Wednesday, December 31, 2014

It's all about boobs today.

I'm doing a wee bit of catch up work my dear friends and blog readers!  As you peruse this post you may note comments about Halloween.  Yes, it's true. This wild boobie blog was written months ago on my phone while I was impatiently waiting in a doctor's office.  As with most things in my life, it was misplaced in my organized chaos of lists upon lists upon lists.  Finally, something to cross off! Enjoy (or cringe depending on who you are).  Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year! 

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It's All About Boobs Today


Last night I went lingerie shopping.  For those of you who personally know me or have been reading my blogs for some time, you may recall that I abhor clothes shopping EXCEPT when it comes to lingerie.  Do I wear what I buy? Hardly.  It just makes me feel sexy shopping for it.  Don't try to understand me because your brain will explode.

Yesterday, I needed, no - wanted is more the word - a bra.  Not just any bra; a bra which would push my middle aged 40DDs up with more confidence than they've dared venture for years.  They indeed found an amazing new altitude. It was invigorating.  The skin beneath my breasts were, for the first time since puberty, sweat free.  Hallelujah!  

Why was I searching for this garment?  For the very word I used in the previous paragraph; I wanted my girls to exude "confidence" in the Halloween costume I'd be wearing the following weekend.  I did not want them to look like a pair of lifeless, deflated balloons beneath the pretty outfit I'm renting.  Yes, my dear friends and blog readers, it all boils down to VANITY.

I've had these two mammary glands attached now since the sensitive age of ten.  I went from being a flat chested little girl to having my breasts measured and special bras made.  I skipped the entire "training bra" experience.  I was a tomboy who thrived on catching frogs and climbing trees, who woke up horrified on Tuesday, April 12, 1977 and much to my chagrin there they were...BOOBS; HUGE BOOBS.  Someone had played a cruel trick on me during the night, wound my arm like my "Growing Up Skipper" Barbie and said, "Here you go honey, now deal with them!" Dammit! What a cruel, cruel thing to do to a kiddo like me. There were no such things as "sports bras" in my youth.  The ones purchased for me snapped under the weight of my behemoths every time I ran drill lines for basketball or on the first drop of Disneyland's Thunder Mountain Roller Coaster ride

There was also a sharp dividing line between myself and the girls who were interested in obtaining boyfriends in my little Catholic school.  I disdained those silly classmates.  I felt they were ridiculous for shoving what little chest bumps they had into tight uniform blouses and into the faces of pre-pubescent boys who were completely oblivious and still watching cartoons instead of what these giggling goofballs had to offer.  Were they crazy?  And then it happened. My realization that the packed gymnasium of screaming young boys watching our girls basketball game had nothing to do with our game but everything to do with the size and enormity of my breasts - not the ball - bouncing down the court. I'm still surprised that the Nuns did not shut us down for the corruption of young minds that I was responsible for.  Come to think of it, there were a lot of Nuns at every game trying to keep the boys in check and we did go to Confession every Friday if that didn't do the trick.

Last year's Halloween Costume was an effort in futility as far as my "girls" were concerned.  Let me explain.  

Young, large breasted ladies listen carefully.  This may be disturbing but you must learn it from someone WHO KNOWS first hand as I've painfully experienced it the hard way.  Our big boobs will, how do I put put this gently..? SAG!  Ugh!  For all intent and purposes they do NOT remain buoyant as some sad daydreamers hope. This is a myth of overwhelming proportions. I have a very dear friend (whose name shall remain well, for the time being anyway, private) and her big boobies are, in my personal opinion, unnaturally high for a woman our age. My love for her is strong - so strong that I have called her a liar and a boobie blasphemer and have gone so far as to accuse her as to having her girls surgically "inflated" if you catch my drift (pardon the pun).  We are like sisters.  She "poo-poo's" me and denies the accusation vehemently but women can smell surgical procedures on each other. We're like cats.  There's no hiding what is...right my sistah?  (I'm grinning from ear to ear as I type this)

Anyway, I digress from my Halloween horror story from last year. I assumed that my barmaid costume would hoist my breasts in tightly without the need of a bra. The outer corset was strapped up so tight my "boom booms" were not going anywhere.  Well, I assumed wrong.  The moment I bent over in front of my first guest (which just so happened to be one of my husband's co-workers), a boom boom went bye-bye. Yes, that's right. I bent down and one slithered out of my top!!  Not even sexily "popped" out but I use the word, "slither" like a wet, full bag of beans..oh my God the memory! Well, I didn't hear a gasp from anyone and as I know the feeling of my girlies and what they're up to, or in this case, down to at any particular moment, I was quick at the drop.  I caught the mishap before anyone else did, went immediately through the back door, up the stairs and slapped those naughty bitches into their five-hooked bra where they belonged. Geesh! NEVER AGAIN!

With this story told, my vanity or pride..yes, Sisters of Notre Dame I do recall it IS one of the Seven Deadly Sins...I will NOT abide unconfident 40DDs in public ever again. If I've lived with them this long, they might as well be comfortable, admired and CONFIDENT!  Father forgive me for I have sinned...

Oh, and by the way, I ALWAYS carry a safety pin now in the event I should just happen across an amusement park with a roller coaster.  With age comes beauty, "confidence" AND wisdom.   Just sayin'...      





   

Saturday, December 6, 2014

My Real Hero Is..

10 years ago, on December 22, 2004, the last great hero, in my personal opinion, was taken. He wasn't a fighter pilot or a brain surgeon.  He was so much more than that.  His name was Richard Paul Bryant.  He, as you will read, was more important than most men.  He was far too young to die but if you could ask him when he left this world, in his grumbly, inpatient, put-off voice, he probably would have said, "I lived the way I wanted to, God Dammit so let me go already!"  And so, we let him go.

Richard, or Dick - as most his close friends called him - was my father and as I previously mentioned, he was my hero.

He would laugh at this blog.  In fact, with his naughty, Catholic mouth he'd call this post a load of bullshit. There's no other way to begin this paragraph; he was a character in every sense of the word but a sweet character at that.

People who truly knew him knew he had a heart of gold.  He would give his last dollar to a family in need even when his own family of seven, his wife of thirty odd years and five children, were existing on powdered milk and Hamburger Helper.  He worked 60, 70, sometimes 80 hours a week in a metal factory slowly showing that without a college degree he had a mind for business and built that lousy, little company into a multi-million dollar success.  He still bowed and humbled himself to the "big boss" allowing himself to be humiliated behind his back.  For what?  For the security of his family.

From the stories I heard growing up, he went to his father once.  Grandpa was a conservative, WWII veteran who felt no one should have a free handout even if that meant refusing a couple of hundred dollars to his young son with a mortgage, four babies and a below average paying job.  Grandpa refused.  The banks refused.  Somehow dad scraped by.  He never asked for another handout.  Years later I remember my dad putting money down for my grandparent's lovely retirement home in the San Juan Capistrano hills.  I never heard him complain.  He did it out of of love and respect.

Dad, or Papa Bear, as the grandkids lovingly called him, growled and scowled but when he laughed or giggled the entire house was at peace.  He was the nucleus of the Bryant household.  Family members were drawn back only because dad was home - no other reason.  Whether it was to sit and play poker (stop screwing around girls!), watch a football game (be quiet girls!) or to just meet for the latest family outing to the greasiest steak place on the map he was the reason we were there.  AND the laughter...there was ALWAYS the laughter...

We were never allowed to cry in his presence not because it annoyed him but because it hurt him. Anything from scraped knees to broken hearts was mended by dad getting into our faces and blubbering along with us until we laughed.  To this day, crying over anything is difficult but every so often I'll let it loose.  I suppose on the 22nd of this month when I squeeze nasty Easy Cheese on a cracker and slice processed Yard o' Beef in his honor I may weep over the sheer grossness of it.

Twenty years ago, my ex-husband called me and basically told me (drunk) that I was "shit", hung up on me and ended our marriage.  Seven years - over.  With $15,000 worth of combined debt that I took on as my own, I left Colorado and moved back into my parent's destitute and completely lost.  It was at this moment I let out a wail from so deep within me I would never have known it existed.  My dad and I were the only ones home at the time. When he heard it, he reached out for me and said, "Honey, if I could take away all of your hurt, I'd do without ever looking back."  I stood there in his arms and wept for another twenty minutes without saying a word.  That moment, that incredible moment of unconditional love, will stay with me for the rest of my life.

