Blunt Bites: And It’s So Delicious, The Ambiguity

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In my early twenties, I decided to love the word Ambiguity.

Perhaps because so much of my life was, and still is lived there, in the unknowing. I became such good friends with ambiguity that I finally decided to just love it, you know? Like that annoying little genius kid that keeps asking a billion questions. Eventually, you just give in, grab a Lunchable and explain why the earth doesn’t fall through space and how fish breathe underwater and why Capri Suns are so damn hard to get the straw through without ruining your new plaid shirt.

As a historical over analyzer, my mind constantly wanders to worlds of endless possibility. Maybe even galaxies. There is something exhilarating and terrifying about the ambiguity of life and the people in it. Choices, motives, actions, words. Our own thoughts, the only certainty. And even those blindside us.

If we could know the outcome, if we could see the end result, would we really want to? Who knows where we would end up if we only took the path of least resistance. Least hurt. Never challenging ourselves and only heading toward whatever resulted in pure happiness. ‘Cus isn’t that the big goal, happiness?

But as you might remember, we’re only really entitled to the pursuit.

My life has been full of ambiguous relationships. This, one of many.

It was seven years ago. And the snow fell early that year.

The big, pretty kind that hides leftover leaves and makes sparkly piles on branches of trees; and I knew I couldn’t like you. But it’s not my fault I love the snow. The kind that shields your window from all of the things you don’t want to see but know that you need to. Even still, it was just one of those things. I was a mess. And you, well, we won’t get into that. You were just a guy in a dorm in London. A friend of a friend who became my friend and we kissed on a Tuesday night.

You had a funny accent that was more Chicago than East Coast and you hated me for saying that. Maybe you reminded me of home. Or what I wanted home to be. Endless debates over ideal pizza crust thickness, which I believe I won by sheer gesture volume. That, and my opinion counts twice given my Italian heritage. You were photography and adventure and all of the things I never knew I loved yet. You introduced me to my first peach Bellini.

Back in those days, I carried a journal. You were in it. Probably more than you should have been for a friend of a friend.

We went on dates – friend dates – and talked about a lot of what-ifs. You loved my outlook on life; described me as a slightly jaded, hopeless optimist in denial. Or something like that. And I remember thinking, either you were a total liar or you actually understood me. Inherently, you looked out for me as if you somehow knew I didn’t care what happened to me in those days. You made me laugh, like, really laugh – in a way I hadn’t and wouldn’t for a long time. Had I foreseen the next two years, I would have laughed more with you, until we had to go back to our lives.

And we did.

And that is just where some stories end. Undone. Chalked up to delicious ambiguity of life.

But somewhere, in that murky indefiniteness, there lies a unique security. Because if we were honest with ourselves… we like not knowing.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Turning 30: What Happened In My 20s Stays In My 20s. Right After This Blog.

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{Today, at 3:33 pm, I’ll turn 30. It’s sort of hard to sum up a decade of madness, men and mistakes in a few words, so this is the closest you’ll ever come to Blunt Cliff Notes. While procrastinating this post, I also gave the blog a facelift. And if you can figure out how to remove that stupid orange outline on my sidebar, you would make my day.}

I always wondered what the big deal was about “thirty.”  It’s not like you’re over the hill or filling out hospice papers. It’s just thirty. 

It’s not like you have to start bringing dishes to pass at family gatherings because you are no longer a kid. It’s not like you’re going to start getting open mouth stares at the mention of being single and childless. It’s not like your license expires and your health insurance goes up. It’s not like recovery time from a night out goes from a cheeseburger and a Gatorade to a four-day process in which you hurt in places that make no sense.

Oh wait.

It is hard to remember what my life used to be like. Over the past decade, I’ve seen the best and worst in others. And I’ve seen the best and worst in myself – mostly the worst, but hey, at least that’s out of the way. At twenty, I was still with my high school boyfriend. Love was making out in dark parking lots, while I made up sixty-five different excuses as to why I didn’t answer my mom’s call. It was overdone Valentine’s Day gifts with lots of tacky red things and inedible candy hearts. And now that I have actual perspective, I can say that, yea, we loved the crap out of each other. He taught me about selfless, unconditional love. That relationship set a pattern as I left with a haunting feeling of doubt and remained in a perpetual state of confusion for years over what I wanted and needed and how I would find that balance. If I would ever find it.

