ja_koniga

SML and I often joke that we might be the most creepy couple in Salt Lake, saying the same things in unison and shouting “Great!” while rolling our tongues. SML has even started calling me “Nipple Master” for reasons I seriously do not know. After a couple of drinks, SML and I are seriously weird. I apologize publicly for that to Sarah, who had to witness this masquerade.

I had built those shelves almost two years ago, and to give myself credit, this was well before IKEA had come into existence in the Salt Lake Valley. My options were limited as to what kind of furniture would best display empty wine bottles and Dollar Tree picture frames. It seemed I had an endless amount of ideas on what kind of furniture I could build, ranging from ladders to stacked trunks; all of which I would have applauded as “the best design ever.” I settled on stackable shoe organizers and large wooden boards I painted red-orange, because you know, that makes sense.

Things got somewhat worse when it came time to move. To match the color of my apartment’s carpet, sick plum, I decided to paint those shelves a navy blue. With spray paint. Inside an unventilated apartment.

And it really did seem like a good idea. Even after there was thick cloud of paint nesting in the air throughout the apartment I couldn’t imagine painting these shelves a different way. I began to somewhat regret my decision to spray-paint indoors when that nested cloud of spray-paint dust began to settle on the carpet, counter-tops; the toilet seat. But since that all worked out so well I thought, “Hell. I may as well spray-paint all of the furniture.”

You must be thinking, “Seriously?” Seriously. I spray-painted every piece of furniture in that apartment and felt so good about it afterwards that I had at least two Burger King Whoppers to celebrate. SML came over around that time as I was eating my Whopper reward and said, “If it were me, I would re-paint these.” But what he meant to say was, “If it were me, I’d throw all this shit away.”

Which is exactly what happened. But to be fair, I totally wouldn't have used spray paint if IKEA had been around.

When I started working for the new firm I decided to start riding Trax to and from work to decrease the size of my carbon footprint. Riding a train to work has quickly become the most favorite part of my day behind my morning cup of coffee, which lets face it, will always be the most important and favorite part of my day.

My fascination with riding the train probably stems from my fascination with people, because when I board the train it’s like oddities are exploding all around me. And I realize it’s very foolish to talk about odd people when I may as well walk around with a large sign displaying ‘FREAK’ on my chest. But these people. are. WEIRD. Never in my life have I wanted to accuse someone of being inbred than I do each day on the train.

On Monday afternoon after catching the train in-between third and second south, I was awed by how many people had whipped out a very large and final book of Harry Potter. I didn’t realize how much I actually fit in with these people until I realized the only thoughts going through my head were, “I can’t believe he’s already read to that page” and “I’m so going home and reading past that.”

If someone on that train notices how crooked my bottom teeth are they might think we’re related.

I heard somewhere that you could buy some “wax” to stick in your ears that will clean them out. That later turned into candles. I’d call them something more along the lines of flaming cones. SML and I bought some to try them out because you can never hear too much.

Having a flame stick out of your ears is a frightening experience and I felt nervous the entire time because I was imagining that the entire apartment building would burn down. And I couldn’t help feeling just like a gypsy when I was doing this because it was like I was performing tricks for spectators.

Immediately after I was finished, I made sure to stick one in SML’s ear because dear God, I had to have a picture of this.

On 9th East, just north of 17th South, there’s a house with a sign over the door displaying “Bike Guy”. We arrived on Saturday afternoon and pushed through a gate into the backyard and started picking through the many bikes piled around the yard. It reminded me a lot of the mounds of metal I often saw at train stations in Europe, although not nearly as unorganized.

We found some really old bikes for around twenty dollars each. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard before. SML and I both picked out female framed bikes and exclaimed how “cute they are with their fenders!” We paid an extra fifteen dollars so the Bike Guy would tune-up the bikes and for the entire weekend, every half-hour and sometimes every fifteen, SML would ask, “Has the Bike Guy called yet?”

The worst part about getting these bikes was telling SML’s parents that we had them. After we mentioned the bikes it was met with a silence equivalent to that of the silence you feel after you find out someone you know is dead. His father later actually said, “Seriously. Seriously. You need to wear a helmet.”

SML and I talked this over quite a bit because we weren’t sure we wanted to wear helmets. We don’t think that they’re very “cool.” We both have somehow stored an amazing amount of adolescence in ourselves to actually say those words. “It’s not cool.” Like perhaps having a helmet would make us the worst possible candidates on the next Teen’s Choice Awards.

In the past, I’ve never celebrated St. Patrick’s Day. That surprises me when I think about it because why wouldn’t I celebrate a day mostly about green beer? SML and I woke up early on this day so we could make it to the Parade that runs through the center of a shopping center in Salt Lake City.

Some co-workers of mine invited us to the parade on Friday night. SML and I were at the Dandelion Salon receiving treatment when I told him that he’d be appearing in the parade in a green leotard; similar to that of the Riddler in Batman Forever. SML knew I was joking, but you could tell that he really wanted to wear one by the way he smiled and said, “Where do you think we could go try some on?” As long as I’ve known SML, he’s always liked to dress up in slender fitting clothing and never passes up an opportunity. When we were visiting some of his friends, he spotted a wetsuit in their closet and promptly stepped into it and then proceeded to strut around their kitchen.

