Valentine’s Day Is About As Cool As Ke$ha

Posted on February 14, 2011 by Blunt Delivery

I just had to check in and see how you are surviving the Empire State Building of Lame Holidays thus far?

Me? Eh.

Let’s see here. What could I possibly say or do that might lift your spirits on such a dreadful day? Oh, I know, I know!!!!!

1. Make a list of things I love.

2. Post a bunch of pictures of heart-themed things.

3. Talk about how much I love my significant other because of all the cutesy stuff he got me.

Oh wait. What?

You mean all of those things would make you vomit and never revisit this blog?

See? That’s why we’re friends.

Maybe you should watch my Valentine’s Day Sucks video again?

No? Still not working? Well then I’m fresh out of ideas. So can we discuss something else?

Ke$ha.

I blame all of you for making her famous.

Well, maybe not you specifically, cus you’re better than that. I’m referring to those others of millions of peoples.

This just isn’t going anywhere, I can tell. So instead of dwelling on my hatred for all things related to ridiculous pop stars, I’m going to spread a little Blunt love for some of my favorite new blogs. I’m spreadin it smooth, like a fine-churned butter – and you all know I don’t spread it very often. This is a scarce commodity.

Maybe I can’t cheer you up, but one of these guys certainly can.

[If you’re wondering why the Barbie is clothed, it’s cus her Salvation Army $0.99 sticker was adhered to her bosom and it was quite shameful. For her. Sorry if that threw your world off its axis.]

Johnny Utah. Let me just preface this by the fact that it takes a lot for me to read a blog all the way through. They’re usually just a snoozefest, you know? Not this guy. Please read his Open Letter To Teens. Hilarious, and helpful to the world.

Breath of Ella. Why? She’s an Alienator and a Masochist -both qualities that I appreciate in a friend. Also, she’s recovering from a stress-induced bald spot.

Starbucks Break. The lovely Cheryl, who I refer to as my Asian Sunrise, is part of the duo that helped me redesign this here blog. She is also a commitment-phobe, which makes me feel warm and gooey inside.

Awaiting my mystery chocolates from whomever they may come,

Blunt

kesha photo: posh24.com

snide question written over photo: me

Blunt Bites: The Boy Who Jumped To Conclusions But Had A Good Singing Voice

Posted on February 6, 2011 by Blunt Delivery

[ DISCLAIMER: Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed laugh-out-loud (right?) posts. They are like 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 called you one night, out of nowhere. The snow always reminded me of you. At first, you didn’t recognize my voice. Three years had passed since we had spoken. You informed me of your decision to move to L.A. to give your dreams a shot. I said I was surprised that you had finally done it. You said, “Of course you’re surprised, what do you expect when you don’t pick up the phone?” You were mad. When you had driven across country, you had wanted to meet up, but I never returned your calls. As you vented your frustrations, I shook my head so hard you could probably feel it through the phone and then I called you an over-reactor. This started an epic fight, something we had perfected during our brief, but intense college relationship.

In the end, I saw no point in telling you that I had never gotten your calls because my number had changed 3 times since then.

Maybe, that night, I just didn’t want to get into the fact that my number had changed 3 times because my identity had been stolen by drug dealers.

Maybe, that night, I just felt like letting you win.

Blunt Bites: The Boy Who Smelled Like Garlic

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Blunt Delivery

[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed laugh-out-loud (right?) posts. They are like snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]

It was 1999. I got let out of the hospital the same day as my Junior year prom, except it was actually a banquet, considering I went to a rather strict high school, where dancing was believed to lead to utter destruction of the human soul.

It was my first official date with you, or uh anyone, and I was nervous that you wouldn’t show up. I was banking on the fact that I had just gotten out of intensive care and only a heartless human being would stand up a girl with a hole in her head.

You were late, wearing a mismatched outfit and one of your dad’s ties. My snow white dress was a perfect choice for your red pick-up that lacked a muffler, but not an over-abundance of Taco Bell bags and quasi-empty Mountain Dew cans. On the way home, I laid my tired, broken head on your lap and you sang me Oasis songs because the radio could only get AM stations. You told me it was too bad I didn’t end up with a metal plate in my head because then perhaps we could have picked up more radio stations.

