Wednesdays

Wednesday is my least favorite day of the week, next to Monday. Probably because Monday and Tuesday took forever and a half to get through, and yet the weekend is the same amount of time away.

It could also be due to the fact that Thursday is trash day, so on Wednesday nights I have to be the responsible (aka nagging bitch, according to the Sara(h)s) one and make sure everyone takes out the trash and the recycling.

Oddly enough, ever since Sarah and Jason got back together, she has been staying over at his place every Wednesday night, leaving the rest of us to empty her trash cans.

The best part is that I always find paper and water bottles mixed in with her trash–so much for being a conservationist.

Competitive Streak

Freshman year, when Sara was in a particularly competitive class, she turned on one of our good friends who she saw as competition. Behind Eliza’s back, my roommate made snide comments about how she didn’t want to study with our floormate because she didn’t want to give Eliza an edge in the course. This attitude really rubbed me the wrong way; perhaps because I’m not as competitive… but also because it was a 400 person course! One person is not going to affect your class standing.

Either way, after seeing Sara’s conniving side last year, I wanted to avoid the same course track. Neither of us had shared our registration with each other until the day before the semester started… and unfortunately, we wound up in the same class. A month into the course, we have a massive reading assignment, except that the book I ordered online still hasn’t arrived yet.

“Hey, Sara, since your discussion is later on in the week, and mine is on Tuesday, could I borrow your book until after my discussion?” I asked her.

“Ummm, maybe your copy will come in the mail today,” Sara replied without meeting my eyes.

“But, erm, haven’t you already done the reading?”

“Yeah, but I think I’m gonna need the book all week.”

“Okay, that’s cool,” I tried to respond nonchalantly.

You’d think that after I went out of my way to buy her an extra copy of another book we had to read last week and giving her my notes from the lecture she missed, Sara would be in a more reciprocative mood. I guess her competitive nature only compounds the one-way relationship we already have going on.

Legos > SATs

Since the Sara(h)s have at least 20 pairs of shoes each, we were running out of floorspace near the doorway to hold all of them. It also didn’t help that Sarah refuses to put her shoes away neatly; she just kicks them off and where they land, they stay… until I get so disgusted that I straighten them out. Get this: the crazy bitch makes me touch her diseased shoes (Sarah has a skin disease on her feet) because she’s too good to do it herself.

In the hopes of facilitating her laziness, I suggested that we get some cheap shoe racks to store the things. They agreed, but no one bothered to take any action (as usual), so I purchased the shoe racks and had them delivered to our place.

When they arrived I had class and work the whole day with no breaks, so I asked Sarah to start assembling the shoe racks, and then I would finish them. When I got home, the pieces were all over the floor and only half of a shoe rack had been put together.

“Oh, um, Roommate? I put one of the plastic sides together incorrectly and I can’t pull them apart, so now this part is a little messed up,” Sarah pointed out.

Oh. My. God. How hard can it be to put this piece of crap together?! Look at the picture on the box! Obviously Sarah never played with Legos as a kid nor has she ever put together anything from Ikea.

This incident is only good because it followed one of Sarah’s gloating sessions about her fabulous SAT score. Yes, she still brags about getting a near perfect score four years after they no longer count for anything. Her parents spent thousands of dollars putting her through SAT prep courses in order for her to achieve such greatness. For some reason Sarah believes that her test-taking skills entitle her to proclaim her success in her biology major and to belittle my humanities major–constantly.

Quotes from Sarah the Prodigy:

- “I don’t take anyone who isn’t a science major seriously. No, Business/Economics don’t count.” Note: Sara, her best friend since 2nd grade, is gunning for a Business degree.
- “There is a reason I have the highest GPA in this house!”
- “I’m just really good at taking standardized tests.”

Funnily enough, I scored only 50 points lower than her on the SATs (still 99th percentile) from nothing but a $20 too-old-to-count SAT book where I didn’t get past the vocab word “ambivalent”. And I hold a well-paying job that is going to advance my career in computer science/technology. Oh, and also, I can put together a freaking plastic shoe rack without screwing up! So much for being booksmart. Jeez.

The Stars Aren’t Blind, They’re Deaf

The room that Jules and I are sharing has a window that faces the yard right next to our stoop, where Sarah began sitting after the incident on our neighbor’s porch. Unfortunately, that means Sarah’s constant ranting is too easily overheard.

Today, she was on the phone with Sara to discuss a matter of utmost importance: my jeans.

“I think that Roommate totally underestimates my hate for cheap jeans,” Sarah griped.

Let’s clear this up now–my family is not well-off financially, and the little money I make working 10 hours a week goes to groceries, textbooks, and bills.

“Like, she really does not get how much I detest generic denim! Her clothes look sooo tacky.”

I suppose I can’t expect either of the Sara(h)s to understand my situation (which I don’t think is uncommon) since neither work and their parents pay for their 7s.

“Speaking of jeans, I was looking online and I found this pair of Citizens and another pair of Diesels. I don’t know if I should buy them both since I already have two pairs of Diesels.”

Of course, as I’m trying to get some work done in my room, I’m groaning because I can’t block out the ringing sounds of Sarah’s elitism.

When Sarah finished her rant about inferior denim, it got worse. She moved into the kitchen and began to blast her hipster music. Everyone in our apartment is elitist about their music tastes (except on days where we all pull out the old BSB/NSYNC album), so I was rather surprised to hear this song blaring through the house.

