Of Who Done It? Tale of the Kitchen Felon.


Nicole and a Stuffed Doggy.

Here’s a picture of one of my besties staring down the camera with a stuffed dog in her dress. Her quizzical, but stern face, pretty sums up the emotions of the words below.

Every day, when I walk into the kitchen, I have the same thought, “Where did all these dishes come from?” I’ll do the dishes at night, and by 6:00pm the next day we’re out of glasses, there are piles of dirty plates (not rinsed off, mind you), pans on the stove top, and bowls in the living room. It’s baffling.

So I’ll sit there and ponder how many of these are mine. Here lies a typical day:

Breakfast: none – who has time for breakfast?

Lunch: frying pan, spatula, plate, knife, glass

Dinner: pan, stirring spoon, bowl, fork, glass

Total: utensils = 2, cooking stuff = 4, plates = 1, bowl = 1, glasses = 2

If all three of us created the exact same number of dishes, then that would account for 30 dirty things next to the sink. But it would mostly consist of small stuff, which could easily fit into one load of dishes crammed onto our drying rack – sadly, we don’t have a dish washer. It doesn’t explain how literally all of our forks and glasses disappear. Or where the stack of 10 plates comes from. Or why there’s always gross stuff stuck to the inside of 5 pots/pans – seriously roomies, rinse your dishes, don’t make me drawn a penis on your face with a sharpie when you’re asleep. And it certainly doesn’t explain why I end up doing an average of three loads of dishes regularly.

But of course, no one is guilty. When we discuss the dishes, everyone claims to have only used 3 dishes – 7 tops. Maybe we have a magical dirty dish fairy. Or maybe the hermit downstairs, comes up to use our kitchen when we’re not home. Or maybe one of us, if not all of us, are sneaky liars.

It’s like when I was little and the towel bar broke in the bathroom. My dad sat everyone down to see who broke the towel bar. No one fessed up, everyone had the same face of, “Jeepers! I don’t know.” To this day the towel bar mystery has never been solved, but I’d place money on my brother Eric. I just have this feeling that he’s the guilty one.

I have a theory that I’ll never have a clear answer as to who the dishes monster is,  but I have a hunch  …. not that they’ll ever fess up.

Of Drunken Ramblings

Cocktails with Lainie!

Cocktails with Lainie!

So I haven’t done straight shots in – my guess is two years. But tonight, less than an hour ago, my roommate Lainie and I decided, “LET’S HAVE COCKTAILS!!!”. Followed quickly by me stating, “Hey, wanna just take a shot? I haven’t drank straight liquor since those half-naked make-out party days.” So we poured two shots of orange vodka (because we have a shit ton of it), and our night went from Lainie reading and me playing the piano, to us dancing around the house and making pasta.

There’s a reason I don’t do shots. It’s fucking disgusting. Makes my whole body shiver when the alcohol passes through my system. Lainie just hates lime, which baffles me. 

So now I’m legitimately drunk, for the first time since I chugged my friends whiskey drink that I couldn’t taste and assumed was rum. And my guess is, shortly after I make the mistake of posting this – I’ll be even drunker. But hey, I’m in my house, wearing plaid pants, listening to cliché club music. So what’s the harm? None I say, so let the drunken adventures begin.

Perhaps we’ll go for an adventure and Pocahontas around the river bend behind our house, or maybe we’ll stay inside and keep drinking/dancing around our living room – occasionally attempting a fancy hula hoop trick. Regardless, I doubt I’ll be taking straight shots again anytime soon. With the exception of in the next ten minutes, for Lainie and I just discussed taking another shot …

Though I must admit, it’s quite effective. And I developed a new appreciation for #hashtags.

PS – not missing my college days of attempting to write a paper in such a state of mind. Although – they were pretty damn impressive.

Of BFF’s

Lainie wearing a balloon hat

My roomie – rocking the first balloon hat I ever made.

Lainie is my roommate, bestie, and fellow dancer. We met as extra follows when we were part of a swing dance performance team. She made me mac-n-cheese. I made fun of her tiny excuse of a living room. And we’ve been friends ever since.

Lainie greatly enjoys trying to make me do things that I really should do, and I want to do, but require effort. Things like: start a vlog, stretch, make a choice for dinner, or write a blog post.

