Tag Archives: humor

Marriage: This Is What It Boils Down To

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Dad: I got serious heartburn from that strawberry shortcake.  It was the milk.

Mom: Milk? I’d blame it on the strawberries. They’re so acidic.

Dad: Milk contains lactic acid. Don’t ever forget it.

Mom: Well I should buy lactose free milk then.

Dad: You did. You were buying that Soy Milk, but then you said it was gonna kill me for some reason so you stopped. Now I have heartburn.

Mom: They had something on the news about that for a week, Denny!

Dad: All I’m saying is that I may be avoiding death by Soy Milk, but I have no quality of life. I have heartburn.

Mom: Oh, fine. I’ll start buying the Soy Milk again.

Dad: What are you trying to kill me?

Twenty-five years of marriage and this is what it all comes down to. Not for me of course, cus I’m not getting married. But for all of you, these are the conversations you’ll be having.

That aside, I had a revelation the other day. And it wasn’t just that I needed a tan.

Or that I desperately need to visit the dentist. Still.

Or that I haven’t started any kind of workout and it’s mid-June.

Or that I still want an English Bulldog named Shakespeare.

Or that an unfortunate day is quickly approaching: my birthday. And I fear for the lives of many famous people on that day.

Or that I’ve been eating spaghetti for the last 13 days.

No, it wasn’t any of those things. But now that you bring it up, those are some serious problems.

I realized that I need to force myself to write more. I am veritably the WORST blogger on the planet. I get alot of emails from people asking why I don’t post more, yet you always stick around.  The truth is, I haven’t been posting cus I wasn’t inspired. Now I’m inspired, but I’ve never been so busy in all my life. I’m actually using my DayPlanner, as opposed to just admiring how cute it is.

But, I am going to post more. This is probably the only commitment I’ll be making in the foreseeable future. We’re not talking every day here, don’t get all clingy on me. We’re talking like a Monday, Wednesday, Friday type thing. Sound good?

What’s that? You don’t care?

Figures.

unique-portraits-rockford-il

Speaking of busy, Eric Bana stopped by my town last weekend. Each time, he lets me snap some pictures of him. We’re tight like that.

 

That Time I Told Everyone Your Secrets

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“In life, we all have an unspeakable secret, and irreversible regret, and an unreachable dream.” Diego Marchi

I currently have strep throat. I have taken my nightly cocktail of drugs and shortly I will feel myself slipping away to reruns of Sex and the City. You know, the TBS ones sans nakedness. So as long as I’m conscious, you just put your feet up, pour yourself a glass, and forget all about your problems while I wax poetic about the mundane details of this life talk about mine. I’m your Carrie Bradshaw and this is my way-too-personal-sex column. Of sorts.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about secrets.

Secrets hold great power. Once revealed, they can disrupt your entire life. Although many of us hold secrets in a negative light, there is such a thing as good secrets. Example:

  • I’ve been in love with you for years. Oh, and I’m perfect.
  • Grandma died. And you’re the sole heir to her bagillions.
  • Even though you said you didn’t want to get married, your boyfriend is proposing to you in Paris!

*Sorry, based on experience that last one was a poor example.

That being said, these Manolo Blahniks have been carrying a lot of secrets around. So many, actually, that they might be reaching their secret holding capacity. I mean, I wouldn’t want to break a heel. And they aren’t just my secrets. They’re your secrets too. And don’t you think that with the friendship should go the secrets? Why should I have to tote around moldy secrets of people that I don’t even associate with any more?

So while I was compiling a list of your secrets to blog about, I took a seat next to my giant New York apartment window, and in true Sex and the City format, I stared at my laptop and said to myself:

I can’t help but wonder… what are my secrets?

*My family always wondered why my cat BamBam looked a little strange. When I was 5, I wanted her to look like Heathcliff so I bit a chunk of her ear off.

*Speaking of ears, my right ear is significantly larger than my left. Like, my left ear is normal size; my right ear is ridiculous. I discovered this in high school, but my parents had kept it a secret since I was a baby. I always wear my hair down and no one is the wiser.

