Tag Archives: high school

My So-Called Life: If I Could Go Back

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With the addition of Netflix into one’s household comes a whole lot of baggage.

Like, say, for instance, the fact that I’m re-watching the entire series of My So-Called Life and it’s bringing up a lot of tortured memories. Like how much I’m still in unrequited love with Jordan Catalano and secretly hoping we’ll run into each other in the boiler room. And how every time he leans up against a locker I still get all sorts of excited. And how I was even more awkward acting and looking in real life than Claire Danes or her character Angela ever tried to be.

So much plaid.

Then, there are, as pieces of fallen confetti, those random, amazing memories and firsts that can only high school can offer. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss those days – especially when I wake up to a stack of bills and grown-up problems, that seem to increase with complexity by the hour.

All of this has left me feeling nostalgic,and also wondering about things I would have done differently. You know, cus hindsight is 20/20 or some crap like that, right?

Well, I spose I can come up with a few. I’ll limit it just to high school – otherwise we’ll be here until 2012 when we all die. [Names may or may not be changed, just to make it more annoying for my friends who are going to dissect this.]

1. I would have actually raised my hand to answer questions in grade school as opposed to staring at the puke-stained carpet cus I was too shy to talk, while listening to Johnny s-s-spit out the answer already – which was always incorrect. I partially blame Johnny for my teeth-grinding habit.

2. I would have told Jack that I fell in love with him the very first day of 2nd grade when he picked me to be his wife during The Farmer in the Dell. Instead, we passive aggressively flirted with each other until we graduated – without ever admitting we had feelings – except it was no secret to anyone, but us.

3. I wouldn’t have let that creeptown Ben steal my first kiss, thus lumping me in with almost every girl in my school – including my best friend. How whack is THAT? Rite of passage, I guess.

4. I would have told that Susie [definitely a fake name – isn’t Susie always a fake name?] girl to back off, shut up, and mind her own business because she was nothing but a blond-haired, big-mouthed ball of meanness! And if she tried to spread one more rumor about me than I would yank her badly -box-bleached platinum hair out by the ever-loving roots.

5. I would have never been a cheerleader or rolled my eyes at my amazing parents.

6. I would have never driven to the mall that Friday night in a state of sheer devastation – against my mother’s wishes. She’s like the Nostradamus of mothers. Almost lost my life that night and my poor broken head will never be the same.

7. Ditto on #4 to about twelve other girls.

8. No, I still wouldn’t have gotten a class ring. I actually made the right choice the first time.

9. But I would have insisted on Senior picture redos at any cost.

10. I would have started plucking my eyebrows a lot sooner, tanning a lot later, and highlighting my hair a quarter to never.

So, my lovelies, would you have done anything differently?

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.

Blunt Bites: The Boy Who Smelled Like Garlic

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[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed laugh-out-loud (right?) posts. They are like snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]

It was 1999. I got let out of the hospital the same day as my Junior year prom, except it was actually a banquet, considering I went to a rather strict high school, where dancing was believed to lead to utter destruction of the human soul.

It was my first official date with you, or uh anyone, and I was nervous that you wouldn’t show up. I was banking on the fact that I had just gotten out of intensive care and only a heartless human being would stand up a girl with a hole in her head.

You were late, wearing a mismatched outfit and one of your dad’s ties. My snow white dress was a perfect choice for your red pick-up that lacked a muffler, but not an over-abundance of Taco Bell bags and quasi-empty Mountain Dew cans. On the way home, I laid my tired, broken head on your lap and you sang me Oasis songs because the radio could only get AM stations. You told me it was too bad I didn’t end up with a metal plate in my head because then perhaps we could have picked up more radio stations.

I fell in love with you despite the fact that you smelled a bit like garlic; and you managed to get past my Jewel-like snaggletooth. We dated for four years. But, for Senior prom, I made you wear a suit – even though you wanted to go as Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber.


Nosy for more details?

[If you’re can’t sleep until you uncover the mystery of the hole in my head, please visit The Hole In My Head: Explained. For the rest of the juicy details on my first love you can read So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes. And for the story on how my Baptist school accused me of being in a gang when I was in 7th grade, please check out Back When I Was In A Gang]

My Last Words Before Turning Into A Vampire

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I cannot think of a solitary moment in life that is more optimistic than when you are listening to a high school valedictorian speech. These kids are sitting there, staring at a blank page. They have not yet been faced with life-altering decisions. Their hearts are still vaguely in one piece. They haven’t made a series of poor choices that has left them divorced, in debt, and jaded for all eternity. They aren’t quite sure what the Freshman 15 even is. They barely understand the concepts of financial responsibility and what it’s like to work a 9-5 job that makes you want to wish you were never born, just because you have no other option. Their dreams have not yet had a chance to breathe, much less die.