This year was a particularly tough one for me.  I tried my best not once but a couple of times to meet my dad before my time.  It's given me pause, especially during the holidays, to consider what he'd think of my weakness. I wonder if he was sitting beside me during the last attempt? Did he tell me to take the, "God damn" bag off my head!?"  To breathe?  To be strong?

I've also lost people whom I considered my backbones, my rocks.  They've let me down or vice versa. One is hiding away in his own self-destructive patterns, another has proven that she doesn't understand the meaning or value of being a friend and the last needs more from me than I can ever possibly give her.  I'm running out of hands to reach for.  All I can say is Thank God for my husband, Eric and my dad watching over me.

Pop, I love you,  I miss you.  I will be you with one day but I promise not too soon.  Oh, and thank you for the dreams.  Forever, your Rose Bud...Breezy.




Friday, November 21, 2014

I've learned a few things lately...

Yes, it's true; I still have a lot to learn.

One, I suck at editing my own posts.  I can read them repeatedly and miss the most glaring errors of which the most offensive are usually in the title.  Dammit!

Secondly, posting anything to Google and its little "bits and pieces" or "apps" confuses the Hell out of me.  When I think I'm sending my blog to one site, I get nasty little notices from site admins not to post back-to-back blogs.  I'm sorry.  I don't know what I'm doing!  You're the one who invited me to your little posting party!  I don't get it!  Who gets what from me?  And really, who cares?  Just skip my forty repeated blog postings and just consider me a vain writer because after all, I am.

Also, ten years ago I considered myself fairly capable of working on a computer.  Now, rambling housewife that I am, I get discombobulated attempting to upload a Podcast and make a presentable Web page.  So, dear friends and blog readers, if you feel overwhelmed seeing all my business stuff posted willy nilly on Facebook or elsewhere lately, I apologize because so am I.  This will be corrected as soon as I can figure it out.  Good grief, how embarrassing!

Another thing, one has not lived until you've been shooed out of a cheap nail salon by the Asian ladies giving "spa" (I say this loosely) pedicures.  I went into a store to ask two patrons if either one would be interested in participating in my Podcast. As I was explaining the process, the gloved non-English speaking lady scatted me out like a bug!  I was appalled!  Think about it my friends, we go into these nasty, fungus riddled places to have our toes made pretty and share our private thoughts with these women who - let's be honest - for the most part don't understand half of what we're saying OR probably don't care, and yet they wouldn't let me chat with their customers about life in general..!  Ugh!  It was lucky I'd passed out my business cards or I would have blown a gasket.  Lesson learned; do my own pedicures or earn enough money for upscale establishments.

Friendships are not based on percentages of give and take or a list rules to follow.  There's no magic behind this gift between two people other than mutual respect, trust and common courtesy.

I lost three friends in three months. The first was a fixer, not a listener.  When I finally confronted the situation, this friend chose to retreat and ignore me despite my repeated attempts to reconcile.  I decided to stop chasing and apologizing  - for what?  Being honest?  Exactly that.  I ended what was a constant tug and pull relationship which wasn't good for either of us.  The next one blindsided me.  I didn't expect to hear what I did and it bruised me to the core.  I was the entertainment factor, not the friend I thought I was.  In my life, with all that I have going on, I need friends who'll support me not turn and run when things get dicey.  No, I did not see this fallout until it landed on my face.  The last is perhaps the saddest.  It happened quickly; however, in my friend's eyes she seems to think I've been planning it for a while.  Not so.  No rules here but courtesy.  A simple text with, "I got your message, thanks but.."  It wouldn't have been inconvenient and would have been the right thing to do. A small act of courtesy to not accept my help would have avoided my assumptions, the nastiness, and all the bitterness that followed.  All respect was lost when I privately apologized for airing my complaint publicly which she then followed up later with my public flogging.  I wasn't mentioned per se, but it doesn't take a genius to read between the lines.  It's over.  There's no going back on any of these and strangely, I feel lighter.  Why?  I'm not sure.

Finally, and on a weirder note, despite the fact that YOU believe your cable password is rock solid, realize that your pubescent, teenage, sex-craved son KNOWS it and has access to it.  Check your online statement now before you are shocked at next month's billing amount.  DO IT!  Trust me, this is the last thing I've learned to date.

  






  

Thursday, November 13, 2014

The Fine Art of Stalking

A close friend posted a funny comment on Facebook the other day about having a crush on her son’s orthodontist and even went so far as to admit that yes, she’s a stalker and “damn proud of it”.  Now that’s a woman after my own heart!  After all, who among us can honestly say we haven’t perused gossip magazine headlines or stared a little too long into the windows of passing limousines?   We’re all guilty of some sort of deep seeded curiosity of other human beings, which at times, can cross the line of polite discretion.  I too, if you can possibly imagine, am guilty of a wee bit of lurking about.  Now before judgment begins, try to remember dear friends and blog readers, that what you are about to read was all done in the name of passion or something which could also be construed as hormonal insanity.

The first great love in everyone’s life is enormous.  The sun and moon rises and sets by the very essence of this human being.  It was this way with my first crush.  If my young lover told me that the earth was flat then that was the truth.  Nothing he did was wrong.  I swore that I would die gasping his name on my death bed.  When he told me he needed “space” (What?  Why?  Did I cling?  Was I overbearing?  No, Bri.  He liked a guy named, John), I didn’t understand.  What did I do?  I was the perfect girlfriend.  I worshipped him.  I needed him.  So, I resorted to a tactic wholly unknown to me but yet came as easily as breathing, the fine art of stalking.
 
Stalking is an interesting strategy.  I’ve found over time that it doesn’t necessarily make the receiver of the “hunt” very comfortable.  Strange; I’d find it extremely flattering.
 
With my first experience, I would drive miles over several Southern California freeways to arrive at this young man’s house.  Subtlety is a huge factor, stealth is extremely important also.  At the time, I drove a 1971 Chevy Monte Carlo with a rattling engine. I didn’t consider the fact that it had a very distinct sound and a backfire which could be heard three signals away.  It also didn’t occur to me that my lover lived on a cul-de-sac with only five houses; his being on the center of the circle with his bedroom window facing the street.  None of this mattered.  What I needed to know was what he was doing.  Was he thinking of me?  How would I know unless I drove by very slooooowwwwly and peered into his bedroom window and of course one drive by would not suffice, NO!  I had to turn around and circle his street several times to satisfy my curiosity.  I was GOOD, DAMN GOOD!  I was there and gone before he ever had a clue, I’m certain of it.  I wonder why he’s never tried to friend me on Facebook?  Odd.

I haven’t had too many other experiences with stalking only because I’ve been married to my very best friend for years; however, it’s not unheard of that married women, such as my friend with the orthodontist, can have “crushes” from time to time.  Our husbands are aware of our antics and can only shake their heads and laugh.
 
My latest “antic” did involve some stalking.  The man who was on the receiving end of my prowling could not have possibly been aware of it.  I mean seriously, I wasn’t obvious; however, I did drive by his house several times, with my windows open, cackling with laughter at the stupidity of my actions. This may have given him reason to look out his window and notice my car which happens to have my “Rambling Lunatic Housewife” logo blazoned on my back window.  This could have been a bit of a give-away…hmm…subtlety and stealth; part of the fine art of stalking. Perhaps I should work on my technique a little harder?

Friday, October 17, 2014

What odd thoughts come to mind while I unclog a sink...

Yes it's true, my bathroom sink was and still is - clogged.  Not just a mundane, ordinary backup but a dreadful three attempt, curse-at-the-Gods-I-don't-have-the-money-for-a-plumber-pour-the-entire-contents-of-a-bottle-of-clog-dissolver-down-my-sink situation.  It's a doozy my friends.  How did this happen?  I don't know. My hair?  My husband's hair?  Someone else's?  It's a mystery yet to be determined.  So this afternoon, while the nastiness was trying to resolve itself within my cheap pipes, other odd thoughts formulated in my mind apparently to keep me from getting further grossed out from the situation at hand.