*My senior year of high school, I was always late for my curfew. Every time, I told my mom that a cop pulled me over. Every time, she believed me. I don’t know if this is a credit to my persuasive skills, or a testament to my poor driving ability. Truth is, I was driving in cars with boys. Actually, one boy. And I found it impossible to leave him.

blake-mycoskie-toms-shoes*I think Blake Mycoskie is the single-most attractive man on the planet. He’s generous, brilliant, well traveled and scruffy. He went on vacation to Argentina and saw hundreds of children without shoes, so he decided to dedicate his life to changing that. He now runs a successful business, TOMS, while traveling the world and giving people shoes.

*I wrote a paper in 6th grade about Pearl Harbor. By my second year of college, I had handed that paper in to about 8 different teachers along the way. What alarms me, is that I never even edited it.

*I dig the Twilight saga.

*In high school, when I worked at Chuck E Cheese, I would purposely misspell the names on the birthday cakes so we could eat them. They were so, so good.

Well, my dears. That’s all you get for today. Maybe someday I’ll tell you my big secrets. Maybe even the ones involving boys. But right now, I’d rather pass out. Of course, I’d love to hear some of yours – I promise I won’t blog about them. Right away.

Happy Memorial Day!

 

It’s Like Something Out Of Deliverance

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[I’m so sick of people saying that. And I’m so sick of other movies referencing that movie. I’ve never seen Deliverance and so every time someone makes a reference, I don’t get it.  When I ask what the movie is about people always say, “Horrible. Don’t watch it. Creeptown city. People get tortured and stranded and it’s just bad news.” Ok, then why have you ALL seen it?]

So have you ever tried this dating thing? There must be something in the autumn Illinois air that is making everyone want to set me up with their finest, handomest available male. I usually date men I’ve known for awhile, thus I haven’t gone on many “first dates.” And I’m finding the entire process to be sort of, different.

Someone asked me the other day to give him the “Cliff’s Notes” about myself. With a sigh and a sarcastic laugh, I said, seriously? I can’t even sum up the last week of my life in Cliff’s Notes format.

So in the interest of efficiency and simplicity, I have devised a form letter that I can simply hand across the table when presented with the statement “So, tell me about yourself.” I suggest you do the same.

Dear Gentleman Suitor:

I hate form letters. I love to travel, but I can’t fly unless I am unconscious. The aesthetic quality of my penmanship is a constant let down, as are my driving skills. I take issue with people who don’t understand the meaning of aesthetic. Although you may not fall head over heels in love with me, you will with my family. I’m a night person, so don’t even try. Whatever it is, do not try.

Truth is, I’m a total nerd. I get annoyed when people use “than” where they should have said “then.” I color coordinate the books in my room. I’d rather buy office supplies than jewelry. Because of these facts, it is a natural result that my friends do not include girls who talk about shopping, tanning, how much their feet hurt in heels, their new eye shadow, or how much they can’t WAIT to see Lady Gaga in concert. My mind explodes from all the meaningless information. But let there be no mistake, I look great in heels.

I’m very tidy, but I hate the word tidy along with several others. Compliments make me feel awkward. I like to cook. I like it even better if you like to cook. It’s not that I hate reading. It’s that I hate reading mind-numbing fiction, sci-fi, romance, or essentially, almost anything contained in the public library. Got it? If it’s witty, well-versed, or based on someone’s actual experience, I’m in. Got it? I believe in God, and although I have always loved Him with my mind, I have not always done so with my life. I’m passionate and creative. I love making people laugh.

I’ve lived alot of life in my short time on this earth. I must be with someone who can hold their own. I view money as a necessary evil, nothing else. I hate people who get embarrassed. I’m independent, and I will rarely ask for your help unless it involves heavy things or snowy weather. I want to move to a place that has fall weather permanently. My household uniform is a hoody, plaid pajama pants, and braids. I’d rather fight it out than ignore it.  If I end up really liking you, I’ll probably worry about your well-being and you’ll get annoyed. Most importantly, I’d rather be single forever than with a seemingly perfect man who doesn’t understand me.

Thank you for your interest. If you find this alarming rather than endearing, no worries, you can step out for an important call and I will go make out with the attractive waiter.

