Birds chirping and the sounds of nature have been replaced by the hustle and bustle of a big city with an even bigger and brighter spirit.
Hot damn, Ava. You did it.
With a stupid smile plastered on my face, I open my laptop and hit play on my favorite mood-boosting iTunes playlist—a mix of oldies but goodies that remind me of my dad’s love for music from the fifties, sixties, and seventies—and just as the Foundations croon about Buttercup, I find a place for the pens, brushes, canvases, sketchbooks, and pictures on my shelf and toss the makeup and flip-flops where I should have left them in the first place—in the garbage.
Still, for the first time since I got here, I glance around the room and take in how different my side looks compared to my new roommate Desi’s.
Truthfully, her small half of our dorm is pristine in its organization, and it looks likes Kate Spade and Martha Stewart got drunk and threw a freaking housewarming party before I arrived yesterday morning.
My side, on the other hand, is this weird, eclectic but definitely chaotic mix of art and prints and patterns that don’t really match.
Either Desi and I are going to get along splendidly, or halfway through the year, we’ll be the subject of a true-crime docuseries.
Fingers and toes crossed it’s the former.
When my stomach growls, I glance at the clock and see its already nearing ten in the evening. With my new roommate nowhere to be found and no other acquaintances to speak of, I’m not sure I’m ready to venture out into the big city at night all by myself. Since nourishment is now my main priority and the options within the walls of this room are limited, I pull out my hidden hot plate from my closet and plug it into an outlet behind my desk.
Per Columbia University’s rule book, hot plates and coffeemakers are a big no-no, but according to my dad, that’s just a ploy to get everyone to spend too much money at their various food and beverage vendors scattered across campus.
It’s capitalism at its finest, folks, he says.
I don’t know about all that, but what’s the worst that could happen with a hot plate? Hot soup?
A microwave would make things easier, though…
I make a mental note to buy one behind my dad’s back in the next couple days, pop open a can of Campbell’s vegetable soup, pour it into a small pot, and get it cooking on the hot plate.
It’s practically scientific fact that my sad excuse for a dinner is going to take a little while to heat up, so I grab my laptop and plop down on my bed to scroll through my emails.
There are a couple of spam subjects about enlarging my penis, so I skip over those to the first legitimate email.
Let me tell you, it is hardly any better.
My great-aunt Lily from my dad’s side of the family has a knack for the strange and unusual, and today, it comes in the form of showcasing random photos of her vegetable garden to our entire family. Ever the opportunist, her sister Poppy takes that odd but innocent message and drives it at a speed of ninety miles an hour onto Dirty Mind Lane.Re: Fresh Vegetables!
Good Lord, Lil, why are you sending us pics of Don’s penis?
-PoppyRe: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
Don’s penis? What are you talking about, Poppy?
-LilyRe: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
Honestly, he’s bigger than I expected. Veiny too. Isn’t it Jewish practice to circumcise? Were his parents big on taking a religious stand or something?
-PoppyRe: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
THAT IS A SWEET POTATO, YOU SICKO.
-LilyI tilt my head to the side and examine the photo in question. Aunt Lily has one hell of a green thumb, but her photography skills have never exactly been good. Frankly, it looks like she used an actual potato to take the photo.
And that sweet potato does look disturbingly phallic-shaped…
I snort and keep reading, thankful neither of them has managed to figure out the difference between Reply and Reply All. Honestly, this is better than watching Laguna Beach.Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
It looks like Don’s penis.
-PoppyRe: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
I think I know what Don’s penis looks like a little better than you do, Poppy! And it does NOT look like Don’s penis.
-LilyRe: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
Fine. Someone else’s penis, then. Are you cheating on Don?
-PoppyRe: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
POPPY. STOP IT.
-LilyRe: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!
Imagine how I feel. Drinking my morning coffee. Scrolling through emails. And being forced to see your pool boy’s sausage.
-PoppyMy late grandma Lucie’s sisters’ relationship revolves heavily around Poppy doing everything she can to rile her sister up. It’s maybe not the healthiest thing I’ve ever witnessed, but I kind of hope it never ends. Though, just like all good things—including this email thread—I imagine it will have to at some point.