Tribute to My Former Roommates: The Sister and The Boyfriend

It has been a full two weeks since I’ve moved away from my sister and her boyfriend, and I must admit I might miss living with them just a little. If for no other reason, they kept me constantly amused… mostly at their expense.

For one thing, they seemed to be plagued by the fact that they need to do laundry. Granted, I have made it clear I am not fond of Laundromats. But I still went to them on a regular basis because, you know, I like clean clothes. The Sister and The Boyfriend somehow went weeks and weeks (maybe even months?) without going, meaning when they did go they had multiple suitcases and bags and even the cart thing most (normal) people use for groceries. Just the exertion of the multiple trips to haul all of their clothes down the stairs was enough to complain about. But the last time they got home from a laundry expedition takes the cake. They barge through the door, panting and sweating from going up and down and up the stairs to bring everything back inside, and then explain to me in a huff that one of their loads came out all pink because The Boyfriend accidentally threw in a sock from our Color Me Rad 5K (which happened on July 15^th, this laundry trip happened August 9^th – you do the math). But oh, it gets better. The Sister then tells me that the hamper she is holding is still full of dirty clothes because they accidentally washed a stranger’s clothes instead of their own. Apparently, they were trying to do their laundry assembly-line style, with The Boyfriend loading the washers and The Girlfriend following behind with the detergent and quarters. But somewhere along the way there was a communication hiccup, and she set up a washer full of someone else’s clothes. They didn’t figure this out until later, though, when she went to pull out her own clothes and realized, “Wait a minute, these aren’t even damp.” (And I’m sure there was some smell involved, too, given the amount of time since these clothes had last seen the inside of a washer). And then a man walks up to the machine next to her—that’s still in spin cycle—and confusedly asks, “Did you wash my clothes… again?” I guess he had to wait another ten minutes while the load finished. By that point they didn’t want to spend the time to load another washer, and they didn’t bring enough detergent anyway. So they had to carry a full hamper of dirty clothes back to our apartment. I would say that deserves an Epic Fail label, but it successfully had me laughing for a good ten minutes.

I also found their little fights amusing (does that make me evil?). They once came home from Date Night in an awkward silence, parting ways at the door. The Sister came to sit on the couch next to me, and once we heard The Boyfriend drop his man bag in their room (meaning he was safely out of earshot), she explained that while they were out The Boyfriend almost ran into a pole and she laughed. Then he got mad at her, she got mad at him for getting mad at her, and I chocked on my chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream from laughing.

A couple months ago she bought him a new toothbrush to surprise him (because he loves them and apparently views them as a treat). But between the time she got home from the store and the time she unloaded the bag, he somehow pissed her off and she hid it from him for a week. Eventually either she forgot why she was mad in the first place, he apologized, or he did enough dishes to redeem himself, because she finally brought out the surprise toothbrush—that, unfortunately, they call “teeths tools”—and he was immensely happy. I found this whole exchange a bit sad at the time, but now I realize this was just one of their little relationship quirks that I’ve come to miss. There were certainly times during the year I felt like a pathetic third wheel, especially when they snuggled on the couch watching movies and I was left on the cold love seat all alone. But I’ve come to admire their relationship. It’s clear they have fun but also understand, support, and encourage each other on a daily basis. I may not want to have conversations with my significant other to go like this:

Her: You want ice cream? Or salad? Or you want ice cream on your salad?

Him: I want salad on my ice cream.

But I do want a relationship that makes me as happy as they seem to be together. (It only took me a year and two weeks to admit I’m not completely disgusted by their lovey-dovey bond.)

Throughout my year-long stint as their roommate, I collected quite a few quotes from the happy eccentric couple. I could go into detail on how strange they are and attempt to analyze their banter for you, but I feel their quotes speak for themselves.

Him: My friend had a dog called an Akita. Have you heard of it?

Her: No, it sounds like a running shoe.

Her: He’s looking at chubby white men with man boobs online.

Him: I’m just reading their opinions.

Him: Look, it’s right here.

Her: Well, move your hand.

Him: But it’s right here.

Her: What are you trying to show me?

Him: It’s a stain.

Her: Okay, but you understand your hand is blocking it from my line of vision?

Him: But it’s right here!

Her: But move your hand! …You’re special.

Him: I thought that was a good thing.

Her: He’s always thinking I’m secretly throwing away his socks.

Him: I’m not in the mood for a movie tonight.

Her: So… we just sit here?

Him: Those aren’t the only options!

But in all honesty, it was a really great year. How lucky am I to have a sister that is also my best friend—even in a tight living space that is also shared by her boyfriend? I’ve gotten to know The Boyfriend very well, too, and I will miss both of them. Although, I’m not sure living a leisurely twelve-minute walk away gives me the right to say I’ll miss them. 

