Posts Tagged ‘boyfriend’

These things I’ll never say

May 20, 2014

I came across old college photos last weekend while arranging shelves in my new apartment. There were the typical pictures with duck-face lips, ice looges, fake tanner accidents and weekends full of excessive wild rompous. But I stumbled upon several photos of myself with an old sorority sister with whom I no longer speak and I found myself forgetting why we stopped speaking in the first place. Rather … I found myself wondering WHY that reason was so damned important. I remember she and I were roommates in college and we ditched about three weeks of classes to watch every single episode of Sex in the City all cuddled up on her bed with heaps of junk food and Coors Light surrounding us. She’d let me wear her Tiffany’s jewelry until I finally had a few pieces of my own. We swapped Coach shoes, v-neck tops and went to the same dumpy nail salon on Thursdays. She always smelled expensive too. 

Then we fought about something. Something to do with her boyfriend, I think. He wasn’t allowed in the apartment for safety reasons and the other two roommates we shared a place with had drafted into our lease agreement that he couldn’t set foot in our home. But she brought him over anyway. One night in a bit of a haze, I yelled at her about the whole situation. Our other roommates just laughed as my friend tried to defend herself against my tirade. I was unstoppable. After that, there were no more Sex in the City parties, no sharing of clothes, no cigarettes outside to escape the other two girls. There was nothing. Just awkward passes to the bathroom and closed doors.Image

We fought over text message on our Razor phones. Back when you had to pound up to three times on one key for the letter you wanted. She was bat-shit crazy about something and I was a raging bull in a china shop. The insults flew back and forth but again, I really couldn’t say what they were regarding. We both went to bed livid and I turned off my phone, my heart pounding hot blood throughout my face. I couldn’t read the insults she was hurling my way for a second longer. That’s the thing with close friends; they know where you’ll hurt the most.

The next morning she apologized in some backhanded manner. I never saw or spoke to her again.

Two years ago, I went to a wedding and saw several of my old sorority sisters who knew this girl as well. I openly admitted to missing my former companion. People suggested I call her and someone gave me her phone number. I still have it saved in my phone. I’m yet to hit send.


Fantasy THIS.

September 5, 2012

Yes I will ring in the end of summer with a mimosa, a run around the Charles and a fit of fantasy football. My day off started similar enough to the rest: Do I go to the gym? Do I go to Trina’s Starlight Lounge for industry brunch? Is there a new Real Housewives of New Jersey in my TiVo que? A drafting session with my brothers and cousins was tentatively scheduled for mid-evening, so I had no qualms with starting my day off with a little mid-day drinking… at 1pm. Hey, it’s Labor Day (and a Monday), why wouldn’t you enjoy a beverage? And for cryin’ outloud, it’s the first drafting day of fantasy football – everyone should be in the proper spirit.

So I went to a Labor Day party. I instructed Andrew to bring over his laptop so that I could have my Iphone, my friend’s computer and also Andrew’s computer for my fantasy maddness. My strategy was simple yet sound: Pick the guy with the coolest hair, the newest smelling jersey and when in doubt; default to the Ravens or Pats. Since I live in Boston, I found the nod to the Pats to be appropriate. As for the Ravens default… well, they fuckin’ kill people so…

I showed up to Mark and Kathleen’s casa all set with warm M&M cookies and Cliff Lede sauv blanc, ready to get down on fantasy foot ball in style! Daniel call me to confirm that yes indeed, the draft would be starting at 9:30pm eastern time. I had about three hours to consume adult beverages, sample the delectable food that Chef Mark of Stoddard’s had whipped up and of course, gear up my three inter-web devises for the draft. Surrounded by chow and electronics, I would be an unstoppable force capable of massive ass kicking.

Chowin’ down prior to my draft with Andrew

Enter serious issues. I couldn’t get my Iphone to register my team name on ESPN because the usual pop-ups that go hand in hand with a sports website were boggling down my phone’s system. Plus a million other douche bags had the exact same idea I was currently trying to enact: Set up kinda early and drink for three hours. FML. I switched from my phone over to Mark’s computer but it had about 1.5 million programs running so you can imaging the cheetah-like speed that I was getting. Wrong. I started to absolutely lose my shit. I was yelling at Tony to fix it, he was yelling at me that I wasn’t drinking my Fernet shot, Mark was yelling that I needed my shock collar on again and I added wild hand waving to the equation just to be spicy. Fortunately, when Andrew showed up, he brought in his computer and I took off right away attempting to log into the guest network on a clutter free device.

