caPiTalIZe ThIS

I will freely admit that I am a grammar snob. I get angry with people for using their when they mean there. Run-on sentences with no discernible punctuation make me want to punch kittens. My biggest pet peeve, however, seems to be the random capitalization people use when referring to technology - particularly Apple products.

Here's a little lesson on the right way to spell something and the way to spell something if you want to get shot by a bunch of elitist creatives:

'iDevices'

This is simple, people. the 'i' is always lower case, the next-letter is upper-case, the remainder of the word is generally lower-case. There are, of course, exceptions, but I promise not to maim you if you write out Macbook instead of MacBook (primarily because I worked for the company for three years and I still get it wrong half the time). For those of you who like examples (class, spell it after me):

• iPad, iPhone, iPod, iMac
• MacBook, MacBook Pro, Mac Pro (again, no one will get hurt for getting this set wrong)

The following are incorrect:

• Iphone, Ipad, IPOD, iPHONE, IPad, or (my personal favorite) iphOne
• iTouch - wait - that doesn't look right, does it? All these other handheld products are spelled i-p-(fill in the blank). It's an iPod Touch people -iTouch is an app used by perverts and massage therapists

The computer and its operating system

1. I am typing this on a Mac, not a MAC. I worked for Apple, not APPLE. 
2. The 'X' in OS X represents a Roman Numeral - not a letter. The proper pronunciation is OS Ten. Get it right or I'm going to start telling people that I admire the writing of Malcolm 10. 
3. If asked what operating system you are running, the answer is pronounced Ten Point (Something). You are not expected to remember which cat goes with which number. It is generally beneficial if you know whether the apple in the top left corner is blue or black - but no one's going to condemn you to the remedial technology closet if you aren't entirely sure. 

The Retail Store

You are trekking to the Apple Store. It is not the Mac Store, it's not the iPod store, it's not the iPhone store. Most of this, I am prepared to let slip. As long as you know how to identify an Apple store (Hint: you will not see the word 'Apple' spelled out anywhere) and you have some level of awareness that several types of devices are sold, I really don't give a damn what you call it. 

Case in point: My childhood best friend and I would go to "The Gum Store" - primarily because the only thing she was allowed to get there when she was very young was gum. When I started going with her - we had graduated well beyond gum to several types of candy and other items - it was still "The Gum Store." Though it is worthy of note that we were 6 years old at the time. 

Perhaps the reason this angers me so much is the overwhelming number of people who couldn't find the store at which I spent great deals of time. A giant stainless-steel structure featuring a seven foot tall white apple tends to stick out in a strip mall of connected stores featuring banners with store names/logos/etc. I could certainly understand the issue on sunny days - a white apple on a silver background tends to blend in. But really people - REALLY? You couldn't find it because you didn't see the word 'Apple' anywhere? You're angry because you searched for 'MAC store' and ended up at the makeup company on the other side of the mall? I'm pretty sure all sympathy went out the window when you blamed me for not telling you that the store opened . . . 3.5 years ago . . . 

Hardware, et al.

Here's the deal - provided you don't yell at me because your memory is full or your computer keeps telling you that you're running out of space - you can learn as much or as little about hardware as you like. I don't expect you to know the difference between RAM (Random Access Memory) and a Hard Drive. I don't expect you to know that your computer's memory has nothing to do with the amount of music you just deleted from your machine. There are a great number of subjects for which I have incredibly limited knowledge (ironically, networking terms are beyond me. I know the functional differences between routers, switches, and modems, but I can't remember them half the time). I suppose a general principle is that you can be willing to learn as much or as little about any of these subjects as you feel compelled to do - but if you yell at me for anything or expect me to fix it just because your cousin's ex-boyfriend talked to my brother once in high school, you're dead to me.

-All thE bEst

beCCa - (I capitalized the wrong part, didn't i?)

Food Preferences- or why my chicken is cuter than yours . . .

*Names have been changed in the interest of confidentiality (and my ability to maintain Facebook friendships)

As we all know my relationship with food leaves much to be desired, I try to reserve judgement about other people's food choices - particularly when I have friends who will do the judging for me. 

