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Archive for the ‘the younger years’ Category

Well, it’s one month shy of my first post here at The Daily Elephant.   I would like to say a big thank you to all of you out there who actually take time out of your extremely busy lives [or so you say..] to read about my ridiculous life.  It has been my pleasure to get to know you all.  As much as I’ve loved my big, oversized, wrinkly elephant skin, – I need some space to breathe.  You know how I get restless.

The time has come to announce my new website, and I thank you for your patience.  Oh wait, you were a bunch of crazy LUNATICS continually griping in my ear everyday. 

I want you to know that in this era of social networking, twittering, and myspacing that YOU are the first ones to know about this wonderous new development.  And let me tell you something, you better come visit me cus that blog is nekkid!!!  And no,  it’s not the kind of nekkid you’d be excited about.   I spend countless hours copying some of my favorite blogs onto the new website so it wouldn’t be empty and now there are ZERO comments.  It’s as if I have the most hated blog on the planet.  Boo hoo.  First one to comment wins… uh… my heart

We all know that I’m challenged when it comes to things like choosing names, significant others, or things from the dollar menu.  So you can IMAGINE the heartache I suffered over the name of my new website.  Afterall, I’m pretty hard to please and I’d like to be happy with this for more than a year.  So I thought long and hard about the general nature of my blogs and conversations with friends.  And one thing kept coming to mind- I’m very direct.  And I like it that way.  And I like others to be that way with me.   So I present to you my new website, designed by yours truly:

blunt-delivery-2

***FAVOR:  All of you that have The Daily Elephant listed on your blog roll, could you pretty pretty please change that to bluntdelivery.com???  I will love you forever.

And just for that, I have some fabulous new blogs for you right at the top of the pile, including: 

A Post-it Would Have Been Better

Middle School Misfortune

Nitemare on Ex Street

I Dated A Slumdog Millionaire

Not to mention that there is now a picture up of Kenny and I from the actual night in question from my post The Kenny Chronicles: How We Met

BOO-YA!  Told you I’d have it up by today.  There’s all sorts of new things for you to feast your eyes on, so you’ll have to look through the categories.  I am also introducing THE SKINNY, which is where I’ll be telling you the deal about products, websites, and things that will either revolutionize or destroy your life.

See ya around kids.

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Ok, hop in your DeLorean. Anytime I’m writing at 3am you must expect some sort of introspecion.  A little glimpse into the past.  So strap in kids. 

delorean-back-to-the-future1

 

Waaaay back when I first started writing blogs on Myspace, (uuuggh, dad, do we have to bring that up?) I called myself:  “The Davey Crocket of Blogging –blazing trails of truth.”   For what reason, I have no clue.  Kind of like I have no clue why this is named The Daily Elephant.   

 

Back then, I was different.  You know all of  the crazy events that I casually mention on this blog from time to time?  The ones where you leave me comments and you’re all:  “what the crap.  that’s bs… that didn’t happen.”   And then I tell you, yes it did.  And then you still don’t believe me?  Well, the myspace days were when they happened.    And that is their official title in the rolodex of my life: the myspace days.  [Definition]  Myspace days = a period of 3-4 years where I lost my damned mind.

After I recovered from my trip to crazytown, I started this blog, to chronicle my extended stay there.  And can I just say, that if you are planning a trip to crazytown anytime soon – invest in some deep conditioner – cus something is up with their soft water

So here I am, back from crazytown and my blog still has no point.   It’s like the Seinfeld of blogging.   And again, I’m stuck with a retarded name that I’m not even sure how I came up with, yet I can’t even buy the domain for it cus some other idiot already did, who also has no idea what he’s gonna do with it.  I mean, if some portly guy in a ski mask held a gun to my head and asked me what my blog was about, WHAT THE HECK would I say?   I mean,  after spewing the obvious immediate response of-  “holy crap you need to get up off my grill cus I can’t concentrate like this…and seriously, I don’t know where that gun’s been.”   But after that, then what?

I got nothing.  But speaking of losing your mind… have you all see this clip of Joaquin Phoenix on Letterman because OH MY GAH is it nutty?!?   Apparently, he is giving up acting to pursue a career in Rap music.  I thought this was a publicity stunt at first, but then after closer analyzation it’s pretty clear that he’s just high.  It’s HILARIOUS!

