Fun Fair = A Loose Interpretation Of Both Fun And Fair

Posted on July 14, 2011 by Blunt Delivery

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.

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

Posted on August 28, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

My life began in a unicorn-filled meadow, where I was fed cinnamon rolls for dinner and had sweet dreams of hot pink, glitter-filled balloons. The only thing I remember getting in trouble for was not finishing a satisfying amount of cinnamon rolls by my mother’s standard-a burden which nearly broke me. But it was my unlikely cross to bear. Each night, I painted the neighborhood red on my Strawberry Shortcake banana-seated bicycle, of which the training wheels never quite made it off. I blame what I can only describe as a non-existence of driving skills and an inability to adhere to traffic laws, on my father’s failure to remove said wheels. And the fact that I was born in a trailer park, cus why not?

Up until the day I started college, and perhaps a small significant amount of time afterward, I’d of given up my weaved plastic bike basket to a homeless alcoholic, in a split second, had he asked nicely enough. Back in the innocence of my youth, my Can-I-Trust-You-Gauge consisted of the following checklist:

1. Are you alive? If yes, please skip to question 2.

2. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange-striped jumpsuit and shackles?

If no, I can now entrust you with the deepest secrets of my existence.

I like to refer to this fool-proof analyzation process as: my first big mistake. During the time span between frolicking with unicorns and an undisclosed year occurring somewhere in the range of 2003-2007, I continued to acquire a significant amount of unwanted lovechildren in the form of prematurely trusted “friends.”

Trusting people has now become an activity that I rarely participate in, and based on my life experiences, my checklist has undergone some minor adjustments since my days in the meadow:

1. Are you alive?

2. Are you on more than three major prescription meds that should not be taken in conjunction with one another?

3. Have you or do you ever plan on dating me and then consequentially holding a minimum of two years of my life hostage, while you discover that you, in fact, will never sort out your secret drug addiction or self-destructive tendencies?

4. If presented with the opportunity, would you steal something very valuable from me, like, let’s say, my copy of He’s Just Not That Into You or perhaps a custom designed engagement ring?

5. After I devote several years to our friendship and max out my credit card on wedding showers, baby showers, post-breakup-don’t-kill-yourself-presents, and housewarming gifts will you terminate our friendship for no apparent reason?

6. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange -striped jumpsuit and shackles?

And now I’ll present you with another charmed memory from my dusty archives. This letter was illegally passed to me in class circa 9th grade. It was the first note I had received at the new school I started Freshman year. I had never met this guy, but for some reason the phrase: “you can tell me, cus I won’t tell no one” was all I needed as a vow of solidarity between me and a complete stranger.

love-letter

Brittany,

Hey girl! Sup? Not a lot here. You probably have no idea to who I am. Well my names Mark. I was wondering if you liked anyone and who it was. You can tell me cuz I won’t tell no one.

Love, Mark W/B

Big. Big. Mistake.

That Time I Got Scammed Into Raising Sheep

Posted on July 9, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

Okay, the sheep.

As I’ve said before, I grew up in the country. I was a poor, lonely, desperate housewife child living in the middle of nothing. At some point, I presented my father with a couple of options. And being the great father he was, he never shot down any ideas. Directly, that is.

Me: Sooooooo, I was thinking.

Dad: Yes?

horses Me: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?

Dad: Why would that make sense?

Me: So then I could go places.

Dad: Do you have any idea what it requires to take care of a horse?

Me: Yes. And I can say that with absolute certainty, after watching the neighbors.

Dad: But you don’t even take care of the cats – I end up doing it.

Me: I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Mom does it most the time.

Dad: Well, horses are rather expensive, how about we get something a little cheaper and easier to practice on first?

Me: And then I can get a horse?

Dad: Of course.

Me: Okay. What did you have in mind?

For the next 2.5 years, I woke up at 5 am and transported 10 buckets of water and oats out to my pathetic herd of sheep that seemingly multiplied by the day. We started with two. Again, after school I’d have to rush home to repeat the feeding ritual. Then before bed, again. Three meals a day? What are these things, PEOPLE? Actually, no, they are just fat freaking lazy animals that you can’t ride, which have no self control and eat all their food in two minutes, thus it needs constant replenishing. Of course, in the wintertime, this ritual involved a snowsuit and a lot of tears. No one hates cold weather more than me. Every time I went to the barn, all the water buckets were frozen. As I sat on the dirt floor and chipped away at the ice so I could refill the buckets, I would pray for God to remove this burden from me. As I was praying, I felt my desire for a horse evaporate into thin air.