I mentioned the other day during my PodCast how I'd once broken my ankle by tripping over a sprinkler head.  This seems innocent enough until I further explained that the incident could have easily been avoided had I not been so intent on shoveling down a corn dog and soda while walking towards my car.  I was not interested in anything else but getting that hot, greasy corn dog into my mouth.  Admittedly, even though I went down hard, I was able to avoid getting hit by traffic AND did not lose my corn dog OR get a shred of grass on its mustard.  In fact, after being helped to my car, I finished it off on the way to the emergency room. Damn, I love a good corn dog.

Once I recalled this broken ankle story, the rest of my painful broken bone tales started coming to mind. Dear friends and blog readers, my poor body has had its fair share of aches and pains over the years.  Sympathy is always appreciated.

My first fracture was when I was eleven.  I was a tomboy and the "event" occurred during a camping trip with my relatives on Memorial Day weekend.  We were at a beach in Southern California and my two younger cousins and I chose to ignore the warning signs and crawled down the cliffs to the water instead of using the safer but longer route.  It would have been all good and fine; however, my two younger cousins - who happen to be sisters - decided at a most inopportune moment to have a physical confrontation. As they were reaching for each other's throats - I, being the senior member of the illegal rock climbing team, reached over to break up what seemed at the time to be their impending deaths.  They turned out fine.  I; however, fell about ten feet and wedged my right ankle between two boulders.  Oh, the anger and shame!  Why couldn't just one lifeguard carry me out of the cliffs?  NO!  It took a team of four grown men; my uncle, two volunteers, AND the handsome lifeguard who continued to scold me for climbing the cliffs to begin with.

That night, I stayed awake moaning,  "Mom, I think there's something really wrong."

"It's just a bad sprain.  Keep it elevated with an ice bag."

The next morning I was sobbing.  My ankle was black.  Yep.  It was not a sprain but a serious fracture.

The entire summer of my eleventh year, I wore a full cast from my foot to mid thigh.  I was given a walking heel so after three weeks I could step on it (gingerly).  Nope.  I was riding my bike, my skateboard and on my belly collecting guppies from the riverbed.  Neighborhood kids were accusing me of lying saying I didn't have a broken ankle.  They believed I was wearing the cast merely to show off.  Right!  Kids are so stupid.  By the time the plaster was taken off it was green with algae, covered with graffiti, picked off around the toes for easier access to foot itches and the most impressive part was the artwork underneath it.  I'd been developing leg hair that summer and the itching from this and relentless mosquito bites had been awful.  I scratched ruthlessly with pens both capped and uncapped.  My leg was a virtual reeking, hairy etch-o-sketch.  I wish I had thought to have a picture taken.  It was impressive in a very gross way.

My second break was stupid but really, aren't they all?  I was in a hurry and wasn't watching what I was doing.  I took a step down in my mom's garage and missed it.  I knew the moment I fell it was bad.  I heard that sick "pop" sound that doesn't belong when you fall.  I was alone at the time and nowhere near a phone.  It took me forty minutes to pull myself up the garage steps and into the kitchen to pull down the wall phone and dial for help.  What I remember most about this one was while waiting in the ER, another woman was getting her broken big toe set.  When the doctor asked her how she broke it she matter-of-factly said, "I was trying to kick that little son of a bitch (glaring at her young son who was then yanking down something he shouldn't from the wall).  I obviously missed."  The entire emergency room roared with laughter.  I guess there can be a little humor in the pain we inflict upon ourselves.

The next incident happened the day before William was due to join our family.  Eric and I were at Costco running some last minute errands.  I have learned since to start looking where I'm walking but alas, I did not that particular afternoon.  I found the only pothole large enough for my foot to land in, twist and take me down.  Again, I just knew. "Eric, please drive me to the pickin' emergency room, DAMMIT!"  I was confined to a wheelchair for the first three months of William's stay with us.  Again, right ankle.  Always my driving foot.

The next break wasn't my ankle but my pinkie toe on my right foot.  This happened on the first night of our family vacation in over five years.  Yep!  I slammed it on Austynn's cot in the hotel room. That made my walking around Mount Rushmore and all the great National Monuments in South Dakota and Montana a screaming hoot, literally.  This is when I began blaming most of my pain, real or imaginary, on my children.  I feel everyone should have an outlet.

And finally, two years ago I was in a big hurry.  If you're a mother of an autistic child who talks non-stop, you can probably empathize. I had had enough.  Austynn had built a "Lego Masterpiece".  He showed it to me once.  Twice.  Once more.  All of this within a span of three minutes.  Then, he wanted to discuss the mechanics behind it - the details of the colors he used.  THAT WAS IT!  I couldn't take another moment.  I walked away and he was still talking!  This is my life with a chatterbug.  I couldn't escape the rattle from upstairs so I decided to take a tray of dishes downstairs.  Apparently I was in a bigger hurry to get away from his constant drone than I realized because in my rush to get down the stairs, my foot missed a step and I slipped with the tray of dishes and landed on my right side on the tile below and worse, on my right ankle. Within moments, the swelling became so extreme that my sock needed to be removed.   I knew it was broken immediately.  What the doctors didn't realize was that it was much more severe than they could detect on the first x-ray.  It took three days of agony and several scans for them to see the three different fractures.  Because of the odd angle of the breaks, I was told to stay completely off my foot for 3 months with an additional 3 months tacked on at the end.  I needed an aide to come in several times a week to drive me to errands and help me about the house.  Lovely.

Hmmm....such odd thoughts.  I wonder if my clogged drain has finally resolved itself or worse, the chemicals used have burned a hole in those cheap plastic pipes yet?  Maybe I should go the old fashioned route and just use a plunger...ewww...no!  I know where that's been, mainly in the boy's toilet. Well, until the next thought provoking household project arises, be well my friends and watch your step!

P.S.  Never allow your spouse to video tape you while highly sedated on pain medication...









    

Monday, September 29, 2014

The story that MUST be told

Okay, OKAY ALREADY!  I've been instructed that I can not do another thing today until this blog has been posted.  This means several items have not been crossed off my "to-do" list.

I have not been afforded the luxury of my "Good Morning" deep breathing meditation ritual.  I depend upon these fifteen minutes of quiet reflection to ground myself.  This keeps REDRUM from occurring at the slightest provocation by my autistic sixteen year old who feels entitled to all conversations, the television and just about everything else.  I must BREEEEEAAATHE.  Despite the fact that the anonymous voice says, "powerfullyer" during the guided meditation is of no consequence.  I'm past this slight annoyance and merely wince while deeply inhaling my "Moonlight Sonata" incense then slowly exhaling the toxicity from my body which no longer serves me. Apparently, tomorrow I'll have twice as much toxic waste to exhale and the word "powerfullyer" will become more like a dull toothache which can no longer be ignored.

My painting project has been placed on hold.  It wasn't a major venture, just the entrance to the study and the back wall; however, all I needed was an excuse not to open a can of paint and alas here it is.

Today is laundry day in my home.  Bedding is stripped, clean sheets are applied and clothes folded and put away.  I'm wondering how far into the week shirts and jeans will sit wrinkling away in my dryer now that this blog demand has been placed upon me.  Oh well, my husband has made this request and I always do as I'm told..cough, sputter.

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The Story That MUST Be Told

After high school, I was working two waitressing jobs while supporting myself through junior college and attending broadcasting school.  My life was exhausting but I was young and doing what I wanted to do.

While working the late shift, I met and befriended one of the dearest people I've ever had the honor to know.  We've since lost track of one another but this is our story.  His name has been changed for privacy purposes and my dear, if you happen to ever read this blog, find me please. I miss and love you dearly.

Carlos** was a tall, handsome Hispanic waiter with fair skin, green eyes, jet black hair and a mustache. When he spoke in his thick, educated accent he always had a sparkle in his eyes and a smile which could melt the coldest of hearts.  The moment we met there was magic between us.  He gravitated towards me because I was honest, made him laugh and worked hard.  He could make me blush with a simple glance and his laughter inspired me to make him laugh more.  Oh, he also LOVED my boobs.  (There's no denying this, Carlos...you did.)

