That’s My Daughter? She Sure Is Stone Ugly

That would be an exact quote from my loving, very proud, first-time father the moment I was born into this world.  I thought for years this was due to the fact that he had never seen a newborn in all it’s alien likeness before; however, my mom set the record straight when she told me I was indeed, super ugly.

I share this heart-warming tale about my birth with you because today would be the anniversary of that very day.  But I hate birthdays.  And they despise me.  They never call. They never write.  All they do is sneak around and steal another year of my life away, while gently whispering in my ear all that I’ve failed to accomplish.  As if I haven’t been robbed enough times in my life.

 

kids-birthday-partySpeaking of robberies, you do know that from 2006-2007 I was robbed six times, right?  Your ears did not deceive you.  Six.

I say all this, to say, that I got locked outside in the blazing sun yesterday, during a heat advisory with 100 + degree weather. Oh, and I was half nekkid. You don’t see the correlation?  I’m getting there.

So I have the kind of mother who begged me to put on a baseball cap and “look as ugly as possible” when I was driving home after dark.  I have the kind of dad who got a boy expelled after spitting in my face in the second grade. So my parents were a bit over-protective.  After I got the hole in my head, everything took a turn for the worse.   But then after the drug dealer robbery and the stalking that followed…  ENTER: all-time world record for protectiveness. Just hold your horses, cus I’m about to blow your mind as I weave all these storylines together in a way that only a masterful literary genius, such as myself, possibly could.

patio-doorSo what does this have to do with me almost dying of heat exhaustion and /or embarrassment yesterday? Well, it was sunny out. I opened my sliding door and stepped out onto my porch, where I sat for about an hour, trying to become a bronze goddess and think of excuses why I can’t go jogging with my friend.  I vowed to go with her everyday, except I didn’t go once last week, and instead ate all of the ice cream I got at the Edys 5/$10 sale.  We went a day ago, and there wasn’t ONE solitary car at the bike path.  I said, Dana, does this tell you that maybe we shouldn’t run during a heat advisory? She said,We’ll burn more calories this way.”

So after an hour, I suddenly realize: “Holy crapballs, I’m about to die.” The heat index was 115 + humidity yesterday. I stand up, drenched in sweat, and as I reach for the handle on my sliding door, I feel friction.  Huh.  That’s odd.  Usually it SLIDES right open.  It’s a sliding door.  I try again, and remember that it can only lock from the inside…  OH, SNAP I’m having an optical illusion… I AM dying!

No, no. One of the wooden bars that my father had installed on every door and window as “extra security” to keep potential robbers out had somehow fallen down from being propped up, landed exactly in the correct groove, and locked me out.  I know you’re thinking I have a spare key around there somewhere, ha? Oddly, after six robberies, you don’t hide spare keys under easily-accessible mats or fake rocks anymore.  I know you’re thinking I had a garage door opener in my car, right? Well, since I finally cleaned it out after 2 years, it was actually parked inside.

So I spent the next 2 hours, nearly passing out from heat [there’s no shade on my porch] and confined to a scolding hot cement slab.  Why? 1. I was wearing swimsuit bottoms and quasi see-through tank top.  2. I had no shoes on. As I stood there half dead, with my bottle of tanning oil, and empty water cup, all I could think was: Thank God, now I have an excuse not to go jogging.”

Dear Universe,

Why dost thou continue to sabotage me? Here I always thought you were on my side.  For the first time in my miserable, out-of-shape existence, I’m trying to do something about it.  This week, I turned a new leaf. Whitestrips, here I come.  Jogging, here I come.  Well… I’m not really sure what whitestrips had to do with the whole being-out-of-shape thing, but they certainly have a way of making me feel more fit.

Come Monday, I wanted to jog, but SOMEONE decided to make Monday a holiday full of tasty treats, lounging in the sun, and irresistible bbq delights didn’t they?!  Oh please, don’t even think about looking over your shoulder.  What did you expect me to do, dishonor the veterans?

Come Tuesday, it was my mother’s birthday and even though she hates birthdays, I was forced by guilt, only child syndrome, and the powers that be to make her pies and other delectible things.  And who’s fault is that? I’ll tell you one thing – not mine.

