Wednesday, August 31, 2011

A family legacy that just doesn't work for me.

I'm putting together a memory book for my son, Austynn.  It's sort of like a photo album but it's not.  Confused?  Go ahead and shake your heads yes because I am.  Everything in my life is complicated.  I'll try to explain it to you in 1000 words or less because, as we all know, I do that so well (sarcasm, no worries.  I'll try to keep this blog shorter than 500 words.).

Since Austy came to us from so many foster homes, his earlier memories tend to be a little jumbled.  One of his therapists suggested that I compile a special book for him with pictures and notes from his time with us as a family.  He's drawn his previous memories on paper as best as he can remember them. 

Now, as I have eluded to in the past, I am my Mother's daughter in many, many ways...except one.  My Mama keeps pictures, lots of pictures.  Pictures and pictures and more pictures.  Photo albums.  Dated and numbered photo albums.  She gets backed up from time to time but as of last count she's probably on #70 or so by now.  Don't giggle my dears.  I think it's fantastic.  I used to be mesmerized and enjoyed them from time to time; however, I think I was the only one.

I, on the other hand, didn't even consider asking someone to take pictures on my wedding day with Eric.  Someone just thought to do it.  We were fortunate enough to get copies which now, I'm embarrassed to say, sit loosely in the bottom of a miscellaneous box in our basement.  I have three photo albums all of which I compiled when I was in high school.  The rest of my life in pictures are also sitting in boxes in my basement.  Thank God for the dawn of digital cameras!  At least I know where to find them in my computer, sort of.

So now, today at 3:00pm, Austynn and his therapist plan on reviewing his (updated) memory book. Shoot!  I'm behind fives years of his life.  I have a little work ahead of me today.  As usual, I've procrastinated.  Time to find 2006 through 2011, write about them in terms Austy can comprehend, and place the pages behind sheet protectors in a big 3-ring notebook.

Are you still confused?  That's ok.  I've hit my 500+ word mark.  That's all I have to say.  You'll just have to figure the rest out.  Oh, and I forgot - one more thing...I hate stuff.  A lot of you might know that about me.  My opinion is the less to lug around life the better.  You can't take it with you so why collect it, why dust it?  That's my theory anyway.  My Mom's 70 or so photo albums, remember those?  She giving them to me eventually to carry on the legacy.  There's a bit of irony, don't you think?     




Tuesday, August 30, 2011

This is torture!

I'm seeing my general practitioner this morning.  It was thrown at me rather unexpectedly a few days ago when my pharmacy called in for a refill on my regular meds.  Nothing to worry about.  Doc just wants to do a lab check and make sure I'm still ornery.  No worries there.

What throws me off is that I can't "partake" in anything but water until the blood work is sucked out of me.  Now, I'm no slouch.  I know the drill - just water until my appointment so I scheduled it the moment the doors open at 9:00am; however, I wake up at 6:00am.  Who's following this train of thought?  Who knows what evil this imposes on me for over three hours?  Who realizes what my first thought is when I'm slapped awake by Tank's furry paw every morning?  Yes, that's right.  If you've been following my ramblings then you know...Java, Joe, Candy Bar in a Cup, Heaven's Delight, Sweet Nectar of the Gods...COFFEE!!!

This is torture.  I actually considered postponing writing today's blog because normally I have my coffee bowl sitting beside me in it's ole' familiar spot.  Today, it sits empty.  How can I concentrate this way?!  

It's terrible to be so dependent on something.  And before you tell me it's the caffeine, I beg to differ.  Yes, this may play a substantial role in my dependency but I feel it's so much more.  It's the ritual of making it.  The comfort of the sound while it's brewing, the smell of the cinnamon co-mingling with the particular flavor brand of coffee I purchase.  It's the warmth and comfort of holding the bowl against my face, particularly on cool mornings while I'm thinking about ridiculously stupid things.  It's that first hot sip and the smoothness down my parched throat.  Oh my gosh, I'm bringing myself to tears.  

How much more time do I have before my first cup of coffee?  SHIT!     

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Me impulsive? Nooo!

I talk a good game about my two impulsive ADHD boys but I have a confession to make, I'm a bit impulsive myself.  There's no ADHD in me, yes Bipolar and some serious OCD stuff every so often, but ADHD?  No.  Sometimes I open my mouth and what I call "verbal diarrhea" just comes dribbling out (my apologies for the visual).

When I was 13 years old and Trick-or-Treating with two of my best friends we disobeyed our parents and had gone to an area of town where we didn't belong. As we were walking home, several older teenagers threw raw eggs at us from across a wide street of traffic. Typically the best thing would have been to just ignore them and walk away. My friends suggested this but oh no, not me. My first impulse was to scream some choice four-letter expletives and tell them where they needed to burn for the rest of eternity. Of course, this was directly in front of the church where I was confirmed as Catholic. Obviously, I took my religious education very seriously.  A chase ensued until we found sanctuary in a Korean Presbyterian building further down the road. These lovely people were probably praying for the very souls that ran into their church that night. A witch and two promiscuous baby dolls. Holy Moses, we were saved!

A very sweet co-worker once confided to me about her ovarian cancer diagnoses.  She found out that morning, was in complete shock and decided to come back to the office to try to find her composure.  Oh my gosh, I was certainly the wrong person to look for it with.  Talk about verbal diarrhea!  Instead of comforting her, what did I do?  I went on and on about what a dangerous form of cancer it was, that my paternal grandmother died from it as a young woman, and yada, yada, yada.  Eventually I looked up and met her horrified eyes.  Yep, the damage had been done.  Hello?  Knock, knock?!  Was there anyone available to do'h slap this chica because she had obviously left her semi-smart ass at home and brought this stupid spewin' moron fool in her place.  Needless to say, my lovely co-worker immediately went home in tears to recover.  God bless her.  Today she's in remission and doing just fine.  Obviously, I only hear from her when she's doing well.     

