Category Archives: Confessions

realizations I probably should have come to a very, very long time ago

Givin A Little Bit Of My Love Away {Blunty Award Edition}

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There’s something I’m bad at. Besides athletics, adhering to commitments, rocking the pale look, digesting gluten, self diagnosing my diseases, wearing yellow, driving and watching black & white movies. There’s something else.

Oh, I didn’t tell you about my recent discovery of gluten intolerance? Yea it’s pretty awesome. It’s about the most devastating news an Italian can possibly receive. For those of you who don’t know what gluten is – it’s pretty much anything baked, bread like, flaky, crackery and amazeballs! Don’t get me started. I don’t wanna talk about it.

The point is: I’m bad at something. And that something is pimping people out.

It just gets to the point where there are too many awesome people to pimp and I just procrastinate because it’s too overwhelming. So.. who needs the pimping in this scenario? Welp, you do. 

I don’t know if you understand that I almost literally put this blog out of it’s misery about once a week.  I’ve only mentioned it once or twice, but it’s an ongoing war of sorts. ‘Cus I mean, what’s the point of it all anyway? There’s never been a point, I guess. And we all know it’s a struggle for me to keep up with ANYTHING on a consistent basis. I’ve been trying to take Vitamin Cs since I was like, ten. But you know what? Every time I’m about to hit delete, I get some sort of email from one of you that just rawks my socks off. I remember last year when I went through that cancer scare and everything… I think I got more messages and emails from you guys than I did from my real life friends.

It simply amazes me.

You inspire me. You encourage me. I’ve even met a few of you in real life and you blew my expectations out of the water. Why do you have to be so much more awesome than me and make me feel all inferior? Not cool. So I just can’t tell you what an absolute privilege it has been meeting all of you, hearing your stories, learning about your lives. And that’s why I don’t quit this blog.

So, let the award ceremony commence!

BEARMAN CARTOONS

First, I just have to recognize Bearman. He’s a punk in the biggest way, but I’ve got a lil soft spot for him. He’s awesomely talented and funny and is always there if I have a nerd question or need help with something. He’s stuck around since before I was even Blunt Delivery and I wrote stuff that made absolutely no sense. 

No comment please.

He recently drew a caricature of me but then hot linked a picture from my blog. See that’s what I mean about being a punk. I was a lil disappointed that he didn’t put me in the wonder woman custom. And even more disappointed I ended up in the Diamond Girl shirt. But if my life has taught me anything it’s that it isn’t fair.

 

ABBY HAS ISSUES

To say that it was love at first read would be a horrendous understatement. Abby is HI-larious and a fantastic writer and everyone needs to read her blog like, yesterday. I don’t actually laugh when I read many blogs because they just aren’t funny. But I laugh when I read hers. Check out this post Everything Must Go about the garage sale experience.

THE DAN PEREZ BLOG

Besides being a kick @ss filmmaker, blogger and producer, Dan is a new virtual friend of mine. You’ll find all sorts of great stuff on his blog. Everything from his thank you letter to an ATT customer service rep The Ballad of Patsy Brown to funny stuff to his latest blog discoveries from his trip down the “rabbit hole.” I must send him a big thanks for featuring me on his recent post 5 Badass Women Bloggers You Should Be Following.

But what’s more important is that Dan is kind of a big deal. I don’t know if you’re aware, but that is Mr. John Travolta handing him an award in that picture, so…….that pretty much makes me famous by osmosis.

WOMEN ARE FROM MARS

Nikki is one of the most honest, relatable and refreshing bloggers I know of. She makes no apologies for anything and clearly, I love that. Not only is she awesomesauce, but she is also a very sweet,caring person who recently wrote me an email that made my month. She’s more than a virtual friend – she’s a compassionate person who cares about people, even though she comes across a little tell it like it is. Takes one to know one, I guess. Ladies, you’re going to particularly like her Tale of Two Farm Boys. Cus we can all relate.

