Sweet Potatoes, Pokes and Purge-a-tory

I live in a 1920's, renovated brick apartment building. Sounds nice, huh? That's what I thought. Given the fact that the inside of my apartment is pretty much the most beautiful place EVER, thanks to a certain "God-given decorating ability" God-brother, you would think that every moment spent here would be lovely, wouldn't you?

I have completely interesting neighbors that I rarely see. They are:

The Recluse: I've seen this man one time. Two nights ago, a strange smell was coming from his apartment. It was a mixture of something burning combined with rotten eggs. Of course, being the recluse that he is, I instantly thought that he had died in some breakfast-related fire, but the smell went away. The stench was so bad that it woke me from a deep sleep. I should probably knock on his door to see if he's okay, but I love eggs so much. I don't want eggs to be forever ruined in my mind. You know, just in case he's lying on the floor, dead, with a frying pan full of eggs at his side.

The Admiral: I know that I just said that my apartment is the most beautifully decorated apartment in the entire building, but I lied. The admiral has a doorknocker that is in the shape of an anchor. This has intrigued me since day one of my apartment life. Why? Why does he have an anchor doorknocker? He must have had it specially installed because no one else has a beautiful anchor doorknocker. He is also extremely well-dressed at all times, and he gets the Tulsa World delivered to his doorstep every single day. Yes, the Admiral is well informed on the day's events. Once, the Admiral left his door opened for a short bit. I was happily cruising by with Gus and was promptly stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, I saw a scene straight from Dwell magazine. Architectural Digest has nothing on this man's apartment. Plush linens, hanging plants, streamlined furniture...it was all too much. I wanted to scream, "Admiral! Who knew!?" But, then I thought, "He doesn't know that I call him 'Admiral,' and that would be confusing." As Beau and I were getting into the car one evening, I looked up, and saw the most wonderfully lit apartment. We said in unison, "Oh, my God! Look at that apartment! Who do you think..." we both realized at the same time, and, dejected and shamed at our own question, whispered, "The Admiral...of course." I pumped my fist in the air, as if to say, "One day, Admiral! One of these days!" Beau's favorite joke is to say, "Permission to come aboard, Admiral!" every time we walk by his door. It's funny every single time.

Down the hall a bit is Big Burly. Big Burly is, well, big and burly. He looks like a cross between a sea-faring pirate, Santa Claus, and a Vietnam vet (like one that opposes war, nowadays, seeing what he saw in Nam, and all). Big Burly likes to be "in the know" about everything that's happening in the apartment building. Unfortunately, he's rarely right about anything that's happening in the apartment building because he never leaves his apartment. Once, there was a fire right next door to us. Big Burly took action, immediately. This action included walking around in the smoke-filled halls while asking everyone what was going on. He also ONLY takes the elevator. We live on the 2nd floor. I guess Big Burly has done enough moving about in his lifetime. He now lives on Easy Street.

Then, there's the office, where I like to leave notes that say, "Hey, apartment manager! Maybe you could tell us the next time there's a fire. Maybe I could find out from the apartment manager that turning on the heat could be a hazard instead of hearing it from the firemen at my door. Maybe you could also lock the gates once in a while. We recently had three very expensive bicycles stolen, and it's your fault." He never calls or writes back. What a great guy.

Last, but certainly, certainly not least there is OSU. She's my favorite. She has two dogs and a cat in one, tiny apartment. She lovingly calls the dogs, "Girls." Most of the time, "girls" is said like this, "GIRLS! Stop it! GIRLS, CALM DOWN! GIRLS! GIRLS!" Of course, now whenever Beau and I hear the dogs barking, we have to chime in with, "Girls! GIRLS!"

The reason behind the name, "OSU," is because, well, she loves OSU. Thank God she loves OSU, or else I would have to puke every single day (remember this part because this theme will return). OSU only wears OSU clothing. I'm not kidding. Every, single day, she wears some sort of OSU-themed clothing. If not a hat, then some pants. If not a scarf, then a shirt. You get the point. On game days, you can hear screaming at all of the same times that Beau and I are screaming. This is more than comforting to me. She drapes OSU blankets, of which I have counted three, across her balcony, weekly. I want to go inside of her apartment so badly. I really think that it could be an oasis of OSU memorabilia in there. Now, about the puking...

Why do I love OSU so much? WHY? They aren't good. I'm sorry, but they're just not. I would like to take this moment to blame my grandfather for this unabashed love of a mediocre team. My grandpa coached football for OSU. He was also a strict Catholic, and so, of course, he loved Notre Dame. Once, I asked him, "Grandpa, who do you think would win if Notre Dame and OSU played?" He couldn't answer. His love for both teams wouldn't let him decide. This made my little 7 year-old brain churn. My brain worked like this: If Grandpa loves Notre Dame, and GOD loves Notre Dame the most out of every team, and God loves Grandpa because he prays to him all of the time, and Grandpa can't decide if OSU or Notre Dame would win in a football game against each other, then that means that God loves OSU just as much as Notre Dame.

It was kind of like one of those, "If a+b=c, then b and c..." moments. It was probably the only moment when I actually understood and liked math. (No thanks to YOU, Mr. "Worst Geometry Teacher of All Time" Tipps!) I would like to take this moment to blame Mr. Tipps for ruining all of my chances and dreams of ever becoming an astronomer. Thank you. Now, back to the story.

Anywho, the realization that God loved OSU more than any other team led to countless unanswered prayers, down-trodden thoughts and utter despair when it came to my coveted Cowboys.

But, here's the worst, most psychotic part of it all. I still love and believe in them. It's like I'm a battered wife with horrible self-esteem. I just keep going back. I just keep thinking, "Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe they'll change. They say they're going to change. They even have a nice, new home to play in now. Maybe, just maybe..."

It's engrained in me. They're a part of me.

A couple weeks ago, I got a stomach virus at a pub. I was chomping away on sweet potato fries, and all of a sudden, I knew I was about to vomit. I ran to the bathroom, amidst a large crowd of people and proceeded to make it to the restroom, just in time. The sweet potato fries were orange, of course. They came up orange, as well. As I sat there on the bathroom floor of McNellie's Pub, sweating and nauseous and white as a sheet, with women outside of the door saying, "Are you okay in there? Is everything alright?" I looked down at what was previously in my stomach and whispered, without hesitation...


"Go Pokes."