Tag Archives: random

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?

Chances Are, I’m A Pervert

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Today, while at a routine stop at the Goodwill, I put these three items on the counter.  They were exactly what I was looking for. We don’t have the time nor resources to get into the logistics of exactly why I needed this combination of items, but one could assume that I’m a third degree pervert who is planning on using exhibits A & B to lure a small child into my presence in order to lock them inside of exhibit C.

Based on the death glare I got from the Cashier, that’s definitely my plan.  [as if she’s one to judge]

But that’s not why we’re here. Wait, why are we here?  No, really, I was hoping you’d have the answer cus….

Listen.  I know, I know. I don’t write a blog for, like, decades and all the sudden here I am with the one-two punch.  But see, that’s how it works around here.  This isn’t a “real” blog, this is more of an update.  Housekeeping, if you will.  I have been a bit MIA around the blogosphere lately, and it’s not because you’re getting on my every last nerve.  Although…

As some of you may know, I lost my job last fall. No, there’s no blog that I can refer you to so that you can read about this seemingly dreadful but actually wonderful experience; however, that is definitely something I’ll add to my list.  Cus Holy Crapballs, that was messed up.  If you’ve lost your job recently, and there’s a good chance that you have – especially if you live in my dumpster of a state  – you’ll understand what I’m about to say.

Losing your job can mean all sorts of things: a chance to reinvent yourself, an opportunity to do something you really love, a new start, or a spiraling depression that leaves you wallowing in self pity. For me, it meant all of the above.  This brings me to my point, and yes, I have one this time.  After I ate every morsel of hidden [but apparently not very well] holiday candy, watched every unfortunate chick flick that I owned – twice, and spent the better half of two months unshowered and locked away in darkness, I slowly managed to yank myself out impending doom and decided to pursue writing.  It is, after all, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do – even though I tried almost every other option.  That process has been the most tragically-unfortunate-and-frightening-experience-turned-wonderful-surprise of my life.  And I’m determined to make it work.  Because well, if you have even the smallest chance of being able to do what you love – you should.  Enough with the fear.  Enough with the procrastination.  Enough with the negativity.  With that being said, go make yourself happy already – even though it might mean you’re broke for awhile about a year.  ***Also, in the midst of this pursuit, combined with an excess of time on my hands, I’ve also discovered another passion I’m quite siked about, but one thing at a time here.

So my point is.. crap.  Hold on.

I had to check my notes.  My point is…. that I’ve been busy lately working on “business stuff.”   And that would be a major understatement.  So, remember how I used to have that freelance writing website that was really super duper ghetto? Psssh.  Guess who ain’t ghetto no mo? That was just a temporary site [ come ON, a little credit please? ] and I’ve been slaving away on a dashing new web presence, among about fifty other pressing matters.

You can check it out on my freelance writing website, wordsbybrit.com.

 

 

Kenny Chronicles: “Officer, What Do You Take Me For?”

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STOP THE PRESSES! If you keep reading, you will be lost and wandering through the woods like Bambi after he got ravaged by a wolf.  This is part II of a series, first you must read the Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business. No really, get out of here.

This is quite long, it really should have been 3 parts… but who has patience for that?  Okay, where were we? Oh yes. Circa 2006. I was going to house sit for Slumdog Millionaire [heroin addict ex-boyfriend] while he was in London “sorting himself out.” So being the responsible house sitter, I was in full party planning mode with Kenny [metrosexual BFF] for our Top Secret Risky Business-themed-birthday bash, scheduled for the weekend after Slumdog departed. My old London roommate was flying out from the Big Apple. The DJ was booked. Ray Bans and five thousand glow in the dark beads were ordered. Approximately 300 invitations were accidentally sent out.

Brief history of “the house” in question: I don’t think you understand. This house was in the NICEST neighborhood in my entire city. Quiet little families. Doctors and Lawyers. Maple trees, Unicorns, and rainbows EVERYWHERE. The only parties thrown in this neighborhood were, like, Mary Kay related.  This knowledge will come in handy later on.

And now, courtesy of the recent archaeological dig in my Myspace Museum, I present to you an exact replica of the invitation to the “Kenny & Brit Risky Business B-day Bash of 06.”   [My observations have been made in pink]

dj-party1Dear those who like Tom Cruise and those who don’t,

I’m about 99% sure one of these things is currently true: 1. Your panties are now officially in a bundle.  2. Your mom still cooks a mean casserole.  3. Making out is my favorite past-time. Wait, sorry! We’re not talking about me.