JUST MAKING CONVO

Alright. I can’t really put into words how much I love this girl or her blog, but I don’t back down from a challenge. She is freaking hilarious. I mean, every single post will make you laugh. Her imagination is clearly out of control and we continue to reap the benefits. I beg of you to read her latest post, How To Answer Your Cell Phone During A Work Meeting Without Your Boss Finding Out.


STUMBLING TOWARDS NIRVANA

Jessica is just…. she’s incredible. She writes these transparent, heartfelt posts laced with humor, that I can almost always relate to as a late twentysomething who still doesn’t have anything figured out. Jess is a screen writer and before I know it she’s gonna get all famous. She is always quick to send me a message or email when she can sense that I’m going through something in my life and we just get each other, you know? And someday she’s gonna write my story. Uh, whenever I stop procrastinating and get it to her 😉 

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!

 

Before You Judge Me, You Need The Facts

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You know, I feel like a lot of people make snap judgments about me. And it hurts. It hurts all the way from my chipped-nail-polished fingertips to my cold, blackened heart.  And when I hear these accusations, I cannot help but to curse the wretched stars, Carrie Underwood and the phrase “I heart it” for causing me to be so misunderstood in life.

I just don’t really know who else to blame.

But as long as you’re here, and I’m here, I thought we could have a box of wine and talk about our problems. But since I drank it all last night… I figured I could address some of your concerns instead. So, if you would, please sit Indian style and form a circle on the floor. If at any point in the demonstration you feel weird, it’s probably cus you’re wondering how you’re supposed to form a circle on the floor with just yourself. But please, try to focus on me cus we have bigger problems.

Accusation #1: I’m cray cray.

Well-thought-out defense: This is my father:

Like father like daughter. I’m just not quite as… shirtless.

Accusation #2: I’m lazy and have no desire to physically exert myself in any way.

Sort-of-thought-out defense: My friends coerce me into eating copious amounts of high carb-count foods in short periods of time, which spikes my glycemic index and causes lethargy.*

*fancy terminology compliments of WebMD

For example, I went on a girl date last weekend with my friend Dana to the apple orchard. Cus it’s fally and wonderfully out and that’s what we do in the Midwest.

sidenote: aren’t my friends cute?

Sidenote: aren’t my friends cute?

Disgustingly full and nauseated from the over abundance of sweetness from the apple pie a la mode before noon, we bought 2 dozen donuts. Then, as we’re about to leave, Dana sees a baked potato stand and says, “Oh, that will get the sugary taste out of our mouths.” That was the worst logic ever. But I’m not the logic police. The job didn’t come with a badge or a cool hat, so I was all peace out.

BONUS: this picture doubles as a handy tool to help you identify if you are an Italian (me) or a Mexican (Dana). If you choose jalapenos as your third potato topping, you’re Mexican. If you put onions on anything regardless of it’s a potato or not, you’re Italian.

Accusation #3: I’m a hot mess.

Obvious defense: None. But, you should just know that according to Lady Gaga, I was born that way. So, now I have to snap my fingers in your face and say get over it.

Accusation #4: I hate women, Neil Diamond, mayonnaise, smooth talkers and China.

Murky-but-still-valid defense: This can be traced back to the fact that I was born in a trailer park. If you’re unsure how the two are correlated, you probably didn’t attend college. Cus they would have explained it there.

So, to sum all of that up… you should probably feel bad about what you’ve done.

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!

September 2001: A Glimpse Into My Life

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You’ll have to excuse me, but this summer has been a freak show of chaos and if it weren’t for the expiration date on my mozzarella, I would have had no clue that we were approaching the 10 year anniversary of September 11, 2001. I know lately I’ve put on my introspective alter ego and you’re all, “What the crap – where am I?”  Well, I’ve got bad news. It’s not gettin any better today. Because how crass would it be of me to write about my newest Facebook stalker or my dad’s latest embarrassment story on the upcoming anniversary of such a horrendous day?

Pretty crass. And even I’m not that crass.

