You know those annoying people that mess up song lyrics all the time, and belt them at the top of their lungs? I have to admit I am one of those people.
A few days ago, my boyfriend decided to serenade me over the phone by singing the Transformers theme song from the '80s (we're really a romantic couple): Transformers! More than meets the eye! Transformers! Robots in disguise!"
"Oh that's what they were saying? I thought they just kept going 'Transformers! bee boop bee bop!"
This is not limited to songs. This also extends into common sayings, phrases and adages - which is why I keep making up the rest of the lines to Sticks and Stones :) Needless to say, I don't really need to wear shoes anymore, since my foot is in my mouth on most days at some point or another.
My mouth was once again disconnecting itself from my brain a few days ago. I was in an important meeting, discussing the ramifications of the way we were hiring and interviewing for a new management position, when I said with full and utter confidence, "It's not like we're going by the fly of our pants here. These decisions are being made with intention."
My co-workers bust up laughing before I could figure out what I had said.
"Well, I don't know all the directions your FLY goes, but I think you meant seat," my co-worker corrected me. We laughed and I tasted toe jam again for the first time since I had first exclaimed that Jesuits and Jews were the same (okay so a week or two had gone by).
This was not unlike the time in college where I defended myself by saying, "Well, I'm not the brightest tool in the shed." Nor am I the sharpest.
But what takes the "foot-in-mouth" cake, is what I said at work yesterday. I was working on a project with several co-workers, and we were discussing my new, fabulous bangs inspired by Reese Witherspoon (yes, we were getting paid for this conversation).
"I decided to ease into the style by doing the side bangs first, but next time, I might go full frontal."
A silence suddenly came over the room and everyone just started cackling and howling. I was trying to explain that I wanted to try bangs that were cut straight across my forehead and somehow, my brain computed that as "full frontal." Of course it did.
"We know way too much about your future plans," they joked.
My cheeks were bright red as I laughed and said, "I am sooo embarrassed!!"
They likened it to when my boss said that my co-worker was "vibrating at work" when he was really trying to say her phone was on vibrate while at work.
I have hand-eye coordination. Just not brain-mouth coordination.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but my big, mutant toe is really starting to taste like chicken.
"I want that today!! I want that today!!" I was screaming and throwing a huge, effing fit. Feet stomping, nostrils flaring. Oooh I was pissed. I was three. And I totally can't even remember what I wanted, but whatever it was, I remember wanting it badly. "I want that today!! I want that todaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!" My dad still teases me over that tantrum to this day. It was foreshadowing for what was to come.
"I want that today" morphed into "I deserve it." Now that little mantra has gotten me into some big trouble throughout the years. I'm not going to lie- I'm still paying for the things I "deserved" in college in the form of a high interest rate and credit card debt.
When life got stressful in college, I turned to the mall. And Target. And the bar with the giant margaritas. I was "earning" pedicures, shoes, perfume and also putting all my living expenses on the little piece of plastic too. Looking back, I don't know how I could have thought my life was so difficult that I needed to relieve stress in such an ignorant way. "Deserving" something became a way to justify frivolous purchases and unnecessary spending. It was an excuse to be stupid with money. Nowadays, I would kill to have the "stressors" I had in college.
Now that the bill is finally getting paid, I have learned more constructive (and free) ways of dealing with stress; exercise being number one. It's amazing what a good run or weight lifting session can do to your spirit after a hard day of work. It has kept me sane during the most stressful work season I can recall since entering the work force 10 years ago (only 40 more years till retirement! But who's counting?). Number two would be kicking my feet up on the couch and doing absolutely nothing. Three would be reading and writing (ahhhh).
Today, I had a long, hectic day at work- meetings were running late and going sideways, phones were ringing, my inbox was bursting, and people were needing more and more and more things from me. I already did an hour of overtime and it STILL wasn't enough to make ends meet.
I rushed out the doors as my boss was trying to flag me down for yet, another task. I had already tried to explain to him that I had a hair appointment to get to (which was scheduled right after work, on the other side of Seattle, during rush hour) but of course a bald man can't possibly understand the importance of this. Trying to explain the importance of getting your hair done to a man with hair is hard enough. So I said screw it, and walked out.