I was in college not because my parents forced me or because I had great aspirations in life. That’s just what everyone did. And I love the feeling of the first day of school. I lost friends as quickly as I made them in the fickle world of self-absorbed, hormone-driven college students just trying to fit in – quite the contrast to my tiny, private high school with the same kids I’d known since 1st grade. My English 103 teacher told me I had the best talent for writing she had ever seen – frankly, I thought she was flirting with me and I didn’t give two craps as long as I passed.

Mid college years, I fell for a guy who had nearly all the criteria on my “need” list at the time. Love was possession and control. I felt claustrophobic. Doubtful; but unsure of even my doubt. It wasn’t until a year when I realized he had merely been an illusion of what I needed. The first, and least damaging, of many manipulators I would encounter in my twenties. He taught me that people always tell us the truth about themselves – it’s our fault if we don’t listen.

Amid that discovery, I was grasping for an escape. I was looking to be rescued. I needed direction and inspiration. The boy who worked in the college bookstore became all of those things to me. Love was passion and risk. He understood me in a way that has to be earned, yet we had just met. One snowy night as I walked to my car, he grabbed me and we had a conversation that changed the course of my life. He encouraged me to write. To take chances. To skip class because there are only so many perfectly beautiful fall days that one can spend daydreaming and listening to Radiohead. In a cowardly act of bravery – yes, that’s possible – I left on a plane for London the following month. Cowardly, because I was escaping. Brave, because the biggest risk I had ever taken was not brushing my teeth before bed. However, escaping didn’t work as well as I had hoped after a surprise proposal attempt from my ex.

As I explored Europe, I carried a journal of all the people I’d met. I fell in love with their stories. It was then, halfway across the world, that I realized I wanted to write for more than just a passing grade.

I came home with fresh perspective. New dreams. I started my own retail store and left college. The next two years involved a hellish ordeal of which I don’t really want to indulge. It isn’t worth it. Let’s just say, I naively thought it my obligation to do everything I could to help this person I thought I loved. I realize now it wasn’t love, because he wasn’t even who I thought he was. But I tried, while hiding it from everyone at the expense of my business and my sanity. The next two years would be an actual, literal nightmare of which I was scared to awake. Love was survival. Love was fear. Fear for his life. Fear for my life. I spent my days regretting every decision I’d made to that point. And my nights, doing anything I could to forget. 

Craving normalcy, I created a safe life for myself inside the walls of my first house and my bank job – which I hated, but figured that was what it meant to grow up. Friends were also growing up and getting families and 2.5 baths. I had finally found a stable guy who was so right in so many ways. We fought often, yet were so compatible on the “big” issues. Love was comfort and safety. When a ring entered the picture, I said yes, but my gut said no – and I wasn’t entirely sure why.

I’d lost my job, my fiancé and whatever was left of my sanity. Had a cancer scare. Men came and went. I learned how to be alone. I took up photography. A tumultuous year of jobless insomnia and depression led me back to writing and what once seemed an impossible feat became a reality. I started this blog and my freelance writing career took off, which led me to magazine jobs and editorial jobs and all sorts of things I’d dreamed of years ago in that dorm room with the boy from the bookstore. In fact,I contacted him and said  that ironically, he had inspired my first nationally published story.

I eventually got back together with my ex-fiance because of the idea of what we could be. We were good at pretending things were good. A month shy of our wedding, I left. It was incredibly scary, but in the end, we both saw it for what it was. He taught me about forgiveness, second chances and that there is such a thing as a good person who just isn’t good for you.

In many ways, I am glad to leave my twenties behind. And in many ways, I’m sad to say goodbye. They have been transformational. Interesting. Saddening. Inspiring.

The men have taught me a lot – what love looks like and what it most certainly does not. They’ve taught me that being alone isn’t scary, and it’s better than being fake happy. I’ve discovered the distinct difference between love, infatuation, desperation and competition. I know that passion is confusing. Passion does not equal love, nor are they mutually exclusive. For love without passion is worthless. I used to deem myself a “commitment-phobe.” And now I can tell you that term only applies when you’re with the wrong person.

I’ve learned that I truly do love writing. But I will no longer do it for money, only for me. 

I am still wildly annoyed by the sound of Neil Diamond, the word sausage and the way someone looks when they have mayo on the side of their mouth after eating a Panera sandwich. I drive the same crappy purple Saturn.

So, I guess I still have some growing up to do.

 

Other posts, elsewhere, I’ve written on these topics:

The Change Blog: Losing Your Job To Live Your Dream

College Crush: My First Love, A Nice Guy, And How I Effed It All Up

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

I’ll Tell Ya What We’re Not Gonna Talk About: 50 Shades Of Grey [Or How Long It’s Been Since My Last Blog]

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{This is a catch up post. And then, if there is even anyone still lingering around in the desert wasteland that has become this blog, you should probably brace yourself. I’m turning 30 on June 25 and I will be smattering this blog with a series of reflective posts laced with melancholic undertones to properly deal with those emotions. I shall be posting them in the upcoming weeks.}

So.

