Deep Breath. Here Goes.

I certainly have a lot on my mind. I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes, trying to collect my thoughts on what I wanted to post; how to make my ideas cohesive and organized…but then I promptly gave up. I’m not sure I can completely connect my thoughts tonight. There’s a lot going on upstairs.

I’m a little upset at myself that the majority of my posts lately have been a bit depressing and centered on the irrigation in my stomach and throat and coming out of my nose. I initially wanted to pretend like this tube thing had never happened, and get on with my merry little life, but it’s proving much more difficult than I thought. So how can I blog about other things, when my mind isn’t on other things? It’s only on one thing: my tubage and recovery.

So that’s what this blog is going to be about, among other things.

I saw my dietician yesterday morning, hesitant of getting on her scale. I felt bloated, and swear I looked about six months prego. I always seem to forget the phenomena of getting a big belly when weight-gain begins, when everything else stays small. All of the weight just seems to sit there in my stomach until the weight is eventually distributed. So this was terribly distracting and alarming, as you can imagine, and I just swore to myself that I had gained a good five, six pounds, and while I knew that was a good thing, it also didn’t feel so good, you know?

So I stepped on the scale, and, and…suck.

I didn’t gain weight. Well, technically I gained a tenth of a kilogram, but my dietician said that doesn’t count. And you know what? I wasn’t happy about it, not even the sneaky eating disorder side of me. Because I have a freaking tube in, and I want it out, like, ASAP, people. I don’t want to have a giant food (er, Boost) baby and be bloated and sick for nothing, and not gain weight. So I was mad. And frustrated. And disheartened. I felt like I had done something wrong, even though I had followed my D’s Boost and food plan.

And then today. Today was pretty lame. I feel like I’ve more or less handled this tubification like a rockstar. I’ve gone out in public and endured the stares of strangers and the mocking of ugly little kids, I’ve cheerfully made many a tube joke at my expense, and I’ve willingly (I use that term loosely) allowed the Liquid Satan to nestle inside my tummy. But today, for the first real time, I lost it. I cried. And it felt good, in an awful sort of way. I think I needed to cry, to get those tears out, and to tell the universe that this sucks and this hurts and that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay.

I mean, there’s never a time, not even a teensy little minute, that I don’t not think about my tube. It’s impossible not to. Because it hurts. My throat, my sinuses, the way the tape feels sticky and abrasive against my skin. I can’t get away from it. Ever.

And then I had therapy tonight. And, I didn’t want to go. When I get really down, I tend to want to hibernate and cut off contact with everyone and just hide in my room. But my husband’s good advice prevailed, and I went (mostly because I would’ve had to pay a cancellation fee).

The highlights of my session included:

She being worried I was going to have a heart attack because I was so medically unstable.
I stared at the certificates on her wall. (Did you know she was the valedictorian of her graduating class at university?)
She wanted me to take off even more than two weeks of work because I might “have to go into the hospital at any time.”
I stared at her dumbfounded.
She stared at me, and then put her head in her hands.
I, once again, stared at her dumbfounded.
Her telling me she talked with H, my dietician yesterday, and they both thought it “extremely worrisome” I didn’t gain any weight.
I reinforced to her that I followed my meal and boost plan.
She and I talking about how recovery has to be real this time, that I can’t do this to my body and mind and marriage anymore.

After the session was up, my mom was in the waiting room, having just brought me Cade (long story). M then sneakily asked my mom to talk to her in her office, while I stressed out about what kind of crazy conversations could be happening on the inside. Basically, M wanted to make sure that I really had been following my meal plan, and that I wasn’t lying to her.
Thanks for your confidence in me, Freud.
She wanted to ask my mom what she thought about hospitalization, was she worried that I looked like a holocaust victim?

Oh, geez.

I came home, gave my baby boy kisses and loves and promised to him I would always stick around until I got old and wrinkly and my skin felt rough and paper thin and I died a natural death. I then ate a snack. Then I cheerfully allowed Brandon to Boost me up.

Why, you ask?

I want to be around. I want to be around to watch my baby grow into a boy and then a man. I want to have a baby girl, and I want to grow old with my husband.

I don’t want to be sick anymore.

And I sure as hell want to un-earn the nickname “Tube Face.”

Besides, I kinda realized it was time to gain weight, when I was so brain-dead and forgetful, I had this interesting experience/conversation with Husband yesterday:

Shuffle into the bathroom.
Me: What is that? Point to the floor by the toilet, at what looks like suspicious yellow liquid.
Brandon: Wha-? I don’t know. But it looks like pee.
Me: Oh nooooooo. No! Did I pee my pants and not remember?
Brandon: ?
FYI: Sad day, folks, when you think you might’ve peed your pants, but aren’t sure. (I didn’t, by the way.)

So.
Deep breath.
Here goes.

What Does Your Handwriting Say About You?

Analyze your handwriting!

Different Reactions to My Blog

Last night I received this anonymous comment on my Countdown to Suckiness post:

"I have to admit, I can't understand why you'd do such a thing. [She's referring to me getting the NG tube.] You're lucky enough to be so beautifully thin ... how can you give that up? At least you should give some pro-ana tips to those of us still fat and ugly."

I was floored. Speechless. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. Truthfully, I felt pretty terrible. Not for what Anonymous said…I actually feel sorry for her. I’m not upset at her…it’s more I just worried and wondered that my blog was being used for everything I was against: pro-anorexia and glorifying thinness. I know I’m too thin. But I also believe that because this is my blog, I can post a picture of me hanging with my friends or my family, and not have to feel guilty about it. I don’t want to worry people are looking at my blog for tips on how to be too thin. ...And this comment wasn’t the first of its kind. I wasn’t nor will I ever be trying to broadcast that or anything of the sort. I know that the majority of my readers know this, and applaud my efforts to recover and do what I need to gain weight. But it was still hard to read it. I felt terrible.

But then, earlier this evening, I got an email from someone who reads my blog that I’ve never met. For confidentiality purposes I won’t say her name, but here are a few snippets of the email she sent me:

" …I hope this email doesn't creep you out too much, as it is basically fan mail. You don't know me, but I've been reading your blog for about a month after my friend gave me a link…I've missed the past year of school while in treatment for an eating disorder. …I've been reading just about every pro-recovery book/blog/website/forum I can get my hands on, because I need all the motivation I can get. You blog has seriously helped me so much- from reading your "Behind Bars" trilogy (I 100% agree with your sentiments on Nia) to just your everyday thoughts, you've given me hope and inspiration that recovery really is possible.I know you've recently gotten an NG tube, and I can relate to how difficult it is. I had an NG tube for my entire inpatient stay, and it was not easy…so even though I don't have the right words to say to really help you, maybe just knowing you aren't alone might be something?I hope this email isn't too weird for you... I understand that we don't know each other and I'm just a high schooler... but I really did want to say thank you. Every day is a struggle for me right now, and being able to read about the small victories of other "ED warriors" is sometimes what gets me through the rough patches…So thank you. Keep writing and keep fighting."

So, I’d like to say to M, who wrote this, that you made my day – hell, you made my week! It was honestly what I needed after the comment I got last night…because I do want to help others, and that’s part of the reason blogging has become my new passion – because I can give support and insight to others, and I, in turn, can receive it. So, M, thank you for coming out of anonymity and making me feel better and inspiring me. It helped me to keep going with the NG tube and with blogging. You’re a rockstar. :D

And I also wanted to say to so many others – all the texts and emails and flowers and cards lately have been so helpful. It’s nice to know I’m not alone, and that there are so many who care.
I’m done being corny now. Brie. Out.

On Impolite Toddlers, Giant Bras, & Bowling Magnificence

So this afternoon Whit and I took Cade to Southtowne Mall so he could ride the carousel and we could escape the monotony of my house – it’s still too cold to go outdoors. We were just about getting ready to leave, and Whit and I were letting Cade play in a little indoor playland sorta thing. So I was sitting on the ground, playing with Wee Man, and this two year old with the most impressive mohawk/mullet thing I’ve ever seen came right up to me, sat back on his heels, and proceeded to unabashedly stare at my tube. At first I simply flashed my nervous smile and looked away, but the darn tike wouldn’t stop staring! Seriously. He was only two or three, so I guess I can’t get mad or anything, but I sure felt uncomf. Finally, I stared right back at him and made funny faces to get him to look away – I even tried to look menacing, all to no avail. After a little while, I sent a text to several of my friends and family as follows:

“This two year old kid won’t stop staring at my tube. Is it wrong to punch a toddler?”

To which I got the following replies, all which cheered me up immensely:

*From my husband: “Bryson and I both agree it is wrong but also think it is acceptable.”

*From my brother, Troy: “That kid is IN FOR IT.”

*From my sister, Amber: “When his mom isn’t looking, give him a mean face and scare him!”

*From Rachel: “No, totally do it and then run away!”

*From Mom: “Yeah, punching is okay just make sure no one sees!”

So it was pretty sweet. I love that most people I chill with have decent senses of humor, ya know?

And here is a LARGE bra I found at Walmart, and just thought it would make for a jolly Kodak moment. My mom took me grocery shopping and actually made me buy real food like meat and cheese and eggs and strawberries, as opposed to just fruit snacks and granola bars. I got bored in the Mexican food aisle and made her pose for the pic as punishment for making me endure her shopping expedition.

And lastly, here I am bowling with my ball, Cade’s Mama. She’s bright pink and amazing. I bowled a 138 yesterday, thank you very much.

Yay! A happy blog! FINALLY!

Mean Reds

Have you ever seen Breakfast At Tiffany's? I love that Audrey Hepburn's character says that she has the "mean reds" instead of the blues. Ever since I heard that, I've always used it. It just...fits, you know? So. The mean reds. I have 'em.

It's hard with this tube. I could go for paragraphs illustrating the physical woes I'm enduring, like sinus issues - no joke, I've gone through several boxes and packages of tissues - a sore throat, weight gain, etc. Not to freaking mention all the stares I get. Seriously, I'll see someone glance at me, then do a double take, then a triple, sometimes even a quadruple take, then they'll inevitably nudge whoever it is they're with, whisper in their ear, then that person will turn around and stare at me. It's getting old.

But I'm trying to hang in. I'm desperately trying to remember all the right reasons for doing this, instead of focusing on all the negative, but it sure gets tough. Meh. I think I'm going to go. Blogging isn't even helping, like it usually does. I think I need to come up with a good Behind Bars installment, that should cheer me up, no?

Hope everyone has a great day full of happy yellows. Or something.

Smorgasbord

There's going to be a smattering of topics covered today. And mostly, I just wanted to type the word 'smattering.' Smattering, smattering, smattering. I likes it!


First of all, this is my man child:

And this is my woman child:

My sisters decided to dress up Wee One to be a girl. Ah, he as a she would be beautiful, wouldn't he?! Anyway, they sent me that via cell phone, and when I opened it up, I couldn't help cracking up.

On to the next little smattering on my smorgasbord (I like that word too):

I'm feeling better today. Last night I was ready to pull out the tube, call it quits on recovery, and hide in a giant black bag until I starved to death. Seriously. But with taking ibuprofen around the clock, and popping Xanax, I'm feeling better. I just had another "feeding," and the Xanax helps greatly - I jiggle my leg about a gazillion times a minute while Boost (aka FAT) is pumping into me, but with the Xanax...it really helps relax me.

What else? Not much. I'm excited this weekend to partake of Rachel's stunning personality, and am so excited she's visiting SLC. :) Not much else to look forward to...just getting this damn thing out.

Okay, troops, I'm out. Hope you're all having a good day. :)

Tube Face

How does this grab ya?

Five bucks to the person who comes up with best tube joke (at my expense, of course).

Countdown to Suckiness

I'm getting the NG tube tomorrow. A home health service is coming to my house in the morning to put it in. At the doctor this morning, he was trying to admit me to the hospital, but is going to give me a couple weeks with the tube to see if I can gain on an outpatient basis.

I'm already so anxious - my panic is going through the roof. Suck.

I also got a medical leave from work for two weeks so that I can adjust to the tube both physically and emotionally. I feel like such a lazy lard for taking work off, and I don't know why I feel so guilty, but I do - I guess like this isn't considered enough of an "emergency" to warrant a medical leave. My work's being really cool about it, though.

Okay, well, I guess that's it. I'll keep you all updated.

Boobie Kisses Are the Best

Yesterday Dev, Whit, and I had a lovely afternoon. Whit and I first headed to Petco, where I purchased a really rich looking kitty condo for the beasts of burden. The Humane Society happened to be there, and I spent a good ten minutes dedicated to trying to convince Whitney to adopt a cat and name her Ramona. Didn’t work though, which is a bummer.

Anyway, we then went to Noodles & Co to partake in sustenance with Dev. I adored my macaroni and cheese, but was a bit miffed the organic chocolate milk tasted nothing like organic should. It tasted like regular old chocolate mixed with regular old cow. Weird. Just more money, which sucked.

We then headed over to the Garden Park Ward in Sugarhouse, which is so beautiful. The ginormous trees and garden and waterfalls and pond would make for an amazing make-out spot (we refrained). Here are a few pics:




Dev and I by the biggest F-ing tree I'd ever seen.

Whit and I with Tiny Man by aforementioned tree.

Here are all of us. We had to wait awhile until we could find someone stroll past us so they could take our picture. I can't help it. I'm such a sucker for a kodak moment.

I took off the boobie pic. I don't want to look like a skank. But STILL, boobie kisses are the best, right Whit?

[For those of you fortunate enough to miss the boobies, please know that I wasn't nude or anything - just enjoying my cleavage!]

Where's Waldo? (So to Speak)

Okay, this is the last post of the day, I swear. Actually, I'm sure it'll be the last post of the weekend, seeing as I rarely have time to post when I'm with the man-child 24/7.

So, pray tell, how long does it take you to spot what's wrong with this? And by wrong I mean absolutely ridiculous, and utterly laughable - in a desperate, pathetic sort of way. Brett and I have decided that we're going to send it into the Jay Leno Show.

[For Brett: You can now be Googled four times, my good twin!]

A Startling Discovery

HOLY MOTHER COW.


I am going to die. Like, literally. I am SO BORED. I don’t even know what to do with myself. I’m sitting here at work, and honestly, anything would be preferable to the mind-numbing numbingness nothingness I’m doing. And, it’s not like I’m being just a lazy a-hole or something, and getting paid for nothing. But I’ve finished all my work! I can’t help it that I’m uber smart and uber efficient and finished my work load long before my supervisor’s anticipated me doing so. No one has anything for me to work on, I already asked. And, I mean, how many times can I read your blogs? I’ve already read everything you’ve posted! So then I started snapping some pictures, and I made an unsettling, albeit highly ironic, discovery.

My jeans cost me $170.00 US dollars. (Don’t ask. I like expensive things, but even that is just, like, disgusting. But at the time I was highly depressed and highly volatile and I knew that some serious dough blowage would cheer me up mightily. It totally worked, by the way.) So, anyway. I even snapped a picture of the brand, Citizens for Humanity, so you would know I ain’t foolin’ around.


But the shirt I’m wearing? Yeah, it was $2.50. No, no, the decimal is not in the wrong place – don’t move it over one or even two spaces to the right! Yeah, as in, like two dollars. Like, the same amount as a bag of licorice or cheap maxi pads. Hemorrhoid cream is more expensive than this, people!

Doesn’t that seem a little weird? My wardrobe is on completely different sides of the s p e c t r u m. Granted, the shirt was originally $9.99, and was like, 75% off or something, but still.


Okay. Let’s do the math.
Damn.
I can’t, I’m not smart enough.
Okay, give me a minute; let’s see if I can figure it out: Okay, many minutes later, I’m back. And I can’t.
Suck.
So I went and called my brother, Brett out of his office, and we started trying to figure out what percent my pants cost more than my shirt, but we were having issues, so then we asked my husband, who had just walked in to collect me for my lunch break, and we thought we had the answer, but it just seemed so wrong, so then I asked F, who is a director in the finance department at work, and therefore well qualified in math, and he confirmed the number we came up with:

Drum roll, please:

My pants cost 6,800% MORE than my shirt. As in, I could’ve bought 68 of my shirts for the same price. Yes. I swear it’s true. Gross.

Libby, if you’re reading this, please confirm that this math quandary is indeed correct. As a person who is in possession of a Masters’ degree in math, you gotta let me know if we did it right. Thanks! (But I’m 97.9378% sure it is.)

And Brett, you can now Google yourself three times. You’re friggin’ famous. Slow down!

Sofamazing & This Weekend

Here’s what the majority of our tax return went to: a sofa of beauteous proportions. It gets delivered tomorrow, and I’m ever so excited. In the nearly four years of marriage Husband and I have shared, we’ve never had a couch that wasn’t a hand me down.

Our first sofa set was actually really nice. My parents gave it to us, and it was from their living room at the time. But my older brother somehow ended up stealing it from me. I dunno. I’m still scratching my head on that one. How did he end up with our sofas? And why did I not call the police?

Next came the Nasty Nightmare. We were once so desperate as to accept (gratefully, I might add) a black PLEATHER couch with dozens of tears in it that were “mended” with black duct tape, (it blended quite well, actually) but it was painful to sit on…all the tears made it quite sharp and uncomf.

We then took my other sister’s sofas that had been sitting in her garage for, like, a few months. They were dusty and ugly, but I was sick of my bony little butt getting cut from the fake pleather monstrosity. And that’s what we currently veg on. And don’t get me wrong, we’re grateful for everybody’s charity and ugly sofas, but really, it was time for something new and nice.

More pics to come, I’m sure, once the beautiful sofa arrives. I’m thinking of naming her Chutney. Yeah, I likes it!


On to other news: what's everyone doing this weekend? My Saturday morning/afternoon is pathetically wide open. Any ideas, anyone? Or better yet, anyone wanna take pity on me and ask a young mom to bring her crazy toddler to tag along with whatever it is you're doing? Lemme know.

Why the World Hates Me, But Why God Loves Me

Why the world hates me:

After wearing a new pair of contacts for only one day, I ripped the one for my right eye. And my right eye is so sightless that I act like a blind drunkard when not wearing the proper eyewear. Blind drunkard it is, then, because I can’t afford more contacts.

My doctor is out of town during, like, the only time I freaking really, really need him. It’s an emergencia. Jerk.

On Monday it was 78 degrees. Tuesday it snowed.

My cat took a giant dookie inches from her litterbox. Why?

Husband confiscated my scale before I could use it, but after Whitney did. Boo, you whore!

Agent Mulder is certifiably dying. His windshield wipers went retard on me in the middle of a raging blizzard while I was on the freeway. Yes, the freeway! I ended up putting my hazards on and crawled along at like 15 MPH, all the while cursing Pep Boys and The Weather for royally screwing me over.

I felt like crying yesterday morning when I saw that Wicked Weather had frozen and killed all the spring flowers. I also cry when people crush ant holes, or pull the legs off of insects that would otherwise terrify me. I wish I weren’t so awfully sensitive, it’s SUCH. A. BURDEN.

Why God loves me:

He gave me the most amazing set of parents and family and husband who’s like, a rockstar, and a slew of the most amazing friends ever. Any one of them would go to the ends of the earth for me, or at the very least drink a big ‘ol can of pork soda if it meant saving my life. Or whatever. Point is, I’m so grateful and blessed for all of you.

He allowed some inspired, ambitious soul to start the website http://www.someecards.com/. As you can tell, this is my new favorite website.

I’ve been given the opportunity to teach in Relief Society. I know, I know, I never thought I’d ever actually be grateful for a teaching calling, but I’m so happy to share my thoughts and feelings and spirit. It feels good to believe that I can offer something meaningful and good and right again in my life, instead of just feeling like I’m wasted space.

He’s given me the courage and the fortitude to finally pursue recovery, instead of just collapsing and waiting for it to find me. Way to give me courage! Love you, God. Props, yo.

Have a great day, all!

A Change of Heart

This week has been, well...WOW. I have no words, and I always have words. I think the best way to sum this up is with a giant no tale tells all post. Here is an email I sent to my therapist and CC'd to my mom just this evening:

I am in the depths of humility right now. I've been doing some serious thinking this week, mostly spurred by our therapy session. I've realized a few things:

I have been lulled into some serious complacency by Satan and my anorexia. Because my eating disorder patterns and behaviors have changed from what they used to be, I thought that my eating disorder was gone, and that I was fine. I truly believed (you must know I had myself thoroughly convinced) that I was doing well in recovery. I sincerely believed my body just "wanted" to be at the emaciated weight it's at, I really did. And if you don't think you have a problem, how can you fix it?

