Tag Archives: sarcasm

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.

confrontation1

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?

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

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[ In case you missed the first installment, please check out Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways and then because I got equal amounts of hater/lover responses to said blog, please check out my rebuttal entitled: Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much? ]

I guess hate is very strong word. When I think of hatred, only a few things come to mind: Nazi Germany, dead beat dads, Frasier, the DaVinci Code, and the unspoken singer which I reference on a consistent basis.  So I suppose I could classify my disposition toward women as mere frustration.  But I’m far too Italian and dramatic to use the word “frustrated.”  Pffft.

Recently, I noticed that my blog Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways, continues to get alot of attention. I often wonder, does this come as a surprise to you guys? I mean, after having dealt with women your whole lives, is it an overwhelming shock that some of us take issue with our own gender? Speaking of my own gender, blog comments such as this one, from “anonymous,” lead me to believe that some women might be taking my witty banter personally: 

“So you all comment on a website that is sexist and idiotic and down right harsh to women, you know how many women out there think that men are soo much worse than women but DON’T write stupid blogs about it! My god, go get a life and delete the blog it makes you sound like your childish!! shame on you.”

I use this comment as an illustration because it further proves my point on why I hate women. You can’t take a freaking joke? Holy mother of insanity.  Really?

I feel that some of you think I hate women for the sole purpose of sabotaging my own gender.  I assure you this isn’t so.  Thus, I’ve decided to continue what will turn out to be the second installment of a 7,893 part series on why I dislike women.  All of this isn’t to say men don’t have their issues. We all do. It just so happens, my chemical makeup is designed to more easily deal with their craziness than that of the female kind.  Our brand of crazy is particularly alarming. To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, there is currently a group of women reading this, who are placing me in one of the following categories:

1. I’m starved for male attention.

2. I’m a slut [I’m not sure how this conclusion is drawn, but just trust me, it will be]

3. I have a weird nose and/or smile [or some other cut-down based on my physical appearance]

In all actuality, I love normal women. And if using the word “heart,” didn’t send my body into convulsions, I might even say that I heart them. And by normal, I mean, women who are capable of the following:

1. Getting over it. Contrary to popular belief, there is no prize at stake, champ.  This isn’t the Grudge Olympics.  Or the Olympics of many things you can bring up during an argument that have nothing to do with what we’re actually arguing about.

2. Not making everything into a competition. Is it possible to be happy for another woman’s success?  And if a guy flirts with your friend rather than you, it doesn’t mean she’s better than you.  It just means he wants to flirt with her.  The next guy will want to flirt with you. And probably the next guy too. Stop taking it so personally, Spazzy McInsecureAlot.

3. Not forsaking their friends when they become obsessed with a relationship. Guess who’s gonna be there when you’re crying elephant tears and eating yourself ugly in about 6 months, which is precisely how long it will take you to figure out you made a tragic mistake?  Not Jerky McCheatsAlotandIToldYouHeWould, I’ll tell you that much.

blunt-joFolks, I’ve only scratched the surface.  As always, I welcome your thoughts, but only if they are concurrent with mine.

Speaking of women that I love, check out my latest photography post, with pictures of this hottie.

<——-


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.

 

Someone Alert The Environmentalists

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THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR OIL SPILL.

But first, a note from our sponsors.

Dear Everyone Who Reads This Blog Whether You Like It Or Not,

As of late, I realize that my online presence has been replaced with tumbleweeds and probably a surplus of tears.  To attempt to explain exactly what has been going on, which has kept me from you like an unjust prison sentence, would require more space than the internet can provide.  I can only beg for your forgiveness in this matter, and instruct you to refer to my book.  That I will write.  Someday.  As soon as I can figure out what will be in it.  But the past two weeks, you can be assured, will be in it.

Patience is a virtue,

Houdini.

As I was running out of the house with my arms full, I realized that I just absolutely could not survive the next 4 hours without a box of Rice Krispie treats.  I stumbled into the kitchen, reached up into the cupboard, and that was the last moment of life as I knew it.  Had I met my soul mate?  My maker? Did I experience an epiphany that somehow pieced together every bit of my crazy life into a beautiful puzzle of clarity?

