Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Running with Oda

I feel like I can’t get thin because my thighs are holding me back. Literally. How am I supposed to run as fast as all those skinny people when I’ve got these big thighs slapping each other around like sisters?

Oda Mae is half miniature beagle, half mutt and part wimp. Basically she looks like a beagle that God stretched long ways and blew up to be 15 pounds overweight. When we adopted her, the receptionist said she would max out at 20 lbs. She’s 35.

We even feed her weight management dog food, and she keeps getting bigger. One time Oda was eating her fat girl dog food, and I was eating carrots and we decided to go to McDonald’s. Oda’s decision mostly.

Let’s just say she’s my genetic miracle, but athlete she is not. When we go for a run together, my cottage cheese factory is in full motion, and her fat rolls ripple in the wind.

And together we rule this neighborhood.

I wouldn’t say that we run together as a team, per se. I run at a 20 minute mile pace, and Oda runs happily at a sprint in front of me. Then Oda finds the scent from a squirrel that ate a nut two days ago and stops to smell it. I keep running only to get yanked backwards by the physical force of planted Oda. Then I tug on the leash and yell “Oda! Move!” Oda runs happily at a sprint in front of me, and the cycle starts all over again… Thus said, we don’t get very far.

The worst was when a woman ran faster than us up a hill, and she was pushing one of those high-tech running strollers - with 2 kids in it. That’s when Oda looked at me and nearly said, “We totally suck.”

But Oda and I have our own running club, and not anyone can join. You have to be especially cool to join it, and people like workout instructors can NOT join. Anyone with a natural affinity to sweating is OUT.

Our club is mostly for people who put on their workout clothes and say they will do sit ups while watching Oprah. But because Oprah is such a compelling show, you mostly just lay on the floor in your spandex.

Don’t tell the City of Mission, but I really don’t like to carry poop bags around with me either. How is a person supposed to run with a filled poop bag? Once Oda starts to do her business in a front yard, I take off her leash. Then before the house inhabitants come running after me, I yell, “Did someone loose a dog?”

Wednesday, July 22, 2009


The other day I was trying to explain to my boyfriend the magnitude of feelings that comes with PMS.

On any normal day when you are going about doing your thing and accidentally knock your elbow against a door, you probably wouldn’t really stop to notice as you are hurrying along on life’s magical journey.

Now if I am PMSing and I knock my elbow accidentally against a door, the pain reverberates throughout my entire being, and I think to myself, “OH DEAR GOD! SOMEONE MUST PAY FOR THIS.”

That someone is usually my life partner or boyfriend, Steve, who innocently looks at me with puppy dog eyes that say “Oh geez, that must hurt.”

And I look into those puppy dog eyes and think to myself “I will spare you no mercy….”

I don’t understand how 1 week out of the month I can permanently be in a bad mood.

One time my boyfriend told me to “Have a good day!” I said “Ok, whatever.” In his most chipper Boy Scout voice he said, “Aren’t you going to enjoy your day?”

My demon voice replied, “I’m not going to have a good day. Because I know that each day is just going to feel like every other day for the rest of my life!”

But with every bout of PMS, there comes a new month. The birds sing a little louder, and the sun shines a little brighter. With every new cycle there are new beginnings. I go to my local pharmacist and pick up a fresh new pack of birth control pills. And I hold up my pack of pills to the sky, and I say to my pharmacist, “Joal, this is gonna be my cycle!!!”

Only when I get home and take off my purse, I realize that I am in fact still in a bad mood. Maybe it’s not the PMS. Maybe I’m just in a bad mood all the time.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008


As some of you may have heard, a bank actually decided that Steve and I were responsible adults, lent us a disgusting amount of money, of which we were able to purchase a home. Being 2 quite impatient people, the purchasing process was long and arduous and only about 6 months. After lots of negotiations, we barely cashed in on our loan only 2 weeks before the market crashed. If something else would have gone wrong, I doubt our loan would have gone through. After what is supposed to be one of the best and greatest moments of your life, purchasing your first home, we were drained like a can of Coors Original.

On the Night of "Shit, we actually own a freakn' house. I hope it doesn't burn down" Steve and I were starting to pack up our apartment, and we went out for dinner around 9pm. We were sitting in the car in the parking lot, and 2 girls walk out of their apartment to go out and were dressed like sex and fried chicken. They both were in their black little tank tops and skinny "Rock and Republic" designer dreams, and it took me back. It took me back to preciously 2 years ago when I was 10 pounds lighter and able to wear skinny - ok, not designer, but Banana Repbulic on sale - jeans. And I was able to wear those jeans without muffin toppping. At that time in my life I would go out nearly every night and look for a boyfriend, a relationship, a chance to fullfill that need for the "other half." With every failed attempt, I would get shit-faced, making my chances of a realtionship even more slim, leaving me only to make out with random strangers - one time a street vendor - in dark corners of bars.

