Category Archives: Relationships

advice you might want to fold up, tuck under your pillow, and think about

Blunt Bites: And It’s So Delicious, The Ambiguity

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In my early twenties, I decided to love the word Ambiguity.

Perhaps because so much of my life was, and still is lived there, in the unknowing. I became such good friends with ambiguity that I finally decided to just love it, you know? Like that annoying little genius kid that keeps asking a billion questions. Eventually, you just give in, grab a Lunchable and explain why the earth doesn’t fall through space and how fish breathe underwater and why Capri Suns are so damn hard to get the straw through without ruining your new plaid shirt.

As a historical over analyzer, my mind constantly wanders to worlds of endless possibility. Maybe even galaxies. There is something exhilarating and terrifying about the ambiguity of life and the people in it. Choices, motives, actions, words. Our own thoughts, the only certainty. And even those blindside us.

If we could know the outcome, if we could see the end result, would we really want to? Who knows where we would end up if we only took the path of least resistance. Least hurt. Never challenging ourselves and only heading toward whatever resulted in pure happiness. ‘Cus isn’t that the big goal, happiness?

But as you might remember, we’re only really entitled to the pursuit.

My life has been full of ambiguous relationships. This, one of many.

It was seven years ago. And the snow fell early that year.

The big, pretty kind that hides leftover leaves and makes sparkly piles on branches of trees; and I knew I couldn’t like you. But it’s not my fault I love the snow. The kind that shields your window from all of the things you don’t want to see but know that you need to. Even still, it was just one of those things. I was a mess. And you, well, we won’t get into that. You were just a guy in a dorm in London. A friend of a friend who became my friend and we kissed on a Tuesday night.

You had a funny accent that was more Chicago than East Coast and you hated me for saying that. Maybe you reminded me of home. Or what I wanted home to be. Endless debates over ideal pizza crust thickness, which I believe I won by sheer gesture volume. That, and my opinion counts twice given my Italian heritage. You were photography and adventure and all of the things I never knew I loved yet. You introduced me to my first peach Bellini.

Back in those days, I carried a journal. You were in it. Probably more than you should have been for a friend of a friend.

We went on dates – friend dates – and talked about a lot of what-ifs. You loved my outlook on life; described me as a slightly jaded, hopeless optimist in denial. Or something like that. And I remember thinking, either you were a total liar or you actually understood me. Inherently, you looked out for me as if you somehow knew I didn’t care what happened to me in those days. You made me laugh, like, really laugh – in a way I hadn’t and wouldn’t for a long time. Had I foreseen the next two years, I would have laughed more with you, until we had to go back to our lives.

And we did.

And that is just where some stories end. Undone. Chalked up to delicious ambiguity of life.

But somewhere, in that murky indefiniteness, there lies a unique security. Because if we were honest with ourselves… we like not knowing.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Turning 30: What Happened In My 20s Stays In My 20s. Right After This Blog.

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{Today, at 3:33 pm, I’ll turn 30. It’s sort of hard to sum up a decade of madness, men and mistakes in a few words, so this is the closest you’ll ever come to Blunt Cliff Notes. While procrastinating this post, I also gave the blog a facelift. And if you can figure out how to remove that stupid orange outline on my sidebar, you would make my day.}

I always wondered what the big deal was about “thirty.”  It’s not like you’re over the hill or filling out hospice papers. It’s just thirty. 

It’s not like you have to start bringing dishes to pass at family gatherings because you are no longer a kid. It’s not like you’re going to start getting open mouth stares at the mention of being single and childless. It’s not like your license expires and your health insurance goes up. It’s not like recovery time from a night out goes from a cheeseburger and a Gatorade to a four-day process in which you hurt in places that make no sense.

Oh wait.

It is hard to remember what my life used to be like. Over the past decade, I’ve seen the best and worst in others. And I’ve seen the best and worst in myself – mostly the worst, but hey, at least that’s out of the way. At twenty, I was still with my high school boyfriend. Love was making out in dark parking lots, while I made up sixty-five different excuses as to why I didn’t answer my mom’s call. It was overdone Valentine’s Day gifts with lots of tacky red things and inedible candy hearts. And now that I have actual perspective, I can say that, yea, we loved the crap out of each other. He taught me about selfless, unconditional love. That relationship set a pattern as I left with a haunting feeling of doubt and remained in a perpetual state of confusion for years over what I wanted and needed and how I would find that balance. If I would ever find it.

