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

Problems? Why Yes, I Can Provide Those

Posted on June 19, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

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.

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.

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

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

Posted on April 13, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

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.

scan00011 So 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.

Dear Rickety Old Lady,

Posted on March 28, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

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

Posted on March 25, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

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-coupe The 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.

Kenny Chronicles: Technologically Challenged

Posted on March 22, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

So Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I are doing some errands around town, when my mom calls:

Mom: I have a pretty serious problem.

Me: What’s wrong?!?

Mom: I can’t watch any of my shows. And Dancing With The Stars is premiering tonight and I can’t watch that either!

Me: Why? Do you want me to tape it?

Mom: Well your dad said we need some kind of box to watch local channels now. They’re all fuzzy. Except I remind him to get one everyday, but he forgets to get one everyday.

Me: A digital converter box?

Mom: Is that the thing that will make the channels clear?

Me: Yes. Well, I could pick one up for you – I’m just running some errands.

Mom: Well can you get it tonight? I’ve already missed two weeks.

So Kenny and I go to Best Buy. Normally, my independent side refuses to ask for any kind of help from an associate. I don’t know why, but we certainly don’t have time to diagnose that tonight. I was in a HUGE rush, so as soon as we enter the door, I cringe a little and ask the security guy where the digital converter boxes are. He says, “See the Home Theater sign? Right under that.” Sweet. That doesn’t sound complicated.

Kenny and I reach the Home Theater section and wander up and down a few aisles. Neither of us see anything resembling what we’re looking for. We loiter around for a bit and I make eye contact with two associates, but they were helping other people.

digital-converter-box Me: Well, they HAVE to be here! Do you see anything?

Kenny: Really? Look who you’re talking to. Just ask someone or we’ll be here all day.

So a guy walks by and says he’ll be with me in a minute, but the minute never came. Eventually, I can’t wait any longer so I told Kenny to wait where he was and I’d get some help.

Me: Sir, I’m sorry. I’m in a huge rush. I just really need to find the digital converter boxes. I was told they’re in this section but I can’t find anything.

Best Buy Guy: Oh, sure. [he comes over to me and points] See right where that guys is?

Me: Yea.

Best Buy Guy: He’s leaning right on em. There’s a stack about 8’x4′.

And there it was. The most gigantic pile of digital converter boxes that there ever was. And there was Kenny, just leaning on them with a confused look on his face. Obviously, I had to snap a picture so I could make a public mockery of the moment.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Blunt Delivery: where honesty flows like boxed wine

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