Thursday, July 18, 2013

Thank you, Internet.

So, I'm sure you're all aware of my batshit soon-to-be-ex-room mate. I haven't named names here because frankly I was trying to be polite. However, my best friend found THIS http://lydiawilliamscase.blogspot.com/ today.

Yep. This is evidently the same crazy chick we have living with us. The same one who lies about arthritis and chemotherapy, the same one who 'just can't get a job', the same one who moves all of our stuff, tells me to my face that she's going to make my boyfriend leave me for her, (when she's a virgin who HAS NOT BATHED IN A MONTH AND A HALF!) the same crazy, passive aggressive, straight up liar who has been doing her best to get me to have a complete breakdown so she can call the cops and say I'm being 'threatening'.

Well, fuck that noise. Look world, here she is, in all her special fucking princess glory.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Doom Mates

I really don't know where to start with this one. Earlier in the year, I'd moved out with a friend from college, whom we'll call V. V was a reasonably sane chick, employed, practical, and respectful of other peoples' feelings. Then she met F. F is a fat, uneducated, lazy ass who conned her into paying his way from Britain, and then marrying him for his papers. Predictably, they started to hate each other. Unpredictably, this resulted in a couple of fires and a homeless woman rolling around on the floor, barking like a dog.

V would come home at midnight, exhausted from having to work multiple jobs to support F, who 'couldn't work' due to immigrant status. Bull. Go stand in the Home Depot parking lot like everyone else trying to attain the American Dream. V would throw food in the oven, crank it on, and then fall asleep on the couch. A few hours later, I'd be awoken by the fire alarm, which isn't just a siren, it's a voice somewhere between GLaDOS and Siri yelling "FIRE. FIRE." in a matter-of-fact tone. The first time was terrifying. The second through eighth times were infuriating. I wake up at five-thirty a.m. to get to work. I don't need to deal with panic at three a.m. !

F. also managed to get in his share of pyrotechnics. Over winter, we had the heater repaired. As it hadn't been used in about three years, there was quite a collection of dust coating the innards of the beast, and the handymen had said to wait until they could properly clean out the vents and whatnot. No, that simply wouldn't do! F. cranked the heater on over night, and I awoke to my cat's frantic yowling at around six in the morning on a Sunday. I opened the door and there were flames happily licking out of the vent. Cue mad dash to off switch and love for the cat. F. opens his door, clad only in child-size boxers that revealed to God and everyone the pitiable state of his manhood, and complains about my cat being loud. I point out the scorch marks. F. turns and goes back to bed. Ass.

After dealing with all this, I should have moved. I didn't though, that comes later. That comes after I came home from my friend A's house, unlocked the door, and was immediately confronted by an obese, unwashed hobo, rolling on the floor and making dog noises, all while V stood there like a brain-damaged mannequin. "I dunnooooo" was the sole response my frantic look of panic and horror elicited. At that point, I was completely baffled. Turns out V. had been handing out the free bags of chips she got from her work. She'd visit the local homeless and feed them, a reasonably kind thing to do. Then she'd invite them to come over and hang out, staining the upholstery of my antique dining room set and making me liable for any and all damages due to me being the sole renter with insurance, an unreasonably kind, mostly demented thing to do.

So I moved out. I moved out in the dead of night to A's house, because V and F freaked the fuck out at me for putting in my thirty days and tried to kidnap the cat, as well as threatening me with all sorts of legal and illegal actions. That's fun.

Later, of course, came the need for finding another room mate at A's, to share the cost reasonably. We found L, who essentially lied to us from the get-go. She told us a terrible sob story about her terrible room mates and how they kicked her out 'for no reason' and were mean to her dog. Now, being reasonably fair people who love animals, A and I thought this was horrid and let her move in. Bad idea.

The dog is terrified of literally everything, and spends most of its time looking like a rat and vibrating in fear under the table. L never picks up its poo and lets it go into the bathroom, which is not only gross, but stupid, since the dumb thing's going to eat cleaner and die one of these days. L also has the remarkable habit of touching everybody else's property but hers. Twenty dog shit landmines, complete with pink flags courtesy of A, and yet all of the stuff on the coffee table is moved/lost and the kitchen has been 'cleaned' with what appears to be a single wet wipe.

L however, only 'cleans' on her own terms. Thursdays are cleaning day. This is the rule. I managed to suck it up and scrub the bathroom and kitchen while enduring an optical migraine. She never came out of her room. We've had about five 'house meetings' in which same thing is stated. "Do not touch our stuff. Clean the dog poo." Occasionally there's the added, "and quit complaining about the lack of storage space after you refused to use the tall cabinet!" We've had electricity and water shut off because of L. She hides the bills when she moves around our stuff in a fit of 'clean'. She invites her weird friends over with no warning and makes the kitchen smell like burning plastic.

The worst of all is that she doesn't bathe. Whether due to her 'arthritis', which also apparently requires chemotherapy, or the fact that she's goddamn gross, she has not taken a single shower for the month and a half she's lived here. The shampoo and bodywash in her bottles have remained suspiciously stationary in level. The amount of flies and roaches suddenly appearing in the house like a horror movie have exponentially increased.

I'm getting tired of it. I know I sound like a bitch. I am well aware of this, and it pisses off my boyfriend too. I'm at a complete loss, I'm broke, and I'm stuck. This is making me into a resentful, suspicious person, and I hate it. Help.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Recorder Recoil

One of the main joys in private school is learning to play the recorder; if by "play" you mean "summon demons" and by "recorder", "hideous piece of lead-contaminated plastic forged by orphans in China". The chief feature of said recorders is the ability to play a grand total of three notes, as evidenced in most practice books. Each shrieking rendition consists of some arcane combination of C, B, and A, with the occasional impossible G thrown in solely to fuck with your head.

(this way, we combine both the valuable lesson that it's never fun to grow up to be a musician, and provide a handy bludgeoning weapon to each child in case of some sort of zombie apocalypse.)

Despite this, some children do manage to foster the sliver of a talent, although this is quickly stifled with the swift application of modern-day public humiliation known as The Spring Concert. Akin to being placed in the stocks, this dreaded even involves forcing innocent schoolchildren to embarrass themselves before the multitudes of peers, parents, and overly-tolerant grandparents. Song choices range from "Folk Songs You've Never Heard Of", to "Pop Songs That Were Popular During the Eisenhower Administration (In Sweden)", to "Single Choruses of Decent Songs Performed Off-Key and Out of Tempo". A frequent addition to this tintinnabulation are the dreaded "Solos for Children Whose Parents are Bossy Assholes". Mrs. Bothersome Boylan was, of course, one of the lead perpetrators of these crimes against Humanity's collective ability to hear.

All together, the music scene on campus remains collectively grim, evoking eyerolls from those of us accosted by the Public School's moaning lament, "But at least you HAVE music!" No, no we don't. We have the artistic equivalent of monkeys attempting Shakespeare, with about half the scholarly ability. Save yourselves, chaps. It's too late for me.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Literally Lost in Translation

For some reason, the text messaging gods see fit to fuck with me from time to time. Sometimes texts get lost. Sometimes they arrive ridiculously late. Sometimes though, those texts turn into some sort of crime drama subplot. So here's what happened:

Some Hispanic lady named Dolores apparently has my phone number with a 949 area code instead of my 818. Lots of times, I'll get some random message from one of her friends like, "Dolores, estoy en el supermercado, están fuera de chile. Lo siento, pero hay cosas secas, ¿quieres eso? Se suponía que mi encuentro ya, ¿dónde estás?"

And so I have to drag 10th grade Spanish out of my brain at like 3am all like, "Yo no soy Dolores. Yo soy Jade_Orange, y yo no se donde es Dolores. Lo siento."

So now it's 3am, I'm awake, and now I'm concerned with this wacky misadventure, because where the fuck is Dolores?

The response comes back, "Lo siento, para donde esta Dolores? Mi amiga no comprende que Dolores no escribe una nota! Dolores es desaparecido!"

Are you fucking with me? What do you mean Dolores is gone? Shit, god damn it! I can't even help, and now there's a bunch of panicky Spanish speaking ladies thinking their friend is dead, and I'm just stuck here going, "Help..."

Of course I never hear back, and my text in the morning of "Oye, ¿alguna vez encontrar Dolores?" never gets answered.

Dolores, I hope you're safe out there.

Spanish Translations:
Hey Dolores, I'm at the supermarket and they're out of chili peppers, but they have dried ones. Sorry about that, do you want the dried peppers? Where are you, you were supposed to meet me.

I'm not Dolores, I'm Jade_Orange, and I don't know where Dolores is, sorry.

Sorry, but where's Dolores? My friend doesn't know why she didn't write a note, and now Dolores is missing!

Hey, did you ever find Dolores?


Saturday, July 7, 2012

Those Bothersome Boylans

I don't often find myself entirely repulsed by people, but when I do, it's a good chance to poke some fun at people who deserve a taking down. Mrs. Boylan was my sister's drama teacher, and the bane of my family's existence. Threatening kindergarteners has never been looked kindly upon, and after she made my little sister cry, I had to be physically restrained from taking violent action.

This wasn't the worst sort of thing Mrs. Boylan would do. She somehow managed to produce two daughters, not a small feat when you consider that Mrs. Boylan looked, for all the world, as if someone had taken an exceedingly large Honeybaked ham and glued a ratty, long blonde wig to it. Keth, the eldest daughter, had all the vapid beauty of one of those princesses you see in coloring books released by companies that rip off Disney films. Klair, the younger daughter, was a miniature of Mrs. Boylan. If Boylan was a ham, Klair was one of those shitty riblets you get at faux-Chinese places, coated in brown goo and made entirely of gristle and fat.

Keth was the star child who could do no wrong, and promptly graduated high school, went to college, and discovered sex, drugs, and alcohol. I think she might be dead.

Klair, on the other hand, was the most awkward pawn in a game of 'try to arrange a marriage like we're in the 1300s' I've ever seen. First, Mrs. Boylan attempted to have her flirt with my cousin Marty. This went over as well as could be expected. (Which is, to say, not at all.) Marty fled the scene in great haste, and my aunt reared up in fury, laying a complete verbal smackdown on Mrs. Boylan. I was there to witness the phone call. It was terrifyingly entertaining.

Klair's unfortunate sojourn was far from over. Peter, a young redheaded chap in Martin's class, was next on Mrs. Boylan's radar. Perhaps she figured that, being a ginger, and thus lacking a soul, he wouldn't be so picky. I recall Peter half-heartedly plonking out 'Think Of Me' from Phantom of the Opera on his electric keyboard, as Klair screeched delightedly into the over-hot microphone. This wasn't at some measly grade school talent show. Oh no. Mrs. Boylan had managed to force them to perform at the school CARNIVAL, a public event attended by probably a thousand or so people. If Peter had happened to own a soul, he would have immediately sold it to the first bidder for a ticket out of there. I've met car alarms more melodious than Klair.

After that supposed courtship came to a roaring halt, the Boylans somewhat faded from the scene, although flare-ups were occasionally reported. Whatever happened to the hapless Mr. Boylan, I'm afraid we'll never know. My own private nightmare is that Mrs. Boylan ate him, head first (which head is up to you) like a chubby praying mantis.

If you should ever see a woman hulking towards you that bears an uncanny resemblance to smoked pork products served during important Christian holidays, for the love of god, run. It's probably Mrs. Boylan still trying to play sadistic matchmaker for her SPAM-can of a daughter, Klair.


*Names have been changed to protect ME!

Monday, June 25, 2012

Post-Postal-Postage

I've managed to discover something exceedingly wonderful about the internet. It's bringing back old-fashioned mail. People across the world can meet, befriend each other, and send little packets of awesome zipping around the globe.

So far, just from Reddit, I've met amazing people. One sent me dandelion seeds from a plant exhibiting fascinating mutant characteristics, so I can try to grow them myself, and one has purchased an antique safety razor from me, and in return with the payment, sent me my own sample pack of blades. Another gentleman commissioned a dog collar adorned with green sea glass after seeing my handmade necklaces. All of these transactions only occurred because I happened to meet people with similar interests online.

Perhaps in this day and age of 'going postal', of overpaid union members and the collective grumbling for and against that it generates, mail has lost its romantic notions. I tend to disagree. There will always be unhappy people, it's true. But the fact that a handwritten missive can and will find its way to a destination miles away, bringing friendship and camaraderie to people who will never meet in person, is glorious.

For myself, typing has much replaced any handwriting skills I can claim to have possessed, but once in a while, I will square my shoulders, take out some truly lovely stationery, and throw my mind back to penmanship class, so I can send a proper, old-fashioned letter to someone I love. Grandma appreciates it, and usually responds with a teary, "My grand-daughter loves me! I'm so happy, let me buy you an orchid!" sort of phone call. My boyfriend enjoys sitting and reading all the good things that I tell him, as the vicious be-feathered velociraptor his parents claim is a parrot screeches in the background, competing with his equally cold-blooded and vicious sister in a ferocious noise generating competition.

A letter demands a sort of old-fashioned tranquility. You must sit down, relax, and potentially enjoy a cup of tea to read a letter. Letters require a response that cannot be from a text or email. A phone call forces vocal contact. A return letter requires thought, patience, and time. They bring gentility to a hectic modern pace.

Perhaps one day I'll allow you all to write me letters, to see how you've been, what the news is, and who's done what with whom. Maybe I'll send you a reply or two, perhaps a hand-inked invitation to tea. Until then, enjoy.

PS: The garden is lovely, and provides a perfect excuse to listen to the perfidy of the neighbors.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Ghibli?

















Somebody commented on my last post this morning. Hailing all the way from Sweden, my new friend pondered over whether I lived in a Studio Ghibli-like world, where everything, no matter how strange or frightening, was also beautiful. I smiled as I read this, astonished that I could touch someone so far away from my own country. It was a bit of a sad smile, perhaps wistful would be a better word. The world is magnificent. Too often we forget that. As I write this, I hope that you enjoy some of my photos, showing the pretty little things I have seen. Forgive me if the composition and lighting aren't what they should be. My tiny little digital Canon isn't the most exciting of cameras, and I am not the most apt photographer. Please, enjoy.