So there I was on the freeway, rushing rushing rushing, cutting off cars, flipping off motorists. And to my astonishment, I got to the hair place early (sorry for being a hazard on the road, folks).
But by the time I pulled up the parking brake, I realized I was completely famished. I was irritable from my day at work, I was starving and PMSing. Not a good way to enter a salon. That's just bad mojo. I was sure to end up looking like Captain Kangaroo.
So I decided to put the car in reverse and go stake out my food options. That's when I passed Dick's. For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's fast food scene, Dick's is a 50's style walk-up diner with the second best burgers, fries and shakes in the Northwest (the BEST burgers, shakes and fries would be at Red Mill Burger. Why? Because I said so. Shove it!).
Since I've been training for a half marathon, I've been eating really healthy, and unfortunately that should pretty much ban me from even looking at a Dick's restaurant. But.....I DESERVED IT! I WANT THAT TODAY!!
My mantra came back, and I caved. I was like Magda needing Sweet and Sour Pork except I wasn't a bitch about it (see blog entry "Thank you! Come again!"). After weeks of eating super healthy, I devoured the greasy burger, dominated the salty fries, and annihilated the strawberry shake. It felt sooo good. AND my $5.50 won't be earning any interest, thank you very much.
Eating that burger felt like I had just come out of meditation. My mojo was good. I was ready to enter the salon.
I walked in with a free spirit and an open mind, and walked out the Black and Japanese version of Reese Witherspoon. I think it's safe to say that I deserved that today :)
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but greasy burgers and a haircut will soothe the PMSing soul.
I am one of those people that try to avoid mass cultural phenomenons just to avoid them. That way, I can say I'm a non-conformist. Anything that pop culture flocks to, I try hard to run the other way. I'll admit, I am not unique in my avoidance of cultural conformity. Just another cog in the machine of self-proclaimed non-conformists.
I will also admit that when it comes to MTV's Jersey Shore, I am epic failing at non-conforming. Don't worry - I'm not squeezing the last drop of fake tanner out of the tube, and I only wear my hair in the "poof" every once in awhile (which, I invented, Snookie!). But there is something about the douche-baggery that oozes from that show that keeps my eyes glued to the screen, even if its a rerun that I've seen forty times.
Something about vain people with low IQs, mixed with fake tanner, a Bowflex and huge egos became the perfect recipe for pop culture cocaine. Jersey Shore is everywhere in the headlines, but there is also a merchandising effort being launched that someone is capitalizing on as well (click hear for guido gear!).
However, not all people are buying into the allure of the Shore. Some people are up in arms that this show is even on, angry over the Italian-American stereotypes being portrayed. Some are even going as far as making death threats to keep it off the air (which in itself is only perpetuating the Italian stereotypes). Anti-Jersey Shore-ers claim it would never fly if you put another group of people of a different ethnicity in its place. While I completely understand this argument, there are also a lot of holes in it.
First of all, Italian-Americans are not really considered a protected class. Secondly, all other ethnicities are frequently, and have been historically portrayed in stereotypical roles in mass media (e.g., minstrel shows, Disney movies, Chapelle Show, Fresh Prince, All American Girl, Mind of Mencia, all the token Black characters that make their required appearance in shows and movies...I can go on if you'd like). I'm sorry Italians, but it's your turn. And I'm going to savor this moment.
The one question I want answered is, how the hell did they find these people? I'm sure much of this show is staged, much like the rest of MTV's "quality" reality shows, but to be willingly broadcast on national television as meat-heads and street walkers just seems like a desperate attempt at fame. But then again, that's nothing out of the ordinary for any reality show. So why are we still addicted to this reality show and not others?
Maybe it's the one-liners, ''You like your girls like you like your underwear: dirty!"
Maybe it's the dance music.
Maybe' it's Snookie's addiction to eating pickles (literally and figuratively).
Maybe it's the idiotic, yet catchy nicknames: J-WOWW, The Situation, Snookers (a nickname of a nickname).
Maybe it's the gel.