Pink Drink with Tony

Except the guest network was overloaded with the party’s guest Iphones, Mark’s computer and now Andrew’s computer, so who couldn’t fit on the Internet? This guy. I was literally losing my mind. Tony wasn’t sure why I suddenly liked football and with all the guacamole around me, I wasn’t sure either. Just kidding. I had both my brothers, several cousins and it was rumored that Dad was playing too, all on the line counting on me to be that seventh useless player. C’mon, with all that at stake, you’d kill yourself for a computer too! So with my reputation and good name on the line, I left the party with Andrew on the good faith that I would indeed return after my draft to finish my shot of Fernet with Tony and continue to partake in the guacamole.

Andrew and I raced home to log on with three computers: My mini, his Apple and um… the somm’s computer that may or may not have just happened to fall into my bag before I left on Sunday 😀 Jen was home and we quickly set up a small operation’s table in the living room. I looked for sports paraphernalia to wear and I couldn’t find a damn thing, so I use the only thing I could get my hands on: a Husky’s hat. (thinking back on it now, I do have a Seahawks jersey upstairs. Stupid.) I figured out my log on, changed my name to Boston-kickin’urA$$ and got ready to draft.

Small problem: I didn’t know where the drafting options were, how I could select anyone and oh my f*ck, I just had my very first QB pick washed away to default!!!! I called Daniel and started screaming, “What the f*ck is going on!?!?! why couldn’t I pick my own quarter back!?!?” The explanation was simple and logical: You select a play and push – wait for it – select player. I know. Science unfolding.

I waited with baited breath for my turn while Jen and Andrew checked stats and conferred with their own posse of people. Jen’s brother was offering advice, Andrew liked Texas and Ohio, I knew and wanted the Ravens and on my f*ck, Dad just took Tom Brady.

I called him and started swearing. He put my sister on the phone instead. My baby sister! Who does that??? I hung up on her. I was literally throwing things around the room as player after player that I knew I wanted disappeared from my available roster. I snagged a couple of dudes that I wanted: Antonio Brown, Tony Romo. My first picks kept gettin’ ninja’ed though: Aaron Rodgers, Tom of course, Eli Manning. My family was so cut throat during this whole ordeal that I don’t think Christmases will ever be the same. I was screaming and calling everyone all the names I could think of as players continued to disappear from my screen. I called Daniel twice, David hung up on me, Dad never called me back and oh my god… DAD JUST TOOK THE RAVENS DEFENSIVE LINE!!!!

My own father took the team from the state of my college career. What is this? Penalty for going outta state? Out of state tuition pay back? Hey. We don’t all wanna be cougars.

Cheers… and shakey hand syndrome is a true ailment.

I learned a valuable lesson last night. Get your quarterback and immediately grab up your defensive line. Otherwise your father will and you’ll be fucked because lo, you’ll be playing him for the very first game of the season immediately after the draft like me. I hate my life. So, concluding the draft, I immediately put civilized clothes back on (I threw my shirt during the Ravens DL theft), and went back to the Labor Day party to continue to lubricate my woes. Best of luck this season everyone. God knows I’ll need it.

Martha’s Messes

July 14, 2012

$700 a month for an apartment used to only include a room for your personals, maybe a bathroom or two, a kitchen of sorts and if you were lucky, a few doors for privacy. Well, my $700 a month also included a parking space! Right in front of my apartment, which is wildly convenient for bringing in groceries but also a safety measure since I typically get home late at night. This parking situation has carried on business as usual until just recently. Now I’m dealing a grotesque breach of contract and I feel like a paying stranger in my own living quarters. No, my roommate and I aren’t feuding amongst ourselves for parking rights or a lack of ability to cough up rent when it’s due as in most domestic partnerships. Rather, I am now struggling with a passive aggressive usurption of my lovely parking space! Lend me your ear:

I live in a three-story, multi-family house wherein the landlord lives on the right half of the house and my roommate and I live on the left. My landlord, we’ll call her Joy, has two degenerate children. I use the term children directly refering to the infant-like actions Joy’s offspring exhibit daily, but in no means does the word “children” coincide with their age. John and Martha (I don’t know the son’s name, but that’s the daughter’s real name… it’s just such a dreadful, cliché name that I couldn’t be asked to change it!!) are both between the ages of 25-31 if I judge correctly. John also has an 8-year-old daughter that lives with him as the mother is unfortunately legally barred from seeing the girl. Let’s count, that’s four people living in a small, left-sided apartment with then myself and my roomie on the right; this renders a total of six people in one narrow house. 