The waitresses uniforms (they've since changed thank goodness, ladies!) were French peasant blouses; low cut, white and emphasized the curves of our breasts.  Carlos, being a good foot taller than myself, would come up from behind, place his hands on my shoulders, give a firm yet gentle shake while looking down purring, "Brrrrii, they'rre sooo beauutifuulll!" How is it possible he can still make me blush after all these years?  Will someone please open a damn window in here?

Needless to say, this wonderful man and I became inseparable.  After our shifts, we would go dancing or sit in my car talking late into the night.  I was becoming twitterpated.  Oh my goodness!  I was a willing and waiting participant in whatever Carlos had in mind for me.

One night, as we were sitting in front of his house, he suddenly became very serious as if our lives were about to change forever.

"Bri," he said, looking as if he were ready to weep, "I 'ave somtink to tell you dat I'm afraid will destroy our frenship."

Now, over the years I had become somewhat "full" of myself.  In other words, I'd become rather "overconfident" so I had this overblown, disproportionate idea that he was going to tell me he was enamored with me, head-over-heels in love with me, he couldn't resist my body another moment, that yes - he was ready to tear my clothes off and make mad, passionate love to me.  I mean seriously, what else could he possibly have to say?

"Carlos, it's okay honey.  Whatever it is, you can tell me.  It won't ruin our friendship.  If anything, it will only make it stronger."

"No, Bri.  I'm serious.  I'm afraid dat you will hate me after dis."

"Oh, baby no!  Not at all.  I'll always love you, you know that."

"Bri, (very long pause) I am GAY."

I sat there in stunned silence for a moment.  My eyes must have looked as if they were going to explode from their sockets.  And then IT happened.  Without warning I burst into the most hysterical laughter I can remember to date.  I do believe I wet myself.

Poor Carlos sat in his own stunned silence too hurt to mutter a syllable and then, "Why?  Why do you laugh at dis?  I tell you somtink so personal and you LAUGH?"

I wiped my eyes, tried to compose myself while stifling my giggles and then told him what I had expected to hear.  Then IT happened again but in reverse.  He burst into unrestrained laughter which echoed off my car windows and filled the night sky.  At that point I wasn't sure whether to be offended or not but since I adored his laughter, it hardly mattered - at that moment our friendship was sealed forever in love and admiration.

For the years I continued living in Southern California he was my go-to date for important events. The man who harmlessly buried his sexy mustache in my cleavage to make my ex-boyfriends jealous and with whom I offered to be his third when I met his equally gorgeous partner for dinner.

"Is she always like dis?" he asked Carlos shocked over his menu.

"Yes."  was his curt reply. "Bri, you are so disgusting!"

Damn, I miss my handsome Mexican man.  Darling, find me!


**Name has been changed for privacy purposes






Thursday, September 18, 2014

I opened the can of worms, let them slither now where they may...

Can of Worms
As many of you who follow my blogs know, I consider these posts self-therapy.  I throw my internal garbage onto the page hoping that it will help me somehow get over past demons and/or perhaps lend some assistance to others in similar situations - though I don't know how plausible it would be that anyone's life could possibly mirror my own.

One example would be this past May I made a concerted effort to end my life; however, since then - a solemn pinkie promise was made to my very best friend that another attempt would not occur unless we went out together in grand style, like Thelma and Louise. Since she's a meticulous planner and I'm a "fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-kind-o-gal" and she knows this, I'm fairly certain to outlive my children and grandchildren (longevity runs in my family, dammit).

The can of worms I mentioned in my title was a particularly bad "boo-hoo" moment I shared on Facebook this past week.  I was feeling sorry for myself.  I was having a bad week after coming home from a short family trip whereas I felt everything I said or did was scrutinized.  I've learned now to keep the can opener in the drawer but alas, I'm impulsive.  I wrote what had been festering at me for months.  I questioned why no one from either side of my family called after I OD'd to ask how I had been doing.

Worms, worms, icky, crawly worms of guilt and anger came pouring out from the proverbial tin cans of family members.  Yes, bad move on my part. I outed both my family and my husband's publicly on Facebook which in essence made them look like villains for not contacting me.  During the heated outcry I learned that some relatives had called Eric to check on my condition and that in my hazy state he had told me about the phone calls. Sadly, I don't remember these conversations.  I was detoxing off of high dosages of Valium and Ambien.  I was also in intensive outpatient therapy, private therapy or in my own personal avoidance therapy - secluding myself in my bedroom and hiding away from the unfamiliar noise of the world.

I do remember the phone calls I personally received; the voice of a dear friend from California telling me that "God wasn't ready for an ornery gal" like me and to "hang in there" because she loved me too much to see me go.  Yes, my sweet Joan, I remember your words.  Or my dear friend in Detroit who got angry with me, used some choice curse words and told me to "knock this shit off!"  Or the friends who sat vigil with my husband, or the neighbors who brought food for the boys or even the strangers across the globe who read my painful blog detailing my ordeal and their beautiful, heartwarming messages of strength.  One email from South Carolina read: "You Rock, Diva!  Thank you for putting yourself out there!"  That one made me laugh out loud. Thank you my dear friend and reader.

So yes, my pathetic, feel-sorry-for-myself-boo-hoo'ng did deserve some anger.  I apologize for putting my loved ones on the spot so publicly but I will not apologize for how I felt.  Calling Eric and offering him words of encouragement was terrific. Lord knows, I put him through enough this year. Asking him how I was doing was well and fine but nothing, nothing could have helped me more than to hear the words, "I love you" and "You're going to be okay" spoken by the people I needed to hear from the most.  I AM NOT a martyr.  It seems that people in our families have acquired this trait.  We suffer quietly through tragedies when instead we should be reaching out and asking one another for love and support. Why is this?  We only have each other?  We're family for God's sake!  

What I did NOT deserve was the self-righteous, nasty and all together false garbage spewed at me in a nasty rebuttal.  There was no "slippery slope" on that one.  I didn't ask to be crucified as a drug popping, alcoholic who craves the limelight.  The medication I take for my "mental illness" (since it's apparent that three different psychiatrists' diagnosis is being questioned by a non-expert) has been whittled down to two medications.  AND, not that it's anyone's business but I also take a medication for my heart palpitations and another for my GERD symptoms.  This hopefully settles the "pill popping" issue.  The alcoholic in me - wow, where do I begin with this?  I don't normally drink!  Ha! Only at big neighborhood parties or at an occasional bar - which, I have not been to for a very, very long time.  If I do go, I'll have a coke or some water.  Oh, pardon me, the last couple of times I got drunk was with my family!  How ironic!  The limelight comment...hmm, was that when I got up and danced with my Goddaughter?  I lived!  So what?!  I got up on stage, drank Tequila, laughed my butt off and lived. You should try it, it's fun.

I will never allow you  -  and you know who you are - to point a finger of judgment at me again. Go there and I will have ten fingers ready to point right back into your hypocritical face. You proved by your comments that one, you don't listen with an open heart and two, you've never, ever truly known me.  That's a shame because I'm discovering that I'm a pretty awesome lady to know.  You said once that you're glad you're your own best friend.  I'm learning how to be good to myself too but I'm also blessed to be surrounded by wonderful friends or in my case, family, to keep an eye on me when I'm feeling down. Thank God I have them and yes, an amazing husband who at times I can't believe puts up with all the nonsense I continue to dish out.

Thank you Eric, Blackbird, and all my other dear, dear friends for your love and support.  One day at a time.

Now I'm off to dodge more incoming worms...







Saturday, September 6, 2014

A few scathing rants on a Saturday, anyone? Anyone?

It's time to get some rants off my chest; however, let this be a warning to any first time visitors; I have an impressive sized chest therefore this will be an equally impressive sized rant.  Go ahead...kick off your shoes, grab a drink and be prepared to hear some shocking revelations.

Bri and Her Husband, Eric
Since June 2008 I've written over 500 blogs and received some amazing feedback from people all over the world.  When I started posting my ramblings I would agonize over every possible grammatical error.  Should this be past tense?  Does a comma go here?  What the Hell is a hanging or is it a "dangling" participle?  You see, I never completed college.  I felt my writing wasn't good enough to share with the world.  WRONG!  What I realized eventually is that I'm not writing for anyone's approval.  Hello?!  Once I accepted this and wrote from my heart, I started connecting with my readers and this blog became what it was originally intended to be; a journal about my life be it funny or tragic.  It's honest and raw and I hold absolutely nothing back.  This blog is my working therapy session but the difference is I don't close the door, I let the world in.

