The Flub Trub

 

I know I can't be the only person in the world who realizes that there's is a difference between fat and thick, but this shit needs to be addressed immediately. Ladies, you need to get over yourselves already and call it like it is. So, maybe you don't like the word fat (I know I sure as hell don't) which is why I coined the term "flubalicious" some years ago. But if that doesn't work for you, there are an array of other fabulous words one can use:

• Enormous
• Chunky
• Large
• Huge
• Flabby
• Heavy
• Tubby
• Portly
• Blubber-butt

Truly, the sky is the limit, so knock yourselves out and find one that defines you.

 

We have become so sensitive to what is real that we have become a society of lazy, lame-asses who can't do anything for themselves. This isn't exclusive to weight either; kids aren't allowed to play dodge ball anymore because "it's mean", and even though little Johnny is a fucking moron, he will get a blue ribbon anyway because "it's fair". No, you know what's fair? Failing, knowing you failed, and then working your ass off so you don't fail again. It's called character building. I digress.



You are not "thick"

I think the problem is words like "thick" were conjured up in this grey area to make people feel better about themselves. I'm not saying that you're not beautiful, or special, or awesome, or funny, or smart. I'm sure you are. I'm just saying, if you're fat, then be fat! If you don't like being fat... then change being fat. Don't just choose an adjective that holds your hand while you skip into the magical world of self-delusion.

The same goes for skinny women - please stop calling yourselves fat when you're a size 6. You're normal-sized (I won't say healthy, because weight and health have absolutely nothing to do with each other). I hate to break it to you, but you're a woman. Women are built different than men. Women are designed to have curves. We have wide set hips because we bear children. We have breasts because that's how those children we bear get their sustenance. This was all part of the master plan - it's in the blueprints.

Before you start cursing my name under your breath "she doesn't get it - my man loves the way I look - I think I'm sexy - I feel great about myself". The thing is, I do get it - I'm not skinny, nor am I regular-sized or thick. I am one hefty, self-insulated bitch, and that won't change until I decide to change - not because I started using an emotionally friendly adjective. People come in all shapes and sizes; we're not all supposed to look the same and we're not attracted to the same kinds of people either. I know I can't date men with tiny heads (mainly because my head is so abnormally large it becomes the main attraction in all photos). I'm greatful that no matter what size I have been, there have been men who are attracted to me. Granted, my winning personality glistens and sparkles no matter what I look like.

I may be fat, but I can change that. You'll always be a douchebag. 

The Weight Game

Any person who claims that they "love" their body no matter what their size isn't exactly telling the truth. There's a little lie in that statement because I have yet to meet someone who isn't on some kind of weight loss diet. Thin and heavy alike, no one is ever satisfied. We might love ourselves, which we all should, but there is always a human need to get to the next goal: to be better, to do bigger, to conquer the next goal. From the big girl's point of view, I have little belief that other big girls love the way their bodies look. It's a delicate balance though, because while I do have confidence (most days) and I love the person that I am on the inside, my outside doesn't reflect that. Sure, there are days where I look great - my jeans are hugging my curves in all the right places and my waist looks slimmer than usual, but let's face it - I'm not happy with my outer appearance. Anyone who says a size 18 looks just as good as a size 8 is fooling themselves.

I will say that I am proud of myself in recent months. I finally got the inner kick in the ass that I needed to get my life together. I decided it was time to make the necessary life changes to lose weight - not for vanity reasons, but for health reasons. I think that makes the difference from my mindset to the mindset of those who just want to fit into that perfect summer bikini. My motivation isn't fitting into a piece of string you wear at the beach - my motivation is to live a long, happy and healthy life and you simply can't do that when you're overweight. The nice trade off is that you end up looking hotter and hotter with every pound gone.

With 30 pounds behind me, I'm not going to say it's been easy, but it's been extremely gratifying to see my progress, my inner will-power develop and my self esteem blossom. There are some things about this adventure that piss me the hell off though...

• Every skinny girl around me eats like utter shit and remains skinny. Why oh why didn't that happen to me?! Genetics? I doubt it. God's evil little plan if you ask me. Naturally you would think that these skinny people would be working out to maintain their size, but I reassure you, most aren't. They are just naturally tiny sized. And for that I say you can all kindly fuck off.
  