Not quite. As I was staring at my kitchen floor/cupboards/rug/fridge covered in olive oil and shards of glass, I shouted every bit of language I’d remember from my French class.  Which, unfortunately, was nothing since I took Spanish.  An entire 48 oz bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course, cus what am I a cheap bastard?) had been knocked off my counter by my extemely oversize (but tragically attractive) purse.  And. Holy. Crapballs. It was a freaking mess. Have you ever tried to clean up oil? OH wait, you haven’t…cus it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

OF COURSE, I was already 20 mins late. OF COURSE, I had no paper towels.  BUT OF COURSE, I’m a neat freak and couldn’t handle leaving a mess of this magnitude so my immediate reaction was to reach down and pick up pieces of glass. WHICH OF COURSE, resulted in about 6, 3459 cuts on my hands, which isn’t even possible. AND OF COURSE, when I went to change the clothes I tracked olive oil onto my carpets that were just cleaned.

Finally, I said screw this and I put bathroom towels over my entire floor and took off.

But of course, I’m not the only one in my family who’s been doing permanent damage to the environment lately.

You should know that here in the Midwest we’ve experience an extremely unlikely, cold, and damp summer.  So the other night, I went over to my parents house for a “bonfire.”  I walk out in the field and I quietly assume that this is what my dad was referring to:

bonfire

Have you met my dad lately?

That’s what I thought.  Apparently, nor have I.

huge-bonfire

And as we quickly ran to escape the nearly 100 ft flame scolding our faces and the atmosphere, we all took a second to rethink Heaven and Hell.

fire

And we started stripping off layers of clothing due to the surmounting heat, my father stood back and watched like a giddy Boy Scout.

Me: Well, I guess our town might as well stop recycling for about a year, cus we’ve probably just reversed any progress they’ve made.

Dad:  [laughing in a way that makes it impossible not to love him]  Tell Al Gore I’m sick of this cold summer, would ya?

Mom chimes in: I think the only place Global Warming is happening these days, is inside Al’s mouth.

Ah.  This is the heart of America, folks.

dad2

Naked Barbie Chillin On Some Cookies?

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[I’m laying on the floor photographing the above picture, when my dad walks in the room]

Dad:  [said like he is trying to piece together the mystery of life] Barbie. Naked. Laying on a pile of mom’s chocolate chip cookies. [laughs hysterically and then pauses for two minutes.] I don’t get it.

Well, sonofagun.  Maybe I don’t either.

But my mom makes some ridiculously large and delicious chocolate chip cookies, which are clearly bigger than a pretend, unrealistically proportioned person.  And she handed me 5 batches as she walked in, also carrying a blueberry pie and 10 bags of groceries.  Immediately following this, she grabbed a paper towel and some Ajax and got to work on my shower, again proving to me why remaining in the Midwest was the sensible choice.

So while the parents were over, I decided I’d get caught up on some laundry today. .

laundry

Huh.  Well what’s that crap? A crumpled dryer sheet? No, pffft, I don’t splurge on dryer sheets.  And plus, these came out of the washer.  A napkin, perhaps? Naw… Why would I have napkins – who’s coming over the Queen?  Bob Hope?  OH…. A Kleenex. It’s totally a Kleenex.  Must have left it in a pocket or something.  Blessed Respite!

However, that was a merely child’s play compared to what I would soon discover.

paper-towels

Wait… Wha? Okay, I’m no scientist, in fact, I didn’t even finish the 6 various colleges and trade schools that I started – but that IS WAY more stuff than could be produced by a Kleenex.  And now that I think about it, I’m also too cheap to buy Kleenex. And you know what Judgy McThinkYou’reBetterThanMe?  Once you have your own place, you will be too.  AND you’ll remember to turn off the lights when you leave the room, dangit.  So you just relax.

After I’d noticed that every single garment was coated in tiny pieces of white stuff, I knew there was something terribly awry.  There was so much of it. Finally, as I reached into the washer and grabbed the last pieces of clothing, I discovered Exhibit C:

i-hate-women1

You’ve. Got. To. Be. Kidding.