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I literally locked myself out of my own blog for forgetting the password. And then when I finally got in, I had 300 spam comments to delete and I then I thought, eh, this is a hassle. And I waited another week before I wrote something. #keepingitreal

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I’ve started getting Tweets like this:

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I’ve lost my sanity, regained it, and lost it again. And had bronchitis. Oh wait, I still do.

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that four…. FOUR of my closest friends have announced that they are prego.

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that your mom hears it’s chilly outside and she goes and gets a bowl.

Wait, what?

So I’ve been up to quite a few things in my absence. Not that it excuses it. Of course, in a perfect world it would. And I can tell you for a fact that we are not living in a perfect world because if we were, I would not be living out of my car, I would owe the dentist $1000 and you wouldn’t be mad at me. Which you are, so, point proven.

In April, I spent almost every night working on a promotional video for a charity and I had no time for anything.

Except for, the return of Titanic in 3d. Heal yes. I’d like to say that I’m over my childhood crush of Leo, but that would be such a bold faced lie that my pants would catch on fire. I would say another moment of note in April was giving a collective “booya” to iPhone users everywhere for telling me that I would never be able to have the coolest app ever, Instagram. That being said, here are some of my very first Instagram photos, brought to you by my Droid:

OH, and now we can be Instagram buddies and stalk each other via pictures! @bluntdelivery

In May, my best friend Kenny and his wifey and ridiculously cute child visited from California. And I photographed my first wedding. And actually, Kenny officiated the wedding that I was photographing. It was a favor for a friend and yes, I tried to get out of it fifteen different ways. Turns out, nobody buys my lame excuses anymore except you guys.

And here, in case you need to see the evidence of the wedding photos. And I’m pretty sure I still have situational IBS as a result of that pre-wedding anxiety.

Yea, pretty sure I do.

And since food takes up about 80% of the pictures in my gallery, I feel like you’d be missing out on a lot if I didn’t post a few. I also went to the dentist for the first time in 6 years. Obviously, the toothache got to the point where I couldn’t handle it and then a filling fell out while I was chewing Spearmint. Welp, apparently I have 10 cavities to be filled/refilled. And so this just goes to prove that you shouldn’t avoid the dentist until something goes wrong. You should continue avoiding him forever.

Oh, then it was mother’s day and my mom’s birthday. Translation: I spent a lot of time at Pier 1 on a random Sunday. Other things going on have included: watching the Bachelorette and being simultaneously pissed off at Ryan and bewildered at Emily’s barbie-like face yet sweet personality, coughing incessantly and losing a lot of sleep, being cranky as a result of no sleep and incessant coughing, doing photo shoots every weekend, working full time, still plotting a blog redesign, silencing internal battles about the dangers of UV radiation, watching every episode of New Girl, wondering why everyone on the planet is recommending a poorly written, self published softcore porn novel (50 Shades of Grey) like it’s the most brilliant thing ever to grace the hands of readers everywhere. Is it just cus they opted out of the Fabio picture on the cover?

And freaking out about turning 30. Stay tuned for my thoughts on that.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

That Guy Should Be Shot. Or, Given An Award.

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Before I get started, I just have to get real.

It happened and I can’t hide it from you. Nor do I want to be congratulated or pitied. But don’t be surprised if you find me in your local Starbucks, listening to the Smiths and giving the air that I’m better than everyone else. Because you just might.

The plus side is that I can finally get around to commenting on all your blogs again. Truce?

Even though I have a new computer, the last thing I want to do lately is sit at a computer after I get home from sitting at a computer all day. As you can tell, my creative pursuits – and this blog (what blog?) have suffered. But, this morning was Saturday. And it was warm and stormy and that’s my golden hour for writing.

The other day I saw a guy driving on the highway with Washington plates and “NY or BUST” written in the dust of his side panel. When passing him, it was obvious he had crammed every material possession he owned in that vehicle and headed off on what I’m guessing to be the pursuit of some sort of artistic dream. I say artistic not to underestimate the rest of you, but because we’re the only ones stupid enough to pack all our shit in a Ford Fiesta and relocate to one of the most expensive cities in the world in order to share a 400 sq foot, barely livable space with some Goth-ish stranger from Craigslist, while surviving off the $1 menu and care packages from mom because we’re determined to “make it.”