• Since we're talking about skinny bitches who don't try to be skinny, I hate that I'm always going to have to monitor my weight. My lifelong journey of maintaining my goal weight will be something that I diligently have to watch forever. I'm at such a high risk of gaining weight back that I have no choice but to eat bananas for my snacks and work out 6 days a week to keep myself at an even keel.  Un-mothereffing-fair.
  
• Have you ever noticed just how many commercials on television are about junk food? KFC, McDonald's, Domino's, Papa Johns and every sugary cereal you can imagine come on back to back to back every single commercial break. No wonder when you're laying down watching TV you get this overwhelming desire to dive into a pool of chocolate milkshake with a side of french fries. Seriously though, when was the last time you saw a commercial about a fruit cocktail?
  
• Friends and family constantly telling me "oh you can't eat that" or asking me "what are you allowed to eat?". I will smack someone if another person tells me what I can and can not eat. If I budgeted a small snack sized bag of Cheetos to accompany my otherwise very healthy lunch, then leave me to it. I know exactly what I'm doing and I can eat anything that I want within moderation. You, my dear friend, can go dive into a volcano if you try to stop me.

I guess these scenarios just come with the territory. I am in love with the fact that so many people in my life are going through there own life overhaul and losing the weight that has been holding them down for years. Congrats to all of us; and cheers to the next 30 pounds gone!

You've Got it Made

The battle of the sexes has been a long standing debate for decades. Longer actually. I'm pretty sure Freud had his own take on the gender battle (penis envy anyone?). Books have been popping up on Barnes and Noble's shelves for as long as I remember. Men are from Mars; Women are from venus, right? So, here comes the age old question: whose life is easier and whose life is harder? I don't want to point fingers at men about how easy their lives are; they've got their own set of issues. I certainly wouldn't like to know what it feels like to get kicked in the balls. I just don't think men truly grasp just how much more pleasant life is for them. I know I hear men complaining about having to foot the bill on dates, and about juggling multiple women at a time without them finding out about one another, and about learning how to fix things around the house so their penis feels bigger, but really, none of that compares to what it's like to live with a yeast infection.

Call me biased, but I definitely think women have the short end of the stick, and I'm not just saying that because I own a vagina. I asked a number of men to name things that suck about being a man and all of their responses were so typical and superficial.

Complaints from men:
1. Having to be the first one to go out and check for danger - we ruined our once flat stomachs and tight asses to house and birth your children. Grab the baseball bat and take your ass downstairs to see what that noise was.

2. Not being able to stay home and take care of the kids - by all means, please stay home. Guaranteed you'll resent me working all the time, and for not spending enough time with the family and you will inevitably feel like less of a man for staying home and changing diapers. Don't worry honey, I promise you that your penis is still the same size. It'll be okay.

3. Insurance is higher and we die younger - I just spent the past 12 hours huddled into a ball full of nausea and unbearable cramps. Fuck you and your higher insurance. I'd also gladly shave a couple of years off my life if it meant I didn't have to go fake labor every single month for three quarters of my life.

4. Inevitable, irreversible loss of hair - last time I checked, women lose their hair too. Plus we can't get away with shaving our heads without looking like a cancer patient. Bald men are cool. Look at Bruce Willis. Suck it.

5. Pressure to provide for your family - in these times, both parents are full-time working adults, yet it's still typically the woman who gets the kids to school, gets home on time, cooks for the family, cleans up the house, does homework with the children and gets pulled away from life every time Junior has a tummy ache. You get no sympathy!

6. That damn "honey-do" list - I'm pretty sure we're making you feel more like a man by solving our household problems and opening the pickle jars. Don't act like you hate it. We're really doing you a favor by stroking your super manly and insecure egos.

7. Sexual satisfaction is solely on us - trust me, if it was as simple as a breeze hitting my vag in just the right way to satisfy me too, I wouldn't need your help.

8. The expectation to be "manly" all the time - I can't speak for other women, but a man whose vulnerable enough to be emotional in front of me is sexy and inviting. This shows me that you might be one of the few that actually has a soul. Maybe it'll also mean you'll listen to me when I'm talking. I don't want to get ahead of myself though.

9. Expectation from society - oh pah-leeeeze! Women don't have societal expectations?! I was raised to be just as educated as you. I went to school like you. I developed a well rounded sense of being like you. I have an amazing career like you. Yet, I'm still obligated to maintain our house, raise our children, and look like a super model while doing it. Plus sized models are now a size 6. Does anyone realize how detrimental this is to a woman's self esteem? I'd be quick to stab you in the jugular to obtain a size 6 waistline.

