Tag Archives: blogging

Dear Leonardo DiCaprio,

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After all these years…

leonardo-dicaprio-kurt-cameron-growing-pains

After all the pain we’ve been through.
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After waiting in obscene lines with hundreds of other equally pathetic women only to watch Titanic for the tenth time, thinking that somehow this time Rose might not be such a stingy lovestruck hag and would let you hop on that raft for a just couple seconds to escape a watery death.

leonardo-dicaprio-gisele

After all the times I’ve turned a blind eye as you’ve blatantly cheated on me with many an anorexic  underwear model from various continent.

leonardo-dicaprio-environmentalist

After all of this, I want you to know that I don’t just love you for the fact that you are trying to single-handedly save the planet one recyclable grocery bag at a time.

I love you in spite of that.

Environmentally unconsciously yours,

Blunt.

p.s  Is it bad if  I leave all the lights on in my house while I drive around in my Suburban and chuck plastic water bottles out the window for fun?

How To Avoid The Dentist For Life

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philosophersThroughout the ages,  many philosophers have attempted to answer the question, “Why would I rather be tied up in a glass box and left for dead in the Sahara desert than go to the Dentist?”

For me, it started when I was six.  It’s bad enough that I inherited my mother’s unbelievably awful teeth, and I always had an average of three cavities EVERY visit and they could never get the Novocaine right.  As horrible as that was, it is not what drove me to camp out by the mailbox so I could tear up the ”time for a checkup” postcards the minute they arrived and bury them in the garbage before my mom would notice. 

Fluoride.  Do any of you recall having trays oozing with “bubblegum” or “mint“ flavored fluoride shoved into your mouth to protect your teeth from cavities?  Then once the trays were in place you had to sit there struggling not to gag as the slimy goo (which resembled Windex more than it did any of the above mentioned flavors) started trailing down your throat,  all the while you’re gasping for air because that ridiculous vacuum was sucking it all from your airway.  I remember each visit (which ended up being once every two years, when the postcard sabotage went according to plan) lying there, staring up at the poster of toothbrushes hidden in the forest,  shuttering in fear, and wondering if maybe – just maybe – they would forget the fluoride this time.  But they never did.  It’s as if they possessed some other -earthly -futuristic -robot memory. And I didn’t stand a chance.  Eventually, I started pleading with them.  “Come ooooon, my teeth are going to have cavities no matter what, don’t you see?  Look at my mom.  That’s just my lot in life.  I’ve made my peace with it.  It’s time you got on board.”   But all my attempts proved futile.

Flossing.  I have done this section in red.  Red, for the color of the blood that my gums have shed at the hands of various hygenists throughout my childhood.   As I grew into my adult teeth, I was relieved to find that fluoride would no longer be a part of my torture.  FREEDOM AT LAST!  That was, until, I discovered a whole new world of anguish. Flossing.  Throughout the duration of high school, every conversation with my hygienist would follow this format:

her: “hmm..  how often do you floss?”

me: “bout once every couple days.”  [lies. lies.  all lies. straight from the pit of hell!]

her: “you really need to do it at least once a day.  not flossing can lead to Gingivitis and gum disease.  do you know how to properly floss?”

[then she does the whole demonstration with the index finger blah blah]

me: “yea.  yea I know.  I just forget sometimes.”

her: “hmm.. I’m a little concerned.  do your gums normally bleed?”

me: “no.  no actually they don’t.  only when someone probes them with sharp metal objects.”

Root Canals. Finally, when I was “of age”  I could choose my own dentist.  So I set out with my suitcase in hand and all the optimism in the world.  I didn’t stop searching until I found a guy who specialized in gentle, no drill dentistry.   Plus, he was Chinese.  I don’t know what it is about Chinese people, but I automatically assume they are smart.  This guy won’t be shoving tubes down my throat and destroying my gums for no good reason, he’s above that.  He also informed that the reason I couldn’t chew on the left side of my mouth for the past two years was because I needed a root canal.  Smart dentist? maybe.  More costly than adopting my own Chinese baby and putting him through dental school?  Definitely.

After shuffling around to the better half of all the dentists in the white pages, my dad recommended his childhood dentist.  On my first visit, I was pleased to discover that the hygienist was as gentle as a feather blowing in the summer breeze.  I smiled on the inside..  Could it be?  Then the dentist comes in and as he’s examining my mouth I realize he’s not wearing a mask, his face is really close to my mouth, and he is really old.   Afterall, he was my dad’s dentist.  Thats ok, that means he has lots of experience.  Experience? maybe.  Halitosis? definitely.

Sigh.

Like Black On A Chalkboard

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One of my goals for 2009 was to “stop fabricating the truth”  so that means that what you are about to witness is definitely legit.

My family is hilarious.  We’re like the token Italian family they always showcase in movies, who talk over eachother and have 8 different conversations happening at once.  Except, my mom isn’t even Italian.  And I don’t have 7 siblings named after famous Italian statues.

There’s a couple of things you must know about my parents to fully appreciate this story.  My dad is quite possibly the funniest person alive – to everyone except my mother, who never gets any of his jokes. Or maybe she does, but she thinks they are super lame.   On the other hand, no one on earth ever laughs at my mother’s jokes, except my mother, because they are just horrendous.   My dad and I often challenge each other to see who can ignore her jokes the best, because if we give her even the slightest bit of encouragement she will keep repeating them. over. and. over.   In a nutshell, they are on completely different wavelengths.  In fact, the only thing they might have in common is their confusion over anything related to pop culture.

We’re watching American Idol, some nerdy kid sings, and my mom loves it.

mom: you know who he reminds me of?  that kid on King of the Lords.

me:  what?

dad:  King of the Lords?!?  you mean, Ring of the Lords?

mom:  oh, IM SORRY.  that’s right, I meant Ring of the Lords.

me:  no. no.  it’s Lord of the Rings.

mom:  well, I like him.  he reminded me of Clay Aiken.

me:  I guess.  I like Clay Aiken.  Can’t believe he had a kid.

mom:  a kid????   he got married?

me: not exactly.  he artificially inseminated his 40 yr old roommate and then he came out of the closet.

mom:  WHAT?!?!  since when?

clay-aiken-people-coverme:  like, a year ago?

dad:  [randomly changing the subject]  you know, if you need get those pictures off my camera I’ve got a SUB cord and you can hook it up.

me:  SUB?  what?  It’s not a car we’re talking about here.  you mean a USB cord?

dad:  Oh gosh, I’m sorry.  I  don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.  Sometimes I transpose my numbers.

me: …… sigh… you mean letters?   [going to grab some paper so I can write all of this down]

[Nathaniel, the annoying emo kid sings…]

mom:  he looks like he has a booger in his nose.

me:  it’s a nose ring.

mom:  so tell me more about this Clay Atkins?

me:  it’s AIKEN.

mom:  so does he have a boyfriend then?

dad:  well that’s usually how it goes.

[then Jose, the Puerto Rican sings his song and gets emotional afterwards]

dad:  [all annoyed]  well you know he’ll make it now

me:  cus he cried?

American Idoldad:  of course.  but you know who I liked was that little brunette.  She was the best one with the best voice that messed up the worst.

[meanwhile, Lil Rounds sings her R&B song….]

mom:  well that was just terrible.  She’d of been better off singing Mary Had A Little Lamb than that crap.  it was like black on a chalkboard.

dad:  well that’s cus you just don’t get it.  That girl’s gotta lot of class.

me:  you said black on a chalkboard.

7 Reasons to Despise Neil Diamond

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Why 7?  Because it’s God’s number.

1.  The biggest, bushiest, salt -and -peppery sideburns of all time.  That goes without saying.

2.  Songs like Cracklin’ Rosie,  Really?  What does that even mean.  Cracklin oat-bran?  Cracklin fire? … or perhaps you meant to say cracklin whip?   Cus you’re a pervert?

3.  He’s a pervert.  Not only did he sign with Bang Records, but he made a song that contains the words, “girl, you’ll be a woman soon… and soon i’ll be your man.” Well gee Neil, lets try and  wait for the poor girl to stop running from the boys because they have “cooties” before attempting anything that could get you 3-5.

4. Gravely voice. beaty eyes.   That was a two-for-one special.

5.  He breeds abnormal fans.

6. Clearly, he has an anger management problem – possibly suffers from permanent insanity or syphilis.  Or both.

7.  He is a constant embarrassment to society, and a mockery is to be made of him. Only then, might he stop.

“I’m a Believer” in that!

Kenny Chronicles: A Conversation at Starbucks

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Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I meet at a bookstore or Starbucks on a quasi-regular basis to discuss our issues. I think we feel that the bookstore-ish surroundings make us more intellectual than we actually are, which in turn helps us more quickly penetrate to the heart of our problems.  Of course, this isn’t really successful because everyone acknowledges that merely sitting in a bookstore does not make you more intellectual

I arrive to find Kenny sitting out on the patio, sipping on an overly-priced mountain of coffee flavored whipped cream and looking rather introspective.  As I park my car, I instantly notice a drastic change upon my friend’s all too familiar face.  I don’t like change.  Before I sit down, I go inside and purchase the ridiculously too-big cookie of the day, which is always some random shape that makes no sense.  That day it was a lemon wedge. And the following conversation begins:

Me:  Seriously? You got your hair cut.

Kenny:   I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Me: But Richie’s wedding is next week.

Kenny: I know.  But it’s sooooo hot outside.

seinfeld-jerry-and-elaineMe: Sooo hot?  My hair is black and 3 feet long  and you don’t see me buzzing it off do you?

Kenny:  Relaaaax.  IT’S HAIR.  It’ll grow back.

Me: Not in ONE WEEK!   How many months have I been saying that we need to get some good pictures at this wedding?  And you keep it long this entiiiire time….And a week before the wedding you get too hot?

Kenny: I know we need some new pictures.  We’ll get some.

Me: No we won’t. because we cannot possibly have cute pictures with your hair hacked off like that.

Kenny: It doesn’t look that bad?

Me: Well it doesn’t look that good.  Ugh. This is unbelievable.


For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

How We Met

Photo credit: Starbucks

5 Reasons Not To Date An Only Child

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  What I’m really here to talk about is dating a middle child.  I’m not one, but I’m here to tell you that if you are it’s okay.  A middle child is not the one you need to worry about… it’s the only child thats the problem.  For the love of everything peaceful, do not date an only child. 

only-childTake it from me,  a quasi-only child.  Considering that I’m not even a full only child, I’m messed up.   If you’re wondering how it came to be that I’m not a whole only child, well that is too bad because I’m not getting into that tonight kids.  So here are the 5 reasons why you shouldn’t date someone like me:

1.  We all want ginormous families.  You try spending countless summers selling lemonade by yourself and playing house with only a mommy or daddy and see how you feel.  Plus, all the stress of grandkids rides solely on our shoulders.

2. We don’t like to share things.  It’s not so much that we don’t want to share, but we just like the things that are ours, to stay ours.

3.  We are either obsessed with pets or can’t stand them.  There’s no happy medium for an only child.  Growing up, we either learned to console our loneliness by surrounding ourselves with fuzzy woodland creatures, or we were so self-absorbed with ourselves that the thought of taking care of a pet was entirely overwhelming.

4.  We have a tendency to be control freaks.  Most only children are the center of their parents’ universe, thus are the product of an overprotective and overbearing upbringing.   Which means when we grow up, we freak out and have to be in control of everything.  Everything.

5.  We have ridiculous, impossible to meet expectations.  And unfortunately, we don’t just put these expectations on ourselves, but everyone we meet.  This is because all the focus was on us and we have an inner need to over achieve.   So good luck with that.

Back When I Was A Gang Member

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culottesImagine if you will,  a young lady full of promise, who always got A’s on her report card.   The very thought of seeing disappointment on her parent’s faces prompted her to never disobey their rules.  She played quietly, said “thank you,” and helped her mother, (who had her dishwasher ripped out of the kitchen in order to create more cupboard space) every night with the dishes.   She attended a ridiculously strict Baptist school for fifteen years, where she was forced to wear culottes and brainwashed to believe that pants were evil.

<————- (if you can’t pronounce culottes [koo-lots], I don’t blame you, considering most of the world has no reason to ever say that word) 

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My Lemonade Stand Can Beat Up Your Lemonade Stand

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how-to-beat-lemonade-standMy entrepreneurial spirit and business savvy disposition began at an extremely young age.  Younger than most.

I remember waking up at 5 am., walking over to my neighbor’s  house, and telling him that he needed to get his butt in gear and come help me make the cranberry juice.  (neither of our moms ever had lemonade, so we had to improvise).

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Finding Myself, Losing My Sanity

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It’s a day for introspection, my friends…

Before, after, and during my college years, I was told by many a new agey individual and philosophy teacher that I needed to “discover who I was” or “find myself” or get in tune with “my inner person” or whatever.  The only thing about myself that I ever knew for sure was that I liked to write, I liked to make people laugh, and I didn’t want to rush off into marriage and five kids like the rest of my friends had.  I didn’t believe in all that inner self crap.  So although I was pretty confident that I knew who I was [after living with myself all those years] it sounded kind of entertaining… maybe, I’d find that I was cooler than I’d originally thought?