Martha and John’s daughter enjoying a car ride together

Fortunately, John doesn’t have a car. He has a daughter and a drug problem, but no car. Joy has a car. My roommate doesn’t have a car. John’s daughter clearly does not have a car. I have a car. Aaaaand Martha has a car. Three cars for six people vieing for parking in front of a narrow house.

Now, apparently Joy is some kind of major property holder and gave her daughter, Martha, the keys to a house just up the road from my address. Martha fucked that up somehow when she slept with the current tenant who demanded his keys back in a 7am-blowout that happened on a warm Saturday morning when I wished I was asleep instead of peering out my bathroom window listening to southie dialect and screaming. So, Martha doesn’t live in her own house anymore and has pulled the noble move of “living with Mother”.

I wouldn’t give two shits about this new living arrangement if Martha didn’t come complete with morning drama and a snazzy white car to take up my parking space. Joy doesn’t allow me to park in front of her driveway because that’s where she parks. She once told me to move because I was blocking her garage. However, when the door opened a few days later, old AC units and impaled flotation devices spilled onto the driveway. Her true issue? I was in her personal parking space. Well, your damn daughter is in mine! 

Enjoy my spot, Martha. Don’t get hit by a bus on your way inside

I’ve lived here now since March and I have become quite accustomed to parking in front of or very close to my house. Why wouldn’t that be a normal practice? I pay to live here! Martha does not. She takes my spot, screams at boyfriends at all hours of the morning, and her car sits there all damn day. Fortunately for her, Martha doesn’t have a job. Joy does, Martha doesn’t. Joy’s car moves occasionally but good ole Martha’s just chills in the coveted spot that used to be mine… and silently mocks me.

Not what I want to walk down after 12 hours in heels…

Now, when I come home at all hours of the night from work… or play 😀 … I am plagued with finding a spot far up my own street. But more often than not, I hafta park on the main road and deal with the drunk degenerates hollering as I leave my car to walk down the street to my house. Last Friday night, I was coming home from work in my finest weekend eve attire, and a drunk man on a bike nearly followed me home yelling his name was Mark over and over again. The next morning when I walked out to my road-side park job, Mark had left his phone number and again his name on an old lottery ticket, encouraging me to call him whenever. This is just ridiculous. Joy once said that Martha sometimes lives with her… obviously this sleeping with tenants issue is a common occurence… but I wish she would just leave.

I miss my parking space… :C

I’m probably going to go and speak with Joy about this matter in the next few days as we’re going on 4 weeks of Martha’s Messes.

I just want to park my car in front of my apartment.

Puffy red hair with a healthy fear of door knobs

May 16, 2011

With drab red puffy hair slightly off-center, round and wobbly, my landlord is an disoriented elderly Portuguese single woman who is certain that the mob is out to get her. Out to break into her little apartment and steal all her priceless painting of random crying children, pawn off her broken appliances that she can’t bear to throw out and of course, kill her. So certain is she that if you were to walk to Johnny’s Food Master for a carton of eggs at 11am on a Tuesday, you would return to not only find the door knob locked but the deadbolt too! This means that every time someone exits the house, she is literally waiting by her door to hobble out into the common room (kind of like a mud room with carpet and old incense) and turn every possible lock to protect what’s hers…. at 11am in the morning. Also, she has a tornado basement which has turned into a windowless, overcrowded layer. We’ll hear her tinking around and once, when I needed to trip a kitchen fuse, I had to go into her lair in search of the fuse box. The place was stuffed with useless crap: Old, flat shoes, strings and candles, plastic flowers and jars, the basic crazy hording lady items.

On another note, Nick won’t work on our cars anymore. Everytime he lugs his tools down to the street to fix either our Jetta or BMW, Maria – that’s her name – will hear him and find a chore for my honey to complete.

“Nih-kee? Whell you takeey look at my car-ee battery? Es no workee. I called dah mans but he never show up.”

What did she do BEFORE Nih-kee signed a lease to live on her third floor? Now, she’s elderly and simple so of course he helps her out. We both do.

Dis is how I sweepee dah snow

All winter we shoveled her driveway since Maria wasn’t physically or psychologically available to accomplish the task (she tried sweeping 2ft of snow off her driveway, which worked completely). Those of you from Massachusetts remember that we had THREE snow emergencies, rendering the streets useless and yielding over 13 inches of snow each time. It became a HUGE burden to dig out Maria’s useless car from a driveway neither of us are allowed to utilize.