How the? What the?  Ugh.

*No Barbies were harmed or humiliated during this documentary.  This is because, contrary to popular belief, they enjoy not being dressed in ridiculous outfits.

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

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It comes as absolutely zero surprise to me that my most popular post continues to be Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways.  In fact, I still even get comments on it here and there.  Why is this? Because everyone hates women. And in their desperation, they have found a safe place where that ideal will not only be accepted, but encouraged.

As I’ve stated before, I’ve come to expect that women won’t like me. It has become my certain destiny, much in the same way I will end up eating tacos on every day that starts with a “T” and my mom will call me at 10:30 pm each night to ensure I’m alive.  There’s something in my genetic makeup.  Maybe it’s the way I walk. Perhaps they can smell my self-confidence from across the room.  It’s certainly not the way I talk, because they hate me waaay before that.  Who knows. Farbeit for me to try to unlock the mystery behind centuries of bizarre, unwarranted behavior.

 

And now, because controversy makes the world go ’round, I’m going to take this opportunity to single out one of the most ridiculous of all ridiculous comments.  Because if you’ve been around here for more than a minute, you’ll know that anything and everything you say could be turned into a public mockery at any moment.  And now, I present to you Crazy-Uptight-Overly-Offended-For-No-Reason-Feminazi [ a.k.a “Leroy Brown”]:

It’s funny how small-minded people love revering to misogyny and sexism for kicks. Then again, I guess it’s all you folk have left–racism not being cool anymore. Too bad you have to live now and not fifty years ago. Then you coulda been sexist AND racist.

Now, what if you’d had the kind of luck where most of the Jewish people you’d ever met had in some way been unpleasant individuals? Would you be jew-haters? Would you be writing an anti-Semitic blog post?

Specimens of both genders exhibit undesirable characteristics. HUMANS exhibit undesirable characteristics. Just so you know, your blog makes you sound like an idiot. Now according to your logic, I should assume that you are an idiot because you are a woman. According to my own logic, you are an idiot because you aren’t very good at thinking things through. I hope you improve.

i-hate-women

My poignant and restrained response:

hahaah. oh “leroy.” that was hilarious. thank you for the laugh.

I mean, she was joking right? Of course, I could have made her feel like the stupidest person alive, thus addressing each one of her completely insane and off-base remarks, but if someone is SO STUPID to not even realize that everything on this blog is for entertainment value and they are SUCH A PRUDE that they can’t even laugh at how unbelievably retarded their own gender acts at times, well then, I’ve got much better things to do.  And more importantly, doesn’t she?

Speaking of haters, I’ve gotten a lot of emails / comments lately from women I haven’t talked to in literally, YEARS.  Possibly decades.  Mainly, because they hated me because of something to do with a boy.  Or their friends didn’t like me, so they had to hate me out of obligation.   The comments express upset about how I recalled a particular story in my life or assuming that a blog was about them, when really I hadn’t even remembered what ethnicity they were.

After much pondering, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s because the haters secretly love me. There is NO OTHER possible explanation as to why they would hunt me down in such a way AND take the time to read this precious blog AND take the time to comment on it.  So shucks, I’ll take it as a compliment.

Awwwww… you guyyyys.

You Big, Fat, Fake Smart Person

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Speaking of things I collect, I may have mentioned it briefly in the masterpiece entitled How To Live The Best Fake Life You Can Imagine, or several times thereafter, that I collect books.  I don’t read them, as much as I like to give the impression that I do, while underhandedly using them strictly for decorating props.  I understand this is a perplexing and tricky dichotomy considering I’m a writer. But you know how “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, I also find that “Those who can’t write, read.” You’re welcome to leave me nasty comments in regards to that theory, but wouldn’t you rather go eat a Dilly Bar or something?  Go with the cherry. You’ll thank me.

