Monday, December 31, 2012

Bri's Second Annual New Year's Anti-Resolution List

Here I am again, another December 31st; however, tonight I have no particular plan to run around comparing breast sizes with my neighbors or mixing grape soda with Vodka.  In a way, this gives me comfort.  It seems that I've been overexposing myself far too much in 2012.  It's time to become a bit more mysterious.  No more skinny dipping, no more asking anonymous cowboys for kisses, it's time to take back some of my complex, cryptic nature.  This is the year I need to remember what makes me tick, pulls me forward, and gives me strength.  I'm a walking contradiction.  It's time to figure out what I'll do with myself this year.  I haven't given my Anti-Resolution List much consideration; however, I do work well under pressure and will most likely come up with a few interesting ideas as I go along.
  1. I will never, ever underestimate the amount of caffeine my body can consume within a 24 hour time period again.  I thought I was impervious.  Not so.  I thought my alter ego was StarbucksSuperSkinnyVentiMochaGirl (+ an extra shot of espresso).  The day I discovered my weakness, the afternoon I ordered my fifth Venti too many (+ an extra shot of espresso), I was done for.  I couldn't speak without drooling.  I couldn't sign my name.  Everything I picked up, I dropped repeatedly.  Thank goodness, I was home and not driving.  No dinner for Breezy that night.  I was an open-eyed zombie until my husband left for work the next morning.
  2. Shih Tzu (Be frightened of the itty dogs)
    My dog, Tank never barfs just once.  I now know to hold him over the tile and never assume he's finished especially when he's standing over my expensive dining room rug.
  3. 14 year old Apsergian boys have no social skills.  This is one of the traits of their autism.  I should never be surprised when Austynn mentions to guests how loud his dad and I are when our bedroom doors are closed.
  4. I've been reminded once again why I don't like crawling up stairs partly nude with small animals behind me.
  5. When I fell off my crutches, I was more embarrassed by my husband's 4-letter expletives than the ridiculous appearance of my going down like a spaz.
  6. I should not be allowed to drive the courtesy mechanical carts in stores, EVER!
  7. Shih Tzus are tougher than Police Dogs.  There's really no comparison.
  8. Never hand the Karaoke microphone to my husband again particularly when the song, "I Like Big Butts", starts playing. 
  9. When marijuana becomes legal in your state, Skype us - it will be a heck of a fun phone call.
  10. Hide your axes.
  11.  
Have a wonderful start to the new year everyone! God Bless...


 

Monday, December 24, 2012

Give a little light..spread a little magic.

Tonight, my family, what's left of it (our eldest son is still in a Children's Home in downtown Denver for probationary purposes), will bundle up and with some neighborhood friends, place luminaries down our street and around the next block.  It seems like a quaint thing to do.  We've already heard some concerns about fire dangers and possible gusty winds which may pick up tonight ahead of a possible snow storm.  I think it will  be fine.  This is an old tradition.  The candles are in glass votives and will be weighted down in bags by sand and rocks.  If, for whatever reason, they get blown over - the candles will be blown out as well.

Eric and I have been blessed by such a loving and generous neighborhood that we wanted to give back a portion of the joy they've given us.  When we're done lighting the candles, the neighborhood will look as though a little piece of magic was sprinkled down over Homestead Hills in Thornton, Colorado.  You see, my friends and blog readers, this magic has always been alive and well here but the difference now will be that passersby will see it.

I have the keys to Kathy's house to occasionally take out Max, her beloved Schnauzer .  Suzanne, my ultra-right-wing-conservative-Republican-friend-from-Austin (grinning) gave me her house keys to ensure her toaster is unplugged from time to time and tell furniture guys NOT to unplug her stereo system.  I know the Troy's garage access code in case I need extra refrigerator space to place party food in.  I've taken Ms. Jean to the ER in Boulder and she - in turn - has helped Eric teach our 1st graders while my ankle was on the mend.  Jay and Jean Troy are the boys' surrogate grandparents and have attended every birthday party and special celebration.  I've held another neighbor in my arms while she screamed and called me a bitch for forcing her to go to detox.  Only love does this.  I've talked about life, and death, and eveything in between with others.  I've driven friends in 6 foot snow drifts to the airport and walked another friend who had too much wine back to her front door across the street from my own.

My dear friends and blog readers ask, there are actually neighborhoods like this?  Yes - mine in particular - the one I live in and call home.  Eric and I will not be without relatives this holiday season.  We are blessed to be surrounded by family on all sides.      

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Sometimes my breath is incentive enough to get out of bed.

I have a confession to make - I'm a bit of a manic clean freak; HOWEVER, there are days when I can even gross myself out.  Friends and family reading this blog will probably laugh as they consider "these" days to mean a few shoes scattered about the floor or piles of laundry waiting for me on the washing machine.  Giggle as you may dear ones, this is not how I see it at all.  I tend to stare deeply into corners on "these" days and notice greasy dirt clinging to baseboards which haven't seen a cleaning rag since August 11, 2006 (the day the Potts' family moved into our home).  These are the moments I head directly for my antibacterial spray, cotton swabs, and ignore phone calls until the crime scene has been obliterated. 

Unfortunately, for bi-polar gals such as myself, while I'm focused on destroying the first offender, my eyes will dart to the right and catch sight of a cobweb on my silk tree in the corner.  No, NO, NOOOO!  I must hose off the tree immediately.  Down go the cotton swabs, out goes the silk tree into the backyard.  Does it matter that it's 30 degrees?  Absolutely not.  The tree is filthy, it must be washed down.  As I pull out the hose, I'll step in dog poop and then see far too many dog poops laying about.  They must be picked up!  DISGUSTING!  Oh, and my outside coffee table is dirty and must be wiped down.  Who cares if it's going to snow the next afternoon?  This is exactly how my days go.  By the time Eric gets home from work, everything I've started is half completed and I find myself overwhelmed and exhausted.

This is when the other side of my bi-polar - depression - kicks in.  My projects remain scattered all over the house and I'll feel like a complete failure. I don't want to cook dinner (seriously, what's the point?  I'll burn it anyway) and then I'll retreat into my bed for three or more days.  Bi-polar is a bitch.  This is my story.  I know I'm making a joke out of it but it's not a funny situation.

There was a reason I started this long and tedious explanation of my mood disorder.  Patience, my friends, patience... 

My manic cleanliness also extends to my personal hygiene.  I'm a bath girl.  I must take a bath every day; however, when the "deep dark" creeps over me and I'm hiding from the world beneath layers of blankets, I forget all about my "need for clean" (so to speak).  I want the world to go away and if this means someone shoves a bed pan under my ass and clamps an intravenous protein line into my vein, terrific.  When I'm at this point, it's best to just spray a bottle of air freshener overhead and pray my breath induces me out of my own personal nightmare.

Today - right now - I'm good; in other words, I'm not suffering from a manic mood shift.  I'm straight down the middle.  My current conundrum is that my "need for clean" is being impeded by my broken ankle.  The dust bunnies in the hallway are scoffing at me from my crutches.  It's also difficult to take baths.  I have to take...GOD FORBID...showers and even then, I need assistance.  If this continues much longer I fear I'll spiral into an unimaginable manic cleaning frenzy once I'm off these damn things which will - in turn - develop into a depression far worse than I've ever experienced.  I wonder if Febreze sells air deodorizer in bulk?


Friday, December 21, 2012

If the world is going to end, let's get on with it!

So if the word is supposed to end today, December 21, 2012, as per the Mayan's prediction, let's get it over with already.  I'm personally quite done with this business.  I had to allow my youngest, autistic son to wear my treasured Puka shell necklace this morning.  This was a bribe to get him to walk to the bus stop.  His head has been filled with so much doom and gloom nonsense lately that he's concerned that he'll "meet his end" at school and not at home.  The idea behind my necklace was that I wouldn't dream of letting him wear it if I didn't expect to see it at the end of the day.  Good grief, the mind games we play with our kids.

