.
Heya,
I wanted to try something new this month. Hopefully you’ll like what I would have written, but instead filmed.
I’m going to try to film every week, so if you liked it, please subscribe to my YouTube channel! Or not, that’s cool.
Love you guys. You’re what keeps me writing everyday. And um, posting nearly every month. 🙂
P.S. If my voice is way deeper than you thought it was, glad to have freaked you out. xx
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I’m an asshole to sleep with.
I steal the sheets. Sometimes I snore. I drool. Excessively. And I totally hog the bed.
On several occasions Roo has found me in…
the “diagonal,”
the “L,”
the “Vitruvian Man,”
and what Roo likes to call, “the Captain Morgan.”
Did I mention that I’m notorious for shoving people out of “my space?” Like, onto the floor?
Yup, Roo is lucky to be with me.
And by lucky, I mean I bribe him with waffles for breakfast. Waffles totally make up for being pushed out of the bed, right?
Roo turned down the car radio. “Do rappers realize that some of their lyrics make no sense?”
“You mean when Chingy raps that he likes, ‘black, white, Puerto Rican or Haitian, like Japanese, Chinese or even Asian?”
“Even Asian?”
I opened my purse and pulled out a ziploc bag. “But that’s not even close to Mase rapping, ‘Young, black and famous, with money hanging out the anus.”
“No. The best is Dre’s ‘Never let me slip, cause if I slip, then I’m slippin.'”
I laughed, tearing the soda bread bun in two and handing a half to Roo. “What does that even mean?!”
Roo grabbed the bun and shrugged, “At least they’re direct, even if it doesn’t make sense. Like Chris Brown singing, ‘I’m gonna make you wet the bed.’ Class act.”
“Ugh, who says stuff like that!?” I groaned, “I still can’t believe Rihanna’s back with He Who Must Not Be Named.”
“Did you just compare Chris Brown to Voldemort?”
“I’m convinced he appears like Beetlejuice if you say his name three times.”
“That’s how I feel about Kesha.”
“You mean you don’t like to feel ‘like a sabertooth tiger, sipping on a warm Budweiser?'”
Roo turned the radio back up. “I want my ring back.”
“What’s going on with your…” Roo started, waving a fork towards the vicinity of my face.
“You mean this?” I asked, pointing at my eyes.
“Did you…are you trying something new?”
“What, you don’t appreciate the Clockwork Orange look?”
“It’s just,” he paused, “different.”
I looked down, pushing the polenta onto my fork. “It’s what happens when your eyeliner pencil breaks mid-application at work. I got my left eye done and then the tip broke off when I was starting on the right.”
“Why didn’t you just wash it off?”
I sighed. “Well, that would have been the obvious thing to do.”
Roo furrowed his brow.
“You know how I am in a panic.” I said, between bites, “I ran back into the office and tried to sharpen the pencil.”
“With a pencil sharpener?”
“With a blunt pair of scissors.”
“It looks fine.” Roo replied, turning his head slightly, trying to hide a smile.
I sighed, grabbing a napkin and dipping it into my water glass.
“What are you doing?”
I started wiping off the botched makeup job on my right eye, “Trying to fix it.”
“Babe, I don’t even know why you put on makeup.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s like,” he paused, “you’re like Beyonce. She looks even better without makeup. Unlike Nicki Minaj who just needs more and more piled on.”
“I don’t know whether to be more surprised about the Beyonce or the Nicki Minaj reference you just made.”
“Fine. It’s like this dish,” he said, tilting his plate of mushrooms and polenta forward. “It doesn’t need a whole bunch of stuff piled on top of it to make it better. It’s just great the way it is.”
I smiled. “You know I would have preferred Rihanna, right?”
Taking classes at night is a whole other animal compared to my glory days of undergrad. After a long day I have no patience for students who only like to hear the sound of their voice. Perhaps that makes me the worst kind of classmate, especially after muttering, “I kill you” when one of my peers asks his eighth non-question.
Nighttime lecture-hall manners are kind of an anomaly: like getting stared at while I licked the lid of my yogurt clean. It was as if my row-mates were accusing me of reenacting a very (very) awkward porno scene; although it was a lid to a 32 ounce container (about the size of my head).
The worst is when you’re seated next to an incessant desk tapper,
a Red-Bull-drinking-open-mouth-breather
or God forbid, the I’m-kicking-the-back-of-your-seat-because-I-want-to-see-you-turn-into-my-very-own-fun-sized-Hulk.
But there’s hope.
Sharing snacks in class is kind of an icebreaker.
And when you break bread with your classmates, they totally will join you, hating on that guy that won’t stop clicking his pen.
Just stop, guy. Seriously.
I’m convinced I’m going to be found in our apartment trapped under three years of Rachael Ray magazines. They’re stacked high on top of our bookcase, next to the back issues of Martha Stewart Living, unread.
I can’t bring myself to throw them away. Who tosses out the secrets to an amazing souffle or how to make a ribbon wreath just in time for the holidays? I’m obviously assuming what’s in those magazines as I have yet to open a single issue.
I blame Costco. They’re the gateway to buying things you don’t really need. Where else would I gain the mindset that I need to buy three years of Rachael Ray Magazine?
There are, of course, worse things you could buy in bulk. Like three hundred rolls of toilet paper. Who needs three hundred rolls of toilet paper? Or rather, where would you store them without it becoming a hazard in your home? Being found under a year supply of toilet paper is far worse than a bunch of magazines. It leads to questions like, “Why did you need all of this? Are you feeling alright?” as the person eyes your bathroom.
It was at Costco where I stumbled upon a case of tofu. Ok, stumbled is a stretch. I practically ran into the place, glass eyed and salivating. With my mother’s club card in hand, I was ready to spend some money. I mean, save money. That’s the purpose of a wholesale club, right?
An hour later I came home with a full trunk and a receipt that took about a minute to print out at the register. (And maybe a “possible fraudulent alert” sent to my Gmail from my credit card company.)
“No one needs a case of tofu,” Roo said, as he helped me lift the bags out of the trunk.
“I’m half Asian. Of course I need a case of tofu.”
No one needs a case of tofu.
A pan fried tofu recipe with a spicy and sweet sauce however, is something of a necessity. Just don’t buy a case worth of ingredients, ok?
I hate pedestrian crosswalks.
Not the ones you can cross by your own free will, but those that require you to press a button.
I just…can’t.
When I look at it, I see the man who didn’t wash his hands, the child who just wiped their nose, or the woman who picked up after her dog.
I see a germ here,
here,
and here.
And then exponentially increased because we all know there’s an epidemic of gross going on down there.
So I adapt.
I cover my hand with my shirtsleeve. Sometimes I use my purse. I’ve even used my hip to press that damn button.
And yet.
If I’m at party, and there are communal snacks, I’m ok with it.
Hands diving into a bag of chips? No big.
Only want half of that cookie? That’s cool, break it in half and we’ll share.
Grab a handful of granola? Just make sure you have it with some coconut yogurt too.
Just don’t ask me to hit the crosswalk button on our walk home.
I tend to do things despite knowing they’ll have a bad outcome.
For one, I have to listen to a song I love, loud. In the car, on my iPod, even at our apartment, it has to be turned all the way up. Never mind that some are ballads that make Roo question our relationship.
It may have to do with my yelling, “Oh my God! So much feels!” when they come on.
And they’re all by Rihanna.
Texting while drinking is another; sending messages to people I haven’t talked to in years.
Do you think they want to read ‘Let’s catch up!!!!!’ at 1 a.m with five exclamation points? If they do, well, that’s why I haven’t talked to them for so long. Weirdos.
But the worst is watching reruns of Gossip Girl during my lunch break. (Um, I watch it for the music and fashion.)
Sometimes, I get caught and am forced to bribe my coworkers with baked goods. It’s the only way to keep them from telling me who Gossip Girl is.
Please don’t tell me who Gossip Girl is.
Wait, is it Little J?
No no! Don’t tell me!
Here, have some bread.
“I may have referred to myself as an STD today,” I said, sitting down next to Roo on the couch; my purse and gym bag still slung over my shoulder.
Roo furrowed his brow. “You what?”
“You know how I haven’t been able to take my favorite spin class because of the Lexington job?”
“Yes.”
I sighed. “Well, I finally went. When I walked into the studio, my instructor exclaimed, ‘You’re back!’ and I replied -”
“Do I even want to know?”
I looked down at the floor and muttered, “I’m back. Like herpes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Roo shook his head. “No. Just….no.”
“Then I said I made her a loaf of banana bread.”
“I’m guessing she wasn’t too excited to take it from you.”
“She looked at me as if I had put my hair in it.”
“Well-”
“I know!” I whined.
Roo patted me on the back and removed my purse and gym bag from my shoulder.
“Oh, thanks.”
“No problem,” he replied, as he opened my purse.
“What are you -”
Roo looked up. “I’m looking for the banana bread. So what if you put your hair in it.”
“I think you may have an unhealthy obsession with Rihanna.”
“Is it because I told you if Rihanna asked me to run away with her, I would?”
Roo took a bite of bruschetta and nodded.
“Well, I had to warn you…in case if you saw us together on TMZ.”
“Really. TMZ?”
“It could happen. Anyway, it’s just a girl crush! You know, where you greatly admire someone -”
“Probably too much?”
“No such thing,” I said, rolling a roasted tomato back onto my bread. “Certainly there has to be someone you’re crushing on.”
“Like a man crush?”
“Yeah, like an athlete or an actor you’re obsessed with. Oh! Like Tom Brady.”
“While I greatly appreciate his Jedi-like skills, no.”
I tapped my finger on my plate. “I got it.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t have a guy -”
“Pedro.”
Roo stopped mid-chew. “Martinez?”
“You’d totally run away with him to a deserted island.”
Roo set his bruschetta down and folded his hands together. “Yes, yes I would.”
I laughed, picturing Roo and Martinez taking turns burying each other in the sand.
“You know why?”
“Because you greatly admire pitchers? Particularly ones that have played for the Sox?”
“That and he’s incredibly talented. He’s also pretty laid back and has a very diverse group of friends.”
“You’ve obviously thought this through.” I paused. “If you were asked, would I be invited?”
“Would I be, if Rihanna asked you?”
I smiled. “Obviously not.”
Liz Lemon Nights 
