Sargent Pepper
World War III erupted over a pepper grinder as I was leaving Roommate Jeremy's apartment for almost the last time (I have to return to clean this weekend).
Said pepper grinder is a verrrrrrry nice cooking implement that I received as part of my uniform when I was bartendressing at Max & Erma's. Aside from the friends I made (Hi Kirstin! Hi Bonnie! Hi Everybody Else!), it really is the only good thing that came out of that job.
My year-and-a-half there gave me bunyons and a nervous tic whenever anyone says "chocolate chip cookies." Ya'll who've been to a Max & Erma's know what I'm talking about, and I won't spoil the surprise for the rest of you.
In any case, I brought this deluxe pepper grinder into Roommate Jeremy's household and fully expected to take it with me when I left. Fair is fair, I always say. Actually, I don't say that very often, but because of this incident I might start.
While Roommate Jeremy was sacked out on the couch watching the national dart championships on ESPN 47, as is his custom, I took one last look around the kitchen for any culinary miscellanea that I overlooked.
Eureka! The Max & Erma's pepper grinder. How could I forget that? Into the box it went.
Roommate Jeremy's dulled senses snapped to life. "What the fuck? You're taking the pepper grinder?"
"Yeah, J. It's mine."
"No, it's not," he deftly countered.
"Yes it is, J. It's from Max & Erma's. I have the carrying case that it came with. We'd clip it to our aprons and offer guests fresh–ground pepper for their salads and pasta. How could I make that up?"
"No way. That was here before you moved in."
"No, it wasn't, J. Do you want me to call up my old manager Dave to verify that this, in fact, is a Max & Erma's original pepper grinder, circa 2005? Because I will."
"You're not taking it. I use it all of the time."
"Well, go get a new one," I said.
"I don't want to." The argumentative skills of this boy are astounding.
"Okay, let's compromise. Removing the fact that this is legally my property, and you have absolutely no right to retain it, how about you keep the moist hot-pack that my Mom made out of rice and a tea towel, the really nice vegetable peeler and the brand new box of butter quarters that I just bought in exchange for the pepper grinder?" I thought it was an entirely generous offer.
"No way."
"Alright, I'll throw in the half-case of Charmin in my bathroom cabinet," I proposed.
I could see his mental scales weigh the economic points of this transaction. A $4 pepper grinder vs. approximately $6 worth of Charmin. I knew I had him.
"Fuck. Alright, but you have to empty it and leave the pepper corns with me," he said.
"Why? What the fuck for?" I asked puzzled.
"Because I am a mean son-of-a-bitch."
(Okay, okay. Roommate Jeremy didn't say that. But, it's the truth. He is, in fact, a mean son-of-a-bitch.)
Tell me the dumbest thing you and your roommate have ever fought about in the Comments section. The best story gets six chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven.
Said pepper grinder is a verrrrrrry nice cooking implement that I received as part of my uniform when I was bartendressing at Max & Erma's. Aside from the friends I made (Hi Kirstin! Hi Bonnie! Hi Everybody Else!), it really is the only good thing that came out of that job.
My year-and-a-half there gave me bunyons and a nervous tic whenever anyone says "chocolate chip cookies." Ya'll who've been to a Max & Erma's know what I'm talking about, and I won't spoil the surprise for the rest of you.
In any case, I brought this deluxe pepper grinder into Roommate Jeremy's household and fully expected to take it with me when I left. Fair is fair, I always say. Actually, I don't say that very often, but because of this incident I might start.
While Roommate Jeremy was sacked out on the couch watching the national dart championships on ESPN 47, as is his custom, I took one last look around the kitchen for any culinary miscellanea that I overlooked.
Eureka! The Max & Erma's pepper grinder. How could I forget that? Into the box it went.
Roommate Jeremy's dulled senses snapped to life. "What the fuck? You're taking the pepper grinder?"
"Yeah, J. It's mine."
"No, it's not," he deftly countered.
"Yes it is, J. It's from Max & Erma's. I have the carrying case that it came with. We'd clip it to our aprons and offer guests fresh–ground pepper for their salads and pasta. How could I make that up?"
"No way. That was here before you moved in."
"No, it wasn't, J. Do you want me to call up my old manager Dave to verify that this, in fact, is a Max & Erma's original pepper grinder, circa 2005? Because I will."
"You're not taking it. I use it all of the time."
"Well, go get a new one," I said.
"I don't want to." The argumentative skills of this boy are astounding.
"Okay, let's compromise. Removing the fact that this is legally my property, and you have absolutely no right to retain it, how about you keep the moist hot-pack that my Mom made out of rice and a tea towel, the really nice vegetable peeler and the brand new box of butter quarters that I just bought in exchange for the pepper grinder?" I thought it was an entirely generous offer.
"No way."
"Alright, I'll throw in the half-case of Charmin in my bathroom cabinet," I proposed.
I could see his mental scales weigh the economic points of this transaction. A $4 pepper grinder vs. approximately $6 worth of Charmin. I knew I had him.
"Fuck. Alright, but you have to empty it and leave the pepper corns with me," he said.
"Why? What the fuck for?" I asked puzzled.
"Because I am a mean son-of-a-bitch."
(Okay, okay. Roommate Jeremy didn't say that. But, it's the truth. He is, in fact, a mean son-of-a-bitch.)
Tell me the dumbest thing you and your roommate have ever fought about in the Comments section. The best story gets six chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven.
posted by 123Valerie @ Thursday, August 17, 2006
1 Comments:
At 9:43 AM ,
Effortlessly Average said...
I had a hot roommate in college. She liked to have her hot friends stay overnight after a hot night of drinking and whoring. Not that I was complaining. Except she decided that when they stayed over, I had to hit the streets and sleep somewhere else that night. Since I was allowed to live there rent free as long as I watched over the place while she and her fugly senior citizen boyfriend (who didn't live in the same city, or state even) took trips to Italy, she felt she had the right to kick me out every time her friends wanted a place to crash.
But then the fugly boyfriend (whose name was (is?) Charles, but he opted for the seemingly more hip name of "Chaz") started knocking boots with someone else and said hot roommate kicked him to the curb. Well, Chaz (or "Chuck" as I used to call him, just cuz he didn't like it) decided he wasn't going to pay for the upscale apartment or Corvette or furs, jewels, limos, et al that hot now-ex-girlfriend enjoyed while they were dating. Suddenly my hot chick roommate needed funds, so I was now going to have to pay 1/2 the expenses. No problem; that place did wonders for my image at school. I mean, what 21 year old guy can claim to live in a cool pad with top of the line everything, having playboy material women dropping by at all hours of the day and night, but not having to spend a dime besides?
the problem? Hot roommate still wanted to be able to kick me out when her hot friends needed a place to stay. As a financial contributor, I refused and she relented. But it was common for me to come home to find one, two, or sometimes three half naked women passed out in my bed. Three made it snug, but with only one or two there was still plenty of room for me. Ah, good times; good times.
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