Okay, so my dear friends and blog readers ask, where do these infamous rants begin? Well, let me tell ya...

The first one has been driving me crazy for the last several weeks.  You see, I did something to my smart phone (which wasn't smart) and now I receive notifications every time someone in this great big world posts a new blog.  Fantastic, I think or thought..or at least I did at first.

*** WARNING ***
If you are a sensitive first time blog writer or take insult to criticism then read no further.

BLOGGERS!  Are you seriously trying to destroy a perfectly lovely form of Internet writing?  Let me give you an example of why I scream on an hourly basis.  Here are some consistent opening lines which appear almost repeatedly:

5 (or 10) (or 20) Tips for Successful Blog Writing
---Um, sorry?  This apparently is not working for you because it's the first blog I personally mark for deletion.  And, by the way, who are you - virtual stranger - to give anyone tips on how to write a successful blog?  To quote one of my favorite movie characters of all time, Atticus Finch, "the unmitigated TEMERITY!"

Hi, my name is Chelsea and this is my first attempt...
---Like, OMG!  Seriously?!  Just stop at your second attempt before you have the entire world yacking in your too cute polka dot I don't give a damn bag.

Check out my blog!
---No!  Just no.

Hey, just started blogging any ideas...
---Really?!  If you have to ask, why the Hell are you writing?

And finally, my personal favorites, the posts with no titles or descriptions.  I can't wait to open what must be simply awe inspiring thoughts (complete and utter sarcasm).

Interesting blog writers of the world (and, by no means am I saying I'm one of them but damn, at least I have better bites than these!) UNITE!  Enough of this crap people.  It's getting embarrassing out there.  End of rant number one.  Moving on.

How ridiculous is it when you enter a public restroom which has an automatic toilet, an automatic soap and water dispenser but..here comes the caveat...a MANUAL paper towel dispenser?  There's so much stupidity here that I can't wrap my brain around it.

And now my third and final rant because the first one was so emotionally draining. Here I go, wait for it..."I don't got none."  There's nothing more to add to this paragraph.  I believe it's self-explanatory.

Until my next unruly rant or silly experience or melancholy day or need to ramble uncontrollably about my out of control life...I just don't got none more to say.  *belch*  Pardon me!  






Friday, July 4, 2014

I will live another day because of Eric.

I've written some doozy blogs before.  My admission of overeating, sexual assaults as a teenager, my late adult diagnosis of Bi-Polar 2 Disorder, my constant personal struggles as an adoptive mother of two behaviorally challenged autistic teens and recently the BIG ONE; the one people whisper about at parties or pretend it was a big misunderstanding while I  shake my head saying, "No, I did place the plastic bag over my head after swallowing two bottles of pills."  Yep, that's it, the blog about my suicide attempt - one of the last posts I wrote, which now in hindsight, was a silly effort in truthfulness after penciling in some humor towards the end.

While driving to one of my three psychiatrists this morning, yes - I now have three and they're all bickering among themselves over my diagnosis and the myriad of medications I should take, I wrote this blog in my mind.   Now when this happens, I know it must be shared no matter how painful it is to me or those who might relate to it, or by some chance, happen to be the central characters in it.  I have a private therapist; however, sharing my pain in writing is somehow more cathartic than all the latest group sessions, private office visits and tears shed during the past 5 weeks put together.  Perhaps this will help someone else out there in this crazy virtual reality world; someone as co-dependent as myself or someone as desperate as I am for love and recognition regardless of the self-destructive ways in which we seek it.

As mentioned before, I've always battled with my weight.  I've heard from an early age comments such as, "ugly, fat, stupid and worthless".  I grew up believing these words and eventually my body morphed into a very sad, fat and, what I conceived to be, a worthless individual.  I never believed I could achieve anything beyond average grades. My first serious boyfriend targeted me at fifteen.  He was a sexual predator and physically abusive. He forced oral sex on me at every opportunity.  He humiliated me but I believed I somehow deserved it and when his mother accused me of being a slut I believed that too.  When this boy beat me up on school campus, I had it coming.  I was worthless, I was no one.

When I told someone I loved and trusted more than anyone else on earth that a 60 year old friend had just sexually assaulted me, a sixteen year old, in his hotel room her response was simply, "Why would he do that to you?"  I felt as if I'd gone back up the stairs and let him finish raping me.  I was numb.  Her words tore through me and I heard them scream, "You're worthless! You're no one!"

As I walked through the boys' high school basketball gym during a break, I was invisible.  I was fat.  I thought I was safe.  The entire boys' cheering squad moo'd and oink'd at me as if I were a barnyard animal. They screamed, "SUEY!  Here Ms. Piggy!"  For the first time in my life I experienced visibility in a bad way. Needless to say, I didn't like it.  I walked out the back door weeping never to attend another school basketball game again.

Food started confirming the words.  Then, when I was fat enough, just obese enough, worthless enough, I was placed on a liquid diet.  Suddenly I became visible.  Boys looked at me differently.  They didn't harass me so much as they stared at me.  I found; however, I had some sort of control in these looks.  If I tilted my head a certain way, batted my lashes, said something provocative - I found doors literally being opened for me.  Was this so wrong?  Why?  Suddenly I had some control.  I was finding comfort in seductive glances.  I was receiving something...good.  What was it?  I was so naive..so very, very naive.

I fell head over heels in love for the first time with a young man who was internally battling his sexual orientation.  I just wanted someone to tell me I was worthy, that I was beautiful and loved.  Instead I gave him the only thing I knew how to give and he ultimately didn't want it - my battered, broken body.  In trying to find comfort I gave myself painfully away on a hotel bathroom floor to a drunk, homosexual boy fighting his own demons.  No love was confessed and no compliments paid just sneers from our other friends in the main bedroom who knew exactly why my boyfriend was giving himself false bragging rights.  I was suddenly a slut.

My loss of virginity moved on to greater defeats and humiliations.  Boys and/or men with whom I'd had sex hoping to find love and compassion but instead accused me of playing games, being dramatic or simply chose to take our relationship for granted.

Eventually a marriage disaster occurred in an effort to escape into adulthood followed quickly by divorce. I painfully discovered this when my ex-husband told me that he'd never loved me. Worthless, fat, stupid..oh those horrifying words.  The weight started returning again throughout our separation and divorce.

During the following years there has been my constant and truest companion, Eric.  He has loved me despite the tumultuous weight gain, gastric bi-pass surgery and painful aftermath.  He has loved ME not my thin body, not my sassy mouth or my DD cup size in a clingy pink sweater but ME.  How amazing this still seems.  He has put up with my manic episodes, temper tantrums, multiple attempts at going to sleep and never wanting to wake up again and yet he still loves ME.

This past year has been awful for us.  There's no denying it.  I have done some ridiculous things to find comfort.  I still seek out compliments from men.  I still crave the words, "beautiful", "love", "wonderful", "sexy" and admittedly not always from my husband, Eric.  He knows this, he's known this.  There's a void in me which needs confirmation from men that I'm lovely, that I'm worthy of affection and yet somehow it always backfires on me.  Men find me attractive, they flirt, I flirt back and then inevitably everything gets screwed up.  Then there's Eric.  My Eric.  He's beside me when these guys telephone yelling at me, or unfriend me on Facebook, or call me worthless, a slut, stupid...yet HE loves ME.  And for this, everyday of my life, I am grateful that I have someone who understands the deep sadness at my core.  Who understands me and why I do the stupid things that I do.  He also knows that at the end of the day I will tear that fucking bag off my head because I am not worthless, that I am worthy of HIS affection, I am HIS someone, and I will live another day because of HIS love for me.







Friday, May 30, 2014

Don't give Bri attitude at a water park. It's embarrassing for everyone.

It amazes me how many absolutely stupid things have happened to me in my life that I haven't already shared with you, my dear friends and blog readers. In fact, this story is so silly that I've spent the last ten minutes searching my archives to confirm this information.  Good Grief!  How could this one possibly escape me?

Just last night, my husband I were driving past the WORLD'S LARGEST WATER PARK (amazing that it's located in suburban Colorado which 99.9% of you have never heard about), and questioned Eric if he's been there with the boys.  This, of course, started up numerous tales of visits - most of them being my own - since I'm the stay at home mom.

