She Wants to Say

She wants to say Help me.
She wants to say I'm hurting.
She wants to say I'm scared.
She needs to say Something has got to change.
But instead
she swallows a bottle of pills.
And
I am angry because
why did she do this?
But mostly
I am worn out
with how
patiently and tirelessly
this life
will try to
kill you.

The Power of Smell

The power of smell.

How does it elicit such strong memories?

Rummaging around underneath the sink of my bathroom, I am praying to find some hairspray. I am out, had forgotten to buy some at the grocery store. My hand closes around something cold, metallic, cylindrical.

Oh good. My hair's a mess.

I spray a cloud around my head, can see the particles as they settle in my hair and on my shoulders. I inhale the sticky fog and am immediately transported back nine years:

The scene is nearly the same. I am fourteen, the same can of Volumax hairspray is sitting on the bathroom counter as I impatiently try to style my hair just as I want. I am directly in the middle of puberty, which has wreaked havoc on my appearance. I am two heads taller than the majority of the girls at school, over the summer I had gone up nearly four jean sizes that had me shopping at "woman" stores instead of Gap Kids and the Limited Too. I am pretty enough not to be considered a "nerd" or a "loser," but had not yet learned how to tame my beauty and harness it to my advantage like all the popular girls in my school.

The overwhelming feeling of being so big terrified me. My height, my hips, my hands, my feet. I wanted to be small and delicate like the girls at school.

But those were things I couldn't change.

So I do what I can to feel accepted, beautiful.

I do my hair.

And I spray what seems like half that can of hairspray on my hair before I feel satisifed with it. My hair is stiff, crunchy like dead grass.

My eyes are sadly hopeful.

I check myself in the mirror again: perfect hair, but everything else unperfect: pants too short on me, and small breasts that don't look right on my tall, woman-size body.

I sigh. I leave for school.

And I am back.

Back to the twenty-three year old Brie who has accepted her height and (mostly) her flaws.

And I cry.

And I throw that damn can of hairspray away.

Who me? A Catophile?

This is what I am. Apparently.
A Catophile.
It's true.
It's Brandon's new nickname for me.
See, I just think I love my cats too much.
Is that even possible?
The big problem is, I've begun to inappropriately flirt with them. First off, I'm married, and second of all, they're, you know, cats.
I affectionately refer to Bobbi (See picture. She's twenty-five pounds, by the way, still more than Cade) as my Urban Cowboy.
It doesn't sound outright dirty, but oh. It is.
And then there's Hairy.
My Mental Kitten.
I have a special love I reserve for this amazing fur-ball of joy.
I told her that her "...eyes were deep wells of fathomless love and beauty," and that she "made me feel like a woman."
See this is what I'm talking about.
It comes out before I even know what's happening.
I have no control, I swear.
Huh.
So it's official.
I'm a crazy cat lady.
I'll be the person in years to come who lives in a nasty apartement with thirty-seven cats watching re-runs of "Golden Girls" all day while knitting kimonos and leg-warmers for the cats.
And you know what?
I'm okay with this.
The Crazy Cat Lover has embraced her weirdness!
Oh PS: I'm not going to really, you know, let my flirting become anything physical. I'm committed to my marriage.

Friends

Today I am most grateful for good friends.

To Alana, who laughed at me while I tried desperately to look hot at my photoshoot last night trying to balance in (these were impossible, here, people) ridiculous yoga positions, and much thanks goes to her for helping with my hair and also making sure I didn't get raped and/or murdered...
To Whit who is the only one of my friends to have ever cupped my boobie (see picture below). She is so real and so beautiful and honest and I love that she is constantly in the process of trying to better herself...
To Kyla for inspiring me to be a better person and writer...
To Kate for reminding me to NEVER give up...
To Tracy for making me laugh til my stomach hurts...
To Abby for her sweet reminders at how wonderful life can be, and that recovery is possible.
To Devon. Without her, I would never enjoy breakfast nearly as much...
To Heather, for now I have someone to reminisce about the (good or bad) old days...
To Marissa, because I'm pretty sure you are the only normal person in my family. For loving your crazy aunt and finding humor in Ed...
and Britnie...I never knew that such a kind, un-assuming, non-judgemental person was out there...
and Racher - I enjoy nothing more than somehow laughing at the bitter ironies of life with you...
To Brooke, my kick-ass sister who would run away with me in a heartbeat if I asked her to...
To my mom for tirelessly worrying about my health and well being. It gets a little old sometimes, but I am awed at her ceaseless devotion to keeping me alive. :)
To my sweet husband Brandon for his immortal patience with me...

