Naked Barbie Chillin On Some Cookies?

Posted on August 8, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

[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:

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.

That Time I Got Scammed Into Raising Sheep

Posted on July 9, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

Okay, the sheep.

As I’ve said before, I grew up in the country. I was a poor, lonely, desperate housewife child living in the middle of nothing. At some point, I presented my father with a couple of options. And being the great father he was, he never shot down any ideas. Directly, that is.

Me: Sooooooo, I was thinking.

Dad: Yes?

horses Me: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?

Dad: Why would that make sense?

Me: So then I could go places.

Dad: Do you have any idea what it requires to take care of a horse?

Me: Yes. And I can say that with absolute certainty, after watching the neighbors.

Dad: But you don’t even take care of the cats – I end up doing it.

Me: I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Mom does it most the time.

Dad: Well, horses are rather expensive, how about we get something a little cheaper and easier to practice on first?

Me: And then I can get a horse?

Dad: Of course.

Me: Okay. What did you have in mind?

For the next 2.5 years, I woke up at 5 am and transported 10 buckets of water and oats out to my pathetic herd of sheep that seemingly multiplied by the day. We started with two. Again, after school I’d have to rush home to repeat the feeding ritual. Then before bed, again. Three meals a day? What are these things, PEOPLE? Actually, no, they are just fat freaking lazy animals that you can’t ride, which have no self control and eat all their food in two minutes, thus it needs constant replenishing. Of course, in the wintertime, this ritual involved a snowsuit and a lot of tears. No one hates cold weather more than me. Every time I went to the barn, all the water buckets were frozen. As I sat on the dirt floor and chipped away at the ice so I could refill the buckets, I would pray for God to remove this burden from me. As I was praying, I felt my desire for a horse evaporate into thin air.

Eventually, my dad sold the sheep to some guy who turned them into a fine dining experience. All eleven of them. Last week, as we were reminiscing about this experience, I made a very disturbing discovery.

Me: Hey, remember when I wanted a horse, but you bought me SHEEP?%$#^!

Dad: [laughs] Oh man. That was funny. Well, you know I did the same thing with your brother.

Me: You did?

Dad: Yea, he wanted a horse too so I made him take care of the neighbor’s one for a winter. After that I said, “So do you want the horse or the motorcycle?” He took the motorcycle.

Me: Wait. What? Motorcycle. He got a motorcycle?! That is total crap. I didn’t get ANYTHING.

Dad: You never asked.

OTHER POSTS YOU’LL LURVE:

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

Don’t Matter If You’re Black Or White – Just Pick One

Posted on June 29, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

No, this isn’t a tribute to Michael Jackson. Hi, you must be new here. Pleasure to meet you; although I hate the word “pleasure” and refuse to use it accept over internet introductions.

As mentioned, last Thursday was my much unanticipated and begrudged birthday. Although I didn’t exactly get what I wanted – which was another year of my life back, to be wildly successful, and to have a never ending supply of buffalo wings and Edys peach pie ice cream [which much to my utter horror I have discovered is a limited edition] – the world did suffer a loss of tragic proportions with the passing of it’s King of Pop and Fair-Feathered Farrah. I like to think I got even. But don’t think I’m without compassion for the rest of you.

michael_jacksonyoung-1 Dear World,

You seem to be freaking out a bit. Do you need to borrow some of my mom’s Xanacs? Cus they’ve certainly come in handy during the past ten few years of my life. And I could definitely hook you up with some. I know where she hoards hides them.

Just asking ‘cus I care,

Blunt.

P.S. Sorry I had a birthday.

Speaking of Michael Jackson, my parents were at my house when “the news” surfaced. My mom, a long time supporter of Michael, was beside herself. She didn’t quite collapse in the same fashion as Elizabeth Taylor, but nonetheless, she was stunned.

Me: I just got like 8 texts saying that Michael Jackson died.

Mom: JACKSON? What? That can’t be right.

Me: No, I just checked the computer, he’s definitely dead.

Mom: You’ve got to be kidding me? HOW? When? WHERE?!?

Me: MOM.

Mom: Mmmm… that’s sooooo sad. So talented. Nobody could entertain like him. Well, Elvis. Except him. Michael and Elvis. Ugh….and he died too early too.

Dad: But he was so weird.

Mom: He was a tortured soul, Denny.

Dad: He molested little boys.

Mom: He was really messed up. And he had an awful childhood. Besides, you don’t know that for sure.

Dad: Sherri, they found boys’ underware all over his house.

Mom: Well, that’s true. I forgot about that.

Me: So did you make me a pie or what?