I was in college not because my parents forced me or because I had great aspirations in life. That’s just what everyone did. And I love the feeling of the first day of school. I lost friends as quickly as I made them in the fickle world of self-absorbed, hormone-driven college students just trying to fit in – quite the contrast to my tiny, private high school with the same kids I’d known since 1st grade. My English 103 teacher told me I had the best talent for writing she had ever seen – frankly, I thought she was flirting with me and I didn’t give two craps as long as I passed.

Mid college years, I fell for a guy who had nearly all the criteria on my “need” list at the time. Love was possession and control. I felt claustrophobic. Doubtful; but unsure of even my doubt. It wasn’t until a year when I realized he had merely been an illusion of what I needed. The first, and least damaging, of many manipulators I would encounter in my twenties. He taught me that people always tell us the truth about themselves – it’s our fault if we don’t listen.

Amid that discovery, I was grasping for an escape. I was looking to be rescued. I needed direction and inspiration. The boy who worked in the college bookstore became all of those things to me. Love was passion and risk. He understood me in a way that has to be earned, yet we had just met. One snowy night as I walked to my car, he grabbed me and we had a conversation that changed the course of my life. He encouraged me to write. To take chances. To skip class because there are only so many perfectly beautiful fall days that one can spend daydreaming and listening to Radiohead. In a cowardly act of bravery – yes, that’s possible – I left on a plane for London the following month. Cowardly, because I was escaping. Brave, because the biggest risk I had ever taken was not brushing my teeth before bed. However, escaping didn’t work as well as I had hoped after a surprise proposal attempt from my ex.

As I explored Europe, I carried a journal of all the people I’d met. I fell in love with their stories. It was then, halfway across the world, that I realized I wanted to write for more than just a passing grade.

I came home with fresh perspective. New dreams. I started my own retail store and left college. The next two years involved a hellish ordeal of which I don’t really want to indulge. It isn’t worth it. Let’s just say, I naively thought it my obligation to do everything I could to help this person I thought I loved. I realize now it wasn’t love, because he wasn’t even who I thought he was. But I tried, while hiding it from everyone at the expense of my business and my sanity. The next two years would be an actual, literal nightmare of which I was scared to awake. Love was survival. Love was fear. Fear for his life. Fear for my life. I spent my days regretting every decision I’d made to that point. And my nights, doing anything I could to forget. 

Craving normalcy, I created a safe life for myself inside the walls of my first house and my bank job – which I hated, but figured that was what it meant to grow up. Friends were also growing up and getting families and 2.5 baths. I had finally found a stable guy who was so right in so many ways. We fought often, yet were so compatible on the “big” issues. Love was comfort and safety. When a ring entered the picture, I said yes, but my gut said no – and I wasn’t entirely sure why.

I’d lost my job, my fiancé and whatever was left of my sanity. Had a cancer scare. Men came and went. I learned how to be alone. I took up photography. A tumultuous year of jobless insomnia and depression led me back to writing and what once seemed an impossible feat became a reality. I started this blog and my freelance writing career took off, which led me to magazine jobs and editorial jobs and all sorts of things I’d dreamed of years ago in that dorm room with the boy from the bookstore. In fact,I contacted him and said  that ironically, he had inspired my first nationally published story.

I eventually got back together with my ex-fiance because of the idea of what we could be. We were good at pretending things were good. A month shy of our wedding, I left. It was incredibly scary, but in the end, we both saw it for what it was. He taught me about forgiveness, second chances and that there is such a thing as a good person who just isn’t good for you.

In many ways, I am glad to leave my twenties behind. And in many ways, I’m sad to say goodbye. They have been transformational. Interesting. Saddening. Inspiring.

The men have taught me a lot – what love looks like and what it most certainly does not. They’ve taught me that being alone isn’t scary, and it’s better than being fake happy. I’ve discovered the distinct difference between love, infatuation, desperation and competition. I know that passion is confusing. Passion does not equal love, nor are they mutually exclusive. For love without passion is worthless. I used to deem myself a “commitment-phobe.” And now I can tell you that term only applies when you’re with the wrong person.

I’ve learned that I truly do love writing. But I will no longer do it for money, only for me. 

I am still wildly annoyed by the sound of Neil Diamond, the word sausage and the way someone looks when they have mayo on the side of their mouth after eating a Panera sandwich. I drive the same crappy purple Saturn.

