Ssh.

Hey, y'all.

Long time, no post.  I've been busy, I suppose, but mostly I didn't have much to blog about with my roommate in school for the semester.  Let me tell you, though, now that he's on summer vacation I'll have an arsenal of verbal attack.

So what's new with us? Well, recently, my roommate has taken to sleeping in the living room.  Why?  Apparently my cat (who hates my roommate) peed on his bed because he hadn't fed them while I was out of town for a few days.  Instead of cleaning it up, feeding the cats, and keeping his bedroom door closed while he's away or asleep, he though it would be a better idea to relocate to the couch, and, of course, leave his bedroom door open still.  For how long?  "Till I think the cats won't go in my room anymore," says he.  My roommate must be an animal behavioral psychologist when I'm not looking.

This of course opens up a whole series of problems, the main one being that I am always the first awake and I enjoy my time in the common area of the house cooking, listening to music, and responding to emails and phone calls for school and work.  The cats like being with me outside of my bedroom where they can look out the back door and I can get shit done away from my usual work area. 

Today I went to make myself some lunch when I heard, "Can you keep it down? I'm sleeping." Beg your pardon, sir, I understand it's the wee hours of the afternoon.  You keep me up playing video games with an entire attitude of teenagers shouting "FAGGOT" and "PUSSY" in my house at 2 or 3 in the morning while sucking a big one at Wii games meant for children, but I really ought to be a little more considerate and sensitive to your problems.

Anyway, I accidentally dropped 4 pans and let the kettle whistle for about half a minute after I told him I'd be quieter.  Woops...

Gettin'er done.

Today my roommate and I were off from work, and it was the first nice day in almost a week. If you're not from Texas, you just don't understand how miserable we become after more than 2 consecutive days without sunlight, and all week it was raining and cold and awful.

Not today, though. Today was gorgeous: 63 and sunny. I spent most of the day re-watching Lost and not drinking (till now, surprisingly) and we both cleaned and sorted books on the bookshelf and other roommatey things. Late in the afternoon, he thought it would be a nice day to fire up the grill and cook up some steaks. This sounded mighty tasty, so we spent the next hour and a half watching Pee Wee's Big Adventure and not grilling, because I started drinking and he started doing other things...

Around 6 PM, I had faced the fact that grilling wasn't going to happen because the sun was going down and the temperature was dropping. Honestly at that point I just wanted some mac 'n' cheese, but Wade went outside and "fired up the grill."

By the way, he's never grilled anything in his life. While the common opinion around these parts is that men do the grilling and women do the cooking, he turned it, like so many things, on its ass. It took him nearly half an hour to get a fire started. About 15 minutes later, the briquettes were finally hot enough to throw some meat on them. By this time, it was nearly 7. It was cold, and there was no sunlight. Our complex isn't extremely well-lit, either, so he was out there in a jacket with my Maglite "barbeque-ing". In the image to the left, I would like you to notice those roaring flames. What you don't see are his sandals. Totes ridick, bra.

Finally, though, we ate. Giant 13-ounce steaks with potatoes and green beans did enough to shut me up. Now that I've got the itis and some gin in me, I might make it to bed at a decent hour.

EDIT: My roommate has informed me he has indeed grilled something in his life. While the answer to "What has he grilled?" is pretty lame, I'll leave that one up to your imagination. He also tells me he wasn't wearing sandals, but he totally was.

Can you dig it, man?

I love food.  I love food almost as much as I love science fiction, which I love even more than my own mother, who loves science fiction more than me, too.  We have matching Star Trek communicators, but that's another story.

I love food.  I love to cook it.  I love to smell it.  I love to eat it.  My favorite foods are "waste" meats, like eyeballs and tripe, and broccoli.  My roommate is not nearly as adventurous with food as I am.  He sustains himself primarily on eggs, chips and salsa, and sandwich meats.  I think this is mostly because he can't cook.  I do cook for the two of us on occasion, but as he is the buyer of the groceries and I am the cooker of the food, I find there's very little I can do with such limited ingredients.  Most of the time, I just dream about mac 'n' cheese when I eat a plain pastrami sandwich.

On a related side note (Don't worry, there's a segue.) I'm kind of stuck in the 70s.  Long, unkempt hair, solid-colored clothing, understated shoes, the periodic emergence of a leather jacket, usually to go to shows.  It's kind of ridiculous, and I never really think about it, but lately I've had a problem with "advancements in science".  I am more concerned  about contracting cancer from post-Green Revolution technologies than I am about being mugged downtown when I'm alone at night.

This naivete extends fully into my anti-microwave oven philosophy.  I refuse to own one, and my roommate thinks that's completely bizarre.   I guess I have to forgive him because he was born in the 90s, but I think it's preposterous to think a microwave oven is a kitchen necessity.  In fact, I believe that's why my roommate eats such a limited variety of foods, because he can't cook without nuking something.  I have only recently showed him the magic of a conventional oven, but he still insists on getting take-out choriqueso at restaurants whose waiters I like and complaining about his inability to re-heat it at home later.  Sorry, dude. I don't want anything to do with something that produces heat without heat.  Just don't get the queso.