Sharing is Caring

The usual protocol for moving into an apartment at our university is that everyone brings an appliance to share. You get to pick between these: telephone for the land line, microwave, television, and mini-fridge.

Before I met the Sara(h)s, we spoke online to divide up the appliances.

“We can’t bring anything because we’re flying in from out of state, and we won’t have any space to bring anything really big in our suitcases,” Sarah explained.

“And it’d be more trouble than it’s worth to try and ship appliances,” Sara added.

“I guess I can check to see if we have an old phone lying around,” Sarah offered.

“Yeah, and I’ll see if I can get a mini TV from my uncle who lives near the university,” Sara said.

So that left me with the most expensive appliances, the microwave and the mini-fridge. I figured they had a valid reason not to bring these items–who wants to check a mini-fridge onto a plane? So I went out and bought them for us.

On moving day, the Sara(h)s showed up with a mini-van each of their clothes. While we set up all of our things in the apartment, and Sara thanked me for bringing the major appliances. Then she told me that they had been staying with her wealthy uncle for the past week. Which, in my opinion, gives you more than enough time and space to pick something up other than an $8 telephone or a $20 TV. Seeing as I had spent $150 on the refrigerator and the microwave, I think I have the right to be pretty pissed that they lied to me so that they wouldn’t have to spend the most money. Not to mention all of the spice racks, silverware, pots and pans, dish towels, and rugs that I bought for us. Sara graciously brought a cookie sheet. Thanks for contributing, dear.

I’m taking everything with me when I move out.

If I Were Them, I’d Run in the Other Direction

Since both Sara and Sarah are from out of state, they have to pay a much higher tuition than us in-state kids do. The amount they pay is almost equal to a private school tuition, which sucks. Sarah’s parents decided to remedy the situation by picking up their family and moving over here in order to be closer to her and to get in-state residency. Which makes perfect sense, if you’d rather pay twice as much for a smaller house (thank you, housing bubble) in order to save a couple thousand on tuition for such a short amount of time… which leads me to believe that the latter reason is less important than the former.

Either way, Sarah is upset that her family wants to move their lives to be closer to her.

She doesn’t care that her younger sister is being plucked out of her high school circle and having to find a new place to fit in.

She doesn’t care that her parents have to find new jobs.

She doesn’t care that her father is making four drives between several states in order to move all their things over.

She’s pissed off that she won’t get to go back home during breaks, and that she is no longer going to live in a huge house with sprawling land. The poor girl has to put up with a smaller bedroom and a smaller backyard.

It has been a month since she found out about the move, and Sarah has not stopped complaining about how much she is suffering from having to move… when she is not actually helping her family to pack or drive over or any of it. Well, thank goodness she has something legitimate to whine about this time.

Pick Your Cancer

“I am never going to be like my mother!” — a line we’ve all repeated to ourselves (feel free to substitute “mother” with another family member or guardian or whoever) over and over again, each time this particular person displayed a rather irritating characteristic.

As the child of a nurse, I lived in an immaculately kept household. My mother noticed every single speck of dust and “misplaced” item. I spent years mumbling expletives under my breath every time I had to stack papers into a neat pile or dust my dresser top. That’s why I swore I would never be an OCD nag if I kept house. And then I realized that the line between my mother’s housekeeping and maintaining a sanitary household was a lot finer than I had thought while growing up.

After having to wipe out the stained microwave every time someone didn’t cover their curry or pad thai myself, I reminded Sarah to put the microwave-safe cover on top of her sure-to-splatter dish.

“Microwaving that thing will give you cancer, you know,” she responded haughtily, punching in the timer.

“Sarah, you chain smoke,” I pointed out.

“Oh… oh yeah. Okay, I’ll use the cover next time.”

It’s the Thought That Counts… Right?

My roommates and I have been getting along lately (thus the lack of posts, sorry). We’ve been connecting over our similar struggles and the pressures/expectations that we face from our family.

I really felt like we were bonding and getting closer, especially when Sara and Sarah surprised me with presents on my birthday. I didn’t expect any show of kindness from them, so I was pretty stoked that they cared to do anything for me at all.

Sara presented me with a white cardigan, and Sarah gave me a pair of flip flops with strawberries on them. Since I was expecting something along the lines of a plastic spork or a paper clip, the fact that these were both items I had wanted made me rethink my opinion that the Sara(h)s were completely thoughtless jerks. Maybe they really had noticed that I didn’t have much warm clothing (all my clothes equal about 1/4 of each of their wardrobes) and that I like strawberries (baby steps!).

“I’m so glad you like the cardigan!” Sara exclaimed happily.

“Yeah, I do. Thank you so much! How did you know I needed one?” I meant it as a rhetorical question.

“Oh, it was easy. I just went through your computer and found your list of things you’re saving money for,” she responded nonchalantly.

She snooped through my computer?! So much for having any privacy. I didn’t know how to react, but (un)fortunately, I was saved from having to deal with Sara’s obvious intrusion by Sarah calling attention to her gift.

“Um, Roommate, can you wear these flip flops tomorrow? I need you to wear them first so I can borrow them afterward.”

Thank you, Sarah. Thank you for reminding me that you are, in fact, selfish and tactless.

Cleaning Up is Crime

Ugh. I just took a midterm today, and I got killed. I studied all yesterday for it, so I thought I’d be prepared, but it wasn’t enough. It would’ve helped if Sarah hadn’t been her lazy, disgusting self though.

Yesterday, around 4 PM, I came home from class and work to a disaster. Sarah had had some friends from her hometown over to our apartment for lunch, and the remnants of their meal were all over the kitchen. From the beans slopped on the counter, the shredded cheese mashed all over the table, and the spots of hot sauce staining the white stove, I surmised that they had made enchiladas (“They were delicious!”, I later found out).

“Sarah, could you please clean up the mess before my friends come over to study this evening?” I explained about the upcoming midterm.

“Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up after I take a nap,” she responded reassuringly.

So I decided that she had the right idea–a nap to recharge before a long study session sounded very good. Two hours later, I woke up to find the kitchen in the same disastrous state that Sarah had left it in since lunch. And she was nowhere to be found.

Are you kidding me? I could feel my blood starting to boil. Extremely irritated, I began to clean up the mess myself. It took forever and a half to scrape off all the dried bits encrusted on every kitchen surface. I am not the type of person to physically show that I am upset, but I was so pissed off that I had to let out my anger and disgust by slamming cabinets and throwing sponges around with a heavy hand, as the house was empty and my fourth roommate, Victoria, was not home to sympathize.

Eventually I got too frustrated, and I decided to meet my friends at a cafe to study so that I wouldn’t have to see Sarah when she got home.
Around midnight, we gave up studying and I came home to find Sarah fuming in the kitchen.

“Why did you clean up the kitchen?” she demanded angrily.

“As I told you earlier, I needed the table to study for my midterm tomorrow.” I was unaware that I needed the Grime Queen’s permission to clean.

“I can’t believe you did that!” She glared at me. “It’s like you didn’t think I’d actually do it myself!”

“Well, Sarah, you didn’t,” I snapped back. I went into my room and shut the door.

Later, when Sara came home, I heard Sarah bitching to her about what happened.

“God, she wouldn’t let me clean the kitchen, and then she ended up studying at a cafe anyway!”

“Wow, she has got some nerve to be angry at you,” Sara agreed.

“Yeah! I just woke up late from my nap and had to go to my night class. I mean, I was totally going to clean it later!”

…Right. And how much later? 10, 11 PM? After my midterm? The worst part is that she was indignant about me doing it myself, as if I had offended her by doing her a favor in some way. I hope we don’t speak for the next few days. That’d be glorious.