Whatever it is, it's working. And I have found myself sitting on my couch tonight, impatiently waiting for the finale to come on.
Pop culture, you've claimed another victim.
Sticks and stones my break my bones, but fist pumping is a good exercise for your biceps! (for those of you who don't know how to do the fist pump, click here to conform)
Dragging myself out of bed and into my running shoes is quite the arduous task. Not only am I still in recovery mode from Holiday Glutton-Fest 2009, but the rain outside does nothing more to motivate me to pump my arms and move my legs. I recently ended my gym membership to save money, and the treadmill in my apartment's gym conveniently broke at the same time. Nonetheless, I have made a commitment to myself that I cannot break: I will run the Tacoma City Half Marathon on May 2, 2010. And that's just not going to happen if I let a little precipitation and some (okay. lots) of last year's cookies stand in my way.
Slowly but surely, I've been trying to get back into the shape I was before the pumpkin pie, the peppermint bark and eggnog got in the way. This is week two, and I'm definitely sore after every workout. I've been annoying the hell out of my neighbors below me, jumping around to Jillian Michaels and Jackie Warner workout DVDs. My neighbor pounds on her ceiling in a vain effort to get me to stop, but I'm too vindictive to give into her needs. I have a six-pack and toned legs to work on, lady. I don't hear you doing anything about your cankles!
But nothing gets my body more fatigued than trying to run again. Where I used to run five and six miles as my standard run, two miles suddenly feels like eight, three miles, like fifteen. But I have to do this. I deserve to do this for myself.
So this morning, there I was at Greenlake with the rest of the die-hard January runners, trying to become one of them again, with my hot pink lululemon hoodie and neon green headphones. My arms started moving, and my legs followed. "Here I go. I have to run six miles before I can get back in my car and drive away," I think to myself. If I don't give myself ultimatums like this, I will never get it done. Running is very much a mental effort for me. I have to threaten myself to motivate myself, which is why Jillian Micheals is so effective. Working out to her DVDs is like having Hitler stand over you while you do push-ups. You don't stop for anything. And that's when she's inside the TV. I can't imagine what it would be like to workout with her in person on the Biggest Loser.
Greenlake is also a great backdrop for motivation. Not only do you have other fit people running around the lake with you, but there is some great people and animal watching to be had there too. I see all kinds of cute dogs that I dream of dog-napping, interesting people, stinky people, and also very friendly people.
Just today, I saw a man mediating on the side of the trail. How he could relax with barking dogs and kids everywhere was beyond me. I also had a really smelly guy run by me. He had a cloud of severe B.O. that followed several feet behind him. I started to dry-heave while running, which gave me a side ache because it messed up my breathing. But I worked through it. And finally, there was this one man that I used to see all the time in the summer and he just walked around smiling and waving at everyone. Some would find him odd, or even label him crazy. But I saw him again today, and found him to be quite motivating. I smiled back and pretended he was cheering me on. I started running faster.
I also try to guess people's personalities based on the dogs they're walking. The guy with the poodle has trust issues. The girl with the chihuahua has a low IQ. The guy with the mop dog is a divorcee who joined Barnum and Bailey. The girl with the pug will soon be dog-less because I will be stealing it from her. It just keeps getting better.
On the second loop around, I start counting people I had seen the first time I made the loop: the odd, interesting, funny, and unfortunately stinky souls. Before I know it, I've completed my six-mile run. The people, the dogs, and my music are all very nice distractions to the fact that I'm working my body hard. And afterward, I actually felt really good. It's my favorite way to workout. It's like I'm tricking myself.
So while the lady below me complains because I'm working off my love-handles and she is still wallowing on the couch with her FUPA and pork rinds, I will continue working hard to run the 13.1 miles in May.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but running prevents cankles and FUPAs.
While most of my friends are getting hitched, settling down, and having kids fly out of their nether regions, I'm just now making the decision to move in with my boyfriend. We've been together for almost fo. long. yers (Thank you, Maury). I'm more than content with the pace my relationship is going. But the decision to move in together came with much trepidation on my part. It's not that I'm afraid to live with my boyfriend. I'm afraid of moving back to the SUBURBS.