Well, fear not, for the clouds have cleared and I can see the party of your life shining through – as if it were some golden ray of sunlight after a cold, dark & lonely winter void of human interaction and … wait, what?  So break out the Velcro shoulder pads, the stars are aligned and its the Age of Aquarius. [clearly, my schizophrenic writing style and tendency to digress have not matured over time]

THE OFFICIAL DAY THAT YOU’RE GONNA LOVE YOUR LIFE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 4th @ 9pm-?  We have condensed the guest list considerably [from what, 1000?] because this cannot get out of hand!! WARNING: Hey, Conan and the rest of you barbarians! You will be kicked out faster than Michael Jackson in a daycare if you do any of the following: [this was the second, ahem, slightly over-sized and out of control get together that we threw in Slumdog’s house]

*smoke inside the house (cuz you did last time)
*punch holes thru the walls or rip off the thermostat (cuz you did last time)
*spill stuff all over the place like you’ve got cerebral palsy (cuz you did last time)

[INSERT CRISIS] Four days before the party, Slumdog informs me that he’s not flying home.

Me:  Um. [ losing my last fricken’ marble on the inside] I thought you were going to sort yourself out and get better?  Don’t you want to get BETTER?  Don’t you care about me?  And your mom.  What about your mom? You haven’t seen your mom in like a year?!  What kind of son ARE YOU?

Needless to say, guilt trips don’t work very well on people who are on drugs to escape reality and feelings -thus, he missed his flight. Kenny and I went into full fledged Mission Impossible crisis mode. I had to do something drastic.  I bought him a new ticket and if I had to sell my soul to make sure he went, I was ready.  But the only ticket I could get was for the day AFTER our party.

Me [to Slumdog]: So I’ve bought you a new ticket for this weekend. You leave on Sunday, but I’ve arranged for ___ to pick you up on Friday and you’re going to stay in Chicago for the weekend and hang out on a yacht.   It’ll be good for you.  Have fun.

scan00021Night before the party I receive this email from Kenny:

From: Chad-a-licious

To: Neil, I still hate you.
Date: Aug 3, 2006 7:43 PM
Subject: Oh, by the way…

…let’s see. Could I be anymore frickin’ nervous??!!
[[exhale]] oh, boy… :S

and is that receptionist from the laser place still comin’???

Typical. When Slumdog arrived in Chicago, Kenny and I were an hour away moving all the furniture out of his house, taping black garbage bags to all the windows, installing ambient lighting, and sweating bullets.  It was a hot mess. And so were we cus I got a call from Slumdog every 5 minutes saying he wanted to come home.  [For a moment I’d like to flash back to my college days and have Miss Brooks switch that “B” to an “A” cus, wow, this was a persuasive speech the likes of which you’ve never seen.]

So the DJ was set up in the main living room.  Yea, the one with a big giant window that you’d usually drive by and see a Christmas tree in.   By about 10 pm, the entire neighborhood was lined with cars and people I’d never seen before were wandering through people’s yards in pursuit of the party.  The back deck was filled with rowdy smokers.  This party was anything but down low.

By the third time the cops came, I mistakenly thought he said I would be arrested, and I burst out into tears.  Kenny, as usual, took over.

[standing in the front doorway]  Officer: Do you realize this is a neighborhood where people have children?

Kenny:  Yes, sir.  I know, we had no idea it was so loud.  [lies. lies from the depths of hell!] We will keep it down.

Officer:  I’ve been getting alot of complaints.  [peeking his head in at all the destruction] There wouldn’t happen to be any minors here would there?

Kenny:  Officer. [putting his hand on his heart]  Officer, what do you take me for? I am 25 years old. Do you really think  a guy like me would allow something like that – in a neighborhood like this?  In a house like this? Sir, rest assured, I have dotted every “i” and crossed every “t.”

And at that very moment, you could hear the sound of every Abercrombie & Fitch employee running out the back door and taking shelter in neighbors’ various swing sets and tube slides.

