ja_koniga

SML and I argued recently about my last post where I wrote about Alli its associated side effects. I thought that his comment about starting an Alli dieting plan was hilarious because I consider fad dieting all of the time. SML on the other hand had something of a small crisis when he read my short paragraph and announced that, “YOUR PARENTS READ THIS AND I WANT THEM TO LIKE ME.”

Because this so rarely happens, that SML acts so similar to me that it’s like looking at myself in the mirror, I took down the post and tried to explain that it was just a joke. After that incident I thought very seriously about just choosing other things to write about besides SML on this Blog, things like FileMaker or a how-to on microwaving apples. Obviously, I didn’t get very far.

This morning during SML’s sermon at a Unitarian church I realized just how big of a role SML plays in my life. I don’t know that I could stop writing about SML and continue writing this Blog when the majority of my time is spent conversing with him in high-pitched voices. If I didn’t write about SML, would anyone really like to read about terminal scripts?

This morning SML said to me that if I loved him, I’d continue to write. So yeah, I still love him.

It’s snowy in Salt Lake today. It’s the kind of day that should be reserved for black and white movies and hot coffee. Instead, this day will be met with wet shoes and disdain for having to remove myself from my apartment at all.

Most nights, SML and I make dinner and then try to do something more active than watch American Idol; so we’ll go to the gym and lift weights, swim or sometimes throw up in the men’s restroom. Last night we suggested many times to each other that we should go swimming; and each time I’d say, “Oh, you DON’T want to go.” SML didn’t seem puzzled by my choice of words, which is probably why he quickly agreed that swimming was out and that cake was in.

There aren’t a lot of places to eat cake downtown, so I usually revert to The Bakery on third east. I refuse to go to The Bakery anytime after October and anytime before March because the building is cold and drafty. We weren’t there long before both SML and I ordered cheesecake and sat near the north wall to talk about death threats and the Internet society. Sometime during our conversation, four gay men walked into the establishment and our conversation subtly faded as our attention transfixed upon these men.

I can’t really explain why I stare at other gay people. I apparently can’t stop this just like I can’t stop visiting rotten.com. I figure that this is a mild form of an obsessive-compulsive disorder, which could be better described as a fascination of the gay species in their natural habitat. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like pointing out the gays to prove that their Gay Dar should be studied because it is more accurate than the National Weather Service.

But I’m clearly not the only one person with this problem, because when we stood up to pay the four gay men on the south side of the building turned around in their seats to stare. They looked at us as though we had invaded their territory and were ready to defend it. SML hid behind me and said, “Ah! Now they’re staring at US!”

My first experience with a party like this happened last summer just as SML and I began dating. Having a glass that never empties is a daunting experience because I felt more determined than ever to finish every last drop just in case prohibition made a comeback. Near the end of the night I wanted to crawl onto the floor and fall asleep under their dining table; but instead kept a very interested look on my face that is very similar look for someone with constipation. It didn’t matter how hard I concentrated because I never understood a word of the conversation but nodded appreciatively every time my glass was refilled.

I have since learned my lesson. And it doesn’t matter how pretty your wine glass is either, because passing out in a drunken stupor seriously clashes with the decor. On Saturday night I was certain to leave my glass half-full throughout the night because it meant that it couldn’t be refilled; and also because I’m purely optimistic.

SML, who understandably had a stressful week, emptied his glass several times on Saturday night. And then he kept asking what a hummer was. Over and over again he’d spout off, “What’s a hummer?” “Hey you guys, does anyone know what a hummer is?” I tried to get his attention so I could tell him I would fill him in later, but failed miserably because someone had already heard him. It was the Hostess of the party that finally asked, “You really don’t know what a hummer is?”

There was a deafening silence to this question and I felt incredibly embarrassed that this conversation was being held around a candlelit centerpiece. I wanted to tell everyone we shouldn’t talk like this around Pottery Barn merchandise because it’s sacred and holy. With a very straight face, the Hostess looked at SML and answered his question: “IT’S A BLOWJOB.”

Other reasons for not participating in QUAC include a roll of fat on my stomach that I gained after the Christmas season and many, many Crown Burgers. Squeezing into a Speedo isn’t nearly as fun when the most notable feature about your body is the amount of fat that hangs over your waistline.

This weekend was the Ski and Swim weekend that was being hosted by QUAC. I didn’t sign up because of my lack of involvement, but I did go to see an ice skating show on Saturday called the “Quacapades”, expecting to see many men in Speedos. SML and I sat on the side of the rink giggling in the chill weather for over an hour waiting for speedo-clad men to twirl on the ice sheet in what I was hoping would be like an ice-skating choreographed version of Fantasia.

Eventually, QUAC performed on the ice something that was a mix between Big Love and Queer as Folk, with a funky Warren Jeffs leading the pack of Mormon gypsies. It was funny, I guess. But I was expecting Speedos. Which really is just another reason to start swimming again.

And that’s only Visa and MasterCard payments. I didn’t keep track of my other bank card payments like Firestone, MacMall, GAP, or Old Navy. I think the fact that I’ve made over twenty-three payments in the last five months really deserves an “OH MY GOD” out loud; and weeping over the uneaten corn dogs injected with approximately four ounces of deliciousness.

But I’ve learned a lot through this experience of being utterly poor and feeling like I should belong to a committee of homeless people. And I’ve also done a lot of things this year that I never thought I could, or would do: like paying off my debt before the year 2020; and going to a Therapist to talk about my overwhelming debt and how I should never cry in the fetal position. Ever. Again.

This year has been particularly horrible for me because I’ve felt incredibly angry. Angry about G and the complete lack of drama that surrounded our break-up; angry that I’m stupid with money; angry that I let myself get so dissatisfied with my life. And angry that I couldn’t even grasp enough energy to hang pictures on my wall.

And all at the same time, some of the best things have happened to me. I learned to track my progress. I learned I could talk about the most personal and vulnerable experiences in my life. And I met SML who has been a best friend and more; more in way that I can’t articulate because he has been so incredibly important to me.

In order to stop myself from getting churchy by writing about blessings and possibly the Mormons, I’m ending this post. And I’m gonna drink a beer and maybe smoke a cigar.

I’ve never been to Eggs in the City before. I thought about taking Vernon with us since I could better pretend to be Carrie Bradshaw or a chic novelist from New York. But once we arrived, there weren’t any fancy clothes or mimosa’s as we waited in lawn chairs with the rest of the Salt Lake Valley. So SML and I discussed our options; like two girls fighting over whose hoop earrings were most eighties. It went something like this:

Ken: “Maybe we should go to the Blue Plate. I like the Blue Plate.”

SML: “Well you decide. It’s your day.”

Ken: [insert shrill] “NO! It’s your Day. You said you wanted to come here!”

SML: “I said I wanted to go to Crown Burger!”

Ken: “You want to go to Crown Burger? Seriously?”

And it went on. Back and forth in voices that resemble Terrance and Philip from South Park; but without the blatant use of the word Mother F@%!$. Ten minutes into our charade, a middle aged woman leaned over and mentioned that the Blue Plate had an hour and a half wait. You know, just in case that’s what we decided.

So we went to Crown Burger.

Darren Hayes also came out of the closet and GOT MARRIED IN LONDON last month. Bitch. He really did sleep his way to the top. (I'm just jealous, really.)

I would like to comment that Darren Hayes' site uses Joomla!; which is a prettier version of Mambo! The SAME THING I USE!! We are so cool!

Can you count all of the exclamation points in this post? I bet you can't!!!

The other day, Brant wondered whether or not other groups of people were creating nicknames and I suggested that I thought some people did. My suspicion was confirmed when I read Meg’s latest Blog post when she referred to someone as “The Nose.” After I read “’The Nose” out loud, I raised an eyebrow and considered what my nickname would be. I also looked into the corner of the room and put a finger on my chin.

When the “I Hate Ken Club” was active in Provo, I’m sure they had several. “Crazy Ken” comes to mind.

But before anyone makes their own nicknames for me, consider using the following:

“Horse Face”, “Snapshots”, “Crooked Teeth”, “Hunchback of Salt Lake City”, “Bipolar Ken”, “Sweet Transvestite.”

Any of those will do.