Come Wednesday, I wanted to go jogging, but you rained, which forced me to stay inside and do nothing but lay in bed and watch Tyra Show reruns all day. Since I couldn’t jog, I decided to make it vegetable night so I could at least save on a few calories.  Again, the amount of effort that I’m exuding here is incredible.  But then you ever so gently whispered sweet nothings in my ear regarding the delectible things that were inhabiting my fridge from the day before. All I can say is that I was brought up to believe that you don’t waste food, okay?  So I had a giant bowl of ice cream.  No biggie.  An hour later, I decided that if I just ate the rest of the box then I wouldn’t be tempted for the remainder of the week.  Again, brilliant.

…Then about ten o’clock, I decided that I could really go for a bacon-grilled cheese sandwich with a side of pasta.

Look what you freakin did!?

Come Thursday, I rounded up my support system, actually drank some water, and went to the bike path.  But after I reached half way around the track, I got a stabbing pain in my stomach.  The pain was followed by dizziness, which led to nausea, which led to me collapsing in the middle of the path.  An old man came by and said, “Are you okay DOLL?”  When my support system, who had long since jogged away without me, realized I was lying in the grass, I discovered I had a migraine.

Oh, well isn’t that just cute. What’s it gonna be tomorrow, ha?  A bio-nuclear attack?  My liver suddenly explodes and I become a horrific, but interesting scientific rarity?  My car gets hijacked and I’m left for dead in a nearby ditch?  What?

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

Here’s The Thing About Men

So I had a crush.  A big one.  I remember, it was third grade… and it was bad.

To keep things easy and confidential we’ll call him Norm.  Not to imply, by any means, that this young lad was normal… because he was not. This is also not to imply that he was anything special… because he was not.  Norm was just, Norm.  And I liked him.

One crisp, autumn afternoon, during a cut throat game of tag, Norm snuck up behind me and pulled my hair.  Actually, Norm is a horrible name.  Let’s call him Johnny.  So Johnny pulled my hair. Of course, my auto-retaliation response to such an attack was to thrust him face-first into a spinning merry-go-round.  Years later, I would realize that in third grade, when a boy throws a grasshopper at you or pulls your hair, they are not a threat to your very safety. They might just want to take you on a date to the sandbox.

My apologies, Norm.

Needless to say, this incident was a dual-sided foreshadowing.  It was a glimpse, if you will, of the plethora of not-so-normal chaps that I would find myself becoming unexplainably attracted to in the future.  Also, it would be the first in a very lengthy succession of realizations of this kind.  When I say “of this kind” I mean, precisely, those of the opposite sex.

Me:  Johnny hates me, I can just tell.  UGH, I like him so muuuuuuuuuuch.

Friend:  Why do you think he hates you?

Me: He pulled my hair and threw dirt at me.

Friend:  So, he pulled your hair AND threw dirt?  Well, he likes you then.

Me: Huh?  What kind of shoddy way of flirting is that?

Friend: I know for a fact that he does, cus he told Sammy he liked you.  So now you have to tell him you like him.  Or better yet, write him a note.

Me: Mmm.  I don’t know.  Sounds kind of risky.  I mean, I still think you’re waaaay off on this whole flirting thing.

Friend:  Trust me.

Me: Well, what if I go to tell him and then I chicken outOr my lips go numb? Or I lose the ability to speak?  Or I suddenly have a seizure? Or if I write the note, what if I go to hand it to him and the teacher intercepts it?  Or what if he gets it and doesn’t like me? Or what if he shows it to all the other boys and I become the laughing stock of the world?  Or what if …

And right there, a lifetime of over-analyzation began.

I guess I’ve been as confused by men over the years as they have been by me.  And let me tell you, I’m pretty confusingI make absolutely zero sense. I might go as far as to say that I make negative sense. If you’ve read this blog for more than one day, you need no further explanation on that point.   The problem with women is not finding what we want, the issue is knowing what we want in the first place.  And as soon as we think we know… DING, DING, DING…try again you poor ignorant soul!

OTHER POSTS YOU’RE GONNA LUUURVE:

What Women Really Want

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

So You’re Telling Me That You’re Not MARRIED?!

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

So You’re Telling Me You’re Not MARRIED?!

