Tag Archives: writing

The Hole In My Head: Explained

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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-coupeThe 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.

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.

What Women Really Want

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Come on in.  Pop open a cold one (non-alcoholic, of course, cus I need you to keep it classy and focus on what I’m saying).  Grab all your friends and sit Indian style on the mat.  Please don’t be concerned if you can’t sit Indian style, the more important problem is, why don’t you have any friends?   Men, I especially want you to listen up.  Hurricane honesty is about to blow you away.   Sorry Mary, there’s no spoonful of sugar with this Robitussin.  Just the cold,  green, mystery flavor your mother used to shovel down your throat.  So let’s recap what we already know:

1. We want you to be nice. But not too nice, Nicey McCallaghan.

2. We want you to pay attention to us. But watch it, Smothery McFerguson.

3. We want you to give us our way. But only half the time, Doormat McPushoverPants.

Alright, so now that I’ve given you a month to digest that very scientific and logical information, we can move on to Part II:

christina-aguilera-and-husband4.  We want you to be funny. But not a comedian with a complex that has to make a joke out of everything or he has no self-worth because he used to get beaten up at the bus stop or something.  Got that?  If you can’t make us bust a gut, then it’s OVER, Snoresville McGee.  You know how you always get perplexed when you see a fine lookin lady with an awkward geek who is unfortunate looking?  Well that’s cus she just dumped her rich, gorgeous underwear model for the guy who works the late shift at Taco Bell because he cracked a joke when he handed over her Chalupa.   Yea.  I never said these were smart decisions.  But they are what we choose, nonetheless.

5. We want you to be manly. But over the years it seems that you’ve taken this to mean stubbly and un-showered with a beer belly?  No, no.  Just because you shower, shave regularly, and don’t wear brown shoes with black pants it doesn’t mean that you’re not a man.  P.S.  it won’t KILL you to do a face mask or a pore strip once in a while.  You’ll still be allowed to shoot people on Call of Duty.

6. We want you to be romantic. The problem is, you’ve taken this idea of “romance” and twisted it into a pretzel of ungodliness.  It’s downright scary, what you’ve done.  I think the underlying roses-with-babies-breathproblem is somewhere along the line there was a glitch in the matrix and you guys got terribly confused by the term: romantic.

I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean: red roses with baby’s breath (and perhaps a fern), heart-shaped pendant necklaces (actually, heart-shaped anything), stuffed animals with mushy sayings, “gamble chocolates” with mystery fillings, or an attempt at writing us poetry.  [[Sigh]]   So really, the bottom line here is creativity.  So maybe we should rephrase this to say – we want you to be creative.

Can I get a witness ladies?

Remember it.  Write it down.  Fold it up.  Tuck it in your jockstrap.  And have a more successful life.

You’re welcome.

 

Look, Do You Want To Die?

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I’m sure you’d never guess it now, but I was a strange child. I grew up in the country so my days consisted of collecting caterpillars, creating my own farmer’s market,  and attempting to build tree forts that definitely endangered the safety of not only my life but also of my one neighbor friend that actually lived on my dead end street.  Of course, he was a boy so that didn’t help my quest for girlishness.  We were like Forrest and Jenny -except we never ended up dating.  Or having an illegitimate child.  Or getting AIDS.

My other neighbor, Bill, was a farmer so we’d play around on his tractors and then go back to his house where it always smelled like catfish and cigarettes. (they thought they still lived in Mississippi)  He and his wife were typical farmers,  missing a couple teeth and living on black coffee.  I don’t think I owned one single doll except for the cabbage patch my grandma bought me.  And I’m quite sure I threw up on that.

A nerd right from the get-go, I would gravitate to the office supplies aisle every time we stepped foot in a store.   In the picture you will see that I’m sitting in an actual school desk – one of the most amazing purchases my mom has ever made for me.  Still.   And as you’ll see from the picture, I’d sit and write in my closet for HOURS and HOURS.  Even from a young age, it was all I wanted to do.  I think if most people would think back on their childhood, they’d discover that their interests haven’t changed that much. Aside from picking their nose and stuff.

chris-brit

Speaking of my one childhood neighbor, do any of you remember a period of  about 1-2 years where you were TERRIFIED OF ALIENS???!? Cus, it’s very vivid in my mind. I don’t know what was up, but there was some kind of alien frenzy going on during my younger years.  It was all over the talk shows – people talking about being abducted and what not.  Anytime I was outside I’d keep a close watch on the sky and strange noises.  Of course, I was always protective of my friends even back then.  One time, I was playing softball with my neighbor and his brother.  There must have been a bunch of planes nearby, but as soon as I heard the noises, I immediately took action:

me:  STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING!!!

boys:  What? Why?

me:  GET IN THE GARAGE!!!!!

boys:  the garage?  but we’re in the middle of a ….

me: JUST DO IT!  DON’T ASK QUESTIONS!

boys:  but…. I …

me:  LOOK, DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!