Eventually, my dad sold the sheep to some guy who turned them into a fine dining experience. All eleven of them. Last week, as we were reminiscing about this experience, I made a very disturbing discovery.

Me: Hey, remember when I wanted a horse, but you bought me SHEEP?%$#^!

Dad: [laughs] Oh man. That was funny. Well, you know I did the same thing with your brother.

Me: You did?

Dad: Yea, he wanted a horse too so I made him take care of the neighbor’s one for a winter. After that I said, “So do you want the horse or the motorcycle?” He took the motorcycle.

Me: Wait. What? Motorcycle. He got a motorcycle?! That is total crap. I didn’t get ANYTHING.

Dad: You never asked.

OTHER POSTS YOU’LL LURVE:

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

That’s My Daughter? She Sure Is Stone Ugly

Posted on June 25, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

That would be an exact quote from my loving, very proud, first-time father the moment I was born into this world. I thought for years this was due to the fact that he had never seen a newborn in all it’s alien likeness before; however, my mom set the record straight when she told me I was indeed, super ugly.

I share this heart-warming tale about my birth with you because today would be the anniversary of that very day. But I hate birthdays. And they despise me. They never call. They never write. All they do is sneak around and steal another year of my life away, while gently whispering in my ear all that I’ve failed to accomplish. As if I haven’t been robbed enough times in my life.

kids-birthday-party Speaking of robberies, you do know that from 2006-2007 I was robbed six times, right? Your ears did not deceive you. Six.

I say all this, to say, that I got locked outside in the blazing sun yesterday, during a heat advisory with 100 + degree weather. Oh, and I was half nekkid. You don’t see the correlation? I’m getting there.

So I have the kind of mother who begged me to put on a baseball cap and “look as ugly as possible” when I was driving home after dark. I have the kind of dad who got a boy expelled after spitting in my face in the second grade. So my parents were a bit over-protective. After I got the hole in my head, everything took a turn for the worse. But then after the drug dealer robbery and the stalking that followed… ENTER: all-time world record for protectiveness. Just hold your horses, cus I’m about to blow your mind as I weave all these storylines together in a way that only a masterful literary genius, such as myself, possibly could.

So what does this have to do with me almost dying of heat exhaustion and /or embarrassment yesterday? Well, it was sunny out. I opened my sliding door and stepped out onto my porch, where I sat for about an hour, trying to become a bronze goddess and think of excuses why I can’t go jogging with my friend. I vowed to go with her everyday, except I didn’t go once last week, and instead ate all of the ice cream I got at the Edys 5/$10 sale. We went a day ago, and there wasn’t ONE solitary car at the bike path. I said, “Dana, does this tell you that maybe we shouldn’t run during a heat advisory? She said, “We’ll burn more calories this way.”

So after an hour, I suddenly realize: “Holy crapballs, I’m about to die.” The heat index was 115 + humidity yesterday. I stand up, drenched in sweat, and as I reach for the handle on my sliding door, I feel friction. Huh. That’s odd. Usually it SLIDES right open. It’s a sliding door. I try again, and remember that it can only lock from the inside… OH, SNAP I’m having an optical illusion… I AM dying!

No, no. One of the wooden bars that my father had installed on every door and window as “extra security” to keep potential robbers out had somehow fallen down from being propped up, landed exactly in the correct groove, and locked me out. I know you’re thinking I have a spare key around there somewhere, ha? Oddly, after six robberies, you don’t hide spare keys under easily-accessible mats or fake rocks anymore. I know you’re thinking I had a garage door opener in my car, right? Well, since I finally cleaned it out after 2 years, it was actually parked inside.

So I spent the next 2 hours, nearly passing out from heat [there’s no shade on my porch] and confined to a scolding hot cement slab. Why? 1. I was wearing swimsuit bottoms and quasi see-through tank top. 2. I had no shoes on. As I stood there half dead, with my bottle of tanning oil, and empty water cup, all I could think was: “Thank God, now I have an excuse not to go jogging.”

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

Posted on June 22, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

My father, a self-proclaimed hippie and alcoholic until the day hemet my gorgeous mother, wore a brown leisure suit and platform shoes to his wedding. I forgive him for this offense, only because my mother wore a black, sparkly pantsuit.

I’m amazed my father had any sense at all when it came to raising a child. When he was 7, his mother woke him up in the middle of the night and they left town to escape his alcoholic father. His mother worked nights as a surgical nurse and they moved every two years. He grew up without a male influence, aside from his cousin who introduced him to drugs at age 11.

