Plus Sides To Dating A Heroin Addict

Well, there’s always ice cream in the fridge.

And I don’t know if we’ve been introduced but that’s kind of a big deal.

That’s about it. Oh, did I say side(s)? Unintentional mislead, sorry.

So, with lightening speed we’re encroaching upon the worst time of the year: my birthday. For those who’ve been around awhile, you know that there are a few things in this life that’ll piss me off more than my birthday. Except this one is going to be extra special annoying since it’s my final birthday before turning THIRTY.

Can you even believe that crap?

And just as is the routine, I’m starting to have all these introspective and quasi-deep thoughts about life and where I’m at, or more importantly, not at. Oh, you couldn’t tell by the title that this was going to be one of those posts?

Good, cus it’s not. I wouldn’t do that to you on a Thursday.

But the next one will be. So get ready. I’ll also be giving out some props to select bloggers.

Like clockwork, every year, right around my birthday I lock myself out of my house. I never know when this phenomenon will happen, I am just at the mercy of the universe. But, there is always certain criteria, if you will:

1. It is hotter than a landscaper in Hates.

2. Humidity is at 600%

3. I am wearing either pjs or a swim suit.

4. I haven’t showered yet.

5. It always somehow involves working out/trying to get out of working out.

So, last week, at 11:00 am, the universe gave me my early birthday present. I was locked out, in pjs, looking disgusting, hundred degree weather, super humid, with no where to go except my cement patio which has full sun all day long.

Don’t ask how these things happen. Embrace the mystique.

My friend Jo, who is becoming a regular on Blunt Delivery yet is not at all okay with that, fortunately had the day off. The unfortunate twist is that she picked me up on her white horse posing as a Honda then hijacked me into “working out” via paddle boating. We get repeatedly disgusted at the rapid rate our metabolisms are malfunctioning and thus, we’re always searching for ways to exercise that aren’t really exercise.

Jo: Hey last year when we did this we saw a paddle boat of nuns, remember?

Me: Um. We gotta take these life jackets off so we can get a tan. Then this won’t be totally useless.

[after and hour of floating and talking]

Me: Where are we? Everything looks the same? Crap. I can’t feel my legs. I’m sweating everywhere. I need food.

Jo: When we get back, I know this mexican place where we won’t see anyone. I always go there looking like crap. And $2.49 margaritas.

[Two hours later after circling, fighting against extreme winds and what I’m convinced was a defective paddle boat, we got off torture island and effectively canceled our “work out.”]

And then double canceled it.

Then, as if the world’s most annoying day couldn’t get any longer, she decides to stop at the thrift store on the way home. Our eyes beheld many splendid treasures.

This is a choice no one should have to make. I’ll take them all!

Jo, thank you for rescuing me. I guess.

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

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.