Two entries in one day because I’m feeling ambitious. Also, at this point I’d take just about anything – POW torture, a summer at my grandma’s, reruns of Glee (cut the cord already, Ryan Murphy, it’s time) – over cramming for the Human Resource Management exam that stands between me and freedom aka In-N-Out burger.
Alternate entry title: “Apparently it would be too much to ask for normal flatmates”
I suppose when you’ve lived the ridiculous sitcom life I have, your expectations of normalcy should remain at an all-time low. Still, I couldn’t help but think hey, maybe housing will group me with like-minded, compatible people with whom I can form everlasting and totally functional friendships! But no, that would have been too easy.
To give you, the reader, a glimpse inside my living situation here in the city’s armpit of East London, no scenario better sums it up than last night’s. It was all very typical in the sense that, as usual, I was running late. In fact, I was pulling what I recently discovered is known as the “signature Arianna move” among my fellow study abroad students: acknowledging that there’s no possibility of ever reaching the pregame in time and consequently shoveling down drinks (… alone…) while you hastily get ready. Needless to say, this particular night’s makeup job wasn’t going to land me a Vogue contract anytime soon.
Another signature Arianna move: being physically unable to withstand more than two hours without feasting on a good 700 calories. I had only eaten one dinner that night so obviously I was on the brink of starvation. Beer in hand, I wandered over to our kitchen to cook up enough tortellini to feed a small South American country, which I’m sure is a totally normal pre-club snack. And there I see it: a lavish gold-and-brown box perched on the center of the kitchen counter.
It was pretty standard for our flat to abandon food they weren’t interested in and leave it for the rest to steal. I stay standing in the doorway and could only respond by gasping a little. The day I had been hopelessly dreaming of since orientation had finally arrived: someone had left out chocolate.
In less than a second, I was hovering over the box like it was some sort of artifact, wondering if a generous soul had donated Godivas to Pooley Flat 23 so that I could indeed die happy. Words don’t do my outrage justice as I tore off the lid to find no raspberry or espresso dark chocolate truffles (my personal favorites, for those of you interested in showering me with gifts) but instead……. some ugly ass belt. Ugh. Love is dead.
And as if that heartbreak wasn’t enough, I heard the heavily accented voice of one of my flatmates thunder out behind me. I couldn’t tell you his name for the life of me, but what I can tell you is that he’s of Middle Eastern descent, enjoys peppering in lines about how his family owns all of the world’s oil or something to that degree, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying to buy me off as his American bride.
Him: “Oh! You found my (ugly as sin) belt!”
Me: “Yeah… why do you have it out on the kitchen counter?”
And THEN he busts into some lengthy explanation of how – if I’m not aware – it’s a Hermès belt and that dear ol’ dad bought it for him but it’s simply not the belt he wanted. Then more comments about whether I’m familiar with this designer brand and I’m left thinking, “Right. But back to the original question at hand. Why on earth did you leave out this belt (that looks like it belongs to a private eye on food stamps) on the middle of the flat’s kitchen counter?”
He’s still talking. Now he’s complaining about how he wanted a “nicer” belt and this one seems cheap.
Him: “Hey, you can help me since you’re American.”
Me (thinking): “I’d rather be waterboarded.”
Me (saying): “Okay.”
Him: “I’m trying to figure out how much this would cost and don’t know the conversion rate of dollars to pounds.”
Fine, I’ll humor him. I say flatly: “It’s about .7” which really should be common freakin’ knowledge for a British university student whose primary hobby is talking loudly enough so that his flatmates are subjected to hearing about his oil inheritance… but I digress.
Him: “I see. So I know this belt is 726 pounds but I’m not sure what that would be in American money?”
It takes every ounce of will power I have not to roll my eyes and/or throw up all over Iran’s Donald Trump over here. Instead, I sip my beer and respond in my very best monotone (perfected from a summer at theater camp): “A little over a thousand dollars.” Gag, gag, gag.
And because apparently hearing his previous comments weren’t enough cruel and unusual punishment for me (God was feeling spiteful that day, I suppose), Trustfund Tom asks for my opinion of said belt and a consensus over whether he should demand something more opulent because, you know, “it didn’t cost much anyway.” Pocket change, really.
I have gifts in life but ‘patience with trust fund spawn sporting a bad case of Romney syndrome’ ain’t one of them. At this point, I was debating the pros and cons of stealing the belt just so I could put myself out of this misery and hang myself with it. Currently, the pros were outweighing the cons.
Me: “Look, the only reason I even noticed your box was because I thought it was chocolate. Chocolate gets me excited, not belts.”
(It’s true.)
Him: “Oh, would you like me to buy you some chocolate then? I can do that.”
It’s 10 pm on a Friday. I am drinking. I am scantily dressed. I am obviously about to go out. Why is this conversation happening?
Me:
I politely decline and excuse myself to the safe haven of my dorm room where I am free from bribery and unsightly Lacoste polos. There are a lot of things I will do for pasta, but everyone has to draw their line somewhere, and this debacle was giving me too many El Dorado Hills (my hometown, for those of you who don’t adequately stalk me) flashbacks for my liking. Like of the kid I sat next to in my junior year history class who enjoyed not-so-subtly laying his various credit cards out on his desk.
Even at age 16, I didn’t bother pretending to be nice. “Are we seriously doing this again?” I’d say. And then he’d act like it was a total accident and he completely didn’t realize his platinums were spread out for the whole wide world to see and it would all only reaffirm my belief that cats were better than boys. I realize gold digging is alive and well, but please tell me those tactics don’t actually work on girls my age (in the year 2013, no less). Kind of like how no one is actually attracted to those guys who feel the constant need to keep Facebook up to date with their workout regimen, or better yet, somehow segue any and all life events to none other than hitting the gym. “Finals sure do suck… but now that I burned 47182937261 calories and ran approximately a million miles I feel better!” I mean, I wasn’t interested before, but now that I know you lift we should totally date.
Or maybe that’s just me and the rest of the female population is into that sort of thing? Either way, for all of you power-hungry Kardashians-in-training out there, I’ve got a man for you in London – and I hear he’ll buy you chocolate.
The Art of Being Basic 