I fell in love with you despite the fact that you smelled a bit like garlic; and you managed to get past my Jewel-like snaggletooth. We dated for four years. But, for Senior prom, I made you wear a suit – even though you wanted to go as Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber.

Nosy for more details?

[If you’re can’t sleep until you uncover the mystery of the hole in my head, please visit The Hole In My Head: Explained. For the rest of the juicy details on my first love you can read So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes. And for the story on how my Baptist school accused me of being in a gang when I was in 7th grade, please check out Back When I Was In A Gang]

12 Step Breakup Recovery Program

Posted on October 23, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

It’s been twelve days since my last post. Accident? Please. We’re not talking about Denny DelVecchio here. I’m trying to subliminally remind that you that the twelve days of Christmas are just around the corner and it’s in your best interest to put the danish down and put the tree up. Don’t be one of those scrooges that waits til the day after Thanksgiving. Why even bother with the holidays if that’s how you’re gonna be?

I also thought we could channel any pent up rage you might have against me for not posting into something beneficial… like, learning. So while I’m working on my new soon-to-be smash hit “She’s Just Not That Into You Volume. 1 of 250,” I wanted to take some time out to educate you on a subject matter that I have mastered: the breakup.

There isn’t a one of you out there who hasn’t been through this dreadful necessity of life called The Breakup. Unless you’re 17, in which case, you shouldn’t require this information because you shouldn’t be dating yet. And if you are, I’m very offended. At your mom. Or dad. Or two moms. Or foster parents for not protecting your innocence. And I’m also offended at you for throwing such a fit about it and playing the “I’ll just run away then I can do whatever I want” card that they had no choice but to just give in and let you. I can just see you doing that snotty little voice that you do.

Darnit, the both of you.

Clearly, this topic is too deeply personal to not convey face-to-face …so I have opted for a video blog. And I am quite certain if you follow this 12 Step Program, you will find yourself back in the saddle and riding off into the sunset with the strapping, young [and better looking than the last one] cowboy or girl of your choice.

*I apologize if I look like I haven’t slept in about two weeks. Cus I haven’t.

Yea yea, so I cut it off too soon. Whatevs. It was late.

Anyway, thanks for sticking around even though I’ve been MIA. I promise it was for good reason. But can I get some sort of credit for actually replying to my comments these days???

I’ll be visiting you all later today.

Boy + Girl + Blogging + Chicago + Frizzy Hair = BlogDate

Posted on September 29, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

Listen. I’ve already paused the Roseanne marathon. I’ve canceled my plans to work out with Jo, the unofficial roommate. And I’m trying to set down my caramel apple spice long enough to type this, but considering it tastes like Christmas morning exploded in my mouth, I can’t make any promises.

Why am I going to such extremes, you ask? Or didn’t. I’m just assuming that you’re an engaged reader.

Wait, did someone say engaged? Cus I almost got claustrophobic.

So why am I climbing the highest peaks, crossing the deepest valleys and trudging through the murkiest swamps to write this post today? Because I heard through the grapevine that I went on a BlogDate in Chicago last week, and you are dying to hear all about it! If that isn’t true, then I blame the women of the world. Blasted gossipers.

So how did this alleged BlogDate even come about? Everyone take a seat on the mat, I feel a coming-of-age story coming on!

Alright, boys and girls. Someday when you get older, and you have a blog of your own, you will start to get comments. Once in a while, you might notice a particularly witty comment that grabs your specific attention. You will then set out on a journey to explore that commentor’s blog. Don’t rush this -it will just come naturally, when the time is right. When you’ve met the right blog, you will find it to be equally as entertaining as the comments were, which will come as a pleasant surprise on some rainy Tuesday. I’m not going to set unrealistic expectations, but butterflies are a possibility.

At some point you will begin to wonder if this person has an actual face. One of you will harmlessly stalk the other and find them via a social networking site. In the event they do not have a social networking site, nor do they have a bio picture on their blog, it is safe to say that your BlogDate will never happen.

