Periodically, while perusing my personal notes for something I come across something unrelated to my search that I think might someday be useful to someone else, out there in the ether somewhere.  Such is the case with the following diary entry from a couple years ago, about one of those low points in life (I was going through a break-up), and one of those little things that set you off at a time like that...

Roommate R. is getting on my nerves.  Every time he goes back home to his folks' place he comes back here with some kitchen appliance. Something that’s been abandoned, obviously, and is older than him, and looks like it’s going to blow up as soon as you plug it in. The latest is a crock-pot.

He came home from his folks' late Sunday night and then didn’t go to work Monday. Which bugged me. I like regularity when it comes to roommates. He doesn’t wake up at the same time every day either, which bugs me, too. I mean, one assumes he’s supposed to be at work around nine. Because he’s a regular sort of working stiff. But he’s obviously got some flexibility, because he just left this morning.

I shouldn’t be so hard on folks who can’t drag themselves out of bed in the morning just because I leap out of bed most mornings ready for the day’s crushing defeats. That’s why I’m usually in bed by, like, four in the afternoon. Because I so eagerly bash my head against the insurmountable, immovable wall of my life that I’m nothing but a heap of nerves by afternoon.

But I do have an irrational contempt for people who can’t drag their asses out of bed to begin with. And it’s for all the cliché reasons, like this morning it’s gloomy out. You’d totally expect it to be hard for someone like R. to wake up and face it. 

No, I know it’s unfair. It’s as pathetic of me to lock myself in my room, and live for the two and a half to three hours of evening television I’ve become accustomed to watching (a half hour at least of local news, followed by network news—I pretend to myself that it matters that I refuse to watch Katie Couric or that I’ve boycotted ABC ever since their 9-11 docudrama blamed Clinton for the terrorist attacks—and then an hour of the hospital sitcom Scrubs on Comedy Central, after which I watch Jon Stewart’s Daily Show and The Colbert Report). I mean, lately I live for Scrubs.

Anyway, R. brings this foul-looking crock-pot home from his folks'. Looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for a quarter century. Has a crack in the glass lid. He doesn’t start cooking until evening, even though he’s been home all day. I mean, I assume. Because when I got home he was on the futon in his second bedroom there watching the tube.

Shortly thereafter he leaves for about a half an hour—goes to the supermarket it turns out—and then comes back and spends, like, THREE HOURS peeling carrots and potatoes for his stew. Then, at like, eight in the evening, he starts cooking.

It sits and simmers for two days. TWO DAYS. Finally, I mention it.

He’s like, the potatoes are still hard.

I’m like, dude.

It’s not even that big a crock-pot. He’s invested all this time and effort and money into this stew that he's cooked down to, like, an ounce of rock-hard kryptonite. Just buy a freakin can of Progresso. I mean, what are you trying to prove? And to whom? And at your age! Jesus!

R. did this more than once, too, by the way.  I suggested he boil the potatoes to his liking first and then add them to the mix.  But it seems no matter what, the stew was always left stewing for days, and the whole apartment ended up smelling like burnt compost for a week afterwards.  I suffered in silence at the time, but the statute of limitations is up. 

I have to say, I am still not a huge fan of crock-pots as they are commonly used by the kinds of roommates who are prone to use them.  In case any such roommates happen to be reading this.