So, I guess I still have some growing up to do.

 

Other posts, elsewhere, I’ve written on these topics:

The Change Blog: Losing Your Job To Live Your Dream

College Crush: My First Love, A Nice Guy, And How I Effed It All Up

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Black Friday: Is This When I’m Supposed To Tell My Parents That I’m Black?

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It’s a simple question. And one that I kind of need answered in the next few days. K thanks.

So I’ve been sitting here all morning trying to write about something – anything but the thoughts in my head. Preferably something ridiculous that would make you smirk and say, “Ok good, at least she’s alive.” Something just to let you know I’ve received your death threats, emails and cheer up tweets, and the absence has indeed made me grow fonder of you.

But all I’ve gotten is a headache from the glare of this computer screen and trying to figure out what the heal I can possibly write about in a blog titled “Black Friday: Is This When I’m Supposed To Tell My Parents That I’m Black?” Let this be a lesson to you – write the post and then title it appropriately. Got that? Post —> Appropriate Title; not Title That Could Never Make Sense No Matter What You Wrote —> Post.

And amid this struggle, I received a phone call that reminded me of what’s important in life (aside from coming clean about my ethnicity).

I’ve always believed that when things end, they must end badly. And not just because I’m a pessimist, because it’s just one of those certainties of life – like the moon and taxes – I never say death, because I still think that somehow my parents are going to be the exception to that one. They just have to be.

Well it seems a lot of things have been ending lately.

Relationships are ironic when you think about it. You spend early days together lying in fields of possibility and imagining how life with that person is somehow going to escape the pitfalls and mistakes of past loves. Their every breath excites you. Each text brings a stupid smile to your face – the kind of smile that your friends find really irritating when they’re in the middle of telling you an important non-funny story. You give them a key despite all of your previous bad experiences with key-giving because you just have a feeling it’s going to be different this time.

Fast forward two years and buildings and roads exist where fields once were – roads that have taken you in opposite directions and led you to places you never thought you’d be. Texts have gone from compliments to grocery reminders, and you start having those fights about nothing  – the ones you thought you were exempt from.

Then one morning you wake up and think, “Am I one of those people?” One of the fake happy people? You remember what your mom always told you about how passion and excitement wear off and love takes a new meaning over time. It’s children and obligation and commitment. It’s comfort and stability. And it either gets better with time, or it doesn’t.

So what determines whether you make it? Is it just old fashioned dedication? Is it because you can’t possibly live without that person? Is it realizing that sometimes no matter how hard you fight, you just don’t have the strength to make it? Is it finally throwing caution to the wind and everyone’s expectations and doing what makes you happy? Is it having confidence in yourself and your intuition? Is it learning how to accept imperfections and appreciating the grass on your side?

Who knows. I’ve never had any answers for you.

But here’s what I do know. You invest years of time and energy into someone; and when you think about it, time is all any of us have. You learn all their favorite things. You have dinner parties with their family and friends. They rearrange their apartment so it suits you both better. They buy you a toothbrush. You blow off your important things so you can show up to their important things. Your lives merge.

Until that one day when it all stops for whatever reason.

And the next thing you know, you’re fighting over books and who gets the Netflix account. You’re saying things you don’t mean just because you want them to feel bad, the way that you feel bad. Maybe you wanted it to end. Maybe you were devastated. Maybe you felt relieved. Maybe you couldn’t sleep for days.

Or perhaps there wasn’t any fighting. Maybe you just left because you didn’t know what else to do.

Either way, it’s a loss. A void. And it’s sad that a person who used to be on your Verizon 5 Faves is now just another person on the list of people you have to hide behind a shelf to avoid when you spot them in the chip aisle.

So, maybe, we just shouldn’t do all that.

Maybe, we should all be adults. And realize people are human. And we let each other down. And that we’re not all meant for each other, but that doesn’t mean we have to hate that person or pretend like we don’t see them.

Cus at one point and time, they were the only person you cared about seeing.

And, hey, they even bought you that toothbrush.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

 

Blunt Bites: It Always Comes Down To That One Day

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[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed posts. They are short snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]     

Riding the Underground to I don’t know where, I was writing in my journal and thinking of how well I fit into the rainy landscape of London. I’ve always been a rainy day person. I suppose it’s the writer in me – or just the manic depressive shining through, something like that.