Hold on to your clip on ties. I want you to pop a squat and take a moment to regret all the stupid decisions that you’ve made today.  And since you’re probably gonna break a sweat, I’m gonna cool you off with a tropical breeze of insightful knowledge.

My mom gave me a vacuum and a cactus as a housewarming present.  Half of this gift confused me.  The vacuum was a given, considering, along with mowing the grass, that is my mom’s second favorite pastime.  We don’t have sufficient time right now, or a licensed psychologist, to get into the mechanics of why exactly these are my mom’s favorite pastimes. But a cactus?

Mom: “You need to have some other living thing to keep you company.  And this is the only thing that’s impossible to kill.”

Fair enough.  But as of last night, I can say with all the conviction of an OJ Simpson trial, that my mother has been officially wrong about something in her life.  That cactus is a goner.  And as I was dumping it out into my garbage can, I thought, What kind of person can’t keep a cactus alive?” The answer, unmistakably blaring in my eardrums like a bad ACDC cover band, was:  the kind of person that probably shouldn’t procreate.

Maybe I subconsciously killed it cus I hate all things Southwestery. I don’t know.  That being said, there’s not a solitary day that goes by when I don’t break out into a musical-esque song and dance like something out of the Sound of Music or a freecreditreport.com commercial, rejoicing over the fact that I’m not married yet, nor do I have any illegitimate children.  This is not merely due to my phobia surrounding all things associated with commitment, but also due to the fact that if I’d of married any of my previous boyfriends – I’d be taking a sightseeing trip to the Brooklyn Bridge very soon.  So I could effectively end my life by jumping into that ice-cold, watery abyss.

weddings1I find, however, that the rest of the world doesn’t participate in my joy.  Considering the bulk of my time is divided equally between:  being in weddings, attending baby showers, and trying not to eat the entire box of ice cream right before bed – I’m around alot of “committed people.”  Here’s a quick sound bite from last weekend’s baby shower:

Friend’s Granny:  My, I haven’t seen you in ages.  Let me see that hand.  Wait…. WHAT?!

Me:  Hey, good to see you too.  How’s the assisted living complex?

Friend’s Granny:  You’re NOT MARRIED?!

Me:  Nope.  Not yet.  Wow, you look exactly the same.  …So, what’s been going on with you?

Friend’s Granny:  Wait, I thought your boyfriend proposed to you in Paris?

Me:   Well, turns out he was bipolar, who knew.  And too Italian. And his breath was funky at random times.

Friend’s Granny:   Well, I thought I heard you were going steady with some boy you met in London, what happened to him?

Me:   Yea.  Yea, I was.  Heroin addict.   Oops. ….So, do you still play Bingo every Thursday?

Friend’s Granny:  But what ever happened to that first boy you were with?  He was so …

Me:  Um…  He was a “musician.”  So, you know, he needed to follow his music.

Friend’s Granny:  Well, are you at least dating someone?!?

Me:  Yes, he’s very nice.

Friend’s Granny: He’s nice? Well, then why haven’t you snatched him up yet? You better get him before someone else does!!

Me:   Um.  What? I’m not quite ready.

Friend’s Granny:   You’re running out of TIME!

Me:  Time? Like, as in my lifespan?   Didn’t you just turn 92?

Friend’s Granny:  Can you at least do me one small favor?

Me:  Sure. What’s that?

Friend’s Granny:  The next time I see you, can you at the very least have a baby?

Other articles you  might enjoy:

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

What Women Really Want

Paris Can Bite Me

Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend

 

Paris Can Bite Me

I want you all to know that it’s so deliriously late right now that I don’t even have any midnight oil left, I’m running on fumes.  Or smoke.  Or whatever would be left after you’ve burnt a crap ton of oil.  Coldplay is my only companion at such an hour, so consider yourselves a priority.  And I’m about to mesmerize you with an amazing story much like the late night infomercial I’m currently watching that has rendered me speechless with it’s magical powers of persuasion.

But, wait, don’t you always burn the midnight oil, therefore, this blog right now really isn’t much of a sacrifice?

What is this CSI?