When it’s not snowing, Nick graciously agrees to help her when he has a moment, but sometimes he only has an hour to fix his car. Therefore, trying to figure out why Maria’s 12 year-old car is sputtering really isn’t on the his list of favorite things. You have to PAY people to fix things for you. We have a broken  front window pane. It’s been broken since we moved in and Maria told us she had a “guys to workee but he don’t come so I dunno.” How is this confusing?! You HIRE ANOTHER GUY TO WORKEE and get the window fixed for your tenants. Whatever, since it’s never gonna get fixed, we simply don’t open that window. Things typically don’t come for free, unless you’re Maria. Then sometimes they do… especially when you hear strapping young men coming down the stairs with a tool box and wearing oil-stained jeans. Then, everything is free!

I'm serious, SHEER terror.

Her car causes me no end of fright and amusement. Maria is terrified to drive and rightly so. She’s old and shaky, which gives her NO business operating a motor vehicle! I park my car out on the street and occasionally, I’ll catch Maria trying to drive out of her little driveway. She’ll be gripping the wheel like it’s a life ring from the Titanic. She won’t smile or wave to me, as that would break her concentration. The car sits and idles for at least ten minutes, warming up. Eyes never leaving the road, she attempts to move forward. Fail. The car reverses a few feet. CORRECTION! BRAKES SHRIEK!… Re-group, now ready. Again, she slowly allows her silly white car to venture closer towards the road. Closer, closer, STOP!!!!!!…. I imagine she was checking the rearview mirror to make sure those pesky mobsters weren’t already unlocking all three locks on the front door to steal her priceless china chat figurines.

Any Mobster would obviously take THESE babies!

Nope, her wall-to-wall carpeted apartment is secure. Maria prepares to enter the road, out in the open, where things happen! She slowly exits the driveway and her car crawls towards the left as she successfully leaves the place she’s lived for decades. You’d think by her comical departure that this was a first time out of the nest.

We pay our fuddy-duddy landlady a nice chunk of change each month for rent and I have to say, I’m going to start sliding that cheque-laden envelope under her door later and later each month. In April, we wrote Maria two cheques on the 3rd. They weren’t deposited until the 10th, which kinda messes with my book-keeping. I didn’t say anything to her because I figured with the panic that driving causes, perhaps Maria had to wait for her sister to pick her up or something. However, the month of May has brought a new, more serious annoyance to my bank account. We signed our cheques over on May 2nd and still, to this very day, May 15th, the crazy woman hasn’t cashed them! I’ve called my bank twice, and considered cancelling the cheque but I guess it’s like, $40 to so and I refrained. Instead, yesterday I matched downstairs to knock on Maria’s apartment door.

Knock Knock Knock.

I heard fussing behind the door, heavy and cautious foot steps. Finally, I could tell she was at the door, looking through the peep-hole. Silence. I knocked again. She was definitely still there, deciding whether to open the door for such a stranger. Then, I heard her walk away from the door!!! Please remember, gentle reader, that the ONLY WAY you can get into this house is with a key and you must unlock three heavy-duty locks. Therefore, the ONLY PERSON knocking on crazy’s door would be, by reason of deduction, a key-holding tenant. Incredible. I knocked a third time, but this time, like I meant it. Again, her footsteps neared the door and a second look through the peep-hole. Finally, she unlocked her door chain, her dead bolt and her door knob to open the damn door.

“Yessy?” Maria looked at me in sheer terror and bewilderment.

“Hi, Maria. Hey, could you please deposit the rent cheques the Nick and I wrote you? It’s the 14th and I would appreciate it.”

“Well, I go to the bankee yesterday to cashee your husband’s cheque but the bankee (enter inaudible excuse here)…. so”

“Okay, well please deposit my cheque too when you get a moment. Thanks Maria!”

“Okay have a gewd day.”


So, I just learned two new things out crazy ole Maria: 1. She believes Nick and I are married regardless of the noticably absent diamond on my finger and 2. Maria is only capable of depositing one cheque at a time because she uses TWO different banks. Inevitably, another protective measure to keep her finances safe from lurking mobsters.

Can somebody spare a dollar? PLEASE!!!

