Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Today I'm ungrateful for pimples...don't pop it Bri..be strong!!

Now this is silly.  I wrote an "ungrateful" blog on Sunday basically suggesting that I was ungrateful for ungrateful people. Yeeeeesss.  Needless to say, since I was pointing the accusatory finger at myself, I decided to delete that post and start from scratch.  Sometimes I consider myself to be an idiot.  Moving right along.

Today I am ungrateful for having pimples at the tender age of 46.

I've been through the horrific moments of waking up with deep, red burgeoning zits on my nose; however, that was at 15 and the night before yearbook pictures were to be taken.  This rhetorical question is directed towards Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty, why now? Why now at this sexy, know-it-all age of confidence and self-awareness? Is there some sort of hidden joke which lands on women my age to which I have not been informed?  Do I sound put off?  Ungrateful perhaps?

Let this be a warning to those partners or spouses who casually wander up while we are scrutinizing our face and tell us that the said "offender" is hardly noticeable.  For your safety, DON'T!  It is and unfortunately will be 10x more obvious when we get through pushing, popping, and extracting.  I'll offer you another bit of advice, do not say another word.  Once we've managed to bring the pimple to its ugliest state imaginable, we'll then try to hide it with make-up.  The lump on our face will have become a crusty, nasty sign which says, "I was a disgusting pimple she tried to cover over with too much make-up."  If she asks you how it looks, LIE!

This morning I tried to reason away my ugly chin acne due to menopause.  Unfortunately, I was outed by a dear friend on Facebook.  Now I have to come clean.  November 13th falls right around the time the Halloween chocolate wreaks havoc on my body; however, I'm 46!  I should be beyond the Milky Way pimples by now for Pete's sake!

Saturday, November 9, 2013

What's in a name?

I can't escape it.  My name, first name, has always been affixed to fecal matter.  Kids are cruel.  How do they do it?  Do they lay awake at night and think, "Aw, I've got a good one for that Bryant kid!"  Let me explain.

My nickname is "Bri".  I've used this name since high school.  My mother was disgusted that I had kids refer to me as any other than my rightfully given birth name.  In fact, she was so upset, that she often told callers that "no one by that name lives at this number".  I don't blame her.  She had a right to be annoyed.  After all I was ungrateful for the name she had chosen for me.

When people compliment me on what they think is my given name they'll ask, "Is it short for "Brianna?" and I'll say, "No, it's short for "Maria."

Quite honestly,  I hate getting into the long winded explanation that this answer demands so sometimes I'll agree or be a brat, smile, walk away and leave them confused.  If I feel like providing the information, I'll offer a half-truth like, "I grew up in Southern California where there were plenty of Marias walking about and I needed to be unique."  I've never offered the other half-truth until today.  Here it is.  I am not fond of the term, "Maria Diarrhea".  Seriously?!

With this information finally out of the closet, everyone, including my nieces and nephews, call me Bri or Breezy...with one exception, Elsa Britton.  Last night, I discovered she passed away unexpectedly on Wednesday evening.  I'm truly heartbroken.  Elsa was a lovely lady with whom I had the honor of working with until I moved to Colorado.  She was always smiling, teasing, laughing, and always calling me...Breezy Pooh.

Friday, November 8, 2013

I'm Playing the Grateful Game Backwards

Cousin ITT or AKA Bri Potts
There's an interesting phenomenon which has recently started every November on Facebook; people are listing, on a daily basis, what they have to be grateful for.  I find this a lovely idea.  No ugly political rhetoric, not that I've read anyway, just honest thoughts of genuine gratitude for both the small and the truly magnanimous things in people's lives.

Because I am, well...me, I couldn't resist this opportunity to play the same game but in my own skewed, silly way.  This thought came to me while I was sitting on the commode redistributing my portion of greasy, leftover cheese pizza from two days ago (Oh Dear God in Heaven!).  At that moment I was most ungrateful for eating both slices of fast food and having serious Heartburn and otherwise.

Well then, Eureka!  I'll write about what I'm unhappy about.  This will be a cake walk!  Hell, I've always indicated that my plastic Dixie cup of spiked lemonade tends to be half empty. The only solace I can offer to my dear friend, Pollyanna, who's excellent at finding the rainbows in crystal chandelier prisms (and you know who you are), is I believe you'll at least find a giggle or two in some of my upcoming blogs.

The first and foremost thing that I'm displeased about is that I'm far too hairy to be a fully functioning, beyond a doubt, XX Chromosome human being.  When I popped out of my mother's womb I had so much hair, I'm certain the doctor had to part it like Cousin Itt to make the determination - boy or girl?  By third grade, I had - gasp -underarm hair.  I was shaving my lower legs by fifth grade.  I distinctly recall my mom saying, "Since you're blond, you'll never have to shave your upper thighs."  WRONG!  My blond hair immediately turned into black pubic hair which ran its course down to my knee caps.  Horrifying!

When I attempted shaving my entire leg, I was in the bathroom for over three hours and went through five Daisy razors.  I clogged the drain.  Waxing?  Oh please!  And finally, why did no one ever explain to this innocent girl about ingrown hairs?  "Please God," I would pray every night, "let those horrible, red pimples on my inner thighs go away before the beach party tomorrow." and "Why am I such a mutant?"

Adopting Aspergian children does not help with my self-esteem because they cannot keep their honest comments low and to themselves. When they think of something, no matter how socially inappropriate, it's said and said loudly.  All my painful memories seem to revolve around quiet time in church and my youngest son Austynn.  I believe he's solely responsible for my Valium addiction.  No matter.  Austynn sits next to me because my husband doesn't have a prescription and therefore needs to be as far away from our sweet arm-stroking-loving-face-touching-fart-making-son as possible.  Before I knew what was about to happen at this particular service, Austynn powerfully shouted, "Mom, for Christmas I'm gunna to buy you a hair waxin' machine.  Your arms are really, really hairy!"  Now I'm known as the Furry Church Lady.

Until tomorrow's ungrateful thought for the day...

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

I make the monsters

Over the weekend I was hurt by someone I admired.  It wasn't a simple act of "throwing sand at the play ground" as one of my best friends and I like to call it.  It was a full on verbal attack one which I didn't see coming and felt I didn't deserve.  It left me reeling and gasping for breath.  Not only was I harmed but my husband was pulled into it as well.  It's one thing when I'm caused pain but when they intentionally hurt Eric, I'm devastated.

I've been very open about my mental illness; my struggle with bipolar.  I've also written about my battle with weight loss over the years, my issues with self-loathing, and self-inflicted harm.  I've fought the ugly voices during my "deep darks" which shout, "I'm ugly, worthless, a whore, fat, undeserving, stupid".  I manage to slay them and look in the mirror and scream, "NO!, I'M BEAUTIFUL!"

Sunday night, the voices won. I made a nasty, bloody scar underneath one of my breasts which I haven't done for a long time.

One of my best friends told me, "He doesn't define you, Bri."  No he doesn't but my voices do when I'm vulnerable.  Some of you may have noticed that I changed my profile picture.  I was in my late teens when the picture above was taken.  I had my whole life in front of me and the voices were already beginning to shout.