I was thinking about you and how much I didn’t love you, but couldn’t tell you that. I’m sure I jotted down a brilliant free verse poem about it but thank God those journals would be stolen in three months. A lot of things I didn’t want to hang on to in there, but I never would have thrown them away. Otherwise, what would people have to sift through when I died? Unread books, gifts not given, unfinished projects, notes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but were going to somehow morph themselves into a bestselling memoir down the road?

Well, I guess that’s all they’ll have now. A stack of random notes and unfinished things. My life is perpetually unfinished.

I’ll always remember the day I started loving you. The night you took me to Chicago and brought a blanket and contact case in the car so I could sleep on the way home since I had to work in the morning. You were very thoughtful. You paid attention. You were, in fact, everything I had never found in someone.

You often asked me when it was that I fell out of love with you. I never understood that question because it seemed like some sort of self-inflicted torture; but then again, don’t we all torture ourselves? I always told you that we either love someone or we don’t and it’s a compilation of many things. It’s a process – a slow dulling of feelings and building up of resentment over time.

Or maybe that’s just what I was brainwashed to believe by old married couples. Because now that I think back on it, there definitely was a day. And I have an answer for you now. But do you really want to know? Nah, I figured. ‘Cus in the end, it doesn’t matter. Not now and not then.

But, just so you know, there was a day. An exact moment in time when I looked at you and you weren’t the person who drove me to Chicago that night. You weren’t even close.

Everything in life always comes down to that one day.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Blunt Bites: Somewhere Inbetween Victory And A White Flag

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[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed posts. They are short snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]

I had known it for a while, like the way my mom had known I shouldn’t get in the car that night.

You always know; but the thought of confronting you or telling anyone or proving it to myself just paralyzed me. Why? Because then, I would have to let you go. Because you were right – I’m not the kind of girl who lets a guy to mistreat her, although I wanted it to happen in some twisted, cosmic, full-circle kind of way.

Our history. It was sordid and confusing and wonderful. Magnetic. Full of passion and betrayal and a thousand beautifully broken things that came alive only when we were together. And after all of those years, I could not accept that to be the final curtain. It was never supposed to end that way. It was never supposed to end at all.

Maybe it was like when you’re five years old and you dress up as the rich, long-haired princess because deep down you know that pretending is as close as you’ll ever get.

As it turned out, we were both fantastic pretenders; although one of us – far more convincing. In the end, I felt many things; the most surprising of which was relief. Because who really wants to be a princess anyway? I always hated the color pink.

And I have way better hair.

If only I could have possibly fathomed how easily I would get over you.

Wondering where I went? I have returned to blogging over at my whole foods blog Celery and the City, where we live so clean it’s like your insides took a bath.

WANTED: Gray Haired African-American Man With Saxophone Skills

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[Because it’s was my birthday, and because I’m refinishing cabinets and I started a new job, I’m recycling an oldie. If you remember this post, congratulations. You’re two years older and still like reading pointless stuff on the INTERNETS.]

I’m currently babysitting my best friend’s 6 month old.  Yes, the same best friend who pumps breast milk in my car and leaves it in my fridge, okay?  This is the first 10 minutes I’ve had all day and I find myself exhausted on the couch, drinking coffee that I poured five hours ago, and watching an Oprah special on loveless marriages.  Somehow I feel that I’ve just been given a glimpse into my life in about five fifteen twenty years.  I’m sorry, will you excuse me while I wipe the squash residue off my glasses?

Ok, I’m back. As you can deduce from its title – this blog ends with us pondering matters of Destiny, but first, it’s going to stop at the gas station and pick up some snacks while we avoid the subject.

Somewhere around 2am last night I was like, what the crap?  So I proceeded to pop in one of my all time favorite movies: Only You.  Stop scratching your head –  you’ve never seen it.  And if you have, you wrote it off within the first 5 mins or as soon as Marisa Tomei said, “He’d kill tigers for you.”  And you’d be justified. But I love it to pieces and that is just something you’ll have to live with. 

The reasons why I love this movie out number the reasons why I hate Neil Diamond. And no, it’s not just Robert Downey, Jr. speaking Italian. Or the runaway bride fiasco. Or Marisa Tomei. No, definitely not her. In fact, just ignore her the entire movie.  The main reason is because it is set in Italy, for which my obsession grew exponentially when I actually visited. Then my camera broke right in front of the Colosseum and ruined my trip.

