Tag Archives: freelance writing

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

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brit-boyWhat 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-schoolDad:  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

So You’re Telling Me You’re Not MARRIED?!

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Hold on to your clip on ties. I want you to pop a squat and take a moment to regret all the stupid decisions that you’ve made today.  And since you’re probably gonna break a sweat, I’m gonna cool you off with a tropical breeze of insightful knowledge.

My mom gave me a vacuum and a cactus as a housewarming present.  Half of this gift confused me.  The vacuum was a given, considering, along with mowing the grass, that is my mom’s second favorite pastime.  We don’t have sufficient time right now, or a licensed psychologist, to get into the mechanics of why exactly these are my mom’s favorite pastimes. But a cactus?

Mom: “You need to have some other living thing to keep you company.  And this is the only thing that’s impossible to kill.”

Fair enough.  But as of last night, I can say with all the conviction of an OJ Simpson trial, that my mother has been officially wrong about something in her life.  That cactus is a goner.  And as I was dumping it out into my garbage can, I thought, “What kind of person can’t keep a cactus alive?” The answer, unmistakably blaring in my eardrums like a bad ACDC cover band, was:  the kind of person that probably shouldn’t procreate.

Maybe I subconsciously killed it cus I hate all things Southwestery. I don’t know.  That being said, there’s not a solitary day that goes by when I don’t break out into a musical-esque song and dance like something out of the Sound of Music or a freecreditreport.com commercial, rejoicing over the fact that I’m not married yet, nor do I have any illegitimate children.  This is not merely due to my phobia surrounding all things associated with commitment, but also due to the fact that if I’d of married any of my previous boyfriends – I’d be taking a sightseeing trip to the Brooklyn Bridge very soon.  So I could effectively end my life by jumping into that ice-cold, watery abyss.

weddings1I find, however, that the rest of the world doesn’t participate in my joy.  Considering the bulk of my time is divided equally between:  being in weddings, attending baby showers, and trying not to eat the entire box of ice cream right before bed – I’m around alot of “committed people.”  Here’s a quick sound bite from last weekend’s baby shower:

Friend’s Granny:  My, I haven’t seen you in ages.  Let me see that hand.  Wait…. WHAT?!

Me:  Hey, good to see you too.  How’s the assisted living complex?

Friend’s Granny:  You’re NOT MARRIED?!

Me:  Nope.  Not yet.  Wow, you look exactly the same.  …So, what’s been going on with you?

Friend’s Granny:  Wait, I thought your boyfriend proposed to you in Paris?

Me:   Well, turns out he was bipolar, who knew.  And too Italian. And his breath was funky at random times.

Friend’s Granny:   Well, I thought I heard you were going steady with some boy you met in London, what happened to him?

Me:   Yea.  Yea, I was.  Heroin addict.   Oops. ….So, do you still play Bingo every Thursday?

Friend’s Granny:  But what ever happened to that first boy you were with?  He was so …

Me:  Um…  He was a “musician.”  So, you know, he needed to follow his music.

Friend’s Granny:  Well, are you at least dating someone?!?

Me:  Yes, he’s very nice.

Friend’s Granny: He’s nice? Well, then why haven’t you snatched him up yet? You better get him before someone else does!!

Me:   Um.  What? I’m not quite ready.

Friend’s Granny:   You’re running out of TIME!

Me:  Time? Like, as in my lifespan?   Didn’t you just turn 92?

Friend’s Granny:  Can you at least do me one small favor?

Me:  Sure. What’s that?

Friend’s Granny:  The next time I see you, can you at the very least have a baby?

Other articles you  might enjoy:

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

What Women Really Want

Paris Can Bite Me

Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend

 

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

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Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Can you make a different movie already?  Wait.  What was that?  OH, you can’t.  It’s physically impossible?  Okay.  So I can just expect the same movie with the same plot and same actress, where you discover you were some sort of “bet,” and then you get fake mad, and then storm out, only to read an article that the girl wrote in her column about you saying that she really was in love, so you chase her down via boat or scooter at the end of the movie, in a outdoorsy scene set to a cheesy made-only-for-a-girly-movie song?

