Kenny Chronicles: Don’t Cry Or My Fake Tan Will Run

[For those of you who don’t know who my metrosexual best friend Kenny is, please read this post. Then do yourself a favor and get a clue.]

Most of you may have noticed I’ve been on a bit of a happiness protest this year. Well, hopefully this helps to explain things a bit. I was going to title this post: News Worst Than AIDS. Then I thought that was a bit too dramatic, even for the Kenny Chronicles. Regardless, please keep reading and stop judging me.

[rolling up to the Wendy’s drive thru, sometime last May]

Kenny: Um…. yea. Can I get a double bacon cheeseburger, and can I try a, um, frosty twisted coffee toffee.  I mean, an uh, coffee frosty twisted mocha thing.

Me: No, no. There’s nothing mocha about it. It’s A COFFEE TOFFEE TWISTED FROSTY.

Kenny: Ugh. Whatever. Can I get one of those frosted coffee drinks? [turns to me] Whaddaya want?

Me: Ok. This is very important. I want a Jr. bacon cheeseburger, plain, with lettuce only. You have to say it like that or they will put condiments on there, and mayo makes me throw up.

Kenny: Can I get a Jr. bacon cheeseburger with just lettuce, please?

Me: Tell them plain! You have to tell them plain or they’ll put the mayo. I CANT eat mayo.

Kenny: Oh chill. They know what I mean.

Me: Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, I know how it has to be done.

Kenny: [hands me the bag of food]

Me: Ok, just let me check it real fast.

Kenny: Um, no.

Me: What do you mean no?

Kenny: We’re not those people.

Me: Those people, who?

Kenny: Those people who hold up the line cus they are double checking the food. It’ll be fine.

Me: [as we’re exiting the parking lot] Hmmm. Interesting. MAYO!  ….Turn the car around.

Kenny: Seriously, there’s mayo on there?

Me: Seriously, when will you EVER listen to me? [hands him the sandwich]

Kenny: Can’t you just scrape it off?

Me: No, I can’t SCRAPE IT OFF. The taste infiltrates everything. I hope you know that you are going back in there to get me a new one.

Kenny: [stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth] But I’ve already started eating!

Unfortunately, this is one of the last memories I have of Kenny and I before he left me for some younger, more attractive and aquatic state. California that isOh wait, you didn’t know that?

It was a month before this very incident that he broke the bad news to me. I remember it as clearly as that day I walked out of the bathroom in third grade with toilet paper tucked into my tights. Kenny was sitting next to me on my couch he mentioned something to this effect [I can’t remember the details as I went into a three-month coma afterwards]:

Kenny: So, I think I’m moving to San Diego.

Me: [bursting out in laughter] I’m sorry, what?

Kenny: No really, I have some opportunities out there.

Me: Is this sorta like that time you were gonna “move” to Virginia with whatsherface?

Kenny: No.

Me: Well, what the HEAL does San Diego have that our town doesn’t?

Kenny: Warm weather. New people. The Ocean.

Me: Oh, so you’re gonna move to one of the most expensive cities in California, in the middle of a recession, with no family or friends to support you, and you’re gonna leave me here with all these losers? Don’t do it. Remember the sandwich? You should really start listening to me.


Me: Get out of my house.


And before I knew it, I found myself rolling up an ungodly amount of metro ties and placing them into Kenny’s suitcase. As I was laying on his bed, covered in hair from his insanely obese and elderly cat Beretta, I found myself speechless. How on earth would I stand this godforsaken town without Kenny around? He made everything bearable. We looked through old pictures, talked about all of our crazy times, and all sorts of sentimental stuff that I’m not usually comfortable with.

The next morning, he was off to the friggen Southwest. Since I’m not the best at goodbyes, confrontations, or sports, I opted to leave a few hours before departure. As we hugged goodbye, our conversation pretty much summed up everything:

Kenny: Sorry this is the way you have to remember me [points to his hair] I look terrible.

Me: Um, please, [pointing to my face] do you see these bags under my eyes?

Kenny: Ugh. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.

Me: You have no idea. [hugging, starting to tear up]

Kenny: Now don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying and you’ll make my fake tan run.

Me:  Well, maybe next time I see you, it’ll actually be real.


