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.