You all make my life worthwhile!
So thank you from the bottom of my heart.

On Anger

I hate being angry over something I have no control over.
But I let it eat at me anyway, gnawing at the soft pink of my heart and stomach until I feel physically sick.
Don’t you detest hearing something second-hand?
Do you ever wish that the complainer themselves would brave the potential fear and embarrassment and talk to you directly rather than whisper to some puppet to mimic back to you?
And I am not a scary person to talk to.
I’m like a baby kitten, seriously.
The anger is still gnawing away, tugging at my heart strings.
I really do feel sick.

Whitney

So I've been a wee bit lonely, no point in lying.
But.
In one week and counting, one of my besties, Whit, will be coming home to Utah!
Without her Red Robin doesn't taste as good, and I don't have anything to laugh at because no one drowns their salad in Ranch the way she does or unabashedly asks for 1/2 gallon of Ranch and fry sauce on the side...and somehow, she never ends up getting charged extra for it!
And there's not many people I'd feel comfortable sharing a pair of pants with - but she and I, we can snugly fit in a pair of 20W pants - at the same time, of course, praise the Lord!
And we love each other's boobies, but in a completely hetero way.
So in seven short days, my girl will be back!

Christmas Cheer - Finally!

Well Folks, I won't lie, I've been pretty buggered about getting into the holiday cheer. I abhorr FM 100 for playing non-stop Christmas music starting the day after Halloween, and when Costco put out all their Christmas merchandise the day after Halloween as well, I wanted to vomit. Seriously. There was much dry-heaving going on as I pushed my massive cart through the monstrous aisles. But now that Thanksgiving is over, I'm appropriately ready to welcome Christmas!

Here's a few pics - gearing up for the holidays! Brandon and I went and saw Enchanted. I luuuuuurrved it!!!

Doesn't the tree look lovely with the fire?

Trimming the tree. Cade was getting the low branches

Cade (unfortunately) in mid-cough:

The Joy of Ear Plugs

Brandon was up last night vomiting up what sounded like pretty important insides, and was coughing loud enough to blow out my ear drums. Despite the fact he went and slept on the couch, he still kept me awake with his bodily retches and chain saw-esque noises.
So my epiphany came: ear plugs. Yay!
I slept for nearly four hours straight, which I haven't done in ages between a sick husband and baby.
It's amazing what a little R&R will do for you, you know?

On What the Prospect of A Discount Will Do To America:

It makes them go insane. Certifiably.
Raving middle-aged mothers will rip off your left arm if you're clutching the last Tickle Me Elmo that her six year old whiner insists on getting for Christmas.
So, wow.
Last night I had the lapse in judgemennt for the second year running to amble on over to the mall at midnight for some Black Friday shopping. Yes folks, I sad midnight. And while my experience pushing away desperate fellow americans out of my personal space vastly was improved over my malnourished body nearly getting crushed in a mob last year, while I and my two best friends shared a bottle of anti-anxiety meds, it was still quite unpleasant, but completely irresistible.
Why is this?
I, like my fellow desperate american mothers, was stalking a deal.
The Deal To End All Deals.
And, well, I found it!

The Expectation

The Expectation is set, set so loftily that I have to squint to see it in the white blue sky.
But The Occasion does not rise to its occasion, (it never does) and The Expectation crashes, falls to the ground with a jeering finality.
And there it is.
In seconds it is ruined. An entire year I have been building this Expectation, and in seconds, mere seconds - it may have only been a heartbeat or a sharp intake of breath - it stubbornly wrecks itself, tries desperately to wreck me.
But I survive.
And as I stumble through the ruins, I meander to the place where I had paid extra attention to The Expectation. I had nurtured it, delicately constructed it - constructed it just for him. But he was not there. He had not been among the many faces I saw today, though with each new scan of the room I let The Expectation in me believe I would see him.
But he never came, and it is this finality that causes the fissure in The Expectation, triggers the domino effect that eventually brings it to the ground.
So I cry a little.
I nurse my injuries. And I rest.
And then I sigh.
And I get back up again to build a New Expectation, which will be grander than the last.
And I pray that it will not fall.