Listen to the good voices, Bri.  You make the monsters, no one else.

        

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Please Lord, I'm going to be selfish...


Dear God, Allah, "The Awakened One", Jehovah, Christ, 

A little over eighteen years ago I sat down and asked for some advice.  I needed words.  Normally I have plenty in stock because You have graced me with the ability to write what's in my heart.  For this, I am grateful.  On that particular morning my sister-in-law asked me to put into writing what was in her heart and I needed assistance.  Only You could have guided my fingers as I thanked an anonymous family for their gift which allowed my nephew, Lisa's newborn, to live. This unknown family lost a life; a son, a daughter, a brother, a sister - someone they loved - and yet they allowed this amazing human being to live on through the heartbeat of my three week old nephew - now a handsome eighteen year old teenager.

I don't normally like to ask for personal things and I certainly don't like posting prayers in public but this is a big one and it can use all the help it can get.  At the cost of having to write another one of those difficult letters, I'm going to be selfish.  I want to see Tommy make it another eighteen years, Lord.  I want Tommy to find a liver donor.  I want his mama to scream with joy after the transplant has been successful.  In five years or so, I want to sit at Tommy's wedding so my husband, his Godfather, can watch him with pride, shake his hand, and congratulate the man he's grown up to be.  

This morning I'm going to be selfish.  I'm asking for something personal, Lord.  In a couple of months or better yet days, please guide my fingers once more in an anonymous letter of thanks.  


**To learn about organ donation awareness, please visit: Organ Donation   

   

Monday, September 30, 2013

Table manners, it's a good thing.

Oh such silly, silly things happen to me.  Thank God I have a good sense of humor.  As usual, a recent outing spurred a memory buried deep within my subconscious.  It's not that I try to avoid these uncomfortable experiences.  I actually enjoy a good laugh and certainly love sharing the story afterwards. Perhaps it's the immediate horror of the incident which creates the temporary amnesia.  I'm not sure.  Either way, it's back and you, my dear friends and blog readers, get a front row seat to another one of my goofy adventures.

As many of you - my readers - know, I'm the fourth of five children.  As a family we dined out often, normally at diners or inexpensive restaurants.  Obviously feeding a hoard of seven can be pretty darned expensive; however, there were times we found ourselves at pricey four or five star establishments.  My parents enjoyed fine dining and taught my siblings and I while we were very young the proper etiquette for such places. If we so much as grimaced over a dish, we would be reprimanded or escorted out.

Ironically this is the very reason I have a tremendous dislike for seafood.  My father always insisted that I try whatever seafood du jour he was eating that particular evening and his trick was to tell me that it "tasted just like steak".  To this day there is no way in Hell I can be convinced that shrimp, salmon, shark, scallops, or lobster taste remotely like steak.  I will not eat fish in a box, I will not eat fish with a fox...

To bring on the wacky part of this weird tale; I find myself having horrendous table manners when I'm alone with my husband at elegant restaurants.  It's that naughty side of me which wants to shoot spit balls at him or just be inappropriate in general.  Perhaps it's a late stage rebellion for all those years I sat up straight, kept my elbows off the table, and swallowed my vegetables without so much as crossing my eyes.  So, dear readers, you can probably imagine my behavior at fast food restaurants is appalling.

One afternoon my husband met me for lunch at the hamburger restaurant right next to my work place.  This particular fast food joint was always packed with co-workers and because my lunch hour was short, I tended to cram food down my gullet and attempt talking to Eric at the same time.  At one point of the conversation, I looked up at Eric and something seemed odd.  Eric apparently saw it too because at the same moment he burst into laughter and spit the entire contents of his food into my face.  As I sat covered with my husband's half-chewed cheeseburger, I realized that hanging from my left nostril was an enormous onion dripping with ketchup.  I must have inhaled it with one of my massive bites of food.  I blew it out with a huge snort of laughter as it hit Eric's white, starched business shirt creating more hysterical laughter from both of us.

Oh my parents would have been so proud of their little girl.  


Wednesday, September 25, 2013

How do you handle the banana peel?

I was talking with a good friend last night about life and the funny, quirky things I've been known to do, say, or even in general - just out of the blue - bizarre things that happen to me.  Ironically, I'm only 46 years old and regardless of what I tell my husband on a daily basis (that I'll be dead by next week), I'm sure I have a lot of additional strange experiences ahead of me.  I don't know whether to be worried or not; however, when I share these stories I find myself and the listener oddly entertained.  Life.  So curious.  Why aren't people laughing more or at least smirking?  I can't be the only one watching men in three-piece business suits running across five lane freeways and disappearing into the bushes.  There were other people staring in horror during rush hour with me.  Come on, anonymous lady going north on the 405 Freeway near Costa Mesa, California about ten years ago! We made eye contact.  We laughed out loud after we forced our mouths shut.  Oh well...

I have amazing friends; some of you may be reading this blog, some of you will never lift a finger of interest. Either way, I'm not offended.  To my readers in virtual reality whom I've never met, I consider you friends as well.  I have an odd way of becoming friends with people.  Some say it's not very safe.  I say, throw it up to the universe and see how it lands.  Yes I'm quirky, but then again, this funky throwing out a friend fishing pole business is how I've met some wonderful people. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Not counting my husband (because how can I quantify the best thing that's ever happened to me?), I have about three women in my life whom I can count on for everything.  What a gift.  This is the goofy part - they're all so completely different that they don't particularly like one another (Now girls...! ). I can say with utmost certainty, there will never be a get-together between the four of us (I'm giggling as I type this). I don't know what brought me to this paragraph but I guess I needed to say how lucky I am to have such three amazing human beings watching my back. Ladies, I adore you.  Thank you for loving me.

The fishing pole trick is unique because what happens is I'll go to the store for a loaf of bread and two hours later I'll come back with some one's email address or Facebook name.  For example, I'll find myself chatting - to no one in particular (I do this to entertain myself) - then, someone as crazy as myself will hear me muttering, respond, and start talking to me about her Uncle Harold's funeral in Iowa.  Eventually, we're laughing hysterically in front of the pumpernickel about how her Great Auntie Ethel slipped under the casket and pulled down the wreath of roses over her head.  Who knew funerals could be so funny especially in the bread aisle at the grocery store?  AND, what did this have to do with my personal chatter?  Absolutely nothing but it's a funny way to find a great friend.

I suppose in order to have a silly, interesting life one has to be open to the possibility of it.  I'm always looking for the next bend in the road, the next goofy thing to make me laugh, or the opportunity to make an ass out of myself.   Heck, I don't like being embarrassed but it seems like I'm always setting myself up for it.  When it happens - and it happens a lot - I'm prepared to turn it around, make a joke and laugh my ass off because seriously, we're all in this life together.  We all do stupid things.  We all need a good laugh.  It's how we handle the banana peels which gets us through the tough times.  Are we going to stay down and moan?  Are we going to get up quickly, look embarrassed and sue the offender who dropped the peel to begin with? Personally, I think we should hop up and down, screech like a monkey, and look for leftover remnants of the banana. Of course, I would do the latter but because I'm a geek, my ankle would probably be broken so I would just be eating and screeching like the monkey that I am.  

