American Idol Is A Homewrecker & I Guess I’m Part Indian Now

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.

 

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Blunt Bites: Somewhere Inbetween Victory And A White Flag

[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed posts. They are short snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]

I had known it for a while, like the way my mom had known I shouldn’t get in the car that night.

You always know; but the thought of confronting you or telling anyone or proving it to myself just paralyzed me. Why? Because then, I would have to let you go. Because you were right – I’m not the kind of girl who lets a guy to mistreat her, although I wanted it to happen in some twisted, cosmic, full-circle kind of way.

Our history. It was sordid and confusing and wonderful. Magnetic. Full of passion and betrayal and a thousand beautifully broken things that came alive only when we were together. And after all of those years, I could not accept that to be the final curtain. It was never supposed to end that way. It was never supposed to end at all.

Maybe it was like when you’re five years old and you dress up as the rich, long-haired princess because deep down you know that pretending is as close as you’ll ever get.

As it turned out, we were both fantastic pretenders; although one of us – far more convincing. In the end, I felt many things; the most surprising of which was relief. Because who really wants to be a princess anyway? I always hated the color pink.

And I have way better hair.

If only I could have possibly fathomed how easily I would get over you.

Wondering where I went? I have returned to blogging over at my whole foods blog Celery and the City, where we live so clean it’s like your insides took a bath.

Or Is She A Light Sleeper Too?

When I was young, I would lay barefoot in my dad’s old canoe, with my friend Christian, and daydream. I dreamt of snow days, tree forts, and perhaps a car to wander down my lonely dead end street so I could sell them cranberry juice or a stolen pumpkin from the neighbor’s garden. My mom always said lemonade was nothing but sugar and wasn’t good for my bladder like cranberry juice. My response was that I was just trying to make a buck (literally) and no one had ever heard of a cranberry juice stand.

A few years later, I got blonde highlights, a training bra, and started dreaming of my first kiss or how great it would feel to be able to drive myself to the mall. And snow days. During my early college years, I dreamt of moving to the city, sipping martinis in cute cocktail dresses, meeting an affluent man who wore skinny ties, and becoming a writer for some sort of BS magazine, like say, Cosmo or Allure. That was just a phase, thank God. At that point in my life, friends were ever-changing, as were boyfriends and the color of my bridesmaid dresses, yet I still had no dreams of my own white wedding.

By the grace of God, I turned down a proposal that would have surely ended in a nasty divorce, a black eye, and several restraining orders. Toward the end of college, while filling lumber orders at Home Depot, I would stare at my Italy calendar and dream of exploring this beautiful world of ours. So I did. The trip came with an added bonus: a charming, British boy who moved to my crappy town and bought me a house on a street lined with maple trees. I loved him incredibly.

sad-faceAt this point, I had experienced enough of life not to get my hopes up. However, one sunny fall day as I was driving through the neighborhood, I saw a father helping his son learn how to ride a bike. I remember watching them and thinking that for the first time in my life, I am not scared. I felt happy. I felt relieved that maybe I was finally ready for my “real life” to begin. When I opened the front door, I found my boyfriend unconscious from a heroin overdose. For the following three years, the only dream that existed in me was that I would awake to find him, still breathing.

In my mid-twenties, I assembled the disjointed pieces of myself and started figuring out who I was. Tried many things, failed. I discovered new passions, such as photography. I developed old passions, such as writing. I dreamt of independence. I dreamt of making my living as a writer. I dreamt of finding a man who truly got me, if he even existed. Someone I could laugh with. I didn’t care about his wealth, or status, or how well he could coordinate his own outfits.

As I am now dangerously approaching a middle-age milestone, I look back and realize my dreams have always been rather simple. Many people dream of curing cancer, being famously known, or owning a penthouse suite in Times Square. The dream of a fairy tale wedding never even existed for me, and the dream of watching my son learn how to ride his bike on the sidewalk has long since been shelved to collect dust, along with several others.

I haven’t expected much out of life, or the people I encounter in it – just common decency. I’ve made terrible mistakes, but I’ve learned. I’ve learned how to distinguish friends that actually give a damn; you really are the company you keep. I’ve learned that you might fall for someone’s personality, but unfortunately, must live with their character. I’ve learned that there is no better feeling than a clear conscience; nothing worse than a guilty one. I’ve learned that in every situation, you have a choice. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s okay, even necessary, to be alone. I’ve learned that I’d still rather be hurt, than hurt someone else. I’ve learned that coping mechanisms are cowardice; and only for those not willing to surrender to the pain, which ultimately enables you to better yourself. I’ve learned that grace and dignity during difficult situations are the difference between a girl and a woman, a boy and a man. I’ve learned the high road, although much less traveled, takes you much farther. I’ve learned that you should always call someone’s bluff. I’ve learned that words, although the source of my survival, are also the bane of my existence, because they mean nothing.

feet-in-grass2Yesterday, it was sunset. As I was driving through a tree-lined neighborhood, I looked at all the families. I gawked at the couples, with their hands in each other’s back pockets. Perhaps they were truly happy; perhaps they lived in Ignorant Blisswhere I have been until recently.

And it seemed, in that moment, everything had come full circle. The only thing I really wanted to do was lay barefoot in the grass, rest my puffy eyes, and daydream with someone. Someone I could laugh with. Someone who truly got me.

“Our happiness, such as in its degree it has been, lives in memory. We have not the voice itself; we have only its echo. We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once. After all, a man’s real possession is his memory. In nothing else he is rich, in nothing else he is poor.” -Alexander Smith