Blunt Delivery: where honesty flows like boxed wine

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Kenny Chronicles: A Conversation at Starbucks

Posted on February 22, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I meet at a bookstore or Starbucks on a quasi-regular basis to discuss our issues. I think we feel that the bookstore-ish surroundings make us more intellectual than we actually are, which in turn helps us more quickly penetrate to the heart of our problems. Of course, this isn’t really successful because everyone acknowledges that merely sitting in a bookstore does not make you more intellectual

I arrive to find Kenny sitting out on the patio, sipping on an overly-priced mountain of coffee flavored whipped cream and looking rather introspective. As I park my car, I instantly notice a drastic change upon my friend’s all too familiar face. I don’t like change. Before I sit down, I go inside and purchase the ridiculously too-big cookie of the day, which is always some random shape that makes no sense. That day it was a lemon wedge. And the following conversation begins:

Me: Seriously? You got your hair cut.

Kenny: I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Me: But Richie’s wedding is next week.

Kenny: I know. But it’s sooooo hot outside.

seinfeld-jerry-and-elaine Me: Sooo hot? My hair is black and 3 feet long and you don’t see me buzzing it off do you?

Kenny: Relaaaax. IT’S HAIR. It’ll grow back.

Me: Not in ONE WEEK! How many months have I been saying that we need to get some good pictures at this wedding? And you keep it long this entiiiire time….And a week before the wedding you get too hot?

Kenny: I know we need some new pictures. We’ll get some.

Me: No we won’t. because we cannot possibly have cute pictures with your hair hacked off like that.

Kenny: It doesn’t look that bad?

Me: Well it doesn’t look that good. Ugh. This is unbelievable.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

Photo credit: Starbucks

5 Reasons Not To Date An Only Child

Posted on February 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

What I’m really here to talk about is dating a middle child. I’m not one, but I’m here to tell you that if you are it’s okay. A middle child is not the one you need to worry about… it’s the only child thats the problem. For the love of everything peaceful, do not date an only child.

only-child Take it from me, a quasi-only child. Considering that I’m not even a full only child, I’m messed up. If you’re wondering how it came to be that I’m not a whole only child, well that is too bad because I’m not getting into that tonight kids. So here are the 5 reasons why you shouldn’t date someone like me:

1. We all want ginormous families. You try spending countless summers selling lemonade by yourself and playing house with only a mommy or daddy and see how you feel. Plus, all the stress of grandkids rides solely on our shoulders.

2. We don’t like to share things. It’s not so much that we don’t want to share, but we just like the things that are ours, to stay ours.

3. We are either obsessed with pets or can’t stand them. There’s no happy medium for an only child. Growing up, we either learned to console our loneliness by surrounding ourselves with fuzzy woodland creatures, or we were so self-absorbed with ourselves that the thought of taking care of a pet was entirely overwhelming.

4. We have a tendency to be control freaks. Most only children are the center of their parents’ universe, thus are the product of an overprotective and overbearing upbringing. Which means when we grow up, we freak out and have to be in control of everything. Everything.

5. We have ridiculous, impossible to meet expectations. And unfortunately, we don’t just put these expectations on ourselves, but everyone we meet. This is because all the focus was on us and we have an inner need to over achieve. So good luck with that.

Finding Myself, Losing My Sanity

Posted on February 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

It’s a day for introspection, my friends…

Before, after, and during my college years, I was told by many a new agey individual and philosophy teacher that I needed to “discover who I was” or “find myself” or get in tune with “my inner person” or whatever. The only thing about myself that I ever knew for sure was that I liked to write, I liked to make people laugh, and I didn’t want to rush off into marriage and five kids like the rest of my friends had. I didn’t believe in all that inner self crap. So although I was pretty confident that I knew who I was [after living with myself all those years] it sounded kind of entertaining… maybe, I’d find that I was cooler than I’d originally thought?

So as I set out on my self-discovering journey, I realized that trying to find myself was really just a whole lot of “hanging out“ and “gaining weight” and “drinking coffee while having delirious late night conversations” with random other people who also couldn’t find themselves. This all resulted in alot of deleriousness, altering of career paths, meaningless friendships, and relationship choices that would damage me for the better part of my life, which I would inevitably spend undoing all the things I’d done while finding myself. london-at-night
Every person who is trying to find themselves thinks that they must live somewhere other than where they are currently living. You cannot possibly find yourself in your hometown, you have to go far, far away. I was no exception to this rule. Even though I’d never been on a plane and I couldn’t even drive to my next door neighbor’s house without getting lost, somehow, some way, one of my meaningless friends talked me into getting out of one of my damaging relationships by moving to Europe… this took place over a late night cup of coffee, of course.

