I'm watching the Olympics and there are sports being played that I don't think should be sports. Let me say ahead of time that I am a nobody and I haven't competed in anything at all since the 11th grade. Still, I'm entitled to my opinion so this what I think:
First I don't know who the hell came up with water polo, but anywhere else that shit would be called attempted murder. How the hell they get people to sign up for sanctioned drownings is a mystery to me, but you won't catch me doing it.
Second, I was extremely disappointed by the shooting competition. I've always been fascinated with guns ever since I was a little kid and I guess I was expecting more of an "urban" version of the competition. I can understand that there may be some liability issues with having them shoot at each other, but I think that would be much more entertaining. I don't know what I was expecting, but the uber-nerd standing there with the glasses with the blinders on and all the mess hooked up to the gun to help them just seemed extra. I would've rather seen them just stand there and play Area 51 or Time Crisis.
Judo was disappointing, more like wrestling.
Indoor Cycling is pretty interesting. I can't figure out who the hell came up with that, nor do I truly understand what I witnessed in the "Pursuit cycling," but it was fun. Seems like something a poor person made up who couldn't go outside to play.
Let's see, in the "That's an Olympic sport?" category we have Badminton and Table Tennis.
Archery gets absolutely no respect from me. I was expecting something more along the lines of Lord of the Rings or Robin Hood, not those rifle looking bows with guides and sights on them. Seems like cheating. Legolas could hit that target by just throwing the arrow.
How did I not know that jumping on a trampoline was an Olympic event? I would've trained for that shit years ago. I would've put so many miles on this Sealy Posturepedic. And you know fat people would have an advantage. I might not ever come back down.
Equestrian and fencing are severely outdated. They should either make the horses race or scrap them in favor of a street race with cars. Fencing should switch to machetes or meat cleavers, something a little more risky. They can tie their arms together and make em fight to the tune of "Beat It" for all I care. I just feel like if you're having a blade fight, getting cut should be a possibility.
And then I have my own Olympic Event in mind. I've been saying this for years and I may have even written it on this very blog in the past. I think there should be an event where they take eight of the world's fastest and strongest and give them backpacks full of money. Let's say a cool million in cash. Then they should dump them in the worst part of town of the host city and tell everyone where they are and what they look like. The first one to make it back to Olympic Stadium with the money gets a gold medal.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
You Are Not Alone
I just left Giant where I saw a guy with two little girls. One was about four and the other was about two. He was parked beside me and his open door was blocking me from putting my daughter in the car. He was completely oblivious to my presence as I stood there for about four minutes watching him battle his younger child to get her out of the car.
He tried everything and that little girl screamed "no" at the top of her lungs each time. He offered her stuff, he tried the daddy "bass" voice thing and nothing worked. The older one saw me and must have told him that I was there because he emerged like he was ready to fight a potential kidnapper. When he saw me holding my daughter, he just gave me this look. I can't put it into words, but an entire conversation was held in that one look that we exchanged. He didn't have to apologize for blocking me in, I wasn't judging him for not being able to control his child and I had his back if the children banded together and tried a mutiny.
Eventually he got them both out and walked toward the store where another struggle began. That little one began slapping the hell out of him as he tried to put her in the shopping cart. After he got her in the cart he just put his head down on the handle of the cart. He didn't say anything to either one of them and he didn't move for a good thirty seconds. I think he had a mild breakdown. It made me smile. Not because I like to see other people suffer, but because it is comforting to realize that I'm not alone out here.
Sometimes you feel like you're failing this gig. It seems like no matter how much you read and plan and try to give your best, you just keep fucking up left and right. But when you see another person out there with kids have a small nervous breakdown in the parking lot, you realize that you're still par for the course. And that is very reassuring. I'm starting to realize that if you aren't stressed the hell out from time to time, then you're not trying hard enough.
He tried everything and that little girl screamed "no" at the top of her lungs each time. He offered her stuff, he tried the daddy "bass" voice thing and nothing worked. The older one saw me and must have told him that I was there because he emerged like he was ready to fight a potential kidnapper. When he saw me holding my daughter, he just gave me this look. I can't put it into words, but an entire conversation was held in that one look that we exchanged. He didn't have to apologize for blocking me in, I wasn't judging him for not being able to control his child and I had his back if the children banded together and tried a mutiny.
Eventually he got them both out and walked toward the store where another struggle began. That little one began slapping the hell out of him as he tried to put her in the shopping cart. After he got her in the cart he just put his head down on the handle of the cart. He didn't say anything to either one of them and he didn't move for a good thirty seconds. I think he had a mild breakdown. It made me smile. Not because I like to see other people suffer, but because it is comforting to realize that I'm not alone out here.
Sometimes you feel like you're failing this gig. It seems like no matter how much you read and plan and try to give your best, you just keep fucking up left and right. But when you see another person out there with kids have a small nervous breakdown in the parking lot, you realize that you're still par for the course. And that is very reassuring. I'm starting to realize that if you aren't stressed the hell out from time to time, then you're not trying hard enough.
When Israel Was in Egypt's Land
Random Parenting Thoughts
As always, this post is being written from a place of extreme fatigue, paranoia and mild depression. Nothing is wrong with me, I'm just learning that it's all a part of parenting. I could look back over my previous posts to see if I'm just writing the same thing twice, but I don't have the energy, so just give me a pass if any of this is repetitive.
The terrible twos are kicking my ass. I brushed my teeth with lotion this morning. I'm that out of it. For some reason the bottle was sitting on the sink and I just squeezed some out onto the toothbrush as if that was normal. I'm tired. I thought a weekend away was going to rejuvenate and recharge, but instead it just confused me. I imagine it's what prisoners feel when they go out to pick up trash on the side of the highway. A taste of freedom isn't healthy. So now I'm giving "freedom" the same speech Denzel gave his wife/girlfriend in The Hurricane. "Don't come back here anymore. I won't accept your visit. It's tough enough trying to do the time." That's probably not what he said exactly, but that's what my mind remembers and again, I'm too tired to google it.
I have 12 months and a couple of weeks until the 2013 school year starts and guess who's going to preschool. The wife will cry and take a bunch of pictures, but I'm gonna be up at 5:30 in the morning packing a lunch, a sleeping bag and a suitcase in case she likes it enough to spend the night. The wife said something blasphemous not too long ago about, "DC says it's not mandatory for them to go to school until they're five and go to kindergarten." I replied with, "I rebuke you, Satan!" She's getting the hell outta here. If I don't win the DCPS lottery and all the slots are filled then we're moving a mile up the street to Maryland and she's going to school there.
I went on a parenting blog today and wrote out a simple question:
"Is this normal: My child throws tantrums for no reason, falls out on the floor in public and screams at the top of her lungs. She won't do anything I say anymore and the simplest tasks become power struggles. This all started about a month ago."
I got about 30 responses in under ten minutes. All of them said yes. Some were just "LOLs" and a few were "You aint seen nothing yet." One lady wrote something that made me think. She asked me to think back to every time I've gone out in public and to try and remember how many 2-3 year olds I saw. She made a great point. I see babies everywhere. I can't go two aisles without almost being run over by a stroller, but I hardly ever see a two year old. I see kindergarteners and maybe a very well behaved 3-4 year old, but I rarely see a two year old. The lady finished her post with, "Anyone with a two year old is currently being held hostage in a house somewhere." That lady's post was a burning bush. I know what I must do now. I'm going out to get a stick and I'm gonna find my daughter and shout:
Pharaoh, let my people go!
As always, this post is being written from a place of extreme fatigue, paranoia and mild depression. Nothing is wrong with me, I'm just learning that it's all a part of parenting. I could look back over my previous posts to see if I'm just writing the same thing twice, but I don't have the energy, so just give me a pass if any of this is repetitive.
The terrible twos are kicking my ass. I brushed my teeth with lotion this morning. I'm that out of it. For some reason the bottle was sitting on the sink and I just squeezed some out onto the toothbrush as if that was normal. I'm tired. I thought a weekend away was going to rejuvenate and recharge, but instead it just confused me. I imagine it's what prisoners feel when they go out to pick up trash on the side of the highway. A taste of freedom isn't healthy. So now I'm giving "freedom" the same speech Denzel gave his wife/girlfriend in The Hurricane. "Don't come back here anymore. I won't accept your visit. It's tough enough trying to do the time." That's probably not what he said exactly, but that's what my mind remembers and again, I'm too tired to google it.
I have 12 months and a couple of weeks until the 2013 school year starts and guess who's going to preschool. The wife will cry and take a bunch of pictures, but I'm gonna be up at 5:30 in the morning packing a lunch, a sleeping bag and a suitcase in case she likes it enough to spend the night. The wife said something blasphemous not too long ago about, "DC says it's not mandatory for them to go to school until they're five and go to kindergarten." I replied with, "I rebuke you, Satan!" She's getting the hell outta here. If I don't win the DCPS lottery and all the slots are filled then we're moving a mile up the street to Maryland and she's going to school there.
I went on a parenting blog today and wrote out a simple question:
"Is this normal: My child throws tantrums for no reason, falls out on the floor in public and screams at the top of her lungs. She won't do anything I say anymore and the simplest tasks become power struggles. This all started about a month ago."
I got about 30 responses in under ten minutes. All of them said yes. Some were just "LOLs" and a few were "You aint seen nothing yet." One lady wrote something that made me think. She asked me to think back to every time I've gone out in public and to try and remember how many 2-3 year olds I saw. She made a great point. I see babies everywhere. I can't go two aisles without almost being run over by a stroller, but I hardly ever see a two year old. I see kindergarteners and maybe a very well behaved 3-4 year old, but I rarely see a two year old. The lady finished her post with, "Anyone with a two year old is currently being held hostage in a house somewhere." That lady's post was a burning bush. I know what I must do now. I'm going out to get a stick and I'm gonna find my daughter and shout:
Pharaoh, let my people go!
Monday, August 6, 2012
Mini Vacation
I went to North Carolina over the weekend for some much needed R&R. No baby, no midnight beatings and unexplainable bruises appearing on my body. Just a man, his thoughts and a hotel bed that I was scared to sleep in (more on that later).
Durham, I owe you an apology. When I lived down there I used to say that it was a great place to go to die. By die, I mean natural death like old age, not to be confused with getting killed, which seems to be DC's claim to fame. Durham is quiet, serene and full of friendly people who smile, hold doors and are quick to let the other car go first at a stop sign. Being a young person from DC, I couldn't really appreciate it back then. I still can't see myself living there before I start collecting social security, but it was exactly what I needed for a stress-free weekend.
The air smelled like the perfect blend of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide. Almost immediately I noticed the absence of Homeless Person Essence #4, Potomac River vapor and Metrorail Sidewalk Grate steam. The water, oh God, the water. I haven't had nonflammable water in so long. People always compliment my smile and I tell them that it's because of DC water. It has the perfect blend of chlorine, lead and Anacostia River Extract to burn off tartar, plaque and the gum disease gingivitis.
Everything wasn't perfect though. I was on a budget so I picked a hotel that used to be nice when I was in college. AOL Keywords: used to be. I flopped down on the bed and the mattress stood up in protest. Apparently the frame was loose or something, so I got down on the floor to investigate and locked eyes with the Trojan Man. It was still in the wrapper, so I left it there with the intent on taking it to the lost and found once I found some hazmat gloves. Things just went downhill from there, but let's just say I turned the A/C off and slept in my clothes with no blanket, sheet or anything else provided by the hotel. Now I know why they charged (not authorized...charged!) the room up front and had a no refund policy.
The rest of the trip was great though. It's a good weekend when it feels like you've been gone for 4-5 days. Of course DC welcomed me back with open arms this morning. I got cut off by a cyclist who thinks his bike has a force field around it and an off duty cop gave me the finger when he tried to get over without signaling and I blew the horn so he wouldn't side swipe me.
Welcome home. (Deep inhale) Is that Eau De Mumbo Sauce in the air?
Durham, I owe you an apology. When I lived down there I used to say that it was a great place to go to die. By die, I mean natural death like old age, not to be confused with getting killed, which seems to be DC's claim to fame. Durham is quiet, serene and full of friendly people who smile, hold doors and are quick to let the other car go first at a stop sign. Being a young person from DC, I couldn't really appreciate it back then. I still can't see myself living there before I start collecting social security, but it was exactly what I needed for a stress-free weekend.
The air smelled like the perfect blend of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide. Almost immediately I noticed the absence of Homeless Person Essence #4, Potomac River vapor and Metrorail Sidewalk Grate steam. The water, oh God, the water. I haven't had nonflammable water in so long. People always compliment my smile and I tell them that it's because of DC water. It has the perfect blend of chlorine, lead and Anacostia River Extract to burn off tartar, plaque and the gum disease gingivitis.
Everything wasn't perfect though. I was on a budget so I picked a hotel that used to be nice when I was in college. AOL Keywords: used to be. I flopped down on the bed and the mattress stood up in protest. Apparently the frame was loose or something, so I got down on the floor to investigate and locked eyes with the Trojan Man. It was still in the wrapper, so I left it there with the intent on taking it to the lost and found once I found some hazmat gloves. Things just went downhill from there, but let's just say I turned the A/C off and slept in my clothes with no blanket, sheet or anything else provided by the hotel. Now I know why they charged (not authorized...charged!) the room up front and had a no refund policy.
The rest of the trip was great though. It's a good weekend when it feels like you've been gone for 4-5 days. Of course DC welcomed me back with open arms this morning. I got cut off by a cyclist who thinks his bike has a force field around it and an off duty cop gave me the finger when he tried to get over without signaling and I blew the horn so he wouldn't side swipe me.
Welcome home. (Deep inhale) Is that Eau De Mumbo Sauce in the air?
Friday, August 3, 2012
Freedom Aint Free
Previously on Ordale's Life: Crazy roommates and shitty housing led our hero to move off campus. And now the conclusion...
I didn't know the first thing about getting an apartment. For that expertise, I turned to my mother. She wasn't cosigning nor was she gonna chip in on the rent, but I knew that she could at least point me in the right direction. I was in DC for the summer so I couldn't apartment shop the right way. You know, actually go see the place first. This was in the days before apartments put up in walk-through tours online. Back then you just got a couple of pictures and you had to hope for the best. This was also before Google Maps and Streetview, so you didn't get a true-to-life picture of the area.
We get down to NC and as we're driving up I realize that it's in a shady part of town I'd never been to before. The buildings started looking progressively worse. I kept thinking, Please don't let it be that one. Oh no God, it can be that one just don't let it be this one. Never mind, don't let it be any on this street at all. It wasn't.
We pulled up to a building that looked pretty decent compared to the rest and I was somewhat relieved. It had a security gate and everything. We went inside the rental office and the lady had the lease ready. I look back on that day and realize that things went way too smoothly. 30-year-old-me now knows that anytime signing a contract is that easy then something is wrong. What I mean is...I assumed that my mother had faxed over my paycheck stubs, sent a deposit, and filled out an application so that they could do a background check on me. Nope.
None of that happened because this wasn't the kind of place that does that. They didn't ask where I worked, because they didn't care how their residents made money. As long as those singles and crack-stained bills were converted to a money order before the 5th of each month, they were happy. Grown up me also knows that any time you move somewhere and the rent is $400 a month for a one bedroom AND you get 5 months free on a 12 month lease then something is definitely wrong.
Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid? I was watching that with my daughter the other day. Right after Ariel signs the contract with the Sea Witch, the witch goes into this maniacal laughter. The same thing happened in the rental office. I asked the lady if my unit was in that same building or one of the ones next to it and she went Ursula the Sea Witch on me. She explained that they owned several complexes in the area, but they all shared one rental office. You poor unfortunate soul, you're not in this complex. Go out the gate, head to the corner and keep going until you get to the dead end street. It's the last one on the right next to the dumpster.
Picture any motel from a horror movie and that's what my building looked like. There were about seven units on both floors and the doors were side by side with a narrow walkway just like a motel. The mail area was a metal post next to the dumpster with about fourteen cubby holes with each apartment number labeled with a glittery sticker. There was no door, no lock or anything to keep your mail from blowing away in the wind. It was wide enough to fit one letter if you bent or rolled it up first.
I went inside and it looked like the kind of place you go to die. There were two windows in the whole apartment. The one in the living room had a view of the equally depressing apartment across the street and the one in the bedroom had a view of...wait for it...wait for it......A cemetery.
I don't mean that I could see one in the distance. No, I could jump out my window and into my own grave if I wanted to. The closest headstone was about fifteen feet from my window. I told my mother straight up, I can't stay here. The neighborhood isn't safe and I'm in front of a cemetery. This is the same woman who made me go back outside to fight when 15 kids in the neighborhood chased me home. The same woman who gave me a stick to take to the playground when I told her I saw a bunch of dudes drinking and selling drugs on the playground. In not so many words she told me to stop being a bitch. She told me to just put a chair up against the door at night and I'd be okay.
I lasted four months in that apartment before I moved out. At the time of my move I had the distinct honor of being one of two units that hadn't been robbed that Christmas season. Some happened while the people were still home. They just tied them up and kept it moving. The lady underneath me was raped during her robbery. It appeared that they were making their way sequentially through the building. I went to the rental office to see if they were hiring some security or something and the woman looked at me sincerely and told me, I'm not supposed to talk about it, but for your own safety I want you to move out of your unit. I'll waive the rest of your lease and I can even transfer you to a different complex if you like, but I think you need to get out.
A week later I was completely moved in to a new apartment. Campus wasn't looking so bad after all.
I didn't know the first thing about getting an apartment. For that expertise, I turned to my mother. She wasn't cosigning nor was she gonna chip in on the rent, but I knew that she could at least point me in the right direction. I was in DC for the summer so I couldn't apartment shop the right way. You know, actually go see the place first. This was in the days before apartments put up in walk-through tours online. Back then you just got a couple of pictures and you had to hope for the best. This was also before Google Maps and Streetview, so you didn't get a true-to-life picture of the area.
We get down to NC and as we're driving up I realize that it's in a shady part of town I'd never been to before. The buildings started looking progressively worse. I kept thinking, Please don't let it be that one. Oh no God, it can be that one just don't let it be this one. Never mind, don't let it be any on this street at all. It wasn't.
We pulled up to a building that looked pretty decent compared to the rest and I was somewhat relieved. It had a security gate and everything. We went inside the rental office and the lady had the lease ready. I look back on that day and realize that things went way too smoothly. 30-year-old-me now knows that anytime signing a contract is that easy then something is wrong. What I mean is...I assumed that my mother had faxed over my paycheck stubs, sent a deposit, and filled out an application so that they could do a background check on me. Nope.
None of that happened because this wasn't the kind of place that does that. They didn't ask where I worked, because they didn't care how their residents made money. As long as those singles and crack-stained bills were converted to a money order before the 5th of each month, they were happy. Grown up me also knows that any time you move somewhere and the rent is $400 a month for a one bedroom AND you get 5 months free on a 12 month lease then something is definitely wrong.
Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid? I was watching that with my daughter the other day. Right after Ariel signs the contract with the Sea Witch, the witch goes into this maniacal laughter. The same thing happened in the rental office. I asked the lady if my unit was in that same building or one of the ones next to it and she went Ursula the Sea Witch on me. She explained that they owned several complexes in the area, but they all shared one rental office. You poor unfortunate soul, you're not in this complex. Go out the gate, head to the corner and keep going until you get to the dead end street. It's the last one on the right next to the dumpster.
Picture any motel from a horror movie and that's what my building looked like. There were about seven units on both floors and the doors were side by side with a narrow walkway just like a motel. The mail area was a metal post next to the dumpster with about fourteen cubby holes with each apartment number labeled with a glittery sticker. There was no door, no lock or anything to keep your mail from blowing away in the wind. It was wide enough to fit one letter if you bent or rolled it up first.
I went inside and it looked like the kind of place you go to die. There were two windows in the whole apartment. The one in the living room had a view of the equally depressing apartment across the street and the one in the bedroom had a view of...wait for it...wait for it......A cemetery.
I don't mean that I could see one in the distance. No, I could jump out my window and into my own grave if I wanted to. The closest headstone was about fifteen feet from my window. I told my mother straight up, I can't stay here. The neighborhood isn't safe and I'm in front of a cemetery. This is the same woman who made me go back outside to fight when 15 kids in the neighborhood chased me home. The same woman who gave me a stick to take to the playground when I told her I saw a bunch of dudes drinking and selling drugs on the playground. In not so many words she told me to stop being a bitch. She told me to just put a chair up against the door at night and I'd be okay.
I lasted four months in that apartment before I moved out. At the time of my move I had the distinct honor of being one of two units that hadn't been robbed that Christmas season. Some happened while the people were still home. They just tied them up and kept it moving. The lady underneath me was raped during her robbery. It appeared that they were making their way sequentially through the building. I went to the rental office to see if they were hiring some security or something and the woman looked at me sincerely and told me, I'm not supposed to talk about it, but for your own safety I want you to move out of your unit. I'll waive the rest of your lease and I can even transfer you to a different complex if you like, but I think you need to get out.
A week later I was completely moved in to a new apartment. Campus wasn't looking so bad after all.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Paroled
August 2, 2002
It was this day ten years ago when I got my very first apartment. It was the summer before my junior year of college and I was desperate to get the hell off campus. Up until then I was the most financially responsible person you'd meet in your life. I could tell you the serial numbers on every dollar I ever spent, because each one was near and dear to my heart. But my campus experience was so bad that I was willing to break a few of my "don't end up a statistic" rules and take some chances with my credit. I wrote about the crazy roommates. Well here's the other half of my decision to leave:
Freshman year I lived in a dorm called Chidley Hall. It's where they bred Spartans to go fight with the 300. If you can make it in Chidley then no weapon formed against you shall prosper, no bacterial spore or biological agent can harm you and your body becomes numb to the peril of abject poverty. It was, by far, the worst place I've ever lived and that includes the high rise building I grew up in where someone got shot in the elevator, people peed in the stairwells and the security guards broke in our apartment and stole all our stuff.
The winter of my discontent all started when I visited my friends over at Duke. We all went to high school together but they actually studied, so they went to a better school. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't have to sign in when I got to their dorm. No person in the lobby taking IDs and their vending machines had food in them. No one had flipped it over or kicked in the glass to steal the stuff.
Second, their dorm was not only co-ed but boys and girls lived on the same floor. My HBCU subscribed to the theory that women can only get pregnant between midnight and 9AM which is why we weren't allowed to have co-ed visitation between those hours. Even the co-ed dorms are split by floor and intermingling was prohibited. In fact, I was taken "into custody" by campus police because the night patrol guy heard a fully dressed girl laugh in my dorm at 12:15 at night. I was issued a citation and then forced to go to a tribunal in front of the dorm director to beg for mercy so that they wouldn't kick me off campus in the middle of the semester. My "plea" sounded eerily similar to Morgan Freeman's parole hearing speech in The Shawshank Redemption.
Those things plus the horrible, horrible food in the cafeteria annoyed me, but what really pushed me over the edge...There's not enough memory on your computer or space on the internet to tell you but.......
Highlights include:
I could go on, but that's the stuff I remember from the first semester. My sophomore year was better because I was in a newer building cleverly named New Residence Hall I. Besides the crazy roommate, it wasn't too bad except I kept waking up with nosebleeds and headaches. Also, I kept asking about this black stuff growing on my air vent and they told me it was just dust. The entire ceiling in the trash room was covered in this "dust," but no one paid me any attention. A couple of years later they shut down the whole dorm and put the students in hotels because the place was infested with mold.
Each year you had to stand in this long FEMA-esque line to put in a bid for the dorm you wanted the following year. I had tests that day so by the time I got there they only had rooms left in Chidley. Like most prisoners, I vowed to never go back. I signed my first lease with no cosigner and haven't looked back...but Lord if that first place wasn't a challenge.
To be continued
It was this day ten years ago when I got my very first apartment. It was the summer before my junior year of college and I was desperate to get the hell off campus. Up until then I was the most financially responsible person you'd meet in your life. I could tell you the serial numbers on every dollar I ever spent, because each one was near and dear to my heart. But my campus experience was so bad that I was willing to break a few of my "don't end up a statistic" rules and take some chances with my credit. I wrote about the crazy roommates. Well here's the other half of my decision to leave:
Freshman year I lived in a dorm called Chidley Hall. It's where they bred Spartans to go fight with the 300. If you can make it in Chidley then no weapon formed against you shall prosper, no bacterial spore or biological agent can harm you and your body becomes numb to the peril of abject poverty. It was, by far, the worst place I've ever lived and that includes the high rise building I grew up in where someone got shot in the elevator, people peed in the stairwells and the security guards broke in our apartment and stole all our stuff.
The winter of my discontent all started when I visited my friends over at Duke. We all went to high school together but they actually studied, so they went to a better school. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't have to sign in when I got to their dorm. No person in the lobby taking IDs and their vending machines had food in them. No one had flipped it over or kicked in the glass to steal the stuff.
Second, their dorm was not only co-ed but boys and girls lived on the same floor. My HBCU subscribed to the theory that women can only get pregnant between midnight and 9AM which is why we weren't allowed to have co-ed visitation between those hours. Even the co-ed dorms are split by floor and intermingling was prohibited. In fact, I was taken "into custody" by campus police because the night patrol guy heard a fully dressed girl laugh in my dorm at 12:15 at night. I was issued a citation and then forced to go to a tribunal in front of the dorm director to beg for mercy so that they wouldn't kick me off campus in the middle of the semester. My "plea" sounded eerily similar to Morgan Freeman's parole hearing speech in The Shawshank Redemption.
Those things plus the horrible, horrible food in the cafeteria annoyed me, but what really pushed me over the edge...There's not enough memory on your computer or space on the internet to tell you but.......
Highlights include:
- People spraying Lysol on the toilet seats and setting them on fire
- Pouring food down the bathroom sinks as if they had garbage disposals
- Flushing rolls of toilet paper causing a backup and a river of shit to flow down the hall
- Gigantic Mega Cockroaches flying around the shower stalls like bats in the batcave
- A dozen or so rapes in a month as girls snuck out of our dorm after visiting hours
- Pulling the fire alarm every night at one in the morning for three weeks straight
- The Bloods from the projects down the street kicking in our security door and beating the hell outta some guy
- Breaking in people's rooms on the first floor by removing the A/C unit from the window
- Some days no hot water. Other days no cold water.
- Peeing in the dryers in the laundry rooms with the clothes still in them.
I could go on, but that's the stuff I remember from the first semester. My sophomore year was better because I was in a newer building cleverly named New Residence Hall I. Besides the crazy roommate, it wasn't too bad except I kept waking up with nosebleeds and headaches. Also, I kept asking about this black stuff growing on my air vent and they told me it was just dust. The entire ceiling in the trash room was covered in this "dust," but no one paid me any attention. A couple of years later they shut down the whole dorm and put the students in hotels because the place was infested with mold.
Each year you had to stand in this long FEMA-esque line to put in a bid for the dorm you wanted the following year. I had tests that day so by the time I got there they only had rooms left in Chidley. Like most prisoners, I vowed to never go back. I signed my first lease with no cosigner and haven't looked back...but Lord if that first place wasn't a challenge.
To be continued
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Eat, Drink and...
Me and Alcohol aren't friends. We met in college, went out once or twice and just didn't hit it off. It could be because my first time drinking was with a group of friends who wanted to see my plastered. I'm funny so for some reason people always want to see me drunk or high. I guess they think I'll turn into an Animaniac or something. Anyway, they gave me a 16 oz cup of Everclear to start me off and I drank it because I didn't know any better. They waited a few minutes and when nothing happened they gave me another cup full of E&J.
That did it. I was tore up, but they didn't get the show they were hoping for. Apparently I'm a very boring drunk. I sat there the whole night thinking about life. Then I started writing out a theory I had that blinking somehow makes you heavier. I thought that the force of your eyelids moving downward made you heavier kinda like flapping your arms on a scale. That was it. No loud rants, no cursing, no stumbling around. I didn't even throw up or have a hangover the next day. I didn't like the way it made me feel so I wrote it off the same way I did cigarettes.
People always said I just needed to try something else and on a few occasions I did. I still didn't like it so for the last ten years I've pretty much shied away from drinking. And of course my friends laugh because there's always a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in the back of my fridge that I keep as an emergency "really shitty day" bottle. The fact that something with 5% alcohol does it for me just amuses them.
So anyway, I went to a Yelp Elite event a couple of weeks ago and as usual there was an open bar. One of the perks of being a Yelp superuser is that you get invited to all kinds of free events at new restaurants. It's like a movie critic being invited to a free screening, except this is free food and all you can drink liquor. I figured "what the hell" and decided to have a drink made my a real bartender instead of my wannabe friends. I had rum punch, which I'm gonna go out on a limb and say had rum in it.
The first mistake I made was drinking it like it was a wine cooler. As I gobbled up free food at the bar, I'd take another cup. I went through three in about four or five minutes. I couldn't taste any alcohol, so I assumed it was a watered down free version. A friend would later tell me that rum doesn't have a taste, but I figured that out on my own. Let's just say the picture in the Yelp photo album has me standing there grinning like the Cheshire Cat with a carnival hat on, a pair of red sunglasses and a scantly clad carnival dancer on each arm.
Then the other night I went to another event where they greeted you at the door with a large glass of wine. I took that and decided to drink it slow throughout the night, but I started choking on a piece of steak and ended up downing that. It was downhill from there because they had nothing but cocktails, beer and more wine. I drank three "somethings" and realized it was time to go when I found myself in a conversation with two women and a voice inside my head said "Look with your sober eye." I swear to God that I could feel my pupils spinning around like a camera lens and my new vision revealed to me that I wasn't talking to two women. One was a guy who kinda had the Prince androgynous thing going.
Time to go. Oh shit, I drove.
I walked around downtown for about an hour waiting for it to wear off. I started giving myself field sobriety tests in front of the Post Office Pavilion. Walk only on these bricks in a straight line. Z,Y,X,Q? No, not Q. I knew I was sober again when what I was doing began to feel stupid. Also, when the homeless people started smelling homeless again I knew I was ready to go.
I'm done with alcohol once and for all. There is another Yelp event next month, however.
That did it. I was tore up, but they didn't get the show they were hoping for. Apparently I'm a very boring drunk. I sat there the whole night thinking about life. Then I started writing out a theory I had that blinking somehow makes you heavier. I thought that the force of your eyelids moving downward made you heavier kinda like flapping your arms on a scale. That was it. No loud rants, no cursing, no stumbling around. I didn't even throw up or have a hangover the next day. I didn't like the way it made me feel so I wrote it off the same way I did cigarettes.
People always said I just needed to try something else and on a few occasions I did. I still didn't like it so for the last ten years I've pretty much shied away from drinking. And of course my friends laugh because there's always a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in the back of my fridge that I keep as an emergency "really shitty day" bottle. The fact that something with 5% alcohol does it for me just amuses them.
So anyway, I went to a Yelp Elite event a couple of weeks ago and as usual there was an open bar. One of the perks of being a Yelp superuser is that you get invited to all kinds of free events at new restaurants. It's like a movie critic being invited to a free screening, except this is free food and all you can drink liquor. I figured "what the hell" and decided to have a drink made my a real bartender instead of my wannabe friends. I had rum punch, which I'm gonna go out on a limb and say had rum in it.
The first mistake I made was drinking it like it was a wine cooler. As I gobbled up free food at the bar, I'd take another cup. I went through three in about four or five minutes. I couldn't taste any alcohol, so I assumed it was a watered down free version. A friend would later tell me that rum doesn't have a taste, but I figured that out on my own. Let's just say the picture in the Yelp photo album has me standing there grinning like the Cheshire Cat with a carnival hat on, a pair of red sunglasses and a scantly clad carnival dancer on each arm.
Then the other night I went to another event where they greeted you at the door with a large glass of wine. I took that and decided to drink it slow throughout the night, but I started choking on a piece of steak and ended up downing that. It was downhill from there because they had nothing but cocktails, beer and more wine. I drank three "somethings" and realized it was time to go when I found myself in a conversation with two women and a voice inside my head said "Look with your sober eye." I swear to God that I could feel my pupils spinning around like a camera lens and my new vision revealed to me that I wasn't talking to two women. One was a guy who kinda had the Prince androgynous thing going.
Time to go. Oh shit, I drove.
I walked around downtown for about an hour waiting for it to wear off. I started giving myself field sobriety tests in front of the Post Office Pavilion. Walk only on these bricks in a straight line. Z,Y,X,Q? No, not Q. I knew I was sober again when what I was doing began to feel stupid. Also, when the homeless people started smelling homeless again I knew I was ready to go.
I'm done with alcohol once and for all. There is another Yelp event next month, however.
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