Should you both happen to not be repulsed by the sight of one another, you will start blowing up eachother’s Facebook pages. Then, in a random twist of fate, one of you will come up with a ridiculous excuse to give out your digits. [ In my case it was: “This might be my number. If you text me something that makes me laugh, I might introduce you to Oprah.” A couple hours later I received this text: “I am sending this from my diamond encrusted pager.” ]

And before you know it, a boy from New York is on a plane to Chicago to go on a BlogDate with you.

Make sense?

Now, as awesome as this may seem, there comes a point where you finally come to grips with what you’re actually doing. For me, that moment came while I was on the train to Chicago. I will demonstrate my thought process with you in the following storyboard:

1. This wasn’t a thought process, but it was the largest Sangria I’ve ever seen. Luckily, Uncorked met up with me for some of these before I went to the airport.

2. WTF do my nails look purple in this light?! I swear, they looked black in my house! Why do I insist on living in an environment with no natural light? What am I a BAT?

3. Really? You could die today.

4. Eh, if I’m gonna die, at least it was in the name of journalism. Maybe Geraldo Rivera can do a reading at my funeral.

5. Way to burn your forehead with the curling iron this morning. Typical.

6. Family emergency so I can’t make it? Food poisoning? My hip locked up and I can’t walk? There was a bio-nuclear attack on the rail system? These all sound legit to me.

So we met. After twenty minutes I realized I wasn’t lying in a garbage bag in the back of a trunk, so my nerves let up a little bit. We went to Second City, which is a must for any visitor, followed by drinks at one of my favorite places. The next day, Chicago tried to break a record for hottest/most humid day in September ever. After sweating off a few pounds, we decided to find an indoor activity: The Art Institute of Chicago. BlogBoyfriend did his best impression of my favorite tortured artist, Van Gogh. They exchanged pleasantries and tried to one-up each other on who was more of a tortured artist. Blah, blah. I told them it’s all fun and games till someone loses an ear.

Careful, don’t laugh. DON’T! Then I got him some real pizza. None of this anorexic, Kate Moss crap that New York likes to think is pizza.

All in all, I had as great of a time as you can possibly have with a complete stranger that you thought might want to kill you. But, he didn’t. In fact, he made me a mixtape. You may wonder, why oh why are there no pictures of you? Or the two of you? Well, I will now use my extensive Salvation Army Barbie collection to answer your question. Guys, Salvation Army. Expecting them to be clothed is asking a lot. And frankly, snobbish.

So surely, you understand.

But, when I visit New York, my hair will cooperate, I won’t burn my forehead, it won’t be a 100 degrees, I won’t have a panic attack, I won’t receive very bad news that morning, and there will be pictures!

Go forth, risk your life, and get your BlogDate on.

Blog Dating Is The New Black/ eHarmony/ Twitter/ SpeedDate/ Facebook Poke

Posted on September 24, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

No. This time I didn’t do anything drastic like move to London or start a retail store or give up tanning. But, I did meet up with a complete stranger from New York for a two-day BlogDate in Chicago, which I may have mentioned one, or fifty times, on my FaceSpace. I had to make sure I mentioned it regularly in case one of you had to work or something and missed a status update.

Now I know you’re all waiting with baited breath for the details of this excursion, and I assure you, they are coming at you faster than a chubby, asthmatic kid chasing after an ice cream cart.

I Attract Crazy People: Case Study #548

Posted on July 10, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

I’m not one of those people who tries to collect Facebook friends [or as my dad calls it: FaceSpace]. Those people have deep-rooted acceptance issues stemming from childhood. That is my educated guess based on the two psychology classes I took at community college.

This young man from London sent me a friend request, which I ignored, of course. I’m particularly leery of Londoners, given my extensive experience with a certain British creeptown. But we really don’t have time for that this week. A couple hours later, I noticed a message from the guy. I have so conveniently preserved the conversation for you to analyze.

Mind you, I thought this would be an appropriate time to stop responding as it sounded like we were on the same page: I’m not from the “tele” or a model or a singer = no further point to continue this conversation.

Just kidding! It’s Opposite Day!