Want more blog traffic – let me feature you

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Now that you’ve had sufficient time to recover from your recent overdose of all things ridiculous and heart shaped… it’s time for you to pull up a seat, sharpen your pencil, steal a couple glue sticks, and grab a lunchable [or maybe some of those pre-sliced apples in the little pouches designed for the world’s laziest moms].  Please clear your mind of all recent uncomfortable encounters, romantic endeavors gone awry, and anything else that might prohibit you from fully absorbing the knowledge I’m about to impart upon you.   Open your eyes, your ears, and most importantly your hearts… because The Elephant’s School of Life is back in session.

It’s time for another installment of “What You Can Learn From My Inexcusable Mistakes”  [or]  “The Moral of The Elephant’s Story”  [or]  “Just Don’t Do This And You Should Be Ok”

1.  Don’t be scared of braces.  Because if your teeth are jacked up then you’re gonna have to deal with it at some point if you want to be socially acceptable.  Except by that time, you won’t be covered under your parent’s insurance anymore, so you’ll be out six grand and 22 with braces. 

The moral: Get over it metal face.  No one’s gonna even notice anything past the unsightly acne and oversized glasses on your face anyway.

glove-box-engagement-ring2.  Don’t start dating a psychopath, one so crazy, that you must runaway to Europe to hopefully be rid of him.  It won’t work.  He’ll come to visit you and wisk you off to Paris, where he’ll lose his wallet and force you both to wander around the red light district, all dressed up, without any money, or knowledge of the French language.   Then you’ll get all deathly ill and it will start to hail.  Unfortunately, he will still propose to you.  You’ll say no, but he’ll have you keep the ring anyway in a lame, yet crafty attempt to get you to reconsider.  But it won’t work cus you are smarter than that.  When you finally come home, you will put the ring in your glove box so that you can bring it back because you are not a gold digging whore.  However, in a random twist of fate, one of your “friends” will borrow your car and steal it before you have the chance. 

I guess there could be two  three morals here:  Don’t date a psychopath.  Or let anyone borrow your car.  Or have a glovebox.

3.  Don’t accidentally use a long distance # to connect your dad’s AOL dial-up so you can instant message your high school friends all night long.  Please understand that “FREE TRIAL” doesn’t also apply to the phone bill.  Oh sorry, that one was kind of outdated.  But I’m serious dad, I’ll cut you a check for that real soon!

4.  If you should still find yourself dating a psychopath, [even after my strong warning against doing so] don’t runaway to Europe to get rid of him.  Not only will that fail miserably, but you will end up meeting a new, even worse, British psychopath. 

The moral:  If you have the choice between foreign and domestic psychopaths, always stick with American made.  Keep American jobs here!

This blog has officially moved to: bluntdelivery.com

Who’s the Elephant?

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its not quite this bad

its not quite this bad

Let me start by saying that I currently drive a plum-colored Saturn with duct tape on the hood.  The reason for the duct tape is to cover an actual hole in my hood that was created by veering off the road and crashing into a road sign, which fell on my car and poked a hole straight through it. 

So heed my advice at your own discretion.

So back to this whole matter of me being in a beauty pageant.  Typing that very sentence makes my skin crawl, but you brought it up.  Let me first say, that I hate pageants and all the creepy girls and moms associated with them.  Okay.

Once upon a time, I was dating a charming young Italian gentleman, who I thought at the time was my long awaited knight in shining armor.  Ok.  Let’s start over.  Once upon a time, before developing my completely pessimistic realistic views on the ways of the world and men, I happened to get the wool pulled over my eyes by an Italian nutjob in preppy clothing who sang in a band.

As most young women who pay their way through private college, I was broke beyond my wildest dreams.  My brilliant nutjob was friends with the director of the local Miss America pageant sector, and they came to the ridiculous conclusion that I should be in a pageant.  My immediate protest was stiffled by the mention of  “but you can win alot of money.”    I have a habit of doing things spur of the moment, without much thought or consideration to what said thing will entail, so after a couple weeks I said, “fine. what do I have to do?”   Let me interrupt this story to comment on the time line for a moment.   Pageant = August.  When I was informed of said pageant = July.

four-inch-clear-heelsAfter having said yes, but then realizing the pageant was one month away, I recanted my admission.  Then I was further coerced by the boyfriend and director that it would be no big deal to prepare for.  Lies so big even Satan was shocked.   In one month I had to:  find a pageant gown [um, haven’t seen any of those around town lately] and 4 inch clear  heels [am I a stripper?], figure out a “talent” [I can’t sing, dance, or do anything requiring hand-eye coordination], get a professional picture for the program, learn how to walk in 4 inch clear heels [again. can’t do this], learn the group dance routine [there’s a what?],  get a swimsuit that I’d be comfortable wearing in front of thousands of people, freak out, and actually stop eating enough food for a small lacrosse team so that I could not embarass myself while wearing the swimsuit.  

