Category Archives: Blunt Bites

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!

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.

Blunt Bites: The Lady At The Cafe In London

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[ 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 was living in London at the time. One night, some friends and I decided to eat dinner at an Italian cafe; and if there’s anything more disappointing than London food, it’s London food trying to be Italian. As we drank our wine, I jotted down some thoughts in my journal while listening to the rain hit the windows.

I noticed you walk in and take a seat at the table by the window, where you had a perfect view of the beautifully wet cobblestone streets. I would have done the same thing. Those streets are still my favorite part of London. Your glasses were huge, and at first glance I thought you might be a man. You weren’t. Just an elderly lady wearing a beautiful dress and oblivious to the world around you. When a bottle of expensive champagne arrived, I was certain that you were waiting for someone. Anniversary, perhaps? Milestone birthday? As you finished your dinner, I couldn’t help but wonder.

But no one ever joined you that night. And it became increasingly evident by your level of confidence, that was what you expected.

Part of me felt sad for you.

The other part, jealous.

Blunt Bites: An Old Italian Guy Named Joe

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[ 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 met Joe while working at a retirement home and almost instantly, we connected. During my first week of work, he pointed out my dark hair and ever since then we’ve fought over whose Italian grandma made a better spaghetti sauce. Now, every time I see him he gives me a hug and says he loves me.

At night, sometimes he sits down and shows me the scrapbook his daughter made for his 90th birthday. It’s filled with pictures of the Navy, his three daughters and his late wife along with letters from all the friends, family and neighbors that he has meant so much to over the years. After reading those letters, you can tell just what kind of a life Joe lived.

After he turned 90, Joe told me that he finally realized he wasn’t going to live forever.  He said he wanted to start “doing things,” and he didn’t understand why none of these old guys “ever want to spend their money.” I told him that I didn’t understand it either, since money doesn’t mean anything anyway. We went through the activity book and I signed him up for every single thing.

I asked Joe if he had any advice, based on his experiences. He said, “Find a pretty girl like yourself and realize how lucky you are.” I laughed and responded, “Joe. That doesn’t really help me out very much,” and he said, “Oh, I think it helps you out more than you realize.”

Then he followed it up with, “Yea, I’m a flirt. So what? Keeps me young.”

When I asked if I could take his picture so that I could always remember him, Joe said he was honored that I thought he was worth remembering.

More photos: Indigo Photography

Blunt Bites: The Girl Who Taught Me More Than High School

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[ 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. ]

It was my very first day of work, and you offered me some of your lunch even though you barely had enough to eat. Although it was a struggle to understand you through your thick accent, your laugh was desperately contagious. Your husband also worked at the same company. You would get so excited every time he walked by. I later discovered that you moved your family here from Poland to make a better life. You taught yourself English, graduated with honors, and moved to a tiny house down the street with your three kids and five relatives.

You always carried hot pink lipstick from the Dollar Store in your apron, and the only thing cheesier than your constant smile was the Harlequin romance novels you read every day on your break.

Five years later, I recognized your voice instantly when you called into the bank. I confirmed your name, but didn’t reveal who I was. I could sense that you had been crying. Your account was overdrawn because you had been trying to support your three kids on minimum wage ever since your husband and sisters had left for the grocery store and never returned. Two years had passed since then. You mentioned that you had just celebrated your 40th birthday by making a cake out of flour and water, then you started laughing just like you always did. As I was fighting back tears, I don’t know what alarmed me more: the tragedy of your circumstances or your positive attitude toward them. You responded, “As long as I still have a choice, I’d rather laugh than cry.”

Her name was Renee. I wish there were more of her in this world. She epitomized love. And she taught me more than high school.

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

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[ 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

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[ 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]

If This Blog Was A Buffet, Would You Like It More?

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Precisely.

Which is why Blunt Delivery will soon become the Golden Corral of blogs.

See? And you thought there was no possible way I could tie in such a random title to this blog post. How long do we have to be on this journey together before you will stop underestimating my masterful literary skills?

Hurtful.

Much to my own dismay, I have an endless supply of long-winded, sarcastically-laced stories about my sordid past for your reading pleasure. But sometimes. Sometimes, my phalanges get just a little bit… tired.

I’m sure my next sentence will come as the shock of your adult life, but, it has never been my goal to post everyday. Why? I feel like even the best of writers don’t have something worthwhile to say to the world on a daily basis. On top of that, I don’t even fit in the “best of writers” category. Jay Leno’s writers can’t even come up with something quasi-entertaining and they actually get paid to do it. Well, mama isn’t getting paid, kids- except for the knowledge that I’m revolutionizing lives one blog at a time, and I guess for a self-sacrificial type like myself, that’s all the payment I need. Now give me a moment whilst I yank myself from the tree I’m bear-hugging, snatch up a piece of random litter and gather my thoughts.

Puke.

Another reason why I don’t post daily is because I have never, ever forced myself to write a blog. What does this mean for you, my reader with unparalleled beauty? Well, it means that you don’t have to hear about my dog’s potty training troubles or the fact that my child is so darn cute when he leaves an “R” out of word.

But Blunt, I thought you didn’t have kids and you hated dogs?

Wait, who are you and how did you manage to hijack this blog?

The point is, I only write when I have a thought so utterly preposterous that my hands go on auto pilot and I can’t stop but only for a cupcake. Or two. And although many of you yell at me for my lack of posting, I think if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve grown to appreciate that about me. And if you’re not being honest with yourself, then you need to lose the spandex and cut the crap already. It’s not working for you.

THE POINT IS sometimes I AM tired, yet I still have something that I would like to say. Thus, I am creating a new category called: Blunt Bites. Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with Vampires. Or brownie bites.

But gosh, I wish it did.

Blunt Bites will break the format of my usual, quasi-lengthy,  jaw-dropping, laugh-out-loud posts (right?), and sum up a significant part of my life in a mere paragraph or two. It will be like a snapshot of sorts. And I don’t even know if I’m up to the challenge.

You lucky ducks.

Or maybe all of that was just a lie and I’m merely using this as a selfish writing exercise on how to condense stories.

I trust you will will find the answer deep within yourself.

The following is a “sample” of what a Blunt Bite will be. They might be sarcastic. They might be funny. They might be tragic. But, they will all be honest.

You said it all felt like high school again – that somehow, being together made you forget that you were an adult with responsibilities and problems and broken dreams. For me, it was an escape, a mere a moment of blind optimism; in that sense I guess I can see what you meant about high school. One day at the gas station, you were down to your last two dollars and so you told me to pick out a lottery ticket. You said, “Choose wisely – this is going to pay for our summer home out east.” I chose a pink one.

It was the wrong choice. And so were you.

Mmm. Now that’s something to munch on.