On Friday afternoon I had made a plan to go garage sale shopping all day on Saturday. I have this quest to find the perfect table and only spend $50 doing it. I created a two-page listing of garage and estate sales that I had found Craigslist and somehow convinced my co-workers that they too should be going on this adventure after the Parade. And that they should drive.

As much as I frustrate myself, it’s hard to imagine how other people must react to the way I do things. We drove up and down many streets in Salt Lake City that day, going back and forth between side streets looking for a sale on my list that I imagined would be particularly cool since most of the items were listed as “NEW!” There was a lot of “Where is it?” talk because we were looking for a crowd of people, or items for sale on the front lawn of any house on the streets we were driving through. Instead, what we saw were empty streets, and empty lawns that could have served as warning to not be outside in this neighborhood unles you are a gangsta.

It took many moments before I had enough courage to tell everyone what I had just read on my garage sale list. I considered not saying anything and to just continue driving up and down the streets, acting just as bewildered as everyone else. Eventually my conscious got the best of me I finally said, “Oh, it says here the sale is on March 24th.” I said it in the way that I imagine Paris Hilton says everything; like it wasn’t obvious at all that I don’t how to read and that sometimes I am unable to form complete sentences.

I’m really into reading right now because I have to do my laundry in front of strangers. It helps to not have to look at anyone in the eye when you can hide your face behind a book. You never know when someone is going to hold you up at gunpoint to steal your Hanes.

My most recent book is called “Body RX”, which is a six-pack prescription program by Dr. Connelly. The book is pretty straightforward: Don’t eat gross things that make you fat. This isn’t as easy as it sounds because I love gross things. Gross things like Twinkies, hot dogs, ice cream…CROWN BURGER. I sometimes consider taking up a part time job at place like Crown Burger for benefits like a discount on pastrami burgers.

One thing that this book stresses the most is the use of high fructose corn syrup in our modern diets. The author believes that the introduction of this sugar substitute into the food supply in the 80’s is one of the direct causes to the rise of obesity in the United States. If you search for this subject on the Internet, there’s a lot of discussion and questions raised because it’s like Global Warming: Nobody knows for sure.

Better safe than sorry. How cliché, thank you, I know. For the next couple of weeks I’m going to try out this new diet by avoiding foods with high fructose corn syrup and eating lots of protein to burn fat and gain muscle. This will be really important in case I really am held up at the Laundromat for my underwear.

I had a lot of fun babysitting, even if I did feel like at some point I was going to accidentally injure or kill my sister’s children. If I had done that, it would have been three times as bad as killing their lawn and I’d likely have to move to another country to avoid the enormous amount of guilt I’d feel.

There were times I caught myself worrying that my niece’s applesauce was too thick and that she would choke; or that my nephew’s toy dinosaur might actually bite off his finger and he’d bleed to death. And I felt more like Aunt Josephine from ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events’ then ever before when I envisioned a toy basketball spontaneously combusting and blinding my nephew.

Nothing like that happened, of course. But I’ve gained a lot of perspective on what parent’s actually go through and now completely understand why my mother put a leash on me with rainbow straps to prevent me from hiding in clothes racks at the mall.

At the end of the day, I tackled my Nephew and forced him to give me a hug goodbye. He squirmed somewhat and as soon as he was on the ground again, he ran straight to SML and said, “I have to give Scott a hug! And a kiss!” He wrapped himself around SML and planted a big kiss on his leg ignoring the fact that I was the one who tried to force feed him earlier that day and was clearly the person that deserved more hugging.

Only out of pure respect towards SML, I’m not going to post the two videos I took of him dancing with a wig hanging out of his crotch. He went to a Halloween party dressed as Sonny and Cher with his friend SD and apparently thought his wig would be better used as a prop for a dance that mostly involved pelvic thrusting.

I was dressed as Johnny Appleseed because I’m cheap; I only had to spend two dollars on a cooking pot that I found at a thrift store. I was surprised by the amount of different cookware available at the thrift store and took several pots with me into a dressing room to try them on. I got a lot of dirty looks; but I got one that fit really well and didn’t hurt my head too much.

And since I’m cheap, nobody really knew what I was dressed up as. SML’s mother asked if I was the Tin Man and someone even asked me if I was a “Pot Head”.

After the question was asked, I looked around for the other gays and asked, “Is it Gay Day?” I secretly hoped it was because it would mean I could be less attractive to the gay population in Salt Lake City after I take off my shirt and expose the hairy beast growing on my ultra-white chest. The only thing good about my chest hair is that it hides SOME of my moles that are increasingly becoming more cancer-like. I’m hoping the hair on my back will soon grow to cover the rest of my brown and sometimes red obscenities. Then, I’d be really cool.

Once Eric and I had entered the Seven Peaks Water Resort, I got really excited. Excited like a teenager might get over exploding mailboxes or getting an A+ on an STD exam in health class. But after the first slide, I was nearly done. The turns. The drops. It was too fast. And I got scared.

After the second slide, I really was done.

But don’t worry; I’m still going to go to Raging Waters. You just wait. It’s going to be awesome.