Roommate Search Begins…

Our rent went up, so V is moving out, and into a less expensive abode with my sister…  Which is traumatizing on its own.  Looking for a new roommate to fill her spot has already proven to be somewhat of a challenge.  Saying we have unrealistic expectations in a roommate is probably something I wouldn’t admit.  But our expectations are quite high.

Living in a desirable beach town, in an uncharacteristically large house for the area, and having perfect, sweet, fun, pretty, smart roommates, has created a situation where we are weeding through loads and loads of emails.  We realized pretty quickly that we couldn’t keep up with responding to them all, and even more importantly, we had to choose carefully who we agreed to actually meet in person, otherwise we’d have weirdos in and out of our house for days straight.

Tay asked V to be part of the process, because she felt like I wouldn’t like anyone at all.  So V would be a mediator.  Tay wrote the first Craigslist ad.  She made us sound like lovely, clean girls who do nice things and are kind and loving to all.  It was a great, well written ad, but it caused us to get a lot of emails with people describing their “healthy lifestyles.”

As we’re all sitting on the couch reading through emails, Tay says, “What is with this HEALTHY LIFESTYLE everyone is talking about??”

“Maybe you made us sound too healthy.  You were talking about hiking and working out and I don’t do any of those things.”

“Yeah but I also said we like happy hour and day drinking.”

“You didn’t harp on that enough.”

“These people won’t eat pizza with us on Sundays.  That’s a problem.”

Tay had an original list of 32 potential normal sounding people.  The three of us sat on the couch social media stalking one after the other, crossing them off as we went.

“Too skinny.”

Next….

“Too ugly.”

Next….

“Too much beard.”

Next…

“She takes too many pictures of food.”

Next….

We ended up with a winning four, and invited them to come see the place.  We found ourselves warning them of what they’d be getting into.

“People show up and have parties here some Saturdays… people sleep on our couches… we’re loud every Friday and Saturday….and sometimes Thursdays, and Sundays… The dog is pretty annoying… V will basically still be living here because she will miss us when she moves out…. Court walks around naked if she works from home some days…”

We scared people away.  But we felt it was only fair.  That way they wouldn’t move in based on our “lovely” persona and then hate us. At this point, I decided to re-write the ad.

I added some flavor and some spice.  I instructed potential roommates to bring us wine.  And I put every sort of “warning” in black and white, in a charming tone.

Bingo.  The slew of emails that came after that were from fun, creative, friendly people who offered to bring us wine, play with the puppy, watch the Bachelor with us, and jump in for driveway hangman and beer pong sessions.

We had our first visitor from the new batch of potentials come to see the place last night.  It was Thursday night so we forewent happy hour out, and just opened some wine at home, hung out and waited for the guy, who didn’t arrive til 9:30pm.  We considered this sacrifice.  Carissa was over, and so was another girlfriend, Danielle.  This dude walks into a house of 5 slightly buzzed girls, some with purple teeth (ok that was me), and was probably somewhat afraid to be eaten alive.  We give the tour of the house, Danielle leaves to go home, and Carissa and V sit outside while Tay and I interview the crap out of him.

He stayed for SO long, that we had to offer him beer (he drank two), and he is now well versed on how badly Tay’s farts smell, which of our friends would probably try to jump in his bed, and how much I don’t shut up after a couple of glasses of wine.  Although I warned V to not be weird and quiz him on his athletic abilities, I jumped right in for her to decide if he’d be a candidate for our softball team, and basically gave him a verbal tryout.

What’s funny is that he’s still interested in the place.  We figured if he could handle that… he’d survive with us just fine.

We have four more girls coming this evening.  We don’t have high hopes for the first because she’s way too pretty and skinny and none of her clothes would fit us.

…to be continued.

Until next time.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

Confessions of a 31-Year-Old

As my sister and I slowed to a walk, and turned into a dark ally, trying to catch our breath, I huffed, “we can never tell anyone about this,” and she quickly agreed.

Then I decided to blog about it.

It was a Sunday night.  Carissa didn’t have to work, so we decided to get dinner together at a BYOB restaurant, which will remain unnamed.  It will remain unnamed because I’d like to avoid the possibility of someone going there and revealing our identities.  I’m still convinced they can knock on my door and take me to jail.

It was an uncharacteristically hot day and night in San Diego.   I had burnt my skin to a crisp the day before, so I holed up in my house all day with a book.  I use the word house lightly, as it more resembled an oven.  I spent the day switching between the couch, the cooler wooden floor, and my bedroom, which is strangely about 10 degrees cooler than anywhere else.  By the time Carissa showed up, the sun was on its way down, and I was ready to exit the sweat chamber.

We sat out on the front porch for a while, chatting, watching Oliver play with every other dog that passed by, and drinking wine.  V and T came home and joined us for a bit.  By the time we decided to make moves for dinner, we had finished the open bottle of wine we started with, so grabbed the new big double bottle Carissa had brought with her.

The restaurant was a quick walk away.   It’s the kind of place where you stand in line to order, and then they give you a number and bring the food to you.  It always takes forever.  And the food always sucks…  Which is an issue I’d normally take up on Yelp, being this was the third unpleasant food experience… but my photo is on Yelp.  So they’re getting off easy on this one.

I stood in line and asked Carissa to get someone to open the bottle of wine.  When I met her at the table, I asked where the cork was, knowing we weren’t going to finish this huge bottle.  She said the waiter didn’t give it back to her.  I walked up to the bar and asked for the cork.  The bartender wouldn’t give it to me.  He told me we weren’t allowed to re-cork it.  Ok…

We finished eating and had about three-quarters of the large bottle left.  Carissa grabbed it, uncorked (how annoying), and we left.  A few feet onto the sidewalk, someone from the restaurant comes out after us.

“You’re not allowed to take that wine with you.”

“Oh… why not?”

“We’re not allowed to let you leave with an open bottle of wine.  You’ll have to either finish it here, or leave it.”

At this point it was late.  We weren’t really interested in drinking more wine.  But we also weren’t interested in wasting wine.  So we went back in, took a seat around the fire, and began to plot.  This is what we do.  We plot.

“I’m not wasting this entire bottle,”  I say.

“We can just run.”

“We can’t just run.  There are people everywhere.  They see us.”

We sat there thinking and slowly sipping for a few more minutes.  We talked about how much the cheap bottle of wine cost, and did the math on how much was left, and decided we’d only be wasting about $8 of wine by leaving it.  But that wasn’t the point.  The point was that it was our wine, there was a lot of it, and we wanted it.

Carissa had a purse.  I had my American flag backpack.  I was clearly the one who was going to have to sneak the wine out.  With Carissa on the lookout I quickly slipped the open bottle into my backpack, and clenched the fabric around the neck of the bottle.  The restaurant had emptied out, and there was just one other couple sitting outside, with a waiter chatting with them.  We decided to make our move as soon as the waiter went back inside.  There were three exits and we decided on a different one than the way we left the first time.

Carissa instructed me, as soon as we exited the gate, we run.  I was giggling already.  Finally the waiter left the table and walked in the door to the restaurant when Riss whispers, “GO!”

We get up, quickly walk through the gate, and then break out in a sprint down the main street.  Carissa is ahead, and I’m clutching the backpack in my arm like it’s a football, as I didn’t want to spill the precious uncorked wine.  I’m in flip-flops and going as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast.  A few seconds later, we hear:

“HEY!  STOP!”

The waiter is CHASING us.  Literally, running after us, chasing us down the street.  It was in that moment that I had to make a decision.  Carissa was far ahead and showed no signs of slowing.  I could hear the waiter catching up.  It was in a split second where I considered stopping, laughing, handing the bottle over and apologizing for the ridiculous behavior, and then it was in the next second where the adrenaline kicked in and I decided to just keep running.

The waiter was still chasing, and yelled “THIS IS SO CHILDISH!”

I knew it was, but at this point I couldn’t stop.  I saw Carissa turn the next corner, and I yelled to her, “IS HE STILL COMING???”

She turned around and shook her head.  We slowed to a walk, and turned down a dark ally.  Safe from the waiter.  We caught our breath for a few seconds, and I say, “I can’t believe we just did that.   We can never go back there again.”

Carissa says, “Well at least for a year.”

“We can’t tell anyone about this.”

“No definitely not.”

“I’m gonna tell Ginge, and that’s it.”

“I’m gonna tell Shane.”

We nervously giggled for a few blocks.  I felt like a teenager running from the fake cops who caught me hanging out with my friends in the local cemetery.  But I wasn’t a teenager.  I was 31 years old.  And I was running from a waiter.

Guilt set in full force.  Should I go back and apologize?  No, it’s too late.  I’m embarrassed.  I can’t tell my roommates what I did.  It’s awful.  Am I going to get arrested?  Do they have cameras?  Will they find me?  Was that illegal, or just against their rules?   I slept on it for a few nights, and then decided to confess to Ginge.

“I did something bad.  I need to tell you.”

Worry covered his face.  After I was done with the story, he made a muffled sound in his throat and then started cracking up.  Laughing.  A lot of laughing.

“This is not funny.”

“It is very funny.”

“Well I’m glad I told you.  I haven’t told anyone.”

“Do you feel like a weight has been lifted off of your chest?”

“Yes.”