I have friends, relatives, and acquaintances with incredibly odd food allergies, preferences, and practices. My friend John* is deathly allergic to milk and dairy products. Additionally, he keeps kosher, so it's always an adventure to find a restaurant that can feed him and avoid killing him (preferably both, though concessions must occasionally be made). I have another friend - Elizabeth*- who is highly allergic to mushrooms. Heidi - whose name I won't change because I believe she will want credit where credit is due - merely finds mushrooms offensive - though she will clarify that this should not discourage others from eating them in her presence. Yet others of my friends are lactose intolerant - some pathologically so.  I also have friends who keep varying degrees of kosher, which is always an interesting thing to figure out when choosing a restaurant. Some of my friends eat no animal products. Others will eat fish, but not chicken or beef. Some simply avoid red meat. I've lost track of who will die eating (fill in the blank) and who wouldn't be caught dead eating (hey - another blank) - so I try to pick neutral locations and figure people will speak up if an issue should arise. Every once in a while, though, needs clash and cause the following situations to unfold.

Last night, Heidi and I went over to Melissa's* house for a girl's night in. After putting our individually made pizzas in the oven, we settled in for some conversation. Melissa shared a story about her trip to Amish country several years prior. A bunch of people went to the general store, but Melissa "didn't want to buy Amish stuff" and chose to entertain herself on the large field adjoining the store. There was a calf roaming through the grass and it came rather close to Melissa, so she pet the calf. At some point, a friend came out and snapped a picture of Melissa petting said calf, much to the dismay of the Amish boy who accidentally ended up in the corner of the picture. It was from this point on, Melissa said, that she could no longer eat hamburgers because she would always feel like she was eating the cute Amish calf. Heidi  - who speaks her mind without provocation - inquired as to whether chickens were an acceptable food choice and Melissa nodded her head as if this were an obvious fact.

We frolicked through a trip down memory lane to an evening when we (I may have been there - who knows) were having dinner with some other friends. Heidi mentioned to Jessica* that the steak was rather tasty. Jessica shook her head, indicating that she did not eat from this section, so Heidi looked at some other dishes. Several people who consider themselves to be vegetarians (myself included) will eat fish - so Heidi pointed out the sea bass. Jessica then looked excitedly at the menu and ordered a chicken dish of some sort. The remainder of the conversation went something like this:

Heidi: But I thought you didn't eat meat?

Jessica: No, I just don't eat beef.

Heidi: But you eat chicken . . 

Jessica: Yes

Heidi: Why?

Jessica: Chickens are ugly.

Heidi: I see. So you're a cute-arian?

Jessica: What?

Heidi: You won't eat animals that are cute.

Jessica: Hmm, I suppose so.

Which brings us back to last night's conversation. Heidi, a mathematician, likes things to be clearly laid out and defined, so she pressed on. 

Heidi: Are lambs cute? 

Melissa: Yes. 

H: Shrimp?

M: So not cute.

H: Ok, are pigs cute? 

M: Yes. 

H: Have you seen a real pig before? You realize Babe is a cartoon, right?

M: Baby pigs are cute.

H: I see. So you won't eat animals that were, at one point, cute?

M: No, I just don't eat animals that are cute.

H: What if there is a particularly ugly cow?

M: What?!

H: An ugly, deformed cow. That's not cute - would you eat that?

M: What? No!

H: Actually, that's probably a good choice. There's probably something wrong with that cow that makes it deformed - so it wouldn't be good to eat it anyway. 

H: But little chicks are cute (hand gestures indicating chirping birds) peep, peep, peep.

M: Chickens are not cute.

H: Again, little furry chicks are cute (hand gestures) peep, peep.

Seeing that this wasn't going anywhere - in addition to the fact that we were all in absolute hysterics - we let that particular topic go - if only for a moment.

Heidi then pointed out another friend she'd met at a dinner (we'll call him 'Frederico') who also had interesting theories about acceptable food choices. This particular friend would not eat anything that walked. Heidi, again, needing clarification, pressed on. 

Heidi: Ok, so chickens?

Frederico: Walk, yes.

H: Ok. What about ducks?

F: No - I won't eat ducks.

H; But they don't really walk, they waddle.

F: Yeah, I still say they walk.

H: Ok, so no crab or lobster?

F: Lobster is ok.

H: But crabs and lobsters walk.

F: No, they sort of scuttle . . .

H: Well then chickens don't really walk either - they kind of bob side to side and veer in odd directions. 

F: (blank stare)

H: Ok, so walking and waddling are cute and scuttling is annoying and punishable by death. I think I get it.