I'm abandoning the flying fish at the market, grunge music and indie coffee shops for the clicking of designer high heels, chihuahuas in sweaters, and beemers (Oh wait. My boyfriend has one already. Our sickening transformation has already begun!).
The thing is, I'm more than familiar with the suburbs, being that I've lived in some form of one for 24 out of 25 years of my life. Living in Seattle was a welcome change. Oh the things you do for love (and a short commute).
While I'm happy I had my short time in Seattle, I will definitely miss the following (in order of importance):
- Living two blocks from Ezell's Fried Chicken.
- Frequent runs at Greenlake after gorging myself on Ezell's Fried Chicken.
- People watching from my window (I have a great story about watching a drunk bum that you will read very soon).
- Taking the five minute bus ride downtown.
- Random afternoon trips to Pike Place.
- Spontaneous Happy Hours.
- Beautiful sunsets across the Puget Sound and Olympic Mountains.
- Watching student drivers of Hong Kong Driving School.
- Cheap cab rides back from Belltown.
- Cool events/concerts being super close.
- Living on top of Quiznoes. Especially when I'm out of groceries.
- The socially awkward, yet entertaining guy that makes my sandwich at Quiznoes.
- Living across the street from Starbucks when it's the next morning and I'm still too lazy to go buy groceries.
- Cactus!!! Best Mojitos ever.
- Madison Park in the summer.
- Being two blocks from Ezell's Fried Chicken!
- My view of Mt. Rainier and the Puget Sound.
- I saved the best for last: My awesome roomie!
- Sirens 24/7 (I live by a fire station, and I live by a lot of creepers)
- People yelling at each other at the bus stop below my window
- Red Apple (worst grocery store in the history of retail)
- Parades (they always seem to happen when I'm trying to go home from work and they are marching on my street!)
Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but at least I won't get shot in suburbia. Lets hope.
Since I've been engrossed in the hiring process off and on for the last year, I thought I'd do the job-hunting populous a favor. I have learned that I overestimate the common sense and competence of the greater public. Don't get me wrong- I know times are tough, and there some wonderfully qualified people out there needing a way to make ends meet. But there are some not-so-qualified people out there making a sorry attempt at competing too.
In order to save the sanity of hiring staff all over the world, I thought I'd write up some quick tips on things you ABSOLUTELY should not say, do, write or think while trying to get a job. Take notes, kids.
- Know how to spell the city you live in. I don't know where Spoknae, WA is, and neither does Google Maps.
- You are not fooling anyone by saying you have tech skills when your resume was written on a type writer.
- Follow directions. When I ask you for a resume, cover letter and a review, do not send me just a cover letter and assume that you wow'd me so much with your piss poor spelling that I would beg you to come in for an interview. You just proved to me that you share the same IQ with MJ's monkey, Bubbles. And even Bubbles had a career to retire from.
- Know the correct address of the place you are applying to. We have not been in the office you listed on your cover letter for 10 years. Unless you just arrived in a DoLorean with Michael J. Fox, I don't want to read the rest.
- Do not ask me if you can perform this job in Florida when the posting clearly states WASHINGTON. Yes, we are in the Pacific Northwest. You will sacrifice your Mai Tai cocktails and beach body browsing for pale skin, rain and socks with sandals. Sixty degrees will go from being coat and sweater weather to shorts and bikini weather. Deal with it.
- Do not first ask me how much the job pays and then proceed to inquire on what the duties of the job are. You just told me you're only in it for the money.
- Read the qualifications. Do not assume you are entitled to a management position because a college mistakenly awarded you a General Studies degree this year. You have no work experience, period. Go dig a ditch and come back when your manicured hands have a few more calluses on them.
- Do not use the word "manipulate" when describing your management style.
- Enunciate and get to the point. I was hoping not to hire anyone with personality traits resembling Milton's from Office Space. I don't even remember what I asked you in the first place, you ramble so much!
- If you can't talk to me without inserting, like, um, ya know, and uh, between every other word, you need to be taken out back and shot. You're like an old dog that needs to be put out of its misery.