Some of my loyal post followers may have noticed that I've been absent as of late.  Writing is a funny thing for me.  I have to feel it.  It's joyful.  It's also somewhat cathartic.  These past 4-5 weeks I've buried myself.  In addition to breaking my ankle, there's been some annual holiday blues that - try as I will - I can't seem to dodge.  Also, there's been more than the usual turmoil here with my two sons.  I realize that many of you, my friends and blog readers, are parents of Aspergers' kids and would be interested to know what's been happening.  For now, I ask that you be patient.  I'm not prepared to write about it.  Quite frankly, I'd rather clean up the dog's vomit next to the bed than re-visit that awful day.

My friends and family believe me to be strong.  I'm not.  I'm actually weak.  I can put on a pretty tough or silly mask when necessary but normally I'm falling apart inside.  Lately I've been feeling overwhelmed.  When Eric asks me to describe it, I break down and cry.  What I can manage to get out is if I could take enough sleeping pills to knock me out but not kill me - that's the ticket - I don't want to die.  I want to sleep through the worst of the madness.  I'm tired of Austynn's rages, money, my ankle hurting, the housework, legal issues with William, concerns with Eric's stress...the list goes on.  For one week, I don't want the kids near me, I don't want pain, and I don't want to worry about money.  What I'd like is some quiet, sunshine, and the beach.  It's been too long since Eric and I have had time to ourselves.

Perhaps I'm asking too much?  Yes.  I'm greedy.  Ok, I take back all of my requests.  How about instead of sleeping pills or that beautiful week in paradise, I get one day of no yelling, screaming, incessant chattering, or disrespect?  Yes.  I'll take that.  Is this too much to ask?  I'll even be willing to put up with a little ankle pain in exchange.

  

Saturday, December 1, 2012

A December Ramble

December 1st, 2012.  I don't have any one thing in mind to write about today so I'll resort to a good old fashioned ramble, the Lunatic Housewife style. 

This is a slightly awkward observation, I have toast crumbs between my cleavage.  Why, my dear friends and blog readers ask, is this even worthy of discussion?  It's not.  Why would it need to be if today's blog is a simple ramble?  My mention of it is merely a way of stating how my morning started out nicely with coffee and toast being brought lovingly to me in bed by my husband, Eric.  I must admit, I hate crumbs of any sort between my 40DDDs; however, since the love of my life always makes comments as to how lovely I smell there, I can only assume he appreciates buttered toast as much as I do.

My tri-broken ankle is throbbing like a mother trucker today.  The prescription pain medicine is sitting next to me but I must remain strong.  I won't take it until Eric tells me to.  This is the promise I made him after my last ER visit and the attending physician was startled by my 65/42 blood pressure reading.  You see, I have a tendency to be a "pain baby" and at the time decided that my Valium might assist in relieving some of the discomfort.  Well, it did - but I got myself into a wee bit o' trouble over it.  Now I must show the world and myself that I can survive a paper cut without running towards the medicine cabinet.  I can do it!  Yes, I am VOOMAN!  (OUCH!  Tank get off my foot before I call 911!)

I attended a "Nasty Lady" party last night.  For those of you who may not be familiar with what these parties are, I'll explain.  They're private parties whereas a salesperson is invited into someone's home to show off and sell "products" to friends and neighbors.  In this case, the "product" was sexual in nature; vibrators, lingerie, massage oil, etc.  I'm not big on attending "product" parties because I can't usually afford what they're selling - or, truth be told - I'm not honestly interested; however, "Nasty Lady" parties are always fun.

I suppose if one is sexually inhibited or painfully shy, these types of gatherings - especially if you attended as I did last night and knew no one other than my friend - it can be - well, a little cringe worthy.  A few shots of Tequila can always cure this. 

I must have laughed until I cried watching a trio of young girls mesmerized by a new "high-tech" vibrator.  I couldn't drink because of my pain medication but these young ladies had lost all sense of propriety due to several jello shots.  They determined, after a long and well thought out discussion, that they were "done" sexually with men forever.  That the vibrator they were considering - though expensive - was well worth the investment.  They also concluded that men's penis' in no way - and I must concur with this - could ever perform the amazing tricks that the "Quiver Tickler" was engineered to accomplish.  So, after calculating the cost of feeding and spoiling their men as well as the emotional let downs of not climaxing on a regular basis, they all realized the value the vibe.

Now, I'm sure many of you are wondering if I brought home a little black bag of goodies last night.  I'll simply say this, why do you think Eric brought me coffee and toast in bed this morning?  Women who often have toast crumbs between their cleavage must have extremely happy husbands for a reason (and yes, I guess having 40DDDs helps a little too). 



 

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Yup, It's Broken...

There are a lot of bummers about broken bones.  One of which - oddly enough - is happening as I type.  I'm siting in an empty house, listening to one of my dogs puke someplace.  Can I offer her/him/it comfort?  No.  Chances are someone, hopefully not myself, will slip in it and break one of their own bones.  Sympathy?  I'll consider it later.

Another annoyance is the simple act of using the "facilities".  I've known folks who've broken toes by missing the "know-it-all-asses" of their children and instead planted them firmly into an inconvenient - but strangely enough - consistently placed wall (a sad, but true story shared with me by the mother of the "know-it-all's ass in the hospital waiting room).  Not I.  I break bones by just being an idiot.  Also, my choice of cracks, fractures, and chips always seem to occur on my driving ankle.  This is my 4th fracture and 3rd sprain; however, this time it's different - it's a combo situation.  Yep!  I did it gooooood!  A chip, a fracture, and possibly more than one multiple break which may culminate in surgery.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph preserve us!  I'll find out this coming week.  Anyway, I digress.  There's nothing quite so romantic than staring into the beautiful blue eyes of my husband when I say, "Ok Eric, my granny panties are down.  Is the toilet seat ready?  I've got to go!"

Of course, this isn't sexiest moment of our marriage to date.  In all the years I've loved, teased, and slowly danced with my husband beneath the Christmas Tree; I've never, EVER thought I'd wake him up to announce, "Eric, I believe I just shit the sheets".

For better or for worse, you youngin's coming up behind us better have stomachs made of steel and complete devotion for one another.  Your spouse will be there for you and you'll need to be there for them.  This thought came up today when I was alone with my barfy dogs and swiping candy out of my son's Halloween bag.

My parents were committed to one another like Eric and myself.  When something gruesome happened, the other stepped up, no questions asked, and took care of it.  Yes, they giggled and laughed but what else could they do?  Marriage is a partnership in all things good and bad - for better or worse; for richer or poorer.

It seemed to me, as I was sneaking my greedy child's candy, that I had every right to it.  When did this relationship between children and their parents change so horrifically?  When did we - the Lord's and Master's of our own domain - have to ask PERMISSION to take a cheap piece of candy from our kiddos' Halloween bags?  Growing up in my house, it was understood that all suckers from cheap Dum Dums to prized Blow Pops belonged unequivocally to my father, no questions asked.  The same was to be said about boxes of Milk Duds.  To this day, I've never tasted the candy before.  My dad didn't have most of his own teeth either but well, these were the choices he made in life.  Mom, of course, could just help herself to any salty/chocolate combination when her "unfortunate time of the month" came blustering about. 

When did this alteration in candy rights occur?  I'm the grown-up now dammit!  I shouldn't have to slither about snaking bags of mini M&Ms because I have an occasional craving for chocolate!  I have broken bones dammit!  I'm crabby!  Nobody should be allowed to scream at me especially when I allowed him to use half my box of aluminum foil to dress as a bizarre and highly unlikely 14 year old robot.  Good God! 