So. Paris guy.  I’ve briefly mentioned him a couple times, and many of you have asked for further detail.   Well, I’m going to give it to you so you can stop your begging already… you’re more pathetic than my Italian grandma on Thanksgiving.

grandma

grandma:  Look at all this food.  Oh goodness sakes, what am I gonna do with all of this FOOD?  Will someone eat something, please?  Britteny,  can I dish you up some more potatoes, doll?

me:  I can’t breathe.

grandma:  [sounding as if she might burst into the ugly cry] Well, what did I make all this food for then? I don’t have anywhere to put it.  I thought I told you kids to bring your appetites.  Doesn’t anything taste good?  Oh, now it’s going to go to waste.  We can’t waste food, God won’t appreciate that.

me:  It tastes great. Exactly like every Thanksgiving for the past 26 years of my life when we’ve had this conversation.

grandma:  This is terrible. And so is my food. [welling up]

So Paris Guy and I dated a little over a year. He would also be the ex that inspired the blog “Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend” in case you’re wondering.  I discovered he had proposed to his previous fiance in DisneylandWha?

ex: You haven’t ever been to Disneyland?  I can’t BELIEVE that!  I’m taking you there soon.

me: No you’re not.  I am not going to Disneyland.

ex:  But it’s so much fun.

me: How would that be fun for me?  I throw up on rides and Mickey Mouse creeps me out and I hate fairy tales.

Anyway, things were getting rough.  I needed to breathe.  I did what any sensible girl would do in my situation:  I ran away to London.  Of all the great lengths I’ve gone to in my life, I’d have to award myself 5 stars for pulling off this shennanigan.  But then, he came to take me to Paris on Valentine’s Day and my roommate accidentally told me he wanted to propose.  Great.

paris1

I had specifically warned him that I was not ready for marriage.  I wanted to be done with school first.  When we arrived in Paris, I came down with influenza almost instantaneously after setting foot on French soil (my stomach was either rejecting the vast amount of grease I was about to consume, or the impending proposal, or just the French in general).  As we toured the city, in pouring down hail, I could barely hold my head up.  He then took me to see a show at the Moulin Rouge, which ended with him leaving his wallet in the cab and us wandering around the red light district for several hours with no money or way to get home.  The romance was so thick in the air, that I nearly said yes.

cinderellas_castleHe left me with the ring, I don’t know why. Then he went off the deep end and tried to sabotage all my friendships back home… some of the not as close friends actually fell for it.  After I got back, he coerced me into couple’s therapy, but I eventually tried returning the ring, but it got stolen out of my glovebox when I let one of my friends borrow my car.

And I lived happily ever after without him.

 

How to Live the Best Fake Life You Can Imagine

So the other day I wander into the Salvation Army.  Why?  Because it’s across the street from where I work.  And because I’m looking for some props for a photo shoot.  Ok.  And because I’m poor.  Why do our conversations always consist of you making me feel like crap?

Anyway, WHY I went there isn’t what’s important Inspector Gadget.  As I’m strolling around and sifting through the ginormous pile of other people’s crap, I am taken aback by the smell of mildew and grandmas.  I started to walk over to the book section, just to see if i could find some good looking books, and what happened next was completely out of my control;  thus, I do not take responsibility whatsoever.  [much like with everything in my life]

So I’m standing there staring at a huge wall of books and so I start doing what any person such as myself would do: peeling off all the sleeves to see if there are any books that match the colors in my living room and/or office area (they’re only a buck, and how can you ever have enough?).  In case I haven’t mentioned it, I collect books.  No, not antique ones, or special ones, or limited editions – just ones that match my color scheme.   I don’t actually read them, so much as I  admire them on my shelves and let them give the impression to all the world that I am mind-blowingly intelligent.  Because in all actuality, I hate to read.  And queue the following conversation between you and I:

you:  but, wait, weren’t you an English major?

me:  why, yes.  yes i was.

you: isn’t that kind of a weird choice of major for someone who doesn’t like to read?

me:  why yes.  yes it is.

you:  so how did you get through that if you hate to read?

me:  well, first I used cliffs notes and then i just quit.

you: oh.  so this all goes back to you being a loser then?

me:  wait, what?  how are you cutting me down again? this is a hypothetical conversation!