Sincerely,

Blunt.

I hate dating. It’s like something out of Deliverance.

Dear Life, At Last I’ve Got You All Figured Out

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Sorry if you came here looking for the answers to life. Was that title misleading?

My apologies that my posts have been a bit introspective lately, I suppose that’s because I’ve been doing a lot of introspecting. Or taking a lot of sleeping pills. Either way, deal with it. P.S. I’d like to extend my utmost gratitude for all of your comments on my previous blog. You have no idea what an effect your encouraging words have on me, even if they are just floating out there in cyberspace, and even if you really are just a bunch of perverted old men with a hit list, it still means a lot.

I was riding in someone’s car the other day. I got excited when we drove past a business and I saw my dad’s work truck parked outside. He looked at me and said, “I hope that my son’s face lights up like that someday when he drives past my truck.”  I’d never thought of it that way, but I guess my face did light up. It always has.

scan0001When I was young, I was convinced of all sorts of things. I thought babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds, I thought my grandparents had immunity from death, I thought the earth was suspended in air by magic, and I thought my cats actually went on to live in a better place after they died. A place where trees were made of Cat Nip and it rained milk. I thought married people really loved each other, and I thought the whole point of Easter was so that girls could wear cute hats. In fact, all it really took was for my dad to tell me something was true and and nothing could convince me otherwise. Example: for fifteen years I believed my cat had run away when I was 8. Not until my grandpa got wasted at Christmas and mentioned “that time my mom accidentally crushed the cat to death under the garage door” did I know the truth. It was a tragic discovery. But at least I know the little fuzzball went on to a better place.

It was a blind faith I had back then.

There is something innocent and wonderful about blind faith andhaving a father that you know would rather sacrifice his own life than see you get hurt. Someone who highly overuses the benefit of his doubt, who is eternally compassionate and understanding. But it skews your perception. And although I never thought there could be a downside to this, I find lately, that lifelong assumption may not be entirely accurate. This mindset is foreign to me and I’m unsure what to do with it. Much like that first kiss after moving on, it’s neither good nor bad, it just feels different. Different than you might have thought. Different than what you were used to.

If you’ve been around here for more than a hot minute you know that my viewpoint is anything but unicorns and pots of gold. Life has left a pessimistic taste in my mouth. But in spite of everything, when it comes to people, I have always had a tendency to believe the best, that their intentions are ultimately good, that they empathize with others, that they feel pain. Anyone can open up a history book and see that this is far from true, and naive at best.

I’m sure all of you can relate to this in some aspect. Your experiences have left you either too trusting or incapable of trust – so who is better off? Are we both just screwed? Cus I kind of like the sound of that. I’ve seen my dad tremendously hurt because of his outlook on life and people. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather end up like. So what does that mean?

I don’t know. The older I get, the more it seems, I do not know. Confusion is where I live, and the population just keeps growing.

But I do know this: I still believe everything my dad says.

Brace Yourself Kid, This Is BIG

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Do you have your big girl pants on? If so, please check the fly because that would be grossly inappropriate for this blog. Are you ready to GET SERIOUS!? Are you ready to have your mind blown? I sure hope so, cus the last thing I need is for you to come crying to me when you’re caught off guard with my big announcement.

Crap. But what if it isn’t really that big?** And now I’ve built it up and you have all these unrealistic expectations of big-ness… Ugh, I suck under pressure.***  Well, here goes. Today, I received the worst news that someone such as myself could possibly receive. Aside from my leaky faucet, broken toilet and Corey Haim’s accidental overdose.****

**[that’s what she said]

***[guys, come on]

****[that was an exaggeration, I wasn’t even sure who he was. I’m just relieved it wasn’t that hottie from Rookie of the Year.]

I have been officially registered for a 5k.

I guess it’s only fair that I tell you the whole story before you cast harsh judgements on my friend for such an unspeakable crime. In a moment of weakness (that term is open to interpretation), I promised I would run (that term is also open to interpretation) a 5k in the event that my friend quit smoking.

There I go again, sacrificing my own happiness for the health of others. I know you’re thinking that I got myself into this mess, but really?! Who actually follows through on a deal like that?  Am I really THAT out of shape that people would do just about anything to see me jog a few laps? That’s pathetic. I am, of course, referring to ‘the people,’ not me.

What’s that? You’re not impressed with my crappy announcement?

Would it be better if you were eating cupcakes right now? Precisely.

And who’s fault is that?

But you want to know something else that’s sorta BIG?

This little drug delivery service blog is approximately one year old!!

naked-barbie1

As I might have mentioned on a couple hundred occasions, I’m not the best at remembering or commemorating anything where I have to remember a date, such as my own birthday. I know I launched this some time last March, but I couldn’t tell you the date even if it meant I’d never have to eat another brussel sprout again.

Wait. I’m 27. I guess that time has already come.

Anyway, I’m not one for celebrating my own birthday, much less my blog’s. And I’ve noticed it’s very common to give away gift cards or have some sort of contest in honor of the occasion, however, I think that’s lame. Not when I’m the one who wins it though, cus then it’s very non-lame.

blunt-deliverySince I can’t give away what you really want, which is a personal visit to your doorstep, I thought I would do some spring cleaning and have a Blunt auction sale. Just shoot me an email if you would like to bid on any of the following items. Don’t pussyfoot around, cus I have a feeling there will be some stiff competition. [I know you might think it’s a bit stingy to have an auction sale to celebrate my anniversary, but I just think it’s good business sense]

1. The entire Jennifer Lopez chick-flick collection.

2. A stack of unpaid bills, most of them still in the envelope.

3. The OFFICE fridge phrase-magnets.

4. 7,500 Chicken Soup for the Soul books. I’ve never read them, but every time they publish one of my stories they send me a truckload.

5. A pelican pillow that’s been sitting in my garage for 3 years. It’s origin is still a mystery.

Guys, really, it’s MY pleasure. You are, after all, the best readers in the UNIVERSE.

rockford-il-portrait-photographerCheck out my photography blog, I’ve got a new hottie up for you. And, if you’re not already following me on FACEBOOK, click here and get your act together!

Why I Hate Women Part 7 Of 8,964: Mind Warp Trivia

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“Indian people seem rather unemotional in my experience… Then again, my experience was with your ex-boyfriend who snorted $300 of heroin a day. So that could be a bit of a generalization.”

-my Dad.

I am currently watching a Millionaire Matchmaker marathon. I love this show, but not because I love it. Patty Stanger has nothing on me in the relationship knowledge department – and certainly not in the hair department. Right? I’m loving this show because I discovered I still have cable even though I cancelled it in December. Take that, universe.

It has come to my special attention that I not only suck at blogging and mysteriously have bootlegged cable, but that ALL of my readers hate women. Especially the women. I like to think that we would all be cyber friends even if we weren’t united by this sentiment of hatred, but I can’t say for sure. Here’s to hoping on rainbows and leprechauns.

MIND WARP POP QUIZ: Please raise your hand if you’ve ever found yourself trapped into one of the following questions –

1. Are there any cute girls where you work?

2. Does this make me look big?

3. Do you like my new haircut?

While you’re pondering that, I recently had drinks with a woman that I don’t hate- V from Uncorked. And maybe a pizza. And a tuna wrap something or other. Have I mentioned how smitten I am by this kitten? She’s everything she’s cracked up to be (except for that time she blew me off for her couch and a couple of Pugs) and if you don’t read her blog then don’t come crying to me when your life ends up in shambles.

i-hate-women
NEWSFLASH: when it comes to women, there’s no winning. In my experience, if I try to befriend them and put my best self-deprocating, non-threatening-hoodie-wearing foot forward, I will inevitably suffer the consequences of their certifiably nutty minds snapping at some point. Don’t be fooled- this process can sometimes take years. However, if I gravitate toward male friendships, then I’m a boyfriend-stealing hoe with daddy issues who is starved for attention. Some might think of this predicament as a lose/lose, but I just think it’s great Sunday night entertainment. What else are you gonna do, watch golf?

