No Blaise: Blvd Banter

As mentioned in my last blog, I recently moved out of my parent’s house and into an apartment with two of my friends. It’s on Logan Blvd, so we’ve rightly nicknamed our place “The Blvd.”

Very clever.

My moving in meant our other friend, Anne, moving back to the friendly state of Wisconsin. Moved out with her was the TV. This left behind a gaping hole in our living room, and our evening schedules.

But don’t you worry, we’ve found some way to fill those hours we’d usually spend soaking in Jersey Shore and Sex and the City.

We now spend our hours, I wish this were an exaggeration, sitting around the kitchen table talking (blabbering). Thereby turning our apartment into a talk show, minus the audience–picture The View with no Elisabeth Hasselbeck.

Thank god.

My white, 5’3”, un-dreadlocked roommate Katie has rightly dubbed herself as Whoopi.

Can’t you see the resemblance?

The most recent topic of conversation has been our roommate Hannah’s brush with celebrity. Well, her brush with the child of a celebrity, who goes to college with her younger sister.

Hannah stumbled over their name while recounting the events of their meeting to Katie and me. Thankfully, she knew the names of the celebrity parents and Katie, resident celebrity stalker, immediately knew the kid’s name.

When I say immediately, I mean that I’m pretty sure Hannah had only gotten the first name of one of the parents out of her mouth before Katie shouted the child’s name back at us, along with the names of all siblings.

Katie was also able to set the story straight when Hannah began talking about the boy’s father being a singer (he’s an actor, and, more importantly, definitely not a singer).

We made sure to get all of our facts straight before reporting anything to our viewers.

Other topics have included the dinner Katie and I made the other night.

I had managed to do somewhat of a decent job making ravioli (putting store-bought ravioli in boiling water, and then taking it out of the boiling water once it was done) and moved it to the strainer.

I almost had it to the serving bowl, when I managed to drop about half of the supply into the sink.

No worries, I quickly picked it up and threw it into the bowl.

That day will forever be known as The Sink Ravioli Incident of 2011.

Our favorite topic to return to, though, is how terrified we all are with our place in life.

Katie often wanders into the kitchen stating “Do you know what’s crazy? We are going to be doing this for the rest of our lives.”

I return with: “Doing what?”

Katie: “Working. We are going to be working for the rest of our lives.”

Then we both catalyst into a conversation about how now instead of spring break we have to take vacation time, and how will we ever be able to afford a vacation?

Will our husbands make money?

Are we ever going to find fucking husbands?

What are our kids going to eat, since we can’t cook anything?

Should we have nannies?

Then we remember — we’re 23 years old. Too bad that never provides comfort, and actually makes it all seem a lot more daunting.

Really cheerful household we’ve got going on.

This gloominess can also be brought back to our lack of a television set.

Usually, instead of wondering if/when our lives will be sucked into a black hole, we’d be watching Sex and the City and consistently deciding if we were a Carrie or a Samantha.

Definitely NOT Miranda, though.

It’s vital to know which SATC character you are…

The only thing a televisions absence has done for our apartment is allow us to portray ourselves as very detached intelligent people who don’t need a TV to be entertained.

We are so above TV, man. Don’t need it. We spend our time reading and philosophizing. How simple of you all, to need cable. Silly commoners.

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