And that, my friends, was the start of my spiraling depression. Please direct all outbursts and fury over lack of blogs/commenting toward Kenny.You can check out the photo shoot we did before Kenny left me here…

To check out slightly more uplifting installments of the Kenny Chronicles:

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual In A Yankee’s Hat

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

How We Met

A Conversation At Starbucks

A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water

Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business

[This is part I of a two part series, inspired by the fact that I was deleting my Myspace account. I realized that they had saved every email correspondence from the past 6 years… it was like discovering the Pompeii of my social life. There they were, all my shennanigans.  Pefectly and horrifically preserved.]

PREFACE: To be a successful person in life and also to understand this blog, you should have some familiarity with the Kenny Chronicles .  But for those of you who won’t because you’re too lazy (and God love you for that) I will give you a brief background. Whilst attending college in London, I met a charming, British Indian lad who was stricken by yours truly.  Several months later, he moved to my blue-collar, closed-minded Midwestern town to “study abroad,” but I fear all of that was just a really pathetic excuse for said illegal immigrant to be with yours truly.  But can you blame the chap?  Shortly thereafter, I discovered charming lad had more money than God and a very hopeless addiction to heroin.  Two traits that I don’t generally seek out.  In the rolodex of past relationships, I now affectionately refer to him as My Slumdog Millionaire. Oh, and Kenny. He is basically the male version of me, otherwise known as my metrosexual best friend.

The moment Slumdog moved here, it was blatently obvious that he didn’t belong.  Everyone here is exactly the same.  He was British. He was Indian.  He was 26.  He wore Versace Couture and got regular facials. He had no occupation, yet immediately paid cash for a home in my city’s most expensive neighborhood, where he parked a Porsche Carerra 911 and two Mercedes in the driveway.  He was surrounded on all sides by maple trees and white doctors with young families.  To say that he stuck out, would be to say that my mother is paranoid of life, or that my dad hates Al Gore, or that I have a mild distaste for mayonnaise and commitment.

study-abroad-londonAmong the many positive benefits that heroin has to offer, my favorite is paranoia. It only took about two days on American soil for Slumdog to decide that our unexplainable chemistry meant that Kenny and I were having a secret, steamy love affair.  I laid down the law that Kenny wasn’t going anywhere. Long ago, Kenny and I came to the conclusion that when we finally meet “the one” they will understand our relationship.  It seems that since then we’ve both dated quite a few “not-the-ones.” During the three years of hell that followed, Kenny was the only person who knew.  He helped me hang on to any small shred of sanity I had left, when he wasn’t pissing me off, of course.  We crafted many a sneaky maneuver to carefully hide the addiction from everyone, including  friends, neighbors, family, my employees… and the cops.  As someone who hadn’t had any experience with drug addicts [so sue me], I didn’t want everyone to judge him on the off chance that he might someday overcome his addiction.  Chalk that up to naivete and Nice Midwestern Girl Syndrome – both traits of which I’m glad to be free.

In a last ditch effort to gain me back for the 100th time, Slumdog planned a trip to see his London doctor and “sort himself out.”  As usual, I was left to tend to all of his bills, the ginormous house, 3 cats, 300 gallon salt water SHARK TANK [for which I had to dice up raw shrimp and squid to satisfy their ravenous appetites morning, noon, AND NIGHT], and various other duties – all while I was attempting to run my retail store in the mall.  Bottle of wine, anyone?

Kenny and I had always thrown combined birthday parties. Well, hey, whaddya know? I’m going to have a big, huge house all to myself… I spose we could just have a small little get together type thingy here, eh? And so we started planning a top secret gathering for the week after Slumdog’s departure. It was especially confidential since Slumdog hated the Kenny.  And Slumdog was a freakishly paranoid about his house and/or possessions.


The theme was to be “Risky Business”… cus well, it was. And Kenny has always had a ridiculously unwarranted mild obsession with Tom Cruise [and does bear a slight resemblance to him circa Top Gun. ..or so he says].  We had sent out a few, or 300,  invitations via every social networking avenue available.  I should also mention that we’re not good at keeping promises, or anything on the “down low.” Thus, we booked a DJ, purchased ambient lighting for the entire house, ordered several hundred glow in the dark beads and Ray Bans, and secured people to help us move out all the furniture.  My London roommate was also flying out from New York for the, uh, get together.  Oh, this is only the beginning.

Things to anticipate in part II:

*An exact replica of the party invitation as has been preserved in the MySpace museum.

*When everything blows up in our big, fat lying faces.

*Slumdog misses his flight to London, which throws Kenny and I into Mission Impossible crisis mode.