So I got to thinking about 9/11/01 and where I was. Not just physically, but in my life. It was my first year of college and I was curling my hair in my box of a bedroom (and most likely accidentally burning my forehead) while my mom was making pancakes. Sidenote: my mom’s pancakes might be one reason why I’ll never leave the Midwest. At that time, just one tower had been hit and I headed off to my college class… something about morals and ethical gray areas. Class was cancelled but we all sat there glued to the TV, completely awestruck. As I got in my car to go home and a Lifehouse song came on the radio, I found myself looking around me, as if something was going to blow up in front of my face. It was a weird feeling.

As for the rest of my life, it was all very blank. I was dating one of the best men I’ve ever met to this day, and yet, I would soon discover that timing really is everything. I had yet to experience that nauseating feeling in your stomach when someone tells you that they just don’t want you anymore. Or even worse, when they do something that proves they don’t.

My eyebrows were tragic. But not as tragic as my dark lipstick. Or my Orange County tan. I had yet to experience a good kiss. The kind that makes you forget where you are.

I had plans of settling down at 24, kids by 27 and hanging around the house with a husband who made me laugh. Assuming, of course, I would have the same friends by then and we would all have dinner parties together and our kids would grow up to be besties. I’ve never been so entirely wrong about anything in my life, aside from those eyebrows. And using the term “bestie.”

I hadn’t seen first hand how drugs could destroy someone, or, how watching it happen could destroy me. I had never boarded a plane, much less flown to Europe to live. I was fearful of almost everything, yet slightly more optimistic than I am today.

I loved my parents just as much as I do now. That kind of love does not diminish with time.

I had yet to discover what it was I would do with my life. And even three years from then, when I was supposed to have it all figured out, I still wouldn’t. I didn’t understand the mental toll of working 40 hours a week at a job that made me want to breathe in the exhaust from my sweet action Saturn and how it would change my life when I lost it unexpectedly. I never thought in a million years that I would actually be paid for writing down the words that had been up to that point a nuisance, merely adding to my Insomnia. And I had never heard of Radiohead. Or boxed wine.

Six months prior, everyone in my graduating class had picked me as the first to get married. They should have known better than to make bets on me.

I had never lived anywhere but my parents house and was screaming for independence. Little did I know, as soon as I got a taste it would intoxicate me, so much so that it would cause me to run away from anything that threatened it.

Ten years. Wow. Maybe I’d go back.

Maybe I wouldn’t.

I don’t suppose it matters though, now does it?

 So tell me, where were you ten years ago?

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!

Fall Is Coming And You Better Be Happy About It

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Dear Fall,

If you were a handsome man wearing a skinny tie, I would enter a lifelong, monogamous commitment with you never look back, which is a bold statement coming from someone who will probably change their child’s legal name at the age of three. Even if you didn’t have the skinny tie. If you were a food, I would eat you every day. If you were Neil Diamond reincarnate… well, just… you never would be. ‘Cus you’re too perfect.

I think I started to love fall because it meant the start of the school year. And things that smell like Christmas morning. And layered clothes. If you don’t live in a place where you have a change of seasons, my soul cries out in anguish for you. I know that you think your Christmas palm tree and your New Years Even sweat ‘stache photo is fantastic, but you’re really missing out. Here in Illinois, it’s starting to get that teeny tiny crisp in the air at night and I love it. That means that all things wonderful are packing their bags and headed my way.

Soon, the days will start to fade and sunshiny nights will be replaced by candles, blankets and anything that smells like cinnamon.

 Rainy fall days have to be my favorite thing. 

It also means the perfect kind of weather to cuddle up on the couch with a vintage copy of War & Peace.

But, I’d rather use it as a prop for my lamp. I like to think I’m giving more meaning to the book’s life.

I don’t know why I draw the correlation between globes and fally stuff. But I do. I’m sure it can be traced back to some sort of traumatic childhood experience involving creamed corn. Sick.

So, if you live in one of those gastly warm-all-year-around places, I suggest you plan yourself a trip to come visit me. I’ll make you a caramel apple spice latte and we can wear hoodies and play in leaves and stuff.

It will be a disgustingly awesome time.

P.S. I loved reading all your comments on Understanding Right Brainers: The Curse of the Creative. This is why I even have this blog, because I can meet people like you, who make me feel somewhat normal. You’re all insane in your own way and I love it!

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.

Understanding Right-Brainers: The Curse Of The Creative

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Last night, I had a shocking revelation that I’m cursed.

This is even more serious than my nearly fatal, almost-heart-attack and 7 other legitimate, self-diagnosed diseases, except not really. Have I lost you already? Interesting. Maybe it’s because you’re cursed too. Although, I have fruit loops as my screen saver, so I would take my assessments with a grain of salt. But please, make it sea salt because the last thing I need to worry about is your skyrocketing blood pressure. And we all know that sea salt is God’s salt.

If you’re a creative person, then you get it. You could write this entire post for me. And actually, I wish you would because I’m really supposed to be working right now. If you’re not, but you’re dating one then this might help you understand us a little bit better. ‘Cus I feel for you, I really do, because if I was a normal person wearing a polo shirt and clocking out at five from a stable job that provided benefits and paid vacation, I would be confused by us too.

I love the fact that my right brain likes to run such a passionate and colorful show. But, my goodness, I just want to punch it sometimes. Then, I realize that I have a hole in my head and that would lead to my sudden death. Here’s why we’re cursed:

*Right-Brained Creatives are insatiable punks with undiagnosed ADHD.

This is, however, a necessary evil because without this trait we would fail. We can’t ever stop creating, evolving, improving, changing – and it’s not because we want to be the best  – it’s because our minds literally won’t let us stop. We are constantly flooded with ideas, to the point of insomnia. We’re restless. And when we finally do go to bed at 3 am, we’ll wake up and jot down ideas in the middle of the night. We have crazy schedules, our eyes are always bloodshot and we like it that way because you can’t force creativity and you certainly can’t stop when it’s flowing. I literally have a notebook with tabbed dividers to keep track of ideas. This is an instance where I really wish I still had that Lisa Frank trapper keeper. The notebook goes a little something like this: blog ideas, website ideas, conversations I had/overheard, DIY ideas, house ideas, photo tips, video ideas, typography, inventions that no one will ever make, marketing ideas for companies (as if this will EVER be useful) and there’s also an ongoing list of my Top Favorite 90s songs. Wouldn’t that just make anyone go nuts?

When I finally ditched the corporate world and became a writer, it was the best decision of my life. But in order to make money, I had to write about stupid stuff like reality TV and the economy. So, I had to find another creative outlet, which ended up being this blog and photography. But I couldn’t just leave it at that. Then I taught myself Photoshop and had to go and start an entire photography business. Recently, I’ve taken up furniture refinishing. Like I said, insatiable

*Right-Brained Creatives thrive on risk. But not those kind of risks.

I won’t even go to Great America for goodness sakes. We thrive on risk because we have to. A large majority of creatives are freelancers/self-employed -we never know where our next job will come from. This means that we usually marry a left-brainer because otherwise we’d be on the streets. We need to be challenged. We get inspired and run with it. For instance, I started an entire retail store in my local mall, on a whim, without any prior business or retail experience. Why? Because as  a child I always wanted to have my own store and when I lived in London I became inspired. Surprisingly, it was a very creative job because I controlled the entire design, store displays, marketing, etc. But, the retail world didn’t allow much room for other creative pursuits. So, naturally, it had to go.

*Right-Brained Creatives are workaholics, who are almost always underpaid and okay with that.

Vacation, what? I would be willing to bet that every creative person reading this would agree that they would rather scrape by for the rest of their life and do what they love than make six figures working in a corporate office. It’s sad, but we accept the fact that creative talent is extremely undervalued. Just as teachers accept that they will always be underpaid; but they keep doing it because it’s their passion.

It’s just how we’re built. And when we try to box ourselves into that lifestyle, we lose a bit of ourselves. We become unhappy. We feel unfulfilled. We are merely existing rather than living.

*Right Brained Creatives rotate hobbies like politicians rotate mistresses.

On top of our “main focus” whether it be graphic design, music, writing, photography – we have a million other hobbies. And we are constantly finding more. For instance, I’ll see something I like online and think, “Yea, I could totally make that.” Then, I’ll realize I don’t know how to sew, so I’ll spend a hundred hours on YouTube watching tutorials on how to sew. And when I’m finished crafting my masterpiece, I’ll contemplate opening up an Etsy shop for all of the new stuff I’m going to sew. For example, I picked up an extreme couponing habit at 2 am last week and the week before that I refinished my kitchen cabinets.

One thing I must say that has made my life worse/better is Pinterest. It’s like a collection of online corkboards where you can pin any picture you see on the internet and it automatically links it back to that post or tutorial. You can browse other people’s pins, follow your favorite boards and there is just an ENDLESS SUPPLY OF AWESOMENESS. This really has ruined my life and I don’t suggest it. 

* Creatives are perfectionists who can’t say no.

It’s bad enough that we often work for next to nothing. But, we even have a hard time saying no to free projects. There are two reasons for this: 1. the project could gain good exposure for our work 2. we love what we do and if it’s a really fun project, we want to do it. We are perfectionists to a fault because just as soon as we’re close to finishing something, we’ve already thought of how we could improve it.

It’s a vicious cycle. It’s a busy, messy life. It’s anything but boring. And I just wouldn’t have it any other way.

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.

Death, Donuts, And A Cigarette In The Morning

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I kept a journal over the past week, to help process my thoughts. It’s not the most uplifting, but, it’s life.

8.4.11 {Donuts.}

I’m writing this while at the hospital, laying on the bed across from my grandpa. He’s been gasping for breath and finally admits that the smoking got the best of him – not that this foreshadowing would have changed anything. “There’s just nothing like coffee and a cigarette in the morning,” he always said.

He’s been around since I was born, although he’s not my dad’s biological father. When I was young, I didn’t know what a bitter and broken man he was. I didn’t know that he stormed Normandy Beach and fought in the Battle of the Bulge, only surviving because his friend’s bodies shielded him. Nor did I know that he had two children in the cemetery, and his only surviving son (Larry) was born prematurely, which resulted in visual and mental impairments. And I did not know that his first wife died of a sudden illness when Larry was only 25. All I knew back then was that he had an awesome underground pool, liked to drink “highballs” and made me cry when he dressed up as Santa.

Santa always did scare the crap out of me.

He was generally nice to me, albeit a bit cranky and argumentative. But as I grew, it became apparent that he never accepted my father or our family. I saw how controlling he was of my sweet and wonderful grandma. How he caused our family to fall apart. How my father had to tolerate years of awful mistreatment just to see his own mother. In latter days, bitterness caused me to detach, which carried along the tragic side effect of lost time spent with my grandma while she still had her memory.

So I’m sad today, but not for obvious reasons. I’m sad for my uncle Larry, who has no family of his own and whose mother died when he was young. I’m sad for him because now he’s losing his caregiver and father; and his stepmother (my grandma) has Alzheimer’s. I’m sad because he’s been sitting by his dad’s bedside for a week, without barely sleeping or eating, just waiting for him to open his eyes. I’m sad because I know that he envisions himself in that bed someday and he wonders if anyone will be sitting by his side. And I’m sad because I realize that I’ll have to go through this with my own parents someday and that thought is incomprehensible to me.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t hold it together when I see the tears welling up in someone’s eyes. I leave for a while to regain my composure and to buy some sprinkle donuts and Excedrin for Larry. And a few hundred purses for myself.

Larry turns to me and says, “If dad were awake he would yell at me to change my shirt because it has stains on it… I wish he would wake up and yell at me.” My dad shows up with a stack of To Do lists, tired and stressed, although no one could possibly tell except me. I force him to sit down and eat something. He’s always taking care of everything but himself. Just like any five year-old would, he jumps on the wheelchair scale and starts weighing himself, in attempt to distract Larry for a second. It works.

8.5.11 {Death.}

Grandpa dies. My dad and cousin are digging through files and making funeral arrangements at my grandma’s apartment. I see the heaviness in my dad’s eyes as he contemplates how to tell his mother the news and having to move her into a home. I try to distract grandma by looking through picture albums with her. Larry is in the bedroom crying and we hope she doesn’t notice. As I flip through pages, I start removing pictures of my grandpa to use for the memorial posters at his funeral. My grandma repeatedly asks what I’m doing and I tell her that I’m making a special project for her.

8.6.11 {Five poster boards.}

As I sort through eleven boxes of pictures, I attempt to summarize my grandpa’s life in five poster boards. Five, because that’s how many easels the funeral home gives you. How do I possibly divide up a person’s life like that? I look at the growing stack of pictures I’m not going to use and I realize that in the end, pictures of trips and toys and new wallpaper don’t matter. They all get thrown away. No one is going to pass those down. They won’t be displayed at your funeral. I cry for the first time as I glue his life together, picture by picture, and I think about what he did and didn’t mean to me. Then I turn off Damien Rice because he’s not helping any.

My dad stops by to bring me lunch because – he’s concerned about my stress level. He says when the pastor asked him for stories for the funeral,  he couldn’t think of one good memory. He admits that it is hard for him to listen to everyone gush about how great his step dad was. Of course, my dad is too much of a man to ever let them think otherwise.

 8.8.11 {The funeral.}

The morning of the funeral, my grandma has to be told all over again that her husband is gone. The funeral is about to start and she is the last to arrive. My dad finally walks in, holding her arm with tears in his eyes as he sees how broken up and scared she is. I have to look away.

I sit right behind them in the second row and all I can focus on are her silent sobs as her shoulders shake with overwhelming sadness. Larry’s frequent outbursts are heartbreaking and I try to stare at the ground. Later on, my grandma keeps saying that she isn’t able to take care of herself and she doesn’t know how to live without her husband. We assure her that we’ll be taking care of her and hope to God she forgets all of this by tomorrow.

I feel sad and relieved and guilty and bitter. My grandpa was a great war hero. He was a wonderful father to Larry. And growing up, we did have some good times at the pool. Our Christmases were always a blast, until we stopped having them. He made my grandma happy, for the most part. He had a lot of sadness in his life and I do cut him some slack for that.

I don’t know. But those are the things I’ll try to remember about him.

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.

Gandhi’s Top 4 Tips On How To Have A Crappy Blog

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I realize it’s possible that a few of you might have been slightly distracted by the crumbling economy and possible impending doom of our country’s unresolvable debt crisis, therefore you might not have been tuned into the Discovery channel like I was last weekend. And that means, you missed the recent archaeological discovery of a lifetime.

Gandhi was so cool. Not only was he the change he wanted to be in the world, he was waaay ahead of his time. Yes, he might have been barefoot, but he knew things about the future. And it was no surprise to me when his list of  Top 4 Tips on How To Have a Crappy Blog were excavated. Obviously, when he wasn’t selling his quotes to card companies, he was busy documenting his wisdom.

My heart is too big and full of love for you just to let you sit there all non-educated. I inherited my mom’s sense of compassion. And maybe even a little of Gandhi’s too?

Here is what they were able to interpret from the hieroglyphics. Don’t ask me why Gandhi was writing in hieroglyphics. Some things aren’t meant to be understood in this lifetime. Lucky for you I took Intro to Hieroglyphics in college. Right before I dropped out.

1. “Felesnale eef  linxeicve bi w.aiven.a wefiengt!  slfiewh!”

Translation: Why in the name of my visible sternum do you make it so impossible to leave comments? Do you hate me? Why do you hate me when I am just trying to act interested in what your dog did yesterday? Cus it seems by the obstacle course you have set up that you’re trying to scare me away. Ouch! Is that an electric fence? (there’s the forward thinking again) Ah! I think I just gashed my leg on some rusty barbed wire!

Gandhi’s advice: Captcha sucks. Especially if it shows up after I have already submitted a comment. Half of the time, I have already left the page before it pops up, in which case my comment is lost and I’m too busy making up quotes to resubmit. The other half, I can’t read the captcha correctly, not because I’m a robot, but because it’s stupid. Also, if you have the captcha Nazis in place, why do you need to approve comments? You don’t. Comment approval cramps my style and the natural flow of conversation. It makes conversation and replying difficult. P.S. WordPress automatically catches spam without captcha, so maybe you should switch over. 

Hey, his words not mine.

2. “wao;ifwa #() frefwas fwal;ifaw;oinee fneifms e! wefiens!”

Translation: See these dreadful round glasses I have to wear? It’s because your black backgrounds and tiny fonts make my eyes hurt. After I read your posts, I have to close my eyes and meditate to alleviate the stress and ward off the dizzy spells. Which is okay, because it gives me so much more time to think of quotable quotes, but dangit.

Gandhi’s advice: If you must have a black background because you feature art, or cartoons (ahem, Bearman aka Mr. Hotlink) then by all means. But if you can help it, you should have a light background with dark text that is easier on the eyes – many people have issues with dark backgrounds and light text. Oh, and have text that is LARGE enough for me to see without my spectacle! Reading your blog shouldn’t be a struggle!

3. “stop being an idiot”

Translation: None needed.

Gandhi’s Advice: Posting every day will not make you famous. It will only annoy me because you have nothing quality to say. Although all of your words might not end up on a greeting card like mine, you should still put some thought into what you’re saying. My time is precious. I am busy making peace and I don’t have time to hear about what your kid left on his dinner plate last night. Plus, I cannot possibly leave a comment on all of those posts. Not that I would anyway, because your barbed wire fence got in the way.

4. “awoefne lfleell! fwlifweoi, flwiefw, wflieefjisisi!”

Translation: The Blogger commenting structure sucks. It’s very discouraging if you don’t have Blogger. I have been to some Blogger blogs where the ONLY option to leave a comment is to enter my Blogger ID or Google account. How very discriminatory of that blog. I know Google is taking over the world, but you do realize that not everyone has a Google account right? And even though I do, it doesn’t link back to my blog.

Gandhi’s Advice: If you choose to use the Blogger comment system, you must enable ALL options for leaving comments. This includes the name/url option, for those of us who have self hosted sites. Otherwise, there is no way for us to comment. And I don’t. And then you get all “where’s my comments?” and I tell you to shut it. My best advice in this scenario would be to install Disquis.

That being said, if you’re out there and you have a Blogger blog with a black background and captcha with barely any commenting options, you have the crappiest blog ever! If you have a blog with only a few of these things wrong, your blog is only a little crappy and there is still hope for you.

Peace be with you,

Gandhi

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.

The Day I Met Tom Cruise And NBC

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Sometimes she will say, “I think I’m losing my mind, Brit. I don’t know up from down anymore.”

Then I’ll look at her, smile, and ask, “Which way is up?”  She points to the sky; I call her a liar and she laughs.

It’s the most appropriate human response I have to fact that she is, indeed, losing her mind. The other option is running away. The most tragic and heartbreaking part about Alzheimers is the moments when they realize their mind is going. As hard as it is for us, I cannot imagine what it’s like for them.

A couple of days ago, I took my grandma for a walk. It was hard for her to even move her legs considering she sits in a chair all day long. Since I couldn’t bare the thought of going back inside the sterile rehab facility where she is temporarily staying, we sat down on the bench to talk.

She still remembers who we are, but rarely knows where she is and always looks scared. My grandpa takes care of her; unfortunately, he was admitted to ICU last week and most likely won’t make it out. She constantly asks where he is.

Out of nowhere, in a moment of perfect clarity, she looked up at me and said, “My how the tables have turned.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, I used to take care of you…and now you’re taking care of me,” she responded with a somber face.

It’s the kind of full circle you never want to happen. I quickly distracted myself by eavesdropping on the conversation between these two men:

I heard one of them saying he has been married for 65 years, but his wife hasn’t recognized him for the last two. I empathized with him and struck up a conversation immediately.