“I can’t help it! I know it’s Paris Hilton, but it’s so catchy,” Sarah responded to my request to spare my ears.

Note: I apologize for linking you all to that video.

It’s Only Inconvenient If You Let It Be

This time two summers ago, Sarah and I went to see An Inconvenient Truth. I’ll admit: she had to drag me because I don’t particularly enjoy documentaries, much less ones done by politicians, and even less ones done by Al Gore. But since Sarah cares oh so much about the environment, and I cared about Sarah at the time, I went with her.

The best part about it is that I caught Sarah while her eyes were filled with tears. What?! Sarah? Crying?! I know, I thought so too. Except that this was during the scene where the computer-generated polar bear drowned. Forget the San Francisco Bay/Florida/Manhattan going under water; the CG fuzzy cuddly bears matter more than people.

Either way, I ended up being pretty moved by it despite my bit of skepticism. Say what you want about it, but sometimes scare tactics are necessary to provoke progress in people who are otherwise too preoccupied/lazy/whatever to change their lifestyles. Not that Sarah’s self-absorbed lifestyle has changed in the last two years.

1. She still leaves the TV blaring when she goes to class.
2. She still leaves the lights on after she is done with the kitchen/bathroom in the middle of the night.
3. She still gets pissy when I bug her to separate her recycling, and she still neglects to help me take out our bins.

Granted, she has bought a bike. Though I think that has more to do with the fact that her hipster friends all ride self-painted bikes as a statement of their “trend-setting” ability than her effort to reduce emissions.

Tree Hugging Gas Guzzler

Sarah’s student action organization just hosted an event on campus to promote alternative energy. It was pretty creative: they rented out solar panels, used them to power blenders, and charged $2 for a “solar smoothie”. I loved the idea and enthusiastically plugged it to all my friends. A bunch of us went to their table during our lunch break to support the cause. I must commend Sarah’s dedication to raising awareness about the environmental issues that will affect our future.

However, sometimes I get a little confused by her lifestyle. Perhaps it is no fault of her own, since she comes from a state where driving huge SUVs are encouraged, but I figured that after preaching to everyone the importance of conserving energy and reducing greenhouse gasses, Sarah would give up her SUV and other wasteful activities.

She hasn’t. In fact, when her family moved here, they brought along their three cars (all huge gas guzzlers that don’t really fit in driveways). Sarah also neglects to turn off the lights when she leaves a room, and many times I have come home to the TV blaring in an empty apartment.

On the other hand, she encouraged our house to start composting, which we quickly agreed to do. Sarah brought home a little compost bucket that we put our food scraps into, and a composter is supposed to come pick it up along with the trash every week. Unfortunately, she forgot to mention that she hadn’t signed our apartment up for this weekly pickup… so our compost bucket has been rotting out on the street for two weeks now. And of course, she refuses to get her perfect hands dirty by emptying it out. I’ll let you know when someone (and I flat out refuse to do it for her this time) gets on it.

Selective Caring

At the beginning of the school year, Sarah joined a student action organization that is committed to dealing with issues such as child labor, the homeless, the environment, healthcare, affordable higher education, etc. She tried to recruit Sara and me as well, and while we decided to donate money each semester and to participate in projects/raising awareness, we couldn’t make a commitment to directing a team with all of our other activities.

I was a little surprised that Sarah would dedicate time to do volunteer work that didn’t pertain directly to her goal to go to med school. Since the organization’s application asked for specific causes that one cares about, I asked her which ones she marked down.

“The environment. I don’t really care about much else on the list,” Sarah stated matter-of-factly.

“Er…you don’t care about homeless people or child labor?” I asked, a little bit incredulously.

“Ergh, I hope they don’t put me on either of those committees. It’s their own fault that they are homeless, and those kids should be lucky to have a job,” she responded with disdain.

Now I know what goes through her mind when she walks by the crippled veterans that sacrificed for her freedom who are prevalent in our city. And good thing the aspiring doctor loves to help people so much.

"My Shit Smells Better Than Yours"

As a household, we all enjoy cuisine of many different cultures; our apartment often smells like food from home/ethnic restaurants around campus or dishes that we cook ourselves. While the Sara(h)s and I agree that Indian food and Thai food are amazing, they are obviously partial to their cultures’ cuisine and I am more partial to mine.

Usually, the smell of leftover chicken tikka masala or pad thai makes my mouth water, but occasionally, the Sara(h)s will have something from their parents’ country that makes me feel a little nauseous (especially the jars of pickled fuzzy goodness-knows-what). When that happens, I crack a kitchen window and go sit in my room with the door shut until the smell is gone.

Last night, I reheated some of the food that my mom made for me (I rarely go home, so when I do, my mom makes one of my three favorite dishes). I was having an incredible meal by myself until Sara got home from class.

“Oh my God, what is that smell?” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose.

“I went home this weekend, and my mom made me my favorite dish!” I laughed it off.

“Um, can you get rid of it? It smells disgusting!” Sara began making a huge show of opening all the windows and doors.

“You know, I don’t ever tell you to dump your food when it smells bad, so could you not be so rude about it?” I responded.

“That’s because my country’s food never smells bad!” She retorted.

I picked up my bowl and went into my room without another word. For someone who claims to be so open-minded and cultured–clearly, her Poli-Sci major and living in Europe for three months entitles her to that self-proclamation–Sara really has her head up her ass when it comes to her own culture’s faults.

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.”