10. Having to deal with women, who are by nature, annoying and irrational - how can I put this politely? Go fuck yourself. When was the last time you bled for a week and felt rational? Get back to me when that happens.

Okay - I know women are hard to tolerate sometimes. I will be the first to admit that dealing with a woman who doesn't think she's nuts is probably the worst kind of woman to be around. I would like to point out that I am not in denial, nor am I ignorant to the cold hard fact that I am out of my fucking mind, and absolutely annoying. I mean, if I can annoy myself, I can only imagine how other people are tolerating me. Keep something in mind though (and I've mentioned this before): this isn't exactly our faults. This is biology. Our hormonal cycle changes literally every, single day that we are alive. Men don't have to deal with this. You'd be all emotional and batty too if your hormone levels were at a civil war inside your uterus.

And as if ruining our bodies for babies, dealing with cramps, shoving mounds of cotton inside to stop the  blood festival, and developing an array of horrifying vaginal infections every time we take an antibiotic wasn't bad enough. Let's keep in mind that cancer causing STD's are from men. They host the disease and infect unsuspecting uteruses (uteri? uteruses? I digress) with cancer causing HPV. Not okay. I don't see how that is sexually satisfying at all. I'll take that cold breeze any day now.

Happy Seasonal Affective Disorder

I'm still a little taken aback that Thanksgiving is weeks behind us and there are only a few days left until Christmas. I, for one, never cared for the holidays; mainly because growing up any holiday that revolved around giving or receiving presents turned into a guilt festival for not being helpful or grateful enough. As I've grown up though, I've noticed that all Christmas has turned into is "go into debt buying shit for people you only talk to once a year" day. Call me cynical, but I think that defeats the whole concept of celebrating baby Jesus's birthday. Granted, I'm not a religious individual, but I personally think any holiday, especially Christmas, should be spent eating good food and spending time with people you actually like.

I feel like I've used the word 'Christmas' entirely too many times already.

The first year I celebrated "Christmas Alone with a Dog" I was rocking in the fetal position, crying on the couch, while watching Marley and Me and clutching my puppy. I wanted to make the best of the evening since I spent the entire day acting like a character from Girl, Interrupted, so I devised a plan to go get drunk and make some bad decisions... only to get side swiped on the highway... on Christmas day... in the rain. My car has never been quite the same since. I have since given up on trying to keep my car ascetically presentable. He never gets washed, unless the cloud gods have opened the skies and poured water down upon him. The inside of my car looks even worse; I haven't seen the passenger side floor in months. 

And yes, my car is a 'he', because if I have to sit down and ride something all day... wait, I'm not even finishing this sentence. 

The second annual "Christmas Alone with a Dog" wasn't planned to happen, but life just seems to know when to keep a good thing going. I was recently unemployed, broke and full of self wallowing woe. A friend of a friend asked me to stay in her giant house and dog sit for two weeks while she frolicked around South America with her diamonds and rubies. Had I not been so desperate for money, I would have realized just how far she bent me over with how much she actually paid me. As it turns out, I would have made more in 4 days at my current dog sitting job than what she paid me. Nature then decided to slap me in the face by snowing. Not once, but twice. It wouldn't have been so terrible had I not owned a car with low profile tires that did nothing but maliciously cackle and flip me off during snowy conditions. I had no choice but to shovel the entire front of her property, including the quarter mile long driveway. Not that I could really go anywhere, because she lived in the woods; full of hills, twists and turns. So, I spent Christmas drinking rum and watching hours of Intervention, which is a contradicting statement in and of itself. I'd like to point out that watching hours of Intervention makes you want to shrivel up and die, which isn't the outcome you want to go for when you're already bathing in misery.

The third annual "Christmas Alone with a Dog" has crept up on us and this year I'm going all out. Not only do I have my dog to spend this holiday season with, but I have my roommate's dog and I have a giant golden retriever to walk all weekend long. I figured since this is what the universe has bestowed upon me every year I might as well embrace it at this point. While I haven't quite worked out all the details yet, I'm thinking my celebration should include things like:

• Take a stab at lasting more than 20 minutes doing my Xbox Zumba - so far, I've felt like imploding every time I've tried
• Give myself a pedicure. I may not be able to reach my feet that well, but I'm sure I can improvise by attaching a Ped-Egg to a yard stick
• Have an invite only wine tasting party - Even if I'm the only one invited, it sounds a lot fancier than "drink the pain away alone" 
• Watch Bad Santa and take a shot every time Billy Bob Thorton says "fuck"
• Take a shot every time my roommate's dog cries from separation anxiety
• Take a shot every time my anti-social dog leaves me alone in the living room
• Take another shot just for the hell of it

So far, my celebration includes a lot of drinking, but it's still a work in progress. Happy Fesitvus!

