Different Roomie...

Okay, so in the past 12 months I have had two different roommates. I don't think I can, in the limited space of this blog, express how really, truly, completely different my two roommates are from each other.

Jen and Leah.

Jen is short and blonde. Leah is tall and brunette. Jen is quiet until you get to know her. Leah is never quiet. Jen- mild. Leah- spicy. And while Jen and I would spend hours extolling the benefits of early-intervention, and play-therapy in speech pathology, Leah and I spend hours telling our "rude bag-boy at Walmart" stories. See? Very different.

Well, about the time that my little tiny, cute roommate moved out, and my tall gorgeous roommate moved in, another person moved in next door. Another FIVE persons, I should say. Another five MALE persons, of college age and decidedly raucous personality. I actually didn't notice that much about my new neighbors (except for the fact that their couch was nicer than mine...), until they forced themselves into my attention.

They like rap. Which is great. I like rap. Every now and then I pretend I'm totally gangsta' while I'm driving (to the hilarity of those around me) and I roll down my windows and pretend to know how to beat-box and say, "what up, homey?" But I don't possess the speaker system to listen to rap the way these individuals do. When they first turned on their $2,300 stereo, I thought we were having another earthquake. The water in my glass was vibrating. The glasses on the counter-top were rattling, and my TV was shaking.

Every night, we experience a small, very loud, earthquake on S**** Drive. And I was frustrated, but helpless.

Leah was not so helpless. She yelled at the wall. (They failed to hear her because of the $2,300 speakers mentioned above.) She shook her fist in vehemence. (They failed to see that because of the wall.) And she called the police.

I was appalled. Horrified. And totally and completely sure that I was going to be murdered in my bed by my neighbors because of my roommate's audacity. I begged her not to. I said, "Wait ten more minutes, maybe they'll stop."

She remained unmoved.

The police came. The music stopped. Peace reigned. And I humbly thanked my roommate for stopping the earthquake while at the same time preserving my life.

But last night the earthquake started again. Unfazed, my roommate rose from her comfy chair, strode across the room and banged her fist on the wall. Hard. Repeatedly. Until the music stopped. She turned to me with a smile, "It stopped!" but I was sitting on the couch, trying to hide under my blanket, scared and glowering.

"Great! Now they know who called the police on them. I'm going to be murdered in my bed... at the very least my car will probably be saran-wrapped and egged."

So, if you don't see me on Sunday, it's probably because the worst has happened. I want red roses at my funeral.

Or maybe just some help pealing gooey saran-wrap off my car...