There are other times that it's not what I say but what I do.  If I'm at a pool party and I see a fully dressed fannie leaning over talking to someone in the pool, it doesn't matter to me to whom this fannie belongs.  In fact, it doesn't even cross my mind.  This fannie and the body in front of it needs a shock of cold water.  Seriously, why on Earth would the fannie place itself so close to the water's edge?  In my mind there isn't even time to contemplate it, only time for instinctive action.  Oh, they were wearing a Rolex?  Well, aren't those things expensive so they'll withstand impulsive fools pushing them into swimming pools? If not, why wear them to a pool party?  Geesh!  Besides, when I really consider it, I did that person a big favor.  Now they can continue the conversation without straining their necks. 

Impulsivity.  Based on some of my above examples, it's not always best to do or say things without forethought; however, there's so much of my personality that comes through with this curse or gift because really, for me, I consider it both.  A curse in that I've created a lot of mayhem with it but a gift in that it has allowed me to take chances I would otherwise never have dreamed of.

What are you crazy enough to do with this moment in your life?   Quick!!  It's giving you two immediate choices.  If you just thought about it, you took the safe route.  If not, you jumped from the roof of a house (if you're a gal, you're wearing a yellow dress) and into a swimming pool below (yes, I have done that too).  Take a chance, be impulsive, and ask yourself afterwards, "Did I really just do that? and "Wasn't it fantastic?!"






Saturday, August 27, 2011

Why the attitude? Is it really necessary?

Normally I'm a kick back, relaxed kind of chica but I must admit there are times when something quite frightening happens to me.  I know what you're thinking and no, it has nothing to do with drinking tall glasses of milk or eating ice cream cones.  When I hear about people being mistreated, especially people I know and love, my lovely straight teeth turn into vicious fangs and I become feral.  Don't mess with the Breezy Bitch!

An incident occurred this past week with a relative of mine which I was not too pleased about.  She happens to be one of the sweetest of the Potts' "la familia" and was being stepped on by a nasty receptionist at a doctor's office.  Without going into a lot of detail, this sweet gal and her husband are suffering through a medical nightmare this year and on Thursday afternoon had to deal with a rude and uncaring jackass.  My dear girl was so frustrated and exhausted by this person's attitude, that by the time she hung up, she was in tears.  Nope.  Absolutely unacceptable.  My fangs came out.  I called this idiot from across state lines and explained to her that under no circumstance and - with as much returned surliness as I'm sure this awful receptionist could comprehend - that my family was not to be treated like that ever again.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm normally very calm that is, until I'm crossed with someone being mistreated or, God forbid, I'm given some sort of attitude.  Attitude.  Why?  Why the attitude?  Is it really necessary?

Why do perfume sprayers look down their noses at people?  Is it because they can't stand the stink of what they're spraying?  I can understand that but don't you dare do it because you believe you're a stinky ounce more important than the lady walking past you looking exhausted with twins in a stroller.  Why do hostesses, let me repeat this...hostesses...act like their jobs are far superior than the people who are standing before them?  Make-up counter assistants - assistants - this word in itself means that they assist. 

And about these make-up counter assistants - please for the love of God and everything that is beautiful - wipe that crud off of your face and walk towards me like you're actually interested in selling me something.  Oh, and don't even offer to put that stuff on me. I have a perfectly lovely complexion from years of not wearing that garbage, thank you very much.  On a final note assistants, when I buy that single tube of lipstick, you can also wipe off that pouty look along with the two inches of concealer which is not doing a good job in hiding your disdain.  Perhaps had you walked a little faster, been a little nicer, and let's face it - not startled me so much with those over arched eyebrows - I might had considered purchasing the matching lip liner.  Completely your loss in a $3.00 commission.  Big day for you considering all the women I see lining up to shop at make-up counters.

Whoa, Nellie!  Somewhere between here and my first paragraph I stepped on a soap box.  I must say, I'm really impressed because I was never very good at multi-tasking...standing, typing, thinking, complaining, etc.  I do believe I've gotten better at it.  Time to sit back in my chair and focus on being a kick back, relaxed kind of chica.  I think I like her better but she still won't wear a lot of make-up so don't even offer to put that crud on her face.















Thursday, August 25, 2011

Teenagers do smell bad, right?

I have so many things running through my brain this morning but I'm afraid it's because I put an extra scoop of coffee in my Mr. Coffee happy machine today. I'm running on too many cylinders which quite frankly scares the crap out of me. In two hours I'll have a melt down and that's never a pretty prospect. I better pull out the vacuum while I have this burst of energy which leads nicely into today's blog...

Yesterday I was a cleaning machine. By 11:30am downstairs was picked up and sparkling. It wasn't thoroughly perfect by my standards but it looked good. When I headed upstairs and stared into William's room, I was done. My brain just shut down. It wasn't that it was disgusting, he's fifteen after all, but I do insist that the boys pick up their rooms and make their beds in the mornings. Normally I go through and straighten things up, spray with some sort of deodorizer, wipe down the bathrooms, and focus on one major task for the day. But yesterday, no way. Instead, my depression kicked into full gear.  I made myself a bowl of popcorn and shut myself away in my bedroom. I sat for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening watching re-runs of the TV show, "Hoarding: Buried Alive".

It's so hard to explain, even for people who know me, that I base my self worth on what I can and can't accomplish. To me, my house is a reflection of who I am and it/I will never be perfect. It frustrates and it hurts and it infuriates me. I see tiny details when I stare at things and feel so overwhelmed. I think, "I can't fix that." or "How can I keep up on everything?  Every time I turn around it's filthy again." So when I walked up the stairs, I didn't just see things to pick up.  I saw scratch marks on the banister, a fire alarm that needed to be replaced, and cobwebs in the heating vent that I couldn't reach. Nothing will ever be right.  My goodness, I just put 44 years of therapy into one paragraph.