After going away, traveling the world, partially losing my mind, realizing that Italy was all I had hoped it would be, turning down a proposal on the Eiffel Tower, and then coming back with a newfound sense of whatever, I had quite a bit going for myself. I had “discovered” a strapping young British lad who followed me back to states and was quite taken aback by my charming American accent [and the cheap cost of Midwestern living]. I quit college and started my own business. To my dismay, I didn’t then realize that strapping British lads are also quite good at disguising the fact that they are millionaires, heroin addicts and manic depressives. Oh well. I gave it the old college try.

Years later, after seven career changes and two business ventures, I finally became a writer.

So here I am, and after all these years of self-discovery I’ve come to realize the same thing I always knew: I’m a complicated, indecisive, independent girl who likes to write, and all of my experiences have led me back right to where I started.

That sure was a waste of time. But it was fun. Sorta.

By all means, everyone, please go find yourselves.

Teenage Acne And An Italian Boyfriend

Posted on February 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

Let me start by saying that I currently drive a plum-colored ’99 Saturn with duct tape on the hood. The purpose of the duct tape is to cover an actual hole in my hood that was created when I veered into the shoulder and crashed into a road sign, which fell on my car and poked a hole straight through it.

So heed my advice at your own discretion.

So back to this whole matter of me being in a beauty pageant. Typing that very sentence makes my skin crawl, but you brought it up. Let me first say, that I hate pageants and all the creepy girls and moms associated with them. Okay.

Once upon a time, I was dating a charming young Italian gentleman, who I thought at the time was my long awaited knight in shining armor. Ok. Let’s start over. Once upon a time, before developing my completely pessimistic realistic views on the ways of the world and men, I happened to get the wool pulled over my eyes by an Italian crazypants in preppy clothing who sang in a band.

As most young women who pay their way through private college, I was broke beyond my wildest dreams. The Italian came to the ridiculous conclusion that I should be in a pageant. My immediate protest was stifled by the mention of “but you can win alot of money.” I have a habit of doing things spur of the moment, without much thought or consideration to what said thing will entail, so about a month before the pageant I said, “fine. what do I have to do?”

clear-4-inch-heels-beauty-pageant After having said yes, I recanted my admission; but I was further coerced that it would be no big deal to prepare for. Lies… So big even Satan was shocked. In one month I had to: find a pageant gown, 4 inch clear heels [what am I a stripper?], figure out a “talent” [except I can’t sing, dance, or do anything requiring hand-eye coordination], get a professional picture, learn how to walk in 4 inch clear heels [again. the coordination problem], learn the group dance routine [there’s a WHAT?], get a swimsuit that I’d be comfortable wearing in front of thousands of people, freak out, and actually stop eating enough food for a small lacrosse team so that I could not embarrass myself while wearing the swimsuit.

If my first problem is that I make impulsive decisions, my second problem is backing out of them. I can’t do it. So after one month of freaking out, chewing the Italian a new one, and eating nothing but apples – I competed in the pageant.

My talent? A comedic monologue about my teenage acne. Yes. And you are correct if you are thinking that you’ve never seen anyone do a comedic monologue at a pageant before. I don’t believe anyone ever has. Probably because they can sing and dance like all the other pageant going freaks. Did they love it? Does Giraldo Rivera love his mustache?

Swimsuit competition? You know I rocked that.

Kenny Chronicles: How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

Posted on February 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

So Kenny and I were discussing dating. Not dating each other, but dating in general. We often times find ourselves having these kind of conversations in hopes of understanding our issues so that we may become a beacon of light, a shining example for our gender. Or we do it because we are the only ones who will not judge ourselves.

First, there’s something you’ve got to understand about Kenny. Kenny once broke up with a girl because of her elbows. And I rejected a guy one time because he was too Italian. And I love Italians, so as you can imagine, this was a travesty of mass proportion. The point is: we are relationally challenged. We’re very good at talking ourselves out of things using any justification at our disposal, and if there isn’t one available then we just make it up. Most of our conversations resemble reruns of Seinfeld or something of that nature.

elbow So we’re sitting there, discussing our problems, and the following conversation takes place:

Me: ok. so, again….why can’t you like her?

Kenny: well, the personality is great. face is great. everything is great. and I might even say it’d be the real deal if…

Me: ….if what?

Kenny: it weren’t for the gap.

Me: what gap?

Kenny: the teeth gap. can’t get passed it.

Me: Okay… so you’re not going to date this girl, who otherwise might be the one, because you can’t get passed the gap?

Kenny: no, its not just the gap. but thats a big part of it.

Me: well that’s good to know. I’m glad it’s not just the gap, but that it’s a whole slew of frivilous things. progress has been made.

Kenny: i mean, if i could just close it somehow……… [holds up his first finger and thumb to form a gap]

Me: close it? no. not gonna happen. and you can’t suggest that. no. NO.

Kenny: no? but what if….

Me: NO.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Technologically Challenged

Kenny Chronicles: A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Posted on February 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

Again, if you don’t know who Kenny is, please do some research, get your life together, and then return back to this post.

[a telephone conversation between Kenny and I]

Me: [yawn….] so are we looking for paint colors for your room today or what?

Kenny: [several seconds, but what feels like hours of groaning, sighing, and cover rustling] well, I don’t feel so good. I have food poisoning. I’ve been up all night vomiting.

Me: Oh thank God, because I have waaay too much stuff to do today.

Me: Food poisoning? What did you eat?

Kenny: Some kind of Gordita-nacho-something or other at Taco Bell at 3 am.

Me: Well, did you ever think that wasn’t going to give you food poisoning? Oh, wait! I almost forgot to tell you the good news, World Market is going out of business. I’m going to go see if I can find some cheap stuff.

Kenny: When you’re there can you check and see if the Voss Water is on sale?

Me: Seriously? I really doubt that water will be on sale.

Kenny: Well, can you just check because I need some.

Me: You only like it because of the cool glass bottle.

Kenny: No I don’t. I like the taste of the water.

Me: It can NOT taste that much better than the other waters of the world that you can justify paying 3.49 a bottle.

Kenny: Yes it does.

Me: Ok. Well, I’ll going to level with you. I’m going to World Market today. While I’m there, I’m going to wander aimlessly and manhandle a a large amount of useless nic-nacs and large African vases that I have no intention of buying. But chances are, I probably won’t have time to check on the price of the water.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Kenny Chronicles: Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Posted on February 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

I woke up the day after Thanksgiving with a massive headache. No, I wasn’t hungover. No, I wasn’t getting sick. It’s just the after effects of a very stressful week. Friends visiting, friends having babies, grandpas in the hospital, the usual. I also witnessed my best friend give birth to a child, which was at the very least: horrific. But not as horrifying as it is two days later when the images keep popping into the forefront of your mind.

grandma-playing-wii-bowling Then my Thanksgiving consisted of watching my grandma, who is a self-proclaimed Wii bowling champion at her assisted living home, battle it out with my uncle and dad. Well, she currently has a bad hip and wears frog green polyester pants, and every time she pulled her arm back to release the bowling ball, she let out a fart. Pretty soon I had to move to the other side of the couch, where my mom and my aunt were having a huge fight about who was going to host Christmas.

[Let me preface the next section by saying that my 99 saturn with duck tape covering a hole in the hood, although esthetically phenomenal, is not an all-terrain vehicle. More on that later. ]

So I had made my annual plan to go shopping on Black Friday. But when the morning came I called my girlfriend, who was supposed to accompany me, but she actually was hungover. And depressed. So I called Kenny. Kenny’s always up for shopping. Well, Kenny was depressed too. I guess depression rates really do rise around the Holidays. So after five hours of trudging through crowds of unruly shoppers by myself, I had seven bags on my arm cutting off the circulation to my heart. After narrowly escaping a heart attack, I went to pick up my yellow Salvation Army chair with Kenny.

So I accidentally wandered into the Salvation Army again last week, and took a liking to a yellow chair, which I asked if i could pick it up later that day. Of course, five days had passed since that conversation took place. So Kenny had no choice but to help me. For over 30 minutes, we were shivering in the parking lot (with several onlookers) having the following conversation:

me: its GOING to fit

kenny: no. no it’s NOT. how in the world can you think this is going to fit?

me: cus it’s not that big!

kenny: thats what she said. haha. ok seriously, yes it IS THAT BIG, because we can’t get it in!

me: thats what she said. haha. ok, seriously, if we could just take the legs off it would be fine.

kenny: yea, thats a really good idea. except they are attached.

me: well, lets try it diagonal in the backdoor again.

random guy: you know, I used to move furniture for a living. .. do you guys need some help?

Kenny and me: NO, we’re fine.

random guy: well, do you mind if i just stand here and watch? cus this is pretty entertaining.

kenny: we’re just gonna have to put it in the trunk.

me: but i won’t be able to close it AT ALL. isn’t that illegal? isn’t that a hazard?

kenny: we’re gonna have to come back then

me: it’s already been sitting here 5 days, i have to take it. but how will we tie it down? I don’t have anything. Go find some twine.

[kenny goes back inside, comes back after ten minutes, holding what appears to be rope]

me: you are AWESOME! this is why i love you. [ I grab the rope and start putting it around the chair] wait, what is this?

kenny: a telephone cord.

me: A TELEPHONE CORD? what the?! how am i supposed to tie anything with a telephone cord?

kenny: Don’t worry, i got two of them. and a scarf.

me: So?!#$#

For more of the Kenny Chronicles: