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.