Broken bones.  I hate them.  I've suffered through too many of them but as I consider that being an adult now with a broken bone leaves me with loads of laundry that I don't have to do, two bottles of pain killers, and meetings cancelled because I've been told to stay off my foot for 6 weeks.  I'm thinking maybe I shouldn't feel so bad about broken bones.  Guilt free bed rest, a dirty house, loads of laundry and miscellaneous dog barf somewhere.  Hmmm..  I think my pain is acting up a bit.  Time to take a pain med and a nap.  This may not be such a bad thing after all. 

 

Saturday, November 17, 2012

I like Q-Tips too.

I'm still hung up on that little "Thankful" game going around on Facebook.  I wrote about it a couple of days ago and I found myself pondering a few more just this morning after I had just posted two fresh ones. 

One, I was extremely grateful that my dog, Tank was asleep after I had stepped out of the bathtub this morning.  You see, for some unknown reason, he finds the suds from my bubble bath extremely tasty.  No matter how well I manage to dry off my legs, he still manages to locate random bubbles to lick off my calves or thighs.  I must admit that this is not a pleasant experience.  Before Tank's visits, I always feel clean and relaxed; afterwards - violated and dirty.  There's no door between the my master bathroom and bedroom so please don't offer ridiculously obvious advice.

Secondly, I love Q-tips.  They are a gift from the Gods.  They can be used for such an amazing plethora of activities.  Sure, they reach those intense itches in one's ear that our doctors forbid us to scratch; however, they are an OCD's housewife's dream come true.  Corner dirt and dust bunnies have no chance against a bottle of wood spray and one of these cotton swabs.  I almost listen for desperate screaming, "Heeeeelp meeee!  Heeeeelp meeee!" as I attack the offenders with relish.  Dirt and wayward bird seed should know better by now with me.  Nothing escapes my eyes especially when my bi-polar manic cleaning side kicks into full gear.

An old friend called me Thursday afternoon.  It was nice to hear his voice again.  I should actually reiterate that it was Tinsley who called me.  Tony Tinsley is my former US Marine "boyfriend" from years ago.  He was my lover before I met and married my ex-husband.  It's so nice that we've remained friends after all these years.  He still has the ability to make me laugh and I him. 

It's been a goal of mine to hold on to the men in my life and maintain friendships with them.  My theory is that I've loved them for a reason, why let go of that love?  There's some whom I've lost track of.  The first, was my "first".  A very sweet man.  Another, I hurt tremendously and I don't blame him for never contacting me again.  One accused me of dating "trash".  My response was that I hadn't dated "trash" until I met him. The last was a friend who seems to have dropped off the planet.  I still think of him fondly.  I hope he's doing well.

I'm thankful I had the wisdom and grace to learn from my past relationships.  Why let these friendships go?  Granted, some of them ended painfully with misunderstandings on both sides; however, I've given my heart to them as they've given theirs to me.  We've cried, laughed, and shared our dreams with one another.  This is a sacred trust given to me and I don't take it lightly. 

Most of all, I'm thankful for my current relationship - my best friend, Eric.  How many husbands would allow their wives to continue friendships with past loves?  I can't imagine too many and yet he does.  He tells me his honest feelings, and yes - he's jealous but understands that these men are part of my life.  Letting go or saying "good-bye" would be like removing a limb.  Tinsley, Jeff, and the others, are a part of who I am today.  They've developed my sense of humor, my "kick-back" attitude, my zest for life.  Without one of them, I would be less than who I am.

Last night my friend Cindy, her brother-in-law, and I went out to a country western bar.  Eric hates country music so it wasn't a huge sacrifice on his end to stay at home - that is until he saw me ready to leave.  I looked good.  I've lost a lot of weight recently, my hair was done last weekend and is back to it's perky red, I was wearing a shirt which accentuated my curves, and I was wearing lipstick.  Eric's little green horns came out to play.  He was doing his best but I could tell he was unnerved.

I have a secret, Eric.  You have nothing to worry about.  I'm grateful for you.  This past year, in particular, you've given me reasons far more than any wife to stay by your side, remain faithful, honest, and passionately in love with you.  You own my heart and soul.  They are yours forever. 

Monday, November 12, 2012

There should never be a "formal" way to show our gratitude.

Maple Tree
There's a "Be Thankful" game (for lack of a better term) on Facebook making it's way across the pages right now.  People are posting - on a daily basis - what they're grateful for up until Thanksgiving Day.  This is all very sweet and humbling in a Norman Rockwell "Americana" sort of way.  With everything I do, I tend to poke fun and not take it too seriously.  I suppose I should but it's virtually impossible for me not to have a little sarcasm come to the surface.  I'm thankful for many things, believe it or not, even those that I appear completely irreverent about.

For instance today, I made reference that I was grateful for the romantic break-up of Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber.  I'm not necessarily a celebrity stalker; however, from what I've seen of this young man, he's an annoying, spoiled brat.  This young lady seems lovely.  Why would she want to be seen with him?  Leave his sorry ass and as of this morning - good for her, she has.

On one post, I was grateful for my Maple Tree in the backyard.  I believe I rendered that in a somewhat sincere and beautiful prose: 

On this 10th day of November I'm grateful for the Maple Tree I had the foresight to plant outside my bedroom window. The leaves are gone now but it's lovely to watch the four seasons come and go with it. In the evening hours, when I can't sleep, the wind whistling through it is like a lullaby.

What most of my Facebook friends don't realize was that I held back most of my true feelings.  It was painful.  I suffered on a grand scale that morning.  My dear friends and blog readers, you should all know by now that I'm a smart ass and last week wasn't a particularly stellar one for me.  Instead of being a Negative Nellie, I was trying to stay positive.  If I had my druthers, this is what I would have written instead:

On this 10th day of November I'm grateful for the Maple Tree I had the foresight to plant outside my bedroom window; however, had I known that Eric would refuse to rake up the leaves, I would never have chosen the damn thing. 
 
So you see, it's all in my perspective and how I choose to bring my friends into my morose sense of humor.  I feel sometimes it's too early in the morning for such large doses of Breezisms'.  I have too much compassion for the people I love therefore I attempt a bit of restraint.  Strong coffee and massive quantities of fried foods - in particular - greasy apple fritters could always help my attitude as well.

To return to being thankful for things, my way is often silent, almost prayerful.  Grandiose has never been my style.  A simple letter, a gentle hug, a wink, a warm touch, a secret kiss, a passing blog when the moment strikes me - these are my ways of saying, "thank you".  To be honest, these quiet gestures should be done more often than during the holidays or when times get rough. 

Last week, my husband and I taught our first graders how to pray.  To be honest with you, this is our favorite class.  There should never be a "formal" way to show our gratitude.  A smile, a groan of pleasure when we taste something delicious, taking a moment to enjoy the beauty of a rose, and yes, the simple act of saying, "Thank You."  Whether you're religious or not, gratitude in its simplest form is an amazing gift unto itself.

I'm grateful for all that I have - but today, today I'm thankful for these words I was inspired to write.



 

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Because I Got High

On Tuesday, Colorado was one of only two states in the union to pass the "Pot" law, in other words giving my neighbors and I full permission to pull out our hidden pipes and come out of the "stoner closets" so to speak.  My state has had medicinal marijuana laws on the books for a couple of years now; however, it's been fairly silly to enforce because all my "sick" friends share with their "not so sick" friends (cough, cough..hmm, excuse me).