So yesterday, I hid in my bedroom's sitting area watching television and trying to piece together in my brain that no, I don't keep 50 animals in my house and that the smell where my dogs have had past potty training accidents can't be as awful as some of those homes. That no, I don't have mouse droppings or cockroach infestations throughout my kitchen.  That my 10 or 12 pairs of shoes do not, by any means, qualify as hoarding.

I'm not as crazy as I sound. Or am I?  Today I'm good, or at least I will be until this fifth scoop of coffee, the two chocolate brownies, and the chocolate protein shake continue to do their job. When everything starts to wear off and I feel the compulsion to crawl back into my cocoon, I always have my reruns to cheer me up again.  I'm ok.  My sideboards can be dirty and I have to remember that William's room will always smell bad, after all - he is a teenager and teenagers do smell bad right, right?

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

If a moth flies in your ear, I'm there for you friend.

Some things just make me laugh out loud not because they cause discomfort to the people in question but because I can totally see that happening to me. 

For instance, on Monday evening while playing in right field during the eighth inning with two outs, Matt Holliday of the St. Louis Cardinals had a moth fly into his ear.  No problem right?  Flick it out?  Wrong.  It went all the way in!  The player looked somewhat unnerved on the field when he realized he needed some help but me, oh no - I'd be a freak.  I'd be hopping up and down completely out of my mind.  The very thought of a bug crawling into my brain via my ear canal would be enough to commit me right there and then.  You all know how I feel about bugs...oh, I must stop typing about this because I'm beginning to itch my ridiculous mosquito bites!

When stupid things happen to me they also occur in front of large groups of people.  I'd love to say they happen when I'm in the privacy of my own humiliation, but no.  Life is never that kind.  Once, also while I was playing in outfield - but not in front thousands and a national audience, more like 15 spectators, a couple of junior high teams, and my dad (he was the killer punch) - I wanted to look like a professional baseball player (what a total geek!).  I thought by placing three quarters of a box of bubble gum tape in my mouth I would look like I had a huge wad of chewing tobacco in my cheek.  Totally sexy, I agree.  Suddenly, a fly ball was hit in my direction.  Strange, no one hit fly balls in my direction that's why coach put me out in left field.  I was awful at everything except for hitting the ball.  No!  This wasn't supposed to happen!  I ran to catch it and in my excitement and nervousness, the huge wad of gum got stuck in my windpipe.  Yes, that's right.  I never caught the ball that day (not that I was expected to).  It was an in the park home run while my team, dad, and 15 spectators looked on in horror as I laid in the grass and choked on three quarters of a box of bubble gum tape.

Now that I've recovered from my earlier itching episode, I can also share that I've had many a near bug in the ear experience.  Mine usually resulted in chain reaction incidents.  They happened when riding my bike across lanes of traffic.  The ultimate in audience participation.  A bee or hornet would find it's way under my blowing hair and then the chain reaction would occur.  I would scream, wave my head like a crazy girl, take my hands off my handle bars to release said offender from under my hair line, lose control of my bike, and fall over in the crosswalk in front of the cars waiting for their green lights.  Once I actually ran into the light pole on the other side.  There was nothing more humiliating than looking up at the confused, bemused, and hysterical faces of the drivers and knowing that my scraped and bloody body would be the topic of their dinner conversations that night.  Bastards.  At least I was never stung.

And of course there's my inheritance or lack thereof.  Some people are passed down lovely cheekbones.  Others, supreme intelligence.  Me, I have been given the curse of clutziness.  My father couldn't walk down a sidewalk without finding a crack to stumble over.  My aunt, his sister, has a plethora of mended broken bones.  I have been given their gift of falling over absolutely nothing, breaking bones over invisible obstacles, and doing it with such a lack of grace that it would make for wonderful YouTube video.  Only once was I graceful when I fractured my ankle walking back from a city carnival eating a corn dog and soda.  I fell hard - again, over absolutely nothing - but I never spilled a drop of my coke or lost my corn dog.  In fact, I finished my meal on the way to the hospital.  Nothing messes with Bri when she's eating carny food.

So my dear friends, next time I'm with you and a moth flies in your ear, I'll probably be laughing my ass off and not because you have a bug crawling into your brain via your ear canal but because I'd be going crazy if it were in my ear.  I'll be sure to help you out and pull out my tweezers and have a looksie if you want because after all, for once it's not in my ear - thank God!    

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

My dogs spoiled? Really?

I have strange pets but then again, everything and everyone in my household is strange. 

I can't walk by a wall without the sudden urge to stop and straighten out a picture which is bolted down.  I know it's impossible to straighten.  Eric hung it up crooked and sealed its destiny forever with some sort of horrifying tape in the event that Thornton, Colorado would suffer a magnitude 7 earthquake.  I can't fix it but I insist on trying and it drives me loony in the process. 

The birds, my two zebra finches are weird.  One is plucked almost naked by its companion and is the oldest living bird this side of the Mississippi by finch standards.  It can barely move and sleeps in the food bowl.  Most people don't know we have birds but when they walk into the study and investigate the incessant background chatter, they are horrified by the ugly hopping bird that screeches at them when they approach the cage.  It would be best for my friends to just leave them alone.  Mike, the old ugly one, will drop dead of a heart attack and I'd hate to have that on anyone's conscious as they step out of the room.  Not that I would mind so much, but I think it might bother my guests just a wee bit.

My kids are just a little left of center.  I've explained their behaviors over the months in many of my blogs.  They are sweet and endearing but if you don't know them very well, they can be unsettling.  I will not go into detail about the boys today.

Eric.  Well, if you don't have something in your hand to drink by the time you enter the front door, you will by the time you move into the kitchen and that's even if you don't want something to drink.  "What would you like to drink, we have water, soda, milk, water, coke?  I can make some coffee?  If you want a soda they're in the frig, just help yourself...can I get you anything?  Are you sure?  I can make you something?  We have beer?  I can make you a Margarita or a Virgin Margarita?  I can run to the store and pick up something for you?  Or you can just help yourself."  The consummate host.  He wants you to be comfortable to the point of being uncomfortable.  He means well but he's a serious nut case too.