I was born in a trailer park. Does that mean I get to cry a river and say that I’ve had it a little worse than the rest of you? No? But do I get to blame at least a few of my issues on that fact? When my parents were married, my dad was making $6/hr, yet they managed to save 50% of his income a month, while my mom stayed at home with the kids. This is could be where my Suze Ormond frugalness stems from, the kind which allows me to be perfectly satisfied driving a ’99 Saturn with a hole in the hood, that floods every time it rains. Especially last night.

Eventually, my dad started his own business and they saved enough money to purchase a charming, completely run-down and nearly un-livable home in the country. For years, my dad awoke at 5am, and after working all day would come home to do paperwork for the business and spend every spare moment learning how to remodel that house. That’s right, learning – from actual books. Incomprehensible, I know. But as busy as he was, trying to make a life for us, he always had time for any absurd request I might have.

Dad,

Thanks for sitting in my room every single night, while I rehashed my entire school day, complete with tearful confessions of snobby girls, mean boys, and despicable rumors. And thanks for continuing to sit in my room every night, even when those confessions turned into eye-rolling and the words: “I’m fine. Goodnight.” Thanks for never missing dinner and showing up to every event in my life even though I was excrutiatingly embarrassed of your presence. Thanks for staying up til 3am to help me grasp Chemistry, which by the way, was a battle we should have surrendered long ago. Thank you for not using your past as an excuse, but as motivation to be better.

Thanks for teaching me that even though people may take advantage of your kindness, you should give it anyway. Thanks for building me that sweet swing set, which was the envy of all my friends and equipped with a sandbox litterbox for the cats. Thanks for working so hard so that I could have a mom waiting for me after school every day. Thanks for being so awesome that my friends wanted to come over just to hang out with you. Thanks for being an example of how a man should love his wife. Thanks for dropping everything to come put air in my tires, or some other mundane task that I always seem to screw up no matter how many times you’ve shown me. Thanks for helping me crawl out of every mess I’ve made. And there have been some big ones. I mean, big. But most of all, thanks for making me feel like I was the most amazing thing in the world even when I was terribly awkward and unfortunate looking. I’ve been spared from so much because of the self-esteem that came from your unconditional support and love. I’ve never felt like I needed anyone, or anything, to fulfill me. I’ve always thought I could do anything. But really, it would have saved us both alot of stress if I hadn’t actually tried to.

I almost feel like it’s been an unfair advantage, having you around. But truth be told, you do look like a pencil with a frizzy top.

fathers-day1

Here’s The Thing About Men

Posted on May 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

So I had a crush. A big one. I remember, it was third grade… and it was bad.

To keep things easy and confidential we’ll call him Norm. Not to imply, by any means, that this young lad was normal… because he was not. This is also not to imply that he was anything special… because he was not. Norm was just, Norm. And I liked him.

One crisp, autumn afternoon, during a cut throat game of tag, Norm snuck up behind me and pulled my hair. Actually, Norm is a horrible name. Let’s call him Johnny. So Johnny pulled my hair. Of course, my auto-retaliation response to such an attack was to thrust him face-first into a spinning merry-go-round. Years later, I would realize that in third grade, when a boy throws a grasshopper at you or pulls your hair, they are not a threat to your very safety. They might just want to take you on a date to the sandbox.

My apologies, Norm.

Needless to say, this incident was a dual-sided foreshadowing. It was a glimpse, if you will, of the plethora of not-so-normal chaps that I would find myself becoming unexplainably attracted to in the future. Also, it would be the first in a very lengthy succession of realizations of this kind. When I say “of this kind” I mean, precisely, those of the opposite sex.

Me: Johnny hates me, I can just tell. UGH, I like him so muuuuuuuuuuch.

Friend: Why do you think he hates you?

Me: He pulled my hair and threw dirt at me.

Friend: So, he pulled your hair AND threw dirt? Well, he likes you then.

Me: Huh? What kind of shoddy way of flirting is that?

Friend: I know for a fact that he does, cus he told Sammy he liked you. So now you have to tell him you like him. Or better yet, write him a note.

Me: Mmm. I don’t know. Sounds kind of risky. I mean, I still think you’re waaaay off on this whole flirting thing.

Friend: Trust me.