Whatever “making it” means. Half the time, I don’t even think we know what it means and we’re the ones trying to do it. But when we do make it, we’re definitely paying mom back.

As I passed the guy and contemplated how he was going to find room for that giant yellow bouncy ball in that tiny apartment, especially since Goth guy is going to have a crapload of black jeans and chains and stuff, my first thought was, “What an idiot.” Followed by, “Yea, I’d totally do that too if my mom wouldn’t disown me.”

I was a bit jealous in that moment. I almost gave him a thumbs up. But then I realized we’re in America and we don’t acknowledge people we don’t know. I was jealous for a lot of reasons. Because he’s starting over and he has no clue what it’s going to look like. Because he’s got guts that I could only pretend to have. Because he’s got a giant yellow bouncy ball. Because despite everyone telling him he is an idiot, he’d rather live uncomfortably then live with the regret of knowing he never gave it a shot.

I guess this isn’t your usual St. Patrick’s Day post. What’s the template for that anyway? A post about bad decisions and how the green beer didn’t go over so well the next morning? Yea, I suppose. Well, six years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, I woke up to an unseasonably warm day in London and stumbled down the hallway to my friends’ dorm room. We decided that given the weather and the pressing matters of drinking and wearing ridiculous hats, we should probably skip school and head to O’Connors. We also came to a similar conclusion on a lot of days that weren’t unseasonably warm or St. Patrick’s Day. Meh.

Subsequent St. Patrick’s Days just haven’t quite lived up.

I would show you pictures of myself, but I regret that I was too busy being a complete idiot and the only pictures I have of my European excursions were accidental or in front of some sort of monument or landmark. Three words: lame sauce.

That being said, Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Of course, I have no idea why the guy in the car was actually headed to New York.

But I hope it had something to do with being an idiot.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

 

Obligatory Valentine’s Day Post. I Waited A Week So It Would Go On Clearance.

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The honeymoon phase is over. That’s clear.

We’re not Khloe and Lamar for goodness sakes. And now I’m feeling all pressured to be spontaneous. Unpredictable. Edgy. Keep things fresh.

Which, if you haven’t figured it out yet, is why I disappeared for a month without warning. See, you might blame me in this situation but if you weren’t so insatiable then it wouldn’t have come to this.

Over the past month, several of you have made desperate attempts to reach out through the various social media avenues made available to us.

Blunt, is this thing on?

Blunt, are you alive?  Did you drown in a tub of mayonnaise?

Um, Blunt? I’m worried about you, but I’m more worried about if your mom really left your dad for Steven Tyler yet?

What the? Not even an annual disgruntled anti-Valentine post?

See, now I’ve got you exactly where I want you.

You’re not sure whether or not my heart attack paranoia finally manifested and there was a Blunt funeral that wasn’t even televised because some intern over at E! decided that Whitney Houston’s apparently trumped it or if I’m perfectly fine and just making you sweat it out. And you’re sorta nervous but silently a little happy that you have one less blog to keep up with now.

Yea, I kinda resent you for that last part there. But whatever, we took vows. Forgive and forget.

Anyway, before you get mad, just know that I did this for us. And the good news is I AM alive and so you can wipe the mascara from your face and stop listening to Adele’s Someone Like You on repeat, mmk?

Sometimes you just gotta spice things up.

Well, you can call me Mrs. Dash.

So if you’re done pointing fingers and you’re ready to thank me for what I’ve done, I’d like to share with you a few other things that I’ve done on my unannounced hiatus from THE INTERNETS:

*Redesign of my photography site, Indigo Photography

*Got a big-girl job unexpectedly and I’ve been in very intense training that has essentially claimed all of my remaining brain cells and thus, I’m only good for changing the channel from Bravo to E! when I get home.

*Been plotting my redesign of Blunt Delivery, which includes finding a way to incorporate my photography more into the site as well as starting my column on freelancing advice. And plus cus I just get ADD with my design after about a year.

*Listening to the new Lana Del Rey album on repeat.

*Freaking out because my site disappeared for about 5 days. And because another friend is preggers.

*Lamenting the loss of any creativity due to new job stealing all my brain cells.

*Seriously contemplated never writing another blog again but then realized I can’t live without you guys, or creativity. And so I slapped myself around a bit for thinking something so ludacris. Then I wondered why Ludacris doesn’t have a ‘Lil in front of his name like all the other rappers who are going somewhere in life. Then I remembered that I’m way overdue for a video blog.

(snowflake on my car window)

*Did I mention that I’m living out of my car / friends’ houses / parent’s house because my engagement ended last fall and someone is now renting out my house therefore making it really really hard for me to even use a computer regularly?