 




Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Pregnancy and Garage Sales -- Same Thing!

I need to write today.  It hit me like a hammer in the head while I was peacefully enjoying my quiet bubble bath (I hate it when that happens)!  I get comfortable, the water and suds envelop me when suddenly a surge of ideas start rolling across my belly folds.  Dammit!  No more relaxation for me. Scrub, scrub, scrub, shave, knick, shave..out of the water like a hurricane.  Did I even remember my deoderant?  Oops..one moment please...

Okay, I'm back.  What is so important that I risked smelling like a freight train by bedtime tonight?  Two things; pregnancy and garage sales.  Confused?  You're allowed to be; however, I promise by the time I'm finished you just may claim an understanding to how my mind works.

Many of you, my dear friends and blog readers, know that I am the mother of two adopted, special needs boys.  Over the years, I'm certain I've mentioned that my husband and I couldn't conceive children of our own.  We've known it from the start of our marriage due to Eric's benign brain tumor and it's location on his pituitary gland.  I don't believe I've ever mentioned though that had Eric been perfectly healthy, I most likely would have had difficulty becoming pregnant as well.

You see, the Baxter side of my family; my mother, sisters, aunts, and cousins can pop babies out like bars of soap (a bit too graphic)?  I, on the other hand, in all my "baby making years" have never used protection.  I believe when I was a little girl, my uterus was crushed in an accident.

I was at a relative's house when older cousins left an exercise bicycle on high after playing on it.  I couldn't have been more than four years old when I scrambled up on the seat, hit the "on" switch, and fell between the bars.  I screamed for what seemed an eternity before an adult found me being crushed. Because my great-aunt felt terrible and I merely looked bruised, I wasn't taken to the hospital.  I can't say for sure this is why I've never been able to conceive but I'm guessing it may have something to do with it.

I was laughing just last night with my husband at the idea of my ever being pregnant.  First of all, my boobs are already huge.  The thought of them becoming engorged with milk gave me pause to think that one, I would never find a maternity bra large enough for my girls and two, I could feed the entire infant population of Kenya. Good Grief!

Also, I'm already a living, narcissistic nightmare of indecision and late night cravings for my husband.  The poor man!  Add pregnancy to his already relentless evenings with me...

9:00pm  Bri and Eric Watching TV

Bri:  Gosh, you know - I'm not hungry but that Whopper looks really good right now...

Eric:  Do you want me to get you a Whopper?

Bri:  It's too late for a Whopper, but you'd do that for me?

Eric:  Yes, because I know if I didn't you'd complain until I did.

Bri:  NO I WOULDN'T!

9:15pm

Bri: Would you get me a Blizzard?

Eric:  What kind of Blizzard do you want?

Bri:  Never mind, it's too late for a Blizzard.  I'm already a fatty.

Eric:  Do you still want a Whopper?

Bri:  No.

9:17pm

Bri:  Will you make me some Cinnamon Toast?

And I'm not good at handling babies either...ESPECIALLY NEWBORNS!  Fahget about it!  They scare me to death.  They're too fragile.  I'm a bull in a China Shop.  I'd drop him/her/it on it's head.  Six month olds will either let me hold them, scream the minute I do, or barf on me.  No thanks.  I'll let Grandma hold them.  Four year olds are interesting because they have a lot to say.  I love this age but I can only take them in small doses.  I've taught six and seven year olds catechism.  These kiddos are like little ducklings; still a little nervous around grown ups but they love to play with us.  Once they hit eight, I'm done with them.  I would resign my "mama" duties once that sassy business kicks into gear.

Deep breath...what does all this have to do with garage sales?  Okay, I'm getting there.

I'm not a collector of things, I never have been.  After my dad had his stroke and my parents needed to sell their big home and downsize, they had a massive garage sale.  My dislike for "collecting" really took hold.  I realized that morning and afternoon, as strangers offered pennies for precious items my mom and dad held dear, that I would never hold on to anything after I passed; that I would give it away while I lived.

When my father eventually passed away, my mother gave me the ring he wore every day.  It was intended for my husband but I knew Eric wouldn't wear it.  It was more of a keepsake than anything else. So instead it sat in my jewelry box.  Could I have given it to my oldest son when he came of age?  Sure but he barely knew my dad. It wouldn't have meant anything to him.  Last Father's Day, at brunch, I handed the box to his grandson, Glen. My dad played a huge role in raising him.  When Glen opened it, it took his breath away.  The ring was where it needed to be.

A couple days ago, I contacted my ex-husband's niece.  We're still close - in fact, she still calls me Auntie Breezy.  When her Uncle and I married, we had a fairy tale wedding; the dress, the church, the big reception, everything.  I still have the fine china, crystal, and even my wedding ring and pictures.  Yes, I suppose I could sell or use them, or at least get rid of the ring - but I didn't.  It's time to pass them on the three little girls (now women) whom I still love so very, very much.

I will never ask my boys to stand outside a garage and say, "I remember this" only to have a stranger offer $2.00 for the memory.  My memories are tucked inside my mind and hopefully will live on through my children, nieces, nephews, and the people I've touched throughout my lifetime.  When I go, I want nothing more than kind words and my ashes scattered beneath my husband's willow tree.

Finally, last question..did I want biological children?  This note was found in my treasure box, written by me, Maria Bryant, and dated April 5, 1988.  After I post this blog, it will be shredded.  Seriously, there's no need to keep it anymore.

Kathryn Chelsea
Jeremy Drake
Joshua Truman
Jaqualyn Mariea
Gwendolyn Heather

And perhaps one day
As I sit and listen
To the children's laughter
That laughter may be of my own
Their little hands
And childlike ways
Are of my creation
This is my silent dream



 


Tuesday, August 20, 2013

As Time Goes By, Seriously?

Groucho Marx
When did I become so serious?  I mean seriously? This is ridiculous.  I started posing this question after my sister commented that she couldn't open a Facebook posting my husband had sent for our 18th Anniversary yesterday. Truth be told (and sweetheart I apologize) for a brief moment I gave a sigh of relief.

My husband, Eric has always been a romantic. Years ago, while we were dating and leading up to the final twelve days of Christmas, he gave me a gift every day.  Each gift increased in value until December 25th when - in front of his entire immediate family and relatives - there was a huge box waiting for me under the Potts' tree.  It didn't stop there.  The process continued with boxes wrapped inside boxes until eventually I found a beautiful ruby and diamond ring (no, not an engagement ring, that came later).  Still, I was overwhelmed by the attention leaving the room in tears after his father abruptly asked, "Well Bri, do you like it?"

Oh my goodness, I do believe I just heard the entire female population give an virtual gasp of admiration for my husband.  Yes, I have a "keeper" and no, I won't share him.  He's all mine ladies.