Strap in, because I’m about to blindside you with the point of this post. Except I don’t think I can legally call it a blindside if I warned you first. Since I’m not a heartless bastard who hates things without concrete reasons, I will now dispense reason 7 of 8,964 of why I hate women: Mind Warp Trivia. Let’s look at question #1 and it’s possible answers. You might think you know the correct one, but I can assure you that you are sorely mistaken.

1. Are there any cute girls at your work?

a.  No sweetie, not at all.

b. I haven’t really noticed to tell you the truth.

c. Eh, there’s a few that are alright. Certainly not on your level, but they are okay.

d. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.

Unfortunately none of these are correct. Regardless of what you choose, the answer won’t be satisfactory because it is a trick question. If you choose (a) she won’t believe you; if you choose (b) she will accuse you of lying; if you choose (c) she will be pissed that you are looking at other girls; and if you choose (d) she will say that’s bullshit. This is a mind warp trap with the only way out being a fight. Even simply breathing will cause a fight when presented with such a question. With that being said… Good luck!

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

More Things I Hate: Valentine’s Day, Racists And Adult Acne

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Really? Did I just have to throw around the “R” word to get your attention? That’s sad. Sad because I have been gone for so long that I feel like I have to throw a dramatic title at you in order to peak your interest, and sad because that just might be true. Well, joke is on you cus this post isn’t about racists OR ACNE.

I’m currently writing this from my local Borders. I’ve got the Chess dweebs to my left, the girls who can’t figure out why he hasn’t called yet to my right, and a riveting, religious debate going on behind me. Why. Why do I do this to myself? Well, I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to get the motivation to do anything at my house these days. There are many reasons why this could be: 1. the 4-inch memory foam, which renders it almost impossible for me to move once situated; 2. the endless supply of rice krispie treats and fruit snacks in my nightstand; 3. the permanently closed blinds that let in zero sunlight, thus removing all sense of space and time;  4. the looming presence of Valentine’s Day in the air; 5. or the depression I’ve been stuck in for the past year.  There’s no way of knowing for sure. But my point is, if you ever want another blog again in your precious little life, you’ll stop asking questions.

valentines-day-date1

Speaking of the overly-commercialized scam of a holiday, Valentine’s Day, this year my dad dropped off a bouquet of flowers along  with a bag of Xanax and a “don’t kill yourself” note from my mother. I’m hoping this information spares me from any grief I’ll be receiving from all of you on why I only wrote two blogs last month. I’ve already got to live with the fact that today I’ve already consumed: a McDonald’s #2, a cold Little Caesars pizza, a box of Junior Mints, Frosted Flakes, and a carton of 100 calorie pack fudge stripe cookies. It’s not even 3 pm yet, and I’ve still got The Bachelor to suffer through later.

Considering my dad is the one guy in my life I can always count on, I reached a logical conclusion to make him my Valentine this year. So I will now share a quick story with you that took place over this joyous holiday weekend.

[I’m at the mall with my parents]

MOM: Denny, we’re gonna look for some curtains. Why don’t you walk some laps for your cholesterol? You haven’t been working out.

DAD: Sure, that’s a good idea. I’ve been eating really bad lately.

[20 minutes later…]

ME: Hey, mom, is that dad up ahead of us?

MOM: Yea, I can see his bald spot.

ME: DAD!  Hey, dad!

MOM: He can’t hear you. He’s needs a hearing aid.
ME:  Wait, it looks like he’s eating something?

MOM: Well, what would he be eating? We’re about to go get dinner?

[I tap him on the shoulder and as he turns around, about five Fannie May wrappers fall out of his hand, which is holding a half-eaten pixie]

DAD: [looks at me, mid-chew] Crap.

So then, we walked into Panera to get some dinner:

DAD: Hey, wow. They have free Wi-Fi here. I didn’t know that.

ME: Yup, I guess they do.

DAD: That means we could have brought our laptops surfed the internet while we eat.

ME: Yes, yes it does.

DAD: Good to know for next time.

ME: But, you don’t have a laptop.

DAD: Well, it’d be pretty cool if I did. Maybe I will get one, you know, so I can use the free Wi-Fi.

Sigh. This is what I’m dealing with folks. Remember, I’m a product of these two parents – and surely, that counts for something. I hope all is well and none of you jumped off the nearest bridge last weekend. Cus really, at least wait until it’s warmer.