Lovely memories of chaffed thighs, screaming children, raging sunburns, and of course my personal favorite; the crazy-fat-lady-who-refused-to-go-down-the-slide-episode. Yes indeed, I was the woman threatened with park expulsion but - as always - there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that incident.

You see, on this particular afternoon, I was invited to go as a guest with one of my dear friends and her twelve year old niece.  Normally, when taking my own boys, I bring a towel, a large bag of chips, soda (no sun screen as that would make too much sense), and locate the shadiest spot possible where I can be found in the event of a unfortunate drowning.  Not this time.  No.  I found out rather unexpectedly that my friend does not like water slides and hoped that I would  keep up with her niece.  Ugh!

The park was fairly empty so lovely, lithe Sarah was running from location to location.  By the third slide, yes the third, I was not keeping up with Jeannie's niece. I was out of breath and exhausted.  It was also a duel slide whereas we raced down on opposite sides on rubber tubes.

Go Sarah!  She was off!  Apparently she had won before I even reached the starting point.  As I positioned my fannie in the center on the tube, something went terribly amiss. My butt was sweaty and the tube was wet. Without warning, that enormous water doughnut slid out from under my ass and flew into the bushes behind me.

Well then, that was silly!  I looked at the little girl waiting patiently behind me and said, "Would you mind?" pointing to my wayward water tube.  At this point I was splashing about in two inches of water at the top of the slide and laughing hysterically.  What else could I do?  How embarrassing!  Her parents, somewhat leery this odd, quirky lady, gave her a silent nod to retrieve it for me.

I tried it again.  Steady..steady...."MOTHER FUCKER!"

Oh dear did I just say that out loud in front of that family?  Am I seriously sitting in two inches of water again?  Is that stupid little lifeguard smirking at me?  Where did the tube go?  Over the bushes?  Oh dear God in Heaven!

At this point, the smirking lifeguard said, "I have an extra tube for you ma'am, I'll hold it and help you."

I'll teach him a lesson for not helping me to begin with.  "Nope."

"Excuse me?"

"No, I think I'll just hang out here in the water for a few minutes."  I then proceeded to giggle and splash the two inches of water over my legs.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, You can't do that, there's a line forming behind you."

"Have them go down the other slide."

"I'm going to have to call security.."

""Okay."  Ha!  This was a new situation for the little smart ass.  Serves him right!

While he was calling, I asked the little girl's dad to get me situated on the extra tube.  I eventually made it down.  I told Sarah she won the race by default.

Security did eventually find me but I was at the ice cream stand and even security knows not to mess with an angry woman and her chocolate ice cream. 

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Let's do a bit of RANTING, shall we?!

RANT!

 I’m not a professional writer but I've been writing blogs long enough to know that you don’t start a post with, “Hello Everyone!” or “Ten Tips for a Better Garden”.  What happens here is that they get deleted into the virtual recycling can inmediatamente (Spanish for YESTERDAY!).  I don’t have the stomach or patience to even click good-bye.  Come on bloggers!  You’re killing a perfectly lovely art form.  I don’t want your tips! Who the ^%*# cares!  I can Google my question.

Uh oh, another RANT.  What the Hell happened to Google?  Just when I completely hated the format, someone turned around and said, “Let’s change it so that Bri Potts can sort of, maybe, just barely understand it.”  I don’t want to!  That’s what Facebook is for, dammit!

For those of you, my dear friends and loyal readers who might be thinking I’m more snarky than usual, you're absolutely right.  I've had a shitty week (ironic since it’s just Wednesday).  First of all, there is no discernible food in the house. I gave last night’s leftover chicken to the dogs after I paid a locksmith a $119 to slice off the jammed refrigerator lock (for those of you who don’t know, Eric and I carry deadbolt keys to every room/door in the house that the boys are not permitted in.  This saves us copious amounts of money on entire bricks of cheese, having my personal lingerie rifled through, and batteries taken to start house fires).

Then I fell asleep.  Nice except I woke up ½ hour before my eldest was due home. Hmm...who took the dogs pee?  I’ll find the wet spots later.  With nothing defrosted for dinner, I along with the house smelled like death, my day officially began at 3:35pm.

Now, now...there’s more to it.  I could get into the earlier week’s mishaps but I won’t.  They’re too trivial. What I want to address is bigger.  Why do we, mental health patients, sink to such depths that we want to end it?  Take the plunge?  Jump off the cliff?  Enough metaphors - okay already - commit suicide?

I’m sitting at my kitchen table; it’s an amazingly beautiful day here in northern Colorado.  Yes, it’s warm but the breeze is blowing through the house.  The trees have filled in, everything is a bright green.  A Robin is in my bird bath.  My little fur ball (Tulip) is basking in the sunlight whereas a few months ago she wouldn't be coaxed out into the snow for a cookie (if you knew my fat little girl, that’s really something).

My friend down the street asked me if it was okay to share what I had tried to do over the weekend.  I didn't hesitate.  People need to know what mental illness is and that I have bi-polar.  I decided to write a funny blog today but before I do, I’ll share my story with you.  There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Watch your friends, and support them.  Never question, never doubt.  Just love them.

*********

I was heading towards one of my “deep darks” (Bri speak for a bad slide).  My prescriptions of Valium and Ambien were filled before I took a trip back east with my mother and her family.   I had plenty on hand. When I returned to Colorado, everything seemed colorless, sad and empty.  The same shit was waiting for me just as I'd left it.  I was back to being an unappreciated mother and housewife.

I had no plan to attempt suicide that afternoon.  I just did it.  I poured myself a very tall glass of Rum with a splash of Coke.  I sat on the front porch drinking it with several pipes of pot and then barely made it upstairs. In fact, I even broke my pipe trying to put it away (probably for the best).  Then, I drained both my bottles of Ambien and Valium with whatever was sitting on the sink.  Here’s the painful part, I sat on the closet floor, with my back to the door so no one could easily push it open, and tied a plastic bag around my neck to suffocate myself.  Wow, just typing it makes me want to vomit.

During my last few breaths, I saw Eric’s eyes.  My life suddenly wasn't so colorless.  It was a beautiful blue.  He loves me. Somebody loves me beyond life.  How can I hurt the only person who has ever loved me so completely?  Then I heard myself say, “Eric, Eric”.  This is all I remember before tearing off the bag.

The next morning, from the hospital bed, I received more details.  I went nuts.  I broke a standing mirror in my room, tore apart my bed; the paramedics had to tape me down.  And I have some very ugly bruises to show for my craziness.  I start intensive outpatient therapy tomorrow.  5 days a week for 6 months.  Apparently I need it.  Now you know my sad story.  It’s time you know how much Eric and I adore each other and why at the last moment – I tore that bag off my head.  Time to smile.  I need to smile.

*****

Eric and I both come from large raucous families.  As the years have passed, our personal sense of humor has developed into what I only describe as sick, twisted and socially unacceptable.  Now that we’re adopted parents, we do our best to keep it in check; but from time to time, something naughty with slip out.  Before the boys, there was no holds barred.  Anything and everything was open territory.  Bathroom humor was always our best gig.

For some silly reason, Eric always commented that he needed to, “choke the chicken” when he had to urinate.  I found this absolutely appalling.  The visual itself grossed me out.  At one of my corporate holiday parties, a “White Elephant” gift exchange was held.  This is when cheap, ugly, non-wanted items are exchanged for other cheap, ugly, non-wanted items.  One year I received the most God awful, gingham, patchwork chicken I've ever seen.  I knew exactly what do with it.  I took a rope and hung it from the light fixture in our master bathroom.  Now Eric could always remember to choke his chicken appropriately.  Confession:  I recycled that ugly bastard chicken at the next year’s White Elephant party.  Perhaps I should have disinfected it?

When Eric has to do “his business” he takes “his business” very seriously.  He gathers up his newspaper and sits down on the toilet for a nice uninterrupted “read”.  I've always found this “man thing” kind of intriguing. When I have to go, spit spat (sorry for the visual) I’m done. Why sit in there and smell that business any longer than necessary?  One day I sat down on the tub and abruptly opened his door (probably helping his situation along a bit if you know what I mean), and asked what he thought of the state of the economy.

Going forward, he started locking the door!  What gives?!

Bri Check.  I took all the keys to the bathroom doors.

Eric Check.  He would hold the door lock in place.

Bri Check.  I took a toothpick just when he thought he was safe and popped open the door.

Bri Check.  I took a dental mirror and held it underneath the bathroom door.

Eric then laughed hysterically and said, “You will never be allowed in my bathroom again”

Bri Check Mate:  I placed similar looking pictures of myself all over the bathroom walls before Eric came home:

One of my pictures laughing at Eric
taped to the bathroom wall
There are also times when Eric, for some unknown reason, decides not to go to the bathroom before making a long drive home.  Knowing this habit, I was sure to lock all the upstairs bathrooms and take the keys with me. As if on demand, during our forty minute sojourn to the townhouse, Eric – who was driving – started doing the potty wiggle.

“Eric, why don’t you stop at the gas station?”

“No, no – I’m fine.  We’re almost home.”

Because he had to park the car, I jumped out and ran to the downstairs restroom giggling the entire way.  I could hear Eric screaming all sorts of vicious names towards me.  Eric ran out of the car, dodged the dog poop on the back porch, took the stairs three at a time (all as I’m humming a happy tune and slowly washing my hands).

“Dammit, Bri.  The doors are all locked!  I HAVE TO GO!”

“Say please.”

“PLEASE”

“Tell me I’m glorious.

Then to my horror, I heard pee in the kitchen sink downstairs.  Eric, Checkmate.

Since Eric is such a great bathroom reader, I composed a tremendous ode de toilet for my spouse.  I wrote it  in fine penmanship on the roll of toilet paper he would eventually use.  I determined that he would appreciate the great effort that I put into my literary genius; however, I had to wait days for satisfaction.  I would use the upstairs guest bathroom in the middle of the night to avoid destroying my work of art.

Why is it that men have no qualms to use their work restroom?  Could it be that they’re terrified of the bizarre intrusional habits of their wives?  Eventually, he saw the writing on the wall, so to speak.

Laughter.  That’s all we live to hear.








Thursday, April 17, 2014

Am I dramatic?

I made a recent Facebook comment about how I don't consider myself as being dramatic and my page literally exploded with various contradictory opinions. This fascinated me.

I fell down and went boom!
My husband tells me on a daily basis that I'm a pain in the ass, or to be more specific, a "Hemorrhoid".  My dear friends and blog readers, don't be offended on my account.  I actually find this term of endearment one of the best I've ever heard. When he first mistakenly said what he was thinking, I laughed so hard I almost wet myself.  I find it a great honor to be considered such a painful bodily distraction.  What many of you don't understand are the equally disturbing names I respond with and for which he bursts into similar shrieks of laughter.

When I ask Eric if he believes I'm dramatic, he simply rolls his eyes.  This response does not satisfy me.  I immediately start thinking of recent arguments with others who've responded, "Keep me out of your drama, Bri", and then immediately "unfriend" me on Facebook (I'm still trying to figure out what this drama might be, by the way).  Curiously enough, most everyone in my acquaintance nod their heads as if they know what my personal drama might be even before I do. This disturbs me deeply.

My boys tell me that my voice is annoying.  I'm certain this is only said when they've started a fire and I'm grounding them for a life time.  Yes, it's true, I do use my hands when I'm trying to get a point across but dammit, it's an important point!

I've been known to stomp my feet when I'm angry.  Seriously, what's wrong with this?  It's better than throwing things which I must concede I've finally broken that nasty habit.  I lost a beautiful lead crystal vase once during an argument with my ex-husband.  I regret that terribly.

Yes, I kiss strangers in bars, hug grocery store clerks, and weep when a dog gets hit in the street.  Dramatic?  Pain in the ass?  Overbearing?  Annoying?  How about, seriously unique?

Like me, hate me or love me.  I don't care what you think of me.  Unfriend
me if you want to but if you do, you're missing out on quite a character.
AND STAY OUT OF MY DRAMA!

Friday, April 11, 2014

If this were my world...

If this were my world, I'd make the following changes:

First of all, every time someone saw a homeless person on the side of the road, they'd stop and say, "Hey, what do you need?"  Better yet, there would be no homeless people.  Why are there anyway?  This just annoys me to begin with.  Gosh darn it, I'm sounding like Pollyanna and I swore when I started this blog, I wouldn't sound like a Socialist do gooder.  Oh well, too late.

There would be no war so therefore there's no need for semi-automatic weapons.  They're not necessary for hunting, this I know for certain.  The poor beastie wouldn't be fit for food.

In my world, a Jew, a Muslim, and a Christian could sit down for tea (or in my case coffee), discuss their religions passionately and afterwards get up and graciously thank one another for an interesting afternoon.

United States politics could be discussed logically without name calling or personal attacks being made upon the politician or his or her family.  It seems to me that the running mates love this country enough to sacrifice their privacy, personal safety, and the welfare of those closest to them.  We are the UNITED States of America and every time an ugly remark is discharged, we as a group of people, lose standing in the world's eyes.

I have always believed in courtesy.  My world has never lost it.  I know it still exists.  I see it when a young man offers his seat to an elderly gentleman on a bus, a door is held for a pregnant woman, or a stray kitten is rescued from the road.  Parents, continue to teach your children respect because lately I'm seeing less and less of it.  "Please", "Thank you", a simple look in the eye with a smile, or a touch on the shoulder can mean so much.  Have your little ones salute our military men and woman.  Pay it forward by covering the cost of some one's coffee behind you or leave the waitress a larger than usual tip.  Let's not lose what makes us human, "humanity".

And finally in my world my two dogs - Tank and Tulip - would have been trained not to wipe their fannies throughout the house.  The only thing keeping me from losing my mind is my brown carpet.






Monday, April 7, 2014

What would Eric do without me?

Breezy Goes Boom
I have quite a bit to do this morning; grocery shopping, pick-up the dry cleaning, put gas in my car, pick-up prescriptions for my insane family; however, as I sat soaking the scum off my body in the tub, I started writing this blog.  I must never put off a thought when it crosses my mind regardless of how long it's been since I shaved my legs or had milk in my refrigerator.

The idea of pain came to mind.  Yes, agony.  You see, my dear friends and blog readers, I'm a klutz; a certifiable fall on my face, ass, or otherwise spaz.  Out of all my five siblings, I'm the one who has inherited my father's ungraceful side.

I bring this up now because while resting my aching body in the warm suds, I was taking inventory of the bruises that I managed to create yesterday.  How?  I stepped sideways on a bed of rocks in my yard.  Now these rocks have been there since we've landscaped.  I decided it was time for some rearrangement. Thaaaare I weeeent, mud, rocks and all.  Let me just say for the record, isn't it interesting how every fall becomes a theatrical slow motion event?  If it's not embarrassing enough, one can literally see the stupid look on one's face as we say, "Ooooooh shiiiitttt, I'mmmm aaaa fuuuuuucccckkkinnng iiiiiddddiiooot!"

Then there's the post reaction factor.

1)  Do you lie there pretending to be unconscious or in absolute pain so that someone who may have seen you fall will have mercy and not laugh their asses off.
2)  Do you jump up quickly, look around and hope no one watched you make an idiot out of yourself?
3)  Do you laugh your butt off, get up and draw as much attention to yourself as possible?
4)  Do you lie there for a few minutes, wait it out and eventually get up.

Personally, I'm a number 4 gal.  Once, now this is impressive, I was walking away from a street carnival with my ex-husband.  I was thoroughly enjoying my corn dog and soda.  I tripped on a sprinkler head and WENT DOWN.  I Seriously sprained my ankle but did I spill my soda or lose a bite of my corn dog?  HELL NO!

Here's another stupid story and if it wasn't so serious, it would be hysterical...actually, I take that back...it IS funny!  I was coming back from the front porch and I - being as graceful as an elephant - tripped over my own two feet.  I didn't break a bone but I gave myself a concussion when my head slammed into the front door.  My son, Austynn, who was about 8 at the time, opened the door and asked, "Who's there?"  I'm guessing ME!