Public displays of affection startle me and yet I have no problem whatsoever getting up on stage and making a complete ass out of myself while attempting to be a stand-up comedian.  What's this all about?  I have no idea.  Just the other day, a song came on the radio which struck me as being silly so I did what comes naturally to me; I wore my Groucho Marx glasses bouncing to the goofy beat.  Did I care what other drivers thought of me?  Not at all.  Life is too short and besides, I'm guessing I probably made a few folks giggle along the way.

So why am I worried about strangers seeing a clandestine butt grab in a parking lot, family members being watching my husband snuggling me on a sofa, or friends exposed to the depth of Eric's love for me on Facebook?  I only have this life to live.  When he kissed me goodbye for work and ran out the door this morning, I suddenly felt the need to chase after him like he did for me a long, long time ago.

Remember that day Eric?  I left a letter on your car?  I finally told you how I felt.  We missed one another by moments.  As I was driving away, I looked in my mirror, and saw a white sports car racing at speeds that were well beyond illegal.  Somehow you managed to pull up beside me, roll down your window, and yell, "I love you too, Breezy!"  My heart fluttered, the light turned green, and you sped away.  We were married eight months later.

Is this blog a public display of affection?  Well damn, I suppose it is.  I adore you, Potsie.



   


Tuesday, July 23, 2013

When did this happen?

Austynn 15 and Bri
It seems like just a few days ago I was sitting in the dentists' office watching my adopted son, Austynn playing with the waiting room preschool toys.  Wait!  It was just a few days ago - in fact, it was last Friday.  So you see, dear friends and blog readers, you can imagine my shock when I saw this picture of the two of us last night.  When the Hell did he get so big?

Today my kiddo will be turning fifteen years old; however, in my mind he's still my sweet eight year old who'll ask neighbors for "side hugs" or at times a demonic, autistic adolescent calling me a "fucking whore bag".  Why does he call me that?  Because he's caught in the subversive act of not washing his hair.

I have to admit I'm surprised either of us have made it this far.  On June 11, 2006, his adoption was official.  It's been a wild, interesting roller coaster filled with tears, laughter, and yes - a lot of rage on both sides of the aisle. I know the ride isn't over by a long shot. In fact, we have some tricky maneuvering ahead. I'd love to say the worst is behind Eric and myself. Austynn no longer bites, kicks, or physically battles us.  Thank God for this.  I'm obviously a wee bit too small (comparatively) for that nonsense any more.  The language?  Just words.  My husband and I can't look ahead and see his future either.  College?  Living on his own?  A decent paying job?  No parents have a crystal ball yet there are so many variables that families with neurotypical kids take for granted which we must place on hold.  

I need to be more patient.  I literally broke my ankle trying to escape his non-stop chattering last year.  That was a lesson; Bri, don't run down the stairs with a tray of dishes even if Austy begins detailing his Lego creation for the fifth consecutive time.  I need to remember that he outweighs me by 40 pounds and snuggling on my lap is no longer a comfortable option.  Even though he's fifteen years old now and almost a foot taller, he still has the emotions of a child.  If he wants to hold my hand in a scary movie, a busy grocery store, or an amusement park ride - it's okay.

Today, July 23, 2013, I celebrate Austynn.  I must admit, I'm usually grumbling about him but honestly - my life would be boring without this quirky, lovable feller in it. 

Thank you my "peckish" dude for making every day an incredibly interesting adventure.  "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." Mom.

**The following song was played at Austynn's adoption party


Wednesday, July 17, 2013

The Blackbird and the Parakeet

There couldn't be a stranger scenario, yet two of the most opposite women somehow collided in a dingy psychiatric office in the middle of suburban Colorado.  One was introverted the other extroverted.  One brunette, the other blond.  One had dark, intense brown eyes and the other bright, animated blue eyes.  One woman was Jewish and raised in Florida, the other - Catholic and a Southern California native.  Dear friends and readers, those of you who know me personally or who've followed my blogs can guess which bird I happen to be.  The two birds became friends immediately.


This post is written for my wounded, feathered friend - no one else.  I've discovered that I suck at communication both verbally and in text; however, it seems that when I write for virtual reality, my magic marker seems to find its color.  So today I'm hoping my words flow with pretty purple, glitter ink because even though it would be a little over the top for this Parakeet, I know it would make my Blackbird happy.

The term, "Bull in a China Shop" describes me perfectly.  I bluster through life with absolutely no consideration for delicate objects around me.  I say and do what I'm thinking when or how it occurs to me.  I've always been impulsive.  I've been told I'm impulsive...accused would probably be a better term.  I don't like being accused of anything.  Unfortunately, being impulsive is one of my many downfalls. 

I've jumped into pools from rooftops.  Thrown an expensive ruby ring into the sea because I felt the romance of the moment compelled me to do it.  Based on the horrified look on my boyfriend's face, he apparently did not feel the same way.  I slapped my husband's face not once, not twice, but three times only to gauge his reaction.  Surprisingly, it was NOT a pleasant reaction.  And now, after struggling through a few misunderstandings and miscues with one of my best friends - the most impulsive thing I've ever done is I've given up a friendship.  I tossed in the towel.  AND the ugly and most shameful admission is that I didn't have the courage to tell her to her face; I did this nastiness in a text message.

How can I say I love someone one day and then the next just give up?  Love isn't easy.  It's not supposed to be; especially between two bullheaded, Bipolar, stubborn idiots like us. 

So, this bullheaded, Bipolar, stubborn red-headed idiot says she's sorry from the bottom of her heart.  Where's Lucy without Ethel?  And, after all, I'm only Lucy because you talked me into dying my hair red.

I don't expect you to forgive and forget.  Just understand that I am who I am.  I'm also trying to understand you.  Everyday there's a new dimension to my Blackbird that I've never seen before.  I also know you have a beautiful voice and I'm glad you're finally sharing it.  Now if I can just learn to shut the Hell up for more than five minutes at a time...

Thank you for sending me this song once upon a time.  It rings more true today than ever before.



  

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Be careful of those Catholics..they're of Satan!

There are just simply days when I don't want to do a damn thing.  Shower?  No.  Get out of my pajamas?  Absolutely not.  Brush my teeth?  What's the point?  Yes, this sounds like the classic onset of my bipolar "deep dark" period kicking in.  Honestly, this couldn't be further than the truth.  I've eaten too much junk food.  At this moment, I feel like the queen sloth of Northern Colorado.  The only inspiration I have to move out of my overstuffed, green, high-backed chair is knowing that my Psychiatrist will charge me $100 for missing my 1:00pm appointment this afternoon.  Jackass!  Nothing motivates me more than fried food and wasted money.

Yesterday was my husband's birthday and I've determined that since my own celebration in February was rather lack luster, today I should celebrate it again.  This made total sense while I was devouring the rest of Eric's leftover chocolate cake at 9:00am along with my candy bar in a bowl (aka, my coffee).  Since I haven't gone grocery shopping after hosting his party over the weekend, the house is void of everything except copious amounts of salsa.  My dogs don't digest Pace Picante Sauce well.  Off I went to the local fast food establishment for hamburgers (no, my pets aren't spoiled) and yes, I also ordered two nasty fried tacos for myself.