Along with the email my mom sent me imploring me to gain weight that I sent you, Brandon sent me an email this afternoon while I was napping that has had me in tears. He talked about how much he needed me to recover, to put recovery into action and not just words. He said that "...as time passes, I get a little nervous because I can see that I get more and more numb to having feelings of sympathy and empathy for you and your eating disorder, and closer to trying to forget about what is going on and hoping it will just go away. I don't want to be like that, it scares me." Brandon is tired. He's exhausted and worn out from my eating disorder, and it's taking its toll on our marriage. I've been very quiet today, very prayerful, very humble, and I've been doing a lot of thinking. I've realized that I keep waiting to get the tube or to gain weight when I'm not scared to, or when I can see that I'm too skinny, or that when my health is in dire circumstances. I allowed myself to realize tonight that I'm never going to see those things happen, (withstanding the potential health dangers) and that I just need to take action and DO IT.

I saw my bishop tonight, and my heart was so full I could barely speak. I want to be an equal and loving wife, and a mother who can look back and say that she did everything in her power to raise her son in a healthy and loving and RIGHT environment. I want to live to watch my child grow into a man, shaped by his mother's love and steadfastness in what is right and true. And this isn't true; not what I'm doing. I'm living a broken, hollow, pathetic version of a life, and it's time I try something else.

So, I'll get the tube. And I'll even go to work with it. My biggest concern was that I didn't want my coworkers to look at it, and think, "Oh wow! Brie has an eating disorder! How scandalous!" But upon telling my friend Alana this, she pointed out something to me that was so obvious, I wonder how I had ever missed it. She said, "Brie, everybody at your work already looks at you and knows you have an eating disorder because you're anorexic and look extrememly thin. Duh! At least if you have the tube, they can see that you're trying to get better." And that made sense. I allowed it to ring true. So I'll go to work with an NG tube if need be. I'll swallow my pride.

I'll gain weight. I've been at this extremely low weight for soooooo long, I'm not under any illusions that it'll be easy. But if I want to save my life and my marriage, I've got to, I think. As long as I can count on [dietician] to deal with the weight thing, and you to get me through the yucky emotions of inadequacey and the deeply ingrained feelings of how bad I am, (why can't I ever let go of the past?) and that I don't deserve food, then I think I'll be okay. If I can accept that I'm not a bad person, then I can maybe learn that I do deserve life and happiness and food and health (and vitamins and mammograms :).

Okay, I'm sorry this is long. I wanted to get this epiphany out before I forgot it, or before I changed my mind.

Brie

So there it is. Tomorrow I am going to make an appointment to see a gastroenterologist to see if he/she will put a G-tube surgically in my stomach, (my doctor who is a brother says this is a very feasible, very doable option) but if that can't/won't happen for any reason, I'll still get the NG tube. I've got to do it. Soon. Before I back out. I'm scared, but who really gives a shit? I apologize for the shady language but come on, Me! It's time to move on, scared shitless or not.

To Some, I Would Say...

To Marissa:


To Kyla:

To Rachel:

To Amber:
To Brett:

To Brooke:

To Emily and Jana:

To Mom:

To Heather:

To Brandon:

To Alana:
To Tracy:

To Whit:
To Dev and Katherine:

And finally, to all you dear readers, I would say:
I hope it's okay if I poked fun at some of you a bit. ;) I could sure use a laugh today, and this helped, for realsies. There were so many more I wanted to do for more of my readers, but geez. I've got other things to do!

Un-dwell On the Negative

Okay, so, understandably, the last couple days have been a bit like this:

But I decided why dwell on the yucky negative? Who wants to think about poop when they can think about…well…something that smells better? You get where I’m going with this?

So, in my decision to un-dwell on the negative, I decided to post about my fun excursion last night. Brandon and I went to the Jazz game with some members of his familia. It was loads ‘o fun to go to the last home game of the season, and even more fun when the Jazz massacred the Rockets. I only got in trouble twice (okay, three times) by Brandon when I proclaimed I loved Kirilenko so much I wanted to take off my shirt. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except I actually started to try. I also screamed at the ref and called him a REJECT for a lame call, but upon finding out the call had actually been in our favor, I happily sing-songed, “Just kidddding! Whhoooo-oooo! Go REF!”

I decided I wanted to be a hardcore fan, even if just for a night. So I started to clap and cheer frantically, and I somehow did this really awkward cheer/clap thing that resulted in the bangage of my elbow on a really sharp corner of my chair. After a few swears, (they were absolutely merited) I calmed down, but it reallllly hurts. It’s a bit swollen today, and I’ll admit that I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t break it. If you recall from a previous post, breaking a bone is something I’d like to accomplish in this lifetime. But sadly, my elbow is intact, just annoyingly sore. Oh well. Maybe next time?

Here’s a couple of pics from the night. Brandon’s thoroughly enjoying this kiss, for it’s the most action he got all night. The pic quality is a bit sketchy; it was dark and with my cell phone.

And here, I snapped a pic of the court. We had really, really good seats.

She Said, I Said, I Thought

She said: You know what to do, you just don’t do it.
I said: I know.
She said: I don’t mean to pick on you, but…
I said: No, I know. I get it, it’s fine.
She said: You’re always looking for loopholes. Why?
I said nothing.
She said: Why is most of your energy going toward not getting better, and a small percentage going toward telling everyone you’re going to get better, but never following through?
I said nothing, but started to cry, which I abhorred, for I felt weak.
She said: Don’t you want to have integrity? Don’t you want to be healthy and happy and have an equal relationship with your husband? Aren’t you tired of being a child?
I said: Yes, yes, yes, I am.
She said: Then do something about it. I realize these feelings of inadequacy are deeply ingrained in you, but it’s time to change.
I said nothing. But I felt small.

I’ve said nothing, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.

I’ve thought: I need to get better. I need to gain weight. It’s time to take this seriously.
I’ve thought: Maybe I should check into a hospital for a week or two - max - and get a jumpstart on weight gain.
I’ve thought: I want to prove everybody wrong. Everybody who shook their heads sadly and told me I couldn’t do it. Everybody who said I was a lifer, and couldn’t change.
I’ve thought: I want to be around for my baby. I want to watch the child grow into a man, shaped by his mother’s love and steadfastness in what is right and true. And this isn’t true. Not what I’m doing. This is selfish and shallow and needless.
I’ve thought: It’s time to change. For good this time.

Zoo Adventure

Yesterday, the temperature actually hit, like, nearly 70 degrees – it’s the first real taste of spring weather we’ve had in SLC, and I absolutely took advantage of the warmth.

Whit, Cade, and I decided to visit Utah’s Hogle Zoo, as Cade is absolutely in love with “annimoes.” We took lots of pics, and here are some of the highlights:

Here we are with the "Ghost of the Bayou," who is this genetic freak mutant gator that's not albino technically, just missing pigment in his skin cells. He seemed really depressed though, and that was kind of a bummer.

Here's Whit and Wee Man with the cute little penguins in the background. All three of us were absolutely fascinated with them, and probably stayed and watched them for a good twenty minutes. There were zookeepers trying to catch a little baby penguin in the water who kept eluding their traps for capture - it was quite a fun sight! Aside from the fact Cade kept calling them ducks, it was so fun! I actually thought penguins were like giant. Who knew they were so small?

Here we are with some squashed-faced monkeys (that's actually their scientific name, I swear) who wouldn't really pose for the camera. Cade loved the monkeys - but he couldn't get it in his head that they weren't some sort of warped cat. The other zoo patrons got a kick out of Cade calling everything he saw either cats or horsies! We're working on his animal vocabulary. ;)

The mountain lions were PISSSSSED yesterday. They were really agitated with this jerk and his son who were totally trying to get them angry. He and his fellow mountain lion comrade were literally jumping at the fence, trying to attack them. It was really cool, actually. I thought this was a terrific shot of Cade and Whit with the mountain lion very close behind them.

Okay, I love this shot! We totally match, though I swear we didn't plan it! We were in the Asian Rainforest exhibit thingy, and these ridiculous hats were for sale. We of course didn't purchase them; we only used them for a kodak moment! Don't we look like we could be sisters? (Or lesbian lovers, ha ha.)