Now, before I go any further, I will clarify to you, my dear friends and blog readers, that I'm not a stoner in the sense of the 1980's fictional movie character Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.  No, I'm not "Hazy Girl".  Even if I had access to it, I wouldn't smoke it all the time.  To me, it's an occasional party indulgence.  Pot smoking is like alcohol drinking.  I see nothing wrong with it, I never have.  In fact, I much prefer smoking pot over alcohol.  I don't get sick with it and there are no nasty hangovers to contend with in the morning. 

So, I guess my secret is out, I have partaken from take to time.

If any of you have known me personally, you might find this somewhat shocking.  Breezy?  Denver Druggie in Disguise?  Noooo!  In my younger days, I was a huge nerd, geek, square peg, whatever term one would apply to a person such as myself.  The very idea of my touching an illegal substance was completely out of character.  It wasn't until I met and married my first husband that the thought crossed my mind.  Ironically, now Jeff is repulsed by drug users of any sort - alcohol included.

When Jeff and I lived in Colorado Springs, one of our upstairs apartments was inhabited by a couple whose life revolved around Top Ramen Noodles, Green Bay Packers Football, and bongs of weed longer than my forearm.  The gal was my only friend and confidant during this short period of my marriage and time in Southern Colorado.  She knew my heartbreak and overheard (how could anyone not) the horrible screaming battles between Jeff and myself.  Whereas he had a group of close friends to play Dungeons and Dragons and confide in, I had Carla to share my grief with. 

Friends come and go; some stay throughout our lifetimes, participating in every major family event whereas others arrive when we we need them the most then move on never to see them again.  This was how it was with Carla.  The last time I saw her was the day I drove the U-Haul away from our apartment building.  My mom was waiting for me in the passenger side of the cabin and I was staring back at my husband in disbelief.  Carla, knowing what was going through my mind, walked up to me, put her hands on my shoulders, and said, "Fuck him, Bri.  You're doing the right thing.  Hell, you're doing more than the right thing.  If I were you, I wouldn't have left the fucker anything.  I would have taken the light bulbs and emptied the ice cube trays." 

I burst into laughter.  I loved her for this last bit of humor because we both knew that was the last laugh I'd share with someone for a long time.  We hugged long and tight.  I've never seen of heard from her again.

So, back to Marijuana.  Cheech and ChongAnimal HouseReefer Madness.  Let's not freak out about pot smoking everybody.  I believe we need to teach our kids the same thing about pot as we do about alcohol.  First, it's addictive.  Second, it's illegal if you're under 21.  Third, don't smoke it and drive.  Fourth, it's not good for you (um, hello..just like some forms of binge drinking).  So, will this keep minors from smoking it?  No.  Of course not.  Has it yet?  No.  Have these same theories kept kids from drinking?  No.  Will it cut down on the time and effort spent on the little drug dudes and allow the police force to work on the bigger issues out there.  I think so. 

Will I have half the state of Colorado - heck, half the nation - disagreeing with this blog?  Probably.  These posts are just my opinion, nothing more.  Everyone can relax.  This liberal chickie, formally from California, will never run for politics.  I'm just one annoying voice in millions.  Let's agree to disagree shall we?  Or better yet, when the law becomes official, why don't you come by and join me for a smoke?

 


 

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Pay It Forward

I've learned a lot of things from my dad while he was alive.  When I was little, he held me up on roller skates, taught me how to hook a line with a worm, and how not to pee behind a tree.  Later in life, I stood by his side and learned the fine art of loading a Crap Table in Vegas and impressing the hell out of the old dudes chewing on cheap cigars and clinging to their dollar bills.  However much this last lesson might have cost (or won) me in gambling money over the years, I wouldn't take back a nerve wracking moment with him.  There is, yet - another legacy he left me and last night it came roaring back into my life through someone else; "Pay It Forward".

It's amazing what children pickup from their parents when their parents aren't watching.  I've learned some of my best swear words from Richard and Maryellen Bryant.  Also, my marriage is a gift from my parents; their laughter, their communication, their friendship...yes, I watched it all growing up.  I expected the same when I eventually exchanged vows.  When it wasn't in my first marriage, I knew something was very, very wrong.  My mom always told her daughters, "Marry a man like your father."   Jeff was a wonderful man, but he wasn't my soul mate - he wasn't meant for me.  Eric is my life partner.  I've also learned the fine art of how to get what I want from my dear one (thank you mama).  Watching her kanoodle dad was nothing short of miraculous.  No matter how big the request or problem, he always ended up agreeing with her (I'm grinning ear to ear as I type this).

The biggest take away; however, were the meals he'd pick up for young couples in love, desperate looking families, or senior citizens in restaurants.  He never said anything.  The only way I knew what he was doing was when he would quietly tell the hostess and she'd give it away when they were making the arrangements.  He didn't want any fanfare, he didn't want any big deal made out of it, and he definitely didn't want the recipients to know who he was.  He just wanted to do something nice.  What makes me smile is realizing that these are just the gifts I'm personally aware of.  How many more random acts of kindness did he perform without my knowing?  I can only imagine. 

Because of this, Eric and I are great advocates of random acts of kindness.  We "Pay It Forward" whenever we have an opportunity to do so.

Last night, a complete stranger rang our doorbell and gave us an envelope with money in it.  I won't deny that Eric and I have been going through some difficult times lately with our oldest kiddo in Juvenile Hall, our garage in shambles, and our other kiddo driving us to the brink of insanity.  The gentleman indicated that he was asked to give us the envelope by another stranger.  There was no name, no indication of who it was from - just our names on the envelope, cash inside, and the statement, "With Love".

The sentiment made us weep.  To have someone care enough to do something so kind.  Eric and I have been wrapped up in our own little world of problems and concerns that we've forgotten how blessed we are to be surrounded by a blanket of comfort and love.  The money will certainly help but it was the kindness, the "Pay It Forward", that will pull us through these tough days ahead.  There is a warm glow coming from our house on the top of the hill in Thornton, Colorado.  It is one of friendship, contentment, and peace.

Eric and I keep a picture of my dad on the table in our Family Room.  Below it reads a quote by Dr. Seuss, “Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."  It could never be more true than it is today.  Thank you dad for your what you've taught me and thank you once again to our anonymous friend for your warm and comforting blanket of love.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

The Bryant Family: A Comedy Show Unto Ourselves

A few days ago I wrote a humiliating blog about my sister, Kathleen and I being captured on video trying to snorkel for the first time.  My mind hasn't left the beautiful Kaanapali Beach shoreline in Maui, Hawaii yet and the "endless summers" my family spent there during the 1980's.  Most families would have lovely memories of calm afternoons lying on white, sandy beaches or quiet dinners at open air restaurants with little umbrellas spiked with fresh pineapple slices in their blended fruit drinks.  Sure, sure, we experienced these moments too - BUT my dear friends and blog readers - we were the BRYANT family; nothing ever went according to plan.

My mother loved scheduling special outings for us.  This, of course, was when I first discovered that I was the "weakest link" in mi familia.  In other words, yours truly does not have a strong stomach for boats, trains, airplanes, or twisty roads.  THIS is a horrible discovery within a group of siblings whose primary function it is to tease and torment one another at every Thanksgiving Meal for the rest of our adult lives.

On one particular vacation, my mother rented a small Cessna touring plane to fly over the island of Kauai.  That was fun (sarcasm); however, Kauai is a highly mountainous island and to fly over it is extremely bumpy.  Uh oh - yep, you guessed it - barf bags?  I didn't enjoy the flight at all.  All I remember was my brother Paul laughing his ass off from the front seat and my sister Kathy saying, "Eeew, gross!"

