Bruce Almighty...again.
I haven’t Bruce-blogged for a long time. Recap : This particular housemate is called Bruce due to my friends’ pointing out her uncanny resemblance to Bruce the shark from Finding Nemo.
So this evening. I was innocently dipping my tortilla into the hummous while waiting for my food in the oven.
Bruce sweeps in and talks about how she’s missed a party of a mutual friend of ours last night. So I told her I knocked on her door to give her the VIP passes but she wasn’t there. Then she started rattling the very words I knew she would, “It is because I was at another party for the successful elections last night that I won” *She pauses expectantly, cueing for me to congratulate her*
“Oh, that’s good, congrats.”
It kinda makes you NOT want to say congratulations. Not out of spite, but just because she is already blowing her own horn SO loudly, there is no need for another to assist her.
“Thank you for coming for the voting” Sarcasm dripped in her voice.
I told her about not having the society’s card therefore not being able to vote. Then she said she made me a member-complete-with-card, to vote in the elections and insisted matter-of-factly over and over that I could’ve gone, I should’ve gone etc etc…
It doesn’t matter, sheesh, YOU WON. Petty-nya. Though I’m keep trying to fight back thoughts of her threatening the entire greek community on campus to vote, with her greasy mousaka. *To Greeks out there, I love mousaka, just not HERS.. though I know today that some of us traumatized last year have sworn off Mousaka forever*
When she was done fitting her magnified head into the kitchen, she then stated, “By the way, you’re eating hummous wrong.”
“Really? Ah nevermind, it’s nice like that”
“You supposed to put in olive oil” She presses on, expecting me to do something.
“ Nah, I don’t like olive oil.”
She stared at me like I started growing bean sprouts from my head.
I can’t even being to describe how insulted she looked at my harmless comment.
Kinda made me want to laugh out loud. This is reminiscent of the nightmare from last year! I remember how Mel, Paul, me and others had to endure her telling us the ‘right’ way to cook (a.k.a. HER way). She’d haughtily claim the food was Mediterranean or Cypriot and IMPOSE her ways unto us, including shoving us aside and taking our pots off the hob while switching the temperature. “Eh, let me show you the way.”
This same person who FLOODS everything in oil and salt. Telling us the ‘right’ way to eat… UH-HUH.
It became such a dreadful kitchen experience ALL the time that we all started conceiving plans to avoid her in the kitchen. Eventually, we realized that we were all doing the same thing :
a) Open door, listen for Bruce-in-kitchen-sounds, if clear, breathe sigh of relief, go out, cook.
b) If not clear, hide away back in room, start chewing on books and/or bedsheets to avoid going into starvation mode.
c) If already cooking, and Bruce enters, quickly nuke food, make urgent excuse (of which we have a list), and dash into room with food/uncooked food.
It was THAT bad. We felt like prisoners.
Back to now. I shrugged and ignored her continuous staring. Letting my imagination go wild, I envisioned my big round tortilla wrap in front of me to be her face. And smothered it in hummous. WITHOUT olive oil. Just plain hummous.
And when I was done… I splotched on more. And rubbed it in with glee. HAH.
Don’t tell me how to eat my food, honey.
So this evening. I was innocently dipping my tortilla into the hummous while waiting for my food in the oven.
Bruce sweeps in and talks about how she’s missed a party of a mutual friend of ours last night. So I told her I knocked on her door to give her the VIP passes but she wasn’t there. Then she started rattling the very words I knew she would, “It is because I was at another party for the successful elections last night that I won” *She pauses expectantly, cueing for me to congratulate her*
“Oh, that’s good, congrats.”
It kinda makes you NOT want to say congratulations. Not out of spite, but just because she is already blowing her own horn SO loudly, there is no need for another to assist her.
“Thank you for coming for the voting” Sarcasm dripped in her voice.
I told her about not having the society’s card therefore not being able to vote. Then she said she made me a member-complete-with-card, to vote in the elections and insisted matter-of-factly over and over that I could’ve gone, I should’ve gone etc etc…
It doesn’t matter, sheesh, YOU WON. Petty-nya. Though I’m keep trying to fight back thoughts of her threatening the entire greek community on campus to vote, with her greasy mousaka. *To Greeks out there, I love mousaka, just not HERS.. though I know today that some of us traumatized last year have sworn off Mousaka forever*
When she was done fitting her magnified head into the kitchen, she then stated, “By the way, you’re eating hummous wrong.”
“Really? Ah nevermind, it’s nice like that”
“You supposed to put in olive oil” She presses on, expecting me to do something.
“ Nah, I don’t like olive oil.”
She stared at me like I started growing bean sprouts from my head.
I can’t even being to describe how insulted she looked at my harmless comment.
Kinda made me want to laugh out loud. This is reminiscent of the nightmare from last year! I remember how Mel, Paul, me and others had to endure her telling us the ‘right’ way to cook (a.k.a. HER way). She’d haughtily claim the food was Mediterranean or Cypriot and IMPOSE her ways unto us, including shoving us aside and taking our pots off the hob while switching the temperature. “Eh, let me show you the way.”
This same person who FLOODS everything in oil and salt. Telling us the ‘right’ way to eat… UH-HUH.
It became such a dreadful kitchen experience ALL the time that we all started conceiving plans to avoid her in the kitchen. Eventually, we realized that we were all doing the same thing :
a) Open door, listen for Bruce-in-kitchen-sounds, if clear, breathe sigh of relief, go out, cook.
b) If not clear, hide away back in room, start chewing on books and/or bedsheets to avoid going into starvation mode.
c) If already cooking, and Bruce enters, quickly nuke food, make urgent excuse (of which we have a list), and dash into room with food/uncooked food.
It was THAT bad. We felt like prisoners.
Back to now. I shrugged and ignored her continuous staring. Letting my imagination go wild, I envisioned my big round tortilla wrap in front of me to be her face. And smothered it in hummous. WITHOUT olive oil. Just plain hummous.
And when I was done… I splotched on more. And rubbed it in with glee. HAH.
Don’t tell me how to eat my food, honey.
posted by shuey @ 22:00
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