Harry Potter Brings Out the Crazy

Wink here. Back in business.

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I can’t pretend to judge.

Last night, I sat on my bed, eyes red with the sleepless wonder of every word that got me closer to the long-awaited Harry Potter conclusion. I laughed out loud. I sobbed. I gasped. I took the occasional "emotion-break" from reading in order to collect myself.

Then it came: sweet closure. When I finished, I didn’t know what was better — knowing what the ending was, or knowing that I didn’t have to blast my iPod or cover my ears on sidewalks and public transportation to drown out potential spoilers.

Whether it’s to amuse you, or to convince myself that I’m not that bad…why don’t we take a look at some of the more notable HP fanatics?

Kathy Cook, 48. Third-grade teacher, famous for her HP bedroom. Waterloo, IA.

Miana Breed, 14. Wake Forest, NC. “My relationship with Harry started so long ago, when I was 8.”

Kristin Devoe, 39. Delmar, NY. Harry blogger would do anything to avoid a spoiler: "It might sound silly to those who haven't put in the time, but this is the biggest event in the history of books!"

Lucy Bushell, 30, Hambelton, UK. Saw the last HP movie 111 times.

Wink, where you at?

So say your coworker has a concert, and she emails everyone in the office about it and they get all excited because she's playing with Mandy Moore's boyfriend at this really cool venue. And then a different coworker suggests that you all have drinks at his house first, really making a party of it.

You buy your tickets online, really excited at having a social event to look forward to because you still don't really have any friends in your adopted city and you relish any and all forms of interaction.

But then the day of the concert you realize that the venue is really far away from your apartment and, being reliant upon a public transportation system that ceases service before nine, this is a rather large issue. I mean, the last time you neglected to secure a ride home you ended up on your boss' couch, and that wasn't exactly a ball of wax.

You send your coworkers a really cute email promising in return for their services such amazing prizes as portraits of their favorite politicians or knitted armbands, and then set off for a suburb to cover a story.

You come back to the office at the end of the day, expecting someone to say, "Hey... you need a ride? Allow me to be your chariot." Yet there's nothing but grunts of recognition. You check your email, thinking someone replied to it. Nothing. The coworker hosting the imbibery asks if you're coming, you say rather loudly that you don't have a ride home, and still no one pipes up.

Defeated, you sell your ticket to your fellow intern, assuring her you don't care that you'll be the one person in the office not attending the show. You slunk home, and stop at a liquor store to spend the $7 from the ticket on a bottle of wine with plans to drown your sorrows in drink. But when you get to your apartment, you can't find a corkscrew and your roommate's automatic wine opener has gone suspiciously missing.

So then you update your blog, hoping someone somewhere is experiencing schadenfreude.

A gun rack?

I promised Wink I wouldn't write about my roommates anymore, but one of them just bought something so weird the only way I can stop thinking about it is to express myself in blog form. At least that's what I'm hoping.

Last week a new appliance appeared on the counter top, charging in the corner by the microwave. Rather than something useful, like a Magic Bullet or a food dehydrat0r (mmm... jerky), my roommate bought an automatic wine opener.

Now, my roommate is no wino. I think I've seen her consume perhaps two (and I'm being generous) bottles of wine in my two months living here. And it's not like she's having tons of people over all the time for fabulous dinner parties; as I believe I've mentioned before, I've yet to see her in the presence of someone other than my other roommate.

So that means that she is ungodly lazy... so lazy that she can't bring herself to exert the effort of uncorking one bottle of wine per month. Meanwhile, this thing is sucking up electricity and casting it's haughty red glow all over the kitchen. Granted, the kilowatts spent on this gadget are no doubt minuscule, but couldn't that energy go to solving world peace or something?