Another summer, my mom wanted the family to sail around Maui on a catamaran, a type of fast, multi-hulled boat which skims across the water.  Another hilarious future story for the holidays.  You see, my mother wasn't informed that the lovely sailing craft wouldn't be docked.  I don't blame her for not asking.  I would have assumed that a fully staffed boat would be moored and waiting for our family upon our arrival.   Nope.  Not so.  How foolish of her to assume especially having paid such an exorbitant amount of money for the excursion.  I'll never forget the anger on her face when it was explained that one, we would have to split up in pairs and take a "dingy" out to the catamaran and two, swim past enormous waves to get to "said" dingy.  Oh my GOD!  Woe to the man who had to deal with my mother that afternoon.

Let me set up the visual.  Lahaina seaport is a huge tourist destination in Maui.  The beach was packed with tourists and sunbathers.  We kids were wearing swimsuits beneath our shorts and t-shirts; however, my parents had not planned on swimming.  My dad was wearing slacks with suspenders and a golf shirt and mom was in her classic, long Hawaiian mu mu dress.  It was a disaster.

My sister, Kathy and my mom attempted boarding the dingy first.  It was windy and as I had previously mentioned, the waves were huge.  Mom barely made it into the raft with her mu mu weighing her down but with the help of the itty, bitty, blonde crew member hoisting her in, she conquered it.  My sissy, on the other hand, wasn't a good swimmer and could not pull herself up.  Much to her mortification, my other sister, Ellenmary and I were left watching the spectacle on the beach.  We started with a low chuckle and as the scene became more intense, our laughter increased to loud, hysterical cackling.  Soon, the tourists were standing along side of us watching the horror show unfold before their eyes.  I couldn't hear Kathy over the wind, the waves, and our laughter but I'm certain she was throwing out words which could have easily excommunicated her from the Catholic Church.  Eventually, the itty, bitty, blonde crew member had to jump out of the dingy and literally fist Kathy by the ass into the boat.  Eeew.

Next, it was my turn.  Dammit, why did I have to draw so much attention to the situation?  I was sure as Hell not going to have the itty, bitty, blonde crew member fisting my ass into the dingy.  I waited patiently and timed the waves.  One, two..I took a running leap into it and...OH FUCK!  I almost fell out the other side of the raft in my excitement to make it in!  Hysterical cackling.  Shit!  I guess I had that coming...

I had mentioned it was a windy day.  The boat was a rockin'.  To and fro - fro and to.  Barf bags?  No such luck.  Just Bri hanging off the side of the rails for most of the trip, my brother, Paul laughing his ass off, and my sister, Kathy saying, "Eeew, gross!"

Land HO!  Finally.  No more movement under my feet.  The nice, soft, white sand and again - hysterical cackling.  I turned around to see what my sister Ellenmary was laughing at this time.  It was my mom and dad dripping wet, clothes hanging off them as they were walking towards the parking lot.  My mother was screaming at my baby brother to stop running away from her, my pop was yelling at my mom to stop screaming, and my brother Paul was throwing chunks of wet sand at my sister Kathleen during which was drawing a huge amount of attention from the crowd of folks on the beach.  The Bryant Family.  We were a tourist attraction and entertainment unto ourselves.  Wherever we went, we should have charged admission - we could have made a fortune.

    

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

A Couple of Snorkeling Geeks

I haven't been writing much lately; not every day, not every other day, or hardly every week for that matter either.  I'm normally a bit sarcastic, a wee bit on the negative side; however, my life - as of late - has been a bit of a bummer.  In my opinion, there's no sense in bringin' you, my dear friends and blog readers, down into an ugly chasm with me.  I haven't been in a "deep dark" my term for the gloomy side of my bi-polar moods.  No, on the contrary.  I've been ok; taking my medications - staying consistent and on track with my emotions (thank God for this).  My family life has been Topsy Turvy; out of control so to speak so there it is - the truth of the matter.  I'm falling out of an airplane, pee'ng on myself, and have no parachute to speak of.  If you're a consistent reader of my posts, then you're fully aware of how I'm feeling right now.

I don't feel like going into explicit detail as to what's happening in my life.  Needless to say, if you know my family, than you know the details.  If you don't, please focus some positive Karma my way.  Thanks.  This Colorado Potts' Family can use all the support we can get.

In lieu of this, I will shift the negative forces of my life and write something funny for a change.  I need a good giggle.  I certainly have plenty of memories to draw upon...

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A Couple of Snorkeling Geeks

I've mentioned before that during my teenage years, my family spent several summers in a condominium timeshare in Maui, Hawaii.  The Condo was located directly on the beach just north of Lahaina.  We considered these our "endless summers".  My mother, older brother, sisters, and I would fly out and stay there until my dad's two weeks vacation was available and then he would come out and join us. 

Our days would start with breakfast on the veranda.  Later, we'd play cards by the pool, take naps in the afternoon, snorkel in the reef, swim again at the pool, and fall asleep listening to the waves just outside our bedroom windows.  Our skin and hair were golden, we smelled like the island flowers we were surrounded by, and walked through the back roads barefoot.

There's a funny part to this story, there always is.  My older sister, Kathleen, and I, weren't the most proficient snorkelers when we first arrived.  No one taught us how to wear the masks or how to walk into the water with the fins and gear.  In fact, the secret is, you don't - you don't wear fins into the water.  No one told us this the first time around.  How would we know this? 

My mother, Maryellen, has always been a video camera aficionado.  8mm film was the big deal back then.  Mom took video of EVERYTHING!  So, here was my mother, on the bluff video taping Kathleen and I during our first snorkeling experience.  Seriously?  Was it necessary to capture our humiliation?  Of course it was!  Kathy and I assumed that we needed to wear our fins prior to walking into to water.  Wrong.  With masks, snorkels, and fins - looking as idiotic as possible - every time a wave hit, we were taken down and rolled several feet along the shoreline coughing and sputtering until we managed to get up and attempt the process again.  Did we consider taking off our fins and putting them on in the water?  No.  We simply repeated the same process over and over again until our bathing suits started rolling off our asses and we nearly drowned.  My oldest sister, Ellenmary, later applied lovely cartoon music to the video adding to our embarrassment.

Strangely enough, that video has been lost.  Hmmm...wonder what happened to it?

 

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Sisters! Awful, evil, nasty, funny, wonderful women.

The way we choose to lose weight is a very personal thing; however, it's interesting what similar stories many of us "fluffies" - my term of endearment for we non-Twiggy types - share.  One of my favorites is the, I'm-gonna'-trick-myself-into-believing-the-bullshit-magazine-advertisement ploy.  This is the hideous brain fart moment when I stop mid-bite on my king sized Snickers Bar and stare at the full page testimonials of the newest wonder weight loss miracle drug (FDA approval pending).  Somehow I convince my mind that the bad photo shop paste jobs are authentic.  My thoughts start with the following:

"How amazingly happy that skinny lady looks.  Isn't it ironic that she's wearing the same barrett in both pictures?  She must really like that barrett.  I wonder how much this incredible drug costs?  I want to be happy like this skinny lady too.  Hmmm, if I order now I get a free set of knives to cut vegetables with.  I hate vegetables.  I don't care.  I want the knives anyway. They can help me when I'm baking my holiday cakes and pies."

Then there's the special diet plans.  The ones where I pay over a $100 or more a week to have the company ship me their food and I miraculously shed the weight until I attend my first neighborhood party or go out to dinner.  Once this happens, my fluffy ass can kiss the diet salad dressing packets goodbye.  No wonder Eric and I are always broke.

There is a story behind this story, believe it or not, and I'm getting to it.  The very topic of diets starts me ramblin'.  After all, I am the queen bee of all weight loss strategies.  I've experienced just about every one of them.  Fortunately for me, I've learned to say, "I'm Bri and I'm beautiful", regardless of my fluffy butt and fold of fat left over from my gastric bypass surgery seven years ago. We are who we're meant to be.  Yes, I've gone skinny dipping with my husband and with a group of strangers.  Ah well, life moves on.  "I yam what I yam".

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LARGER than LIFE

When I was in my early twenties, I was fortunate to live right behind - or "next door" - to my oldest sister, Ellenmary.  We both lived on an ancient rental property in Long Beach, California, with our former husbands.  My sister and her ex-husband rented the front house and my ex-husband, Jeff, and I rented half the duplex behind them.  The other half was rented by a dear friend of Jeff's whom eventually I came to love like a brother.  We couldn't have asked for a nicer situation.

Ellen and I were Monday dieters.  I'm certain I don't need to explain this to you, my dear friends and blog readers, but for clarification purposes I will.  Every weekend, we found ourselves gorging on horrible fatty foods and on Sunday evenings we'd make a pact.  My sister and I would promise to meet at some ungodly hour on Monday morning and begin our dieting retinue of "power walking" to the beach and start some new fad diet that day.  This is how it would begin:

5:00am Monday:  Bright eyed, ready and excited; my sister and I would get together on her front porch, dutifully stretch our calf muscles, and start power walking down the quaint streets of our lovely beach city.

5:15am Tuesday:  I'd sit on Ellen's front porch, struggling to tie my shoes in the pre-dawn light, and Ellen would walk out the front door looking a little worse for wear.  We would fore go the stretching,  stop at a coffee shop in Naples (a walkway of eclectic shopping and houses down Ocean Blvd.) for a cinnamon bun, and take a much needed rest before heading back home.

5:20am Wednesday:  I'd wait for Ellen for approximately 10 minutes praying she overslept. Inevitably she would.  I'd go back into my duplex for a doughnut and some coffee.

Two weeks and one pants size larger, I considered my plight:

I can't depend on anyone helping me to lose weight but myself.  Ellen is busy.  I saw an advertisement for a "Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Oldies", video on TV.  I can do this!  I can dance in the morning before I shower for work.

Video in.  Richard Simmons sure had energy in his little blue dolphin shorts but if those other big ladies behind him could dance, so could I!  I began the routine.  The old duplex shook.  It sounded literally like the Disney Cartoon, Fantasia, in particular the part when the elephants were on parade.  Thank goodness both Jeff and our neighbor, Dave were sound sleepers.  I would be mortified if they saw me trying to dance.  I was huffing and puffing.  I was awful! 

I heard laughing and it was not coming from my video.  Richard usually cries with empathy for his ladies.  This was hysterical cackling; the kind of laughter that could and would wake entire neighborhoods.  It sounded strangely familiar too.  Jeez, it was loud...who, what, where?

My sister...ELLENMARY!  Apparently with the light behind me, I was casting an enormously larger than life shadow across my drapes.  My fluffy size 24 body lunging across my duplex appeared more like a monster amazon struggling to accomplish the silliest of dance moves which wasn't - in all actuality - far from the truth.  Dammit it all!  Did she have to laugh that loud?  I slammed open my door and there she was, practically rolling on the grass between our houses.  WELL!  I didn't see sweat dripping down her face!  At least I was trying to do something about my fluffy rolls!  Dammit!

Sisters!  Awful, evil, nasty, funny, wonderful women. 



 

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

"I yam what I yam"...an oddball!

I was asked recently to share my toe nail story.  What toe nail story?  You see, my dear friends and blog readers, as perverted as this may sound, I have far too many of these disgusting and silly stories  in my memory bank to draw upon.  Next to flatulence, this is my second favorite gross out topic.  I had to literally ask my friend to remind me which one he wanted me to write about.  Ohhh, thaaaat one.  Ok then, request accepted.

Now before I begin, I will preface that this isn't what prompted my divorce from my ex-husband, Jeff.  No, not at all.  This particular incident occurred before our nuptials.  He was fully aware of my strange sense of humor before we exchanged vows.  In fact, most of my boyfriends have always seemed drawn to my oddball personality for one reason or another.  "I yam what I yam", to quote Popeye the Sailor Man; however, never open a can of spinach anywhere near me or I'll run screaming into the night.

I used to tease Jeff incessantly about his "petrified" toenails; or in other words, his "toe claws" which he never seemed to trim.  Every night, as a gesture of affection (which for me was an excruciating instant of torture), my dear one would slide his big toe up the soft sole of my foot.  This moment of endearment would drive me to distraction and at times, depending on how sharp his nail happened to be, would send me flying out of bed.  No matter how many times I implored that he refrain from doing this, he inevitably would forget and once again the claw would find its prey and send me shooting skywards.

Finally, I had had enough.  There needed to be a serious teaching moment; a claw for a claw - so to speak.  One night, as Jeff settled himself comfortably under the comforter and with the stealth of a Ninja, I gave him the same gesture of affection which he'd been showing me for months.  The shriek which rattled his side of the bed was outstanding.  The light was roughly turned on.  Jeff sat up, reached for his glasses, and then glared at me with his beautiful, steely blue eyes.   Then, he immediately burst into uproarious laughter.  There, in the light - in all its horrifying glory - was my big toe, trimmed to a point and filed into a talon for added sharpness. From that night forward, there were no more claws of affection sliding up the soft sole of my foot.  Lesson learned.


  
 

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Nothing is stopping me but do I know my Act of Contrition?

Fear is an awful thing isn't it?  I've written about this before but it's been on my mind lately so what the Hell, I'll do a little rambling this morning and make myself feel better.  I apologize if this topic seems redundant.
I hate flying in airplanes; the idea of being out of control and plummeting to the earth doesn't sound appealing to me whatsoever.  The notion that I'd have time to consider what's happening during that fateful plunge, holy crap!  Just thinking about it makes me want to pee my pants.  I suppose I'd have a few seconds to make a good Act of Contrition which is what we Catholics consider a formal apology to God.  With my luck, I'd forget the prayer, cuss like a sailor going down, and have that many more sins on my soul to do Penance in Purgatory (which is sort of like a "clearing house" between Heaven and Hell to wipe out our sins before we're allowed to go through the pearly gates).

I despise going to formal parties especially when I don't know anyone.  I'm expected to be on my best behavior and this always backfires dreadfully.  My nerves get the best of me and I become a naughty monster.  I start talking out of control, if there are straws - inevitably spit wads start flying, and socially acceptable conversations?  Faaaahhhget about it!  I tend to go home dreadfully ashamed of myself.  Eric, my husband, seems proud and loving of my behavior; however, I'm mortified beyond belief.  I relive every conversation and silly lampshade dance move and cringe with horror.  Did I really do that?  Oh my God!  Just shoot me!  I'm such an asshole!!  Amazingly, I survive to laugh and write about it another day.

Trying new things is terrifying; putting myself out there, setting myself up for possible ridicule or failure.  I've attempted new projects this past year and by this I mean big-life-changing-placing-myself-in-front-of-audience ideas.  This is huge for me.  I'm a gal who once shook so terribly in front of her high school drama teacher, I couldn't sing two lines of a song.  Today, years later, I've stood in front of strangers with comedy routines and now I'm ready to approach local venues for one-woman open panel adult humor shows.  I have to do this, because if I don't - I'll always wonder, what if?

So, here I go.  Nothing is stopping me except for the fear of failure.  What if I do fail?  At least I will have tried.  I didn't stay at home and come up with lots of ideas and dreams which I never had the nerve to attempt.  At least I'll say, Did I really do that?  Oh my God!  Just shoot me!  I'm such an asshole!!

Hopefully, I'll survive to laugh and write about it another day. 

 

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

I love you to death.

I have discovered the secret to a strong, healthy marriage; love your spouse to the point of cruelty.  Yes, that's right my dear friends and blog readers, beat your loved one to death.

