A Worthy Resolution, I Think

Usually I'm not a fan of the resolutions that everyone sets (but rarely achieves) at the New Year. One could wonder why we don't set resolutions of some sort every month or two or six. Why do we only try to "better" ourselves once a year? And why are those goals almost always about fixing our bodies or achieving something more desirable than what we already have? It's common knowledge that gyms get a surge of new contracts at the new year when people are guilt-ridden with the turkey and egg nog and holiday cookies they consumed. And don't get me wrong. I mean, being healthy and taking care of yourself, both in body and in mind, is important and goal-worthy. But.

What if we made resolutions that really, truly meant something? What if the world (or really, just a few of us) resolved to instead of changing our bodies, change the world? Or at least the small bit of world that we inhabit? How would our lives and the lives of those around us be affected if we made a conscious effort to smile at a stranger in the parking lot or spend an hour volunteering at a homeless shelter? I believe that we could make a real difference.

So my resolution this year is to start a revolution on the way women in our society view their bodies. I think it's high time we start accepting them and loving them, no matter our size or weight. It's time we start treating ourselves with respect, instead of calling ourselves "disgusting" or "bad" for eating or having curves.

It was only a small investment, really: just the cost of some post-it notes. On them I've written various things like

Ladies, love your body! Join the revolution!

I keep them in my purse and I leave them in public restrooms or on bulletin boards or in store windows.
I want it to be known that there is a real war, here, going on. It's a war that women are fighting against themselves, against their bodies.
The unrealistic pressure to be too thin is beginning to get nauseating. I have fought my own battle for years, and I believe I have nearly won. But it's not enough. I want to help others, and this is my small way, I think, of battling the negative images and attitudes this world has on what is desirable in a woman's appearance. If enough of us joined, if we all made an effort to change the world, we could. Please join the revolution too.

Till Death Do Us Part

"I, Brie, take you, Assorted Anti-depressants, to be my husband in helping maintain my sanity and breakdowns, to have and to swallow faithfully everyday, from this day forward, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, until death do us part."

You may now swallow the pills.

I want a divorce, man.

For nine years I've been taking these little pills with promises of happiness, and really, they never deliver. At least, not how the commercials make them out to be. Have you seen the TV ad for Cymbalta? You feel so bad for the damn dog who wants its master to walk it, but poor Unnamed Woman is too busy being hopeless and incapacitated with grief and despair to get out of bed and walk Pooch. But then: TADA! In comes Cymbalta to the rescue, and suddenly she's laughing in some meadow or something playing frisbee with Pooch. And I'm sure the two of them live happily ever after. I mean, the ad wasn't that long, so I'll never really know, but I like to think it ends that way.

So I'm on Cymbalta, (among a few others) and I haven't had any kind of happy ending in a meadow or anything close to it. Maybe it's because I don't have a dog? I'm not sure. I may have to look into that. But that's not the point. The point is that I have been so dissatisfied over the years with my medication, that I always, about every year or so, try going off of all of them to see if my psyche can function without the help of manufactured happiness. And, apparently I can't. Last time I was off my medication, I nearly was hysterical because I had some freaky deaky auditory hallucination in which my Mental Kitten, Hairy, lost her arm. It was bad. Funny, but bad.

I am now forced to reconcile with the fact that there's pretty much oh, you know, a snowball's chance in Hiz-nell that I'll ever live this durn life without the aid of good 'ol manufactured happiness. Because as unsatisfied as I am with their productivity, apparently when I'm not on them, I go from being totally, you know, wack, to pretty pathetically out of wack. So it is with a very heavy heart I resign myself to this unhappy marriage I am in. I'll file no more petitions for divorce, and I'll keep swallowing the damn pills, because I have finally allowed myself to acknowledge the fact that I'm a crazy psycho raving bitch with out them. True dat.

Okay, I'm out folks. Much love. I gotta jet to the pharmacy for some more good 'ol happiness. Er, if not happiness, and no happy endings, then at least my cat keeps all of her limbs. And that's better than nothing, I guess. Yes. I think it is.