May 1, 2011

Dad once came home from work and told us about a woman he and a coworker had encountered on the streets of Kirkland, WA. She was crying, pleading for $9 for a bus ticket. She only needed that $9 to see her sick son, I don’t remember where he lived. Dad’s coworker told her to get lost and snickered as the two of them walked off. Dad felt differently. He said she looked so sad and scared. I heard that story when I was about 7… I’m now 26 and I’ll never forget how I felt inside: Angry at the coworker, very sad for the poor woman, confused at how no one would help her.

Is this really what Seattle is known for?

 In the 1990s, Seattle used to scare the shit out of me because all over the city streets, bums would approach pedestrians and beg, they’d sit on curbs and stink, you’d hear them getting jeered by naughty college boys. I hated driving into Seattle on Sundays for our usual Science Center trips because we’d always pass a dirty bearded man with a “Please Help, God Bless” sign. Sometimes we’d give him money from our car windows, sometimes we’d drive by like everyone else. I still remember that feeling emanating from the pit of my stomach: hot and knotted, embarrassed for complaining about not getting an extra scoop of ice cream, grateful for my little twin bed.

Last summer, I was at my favorite coffee shop in Cambridge, sitting outside with my laptop. The breeze running through my hair felt fresh, I had a new dress on, and somebody close by was making their baby coo. Suddenly, from nowhere, a shrieking voice yelled,


His cries grew louder, he started sobbing in the middle of Cambridge on the common way. I stared at him like the other people who had been enjoying the sunny day until a moment ago. Finally, a man walked up to the pacing, upset young man and handed him what appeared to be a large bill.

“HOLY SHIT!!! THANKS MAN! YOU’RE AMAZING!!!… THAT MAN IS A SAINT!” He pointed at the man who was now walking away. The homeless youth sauntered off to hopefully buy a shirt with his winnings. I never thought of him again until last week.

The Boston city public transportation system is the hub for us lower tax bracket individuals to come and go without paying the ridiculous parking fees around our jobs. While many of us try to keep to ourselves, every now and then, we crash into one another by means of the trains jerking and breaking suddenly. Or, more figuratively by a common uncomfortable experience shared by a group waiting for a late train. Last week after leaving work, I opted to take the T home and save a little money. However, I’ve noticed what I save in money, I pay for through socially awkward experiences. On that particular night, I was waiting for a very late 1am train on the red line platform with ten other people when I heard a dreadful noise from behind me. Grotesque crying and moaning follow by a repetitious slapping shoe sound. I accidentally turned around to see a disheveled young man hobbling towards the platform with one boot in his hand and his right foot exposed. He was limping horribly and quickly, trying to reach the small crowd before the train took us away.


He was sobbing and looking around at each of us. The man caught my eye and I immediately recognized him. He was the young man from Cambridge! The very same! I recognized his tone and sobbing pleases as well. Was he still homeless from the summer?


Sobbing and miserable, he laid down in the middle of the platform and cried out loud. A student approached him and gave him some money. The crying continued. I had no money at all, most people taking the T don’t have a ton of extra dough. But I felt nervous about what he might do if no one else gave him anything. Fortunately, I was saved by the approaching T and I left the crying man on that awful platform. Aboard the train, a couple of girls nervously laughed amongst themselves about the whole affair. I stared off, trying to regain some late night peace. The image of the crying man with his swollen foot didn’t leave me for a few days and sometimes when I was having a meal or laughing about something with friends, his image would reappear and ruin my attitude.

For Easter, Nick and I went to his family’s house in Princetown for dinner. Surrounded by sweet ham, homemade rolls and a savory salad, my boyfriend’s uncle and I lamented about having to utilized public transportation.

“You really encounter some crazies on the T, don’tcha?” He started. “Why, just last week I was on the T at Downtown Crossing when a man started screaming and cry on the train. He was saying something about his foot being infected.”

I was stunned. We both saw the same man! He was really making the rounds!

“He kept it up for a while and just as a buddy of mine reached into his wallet, a stranger yelled, “Don’t give him a fuckin’ thing! He’s been doing this act for the whole week! He’s faking!” And the weeping man shut up after that! He walked off the T at the next stop. You really can’t help anybody, they’re all actors,” the uncle concluded.

“Wait, he just walked away? No limping?” I asked.

I for one appreciate the honesty!

“Nothing, he walked away perfectly fine. He was acting,” claimed Nick’s uncle. I was annoyed…. and very angry. I had felt so badly for this “bum” with his plight seared into my brain for the past week but everything had been a sham. Who’s to say who’s a real bum and who’s an actor? Was the young man acting last summer in Cambridge too? He made some very compelling arguments if he truly was an actor.