- If you are called in the morning to schedule your interview, at least try to sound perky. We know what hungover sounds like.
- Do not assume you are smarter than your co-workers, or interviewers. You need something from us. Not the other way around.
- Don't lie. The truth comes out faster than you can peck out your name on the keyboard. 100 wpm? Try 10.
- Don't mispronounce my name. That automatically disqualifies you.
- Nice try, but this is not appropriate interview attire:
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but idiocracy will be the death of me.
I'm going to be honest. All this sticks and stoning sometimes wears me out. Not because I don't love entertaining you with my wild stories, but because I feel like I'm leaving out mundane daily things that still elicit revelations, that maybe aren't so crazy. Maybe they're just funny.
For instance, today, I ate Trader Joe's version of Raisin Bran that is loaded with more fiber than one person should consume in a day. I think I'll stick to Cocoa Puffs.
Sticks and stones may break your bones but trying not to fart in the middle of interviewing somebody is terrifying and horribly painful.
For instance, today, I ate Trader Joe's version of Raisin Bran that is loaded with more fiber than one person should consume in a day. I think I'll stick to Cocoa Puffs.
Sticks and stones may break your bones but trying not to fart in the middle of interviewing somebody is terrifying and horribly painful.
Dishes that have been on the counter for weeks, rank laundry, food stuck to the floor, peanut butter on your computer, missing food, broken dishes, used-up bathroom products, missing clothing, and worst of all- your beer is gone. I've seen it all in the realm of bad roommates. But the one I bet you haven't seen is rotting chicken in your toilet.
Before I explain this long and arduous story, I'd like to preface this entry by giving thanks to the awesome roommates I've had throughout the years (because they do exist). My current roommate and best friend since sixth grade is simply amazing! I'd also like to give a shout out to my old running buddy who is moving to Cali and I can't forget "Saliston."
But I'll never forget my worst roommate of all: Dom Dedumdum. I mean Dwayne Dwops. I mean Harry Azole (Sorry. I couldn't decide what to change his name to. There were too many great stupid names when I searched google for options). Let's just call him Chester. I of course changed his name to reflect the idiotic nature of this poor human being, although I have no reason to take the high road and protect his privacy.
It was the summer before my senior year in college and I was excited to live with my best friend Saliston and the rest of our college friends. There were to be five girls in one house - or a year-long estrogen overdose.
But we had a plan. Saliston had found this old, cute, charming (okay it was run down, decrepit, and haunted-looking) house on Humboldt Street. The current tenants needed someone to sublet a bedroom for the summer, which worked out because my lease ended a month sooner than the other gals'. I was to move in for a month and at the end of that month, the other gals would move in and we would all sign a new, year lease. And we'd live happily ever after, right?
But first, I had to get through a month with the current tenant.
My new roommate was Chester. He looked like an All-American Boy: blonde hair, blue eyes, polo shirt, smooth-talker. Although he worked with the needy, he had the air of a future country-club goer, or a Republican candidate. It was as though he felt he was doing society a favor and that he should be thanked each and every day for simply existing. Weasel was written all over him and I missed it in all of my twenty-one year-old naivety. FML.
I agreed to the arrangement only after first meeting with Chester and the landlord. At the end of the brief, 30-minute introduction, which was mostly used to discuss terms of the lease rather than meet the new tenant, I felt like the arrangement would work just fine. It was only 30 days, right?
The first day or two went by without any problem. It was awkward with just Chester and I in this old house. Luckily, my boyfriend would be moving in for a few weeks before he moved to be closer to his new job down south. I wouldn't have to live with just Chester the entire month.
"Do you like running?" he asked me one day.
"Yeah! I like running at Lake Padden. It's so pretty there," I said.
"Yeah, I like running at Lake Padden too, except I like running the course backwards so that I can stare at ladies boobs when they're running towards me. Hey wanna go run Lake Padden sometime?" he was not joking.
"Uh, I think not," I said, suddenly becoming aware of my chest.
I gathered my things and spent the rest of the evening upstairs. What a creep!
