Surviving Suburbia# 3 Roommate mishaps

During these economic and troubling times one finds financial stability and security wherever one may. For me this means a true to life, bread and butter suburbanite roommate, raised in the town of Mayberry…Mayweather…Blueberry or some other generically named desperate housewives suburb. It was an insidiously tiresome search for the perfect roommate. After all I needed someone who could match my nocturnal habits and standards of cleanliness and hygiene. So naturally I selectively picked the first person to respond to my needs…henceforth know as roommate.

 I often here whispers of complaints that children raised in the city grow up entirely too fast. Their knowledge outstrips their chronological age and outpaces their emotional maturity. Well I would hazard that perhaps a little extra wisdom among the young would make for more prudent and decision worthy adults. Perhaps our suburbanite counterparts can do with a little maturity beyond their years or at the very least within their years.

 'You may find yourself asking, Marina why are you writing this?' Well, you would also find yourself asking, if you were to ever visit my home--' Marina where the hell are your oven knobs?' Here is the answer to both.

 

It is 1 am. I am awakened by the alarming smell of burning plastic. Intrigued I walk to the kitchen to find my roommate, ashen white and running a cold whatever onto what appears to be your normal Wal-Mart 99cent green bowl. He looks confused and scared but mostly guilty. A  strong aroma appears to be emanating from said green bowl.

 

Myself: Hey, Chef Boyardee did you try to warm up the nacho cheese in that bowl on the stove? I ask

Roommate: No off course not, He answers.....Whew I’m relieved.

Roommate: I tried doing it in the oven, he says nonplussed.

Myself: What, thinking I must have misheard what he just said.

Roommate: I did it in the oven he calmly restates.

Myself: Wait! Why ? What?

Sure enough I open the oven and there on my beautiful steel rack is the distinct residue of melted green plastic. Furthermore, I being of solid Russian stock keep as my ancestors did, our 3 cooking utensils in the oven. To be removed with necessary oven use and replaced when done (its quite the ingenious space saver). Now… with only 3 possible cookware it is not hard to remember that they are kept in the oven and keep track of them. But dear readership (at least the one person I know) wouldn’t you know like some Salvador Dali grotesqueness there sat the rubber coated frying pan slowly dripping grey rubber into the quickly solidifying green goop.

Myself: What the hell were you thinking?

Roommate (defensively): Well doesn’t plastic have like a melting point of 500 or something (actuality 280). I didn’t think it would melt, he said

Myself: What the hell is wrong with you, this isn’t a chem class, what are you saying about boiling points, what the hell is matter with you?

Roommate:  I didn’t know it would melt, I thought it could stand up to heat.

Myself: This isn’t military grade plastic…this is wal-mart…if you put hot water in it, melts. Why did you think this was ok? I asked again.

Roommate: I didn’t know

Myself: No silver foil in the microwave, no plastic in the oven look both ways before you cross the street and if you pee in the wind you will get peed on. Those are the sorts of facts in life you learn early in life.

Roommate: ….hmmmm….

Myself: You could have burned the entire apartment down

Roommate: …..eh……

 

Strongly resisting the urge to put my foot up his ass and asking him to tell me the melting point of that, I think of what comes next. I find myself staring into the eyes of a 30+ something year old man (granted he is from the suburbs so clearly that must put him at the capacity of a 7 year old) who just tried to melt his nacho cheese but putting it in a plastic bowl in the oven. How does one properly reprimand a legal comprehending adult for such an action? I did the only thing I could think off. I took the knobs of the stove and took away his big boy cooking privileges.

 

The kicker it wasn’t even microwavable safe dish. The kick in the pants, this guy was a firefighter. The kick in the nuts, I ended up having to wash the g-d damned melted bowl this afternoon.

Surviving Suburbia: #2

Hailing from NY where a 10-block walk is not a matter of much intrigue let alone blog worthy. Romping the dangerous streets of modern suburbia turned out to be an entirely different adventure.  For one I believe I crossed at least 3 to 4 different borders. As I waited by a light, a man across the street coughed and sneezed. And I had to wonder whether this gentleman in Yorkville(burb#2) just sprayed me with aerosolized Swine Flu, even though I was all the way across the street in Westmont(my humble abode/burb#1). 

As I was making my trek into Downers Grove (burb#3) I was approached by a car. A sporty yellow convertible pulled up close and slowed to match my 3mph walk. I boldly strode on, ignoring the motioning gentleman that I was able to see out of my one good peripheral vision eye.  I quickened my pace and he surged to match my now 4.2mph quickstep. He rolled his window down. I turned around and was about to shout ‘Mr. I don’t want any candy, I already have a Twix in my pocket and my daddy is Arnold Schwarzenegger’.  Then I realized that I wasn’t seven and this gentleman was not after my youth and innocence. So the beginnings of my Misteeeer screech turned into a ‘may I help you’. 

As it turned out he wanted to help me. He though I was lost. I quickly dispelled him of that notion.

 “I am exploring” I said.

“Really…on foot?” He questioned.

“Why yes I am from NY, I enjoy walking, “ I replied.

“Well okay…. enjoy your exploration, Franz Ferdinand” he replied wryly.

“Aah sir, I assuming you mean to say Ferdinand Magellan the explorer and not the mediocre Scottish rock band” I corrected him.

He sped off. Lesson #1 strangers don’t like being corrected on their 13^th century explorers.  I walked on. I was stopped three additional times and asked if I needed help or if I was lost. The last one was a 2008 Bentley. I actually considered feigning distress to this reasonably handsome gentleman in his unreasonably expensive car.  But then I told myself ‘Marina why settle for last years model car and complimentary trust fund baby. Hold out I’m sure a 2009 Bentley will cruise by any time.’ Lesson #2, know when to settle.

Finally I reached my destination…the famous Oak Park, home of 8700 inhabitants and the famous lawn chair incident. I’m not exactly sure what grand revelation I was expecting at the end of this yellow brick road, but it wasn’t there. Hark! No angels sang for me not even a squawking pigeon. Instead I saw the exact same cookie cutter layout as I had passed in the last 3 suburbs. Walgreens, Dunkins and generic overpriced Market to my right. To my left Jewel Osco (supermarket), Hobby Lobby, Home Depot and Wal-Mart complete with a Starbucks and a distinctly not NY pizza place claiming to sell NY pizza. Straight ahead were dealerships as far as the eye can see. And behind me the exact same township replica. But nowhere in site was there another human being. 

Surviving Suburbia: #1

I went for a walk today or maybe it was yesterday…I can’t be sure (50 points to the existentialist who can tell me where I nicked the opening from). It was warm but not hot the bank sign read 72°F.  It wasn’t a BOFA, WAMU, CITI or some other four letter word that inflates interest rates just because they can. No, this was 3/5ths Commercial Bank. I suppose in these hard economic times its not financially savvy to run a full 5/5ths bank.

The kindly 3/5^th told me it was 72°F as well as to have a nice day and drive carefully. I silently thanked the bank gods for their public service reminder. And much like little red riding hood sans the red hoodie and basket I set to find grandmas house.  Armed with a granola bar, and a brand spanking new compass application for my phone, I boldly stepped where no suburbanite tread before. The STREETS.