As none of us can leave well enough alone, we (Heidi, Melissa, and I) dug deeper into the realm of weird food practices. I have a second cousin Sarah*, for example, who only eats raw foods. Melissa looked puzzled, so Heidi explained that the theory is that cooking food strips it of all its nutrients, thereby making it useless and disdainful (or something like that). Of course an argument ensued as to whether this theory had any validity, how many nutrients are actually removed during the cooking process, and where one would find a raw-food eating hippy commune in the midwest (Yes - there is such a place). We then spoke about fruitarians - trust me that I'm not making this up. Heidi - the consummate realist - wondered how such a diet was sustainable. Would one need to wait by an apple tree and hope something would fall? What if someone were to run into a tree, thereby causing the fruit to fall off the tree? Would this be murder? How can it truly be determined that fruit fell off the tree and was not pushed, plucked, or otherwise manipulated in some way? Is there a governing body?

Melissa quickly tired of this conversation and made a statement she felt we could all agree on. She declared that she made sure not to buy any makeup or skin care products tested on animals. Taking my cue from Heidi, I prolonged my agony and asked if it was ok if the products were tested on chickens.

And you all thought I was weird.

Paging Dr. Freud . . .

My dreams have officially become bizarre. Not in the trippy/LSD/flying kind of way. In the - I can't believe I actually had a dream about a coffee mug- kind of way. If you know any good dream analysts - have at it - I would definitely like to know the subconscious significance of Q-Tips.

Some highlights:

• I have two polar bear coffee mugs that I got as a housewarming present five years ago. I rather like them, though their shape requires particular positioning in the dishwasher. I had a dream the other night that I had two more of them and was trying to figure out how to fit them in that particular load of dishes. 
• I'm picking up a repair at the Apple Store when I see the top shelves lined with boxes of Q-Tips® (Yes - I did take the time to find the ® symbol). I don't remember the rationale for them, but they were giving them away freely. I noted that I could have used that before buying the box I'd purchased recently.
• When working at Apple, there was a day where I needed a blank CD and we were out of them. I'd requested more from the ICS. That night, I dreamed that the spools had come in and brought them back to the Genius Room to use. The following day, I went to that same spot in the cage and realized the spool of CDs existed only in my dream.  
• The other night, I had a dream that one of my coworkers told me to go to another for tax advice. He's one of the guys who designs Happy Meal Toys. No - he does not moonlight at H&R Block.
• At some point I had a dream that I ran into several of my users while waiting to pick up a car at Enterprise. 

If we go way back in time:

• Every night from the ages of 4-5, I had a dream that a witch killed my father. My father killed the witch at some point when I was 5, thus ending the dreams. There was a notable one, however, that involved a rice cake bridge. The witch ate away at the bridge while I was hanging off of it. I think my dad was dead in a car (also on the rice cake bridge). To the best of my knowledge, no Benadryl was involved.

All that said, my dreams are mundane enough that I often wake up, go about my day, then realize something I've seen, someone I've talked to, or something I've done only occurred in my dream. If I talk to you about something that is completely plausible but didn't happen - I ask that you play along.

None of the Shriers have cable TV . . .

For those of you who know my family (or at least knew us circa 1999) - this is unfathomable. We bonded over TV. We watched TV as a family. Our nightly viewing of Politically Incorrect (at which time we would argue over the inane responses of the guest that evening) was sacrosanct. There's a video of my brother at two years old saying he wants to go over to Nondie's (my grandmother's) house to watch MTV. Any one of us could recite the Primetime lineup of the major networks in our sleep. The advent of TiVo only served to make this addiction worse. For freak's sake - I was paid and got college credit for watching television - How could any of us LIVE without cable??

Though it may be hard to believe, I have not had cable in my apartment for a full year. Perhaps I should rephrase - I have not paid for cable in my apartment for a year. Realistically, I've been without cable since July, and, much like my computer, I don't particularly miss it. Please don't take this as an invitation to take my computer away from me for more than a week - such things will get you shot and killed.

