Unpopular Opinions

I can’t stand the Olympics. It takes away my regularly scheduled television programs for two whole weeks and then no one will let me watch Bravo because the Olympics only come once every 4 years and the Housewives are replayed twice a day.

I thought Whiplash was FINE. Not like, “what a fine film,” but like, “UGH, it was FINE.” I won’t regale you with my thoughts on how there were only maybe 3 female extras in the entire music school just about. Regardless of that, I hate films that involve too much drumming, or wild drumming. Or any movie where people get yelled at to practice instruments except for Mr. Holland’s Opus because trust that I will watch it every time it’s on TV.

I think polygamy is a cool and acceptable life choice as long as everyone is of age and like those Sister Wives people. I wish those sister wives could all marry each other because I think that idiot husband-child is just a major handicap and his hair looks over processed. The second half of this unpopular opinion is probably a VERY popular opinion amongst viewers of the show.

Ross was the comedic glue that held Friends together.

I never lost any sleep over that missing Malaysian plane or what’s up with the Bermuda Triangle or Amelia Earhart. I just don’t care about things that disappear out of nowhere unless it’s a coed on a spring break trip to Mexico. Serial Killers > Plane drama any day.

It’s all out there now. Love me or leave me.

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The Story of My Roomie and Me

I asked my roommate to write about our relationship and how we got to where we are today. My perspective is in italics…

Dara and I met while pledging a sorority in college. We bonded over pillow fights, our mutual love of fro-yo, and Paul Rudd. Just kidding, I hated her.

Woah, okay…. I was just pretty indifferent towards her, I guess.

I was a sister in the sorority and Dara was a transfer student looking to meet a cool group of girls. Little did she know, these females would dislike her to no end. It was essentially a deep seeded hate for her lack-luster memorization skills and couldn’t give a shit personality.

To give you some context, in the sorority pledges had to interview each sister and then memorize every “sister fact” about their lives, which we would be verbally quizzed on every few days. I tried, but basically, I’m just more of a visual learner, you know?  

And to be clear, I don’t have a give-no-shits personality, JILL. But in this particular scenario I gave very few shits… 

I just remember pretty much everyone having a stick up their butts. We weren’t allowed to drink for almost that whole semester we pledged and we had a curfew. Then they’d make us stay in and do things like decorate paddles til 4 am when I had acting class in the morning. I needed to be fresh for that! When you’re rolling around on the floor pretending to be a cat for college credit you can’t just phone it in!

I’m just saying there wasn’t much incentive to learn every sister’s grandmother’s name when I was essentially paying $250 to get yelled at and do arts and crafts. 

Jill and Me in Santa Monica

Jill and Me in Santa Monica

I finally interacted with her my junior year because we happened to live in the same building. I always saw Dara in the latest Juicy Couture velour jogging suit, and I’m not even joking when I say she was either in that, or fashionable gym clothes 24/7. Homegirl was on a fitness mission, and I didn’t hate it! We sort of bonded at the gym.

What can I say? Little Mama likes to keep it tight. 

Then, Dara had to leave Boston in our final semester together to attend a prestigious comedy program in Chicago. Bleh, we get it. You’re talented.

I swear I didn’t write that… but yes….

I went to Los Angeles the following January and thought our paths would never cross again.

Geez…. never again? Way harsh, Tai. 

Post grad, Dara and I surprisingly kept in touch. It was mostly me fan-girling her hilarious blog, and a few texts back and fourth about unemployment depression and satirical self hate. But then, we attended a networking event together in NYC and something clicked. We had so much fun and began discussing what our life paths would be.

Jill even came to visit me in NH where we saw Magic Mike and smuggled in wine and chicken fingers. 

In late 2012, Dara and I decided to be roommates in Los Angeles.

It kind of came up like, “I want to move to LA.”

“Me too.”

“We should just live together! LOL”

For about 2 months I wasn’t sure if Jill was serious or not, and I think she felt the same way, so we were essentially in a game of roommate chicken. Then at some point we bought a WestSideRental.com membership, and it was suddenly real.

After saying yes, I took a giant step back and realized all I knew about this girl was surface stuff, but I was still willing to live with her because she’s a hoot! I have the most deductive reasoning, don’t I?

I knew very little about Jill except she thought I was a hoot which is all I care about aside from her stealing from me or bringing home guys to do it on my air mattress. So far she hasn’t done either of those things! Thanks, Jill!

We couldn’t be more different. I am completely Type A, essentially getting off on cleanliness and organization. Dara is much more relaxed and free spirited. We are the modern day odd couple, and I’m totally okay with it…For now 🙂

Ditto!

Dara and the Big Sleepover

Am I the only one who feels like a trashcan after a sleepover?

Because I had a sleepover last night and I definitely feel like a waste receptacle.

(Ooooh, a sleepover… was it with a boy, a girl, Phi Phi O’Hara?)

{PS Does anyone know if RuPaul’s Drag Race is on Demand? on OnDemand? May I demand it at my leisure?}

(It was a platonic lady friend, by the way, not that it’s any of your business. I won’t say who, though, because a lady never eats Chipotle, drinks Skinnygirl Pina Coladas, goes to bed by midnight, and tells).

I don’t know what it is about being at someone else’s house, but I never feel yucky-er than when I wake up the next day.

For one, my irresponsibility and forgetfulness never ceases to amaze me. I almost always forget a tooth brush, but this time I raised the bar and forgot another pair of daily contacts. Like, the one thing I actually need, I forget. Trust that I remembered this:

I could remember to pick up and bring a $15 bottle of low calorie booze, but the item that would allow me to safely drive from Point A to Point B without killing myself or others– I forget.

So, I’m about to go to bed and take out my contacts (because I have dry eyes and at this point my contacts feel like shrink wrap keeping my peepers nice and fresh) and then I realize I’ve got nothing to wear tomorrow. And I just have to leave them in. No matter how uncomfortable they are I have to leave them in because I can’t call AAA the next morning to bring me my glasses. This then became a moment of reflection where I look at my life and look at my choices, and I think if I could just act like an adult once in my dumb life I would have a pair of spare glasses or contacts in my car at all times, just in case!!

Did this become about something other than sleepovers? I digress.

This is how I feel before and immediately after every sleepover. Like, Dara and the Big Sleepover-- it always feels like some sort of low stakes debacle wherein our heroine forgets her toothbrush but eats Mexican food anyway.

What’s weird about sleepovers is that everything seems worse and grosser because you’re at someone else’s house. It’s not like I’ve never slept in my contacts or didn’t brush my teeth before I went to bed. In fact, one of my greatest qualities is the ability to fall asleep wearing that day’s clothes and a sports bra, surrounded by more clothes, a laptop, and a dog with his butt lodged in my spine. It just has to be at my own house. I could bring a change of clothes and shower but still feel like I spent the night in the bathtub of a frat house. I could brush my teeth a million times, and the taste of tacos won’t leave me until I’ve gone home at the absolute earliest reasonable time and then slept in my own bed for nine hours.

One thing I do like about the morning after sleepovers is the excuse I give myself to eat bagels on the drive home or get a Diet Coke at McDonald’s at 8 am. Nothing tastes better than Diet Coke in my trashcan mouth.