I'm certain you, my dear friends and blog readers, are questioning - didn't Bri comment she was still in her pajamas?  Truth be told, when it comes to junk food, I feel my Cookie Monster pajamas are apropos for any and all drive-thru restaurants.  Only if it's snowing will I actually consider a jacket and boots.

This afternoon I MUST go to the store for some sort of food outside of cookies, potato chips, and lunch meat.  I am failing in my housewifely duties and excelling in my alter ego, sloth mama extraordinaire.  Enough of this.  I have an actual blog with substance to write today.  Here I go...

************************************************************************

Be careful of those Catholics..they're of Satan!

I know I've mentioned in several of my posts that I'm Catholic.  I've been raised a Catholic and for some I would be considered a "Cradle Catholic".  I don't mind this term.  I take no offense by it.  My parents were also raised as such.  We Bryants and Baxters go back a long way through Southern California's Catholic schools and churches.

There have been periods in my life when I've been extremely devout and others when I've fallen away.  I'm liberal in my views which makes those true to the faith skeptical of how I consider myself an honest follower and yet my theory is that only God can and will judge me in the end.  There have been many times - including now - which I consider myself a hypocrite.  I don't take this lightly and it hangs heavy on my conscious more than I care to admit.

Many of my closest friends know that I could care less which denomination or faith one belongs to.  My ultimate belief is that if you're a good human being, we're all connected spiritually.  Whatever deity one chooses to place one's faith in, if It, He, or She brings courage and decency to one's existence, then praise be.

I've always loved working with the old and infirm.  After my employment as a CNA and eventually becoming a homemaker here in Northern Colorado, I had some free time between school suspensions and housework (God bless my boys!).  Because of this, I chose to enlist as a Hospice Patient Care Volunteer for a couple of years.

As a volunteer, one of the things I would do would be to sit once or twice a week with a dying patient and either keep them company in a nursing home and/or allow family members a chance to have some respite time for themselves.  Watching over a loved one 24/7 while they're in the process of dying is a little like dying yourself.  I've seen it.  It wears family down.  Unless you've been there personally, it's almost impossible to explain.  It's heart wrenching.

One of these patients was *Norma.  She lived in a nursing home and was my oldest assigned patient at 104 years old.  I sat with her an hour twice a week for three months before she eventually passed away in her sleep.  There was nothing physically wrong with her other than she was extremely hard of hearing and she was well..old.  Okay, and forgetful.  The latter - the forgetfulness - is what makes this story such a joy to tell.

Every Tuesday and Thursday at 10:00am I would knock loudly on her door and yell, yes - literally yell, "Ms. Norma are you in?"  The lovely lady would give me the same surprised, curious look and say in a mild voice, "Why yes dear and who might you be?"

Now, I've been told more than once in my life that I'm quite an unforgettable character but apparently Ms. Norma didn't seem to think so.  She never remembered who I was or our conversations from our prior visits.  Twice a week, for three months, I listened to her life story. I never grew tired of it.  Some times she added a bit more information, other visits I'd ask questions.  This shocked and amazed her that a complete stranger would know her history with such detail; however, there was one topic which never, ever wavered; our opening introduction.

You see, Norma was a devout Christian Fundamentalist.  This sect translates the Bible literally and feels strongly that Catholics are heretics or in her very words, "...of Satan." 

Once I introduced myself to Norma, she would tell me about her faith, hold my hands, pray to the Lord, Jesus Christ and ask Him to protect my soul from the Satanic cult of those devil worshiping Catholics.  She would then look up at me with her beautiful blue eyes and ask me if I happened to know any those heretics.  God bless her, I couldn't lie.  Every time she asked, I promised that I didn't worship Satan but that I indeed was a Catholic and tried my best to be a good and decent person.

This was always the turning point of our visit.  She would burst into a silly, embarrassed grin and I would laugh out loud.  Of course, she would apologize and I would claim no harm done.  She assumed I must be an exception to the rule as I was so precious to visit a little old lady such as herself.  By the time our visits ended, we always ended up in a warm embrace.

Now that Norma is in Heaven, and I know she is, I hope God has sat her down and explained to her about us Catholics.  There's always a few rotten eggs but I don't think we're all that bad.


*Name has been changed for privacy purposes



     

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Happy Birthday, My Love

Last night I sat in a familiar outdoor pub with a dear friend.  It was my turn to be the designated driver so I sat several hours nursing my watered down coke laughing with her and sharing silly stories while she relaxed over a few double rum and cokes.  She's had a difficult few months; we both have.  It's nice to get away from the stress of my autistic teenagers and housekeeping duties from time to time. 

One of our topics turned sharply into relationships with others - both past and present.  It seems lately we've been disappointed by people.  It's not that we have high expectations; however, we seem to have reached a point in our lives where it's too damn hard to work so damn hard.  Does this make sense?

I'm the first to admit that I'm a narcissistic bitch.  I tend to make things about me.  This isn't a difficult confession to make, in fact - I've made it before.  If I'm aware of the problem then I'm obviously trying to fix it. It's taken me 46 years to come to the conclusion that yes - other people are suffering in this world and not necessarily from a paper cut.  My other realization is that if my paper cut hurts and it's deep, I will announce it.  I'm not a martyr.  Salt or lemon hurt like Hell if those damn cuts happen to slice the skin between the fingers.  So, okay - I AM a pain pussy.  I own it.

I expect honesty.  Up front, in my face honesty.  I've been accused of playing games.  I don't think so.  I say it like it is.  I don't want to hurt people.  That's the LAST thing I want to do.  If I'm asked a question, I'll tell you the truth.  I'm not going to come out and say, "You look like a fat slob in that dress." I might suggest, "Perhaps a different color or style would be better."

I love my friends yet I tend to open myself up far too much too quickly.  There's no grey matter with me; it's all or nothing.  I was told once that I'm too passionate.  The adjectives, reckless and unpredictable were also thrown at me with the same careless, cavalier attitude as the words they define.  If this is what I am; passionate, reckless, and unpredictable then I suppose my heart deserves to be broken every so often.  On the flip side, I've put myself "out there", met some amazing people, and formed incredible bonds.

Relationships are a lot of work.  The question before me now is am I willing to invest this kind of energy into the difficult ones?  I don't think so.  No more apologies and no more pretending to be someone that I'm not.  If you don't like my politics, then don't bring them up.  If you don't like my cussing, they're just made up words.  They don't mean anything and they certainly don't define me as a human being.  In fact, oftentimes I use them for shock value only because I find the entire idea of curse words silly.  Religion; everyone needs something to believe in or not.  I hold every faith sacred as well as every life.  People have a right to love whom they choose and believe in what they find holy.  To find contempt in this theory is dishonorable.