*Been in and out of the doctor for undiagnosed mystery stomach pains. Tried about 700 different crazy diets, one of which was sugar free, gluten free and dairy free. Which essentially equals = chicken.

*Simultaneously trying to talk myself in and out of switching to Mac again. Ugh.

*Panicking because one of my friends is insisting that I photograph her wedding although I’ve never done so and I have no clue what to do. So I just keep buying more photography gadgets, which should probably fix everything.

*Racking my brain over why WHY Bachelor Ben can’t see though Courtney and her rabbit faces and beady little eyes and manipulative ways. And cartoon voice.


So can we Lionel Richie our way out of this and back into a loving and forgiving relationship?  One where you love and forgive me and I just kind of do what I want?

You’re the best.

Which is why you can always count on me to spice things up.

You deserve it.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

 

 

American Idol Is A Homewrecker & I Guess I’m Part Indian Now

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I think I’ve let enough time slip by that you’ve all moved on from the holiday / New Years  resolution crap right? Like, we can talk about other stuff now? As in, big picture stuff?

Kgood.

So I’m currently in the middle of two very important things:

1. Designing my first business cards for the photography business that I started two years ago.

2. Breaking the news to my mother (and myself) that she is in love with Steven Tyler.

And while you’re contemplating the meaning of this and low-carb diets, I’m gonna serenade you with a few random pictures from the past two weeks.

I think the above statements are pretty self explanatory. Clearly, I’ve waited two years to design business cards because I’m an unrepentant pessimist and was quite certain that I would not even be able to figure out how to use a DSLR. And if I did, the world would probably end first so why invest in cards? That extra twenty dollars is the difference between designer imposter perfume or the actual Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds fragrance. 75 gas station cappuccinos or one caramel macchiato from Starbucks.

And although the discovery of my mom’s secret love affair is alarming, it’s not entirely surprising. Being able to detect the inevitable destruction of a relationship is my sixth sense.

I first picked up on it when Steven Tyler appeared on last year’s American Idol. They laughed in all the same places. My mom unapologetically admired his purple suede pants and feathered hair accessories, claiming that they were in homage to his supposed Indian heritage. She was not happy when I had to tell her that feathers were the newest hair trend and could be purchased at your local Great Clips for 7 bucks a feather.

The culmination and affirmation of my suspicions occurred tonight, when my mom kept switching back and forth from the OWN channel to see if the 2hour Steven Tyler interview was on again. She had been talking about it for days after watching it with my dad. (I know, the nerve!) ‘Cause, first of all, the OWN channel?

“Mom don’t you hate Oprah?”

“Well, I hated her on that other show. But now she’s doing different stuff.”

“Other show? You mean, the OPRAH show. There’s nothing different except now she just has an entire network called THE OPRAH WINFREY NETWORK. It’s like one big continual OPRAH show.”

“But these interviews are cooler.”

“Because they’re 2 hours long or because she’s interviewing your boyfriend?”

Her lack of protest might as well have been a handwritten admission of love stamped by the king of England with that melted candle waxy stuff to ensure that it’s legitimacy.

Sorry, my Tudors phase is never far from me.

When the interview finally came on, she rushed to the living room saying, “Oh my gosh, it’s on again! I could watch it a hundred times. Brit, you gotta see this. His house is so cute, it’s on a lake in New Hampshire. His kitchen cabinets are yellow!”

Um. Ok, mom. I’ll watch it. I’ve always been concerned with the interior color swatch of Steven Tyler’s kitchen. But I’m slightly more concerned about how dad is going to feel when you’re cooking bacon in that kitchen in about six months.

I grabbed a blanket as I watched him talk about his battle with drugs and self esteem and monogamy. This tool is going to be my stepdad? Will this make me part fake-Indian too?

And if so, do I get free stuff?

Like, just college? I heard they got clothes and food and stuff too. ‘Cause, I could probably come around to the idea.

I’ve always liked New Hampshire. And I mean,the cabinets can’t be that ugly. The sun is yellow and I like that.

 

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Life Lately In Pictures: Chicago, Hoarding Accusations, Catfish & Awkwardness

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Life has been full of changes lately.

Not in an “awkward teenager changes” sort of way. Or in a Tupac sort of way. But in more of a Stevie Nicks sort of way. Sort of. And I apologize that I’ve been so busy eating Sour Patch kids while seeing Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1 over and over again that I couldn’t find time to blog about all these changes. Can you just respect that?  You could have it a lot worse. I could be writing daily posts about my vegan lifestyle or posting pictures of my midget sized dog with eye crusties, wearing lame outfits and discussing how he told me he hates the colder weather.