*Kenny distracting the cops, as I burst out into tears and tons of minors scatter out the back door and hide inside the rich neighbors’ tube slides.


For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Kenny Chronicles: I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

I haven’t said the word “sausage” for going on 15 years.  It’s a personal protest, don’t worry about it.  Unless I’m struggling to order a pizza, this usually doesn’t present a problem.  Of course, there was that time I worked at Chuck E. Cheese all four years of high school, where pizza and little kids accidentally peeing in the tube slide were the only topics of conversation. Eventually, I got it down to a fine science, where I would simply nod and point to the menu on the wall behind me and say, “Ok, so, you want this one then?”

Now that I reminisce, that truly was a dream job.  Aside from being permanently sick, due to filthy, germ-coated everything, I squandered my days away by misspelling kids’ names on chocolate birthday cakes so I could eat them, while flirting with the game table hottie.  Things couldn’t get much better. Why I ever left remains one of the biggest mysteries of my life.

Speaking of breakfast food, let’s talk about Kenny.

18So Kenny and I are hanging out and discussing everything that is important in life.  As usual, at some point, the conversation takes a random turn down a long, winding road and we end up in a place that I’ve never been before.  Nor do I ever want to go again. It’s some sort of a lonely wheat field, or abandoned Waffle House – there’s no way of knowing.  And the following conversation takes place:

Kenny:  I mean, he was like this guy that just smelled like maple syrup.

Me:  Someone can’t smell like maple syrup.

Kenny:  Oh, someone can.  And they did.

Me: That’s ridiculous.  You know that’s ridiculous right?

Kenny:  It’s ridiculously true.

Me: But that makes no sense.  Did he just get back from IHOP or something?

Kenny:  [shaking his head with a very defeated look on his face] No…he just smelt like it permanently.  What’s worse is people who smell like maple syrup and pee.

Me: Who smells like pee? No one smells like pee.  Did he work in a nursery?

Kenny:  I’m not exactly sure.  But he smelt like breakfast.

Me: …..

Kenny:  I just… I hate people who smell like breakfast.

Me:  Maple syrup smells delicious.  I wish everyone smelt like maple syrup.  This kid used to sit behind me after lunch and he reaked of ketchup.

Kenny:  [laughs] What?  Ketchup? Why?

Me:  Cus all he ate was fries at lunch.  Well see, now you understand why I can’t eat condiments.

Kenny:  Well, maple syrup is just completely ruined for me. [Sigh] I used to love that stuff.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Are You The Sheriff Of Losertown?

It’s time for some tough love.  This is one instance where I do encourage you to follow in the footsteps of my petite and sufficiently pumice-stoned feet

There comes a time in your life when you realize that the majority of your friends are on the slow train to nowhere.  Such a time came for me about three years ago.  My heartfelt apology to everyone I was hanging out with around that time. The problem is that when all of your friends are losers, it takes you quite awhile to realize it. 

This is because as a collective group of losers – you don’t seflowbee-haircutem so bad.  In fact, collectively, you’re pretty fun.   No steady job, no direction, no responsibility.  All the loserness makes for a rather exciting, carefree existence – but the problem is that it can suck you in like a Flowbee and start a downward spiral of which you may never see the end.   But, you ask, how do I know for certain if I am, indeed, the sheriff of Losertown?

Well, as you may have guessed, I have the answer.  I’ve developed a fool-proof 5 point questionnaire, entitled:  How To Know If You Are The Sheriff Of Losertown

1.  Are at least 75% of your friends college dropouts or permanently “taking off a year to save money / experience life / figure out what they want to do?

2.  Is grabbing food from anywhere but the dollar menu with them just not an option?

3. Do most of your friends avoid going to the doctor for what could be a life threatening illness because they “can’t afford health insurance?”

4.  Do you notice that these same friends always have the latest and greatest phone/crackberry, video gaming system, or Apple product- yet continue to whine about not being able to afford their own place, an oil change, or dentist visit for their skankalicious teeth?

5.  When you talk about long term goals and aspirations [while you guys are hanging out at Perkins / Ihop / or Dennys at 3 a.m. where only half of you are actually ordering food] are you often met with looks of disorientation?

Now.  I definitely fit in to some or ALL of these categories at one point, but I broke free – which is especially hard in my piece of crap town, where all you want to do is find ways to kill time until you hopefully end up in a nursing home with a courtyard view.  So that means you can do it too.  Chin up.