And then there are my dogs...friends say that they're spoiled.  I can't say whether they are or not.  They're certainly peculiar.  I can attest to this.  Tulip, my Shih Tzu will not eat out of a bowl like other canines.  We have discovered that unless she is fed by hand (GROSS), she will starve to death.  What we must do is spend at least twenty minutes at meal times and place little bite sized morsels on the tile and coax her gently to eat.  Lovely.  This is a horrible, time consuming and messy process. 

Tank, our Lhasa Apso can not get through the night without going outside at least two times and he will not walk down on his own.  He's afraid of the dark.  We must carry this 23 pound fluffy beefcake half way down the stairs to give him the momentum necessary to hop down the rest of the way by himself.  Once he gets back upstairs, going back to sleep is a game.  He must play with my hair, whack my face with his paws, receive pets and assurances that we're next to him (remember, he's afraid of the dark), and snuggle his nose against my shoulder.  This is about a 15 minute process all while listening to Tulip just below him snarling and snapping if he crosses her sacred sleep boundary.  Finally asleep - three hours later he bats my face again, shakes his body, hurls himself across my back as his subtle request to go outside starts all over again.  At least he's telling me now.  He used to just pee in front of the door.  Both Eric and I are grateful for the advance notice regardless of how little sleep he provides us.  

So, are they spoiled?  I can't say for sure.  But you take look at these pictures and tell me if these were your dogs, how you couldn't spoil them a just a little...just a wee bit.  Now I ask you, aren't they adorable?!



Monday, August 22, 2011

By the way, I am not a three letter delight.

Eric and I are eternally broke.  I believe I've eluded to this in a past blog when asking for a direct contact to Bill Gates.  Since the only connection we received was a friend's brother working for Microsoft (close but not close enough), we will have to continue with our quest for the ever elusive winning lottery ticket.  The reason I bring this up is because once again, we could not afford to give each other anniversary gifts.  Yes, we buy each other lovely cards and whisper sweet nothings but just once, I would love to go to a restaurant without holding my breath when they run the credit card through. 

We have homemade "Honey Do" coupons stocked up to last a lifetime.  In fact, Eric asked me just last night why I haven't cashed in any of my Mother's Day coupons.  I recall specifically that one was for a foot massage.  I had to grin.  He asked me this while he was rubbing my feet.

Please believe me when I say that I'm not feeling sorry for myself.  I'm just stating the facts.  When I realize how much we have compared to others, well - there's no comparison.  Plus, we're together and happy.  We can laugh through it all.

This anniversary instead of homemade coupons, he splurged and purchased a little book of "sexy" coupons.  We haven't quite attacked them with as much vigor and lust as we might have ten years ago but eventually we'll start getting through them.  They're funny in that they're scratch off tickets and neither one of us knows what to expect.

The other night, I chose one and it said something to the effect of, "Tonight you will be provided with a three letter delight."  Then I was to scratch it off and see the answer.  This is how we assumed it would read:

Bri:    Rub (seriously, I was so tired and sore that's all I could think of)
Eric:  Sex  (this made a lot more sense, but obviously based on my answer...)

When I scratched it off it read:  "You".  Eric and I could not stop laughing.  Really?  What the Hell did this mean?  By the way, I am not a three letter delight.  Well, at this point at least we knew what each other wanted.  Poor dude.  It was going to be another solitary night on his anniversary but at least I'd be there cheering him on.  As long as he rubbed me first we'd make a very nice evening of it. 
 

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Oh yes...yesterday.

Somewhere along life's path something has happened to my body.  I've known for some time that eating large amounts of ice cream or drinking tall glasses of non-fat milk with dinner doesn't always make me feel particularly good afterwards.  That's ok.  I've never been a big ice cream fan and over the years I've gradually traded in my glasses of milk with calcium supplements.  To be honest with you, I've never given it much thought as to what it does to my system.  It's been such a minor inconvenience it hasn't really even crossed my mind until yesterday.  Oh yes...yesterday.

I love Fruit Loops cereal.  I simply adore those little fruity loops. I've purchased this cereal over the years for the boys without being tempted to eat bowls of it myself.  Eating it has always been a kid thing.  Sometimes, I'll take a handful of the dry fruity loops and munch them but I haven't eaten them anymore as a breakfast staple until...yesterday.  Eric and Austy sat down at the table while I was enjoying a couple pieces of toast and the very sight of it in their bowls made my mouth water.  It was Pavlovian in nature.  Somewhere, in some General Mills laboratory, someone was ringing the Breezy bell causing me to salivate, find a cereal bowl, pour a ridiculous amount of the fruity loops, and drown them in 2% milk (to me, who grew up on fat free milk, this tastes more like cream).

I devoured it.  When there where no loops and only milk remaining, I poured more cereal in my bowl because, God forbid, I should have to slurp the cream plain.  BURP (excuse me).  Finished.  Up I went to rinse my bowl.  I had so many things I wanted to do before we left for family night at the Denver Zoo.  (One night every summer, Eric's employer hosts a private party at a large Denver venue for its employees and their families.)  So off I went, picking up here and there, doing this and that, and then it happened...the first awful cramp.  Ouch!  The sweats.  Oh my gosh, I'm having hot flashes

"Are, you ok Bri?  You're dripping with sweat."

"I'll be ok.  I think I just need to lie down.  I'm not feeling so good."

For the next four hours I crawled from my bed to my bathroom.  The sounds which came from my abode were non-stop and grew in intensity and violence.  There were times I could hear laughter throughout the house due the commotion I was making.  The dogs wouldn't even stay with me.  I was truly terrifying.  The air above the bed was so stagnant and rotten that when I would stand and start to move to the restroom, I would become dizzy and sick.  I wasn't sure whether I should vomit or otherwise.