Me: Well, what if I go to tell him and then I chicken out? Or my lips go numb? Or I lose the ability to speak? Or I suddenly have a seizure? Or if I write the note, what if I go to hand it to him and the teacher intercepts it? Or what if he gets it and doesn’t like me? Or what if he shows it to all the other boys and I become the laughing stock of the world? Or what if …

And right there, a lifetime of over-analyzation began.

I guess I’ve been as confused by men over the years as they have been by me. And let me tell you, I’m pretty confusing. I make absolutely zero sense. I might go as far as to say that I make negative sense. If you’ve read this blog for more than one day, you need no further explanation on that point. The problem with women is not finding what we want, the issue is knowing what we want in the first place. And as soon as we think we know… DING, DING, DING…try again you poor ignorant soul!

Breast Pumping Your Way To A Free Mocha

Posted on April 29, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

There’s something magical that happens the very instant you become a mom. I’m not sure of the details because I have not yet crossed that shaky domestic bridge, but from what I can gather: you become the cheapest person alive.

My very best friend is a new mom. I get in her car and immediately she throws the largest coupon organizer of ALL TIME onto my lap. The coupons were alphabetically organized. “This is going to get us through the day,” she said with a grin. First, we roll up to McDonald’s because she has a buy one extra value meal, get one free sandwich coupon. I thought, “ok, thats fine, free sandwich.” For the next 10 (and I am NOT exaggerating) mins, I was but an innocent bystander to the following drive thru conversation:

friend: Yes, can I get the grilled chicken value meal?

lady: Sure. Drink?

friend: I’d just like water and actually I don’t want any fries with that cus I’m trying to lose weight. And then I’d like another grilled chicken sandwich, lettuce only.

lady: Okaaaaay. $9.42.

friend: And no mayonnaise on both. (we pull ahead to the window and she hands over the coupon) Okay, I have a coupon, so I should get the second sandwich free.

lady: OKAY. SO your new total is $6.12

friend: UM. Hmm.. Now, shouldn’t the total be less than that? Because the sandwich is free and I only ordered an extra value meal -but I didn’t even get fries and I only got water.

lady: Well, why don’t you just order two sandwiches then?

friend: Because the coupon says I have to order an extra value meal in order to get the other sandwich free.

lady: OKAY. SO you want the extra value meal, with just the sandwich and the water?

friend: Yes.

lady: Well, the bottled water is actually more expensive than the other drinks, so it’s still going to be that amount.

friend: Ok, then no water.

lady: OKAY. SO you just want the extra value meal – with no fries and no drink?

friend: Yes, that is correct.

(at this point, the lady is rendered speechless and has to get the manager)

(this is also the point when I call my dad and have a five minute conversation, while trying not to leap out the car window and thrust myself into moving traffic.)

drive-thru Finally, they tell her just to pay three dollars and they hand over the sandwiches. As we’re leaving, she tells me that later we’ll have to go back cus the Mochas are buy one get one free from 2:00-5. Then we go to Baby’s R Us. She rolls up to the checkout with a cart full of stuff and hands the elderly cashier AN ENTIRE STACK of coupons. Then, she says:

friend: But here’s the thing, they are all expired.

cashier: Um, so you want to use a stack of expired coupons for your purchases?

friend: Yes. George said it was okay because I live out of town and only come around once a week.

cashier: George doesn’t work here anymore. Let me get the manager. (at this point, I start to get uncomfortable)

friend: Oh, and I’m supposed to get a free box of diapers because I bought three Pamper products.

(Knowing what is about to come, I just walk away. I stand by the door for a good 15 mins before going to the car, where I waited for another 10 minutes.)

As soon as she gets in the car, I tell her that she took so long that we might miss the 2-5 time frame in which to get the free mocha at McDonald’s. I start driving, when I notice some rustling in the passenger seat. Before I know it, she has plugged in her breast pump and was holding two empty bottles. I just looked over and she says, “Don’t you worry, I got this under control.” We ended the day by going to JCPenney, where the clearance items were also buy one get one free. Then there was yet another confrontation with an elderly cashier when my friend asked if she could do two separate purchases in order to get more things free. The lady said that wasn’t really fair to JCPenney, to which my friend replied that she has to do what’s fair for her wallet.

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

Posted on April 23, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

It’s no wonder I don’t make any sense. I’m a combination of two polar opposites, who by all rights, should never have met much less married. My mother came from a Nazi-strict household where she wasn’t allowed to see movies or go to football games, for fear she would encounter Satan himself. She also wasn’t allowed to celebrate Christmas which explains why we have presents piled from the floor to the ceiling every Dec. 24 and a Christmas tree in every room of the house – including bathrooms. Except the bathrooms are small and the only space is above the toilet… and that can get prickly.