While writing this blog, I realize that there has been one consistent friend throughout my life.  He's listened and never judged.  Granted, he's tried to fix things from time to time but he is a guy after all.  Dudes are born with tool boxes by their sides.  In fact, over the last couple of years, I've asked for things which would have broken most marriages.  He's never wavered in his devotion for me - we're actually stronger for it.  A few days ago, my marriage was challenged by someone.  I know this sounds vague but for this particular person's curiosity, my husband's words were simply, "I know you love me and you'll always come back to me."

Eric is right.  I'm devoted to him.  I will never allow him to be hurt by anyone.  He is my greatest love, my dearest friend - my best friend.  I've never had to work at our relationship.  I've been able to tell him everything, from the most painful admission to the silliest realization and after all of this...he still holds me in his arms, tells me I'm beautiful, and chooses to spend the rest of his life with me.

Happy Birthday, My Love.


       

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Curses! Lost Again!!

It suddenly occurred to me this morning why I am and always will be an eternal Bingo LOSER.  I have  absolutely no concentration.  Try, if you can, to follow this thought process dear friends and blog readers.  It's a tricky maze of questionable short cuts and interconnections.  Strangely enough, I function quite well with it except - of course - in the unlikely event of linking five numbers with fluorescent dauber ink.

Wile E Coyote
When I struggle at something which so many others seem successful, I obsess over it.  It drives me to distraction.  I must understand why it is that I fail.  Once, after staring at a deck chair which my husband literally assembled "inside-out", he ascertained that the directions were wrong.  I calmly responded, "I find that unacceptable."  Much to his chagrin, we "re-assembled" it and determined that the directions were indeed correct.  It took us over five hours, nearly cost us a divorce, and sadder still - I imagined scenes of homicide so vile I'm convinced I could be Satan's spawn.  No, I am Wile E Coyote and damn that Road Runner anyway!

So why did I begin this odd post today?  As many of you know from past blogs, I used to - and this is key - used to attend Bingo games on Friday evenings with a dear friend.  After nearly two years of sitting on uncomfortable torn seats and staring at overly pierced, tattooed, or the geriatric infirmed, I decided that having won only $12.50 was not worth the agony.  I clearly was doing something wrong.  After all, my friend Cindy and other table compatriots were winning on a consistent basis.  It could no longer be blamed on Bingo Karma.  I needed to ascertain what the issue was before I invested another 50 cents on the game.

My plan was simple; practice on my cell phone.  No money need be invested.  Focus on the odds and probability.  This made total sense and yet every morning a Bingo win still evaded me.  AND, even more pathetic, my cell phone allows 3 bonus balls meaning I receive 3 additional chances to win.  Then IT happened.  My moment of clarity arrived.

~ ACTION ~

Bri:  It's early morning.  The boys are asleep.  She's enjoying her blissful hour in bed, drinking her candy bar in a bowl (aka, coffee) and playing Bingo on her cell phone before the boys wake up.  Eric, her wonderful and endearing husband, is getting ready for work.  He distracts Bri with his goofy routine (eight spritz' of hairspray, carefully wiping his eyeglasses, etc.) and Bri finds herself giggling.  His procedure hasn't changed in eighteen years but it's still entertaining.

Eric:  "What are you laughing at?"

Bri:  "You, always."

Eric:  "Biaaatch!"

Bri:  "Thank you." 

She grins as he kisses her goodbye and reminds him to place Waldo in front of the door.  Waldo is an ugly green cement turtle that Bri bought years ago.  Its intent was to be a garden decoration but with everything else odd about Bri, she purchased it solely as a door stop because she thought it was quirky.  Also, nothing in the house goes without a name.  This ugly turtle was immediately christened, "Waldo".  The reasoning behind this was that Bri could consistently say, "Where's Waldo?"

As Eric walks out of the bedroom she considers how cute his ass looks in business pants.  Poof!  Gone is Eric's fannie from Breezy's thoughts and immediately her brain returns to the silly name, "Waldo" for her door stop; however, she muses - no sillier than the name "George" for a Greyhound.  Why do people give their pets people names?  She doesn't like that.  Too many people name their dogs, "Molly".  Her goddaughter's name is Molly and she takes offense that there are dogs in the world with her goddaughter's name.  Her son William named a mole on his leg, "Mole Rat" because it was big and had hair coming out of it.  This has nothing to do with a dog but this made her laugh.  She wondered if William missed "Mole Rat" because it was removed during precautionary outpatient surgery.  Bri considered her problems remembering names which is why she likes naming pets herself.  She hates it when children name cats something stupid like, "Fluffy" or dogs, "Spot".  She had to admit, Austynn did a good job naming their dogs...

Bri suddenly looked down at her Bingo game...lost again.  CURSES! 

~ CUT ~

My moment of clarity?  Attention Deficit Disorder.







Thursday, June 13, 2013

It's time to introduce you to Eric...

My wonderful husband
Oh my dearest husband, Eric.  If my bedside clock was ever set correctly, I could virtually document, by the minute, his morning ritual.

He and I are similar in many ways.  We share the same liberal politics, moral values, and bizarre sense of humor.  We've basically grown up together having known one another and been close friends since high school.  All of this helps when recognizing an approaching temper tantrum or look of disgust across a crowded room.  It's with this knowledge of endearment that I write today's blog.  I can't wait another moment of our 17 years of marriage to impart this amazing information with you, my dear friends and blog readers.  During the past three years you have become quite familiar with my quirks and oddities.  It's time to introduce you to a few of Eric's...

One of the ways he and I differ is that I'm a complete morning mess.  For instance, just today, my bedside area resembled a stage five tornado disaster.  Four pairs of shoes were scattered haphazardly so that I might trip and break my right ankle again (why I had four pairs of shoes next to my bed is quite a mystery as I didn't wear four pairs of shoes yesterday) and my laptop was directly below where I would step on it should a stage five tornado hit our quaint little home in the middle of the night.  My half filled coffee bowl, a half filled venti Starbucks mocha (with an extra shot of espresso), saline nasal spray, butterfly clips from my dog's ungroomed mane, a library book of which I've only managed to read two chapters in the last three months, and a candle sit on my bedside table.  Don't even ask what's in my nightstand drawer.

What's on Eric's side of the bed?  Nothing.  Exactly.  Nice and tidy.

After re-heating yesterday's coffee (gross), I've picked up my side of the bed; however, this is one of the major contrasts between our personalities, I'm Oscar Madison and he's Felix Ungar.  In other words, I'm the slob and he's the neat freak.  Some of our friends might argue that our house is always neat..sorry, it's just picked up - HUGE difference.  Don't ever look in the corners...just sayin'.

When I get ready to go anywhere, it's virtually a free for all.  If I remember to put on my deodorant, I'm a happy girl.  It just depends on what I see when I open the medicine cabinet.  Did I brush my teeth?  Hmm, it smells like really strong coffee.  I guess not.  To be honest, I'm quite lucky if I walk out of the house having even bathed. 