P.S. Michael, I’d like to just say that I’m sorry for that Halloween blog I wrote last year, where I used a close up of your face and said something to the effect of “count your blessings.” I’m not sure exactly what it said, but it was definitely out of my normal good character and sound judgement. So just for that, I did fashion a tribute of sorts. And this is how I shall choose to remember you, always.

michael-jackson-greatest-performances

That’s My Daughter? She Sure Is Stone Ugly

Posted on June 25, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

That would be an exact quote from my loving, very proud, first-time father the moment I was born into this world. I thought for years this was due to the fact that he had never seen a newborn in all it’s alien likeness before; however, my mom set the record straight when she told me I was indeed, super ugly.

I share this heart-warming tale about my birth with you because today would be the anniversary of that very day. But I hate birthdays. And they despise me. They never call. They never write. All they do is sneak around and steal another year of my life away, while gently whispering in my ear all that I’ve failed to accomplish. As if I haven’t been robbed enough times in my life.

kids-birthday-party Speaking of robberies, you do know that from 2006-2007 I was robbed six times, right? Your ears did not deceive you. Six.

I say all this, to say, that I got locked outside in the blazing sun yesterday, during a heat advisory with 100 + degree weather. Oh, and I was half nekkid. You don’t see the correlation? I’m getting there.

So I have the kind of mother who begged me to put on a baseball cap and “look as ugly as possible” when I was driving home after dark. I have the kind of dad who got a boy expelled after spitting in my face in the second grade. So my parents were a bit over-protective. After I got the hole in my head, everything took a turn for the worse. But then after the drug dealer robbery and the stalking that followed… ENTER: all-time world record for protectiveness. Just hold your horses, cus I’m about to blow your mind as I weave all these storylines together in a way that only a masterful literary genius, such as myself, possibly could.

So what does this have to do with me almost dying of heat exhaustion and /or embarrassment yesterday? Well, it was sunny out. I opened my sliding door and stepped out onto my porch, where I sat for about an hour, trying to become a bronze goddess and think of excuses why I can’t go jogging with my friend. I vowed to go with her everyday, except I didn’t go once last week, and instead ate all of the ice cream I got at the Edys 5/$10 sale. We went a day ago, and there wasn’t ONE solitary car at the bike path. I said, “Dana, does this tell you that maybe we shouldn’t run during a heat advisory? She said, “We’ll burn more calories this way.”

So after an hour, I suddenly realize: “Holy crapballs, I’m about to die.” The heat index was 115 + humidity yesterday. I stand up, drenched in sweat, and as I reach for the handle on my sliding door, I feel friction. Huh. That’s odd. Usually it SLIDES right open. It’s a sliding door. I try again, and remember that it can only lock from the inside… OH, SNAP I’m having an optical illusion… I AM dying!

No, no. One of the wooden bars that my father had installed on every door and window as “extra security” to keep potential robbers out had somehow fallen down from being propped up, landed exactly in the correct groove, and locked me out. I know you’re thinking I have a spare key around there somewhere, ha? Oddly, after six robberies, you don’t hide spare keys under easily-accessible mats or fake rocks anymore. I know you’re thinking I had a garage door opener in my car, right? Well, since I finally cleaned it out after 2 years, it was actually parked inside.

So I spent the next 2 hours, nearly passing out from heat [there’s no shade on my porch] and confined to a scolding hot cement slab. Why? 1. I was wearing swimsuit bottoms and quasi see-through tank top. 2. I had no shoes on. As I stood there half dead, with my bottle of tanning oil, and empty water cup, all I could think was: “Thank God, now I have an excuse not to go jogging.”

Dad, You Look Like A Pencil With A Frizzy Top

Posted on June 22, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

My father, a self-proclaimed hippie and alcoholic until the day hemet my gorgeous mother, wore a brown leisure suit and platform shoes to his wedding. I forgive him for this offense, only because my mother wore a black, sparkly pantsuit.

I’m amazed my father had any sense at all when it came to raising a child. When he was 7, his mother woke him up in the middle of the night and they left town to escape his alcoholic father. His mother worked nights as a surgical nurse and they moved every two years. He grew up without a male influence, aside from his cousin who introduced him to drugs at age 11.

I was born in a trailer park. Does that mean I get to cry a river and say that I’ve had it a little worse than the rest of you? No? But do I get to blame at least a few of my issues on that fact? When my parents were married, my dad was making $6/hr, yet they managed to save 50% of his income a month, while my mom stayed at home with the kids. This is could be where my Suze Ormond frugalness stems from, the kind which allows me to be perfectly satisfied driving a ’99 Saturn with a hole in the hood, that floods every time it rains. Especially last night.