Who wouldn't miss these shenanigans?

The Sister: Katie’s going to have to come visit us to get blog material.

The Boyfriend: Okay, but she can’t stay over every night.

Just My Luck

"Boy, what a world. Could be so wonderful, if not for certain people."

—from Woody Allen's Radio Days

I'm pretty sure the character who said this in the movie was referring to Hitler, but I’m thinking it also applies to the people who decided it was okay to break into my old apartment that I wasn’t completely moved out of yet and take things. When my sister, her boyfriend, and I all packed up our JP apartment, we left a few things behind we didn’t want to lose in the shuffle. We were moving out three weeks early, so we still had time to go back and pick up the rest and do a thorough cleaning. We took a week off between the move and the return visit, but once we stepped back inside it took about two minutes to realize, “Hey, someone has been in here. Hey, that window is propped open and the string from the blinds is stuck beneath the screen. Hey, our internet router, my expensive company phone, the little kitchen shelf, my full-length mirror, our vacuum and Swiffer, our can opener (and other random kitchen things), and all of our cleaning supplies are gone..." 

The Sister: They took your soap?!
Me: They took the roll of toilet paper out of the holder. Of course they took my fancy soap!

Yep, they even took our toilet paper. Although I have to admit, they were considerate enough to leave at least one roll behind in the other bathroom. Because all of our cleaning things were among the stolen items, I had to walk down to the small corner store where they sell random things for suspiciously low prices. I bought a box of garbage bags, a roll of paper towels, and the most legitimate-looking bottle of all-purpose cleaner I could find. But then we discovered the sprayer didn’t work on the bottle, so we had to take the cap off and just pour the liquid either on a paper towel or right on the surface itself. Needless to say, it wasn’t our best cleaning experience and we just wanted to get. out. of. there.

What I don’t get is, if they took everything else, why leave us the dead mouse on the counter? It would have come with an extra bonus of maggots… They also didn’t touch anything in the freezer or fridge, including a brand new, unopened bottle of pickles. You take a mostly empty bottle of soap, but our pickles aren’t good enough for you?

I realize I’m coming off as angry and bitter at the moment, but really, I do recognize how lucky we are this never happened while we were actually living there. And it was kind of a nice bonding moment with The Sister and The Boyfriend while we tag teamed the cleanup of the dead mouse. I’m more grateful than anything. Grateful to be away from the mice. Grateful to never have to walk by the neighborhood park where my phone was stolen off my stomach as I lounged on a blanket on a sunny June day. Grateful to not wake up at 5:30 every single morning because every single morning seemed to be garbage day on that street. 

Plus, my new home is every bit as wonderful as I imagined it would be.

p.s. Mr. Clean Magic Erasers are amazing. Go buy them. Go scrub your walls and be astounded at the scuff marks and Pepsi stains you can erase. I thought about taking before and after pictures (and maybe even one in between with the streak of white in the dirt like in the commercials), but I decided that was a little too pathetic. That may be one of my most prominent traits, but even I have a limit.

No One Grows Up Saying They Want to Be a Mover

The movers showed up at 10:00 Saturday morning, and despite a few minor setbacks—having only three boxes packed just 24 hours before, pausing Friday night for one last trip to Doyle’s pub down the street, and running out of tape to put together our boxes until 9 a.m. Saturday when I could run to the store—I still managed to be ready for them. I know. Miracle.

Let me just stop right now to defend our decision to hire movers. First of all, well, we’re lazy. I got winded climbing the stairs to our third-floor apartment just carrying a small bag of groceries. There was no way in hell I was going to run up and down all day (or multiple days, most likely) carrying shtuff. Plus, the price of the movers included the big moving truck, gas, blankets, security tape, large muscles… It took them six hours to empty our apartment in JP, unload at my sister’s new place, and then bring the rest to my new place. If we had rented our own truck, after six hours we would maybe have brought down the beds and couches and be halfway down the stairs with the kitchen table. Well worth it in my book.

The three guys from the local moving company in JP were all fun and friendly. There was Eric, the manager of some sort, or at least the guy with the clipboard. Mid 30s, short dark hair, increasing number of fingers wrapped in tape throughout the day from constantly finding things to cut himself on. He spent most of the time down in the truck rearranging, so I didn’t get to talk to him much.