Driving is Overrated

For my 27th birthday this past July, I made a few resolutions; just a few things I wanted to accomplish during the descent into my 28th year of fabulousness. With almost 6 months behind us, I thought it might be a good time to check in on my progress.   

• Start tanning - I got suckered into a monthly subscription at a tanning salon, that I only used once, and didn't cancel for at least 3 months. I also bought $100 worth of tanning lotions. Money well spent if you ask me. 
• Keep a hair color for more than a month - that didn't work out so well. I'm already on color change #17
• Lose some weight... again - finally, something I accomplished! 13 pounds down, 4780 to go. 
• Stop trying to kill myself in the middle of the night - I decided that I was going to cure my sleep apnea all on my own and not waste money on one of those fancy face vacuums. I'm still working out the kinks.
• Date more non gay men - I just gave up on dating all together - problem solved. 
• Stop playing bumper cars in real life - so far, I have yet to add more dents and scratches to my once pristine vehicle. I'm still plotting on having someone steal it, and burn it in the woods so I can collect insurance money. Oh wait... that's illegal isn't it? Forget everything you just read. 
• Maintain my sanity while working 7 days a week - this was a lost cause; I don't even know why I added this to my list in July. Maybe the voices made me do it. 
• Escape the shanty townhouse - DONE! 
• Become a world renowned writer - yeah, about that...
• Stop donating money to the richest county in America - *sigh*

Earlier this year I seemed to have developed a fetish for donating my funds to Fairfax County for a variety of different traffic violations. First off, I would like to say that this county is far from needing assistance from me. In fact, I shouldn't even be living in such a classy county. With the money I make, and the insane amount of debt I have (which is having a tailgating party at the foot of my bed right now, if you're interested), I should be living somewhere like Newark, NJ. Who cares if Newark has the highest crime rate in the country? Minor details. 

I made a vow that I would stop finding ways to hand over hundreds of dollars to the courts, but on the day I escaped the shanty house for good, I got pulled over for speeding... again. Can I just point out that I have been driving for over 10 years and was never pulled over for anything until this year? I'm convinced that I'm being racially profiled. I graciously accepted my ticket and went on my way. Earlier this week I received two letters from the DMV. Letter number one stated that I currently have 11 points on my license and could be suspended if I hit 12 points during a one year span. Letter number two stated that my license has actually been suspended for two weeks already due to failure to pay my speeding ticket. 

I did what any rational adult would do: texted a friend with an abundance of obscenities, wished for a vat of alcohol, and reluctantly reached for my wallet. There were three steps necessary to get this situation taken care of: pay the court the amount of the ticket, pay the DMV a reinstatement fee and take a trip to the DMV with proof of payment. After paying nearly $400, I illegally drove myself there the next morning ready to take action. Apparently, the receipt on my cell phone wasn't proof enough because the court website still reflected an outstanding balance. I was told to come back at a later time. It seems that I'm expected to ride my bike around the construction zone that is my entire neighborhood. I got in my car, suspended license in hand, and drove to work. Later that day, I received an email from my bank my checking account was weeping. I'm still wishing for that vat of alcohol.

Pass the Serotonin

A lot of people have a legitimate fear of getting older. We want to hold onto our youth, smooth skin and non-saggy asses for as long as possible. And while I understand the rationale, I've learned to embrace the art of getting older. To me, getting older has provided me with a keen understanding of who I actually am as a human. I strongly embrace the impending smile lines, grey hairs, crow's feet, and upper arm flab. Who cares if my pasty Irish skin shrivels up and I look like a glow in the dark raisin by the age of 52? That's what plastic surgery is for. Yet, a lot of people I know would love to turn back time, head back to high school and do it all over again. As for me - I'd sooner swim through a swamp filled with fire breathing dragon babies than head back to 2001.