Needless to say, I cannot express the beauty of this land. It’s magical. And I never use that gross word. Not only the scenery, but the people.  It’s a place where people actually care about something more than money.  They enjoy life.  They can’t understand you, but they’ll laugh with you and hand you some gelato.  Or a plate of pasta.  Go as quickly as you can.  It IS as beautiful as it looks. It WILL change your life.  And I PROMISE to stop talking about Italy now.

Anyway, I’ve never been a gooey person.  Shocker. I can’t even accept a compliment on my hair much less someone telling me that they can’t live without me. I hate receiving flowers or any other impractical gift that dies or has an expiration date; I would never dance in the middle of a street; I don’t want a fairytale wedding, and I certainly don’t celebrate “anniversaries,” whether they be actual legitimate yearly milestones or fake excuses to go out to eat, like, say, 7 months.

Although Only You may be a chic flick, the sheer beauty is that it actually makes fun of the concept of “destiny” and preconceived ideas that there is one true soulmate for everyone.  Because would I watch it if it didn’t?  Absolutely not.  I think when I was younger, I believed that your whole life was a search for “your other half,”  and now, I believe you could be happy with any number of people.  Just in a different way.  I’m not sure which conclusion is the right one, and I have a feeling I never will.

However, there are exceptions to every rule. 

And this is my exception:  if I should ever find myself strolling along a rainy, cobblestoney, Italian street, while being serenaded by a gray-haired African-American (note: he HAS to be African-American for this scenario to work) playing the saxophone, while talking to a charming and dangerously witty brunette who was able to quote Goethe  – I just might dance in the middle of the street.  Under the right circumstances, anything is possible.

If you’d like to witness this exact scenario, please skip ahead to 1:35.  If not, please watch the entire thing anyway. 

Only by joy and sorrow does a person know anything about themselves and their destiny.   

 – Goethe.

Wondering where I went? I have returned to blogging over at my whole foods blog Celery and the City, where we live so clean it’s like your insides took a bath.

Warning: Don’t Google Yourself Or You Might Find This

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Listen, there are concrete reasons why I don’t Google myself. These reasons hold steadfast to the three fundamental principles of my character: avoidance, denial and laziness. The first time I broke this rule was last night. I’ve been breaking a lot of self-imposed rules lately. And, I’ve definitely learned my lesson.

Maybe, someday, I’ll tell you the story of Jamie. But for now, just a glimpse. In college, I fell in love with the boy who worked in the bookstore. Our relationship, although short-lived, passionate and magnetic, was life-changing. He just got me; one of those unexplainable phenomenons. In fact, I wrote a short memoir about him and it became my first nationally published story. Three years ago, he told me that he had gotten hired for a job based on a story he wrote about me. I congratulated him and hadn’t heard from him since. You can see where this is going….

This week, I came across the essay he had written about me years ago for the job application, somehow archived on a website. But, he didn’t actually post it on the site, the owners did so I can’t be too mad.

After reading this, I’m both flattered and offended – sentiments which plagued every moment we spent together. Truth is, what he wrote about me is more honest than anything I’d ever be able to write myself and a million times more eloquent. I was surprised that he had anything nice to say at all.

I guess the most pure way to see yourself is through someone else’s eyes. As ugly, or beautiful as it may be.

Written by: Jamie M.

Maybe this is cheating. Like the real life version of taking Spanish 101 in college when you actually took 3 years of Spanish in high school. Easy A, right? If you said yes, I would agree. Except here.

Because I know Britteny, at least as well as anyone who got dumped then jumped an average of 3 times a week each could. It’s not like relationships aren’t hard enough. I’ve written about them on more than one occasion. But add a crazy woman into the mix who has no idea what she wants, and well, disco.

I don’t think I’ve cared for and admired someone I’ve hated so much before. [BLUNT SIDENOTE: my sentiments exactly.] It’s a very difficult rationalization with which to come to terms. Britteny is a lot of things but the one thing I know she will always be is a writer. She will always use words like they were boxing gloves, and the world around her like a punching bag. I have read her private journals, which are nothing like the poised abruptness, laced with wit and sarcasm, that you find on her blogs and websites. But I doubt if many people have seen her private journals. [BLUNT SIDENOTE: I used to carry my journals with me everywhere. Shortly after returning home from Europe, they were stolen. I’ve never opened a journal since.]