My reliance on television probably ended ten years ago when I went to college and didn't have cable (or television) in my dorm room. Mind you, this changed by sophomore year, but I'd already been weaned off, so it wasn't as dramatic a transition. There were certainly shows that I watched religiously (The West Wing, Will and Grace, Once and Again), and was known to watch Friends in syndication as much as possible, but my life did not revolve around TV. That is, of course, until my Junior year of college. My cushy liberal arts education allowed me to do classes on The Cosby Show and The West Wing, which required reliable access to Nick at Nite and Bravo. I used the cable in the dorms until I lived in off-campus housing senior year, thereby justifying Satellite TV. If only I'd thought to use that as a tax-deductible educational expense at the time . . .

In my lovely post-graduation apartment, I couldn't dream of life without the Boob Tube, so HBO and the 1400 other channels became my haven, yet again. Life continued in a similar manner until I began working retail, thereby destroying my regular schedule and prime-time freedom. By this time, however, there was DVR, so my days off were generally dominated by all-day marathons of Law and Order SVU. And then - last year - I moved to an apartment on my own in an attempt to save money (and my sanity). Cable was most definitively not a necessary expense, and when the move to digital cut off my free (ok - stolen) access, I wasn't going to break down and buy something that would only waste my time. If I'm dying to see something in particular, I can usually go to Hulu and call it good. I still have broadcast TV in my house, but it's only on for the specific shows I watch (don't even think about taking away Glee). I will admit, most weekends are spent playing on my computer or doing something similar with DVDs in the background, but this has seriously reduced the mindless hours I could spend in front of a television on any given weekend. 


How on earth could someone who majored in The Portrayal of American Politics in Television actually live without much of a TV? How could a former Journalism major live in a foreign country without a television in the house? Well, my faithful followers, people can change. Ha! Fooled you! That only happens on television . . . 

A cripple without a crutch

Now don't get all defensive about the title of this post. It's not meant to offend anyone (except me, of course). Several years ago, I was cut off from my drug of choice cold turkey, and it was hard, but oddly freeing. At the time, many of the people I was surrounded by did not understand my addiction; now, however, they've joined the club and have no desire to go through a 12 step program. That's right everybody: My name is Becca, and I'm an i-Thing-aholic. I arrived at my destination with my iPhone and was convinced it would only be taken from me out of my cold, dead hands. How could these people possibly deprive me of my iPhone and PowerBook? (You know what - I was old school - and that TiBook is still kicking, btw). I was told that my iDevices were being used as a crutch and I would need to learn to walk on my own. You want me to go on a walk without my iPod? Are you crazy?????

I did go through withdrawal and would have thoroughly appreciated a Librium taper for the process, but I digress. I bring this up today because I find myself in a marginally similar situation. My computer is being repaired and all I have is the iMac at work. I went through the weekend without my computer - and I kind of didn't miss it. I bought a puzzle book, went home, and lounged around my apartment. In other words, I wasn't crippled by my lack of technology, I was empowered. I found other ways of communicating with the world at large. My computer did not need to be my crutch. If anyone takes my iPhone from me ever again, though, there will be blood.

How I Got Here

I have a lot of anniversaries coming up, recently passed, etc and it's so hard to believe that I'm where I am today. I look at where I was a year ago, two years ago, five years ago, ten years ago, and there's a part of me that wonders how so much time has passed, and, more importantly, who I have become over the course of the last however many years. I hate to be cliché (no I don't), but it's been a journey. I've faced a lot of stuff, made some really hard choices, and muscled through whatever came my way. That, however, is not even marginally specific, so I figure I'll add a few things to that list.

The turning point for me was a year ago when I finally moved out of the apartment I was sharing with my psychotic roommate (See Becca and the tale of the psychotic roommate). Though I'd made the decision to move before he completely went off the deep end, it was that final act of signing the new lease earlier than expected and getting my crap out of there as soon as was humanly possible that brought me great peace and joy. This was the first in a series of events/decisions/what have you, where I advocated for myself and decided that I deserved more than sheer, unyielding misery. Several months later, I left the job that was making me very unhappy (though I learned and gained a tremendous amount from it) and started a job where I wasn't constantly in a position of proving myself. I wanted so badly for that other job to work, convincing myself it was the perfect company and position, that I was blinded to the fact that it was destroying me.