My boyfriend moved in, and also took note of Chester's creep aura. "I think if I weren't here, he'd try to pull something funny on you," he warned.
"Ugh don't even say that. I don't want to think about that."
Chester began bringing home random girls from the bar and proceeded to have loud sex just on the other side of my bedroom wall. I was not impressed. All of the girls looked kicked. True knuckle-draggers. Oh they were hideous. I didn't even want to ask where he was picking them up.
One weekend, my boyfriend and I decided to throw a party at the house. I told Chester about it and he seemed to have no qualms. We threw a good one. Beer pong was constant, people were shot-gunning beers in the kitchen and by morning, everything was covered in a sticky mess. I had to go to work, so I didn't plan to clean up until after my shift ended. Chester neglected to mention that the landlord was coming by that morning.
The landlord was pissed. The place was trashed, and he found a cup that someone had been spitting chew into all night. The landlord cleaned the mess up and I found him sitting on the couch when I came home. "ABSOLUTELY NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ON MY PROPERTY!"
"Sorry, I had no idea anyone was even doing that. I would have cleaned up this place, but I didn't know you were coming by." I tried.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't throw parties like this at all in my house," he said.
"Sure thing," I said. This was not looking good.
I was going to kill Chester. He totally set me up.
My guard was officially up with this douche bag.
Unfortunately, the day came when my boyfriend had to move. In addition to being sad that we would now be constrained to a long-distance relationship, I was also dreading the time I had left with Chester in the house. I still had to live with him for two weeks, and I was more uncertain how I was going to get through them than I was when I first moved in.
One night, Chester decided to have a house party. I didn't want any part in this. Not after he screwed me over with my party. So I left and stayed with a friend over night. What I came back to the next morning was on a whole different level than the mess I left for my landlord. It looked like the apocalypse had happened on Humboldt Street.
There were broken dishes on the roof of the house, garbage and cans littering the yard, the stench of alcohol permeating even the air outside, and the door was ajar. I saw Chester mopping in the kitchen.
I walked in.
"Hey! You missed a rager last night!" said Chester.
"Yeah, dude. It was awwwwwesome." said his ugly friend that was missing half of his ear.
"Bummer," I said walking up the stairs.
No nook or cranny was left untouched, except for my room, thank god. I had a dead-bolt lock on my bedroom door and for a damn good reason. That's when I looked out to the backyard.
Someone had burnt the shape of a penis into the grass, alongside the f-word. And Chester was leaving in week. I'll be damned if he blames this shit on me. I was furious! The neighbor later told me that the cops had been called which was the only reason more obscenities weren't burnt into the lawn, I suppose. I called the landlord just to ensure that this would not be taken out of my deposit, and he all but told me Chester couldn't have done it. Chester was the landlords golden child. He could do no wrong by Mr. Landlord. I didn't hang up until I had his word that this would not affect my deposit.
I spent the rest of my days locked in my room trying to avoid Chester until he moved out.
Then, one of my friends who was moving into the house called the landlord to see if she could start moving some things in early. The landlord agreed. The day she came by, I had to work, but I knew Chester would be there. So I just told her to go on in.
Chester was furious. He told my friend that she in fact could not move her stuff in because if she damaged anything, it would come out of his deposit. He told her the landlord made a mistake. I couldn't believe this asshole. My friend, not knowing any better, turned around and didn't move a thing in, even though she had driven two hours to get there with her car stuffed to the brim.
When I got off work, I called her to see if she'd be there, and she told me the entire story. I went home, fed up, and ready to rip Chester a new one, "Who do you think you are? The landlord said she could move all of her stuff in TODAY. And last I checked, you are not the landlord."
"Excuse me, but her lease doesn't start until next week. Not today. I am still responsible for any damages," he rebuked.
"She drove up for TWO hours! You couldn't even let her put stuff in the garage? What is wrong with you?!" I stormed off and called the landlord again.
The landlord had a few words with Chester and the next day, my friend was able to come back and move stuff into the garage. Chester left for the day because he was mad that I had actually gotten the landlord to tell him no on something.
On the day she moved in, my friend went to go use the bathroom downstairs and the toilet overflowed. And it smelled horrible.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't know what to do!" she said when she came out.