In this awfulness I had time to consider my dilemma.  Yes, it was true.  Somewhere along life's timeline I had developed Lactose Intolerance.  How wicked.  Yet, I had become immune to King Soopers/City Market Grade A Ultra Pasteurized Fat Free Half & Half???  How does this happen?  I pour practically a cup of this in my coffee bowl every morning and have never succumb to this horrible infliction.  Yes, that must be it.  I have become immune to my Non-Fat Half & Half.  Oh the irony!
  
So after dosing myself with anti-gas medication (which didn't help in the slightest), the Potts family took their chances and went to the Denver Zoo.  All I can say is thank goodness it wasn't the museum this year.  At least I could walk into the rhinoceros house and contribute my curse without much notice - though at one point - I swore I saw the rhino's eyes rolling up into the top of his head.




 

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Invasion of the Breezy Snatcher

What is it about my man's blue eyes and sweet smile that prevent me from turning off my light at night?  He gets me every time.  My body can be a crumpled mess of 44 year old aches and pains and yet one silly smile from him makes me want to stare into his face for the rest of eternity.  I know, I know...beyond sticky gooeyness.  I apologize profusely.  Who the Hell came into my bedroom last night and kidnapped the ornery, sarcastic Bri you've all come to know and appreciate?

Let me go back.  I don't believe that someone took her per say.  What happens is she that departs voluntarily every August 17th through the 20th and leaves in her wake a love sick puppy dog or in this case, a middle aged, devoted Labrador Retriever.  Would I get up in the middle of the night, drive to the grocery store, and purchase him Dove Dark Chocolate Ice Cream Bars if he asked me to normally?  Ummm...NO!  Last night when he smiled at this Breezy impostor at 12:35am she would have hopped in her red Ford Taurus without hesitation.  It's a sickness.

To explain this malady and "out of body experience", the Potts' Wedding Anniversay is August 19th, 1995.  Bri and Eric were married on one of the most uncomfortable days in recorded history on a boat on the Colorado River in Laughlin, Nevada.  Humid, 119 degrees, with the boat's generator crapping out right before the ceremony (meaning no air conditioning or electricity) - we looked into each other's eyes and exchanged the curse.  Every year at this time, Bri takes her surly, bitchy soul to an unknown location and leaves behind this starstruck groupie.  It's the honest truth.   


I adore this guy, Eric Potts.  He's had me hooked, line and sinker since we were kids in high school.  The first time I saw him slide across the dance floor in his Nike tennis shoes into a group of girls of whom he only knew one - I thought, "This guy's a character.  He's fearless".   While he was dancing up against all of my friends and totally disgusting them, I liked him immediately.  I laughed and watched him dance like a maniac.  In fact, I liked him so much that I asked him out (via letter) to the next dance called, Sadie Hawkins.  We've been best friends ever since that night in 1983.

So in all actuality our anniversary should be March 19th and we should be celebrating 26 years together.  After all, there was a faux wedding chapel at that dance, Eric and I did exchange vows, and amazingly after all these years  - I still have that tiny metal ring from when the high school dean pronounced us pretend man and wife. 

I don't think that weirdo who's replacing Bri for the next couple of days will want to close her eyes again tonight.  It still seems too much like a dream.


         

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Today I can only use G-words to describe how I'm feeling.

Giddy.  Gleeful.  Goofy.  These words don't seem like proper adjectives to describe me.  Ok, I will submit to goofy.  I have often heard that word tossed in my general direction and have felt it myself while spitting straw papers at Eric from behind restaurant menus.

Here I am, just a few days away from the beginning of another school year, and these G-words are simply how I'm feeling at the idea of having the house to myself again.

I am such a confused individual because I do remember just a few short months ago hating the chores of homework and the mandatory lunch making.  I can't seem to figure out what terrifies me more; the school struggles with the teachers, classmates, and lying over assignments or the constant chatter of television and my boys "one up'ing" each other about their lack of knowledge over rocket engines.   

On Monday, August 22nd at precisely 8:46am MST, I will kick off my shoes.  I will not answer the phone.  I will turn on my stereo and be giddy, gleeful, and goofy.  For just a few minutes of my day I will try not to worry about the teachers, classmates, and lying over assignments.  I will remember that I have the house all to myself.  I will not have to listen to the wretched TV or the boys chattering in the background.  All I'll hear is my fluffy, funny body huffin', puffin' and lovin' life to one of my favorite tunes.



 

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned by a bunch of lazy so and so's.

When people, or let's just call it as it is, family members, leave things empty or in need of replacement, it's annoying.  For instance, the paper towel roll.  What's with that?  It never fails that when I have wet hands from washing raw poultry and I need a handy, dandy paper towel  - I find the empty cardboard roll dangling off my lovely dispenser.  I shouldn't use my cloth dish towel because, well - it's unsanitary.  I could be unknowingly - or in this case - knowingly spreading salmonella throughout my kitchen, appliances, and counter tops.  Gruesome!  I blame this all on the lazy so and so's who couldn't take the three small steps to the pantry for a replacement roll.  Instead, I end up wiping my wet hands on my jeans.  (I'm sure The Health Department would smile kindly on this.)  I check the pantry for a roll of paper towels.  D'oh!  We're out.  Well, couldn't that lazy so and so walk down to the basement, reach up to the top shelf, pull down 5-6 paper towel rolls, walk back up from the basement, stock the pantry, and replace the roll on my lovely dispenser?  Lazy so and so!!  Since I'm in the middle of making dinner I won't have time to take care of it.  And so, the cycle continues.

What is it with leaving a scrape of butter on the dish or less than a swallow of milk in the carton?  Is there some sort of curse about finishing something?  While I was vacuuming the other day (yes, I think about bizarre things while housecleaning and is it any surprise to you, my blog readers, that I would be vacuuming?), I thought about this and this is what I came up with; if someone finished the butter, that would mean that the lazy so and so would feel compelled to rinse off the dish and place it in the sink (far be it from them to actually consider placement in the dishwasher, far too difficult a task).  If the last gulp of milk were to be swallowed, they may actually have to throw away the carton.  This would normally not be a big deal but if the trash were full, I would insist that the trash be taken out to the dumpster and the trashcan be re-lined.  I'm such a slave driver.  I feel horrible - well, not really.

