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...