Yesterday, I was shopping at the smaller Whole Foods in Cambridge when I was greeted by a man at the front door.

“Spare Change for the homeless. Remember us on your way out,” he said, holding up a newspaper advocating for the homeless and services for them. When I concluded my shopping (I was making bacon-wrapped scallops and sweet chili pork chops for dinner!), I started to drive off, passing the Spare Change man. But I stopped. I had just been paid, so why not give him a couple bucks? I got out of my car and gave him some money in exchange for the newspaper.

“Thanks hon, have a good day!” He smiled and I walked back to my car. As I drove off, I noticed the man pull out a BlackBerry phone and make a phone call. WTF. Wasn’t he homeless? Where did the nice phone come from? Maybe he was a writer for the paper? God, I hope so! It was just a little ridiculous to have someone begging for money with one breath and talking on a BlackBerry with the next breath. Which leads me to wonder, are all bums frauds? Actors and swindlers? How can you tell if you’re providing food for a homeless person or simply funding an actor’s ticket to California?

April has left me jaded towards beggars.

Where ever you go, there you are!

December 8, 2010

I wanted to be an archeologist when I was a kid. The name was cool and it was the biggest word I knew at the time. When I was nine, I watched a show about volcanoes and the weird tunnels they sometimes leave and I suddenly changed my mind. Then in 2004 when Mount St Helens tried blowing up again, I drove down the state with some college buddies to join the mass of other lunatics to stare in wonder at the smoking monolith. Nothing happened. My feelings towards rocks didn’t change but I remember feeling amazed by the remaining devastation from the 1980 blow. Even though it was near 20 years later, certain plots of trees were still prostrate on one side of the national park.

Worst volcanic eruption in USA history

Anyway…I didn’t wake up one day and decide to try my hand at the wine business. My first sip of wine came – appropriately enough! – from my Nana’s refrigerator at her Issaquah, WA house when I was maybe 5 years old. Someone had left a half empty glass in the fridge and all that is yellow is apple juice so I had a sip. Not juice! I’ve worked in the service industry for over a decade… sadly dating myself a bit. I was working at Matt’s Rotisserie and Oyster Lounge when Sideways hit and ruined the reputation of perfectly good Merlot. When was a commodity to me, an extra charge on the bill and a bigger tip. I was 19 when I first saw the UC Davis flavor wheel in a tasting room at Chateau St. Michelle during a manditory staff training. I wasn’t allowed to taste a damn thing!”That’s fine, your nose will help you detect the wine’s flavor,” instructed the wine director. What the hell? Who says that to teenager? Years past, I left Washington. Had to get outta there. I attended college in Maryland. I met someone, got a “job offer” and moved to Boston, MA. Fast forward one year later: I’m near my Christmas tree on the couch in my Somerville apartment wondering what the hell I’m doing. My tree needs an angel or something.

Oh Christmas Tree!

I really want wine to be my profession but how I can’t help noticing that being a wine connoisseur is more of a hobby. The lucky few who successfully make the wine industry a career sparce and jaded, often just ending up at a liquor store. EW. Is that all there is? Well, I’ve been looking for part-time day employment within fields I focused upon in college: writing, technical communication, even light teaching. My girlfriend was encouraging and suggested that it’s sometimes hard to follow our passions and still meet our financial requirements. And how!

I’ve read too many wine books, worked a variety of odd wine jobs and sacrificed waaaay too much time with those who are dear to me for all of this to just turn out to be a hobby. I love wine. I love talking about it, drinking it and writing about it. Seriously, I dream in French labels and wine laws… I DON’T EVEN SPEAK FRENCH!

When I get my tax return back this year, I’m going to France. Massachusetts has removed over 24% from my paycheck  each week and if I can’t afford to go to Bordeaux, I’m gonna steal someone in the face. These are the things I think about regularly. Not “oh, will I get married?” …

Like I said, clay angels!

not “so and so doesn’t like me today!” not even “will I have kids?” – well, that’s kind of a lie – I think about buying a ticket to France, lying on my back in the Burgundy earth and making dirt angels! That’s how badly I want this. 

I can literally taste the dark clay in my mouth. My boyfriend repeatedly tells me if everything came easily, there would be nothing to work for in life. If tedious studying and working late nights as a server isn’t paying my dues, I’m not sure what is.  I don’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer; I just want to give people the best wine experience that I can as a career. Where ever that is.