Rick was the “runner,” doing most of the legwork, grabbing boxes from our apartment and running them down the stairs. He was probably late 20s and had black shorts, a black tank top that still managed to get darker from sweat, a short Mohawk with the sides starting to grow out, and a tattoo of an elaborate cross on his left bicep. As he walked through the kitchen where I was standing awkwardly with my sister and her boyfriend, unsure of what to do while they hauled our stuff out, he commented that we sure do have a lot of books (packed in very heavy boxes, even though I specifically told The Sister and The Boyfriend to split them up). Rick told us he couch surfed across the country for years, and now that he’s been stationary in Boston for awhile now, he’s excited to have a shelf devoted to books again. We also learned he used to live in our JP neighborhood and had helped create the community garden that I love walking through to take pictures of sunflowers. Small world.

And then there was Hale. Plain white t-shirt, short dark blond hair, big nose and red, puffy eyes. He showed up two hours late and then introduced himself by saying, “I apologize if I smell like alcohol. It’s sweating out of me. …Don’t worry, I’m not drunk right now, but I went out last night. It was a rough morning.” I’ll admit, I’m pretty awful at judging age, but I figured Hale was in his late 30s. But as the vodka sweated out of him in the next four hours, he started looking more like mid/early 30s. He was surprisingly fast and agile for a middle-aged hungover man nonetheless.

After Hale carried down the last load, I went out and sat on the front step to see if they really could fit everything into the medium-sized truck (opposed to the large truck we used to move out here) like they claimed. “We’ve picked up some tricks over the years,” Eric had said to my raised eyebrows. There were just two boxes sitting out on the sidewalk next to one of The Boyfriend’s amps and a large white box fan. As Eric and Rick rearranged the boxes in the back of the truck like Tetris pieces, Hale lit up a cigarette and sat on the steps next to me. He wanted to know where was I from and why did I move to Boston and what was I up to, so I gave him all the incredibly exciting facts of my life. He told me he had majored in journalism at a college in Vermont—or maybe it was Virginia, I can’t remember—and then moved to Boston and worked for an ad agency for eight years. But when they laid off 700 people, he was SOL: “And now I’m here. No one grows up saying they want to be a mover.” He flicked the cigarette down onto the sidewalk and hoisted himself up to go help the other two just in time, helping to balance the fan on a box inside as they quickly shut the door.

When they pulled up to my new place two hours later, Hale hung his head out the passenger-side window and yelled, “Hey kiddo, nice place!” They parked and Hale and Rick climbed out, each exhaling smoke from another cigarette. I’m a little amazed they’re able to smoke so much with such a physically demanding job, but who am I to judge.

I had them unload all of my stuff into the larger room right next to the one I am moving into. See, my new room is a tad bit smallish. The roommate who will be in the room next to mine won’t be moving in until the end of the month, so I’m taking advantage of her space as I unpack and settle in. And her room just happens to be about three times the size of mine. Or maybe the better way to explain it is to say my room is only a little larger than her room’s closet. (But have no fear—we have split the rent fairly, and my room is nice and cozy, so I don’t mind.) So I thought it was somewhat genius of me to have the guys bring all of my boxes into the room next door, pretending it was mine. I know, that’s a weird thing to lie about. But #1. I knew there was no way it would all fit into my room anyway. They could have stacked the boxes literally wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and they would still spill out into the hallway. (Yes, I have a lot of stuff. No, my plan to go through and get rid of unnecessary stuff failed.) #2. Maybe I was a little embarrassed to admit I was delusional enough to think everything would eventually fit in that room, and I wasn’t sure if the movers would find that amusing or pathetic. #3. It made sense; I can set up my room and then bring in all my crap at my leisure. But Eric, adding another piece of tape to his thumb, said, “This is kind of a tight squeeze for you, huh?” I looked around the spacious room, thinking of my little nook one door over, and thought, You have no idea.

Will I Ever Stop Being a Tourist?

I'm coming up on my one-year residential anniversary with this city, and yet just this morning I was snapping away pictures right alongside the tourists in their Harvard and “I’m the real Green Monster” t-shirts. I was walking along the outskirts of the Common, rushing to the Park Street station to get to my lunch meeting at least somewhat on time, when I looked to my left at the picturesque Massachusetts State House with the golden dome (that is covered in real 23k gold leaf, as I remember from my duck tour eleven years ago) and decided I couldn’t pass without taking a picture. What a tourist.

But I do this quite a lot. And I justify my frequent trips to American Eagle and Urban Outfitters because they’re located in Quincy Market, and the H&M is mere steps away from the old state house. So obviously I should be spending time in these historic places, no?

One of my favorite things to do downtown is to see how long I can walk on the Freedom Trail inconspicuously. I mean take each step right on that wide red line—without mowing down little children who get in my way.

At least I find a way to have fun every day, even if it makes me no better than a tourist. I like to think I see the good in things and try not to take even the simple little joys for granted.

“If you awake every morning with the thought that something wonderful will happen in your life today, and you pay close attention, you’ll often find that you’re right.”

