Tuesday, December 9, 2008
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
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.
Who doesn't heart me? I'm so fucking charasmatic.
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.