I hate my roommate’s girlfriend…

August 23, 2010

When I moved to Boston about a year ago, my intention was to live with my boyfriend, Nick, for maaaybe two months at the most. I had what I thought to be a solid internship with an online wine magazine and I was given every impression that I would be hired after my time of free labor concluded. Yea… that completely fell through after the website founder decided he didn’t really like me and had his girlfriend fire me. So, with financial hopes dashed, it turned out that I would be staying with my boyfriend for a bit longer than originally intended. 

That would have been just fine had we been the only two people living in the house. Nick rents one of the three available rooms in a small house in Medford, a city just outside Boston proper. He moved in with his pal Mike M. and another boy.  However, in addition to these two boys, Mike M. had a girlfriend living with him. Terri F. was a fired school teacher who made her living babysitting and receiving an allowance from Mike. Whatever, good for her. Everything was going fine for the first several months I lived in Medford. Terri F. and I actually hung out a few times. But we had nothing in common other than teaching; she was kinda chunky and instead of enjoying being out and about, she prefered to sit in her room and TiVo massive amounts of television. She was also extremely rude and disrespectful to Mike, her provider.  

Unhappy at an awesome party

 Since I was in a similar situation as Terri (lacking a job and leaning on my BF more than I was comfortable with), I made sure to contribute to the house and buy the food for Nick and me. 

Things didn’t start getting out of control until about the first of the year. Mike’s job took him out-of-state and Terri was left alone in the house. The atmosphere started to turn ugly. She stopped buying toiletries, started leaving her empty pizza boxes everywhere BUT the trash can, slamming every door she came in contact with regardless of the time of night. In addition to being a thoughtless fat girl, she would hoard food and leave it in the weirdest places. Nevermind the endless supply of empty soda cans and take out left for the other three of us household members to deal with, corpulent Terri would squirrel leftovers away in the fridge or under counters and forget about them. I would find her leftover food stashes after a few weeks when the fridge started to smell like rotten meat or when the flies were coming in the form of an Egyptian plague from somewhere in the kitchen. 

At least these were still in boxes!

She also parks in the drive way. Who cares? Well, me. To refresh your memory, she and I do NOT pay rent. Nick, Mike M. and the other boy do. Therefore, those three men have the right to park in the drive way, the girlfriends do not. However, the fat girl couldn’t be bothered to park in the street and walk, oh, maybe twenty feet to our front door. Nick was unable to park in the drive way because of this blatant lazy behavior. 

Mike returned from his business trip in March and things worsened further still. Terri and Mike began screaming at each other and we’d hear Terri squealing, “I hate you!” in her childlike voice. Nick came home one night to find Miller cleaning up a broken kitchen window. 

“Terri was sweeping and she hit the window,” he lied. Terri didn’t sweep, I did. So, the “she hit the window” was right but the cause wasn’t: I speculate that she threw something at him and missed like an idiot. Their fighting made the entire house fraught with tension. She stopped saying hello to anyone anymore and would get home from babysitting and run right to her room and slam the door. We call her “Terrible Terri” and “Big Truck”, she was such a mean person! Nick was working on his car one day and she came out of the house to ask if he’d had another seizure (a diabetic reaction) and wrecked his car again. Joking about a life-threatening disease is not appropriate. Particularly when you are enormous and blame your condition on the disease of “obesity”. PUT DOWN THE PIZZA BOX, YOU FAT BITCH. I starting leaving out my scale in the bathroom right in front of where her things were just to show my angst about her perpetual weight gain. 

Anyhow, Terri got a “real” job as a secretary one day and wasn’t in the house as much. She kept posting on Facebook about how she was going to buy a house and things. I deleted her quickly after that but one of the boys in Nick and Mike’s posse would update everyone on her status. Shortly after she was hired and when I continually noticed her lack of effort to keep the house nice, clean, free of her trash, I politely spoke with her about my concerns in her room for about 45 minutes. 

The night before, Terri had come home with yet another pizza box in her hand. This was the fourth pizza to come to Medford in the past four days, and I couldn’t help myself. So, from the kitchen I loudly murmured, 

“A-NOTH-er pizza?” 