In short, I said enough already and took charge of my life. I realized that if I didn't believe in myself and decide that I was worth it - no one else had any reason to think differently. It was simple, but it sure as hell wasn't easy. I had to challenge fifteen+ years of self-hatred, often kicking and screaming that it wasn't fair and why should I have to change? Didn't I work hard enough already? I had to say to myself, Becca, put on your big girl pants (thanks Heidi!) and decide if this is what you want. I had to come to peace with the fact that it was okay if I wanted nothing more than the life I was living, but that took away my right to complain about it. I was incredibly bitter that all the people who told me that I teach other people how to treat me were totally right (I mean really, really bitter). There were a lot of tears, a lot of really hard conversations with people who forced me to face the truth and deal with, and a lot of decisions on my part that I would keep going, no matter how much I wanted to give up.


I say the same thing I heard so many times - if I can do it, trust me, dude - anyone can do it. How did I finish the first semester after my Mom died with straight A's? I put all my grief and energy into school. How did I cut ties with people in my family who were causing me pain and lose some of the people I grew up with? I found other people who made me feel valuable and taken care of. How did I graduate from college (the only one in my immediate family to do so) with no financial support and some serious health issues?  I worked five jobs (not something I'd recommend, just for the record), changed some plans, dropped some classes, and turned in papers I wasn't happy with just so I could finish. I thought I'd put out there - I still haven't looked at my final grades and I graduated almost six years ago - apparently there are some truths I'm not ready to face yet. 


Basically, I worked my ass off and realized that the only other option was not to survive, and that didn't seem like a viable alternative. People ask me all the time how I did it. They say they never could have made it through so much. Well - you'd be amazed what you're able to do when you have no other options. You'd be amazed what options you can find when you think it's completely impossible. I found that I had to be really clear with myself about what I was willing to sacrifice and what I wasn't. I had a lot of people with very different values who often thought I was making the wrong decision. No matter what, I always made the decision that was right for me and dealt with the good and bad things that came with it. I went with my instincts and learned to change them when they led me in the wrong direction. None of this was any miracle. Though I can look back and see when the changes happened, there were no 'a-ha moments'. Every choice and decision built on top of another one to get me to where I am today. I've got to say, I'm pretty freaking proud of where I am today, and so excited to see where I'll be tomorrow.


Thus ending the sappy post.

Becca and the tale of the psychotic roommate

Synopsis: When last we left our heroine, she was living with a bizarre Indian man in a two bedroom apartment in Buffalo Grove. Little did she know that bizarre would turn into full on crazy and she would have to plan an escape, compromising her safety and her funds. What follows is a harrowing tale of suspense, intrigue, and several trips to Bed Bath & Beyond.

You should know that I never give the short version of events - you've been warned.

This story is not based on actual events - it is a full recounting of actual events. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent, cause it's my blog, damnit, and I can do whatever I want.

I do feel it necessary to add the disclaimer that I am in no way a mean person, and would never consider saying these things to anyone, let alone someone I share a place with - let that be an indicator of my frustration and his psychosis.

Uday came home sometime in October of 2009 having just talked to a friend of mine working at a coffee place. He started his usual bizarre string of words and then asked why she was working at a coffee place when she was supposed to be a teacher. I glared at him and told him to go away. He then asked the fateful words that would change everything.

Uday: Do you hate me or something?

Me: YES! That can't possibly be a surprise!

U: What?!

Me: I asked you to move out months ago and you refused - didn't that give a marginal hint as to my feelings about the situation?

U: But we haven't had any arguments in a long time.

Me: Yes, that's because we didn't talk. And that has been fully intentional. It was the only way I could tolerate your existence.

U: You know, I thought we could be friends, but I'm very angry with you right now.

Me: Friends? Are you out of your f*ing mind?? Let me reiterate - I hate you. Kind of a lot! I've been doing everything in my power to survive until March when you said you would move out as the lease would be up.

U: I never said that.

Me: Hold please. That was the deal. That is the only reason I haven't murdered you or had myself committed. You have GOT to be kidding me . . . 

The rest of that conversation is kind of a blur. There were some key moments over the next few months, including him flashing my lights on my birthday at midnight to wake me up so I could blow out the candles on the cake he got me. He wanted me to smile for a picture, I told him to be incredibly careful because I had a sharp knife, I was tired, and I was angry. He didn't so much get it - that should have been a clue.

He went home to India for a blissful month while I continued my apartment search, basked in the glory of having my own place again, and enjoyed the peace that comes with being free of an annoying five year old. I found a great apartment (where I am still living), with the catch that the rate would only hold if I moved in the next four weeks. I sent Uday an email asking if he would be okay releasing me from the lease a bit earlier than expected. He gave a non-commital answer, but I went with it and signed the document that would free me from the tower of misery. 

Uday came home in late January and asked his normal string of stupid questions, but it was not until Thursday of that week that he eclipsed even his normal level of crazy. He asked what was in a box I had in the hallway. I told him it didn't matter and stop being obnoxious. Over the course of the evening, he told me he thought someone planted something in that box, was convinced that his company had me involved in a reverse interview process (no - I still have no idea what that means), feared that the apartment was bugged, and went ballistic when I told him the reason his bathroom looked marginally different is that the maintenance men tried to fix his sink instead of the kitchen sink because of a miscommunication. He yelled that the maintenance men had planted microphones in the sink, how could I possibly let anyone into the apartment when no one was home, and that nothing was safe anymore. The next morning, he told me to speak very quietly and not to say anything to anyone because my phone was being tapped, his phone was being tapped, and his parent's phones (in India, mind you) were being tapped. 

Given the bizarre people that have come into and out of my life, I have a very low tolerance for crazy. I went to work, immediately called a few people I know who might direct me to appropriate resources, and attempted to figure out the best course of action to deal with a person suffering from schizophrenia (yes, contrary to popular belief, I was qualified to make that diagnosis). After much deliberation, I went home that evening, put a bag together with stuff for the next few days, and high-tailed it out of there - particularly when I ran into Uday and the craziness had seemingly gotten worse. On the way to a karaoke bar in the middle of nowhere Illinois, a deer ran into my car. Yes - a deer ran into my car - not the other way around. It was about 7 degrees out that night - AWESOME! My friends came out to my car, looked at the damage, and joked about the deer-bris - including the tiny tuft of fur in the passenger door. I convinced a friend (conveniently the coffee house aficionado from earlier) to let me spend the night, particularly given the events that transpired in the previous 24 hours.

This time, with even more caution, I went back to my apartment, grabbed a few more things, and tried to make a quiet exit. Conveniently - not so much. Uday went around in a bit of a haze, seemingly looking for food. I told him there was soup in the freezer - take it- I could get more if the need arose. He (again) went ballistic, asking me if I knew the importance of good nutrition and soup, how could I not have told him about this, blah, blah, blah. I told him it was lentil soup (despite his objections) and that he probably would not get cancer by cooking it in the tupperware in which it was encased. He wanted proof of such, and I did my best not to throw the nearest object at him. He asked for the phone number of the friend who made me the soup so he could "thank her". I'm not sure if my response was "Not a chance in hell," but that seems like something I would say. He called several more times over the course of the evening (I didn't answer), thanking me for the soup, confirming that it was lentil soup - though it had more lentils than broth than he would have thought the soup would have, there did not appear to be any other (poisonous) ingredients, and, by the way, am I sure that no one else was in the apartment because the cable was kind of screwed up. 

I went to work the next day, realized that I was completely useless because I was totally preoccupied with my situation, and asked for the rest of the week off so I could pack, move, and figure out how to get the hell out of there as soon as humanly possible. For the record, Thursday night (of the previous week) was the last night I would spend in my apartment. I went into full-on action that week, pushing my move-in date up a week, figuring out a moving company, finding packing materials, procuring funds from my 401k (don't ask), and devising a plan that would allow me to pack covertly so as not to frighten the animals (Uday - not my cats). Throughout all of this - there were the minor details of not being sure whether I could get out of my lease, calling the police only to find that being crazy is not, in itself, a punishable offense, and - oh wait - I'm broke and don't get paid until Friday (move-in day).

I'd like to say that the next few days (and weeks, and months) went off without a hitch - but, seriously people, this is me. My apartment complex is a little confusing, so I spent a full hour driving around a quarter of a mile radius trying to locate my building (in complete darkness) with my cats crying in the back seat. A kindly drunk man pointed me to my apartment, where I tied a (giant) piece of red fabric around the pole of my patio to make it easier to find again. I'm not so much organized, so when the movers came, it was kind of a disaster. I did manage to get more or less everything to my new apartment and slept beautifully on Friday night, finally free of the crazy that was my (soon to be) former roommate. This was the day before Super Bowl Sunday and Uday was quite worried that the TV would not be hooked up, allowing him to watch the precious game. Saturday morning, I called several of my friends (with great power and intimidating demeanors) to help me into the apartment and to protect me from the giant pile of crazy. One friend suggested I call the police if I was truly that afraid, but I decided to chance it and brave it on my own. Thankfully, he was not there the moment that I came in, so I was able to steal to my room pretty quickly to try and gather the last of my things. 