(I’m not sure who first said this, but it’s on a lot of yoga and meditation websites…)

And vitamin gummies? Best invention ever.

The Price I Pay

I haven’t yet decided if the entertainment my sister and her boyfriend provide is worth the pain I must endure as the witness.

New low: She called him last night from the bedroom to the living room. I mean, our apartment is kind of long, and sometime those 30 feet can seem daunting if you’re feeling extremely lazy. But calling him? Their bedroom is close enough to my couch that I could hear both sides of the conversation.

“Where are you?”

“The couch. Where are you?”

“The bedz. You come to the bedz meeting soon?”

Let me explain. #1. They’ve gotten into a nasty habit of ending every word they possibly can with Zs. Like lolcats but much, much worse. Example: of all the things he could have said when she showed him her new phone last month, he says, “Gasp, you haz the fancy phonez now?” And of course she answers with “I knowz!!” When she came to the living room one night empty handed, he asks, “You no find the cordz?” I think they’re just doing it in an ironic, sarcastic kind of way. I think. (I hope!) But it’s very possible it could also just be in a weird kind of way. Saddest thing about this: I’m not even exaggerating.

#2. They like to conduct “meetings” whenever they can. The first of this was early in the fall when they decided it was essential for them to have a book club meeting on my bedroom floor that I was not invited to. This “weekly meeting” has since only occurred once. They also frequently have “couch meetings.” Meaning they both sit on the couch. This one happens on a regular basis. And of course the “bedz meetings” I mentioned before.

I must say, though, she’s got it pretty good. Many of their “couch meetings” involve her stretching out with her feet on him and him arranging his laptop or dinner plate to accommodate her. He’ll also cover, uncover, wrap, or unwrap her feet with a blanket at her every wish (which is very frequent, especially it seems through the quiet parts of movies). And from my outsider’s view, her biggest frustration with him is that he occasionally sits too close to her on the couch. As if the fact that he wants to be near her is a bad thing.

And speaking of The Boyfriend, I have to admit I also have it pretty good. You know the worst thing about this roommate of mine? He does the dishes way too often. I’ve literally had to go out to the kitchen and yell (or speak sternly) at him to “put that dish down! That’s not yours!” Sigh, it’s a tough life I live.

My Quest to Find Tom Hanks

First, Happy International Tom Hanks Day!

Tom Hanks has been in NYC to shoot for his new movie Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (with Sandra Bullock).  And as most of you already know, I may be a little obsessed with him, so I've been trying to keep track of where he's shooting each day.  But here's the problem - they don't let the public know these things in advance (you know, to protect him from those crazy stalkers...) so I feel like I just keep barely missing him. 

I found out Monday night that he had been shooting all day at 21st and Broadway, just FIVE BLOCKS from where I work.  So Tuesday morning I got up early and checked it out... but no sign of them.  I walked by after work, too, just in case, but no luck.  And then I found out yesterday that he had shot the last two days in Central Park!  *sigh*  I really don't mean to seem like a stalker, but if I don't at least try to see him while he's so close I'll never forgive myself.  Wish me luck, because he's not gone yet... so I'm not giving up :)

Not Enough Time to Chew My Bite of The Big Apple!

Oi.  Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely thrilled I have this opportunity to live in NYC for three months, have an awesome internship at THE literary agency (meaning, the best in the business!), and get to see amazing shows/museums all for the small price (insert sarcastic tone here) of a semester's tuition.

But really, can't a girl get some down time?  The evenings I actually have a free second, I need to relax my brain and calves (which are becoming nicely shaped, thank you high heels).  So I'm a *little* behind on my required journal entries for the events we go to.  And by little, I mean I still need to write TEN.  Plus the show I just went to today... and tomorrow's, Wednesday's, Thursday's, Friday's, and Sunday's... Oi times ten.

And yet I have time to sit here and update my blog?  Why yes, I do.  I want to keep you all up to speed on my adventures!  Today I went to the BAM (the Brooklyn Academy of Music in, you guessed it, Brooklyn) to see Geoffrey Rush in Gogol's The Diary of a Madman.  Oh. My. Gosh.  I don't know Rush very well, but he's impressed me in all of the roles I've seen him in.  But he was abso-blowmymind-lutely amazing on stage.  It was a little scary how convincing he was as a raving lunatic, but any show that successfully makes tears run down my face both from laughing and crying is worth a standing ovation to me.  To see some of the (frightening) photos from this production, go to Broadway World's Photo Flash.

My roommate's birthday is tomorrow, so we're going to get some gourmet cupcakes to celebrate (along with stuffing myself with delicious chocolate and frosting in an attempt to fill the emptiness of being alone on Valentine's Day...) and then make our way to Juilliard for a jazz show.  Juilliard.  No big deal :)