Tag Archives: teenagers

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!!!

Your Daily Dose Of Paranoia

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This is a snapshot of my life on any given day.  …Piles of unopened mail.  …30 different notepads with in-decipherable scribbles of random thoughts that I’ve written down when I was supposed to be hanging out with someone.  After Easter, the Cadbury chocolate bar could be easily substituted for Reeses or anything but Milk Duds.  …Vitamins I’ll stare at all day with every good intention, but won’t ever get up to refill my water so I can actually take them.

So the other night, my stomach started hurting really, REALLY bad.  I was perplexed.  I stared over at the pile of randomness on my desk, searching for clues, when it hit me. I just polished off an entire bowl of pistachios.  Wait… wasn’t there a national recall on pistachios last week because they were infected with Salmonella?  Crap.

It’s not my fault.  My mom calls me every night and runs down a new list of things I should be paranoid of. Example of our weekly conversations:

MONDAY NIGHT

Mom: Don’t go to Target.

Me: Like,  ever?

Mom: Well, some girl got her purse stolen last night.  I guess there are these guys that hang around the parking lot and they ask if they can borrow your phone or something then they rob you.

Me: You think I would fall for that? Do you forget that I lived in London all by myself?

Mom:  I’m just saying.  It’s not safe these days for a girl to go out on her own after dark.  I’d just prefer if you were with someone. Will you just tell me you’ll always be with someone?

Me:  Of course. My friends are always available when I need to pick up Q-tips and some cereal on a Friday night.

Mom:  Mmm, cereal. That sounds good. I think I’m gonna have a bowl.

TUESDAY NIGHT

Mom:  Hey what are you doing?

Me: I’m running errands.

Mom: You aren’t at Walmart are you?   If you are, leave.

Me:  Wait, what?

Mom:  Did you hear about what’s happening at WALMART?!?

Me:  Sigh.  No… but I’m not too worried cus you’re probably gonna tell me.

Mom:  Well, there’s gonna be some gang initiation and they are supposed to shoot three girls.  So I wouldn’t go there for at least a couple weeks.  Oh, and avoid pistachios cus they’re all infected with Salmonella. Oh, did you see American Idol tonight? That Adam Lambert is my favorite, do you think he’s gay?

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

Mom:  What are you doing?

Me: Writing.

Mom:  I figured.  ….Well, you know, you just couldn’t pay me to fly anywhere these days.  Did you see that 20/20 where the spies got onto the planes with knives and tear gas?

Me:  But mom, you haven’t flown since 1969 cus you’re terrified of it.  It has nothing to do with Terrorism, you’re just trying to get the point across that I shouldn’t fly.

Mom: NO I’M NOT.  But I wouldn’t advise it.  So whatcha writing about?

So somewhere in the shuffle of more pressing concerns, the pistachio crisis was forgotten.   That combined with the fact that they are just so so delicious.

 I didn’t stand a chance.

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.

Holy Crapballs, That Was A Person

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

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

Friend: Holy crapballs, that was a person.

Me: Where? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friend: Yes, you do.  But I…

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

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

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

Friend:  Definitely. more. appreciative.

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

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

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