Janice Dickinson, Do You Have A Brain?

Thanks to Digest for posting this appalling quote on her blog from the crazy Janice Dickinson, (the self-proclaimed World's First Supermodel) who now has her own reality show on Oxygen, The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency, where she owns her own agency and manages a handful of L.A. based models:

“I’m dying to find kids who are too thin. I’ve got 42 models in my agency and I’m trying to get them to lose weight. In fact, I wish they’d come down with some anorexia. I’m not kidding. I’m running into a bunch of fat-assed, lazy little bitches who don’t know how to do the stairs or get their butts into the gym.”

As a former model, I am left speechless. Words cannot describe the anger I feel at her attitude and careless, somewhat ambivalent feelings toward eating disorders and anorexia in general. I have quit modeling, all for these brutal facts: the modeling world is tough. It is disgusting. Even if it didn't compromise my body physically, and aid in propelling my anorexia into a serious addiction, (which it did) it will slowly turn you into a plastic, shallow shell of your former self, until your main priorities in life are reduced to weight, appearance, and money. It was time for me to take a moral stand against all of this. And thanks to quotes like this, (and to Janna) I don't regret my decision at all.

You can read the whole article here, at The F-Word's Blog.

Oh, and hey, Janice? Take it easy on the teeth whitening. Your gums are starting to look white, and that's not good. Really. Not good. Eh. Celibritard.

Christmas (et al)

My holiday was wonderful. The festivities began on Sunday with the annual Brown Family Party. It began with a lovely candle-lit dinner.

Brandon and I had a silly old time taking pictures and feeling the love, as you can see. :)

The night really got interesting when we had the white elephant portion of the party. Now my family is notorious for not only bringing naughty gifts, but gifts that will undoubtedly make fun of a few of the family members. This year we completely out-scandalized ourselves, no kidding. Between someone (my bet's on my dirty sister) bringing a men's thong made out of candy necklaces, there was also used lingerie, strip poker cards with HUGE underwear, (okay that was me!) and a teeny tiny bra with an oh-so-clever poem attached making fun of the (um, several) women in the family who have had, well...enhancements...

I mean, wow. No one was safe - it was horrifying to even open the gift you had chosen, because you didn't know what kind of ridiculous monstrosity would be waiting for you. It was deliciously humiliating. :)

Christmas Eve was delightful. We drove up to Bountiful and had a party with Brandon's side of the family. There was an abundance of yummy ham, meat balls, (a bit sketch) and salads/casseroles galore. The ice cream cake especially tickled me, though. Peppermint ice cream with an oreo crust with chocolate syrup. Can it get any better than that? My stomach says NO!

Because it snowed a million and a half feet that night, (no, really) we decided to hibernate in the house rather than chance death trying to drive to my sista's. We had fun watching Elf and wrapping presents, though... and taking more pictures.

Brandon had a grand 'ol time looking like a scary mo fo with a candy cane in his mouth, while I (obviously) struggled to come up with "odd" facial expressions.

Christmas itself was amazing, of course. Brandon surprised me with a new iPod Touch, which promptly sent me into squeals of delight. We spent the day playing Rock Band on XBOX, and even though I have maybe the worst singing voice since Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding, I had a splendid time rockin' it out. We also (finally) got a camcorder, which Santa was so sweet to remember. We had a riot recording Cade opening presents and promptly disregarding all of them to play with the vacuum. Oh, the irony.

And there it is. I not only got to be with my incredibly amazing family, but I got to spend it with some pretty darn cool friends, too. Whit and I had a fricktastic time playing Rock Band and dueling it out on Dance Dance Revolution. (We missed our Alana baby though.)

To finish the holiday break off before I headed back to work, mi madre y yo went to Barnes and Noble to peruse the books and buy some delish hot chocolate from Starbuck's. Just my kind of activity, no kidding. I love my mama. What a sweetheart.