Eventually, my dad started his own business and they saved enough money to purchase a charming, completely run-down and nearly un-livable home in the country. For years, my dad awoke at 5am, and after working all day would come home to do paperwork for the business and spend every spare moment learning how to remodel that house. That’s right, learning – from actual books. Incomprehensible, I know. But as busy as he was, trying to make a life for us, he always had time for any absurd request I might have.

Dad,

Thanks for sitting in my room every single night, while I rehashed my entire school day, complete with tearful confessions of snobby girls, mean boys, and despicable rumors. And thanks for continuing to sit in my room every night, even when those confessions turned into eye-rolling and the words: “I’m fine. Goodnight.” Thanks for never missing dinner and showing up to every event in my life even though I was excrutiatingly embarrassed of your presence. Thanks for staying up til 3am to help me grasp Chemistry, which by the way, was a battle we should have surrendered long ago. Thank you for not using your past as an excuse, but as motivation to be better.

Thanks for teaching me that even though people may take advantage of your kindness, you should give it anyway. Thanks for building me that sweet swing set, which was the envy of all my friends and equipped with a sandbox litterbox for the cats. Thanks for working so hard so that I could have a mom waiting for me after school every day. Thanks for being so awesome that my friends wanted to come over just to hang out with you. Thanks for being an example of how a man should love his wife. Thanks for dropping everything to come put air in my tires, or some other mundane task that I always seem to screw up no matter how many times you’ve shown me. Thanks for helping me crawl out of every mess I’ve made. And there have been some big ones. I mean, big. But most of all, thanks for making me feel like I was the most amazing thing in the world even when I was terribly awkward and unfortunate looking. I’ve been spared from so much because of the self-esteem that came from your unconditional support and love. I’ve never felt like I needed anyone, or anything, to fulfill me. I’ve always thought I could do anything. But really, it would have saved us both alot of stress if I hadn’t actually tried to.

I almost feel like it’s been an unfair advantage, having you around. But truth be told, you do look like a pencil with a frizzy top.

fathers-day1

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

Posted on June 6, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse. Gees, people. I’m just saying. But on a side note, it works rather nicely. So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life. So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend: But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world. And New York has too many rats. And snobs. And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.

Friend: But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A. Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness. I would call everyone out and then they would hate me. And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly.

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me: I hate the news. It’s depressing. Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis. That job would blow chunks. Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places. Seattle. Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend: You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right? So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps. Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm. Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here? Heal no. So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask?

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food? Not exactly. It’s much more complex than that. But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard. I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me. The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker. But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction? Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me. Um, why can I see those? Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in? Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$! And now they’re blowing grass at me. What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it. BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass. EXTRA BONUS: He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me.

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

Posted on April 23, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

It’s no wonder I don’t make any sense. I’m a combination of two polar opposites, who by all rights, should never have met much less married. My mother came from a Nazi-strict household where she wasn’t allowed to see movies or go to football games, for fear she would encounter Satan himself. She also wasn’t allowed to celebrate Christmas which explains why we have presents piled from the floor to the ceiling every Dec. 24 and a Christmas tree in every room of the house – including bathrooms. Except the bathrooms are small and the only space is above the toilet… and that can get prickly.

My father, on the other hand, had no parental guidance, unless you’re including alcoholics. He took off when he was 18, with nothing but $60 bucks and a dream in his pocket. That dream, consisted entirely, of doing nothing.

For years, my hippie father hitchhiked across the country, attending approximately 4 different colleges and surviving on randomness and sheer luck. For awhile he slept on a beach in Destin (no, no- not in a house, on the actual beach), working part time on a fishing boat – until he discovered he was very prone to seasickness. Then he camped out in the Rocky mountains, where he was told it was perfectly fine to drink “the fresh spring water.” But that person had been grossly mistaken. So he headed out West.

Me: So, where did you stay when you were traveling?

Dad: With whomever took us in. One time I stayed at the Cadillac Motel for a buck twenty-five.

Me: Cadillac Motel? Was it decorated with car memorabilia or something?

Dad: Not exactly. It was an open field with a bunch of old Cadillacs up on cinder blocks. With a mattress inside.

Eventually, he made his way out to San Francisco where his older brother awaited. They thought it was a great idea to start a moving business called “We Merry Movers,” for which they had no insurance.

Dad: One time, we had this expensive leather couch and we were taking it down the stairs and it caught on something and sliced open the entire back.

Me: So, what happened?

Dad: We set that side against the wall and started a different business.

Then for a while, my dad went to school at Illinois State University, where he lived in a farmhouse with five other guys, out in the middle of a cornfield.

Me: So that house must have been crazy.

Dad: All we did was drink until there wasn’t anything else to drink. One of the guys worked at a liquor store and stole booze so he could resell it and pay the rent. It was like a black hole. We were in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t even save enough gas money to drive to the next town.

Me: That house must have been filthy.

Dad: Yea, we cleaned our floor about once a year…. in beer.

Finally, my dad would make his way back home, where he played in a band and started to get his life together. One snowy night, my mother, a shy and gorgeous woman, happened to be dragged out to a party where they were playing.

Me: So, how on earth did you meet someone like mom?

Dad: We were at this party. I was walking by the front door, when it opened and your mother tripped on a pile of snow and fell through. I went to help her up and all I could think was, “This woman is hot. I don’t know anything about her…but I’ll figure out a way to love her.”

Me: So …?

Dad: So as she was leaving, I ran out and wrote my number in the sleet on her windshield. That probably wasn’t the best idea, considering her defrost was on. A year later we got married on my birthday. You know, that way I would always remember the date.

Needless to say, by my mother’s mesmerizing powers of persuasion and the grace of God, my father changed his ways. And I couldn’t have custom built a better set of parents. I adore them.

…But that doesn’t mean I still can’t blame all my issues on you.

Love ya!

p.s sorry about stealing those pictures and broadcasting them on the internet. you guys still don’t even know what a blog is right? so we still cool, right?

A Boy, Not Yet A Woman

Posted on April 20, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

What 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-school Dad: 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.

brit-is-a-boy

Your Daily Dose Of Paranoia

Posted on April 14, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

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.

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

Posted on April 13, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

It’s Easter. I’m sitting next to my dad in church. All of the sudden, right before the service starts he turns to me and grabs my arm:

Dad: Oh, you know what?

Me: What’s that?

Dad: I heard Yanni is coming out with a new CD.

If this conversation isn’t the right way to kick off Easter, I don’t know anything. You know, I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but Easter just isn’t what it used to be. Nice new bonnet. An Easter basket half the size of my room, with giant, oversized pixie stix and Reese’s eggs cascading out of it like a waterfall...it’s beauty only to be matched by the monstrocity of a stuffed rabbit that accompanied the basket. All these things are but a distant memory, like braces, and Big League Chew.

scan00011 So I’m chillin with the fam. UPDATE: In case it crossed your mind, my grandma was wearing the same polyester, frog green pants that she wore on Thanksgiving, as chronicled in Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair. So I go to sit next to my aunt on the couch and this happens:

Me: HGTV? Really?

Aunt: Well, we could watch a movie. I have Marley and Me, did you say you’ve seen that already?

Me: Yea. It was good, and I don’t think anyone else has seen it.

Aunt: So it was good? Want me to put that in then?

Me: I mean, I don’t care. I’m just working on these articles. So it makes no difference, whatever everyone else wants to do.

Aunt: [turns to my uncle] Honey, Britteny said for you to put in Marley and Me. She wants to watch it.

Me: [interrupts] No, I did not. That’s not what I said. I said I’ve already seen it and I don’t care. You said you wanted to watch it.

Aunt: Well, I know. But if I say that you’re the one who wants to watch it, he’ll just put it in.

Me: Sigh.

Aunt: Uh oh. Is this conversation going to be a blob now?

Me: Well, it wasn’t until you called it a blob.

Throughout the whole movie my grandma keeps whispering to my aunt that she’s seen this movie before. We all know this isn’t true. For the sake of illustration, I’ve dubbed my grandma “frog pants.” When the movie is over, everyone is teary eyed, yet a fight breaks loose:

Frog Pants: Oh goodness, you guys are getting this sad? It’s just a dog for Pete’s sake. [as my aunt’s two boxers are staring up at her from the floor]

Aunt: Dogs are like part of the family, Ma.

Frog Pants: Well, not ones that act like that thing. I’ve seen this before, I could have told you every thing that was going to happen.

Me: No. No you haven’t. I promise. You don’t go to movies. You don’t rent them. And you live in an assisted living complex. Where did you see it?

Frog Pants: I don’t recall when I saw it, but I’m not gonna sit there while you guys make me out to be some kind of liar. I remember that dog hanging out the window of the car.

Me & Aunt: [simultaneously] That was a commercial!

Me: When did you watch it then? Because it just came out on DVD.

Aunt: Ma, are you getting Alzheimers?

Frog Pants: Goodness gracious. Just drop it.

Blunt Delivery: where honesty flows like boxed wine

Category Archives: Family Matters