"God, did you take a crap in here or what?" I said making my way towards the bathroom.
"No! I promise I didn't."
I didn't want to embarrass her any further, but clearly something more than piss was permeating the air.
That's when I opened the back of the toilet up. "OH. MY. GOD! I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!" I screamed.
My friend came over to see a bunch of raw chicken that had been put in the back of the toilet.
"That's why the toilet overflowed. This chicken was blocking the flusher." I said.
It had smelled like it had been there over a week. Its rotting stench permeated the house. I put on rubber gloves and took the chicken out to the alley, where it sat and stank for another week. You could smell it in the front yard, it was that horrible.
Chester was sooo dead.
He avoided me for the rest of the week, certain that I had discovered the chicken. He was conveniently gone every time I came home, and I saw that he would park a block away and hang out at the neighbors while he waited for me to go to work. This way, he could pack up his stuff and move out without incident. Except on his last day in the house. I got off work early.
I came home, and caught him by surprise on the stairs. I was ready.
"Hey," he said like nothing happened.
"What the fuck," I greeted him.
"Um why are you so pissed?"
"Are you kidding me? Why the fuck would you put chicken in the toilet?!" I screamed.
"You really think I did that? It was probably one of your little friends at your party."
"No. I KNOW it was not one of my friends because I know the kind of company I keep. I don't party with a bunch of assholes!"
"Oh what- and I do?!" he yelled, feeling like he had the right to get defensive.
"Of course you do. Why else would there be a fucking penis burned into the lawn out back?!"
He was obviously defeated. I saw it in his eyes. "Fuck off," he said making his way past me on the stairs.
"Fuck you Chester. Get the hell out of my house!"
His lease was officially over. He was gone. Or so I thought.
I felt so good. I promise I am not inherently evil, but cussing someone out when it is more than deserved is the best feeling in the world. I was on cloud 9. Until I awoke to a bang at 2am.
I looked at the deadbolt and felt better that it was in the locked position. Maybe I was dreaming. I was drifting off again, when BANG! There it goes again. I suddenly became terrified. I couldn't move. I couldn't even fathom reaching to grab my- BANG!- phone. Maybe the boogie man would reach out and grab my arm. Or worse- Chester.
I knew it had to be him, but I was too scared to look. BANG BANG BANG! I couldn't figure out what was happening, but it sounded like someone was ransacking the living room, or trying to get in the front door. I stayed awake until it stopped around 4am, and then I sat there awake until I had to get up the next morning. I wish I would have called the cops.
I fearfully walked down the stairs, expecting to see the place had been robbed. Tip toe, tip toe. I peered down stairs before I actually forced my feet to make the journey. So far nothing looked off. I decided to go down.
"Hello?" I called out.
Nothing. Not a single thing was out of place. What was going on?
I looked out on the porch. Nothing. I couldn't believe it. I was certain of what I had heard. I felt like I was dropped into the Twilight Zone or some other creepy suspenseful drama. I had had enough.
I called my girlfriends and said that this house just wasn't going to work out. I was sick of the landlords crap. I was sick of dealing with Chester, who I had realized had not given me back his key. I just didn't trust anything or anyone.
The landlord agreed to give me back my deposit in full since it was appearing like our relationship was "just not going to work out." My friend who had tried moving in helped me look for a new home. We found a beautiful, 5 bedroom craftsman on Northwest Ave that would become the backdrop for some of my best college memories. The new landlord was awesome, and Chester wouldn't know where I lived anymore.
My parents came up to help me move out. We packed up everything and moved in a single day. I was out of there. When we were walking over the front porch of the Humboldt house, I kept smelling something awfully familiar to the rotting chicken.
"Man, it smells right here," my dad said as he was hoisting my couch up.
"Yeah it does." That's when I noticed the floor boards were loose. The banging! Chester must have put rotting chicken under the porch as a goodbye present. Well screw him. This wasn't my problem anymore. I was moving out. The landlord could deal with that one.
Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but don't move in with someone you don't know. Ending up with a Chester is worse than broken bones.