He started a new message thread:

And now that I’ve posted this on my blog, I’m quite sure I’ve only sealed my fate. But I couldn’t help myself. You guys deserve to know the real reason why I came up missing. And while you’re mourning my absence, you can check out the other half of my creepy, abandoned house pictures.

They may, afterall, be the last ones I ever take.

It was nice knowing you.

xoxo,

Blunt.

5 Things Men Do That Annoy The Crap Outta Women

Posted on June 23, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

Wait, why are you holding a giant calendar with red X’s all over it?

…And why is there a whistle around your neck?

Did you recently become a gym teacher?

STOP TAPPING YOUR FOOT! What do you mean it’s only been a week and I’ve already broken my promise of posting on Monday, Wednesday and Friday?

Well, well, smartypants.. perhaps you missed the memo where I mentioned that I’m now going off the ancient Mayan calendar. Bam, roasted! That also means that you’ve only got until 2012 before the earth explodes, which makes this whole broken promise thing seem a bit trite, eh?

Besides, you need to lay off me cus my birthday is on Friday and I’m having a breakdown.

Now. I realize that I’m pretty rough on women in this neck of the woods.* And guys, I feel like you might think you you have a free pass around these parts.* Well, sike. You better not even think you do, cus you don’t. I will further support that statement with the following numbered list of 5 Things Men Do That Annoy The Crap Outta Women:

1. Leave the bathroom floor covered in water. Question: Are you capable of washing your face and/or hands without turning the entire bathroom into a slip ‘n slide? Question: Is it possible to take a shower and actually step onto the conveniently provided mat when drying off?

2. Don’t properly take care of your feet. I’m not exactly sure what happens here. Question: Why does almost every man between the ages of 18 and 80 have at least one (if not all) deformed toenail? It’s either yellow, or crusty, or infested with some sort of mystery fungus that is resistant to over the counter treatments. In most cases, all of the above.

3. Leave a new toilet paper roll on top of the counter instead of putting it on the holder. Question: I’m too furious to ask a question right now.

4. Always being the hero, even if it requires making up a fake crisis. Man: Did you see that guy? He totally just checked you out! Who does he think he is? Can’t he see you’re with me? He’s totally staring at you?! Girl: Um, I didn’t even notice anything. Man: Stay right here. I’m gonna take care of this. Girl: Can’t we just go eat? I’m hungry.

5. Refuse to check the order at the drive thru. You know it’s gonna be wrong, it always is. Ask my metro sexual bff Kenny what happens when he fails to check my order and it’s wrong. Just ask him. [Speaking of, Happy Birthday Kenny. It just isn’t the same without you around here to throw a highly inappropriate combined birthday party with.]

Ladies, please feel free to add to the list.

That being said, guys, you know I love you. You fill the world with muscles, sweat, problem solving skills, a wealth of useless facts and movie trivia, the ability to vaguely determine the general origin of a scary car noise, and an endless supply of “It’s going to be okay’s.” But, sometimes, I just want to strangle you with that loosely fitted metro sexual tie.

*I’ve recently spent a lot of time at my parents’ country house. Sorry.

rockford-il-engagement-photographer

Check out my latest photography post Where Have All The Good Looking People Gone?

Marriage: This Is What It Boils Down To

Posted on June 9, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

Dad: I got serious heartburn from that strawberry shortcake. It was the milk.

Mom: Milk? I’d blame it on the strawberries. They’re so acidic.

Dad: Milk contains lactic acid. Don’t ever forget it.

Mom: Well I should buy lactose free milk then.

Dad: You did. You were buying that Soy Milk, but then you said it was gonna kill me for some reason so you stopped. Now I have heartburn.

Mom: They had something on the news about that for a week, Denny!

Dad: All I’m saying is that I may be avoiding death by Soy Milk, but I have no quality of life. I have heartburn.

Mom: Oh, fine. I’ll start buying the Soy Milk again.

Dad: What are you trying to kill me?

Twenty-five years of marriage and this is what it all comes down to. Not for me of course, cus I’m not getting married. But for all of you, these are the conversations you’ll be having.

That aside, I had a revelation the other day. And it wasn’t just that I needed a tan.

Or that I desperately need to visit the dentist. Still.