Well there you have it. My holiday. I hope yours was as perfect as mine was. :)

A Night In Pictures

Well folks, it's been an interesting night in pictures. As you can see, I'm mighty fine pleased that my hair has grown approximately 1/8th of an inch. YESSS! (It sure is moving right along!)

Cade trying on my new bra. He was delighted with the promise of potentially adding up to one full cup size. He's got a little bit of growing to do, as you can see.

This lovely shirt is a Christmas gift from the uber awesome Marissa. It's a Twilight fanclub shirt, you can comprar them here, if you'd like. Notice the ridiculously hot Alana vying for some picture space in the background. Oh sad. I kinda feel bad for her, no kidding. This picture...WOW. Maybe not the best angle for me, if you know what I mean.

Immediately upon snapping this, Alana assured me this would be a beauty to treasure for years and years to come. Oh how right she was! (Please ignore the fact that I look like I'm wearing a do-rag. This beanie is actually pretty un-frigtarded.)

No Tale Tells All #2

Who am I?
I know the question is so cliche, but really, who am I?
Tuesday was my last sesh with my therapist. She maintains that I don't need therapy so much as "spiritual guidance." And I do agree. (At least I think?) I mean, my spirituality is a big part of my life, and I would like to strengthen that area - I do agree with her that it would help in the whole recovery aspect.
But for me, living without therapy is like a fish trying to survive out of water. Being Anorexic Brie, the girl who's always in treatment centers, the emaciated girl, the girl who's always in therapy...as sad and pathetic as it sounds, that's who I was (and maybe still am).
That was my identity. That hopeless, fragile shell of a person was what I knew, was all that I thought I had to offer this world whose idea of a beautiful woman is an emaciated woman.
I know that it's time to grow up and shed that old, tired me. I want to be somebody new, real, vibrant, beautiful.
But I'm scared. What if the Brie I find down the road does not fill me the way my anorexic self did? What if I can't find anything else to be good at?
So, wow.
It's time to try being...well, normal.
Is there even such a thing?
Is there such a thing as me living in this world without my eating disorder?

Gay Pink Ponies Make My Afternoon Fun!

Yesterday Whitney and I took Caden to an ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist. Cade's had an ear infection for three months straight, and it's time to get some tubes put in his ears surgically that should help decrease the length/amount/severity of the infections.

Obviously I wasn't looking forward to taking my child to yet another doctor, and I was prepared for all sorts of freaking out and temper tantrums on his part. But he was actually surprisingly cheerful! He only kicked the doctor, like twice.

The afternoon turned really interesting when Dr. Kelly (I'm pretty sure) thought Whit and I were, you know, together. He inquired as to where we lived, etc. Maybe he was just surprised that there were two females there with Cade? Regardless, I totally didn't correct him, which sent Whit into a fit of giggles that could have been ridiculously horrifying, but she managed to pull herself together, to my utmost relief.

Cade loves Aunt Whit!

Afterward we went to Costco where Whit was able to challenge her OCD by watching Cade crawl all over the floor and suck on a pink My Little Pony he found on the floor (aka Gay Pony). She only used like half a bottle of Purel on Cade and herself, which made me so proud!

It was a really good afternoon, as you can so obviously tell. :) Much love, folks.

Unfinished Boat

Two nights ago, I was in bed, wearing a sweater that could roughly fit three of me all at once. I was wearing my old glasses that were lop-sided on me, and I was nasty looking and tired and ready for bed. Brandon came and sat beside me, looked me over, and said something along the lines of,

"Oh Honey, you worry me. You look like an unfinished boat."

This may come as a shock, (haha) but I've never been called that before, nor do I expect to ever, ever be called that again. I'll be honest, I was quite tickled when he said it because it was just so darn original, and well frankly, pretty funny.
But an unfinished boat?

That could mean so many different things. So. Look at the picture. You decide.

This has supplied me with hours of mind-numbing ridiculousness when I'm bored.

