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.