Well that just hurts my heart,

Blunt.

As you can see so aptly demonstrated in this picture, I have set lofty expectations for myself in 2009.  Obama isn’t the only one ushering in “CHANGE,”  kids.

One thing I’ve left off the list is working out.  I always thought there was no need to work out unless I was borderline obese.  Well, after sitting at home and being subjected daytime talkshows for the past 4 months, I’ve realized there might be reasons other than just the threat of morbid obesity why I shouldn’t sit in my chair for 12 hours straight everyday, eating assorted leftover holiday candy.  But is that gonna stop me?  The fact that you even ask that question makes me realize that we aren’t as tight as I thought.

So check it.  One of the few only downfalls of working for yourself, is that you have to shovel out money for health insurance.  And you better believe, I’m not doing that.  Nonetheless, my father feels otherwise. 

Dad: You’ve got to get insurance.  What if you have a big accident?

Me: I sit in my office 24/7 and I never leave the house.  What’s gonna happen?

Dad:  Diabetes from your sedentary lifestyle?

Me:  Okay. Fine… I’ll look into it.

Well, my dad knew there about as much of a chance that Angelina Jolie would stop adopting exotic children than there would be of me actually following through with that statement.  So about a week later, I get a text from my friend/insurance agent saying that my dad picked out a policy for me and I need to come sign it.  Oh. Seriously?

A couple weeks later, I begrudgingly go to sign the papers.  As I’m sitting there shooting the breeze and answering questions about my gastrointestinal family history, I notice a fax cover sheet on top of my file.  From my father.  And it reads:

To: Justin   From:  Denny

Subject:  Please call me if my daughter “forgets” to come in and sign the paperwork.

For a split second, I had to recover from the whiplash I experienced from my dad throwing me under the bus, until I realized that my dad was absolutely correct in assuming that I’d probably blow this off and then tell him I forgot.  Then, just when I thought I was in the clear – I got a call from the insurance company:

Insurance:  Hello, this is the insurance company, we’re trying to process your request for a policy.  Can you clarify some things?

Me:  Sure.

Insurance:  So, your records show you were admitted to the ER in 2006.  Can you explain that?

Me:  [honestly, not even remembering that happened….]  Um, I really don’t remember.

Insurance:  It says something about shortness of breath and hyperventilation?

Me:  Oh… oh.  Yea.  Anxiety attack.  Forgot about that, sorry.  Crazy boyfriend, don’t ask. 

Insurance:  Ok. Well has the problem been resolved?

Me:  Well, he’s across the ocean now, if that’s what you mean. 

Insurance:  Okaaaaay.  What about the x-rays you had on your leg in 2007?

Me:  Oh… yea.  Forgot about that, sorry.  My hip pops out of joint at random times and I can’t walk.  Hurts like a beotch.

Insurance:  Pops out of joint?

Me:  Yes.  They told me I need to exercise to strengthen the ligaments.

Insurance:  So has your exercising resolved the problem?

Me:  [I don’t recall saying that I actually took the advice?]  Uh, suure.  Why yes, it has.

Insurance:  Good.  And lastly, why did you go to an ear specialist?

Me:  Good question.  He didn’t fix crap.


Your Daily Dose Of Paranoia

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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.

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

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It’s Easter.  I’m sitting next to my dad in church.  All of the sudden, right before the service starts he turns to me and grabs my arm:

Dad: Oh, you know what?

Me: What’s that?

Dad: I heard Yanni is coming out with a new CD.