The only thing I really don't like about getting older is that I've somehow been kicked back into puberty. The only difference now is that I have bills I can't afford, a sex life that is less than enviable, and three jobs that have completely killed my social life. I don't know about you, but this seems like a really unfair trade off. At least the first time I went through puberty all I had to worry about was staring at the crush I had on in homeroom without getting caught and figuring out how to apply makeup.

I blame my uterus: she is the bain of my existence. I know of no man who has to suffer like me and the rest of 20-something woman. It's come to a point where I'm fairly certain that my brain lacks some kind of neuron processor. Why else would I be spontaneously crying while watching Jeopardy? 

I know that my monthly hormone cycle is to blame for the majority of my life issues, and I have come to accept the fact that every single day until menopause is decided for me by the fluctuations of estrogen, testosterone and progesterone. Do I feel bad for men for having to put up with women? Yes - most days. Are we all nuts? Yes, we are - but I will reassure you all that we have virtually no control over being crazy - our hormones made us do it.

I'm in the dreadful baby-bearing years of my life and I am going through the fight of my life ignoring the glow inside of my womb whenever I hold a baby or see a pink tutu specifically designed for a 6 month old. I have my hands full at this stage of my life. What I don't need right now is a second round of acne that has slowly taken over my face within the past two years. I'm pretty sure I took the strongest acne pill known to man to take care of this problem a decade ago. I remember those 6 months vividly, including the giant warning on the box that, if I got pregnant while taking, would cause my baby to come out with 4 eyes and no limbs. I went through months of nose bleeds and chapped lips in the journey of acne curing hell. Someone please explain to me why the Bertha of all pimples has rented a summer timeshare on my chin.

I also really don't appreciate the inconsistent mood swings. Within a matter of 20 minutes, I can go from being happy to completely homicidal and then back to happy as if nothing has happened. Who wants to be friends with someone like that? No wonder its hard for women to keep other women friends - we're all plotting to kill each other and then share a bowl ice cream over pedicures 2 seconds later. While watching No Strings Attached last night, the most light hearted and lame "romantic-comedies" of 2010, I found myself bursting into tears while eating pickles. I then laid in bed for hours, unable to sleep, cell phone in hand, plotting to text disgusting mushy words I knew was too soon to utter. Hormonal texting is way more dangerous than drunk texting. God, someone please put me out of my misery. 

The Decline

Birthday's are a funny thing. I know a lot of people who don't like to celebrate getting older, but I've always been gung-ho about getting my party on, even though as I've gotten older I can't exactly hold my liquor any more. What's not to celebrate though? You're another year older, another year wiser, and another year's worth of shoes have been bought! So, now that my official plummet into my late twenties is upon us, I'd like to take this time to reflect on what I've accomplished within the past year, and what I'd like to do differently during my 27th year of life:

List o' Accomplishments:

• I grew my first wrinkle - thank you pasty pale Irish skin.
• I got fired for the first time in my adult life - best Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Years present ever!
• I managed to date only one closeted gay man - vast improvements, people.
• I got my heart broken and smooshed - awesome!
• I gained back every single pound I lost before I turned 26 - mmm flubtastic.
• I hit a guard rail and cement block with my car - scratches and dents galore!
• I developed my sweet ability to choke almost to death in my sleep - bring me my face vacuum!
• I've obtained not just one job to replace the one I lost, but three! - who needs sleep? I keep trying to kill myself anyway while I'm sleeping.
• I moved, not once, but twice - because the first time wasn't quite fun enough
• I got my first speeding ticket ever, on top of my second HOV violation - I really just felt like donating money to Fairfax County because they aren't quite rich enough.

I've accomplished a good amount since my last birthday, but in an effort to keep the momentum going, I would like to set some new goals for this next year coming up.

List o' Goals:

• Start tanning - because if I'm going to develop wrinkles, I might as well look like a leather hand bag while I'm at it
• Keep a hair color for more than a month - this might be really difficult for me
• Lose some weight... again - you know, as much as I enjoy the flub, I enjoyed being less squishy more
• Stop trying to kill myself in the middle of the night - fingers crossed!
• Date more non gay men - I like men who like vagina the best
• Stop donating money to the richest county in America - I prefer my money where I can see it, you know, in my closet
• Stop playing bumper cars in real life - let's keep my ride alive!
• Maintain my sanity while working 7 days a week - wait... you don't hear those voices?
• Escape the shanty townhouse - my soul has died because of this house
• Become a world renowned writer - it could happen!