P.S. I updated my photography blog, Chumps. Check it out.

family-photographer-rockford-il2

Am I Too Late For A Thanksgiving Post?

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Your guess is as good as mine why two “loving parents” would allow their only daughter to eat corn on the cob directly off a dirty picnic table. Or to wear that Little House On The Prairie getup, that was clearly too small.

I was going to title this post: That Time I Tried To Run Away [OR Why I Hate Dogs]. But the truth is, there isn’t much to say about running away. I didn’t get very far. I have rather protective parents and an overly paranoid mother who is a very, very light sleeper. Plus they live on a dead end street in the middle of nowhere. Just saying, it was probably my most unsuccessful idea ever. Aside from the lemonade stand and the time I asked my dad for a horse and he scammed me into raising sheep.

Oh, and the whole dog thing is a mystery. I just hate them with a fiery passion. The smaller they are, the more unjustified hatred is directed toward them. Don’t get your panties in a bundle trying to figure it out. And please don’t use the word “panties.”

As usual, I’m fashionably late in getting to the Thanksgiving post. Despite my looming depression over the past year, I have a lot to be thankful for. You, for one. I realize I’m a horrible blog owner. I hardly post. I don’t always comment on your comments. And I’m an altogether frustrating mystery.

But you, you’re so forgiving of my wayward actions. You love me in spite of my disappearing acts. Truth be told, this blog has been a great source of inspiration for me in the past year. It’s been a place where I could honestly vent my frustrations and hopefully, you could too. The fact that any of you take the time to read my incomprehensible ramblings is more confusing than why my mom collects all those free gold-lined address labels that come in the mail, yet she refuses to use them because they are so ugly.

Although I often fill these virtual pages with rants and sarcasm, I am a very blessed individual. 2009 may have given me a round house kick to the stomach, but I have quite a few things to be thankful for:

photography

florence

best-friends

medieval-church2

parents2

babies

So there you have it.

Now stop labeling me a Crabby McUnthankfulPants. Next post we will be returning to BitterTown and your regularly scheduled whining.

 

Dear 2009, I’m Ready To Forgive You For Your Bastardly Ways

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You know how when you meet someone for the first time and there’s just that instant connection? As they explained on Sleepless in Seattle: magic. The stars align, and in that moment it’s as if the whole universe existed just to bring the two of you together?

Well, that is not what happened when I was first introduced to 2009.

The year began with me laying in the darkness of my room, unshowered [for what might have been days], surrounded by leftover holiday candy wrappers, recently unemployed, and staring at the ceiling while listening to news anchors give unbiased coverage of the upcoming election make virtual love to Obama.

I thought about making resolutions, but then remembered I had just published my first story in Chicken Soup for the Soulwhich talked about precisely how much I hated resolutions.

As the year went on, I started devising a list of things that I’d never forgive 2009 for:

  • stealing my best friend away and shipping him to San Diego
  • the extra 15 pounds I put on by working in a bank office for 2 years but always justified with the fact that I made lots of money
  • losing said bank job and no longer having an reason as to why I was toting around an extra 15 pounds
  • making Illinois not only one of the most corrupt places to live, but one of the hardest places to get a job
  • causing various family members to get really sick and/or lose their minds
  • that spot on my carpet I couldn’t get out, even with the stuff that Billy Mays told me to buy
  • Billy Mays dying
  • my air conditioning bill
  • all of those people who rejected my story submissions thus deepening my depression and making my goal of becoming a full time writer seem impossible
  • turning 27

The list goes on, but the point is: it was just one of those years. Unfortunately, I felt like I’d been in “one of those years” for nearly a decade. It didn’t help that everyone around me was talking about CHANGE, yet I knew nothing was going to be different for me. Every passing year that I was working some random job instead of doing what I was passionate about, I found it harder to put on a happy face. Then, depression’s finest looking wing man, guilt, strolled in wearing a nicely coordinated suit. I started to feel guilty for being depressed. Cus, I mean, hey, I’m still breathing right?

Wait, hold on a second.