You Big, Fat, Fake Smart Person

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Speaking of things I collect, I may have mentioned it briefly in the masterpiece entitled How To Live The Best Fake Life You Can Imagine, or several times thereafter, that I collect books.  I don’t read them, as much as I like to give the impression that I do, while underhandedly using them strictly for decorating props.  I understand this is a perplexing and tricky dichotomy considering I’m a writer. But you know how “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, I also find that “Those who can’t write, read.” You’re welcome to leave me nasty comments in regards to that theory, but wouldn’t you rather go eat a Dilly Bar or something?  Go with the cherry. You’ll thank me.

But seriously, the books are starting to take over my life.

bookshelves

So when I’m selecting books, my focus is on the thickness and color of the cover and how well it will coordinate with the lamp, random flea market suitcase, or bookshelf that it will be sitting on or in the proximity of.  I don’t pay attention to minor details like the title or the content.  I had an epiphany recently that I should start trying to solve all my problems by dissecting different sections of my house and seeing what they reveal about me.  [Go here to see what my freezer had to say. It was shocking, to say the least.] So, we’re moving on to my books.

It’s only fitting that we start with my desk area. It’s where I am sitting right now, talking to you.  It is also where I spend almost all of my meager existence being a hermit, writing and editing with bloodshot eyes, and listening to my nineties playlist while eating very questionable leftovers. Because I can.

forbidden-love-relationships

Let’s zoom in on the middle cubby. When I actually started reading the titles, I discovered that these books must have been stalking me during the past couple of years.

1. Places to Stay the Night.  This eerily, but accurately describes my life from the time span of 2002-2006.  If I could make one minor adjustment it would be “Random Places To Stay The Night While Escaping Your Heroin-Addict British Boyfriend, Overly-Possessive Italian Boyfriend, Or When You Decide To Go To Mexico On A Whim Or When You’re Wandering Around A European City And Refuse To Leave Your Wasted Roommate With Those Inappropriate German Guys.”

2. The Ideal Bride. Oh yes.  I couldn’t think of a better way to describe myself.  On opposite day.

3. To Love Again. And again… and again… and effing again.

4. Five Days In Paris. Please change to “Five Days In Paris Accompanied By: A Hailstorm, A Robbery, The Stomach Flu, Ungodly Frizzy Hair, World’s Meanest People, Mystery Meats Cooked In Too Much Butter, And An Unwanted Proposal.”

5. Ten Poems To Set You Free. UGH. Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!

6. Forbidden Area. Much like a fine art painting or Greek Opera, I’m leaving this one open to interpretation.

Here’s where you’ll actually get to know me: my nightstand.  This is reserved for books that I might pick up once in a while.   I don’t think it should serve as any surprise to you that WIT would be at the top of the stack, comfortably parked next to 50 Boyfriends Worse Than Yours.

That Time I Got Scammed Into Raising Sheep

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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?

horsesMe: 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

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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-1Dear 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

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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-partySpeaking 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.

patio-doorSo 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

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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.

my-parentsI 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

Problems? Why Yes, I Can Provide Those

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It’s really too bad,  you know? I had a decent shot at being normal.  My childhood had all the ingredients to cook up a perfectly functional adult woman.  I spent my days running a successful lemonade stand on our dead end street, eating Leave It To Beaver family dinners, and following my dad around in sweet overhauls.  Growing up, I never had self-confidence issues, or body-dysmorphic disorder, or the desire to be a promiscuous teen, or to cut myself,  or to run away, or to be a rebellious troublesome child.  But then, later on, I had to start interacting with things other than caterpillars and sheep [blog soon to follow]…and more unfortunately, men.

That being said, I did some cleaning today and think I’ve figured out what my problems are after analyzing a few sections of my house.  I encourage you to do the same, because you’ll never believe what your freezer could reveal about you.

A. The Freezer:

1. I’m a cheap bastard with no self control, who will throw away the last three [and only] weeks of working out at the first sight of a 5/$10 Edys ice cream sale.

2. I’m lazy. I’ve been eating Eggo waffles since 8th grade. I mean, how long does it take to pour milk onto cereal? Apparently time that I am not willing to give up.  This also further proves point #1 under section B – I don’t like change.  What if I get something different and it sucks? That is a fate I’m not ready to accept.  Also, you’ll notice that my ice has formed into an indestructible mountain because I couldn’t be bothered to use any since my Christmas party last year.