Black Friday

So after I had the uncomfortable talk with my parents about my real ethnicity, I took the train in to Chicago to spend the rest of my Black Friday meeting up with Jess from Stumbling Toward Nirvana.

Welp. Ever seen that movie Catfish?

Yea, this was nothing like that. But given the grab bag of creepy, random experiences that is my life, I brought a video camera just in case. Fortunately, I must tell you that the red-headed writer is everything that she appears to be – awesomesauce with a sprinkle of cinnamazing.

Dad’s 60th Surprise Party

Of all the uncertainties in life, there is one constant that I can bank on: when I use my dad’s camera for any reason, I will find various self portraits of him in perplexing, yet familiar locations.

You might remember this one I posted last Christmas. It might seem like confusing self portraits of my dad are becoming your yearly Christmas gift. And you might be right.

If you remember correctly, I took a poll on what we all thought he was doing in this picture. And although “a Christopher Lloyd impression” was a good guess, it turns out he actually just finished some drywall and my mom had requested he remove his shirt before entering the house. I’m still waiting to hear back from Angela Lansbury as to why he thought it necessary to document this. I will update you as soon as I receive the investigative summary.

So last month I was using my dad’s camera, and you know how sometimes the universe is just on your side? Well such was this. More self portraits. And it so happens that I had just sent out the invites for my dad’s 60th surprise birthday party.

I may or may not have blown them up and scattered the around the room.

Actually, yea. I probably did do that.

He got over it as soon as he tasted my BBQ meatballs. If I could just ship some of those meatballs to the Middle East, I’m confident those suicide bombers would start thinking twice. The meaning of life could be found in those meatballs.

That party was a lot of work but there is no one in the world who deserves to be celebrated more than my dad.

Christmas Decorating

In my spare time, I’ve been elfing my way around to all my friends houses helping string lights, decorate trees and making sure that their houses are Christmasy enough for me to visit.

And in my spare, spare time, I have decided to help my dad get organized. I decided this after needing to grab something from his workshop and seeing this:

After immediately calling AEtv and submitting an application for Hoarders: Buried Alive, I put my gloves on and we got to work. My dad’s defense was that everyone throws their extra stuff in his workshop. By everyone, I’m assuming he means my mom since that’s the only other person around.

He denied accusations of hoarding, but you tell me.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Black Friday: Is This When I’m Supposed To Tell My Parents That I’m Black?

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It’s a simple question. And one that I kind of need answered in the next few days. K thanks.

So I’ve been sitting here all morning trying to write about something – anything but the thoughts in my head. Preferably something ridiculous that would make you smirk and say, “Ok good, at least she’s alive.” Something just to let you know I’ve received your death threats, emails and cheer up tweets, and the absence has indeed made me grow fonder of you.

But all I’ve gotten is a headache from the glare of this computer screen and trying to figure out what the heal I can possibly write about in a blog titled “Black Friday: Is This When I’m Supposed To Tell My Parents That I’m Black?” Let this be a lesson to you – write the post and then title it appropriately. Got that? Post —> Appropriate Title; not Title That Could Never Make Sense No Matter What You Wrote —> Post.

And amid this struggle, I received a phone call that reminded me of what’s important in life (aside from coming clean about my ethnicity).

I’ve always believed that when things end, they must end badly. And not just because I’m a pessimist, because it’s just one of those certainties of life – like the moon and taxes – I never say death, because I still think that somehow my parents are going to be the exception to that one. They just have to be.

Well it seems a lot of things have been ending lately.

Relationships are ironic when you think about it. You spend early days together lying in fields of possibility and imagining how life with that person is somehow going to escape the pitfalls and mistakes of past loves. Their every breath excites you. Each text brings a stupid smile to your face – the kind of smile that your friends find really irritating when they’re in the middle of telling you an important non-funny story. You give them a key despite all of your previous bad experiences with key-giving because you just have a feeling it’s going to be different this time.

Fast forward two years and buildings and roads exist where fields once were – roads that have taken you in opposite directions and led you to places you never thought you’d be. Texts have gone from compliments to grocery reminders, and you start having those fights about nothing  – the ones you thought you were exempt from.

Then one morning you wake up and think, “Am I one of those people?” One of the fake happy people? You remember what your mom always told you about how passion and excitement wear off and love takes a new meaning over time. It’s children and obligation and commitment. It’s comfort and stability. And it either gets better with time, or it doesn’t.