The weight has been lifted.  It’s interesting that it took me 31 years to experience running from authority, in a very literal way, at least.  I’m glad I got that out of my system.  What is the statute of limitations on running from a waiter with an uncorked bottle of wine?  Until then, I’m avoiding all BYOBs.

Please don’t judge me too hard.  I’ve judged myself enough already.

Until next time….

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

 

Kamping (Video)

My sister and I just took a one-way road trip from New York to California.   If you knew either of us, you’d probably assume we embarked on this road trip completely un-prepared.  Un-prepared, that is, except for the awesome 2-man tent we picked up at Walmart a few weeks ago.  Details, details… who needs sleeping bags, pillows, bug repellent or anything else camping-related?  Also, who needs planning?

Here we are, 8:50pm on a Wednesday night in Oklahoma driving down Rt 40 W looking for a campsite.  By “looking for a campsite” I mean getting off every exit with a camping symbol on it, and finding out that just meant that you could park your RV in a parking lot.  On cement.  No thank you.

“Carissa, we need wine first, then we’ll find a campsite…. let me run in that gas station and ask.”

We’re in the MIDDLE.OF.NO.WHERE.OKLAHOMA.  I walk in to the gas station mart.  It was kinda nice.  They had beer.  We didn’t want beer.  There was a drunk guy standing at the counter trying to buy something as I waited impatiently to ask about wine.  The drunk guy turns around, looks at me, and asks:  “Are you a Cherokee?”

WTF.

“No.  Do you know where I can find wine?”

“Yes, down the road a half a mile, make a left past the Big Cowboy.  The liquor store is open for another 10 minutes.”

I RUN out of there, signaling Carissa in the driver’s seat to start driving before I fully get into the car.

“GO.GO.GO!  We have 10 minutes and it’s past the Big Cowboy!!!”

We peel outta there, and drive down the dark road back and forth for exactly 8 minutes before I make her pull over at the nearest humans to ASK where this “Big Cowboy” is.  The old people with no teeth directed us a few feet down the pitch black road, where we again, run out of the car and catch the liquor store by about 30 seconds before closing.  By “liquor store” I mean a place about the size of my bedroom with a few dusty bottles, and tequila inside of a shotgun shaped glass.  After a few minutes, we decide on a fine BOX of wine, since that’s more portable than a bottle.   And wine is necessary to watch The Bachelorette, which was already loaded online on my laptop.

I hand the elderly woman my ID.  She looks at it, looks at me, shakes her head and says “1982?”

“Yes, I’m 30.”

She says, “You don’t look 30.”

I say “thank you,” but for the first time.  I’m not flattered.  I’m thinking she’s actually not going to let me buy this wine.  She really doesn’t believe me.  At least my 21-year-old sister has an ID on her.  That’s my only comfort as I give her a pleading look to just let me buy the wine.

She lets me buy the wine.

We get out of there and start driving.  My friend Doon texts me and asks if I need help searching for a campsite.  She asks where I am.  I send her a screenshot of my map.  She still doesn’t understand where I am.  Neither do I.  We drive a bit more, while internet searching.  We find a place called KOA.  For some reason we assumed this stood for Kamping of America.  I still kinda think it does, but I’m not positive.

There was no one there at the front desk, but there was a wooden counter with a sign above it.  Carissa pulled up and let me run out to check it out.  It said “Late Arrivals Welcome.”  Yes…….  I read the instructions and grabbed an envelope.  The envelope had a tent spot assignment written on it, and instructions for how to register and pay.  I wrote down my information on the envelope, shoved the required amount of cash inside and put it in the lock box.  Errrrrrr…..

It was hot.  It was humid.  There were a LOT of bugs.  It was dark.  Very dark.  We put the car lights facing our little patch of assigned grass and pulled the little tent out from the trunk.  We didn’t know how to pitch a tent, but it looked easy enough.  I’m sure it was easy.  It just took longer than it probably should have.  I blame the dark.  We couldn’t see a thing unless we were positioned correctly in front of the car lights.  I somehow found a flashlight halfway through the tent pitching attempt which aided us with the small pieces we were dropping into the grass.

Finally, the tent was up and the box of wine was open.  We put the laptop on top of the box of wine, calling it the “wine table,” thinking it was the most clever play on “coffee table.”  It was pretty clever.  We watched The Bachelorette as we swatted bugs off the screen and strained our necks to hear every word as the 18-wheelers whizzed down the highway behind us.

We watched TV until the computer died, and then sang to songs off of our iPhones.  When it was bedtime, we fell right asleep and accidentally slept in until 10:30am.  Who over-sleeps in a tent?  These two.  Whoops.

Here’s a little video log of our tent pitching.  Don’t worry, I sped it up… (a little)

More road trip stories to follow…

%d bloggers like this: