I think I’ve let enough time slip by that you’ve all moved on from the holiday / New Years  resolution crap right? Like, we can talk about other stuff now? As in, big picture stuff?

Kgood.

So I’m currently in the middle of two very important things:

1. Designing my first business cards for the photography business that I started two years ago.

2. Breaking the news to my mother (and myself) that she is in love with Steven Tyler.

And while you’re contemplating the meaning of this and low-carb diets, I’m gonna serenade you with a few random pictures from the past two weeks.

I think the above statements are pretty self explanatory. Clearly, I’ve waited two years to design business cards because I’m an unrepentant pessimist and was quite certain that I would not even be able to figure out how to use a DSLR. And if I did, the world would probably end first so why invest in cards? That extra twenty dollars is the difference between designer imposter perfume or the actual Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds fragrance. 75 gas station cappuccinos or one caramel macchiato from Starbucks.

And although the discovery of my mom’s secret love affair is alarming, it’s not entirely surprising. Being able to detect the inevitable destruction of a relationship is my sixth sense.

I first picked up on it when Steven Tyler appeared on last year’s American Idol. They laughed in all the same places. My mom unapologetically admired his purple suede pants and feathered hair accessories, claiming that they were in homage to his supposed Indian heritage. She was not happy when I had to tell her that feathers were the newest hair trend and could be purchased at your local Great Clips for 7 bucks a feather.

The culmination and affirmation of my suspicions occurred tonight, when my mom kept switching back and forth from the OWN channel to see if the 2hour Steven Tyler interview was on again. She had been talking about it for days after watching it with my dad. (I know, the nerve!) ‘Cause, first of all, the OWN channel?

“Mom don’t you hate Oprah?”

“Well, I hated her on that other show. But now she’s doing different stuff.”

“Other show? You mean, the OPRAH show. There’s nothing different except now she just has an entire network called THE OPRAH WINFREY NETWORK. It’s like one big continual OPRAH show.”

“But these interviews are cooler.”

“Because they’re 2 hours long or because she’s interviewing your boyfriend?”

Her lack of protest might as well have been a handwritten admission of love stamped by the king of England with that melted candle waxy stuff to ensure that it’s legitimacy.

Sorry, my Tudors phase is never far from me.

When the interview finally came on, she rushed to the living room saying, “Oh my gosh, it’s on again! I could watch it a hundred times. Brit, you gotta see this. His house is so cute, it’s on a lake in New Hampshire. His kitchen cabinets are yellow!”

Um. Ok, mom. I’ll watch it. I’ve always been concerned with the interior color swatch of Steven Tyler’s kitchen. But I’m slightly more concerned about how dad is going to feel when you’re cooking bacon in that kitchen in about six months.

I grabbed a blanket as I watched him talk about his battle with drugs and self esteem and monogamy. This tool is going to be my stepdad? Will this make me part fake-Indian too?

And if so, do I get free stuff?

Like, just college? I heard they got clothes and food and stuff too. ‘Cause, I could probably come around to the idea.

I’ve always liked New Hampshire. And I mean,the cabinets can’t be that ugly. The sun is yellow and I like that.

Life has been full of changes lately.

Not in an “awkward teenager changes” sort of way. Or in a Tupac sort of way. But in more of a Stevie Nicks sort of way. Sort of. And I apologize that I’ve been so busy eating Sour Patch kids while seeing Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1 over and over again that I couldn’t find time to blog about all these changes. Can you just respect that?  You could have it a lot worse. I could be writing daily posts about my vegan lifestyle or posting pictures of my midget sized dog with eye crusties, wearing lame outfits and discussing how he told me he hates the colder weather.

Black Friday

So after I had the uncomfortable talk with my parents about my real ethnicity, I took the train in to Chicago to spend the rest of my Black Friday meeting up with Jess from Stumbling Toward Nirvana.

Welp. Ever seen that movie Catfish?

Yea, this was nothing like that. But given the grab bag of creepy, random experiences that is my life, I brought a video camera just in case. Fortunately, I must tell you that the red-headed writer is everything that she appears to be – awesomesauce with a sprinkle of cinnamazing.

Dad’s 60th Surprise Party

Of all the uncertainties in life, there is one constant that I can bank on: when I use my dad’s camera for any reason, I will find various self portraits of him in perplexing, yet familiar locations.

You might remember this one I posted last Christmas. It might seem like confusing self portraits of my dad are becoming your yearly Christmas gift. And you might be right.

If you remember correctly, I took a poll on what we all thought he was doing in this picture. And although “a Christopher Lloyd impression” was a good guess, it turns out he actually just finished some drywall and my mom had requested he remove his shirt before entering the house. I’m still waiting to hear back from Angela Lansbury as to why he thought it necessary to document this. I will update you as soon as I receive the investigative summary.

So last month I was using my dad’s camera, and you know how sometimes the universe is just on your side? Well such was this. More self portraits. And it so happens that I had just sent out the invites for my dad’s 60th surprise birthday party.

I may or may not have blown them up and scattered the around the room.

Actually, yea. I probably did do that.

He got over it as soon as he tasted my BBQ meatballs. If I could just ship some of those meatballs to the Middle East, I’m confident those suicide bombers would start thinking twice. The meaning of life could be found in those meatballs.

That party was a lot of work but there is no one in the world who deserves to be celebrated more than my dad.

Christmas Decorating

In my spare time, I’ve been elfing my way around to all my friends houses helping string lights, decorate trees and making sure that their houses are Christmasy enough for me to visit.

And in my spare, spare time, I have decided to help my dad get organized. I decided this after needing to grab something from his workshop and seeing this:

After immediately calling AEtv and submitting an application for Hoarders: Buried Alive, I put my gloves on and we got to work. My dad’s defense was that everyone throws their extra stuff in his workshop. By everyone, I’m assuming he means my mom since that’s the only other person around.

He denied accusations of hoarding, but you tell me.

Sidenote: Many of you email me with questions on how to break into freelance writing, or freelance writing tips. Since I would love to help all of you but it is very time consuming to break it down individually for each person, I was thinking of starting a section on here just for How To in regards to writing and freelancing in general. Would any of you munchkins be interested in that? If so, drop it in the comments. Thanks!

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.

P.S. Speaking of Black Friday and confessions, mama Blunty is excited. Like, more excited than I was when I found out I could still fit into Hollister jeggings. Why, you ask?

Well because Hollister makes clothes for west coast wannabee surfers that happen to also be anorexic midgets. Oh, you weren’t asking about that, sorry. Um, I’m excited because I’m going to be meeting up with fellow blogger, screenwriter and all around awesome woman, Jess from Stumbling Towards Nirvana.  I can see how that sentence might have implied that I am also an awesome screenwriter, but that is just not the case. Only the blogger part applies – although my MIA behavior in the past month might discredit me from even that label. Houdini what? Point is: she’s cooler than me and she’s flying into Chicago from Denver on Friday.

{Random announcement: Since a lot of you ask about my photography, I thought I’d mention I am now overseeing the Photography section of Twenties Hacker. I’m going to be posting photos and doing some random opinion/tutorial pieces over there. Just in case you care. But you don’t because you have no heart, which is why I find you so positively irresistible. Also, if you are into photography and would be interested in writing for us, let me know!}

If I told you what has transpired in the past three weeks you wouldn’t even believe me. I don’t even believe it. And since I’m in no mood to argue with you about the legitimacy of my ridiculous life, this blog will have nothing to do with what happened. Mmmmk?

I mention this only so that you can know I’m writing this post after a life-altering, sleep-deprived-stress-filled two weeks and you need to lower your expectations as of a paragraph ago. I mean, given the title, I’m pretty sure you’ve already turned on a Bravo marathon and busted out the nail clippers.

Welp. I don’t usually like to read because I’m a rebellious, unsophisticated punk. But I was scrolling through the pages of a blog, when I came across the “bucket list” tab and started to break out in hives. Lemme tell you something about bucket lists: I don’t like ‘em. I don’t like ‘em one bit. All the way from their beady little eyes to their unkempt toenails. Bucket lists = pressure. As if I really need ANOTHER reason to feel like a loser when I turn 30? I don’t need to add to the pile: looking at my “30 before 30″ list and seeing that I’ve only done 1.5 things all year besides being a loser. Appeal factor? Zero.

I find it interesting to scroll through and see what magical things people have to cross off their lists. Like, for some reason, turning 40 isn’t going to suck anymore as long as you can say you’ve gone white water rafting or climbed the Andes. It’s a psychological game with yourself and spoiler alert: you’re going to lose. That’s just a lil something I picked up from CSI. What’s even weirder is how I can check a vast majority of things off most of those bucket lists, yet I don’t feel complete. Or accomplished. Or any better about my age. Bucket lists are clearly very relative. The creepy relative that makes me uncomfortable at Thanksgiving.

So I’ve decided to think smarter and not harder. I’ve devised my own bucket list of already completed things to give myself a sense of false accomplishment. And guess what? I’m feeling just phenomenal.

My bucket list:

1. Drive through a walled city on a mountainside in Tuscany, Italy. Get out to take pictures in the town square and realize I’ve just crashed a funeral that the whole town is attending. Check.

2. Climb a Mayan pyramid in Mexico while wearing flip flops and then wish I would have taken Jose’s word about the poorly pasteurized cheese enchiladas once I get to the top. Check.

3. Ride the world’s highest cable car and get stuck in a lightening storm, while suspended in a glass box over the mountains for two hours as I make another bucket list: survive only so I can break up with the guy that thought it was a good idea to ever take me on a cable car ride. Ever. Check.

4. Accidentally date a charming guy from London, who turned out to be not so much charming as much as he was a heroin addict. Check.

5. Walk into class and have my 3rd grade teacher whisper that I’ve tucked toilet paper AND my skirt into the back of my tights. Check.

6. Gain 5 lbs because Wendy’s keeps pulling fast ones by adding “all natural” and “sea salt” to their french fry billboards. Check.

7. See the Eiffel Tower at night (except I never really wanted to do this). And at sunrise (except I never really wanted to see anything at sunrise).Check.

8. In high school, discover that I have one giant ear and one regular ear and when I tell my parents the disastrous news, they laugh in my face saying, “We were wondering when you were going to notice that!” Check.

9. Spend a month trying and failing to teach Mexican natives how to pronounce the letter “W” while I video tape them so I can laugh for years to come. Check.

11.Discover my purse missing after leaving the Moulin Rouge. Become the Bambi of Paris, wandering the red light district with no money or knowledge of the French language. Proceed to take out all of my frustrations on the country of France til the end of time, amen. Check.

12. Lose all my best friends to myth that is “like, totally awesome” California life. Check.

13. Call my dad over to my condo in the middle of the night to kill what I presume (and announce on Facebook) to be a cockroach, but really it turns out to be just an over-sized waterbug. Check.

14. Protest California for stealing all my friends. And Hollister, except not really, because their hoodies are too soft. And they’re currently on clearance. Check.

15. Protest China. Just because. Check.

Sigh. Well. I sure feel better. I think you should do. Just by osmosis.

And no, I never saw the movie.

{Disclaimer: I think it’s great to set goals for yourself blah blah blah. You’re just a better person than I am and I cant handle the self-inflicted pressure.}

I have a billion things to get caught up on today. Which is exactly why I just started a Lady Elaine Fairchilde Twitter account three minutes ago. In fact, she just tweeted her first pic: “Missin my peeps from the ‘hood today. Went 2 ChuckECheese 2b around other creepy puppets w/ wood faces.” She’s also claimed the hashtag #puppetproblems.

So, back to why I was MIA this week. Unlike all the other times I have BS excuses, this one is legit. I got a text from my friend Kira on Monday: “I need to talk to you for two seconds. You’re gonna listen, then say yes, and then figure it out later.  Mmmk?”  Um.

Kira is a virtual friend and partner of mine over at The College Crush. She lives in Madison-ish, and I live in Chi-area but we’ve only hung out once. Well, she was speaking at the University of Michigan and wanted yours truly to accompany her. Apparently, one hang out is all it takes for someone to know that any kind of a trip would be better if I were in the passenger seat.  Some things in life are just blinding truths.

Kira: Just say yes.

Me: But, I have so much to do this week.

Kira: I’ll make an awesome play list, bring a basket of snacks and pick you up at your door.

Me: Eh.

Kira: My plan is to be done speaking by 1 and drinking martinis by 2 on Wednesday.

Me: You have my address right?

This is me putting on my best “Yay, we’re about to embark on a road trip” face, when on the inside I’m thinking, “I can already feel the car sickness and misery from my undersized bladder having to overextend itself.”