Unfortunately, he came home at some point in the afternoon, but only after going to the leasing office to see his options. In the grand conspiracy theory of the week, the management was now in on the plot and would prey on his naiveté to cheat him out of the money that was rightfully his. No argument to the contrary would alter his opinion (and yes, I was stupid enough to try), so there were several 2 and 4 hour conversations, often consisting of my asking him what it would take for me never to have to see him again (perhaps not the best negotiating technique). Much frustration ensued, and I called on a friend to bring boxes and help me pack faster. We went pretty late into the evening until she had to start heading home, so we began to load my car. Let me also state, the passenger door did not open, thereby making the packing process all the more challenging. Uday kept trying to help, despite my objections. I finally told him that I would call the police if he didn't leave me alone. Surprise, surprise, he took offense and kept trying to help. I kept up my end of the bargain and called the police. A police car came to the scene in about ten minutes. Followed by another police car. Followed by an ambulance. Followed by a fire truck. Ummmm, crap . . . 

I explained that it's probably not a great idea to throw a S.W.A.T team on a paranoid, schizophrenic foreigner, but they assured me that it was procedure, and he would only see them if he put up a fight and it was deemed necessary. I let the two police officers into my building, showed them my apartment, and waited in the hallway (on the opposite side of the door). They knocked on the door and explained that I was worried about him and wanted to make sure he was ok. He exclaimed that he was worried about me and invited them in. He asked them if they wanted to sit down and continuously offered them water. He explained that the main issue was that I said I would setup the TV so he could watch the game tomorrow, and couldn't they make me follow through on that promise. I should mention, Uday was incredibly loud (one of the things that made me particularly crazy when he had phone conversations in rapid Indian with his parents at 3 in the morning), so I heard the whole thing through two doors and a hallway. One of the officers eventually came out, assured me that they had spoken to Uday and he would allow me to get the rest of my things without getting in my way, and let me into my apartment. Uday (being off his rocker) still offered to help me; the cops kindly told him that I was ok and didn't need his help. He then had a hurried conversation with one of the officers, asking what he should do about the flier he'd received from the (immigration office?), and why would any one want him to stay in this God-forsaken country. The officer told Uday he could simply ignore the mailing, or even throw it away, should he choose to do so. Uday was concerned that this was against the law, and the officer assured him that it was not  official government communication, and there would be no repercussions for tossing it. Somehow, I managed to get the rest of my things together as quickly as I could, forfeiting some frozen food and other items that wouldn't fit into my car. Late that evening, I made it home and cried, "Free at last! Thank God almighty, I am free at last!" Little did I know . . . 

The short (ha!) version of the next few months is that Uday went even crazier, was convinced that it was the job of the apartment complex to serve as the mediator for roommate conflicts, and took a full 45 days to go to the leasing office (several times a day) and sign a new lease. Incidentally, at some point shortly thereafter, Uday lost his job (shocking, I know) and was deported - wait, I'm sorry, chose to go back to India where he would attempt to find a second arranged marriage (the first one called off before he came back to the states on the count of him being completely nuts and impossible to deal with). Prior to signing the new lease, there were a dozen phone calls, generally facilitated by the guy at the leasing office telling me he could feel my pain and he had to deal with Uday as well), and I finally told Uday that he could sue me for the rent due for the remainder of the lease. 

Moral of the story - if your initial instinct is 'hey, it's kind of weird that this guy is more interested in CBS' Monday night line-up than seeing the apartment for the first time' - go with it. A lease is a binding document. Unless your co-habitor is violent towards you (in which case, you still need to remain in the residence and kick him out), there's no getting out of the lease. Being crazy is not a reason to be thrown in jail (with and in itself). Craigslist - good for furniture and other inanimate objects, bad for finding people to share a space with for long periods of time.

I end this story on the happy note that I'm pretty sure Uday's still psychotic, I just signed a lease giving me another year in my beautiful one-bedroom haven, and no restraining order was necessary to end my relationship with that great big pile of crazy.