Dilemma: Finding “The One”

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Lately, I’ve received alot of questions to the effect of “how do I find the one?”  Well, it just so happens that I have more than a few answers up my very svelte sleeve.  I’ve spent weeks, possibly even months [if I were to have logged all my time] researching and compiling data for what I am about reveal to you.  As per usual, you can expect to pay not a single PENNY for the knowledge that I am about to impart upon you!  It is but merely the beginning of a lifetime of benefits that you will reap by reading this blog.  How shall I be compensated, you ask?  The smile on your face.

For many of you, it’s not that you’re unlucky, you’re just looking in all the wrong places.  As you can imagine, I’m going to break the disturbing news to you right now.  You’re never going to find creme brulee on the Taco Bell menu, and unfortunately, you never will  [because it would be awesome to be able to get a Chalupa and creme brulee all in one stop].  I will further demonstrate my point in the following chart.  Please study it with ravenous desire.  memorize it.  picture it.  dream about it at night.  frame it on your wall.  tape it to your fridge.  fold it up into a teeny tiny piece and carry it next to your heart… for contained therein you will find the answer to one of life’s most perplexing questions.

dating-finding-the-one

Now, if you look carefully, you will observe that you have equal chances of meeting your future mate in: rehab, space camp, a safari, solitary confinement, or your mailbox.  But now I want you all to take out your microscopes because we’re going to delve into this and chizzle away to find out how this affects your dating life.  With closer analyzation, you will discover that you actually have a greater chance of meeting your future mate in solitary confinement, than you do at the bar.

staggering?  perhaps groundbreaking?
something to think about.

Dear Leonardo DiCaprio,

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After all these years…

leonardo-dicaprio-kurt-cameron-growing-pains

After all the pain we’ve been through.
kate-winslet-leonardo-dicaprio-titanic

After waiting in obscene lines with hundreds of other equally pathetic women only to watch Titanic for the tenth time, thinking that somehow this time Rose might not be such a stingy lovestruck hag and would let you hop on that raft for a just couple seconds to escape a watery death.

leonardo-dicaprio-gisele

After all the times I’ve turned a blind eye as you’ve blatantly cheated on me with many an anorexic  underwear model from various continent.

leonardo-dicaprio-environmentalist

After all of this, I want you to know that I don’t just love you for the fact that you are trying to single-handedly save the planet one recyclable grocery bag at a time.

I love you in spite of that.

Environmentally unconsciously yours,

Blunt.

p.s  Is it bad if  I leave all the lights on in my house while I drive around in my Suburban and chuck plastic water bottles out the window for fun?

How To Avoid The Dentist For Life

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philosophersThroughout the ages,  many philosophers have attempted to answer the question, “Why would I rather be tied up in a glass box and left for dead in the Sahara desert than go to the Dentist?”

For me, it started when I was six.  It’s bad enough that I inherited my mother’s unbelievably awful teeth, and I always had an average of three cavities EVERY visit and they could never get the Novocaine right.  As horrible as that was, it is not what drove me to camp out by the mailbox so I could tear up the ”time for a checkup” postcards the minute they arrived and bury them in the garbage before my mom would notice. 

Fluoride.  Do any of you recall having trays oozing with “bubblegum” or “mint“ flavored fluoride shoved into your mouth to protect your teeth from cavities?  Then once the trays were in place you had to sit there struggling not to gag as the slimy goo (which resembled Windex more than it did any of the above mentioned flavors) started trailing down your throat,  all the while you’re gasping for air because that ridiculous vacuum was sucking it all from your airway.  I remember each visit (which ended up being once every two years, when the postcard sabotage went according to plan) lying there, staring up at the poster of toothbrushes hidden in the forest,  shuttering in fear, and wondering if maybe – just maybe – they would forget the fluoride this time.  But they never did.  It’s as if they possessed some other -earthly -futuristic -robot memory. And I didn’t stand a chance.  Eventually, I started pleading with them.  “Come ooooon, my teeth are going to have cavities no matter what, don’t you see?  Look at my mom.  That’s just my lot in life.  I’ve made my peace with it.  It’s time you got on board.”   But all my attempts proved futile.

Flossing.  I have done this section in red.  Red, for the color of the blood that my gums have shed at the hands of various hygenists throughout my childhood.   As I grew into my adult teeth, I was relieved to find that fluoride would no longer be a part of my torture.  FREEDOM AT LAST!  That was, until, I discovered a whole new world of anguish. Flossing.  Throughout the duration of high school, every conversation with my hygienist would follow this format:

her: “hmm..  how often do you floss?”

me: “bout once every couple days.”  [lies. lies.  all lies. straight from the pit of hell!]

her: “you really need to do it at least once a day.  not flossing can lead to Gingivitis and gum disease.  do you know how to properly floss?”

[then she does the whole demonstration with the index finger blah blah]

me: “yea.  yea I know.  I just forget sometimes.”

her: “hmm.. I’m a little concerned.  do your gums normally bleed?”

me: “no.  no actually they don’t.  only when someone probes them with sharp metal objects.”

