a warrior ghost. “Wheel you marry me?” “Oh yes, a thousand times yes! During the downhills and the uphills!”

C: Does ’til death do we part apply?

J: No.

C: Figures.

J: It’s a ghost chair.

C: I know. How’d it die?

J: That’s the prequel!

C: Oh man. Are we Star Wars-ing this?

J: Star Wars wasn’t a prequel. They skipped the first trilogy initially.

WheelchairFeatured

Ghost chair.

C: You’re still not saying how the chair died.

J: The chair didn’t die. It’s possessed by a ghost warrior. A ghost warrior who died while protecting the throne. Part of the story will explain the secret origins of Musical Chairs. It’s actually how we chose kings and is far bloodier than our childhoods would have us believe.

If Hollywood gets a hold of this story, they’ll ruin it, calling it “Ghosts vs. Aliens,” but it will break box office records, to my great angst, as crowds will remember someone screaming during the movie “The book was better!” And then I can write a piece “It Happened to Me.” (full circle)

C: Um…wow.

Learning Not to Cry Over Spilled (Sippy Cups of) Milk

spilled_milkJust as I got home, my mom called to tell me the sink was leaking again. She wanted me to ask our neighbor, who is also our plumber, if he could come over and fix it. I crossed the street to find him with his head poked inside the back of his truck while his kids, Kid and Kid Brother, ran around the yard.

“Hey, Matt… so, our sink is broken and leaking. Could you come over and fix it?”

“Again?! Goddammit! They’ve been breaking throughout the valley!” he yelled not at me specifically as he pulled his head out of the back of the truck.

“Oh. Bummer. Like, the piece itself?” I asked. By his tone, it was clear now was a bad time.

“Yeah. The damn manufacturer used cheap shit and they’re breaking after 6 months!”

“Oh dear,” I said,  unsure of what the right response was. “Well…whenever you have the time, we’d appreciate it if you could swing by.”

“I’ll be over in a minute. I just have to find my damn wrench…”

“Okay. Thanks!”

“In the meantime, you should go into the crawlspace and turn off the water!” he called out from halfway back inside the truck.

“Will do!” I said.

As I walked back to my house, KidBrother followed after me. He wanted to find the cat, Sheba, who hated him and who’d scratched him earlier in the year. He wasn’t phased by that, and in fact talked about it like a badge of honor. “Where Sheba?” he asked when he toddled in the door.

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We Need A Boat

boat

Rough idea of the kind of boat we might want.

J: We need a boat.

C: We need a motherfucking boat. And some flippy flops. And sunny shades.

J: We’re not going to sell pizza on a boat, but we are going to play Johnny Appleseed.

C: Sandwiches!

J: Maybe. I might be ok with that. I just think it’s dangerous making wages off food with a Stini tummy nearby.

C: Good point. Could be a financial loss scenario.

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Hosting a Going Away Party…for my wisdom teeth

wisdomteethsorry

Sorry little buddy, but you gotta go.

C: I’m having a going away party for my wisdom teeth tomorrow.

J: Where are your teeth going? Are you throwing them away?!’

C: I’m having surgery to remove them. [Ex-Boyfriend] was showing me funny videos of people coming out from being under.

J: I like those videos. Crocodile Dundee was one of the better ones.

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The Raccoon Incident – Part 1

packingboxesI was living alone in a two bedroom bungalow house, in a town where I knew only one person, where I had no job, an ex-boyfriend who wasn’t returning my texts asking when I could return all his stuff to him, and it was Tuesday.

At 10:30 p.m., I was in my bedroom packing clothes into boxes by season. I had been sorting, packing, purging, and organizing my stuff for several days. I was moving soon. I wasn’t sure when, or where to, but I knew I was moving. My rent was paid, though, so I had some time to decide what to do.

I had a month of no real obligations. With no job and an impending move, my days were filled organizing and packing. When that got old, I would quilt or sit on my front porch drawing and painting while watching old seasons of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Sometimes I was overcome with listlessness and did nothing; then suddenly I would have a burst of energy and organize all of my books alphabetically by genre. I’d then wander from project to project to project, completing none of them. I didn’t know what I was doing next in my life, so I had a hard time deciding what project to tackle next.

The only certain thing was that I wasn’t going to stay in that house with the red door and red porch, tall windows and cream colored siding, fake vinyl wood flooring, huge backyard and slightly sloping kitchen floor. I wasn’t staying in Champaign, Illinois any longer than I had to.

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Beware of cat

I believe this speaks for itself.

But if not, the sign is to discourage people from talking to the cat, asking her questions about if she has a home, and whether or not she’d like to go home with them to all their kitties. I can speak for her:
“No, I would not like to go home with you, your kitties, or anywhere near your shopping cart.”
Not like anyone could grab her anyway because she hates being picked up. She only tolerates me picking her up, but I’d hate to see what she’d do to anyone else who tries to pick her up. I see what she does to me when we have to go to the vet.

Furry paper shredder

I just got back from the coffee shop where I was updating about missing the UAE. When I get into the apartment, I see that my Mondrian design for the quilt has met with my cat. The cat happens to LOVE shredding paper, and this particular design was no exception.

This is the offender, trying to look innocent:

Never tickle a sleeping cat who shreds paper.

This is the carnage I came home to:

The tattered remains of my quilt design.

At least it wasn’t the worst. The worst was when she shredded my W2s right around tax time. Lame.