If you're lucky, it'll do the same for you.

So kick back, relax, and get creative.

If you have any ideas, let me know. I'm still working diligently on this one. Much love folks.

He'll Always Take My Side

Mi esposo rocks mi mundo.

See, we were hoping to move into my parent's home while they are finishing off their mission for another year and a half, but because my dad is so not a cat person, he said we could move up to their home if we either got rid of my cats, (umm, why don't you just ask me to get rid of my left breast? It'd hurt less, and I'm not quite as attached to it!) or make them outdoor cats. ...And, what? Have them die in less than eleven days? For those of you that don't know, my parents live in the mountains, where all sorts of wild animals roam around. Seriously. Last year, my parent's neighbors were eating breakfast and happened to look out their dining room window to find two mountain lions in their backyard fighting over a deer carcass. Needless to say, they lost their appetite for their breakfast, but that's hardly the point.

So, what? Am I supposed to be okay with my cats being the next carcass the friggin' mountain lions are fighting over? I don't think so.

So I was really sad - much tears and snot were involved as I realized I wouldn't be getting out of our Pit of Despair (aka my basement apartment) to move to a beautiful new home. I thought Brandon (the esposo) would be a bit upset that the cats were the reason we wouldn't be moving, and as he pretty much dislikes them anyway, I thought he'd be all gung-ho about making the felines cougar meat.

But once again, he has proven to have gone above and beyond my expectations. Later that night, after I broke the sad, sad news to him, I came home to find that he had bought a bunch of new toys for the kitties, as well as a cute new bed they can snuggle in together. (At least, they were supposed to sleep in it together, but as Bobbi takes up the space that roughly a small foreign country uses, they can only sleep in it one at a time). But still. That's not the point. The point is that my husband wanted to show everyone in the family that he supports his crazy wee-fay's inappropriate attachment to cats by buying them toys and actually holding and petting them, (which lasted all of two minutes, till Hairy stuck her claw in his leg - but still)! My man loves me, and that means he loves all of me and is making an attempt to love the cats, because he knows how much they mean to me. And he made this huge monumental sacrifice for me - we're stuck in the Pit of Despair, but hey - we've got our love and our cats who will never know the horror of becoming cougar dujour! What more could I ask for? (Actually, I could ask that my parents change their minds, and allow the fat nasty kitty lovers to live in their home, but that's beside the point. My question was meant to be figurative, not literal).

This here is a picture of my kitties sleep-humping. Thanks to my sweet, sweet husband, there will be many more days of this beautiful sleep-humping, and it will never be tarnished with pain or hurt or mountain lions stalking them! Yay. I just love happy endings, don't you?

Hey, Senior Citizens! Off The Road!

I just got plowed into last night by a senior citizen. (Don't worry. If you're on the verge of panic, concerned about how I am, rest assured that I'm absolutely fine aside from the anger boiling around inside me, giving me diarrhea). Now, when I say "plowed into," I mean in my car, by theirs. He didn't run me over with his walker or anything. But I digress.

So.

Now, maybe this wouldn't be so terribly awful, except for the fact that a mere two weeks ago, the exact same thing happened to me! And guess who happened to be driving the other vehicle you may wonder?

Yes! A senior citizen!

You may be grateful to know that I've decided that I'm not completely against our friendly old folks on the road, because who else is going to keep Denny's and matinee movies in business? Nah, they just need to follow one simple rule:

When you see, say, a sign that says 65 MPH, that's how fast you're supposed to go. That isn't how many minutes it'll take you to get to your destination - although, that can be quite accurate when you're crawling along at 20 MPH or so. So read the signs! You may not be in any hurry to get to the breakfast buffet, but most of us usually need to get to our particular destination before the Ides of March or noon, whichever comes first.

Now that isn't so hard, is it?

Oh wait.

There's one more rule, the cardinal rule, the rule to end all rules, the rule that if you're only going to obey one rule, it'll be this rule:

STOP RUNNING INTO ME!!!!

(Although, to your credit, you seem to have great insurance, which is a bonus. Thanks for that).

A Tongue Morphs Into An Innapropriate Body Part!

So today, I’m crowded into a conference room with several of my coworkers, 80% of whom I’ve never officially met. I’m squished in between my stud-muffinish twin brother, Brett, and my slightly off-kilter but adorably lovable supervisor, Susan. I’m trying desperately to listen to what’s going on: HIPAA Laws are very important and strictly regulated. Protected health information cannot be left out on your desk, and please make sure to shred any evidence of PHI promptly as well as locking your computer when you leave your desk…

I take a swig of my Diet Coke and stuff a square of a Mr. Goodbar in my mouth to keep myself fully alert just as Susan leans over to me and whispers, “Brett dared me to put ten sprays of Binaca underneath my tongue. I decided to do twenty. It’s burned pretty bad. It looks like a wrinkled penis. Wanna see?”

And with that, she opens her mouth wide, lifts her tongue, and sure enough, there it is: a little ‘ol wrinkly penis lookin’ thing. I dissolve into fits of giggles, and the rest of the meeting is shot, but my day is absolutely made, for I saw a burned, wrinkly penis/tongue in my supervisor’s mouth today.

I love the people I work with, I really, really do.

Hella Ugly Tree

THIS BEACHED WHALE:

AND THIS HOT MESS:

AND THIS TEENY TINY MAN:

Made my Christmas tree go from looking like this:(to the left)

To that depressing monstrosity above (sigh).

Cade's lovingly broken about 48,489,548,372 of my ornaments, while Hairy has taken a liking to Spiderman-ing it up the branches, massacring the poor thing so that it is absolutely, irrevocably, the ugliest piece of sadness I have ever seen. And Bobbi, well, mammoth she is, pretty much ruins it just by looking at it, I swear.

That's it. They win. They've defeated me. I've decided that I'm really, really ready for Christmas to be over.

She Lost Her Arm!

Last night when I told Marissa (my pretty sweet niece) this story, she told me that this was a blog must. I'm taking her advice and sharing it with ya'll:

Two nights ago, I was a hot mess. Really, saying I was a hot mess is putting it lightly. I was a hormonal, chemically-imbalanced, batshit insane, premenstrual basket case.
And still.
That's putting it lightly.

Some lunatic thought it would be great fun to steal my prescription medication out of my car, (I had just picked it up from Costco) and he/she was undoubtedly hoping for goodies like painkillers or uppers. Sadly, as I only suffer from depression, they didn't get much more than Neurontin, Celexa, and Cymbalta. Hmmm. I wonder what the street value for those are?
But I digress.

So, because I have no pills, and because my psychiatrist, Dr Ferre, is out of town, (who I affectionately refer to as The Ferr Bear, but that's a whole other story for another day) and because I am too lazy to drag my ass forty minutes away to Provo to see my PCP to see if she would write a prescription, I decided that suffering was my best option.
And suffer I did.
After about two days, the withdrawals started to hit me hard-core: I had a horrible migraine, I couldn't handle any noise, I could barely form coherent sentences. And I was so depressed. Horribly. And my moods were all over the place. One minute I'm doing fine, and the next, I'm screaming at Brandon for looking at me wrong (Are you looking at me because I'm fat? You think I'm fat, don't you?!).

But well, friends, I think my low point came on Monday night. I was sitting (well slumping is more like it) in a chair, staring dully at the floor, unable to think clearly or speak or do anything productive. My Amazing Fur-Ball of Joy, Hairy, wandered into my line of sight and laid down on the floor. I thought about going over to her to pet her, but that seemed like too much effort, so I continued to stare. Then suddenly - suddenly...

ONE OF HER ARMS WAS MISSING!!!