Unfortunately, there are certain things that are completely beyond my control from year to year. I can not control that it's always about 115 degrees out when it's time to celebrate my birth, which causes me to develop a delicious Mufasa mane. I can not control that toothless men at gas stations love to point and stare at my ass. I can not control that I sweat more than the imaginary lovechild of Whitney Houston and Richard Simmons would. Last, but not least, I can not control that people still continue to buy Jennifer Lopez's music. Why does she still make music? I can't figure it out.

Before I Self Destruct...

I've recently discovered that my body is literally trying to implode; and while some of you might think that this is an exaggeration, I can truly assure you that it's not. Within a two week span of me staying at friend's and family's houses, it was confirmed twice that I periodically try to suffocate myself in my sleep. The suspect: possible sleep apnea, which is causing me to choke and not breathe during my slumber. So, in essence my body keeps trying to kill itself.

In an effort to stay alive, I reached out to the doctor to make an appointment. Unfortunately, it would be a good three weeks before I was able to be seen. To mind my time until the doctor was able to save my life, I headed to the wonderful world of Wikipedia - land of all useful knowledge. Of course the one and only fact I was able to focus on was that sleep apnea will inevitably cause my untimely death, but I did learn a good amount of information (whether that information was actually factual doesn't really matter). Apparently, the longer I suffer from sleep apnea without treatment, the less oxygen reaches my brain and that lack of brain oxygen will cause an array of fun health issues, including (but not limited to!) heart disease, stroke, clinical depression and obesity.

Not only was it bad enough that I could wake the dead from my obnoxious snoring, I was now suffocating myself in my sleep, preventing oxygen from reaching my brain, making myself fatter, and counting down the days to my first stroke. With my excitement in tow, I finally headed to the doctor to see what could possibly be done. She took a look down my throat and said "Wow, it's crowded back there." Crowded? With what? Subway cars are crowded; my house of too many roommates is crowded; I'm pretty confident my throat shouldn't be crowded. She wrote me a referral to the sleep medicine guru and sent me on my merry way to sleep another night closer to a heart attack.


Luckily, the sleep medicine facility was able to get me in two days later. She started asking me question after question to gauge how likely it was that I had sleep apnea.

• Do you snore? Yes!
• Do you have headaches? Yes!
• Do you have heart burn? Yes!
• Do you have night sweats? Yes! They don't call me Sweatz^TM for nothin'.

I then had to rate my level of sleepiness in different situations on a scale from 0 to 3 - 3 being the most likely I'd fall asleep.

• Sitting and Reading? 3
• Watching TV? 3
• Sitting inactive in a public place (like a meeting at work)? Definitely 3
• Passenger in a car for an hour without a break? 3
• In a car, while stopped in traffic? 3

She told me that I had a very high level of sleepiness, that I am an accident waiting to happen, and that I shouldn't drive until this is under control. Sure - that's a feasible option. Luckily I live and work within a 5 mile radius, so the chance of my flying off the road and killing pedestrians isn't as high anymore. I should probably start driving with a helmet on though, just in case. She scheduled a sleep study for me, so we can figure out just how severe my sleep apnea is. She then went on to tell me that while sleep apnea does clearly suck it is very treatable with a CPAP machine aka The Oxygen Mask of No Sex.


I'm pretty confident that I can just give up the hope of ever having sex again, let alone a boyfriend or future husband. Do they have vaginal amputation surgery? Can I donate it to someone who can have sex? I clearly won't need her anymore. Would that donation be a tax write off? That'd be helpful. Perhaps with all the restful, brain oxygenating sleep and lack of sex, I will become incredibly focused on going back to school, getting a fourth job, or trying to ward off the impending major obesity that the sleep apnea was trying to bring upon me. So I may be vaginally useless, but I'll be smarter, hotter and my brain will once again be filled with sweet, sweet oxygen.

Trapped in the Closet

I love that the tolerance levels for homosexuality have come leaps and bounds within my short life time. I remember not too long ago when I was in high school, a guy would have been ridiculed endlessly for being gay, or even being perceived as gay. While my sister, who is currently a sophomore in high school, tells me that there are a ton of openly gay kids in her school. Granted, my sister and I have always lived in highly populated areas with culture closeby and MTV on 24/7, so I can only speak from my own personal encounters.

