Friday, January 20, 2012

A Late Night Heart-to-Heart

*Warning, mild but tasteful profanity*



Last night I was roused from a pleasant slumber by my stomach making a fuss. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Me: *Groan* Whaaaaat?

Tummy: Well good morning Sleeping Freaking Beauty! I've been shouting at your lazy ass for the past half hour!

Me: What do you want?

Tummy: Code red, baby, we're evacuating!

Me: What? Why?

Tummy: Because of that Indian crap you stuffed me with earlier, that's why!

Me: You're not gettin' along?

Tummy: Look, I'm not racist. I hate everyone equally.

Me: Then what's the problem?

Tummy: It's stinkin' up the joint and has bad taste in music!

Me: That sounds racist to me.

Tummy: Tolerance is moot at this point! Now get to that toilet, pronto!

Me: I got a better idea, how 'bout I just go back to sleep and the two of you duke it out?

Tummy: I've given you a fair warning, don't make me do something you'll regret later.

Me: You wouldn't.

Tummy: Oh, would I?

Me: *Sigh* Fine, gimme a minute.

Tummy: Nu-uh, you got a second!

Me: I will literally shut my mouth and swallow it so you have to deal with it all over again if you do anything rash! Now give me a damned minute!

Tummy: Fine! Make it a quick one.

Me: Why couldn't you deal with this earlier? It's 4am.

Tummy: I was busy!

Me: Doing what?

Tummy: Trying to figure out what the hell I was dealing with, you've never given me something like this before!

Me: So it took you 8 hours to figure out you couldn't digest it? Weak.

Tummy: Imagine someone shoved about 50 smelly foreigners who didn't speak a word of English into your bedroom and said, "Hope ya get along, have a good night!" What would you do, eh, anthropologist?

Me: I'd...embrace them and their culture. Then in all likelihood try to throw myself out the window.

Tummy: And since I can't exactly leap outta your torso this is the next best thing, so hustle!

Me: Alright, alright. I'm going.......Oh look, my roommates fallen asleep on the couch again. With the lights on.

Tummy: What a schmuck.

Me: A crude, but accurate description.

Tummy: I try.


And that is the story of how I lost three hours of sleep last night. And why last night was the first and last time I'll ever eat Indian food. The nausea just isn't worth it.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

A Sherlockian Rant


Besides the fact that "A Game of Shadows" just came out, I've really been into Sherlock Holmes for a few months now (which you may have deduced from my blog's background). I bought the complete collection from Borders when it was having its 'going out of business' sale and have been steadily reading the adventures of Holmes and Watson since.

But it wasn't until yesterday when I discovered a mysterious note on my truck's windshield that I realized the impact those stories were having on me. I immediately began to scrutinize the note from every possible angle, I noted that it was written in pencil, I noted the quality and size of the paper, I gave it a whiff, then I moved on to the actual message. It read:

"I offer my apologies for parking in your spot Ms. Haskins. I was under the impression that the Summerlyn tenants don't generally park in their assigned sections. I hope my ignorance has not caused you any grave inconvenience, and I assure you that my actions shall not be repeated."

What. The. Hell?

I determined the writer was a male, because even though the writing was very neat the script was capitalized. And the neatness may be explained through the author's careful choice of words. It's very well worded, so if he took the extra time to compose such a message he must have written it slowly and deliberately, thus resulting in very neat script.

Further, he spells 'Summerlynn' incorrectly. A tenant of the actual complex would not have made such an error, especially considering the slow and deliberate pace in which this note was written. Besides, all Summerlynn tenants are female.

In addition, he placed this note 'pon my windshield whilst I was parked in a spot marked 301. I live in apartment 202.

Once I made these deductions I patted myself on the back and turned my mind to who may have written such a bizarre note.

The overall nature of the note seems to imply that I've become upset with someone for parking in my space. That's not so. For one, I don't have a parking space. None of the residents of Summerlynn do. The spaces may be marked but no one pays attention to them since the parking garage is not monitored and there are always plenty of spots. Secondly, I never left a note on anyone's windshield indicating I was upset with their parking in a certain spot. Nor have I ever expressed such a sentiment aloud.

Whoever it is, they know who I am and the vehicle I drive. This disturbs me because not even my neighbors know which car is mine. In fact, I hardly know which cars are my roommates'. In my stalker's defense, my truck is very unique from the hoard of Corollas and Civics that crowd the parking garage. So if he observed me driving once, I wouldn't be difficult to commit my truck to memory.