So as I set out on my self-discovering journey, I realized that trying to find myself was really just a whole lot of “hanging out“ and “gaining weight” and “drinking coffee while having delirious late night conversations” with random other people who also couldn’t find themselves.  This all resulted in alot of deleriousness, altering of career paths, meaningless friendships, and relationship choices that would damage me for the better part of my life, which I would inevitably spend undoing all the things I’d done while finding myself. london-at-night
Every person who is trying to find themselves thinks that they must live somewhere other than where they are currently living.  You cannot possibly find yourself in your hometown, you have to go far, far away.  I was no exception to this rule.  Even though I’d never been on a plane and I couldn’t even drive to my next door neighbor’s house without getting lost, somehow, some way, one of my meaningless friends talked me into getting out of one of my damaging relationships by moving to Europe… this took place over a late night cup of coffee, of course.

After going away, traveling the world, partially losing my mind, realizing that Italy was all I had hoped it would be, turning down a proposal on the Eiffel Tower, and then coming back with a newfound sense of whatever, I had quite a bit going for myself.  I had “discovered” a strapping young British lad who followed me back to states and was quite taken aback by my charming American accent [and the cheap cost of Midwestern living].  I quit college and started my own business.  To my dismay, I didn’t then realize that strapping British lads are also quite good at disguising the fact that they are millionaires, heroin addicts and manic depressives. Oh well.  I gave it the old college try.

Years later, after seven career changes and two business ventures, I finally became a writer.

So here I am, and after all these years of self-discovery I’ve come to realize the same thing I always knew: I’m a complicated, indecisive, independent girl who likes to write, and all of my experiences have led me back right to where I started.

That sure was a waste of time.  But it was fun. Sorta.

By all means, everyone, please go find yourselves.

Teenage Acne And An Italian Boyfriend

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Let me start by saying that I currently drive a plum-colored ’99 Saturn with duct tape on the hood.  The purpose of the duct tape is to cover an actual hole in my hood that was created when I veered into the shoulder and crashed into a road sign, which fell on my car and poked a hole straight through it. 

So heed my advice at your own discretion.

So back to this whole matter of me being in a beauty pageant.  Typing that very sentence makes my skin crawl, but you brought it up.  Let me first say, that I hate pageants and all the creepy girls and moms associated with them.  Okay.

Once upon a time, I was dating a charming young Italian gentleman, who I thought at the time was my long awaited knight in shining armor. Ok.  Let’s start over.  Once upon a time, before developing my completely pessimistic realistic views on the ways of the world and men, I happened to get the wool pulled over my eyes by an Italian crazypants in preppy clothing who sang in a band.

As most young women who pay their way through private college, I was broke beyond my wildest dreams.  The Italian came to the ridiculous conclusion that I should be in a pageant.  My immediate protest was stifled by the mention of  “but you can win alot of money.”    I have a habit of doing things spur of the moment, without much thought or consideration to what said thing will entail, so about a month before the pageant I said, “fine. what do I have to do?”

clear-4-inch-heels-beauty-pageantAfter having said yes, I recanted my admission; but I was further coerced that it would be no big deal to prepare for.  Lies…   So big even Satan was shocked.   In one month I had to:  find a pageant gown, 4 inch clear heels [what am I a stripper?], figure out a “talent” [except I can’t sing, dance, or do anything requiring hand-eye coordination], get a professional picture, learn how to walk in 4 inch clear heels [again. the coordination problem], learn the group dance routine [there’s a WHAT?],  get a swimsuit that I’d be comfortable wearing in front of thousands of people, freak out, and actually stop eating enough food for a small lacrosse team so that I could not embarrass myself while wearing the swimsuit.  

If my first problem is that I make impulsive decisions, my second problem is backing out of them.  I can’t do it.   So after one month of freaking out, chewing the Italian a new one, and eating nothing but apples – I competed in the pageant.

My talent?  A comedic monologue about my teenage acne.  Yes.  And you are correct if you are thinking that you’ve never seen anyone do a comedic monologue at a pageant before.  I don’t believe anyone ever has.  Probably because they can sing and dance like all the other pageant going freaks.  Did they love it?   Does Giraldo Rivera love his mustache?

Swimsuit competition?  You know I rocked that.