But seriously, the books are starting to take over my life.

bookshelves

So when I’m selecting books, my focus is on the thickness and color of the cover and how well it will coordinate with the lamp, random flea market suitcase, or bookshelf that it will be sitting on or in the proximity of.  I don’t pay attention to minor details like the title or the content.  I had an epiphany recently that I should start trying to solve all my problems by dissecting different sections of my house and seeing what they reveal about me.  [Go here to see what my freezer had to say. It was shocking, to say the least.] So, we’re moving on to my books.

It’s only fitting that we start with my desk area. It’s where I am sitting right now, talking to you.  It is also where I spend almost all of my meager existence being a hermit, writing and editing with bloodshot eyes, and listening to my nineties playlist while eating very questionable leftovers. Because I can.

forbidden-love-relationships

Let’s zoom in on the middle cubby. When I actually started reading the titles, I discovered that these books must have been stalking me during the past couple of years.

1. Places to Stay the Night.  This eerily, but accurately describes my life from the time span of 2002-2006.  If I could make one minor adjustment it would be “Random Places To Stay The Night While Escaping Your Heroin-Addict British Boyfriend, Overly-Possessive Italian Boyfriend, Or When You Decide To Go To Mexico On A Whim Or When You’re Wandering Around A European City And Refuse To Leave Your Wasted Roommate With Those Inappropriate German Guys.”

2. The Ideal Bride. Oh yes.  I couldn’t think of a better way to describe myself.  On opposite day.

3. To Love Again. And again… and again… and effing again.

4. Five Days In Paris. Please change to “Five Days In Paris Accompanied By: A Hailstorm, A Robbery, The Stomach Flu, Ungodly Frizzy Hair, World’s Meanest People, Mystery Meats Cooked In Too Much Butter, And An Unwanted Proposal.”

5. Ten Poems To Set You Free. UGH. Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!

6. Forbidden Area. Much like a fine art painting or Greek Opera, I’m leaving this one open to interpretation.

Here’s where you’ll actually get to know me: my nightstand.  This is reserved for books that I might pick up once in a while.   I don’t think it should serve as any surprise to you that WIT would be at the top of the stack, comfortably parked next to 50 Boyfriends Worse Than Yours.

Dear ESSENCE Magazine,

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You’ve been appearing in my mailbox for going on 4 months now.  I called you, and like a red-headed stepchild you said you had nothing to do with it, which I think might just be a bold-faced lie from the pits of hell.  You told me to send an email to cancel the subscription I never ordered, and yet, I still find you waiting for me each month.  Now, one of us just isn’t being honest with ourselves.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading up on Queen Latifah’s “love your body” tips, or Jennifer Hudson’s illegitimate pregancy, or Kelly Rowland’s advice on what to wear to work.  But I already love my body, as a result of my non-daddy issues. And considering I write for reality TV, I knew about Jennifer Hudson’s pregnancy before she did.  And I wear the same thing to work as I wore to bed.  And most unfortunately, I cannot use any of the hair care products that you suggest, which is a travesty in itself, because I’m a whore for hair supplies and have it stockpiled under my vanity like I’m anticipating the Y2K of personal hygiene products.

working-out

I’m calling a truce.

I’m not sure how or why you became obsessed with me, but it has to stop.  I’m really not that cool.  Actually, I’m rather feisty.  Some might call it rude, but that is a bit preposterous.  If friendship is what you’re looking for, then I will only disappoint you.  The only thing I have to offer is painful honesty, which nobody seems to appreciate.  I never answer my phone. It takes an average of a month [possibly more depending on the weather, current levels of laziness, and if my microwave is broken or not] to listen to your voicemail.  If you mark it as urgent, there is a minimum turnaround time of two weeks.  Even if we become friends, you’ll have to live on pins and needles or I might use you for a cheap laugh on my blog.  Are you willing to become a new category?  I mean, is this what you truly want? Can you handle living in a constant state of: WTF?!

I’m quite sure that if you removed the beer goggles and weren’t so blinded by your unwarranted affection for me, you would discover that you need more.  More than I can give you.

Please stop stalking me,

Blunt.

P.S. My microwave broke again tonight… so, just something to think about.

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.

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