This revelation occurred to me just a few moments ago while reading the morning news on the Internet - very comfortably might I add - and my husband, Eric, lying beside me felt I needed to be more comfortable.  He believed my neck wasn't resting against the head board correctly and wanted to reposition me with additional pillows.  Despite my repeated protests to the contrary, he was prepared to move me anyway to a very uncomfortable position.

I'm smiling as I type this because my husband is merely trying to please me.  How can I not love him for this?  So, if my neck breaks because of his overly attentive affection, how can I not find it in my heart to forgive him?

There have been many nights, more so than I care to admit, that I have woken up with fat lips or black eyes.  Eric isn't a wife beater.  No.  He's a restless sleeper in a queen sized bed with two small dogs wrapped between his legs.  He doesn't simply roll over, he throws his entire body around which includes his knobby elbows.  My face, unfortunately, has been the recipient of the ends of these body parts.  How can I hold my bruises against him when he brings ice water up to me every night or sweetly swats at invisible spiders during my night terrors?

When I see an offending nose hair while waiting at a traffic light - you know what I'm writing about my friends - A hair that when you look at your loved one's profile you think, "How in God's name did he/she miss that horrifying thing when looking in the mirror today?"  Inevitably, I can't resist the urge, reach over, and rip it out quickly before the light turns green.

"BITCH!  You're killing me!" 

"You know you love me.  Besides, you look presentable now.  You should be thanking me instead of yelling at me for Pete's sake.  I'm hurt.  Apologize, please."

"NO!"

"Well then, I don't forgive you."

"What?!  Ok, I suppose love you."

"That's better.  Maybe I'll talk to you later if you're nicer to me but if I see another one, I can't make any promises..."

Playing, whacking, and yelling bizarre names at one another is all part of what keeps the insanity of our marriage sane.  A few minutes ago, when Eric called me a "Slut Muffin" and pinched me rather unceremoniously, I laughed out loud.  My boys are at school.  When I'm finished writing this blog, I'll wait until he's on a business call and pinch him back.  Naughty?  You betcha.  Do we have a loving, strong, and healthy marriage?  Absolutely.






   

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The Potts' Family: We need a religious intervention.

It's been a while since I've felt truly silly.  Silly postings used to drip off my fingertips like honey from a hive.  I have to admit, this does make me a little sad.  I miss laughing out loud while I'm henpecking away at my son's borrowed laptop (Yes, mine is still suffering from a burdensome virus which I can't afford to repair.  I suspect it came from the last boobie page I visited and was too ashamed to admit to my husband.  Oops, I guess it's out of the closet now.  Sorry, Eric.  I was chatting with my cabana boys again, Luis and Carlos.  They just can't get enough of me and let's face it - why would they want to?)

When I have to borrow something from my sixteen year old teenager, this reaaaallly annoys me.  For instance, I have to slink and slither about the house and wait for the scoundrel to leave for school before I can unplug his laptop and bring it into my bedroom.  Sure, I could just do it in front of him but would suffer the consequences of listening to the following:

"Oh, so you're the one using it..?  Please make sure you plug it in correctly when you're done." or "Mom, something is wrong with my computer, what did you do to it?"

OH PLEEEEASE, give me a break!

Here's a good one, my youngest kiddo, Austynn, becomes Satan himself when his autism and anger escalates.  The four-letter words he throws at me when he doesn't get his way are enough to consider calling the Vatican and requesting an Exorcism

Last week, he refused to get out of bed to get dressed to go to school.  Instead of calling the local police and having them sweet talk my 167 pound demon out from under his covers, I took a different route - I treated him like the the toddler he was being.  I used my brute strength, pulled him out by his feet (which didn't land him comfortably on his head - might I add), and undressed him while doing my best to dodge his kicks, bites, and scratches.  I couldn't dodge them all.  I'll admit, he hurt me and while doing so used words I've only heard in the best Halloween horror movies.  While this was going on I explained to him that when and if I did call the police, they would see my battle scars and sweet-talking would not be their next tactic.  His excuse was that he learned all his finest curse words from dad and I. 

Now, I'm sorry - but when was the last time I've used the words, "fucking, fat whore" to describe someone?  This was a bit of a stretch - even for me and I must admit, for the girlfriend of a former marine, my cursing vernacular is pretty darn good.  Nope.  Austy's verbal diarrhea skills are all his own.  The Holy Water will be brought out as soon as possible and the Evil One must be defeated.

I've just re-read my blog and it appears to me that my household is EVIL incarnate.  I visit boobie pages and infect my laptop with hearty viruses.  My children say mean things to me which place me in terrible snits.  I haven't mentioned this yet, but my dogs are very ill-behaved and will bite bare toes and tug on shoelaces of anyone who dares walk through my front door.  And my husband, Eric - he's the worst.  He appears to be a sweet, quiet, mild-mannered, polite, Clark Kent type of guy but these are precisely the ones you have to watch out for.  They're the scariest of all characters.

Any comment made - no matter how innocent - becomes instant fodder for sexual innuendo.  Why is this?  He blames it on his upbringing!  No one is safe and no topic is off limit.  It will go on as the night progresses regardless of how often eyeballs roll or how loud or painful the groans become.  Trust me, my dear friends and blog readers, I have lived with this man for eighteen years; I know how it begins and unfortunately, after four or five beers, how it progresses.  If, by the end of a party, one has not seen the bare, white, hairless skin of my husband's ass, one may consider themselves truly blessed. 

Dear God in Heaven - the entire Colorado Potts' home needs a religious intervention. 

   

Sunday, October 7, 2012

If Heaven has a kitchen...


It's that wonderful time of the year again when the icy chill in the air inspires me to wake up early and make magic in the kitchen.  The smells of cinnamon, apples, pumpkin, and nutmeg are continually wafting about on early Sunday mornings.  Homemade breads, cookies, and cakes are perpetually being prepared.  In the evenings, while the sounds of football whistles are blowing in the background, pork roasts are stewing in cider on the stove top.  Everything is quiet.  Everything is surreal and lovely.

Food is the essence of comfort in my life.  It always has been.  This morning, in the quiet, silence of the dawn, I woke up early and made apple muffins from scratch.  The fire was going, the dogs were nestled in front of it, and I was alone with my thoughts.  I was focused on one project; making what I call, "magic". 

It's not too often that I can concentrate on something simple.  Usually I have a hundred thoughts running through my mind.  "I have to find Austynn's immunization records for school tomorrow.  Can I take him even though he's started a cold?  I want to put up Halloween decorations before Halloween this year.  I miss Brenda.  I wish I had some money.  Dammit, I forgot to schedule that friggin' appointment again..."  And so on and so forth.  For one short hour this morning, my mind was focused: "three apples, peel, cut, dice.  Now I need the flour, sugar and walnuts."  I was in my own private, silent Heaven.

Everyone has their favorite time of the year.  I've just described why Autumn is mine.  If Heaven has a kitchen filled with apples and cinnamon then I must visit it every year from September through December.      

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Divorce Court. You get the kids, buddy!

During the past month, my oldest son, William has asked several times if my husband and I are going to break up.  The first time he asked I thought he was joking; however, the comments became increasingly more regular.  My sixteen year old believed - and still does to a certain extent - that his dad and I are headed for divorce court.  This is a heart wrenching revelation.

I won't deny that Eric, my husband of 18 years, and I have been going through some difficult times lately.  We're not laughing as much as we used to.  When we're together, we don't reach out and playfully tag or slap one another.  The teasing gestures and words seem to have gone on hiatus.  We're tense, short-tempered, and tend to gravitate towards private rooms when we have the opportunity.  Of course our son would assume the worst.  Why wouldn't he?