While she takes a no-holds-barred approach to her public writing, her private writing is eloquent and touching, yet somehow still laced with that “funny, but not really funny” sarcasm that touches me; in those corners of your mind that suddenly react when you don’t feel so alone because someone just said something that you have felt for so long but could never put into words, and never tried to because you thought you were the only one thinking it.

She has never been one to let the absurdities of life walk freely down the street disguised as tradition, or social standards. She will haul you up to the front of the class like a fourth grader caught passing notes and make you read it in front of the whole class.

But at the same time all she’s really doing is asking questions. Part of the question is poking fun at what she’s questioning, but usually it’s well deserved. This is a person who has tormented me mercilessly since the very first moment we met, but somehow I have never lost respect for her.

She has driven me to unbridled tears more times than I will admit to and yet even as I write this I can’t help but think that she should be the one contacting you. I love writing. I almost feel like I might have missed my calling. It comforts me and brings peace to my troubled mind. But if I were ever to say, this is what I think a writer should be, this is what I think makes writing great, it would be her that I turn to.

Footnote: My intention with this was not to be personal, though it was, but to show you what my thoughts look like written out. And with regard to this thing below here asking what is my relationship with Britteny, I’m sorry but tumultuous was not one of the options.

Hah. Tumultuous.

Yea, that’s about right.

Wondering where I went? I have returned to blogging over at my whole foods blog Celery and the City, where we live so clean it’s like your insides took a bath.

Royal Wedding Disaster: Prince William’s Other Woman

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Listen. I’m not one to burst happiness bubbles.

I’m a firm believer that if left alone, they will always burst on their own. So I just worry about brushing my teeth and not getting heart disease and everything else will fall into place.

But.

There are times when people just need to know the truth.

That time is now.

And that people is the world. And Kate Middleton.

I’m not trying to destroy anyone’s impending marriage, I’m simply trying to get closure. For William. And our sordid past. Rest assured, the rugby shirts have been burned. The love letters handwritten on Royal letterhead are in the dumpster. Buckingham Palace has been removed from my speed dial. Facebook pictures updated.

So, when the TODAY Show asked viewers to send in a 2 minute video about why they deserve to be flown to London for the week of the Royal Wedding, I found it the perfect opportunity to reveal a secret that’s been plaguing me for years.

And no, I didn’t wash off the face mask just because it was the TODAY show. I worked it into the video.

It’s all about efficiency.

Unfortunately, it could only be two minutes long, so I had to cut out many of the details and factual evidence. But the truth still speaks.

Willy, I’m sorry.

[kml_flashembed movie="http://www.youtube.com/v/rD8-ZJzQBqE" width="425" height="344" allowfullscreen="true" fvars="fs=1" /]

photo: princeharry.co.uk

altered by: eeer, not altered.

Blunt Getting Married: Sage Advice From Jennifer Not Aniston

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{Listen up Blunt Deliverites. History is being made this very, very instant as I’m about to reveal my very first guest blogger. Remember how I blindsided you awhile back with that minor little announcement about my engagement?  Well, there is someone who would like to dispense a lil advice for the Blunt bride-to-be. That someone, is Jen of When Pigs Fly. We have been bosom blogging buddies since time began. She’s far better at everything than I am, and if you don’t give her a big Blunt welcome then you can hold your breath come Christmas card season!}

Let’s see. I’ve been a fan of Brit’s and Blunt Delivery for about two years now. How time flies. It seems like only yesterday I was following her every post. A couple of years on and I feel like I know probably more than I should about her crazy life. The woman is downright funny and inspiring. She has helped me to learn about throwing caution to the wind with my writing and the fact that there’s something to be said for actually living the dream, not just paying lip service to it.

Before I get too sappy and start sounding more than a tad bit like a stalker, time to move on. Just needed to get the tribute out of the way before diving into the meat of this guest post. Yes, you heard right, a guest post. As soon as Brit dropped the bomb on all of us that she was planning on getting married, I began formulating some advice for her in my head. As I can’t keep these types of things to myself, I pleaded/conned her into letting me share them in a post a la Blunt Delivery.

I’ve been married for nearly 17 years. SEVENTEEN YEARS, people. When I see it in print, screaming at me on the page like that, I feel well past my sell by date. In the words of my mother, may she rest in peace, “Getting old sucks.” Yes, it does. To combat the slow decline into an appalling state of suckage, I have remained in an on again off again state of denial. I am the same age as Jennifer Aniston, our birthdays only a day apart. 42 never looked as good as it does on the former Friends star. I like to think I’m not too off the mark. Considering my head still thinks I’m 28, I just use good old Jen as a body barometer. Let’s hope she continues to keep herself well preserved for quite sometime. Otherwise, I shall have to find a new coping strategy.

But, I digress. The real point of me taking up space here is to share my years of wisdom on the marriage front. There are several things to keep in mind when embarking on such a journey with another human being. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Most of them involve empty toilet paper rolls and dirty clothes.

1)     Choose your battles – My mother-in-law gave me this sage piece of advice years ago when I got into one of the few truly unhappy discussions with my husband about something we didn’t see eye to eye on. There are times to stand your ground and there are times to let it go. Most of the time, it’s better to just let it go. Your man refuses to remember to put a new toilet roll on the holder or pick up his dirty shirts off the floor, chances are this is not a battle you are going to win over time. Trust, me there will be a multitude of things you do that drive him crazy. Unless its routinely setting the house on fire or clipping your toenails in bed, let’s hope he too decides not to pick a fight.

2)     Compromise – This is a corollary to number one. Life is about compromise and whether you like it or not so is marriage. I’m just going to tell you now, unless your soon to be husband is secretly gay, he hates throw pillows. All men hate throw pillows. Do they have to live with throw pillows? If they’re married to a woman, they will. Personally, I’m not a fan of watching Major League Baseball or professional golf on television when I’d rather be soaking up reruns of Modern Family, but I go with it. It’s called compromise and it’s not always fun but it’s necessary.

3)     Listen (or at least do a really good job of pretending to listen) – I would like to say that my husband is the only one who does not listen but I would be lying. Multitasking is a fallacy even though we all know women are better at faking it than men. My husband taps away on his phone while simultaneously playing Angry Birds on his iPad all the while “listening” to me inform him that our friends will be picking us up for dinner at 6pm that night. When 5:45 rolls around and I bark at him to change his clothes, he wonders why I never told him what time he needed to be ready. This happens while I am writing at the computer and he reports about something I need to know. It’s annoying, not good for the relationship and it means finding yourself in your own personal episode of Three’s Company with a big misunderstanding and no hugs from two dippy roommates to make you feel better.

4)     Keep yourself happy – “You complete me.” This is one of the all time best lines in a movie but, contrary to popular belief, Jerry McGuire is not reality. No one can make you happy. Only you can do that.  As soon as you start relying on someone else to fulfill you, you’re in trouble. My husband is the best part of my life but no matter how wonderful he is, he can’t find my way for me. That’s my job.

5)     Like the song says, “Tell him that you love him.” – There’s nothing quite like hearing it even though he knows it. That goes for the women too.

There you go. That’s my top five, shot from the hip, list of advice for the soon to be Blunt Delivery bride. There’s nothing earth shattering about it. But, we must be doing something right since my husband and I are still married, very happy and carrying on conversations containing complete sentences with one another.

Like I said before, growing old sucks. Getting old with someone you love makes it all seem just this side of all right. Before you know it, you’ll be seventeen years down the road, deluding yourself into believing you’ve aged nearly as well as some Hollywood A-lister, and hopefully looking back on the happiest years of your life to date spent with your best friend.

Congratulations and all the best!

Jen (not Aniston)

Do you guys have any advice for me?

 

Let’s see. I’ve been a fan of Brit’s and Blunt Delivery for about two years now. How time flies. It seems like only yesterday I was following her every post. A couple of years on and I feel like I know probably more than I should about her crazy life. The woman is downright funny and inspiring. She has helped me to learn about throwing caution to the wind with my writing and the fact that there’s something to be said for actually living the dream, not just paying lip service to it.

 

Before I get too sappy and start sounding more than a tad bit like a stalker, time to move on. Just needed to get the tribute out of the way before diving into the meat of this guest post. Yes, you heard right, a guest post. As soon as Brit dropped the bomb on all of us that she was planning on getting married, I began formulating some advice for her in my head. As I can’t keep these types of things to myself, I pleaded/conned her into letting me share them in a post a la Blunt Delivery.

