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.