At 6 years old, William became our foster son.  He entered a home filled with non-stop giggling and laughter.  Eric and I were solely responsible for teaching our kiddo how to play.  At the time, he was conditioned to be the parent and guardian of his younger siblings or he would suffer severe consequences.  He didn't know how to relax or laugh.  When he became our "forever son", we took the time to teach him how to be a child.  He's never, ever seen Eric and I exchange unkind words or yell at one other.  William has only been exposed to a loving, committed relationship.  Now, something is wrong; mom and dad aren't laughing anymore.

How do I explain that it's the stress of raising two emotionally draining and abusive children that's affecting the marriage?  If Eric and I hadn't been so committed to one another, the union would have been over years ago.  Yes, we receive support but to what end does it serve?  Did it help me this morning when I pulled my 167 pound 14 year old out of bed, physically undressed him, dodged his kicks, and put up with his bites and scratches all the while listening to him screaming at me that I was a "fucking monster"?  This behavior was because he didn't want to go to class today.  Sure, I could have called the police for the 3rd time in two weeks but why?  So he could ride to school in their squad car again?  He loved that.  Hospitalize him?  There aren't any adolescent psychiatric beds available in all of Colorado.

Do I explain to William that his dad and I are miserable because we can't go out to dinner by ourselves without having someone "babysit" our kids?  Or, do I tell him if we take them with us, we have to plan on eating as early as possible so that their behavior doesn't disrupt other diners?  He's a smart kid.  He'll probably understand.  Eric and I can't have a conversation between us without being interrupted, insulted, or corrected by our Aspergian teenagers.  We haven't gone to church for months because instead of praying, I'm plotting revenge on the kiddo hanging off my shoulder and telling his father to "shut-up" while giving the little girl behind him the middle finger.

There's not a lot of sunshine and laughter bouncing off of Eric and myself these days.  Honestly, we're exhausted.  Is the laughter dead?  No.  Our marriage is strong as steel.  In fact, it's stronger than it's ever been.  Not too many relationships could withstand what we've been through together.  What William doesn't realize is that at the end of the day - no matter how awful it's been - his parents' eyes still meet and often times - though my son doesn't hear it because he's asleep - Eric and I are in our bedroom giggling over something absolutely ridiculous.

 

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Ouch, my boob hurts!

I find myself talking and answering myself all the time any more.  It's not because I'm lonely, no - not at all.  It's because I make myself laugh.  It seems that too many people are so busy and serious these days.  My dear friends and blog readers, have you noticed this?  I certainly hope that you're not one of these petrified pieces of wood sitting across from me in traffic.  If so, something needs to be done to jump start your heart, get your blood pumping, tickle your funny bone.  Let's get giggling, shall we?

I'm the first to admit there are many days when all I want to do is shut my door from my screaming, cursing, autistic, teenage, mutant, unshaven beasts; however, when I do I have three options: I can either sleep, cry, or laugh.  I love to sleep but often cheat and use aides so when I eventually wake up, I'm a groggy monster and no one appreciates me for days.  When I cry, I hyperventilate and vomit so I seriously dread that choice.  My final option is to make the best of things, find something absolutely ridiculous about the situation, and laugh my ass off.

Before Austynn came to live with my husband and I, while William was still our foster son, we were mandated by the court to have family visits between the birth siblings. There are quite a few biological children within Austynn and William's family and we were always having them meet for birthdays and such when we lived in California. 

Austynn was living within a group home, there was a third brother adopted with a large family, and a baby sister adopted by a young couple.  Everyone was over at our townhouse for a pool party.  Austy, at the time, was five years old and physically combative.  He was in the pool, his supervisor was unfamiliar with his anger management issues, and he refused to get out of the water.  It took two bites (one on Eric's arm, one on his brother's dad's arm) and one extremely hard nipple tug (uh hmm, yours truly) to manage to get him out of the pool.  All we could do was laugh.  One year later, Eric and I signed his adoption paperwork.

Life.  It's all we can do.  Laugh or cry.  We take it on.  God gives us what he thinks we can manage.  Eric and I knew what we were in for.  Sometimes, on those really tough days with Austynn, I swear I think my boob is being tugged on and I find myself laughing.  Motherhood, right?  

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Where are my slippers?

When I was a kid, the moment I ran through the front door, I threw my book bag across the kitchen table, peeled off my gold, Catholic school knee high socks, and ditched my stretched-out penny loafers. Awww...FREEDOM!  To endure more than ten minutes in any sort of shoes in Southern California - at any time of the year - was absolute torture for me.  It was an act of treachery, particularly for this tomboy, to keep my toes from feeling the warm Los Angeles sunshine.

Ironically, now that I'm older, there's been a shift in the time space continuum.  I abhor walking in bare feet.  When did this happen?  When did I come to prefer cozy socks and my cushy slippers over naked toes?  Honestly, this is seriously warped.  I must take a few moments to consider this mind boggling question...

There's always been the summer factor, in other words, the 110 degree days in August when bare feet and street pavement are not an easy "walk across".  I'm sure many of you, my dear friends and blog readers, know exactly what I'm referring to; the afternoons which are so incendiary that when one looks across the street, the blacktop appears as if it's on fire.  Then there's the hesitation, the planning out, the final consideration; "Do I really want to do this?  It's gonna burn sooo bad!  Where's the closest emergency patch of grass?  I can do it if I run really, reeeaaallly fast.  Screw it, Breezy...RUN!"

Also, along with the heat of summer in Southern California, one must consider the hot sand of the beaches.   Yes, locals purchase flip flops but seriously, no one wears them at the shore except for the grown-ups.  It's a total hassle.  Personally, my feet were always wet.  Why?  Because I was in the water with my Boogie Board from the moment I arrived at the water's edge until it was time to go.  What was the point of flip flops if my feet were covered with thick, wet sand walking back to the car anyway?   By 2:00pm, around the time we usually went home, the long walk back through the sand towards the parking lot was blisteringly painful.  I always looked like a complete dork walking back anyway; dripping wet, dragging  my board and jumping up and down screaming, "OUCH! OOWIE!  HOT!"  Nice.  Apparently I wasn't concerned about attracting surfers at that age.

I grew up in the 1970's when bottle caps and pull tabs from aluminum cans were the curse of unsuspecting toes.  Also, at that time, there weren't too many restrictions about bringing glass bottles into public parks either. Playing without shoes and socks was tantamount to receiving sliced toes or splinters of glass in our feet.  We knew what would happen if we weren't careful - at least my siblings and I did.  Our dad would get his awful tweezers out, heat it up with a match (to kill the germs), and pull the damn offender out which hurt more than when it went in.  Oh yeah!  We'd be careful alright!

Eventually my Nike High Top sneakers were replaced with Cherokee high heels.  Suddenly, I realized that my feet started looking like the Grand Canyon.  What was that all about?  I didn't care for the way my rough callouses snagged my bedsheets.  I wanted soft, smooth, girlie feet.  I started taking better care of them. I liked pedicures and the way my toes looked with bright cherry red nail polish on them.  I loved, loved, LOVED getting my feet rubbed.  Oooohhh...NICE!

Then - one day it happened - I took my shoes off, stepped across the kitchen floor, and I walked over an unknown substance.  Whatever it was made my clean feet feel sticky and uncomfortable.  Eeeww GROSS!  Three more steps and into what appeared to be some one's cracker crumbs which hadn't been swept up from earlier.  I was beyond disgusted.  This was the moment I realized that I didn't like my bare feet touching the "unknown".  My mind ran wild as to what that initial sticky stuff could have been.  I headed to the bathroom to wash it off...OH NO!  Bathroom floors...GRUESOME!  I believe I've just answered today's not so mind boggling question.