Tag Archives: confessions

Blunt Bites: It Always Comes Down To That One Day

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

Riding the Underground to I don’t know where, I was writing in my journal and thinking of how well I fit into the rainy landscape of London. I’ve always been a rainy day person. I suppose it’s the writer in me – or just the manic depressive shining through, something like that.

I was thinking about you and how much I didn’t love you, but couldn’t tell you that. I’m sure I jotted down a brilliant free verse poem about it but thank God those journals would be stolen in three months. A lot of things I didn’t want to hang on to in there, but I never would have thrown them away. Otherwise, what would people have to sift through when I died? Unread books, gifts not given, unfinished projects, notes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but were going to somehow morph themselves into a bestselling memoir down the road?

Well, I guess that’s all they’ll have now. A stack of random notes and unfinished things. My life is perpetually unfinished.

I’ll always remember the day I started loving you. The night you took me to Chicago and brought a blanket and contact case in the car so I could sleep on the way home since I had to work in the morning. You were very thoughtful. You paid attention. You were, in fact, everything I had never found in someone.

You often asked me when it was that I fell out of love with you. I never understood that question because it seemed like some sort of self-inflicted torture; but then again, don’t we all torture ourselves? I always told you that we either love someone or we don’t and it’s a compilation of many things. It’s a process – a slow dulling of feelings and building up of resentment over time.

Or maybe that’s just what I was brainwashed to believe by old married couples. Because now that I think back on it, there definitely was a day. And I have an answer for you now. But do you really want to know? Nah, I figured. ‘Cus in the end, it doesn’t matter. Not now and not then.

But, just so you know, there was a day. An exact moment in time when I looked at you and you weren’t the person who drove me to Chicago that night. You weren’t even close.

Everything in life always comes down to that one day.

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

Your Daily Dose Of Embarrassment And A Free Photo

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[I apologize for all who tried to comment on the guest blog by Jen on Monday. Apparently, there were some issues with Explorer not allowing comments. Thank you for your emails and all the great advice! I really appreciate you guys. But more importantly, why are you still using Explorer?]

Yesterday, the moon was in the second house. The sun was shining. It was quasi-warm in the Midwest for the first time since Christmas. The alignment of all these rare events led to a brilliant idea on my part. And by brilliant, I mean an idea that led to devastating embarrassment.

I decided, for the first time in five years, to clean out my beautiful baby Saturn. I have oft neglected such duties on account that my baby is 12 years old, has a hole in the hood, leaks on me every time it rains and is probably about to breathe it’s last breath. And I figure that would just be quality time wasted on cleaning, when I could be Twittering or Facespacing, or thinking of more reasons to hate Neil Diamond.

Let me first set the scene for you. I had just gotten out of the shower and I let my hair air dry. Let me just tell you that you’ve never seen anything like an air-dried pile of half-curly, unruly Italian hair. That being said, I also had applied some white zit cream to my chin and left cheek due to an overly stressful week. I put on my “house glasses” and all of you who wear glasses know what I mean by that. You have the normal pair, which can be seen in public. Then, you have the “house” pair, which used to be a normal pair until someone sat on them or the prescription became outdated and now they are solely used for laying in bed and watching TV. Also, since it was warm, I was wearing my daisy duke plaid PJ shorts and a wife beater. And Ugg boots.

I went in the garage and started cleaning. The world was at peace and that’s where this story should end.

But it doesn’t, cus I’m full of bright ideas, remember?

I thought to myself, “It’s sunny out and everyone is at work. I’m just gonna back out of the garage for a bit so I can see things better, but I’ll still be inside the car so no one will see me.”

Well, I suppose that would have generally been the case. But NOT YESTERDAY. Around the corner, I see a man walking by out of the corner of my eye. I had the driver side door open, with one leg out, like some sort of car straddling white trash person.

I ignored him at first, because, I’m sort of the hermit of the neighborhood and no one talks to me.

Except, of course, new neighbors who move next door and want to introduce themselves.

Are you starting to connect the dots?

He walks straight over. Probably about thirty. Gorgeous, wearing a suit. As he approached, I instantly panicked. There is NO WAY I can escape this. He shouts, “I’m new here, trying to get around and meet all the neighbors.” I stared down at the floormats and kept cleaning. I said, “Oh, nice to meet you.”

For goodness sakes, isn’t that enough recognition for any ordinary person? This is America, after all.

Then, only because it’s my life, he kept walking closer. He stands right next to me and I quickly adjusted the shorts, considering the very compromising position I was in. At that moment, I was so preoccupied with not flashing him that I did not recollect the zit cream on my face until he blatantly glared at my chin. As he stuck out his hand, he said, “I’m Todd. I work for the local news. Nice to meet you.”

Oh, the news. Of coursssssssse you do.

I get a lot of emails asking if people can purchase photos from my blog. So….I introduce to you: Free Photo Fridays.

[Free Photo Fridays are a little break from my regular blog posts. I love photography. And I love sharing it with other people. So, on Fridays, I post a high resolution download of one of my favorite pictures for you to use. Hang it on your wall. Use it for your desktop. Frame it and give it to your mom. Do whatever you want. Also, if you have a picture you’d like to add, send it to me at info@bluntdelivery.com and I’ll feature it with a link back to your site. Share the love people.]