With acceptance in the air and objective attitudes blossoming with our pollen filled trees, why do I still come across so many closet cases? Grown men that are so trapped in the closet they can't help but sing R. Kelly songs. It is in my expert opinion that there are far too many gay men hiding amongst the straight men. You see these men prancing on posies, trying to convince us single girls that they love them some ladies, when really they are as straight as a circle. I know for a fact that I have better than exceptional gay-dar and I will be the first girl to say that I love me some gay men. They are a girl's best friend: less bitchy than a woman and you can still talk about how hot Vin Diesel was in Fast Five without a second thought.

So, why would anyone be so ashamed of their sexuality that they have to pretend to be something they arent? There are so many perks involved with being gay. Yes... perks:

1. You will have so many female friends in your life you won't know what to do with yourself. And all of them will most likely feel comfortable changing in front of you.
2. With all of the naked ladies around, you're bound to expand your social circle with straight men who want to be around all of the nakedness. Who doesn't love having large social circles?
3. Nine times out of ten, you'll have fashion sense.
4. You can have sex at the gym!
5. You can have sex at the club!
6. You can have sex and not have to cuddle afterwards!

There are far too many of these closeted men clogging up my Match.com inbox, Facebook wall, Twitter feed and life in general. What's the big deal, fellas!? Love who you want to love!

I may have met a few suspects in my time, but one of them takes the mother of all cakes. I met him at a friend's house party and within seconds of seeing him, the gay light was flashing so bright I could barely see anything. Perhaps it was the just array of mismatched bracelets and shiny shirt that was blinding me. Either way, he was clearly not playing for my team. I paid him no mind, but by the end of the night, he asked me for my phone number. After I gave it to him, I pulled my friend aside and asked just how gay this guy was. According to her, he was a straight arrow, and was even married for many years. Okay - because a married guy couldn't possibly be gay. Thanks.

My main issue with this guy was that he was the most irritating human being I've ever met. There was a brief moment when I thought he might be straight because the bitchier I was to him, the more he tried to hit on me; a paradox amongst men that I will never understand. Shortly after his awkward passes at me, he confessed he was engaged... to a woman. This is where my second issue with him developed: he was clearly a lying douche bag. Nevertheless, he still pursued, claiming that he didn't love this woman and he broke up with her. Whatever you say buddy.

Like a lot of people I know, I have questioned my sexuality at one point or another. I clearly know when I see a hot chick. I have kissed a lady or two in my time, with or without alcohol involved. These are things I am not ashamed of; it's all part of getting to know our selves as we grow. I know damn well and whole heartedly that I love men more than I probably should. So, I think it's fair to say that I'm about 98% straight, give or take a cocktail.

So, when house party guy told me that...

a. he watches gay porn
b. is attracted to trannys and
c. has gotten multiple special kisses from men and trannys

...my reaction wasn't one of shock. I looked at him and said "I knew you were gay". He quickly dismissed my statement, and said "I'm not gay; I'm religious".

Wait... what?! So, God doesn't want you to be gay, so instead you thought it was better to be a liar? And a cheater? And an over all douche bag? I thought God didn't take too kindly to those sorts of things.

He ended up marrying that woman he was engaged to, even though he was consistantly cheating on her with dudes. Talk about ruining the sanctity of marriage. Ladies, open your eyes! We need to stop enabling these men, and kick them out of the closet. Let us stop making excuses for these guys; no, he is not just "really sensitive", his voice is that high for a reason, and it is not cute that he owns more purses than you.

The Shanty Townhouse

When you find a master bedroom in a townhouse that is three miles away from your job for a more than affordable price in a very expensive area, there's usually good reason for it. You would also think that my logic would have set in after seeing how dilapidated this entirety of this place was, but instead I gave a very excited "I'LL TAKE IT!" to my one of my new roommates and moved in three weeks later. It wasn't like I was desperate; I wasn't living in my car or a refrigerator box quite yet. I was just living with family, and family is better loved when not living with them.

When I originally checked out the room, the guy's stuff was still in it and it was a little hard to gauge the unfortunate state it was actually in. As for the rest of the house, that was clearly falling to pieces, it didn't seem to faze me much.

"I'll be spending most of my time in my giant room anyway, who cares?! This is PERFECT!"

I did come back a few days before I moved in after this guy moved out to check out the room again, but with no lights in the room, and no sunlight shining through the blinds, again it was really hard to tell what the condition was. Should I really have expected the room to be in any better condition when downstairs looked... the way it did? Apparently I did.