My father, on the other hand, had no parental guidance, unless you’re including alcoholics. He took off when he was 18, with nothing but $60 bucks and a dream in his pocket. That dream, consisted entirely, of doing nothing.

For years, my hippie father hitchhiked across the country, attending approximately 4 different colleges and surviving on randomness and sheer luck. For awhile he slept on a beach in Destin (no, no- not in a house, on the actual beach), working part time on a fishing boat – until he discovered he was very prone to seasickness. Then he camped out in the Rocky mountains, where he was told it was perfectly fine to drink “the fresh spring water.” But that person had been grossly mistaken. So he headed out West.

Me: So, where did you stay when you were traveling?

Dad: With whomever took us in. One time I stayed at the Cadillac Motel for a buck twenty-five.

Me: Cadillac Motel? Was it decorated with car memorabilia or something?

Dad: Not exactly. It was an open field with a bunch of old Cadillacs up on cinder blocks. With a mattress inside.

Eventually, he made his way out to San Francisco where his older brother awaited. They thought it was a great idea to start a moving business called “We Merry Movers,” for which they had no insurance.

Dad: One time, we had this expensive leather couch and we were taking it down the stairs and it caught on something and sliced open the entire back.

Me: So, what happened?

Dad: We set that side against the wall and started a different business.

Then for a while, my dad went to school at Illinois State University, where he lived in a farmhouse with five other guys, out in the middle of a cornfield.

Me: So that house must have been crazy.

Dad: All we did was drink until there wasn’t anything else to drink. One of the guys worked at a liquor store and stole booze so he could resell it and pay the rent. It was like a black hole. We were in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t even save enough gas money to drive to the next town.

Me: That house must have been filthy.

Dad: Yea, we cleaned our floor about once a year…. in beer.

Finally, my dad would make his way back home, where he played in a band and started to get his life together. One snowy night, my mother, a shy and gorgeous woman, happened to be dragged out to a party where they were playing.

Me: So, how on earth did you meet someone like mom?

Dad: We were at this party. I was walking by the front door, when it opened and your mother tripped on a pile of snow and fell through. I went to help her up and all I could think was, “This woman is hot. I don’t know anything about her…but I’ll figure out a way to love her.”

Me: So …?

Dad: So as she was leaving, I ran out and wrote my number in the sleet on her windshield. That probably wasn’t the best idea, considering her defrost was on. A year later we got married on my birthday. You know, that way I would always remember the date.

Needless to say, by my mother’s mesmerizing powers of persuasion and the grace of God, my father changed his ways. And I couldn’t have custom built a better set of parents. I adore them.

…But that doesn’t mean I still can’t blame all my issues on you.

Love ya!

p.s sorry about stealing those pictures and broadcasting them on the internet. you guys still don’t even know what a blog is right? so we still cool, right?

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

Posted on April 20, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

What exactly is it with the Recycle Bin on my desktop? And why is it that every time I go to empty it, I accidentally delete it? And why is it that when I go to search for it in my computer, it says ‘no results found?’ And why is my computer trying so hard to protect the location of my recycle bin? Makes me think there’s something shady going on behind my back. ..All of this recycle bin talk makes me think of daddy issues. I’m not exactly sure how my brain draws correlations like this, but lucky for you it does… or this entire blog would be about the quest to locate my recycle bin. And even I couldn’t be mildly entertained by that.

I think it’s a fair assumption to say that all signs point to the fact I was probably supposed to be a boy. In fact, I don’t know how I ever ended up wearing makeup or having a non-butch haircut, but miracles do happen. It all started when my parents moved to the middle of nowhere and the only kid my age was a boy named Christian. For more on that experience, go here. So I grew up doing boyish things, which I think had alot to do with the fact that my dad tried to make me into a boy by subtly sabotaging my girlishness and preying upon my weaknesses.

Dad: Hey, wanna help me stack hay in the barn…. it’ll be real fun?

Me: Um. Not really…(Just about anything with my dad is fun when I was 7… but even then I knew that would totally blow chunks)

Dad: Afterward we’ll go get pizza and ice cream.

Me: Hand over the pitchfork.

[The next day…]

playing-school Dad: Hey, can you give mom and I a hand in transporting all these stones to the flower garden?

Me: Well…actually, I had big plans to ride my bike in about five minutes.

Dad: You can get some office supplies next time we go to the store.

