Elitist and Better For It

Sara is coming back from DC soon, and I am excited for two reasons: 1. She will be a buffer (sort of) between Sarah and me, 2. I just love hearing Sarah blindly support Sara’s plans for saving the world with her political prowess.

Her most recent email explains the obstacles that her virtuous plan encounters–11 paragraphs about how her “friends” in DC think she’s addicted to money and power. Excerpts (best parts highlighted for easy judgment… but all of it is entertaining):

They always point out the times I mention something that could even be remotely linked to power and money. For instance, I really like Diesel jeans on guys. One girl said, “Because it signifies that he can afford expensive things, which you’re attracted to. You say it’s the fit, but cheaper jeans could fit well too. Or how you picked out this girl who has a Chloe bag; not a lot of people do that.”

This bothers me because I’ve always made an effort to not be a bad person, but is it so bad that I’m so materialistic? Is it awful that I would like a job that pays well? Do I name drop too much? Am I incapable of concealing it from people? I’ve never claimed to be a saint when it comes to my superficiality and ambition. Yes, I’m an elitist, but my life is better for it.

My business friends think I’m really honorable because I want to go into development and that I’m interested in the world’s welfare. When I’m with these “academics” in DC, they think I’m a bad person. They don’t see that you have to work within the system to fix it. People need money and power to influence others to act. However, I don’t know how to justify my affinity toward nice clothing.

Guys, keep me in check when I get too arrogant because that’s the last kind of person I’d want to be.

Aside from how much this reveals about Sara’s character, Sarah’s email reply is also incredibly precious:

You know I’m just going to agree with everything you said, but here goes. What the fuck is their problem? If they are so disgusted by money/power, they shouldn’t have spent the summer in a city that embodies both. While they’re judging you for liking money and power, I’m judging them right now for dressing poorly.

As for liking nice clothes, that doesn’t mean you’re attracted to money and power only; it just means that you have better taste than everyone else. If someone is wearing cheap jeans, I’ll know that they have no taste, no sense of humor, and no aspirations in life.

All this judgement [sic] is making me hungry. Call me later.

Don’t I live with the most amazing and compassionate ladies?

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.

Pity Party

This weekend, my roommates and I threw a small dinner party for some friends whom we hadn’t gotten to hang out with for a while. Jules and I planned the meal, did the shopping, and prepared the food. We served mini quiche, a gorgeous salad with homemade dressing, mini kabobs, and two kinds of personal pizzas made-to-order–all made from scratch. Sarah crumbled the feta cheese.

The 4-course meal was executed perfectly with dishes coming out just as our guests were finishing up their last plate. Jules and I served our guests while Sarah sat and watched us. Figures. At least she volunteered to pull out her iPod and speakers to provide the music for impromptu dance party afterward. We all had a lot of fun dancing and being ridiculous, even Sarah and her snobby hipster friends.

Jules and I had a great time entertaining, and our guests all thanked us profusely for the lovely evening afterward. I felt pretty happy that all of us got along for an evening… until I overheard Sarah on the phone with Sara the next day.

“Last night, Roommate threw a dinner party…. It was all right, and only tolerable because Rob, Paul, and Jared were there. When Rob and Jared left, I just sat there pretending to have fun with her lame friends,” she lamented.

Nothing unexpected there. After all, Sarah is an aspiring hipster, and therefore she has to act like everyone else’s mainstream tastes and pastimes are totally beneath her. Good thing Paul and Jared told me that I knew how to throw a good party and suggested that I host another one when I ran into them on campus today.

"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.

Why We Should Keep Sarah from Getting a Degree in Medicine

All of my roommates (Sarah, Sara, and Victoria) and I were watching Grey’s Anatomy the other night, when the topic of surgeons leaving instruments in patients’ bodies came up. Sarah wants to become a surgeon, so we were all laughing about how she would be the type of doctor to forget a scalpel or scissors inside someone.

“You forget where you put the silverware after you use it, Sarah. What makes you think you won’t ever forget an instrument in a patient?” Sara pointed out, grinning.

“Haha, I guess that is totally something I’d do,” Sarah admitted. “But it’s not like I should have to worry about it anyway.”

“Hahaha, what do you mean you shouldn’t have to worry about a scalpel floating around in a patient’s body? Malpractice lawsuit, anyone?” I said.

“It, like, isn’t the doctor’s job to take care of that stuff. That’s why surgeons have nurses around,” Sarah said with a straight face.

The light-hearted mood of the conversation took a sudden dive.

“Wait, you think nurses are there to pick up after doctors who are too lazy to make sure to take out their surgical instruments?” I asked.

“Well, yeah. Surgeons have too many things to be worrying about than that. Nurses are supposed to do everything a doctor doesn’t have time for,” Sarah elaborated.

“I’m sorry, but nurses are not trained to be doctor’s maids. They are there to assist and help save a person’s life!” I exclaimed.

“Whatever, Roommate. You’re just getting defensive because your mom is a nurse,” Sarah turned away.

I was shocked. Yes, my mother is an RN (a registered nurse). And after hearing about her 25 years in OR, ICU, NICU, and Recovery, I know that being a nurse is not a piece of cake. My mother never complains in front of us kids because she wants to keep up a strong face, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how taxing 16 hour day and night shifts were. My 5′3″, 130-pound mom has had to lift 400 pound patients onto gurneys. She has had to revive people who have flatlined. She has had to make sure premature babies don’t die over night. She has saved so many lives and witnessed so many deaths, and she never says anything about her life at the hospital until I asked one day several years ago. She watches CSI, House, and Grey’s Anatomy and just softly chuckles when my siblings and I ask her if what we see on TV is what it’s really like. My mother is a hero, every day, and I didn’t ever see it because she never said a word about it. So when this uppity bitch talks crap about nurses and how frivolous their purpose is, of course I’m going to be defensive.

I felt my eyes flashing, and I shot Sarah a disgusted glare and turned back to the TV. There were no more discussions about medical roles.