That doesn't make it any less creepy, though.

My guess would be that the note belongs to a certain young man whom I chatted with during a ward social this past Saturday. We somehow got on the subject of parking, and I revealed to him that our parking garage is always abundant with vacancies and is not monitored.

If he had taken this to heart and utilized our parking garage, it's very possible he spotted my truck and decided to leave me a note. My roommates think this is his way of telling me he likes me. Well, he's going about it the wroooong way. The only things I wanna find on my windshield are flowers or mix tapes.

Honestly, I hope it was him. Because if it was anyone else the facts wouldn't align and I would find myself in a conundrum. As it is, I think it's very bizarre and only goes to show how much Holmes has effected me.

At least I know this weirdo thinks I live in apartment 301.



Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Silence is Golden


By nature I'm not a very loud person. My voice is low and I often have to repeat myself due to its deep register and my California slur. Or, more often, I'm simply ignored because no one heard me. The only moments I find myself making a ruckus is when I'm laughing, which I dearly love to do.

But it wasn't until I went to college and began observing the raucous behavior of roommates and fellow students that I realized my own quiet nature.

The most frequent occurrences of raucousness involved people being inconsiderate. Take, for example, the Liberty Square parking lot instance.

It was a warm Summer's evening of 2009 and Brooke McEwen and I were fast asleep in our shared room at Liberty Square. I was dreaming of life aboard the Enterprise when the peaceful evening was shattered by a sudden booming and obnoxious song being blasted just below our window. The music (if you want to call it that) was being accompanied by multiple voices raised in hilarity and utter disregard for the sleeping occupants in the apartments around them.

Brooke rolled over and peered out the window that shouldered her bed. "Some people are playing music from their car." She reported sleepily.

I glanced at my clock. It was 2am.

Hell no.

"Would you mind if I leaned across you to shout at 'em?"
Brooke paused. "Yes."

Alright, fine. The alternative would probably be more effective anyhow.

I slid out of bed and stomped down the stairs to our front door that led to the parking lot. I threw the door open without hesitation and oh Allah, I can only imagine what those people thought as a frumpy wild-haired fiery-eyed girl in skimpy pajamas snarled, "HEY! Would you turn that SHIT down?!"

I slammed the door for effect and marched back up the stairs to my room. The music stopped abruptly just as I slid back into bed. "You're welcome," I muttered to Brooke, who was probably mortified.


Speaking of doors slamming.

My past and current roommates are awfully fond of it. Whether it be the front door, their bedroom door, the microwave door, or even the lid on the toilet; If it can be opened and shut, it must needs be slammed. My door-slamming roommates also tend to crank the volume on the television, speak in a loud voice, and exhibit obnoxious behavior in general.

And, so far, they all have one thing in common; they come from large families.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with large families, but the behavior children are forced to exhibit in order to get attention often lead to selfish and inconsiderate adulthood traits.

I myself come from an average-sized family; two parents, three kids. My parents may disagree but I think we were a fairly quiet family. Unfortunately, growing up in a household that was so quiet at night has lead to me being a light sleeper. My roommates, on the other hand, can sleep through anything. So I think this explains their tendency to stomp around the apartment, slam doors, and blast the television. That doesn't excuse their actions though. Just because someone can't be empathetic doesn't mean they shouldn't be sympathetic.

So it goes without saying that solitude and privacy are the two things I covet the most. I've wanted to live alone for some time now. In fact, I was seriously considering moving into an apartment of my own beginning Fall semester '11 but was financially unfit. Even as I'm typing this, listening to my roommate's awful country music wailing from her bedroom, I'm longing for a place of my own.

I can certainly identify with Eugene's dream from Tangled:

"I have dreams like you, no really!
Just much less touchy-feely
They mainly happen somewhere warm and sunny
On an island that I own
Tanned and rested and alone
Surrounded by enormous piles of moneeeeey!"

My sister is the most adamant about me not living alone. For some reason she seems to think it's a 100% guarantee of getting raped. I honestly feel sorry for the dude that tries to break into my abode. I may not have a gun, but I've got plenty of stuff to improvise with and I know how to improvise.

And I know I'm gonna get married someday but with my luck he'll be deaf and have to blast music so he can feel the vibrations through the speakers. Bless him. I guess that's what I'll get for being a crotchety old hag.