I try not to laugh when other people fall because Lord knows, I am the queen of disaster but the silliest fall I've ever seen was with my oldest sister, Ellen, at the California Renaissance Fair.  We were waiting in line to buy tickets which happened to be on a steep hill.   This man and his son were ahead of us and something must have made him trip.  To this day, I have NEVER seen a person ROLL like a BALL.  There was no stopping him.  He may have take down a few motorcycles along the way.

So this morning, I'm moaning but my husband can't hear this because he's deaf in one ear.  Eric is also color blind.  He can not see the purple/bluish bruises developing on my legs and arms.  I will sacrifice my day to be a good housewife.  I will do what needs to be done because after all, I am a very, very good wife.  *deep sigh*

Curses to you ERIC!

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

This is how it reeeaallly happened!

In a few weeks I'll be making a quick weekend trip home for some birthdays and to visit friends.  As with every visit, I'm preparing for the inevitable silly stories from my family centered around prat falls and humiliations.  I'm not the only one privy to the teasing.  My dad, whose been gone for some time now, is the central character of a lot of the stories.  We all get teased.  No one is immune.  This is what makes our family fun; the tall tales, the exaggeration and all the laughter which accompanies it.  I was sharing a couple of these goofy adventures with my husband when I thought, "There are always two sides of these mishaps and why is it that no one ever hears my side?"  Haha!  Today my side will finally be heard.

It's a misnomer that I get sick on anything that moves.  Not so!  This fable was concocted during my teenage years while vacationing with my family in Maui, Hawaii.  The initial experience involved a small chartered Cessna.  My mother thought it would be fun to have the family fly over the beautiful, mountainous island of Kauai in a 6-seater plane.  Let me repeat, "mountainous island of Kauai".  This is crucial information for the story and of which my siblings always fail to explain when retelling it. Our lovely family outing was not so enjoyable for me.  I've explained in prior blogs that I don't particularly like travelling by air.  Imagine my delight in being flung about in a small aluminium can due to severe turbulence.  Yes, my breakfast found the vomit bag; however, it seems to me I saw other green faces too.  Was it the turbulence making them sick or was it their reaction to my predicament?  I'll never know.  I hope, for retribution sake, it was the latter.

Another piece of history shared at family get-togethers (and why this is - I don't know - it's gross), revolves around my becoming ill on a chartered catamaran in Maui during a different vacation.  My mother wanted us to have an amazing experience - and it truly was.  This particular trip was too windy and the sea too rough to have the boat bring us to our destination of a neighboring island.  Instead, the crew gave us a beautiful three hour tour (no reference at all to the Professor and Maryann) off the Maui coastline.  (If some of this story sounds familiar, there's another silly piece to it which required a blog entirely of its own.)  It was beautiful trip.  We jumped the waves, flying through the air.  My sister, Ellenmary, and I even stood at the tip of one of the bows...yes, yes, visions from the movie, Titanic..we were flying.  They took that scene from us and Leonardo DiCaprio wasn't even born yet.

At this point the heckling turns to me.  Who got sick?  That's right, moi.  I was leaning over the ropes downwind so I would not "hit" anyone.  I've never been able to explain this part of the story.  Here's my chance. The reason I was ill was that we were lying out getting tans and I asked a crew member for a towel to cover my face.  The towel smelled like vomit.  I'm sorry, but rocking back and forth on a boat with the smell of someone else's sickness is not conducive to a positive experience.

Just for the record Ellenmary, Paul, Kathleen, and Jimmy; I have never gotten sick on a train, tour bus, ferry, dinner cruise, large aircraft, or in the car while mom has been driving.

....so there.  I'll see you in a couple of weeks.  Bring it on.




Tuesday, March 18, 2014

No, I'm not as smart as a fifth grader.

Seriously?  Ha!  That's what you, my dear friends and readers, think!

The answer is an undeniable, unequivocal, NO!  I don't have all the answers.  I damn near thought I did several days ago but that theory went to Hell in a hay basket.  I suppose for the few who have not been informed of my error I will retell the story - painful as it may be - to keep everyone well notified of my gross miscalculation.  *Deep Sigh*  I shall begin.

Colorado, as well as Washington, are progressive states in that we the people have voted to legalize Marijuana.  I, myself, do not partake in it often; however, on a social basis I have been known to smoke small amounts or consume a bit of a tasty treat embedded with the organic material.

At a recent local party, within walking distance to my house, I was unwise to drink several strong alcoholic beverages.  This usually isn't an issue for me yet I ate 3/4 of a very large medicinal brownie within a span of an hour during the same time I consumed these drinks.  Now I've been told, after the fact of course, that 1/4 of these delicious treats would have sufficed for the entire evening.  I like brownies.  Let me retract that statement:  I LOVE brownies and this particular brownie happened to be very tasty.  I actually resented my dear friend with whom I had shared the other 1/4 with.  It's true.  I'm ashamed to admit it.

So, having all the answers, I believed that the brownie and two extremely powerful drinks within the span of an hour had no affect on me whatsoever.  Why was I sitting on the floor of the host's house staring at my stocking feet?  Well, that was simple.  Anyone with half a brain could tell I was examining my socks to see if the white fluff was truly fluff or if I had a hole in my socks.  A hole would be most unfortunate and it would upset me to the point of having to ask my hostess to borrow a pair of black socks.  Anyone would understand that.  What I didn't understand was why people were looking at me funny, weirdos.  Geesh!

Then, it all fell into place.  I saw my handsome husband standing with his brother and a friend talking.  I knew the answer.  I loved my husband.  I loved Eric so much that I wanted to go home to be with him.  It didn't matter that it was snowing.  It didn't matter that I forgot to put my shoes on.  It didn't matter that I left my coat in the closet.  AND it certainly didn't matter that Eric was still at the party.  I had all the answers.  I was going home to Eric (who wasn't home), in the snow, in my stocking feet, without my coat, with the biggest, stupidest grin on my face one would never want to see again.  From that point I remember crawling up the stairs, lying in front on my bedroom door (we lock it because of our kids) and being licked by my dogs until my husband came home and got me into bed a half hour later.

Yes, I have all the answers.  Right.  My dear friends and readers, you haven't lived until you've been licked for thirty minutes in awkward places by two small dogs.  Trust me.  I know absolutely NOTHING except I have a new relationship with my dogs that I never wanted.





Thursday, March 13, 2014

There's Something About Maggie

Yes, there is certainly something about Maggie.  Perhaps it's her pristine posture as she drinks her tea.  Or it
Anonymous Picture
could be her wise blue eyes and how they seem to capture everything; processing life as it unfolds around her.  Yes, there's definitely something about this 85 year old lady which calls for our attention; however, so many busy shoppers walked past her today focusing on their iPhones, concentrating on their groceries, or simply not wanting to "see" beyond their own lives.  What a shame.  

Maggie grew up in London.  She and her younger brother dodged the bombing blitz during WWII by being placed on a country bound train to stay with strangers (a very "distasteful family which was most unfortunate"). Later during the war, she met her husband, an American soldier, and traveled back to the States after they were married.  They made their home in Upstate New York and had a son.  Maggie lived in New York up until last year when her son felt it would be best to have her closer to him and his family in the Denver area.  She didn't understand what all the fuss was about, after all she'd been on her own all these years since her husband died ("God rest his soul") but she supposed it comforted her son to have her here "just in case".

Maggie still drives.  She's sharp as a tack.  She prefers the weather in New York but she's "not one to complain".  Her proper British accent is thick and one would never guess she's lived the last 60 years of her life in America.  She loves to chat and would never turn down an opportunity to tell someone about her life. And oh, what a life!

Today was the third time I stopped and chatted with Maggie.  I wasn't wearing a sweater, she gave me a hard time about it but I showed her how furry my arms are and told her I'm naturally insulated.  She apologized for not remembering my name (after all, she is 85) and I teased her about that.  I gave her a big hug and told her if she forgets my name the next time around, I'm going to squeeze tighter.  She giggled in her lovely, polite English way and said, "Oh my, don't do that my dear, I barely have enough stuffing in me as it is."

There IS most definitely something about Maggie.  There's a story to be a heard.  A lovely person to be met. An opportunity to step out of your busy day and find the time the make another human being happy.  Look for your Maggie, or Henry, or Sarah..they're out there.  I promise you it will enrich two lives, and then some. Pass it on.