So. I can look back now, and realize that I was wearing neither my glasses or contacts, and that things were rather blurry. She's also really fat and fluffy, so maybe her arm got lost in all that mess. But all I knew that evening, looking at my cat, was that she didn't have an arm. And I was horrified. My compromised mental state could not process what was obvious: that her arm was at an angle that kept me from seeing it, and coupled with the fact my vision was blurry, I should have been able to laugh and shake it off. But I couldn't. I could only freak out that my cat had somehow lost her arm. So naturally, I start sobbing.
Not crying.
Not sniffling.
SOBBING. Sobbing like I just lost a family member or something. I mean, crap, I'm thinking, I've got to look for the damn arm now, where do I start? Where would it be? What do I do with the arm once I find it? My poor kitty, without an arm! Brandon notices me sobbing then, (I was kinda hard to miss) and gets very concerned - what on earth could be wrong? After I explain to him that my cat was missing an arm - it took awhile, due to the sobbing and tears and snot, he (so kindly) tried to explain that she did in fact did have an arm, I just couldn't see it. And I didn't believe him. So I'm muttering to myself, "The world is a horrible, terrible place. It takes all the things you need like your arms and your joy. What's the point of even living?!"

And then, just like that, she jumped into my lap, all four limbs intact!! This started my sobbing up again full-force, and I couldn't stop hugging her, telling her she was so beautiful and pretty with all her arms, but that I would love her anyway, even if she were missing one. And I was happy again.

This is a pretty funny story now, folks, but wow. It sure wasn't then. I mean, what if I had a three-legged cat right now? That wouldn't be so funny now, would it?

This cat is actually missing an arm, (actually a leg, but let's not get technical here, people) like, for real.

This is Hairy, all limbs intact.

She just has a crazy mama (see picture).

My Best of 2007

Hey Folks-

Not that my opinion matters much, but I've compiled a list of my "favorites" of this year.
Best Movies:
Dan In Real Life - this movie was amazing, folks. Whether you are in love with Steve Carrell or not, this movie is a must! Seriously. Like, go watch it now.

Waitress - Okay, so true story: Adrienne Shelly, who wrote, directed, and co-starred in this flick (who is a genius and a goddess) was murdered a short time before this movie premiered. She never got to see her amazing work, but that doesn't mean we can't appreciate it in her memory. Seriously. You'll laugh and you'll cry - I know, because I just watched it again a couple of nights ago and am already dying to watch it again.

Enchanted - Okay, so aside from the fact that Dr McDreamy co-stars in this movie, (that shouls be reason enough to see this flick) this is such a fun movie that will so put you in a better mood after you've seen it. It's totally clean, so don't be scared to take your parents to it, either!

Best Books:

Time to give in, Alana and Whit! The Twilight Series is amazing, and I swear you'll love it. Yeah, it's a bit corny, yeah, the writing could be better. But the plot? The characters? You'll fall in love with them. Production begins in February for the movie, and I'm thrilled!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows - So if there's anyone even left in this universe who hasn't read the HP Series, it's time to give in. Seriously. The conclusion to Rowling's series was, of course, amazing.
The Thirteenth Tale - Written by Diane Setterfield, this was a story I particularly enjoyed. If you have secrets, then this will be a story you can relate to. It's eerie and charming and mysterious - the story is completely addicting. I have a copy if anyone would like to borrow it.

Best Restaurants:
Okay, so it's not like these restaurants opened this year or anything, but they were certainly my personal favorites of this year:
Red Robin - Yay for their orgasmic fries! How is it that their fry sauce and ranch taste better than anyone else's? I have so many good memories from that place...Whit, Alana...so many happy times with my besties at good 'ol RR!

California Pizza Kitchen - Their BBQ Chicken Pizza beats no other. What else can I say?

Best Trends:

The big button/box sweater - Oh how I loves this look! Big, fun sleeves, it looks great on anyone - no matter their size or shape.
High-Waisted Jeans - So many of you may not support me on this one, but I luuurves the high-waisted look! I've got myself a couple pair of jeans and skirts with this look. I think it's hip and classy. Go for it - this look will so not be in style forever!
The Ankle Boot - Sadly, I do not yet own a pair, but it doesn't mean I don't still adore them.
The Mary-Jane Pump - I love this look! I may be tall (let's be honest, I'm ridiculously Amazonish) I still can't resist these heels! I loves!

