Way back in August I let a friend move in with us. Her marriage hit the rocks. She needed a place to stay. I opened my house to her. Apparently, I’m generous to a fault. I assumed though, way back in August, that this would be a temporary situation.
Lesson Learned #1: NEVER assume anything when you let a friend move in with you. ALL of your assumptions will be wrong. You might think you’re doing a nice thing for a friend, but chances are your friend is a deadbeat and will instead leave dirty dishes in the sink for you to clean and let piles upon piles of dog hair accumulate in what used to be your guest room. You might also assume a normal human being would wash their sheets once in 2 months, especially considering the very furry HuskyMutt who likes to nap on said sheets, but you would be wrong (you have no idea how grossed out I am by this).
Today was a good day, mostly. My “friend” moved out. Finally. Two and half months after she moved in.
Lesson Learned #2: You might think you like this person, but after living with them for a few months, you will come to hate them. You will, because you are trying VERY VERY WAY TOO HARD to be a good friend, not mention things that are driving you totally batshit insane (like how her work is paying her over $1000 for housing and yet you’re getting NOTHING AKA ZERO DOLLARS AND ZERO CENTS FOR HER TO MAKE MESSES IN YOUR HOUSE) about your friend and instead those things that are making you so damn angry will fester and blister in your pysche until you can no longer even look at your friend without wanting to scream in her face about the mistakes she’s made and what a horrible bad no-good friend she’s been to you.
I should have listened to all the advice out there. That living with a friend is a very bad, no good idea. I should have heeded that warning and realized that I’m married and married people don’t need to have roommates.
Lesson Learned #3: If you try to have some special one on one time in the shower with your husband, your roommate will, without fail, come home and ruin your special time.WITHOUT FAIL.
Don’t think for a minute having a roommate if you’re a married couple used to living alone will totally screw your love live. It will. WITHOUT FAIL.
Lesson Learned #4: Sometimes you just need to say “no.”
I came from work yesterday and stared at the news for five news. It’s probably the longest I’ve spent glued to the TV since Hurricane Katrina.
When 9/11 happened, I was shocked. Terrified. Angry. But I didn’t cry.
When Hurricane Katrina happened, I was sad. Confused. Upset. But I didn’t cry.
And then yesterday a U.S. Soldier, someone who has worn, and allegedly was wearing, the same uniform I wear everyday, opened fire on his fellow Soldiers at a Readiness Center at Fort Hood. He killed 12 Soldiers. 1 Civilian. Injured dozens more.
I cried.
I cried when Lt. Gen. Cone, the Fort Hood Post Commander, came on the news last night with an updated death toll. I cried when I saw footage of Soldiers come to the aid of other Soldiers.
I just couldn’t look away from the TV. I couldn’t, and can’t, understand.
I’ve been serving in the military for the past 6 1/2 years. That’s almost a quarter of my life spent as a Soldier. I’ve never been to Fort Hood. I don’t know anyone there. But still. What happened at Fort Hood, happened to my family. My Army family. It sound cliché, sure. But it’s the truth.
There’s a lot I could say. But I won’t. I’ll just take a moment of silence instead.
I hate parrots. When I see a parrot, I can’t help but visualize a giant house cat gleefully ripping out his feather one by one and nibbling on his little parrot heart.
I really hate parrots.
I blame Boudreaux the Parrot.
Boudreaux belong to one of my college roommates. More importantly, Boudreaux hated us. All of us. We were loud, frequently drunk college students, and I don’t blame him for his hatred.
At one point, my roommate felt that Boudreaux the Parrot wasn’t getting enough socialization, so she moved him into the living room. It was at that point that a war began between us and that damn parrot. In the beginning, we, the roommates and I, would go over and say “hi” to Boudreaux, encouraging him to step onto our finger or to whistle, only to be met with resistance, and, more times than not, biting.
As it turns out, parrots bite. And it hurts. A lot.
Worse than the biting though, was the singing. Somewhere along the way, that damn parrot had learned the Andy Griffith theme song. Mostly. He knew, in his little parrot head, the way it was supposed to go and would spend hours, (HOURS!!) attempting to whistle the song correctly.
Hearing Boudreaux whistle the Andy Griffith song was cute in the beginning. It was cute the first time when he got it right and rewarded himself with a nap. It was not, however, cute when he did it incorrectly. See, when that parrot messed up part of the song, he’d SQUAWK! LOUDLY! And then start the song all over again. Until he messed up again. At which point he’d SQUAWK! And then start over. Until he messed up again.
I think you get the point.
I only stayed in that house for a year, and oh, what a trying year it was. Eventually Boudreaux was banished to the upstairs because he bit too many of our guests but, even when downstairs, we’d still hear him squawking about his failure at whistling the Andy Griffith theme.
It’s unfortunate, but I’m pretty sure one of the only things stopping me from going rogue and becoming a pirate is my hatred of parrots. And it’s all Boudreaux’s fault.
My Monday class was devoted to Judaism. Specifically, women in Judaism.
We had a guest speaker, which was a nice change of pace and she started her lecture by mentioning some crazy Jewish rules she had come across during her time studying Judaism.
She mentioned something about how Jewish women can divorce their husbands if they aren’t sexually satisfied. Of course, my class went crazy, demanding an explanation.
The logic behind this Jewsih law is that a woman’s primary job is to please her husband and produce children. A man’s job, then, is to make this production of children enjoyable to his wife. So, if a man can’t perform in a manner pleasing to his wife, she can leave him.
We all thought this was a pretty neat concept and then, the crazy Catholic Redhead in my class who asked about the “junk” size of Adam in a previous class, raises her hand. I look at her and roll my eyes because she has yet to say anything intelligent and, when the lecturer points to her she says:
“So…if he can’t get it up, she can straight go cougar style?”
I swear, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.
The answer, of course, is yes. If a Jewish husband couldn’t get it up back in the day, his wife could indeed leave him and “go straight cougar style.”
The more you know…
Better late than never, right?
November Goals: Get my house ready for Thanksgiving Edition
- Vote!
- Buy a day bed for the downstairs bedroom.
- Buy a mattress for the day bed for the downstairs bedroom.
- Start a new 101 in 1001 challenge.
- Blog every day for the whole month of November.
- Finish painting the downstairs bedroom.
- Paint the downstairs bathroom.
- Plan a super awesome menu by November 20th.
- Buy sheets and blankets for the downstairs bed.
- Decorate the house for fall, at least a little bit.
I’m hosting Thanksgiving this year. For my family. Which means I better get my shit together soon and figure out what the hell I’m doing.
Fingers crossed cooking a whole turkey isn’t 1,000,000 times harder than cooking a turkey boob.
