December 2008 Archives

DJ Nizzy Nice: The time I moved in with an Indian man to prove that I wasn't a racist. Passive-aggressive notes ensued.

The punk drummer: I moved into this Williamsburg, Brooklyn with a man 15 years my senior. Joe was a drummer, but luckily didn't play at home. The kitchen was zebra striped, the living room was red with a giant chandelier draped in feather boas, and my room was purple. Luckily Joe and I got along very well, and he would regularly share tidbits of general knowledge. One fact that I've never forgotten is that brazil nuts are also known as "nigger toes."

My ex-boyfriend: While changing the sheets, once I found a stash of drugs under the mattress. Eviction (his) quickly ensued.

The French student: My first foray back into living with other people happened in Dublin last year. I lived with Bertie for a year. Bertie was miserable living in Ireland and stayed in his room 90% of the time. The other 10% of the time I berated him about never putting dishes away or cleaning the house. Bertie finally took up with another French student and had his girlfriend living in our house three or four nights a week and never introduced me to her. In retrospect, I feel sorry for Bertie. However, I also sort of feel like it's his own fault for not being very sound. He wasn't very fun.

Gooballs: Lived with me for a month while I packed for London. I was introduced to the fellow through a friend. The night that he moved in he told me, "I used to have a drug problem but I don't anymore, like. I learned that drugs are like people. If you don't respect them, they will fuck you over." Because he was from Cork, even semi-frightening statements such this still were amusing due to his outrageous accent. He broke a window and invited a lot of seedy characters over during his short tenure.

The Italians: My most recent flatmates. Sabrina and Lucio were "just friends." Within a week of me moving in, one of my friends asked me what was up with my flatmates. "What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Uh, they're obviously boning," she informed me.

As it turns out, this was true and they seemed to get off on the illicitness of the situation and used my presence as a prop for foreplay. When I would come home I would often find them on the loveseat (the only piece of furniture in the living room) making out. When I entered the room, they would try and pretend they hadn't been sucking face, and stare fixedly at the TV while Lucio adjusted his pants. I found this very uncomfortable-making.

Later, they evicted me for "cooking too much Asian food." The next day I told Sabrina that I thought her habit of falling asleep with her light on and bedroom door open in the hopes that Lucio would stumble in on his way to his room, was pathetic. I should note that said stumbling-in only occurred every few weeks, but Sabrina kept her vigil up on a nightly basis. Lucio later threatened to report this incident to the police as well as having me prosecuted for libel. I helpfully tried to explain that it wasn't libel since I had only said it. Now I suppose since I've written it on my blog it's actually libel. I'm sure this will please the Italians.

Unfortunately, what my flatmate doesn't know when he started this faux-legal battle is that I have long dreamed of being a fake lawyer. In my New Year's resolutions for 2008 I stated that I would like to make a career out of writing pseudo-legal documents. While not a career, arguing with my flatmate via email is still incredibly satisfying. There's nothing that quite wakes me up in the morning like a whack of rage.

I know that getting irritated with him is just giving in to trolling, but it's hard not when someone tries to beat me at my own game. It also irritates me when people make such shameless attempts to sound smart, I nearly take it as an attack on my own intelligence. He must think I'm stupid, I think to myself. He can't possibly believe that I would fall for this shit. This just ratchets up my fury because in addition to attempting to evict me and threatening to sue me, he clearly thinks I'm a moron.

Just since beginning this post I've received another email from the flatmate. This in response, I guess, to my saying that I'd likely stay in the flat for the next ten weeks and wait for a court order to leave just to make him miserable. Just to be generous, I'll provide you with a sample:

Again, let me be clear that the remarks you made on our presumed attempt to unfairly overcharge you are unsubstantiated, factually incorrect and libelous. In saying this, may I remind you that this country has a stricter stance on what is considered libelous than you may be used to in the USA. Since you are understandably keen on your legal rights, I suggest that in the future you carefully consider those of others, who may be far less gracious than me in responding to similar accusations.

Current possible responses: LOL, unsubscribe

The other night I made one of my favorite Korean dishes, ojinguh bokkeum, spicy stir-fried squid. I made it with not only squid, but mussels and shrimp as well, just for a laugh. The next night, soon after I polished off the leftovers, my flatmate came home for a chat. After about an hour of inane small-talk he finally got to the point. I'm being asked to leave my flat because my cooking stinks. As in, actually smells too bad for my Italian flatmates to handle. "We just didn't realize that you'd cook so much Asian food," he said lamely. "When we were advertising the flat we had decided that we weren't going to let any Pakistanis in for that reason, the curry, you know."

Interestingly enough, I had let some Chinese cabbage go to waste last week because I thought making my own kim chi might be sort of inconsiderate. Now that they've decided to evict me, though, I'm going to put a few prawns in the lining of their mattresses while they are gone for Christmas. We'll see who stinks then.

When I lived in New York I used to live above a pizza joint called 'Little Frankie's.' Ever the lazy slob, I'd order delivery from upstairs and sit around playing video games while the poor delivery man walked my pizza up four flights of stairs. I ate a lot of Little Frankie's during this period of my life. I think it's likely that I was also clinically depressed, but the pizza certainly did help temper that.

Little Frankie's pizzas were amazing. Very thin crusts and simple topping were the key. After I left New York and went to California I found a few places that had good pizzas. Dopo on Piedmont Ave in Oakland was one. But the wait for Dopo was ridiculous, and so were the prices. So I started making my own pizza. Not by my own hand, mind you. I bought fresh pizza dough at Trader Joe's and despite it already being made for me, spent a good long time wrestling it into a circular formation and onto a pizza pan. I also ate a lot of pizza during this period of my life.

But then when I moved to Dublin, I gave up on pizza. No one would deliver gorgeous thin pizzas, and no one wanted to sell me ready-made dough. I thought my pizza life had ended. But recently, being inspired by the grocery delivery services available around here, I decided to give it a go. Somehow, having yeast delivered just made the whole thing more manageable and I decided to make pizza from scratch. I'd been hearing and resenting Fran's casual "oh, we have homemade pizza twice a week at least" stories for years, so I figured I might as well make her recipe.

I was remarkably pleased with myself. The crust was thin but not mushy, my guest was delighted and I was full and smug. Pizza? Yeah, I made you.

Fran and Dan's pizza dough recipe, adapted from the Cook's Illustrated Best Recipe bible: Fastest Pizza Dough