Nick was there and was less than amused as he was trying to keep the peace in the house. Nick and Mike had all but stopped talking to one another at this point with all the tension between myself and Terri, so Nick was hesitant to rock the boat or confront the issue. (Let the records show that I am saddened by the loss of friendship between Nick and Mike. I never meant to separate the two of them but of course, in order to be manly, sometimes you have to protect your woman – regardless of how she treats you, uses your money, drives your friends away, gains 50 lbs in a year…) 

Well, I went into Terri and Mike’s room when the boys were at work to speak with Terri since Nick thought she heard what I had said about the pizza gluttony. She hadn’t, so I didn’t mention anything. We spoke about contributing to the house, how I didn’t mean to be in the house for eight months, how I was trying to leave and how there were just way too many people in the house! I thought everything was fine after that conversation. She confided about some personal issues she was having with Mike and with her family, and honest to God, I thought things would improve. 

They didn’t. They worsened. Nick and I returned from Easter dinner at his family’s house to find the house all dark, no cars in the drive way and the back door unlocked and OPEN. We carefully inspected the house, I thought someone may have broken in and stolen Mike’s car (he was rumored to be away again).  Nothing was amiss and we were perplexed as to how the back door had been left open. 

Three days later we had our answer: Terri had moved out. Like a thief in the night, the coward moved out and declared to Mike (who told a friend, who told Nick) that she “didn’t feel comfortable or appreciated.” 

Not 100% certain what it is other than extra Terri trash

 …. appreciated for what? Parking in the drive way? Leaving empty food containers everywhere? Having your period every other week and leaving the foul remains for everyone to see on TOP of the bathroom garbage can? Why would we appreciate you? Go. 

Mike and Nick stopped hanging out. While I’m sure he was upset, Mike seemed to be having the time of his life! He went golfing constantly, had friends over, went to baseball games and even smoked a joint in the house! I’m not sure why he was mad other than having his pride wacked.  Oh well.  Between May and into early June, Nick and Mike seems to be talking a little more and I thought things were fine. We had plans to move out and get our own place as my job situation continued to improve. Things were running smoothly, like a roommate situation should! 

Then life started to turn sour again. A pink toothbrush was noted at the left hand side of the sink. Menstrual smells and green panty liner wrappers were again found sitting on top of the trash. And one day, lo and behold, Terrible

Oh look, Nick can't park in the driveway because Mike AND Terrible are home.

Terri’s terrible car was in the driveway when I came home from work! It was official, she was back in our lives. The relationship we had built with the other boy in the house ended as he refused to come out of his room when Terrible was around. Nick became aggravated and irritable, he wouldn’t come home if she was there; he’d see her car drive to a friend’s house. I tried to pick up more shifts so that we could get out before September 1st. There was nothing to do but deal with her all over again. Terri was significantly worse this go around though. It was like Mike was hiding her but still being defiant about it.

The most important things in her life: Chocolate and Pepto Bismal

She’d obviously reclaimed a presence in the house. Mike stopped cleaning up after her. He started drinking heavily and daily. Bottles of rum, tequila and beer cans would line the kitchen window early Tuesday morning, purposefully left outside of the provided recycle bin. Terri would appear when she thought I had left or something and we’d nearly run into one another. I started to panic, I had to remind myself to breathe, I felt so trapped and out of control. Nick and I struggled to find peace and I was never in the mood for romance. Not with all the slamming doors, loud TV and general contempt towards Mike and Terri emanating throughout the house, killing all sense of relaxation. 

I could think of nothing else but marching up to Big Truck and calling her a fat slob, the Queen of Slime, a selfish little leech, a corpulent bitch. I began to have trouble sleeping again, knowing I’d wake up and have to clean up after Mike and Terri’s nonsensical late night eating binges. 

September is around the corner and I have secured a new job that I suspect will further my wine career in fantastic ways. Nick and I are aggressively house hunting for quaint apartments and I’ve already begun packing. Mike told one of the boys in the posse that he and Terrible are going to buy a house together in another state. Nick says we’ll probably never see either of them again since Terri doesn’t like when Mike isn’t with her. 

It’s just amazing that when you live with someone, you immediately see how disgusting, selfish, reclusive and frightening they can become. Again, I’m disappointed that Nick and Mike lost their seven-year friendship, but if we had communicated with one another instead of Terri just running away when I asked her to buy toilet paper, we wouldn’t be in this position. Living with people blows, hands down. But if you have no other choice (Terri would live at her parents’ house whenever she and Mike were fighting or when she “couldn’t stand this house anymore,” Facebook quote), then you need to suck it up and be a reasonable human being. Take out the trash, flush the toilet, push your period leavings down so no one sees/smells them, keep your girlfriend in check, rotate parking privileges, etc. 

Make the experience mildly livable and maybe, just maybe, you’ll keep your friends. 

:steps down from soap box: