Today I put in my notice that I would be leaving my internship. I am moving on to bigger and better things… another unpaid internship. Before you ask, I can answer you. Yes, I always imagined not getting paid for the work I do. Some may see this as a lateral move as opposed to a step up, but I can assure you that I also have no idea whether it is a lateral move or a step up. But what I do know is that I am making moves, and that is important no matter where you are. I was dangerously close to developing career blood clots at my old internship so I had to shake my career legs out.
With my new internship comes a new driving route. And with that comes several new grey hairs and an unimaginable amount of U-turns. I was asked to drive a script out to a woman’s apartment and after roughly 15 U-turns within two blocks of my destination (the numbers on buildings are so small these days) I parked, thinking I had survived all the annoying, time wasting obstacles I would encounter on this trip. I was wrong. The woman I was to give the script to was not home, and after circling the building three times (on foot) to make sure all exits were sealed, I was finally let into the main office. Where I found myself in the middle of a drama between two elderly female tenants of the complex. They both wanted to help me. I was so thankful, until I realized their help was the annoying, time wasting obstacle I had hoped to avoid.
While one tried to open each individually locked mailbox with her own mail key, the other whispered to me about her fellow tenant’s rude husband. And the fact that the office was never open. I told her she was preaching to the choir, that I also needed that office to be open so that I could leave this script in good hands, hoping to hint that I had places to be and speed up this process a bit. But she had already abandoned that topic of conversation and was on to telling me about how her toilet didn’t work. I smiled politely and said things like, “well that’s never good” and just as I had almost completely turned my body around to make my escape, the other tenant had made her way down the line of mailboxes and was standing in front of me. She looked at me, confused, and said, "what just happened?" I told her my predicament again and she responded by trying to open each locked mailbox with her own mailbox key. Again.
I felt like I was in an episode of the twilight zone. I looked back at the woman with the broken toilet and she took my eye contact as time to tell me about her days in the beauty salon business. I began to wonder if all exits were sealed because this was a retirement community, was I allowed to be here? Finally when 'tenant with a broken toilet' told me that 'tenant with the mailbox key' took to flashing strangers I walked swiftly to the doors. I was, after all, faster than these women so my exit was much smoother than I expected it to be.
I have already learned something crucial through this internship that I had always wondered about. Mailbox keys do actually only open your mailbox. No cutting corners there.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Trick or Treating with Bigfoot
We are just creeping past the recovery period of Halloween, and with the haze of the past weekend fading and the brightness of a new weekend approaching, this is as good a time as any to reflect on the recent holiday. I’m sure this will come as a relief to my parents that the only thing I dislike about Halloween is the unwritten acceptability of dressing like a, for lack of a better word, prostitute.
My friend recently let out a sigh of relief when she said that now that we were no longer in college we didn’t have to alter (usually already slutty) costumes to be slutty(ier). This is true, with that diploma came the strength to wear full pants. To be honest, my inability to dress like my peers is not completely by choice. I have very large feet, feet that have trouble finding heels. It’s really hard to dress slutty when you are trying to find men’s shoes that can pass as unisex. If you think you have a problem finding white knee high boots for your go-go dancer costume, try finding them in “huge ass”, as that is my shoe size.
One of the trickiest parts of Halloween is the inevitable misplacement of parts of your costume throughout the night. One minute you’re dressed as a Lumber Jill then, after losing your hunting hat and fake ax, all of a sudden you’re Melissa Etheridge. You have to have a backup costume idea that is closely tied to what you are wearing in case the above scenario happens to you. I always have a backup explanation in my head, and this year was no different. I went as Emma Stone from Easy A, I wore a black top, black leggings, black sunglasses and a red sticky-backed A on my chest. I knew that should I lose my red sticky-backed A, (which I did, only to later find it stuck to my friend's purse) I could easily tell people I was dressed as nighttime. Or stage help.
While I thought losing my red A (the only real hint to my costume) would be the biggest challenge of the night, I was wrong. Both explaining that my costume was Easy A and not ETA, (how does one even dress as Estimated Time of Arrival?) and telling people that my name is not Hanna, Manna or Monica were both equally harder than keeping track of my red A. It is SO hard to correct people in a loud club. And wracking my brain for hand gestures to explain the correct pronunciation of my name, which usually becomes me making circles in the air like a wind turbine to suggest that one more turn of the mental mouse wheel in their brain and they've got it, is exhausting. Then having to come up with hand gestures for Easy A, not ETA, is down right impossible. It did not take long before I gave up and accepted whatever muffled name anyone heard during our introduction. Yes, yes my name is Paula. And I'm dressed as a measurement of time.
While I am a strong believer in Halloween being the perfect opportunity for psychopaths to hit the town, innocently dressed as Billy Mays, I do love this holiday. And despite my feet’s efforts to change my mind, I will not yield! Happy Halloween (four days late…)
My friend recently let out a sigh of relief when she said that now that we were no longer in college we didn’t have to alter (usually already slutty) costumes to be slutty(ier). This is true, with that diploma came the strength to wear full pants. To be honest, my inability to dress like my peers is not completely by choice. I have very large feet, feet that have trouble finding heels. It’s really hard to dress slutty when you are trying to find men’s shoes that can pass as unisex. If you think you have a problem finding white knee high boots for your go-go dancer costume, try finding them in “huge ass”, as that is my shoe size.
One of the trickiest parts of Halloween is the inevitable misplacement of parts of your costume throughout the night. One minute you’re dressed as a Lumber Jill then, after losing your hunting hat and fake ax, all of a sudden you’re Melissa Etheridge. You have to have a backup costume idea that is closely tied to what you are wearing in case the above scenario happens to you. I always have a backup explanation in my head, and this year was no different. I went as Emma Stone from Easy A, I wore a black top, black leggings, black sunglasses and a red sticky-backed A on my chest. I knew that should I lose my red sticky-backed A, (which I did, only to later find it stuck to my friend's purse) I could easily tell people I was dressed as nighttime. Or stage help.
While I thought losing my red A (the only real hint to my costume) would be the biggest challenge of the night, I was wrong. Both explaining that my costume was Easy A and not ETA, (how does one even dress as Estimated Time of Arrival?) and telling people that my name is not Hanna, Manna or Monica were both equally harder than keeping track of my red A. It is SO hard to correct people in a loud club. And wracking my brain for hand gestures to explain the correct pronunciation of my name, which usually becomes me making circles in the air like a wind turbine to suggest that one more turn of the mental mouse wheel in their brain and they've got it, is exhausting. Then having to come up with hand gestures for Easy A, not ETA, is down right impossible. It did not take long before I gave up and accepted whatever muffled name anyone heard during our introduction. Yes, yes my name is Paula. And I'm dressed as a measurement of time.
While I am a strong believer in Halloween being the perfect opportunity for psychopaths to hit the town, innocently dressed as Billy Mays, I do love this holiday. And despite my feet’s efforts to change my mind, I will not yield! Happy Halloween (four days late…)
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Making Mov(ie)s in LA
In college I wrote a short story, which was a huge success in my 14 person creative writing class. A few years later and now my director brother, Eli, has decided to make it into a short film while he is in film school. We are teaming up as a dynamic brother/sister duo to tackle this project and this weekend we held auditions.
Despite this being a student film, I wanted to make everything as professional as I could. We held the auditions at Eli’s school, The Art Institute, and were given a room used by the culinary department for the two-day casting. This made my first order of professionalism to be taking down the posters of how to slice meat. It would have been uncomfortable for the actors to stand in front of a backdrop of sliced animal products, as if they themselves are a piece of meat. Which is exactly what they were: a vulnerable carcass waiting for us to tear them and their acting apart. Just kidding, that didn’t happen. My highly overused declaration of “that was awesome!” made sure everyone’s confidence got a little boost.
The next order of professionalism was to take notes during the auditions. This was abandoned upon reviewing my notes after three auditions and seeing, “purple shirt”, “she’s from Seattle and that’s ALWAYS cool”, and a doodle of a brick wall that took up the majority of the top right corner of the paper, as the only things I had written down. I decided to go a different route, which became staring at the actors internally critiquing every line of the script, the very words I had written, to the point that I asked myself why I ever thought I could write a memo let alone a script.
Professionalism all together was forgotten by the end of the day when I threw up the “303” hand sign, (a gang sign of confused, rich, white kids in Colorado) to our last actress as she entered the room. I knew she was from Colorado but wasn’t sure if she was going to be familiar with the sign. What can I tell ya, this business is a gamble.
Auditions were fun. It was interesting being the one that people were trying to get a “job” from instead of the other way around. I was able to turn my back on my usual game of masking my resentment for not having a job by enthusiastically interacting with complete strangers.
This is the first time Eli and I have worked on a movie together in years. We’ve come a long way since the candid moments caught on tape of me publicly undermining his artistic vision or blatantly showing my unhappiness with the shoot through unpredictable facial expressions while filming. Unfortunately he’s a much bigger deal now so I can’t undermine him at all times. Although I probably still will. I will post a link to this film when it’s all finished and you can all laugh, cry or forgo the link completely and continue to follow me through written word alone. How primal of you.
Despite this being a student film, I wanted to make everything as professional as I could. We held the auditions at Eli’s school, The Art Institute, and were given a room used by the culinary department for the two-day casting. This made my first order of professionalism to be taking down the posters of how to slice meat. It would have been uncomfortable for the actors to stand in front of a backdrop of sliced animal products, as if they themselves are a piece of meat. Which is exactly what they were: a vulnerable carcass waiting for us to tear them and their acting apart. Just kidding, that didn’t happen. My highly overused declaration of “that was awesome!” made sure everyone’s confidence got a little boost.
The next order of professionalism was to take notes during the auditions. This was abandoned upon reviewing my notes after three auditions and seeing, “purple shirt”, “she’s from Seattle and that’s ALWAYS cool”, and a doodle of a brick wall that took up the majority of the top right corner of the paper, as the only things I had written down. I decided to go a different route, which became staring at the actors internally critiquing every line of the script, the very words I had written, to the point that I asked myself why I ever thought I could write a memo let alone a script.
Professionalism all together was forgotten by the end of the day when I threw up the “303” hand sign, (a gang sign of confused, rich, white kids in Colorado) to our last actress as she entered the room. I knew she was from Colorado but wasn’t sure if she was going to be familiar with the sign. What can I tell ya, this business is a gamble.
Auditions were fun. It was interesting being the one that people were trying to get a “job” from instead of the other way around. I was able to turn my back on my usual game of masking my resentment for not having a job by enthusiastically interacting with complete strangers.
This is the first time Eli and I have worked on a movie together in years. We’ve come a long way since the candid moments caught on tape of me publicly undermining his artistic vision or blatantly showing my unhappiness with the shoot through unpredictable facial expressions while filming. Unfortunately he’s a much bigger deal now so I can’t undermine him at all times. Although I probably still will. I will post a link to this film when it’s all finished and you can all laugh, cry or forgo the link completely and continue to follow me through written word alone. How primal of you.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Celebrity Treatment
When you move to a new city you have to start everything from scratch. That means new grocery stores (what is this Vons nonsense and where is Safeway?), new easily accessible restaurants (hello Pollo Loco, goodbye Noodles and Company) and new routes to find all of these things.
I dislike having to circle around a grocery store several times before I establish the layout. Who doesn’t put bread by the deli?? I dislike hearing my body tell me it only wants Noodles and Company’s macaroni and cheese but having to settle for the Loco Value Menu. And getting to these places is a separate story (perhaps even blog post) entirely. I have done U-turns, casually turned around in driveways and even parked my car to pursue finding my destination on foot, all to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. This almost always results in me being either 15 minutes late, 25 minutes early or profusely sweating by the time I arrive.
But one of the biggest challenges I face here in LA is finding a new hair salon. Now, I have quite possibly the easiest hair to cut. It dries in roughly 4 minutes, saving my stylist from dealing with the peskiness of thick haired clients and there is no curl to tame. Working with my hair is a lot like cutting perfectly cooked spaghetti.
But no matter how clear the directions to cutting my hair are; there is still anxiety that arises with a new salon. I found a salon close to my place through google maps (how else does one find a salon in a new city?) and the fear that I experienced for the well being and future of my hair took years off my life. The stylist told me he was going to give me the “Beverly Hills Cut” and because I am embracing all that comes with this city, I agreed. But when he pulled all of my hair forward into a ponytail at my forehead like a unicorn, I began to wonder if the “Beverly Hills Cut” was a hazing tactic to all new LA residents, an initiation of sorts.
As I watched him cut at my hair, I gripped the armrests of the chair and reminded myself that he is a professional. I could tell by his laminated certificate jammed into the corner of the mirror. When he commented on how quiet I was being, I tried to explain, but I was too paralyzed with fear to muster anything more than a smile. He took that as a blessing to continue and I sat for several more minutes, unsure of what my hair would look like when this ponytail in front of my face came down.
Luckily for me, and all of you, this story has a happy ending. My hair looked great. I don’t think it looked “Beverly Hills” great, it looked a lot like “Boulder” great, but I was just pleased to have hair at all. I strutted my stuff out of the salon knowing that when people asked me what kind of cut my hair was, I could confidently say, “Beverly Hills”. Unfortunately that's not a thing. If anyone had asked, in the first 22 years of my life, "what kind of cut is that?" I would have answered, "hair" and walked away. But now that I have an answer, I can't wait to be asked! Ah, California, you are so different.
I dislike having to circle around a grocery store several times before I establish the layout. Who doesn’t put bread by the deli?? I dislike hearing my body tell me it only wants Noodles and Company’s macaroni and cheese but having to settle for the Loco Value Menu. And getting to these places is a separate story (perhaps even blog post) entirely. I have done U-turns, casually turned around in driveways and even parked my car to pursue finding my destination on foot, all to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. This almost always results in me being either 15 minutes late, 25 minutes early or profusely sweating by the time I arrive.
But one of the biggest challenges I face here in LA is finding a new hair salon. Now, I have quite possibly the easiest hair to cut. It dries in roughly 4 minutes, saving my stylist from dealing with the peskiness of thick haired clients and there is no curl to tame. Working with my hair is a lot like cutting perfectly cooked spaghetti.
But no matter how clear the directions to cutting my hair are; there is still anxiety that arises with a new salon. I found a salon close to my place through google maps (how else does one find a salon in a new city?) and the fear that I experienced for the well being and future of my hair took years off my life. The stylist told me he was going to give me the “Beverly Hills Cut” and because I am embracing all that comes with this city, I agreed. But when he pulled all of my hair forward into a ponytail at my forehead like a unicorn, I began to wonder if the “Beverly Hills Cut” was a hazing tactic to all new LA residents, an initiation of sorts.
As I watched him cut at my hair, I gripped the armrests of the chair and reminded myself that he is a professional. I could tell by his laminated certificate jammed into the corner of the mirror. When he commented on how quiet I was being, I tried to explain, but I was too paralyzed with fear to muster anything more than a smile. He took that as a blessing to continue and I sat for several more minutes, unsure of what my hair would look like when this ponytail in front of my face came down.
Luckily for me, and all of you, this story has a happy ending. My hair looked great. I don’t think it looked “Beverly Hills” great, it looked a lot like “Boulder” great, but I was just pleased to have hair at all. I strutted my stuff out of the salon knowing that when people asked me what kind of cut my hair was, I could confidently say, “Beverly Hills”. Unfortunately that's not a thing. If anyone had asked, in the first 22 years of my life, "what kind of cut is that?" I would have answered, "hair" and walked away. But now that I have an answer, I can't wait to be asked! Ah, California, you are so different.
Monday, October 18, 2010
You Know Who You Look Like...
I like to pride myself on my ability to find similarities between my friends and celebrities. This is really tricky because it is not always flattering to tell someone they look like Stephanie Pratt (a rehab graduate and former reality TV star). I often find myself assuring her that I meant post-plastic surgery, or pre-plastic surgery depending on the celebrity and/or friend…
Some people just don’t understand that the comparison means that you look like that celebrity; you don’t act like that celebrity. Just because I say you look like Angelina Jolie does not mean you’re a homewrecker who kisses her brother at the Oscars, take that generous compliment and go with it. Just because I say you look like Carrot Top it does not mean you make bad jokes, it just means you have red hair.
Just as I was getting sick of the negative backlash that came with my celebrity comparisons, I was on the receiving end of such a comparison and had an eye opening experience. I was compared to this "Freaks and Geeks" star:
Millie Kentner. A religious Mathlete, famous for her rendition of “Jesus is Just Alright With Me”. I was shocked by this comparison. I was nothing like Millie in high school, I was far too busy being a heathen and becoming famous for my rendition, “Cheap Vodka is Just Alright With Me” to be a Mathlete or perfect a flawless center part.
But as I continued to watch the show I could not help but see the comparison clearly. I did look like Millie (when I was 11). And I realized: celebrity comparisons are hilarious. As long as the resemblance is there in the slightest and you aren’t being compared to a member of the opposite sex (unless it’s Justin Beiber, because let’s be honest that comparison really works both ways) no one should be offended by a doppleganger.
I will not deny myself, or others, of my talents! Thank you family member, who was around during my awkward Millie phase, for pointing out this resemblance. For without you I might not have realized how important celebrity comparisons are to comedy.
Some people just don’t understand that the comparison means that you look like that celebrity; you don’t act like that celebrity. Just because I say you look like Angelina Jolie does not mean you’re a homewrecker who kisses her brother at the Oscars, take that generous compliment and go with it. Just because I say you look like Carrot Top it does not mean you make bad jokes, it just means you have red hair.
Just as I was getting sick of the negative backlash that came with my celebrity comparisons, I was on the receiving end of such a comparison and had an eye opening experience. I was compared to this "Freaks and Geeks" star:
Millie Kentner. A religious Mathlete, famous for her rendition of “Jesus is Just Alright With Me”. I was shocked by this comparison. I was nothing like Millie in high school, I was far too busy being a heathen and becoming famous for my rendition, “Cheap Vodka is Just Alright With Me” to be a Mathlete or perfect a flawless center part.
But as I continued to watch the show I could not help but see the comparison clearly. I did look like Millie (when I was 11). And I realized: celebrity comparisons are hilarious. As long as the resemblance is there in the slightest and you aren’t being compared to a member of the opposite sex (unless it’s Justin Beiber, because let’s be honest that comparison really works both ways) no one should be offended by a doppleganger.
I will not deny myself, or others, of my talents! Thank you family member, who was around during my awkward Millie phase, for pointing out this resemblance. For without you I might not have realized how important celebrity comparisons are to comedy.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
It's A Dangerous Job But Somebody's Gotta Do It
Trying to get started in the entertainment industry is stressful. Because this industry is all about connections I’m terrified to mess up and ruin a contact. I have a deep-rooted fear that one screw up and I’m done with Hollywood. Or rather, Hollywood is done with me. So because I am terrified to make one mistake, I begin second guessing everything I come across. I recently went to pick up lunch for my boss and managed to add levels of stress to the build-your-own salad bar that should be reserved for bomb detonations.
He asked for “mixed greens” and “romaine” and I confidently recognized romaine lettuce and put it in the box. But when I came across lettuce labeled “spring mix” but no “mixed greens” label in sight, I panicked. I asked myself if “spring mix” and “mixed greens” were the same. Of course they are. I reached towards the tongs, but pulled back. Are they? I decided to make the rest of the salad and let the lettuce situation simmer in my mind for a few minutes. I soon came across the same issue with blue cheese and then again with hearts of palm. On any other day, in any other environment, I would be able to identify blue cheese and hearts of palm without a problem. But all of a sudden with the pressure and stress of my future bearing down on me, my mind decides to kick my ass.
I took a few deep breaths and went with my gut feeling. I put the blue cheese, hearts of palm and spring mix on top of the 1 ladle of ranch dressing specified by my boss. I closed the salad self-assuredly to go back to the office and stand in front of my boss in tortured silence to see if the salad is approved. When he didn’t see the salad dressing hidden under the ingredients that ruined my life for 45 minutes, I assured him it was there. But strained my memory to make sure I had, indeed, put the dressing on and wasn’t hallucinating during my stress-induced panic at the grocery store.
This does not just happen with salads, but since moving to Los Angeles, I do tend to over-think to the extreme during basic human activities. Such as: getting gas, putting a stamp on an envelope, and opening a gate. The most ridiculous part about my internal freak-outs is that there has never been a repercussion or sign of a repercussion that would lead me to act this way. My boss has been nothing but nice to me yet I find myself taking each task as if it could end the world. But on the other hand, maybe it is because I treat every task as if it could end the world that my boss has never yelled at me. Or maybe he has yelled at me and I have blocked it out as another way of dealing with my stress-induced panic. I guess we’ll never know……
He asked for “mixed greens” and “romaine” and I confidently recognized romaine lettuce and put it in the box. But when I came across lettuce labeled “spring mix” but no “mixed greens” label in sight, I panicked. I asked myself if “spring mix” and “mixed greens” were the same. Of course they are. I reached towards the tongs, but pulled back. Are they? I decided to make the rest of the salad and let the lettuce situation simmer in my mind for a few minutes. I soon came across the same issue with blue cheese and then again with hearts of palm. On any other day, in any other environment, I would be able to identify blue cheese and hearts of palm without a problem. But all of a sudden with the pressure and stress of my future bearing down on me, my mind decides to kick my ass.
I took a few deep breaths and went with my gut feeling. I put the blue cheese, hearts of palm and spring mix on top of the 1 ladle of ranch dressing specified by my boss. I closed the salad self-assuredly to go back to the office and stand in front of my boss in tortured silence to see if the salad is approved. When he didn’t see the salad dressing hidden under the ingredients that ruined my life for 45 minutes, I assured him it was there. But strained my memory to make sure I had, indeed, put the dressing on and wasn’t hallucinating during my stress-induced panic at the grocery store.
This does not just happen with salads, but since moving to Los Angeles, I do tend to over-think to the extreme during basic human activities. Such as: getting gas, putting a stamp on an envelope, and opening a gate. The most ridiculous part about my internal freak-outs is that there has never been a repercussion or sign of a repercussion that would lead me to act this way. My boss has been nothing but nice to me yet I find myself taking each task as if it could end the world. But on the other hand, maybe it is because I treat every task as if it could end the world that my boss has never yelled at me. Or maybe he has yelled at me and I have blocked it out as another way of dealing with my stress-induced panic. I guess we’ll never know……
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Playing The Mature Part
When I moved into my one bedroom apartment in August there were several signs that my apartment complex housed a lot of college students; its close proximity to a city college, the model rooms furnished with two twin beds (despite being a complex of all one bedroom apartments), and the overwhelming number of popular skateboarding brand bumper stickers. It became all too clear that I was living in a dorm. At first I was excited about reliving my freshman year, I look back fondly on the unhealthy and borderline disgusting life I had in the dorms, but when my living situation started teetering towards fraternity life I was less than pleased.
One day I went to my car in the parking lot and found a seagull standing atop my car eating something. I walked towards my car hoping to scare it off to eat somewhere else and after a struggle and failure to lift its meal with it, the seagull flew away. As I came closer to my car, I found its food to be a half human eaten/half seagull eaten piece of fried chicken. Considering the seagull could not lift the chicken away with him in flight I came to the conclusion that some trickster had put the fried chicken on top of my car. I drove away with the fried chicken still on the roof hoping it would fall off with a quick turn, completely oblivious to the possibility of it streaking down my front windshield with one sudden stop. Thankfully this did not happen, but the last thing I wanted was Double Down grease all over my car so I took my ice scraper (useful in all climates) to push it off. In days following the fried chicken incident, I have seen a large rock on top of a Mini Cooper and three pizza boxes stacked on top of a Ford Explorer. I’m either dealing with fraternity-like pranks or a very strong and stealth seagull.
Doing laundry in the dorms freshman year was one of the worst possible experiences. If you were one minute late to change your load you would find some perv handling your delicates by throwing them wherever they pleased and leaving it to collect the mildew smell of wet laundry. Because I had forgotten about this frustration and because I thought I lived in an apartment complex not a dorm, I was surprised when someone stole some of my clothes out of the laundry room a few weeks ago. It is hard to pinpoint potential suspects because there was no pattern to their crime. They stole a pair of basketball shorts, a tank top, one sock and a Colorado Football shirt with my sorority’s letters on it (okay, the sock could have been a mistake on my part). I don’t understand why someone would want my sorority football shirt, I’m fairly certain I’m the only Colorado Alpha Phi in my apartment complex. And if I’m not I would smack that sister right in the mouth for stealing my t-shirt. Because that’s what sisters do.
Then there is the blaring music from my neighbors two doors down. I WOULD be able to hear each lyric clearly if it wasn’t for that neighbor’s broken Spanish accent trying to sing along. The only thing worse than having to hear someone else’s music is hearing them botch the lyrics to American classics. “American Pie” didn’t originally have a mariachi feel to it, did it?
With all of these adjustments of living in an apartment complex (I’ve only lived in houses previously), I can’t help but feel like an RA in this community. The boys living above me should not be playing Guitar Hero at 2am, some of us have to get up early for work. And by work I do mean free labor. And the girls living next to me should switch their reversible doormat from “partying” to “studying” a little more often—I’m becoming concerned about their grades.
One day I went to my car in the parking lot and found a seagull standing atop my car eating something. I walked towards my car hoping to scare it off to eat somewhere else and after a struggle and failure to lift its meal with it, the seagull flew away. As I came closer to my car, I found its food to be a half human eaten/half seagull eaten piece of fried chicken. Considering the seagull could not lift the chicken away with him in flight I came to the conclusion that some trickster had put the fried chicken on top of my car. I drove away with the fried chicken still on the roof hoping it would fall off with a quick turn, completely oblivious to the possibility of it streaking down my front windshield with one sudden stop. Thankfully this did not happen, but the last thing I wanted was Double Down grease all over my car so I took my ice scraper (useful in all climates) to push it off. In days following the fried chicken incident, I have seen a large rock on top of a Mini Cooper and three pizza boxes stacked on top of a Ford Explorer. I’m either dealing with fraternity-like pranks or a very strong and stealth seagull.
Doing laundry in the dorms freshman year was one of the worst possible experiences. If you were one minute late to change your load you would find some perv handling your delicates by throwing them wherever they pleased and leaving it to collect the mildew smell of wet laundry. Because I had forgotten about this frustration and because I thought I lived in an apartment complex not a dorm, I was surprised when someone stole some of my clothes out of the laundry room a few weeks ago. It is hard to pinpoint potential suspects because there was no pattern to their crime. They stole a pair of basketball shorts, a tank top, one sock and a Colorado Football shirt with my sorority’s letters on it (okay, the sock could have been a mistake on my part). I don’t understand why someone would want my sorority football shirt, I’m fairly certain I’m the only Colorado Alpha Phi in my apartment complex. And if I’m not I would smack that sister right in the mouth for stealing my t-shirt. Because that’s what sisters do.
Then there is the blaring music from my neighbors two doors down. I WOULD be able to hear each lyric clearly if it wasn’t for that neighbor’s broken Spanish accent trying to sing along. The only thing worse than having to hear someone else’s music is hearing them botch the lyrics to American classics. “American Pie” didn’t originally have a mariachi feel to it, did it?
With all of these adjustments of living in an apartment complex (I’ve only lived in houses previously), I can’t help but feel like an RA in this community. The boys living above me should not be playing Guitar Hero at 2am, some of us have to get up early for work. And by work I do mean free labor. And the girls living next to me should switch their reversible doormat from “partying” to “studying” a little more often—I’m becoming concerned about their grades.
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