So here I am sitting in the car with my wonderful man, purchasing our first home, and I realized that I got what I always wanted. Only now all I really want to do is go out and get shit-faced. and be able to fit in my skinny jeans.

But I just bought a house. I can't spend $40 on a round of shots! I need to buy smoke detectors and fire extinguishers and trash cans.

Now being in our home for 4 months, I realize all of that hard work was worthwhile. Just the other morning I woke up and Steve was the first thing I saw, and it made me so happy that I said, "I don't know what part of your body is smelling, but I can smell it from here." And he said, "Why don't we play a game called 'Find Which Part of my Body is Smelling.'"

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Little Asian Man

So this morning I went to the gym at 5:30 AM. God isn't even up at this time. I like to run on the treadmill that does not face the mirrors. Who finds mirrors motivational? I wear spandex to work out, which I just know I should not be wearing. It looks fine in the front, and the back is a cottage cheese factory. So a short little Asian man steps onto the treadmill beside me and proceeds to start a conversation. wrong decision.

First of all, he needs to compare the metabolisms of little Asian people to giant tall Pollock women with big butts. As science has proven, I'm going to have to work a whole lot harder on the treadmill than he.
Second of all, it's before dawn. At this time of day, my body can only communicate with looks of hate. I can only say "Fuck You" with my eyes.
Third of all, I don't know why someone would say "Hello" at the gym. Do I look like I'm wanting to network? Am I carrying around a big bucket of friendship necklaces, just ready to hand them out to a new BFF? No. If I wanted to do that I would have worn something besides spandex.

So I turn to the little Asian man, and I give him a big ... fat ... cheery "Hello!" this is my life.

Reasons to Not Like Me

This weekend I got too drunk to volunteer and had my friend lie for me saying I had sun poisoning. I have a 1 in 32 chance of getting fired. I judge people by their zodiac sign. I get annoyed that the KCStar doesn't post the online horoscope until after noon on Fridays. If you are a biker who thinks that you have the same road rights as a car, don't bike next to my vehicle. I haven't visited my grandma in her nursing home for over a month. I hate it when people complain about traffic in Kansas City. You do not know the definition of traffic until you are sitting in a non-moving cab in Manhattan with no air-conditioning and a fat, stinking driver is commenting on how he's seen you before in your neighborhood, and how he likes how "thick" you're legs are. I'm such a bad gossip that I'm good. I don't like talking to neighbors because all I see are flashes in my head of my friends peeing in their yard at midnight. Sometimes in church I remember that last night I danced on top of a pool table and forgot to put on underwear this morning and have to put $20 in the jar. On that note, I don't do Jesus. My favorite part about Christmas is the alcohol. I cheat at drinking games. I was captain of the cheerleading squad, in the 6th grade, and my cooliarity status has been plummeting since. Even then I was tallest and put at the bottom of the pyramid and never the top- always the spotter, never the flyer-there is absolutely no glory at the bottom. I talk to myself. I don't like it when my mother is friendly and stops and talks to every checker working in the store. I love Miracle Whip. I love Cher. I love big hair - I feel it makes my large Polish ass look more in proportion. I cuss when I'm driving, fucks fly, and it probably looks like I have tourettes. I have a lot of nervous energy - if I were to write an autobiography, it would be titled, Overkill. I think my parents should have never let my dog keep his balls, and I chase after him threatening to judo chop them off! Then again, who am I kidding?

Who doesn't heart me? I'm so fucking charasmatic.

Reasons to Like Me

I once won an eating contest by pounding 40 jalapeno fried cheese balls in 17 minutes, wining and basking in the glory of $70. The prize keep me financially afloat for 3 weeks, but the pride never escapes me. At the start of the race, my outlook did not look good. Let's just say that I did not make it look easy. The jalapeno heartburn nearly blinded me. Fortunately, my Jackie Chan focus lead me to pull through in the end. In track, you would call me the "Anchor." In baseball you would call me the "Closer." My stealth tactics were switching from beer to water, shit-talking like a closeted gay frat boy, and cheating. Since I have the metabolism of a dead woman, the next day was not pretty. My body was swole up to resemble a polish sausage left outside 2 days. Honestly, I don't even have to eat the stuff. I just look at it and my ass grows. The next day I was forced to try on bridesmaid dresses only to cause an abrupt room full of young women under the hot lights bitching about the smell of fried cheese.

I think that is all you need to know to fucking love me.