Before we left, we let Cade play in the park there. Please ignore the fact that Whit's wearing socks with her clearly no-sock-wearing shoes! (Her feet were cold, poor thing!) I was supposed to crop it out, but well...sorry Whit! ;)

So the day was grand, as you can tell. We spent the evening at my sister Brooke's house playing Loaded Questions, which is one of the greatest board games ever invented. It got funny and dirty, and you know me - those two things are my specialty! ;)

The only down-side to the day was my momentary sickness in the evening. I was driving Whit to her car, and totally thought I was going to ralph. But after putting my head between my legs and spitting up a storm, the moment passed. Weird, huh? I mean, I have a stomach of steel, and it takes a loooot for this girl to toss her cookies. ...I may have just been nervous for the Relief Society lesson I had to give today, but if I do say so myself, it went smokin'!

Okay, that's all for today. Hope you all had a lovely evening. I'm going to go catch up on all of your blogs now. :)

Ode to Brett

So my twin, Brett, keeps asking me on a daily basis if I have written a blog dedicated to him yet. And everyday, quite simply, the answer is NO. And then I usually say, “I’ll write a blog about you when you actually start reading my blog.” Yeah, jerk! But I’ve decided to be the bigger man (Or woman. Gross. Or girl.) and tell you all the wonderful things about this hermano ‘o mine. Maybe then he’ll start reading the adventures of Brie Cheese, because we all know how amazing they are!

So, a bit about Brett:

-He’s five minutes younger than me, a fact that irks him to no end, and a fact that I gleefully remind him of at every available opportunity. This is a pic of us our senior year of high school. Do I look older now? I don't really think so...

-He served a mission in Manaus, Brazil, (aka Amazon Jungle madness) and is now crazy about the country. He also delights in speaking Portuguese to me, as if I actually understand what he’s saying.

-Twin is (if you can believe it) much more of an OCD freak than I am. Everything has to be perfectly set up on his desk just the way he likes it, and he hates messes and chaos. I deviate from the norm anorexic, here, because mess doesn’t really seem to bother me at all. He once almost broke my arm because I got a few crumbs on his bed and swept them onto the carpet. When I refused to get the vacuum, he got an evil, unstoppable, crazed look in his eye and nearly broke me. I just laughed and laughed. –And this was in high school! No doubt you are all thinking it was like when he was six or something. Nope. He was a big boy.

-Brett’s graduating in May with a degree in International Studies with a minor in Business. He’s moving to St George (three hours from SLC) because he got a promotion at where we both work, Molina Healthcare. I’m sad Twin is moving, but I’m resigned to being happy for him, since I know it’s the twin sisterly thing to do. Here's a pic of him last year on our birthday. We went to Storm Mountain and had a picnic.

-Brett saved my life when I was a wee one. I was like five, and our crazy psycho dog, Turbo, was inadvertently killing me. See, he was on a giant chain that was seriously about thirty feet long, because the neighbors complained if we didn’t leash him because he’d get out of the yard and impregnate their very expensive and temperamental Dalmatians. So Brett and I were playing outside, and Turbo was so excited to be playing with us, he started running circles around me. Well, soon the chain started to slowly wrap around my body, and eventually it had pinned down my arms and was up at my neck! I couldn’t breathe and was starting to turn purple, and Brett eventually understood I was like dying and ran to get my mama. She unchained me, thank heaven. And I lived.

-Brett is very conscientious of what I am eating. It began in high school, when my mom enlisted him to do spy work at lunch, while I was deep in the throes of my anorexia. He can’t seem to shake this. He’ll see me at work, and for lunch, I may bring something like a granola bar, fruit snacks, cheese and crackers, and a Diet Coke, and he gets so upset because they aren’t “real food,” and how am I supposed to gain weight on snack foods? I’ll then stand there for the requisite lecture before being excused to go back to my desk, properly sorrowful for my erroneous ways. But it’s the appropriate thing to do, I suppose – have a brother look after his sister, I mean.

-Brett’s married to a fabulous chica, Angela. I’m in awe of the fact that I seemed to have married him, and he married me. And by that, I mean we each married spouses that are frighteningly like our respective twin. Weird. Awh. Aren't they adorable together?

I sure do love you, Betty!