So what determines whether you make it? Is it just old fashioned dedication? Is it because you can’t possibly live without that person? Is it realizing that sometimes no matter how hard you fight, you just don’t have the strength to make it? Is it finally throwing caution to the wind and everyone’s expectations and doing what makes you happy? Is it having confidence in yourself and your intuition? Is it learning how to accept imperfections and appreciating the grass on your side?

Who knows. I’ve never had any answers for you.

But here’s what I do know. You invest years of time and energy into someone; and when you think about it, time is all any of us have. You learn all their favorite things. You have dinner parties with their family and friends. They rearrange their apartment so it suits you both better. They buy you a toothbrush. You blow off your important things so you can show up to their important things. Your lives merge.

Until that one day when it all stops for whatever reason.

And the next thing you know, you’re fighting over books and who gets the Netflix account. You’re saying things you don’t mean just because you want them to feel bad, the way that you feel bad. Maybe you wanted it to end. Maybe you were devastated. Maybe you felt relieved. Maybe you couldn’t sleep for days.

Or perhaps there wasn’t any fighting. Maybe you just left because you didn’t know what else to do.

Either way, it’s a loss. A void. And it’s sad that a person who used to be on your Verizon 5 Faves is now just another person on the list of people you have to hide behind a shelf to avoid when you spot them in the chip aisle.

So, maybe, we just shouldn’t do all that.

Maybe, we should all be adults. And realize people are human. And we let each other down. And that we’re not all meant for each other, but that doesn’t mean we have to hate that person or pretend like we don’t see them.

Cus at one point and time, they were the only person you cared about seeing.

And, hey, they even bought you that toothbrush.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

 

Here’s How I Feel About Your Bucket List

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If I told you what has transpired in the past three weeks you wouldn’t even believe me. I don’t even believe it. And since I’m in no mood to argue with you about the legitimacy of my ridiculous life, this blog will have nothing to do with what happened. Mmmmk?

I mention this only so that you can know I’m writing this post after a life-altering, sleep-deprived-stress-filled two weeks and you need to lower your expectations as of a paragraph ago. I mean, given the title, I’m pretty sure you’ve already turned on a Bravo marathon and busted out the nail clippers.

Welp. I don’t usually like to read because I’m a rebellious, unsophisticated punk. But I was scrolling through the pages of a blog, when I came across the “bucket list” tab and started to break out in hives. Lemme tell you something about bucket lists: I don’t like ’em. I don’t like ’em one bit. All the way from their beady little eyes to their unkempt toenails. Bucket lists = pressure. As if I really need ANOTHER reason to feel like a loser when I turn 30? I don’t need to add to the pile: looking at my “30 before 30” list and seeing that I’ve only done 1.5 things all year besides being a loser. Appeal factor? Zero.

I find it interesting to scroll through and see what magical things people have to cross off their lists. Like, for some reason, turning 40 isn’t going to suck anymore as long as you can say you’ve gone white water rafting or climbed the Andes. It’s a psychological game with yourself and spoiler alert: you’re going to lose. That’s just a lil something I picked up from CSI. What’s even weirder is how I can check a vast majority of things off most of those bucket lists, yet I don’t feel complete. Or accomplished. Or any better about my age. Bucket lists are clearly very relative. The creepy relative that makes me uncomfortable at Thanksgiving.

So I’ve decided to think smarter and not harder. I’ve devised my own bucket list of already completed things to give myself a sense of false accomplishment. And guess what? I’m feeling just phenomenal.

My bucket list:

1. Drive through a walled city on a mountainside in Tuscany, Italy. Get out to take pictures in the town square and realize I’ve just crashed a funeral that the whole town is attending. Check.

2. Climb a Mayan pyramid in Mexico while wearing flip flops and then wish I would have taken Jose’s word about the poorly pasteurized cheese enchiladas once I get to the top. Check.

3. Ride the world’s highest cable car and get stuck in a lightening storm, while suspended in a glass box over the mountains for two hours as I make another bucket list: survive only so I can break up with the guy that thought it was a good idea to ever take me on a cable car ride. Ever. Check.

4. Accidentally date a charming guy from London, who turned out to be not so much charming as much as he was a heroin addict. Check.

5. Walk into class and have my 3rd grade teacher whisper that I’ve tucked toilet paper AND my skirt into the back of my tights. Check.

6. Gain 5 lbs because Wendy’s keeps pulling fast ones by adding “all natural” and “sea salt” to their french fry billboards. Check.

7. See the Eiffel Tower at night (except I never really wanted to do this). And at sunrise (except I never really wanted to see anything at sunrise).Check.