Alright, so to recap:  I like pretty books to put on my pretty shelves for my big, fat, fake life.  okay?  I can’t get enough.  So as I’m browsing the books, this man comes running down the ramp and says “wow, $0.10 a book today, can’t beat that huh?”  To which my response was “you’ve GOT to be kidding me!”  No.  folks, this was no joke.  Immediately, I started stockpiling them.   As I am racing to tear off every book sleeve possible before they closed, i am distracted by the following conversation between him and I:

book man:  find anything interesting?

me:  uh not really.  i mean, i really don’t care what they say.

book man:  (takes out a little gadget and scans a book)  well, i’m actually in the book business.  I sell used books.  This one is worth $94.00.  Anything I can help you find?

me:  well, I’m just looking for certain colors.  I only need them for my fake life.

book man:  (just laughing hysterically and sort of staring in awe)

me:  ( after ten minutes of conversation and filling up TWO carts of books) ….well, I think this is all I can fit in my car, but i got some really good ones.

book man:  well good.  good for you.  it was nice meeting you.  you are a very unique and interesting woman. 

….And when i got home I sorted all 52 books into piles by color on my ottoman and sat down on my couch to stare at the victory I had just won.  As I was staring, I realized that now my own living room had acquired the smell of mildew and grandmas.  But it was worth it, all $5.41.

Dilemma: Finding “The One”

Lately, I’ve received alot of questions to the effect of “how do I find the one?”  Well, it just so happens that I have more than a few answers up my very svelte sleeve.  I’ve spent weeks, possibly even months [if I were to have logged all my time] researching and compiling data for what I am about reveal to you.  As per usual, you can expect to pay not a single PENNY for the knowledge that I am about to impart upon you!  It is but merely the beginning of a lifetime of benefits that you will reap by reading this blog.  How shall I be compensated, you ask?  The smile on your face.

For many of you, it’s not that you’re unlucky, you’re just looking in all the wrong places.  As you can imagine, I’m going to break the disturbing news to you right now.  You’re never going to find creme brulee on the Taco Bell menu, and unfortunately, you never will  [because it would be awesome to be able to get a Chalupa and creme brulee all in one stop].  I will further demonstrate my point in the following chart.  Please study it with ravenous desire.  memorize it.  picture it.  dream about it at night.  frame it on your wall.  tape it to your fridge.  fold it up into a teeny tiny piece and carry it next to your heart… for contained therein you will find the answer to one of life’s most perplexing questions.

dating-finding-the-one

Now, if you look carefully, you will observe that you have equal chances of meeting your future mate in: rehab, space camp, a safari, solitary confinement, or your mailbox.  But now I want you all to take out your microscopes because we’re going to delve into this and chizzle away to find out how this affects your dating life.  With closer analyzation, you will discover that you actually have a greater chance of meeting your future mate in solitary confinement, than you do at the bar.

staggering?  perhaps groundbreaking?
something to think about.

Like Black On A Chalkboard

One of my goals for 2009 was to “stop fabricating the truth”  so that means that what you are about to witness is definitely legit.

My family is hilarious.  We’re like the token Italian family they always showcase in movies, who talk over eachother and have 8 different conversations happening at once.  Except, my mom isn’t even Italian.  And I don’t have 7 siblings named after famous Italian statues.

There’s a couple of things you must know about my parents to fully appreciate this story.  My dad is quite possibly the funniest person alive – to everyone except my mother, who never gets any of his jokes. Or maybe she does, but she thinks they are super lame.   On the other hand, no one on earth ever laughs at my mother’s jokes, except my mother, because they are just horrendous.   My dad and I often challenge each other to see who can ignore her jokes the best, because if we give her even the slightest bit of encouragement she will keep repeating them. over. and. over.   In a nutshell, they are on completely different wavelengths.  In fact, the only thing they might have in common is their confusion over anything related to pop culture.