And finally, the big, bad, bummer and the one that will be certain to have me screaming and lecturing for a good portion of the evening (one must assume this is very bad because I am not a lecturer by nature).  When I sit my ass down on a toilet, I should not have to verify that there's toilet paper.  This should an understood.  After all, this is my domain too.  I purchase the toilet paper when I go shopping.  I stock the bathrooms in advance.  So when that fateful moment arrives and I turn to the empty roll and if I'm fortunate enough to be in a bathroom where I can reach the cabinet and God forbid, some lazy so and so took the last roll under the sink...oh, this goes past annoying, this is just wrong on so many levels.   

I've sat screaming, drip drying or otherwise, until I've had to take matters upon myself.  I've been traumatized by these experiences.  Just know that when these horrifying moments have arrived, I've handled them with as much grace and dignity as I could muster.  Once I'm off the throne, the lectures and consequences begin.  Let me just say, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned by a bunch of lazy so and so's.  


  

Monday, August 15, 2011

Happy Early Anniversary to my Partner in Crime and Life - Eric

This Friday, August 19th will be my 16th Wedding Anniversary with Eric and since Fridays are usually when I post my YouTube blog, I thought I'd do something special for him today.  After all, he is a good egg.  He puts up with me doesn't he???


 

Sunday, August 14, 2011

I'm a cheater but not in the same league with Rosie...

Rosie Ruiz, 1979 NYC Marathon
I'm a cheater.  Yes, it's true.  Pure and simple.  Not in a horrible, sinister way but in a funny, trickster kind of way.  So imagine my delight yesterday morning while reading an article on the FOX Sports Internet page about Rosie Ruiz.  In 1979 Ruiz entered the New York City Marathon, ran a short distance, ducked out early without anyone noticing, took the subway, and ran the last mile to win the race in record time.  I laughed out loud.  I had never heard this story before.  For eight days she was glorified as the great underdog from literally nowhere.  Now, for a woman, she had some serious cajones; however, I must admit she was an asshole.  A decent human being would have stood there, absorbed some glory, and when the true winner crossed the finished line, handed it over like a baton in a relay race.  The joke would have been on the unsuspecting officials.  Rosie is what I would consider a sinister cheater somewhat on the same level as the steroid pumping fools in today's sports.

I'm a trickster cheater.  When I cheat, I'm extremely obvious and usually very upfront about it.

I have been known, to stack the deck BUT only in cases when I am on the losing end of an embarrassingly bad game of let's say Cribbage or Gin Rummy.  My poor husband.  It has taken him years to figure out never to leave the cards in my possession when he goes to the restroom.  One of the best scoring hands in Cribbage is 29.  It's hard to stack this hand but not impossible especially if he's gone for awhile (if you know what I mean).  I almost got away with it once but could not contain myself.  He was so impressed with my cards that my facial contortions and giggling gave me away eventually.  I'm a good liar but not that good.

Eric and I used to play the game, Battleship all the time.  This is a strategy board game whereas two players determine by a series of peg moves where the other player's ships are on their opponents side of the board.  Well, for some unknown reason I could never seem to beat Eric at this game.  One afternoon I was determined not to lose again.  He called out his peg moves but my husband, for some mysterious reason or another, could not hit or sink any of my ships.  By the time I only had one of his ships left to locate and it was inevitable that I would finally win the blasted game, Eric jumped up in frustration and claimed he should have hit one of my ships already.  He looked at my side of the board and noticed I had failed to place a single ship out to begin with.  Oops!  It must have slipped my mind.  I wonder if this is why he doesn't play Battleship with me anymore? 
    
Now that the Autumn months are upon us, we will invite friends over from time to time for game nights.  Let this be a warning to you, my dear ones; if we play Monopoly, I have a penchant for Boardwalk. If we bring out The Game of Life, I really love being the banker.  And finally, if we play cards, make sure your glasses aren't too clean.  I can see clearly what you have in their reflection.  I look forward to our get togethers.  By the way, if I have a really stupid look on my face when you get back from the restroom, you have my full permission to check my pockets and interogate the other guests.  Is there a possibility that I've cheated?  You betcha! 

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Do I really want to be remembered for that?

I know this sounds odd, but a lot of strange things cross my mind (no one should be surprised by this).  As I was watching TV with my husband last night it struck me that I would be mortified to be in a lot of commercials these days.  I'm sure it pays well but when I consider what I may be hawking to millions of viewers, I don't think it would be worth the humiliation.

For instance (and I apologize in advance to my gentlemen readers), there was a tampon commercial whereas the lady in question was jumping off a diving board and while upside down in mid-air she commented how she hoped her "protection" was in working order.  Really?  I hoped so too.  I think everybody at home watching did as well.  Would I want to be remembered for this infamous line?  I think not.  Gruesome.  It left Eric and I making all sorts of sordid comments after the fact because that's just how we are.  We'll always remember her face and if we see her walking down the street one day we'll think, "Wasn't that the upside down tampon lady who was worried about "leakage?"  That's not how I would want to be remembered. 

Then there's the cute commercials like Life Cereal'sMikey, Hey Mikey!  Remember him?  Sure, we all do.  But that's the problem and his face hasn't changed much since he was 3 years old.  It's criminal.  I feel for the guy, I really do.  There are enough idiots in the world to harass him for the rest of his life.  I can't even imagine what it must be like when he eats out.  Or how about all those stupid TV specials that still want a piece of him?  Poor guy.

I would think that TV commercials could destroy a career in one fatal blow depending on what one is hawking or how stupid it is. 