My first problem is that I make impulsive decisions, my second problem is backing out of them.  I can’t do it.   So after one month of freaking out, chewing the Italian a new one, and eating nothing but apples – I competed in the pageant.

My talent?  A comedic monologue about my teenage acne.  Yes.     And you are correct if you are thinking that you’ve never seen anyone do a comedic monologue at a pageant before.  I don’t believe anyone ever has.  Probably because they can sing and dance like all the other pageant freaks.  Did they love it?   Does Geraldo Rivera love his mustache?

Swimsuit competition?  You know I rocked that.

Who’s the Elephant?

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The problem with me is I had a great childhood. 

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This is a bittersweet  fact of my life, as now I have nothing to blame my issues on.  My mom wasn’t a career obsessed, impossible to please crazypants, who tried to force me into childhood beauty pageants and acting classes so that she could live out her dreams.  She was actually a stay at home mom, who had cookies and a plate of assorted cheeses waiting for me every day after school.

 

 

 

 42-18497083My dad wasn’t in the slammer after various robbery attempts, therefore prompting me to search for love in all the inappropriate places because I suffered from daddy abandonment issues.   Instead, he sat through the intolerable rehashing of my entire school day each night after dinner, when I would give him a plethora of “homework assignments” to be handed in the next night. 

But can I just say that it’s pretty sad when you can’t pass a spelling test given to you by your 7 year old daughter.

My brother, on the other hand, he was the thorn in my rose garden of a chidhood.  He never once in all my living days:  a) talked to me, or b) let me so much as walk in the same vicinity of his Nintendo.  Although deeply scarring, I don’t feel that I can justify blaming all of my insanity upon him.   Ugh. 

By the way, Who’s the elephant?

www.wordsbybrit.com

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My entrepreneural spirit and business savvy disposition began at an extremely young age.  Younger than most. 

I remember waking up at 5 am., walking over to my neighbor’s  house, and telling him that he needed to get his butt in gear and come help me make the cranberry juice.  (neither of our moms ever had lemonade, so we had to improvise)   I didn’t even realize at the time that I was not only providing a cool and inexpensive beverage on a scorching day, but also a lifetime of antioxidants and healthy bladders.  Don’t feel bad as you start to think back on your own childhood.  It’s not your fault.  I was just so much more advanced than you were.  I think it had something to do with my mom not sending me to kindergarten.

lemonade-stand

I could have just stopped with the cranberry juice, as that would have been enough for any seven year old to offer, but it wasn’t enough for me.  So we would walk out to my parents garden and gather the equivalent of a children’s farmer’s market worth of assorted foods for our customers.   And if that weren’t enough to set up on some sawhorses and an old board at the end of my parent’s driveway, I also busted out the entire candy shop that I had set up in my closet. 

 dead-end-street

 

It was always round about noon, when it would occur to me that a bunch of candy in glass canisters sitting directly in the sun was not such a good idea. 

And it was about three yrs later, when it would occur to me that my business venture would have been much more successful had I not lived on a

dead end street in the middle of the absolute nowhere.  

 By the way, Who’s the elephant?

www.wordsbybrit.com

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culottesImagine if you will,  a young lady full of promise, who always got A’s on her report card.   The very thought of seeing disappointment on her parent’s faces prompted her to never disobey their rules.  She played quietly, said “thank you,” and helped her mother, (who had her dishwasher ripped out of the kitchen in order to create more cupboard space) every night with the dishes.   She attended a ridiculously strict Baptist school for fifteen years, where she was forced to wear culottes and brainwashed to believe that pants were evil. 

<————- (if you can’t pronounce culottes [koo-lots], I don’t blame you, considering most of the world has no reason to ever say that word) 

Now I’d like you to imagine that you are that girl. One morning, you walk into the same Baptist school, which required you to be clad in a turtleneck and an ankle-length-non-denim skirt, carrying your Lisa Frank trapper keeper, only to be told that you were on the verge of expulsion for “being in a gang.”

That’s right.  A gang.  You know, like those scary groups of people who loiter around the bad areas of town and shoot people for no good reason, cover themselves in piercings and tatoos, and often participate in the distribution and usage of illegal substances.  Yea, those people.

That was me, Gangy McShoot’em up.  Of course, after making it through gang initiation, you’d of thought I would have gotten over my fear of getting my ears pierced.  But no, that had to wait til well after high school. 