Me: Hmm…that’s tempting, but I don’t know…

Dad: AND I’ll play school with you later. You can quiz me with spelling words on the chalkboard.

Me: Sigh. You know that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Where’s the gloves?

Some might say this was a mild form of child abuse. But I knew deep down I was just yet another girl with daddy issues, living the life of a victim. As I got older, I branched out into friendships with women, which I quickly realized were not nearly as carefree and easy going as my friendship had been with dear, sweet, uncomplicated Christian. It didn’t take me long to realize that “daddy issues” may possibly mean a whole lot more than being coerced into helping tear down a wall, or tiling a bathroom floor (my parents did a lot of remodeling okay?) This trying time in my life led to the statistic that 80% of my friends are now male.

With further analization I actually discovered that I didn’t have daddy issues in the same sense that most girls did. My dad wasn’t in the slammer, he was eating dinner with us every night. He didn’t lock himself in the den with a scowl on his face and refuse to play ‘childish games.’ He didn’t cut me down or give me a body image complex, in fact he was pretty fabulous. One day, it finally occurred to me. I was suffering from the absence of daddy issues.

But honestly, I don’t think there is enough attention given to the absence of daddy issues… It can cause some pretty big problems when it comes to dating:

Me: What are you talking about?!? So what you’re saying is, you don’t know how to replace my transmission with your eyes closed?

….You can’t build a doghouse out of an orange peel?

….Are you telling me that you have never built a gazebo from a scratch using only a pocketknife?

….You mean, you can’t explain to me for the fifteenth time how the electoral college works? This just isn’t going to work.

And so my life would continue, forever in shocking disappointment. All thanks to my dad.

brit-is-a-boy

Your Daily Dose Of Paranoia

Posted on April 14, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

This is a snapshot of my life on any given day. …Piles of unopened mail. …30 different notepads with in-decipherable scribbles of random thoughts that I’ve written down when I was supposed to be hanging out with someone. After Easter, the Cadbury chocolate bar could be easily substituted for Reeses or anything but Milk Duds. …Vitamins I’ll stare at all day with every good intention, but won’t ever get up to refill my water so I can actually take them.

So the other night, my stomach started hurting really, REALLY bad. I was perplexed. I stared over at the pile of randomness on my desk, searching for clues, when it hit me. I just polished off an entire bowl of pistachios. Wait… wasn’t there a national recall on pistachios last week because they were infected with Salmonella? Crap.

It’s not my fault. My mom calls me every night and runs down a new list of things I should be paranoid of. Example of our weekly conversations:

MONDAY NIGHT

Mom: Don’t go to Target.

Me: Like, ever?

Mom: Well, some girl got her purse stolen last night. I guess there are these guys that hang around the parking lot and they ask if they can borrow your phone or something then they rob you.

Me: You think I would fall for that? Do you forget that I lived in London all by myself?

Mom: I’m just saying. It’s not safe these days for a girl to go out on her own after dark. I’d just prefer if you were with someone. Will you just tell me you’ll always be with someone?

Me: Of course. My friends are always available when I need to pick up Q-tips and some cereal on a Friday night.

Mom: Mmm, cereal. That sounds good. I think I’m gonna have a bowl.

TUESDAY NIGHT

Mom: Hey what are you doing?

Me: I’m running errands.

Mom: You aren’t at Walmart are you? If you are, leave.

Me: Wait, what?

Mom: Did you hear about what’s happening at WALMART?!?

Me: Sigh. No… but I’m not too worried cus you’re probably gonna tell me.

Mom: Well, there’s gonna be some gang initiation and they are supposed to shoot three girls. So I wouldn’t go there for at least a couple weeks. Oh, and avoid pistachios cus they’re all infected with Salmonella. Oh, did you see American Idol tonight? That Adam Lambert is my favorite, do you think he’s gay?

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

Mom: What are you doing?

Me: Writing.

Mom: I figured. ….Well, you know, you just couldn’t pay me to fly anywhere these days. Did you see that 20/20 where the spies got onto the planes with knives and tear gas?

Me: But mom, you haven’t flown since 1969 cus you’re terrified of it. It has nothing to do with Terrorism, you’re just trying to get the point across that I shouldn’t fly.

Mom: NO I’M NOT. But I wouldn’t advise it. So whatcha writing about?

So somewhere in the shuffle of more pressing concerns, the pistachio crisis was forgotten. That combined with the fact that they are just so so delicious.

I didn’t stand a chance.

Blunt Delivery: where honesty flows like boxed wine

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