The Pilgrims and Indians Are Trying To Kill Us!

So I've been thinking.
Do you really think the indians and the pilgrims knew what they were doing when they decided to get together for a fun-filled meal oh-so-many hundreds of years ago? Did the indians know that by simply telling them how to plant corn they would trigger the founding of the most ridiculous holiday in history? Thanksgiving. Meh.
Look.
I'm not saying that it's not wonderful to be grateful for how freaking blessed I am. I am fully aware (at least most of the time) that even though I have a high-maintenance child, live in a scary, dirty basement apartment, have seriously complicated family issues, and am financially just barely above the poverty line, that my life is still waaaaaay better than those starving people in Africa. But did the indians know that by sharing some damn corn seeds they would be contributing to the obesity rates in America?

Today my brother was regaling me with tales of how last year he successfully managed to eat 5.37 pounds of turkey and an entire pumpkin pie on his own. He looked at me as if I was supposed to be impressed with this nauseating feat. I wanted to say,
"Oh I'm really sorry for you. When (not if) you develop some sort of heart disease from the fat and sodium content of your meal, (should I be saying meal? I really mean binge) I won't say I told you so, but I will say, well...I told you so."

So that's what I'm doing. Telling everyone I TOLD YOU SO!!! Having a 4845732036 pound turkey in front of you and enough pies for everyone in your family to consume an entire pie on their own does not mean that you should actually, in fact, consume the entire pie on your own. Eat, drink, and be merry, but please, please, try to keep the food consumption to something that is equal or less to what a small third world country would eat in a day.

I'm a fan of eating. And I'll enjoy my turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and rolls and coconut cream pie and the myriad of other salads and casseroles, but I will not consume more than .99 pounds of turkey and will enjoy only one or two (instead or twelve) pieces of pie. I'm not going to let those damn indians give me a heart attack, thank you very much!

The Sacrifice

His little hand is clutched around my finger. I can feel the heat radiating from his palms, and as he shifts on my chest, his feverish eyes lift to mine. He sees me and is reassured, remembering: Yes. I have a mama. And she loves me.

I’m hot. This personal space heater lying on top of me has caused sweat to trickle off my forehead and down into my ears. His fever has nearly reached 104 degrees, and I am waiting, willing his fever to break. It’s late, almost 3:00 am, and I’ve been singing lullabies and tickling his back for hours. I have not slept, but been in the in between place of consciousness and unconsciousness that does not sate my need for rest. I immediately panic, thinking of my busy day only hours ahead of me. How can I function on three hours sleep? And I get angry then, listening to my husband snoring placidly next to me. I want to give the baby to him, tell him to take a turn, tell him that I need my sleep, because it’s my turn. My turn!

But then I think, no.
No.
I am a mother.
And motherhood is about sacrifice.
I am somehow calmed by this thought.

I settle in for a long night. The strength of my voice renews as I begin to sing to him “You Are My Sunshine."
Because he is.
This small human being is my light, my life.
My everything.
I clutch him tighter, and give him soft little kisses on his head and shoulders, somehow suddenly grateful I am up with him, that I can hold him and love him and kiss him and calm him.
How did I get so lucky?
He is sick, hurting. And I am his mother. And I will do anything for him.

The Letter

I woke up today. The first thing I thought was,
“Crap (okay, substitute that for a curse word). I have to write that…that letter today.
That letter. "
I’ve been avoiding it for…let’s see…weeks now.
But it’s time.
How do I tell the one person that I admire more than anyone else in the world – more than Mother Theresa and Princess Di and whoever invented mustard and lip gloss - that I am angry with them? How can you worship someone but want to sob and scream and tell them all the ways in which they let you down?
How can you love someone and hate them at the same time?
And how do I write this letter?