Before I end this rant, am I the only one questioning the whole side by side bathtub scene on the beach for erectile dysfunction medication?  What's with that?  Now this commercial is weird.  Just go into the water!  Is the ocean too cold?  Will he shrivel more?  Will it turn him off?  How did they get the bathtubs there?  How did they fill them with fresh water?  Do they not like getting sand in their suits?  Where will they make love?  Where are their towels?  Did they get naked in front of everybody else?  And for that matter, where is everybody else?  Do they have their own private beach?  My questions pertaining to this commercial are too numerous to type. At least provide more answers than questions.  How annoying! 



Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Vile Mothers of the Universe, ACTIVATE!

I just read an article on my MSN homepage about things that mothers would be shocked to learn about other mothers.  One in particular is that most mothers have moments when they don't like their children.  OMG!  I AM SO SHOCKED!  REALLY?!  THOSE VILE MOTHERS!  Give me a friggin break.  Are we really shocked?  And for that matter, let's not leave out the fathers.  Hey dads, you're in this too.  Good grief!  What rock has this columnist been living under?

Ok, for the sake of being a wee bit nice, which for me today might be difficult because my nice pills haven't kicked in yet, perhaps this columnist doesn't sit down with normal parents after a bad morning with our monsters screaming about applying toothpaste to their decaying teeth?  I've personally been known to say, "Bring on the painful dentist's drill!.  Maybe this will teach 'em that I'm not full of malarkey."

I don't think parents sit around, drink coffee, and share stories about how wonderful and perfect our kids are.  That might happen in another dimension but the folks I hang out with impart such horror stories about their demons and particular dislike - and yes, it's hard to hear, contempt - of our offspring that we actually feel a sense of camaraderie.  Yes, we love our children but we know as parents that they are smaller versions of our nastier, naughtier, and younger selves.  We know what to expect, sort of.  We're not fools.  Our parents cursed us,  "I hope you have a child just like you when you get older!" 

Tarzan

Our parents' generation never talked about it and they still don't.  As far as my mother is concerned we were lovely children.  Bullshit!  We were awful, terrible monsters.  My mother locked herself away in her bedroom for most of my childhood with a migraine.  When she did come out she was either sweet and pleasant or all Hell would break loose.  How different it would have been if she could just rely on some equally nutty friends and say, "I hate my kids this morning".  No, not in that generation.  Every family was perfect.  What happened behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors.  It wasn't as if my brother wasn't the only fifteen year old trying to emulate Tarzan wearing nothing but a loin cloth, hanging from the neighbors' avocado trees, and shooting at crows with a bow and arrow.

So today, my kids have been great.  Could this be because I was gone for most of the morning for an appointment and left them with my husband?  Could this also be because I was tired when I got home and took a nap?  So really, truth be told, they've been wonderful today because I haven't seen them.  School starts soon.  This vile mama is so ready.

  



Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Immunizations, Really?

All parents know how awful getting shots for kiddos can be.  We dread it.  We hate to see our little ones in pain of any kind.

Flash forward.  Big kids.  Early to mid teens.  They're at the end of their immunization programs and by this point they should be fully aware of what shots feel like.  Yes, it's still not a pleasant prospect but it must be done.  Immunizations are a mandatory school requirement. 

Most parents get through this process with their older kids with little or no hassle.  Their children may balk about it but when push comes to shove, just a few well placed threats of lost computer privileges should keep their kids in line.  Not so with mine. 

I had the lovely job of taking both my sons in yesterday for their wellness check-ups and immunization updates.  I always prepare myself for the worst and hope for the best.  It's sort of like the annual optometrist appointment but with needles.  Yes, I could probably take the boys in separately but what's the point?  It's going to be miserable no matter how I do it.  The only thing missing would be William antagonizing Austy.  At least with them annoying each other they're not annoying the office staff.  

Austynn was first.  While he was was being examined by the doctor he explained that he couldn't have his shots.  His system had "flushed" itself out last night (diarrhea).  There was something terribly wrong with him.  The medicine wouldn't stick.  He needed some special tests to find out why his system "flushed" so violently.  His mother (yours truly) didn't know what she was talking about and I should not expose him to immunizations at this time (nice).

Will's turn to be examined.  He lost four pounds.  He's really been exercising (yeah, right - he sits in his room from 8:30am until dinner).  He does a lot of housework - a lot more than mom (WHAT?!).  He plans on walking to school in the Autumn (four blocks).  He's not wearing his hearing aide because what's the point, mom just yells at him anyway (wait until you get home and you won't be disappointed).

After the doctor left, we waited for the nurse and the lovely shots to arrive.  I knew Austynn was going to be the hardest so I wanted him to go first.  As he sat on the table, he started to whine and complain about everything.  I knew he was nervous but he was being just awful.  I asked him nicely to stop.  He told me point blank, "NO".  I told him he was being surly (this has become my favorite word lately to describe my children) and if he didn't start behaving he was going to have a consequence. 

"FINE!  Give me a consequence, I DON'T CARE!"  Fine, I took away TV and Wii privileges when we eventually got home.  He didn't like that.  Then the nurse came in...

"My mom is stupid.  She gave me a consequence.  I don't want a shot!"  And, from there his voice became louder and louder and more aggressive.  Eventually the one nurse became two nurses and two nurses became three nurses and the whole time this was going on he was ranting and raving about what an idiot I was.  I was an awful mother.  He hated me and so on and so forth.  All I can say is thank God he's past the biting stage.  Finally the dreaded poke came.  One shot, that's all he needed.  Over.  He didn't even know when he received it because he was too busy screaming his obscenities at me.  Thank God William is past this screaming stage or perhaps he just didn't want his phone taken away so he kept his mouth shut.

By the time Austy hopped off the table he was all sunshine and roses.  "I love you, Mom.  Can I have my Wii and TV privileges back?"  I could have sworn I heard the nurses giggling over my shoulder. 