I asked them what their names were. The 60 yr-old African-American guy turned to me and said, “Tom Cruise, ‘cept I ain’t got his money.” I laughed and was trying to determine in my mind if he was joking or if he actually legitimately thought he was Tom Cruise. “That’s funny,” I said, simultaneously rolling my eyes.

“No, that’s really his name,” his friend said with all the authority of Dwight Schrute. “I eat with him and I’ve seen his ID card.”

“Well then, that’s easy to remember,” I remarked.

“And I’m NBC” he affirmatively added.

Ok. Yep, these guys are officially nuts.

“Niles Baldwin Claussen,” he continued.

“Like the pickle?” I asked.  “Yes, but you can call me NBC.”

I learned that he had beaten pancreatic cancer 17 years ago. “But that has a 99% fatality rate, right?” I asked.

“Correct. I’m Mr. 1%,” NBC replied. “Well, well, maybe someday I’ll see you on a Smuckers commercial when you turn 100,” I said.

He was currently at the rehab facility while he was undergoing chemo for bladder cancer, which my grandma also battled several years ago. He said the reason he didn’t have any friends to take care of him was because he had outlived them all.

Tom Cruise kept interjecting into the conversation with little comments. “My wife died last year,” he mumbled under his breath. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I been married three times… But she was the best I ever had.”

Oh, that Tom Cruise. Such a character.

Although he was completely debilitated and confined to a wheelchair, he kept saying, “Blessed to be alive. Fortunate to have lived this long.”

On the way home, it occurred to me how rarely I remember that just being young is something to be thankful for. To have empty pages. Quality years ahead, where health problems are nothing more than just hypochondria. To be starting a life with someone, not anticipating the end. To have the opportunity to try things and fail.

To even have the ability to remember.

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.

 

Fun Fair = A Loose Interpretation Of Both Fun And Fair

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I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a fair or not. Here in the Midwest, fairs are kind of a big deal. It’s all the farmers and corn and cows and stuff.

Thus, I have very specific expectations in mind when a “fair” is involved. There needs to be a hint of funnel cakes mixed with farm animals in the air. Questionable Carnies lurking in the shadows. A poorly assembled, rusted out Ferris Wheel. So you can imagine my disappointment when I helped my friend Jo out with a local fun fair for her workplace.

When you add “fun” in front of “fair” it apparently takes all of the awesome things out of a fair and substitutes it with cute, sticky, and greedy children who are attempting to eat their body weight in snowcones – which we were supplying along with cotton candy.

Anyway, we rose early on Saturday morning and loaded up the box truck to head out to the fun fair.

P.S. Nothing makes you feel quite more like a pedophile than driving around in a big box truck with a snowcone and cotton candy machine in the back.


I don’t know when she’s gonna finally realize that I’ll never stop taking pictures of her.

As we were circling for about and hour trying to find the place, I may or may not have noticed a Big Kmart with a Little Caesars blow up man out front. This information came in handy when we reached our destination and realized we had an hour to kill. Don’t even think we didn’t polish off a large hot n’ ready at 10:30am, while sitting next to the men’s underwear section.

Not to say that we couldn’t finish the rest, but we did start feeling like pigs a little bit. The confused looks from the cashier weren’t helping.

Back at the Fun Fair, we became cotton candy and snowcone making afficianados.

We may or may not have eaten all of our mistakes.

Seriously, she just needs to stop trying to hide.

That is an expert at work, my friends.

I don’t know if you’ve ever made cotton candy. I don’ t know why you would have, unless you ARE a Carnie (in which case I apologize for previous statements) but it’s probably the grossest, stickiest, cobwebbyest job ever.

Then someone came by with free ice cream sandwiches. I was taught never to turn down free treats from strangers.  The universe just didn’t want us to win that day.

By the end of the day, my cotton candy was so fluffy and perfect that the kids didn’t even want to go near any other forms of air-blown sugar.

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.