I can’t even bother to get into all of the details as to how on God’s green earth this school came to the insane conclusion that I was in a gang.  But, given my background, wouldn’t you think they could have given me the tiniest benefit of a doubt before telling me I was expelled?  Or i don’t know, maybe asked me about it?

They called my mom, to bear the bad news.  Her response, between the bouts of hysterical laughter, was:  “We live in the middle of nowhere and my daughter doesn’t even own a car.  She collects stickers and whines about her acne.  I think I might know if she was in a gang.”

www.wordsbybrit.com

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festivus-seinfeldBack in high school, seven of us started a tradition.  Every Dec. 23, regardless of whatever family emergencies or weather advisories might be in place, we celebrated Festivus, the fake Seinfeld holiday.  This consisted of all of us squeezing in one of our barely working cars, driving to the train station, and spending the day walking around Chicago, shopping, dethawing in Borders, and taking pictures with giant indian sculptures.   No matter how warm you dressed in preparation for this day, sorry, you were still going to freeze your ass off.   I don’t know how many of you have been to the Midwest – but don’t plan on having an ass by the time you leave, cus you won’t.

As usual, it was me and the guys.  That has kind of been the story of my life.   They’re so much less bitchy and jealous.   Every year, as we got off the train and the blustery snow started whipping across my face, I said, ” this is the last time I’m fricken doing this.”   But it never was.  And of course, we always had to take the latest available train home which was around midnight.  Always.   On the 5 year anniversary, we all sprayed our hair silver and carried around an aluminum pole.   This went on for several years until parts of the crew started getting married or having illegitimate children – both of which resulted in them dropping off the face of the earth.

 

But ah, good memories.

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It’s a day for introspection, my friends…

Before, after, and during my college years, I was told by many a new agey individual and philosophy teacher that I needed to “discover who I was” or “find myself” or “get in tune with my inner person” or whatever.  The only thing about myself that I ever knew for sure was that I liked to write, I liked to make people laugh, and I didn’t want to rush off into marriage and five kids like the rest of my friends had.  I didn’t believe in all that inner self crap.  So although I was pretty confident that I knew who I was [after living with myself all those years] it sounded kind of entertaining… maybe, I’d find that I was cooler than I’d originally thought? 

So as I set out on my self-discovering journey, I realized that trying to find myself was really just a whole lot of “hanging out” and “gaining weight” and “drinking coffee while having delirious late night conversations” with random other people who also couldn’t find themselves.  This all resulted in alot of deleriousness, altering of career paths, meaningless friendships, and relationship choices that would damage me for the better part of my life, which I would inevitably spend undoing all the things I’d done while finding myself. 

 Every person who is trying to find themself thinks that they must live somewhere other than where they are currently living.  You cannot possibly find yourself in your hometown, you have to go far, far away.  I was no exception to this rule.  Even though I’d never been on a plane and I couldn’t even drive to my next door neighbor’s house without getting lost, somehow, some way, one of my meaningless friends talked me into getting out of one of my damaging relationships by moving to Europe… this took place over a late night cup of coffee, of course.

[more on the ridiculous European excursions later…]

After going away, traveling the world, partially losing my mind, realizing that Italy was all I had hoped it would be, turning down a proposal on the Eiffel Tower, and then coming back with a newfound sense of whatever, I had quite a bit going for myself.  I had “discovered” a strapping young British lad who followed me back to states and was quite taken aback by my charming American accent [and the cheap cost of Midwestern living].  I quit college and started my own business.  Little did I know that strapping British lads are also quite good at disgusing the fact that they are millionaires, heroin addicts, and manic depressives. oh well.  I gave it the old college try.  Then after years of cleaning up after the British invasion, which consisted of almost being sued, being robbed and stalked by drug dealers, and hiding it all from my family- I decided to quit my business, go to massage therapy school, and write.  Massage Therapy is a stress-free occupation right?  Well, then I quit massage therapy school, and started another business which consisted of…writing.

So here I am, and after all these years of self-discovery I’ve come to realize the same thing I always knew.   I’m a complicated, indecisive, and independent girl who likes to write, and all of my experiences have led me back right to where I started…  Well.  That sure was a waste of time.  But it was fun.  Sorta.

By all means, everyone, please go find yourselves.

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

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

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

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

her: “hmm..  how often do you floss?”

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

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

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

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

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

me: “no, no actually they don’t.  only those times when I tug on them with the power of Hercules and probe them with sharp metal objects.”

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

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

The search continues…

 

 

 

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