Pizza Face

You would think after I spent years suffering from the chronic condition of being a teenager that I would be rewarded without having to worry about certain things at my age: body image issues, having sex for the first time, weight struggles, staying out past curfew, and acne. I'm 26 years old - I should no longer have to fear looking in the mirror when I wake up because a giant pimple named Bertha decided to lease my cheek for her winter vacation. I'm not sure why my face has been trying to self destruct for the past few months, but frankly I'm a little tired of these unwelcomed guests. At first I thought perhaps it was the stress of moving. Then I thought it was the stress of being jobless, and having to move. Then perhaps it was the stress of having no money, being jobless and having to move. In any case, I look like I've been going through puberty, and I've been wanting to soak my face in a vat of concealer on a daily basis. How am I supposed to impress interviewers when pimples the size of Montana have taken up residency on my once supple skin?

I have used every product offered, and have spent countless pennies going to dermatologists, filling prescriptions for creams and pills and have washed my face with everything imaginable. The only thing that worked when I was a teenager came with more warnings on it than a box full of chemical warfare. Accutane was considered the last resort medication for dermatologists to give their patients, and required monthly blood tests to make sure I wasn't dying or pregnant. Most patients take this drug for 5 months, but luckily for me, I took it for a whole 7 months. Might I mention that this "medication" was recalled in 2009 and is now undergoing a slew of law suits from patients whose insides are literally falling to pieces. I suppose dealing with the 3 hour daily nosebleeds, dry, cracked lips so bad I would go through a tube of Chap Stick in a week, painful blood tests, depression, and suicidal ideations every day at the age of 15 wasn't bad enough. I can now look forward to my liver falling out of my ass soon. At least my skin looked good for... about 10 years. Well worth it, right?

Haven't I been through enough? If I have to deal with being broke, jobless, single, and full of self loathing misery, can't my skin at least glow from the inside out!? Is that really too much to ask?

I would also like to note that I'm extremely tired of these Proactiv commercials every time the TV is turned on. Listen here Katy Perry, P.Diddy, Jessica Simpson, Justin Bieber and Kelly Clarkson: the prodcut that you so highly endorse doesn't work. Unless I happen to be the only freak out there who's skin is completely resistant to Proactiv's magic, I'm tired of all these happy celebrities running around with clear skin. If I have to suffer, there's no reason why Katy Perry can't either.

Let's make 2011 the year of clear skin people. I'll accept your donations, start conducting research immediately and will post my findings periodically.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

I never thought of myself as a Scrooge, or someone who hated people who loved Christmastime, because that's not at all how I see my reaction to December 25th and the dreadful days leading up to it. People say its the season of giving, which is great; I'm all about everyones high level of fake tolerance of one another one month out of the year. For the 26 years that I've been on Earth, I have yet to experience a holiday season that didn't make me want to rock in the fetal position while clutching a vat of bourbon. I just don't understand why there has to be so such stress involved. In all honesty, I would love to spend the day with my family talking and laughing. No gifts, no big feast, no drama. We're all alive and we're all together - that should be all that matters.

Unfortunately, I seem to be the only person out there who feels this way. To others, spending next month's rent money on gifts, crying over ruined assorted baked goods and stressing yourself out so badly that you land in the hospital practically every single year appears to be the only way others enjoy spending the holidays. It makes me giggle when these people claim that Christmas is all about lil baby Jesus and how we should honor his birth. I'm sure stuffing your face full of cookies and buying everyone useless crap makes Jesus feel warm and tingly inside. To each their own, right? I'd just rather be left out of that whole concept of fun.

This year is the second annual "Spending Christmas Alone with a Dog", and I am determined not to cry during this year's festivities. I've already started drinking, so I think I'm on a good path. Pineapple Orange juice mixed with Malibu rum might lead to me raping myself tonight, but I'll try to behave and learn that no means no. I digress. I googled "Christmas Blues" and I kept coming across all of these really lame pieces of advice, such as 'volunteer and listen to Christmas music really loud'. So, in order to fight off the devastating side affects of seasonal affective disorder, I have come up with a realistic list of things to do to occupy my mind:

1. Drink. Heavily.

2. Open up 12 bottles of nail polish, (to signify each day of Christmas of course), and start making my own nail polish color. Really, what we're aiming to do is get high off the fumes, so when it mixes with the heavy drinking, I'll pass out into a blissful slumber.

3. Watch Bad Santa after waking from the toxin induced nap

4. Eat an entire can of vanilla frosting - if no one is around to witness it, it never really happened

5. Enjoy a nice poop

6. Gorge on bad Virginia chinese food

7. Enjoy another poop

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to mix myself another rape cocktail. Happy Festivus.

The Firing Squad

There's one sure fire way to ruin someones lunch break: telling them there's rumors about them getting fired. An even worse way to ruin someones lunch is when those rumors are reality. KFC chicken will never taste the same to me. The rumor was I was getting fired because I was friends with someone of the male persuasion at work. The actual reason I was fired was because I sucked at my job, or so they claimed. Coincidentally, the company posted a new position on Craigslist the very next day of a recruiter position who would also happen to do my job. Seems like I got screwed if you ask me. Might I add that this all took place about 2 weeks before Thanksgiving and three weeks before my lease was up. I was now jobless, and soon to be homeless. Happy Holiday Season to me.

I wasn't one of those people who gracefully left the company either. Oh no, not this girl! I instead lost all control of my emotions and composure, cried in front of my boss until my mascara was running into my mouth, dumped the contents of my desk into a cliche box (minus the ficus) and practically threw my keys at him. I walked next door to say goodbye to two friends of mine, and to shake the hand of the VP, all while my eyes looked like tremendous swollen tumors from all the tears. When it comes to making a memorable exit, I'm a pro.

The only thing that made sense to do that night was to drink wine. I proceeded to buy not one, but two bottles all to myself and bring them to my friend's apartment. Word of advice: if there's a 'buy one, get one free' sale on wine, don't buy it. There is a reason it's $5 for two bottles. I was, however, on a budget now and couldn't think about such things as taste or quality. I had a mission to accomplish, and it was to forget who I was by the end of bottle number 1. We toasted to my failing life and drank the world's worst wine imaginable. I can't even begin to describe what was so bad about it. It was dry, but it wasn't supposed to be dry. It sort of tasted like rubbing alcohol mixed with potpourri and vinegar. I was a trooper though, and drank the contents on bottle number one on the couch, while we watched Love Actually. Bottle number two is still sitting untouched in the fridge. It shall be saved as a souvenir.

The next day I went to the new gym I just joined that was across the street from my job to beg them for my money back, since it was no longer a convenient location for me and since I had no money to pay them with. I walked in there with eyes still swollen, makeup dried onto my face, smelling of bad wine, wearing ripped up sweats and a mangy pony tail, hoping that the more disheveled I looked, the more pity would be taken upon me. Mission accomplished. At least something worked out for me.

Everywhere I went I swear people knew I was a jobless statistic. Why else would I be wandering aimless around Wegman's in the middle of the day looking like a homeless person? People with jobs don't look this way. Perhaps my vivid imagination was taking me places and nothing was going to convince me that no one saw the scarlet letter on my chest. I went home, filed for unemployment, updated my resumes and started my quest. Perhaps it was time to change my career path. I could become a lady of the night... that's tax free money, and I could still collect unemployment. Or I could go into street pharmaceuticals. No? Bad Idea? I'll keep looking then

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

How many people actually fall into the lives they've always dreamt about? I'm going to assume that only 1% of us become the person we always dreamt we would. The rest of us just learn to develop more realistic dreams as we get older. When I was 6 I dreamt of owning a pizzeria. Little did I know I would fear the kitchen in my old age. When I was 7 I dreamt of becoming a teacher. As it turns out, I can't stand a giant room full of anyone of any age, especially under the age of 18. When I was in fourth grade, it was my life goal to be a marine biologist because I loved dolphins so much. Did you know you have to study every form of science and math imaginable to get that degree? Yeah, I didn't realize that either back then. In junior high I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing something that involved speaking French all the time. This was always a language I was fascinated with since early childhood, and finally had the chance to learn the language in school. To this day, the only type of French conversation I can hold sounds something like this:

"Hello. My name is Heather. It is hot (or cold) outside. I would like a an omelet please. I am going to go to the store. I love you. Good bye my friend!"

I'm fairly certain I need to learn a few more key conversational phrases before I can move to France.

When adolescence set in I gave up on career goals. Instead, I focused on short term dreams. I dreamt of being a Spice Girl. I dreamt of how I was going to be able to stay out past curfew. I dreamt of sucking face with a cute boy. I dreamt of having hair that wasn't frizzy to the point of being gravity defying. I dreamt of owning a cell phone. I dreamt of the array of colors I wanted my best friend to paint my toe nails. I dreamt of green tea and hummus.

(Does the word 'dreamt' sound funny to you now too?)

When I approached young adulthood, I had developed a dream of being materialistic. Not in the sense that would make me high maintenance; I would never impose my materialisticness upon a boyfriend or future husband. Instead I just thought it was best to destroy my financial stability and credit to purchase designer perfumes, purses, sunglasses, clothes, shoes, watches, cars and diamonds. I am now suffocated by debt for living in the "lap of luxury" since 2003. Actually, other than my car and impressive perfume collection, I really couldn't prove what I spent all of this money on.

Now in my mid-twenties, I dream of extremely realistic concepts. I dream that I can afford rent next month. I dream that I can show up at my Aunt's house at the exact moment dinner is done. I dream that someone will do my laundry for me. I dream that I will one day be able to cook something that doesn't involve unwrapping a frozen pizza and shoving it on the oven. I dream that Verizon Wireless will mess up and allow me to upgrade my phone early. I dream of being able to dance all night in a club without sweating like Richard Simmons.

...Okay I still dream of shoes too.

But most importantly, I dream of eliminating all of my debt. It's a really daunting task when I actually start to calculate just how much I owe to everyone:

1. School loans - this is just for undergrad, that I still have two years left in. Let's not discuss what grad school is going to cost me.
2. Car loan - My car will probably be stolen for parts before I'm able to pay it off.
3. Bank of America - why did you think it was a good idea to give a 22 year old child a $10,000 limit?! This is entirely your fault.
4. Staten Island University Hosptial - I didn't eat any of the food when I stayed in the hospital, and I certainly didn't ask to wear your hopsital gowns.
5. Blue Cross Blue Shield - You just suck on principle.
6. Macy*s - Did you really think making me a platinum AMEX member was the best business decision? Really?

I blame you all for making me a stereotypical, irresponsible, debt riddled American. I'm just waiting for someone to tell me that working full time, going to school 3/4 time and working part time as a waitress on the weekends will help me become a well rounded human being, so I can burn their soul from the inside out with my glares of evil disdain.

Dating Adventures in the DC Metro Area

It's been just over a year since my epic move down south and I have yet to find any kind of social network, let alone a decent man to date. I'm definitely not complaining; my forced alone time has helped me to become one with myself. However, I will admit that after moving down here I thought I would somehow find my dating mecca, since I hadn't any luck in the greater New York region. With pieces of my broken heart in tow, I opted for the still slightly looked down upon world of Internet dating.

Question: Why is it that online dating is still looked at as this taboo thing that only creepers, weirdos, and losers partake in? I still feel slilghtly sheepish after meeting someone online to admit to my friends and family where I actually met this guy.

Anywho, I re-established an old favorite and tried two new sites, one including OKcupid.com. Now enter the weirdos du jour:

1. Bonjour Monsieur French Guy!

An honest to god Frenchman, living here in America for 10 years, enrolled in grad school, planning to pursue a law degree, and a military veteren. He was very good on paper. Win.

He lived an hour away in Maryland, and agreed to come to my neck of the woods for dinner. Granted his English was spot on, there was still a language barrier, and my sarcasm didn't always make sense to him. He always overindulged in using the work "fuck", which gave this, one of my favorite words, almost no meaning at all.

We did end up kissing a bit, after he whispered French nothings in my ear. I swear, he could have been quietly telling me his plans to murder and dismember me later on that night, but it was still definitely VERY hot. He had decided to tell me that he will never peform oral pleasures on a woman during our next date, which came completely from left field. My first instintual reaction was "they still make people like you!?" We continued to chat for a little while, but things got VERY strange when one morning while running late to work he flipped out on me for not texting him by 8am. He swore up and down that "something was up".

Listen here little buddy:
a. stop being so paranoid
b. you aren't my boyfriend
c. you're a psycho

Shortly after his phone call flip out, I stopped speaking to him, only to have a very interesting text message conversation some weeks later (after I deleted his number) about how I'll pine over him forever, that I'm a whore for moving on, and immature for deleting his number. Seriously? Go back to France.

 2. Bryan, the commitaphobe Air Force guy who disappeared like a theif in the night.

I met this gem a few weeks before Thanksgiving. Things were going fairly well I thought. He took me out for sushi dinner for our first date. Sure, there were things that were slightly off, such as the oddly placed Calvin and Hobbs tattoo on his forearm, or his really terrible taste in attire, or his even worse taste in music. I could overlook those things, or at least help him dress better. He was tall, and handsome, and things seemed like they could have potential. And then *POOF* he was gone. He stopped answering his phone, his texts and his emails. I'm no stalker, and there wasn't much invested, so I took the hint and kept it moving onto another weirdo.

Wouldn't you know that he decided to pop up some weeks later, declaring his sincere appologies, and asked for my friendship, which I graciously extended. Only to find out no more that 48 hours later he stopped talking to me because he met someone. That doesn't seem very friendly, does it?!

3. "Shoulder Boy"!

I honestly can't remember his name at the moment. Perhaps it'll come to me later on. It was around Christmastime, so he suggested we go to a dinner and live performance event. Nothing too fancy, a group of local performers doing their own version of Scrooge. He was very polite, pulled out my chair. He did mention almost immediately that he would be paying for everything, so to order what ever I wanted. I didn't think much of it until he mentioned it several times over and over again that he would be paying for everything. Um... thanks?

We went out another time for sushi when I realized I was MUCH taller than him. I also learned he was strangely responsible for taking care of his live-in jobless brother, his jobless brother's jobless wife and their children. He was also entirely too proper for me, in an uppity snobbish fashion. I decided I couldn't stand the site of him any more after we went to the movies to see an action/drama and he proceeded to put his head on my shoulder. Perhaps I would have thought this was sweet if I liked him as a person, but instead all I wanted to do was rip my shoulder out from underneath his giant head and make him sit up straight in his chair like the adult he was supposed to be.

4. Jack the Unemployed Masturbator - Enough said.

5. "2.0"

After ending a short term healthy relationship over the summer, this was my first leap back into the dating game. He seemed legit. Very handsome, good job, nice car, and he thought I was gorgeous. I should have assumed he was out of his mind at that moment in time. We went out on three pretty awesome dates - he actually courted me like I was a lady! This could have definitely had potential. I made the mistake of engaging in sexy time after date #3 and was left more than just a little disappointed. These things can be worked with though, right? Let's just say it was a little too jackrabbity for any woman's liking. Word to the wise gents: TAKE YOUR TIME. The va-jay isn't going to run away from you.

Turns out he denied me date number 4 because he claimed I was too dramatic for him. The reason for being called dramatic? I allowed a friend to get drunk in my house after he had a bad fight with his girlfriend. I was told that I meddle in other people's relationships, that I have poor judgement, and poor insight.

REALLY!? Remind me not to call you when I'm down and out.

I hope your pathetic inability to please a woman causes your penis to fall off. Trust me, you're the only one who would miss it anyway.

In lighter news, I did get hit on by an old creeper at TGI Friday's the other day. He attempted to smooth talk me, and then he fell over a chair. At least I can always count on these winners to boost my self esteem.

Adventures in a Nail Salon

The first time I got a manicure was on my 22nd birthday. I was hooked from that moment on. Never in my life had I seen polish on my nails that wasn't lumpy, chipped, or all over my fingers like a four year old attempted to paint them. For a reasonably priced $8, I could have someone cut and file my nails, clean up my cuticles, rub my hands down with a lotiony massage and get freshly polished. Of course, you begin to realize rather quickly if that nail salon really is any good at all. It's hard to tell at first, since they do a lot better than you could ever do, and you have nothing else to compare them to. Then begins the hunt for the perfect nail salon.

In my hometown of Staten Island, there are nail salons literally on every block, usually located next to a pizzeria and a bagel store/deli. Within a one mile radius of my old house, I could walk to about 8 different nail salons. Take that number and times it by 58 square miles. That perfect nail salon might be hard to find. Actually, screw perfect, I'm just looking for half decent. Unfortunately, the best pedicure I've gotten to date wasn't even in this country; it was in Vancouver.

These places use trickery to make you think you're getting a great overall experience. From what I've seen, the nicest looking places are usually the one who will charge the most and give you the worst service. I usually aim for the crusty looking hole in the wall - they know service! I'm not asking for much, just don't make me bleed, don't get polish all over the place (I can do that myself), don't talk about me while I'm sitting right in front of you in languages I can't understand and have a real nail dryer, not just a ceiling fan for me to stick my hands underneath.

How come every time I get
a mani/pedi no one gives
me a pretty pink flower to
hold and wet rocks to
step on?

Nail salons in Virginia are a little different than those in the great state of New York. For one thing, the prices of a manicure are doubled, for service that is exactly the same, or less than that I would have received back home. I've been to three or four different locations down this way before I retreated to painting my own nails this past winter. It didn't look too terrible so long as you looked at them from 10 feet or more away.

After going months and months with bland fingers, I decided two weeks ago to get something called a "permanent french", which is basically some kind of acrylic gel that they put on your nails and then you stick them in this oven looking device with a blue light that bakes them, and voila! Perfect nails. It's amazing how beautiful a girl can feel when her nails are fresh and shiny. Until they start to grow out. Then you feel like homeless white trash.

I decided on my lunch hour today to take a trip to a nail salon to remove the overgrown french tips, which would turn out to be over-all traumatizing experience. I sit down in the broken and dirty computer-like chair and was told to stick my hands into a scalding hot bowl of nail polish remover. While I'm trying to ignore the burning flesh of my fingers, I can't help but notice the giant flat screen TV in the back, playing an honest to god Asian karaoke DVD of American songs sung with an Asian accent. I should mention that all 10 of these songs were from the 80's or early 90's, every "video" of the re-made song involved some Asian woman running through a field and the DVD was on repeat for about an hour before they switched the TV to an Asian movie, dubbed over poorly in a different Asian language with English subtitles.

After the skin on my finger tips had melted away, the manicurist proceeded to take the mechanical nail saw to remove the excess acrylic on my nails that the scalding hot soaking process didn't remove. Unfortunately, she started to get a little impatient and thought it was a better idea to saw away at layers upon layers of nail until flames started shooting up from my burning nail beds.

With bad karaoke music in the background, I walked over to the sink and got a nice whiff of delicious mildew. I guess the owner must have seen my screw face, because she soon lit some incense. So, now not only did the salon smell like mildew, but it smelled like matches and bad Korean incense. I sat down, and took my ring off and sat back because at least now I could get a little hand massage. Or not. Instead, she started to paint my nails, while traces of glue and acrylic remained all over my dry, unlotioned hands.

She begins to examine my face intensely for a good 30 seconds before she opens her mouth and says:

"You want eyebrow wax?"

"Um, no thanks", I said.

Now I'm just sitting there feeling insecure and defeated. What's wrong with my eyebrows? Why would she just offer out a random eyebrow waxing if I clearly don't need it? I have no stray and straggly hairs, I maintain my eyebrows almost too often. A part of me wanted to let her wax them so I could stop feeling like that 15 year old after-school special girl wishing for people to accept the real her.

Finally, after two hours of this nonsense, I sit down in front of the nail dryer, which is literally a box with a light bulb in it and a mini fan, as if the combination would actually dry my nails any differently then if I just blew on my fingers. While sitting there, I noticed that the manicurist proceeded to put the tools she used back into the "Sterile Package" in which they came from. After that she walked over to another girl and practically molested her from behind. I know that nail salons are usually a lax environment, but this seemed above and beyond. Before I could escape, she handed me a card to get a free manicure after paying for six. I don't think I'll be using that card anytime in the future.

Over-Committed

Have you ever met someone who didn't like music? These people confuse me. I mean, they truly make no sense to me. How else are you supposed to get over a bad breakup without listening to Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt while sobbing in the bathtub gripping a bottle of stale red wine? There must be a healthier way to grieve that I have yet to be informed of.

What about music is there not to like, let alone love? I love music so much that I keep really bad songs on my iPod because I feel guilty deleting them. I did enjoy these songs at some point in time; they didn't do anything wrong to me to deserve complete and utter dismissal. I just politely skip over them. The thing is though, my musical tastes have changed so rapidly over the years that a lot of the songs on my iPod get skipped daily. I think there are about two listenable songs per ten skipped songs (and this is out of almost 2400 songs). One solution to this problem would be to simply delete all of the songs I end up skipping over, but that seems like a highly drastic move. What if I happen to be in the mood one day to rock out to Jennifer Love Hewitt's one and only single? I could also make a play list of all the songs that are worth listening to, but I would have to break them down by genre and that seems like a lot of work.

If I was to put my iPod on shuffle like I always do, these are the following songs that would play:

1. Tracy Chapman - Fast Car
(just happens to be one of my favs - so we will give this one a listen.)

2. NaS - Hope
(I used to really love Nas. He's the reason I fell in love with hip hop about 14 years ago. This ship has long sailed, and I need to be in a kind of "mood" to listen to hip hop nowadays. Next.)

3. Nelly Furtado - Maneater
(I used to enjoy this song while getting ready to go out. It used to be a good "driving to the party" song. Every once in a while I'll let it play in my car, but this would usually get skipped. Moving on!)

4. TLC - Creep
(This brings me back to 4th grade when Crazysexycool first dropped. If I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll let it rock. Right now however, I'm not feeling it. Skipped.)

5. Anna Nalick - Shine
(While I do like most of Anna Nalick's songs, this one I don't. I downloaded it on the good faith that it would be as good as her previous songs. To the left, to the left.)

6. Alicia Keys - Tell You Something
(What can I say, I love me some A.Keys. We'll let this one play.)

7. Fredo Star - True Colors
(This is from the Save the Last Dance album - a movie that I really liked when I was 16. I felt a kinship with the white girl falling in love with a *gasp* black guy and then developed a deep bond through dancing and music. I bought the entire album in support of the movie. This song kinda sucks though. Moving on.)

8. 50 Cent feat. Beyonce - Thug Love
(Again, I would have to be in my hip hop mood to listen to this. Right now, that mood isn't here. Next.)

9. Limp Bizkit - Rollin'
(Welcome to 1999/2000 - I hated this song when it first came out, yet it somehow made its way into my music collection, and my iPod. Change this immediately.)

10. Rent Soundtrack - Goodbye Love
(I'm a sucker for most musicals, especially ones about the HIV and gay lovers. We'll let this one play.)

11. Alanis Morissette - Crazy
(I like the original Seal version better. Don't eff with a masterpiece...)

12. Mr. Scruff - Kalimba
(This is barely a song. It's just random musical tones over a bad beat. I'm not entirely sure how the hell it made it's way into my musical collection. Skipped.)

That is precisely two songs played out of ten skipped songs. I can't make this up! I was figuring all this out during my drive back to Virginia today - I had four hours of scientific research to back these foundings up. I do have songs that literally make me cringe every single time they play and I still refuse to get rid of them. I mean, who seriously has La Bouche, Kris Kross and Eddie Murphey on their iPod other than me!? I have to admit I'm embarrassed when someone is in my car and I have to keep my iPod in hand the entire duration of the drive so I can skip over the songs that would attempt to steal my dignity.

I might have to recruit some help to clean out my iTunes library. This is turning into a serious problem.