Root Canals. Finally, when I was “of age”  I could choose my own dentist.  So I set out with my suitcase in hand and all the optimism in the world.  I didn’t stop searching until I found a guy who specialized in gentle, no drill dentistry.   Plus, he was Chinese.  I don’t know what it is about Chinese people, but I automatically assume they are smart.  This guy won’t be shoving tubes down my throat and destroying my gums for no good reason, he’s above that.  He also informed that the reason I couldn’t chew on the left side of my mouth for the past two years was because I needed a root canal.  Smart dentist? maybe.  More costly than adopting my own Chinese baby and putting him through dental school?  Definitely.

After shuffling around to the better half of all the dentists in the white pages, my dad recommended his childhood dentist.  On my first visit, I was pleased to discover that the hygienist was as gentle as a feather blowing in the summer breeze.  I smiled on the inside..  Could it be?  Then the dentist comes in and as he’s examining my mouth I realize he’s not wearing a mask, his face is really close to my mouth, and he is really old.   Afterall, he was my dad’s dentist.  Thats ok, that means he has lots of experience.  Experience? maybe.  Halitosis? definitely.

Sigh.

Like Black On A Chalkboard

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One of my goals for 2009 was to “stop fabricating the truth”  so that means that what you are about to witness is definitely legit.

My family is hilarious.  We’re like the token Italian family they always showcase in movies, who talk over eachother and have 8 different conversations happening at once.  Except, my mom isn’t even Italian.  And I don’t have 7 siblings named after famous Italian statues.

There’s a couple of things you must know about my parents to fully appreciate this story.  My dad is quite possibly the funniest person alive – to everyone except my mother, who never gets any of his jokes. Or maybe she does, but she thinks they are super lame.   On the other hand, no one on earth ever laughs at my mother’s jokes, except my mother, because they are just horrendous.   My dad and I often challenge each other to see who can ignore her jokes the best, because if we give her even the slightest bit of encouragement she will keep repeating them. over. and. over.   In a nutshell, they are on completely different wavelengths.  In fact, the only thing they might have in common is their confusion over anything related to pop culture.

We’re watching American Idol, some nerdy kid sings, and my mom loves it.

mom: you know who he reminds me of?  that kid on King of the Lords.

me:  what?

dad:  King of the Lords?!?  you mean, Ring of the Lords?

mom:  oh, IM SORRY.  that’s right, I meant Ring of the Lords.

me:  no. no.  it’s Lord of the Rings.

mom:  well, I like him.  he reminded me of Clay Aiken.

me:  I guess.  I like Clay Aiken.  Can’t believe he had a kid.

mom:  a kid????   he got married?

me: not exactly.  he artificially inseminated his 40 yr old roommate and then he came out of the closet.

mom:  WHAT?!?!  since when?

clay-aiken-people-coverme:  like, a year ago?

dad:  [randomly changing the subject]  you know, if you need get those pictures off my camera I’ve got a SUB cord and you can hook it up.

me:  SUB?  what?  It’s not a car we’re talking about here.  you mean a USB cord?

dad:  Oh gosh, I’m sorry.  I  don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.  Sometimes I transpose my numbers.

me: …… sigh… you mean letters?   [going to grab some paper so I can write all of this down]

[Nathaniel, the annoying emo kid sings…]

mom:  he looks like he has a booger in his nose.

me:  it’s a nose ring.

mom:  so tell me more about this Clay Atkins?

me:  it’s AIKEN.

mom:  so does he have a boyfriend then?

dad:  well that’s usually how it goes.

[then Jose, the Puerto Rican sings his song and gets emotional afterwards]

dad:  [all annoyed]  well you know he’ll make it now

me:  cus he cried?

American Idoldad:  of course.  but you know who I liked was that little brunette.  She was the best one with the best voice that messed up the worst.

[meanwhile, Lil Rounds sings her R&B song….]

mom:  well that was just terrible.  She’d of been better off singing Mary Had A Little Lamb than that crap.  it was like black on a chalkboard.

dad:  well that’s cus you just don’t get it.  That girl’s gotta lot of class.

me:  you said black on a chalkboard.

7 Reasons to Despise Neil Diamond

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Why 7?  Because it’s God’s number.

1.  The biggest, bushiest, salt -and -peppery sideburns of all time.  That goes without saying.

2.  Songs like Cracklin’ Rosie,  Really?  What does that even mean.  Cracklin oat-bran?  Cracklin fire? … or perhaps you meant to say cracklin whip?   Cus you’re a pervert?

3.  He’s a pervert.  Not only did he sign with Bang Records, but he made a song that contains the words, “girl, you’ll be a woman soon… and soon i’ll be your man.” Well gee Neil, lets try and  wait for the poor girl to stop running from the boys because they have “cooties” before attempting anything that could get you 3-5.

4. Gravely voice. beaty eyes.   That was a two-for-one special.

5.  He breeds abnormal fans.

6. Clearly, he has an anger management problem – possibly suffers from permanent insanity or syphilis.  Or both.

7.  He is a constant embarrassment to society, and a mockery is to be made of him. Only then, might he stop.

“I’m a Believer” in that!

5 Reasons Not To Date An Only Child

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  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-childTake 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.