Moving day arrived, and since this was officially my fourth move in an 18 month span, I hired people to move my stuff. I refused to lift a finger. I would be that woman holding her latte, chatting on her cell phone and pointing to where everything goes. I came upstairs to check out the room and upon a quick once over realized I had my work seriously cut out for me. I'm not sure if this man knew what a dust cloth was or not, but it was clear that he never used one in his life. Explain to me how the walls were so dusty, that the dust had turned into brown dirt. So here I am, mopping my walls with a Swiffer, when I was supposed to be drinking an overpriced hot beverage from Starbucks and thinking about how to decorate.

The Heather Sweatz™ had started to penetrate my scalp, so it was time to open the windows to let the cool winter air in as I continued to mop the walls. Little did I know that the windows don't stay open on their own, hence the giant, dusty, splintery wood block living on the window sill. One unstable opened window would have to due for now. After several hours of wall mopping, scrubbing the molding, and unpacking, I finally ventured into the bathroom to check out the situation.

It takes a lot to render me speechless, but this did it. After the initial shock wore away, the first thing that came to mind was "how did this man ever get laid?!" I've seen some scary bachelor bathrooms before, but this topped them off. I had to run away from it, literally, and try again in the morning. So the next day, a trip to Target was needed and after spending hundreds on every cleaning product imaginable, and disposable gloves, it was time to attack. There really was no good place to start since everything needed to be cleaned. So the first thing to go was the living creature that was once a shower curtain. I understand there are a lot of men (and let's be honest, women too) out there who couldn't be bothered with the cleanliness of the house and bathroom, but seriously, how could this man live like this? It was as if the material of the shower curtain no longer existed and have transformed into a mold carpet and with my Hazmat suit on back order, I had to go in without protection. I started going demolition on this bathroom, ripping old, moldy fixtures off the wall, and spraying bleach at everything that was no longer the color it should have been. I came out 3 hours later, traumatized, and high from the fumes, but the area was fully sanitized and ready to be used.

Not that it would make a difference because the next day, the ceiling of the dining room was on the floor and the water from my shower was streaming from the gaping hole. So now the sanitary bathroom was rendered useless, but no matter, I could just shower in the dining room, under the wet light fixture, which would sure to start sparking any moment. As I stood there, staring up at the hole, with my roommate Amanda, I couldn't help but laugh. I swear this was a scene out of The Money Pit. The man from RotoRooter was yelling at us and walking his muddy shoes around the carpets I just had cleaned. Every time I asked him his opinion that wasn't water or pipe related, his response was "that's not what I do!". Excuse me Mr. Rooter, I was simply asking you a question about the how the wet light might become a fire hazard, don't act like there's sand in your vagina please. The landlord sent someone to the house, as she hid in the car outside, to translate the situation in English. His response was "wow... everything in this house needs to be replaced". Gee - thanks.

So here was the test: would the landlord actually fix the house? There's so much wrong with the house, it's overwhelming.

1. The Kitchen - I'm pretty sure every appliance came original with the house when it was built in the 70s. I accidentally put my hand on the hood above the stove once, and my fingers were sticky for the rest of the day. I am plotting to take some kind of wire cutter to the back of the fridge, and accidentally breaking it.

2. The Dining Room - aside from the established issues, the carpet probably had open flames taken to it, during multiple occasions I assume. Aside from the holes, there were more stains than not, so I'm not exactly sure what color the carpet is.

3. The Half Bathroom - I didn't even realize what the little door to the left led to when I moved in, but I peaked inside once. I'll never do that again. The former roommate must have worked his magic in there as well.

4. The Wallpaper - Yes, we have wallpaper, all the way through the hallway and up the staircase. It's a classy green and paisley design, another original fixture since the house was first built.

5. The Stairs - both going up and down, they feel as if someone is bound to fall through them at any given moment.

6. The Floors - I'm not quite sure floors should make so much noise when you walk on them.

7. My Blue Toilet - granted, the toilet works, but I had the replace the toilet seat with a white one. Want to know why? Because who in their right mind makes a blue toilet seat for a blue toilet?! Now I have a multi colored toilet - it's like a disco in my bathroom.

8. Ceiling cracks - I'm pretty sure this means the house will self destruct during the next really windy day.

9. The Basement - it has wood paneling. Honest to god wood paneling.

My conclusion is that we just burn the house down and start from fresh. Ahh, Home Crap Home.

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.