I get all teary every time.

I could listen to valedictorian speeches all day. Oh wait, I have been. A local TV station has been replaying all of the public school graduation videos from this past spring. For me, it’s a little slice of heaven. For everyone else, it is a rare and peculiar form of self-inflicted torture.

I am in love with school. And not just because I have an absurd obsession with the smell of school supplies. I love the feeling of that first day. A new start. Endless possibilities. Football games. Catching up with old friends, making new ones. That sickening feeling when you walk past the one person you will never have the guts to talk to. Add the fact that school starts in the fall and you have what might be a perfect storm of awesomeness.

I wish I could make a career out of attending school.

But Brit, didn’t you quit college?

I’m sorry, what?

Of course, high school is also vicious. Girls really are mean. Teenagers are unforgiving and selfish. And in the process of everyone trying to find themselves, we all have a tendency to lose a little bit of dignity. But even though I had my fair share of tearful nights and end of the world moments, when I think back on those days, they were incredible. There’s nothing like it. And never will be again.

Easy solution? Become a vampire and stay 17 forever.

What I’m going to do in the meantime? Make a sack lunch and watch Clueless.

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Stay tuned. My next blog will feature pics and stories from my epic weekend in the Windy City with Lola Lakely and Uncorked!!!

You’re At The Top Of Your Class! Too Bad No One Will Ever Care.

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Holy crapballs.


There’s something we’ve got to talk about before we take this relationship any further. No, I’m not going to talk aboutthe six consecutive years I avoided the dentist, or how I almost married a British heroin addict, or how I almost married a bipolar psychopath, or how I will search for as long as it absolutely takes to find a close parking spot because I’m grossly out of shape and have no desire to remedy that situation, or how I will inevitably listen to the same song for two straight weeks which then ruins it for the rest of eternity, or how I can’t seem to buy toilet paper until I literally run out while on the toilet.

We’re not talking about any of that. Sorry to tempt you.

What we ARE talking about is how the crap I ended up being 27.  And how no one even had the decency to fire a warning shot.

Oh, I forgot I wasn’t going to reveal any personal details on this website. My bust. V over at Uncorked, just wrote a post about how she’s got her 10 year reunion coming up and it got me to thinking about mine. Oh dear, what will they all say of my singleness, my random smattering of job choices, the fact that I quit college cus it was B.S., and how I don’t have ANY CHILDREN to blame my butch haircut on?!? If I had one, that is. Which I never will cus someone has to keep living the dream. And that someone is me.

Please pay close attention to the picture below. Study it with reckless abandon.

Sorry, that wasn’t really an appropriate usage of that phrase, but I have been trying to incorporate it into as much of my written and spoken word as possible this month. Some of us like to achieve the goals we’ve set out, you know?

graduation

Did you pay close attention?

Well if you did then you might notice there are only 18 people there. Did the plague sweep through my high school? Were we the original group to encounter the Swine Flu? Was it Senior skip day?

Not necessarily. That might have been everyone.

And I’m very proud to say I was in the top 5% of my class, academically. Although having only like 10 male dating prospects truly sucked, I won’t ever have to endure the torture that is a class reunion. Cus really? Like any one of us would go to that. And like any one of us would take it upon ourselves to plan that. So BOO-YA. I bet all of you are wishing right now that you went to an overly strict, fundamental Baptist school which didn’t allow you to attend movies, wear pants, have unnatural colored highlights, more than two piercings per ear lobe, sleeveless shirts, open-toe shoes, or sit next to the opposite gender- but did accuse you of being in a gang.

We can’t all have perfect lives.

 

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Having To Tell You?

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[My mother unearthed several boxes of letters from my childhood. I have no clue why they were saved, but what’s mine is yours. And if there is one thing more ridiculous than my current life, it would have to be all the time leading up to my current life.  Hence, I started writing about these gems and refer to them as – the Open Letters]

If there’s one thing that I suck at more than commitment, it’s breaking those commitments.  And leaving bowls of half-eaten Eggos in the backseat of my car. But whatever. Sometimes a piece of toast sneaks in there, but only when things really get off the hook.

In other words, I’m non-confrontational.

And from the looks of these pictures and the following letter, that trait started long, long ago.

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christmas

As I explained on my last blog So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes, I never dated until I was almost out of high school.  So you can imagine my shock, when after reading through these letters, I see that several boys thought they were dating me. I’m not sure if that was my fault or theirs. But I like to think that given the Baptist school setting, relationship lines were a bit blurred.  I’m pretty sure if you sat next to someone in Chapel [far enough apart so that a King James Bible could fit in between you, of course] then your families would be having a joint brunch that following Sunday to discuss whose aunt would be singing a hymn at the wedding.  If you’d like to read more about my Baptist school experience and how I used to be in a gang, please go here.

From what I can deduce, I received this letter circa 7th grade.  Apparently, the word on the street was that I was through with this guy, except I hadn’t bothered to tell him. Unfortunately, he failed to use his awesome observation skills to detect things like the proper spelling of my name, or say, punctuation.

love-letter2

For more Open Letters you can check out:

Open Letter: Rejection at it’s finest

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, your pants are burnt to a crisp

dsc_3619edit1P.S. Don’t forget to check out my latest photography post with the cutest munchkin around!  I’ve never lied to you. As far as you know.

 

So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes

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“The magic of first love is our ignorance that it will never end.”

You know I thought boys had cooties til I was about 17, right?  Up until that point, I viewed them only as despicable creatures sent to this earth as God’s punishment to Eve. It’s possible I fell asleep in a few Bible classes.  I also thought that babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds. I know it might be a bit too precautionary, but I still always buy seedless.

Growing up, all of my other girlfriends were much more advanced in the relationship  department.  They had “boyfriends” [or whatever the appropriate term would be for the guy that you’re not allowed to be in a closed-door room with but cheer for at football games].  They knew all the definitions of the “bases.”  They had someone to send them flowers on carnation day.

Puh-lease.

carnation-flowerLike I really wanted a cruddy, half-dead carnation anyway. Lame.  If the school would have hosted lasagna day, it might have been worth the inevitable hassle of claiming one of those smelly boys.  However, twas not my fate.

Then one day… wait a minute.

Hold the phone.

I met a smelly boy that changed everything.

My best friend set us up. I believe her exact words were: “There are two guys at my school that would be perfect for you.”  They both had brown hair and blue eyes according to the very detailed description of important details that was provided for me.  So I opted for the one who was “more funny.”  Of course, she had accidentally started dating the other one before I had a chance to meet either of them, so I guess I didn’t really have a choice.

BLUNT FACT: If ever given an option between two of anything, Blunt will always choose funny. Especially if the other options have anything to do with condiments, seafood, clowns, the Southwest, animals that bark, animals that shed, or Neil Diamond. But really, on a scale of 1–> infinity, how sick are we of the Neil Diamond references?

And on a scale of 1–> not a chance, what do you think is the possibility of me stopping?

So we met and instantly fell into premature love with reckless abandon. We ended up dating for 4 years. He was the sort of guy who would drive an hour to bring me a cough drop.  Or flowers on a Tuesday.

My Senior year, I was home sick and there was a snowstorm.  He was broke, as is the fate of every unemployed high school boy who grossly underestimates the cost of having a girlfriend.  He drove to my house and handed me a bouquet of sticks.  He said he’d picked them outside of school and he hoped that 1) he wouldn’t get another in-school suspension and 2) it would cheer me up.

I’m not one for sentimental crap, but to this day that is still my most favorite gift. I kept them in the back window of my car until I got in my car accident and they were lost among the wreckage.

That breakup was one of the hardest things I’ve ever gone through.  He was my first boyfriend, I was his first girlfriend.  I was crazy about him and he cherished me. We were best friends.  The breakup strung out for two torturous years because neither of us could fully let go. I could say that I had my reasons for leaving him, but the truth is – I was too young and immature to appreciate him.  We were so young that I never thought he would grow up. It was a classic case of bad timing.

I’ve never stopped thinking about him.  We had stayed in touch until before I left for London.  I had previously refused his attempts to get back together, but while I was in London, I truly missed him. I tried contacting him after I returned, thinking that maybe we had both come to the point where we could make it work.  I then discovered he had gotten married two weeks before I came back.

Three years went by.  He had moved. I had heard bits and pieces of how he was doing, but his wife forbade him from speaking to me.  I desperately hoped that he was happy.

Then, one day, I was answering calls at the bank and I heard his voice on the other line.

It was good to hear his voice.

So, what about your first love?

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

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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.

 

Open Letter: Rejection At Its Finest

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As a young and awkward child, I was painfully shy and introverted. Maybe it was my jacked up teeth.  Perhaps it was the acne. Or my untameable, frizzy hair before I discovered straighteners or anything other than Pert Plus.  It could have been tragic the ankle-length skirts and turtlenecks enforced by my private school dress code. There’s no way of knowing.

For years and years, the worst torture I could possibly imagine was having my teacher force me to answer a question OUT LOUD, where I’d have to use my real-life voice. However, sometime after middle school, something went terribly awry.  There was a glitch in the matrix and I became the most outgoing, uninhibited (and by all manners of speaking) freak ever to walk the planet, of whom it is impossible to embarrass.  My father, however, has made it his life’s ambition to disprove this statement.

I say all this to say that I didn’t really date in school.  At all, actually.  I would just harbor hidden crushes on boys while outwardly ignoring them until I grew so frustrated that I considered batting for the other team.  I didn’t though.  Not metaphorically or literally, cus I am the most non-athletic, non-lesbian person you will ever meet.  Except for my mad girl crush on Rachel McAdams. And Megan Fox.  But we don’t have time to get into that.

Needless to say, I was quite shocked when my mother dropped off 6 boxes of assorted love letters/ snobby girl notes from my childhood.  I don’t remember half of these people, nor do I have any clue why these letters were saved.  I would say that I did it all for you, but that would be lie that even Satan would be ashamed of.

In other words, I’m starting a new category here titled OPEN LETTERS. Why? Because as I was reading these, I not only thought they were hilarious, but it also brought me back to a simpler time, where every problem in the world could be solved by having your “friend” give someone a note for you.  Let’s reminisce shall we? This letter was circa 7th grade.

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In case you can’t translate this ridiculous attempt at penmanship/ the English language:

Britteny,

Justin wants to know if you will go out with him tonight on a date.  If so, will you go out with him (as a girlfriend) because he really likes you.  And he thought that since I didn’t get you (as a girlfriend) then he thinks you will go out with him.

Love,

Mike

Um, am I the only one who feels a bit sorry for Mike in this scenario?   Not only did I apparently reject him, but now his friend is making him ask me out for him? That’s harsh.

Also check out:

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

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Telling You?

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

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So I cleaned out my garage. I know you’re thinking that sounds a little over ambitious, especially for me, however, I haven’t been able to park inside of it since I moved in two years ago.  This also wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that when it rains, my car floods.  So as I was rummaging through countless, dusty boxes of love letters, 7 bridesmaid dresses, various throw pillows from my inability to commit to a living room color, a shot glass collection, a postcard collection, a key chain collection, and inventory from my retail store, I found my favorite discovery of all – an old hot pink Composition notebook and mystery container from Haiti.
spanish-homework

EXIBIT A

What first appeared to be a refuge for Spanish homework, turned out to have many hidden and wondrous glimpses into my life back in 2001.

I’d just like to ask if anyone has a clue why I was writing natural remedies for common hair care dilemmas in the middle of my Spanish homework?  Please see EXHIBIT A and respond to me with any suggestions you may have.

Your answers may unlock the mystery to a lifetime of complex issues.

Among the most amazing of all discoveries was: 1. a list of qualifications for my future mate, and 2. a list of  20 “Things I Will Accomplish.” Written with the same authority and determination of any 18 year old with a bad case of ADHD and no sense of the world whatsoever.  Today we will simply tackle “Things I Will Accomplish.”

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

I understand that you’re just a kid with lofty dreams, but there are some things you need to understand. In glancing over your list, I can’t help but notice you’re a bit obsessed with the Spanish culture according to points #2, #12, and #13, which is perplexing, but I assure you this is only a phase that will last about as long as your next boyfriend.   Your desire to eat tacos for consecutive weeks on end, however, will not subside.

to-do-list

adjustments have been made in RED

#6 – In regards to Paris, please don’t go. Just trust me on this one. #13 -Stick to your guns on studying abroad in South America.  Please don’t allow a charming, dark-haired boy, who has mesmerized you with his intelligence and ability to play Radiohead songs, to talk you into going to London instead.  If, by chance, you do end up in London, please do your best to avoid allBritish-Indian men who wear Versace Couture leather jackets and get regular facials.  If ever there was a time you should accept advice, it would be now.

# 4 -Yes, please get your teeth fixed.  Who are you, Jewel? #7 – On a more serious note, Oprah is a beotch, but you’ll have to learn the hard way.  Even the future you cannot possibly convince you otherwise at this point.  #1 – When you finally go to Italy and accomplish your childhood dream, please don’t drop your camera off the edge of the Coliseum.  They make wrist straps for a reason.  And seatbelts, but that’s a dead horse.

#8 – Don’t try to learn the guitar.  Remember Spanish?  Please stop trying to learn new things, it’s getting expensive and you’re making it increasingly hard to accomplish #18. #19 – LASIC?  Is this really on your ‘Things To Accomplish’ list?  What the heal is wrong with you? Do you want to die?  Have you seen Stevie Wonder lately?!  You just sit tight, four eyes.

#10 – I’m sorry for all the incessant laughter.  But in about 10 years, you’ll see why this is hilarious. #17 – What are you, some kind of freak?  #3 – Oh, boy.  If you had any idea how much you won’t be accomplishing this.  Ever.  So, please don’t try.  Again, focus on #18.

#20 – Yea, good luck with that.

Love,

Future You.

P.S. When you do meet Enrique Iglesias, please start walking away the first time your friend mentions she wants to sneak backstage and touch his rock-hard abs.  She’s not joking.  And neither are the cops.

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. 

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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.