Kira may or may not have mentioned the trip would be 4 hours. Yea, nope.

Of course, the 8 hours probably could have been shortened had our main agenda not been to find a particular restaurant we were craving. It also would have gone shorter had we not gotten sidetracked by making fun of all the adult store names in Hammond, Indiana. Once we got closer to the hotel, Kira was telling me that she researched the reviews to find us a good one.

Me: As long as it doesn’t have a door that leads to the outside, I’ll be okay.

Kira: Well, crap. I don’t know if it does. You should have said something.

Me: Aren’t you aware that’s how all horror movies start?

Kira: It’s going to be fine. And if not, I’ll get us a different one tomorrow.

Me: I’m not that high maintenance. It’ll be okay. {hyperventilates}

Well, after checking the mattresses for bedbugs, securing my luggage up off the ground, barring the door shut with a chair and switching out the blankets for my own…. we cracked open some wine and relaxed. But I’m not sure how our nightstand ended up like this in the morning.

The next day, Kira and I empathized with the students and their parking problems. There wasn’t a spot for miles. Kira put on her glasses and we made like teachers. We’re a class act.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who were depressed by the parking issues…

After Kira’s speech, we went out with some of the coolest, smartest, awesomest college students ever. They just didn’t make em like this back in my day. We may or may not have persuaded them to skip classes to hang out with us.

As promised, martini was in hand by 2pm.

Then again at 2:15. Ahem.

Then we kidnapped one of the students and made him show us good pizza places. We chose this one based on the Christmas lights, but lucky for him it had amazing pizza too.

Oh, did I mention both Kira and I are gluten intolerant?

And did I mention all we did was eat gluten on this trip from start to finish?

What we lack in self control we make up for in awesome. I learned long ago you can’t have it all.

So yea, I’ll be around to your blogs very soon.

{Photo Breaks aren’t going to have comments enabled. I don’t want you to feel like you’ve got to comment and say, “Oh hey, nice photo!” I mean, that’s like 5 seconds out of your day that you could spend not commenting on my blog, amiright? So, you know, just breathe it in and send me subliminal messages instead.} 

As I was sitting there in the delivery room, waiting the arrival of her first baby, Paul, I couldn’t help but think back to when we were just a couple of kids, sitting on the dock, wearing our matching swimsuits and hoping the boys across the lake would notice us. We’ve been best friends since 3rd grade. I also couldn’t help but think about how adoption was becoming more appealing by the minute.

Paul will always be special not only cus he’s my best friend’s first born, but also the first born of any of my friends. It’s been quite incredible watching my bff transition into a mother. And it’s clear to me now that some people are just born for it.

Poor Paul, he’s had my camera in his face ALOT. It doesn’t hurt that he’s probably the sweetest, happiest, cutest, most fabulous child with the biggest, bluest eyes ever in the Tri-state area. This is a variable statement, of course, since my children are yet to be born. So, you know. And someday, I’ll be his cool aunt Brit that brings him over a platter of cupcakes and sets him straight when it comes to the ladies.

Little Paul is almost 3 now. These are some pictures I took of him last fall, but I never put them on this blog. Um, he lives in the middle of nowhere. And he likes tractors a lot. The two facts are probably correlated.

Wait, what? How did the cat sneak in there?

We were playing, “Uh oh, where’s Paul? We can’t find him with all these pumpkins?!”

Then we went inside where I learned some very valuable lessons about 2 year-olds.

Like how there’s no point in putting anything in the snack mix besides white chocolate chips.

Or having carpet.

Or bringing said snack mix in the car. Unless you want a car seat full of snack mix.

But seriously, love that kid. And those eyes.

P.S. Those eyes are unedited. That’s how awesome they are.

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 could go on all day. And there is, of course, those I’ve mentioned before such as: Ron from VENT, who is my virtual bestie and leaves the most amazing and encouraging comments!  Jen from When Pigs Fly who did a guest post for me awhile back and is a fantastic writer and all around person. BTW, Ron and Jen recently met up in Philly…. jealous!!  Thoughts Appear is another hilarious female blogger that I heart almost as much as she hearts pop tarts.

Check em out. Give em a big Blunt hug from me.

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?

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.

{Been a buuuuuusy couple weeks wrapping up projects… I’ll be visiting your blogs soon!}

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?

[ 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.