 

I’ve been married for nearly 17 years. SEVENTEEN YEARS, people. When I see it in print, screaming at me on the page like that, I feel well past my sell by date. In the words of my mother, may she rest in peace, “Getting old sucks.” Yes, it does. To combat the slow decline into an appalling state of suckage, I have remained in an on again off again state of denial. I am the same age as Jennifer Aniston, our birthdays only a day apart. 42 never looked as good as it does on the former Friends star. I like to think I’m not too off the mark. Considering my head still thinks I’m 28, I just use good old Jen as a body barometer. Let’s hope she continues to keep herself well preserved for quite sometime. Otherwise, I shall have to find a new coping strategy.

 

But, I digress. The real point of me taking up space here is to share my years of wisdom on the marriage front. There are several things to keep in mind when embarking on such a journey with another human being. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Most of them involve empty toilet paper rolls and dirty clothes.

 

1) Choose your battles – My mother-in-law gave me this sage piece of advice years ago when I got into one of the few truly unhappy discussions with my husband about something we didn’t see eye to eye on. There are times to stand your ground and there are times to let it go. Most of the time, it’s better to just let it go. Your man refuses to remember to put a new toilet roll on the holder or pick up his dirty shirts off the floor, chances are this is not a battle you are going to win over time. Trust, me there will be a multitude of things you do that drive him crazy. Unless its routinely setting the house on fire or clipping your toenails in bed, let’s hope he too decides not to pick a fight.

 

2) Compromise – This is a corollary to number one. Life is about compromise and whether you like it or not so is marriage. I’m just going to tell you now, unless your soon to be husband is secretly gay, he hates throw pillows. All men hate throw pillows. Do they have to live with throw pillows? If they’re married to a woman, they will. Personally, I’m not a fan of watching Major League Baseball or professional golf on television when I’d rather be soaking up reruns of Modern Family, but I go with it. It’s called compromise and it’s not always fun but it’s necessary.

 

3) Listen (or at least do a really good job of pretending to listen) – I would like to say that my husband is the only one who does not listen but I would be lying. Multitasking is a fallacy even though we all know women are better at faking it than men. My husband taps away on his phone while simultaneously playing Angry Birds on his iPad all the while “listening” to me inform him that our friends will be picking us up for dinner at 6pm that night. When 5:45 rolls around and I bark at him to change his clothes, he wonders why I never told him what time he needed to be ready. This happens while I am writing at the computer and he reports about something I need to know. It’s annoying, not good for the relationship and it means finding yourself in your own personal episode of Three’s Company with a big misunderstanding and no hugs from two dippy roommates to make you feel better.

 

4) Keep yourself happy – “You complete me.” This is one of the all time best lines in a movie but, contrary to popular belief, Jerry McGuire is not reality. No one can make you happy. Only you can do that. As soon as you start relying on someone else to fulfill you, you’re in trouble. My husband is the best part of my life but no matter how wonderful he is, he can’t find my way for me. That’s my job.

 

5) Like the song says, “Tell him that you love him.” – There’s nothing quite like hearing it even though he knows it. That goes for the women too.

 

There you go. That’s my top five, shot from the hip, list of advice for the soon to be Blunt Delivery bride. There’s nothing earth shattering about it. But, we must be doing something right since my husband and I are still married, very happy and carrying on conversations containing complete sentences with one another.

 

Like I said before, growing old sucks. Getting old with someone you love makes it all seem just this side of all right. Before you know it, you’ll be seventeen years down the road, deluding yourself into believing you’ve aged nearly as well as some Hollywood A-lister, and hopefully looking back on the happiest years of your life to date spent with your best friend.

 

Congratulations and all the best!

 

Jen (not Aniston)

How To Break Up With Someone

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At first I thought it was a cruel joke. But now I realize that the Osmonds really are never going to go away.

Okay. So in between trying to figure out how I can plan a wedding without losing my mind or offending everyone for life, and then choosing a honeymoon location where I won’t get kidnapped by Pirates, get beaten and left for dead in the town square by a bunch of unruly rebels, or come back with dysentery – I’ve thought a lot about break ups.

These trains of thought are unrelated. I’m pretty sure.

The engagement is still on. As of ten minutes ago.

Break ups are a tricky business. But if those feelings are starting to brew, then please, for the love of living vicariously can you please follow this simple advice?

I wish I’d of had someone to give me such guidance when I was your age.

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But if you are the one being broken up with, don’t forget that I made something a while ago just for you!

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Because I care,

Blunt