8. In high school, discover that I have one giant ear and one regular ear and when I tell my parents the disastrous news, they laugh in my face saying, “We were wondering when you were going to notice that!” Check.

9. Spend a month trying and failing to teach Mexican natives how to pronounce the letter “W” while I video tape them so I can laugh for years to come. Check.

11.Discover my purse missing after leaving the Moulin Rouge. Become the Bambi of Paris, wandering the red light district with no money or knowledge of the French language. Proceed to take out all of my frustrations on the country of France til the end of time, amen. Check.

12. Lose all my best friends to myth that is “like, totally awesome” California life. Check.

13. Call my dad over to my condo in the middle of the night to kill what I presume (and announce on Facebook) to be a cockroach, but really it turns out to be just an over-sized waterbug. Check.

14. Protest California for stealing all my friends. And Hollister, except not really, because their hoodies are too soft. And they’re currently on clearance. Check.

15. Protest China. Just because. Check.


Sigh. Well. I sure feel better. I think you should do. Just by osmosis.

And no, I never saw the movie.

{Disclaimer: I think it’s great to set goals for yourself blah blah blah. You’re just a better person than I am and I cant handle the self-inflicted pressure.}

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Life Lately In Pictures: Road Trippin & Lady Elaine Fairchilde

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I have a billion things to get caught up on today. Which is exactly why I just started a Lady Elaine Fairchilde Twitter account three minutes ago. In fact, she just tweeted her first pic: “Missin my peeps from the ‘hood today. Went 2 ChuckECheese 2b around other creepy puppets w/ wood faces.” She’s also claimed the hashtag #puppetproblems.

So, back to why I was MIA this week. Unlike all the other times I have BS excuses, this one is legit. I got a text from my friend Kira on Monday: “I need to talk to you for two seconds. You’re gonna listen, then say yes, and then figure it out later.  Mmmk?”  Um.

Kira is a virtual friend and partner of mine over at The College Crush. She lives in Madison-ish, and I live in Chi-area but we’ve only hung out once. Well, she was speaking at the University of Michigan and wanted yours truly to accompany her. Apparently, one hang out is all it takes for someone to know that any kind of a trip would be better if I were in the passenger seat.  Some things in life are just blinding truths.

Kira: Just say yes.

Me: But, I have so much to do this week.

Kira: I’ll make an awesome play list, bring a basket of snacks and pick you up at your door.

Me: Eh.

Kira: My plan is to be done speaking by 1 and drinking martinis by 2 on Wednesday.

Me: You have my address right?

This is me putting on my best “Yay, we’re about to embark on a road trip” face, when on the inside I’m thinking, “I can already feel the car sickness and misery from my undersized bladder having to overextend itself.”

Kira may or may not have mentioned the trip would be 4 hours. Yea, nope.

Of course, the 8 hours probably could have been shortened had our main agenda not been to find a particular restaurant we were craving. It also would have gone shorter had we not gotten sidetracked by making fun of all the adult store names in Hammond, Indiana. Once we got closer to the hotel, Kira was telling me that she researched the reviews to find us a good one.

Me: As long as it doesn’t have a door that leads to the outside, I’ll be okay.

Kira: Well, crap. I don’t know if it does. You should have said something.

Me: Aren’t you aware that’s how all horror movies start?

Kira: It’s going to be fine. And if not, I’ll get us a different one tomorrow.

Me: I’m not that high maintenance. It’ll be okay. {hyperventilates}

Well, after checking the mattresses for bedbugs, securing my luggage up off the ground, barring the door shut with a chair and switching out the blankets for my own…. we cracked open some wine and relaxed. But I’m not sure how our nightstand ended up like this in the morning.

The next day, Kira and I empathized with the students and their parking problems. There wasn’t a spot for miles. Kira put on her glasses and we made like teachers. We’re a class act.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who were depressed by the parking issues…

After Kira’s speech, we went out with some of the coolest, smartest, awesomest college students ever. They just didn’t make em like this back in my day. We may or may not have persuaded them to skip classes to hang out with us.

As promised, martini was in hand by 2pm.

Then again at 2:15. Ahem.

Then we kidnapped one of the students and made him show us good pizza places. We chose this one based on the Christmas lights, but lucky for him it had amazing pizza too.

Oh, did I mention both Kira and I are gluten intolerant?

And did I mention all we did was eat gluten on this trip from start to finish?

What we lack in self control we make up for in awesome. I learned long ago you can’t have it all.

So yea, I’ll be around to your blogs very soon.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!