Since it is finally getting warm out, I will start with this picture of melting Midwestern ice. Click here to download. [3216 x 2136 px]



Problems? Why Yes, I Can Provide Those

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It’s really too bad,  you know? I had a decent shot at being normal.  My childhood had all the ingredients to cook up a perfectly functional adult woman.  I spent my days running a successful lemonade stand on our dead end street, eating Leave It To Beaver family dinners, and following my dad around in sweet overhauls.  Growing up, I never had self-confidence issues, or body-dysmorphic disorder, or the desire to be a promiscuous teen, or to cut myself,  or to run away, or to be a rebellious troublesome child.  But then, later on, I had to start interacting with things other than caterpillars and sheep [blog soon to follow]…and more unfortunately, men.

That being said, I did some cleaning today and think I’ve figured out what my problems are after analyzing a few sections of my house.  I encourage you to do the same, because you’ll never believe what your freezer could reveal about you.

A. The Freezer:

1. I’m a cheap bastard with no self control, who will throw away the last three [and only] weeks of working out at the first sight of a 5/$10 Edys ice cream sale.

2. I’m lazy. I’ve been eating Eggo waffles since 8th grade. I mean, how long does it take to pour milk onto cereal? Apparently time that I am not willing to give up.  This also further proves point #1 under section B – I don’t like change.  What if I get something different and it sucks? That is a fate I’m not ready to accept.  Also, you’ll notice that my ice has formed into an indestructible mountain because I couldn’t be bothered to use any since my Christmas party last year.

3. I’m stupid. I believe that getting the “herb roasted chicken” TV dinner will somehow balance out the fact that I just polished off 5,325 grams of sodium… and most likely that bag of buffalo fries.

4. I am “Type A.” I have a bag of industrial size pre-cooked mini Italian meatballs on the off chance I need to attend a work potluck and forgot to pick something up.  Except I haven’t had a real job since November.

B. The Closet:

v-neck-sweaters

1. I don’t like change, nor do I make any attempts to accept it. Now, please draw your attention to the circled column of sweaters in my closet for a brief illustration.  These are not only all V-neck sweaters, but they are all from Express.. and they are all the exact same style.

2.  The left column is entirely made up of turtlenecks, which tells me I’m not only constantly freezing – but come wintertime I turn into a bit of  a prude.

I’m not exactly sure where my commitment-phobia stems from or the fact that I keep my blinds permanently shut, but I have more cleaning to do so there’s still hope that I’ll discover the answers.

Happy searching.

 

 

I’d Rather Go Naked Than Wear Sunscreen

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I’m the only person in the world who used to like the Sunscreen Song back in my high school days.   You know what I’m talking about… the one where Baz Leuhrman reads profound advice from a ’99 valedictorian speech, accompanied by “Ooo’s” from the all boys choir in the background?  The song ends with “trust me on the sunscreen”… and it’s possible that truer words were never spoken.

Although I might have listened to that song repeatedly on my Walkman for upwards of six months, or until the batteries died and I discovered that the ones in the remote were also dead, it doesn’t appear that this sage advice has fully sunk in yet.  Or maybe I’m just a rebel. Or maybe I’m a really bad listener. Or maybe your mom should make me some enchilladas. Who knows.  But as soon as there’s the slightest inkling of sunshine, I’m slathered in the nearest oil and frying like a chicken.  I’m not quite as bad as my mother, who used to cover herself in Crisco and lay on sheets of tin foil, but I’ll venture to say that I’m definitely breaking a few rules.

Me: Hey, I have this mole on my leg.  It doesn’t look like anything serious, but my aunt and my grandma have both had skin cancer so I was wondering if you could check it out?

Dermatologist:  Yes, I can check that out.  Have you been covering yourself and staying out of the sun?  You look very tan.

Me:  [smiling sheepishly] Oh, well, thank you.

Dermatologist:  That wasn’t a compliment.  You won’t be laughing when I do one of those skin damage scans on your face.

Me:  Well, it’s impossible for me to stay out of the sun, but I do wear sunscreen.  My job requires me to spend quite a bit of time outdoors.

Dermatologist:  Well, it says here that you work at a bank.  Isn’t that mostly an indoor job?

Me:  OH, that needs to be updated.  I’m actually a Park Ranger now.  I work at the Forest Preserve.

Dermatologist:  Hmm, really? I can’t picture you doing something like that.

Me:  What’s that supposed to mean?  Do I seem high maintenance?

Dermatologist:  Well, you were just complaining a minute ago about how you hated exercise, and that’s an active job.

Me:  What do you have superhero memory powers? Fine.  I lied. I do that sometimes.  I’m a lifeguard.

Dermatologist:   Oh really, that’s cool.  Where at?

Me:  At this pool…

Dermatologist:  Is this another lie?

Me:  Anything’s possible.

Dermatologist:  Seriously though, this isn’t a joke.  You’ve got to listen to what I’m saying.  And you have to be honest with me about your health.

Me:  OKAY ALREADY!   Listen you pasty freak, I’m not a mother trucking lifeguard. I’m not a park ranger.  I don’t even know where the parks are. I’m a writer, and I don’t even go outside to get the mail.  But when the sun comes out, I emerge from my cave and stretch across my patio like a bronzed goddess, okay?  And you know what, I don’t wear sunscreen.  In fact, I’ve never even tried it.  Double in fact, I don’t ever want to.  Triple in fact, I actually wear oil that makes me burn worse than if I was just regularly burning.

Dermatologist:  You’ve never even tried it..  but I gave you a whole bottle for free?

Me: And my father sends his regards.

FOR MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM:

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Dear Rickety Old Lady,

Anatomy of a Creeptown

What Women Really Want