The Odd Couple
 Now Eric, he's interesting.  Once he's out of bed, the entertainment begins.  He starts the shower (because it takes a few moments for the hot water to heat up), sets out the necessary toiletries (always in the same spot); toothpaste, deodorant, brush, comb, blow dryer, hairspray, etc.  His routine is exactly the same every day.  It never varies.  Nothing is amiss.  There's a number of times he brushes his hair with the blow dryer followed by eight quick pumps of hair spray on the left and eight on the right after which he waves his hand in front of his face to avoid inhaling the toxic fumes.  Hell, who wouldn't with that much aerosol floating about in the atmosphere?

Then a major struggle begins and my hearts breaks a little more for him every day watching these episodes.  You see my dear friends, Eric is color blind.  All professional men know that their dress socks should match the color of their business slacks; however, before I entered Eric's work life he wore black socks and black shoes (gasp) with everything!  He was...shudder...an office geek.  Now he's on the right track but each morning he sits before his sock drawer struggling to find the right color to match his slacks.  I give him some time but after a few heart wrenching moments I find myself stepping in, "These match honey.  Those are brown, not green." 

God bless my dear one, my sweet color blind, quirky Felix Ungar.  My very own...Eric Potts. 




Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Oh no, the eggs!

Procrastination is a terrible thing, laziness is awful, and forgetfulness is a horrible shame.  Sadly, I'm the owner of all three. 

For the first hour and a half this morning, I allowed myself the leisure of not dealing with the fact that I'm the mother of an autistic, argumentative fifteen year old.  After he whined, snorkeled, and coughed up something I chose not to look at (which he vehemently insisted that I should), he threw the F-bomb at me with such ugliness I decided to close my bedroom door and found solace in my candy bar in a bowl (aka my special coffee concoction).  Austynn is suffering from severe allergies, which as I know most caring mothers would, tenderly administer antihistamines and overlook his blatant choice of expressing himself.  After all, he's miserable, right?  Yes, and so what?  Miserable or not, I myself am not a morning person and refuse to be screamed at before my morning caffeine is pulsating properly throughout my system.  I am also not Donna Reed who made running a household look lovely and charming on the 1950's TV show with the same name; however, I am the Everyday Rambling Lunatic Housewife and when I turn around and tell my kid he's being a jackass, well dammit - I'm comfortable with that.

Having procrastinated with my iPod ear buds tightly inserted against the evil pimpled one in the hallway, I decided to face off - for better or worse - my adolescent demon.  His older brother was now pulled into the midst of the battle.  The lines were drawn.  Hacking, snorkeling, cussing younger brother against just barely taller (which was determined last night to older brother's angst) seventeen year old extremely violent, also autistic brother.

"STOP!"  I yelled over the screaming boys (like this ever works).

"WILLIAM IS AN ASSHOLE!"  I thought, yes, this is somewhat true.  Score one for Austynn.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT AUSTYNN'S PROBLEM IS BUT HE'S AN IDIOT!"  Hmm, also true.  Very sound argument.  Idiot is a little tough though.  Idiot Savant, perhaps?

"Austynn, you're going to be late for the bus.  Please leave NOW.  We'll talk about this later, okay?  William, stay in your room and DON'T say another word until he's gone, UNDERSTOOD?"

"BUT..."

"NOT another WORD!  Bye Austy.  Feel better."  No response as the front door slammed behind him.  Well, at least he didn't drop the f-bomb again.  That's nice.

See what procrastination gives me?  Nothing but screaming and heartburn.  I should have looked at what the kid hawked up.  It would have been better than my indigestion.

Fortunately for me, I had an "out" afterwards.  An "out", by my definition, is a way to escape and leave the garbage behind.  I had a lovely, fat filled breakfast with one of my best friends.  Nothing like eggs, bacon, french toast, and more coffee to improve my mood.  God bless carbs!  I love food.  Diets?  To Hell with them.  My mood improved dramatically; however, afterwards I couldn't move.  This is where my laziness came into play.

It's been unusually warm for Denver this time of year.  The moment I rolled my fluffy belly into the car, the first yawn settled over me.  A few moments later, another one.  It takes all of five minutes to get home from this particular restaurant and I found myself holding my head up over the steering wheel.  My eyes were crossing.  I could barely manage to stay awake.  Now this is embarrassing but I will make an admission to you, my dear friends and blog readers.  I normally have very good control over my bodily functions but today, in my extreme grogginess, I did not make it home.  Just two blocks away and I suffered a horrific incident over a speed bump in my neighborhood.  Thank GOD for pantyliners.

Too many carbs and too much coffee I suppose along with a nervous tummy from my wicked teenagers.  I blame all of these on my severe laziness this afternoon.  I slept, and I slept, then I wallowed in self-pity with a computer Bingo game (which I still can't win by the way, I'll always be a Bingo loser) and then I slept some more until my small Shih Tzu licked the drool off my face.  Eventually I decided enough was enough.  I needed to move.  Stop the pity train, time to get off.

Boil eggs, start the dishwasher, wipe down the sinks, spray the bathroom (still stinky from my earlier assault), perhaps write this blog, make a few phone calls, etc. I'm known as the queen of multitasking YET in my need to accomplish everything at once, I tend to forget what those "everythings" happen to be.  I've lost sets of house keys more times than I care to admit.  I've walked into my bedroom only to replay my steps as to why I wandered into my sanctuary to begin with.  I find myself staring blankly into the pantry knowing there was a greater reasoning outside of tearing open a bag of cookies.  Today, after I made my second call and completed the fourth paragraph of this blog, it occurred to me that I left the eggs boiling on the stove for over forty minutes.  I do believe they're done now.


 

Friday, June 7, 2013

I'm not crazy. A lunatic, you betcha'.

Dedicated To: Katie Baroni Lassley

My blog title, "The Everyday Ramblings of a Lunatic Housewife" could not be a more accurate description of who and what I am. 

First of all, I'm quite capable of rambling on for what I'm sure seems like an eternity to some about an ingrown toenail or the amount of rust on my front door vent.  Why do I do this?  Perfect segue into the fact that I've been diagnosed as certifiable, or to place a gentler term on my condition, Bipolar.  I have also, for the sake of raising my two adopted, special needs boys, given up my place in the business world to stay at home and raise them.  Do I regret this final decision?  Honestly, some days I do.  Being alone with a crazy lady who laughs mercilessly as she vacuums up dust bunnies and answers her own questions can be disconcerting at times; however, I love to dance and there's no one to mock my lack of rhythm when I turn the music up.

Prior to and during the adoption process of our children, I was a Human Resource Supervisor at a large national health insurance company in California.  My work consisted mainly of maintaining Web content for the company's employee HR site and overseeing/implementing a new systems' process for resumes and new hire documentation.  It was exciting and interesting work and I loved what I did. 

When I was hired six years earlier, I was an entry level file clerk who didn't know how to turn on a computer.  I worked my way up and soaked up all the knowledge I could.  I did well and nothing was beneath me.  I took a lot of crap from many people but that's life, right?

As a health insurance company, it took great care and concern for its employees so therefore it had a special Employee Mental Health Helpline.  If employees were ever stressed, we were to call this number and directed to a behaviorist who would, under strictest confidence, help us through our issues or refer us to someone who could. 

No workplace is free of tension among co-workers.  As much as I'm a fantastically wonderful, creative, hard-working, and funny individual, there are always those spiteful bitches who are - and I somewhat understand this - extremely jealous of me.  Really, who wouldn't be?  (Sarcasm friends, sarcasm)  This company was no exception.  I had a couple of nasty witches who were always after me for something.

At this stage in my career, I was the supply clerk and front desk supervisor for the Life Insurance Company division.  I don't recall what it was on this particular day which set me off.  Perhaps my candy bar in a bowl (aka coffee) wasn't hot enough, or I had a ingrown toenail, or Hell - it could have been Eric's jaw popping too loudly at breakfast - who knows...but I was in a foul mood.  One of the diablas (Spanish:  for female devils) approached me with a standard complaint that she did not receive the correct black pens (Dear LORD!) and "why was it that I never got her order right?"

I imagine my face probably looked like a balloon too full of Helium before I hissed, "I don't know?  Why don't you order your own fucking pens you dumb bitch!"

And with that naughty sentence, I grabbed my purse and walked out the door for what I thought was the last time.  Within moments of this tirade, I was in my car screaming more obscenities, and dropping the f-bomb between every other four-letter word  I could conjure up.  With tears and snot dripping down my face, I answered my cell phone which rang almost immediately within stopping at the first turn signal, "Hello?"

"Bri?  Are you alright?" came the concerned voice of my office manager through the other end of the line.

Damn, news travels fast in that office.  Did I actually scream at Rhonda?  "No, I'm not.  I QUIT Melanie!  I can't stand that bitch another day.  I'm sorry, but it's either her or ME and I know you need her for billing.  I FUCKING HATE HER!!!"

"Now Bri, breathe.  You're not going anywhere.  I need you more than you know.  Take the afternoon off.  I want you to call the Employee Helpline and talk this through, okay?  Do you have the number?"

Pause.  Sob.  Sniffle.  "Yes."

"Promise me you'll call?"

Another long pause on my end, "Okay."

"Will you come back to work tomorrow or Wednesday if you can?"

"I'll try."

"I'll talk to Rhonda.  Just come back, I don't want to lose you.  Now call, okay?"

"Okay.  Thanks, Melanie."  I barely managed between hiccuped sobs.

Ten minutes later I found myself in the parking lot of the nearest state beach.  Still weeping, blowing my nose with a spare maxi pad I found in my purse, I called the Employee Helpline as promised.

"Employee Helpline, how can I help you?"

I explained what had just happened to the behaviorist on the phone.

"Bri, where are you right now?"

"I'm at the beach."

"Do you have any hollow pipes or tubing with you?"  Clearly confused I answered no.  "Any drugs of any kind?"  I told her I had some Midol for my menstrual cramps.  "How many?"  Why the Hell was she asking me this??? 

"Three"

"Are you planning on going into the water?"

"NO!"

"Bri, what are you doing at this very moment?"

Still weeping uncontrollably I said truthfully, "I'm sitting in my car watching five surfers strip out of their wetsuits and into their street clothes."

There was an extremely long pause on the other end of the phone.  "What do you plan on doing next?"

"I'm going to finish watching these dudes, then call my husband and tell him I'm okay, then eventually go home and take a nap."  I could have sworn I heard a stifled giggle on the other end of the phone.

"Be careful driving home Bri.  Try to have a better day tomorrow."

"The Everyday Ramblings of a LUNATIC Housewife"?  You betcha.


Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Today's topic: Brunch. Or is it a Buffet? Or can I spell Smorgasbord?

This morning I'm going to blog about specific type of dining experience because well, I woke up with indigestion and so therefore determined that this was a clear indication from the great writing troll in the sky to make my opinions known.

I hate crowds.  This is not the only thing I hate and I apologize because "hate" is a very strong word but there's no other way around it.  "Dislike" doesn't do my feelings justice.  "Abhor" sounds like something a smoker coughs up after dinner.  No, no - "hate" is the appropriate word for me.  My intense emotion for being in crowds hasn't always been like this. Apparently it's worsened with age along with my other various quirks and oddities.  For instance, my germ phobia is now to the point whereas I won't touch a shopping cart unless I use the complimentary store disinfectant wipes beforehand.  Have you, my dear friends and blog readers, ever shopped in a neighborhood Walmart?  If so, then there's no question as to why I bristle at the thought of touching any surface area within these stores.

I also hate flying.  If I have a planned airplane trip, I start deep breathing exercises months in advance.  I also use a technique whereas I close my eyes as a passenger in a car and pretend that the bumps and dips are plane turbulence.  How very "zen" of me, right?  Wrong.  The moment the plane rattles and my coffee shakes in my complimentary non-biodegradable cup, I pop three Valium, and clutch the nearest stranger (medication increases my obnoxiousness rating by at least 40%).  My husband is convinced this fear is control based.  Okay fine.  I suppose falling out of a hurling piece of aluminum at 36,000 feet without a parachute may give me a "loss of control" - at least of my bladder anyway.  This is not the last thing I want to remember as I head off to discuss hanging participles with the great writing troll in the sky.

So crowds..?  Where does this "hate" for mobs of mankind interconnect with my intense dislikes and/or phobias for germs and lack control and how the heck is this related to my blog title?  Two words:  Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Brunches or Buffets or as my sweet husband calls them, Smorgasbords, are when ridiculous crowds of families surge into restaurants to treat their mothers, wives, and/or grandmothers to a meal which they - dear maternal, worked-to-death-women - do not have to prepare themselves.  The sentiment is lovely but for this mother of two adopted, autistic teenage sons I could not think of a more horrific way to spend my morning.

Buffets are okay, sometimes.  I say this very loosely.  However, they are never pleasant on Mother's Day because everyone in the world feels it necessary to celebrate the day in this fashion.  It's not unusual for families of 10, 15, or 20 people to gather for these momentous feasts.  First of all, who's watching the kids??  Here comes the germ factor.  There are so many people celebrating dear mamacita that no one is watching little Timmy sticking his sucked on, disgusting fingers in the whipped cream bowl.  Will someone please watch their CHILD!!

Secondly,  I'd love to eat everything offered.  It seems to me if someone is going to pay an exhorbanate amount of money for my meal, I should at least get their money's worth.  I make such an honourable attempt that I end up vomiting when I get home.  Not only is this a waste of money, but I'm also squandering my one day "off " a year huddled over a toilet bowl and I'm not even using a cleaning brush.

I guess it all comes down to control.  I don't have any.  I can't control the screaming children and their germy, unsupervised fingers in the food bowls.  I can't control the fact that I have no willpower and must find the means and hands to balance an omelet, Belgian waffle, pastries, sliced meat, potatoes, and desserts on two overly stuffed plates without looking like the total sloth that I am.  And finally, I have absolutely no control over what these damn things are called.  I wish someone would make a decision; is it a Brunch, Buffet, or God help us - a Smorgasbord?