Here's to hoping that something even better comes along in 2008!

Back To Basics

Breathe.
Yes, that's good.
Wait. Don't forget to exhale.
Good.
Now breathe again.
Blink if you need to, of course.
And sleep.
But don't forget to wake up.
Shower. It would be awful to let your hygiene slip.
Get dressed.
Run a comb through your hair.
Go to work.
Smile at your coworkers.
The phone's ringing.
You should answer it.
Molina Healthcare, this is Brie.
Good. You sound normal.
And you're still breathing.
Still blinking.
Still going through the motions.
Come home.
Play with your son.
Eat.
Breathe, blink.
Sleep.
It's back to basics.
Sometimes
that's all I can offer life.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Live.
Survive.

The Real Meaning

The Christmas Season seems to be notorious for simultaneously being both full of joy and full of grief. This broad spectrum is leaving me feeling bipolar. One day I’m happy, excited for the upcoming holiday and all that it entails: friends, family, eggnog, gift-giving, gift-receiving, cozy fires, Christmas decorations, time off of work, etc.

And then suddenly, with little or no warning, I am left feeling bereft, lonely, and hollow. I cannot help but think of those in my family who I will not see this Christmas, or those who have passed during the Christmas holiday in the past…I think about how, in a perfect world, there would not be suffering. That some of my dearest family members and friends who I love more than I love myself would not be in pain, or that I would not be in pain.

And then my mind wanders to the true meaning of Christmas. Yes, I’m sure you’ve all already heard the requisite lecture on what Christmas really means this season, but I cannot help but ponder on it a bit more this year. Alana sent me a text message with a beautiful picture of HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS in Christmas lights hung proudly on someone’s home that she had taken as she had driven by their house. And It is because of God and His son, Jesus Christ, that we are here to be with friends and family during this time of year. Oh how I wish (myself included) that we could be content with gifts of gratitude for all that we have, rather than the physical trivialities in festively wrapped boxes that will soon be forgotten as the year progresses. We live in an amazing country – one in which we have so many freedoms that each and every one of us take for granted every single day, that many all around the world envy of us. We have troops fighting for us, for our freedom, for our country, and most of us don’t give them a passing thought at all. Our cups truly runneth over. And it is sincerely my hope that we all may be able to keep that close to our hearts this Christmas season.

What I Really Said vs. What I Should Have Said

"Hey, Boss."
I look up from my mountain of work, annoyed. I smile anyway.
"What can I do for you?"
"I'm here to fix the copy machine, Boss."
You're a fat dipshit. Why are you calling me Boss? "Sure. Let me take you to it."
I stand, he walks toward me, leans in close.
"Oh Boss! You're picture is beautiful."
I look down at my name tag with my miniscule, smiling face grinning from it, and surreptitiously flip it over so he cannot see it.
I wanna rip off your package. Or at the very least, knee you a good one in the groin. "Oh, thanks. That's so nice of you to say."
I lead him through the myriad of cubicles and hallways at my office, and gratefully leave him at the copy machine. I return to my desk, my huge pile of work.
Thirty or so minutes later he's back.
I notice him walk back in, but I pretend not to notice him anyway.
"Hey Boss, I can see you're very busy, but can you spare a teensy weensy minute for me so that you can sign this work order for me?" He grins his yellow, coffee stained smile at me.
You're the ugliest piece of crap I've ever seen. "Of course."
I reach for his pen, and just as my fingers are about to take it, he lets it slyly fall to the ground.
"Woops, Boss, my bad. I can be clumsy sometimes."
I bend over to pick it up, and I can feel his searching, greedy, probing eyes all over me.
I straighten up and sign the work order. I don't smile this time.
Go eat shit you sicko. You're a fat nasty bastard and I hate you. "It's fine. See ya later."
He grins, and finally leaves.
"You're a jerk, and I don't deserve to be treated that way!" And I say it. He doesn't hear, but at least I say it. A few minutes too late, but still. At least I say it.

My Child

The pain was overwhelming.

It eclipsed any other feeling or emotion. There was no joy, no anticipation at the pending arrival of the baby.

Just pain.

Pain so intense I wondered how I could not be dying. I was screaming. Shaking.

And then relief.

And then he was screaming. He was put in my arms, his wriggly, purple, naked little body, and the pain, which seconds before had been about to kill me, had been all-consuming - was completely forgotten.

Even covered in birth matter and blood he was the most beautiful thing I had even been blessed enough to behold.

He was mine. I had made this small, perfect human being. His squashed little face was nuzzled against my chest and I grinned. I laughed. I cried.

And I knew that I would have gone through the pain and grief and anxiety and agony and fear and the myriad of other experiences and emotions I had endured during my nine months of pregnancy again and again if I had needed to for this perfect child.

My child.

The Urban Legend

The urban legend was this:
If you die in your dream, then you will most certainly die for real the very next day.
I heard this rumor kicking about the soccer ball one afternoon at recess. I was nine, and my childish ears curiously listened to my "wisened" friend as she explained to me what her older sister had told her:
"She knows someone who knows someone who died after they had a dream where they drowned. For real." My friend said this in a knowing whisper, and it raised goosebumps on my arms.
But the moment passed, and I gratefully pushed it from my mind.
And then one night I had a dream.
And in the dream I died.
And I went up to Heaven.
And Jesus was there, and really, I had a lovely time, and I wasn't scared at all.
But then I woke up, and I was my nine-year-old self again, very alive.
And I was scared.
And right then, I just knew. I knew that I was going to die.
All day I waited for it to happen. Would it happen at school? On the bus? I hoped that it would just be me, and that my twin brother wouldn't die too, or my mom, but I did worry about being terribly lonely without my mama and my brother.
And I was sooooo scared.
I wasn't ready to die! I wanted to write the next Great American Novel, and I wanted to be an Olympic gold medalist, and I wanted to go to college and have babies. I didn't want to die. Why did I have to have that awful dream?! It wasn't fair, and I was so, so sad. So scared.
Well, the whole day passed and I never died.
But then I knew how it must work: I figured that the next night when I went to sleep, I would be taken to the next world while I dreamt. And then I was relieved, because I didn't think that would hurt very much.
So that night, I carefully brushed my hair and my teeth. I changed my underwear.
I pulled out a clean sheet of paper and wrote in my childish script careful instructions on how to feed my cat and my fish. I said goodbye, and that I was sorry.
I hugged my mom extra hard that night, never wanting to let go. I was never going to lie in her lap again, smell her shampoo, feel her warm hug.
And it hurt too much.
So I ran from her, ran outside. I curled up in the garden and wept.
My cat came to me then, curious as to why I would be outside like this at such a late hour. And I was so happy for the company! I hugged her fiercly, sobbed the Dying's Cry of all that could have been and all that I would miss.
And then I dried my eyes.
I stood up.
I went to my bed, crawled under the covers, closed my eyes.
And I waited to die.
And in so many ways my eyes have never opened.
And I am waiting.
Still.

No Tale Tells All

I keep my posts vague. On purpose.
I am extremely uncomfortable with the idea of any one person knowing too much about me.
Two years ago I burnt every single journal I had ever written.
I was so disquieted by the idea of being remembered.
After I'm dead, I want to have never existed.
I want people to think that perhaps I was a figment of their imagination, a fleeting moment of deja vu whispering in their memories.
You see, nothing I have ever done is worth remembering.
And it is my insignficance in this world that frightens me, devastates me.
And
already I feel as if in this post, I am revealing too much.
It scares me. So
I must go.