If this conversation isn’t the right way to kick off Easter, I don’t know anything.  You know, I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but Easter just isn’t what it used to be.  Nice new bonnet.  An Easter basket half the size of my room, with giant, oversized pixie stix and Reese’s eggs cascading out of it like a waterfall...it’s beauty only to be matched by the monstrocity of a stuffed rabbit that accompanied the basket.  All these things are but a distant memory, like braces, and Big League Chew.

scan00011So I’m chillin with the fam.  UPDATE: In case it crossed your mind, my grandma was wearing the same polyester, frog green pants that she wore on Thanksgiving, as chronicled in Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair.  So I go to sit next to my aunt on the couch and this happens:

Me: HGTV?  Really?

Aunt:  Well, we could watch a movie.  I have Marley and Me, did you say you’ve seen that already?

Me: Yea.  It was good, and I don’t think anyone else has seen it.

Aunt: So it was good?  Want me to put that in then?

Me: I mean, I don’t care.  I’m just working on these articles.  So it makes no difference, whatever everyone else wants to do.

Aunt: [turns to my uncle] Honey, Britteny said for you to put in Marley and Me.  She wants to watch it.

Me: [interrupts] No, I did not.  That’s not what I said.  I said I’ve already seen it and I don’t care.  You said you wanted to watch it.

Aunt: Well, I know.  But if I say that you’re the one who wants to watch it, he’ll just put it in.

Me: Sigh.

Aunt: Uh oh.  Is this conversation going to be a blob now?

Me: Well, it wasn’t until you called it a blob.

Throughout the whole movie my grandma keeps whispering to my aunt that she’s seen this movie before.  We all know this isn’t true.  For the sake of illustration, I’ve dubbed my grandma “frog pants.”  When the movie is over, everyone is teary eyed, yet a fight breaks loose:

Frog Pants:  Oh goodness, you guys are getting this sad? It’s just a dog for Pete’s sake. [as my aunt’s two boxers are staring up at her from the floor]

Aunt: Dogs are like part of the family, Ma.

Frog Pants:  Well, not ones that act like that thing.  I’ve seen this before, I could have told you every thing that was going to happen.

Me: No.  No you haven’t. I promise.  You don’t go to movies.  You don’t rent them.  And you live in an assisted living complex.  Where did you see it?

Frog Pants:  I don’t recall when I saw it, but I’m not gonna sit there while you guys make me out to be some kind of liar.  I remember that dog hanging out the window of the car.

Me & Aunt: [simultaneously]  That was a commercial!

Me:  When did you watch it then?  Because it just came out on DVD.

Aunt:  Ma, are you getting Alzheimers?

Frog Pants:  Goodness gracious. Just drop it.

   

Paris Can Bite Me

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I want you all to know that it’s so deliriously late right now that I don’t even have any midnight oil left, I’m running on fumes.  Or smoke.  Or whatever would be left after you’ve burnt a crap ton of oil.  Coldplay is my only companion at such an hour, so consider yourselves a priority.  And I’m about to mesmerize you with an amazing story much like the late night infomercial I’m currently watching that has rendered me speechless with it’s magical powers of persuasion.

But, wait, don’t you always burn the midnight oil, therefore, this blog right now really isn’t much of a sacrifice?

What is this CSI?

So. Paris guy.  I’ve briefly mentioned him a couple times, and many of you have asked for further detail.   Well, I’m going to give it to you so you can stop your begging already… you’re more pathetic than my Italian grandma on Thanksgiving.

grandma

grandma:  Look at all this food.  Oh goodness sakes, what am I gonna do with all of this FOOD?  Will someone eat something, please?  Britteny,  can I dish you up some more potatoes, doll?

me:  I can’t breathe.

grandma:  [sounding as if she might burst into the ugly cry] Well, what did I make all this food for then? I don’t have anywhere to put it.  I thought I told you kids to bring your appetites.  Doesn’t anything taste good?  Oh, now it’s going to go to waste.  We can’t waste food, God won’t appreciate that.

me:  It tastes great. Exactly like every Thanksgiving for the past 26 years of my life when we’ve had this conversation.

grandma:  This is terrible. And so is my food. [welling up]

So Paris Guy and I dated a little over a year. He would also be the ex that inspired the blog “Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend” in case you’re wondering.  I discovered he had proposed to his previous fiance in Disneyland.  Wha?

ex: You haven’t ever been to Disneyland?  I can’t BELIEVE that!  I’m taking you there soon.

me: No you’re not.  I am not going to Disneyland.

ex:  But it’s so much fun.

me: How would that be fun for me?  I throw up on rides and Mickey Mouse creeps me out and I hate fairy tales.

Anyway, things were getting rough.  I needed to breathe.  I did what any sensible girl would do in my situation:  I ran away to London.  Of all the great lengths I’ve gone to in my life, I’d have to award myself 5 stars for pulling off this shennanigan.  But then, he came to take me to Paris on Valentine’s Day and my roommate accidentally told me he wanted to propose.  Great.

paris1

I had specifically warned him that I was not ready for marriage.  I wanted to be done with school first.  When we arrived in Paris, I came down with influenza almost instantaneously after setting foot on French soil (my stomach was either rejecting the vast amount of grease I was about to consume, or the impending proposal, or just the French in general).  As we toured the city, in pouring down hail, I could barely hold my head up.  He then took me to see a show at the Moulin Rouge, which ended with him leaving his wallet in the cab and us wandering around the red light district for several hours with no money or way to get home.  The romance was so thick in the air, that I nearly said yes.

cinderellas_castleHe left me with the ring, I don’t know why. Then he went off the deep end and tried to sabotage all my friendships back home… some of the not as close friends actually fell for it.  After I got back, he coerced me into couple’s therapy, but I eventually tried returning the ring, but it got stolen out of my glovebox when I let one of my friends borrow my car.

And I lived happily ever after without him.

 

Dear Rickety Old Lady,

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I think now would be a perfect time to discuss goals.  Making them, keeping them.  For example, one of my goals in the New Year was to stop procrastinating. Actually, you know what?  I don’t have time for this, let’s talk about it next week.  But what I DO think we should talk about today is the fact that any attempt I’ve made in the last week to “eat on the lighter side” has been shot to heck after polishing off that entire pepperoni pizza and order of bread sticks.  Pizza hut, no less, which means I might as well have just hooked up an IV of Country Crock to my veins.

But on a super serious note, I’d like to take this moment to formally apologize to someone near and dear to my heart.

Dear Rickety Old Lady From Whom I Bought My First Car,

You probably don’t remember me considering you were old as dirt at the time.  When I was a Sophomore, you had a 1964 Dodge for sale.  It was in perfect condition since it had been sitting in your garage for the better half of the 20th century.   For some ungodly reason, I wanted that car more than I wanted to see Titanic for the eleventh time.  I remember I came to you with a stack of cash and told you that was all I had to my name.  I might of teared up a bit.  And there’s also a good possibility that may have all been a lie. 

1964-dodge-440

But listen Irene, I want you to know that I had many fond memories in that car.  I could practically transport the entire school choir in my backseat.  Except, of course, for the time that it completely died on me in the middle of an intersection at the bottom of a hill and a car slammed right into me at 70 mph, nearly taking my life.  But thankfully, the car was so enormous that the accident left merely a scratch on my bumper – although the other person’s car was completely totaled.  Anyway, stop side-tracking me, Doris.  My point in writing to you is that I want you to know that I sold that car a month later and quadrupled my money.   I know it may seem like I took advantage of your oldness, but really, I think it shows my rather astounding eye for investment opportunities and savvy business sense at such a tender age.  Twas only a sign of what would follow.  And really, you have to admit that it was grossly under priced -anyone would have known that Margaret.

Ok.  Well, I guess that’s about it then.  Just wanted to clear the air, sorry for the harsh delivery.  We cool?
Stay young,

Blunt.

The Hole In My Head: Explained

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The only thing that I might find creepier than Neil Diamond or V8 juice would be toddler beauty pageants. That being said, let’s discuss the hole in my head.  Since mention of the injury in my last post seemed to cause a great deal of stress for most of you, I thought I’d take a brief moment to explain this before your blood pressure rises to unprecedented levels.

It was the Spring of 1997.  The air was hot and so was her white fiberglass Saturn sport coupe.  It was a stick shift (which was a really bad idea since she could barely drive the lawn mower).  This very car would eventually lead to her almost-death.

One rainy night, Blunt was driving around aimlessly.  The next thing she remembers is laying on a stretcher and staring up into the night sky, thinking “Is this a dream?  Why can’t I feel my body?  Crap. I’m about to die.  Or maybe I did drugs? No. I’m dying. Here we go.” [[[[back to unconsciousness]]]]    The next thing she remembers is being in an ambulance with 6, possibly 7, very hot paramedics.

Hot Paramedics: Do you have any pets?

Blunt:  Um, I have 4 cats: Pebbles, Bam Bam, Mittens, and Muffin.  … I named them when I was five okay?

Hot Paramedics:  You were in an accident.

Blunt:  You’re kidding. Was it my fault?!?  My dad is going to KILL ME. [[[[back to unconsciousness]]]]]

saturn-sport-coupeThe next day she would awake to find herself in the ICU wearing a neck brace, with various tubes coming out of her and over a hundred stitches in her head.  Apparently, she had been struck by a drunk driver in a large Astrovan, directly on the driver’s side.  But would you expect anything less from someone in an Astrovan? The impact was so hard that it somehow managed to cause a piece of her skull (about the size of a half dollar) to break off and press on her brain.   “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” she thought, “three weeks before prom?” The doctors weren’t sure if she would be normal and said if it was a millimeter closer she would be paralyzed for life.    ***Status on the car: lets just say that pieces of it were scattered in various directions.  Bye bye sweet Saturn sport coupe.

Doctor:  We might have to do brain surgery.

Me:  WHAT? Why?

Doctor:  Well to relieve pressure on your brain.   And to extract the bone and glue it back to your head.

Me: Will I have to shave my head?

Doctor:  Only the left side.

Me:  Well, that’s out of the question.  What if I don’t have the surgery?

Doctor:  Well, you could have several side effects and if you ever get hit in that spot again you’ll die.   That means, no accidents, no “rough housing,”  NO SPORTS.

Me:  Doctor, no offense, but do you know me at all?   That certainly won’t be a problem.

For a month I could not move, shower, or wash my bloody, crusty hair.  Tons of visitors came, only to be kicked out by the nurses.  It was a great time.  So, I left my head as it was.  I have had none of the anticipated side effects of the injury, except some VERY BAD headaches and some memory loss.  Oh, and the occasional panic attack, which probably has less to do with the hole in my skull and more to do with the crippling insanity of my daily life.

After much prodding, I was released the DAY OF PROM. Phew.   My first stop: the tanning salon.  Please, I had a white dress okay.  Then, I passed out from overheating and not having any food in my system.

Then there were a plethora of “airhead” jokes at school, and every other possible reference to how I was missing part of my head.  Don’t feel bad, I came up with most of them.

Holy Crapballs, That Was A Person

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Every single time I get into my car, first of all, I check for flooding (yes, my car floor fills with water when it rains) and second of all, I prepare myself for the possibility that I will commit involuntary manslaughter at some point.   I might be the WORST driver in this city.  Maybe even the tri-state area.  Well, at least the small radius from my house to Ohio.  Friends: I’m extending an invitation for you to leave a comment stating proof of this fact if you’d like.  (If you can’t focus cus you’re still stuck on that flooding car thing, I have no clue where the water comes from, why it’s there, or how to make it stop.)  (Friends: please note that invitation expires after this post.)

So the other day, I’m driving with one of my friends and this conversation takes place:

Friend: Holy crapballs, that was a person.

Me: Where? 

Friend: Behind us.  Standing in shock cus they almost died.  Did you not see them or what?

Me:  No.  I was looking for a sweet parking spot so you won’t have to walk in the rain.  

Friend:  How about I’ll be happy to walk in the rain in exchange for not assisting in murder.

Me: You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when your hair starts to frizz.

Friend: Why do I continue to go places with you.

Me: Okay.  Do I not warn you every time you get in this car of my horrible driving skills and that you’re putting your life at risk?

Friend: Yes, you do.  But I…

Me:  And do I not always make it a fun experience?

Friend: I guess.  But you don’t obey any traffic laws, and…

Me: And do you not feel more alive and appreciative of your life after you get out of the car?  Is the sun, not a bit brighter?  The grass, a bit browner? 

Friend:  Definitely. more. appreciative.

Me: So can you stop already with the melodramatic whine fest.  I told you I haven’t gotten into an accident since I was 16.

Friend:  But you have a HOLE IN YOUR HEAD because of that accident.

Me:  That’s correct.  And I’m definately more appreciative of my head now.

What Women Really Want

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Come on in.  Pop open a cold one (non-alcoholic, of course, cus I need you to keep it classy and focus on what I’m saying).  Grab all your friends and sit Indian style on the mat.  Please don’t be concerned if you can’t sit Indian style, the more important problem is, why don’t you have any friends?   Men, I especially want you to listen up.  Hurricane honesty is about to blow you away.   Sorry Mary, there’s no spoonful of sugar with this Robitussin.  Just the cold,  green, mystery flavor your mother used to shovel down your throat.  So let’s recap what we already know:

1. We want you to be nice. But not too nice, Nicey McCallaghan.

2. We want you to pay attention to us. But watch it, Smothery McFerguson.

3. We want you to give us our way. But only half the time, Doormat McPushoverPants.

Alright, so now that I’ve given you a month to digest that very scientific and logical information, we can move on to Part II:

christina-aguilera-and-husband4.  We want you to be funny. But not a comedian with a complex that has to make a joke out of everything or he has no self-worth because he used to get beaten up at the bus stop or something.  Got that?  If you can’t make us bust a gut, then it’s OVER, Snoresville McGee.  You know how you always get perplexed when you see a fine lookin lady with an awkward geek who is unfortunate looking?  Well that’s cus she just dumped her rich, gorgeous underwear model for the guy who works the late shift at Taco Bell because he cracked a joke when he handed over her Chalupa.   Yea.  I never said these were smart decisions.  But they are what we choose, nonetheless.

5. We want you to be manly. But over the years it seems that you’ve taken this to mean stubbly and un-showered with a beer belly?  No, no.  Just because you shower, shave regularly, and don’t wear brown shoes with black pants it doesn’t mean that you’re not a man.  P.S.  it won’t KILL you to do a face mask or a pore strip once in a while.  You’ll still be allowed to shoot people on Call of Duty.

6. We want you to be romantic. The problem is, you’ve taken this idea of “romance” and twisted it into a pretzel of ungodliness.  It’s downright scary, what you’ve done.  I think the underlying roses-with-babies-breathproblem is somewhere along the line there was a glitch in the matrix and you guys got terribly confused by the term: romantic.

I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean: red roses with baby’s breath (and perhaps a fern), heart-shaped pendant necklaces (actually, heart-shaped anything), stuffed animals with mushy sayings, “gamble chocolates” with mystery fillings, or an attempt at writing us poetry.  [[Sigh]]   So really, the bottom line here is creativity.  So maybe we should rephrase this to say – we want you to be creative.

Can I get a witness ladies?

Remember it.  Write it down.  Fold it up.  Tuck it in your jockstrap.  And have a more successful life.

You’re welcome.