"No, I think not, Austy.  I know you were nervous but that was some pretty awful stuff you were yelling at me, dude."  

"Awww, I'm sorry."

"I know.  Just try harder next time.  I'm black and blue.  Look at me, I'm a wreck."

Austynn, in a very serious and concerned voice said, "Yeah, you do look pretty bad, mom."

I completely set myself up for that one.    


Monday, August 8, 2011

Tonight I'm going to suffer nightmares and indigestion

I love critters - all sorts of critters.  Not necessarily bugs.  No, not mosquitoes - certainly not mosquitoes, but critters.  Ok, ok, not opossums or anything that looks like a rat.  Geez, I've shared way too much information with my readers.  I must clarify everything these days.  But sweet, little critters.  You know, the kind that haven't attacked me yet.  

Prairie Dogs for instance.  They're not dogs at all.  They're not even remotely related to dogs.  They bark like dogs though.  They're considered rodents and I suppose if I owned a big piece of open property like a lot of folks here in Thornton, Colorado losing one prairie dog to a red Ford Taurus going way too fast down Washington Blvd. wouldn't be cause for dismay.  I, on the other hand, was the crazy lady driving that red Ford Taurus going way too fast down Washington Blvd. today and I was devastated.

The itty dude was in complete confusion.  His eyes indicated, "Which way should I go?"  It was the hesitation that killed him along with my need to get home quickly and finish my bowl of luke warm coffee.  When I looked back in my mirror, he was as flat as a pancake.  For a split second, I considered going back, calling the humane society, and sitting with the little guy until the bitter end, but in my heart I knew it was instant death.  Ugggh! 

All I wanted to do was get away from the crime scene.  I didn't want the other drivers to see the guilt on my face.  Rush, rush, rush away - faster than I had driven when I initially squished him.  And then, what did I do?  Another awful decision.  I pulled out my cell phone and called my husband!  I had to share my crime with someone but what if, while dialing, another critter crossed my path?  How ridiculous!

Today, haunted by the confused look on the animal's face just before impact and the sickening vision of a dead creature caused by my carelessness, I vow to keep my speed within 5mph of the posted speed limit on Washington Blvd. regardless of how much coffee I may have sitting on my computer desk.  Isn't that what microwaves are for anyway?  To heat up crappy, luke warm coffee?  So, today a prairie dog sadly lost his life for a non-issue.  Deep sigh.  Tonight, I'll end up with nightmares and indigestion over this poor itty critter.  Rest in peace little dude, rest in peace.     

Sunday, August 7, 2011

I've Lost Faith

Not too any people know this about me but I tend to be somewhat "superstitious".  If I miss a turn, I'm certain it's for a reason.  Karma, or in my case, God - either sent me down a different path to see something or help someone or, on a more ominous note, avoid something on the other road I missed.

I always have my eyes open for an opportunity.  To see what God places in front of me in order to make a difference somehow.  For me, it has always been about faith.  To not question but jump in with both feet and know what it is that I'm supposed to do.

For the past couple of years, the only necklace I've worn has been a silver chain with a pendant which reads, "Faith".  A simple principal which I've always held true not only to my religious beliefs but in mankind as a whole; however, I must confess that as of late this devout Catholic has not been going to church, my faith in government and country is at an all time low, and I don't have much confidence in mankind lately either. 

This morning my necklace broke.  What an omen.  Eric, my husband, said that it was no such thing, but for this superstitious chick, it made total sense.  I can't wear a pendant proclaiming one thing when I don't feel an ounce of it in my heart.  I need to find it again fast.  Life is hard enough without a little faith that things will get better tomorrow.

Time for a favor, my friends...throw some good Karma my way.  Positive thoughts, prayers, and FAITH.  I need some.  My reserves are at an all time low.  Thanks. 



Saturday, August 6, 2011

A Little Privacy Please

I truly thought that once Eric and I moved from our small two bedroom townhouse in California into our much larger home here in Colorado that we would not suffer from a lack of privacy.  That I could comfortably find a place in my home where I could be alone without background noise, children clamoring for my attention, or the privacy of my bathroom "moments" undisturbed.  Wrong.

It has actually gotten worse.  My pets, husband, and children actively seek me out more.  If my presence is not immediately felt, it seems to be a requirement on their end to know where I am at all times and discuss obscure issues like, "Do you know that the movie, Iron Man 3 will be coming out in 2013?" or "Bri, did you know the flowers we planted last spring are finally in bloom?".  This is all fine and good but is it necessary to holler for someone in a 3-story house who obviously can not be found for a reason?  I don't want to be found.  I'm probably resting or enjoying a good book or quite honestly, just want to be left alone.

My dogs don't get this either.  I don't mind their presence during my quiet "hiding" moments but seriously, while I'm on the toilet?  If I have to use the downstairs bathroom, I would prefer the door closed.  Normally this is because the boys are roaming about or I have company.  I don't appreciate my dogs scratching and howling at the door especially at those inopportune moments.  If it's a long situation (no explanation necessary), then they whine and bark and bring much more attention then I appreciate.  Lovely.  Of course, just to quiet them down, I'll let them come in while I'm washing my hands.  Dogs do not comprehend the word, discretion.  They jump in, take one long sniff at the toilet bowl, and run for cover with their tails between their legs.  You'd think that would teach them.  No, they come back for more the next time I have a room full of guests sitting just outside in my family room area.

For once I would like to find a place that I can call my own.  A space that no one knows about.  The last time I thought I found it, my husband was ready to commit me.  It was the crawl space in my master closet underneath my husband's dress shirts.  I almost succeeded until my dog, Tulip gave me away.  You see, she's a licker and Eric heard her tongue busy at something until he realized it was the chocolate syrup I spilled on my shirt from earlier in the day.  Drat!  Foiled by the overzealous chocolate loving tongue of my Shih Tzu

Perhaps, next time we look for a house I can discuss my needs privately with a female realtor.  I'm sure she'll understand.