Oh, okay. Yes. The answer is yes, I’m still breathing. And on top of being able to breathe, the second installment of the Twilight Saga was released. There were things everywhere to be thankful for. Yet, I still struggled. I didn’t even put up a CHRISTMAS TREE, which nearly resulted in excommunication from my own family. If we were Catholic, that is.

But then. Irony struck my life again, when a routine email inquiry turned into a meeting on a snowy morning during Christmas week [that I almost blew off cus I love sleep too much and my car sucks in the snow and I had procrastinated all my shopping but mainly I just like sleep too much]. That meeting turned into a job as Senior Editor for a new magazine, in which I will be able to be as creative as I want. Which by the way, never happens in real life jobs. And, she found me in a random Google search in the middle of the night.

And now if you’ll lay back on the counseling couch, I’d like to say that dreams are a tricky thing. They can be the only driving force that keeps you going at times, yet the constant pursuit of dreams -accompanied by disappointment- can also destroy you. But here’s the good part: when you finally take just one small step towards fulfilling that dream, which you eventually will, it makes all of the rejection letters, and sleepless nights, and financial stress, and waiting tables, and writing about things you hate seem just… not important.

So hey, do me a solid and hang on to those dreams in 2010.

You have nothing to lose but your sanity.

My dad stole my Polaroid camera. He took this as I was walking through his backyard. He’s always been a big fan of my dreams.

dreams

Dear Santa, Those Xanax Weren’t For You

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When I was young, my mom used to always shovel blueberries down my throat, whilst telling me that with every bite I was prolonging my lifespan and thwarting off cancer. Apparently, they were rumored to have the most antioxidants of anything on the earth. That was, until, the pomegranate phenomenon spread like STD wildfire throughout the country and caused my mom to question her entire world view.

0007874209002_215x215So given this general knowledge, I’m deducing that it is in the best interest of my health and well-being to polish off all four boxes of Blueberry-Pomegranate ice cream that I just bought. And prepare yourselves  to have me around forever, got it?

Ok, now we need to talk about a few less important things. Like why I haven’t been around. And why the Osmonds won’t seem to go away. Or why I went to Walmart to buy green beans and walked out with 4 boxes of Blueberry-Pomegranate ice cream, a dozen chocolate glazed donuts and a #3 from McDonald’s.

It’s no secret to my inner circle that I’ve been suffering from a bit of a holiday depression this year. Normally, the tree is up by October with my christmasy music mix playing on repeat. I can’t get enough Christmas. Until, this year. No tree. No peppermint hand soap. No music. No cocktail party with teeny tiny foods.

But then I got bombarded with a slew of holiday cards, in attempt to lift my spirits… Look at me, I’m so popular!  I’m so loved!

christmas-cards

Oh wait…. they’re all from my mom!

christmas-card

That’s right. My mom just wouldn’t tolerate my holiday funk this year. She sent me a Christmas card every single day of December, and each time she came to my house she’d sneak a pre-decorated mini tree into a different room. FYI: she was the ONLY one who sent me a Christmas card, so that whole “popular” comment was a bit of an exaggeration.

Speaking of Christmas, here’s a sound bite of how my holidays went:

MOM: Before we open presents we have to have some Christmas music playing.

AUNT: [to uncle] Honey, can you turn on some music? [looks at a huge list] Go to CD #81, that will be good.

[about 3 minutes pass as they are trying to figure out the stereo… finally instrumental music starts playing]

ME: Um, what CD is this? And why does it sort of make me want to cry but yet kill people at the same time?

[…silence…] […looks of confusion…]

AUNT: Hmmm. What is this?   …..Ooooooooh, this is my Last of the Mahicans soundtrack. That’s okay though, this will be fine.

ME: Um, what? We can’t listen to that while we open presents. That’s the most depressing movie of all-time.

AUNT: Well, I don’t know how this came on, I gave him the number for Celestial Winds.

ME: Celestial Winds? No. That won’t work either. We’re not getting facials.

MOM: We HAVE TO HAVE Christmas music to set the mood.

BROTHER: Oh my God.

ME: Hey, you don’t happen to have the Gladiator soundtrack do you?

DAD: Is it time for pie?