The whole thing reminds me of a scene from Wayne's World. If you aren't familiar with this gem, I'd be happy to transcribe it for you:

Stacy: Happy anniversary Wayne!
Wayne: Stacy, we broke up two months ago.
Stacy: Well that doesn't mean we can't still go out...
Wayne: Well it does, actually. That's what breaking up is.
Stacy: Well are you gonna go to the GasWorks later tonight?
Wayne: No.
Wayne's friends: No.
Stacy: Don't you want to open your present?
Wayne: If it's a severed head I'm gonna be very upset.
Stacy: Open it...
Wayne: OK. (unwraps present) What is it?
Stacy: A gun rack!
Wayne: A gun rack? A gun rack. Shyeah! Right! I don't even own a gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack. What am I gonna do... with a gun rack.
Stacy: You don't like it? Fine. You know Wayne, if you're not careful you're gonna lose me.
Wayne: I lost you two months ago! Are you mental? We broke up! Get the net!

I'm just waiting for one of those paraffin hand waxer things to show up in our living room.

Addendum

OK, so apparently they didn’t get the jumping out of their systems and had to go back for another round. No less than four of my compatriots reconvened in the hallway and thundered down the hall, with the staff photographer scurrying to catch it all with the fastest shutter speed his camera could handle.

But then… dreaded Neighbor Lady, she of the pert pixie and no-nonsense floral dresses, exited her office down the hall. The lads immediately filed back into the office, each immediately picking up his phone and babbling nonsense into it.

“Yeah, uh Chris? I’m going to need those TPT reports stat,” the editor huffed into his phone before exhaling, “Sweet Jesus, what a day.”

A reporter surveyed the room exasperatedly and asked, “Well what the fuck’s she going to do? Call the building manager and say we were making loud noises? As if I didn’t feel like elves were hammering inside my skull every morning from that goddamn construction?”

Point taken.

Office Feats

My office often seems like one of those houses that hosts keggers in college, one stuffed with boys who spend their days eating moldy, day-old pizza, playing video games and challenging each other to perform ridiculous feats.

The man-children in my workspace like betting each other on inane facts (like how many cases recently dismissed U.S. Attorney Carol Lam tried in her career), ridiculous predictions (like when coy public figures will announce their bid for a city council seat) and feats of strength (like who can sprint down the hallway by our office fastest).

Today, one of the editors bet the reporter who sits near his desk that the sun would come out at 12:30. Seeing nothing but gray skies at the appointed time, he raised the stakes: double or nothing if the sun comes out in an hour. The reporter refused, pocketing his $5.

Unsatisfied, the editor challenged the reporter to a jumping contest. After discovering that both could easily reach the ceiling with a mere hop, it became clear it would have to be a long jumping contest. Another reporter who moonlighted as a track star in his high school years suggested they spice it up a little by making it a triple jump contest.

Three coworkers sauntered out to the hallway, setting their wallets by the drinking fountain. With looks of fierce determination, they pounded down the strip and leapt with all their might. One by one they fully exerted themselves, desperate for the glory that comes with being the office’s Triple Jump Champion.

I suppose I should mention that the first floor of our office is undergoing intense construction, and we are often started by the myriad bangs, buzzes, clangs and various other onomatopoeias. That aural aggression is nothing, however, compared to the crashes and thumps my colleagues created.

When they came back to the office, panting and looking very pleased with themselves, my editor decided it was time for him to make an effort. He removed his shoes, and after the others warned him he wouldn't have enough cushion to absorb the impact, he removed his socks, too. I stayed inside for this one, but I could tell from the intensity of the last thud that he may have regretted his Shoeless Joe emulation. He limped back into the office with a huge grin on his face, proclaiming himself victor.

After the office settled down a bit, the same editor declared his intention to run through City Hall with a Scooby Doo costume should the aforementioned public figure NOT run for city council. My coworkers immediately started pressuring him to make the promise public on our website.

Just another day at the office…

Kerplunk

There are several behaviors accepted as normal in a bar setting that just aren’t elsewhere. You could spew vomit all over someone’s shoe, for example. That unfortunate soul might be upset you besmirched that season's red satin pumps (Clueless, anyone? Anyone?), but couldn’t say it such an event was completely outside the realm of possibilities.

You could also break a pool cue over your knee and threaten it menacingly at the beefed-up meathead who just encroached on your game, tossing the eight ball in the corner pocket and growling that it was time for you to stop playing. You might get kicked out of the bar, but no one would look up from his or her imbibing and say, “Huh. That’s odd.”

One thing that normally doesn’t happen at the bar on a Saturday night, however, is fainting. I’m not talking about drank-too-much, so-so-tired passing out; I’m talking about out-of-nowhere, collapse-on-ground fainting.

And that, my friends, is what I managed to do last weekend. In front of a gathering of my coworkers, no less. One minute I was talking to a fellow reporter’s wife about her dream to teach in South Africa, and the next thing I knew people were pulling me off the ground and I was groggily looking for my sandals.

As soon as I had collected myself I felt completely sober. Mind you, I hadn’t been tossing ‘em back, but it was the first time going out the whole summer so three drinks did more than they usually did (which is admittedly still a lot. Who’s a lightweight and has two thumbs? This girl).

My colleagues, particularly one of my superiors, slurred their concern for me, though I assured them I was probably in better shape. But after their initial apprehension I caught them glancing at me out of the side of their eyes as I sat perched on a stool, sucking down glass after glass of water. What if whatever spell had mysteriously come over me returned and knocked me off the stool? Should they surround me with pillows?

To make events even weirder, the aforementioned superior insisted that I stay on his couch for the night and he’d drive me home in the morning, as a taxi ride back to my apartment way on the other side of the metro would probably run close to $50. I assented because I had no other options; poverty precluded me from taking the cab, and it’s not like I could just call my roommate. Then I would lose.

So I went back to my boss’ house, and couldn’t sleep all night because I kept thinking about how weird it was that I was on my boss’ couch, having my face licked by my boss’ dog. The next morning he drove me home as promised, and I prayed none of his neighbors mistook me for the “other woman.”

Mortified? Oh, a bit.

On the unfortunate experience of hearing your roommate do the hibbity bibbity.

So you're laying there. It's 9:30 p.m. on a Saturday night. You've had a really draining week, Friday night and Saturday afternoon. You're thinking to yourself, "this is exactly what I need. A night in, just for myself, a big sandwich and some crappy TV on DVD. Let...the relaxing...being."

When all of the sudden, you hear it. Your roommate, who shares a (thin) wall with you, is loudly panting and moaning her way though a sexual encounter with Mr. Russian Dude she met at a park. You lay there, gagging, as you brianstorm any and every way to drown out her disgusting, animal-like, porn-star bellowing.

As it turns out, my much-needed, relaxing night ended up with me, digusted, wrapping pillows around my head, trying to avoid the ability to hear. What a disaster.

Don't Yuck My Yum

Every Thursday is "Back to the 50s" night in the downtown area of the suburb I live in. People from around the area drive their refurbished vintage vehicles to the parking spots lining the main drag and pop the hoods so passers-by can peer inside. The cars are so polished they look almost tasty.

It's really a brilliant marketing tool, this car night. All the antique stores and real estate offices stay open late, and the two Mexican restaurants are overflowing with people, when on all other nights I see only a few families or couples tucking in as I take my nightly stroll from the trolley to my apartment.

Downtown (and think Small Town America downtown, not thriving metropolis downtown) takes on a carnival atmosphere, and people line folding chairs along the street. I haven't yet ascertained a reason for so doing; I don't think any of the cars actually move in a parade-like fashion after being parked.

I'm just going to be straight with you: I don't get it. Of all the things to bring people together, especially in hippy-dippy California, why the bamboozle would it be cars? Did I mention that the car dealership down the road currently has a HEARSE for sale?? Where the hell do I live???

But to each his own, and all that jazz. I was listening to a story on NPR the other day narrated by a single dad. His son was using broccoli florets to paint pictures with ketchup and then gobbling it all up. The papa reacted with disgust, asking why he would do that. "Don't yuck my yum," the son replied. The phrase has repeated in my head ever since, and inspired this post.

You know what I'm talking about.

So everyone has this friend. You know, the one that is so much fun to hang out with, but you never know if one second you'll be engrossed in a coversation with her (or him), you'll look to your left for one second, then you'll look back and she's halfway across the park excitedly greeting another friend. You look down, and your friend has left her bag with you, because she knows you're a responsible person. She can leave her bag with you. But you could never leave yours with her.

Picture this. You're at a big event in the park, sitting in the grass. You're chomping on some food with your friend, having a good time, starting to think to yourself, "Wow. I really enjoy this person's company. We're starting to become pretty good friends." Then, all of the sudden, she's gallavanting across the field to say hi to some friends, and of course, you're stuck with the bags, food and drinks. As you look around, you see groups of friends - all together, inclusively, talking and laughing. "It's cool, she'll be right back. I can just chill here," you say to yourself as you take a huge bite of burritto, sheepishly look around, and realize you are totally alone.

Don't you love friends like that?!

Questions for a Wednesday morning

As I peer quizzically into the Barrel of my diet Snapple lemon iced tea I am forced to wonder...

Are those chunks normal? Should I...shake?

How could something with zero calories taste so, so magnificent?

Didn't Snapple used to cost, like, $4 per bottle? Why is it $1 now?

Who is the genius that created the Snapple lemon iced tea slogan "Good when it's a tea, bad when it's a car" (with an arrow pointing to a cartoon lemon)?

Will diet Snapple give me cancer?

Either way, diet Snapple, I don't even care. I just love you, you snapply minx.

The Competition is unreal

Wow. I am really going to have to step it up.

As you'll remember, my roommate and I are competing to see who can go the longest without talking to the other. I mentioned in my previous post that my strategy largely boiled down to avoidance.

But this night was different from all other nights. Tonight I had to go way across town to tour an apartment, and my roommate (the one who still talks to me) said she'd pick me up to preclude me from having to take three buses and an hour and a half returning home. I was looking forward to spending some quality time with her, since she spends nearly every waking (and sleeping) second with the Competition.

To my horror, however, as I approached the vehicle from the rear I could see the Competition's frizzy head in the passenger's seat, casting a shadow over my heart. "Wow," I thought. "this is quite a curveball. How are we going to play now? Is this going to be a time-out?"

Turns out I needn't have worried. Like a pro, she ignored me the entire, half-hour ride home and directed all her conversation to our other roommate. It was unbelievable, like watching Babe Ruth round the bases even with a spare tire flopping around his waist.

She's a master at this game, and I can only attempt to keep up.

You know, I've had some bumbles too

Wink's latest post, a hilarious account of an embarrassing introduction to her new city, made me think you'd want to hear about all my faux pas upon moving to a new port of call of my very own.

They include:

• Boarding the wrong train on my first day of work
  
• Dumbly pushing at said train's doors, wondering why they wouldn't open, until a kindly nun informed me as to the whereabouts of the door-opening buttons
• Tripping up the hill on the way to work. Regularly.
• Listening to a CD made by a friend that includes a certain smash hit by the group Rockapella, smiling in delight and thus garnering the attention of a nearby transient, who decided I was flirting with him. Don't worry, I shook him off after three blocks.
• Doing everything the hard way, i.e. suffering extreme bouts of nausea while scrolling through roll after roll of microfilm before realizing I could use a computer to obtain much more successful results in a sixth of the time. But hey, if I didn't have to go through both morning and evening editions of the local paper for the entire month of November, 1991 I would have never learned about the reaction to Magic Johnson's disclosure he had AIDS.
• Spelling my editor's name wrong in not one but two memos. So much for proving my dogged zeal for accuracy.
• Deciding it would be good exercise to walk three miles to and from a grocery store to fulfill my constant cravings for Caprese salads... and break in my new sandals while I was at it. My feet started bleeding from the blisters before I even got there.
  
• Repeatedly making myself huge batches of meals on Sunday nights, planning to eat the leftovers throughout the week and getting sick of it by Tuesday's dinner. I just won't learn.

Moving someplace completely new, especially when your roommate is so hostile to you for an unknown reason she won't even talk to you (see previous post) is akin to regenerating a limb. It hurts. You have to relearn things you thought you knew how to do, making you feel like quite the infant. But eventually you get stronger and, one day, you can clap (if the regenerated limb is an arm with the hand at the end of it, that is).

The sweaty mess.

I was recently not only traveling to a new city that I had never been, but moving there. This having been the first time I had ever moved anywhere via plane, I unfortunately now realize that I definitely over-packed, to say the least.

Since I had two gigantic suitcases stuffed with clothes and other various items so much so that the seams literally clung to each other for dear, sweet life, I really had no room for sweatshirts or sweaters. My alternative? Wearing them all, one on top of the other, on the plane.

Though I looked like a drug smuggling, skinny-faced yet overweight person, I somehow got through security, on the plane, and to the luggage claim at my new city with no problems. As I was awaiting the arrival of my new Craig's List roommates who were coming to take me to my new flat, I suddenly started to become extremely warm under my three sweatshirts, one large sweater and jacket. The 30-lb backpack on my back coupled with the rock-heavy laptop strapped across my shoulders did not help the situation.

By the time my new roommates got to the airport, I had become nothing less than a seething, bumbling, profusely sweating ball of hot.

I was hoping they wouldn't notice, but as I loaded my gear and my person into their very small vehicle, a thick cloud of moisture started to spread itself across first my passenger window, then quickly to the back windows, front windows, driver side window and what surely had to be the windows of any cars passing by.

"Haha, I guess I'm a little warm right now. Sorry guys," I mumbled with a sheepish grin to my tiny, expensive clothing-clad, perfect new roommates.

"Oh, yeah, um, it's no problem," they replied, confused, most likely wondering if I was going to heat the entire apartment all summer with my immense, no less than shocking body sweat.

And that, dear readers, was my first experience in my new town.

The perils of having roommates, Part II.

Wink here.

So, you know you have a really great roommate when she has the decency and selflessness to do the following:

• Steals the communal light bulb out of the hallway light when the light bulb in her room goes out. Does not replace it. [Thus resulting in you blindly groping your way out of your room every night and day.]
• Uses your laundry detergent without asking, then informs you that she used it. No remorse. [Mind you she did four loads out of your tiny 16-load detergent bottle.]
• Waltzes into your room at any time of day while you're gone at work to hang up her laundry, sniff around, and do allah knows what in there.

If only this pesky "rent" thing was not a factor!!*

*shakes fist at "rent"

Sometimes I play games

I play a lot of games. All kinds of games. Some are board games, some are athletic games and some are just games with your heart.

But my favorite kind of game is the sort I make up. When I was still dating an ex-boyfriend, we liked to play the game where we sat in a coffee shop and made up stories and/or songs about the people who walked by. I used to play a game with my siblings called "Fall Off the Bed" where my older brother and I would invest considerable effort into pushing our younger brother off our parents' bed by any means available.

I'm currently playing a new game with one of my roommates. It's called "See How Long I Can Avoid Talking to My Roommate." Unfortunately, I can't take credit for masterminding this jewel. For reasons unknown (I can't really ask her for a rulebook as that would violate the primary objective of the game), for the last two weeks she has been going to extreme measures to not talk to me.

Once I caught on to this admittedly genius concept, I started playing too. It's really not as difficult as you might think, as my daily commute doesn't have me coming home until 8 at the earliest on weekdays, and she usually leaves before I get up. As long as she's not in common areas I can sneak into the kitchen for my nightly ration of one cupcake, one slice of pastrami and four green olives and scurry into my room with my hoard.

The real challenge is on the weekends, but I've perfected my technique to limit face to face contact. My internal alarm clock jolts me awake at 6 most days, so I do my morning routine then before retiring to my room for one of my beloved morning naps. All I have to do is listen for her heavy, hurried trot and the forceful closure of her door to know when it is safe to exeunt.*

My competitive spirit has made me eager to win this feat of strength (of will), but I'll be durned if I know how. Do I win if I make it through the rest of my lease without uttering a peep? And if I win do I get a trophy?

I do love trophies.

*I know that's the plural and I'm a singular but I've always wanted to use it

Here it goes.

Dear Readers,

Welcome to your destiny.

Love,
Nugget and Wink