We sat down for a twist on our usual "dorm dinner" the other night. Anna had pleasantly laid out an array of Mediterranean hors'dourves to lure us to the always delicious table. The menu boasted tzatziki, pita chips, hummus, some chicken/bean stuff, fresh strawberries, and a delicious salad. As I elevated one more pita chip smothered in tzatziki to my mouth, one of the roomies blurted out, "I'm so proud of you for eating all this! Look, you guys, she LIKES it!"
In my mind, I'm one of the least picky eaters ever. My taste limitations only exclude three things: olives, green pepper, cashews. Seriously. That's it. Unfortunately, only I will ever believe this statement.
The dorm has grown accustomed to my 'preferences'. (1) I've been lactose intolerant my entire life. It's pretty much miserable because I suffer from an addiction to cheese and ice cream. So no dairy for me without my trusty lactase enzyme pills. (2) Two-point-five years ago, I chose to adopt a vegetarian diet, suffering a touch of PTSD from academic research on factory farming, a past roommate's bout with food poisoning (from chicken), and the horrendous ozone layer of our suffocating planet. (3) Since high school, most of my stress has led to psychosomatic symptoms in the form of headaches and stomach issues. Luckily, though I still fail to manage my stress levels, I do know what foods make this condition worse or better at the time of infliction. (4) I hate hate hate germs, especially on my food. I won't eat something that has touched my {or anyone else's} fingers, dirty silverware, or potentially contaminated surfaces.
Sure, I'm a little neurotic, particular, and stubborn, but I really do LOVE food and so a 'picky eater', I consider myself not. I will taste most things once, and most things I taste I like. My poor deprived tastebuds have just been assigned to the wrong tongue--in a body that doesn't agree with their flavorful preferences.
--Claire
Showing posts with label Claire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Claire. Show all posts
February 25, 2011
February 19, 2011
The Roommate That Never Sleeps
That's me. I sleep, but only when half of the world is already awake, and this fascinates the dorm--especially Anna (see the igloo). You see, NY nightcrawlers don't make it out until about 11:30pm, so I have properly adjusted my sleeping schedule. Last night was one of the most unfortunate of my late-night experiences.
Heading out at 11:45pm, Ruby reminded me to grab my keys as I rushed out the door. Good thing! I thought, it sure would stink to be locked out with no doorman!
I met my friend from college out in Murray Hill for a couple drinks, but my presumed 1 hour excursion too-quickly turned into 4. Hating myself on the train ride back to the Upper West, I double-checked my purse to see that I had my essentials--smartphone, ipod, keys. Yep, all there. Except the keys I had were for my home in Tennessee. Being post-2am, I knew doorman would be off-duty and entrance to my apartment building would be locked. I started to panic and texted/called everyone I knew who might possibly allow me to crash their couch for the night. I considered a hotel on the corner and a hostel uptown. Nothing. I got into my apartment's foyer and knocked like crazy, no longer caring who would be awakened. Nothing. I turned on my phone to call Anna's cell only to have it flash the dead battery sign and shut itself off. I slumped down in the corner in my dress, heels, and sweater, turned High School Musical on my iPod, and proceeded to nap until the next doorman would arrive for his shift (6am--it was only 4:15am at this point).
Around 5am, I was startled by both the front and foyer doors opening and I begged to be let inside. Looking like a hungover homeless wild child (though I was NONE of these things), he questioned if I even lived here and reluctantly opened the door. I rang the doorbell to the dorm for about 2 minutes before Anna sleepily staggered to the locked door and graciously welcomed me home, no questions asked, and even relating a quick statement that she had been locked out before. The city is scary when you have no keys, no phone, and no daylight. This will be a last for me.
--Claire
Heading out at 11:45pm, Ruby reminded me to grab my keys as I rushed out the door. Good thing! I thought, it sure would stink to be locked out with no doorman!
I met my friend from college out in Murray Hill for a couple drinks, but my presumed 1 hour excursion too-quickly turned into 4. Hating myself on the train ride back to the Upper West, I double-checked my purse to see that I had my essentials--smartphone, ipod, keys. Yep, all there. Except the keys I had were for my home in Tennessee. Being post-2am, I knew doorman would be off-duty and entrance to my apartment building would be locked. I started to panic and texted/called everyone I knew who might possibly allow me to crash their couch for the night. I considered a hotel on the corner and a hostel uptown. Nothing. I got into my apartment's foyer and knocked like crazy, no longer caring who would be awakened. Nothing. I turned on my phone to call Anna's cell only to have it flash the dead battery sign and shut itself off. I slumped down in the corner in my dress, heels, and sweater, turned High School Musical on my iPod, and proceeded to nap until the next doorman would arrive for his shift (6am--it was only 4:15am at this point).
Around 5am, I was startled by both the front and foyer doors opening and I begged to be let inside. Looking like a hungover homeless wild child (though I was NONE of these things), he questioned if I even lived here and reluctantly opened the door. I rang the doorbell to the dorm for about 2 minutes before Anna sleepily staggered to the locked door and graciously welcomed me home, no questions asked, and even relating a quick statement that she had been locked out before. The city is scary when you have no keys, no phone, and no daylight. This will be a last for me.
--Claire
My Three Moms
My friends are jealous of me--and it's not because i have a hot boyfriend (which i do...), or that i'm in fashion school, or that i have 24/7 access to the best shopping/entertainment/celebrity sightings in the country. It's because I live with Anna, Meredith, and Ruby.
When asked where I live, I excitedly inform new acquaintances of the three wonderful ladies in the dorm. They wonder how I could have anything in common with three women older than my parents. How could I participate in NYC nightlife? How could I ever have guests over? What do we talk about? Do I have to censor my language, outfits, and music/movie choices? I must hide in my huge room all the time.
Well, truth is, this is ideal for me. Sure, I have some mommy issues--leaving my best friend, caregiver, and over-indulger (in all the best ways!) back home--so maybe these three are stand-ins? In a way. Meredith, Anna, and Ruby cook delicious meals and generously share them with me. They make sure I'm safe when I'm going out or coming in. They have taken care of me when I came down with a cold. And they teach me how to be more independent, optimistic, and--most importantly--a better cook!
There are a few key differences though, from my biological parents.
(1) I can drop some choice words [when necessary] without having my mouth washed out with soap.
(2) We have girl talk with a level of openness that could ruin a daughter's perception of her mother and vice versa.
(3) We go through wine unashamedly.
So when asked if living here is like the restraint of living with parents post-adolescence, I quickly retort, and the questioner eagerly decides that they want in. I spend as much time as I can with my roomies, feasting on life-lessons and enjoying witty banter, heart-to-hearts, and social commentary. There's a lot to be said for living drama-free, and that is only guaranteed if there's no chance of friend/boyfriend/job/school infringement, as insured by our adequate age gap. I can't imagine a better place for transitioning into adulthood.
--Claire
When asked where I live, I excitedly inform new acquaintances of the three wonderful ladies in the dorm. They wonder how I could have anything in common with three women older than my parents. How could I participate in NYC nightlife? How could I ever have guests over? What do we talk about? Do I have to censor my language, outfits, and music/movie choices? I must hide in my huge room all the time.
Well, truth is, this is ideal for me. Sure, I have some mommy issues--leaving my best friend, caregiver, and over-indulger (in all the best ways!) back home--so maybe these three are stand-ins? In a way. Meredith, Anna, and Ruby cook delicious meals and generously share them with me. They make sure I'm safe when I'm going out or coming in. They have taken care of me when I came down with a cold. And they teach me how to be more independent, optimistic, and--most importantly--a better cook!
There are a few key differences though, from my biological parents.
(1) I can drop some choice words [when necessary] without having my mouth washed out with soap.
(2) We have girl talk with a level of openness that could ruin a daughter's perception of her mother and vice versa.
(3) We go through wine unashamedly.
So when asked if living here is like the restraint of living with parents post-adolescence, I quickly retort, and the questioner eagerly decides that they want in. I spend as much time as I can with my roomies, feasting on life-lessons and enjoying witty banter, heart-to-hearts, and social commentary. There's a lot to be said for living drama-free, and that is only guaranteed if there's no chance of friend/boyfriend/job/school infringement, as insured by our adequate age gap. I can't imagine a better place for transitioning into adulthood.
--Claire
February 1, 2011
Claire
Stiffed again. I could not wait tables any longer. The obvious solution? Move to New York City and attend fashion school. Six months after making this decision, I served my last table and began scouring through craigslist for a place to live.
Two bedroom converted. Bedroom is 7’ x 9’, no windows, but charming early century walk-up. Full-size refrigerator in the kitchen. Unfurnished. We share hallway coat closet for clothing storage.
$ too much.
Mature 29-yr-old female looking for quiet, responsible roommate. Must be away during business hours as I work from home. No late nights. No guests. No kitchen privileges. Cat-lover is a must.
$ yeah right.
FREE RENT! Male seeks female roommate for severely discounted or free rent in midtown studio. Compensated by you occasionally walking around in your underwear, no physical relationship, I just want to look.
$ rape is not rent.
$ rape is not rent.
Animal-loving widow seeks responsible roommate to occupy 12’ x 15’ upper west side bedroom. Private bathroom, windows, furniture, walk-in closet, utilities, internet + cable included. I have two lovable pets, a large dog and a cat. Pre-war doorman building 1 block from central park.
$ yes please!
Though I contacted over 100 of these postings (excluding the underwear perv), the choice was clear. Anna, the craigslist “widow”, returned my email, drilled my references, and finally called me. I had made the cut—just 10 days before I was to haul all my belongings 831 miles from the quaint southern charm of Chattanooga, Tennessee to big city bustle.
--Claire
--Claire
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