Which is why when she sarcastically stated, “You should write about me!”

I said, “Fine.”

You’re welcome Lainie, it’s officially time for your long overdue spotlight:

I’ve never met someone so determined to stay in a cozy corner of denial. Course, I understand, making effort sucks. It’s scary and undesirable – I too, avoid it as often as I can, especially in the romantic realm.

For Lainie knows as well as I – there is little more horrifying than confessing your feelings to someone who does not return them. That leads to awkward encounters, tears, and hours of bitching out your friends who pushed you in that direction in the first place. Denial is best, even if at times it’s a wee bit lonely.

Though I feel it’s important to stress her absolute hypocrisy. She has a tendency to call me out on my shit, quite often. Rather than being a polite friend who will let me sit in my preferred bubble of denial. It’s dreadfully annoying. So of course, I return the favor and call her out whenever necessary.

But still, I let her hang around.

For despite the fact that she throws pillows at me, lightly hits anyone who says something dumb or offensive, is convinced that billowy shirts make her skinny ass look fat, and watches that awful Once Upon a Time show. She’s still the first person I go to when I have a problem, am confused about life, or want cookies made.

After all, what more could you want in a best friend, than someone who makes a killer soup, is willing to watch Gilmore Girls for hours, and also finds puppets hilarious.

Plus, we have a pact: “Roomies till partners!”

So I couldn’t get rid of her even if I wanted to.

Of the Creeper at the Doorway


Click image to view source

My roomie and I were talking about life, love, success, food, old friends, sweat pants, basically anything and everything, when we heard a pounding at our door.

First – it was about midnight.

Second – we rarely get visitors without pre-planning.

We live in one of those apartment complex’s where there’s no lobby or indoor hallway. We’re set up like a motel surrounded by trees. Basically, our building really wanted to become an edgy cabin but failed in its execution. Our apartment is on the top-level in the corner where our door and the neighbors form a perfect 90 degree angle. Now, since they get more visitors than us, we normally assume that the banging is on their door. Tonight the knocking was for us …

I went up to the door first and peered through the peep-hole. I saw a stout man about my height, wearing a seashell choker necklace (very 90s of him), and knocking on the door in a fist-pumping-Jersey-Shore-fashion. He then began to repeat the phrase, “Open up” several times. Quickly, I motioned for my roomie. She hesitantly made her way towards the peep-hole.


This is the closest image I could find (Click image to view source)

You see, my roomie has an unusual fear of leaning up against doors, windows, and things of a similar nature in high pressure situations. When she was a kid she watched Scream (the original). The bathroom scene, where the girl leans up against the stall to try to hear what’s going on only to end up with a knife in her head, has left a residual worry in my roomie’s heart that she too could end up with a knife in the head. Anyways, she didn’t recognize him either.

Then he left.

About 5 minutes later he came back doing the exact same thing, yelling at us to open up, banging on the door like an angry man whom we had somehow wronged.

Then he left.

We were freaking out, ALL my roomie wanted to do was get her laundry, but we were both not comfortable with the her going outside alone or us leaving the apartment unattended. Eventually we called the campus police, who transferred us to the city police, who took our report and said that a police officer was going to stop by. I threw my hands up to my face slightly chuckling at the whole ordeal, I really didn’t want to deal with police. My roomie kept on saying how bad she’d feel if he just had the wrong apartment or something, but maybe now she could have an escort to the laundry room.

Simba Pouncing Lesson

Click image to view source.

I’ve never been hesitant when looking through my window or peep-hole until tonight. I moved with caution, I felt like Simba during the scene in The Lion King where Mufasa teaches him how to pounce, quiet, steady, steady.

He never came back. Maybe he gave up or maybe he found his friends.

Then the police never showed up.

Oh, we got a phone call, saying that an officer circled and didn’t see anybody lurking. But, they NEVER asked what he looked like. I find that highly peculiar, I would think they would want to know who they were looking for so that some poor Joe smoking a cigarette or hanging out on the lawn wouldn’t become a suspect of creeping around our apartment. All they knew was that a man scared us.

I don’t think I’m in danger, I found the whole thing creepy, and I’m disappointed in the police officers who didn’t even bother to see if we were safe or okay.