3. I’m stupid. I believe that getting the “herb roasted chicken” TV dinner will somehow balance out the fact that I just polished off 5,325 grams of sodium… and most likely that bag of buffalo fries.

4. I am “Type A.” I have a bag of industrial size pre-cooked mini Italian meatballs on the off chance I need to attend a work potluck and forgot to pick something up.  Except I haven’t had a real job since November.

B. The Closet:

v-neck-sweaters

1. I don’t like change, nor do I make any attempts to accept it. Now, please draw your attention to the circled column of sweaters in my closet for a brief illustration.  These are not only all V-neck sweaters, but they are all from Express.. and they are all the exact same style.

2.  The left column is entirely made up of turtlenecks, which tells me I’m not only constantly freezing – but come wintertime I turn into a bit of  a prude.

I’m not exactly sure where my commitment-phobia stems from or the fact that I keep my blinds permanently shut, but I have more cleaning to do so there’s still hope that I’ll discover the answers.

Happy searching.

 

 

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

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So I cleaned out my garage. I know you’re thinking that sounds a little over ambitious, especially for me, however, I haven’t been able to park inside of it since I moved in two years ago.  This also wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that when it rains, my car floods.  So as I was rummaging through countless, dusty boxes of love letters, 7 bridesmaid dresses, various throw pillows from my inability to commit to a living room color, a shot glass collection, a postcard collection, a key chain collection, and inventory from my retail store, I found my favorite discovery of all – an old hot pink Composition notebook and mystery container from Haiti.
spanish-homework

EXIBIT A

What first appeared to be a refuge for Spanish homework, turned out to have many hidden and wondrous glimpses into my life back in 2001.

I’d just like to ask if anyone has a clue why I was writing natural remedies for common hair care dilemmas in the middle of my Spanish homework?  Please see EXHIBIT A and respond to me with any suggestions you may have.

Your answers may unlock the mystery to a lifetime of complex issues.

Among the most amazing of all discoveries was: 1. a list of qualifications for my future mate, and 2. a list of  20 “Things I Will Accomplish.” Written with the same authority and determination of any 18 year old with a bad case of ADHD and no sense of the world whatsoever.  Today we will simply tackle “Things I Will Accomplish.”

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

I understand that you’re just a kid with lofty dreams, but there are some things you need to understand. In glancing over your list, I can’t help but notice you’re a bit obsessed with the Spanish culture according to points #2, #12, and #13, which is perplexing, but I assure you this is only a phase that will last about as long as your next boyfriend.   Your desire to eat tacos for consecutive weeks on end, however, will not subside.

to-do-list

adjustments have been made in RED

#6 – In regards to Paris, please don’t go. Just trust me on this one. #13 -Stick to your guns on studying abroad in South America.  Please don’t allow a charming, dark-haired boy, who has mesmerized you with his intelligence and ability to play Radiohead songs, to talk you into going to London instead.  If, by chance, you do end up in London, please do your best to avoid allBritish-Indian men who wear Versace Couture leather jackets and get regular facials.  If ever there was a time you should accept advice, it would be now.

# 4 -Yes, please get your teeth fixed.  Who are you, Jewel? #7 – On a more serious note, Oprah is a beotch, but you’ll have to learn the hard way.  Even the future you cannot possibly convince you otherwise at this point.  #1 – When you finally go to Italy and accomplish your childhood dream, please don’t drop your camera off the edge of the Coliseum.  They make wrist straps for a reason.  And seatbelts, but that’s a dead horse.

#8 – Don’t try to learn the guitar.  Remember Spanish?  Please stop trying to learn new things, it’s getting expensive and you’re making it increasingly hard to accomplish #18. #19 – LASIC?  Is this really on your ‘Things To Accomplish’ list?  What the heal is wrong with you? Do you want to die?  Have you seen Stevie Wonder lately?!  You just sit tight, four eyes.

#10 – I’m sorry for all the incessant laughter.  But in about 10 years, you’ll see why this is hilarious. #17 – What are you, some kind of freak?  #3 – Oh, boy.  If you had any idea how much you won’t be accomplishing this.  Ever.  So, please don’t try.  Again, focus on #18.

#20 – Yea, good luck with that.

Love,

Future You.

P.S. When you do meet Enrique Iglesias, please start walking away the first time your friend mentions she wants to sneak backstage and touch his rock-hard abs.  She’s not joking.  And neither are the cops.