Or that I haven’t started any kind of workout and it’s mid-June.

Or that I still want an English Bulldog named Shakespeare.

Or that an unfortunate day is quickly approaching: my birthday. And I fear for the lives of many famous people on that day.

Or that I’ve been eating spaghetti for the last 13 days.

No, it wasn’t any of those things. But now that you bring it up, those are some serious problems.

I realized that I need to force myself to write more. I am veritably the WORST blogger on the planet. I get alot of emails from people asking why I don’t post more, yet you always stick around. The truth is, I haven’t been posting cus I wasn’t inspired. Now I’m inspired, but I’ve never been so busy in all my life. I’m actually using my DayPlanner, as opposed to just admiring how cute it is.

But, I am going to post more. This is probably the only commitment I’ll be making in the foreseeable future. We’re not talking every day here, don’t get all clingy on me. We’re talking like a Monday, Wednesday, Friday type thing. Sound good?

What’s that? You don’t care?

Figures.

unique-portraits-rockford-il

Speaking of busy, Eric Bana stopped by my town last weekend. Each time, he lets me snap some pictures of him. We’re tight like that.

It’s Like Something Out Of Deliverance

Posted on May 13, 2010 by Blunt Delivery

[I’m so sick of people saying that. And I’m so sick of other movies referencing that movie. I’ve never seen Deliverance and so every time someone makes a reference, I don’t get it. When I ask what the movie is about people always say, “Horrible. Don’t watch it. Creeptown city. People get tortured and stranded and it’s just bad news.” Ok, then why have you ALL seen it?]

So have you ever tried this dating thing? There must be something in the autumn Illinois air that is making everyone want to set me up with their finest, handomest available male. I usually date men I’ve known for awhile, thus I haven’t gone on many “first dates.” And I’m finding the entire process to be sort of, different.

Someone asked me the other day to give him the “Cliff’s Notes” about myself. With a sigh and a sarcastic laugh, I said, seriously? I can’t even sum up the last week of my life in Cliff’s Notes format.

So in the interest of efficiency and simplicity, I have devised a form letter that I can simply hand across the table when presented with the statement “So, tell me about yourself.” I suggest you do the same.

Dear Gentleman Suitor:

I hate form letters. I love to travel, but I can’t fly unless I am unconscious. The aesthetic quality of my penmanship is a constant let down, as are my driving skills. I take issue with people who don’t understand the meaning of aesthetic. Although you may not fall head over heels in love with me, you will with my family. I’m a night person, so don’t even try. Whatever it is, do not try.

Truth is, I’m a total nerd. I get annoyed when people use “than” where they should have said “then.” I color coordinate the books in my room. I’d rather buy office supplies than jewelry. Because of these facts, it is a natural result that my friends do not include girls who talk about shopping, tanning, how much their feet hurt in heels, their new eye shadow, or how much they can’t WAIT to see Lady Gaga in concert. My mind explodes from all the meaningless information. But let there be no mistake, I look great in heels.

I’m very tidy, but I hate the word tidy along with several others. Compliments make me feel awkward. I like to cook. I like it even better if you like to cook. It’s not that I hate reading. It’s that I hate reading mind-numbing fiction, sci-fi, romance, or essentially, almost anything contained in the public library. Got it? If it’s witty, well-versed, or based on someone’s actual experience, I’m in. Got it? I believe in God, and although I have always loved Him with my mind, I have not always done so with my life. I’m passionate and creative. I love making people laugh.

I’ve lived alot of life in my short time on this earth. I must be with someone who can hold their own. I view money as a necessary evil, nothing else. I hate people who get embarrassed. I’m independent, and I will rarely ask for your help unless it involves heavy things or snowy weather. I want to move to a place that has fall weather permanently. My household uniform is a hoody, plaid pajama pants, and braids. I’d rather fight it out than ignore it. If I end up really liking you, I’ll probably worry about your well-being and you’ll get annoyed. Most importantly, I’d rather be single forever than with a seemingly perfect man who doesn’t understand me.

Thank you for your interest. If you find this alarming rather than endearing, no worries, you can step out for an important call and I will go make out with the attractive waiter.

Sincerely,