We’re watching American Idol, some nerdy kid sings, and my mom loves it.

mom: you know who he reminds me of?  that kid on King of the Lords.

me:  what?

dad:  King of the Lords?!?  you mean, Ring of the Lords?

mom:  oh, IM SORRY.  that’s right, I meant Ring of the Lords.

me:  no. no.  it’s Lord of the Rings.

mom:  well, I like him.  he reminded me of Clay Aiken.

me:  I guess.  I like Clay Aiken.  Can’t believe he had a kid.

mom:  a kid????   he got married?

me: not exactly.  he artificially inseminated his 40 yr old roommate and then he came out of the closet.

mom:  WHAT?!?!  since when?

clay-aiken-people-coverme:  like, a year ago?

dad:  [randomly changing the subject]  you know, if you need get those pictures off my camera I’ve got a SUB cord and you can hook it up.

me:  SUB?  what?  It’s not a car we’re talking about here.  you mean a USB cord?

dad:  Oh gosh, I’m sorry.  I  don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.  Sometimes I transpose my numbers.

me: …… sigh… you mean letters?   [going to grab some paper so I can write all of this down]

[Nathaniel, the annoying emo kid sings…]

mom:  he looks like he has a booger in his nose.

me:  it’s a nose ring.

mom:  so tell me more about this Clay Atkins?

me:  it’s AIKEN.

mom:  so does he have a boyfriend then?

dad:  well that’s usually how it goes.

[then Jose, the Puerto Rican sings his song and gets emotional afterwards]

dad:  [all annoyed]  well you know he’ll make it now

me:  cus he cried?

American Idoldad:  of course.  but you know who I liked was that little brunette.  She was the best one with the best voice that messed up the worst.

[meanwhile, Lil Rounds sings her R&B song….]

mom:  well that was just terrible.  She’d of been better off singing Mary Had A Little Lamb than that crap.  it was like black on a chalkboard.

dad:  well that’s cus you just don’t get it.  That girl’s gotta lot of class.

me:  you said black on a chalkboard.

Kenny Chronicles: How We Met

Kenny is my best-metro-guy-friend.  He’s the marshmallow in my hot chocolate.  I have a habit of using our interactions to get a cheap laugh on my website.  It’s high time you understood how we met.

It was a cold and rainy night several years ago.

Well, I don’t know about all that, but it was night, for sure.   I went to a music festival that we have in my hometown every labor day.  It’s an event that you have no desire to attend after the age of 17, but somehow you end up going every year because someone’s dad got free tickets from their work [ or ] you’re bored out of your mind.

I went with a guy that pretty much every person in my town either knows or “has heard of” because he’s just that absurd.  We’ll call him Joe. Oh wait, that’s his actual name.  Oh well.  As we’re walking back to our car, this guy walks up to us, Joe turns to me and says, this is my best friend Kenny.  Shortly after that Joe started chasing one of the cleaning trucks, hopped on the back of it, and rode off into the sunset.  At that very moment, Kenny and I looked at eachother, shook our heads, and said, “Yea.  That’s about right.”

[Skip ahead a couple of weeks] We’re at birthday party downtown Chicago.  We ended up sleeping on the floor of one of Kenny’s friend’s apartments.  I’m not going to make any apologies for what I’m about to say: this place was a skeezy trash hole.  There was like 8 people living there and I felt like I was getting a disease just by looking at the toilet seat.

In the morning, I rustled a little, tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t.  I looked over at Kenny and he just had a confused look on his face.  We glanced up at the tv, and what do we see?  Gay porn.  YUP.  Apparently, one of the tenants was gay.   He wasn’t seriously watching it, he was making fun of it, but either way – Kenny and I looked at eachother and immediately said “let’s go get the car.”

I put my heels back on, which fit nicely over the massive blisters I acquired the night before and we stepped outside.  I have mascara smeared all over my face, it’s blazing hot outside, and I’m still wearing my black “going out clothes.”  It’s 10:00 am Sunday morning and we look ridiculous.  After we had walked around the city for about 20 mins, I say:

homeless-guyme:  wait, I think we already went passed that building.

kenny:  no we didn’t.  the car is parked on the street over there.

me:  but that’s the White Hen Pantry that we saw 5 mins ago?

kenny:  no, no it’s not.  they’re like on every corner here.

me:  but… WAIT! that’s the same homeless guy.  we just went in a giant circle!

kenny:  homeless guys wander around.

me:  NO.  they stay in one spot.  wait, you don’t have any idea where the car is do you?

kenny:  well, I don’t know if you could say I have no idea, but I’m not exactly sure either.

me:  WHAT?  Well then why are we wandering aimlessly in the blazing sun when i’m tired, dehydrated, and blistery?  and I look ridiculous?   Why don’t you know where it is?  you’re the man, you’re supposed to know.

kenny:   Everything looks the same here.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

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

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair