Quick, Dad, run run run quick quick QUICK! Mom's coming and she's got smelly tube gas!

Tubage Maneuvering & Some Other Lame Stuff

I am loving the tube-free life, it's totally TUBULAR, (get it?) withstanding the nighttime hours, while it's snaked in my innards pumping me full of life-renewing supplement, of course. I can now actually eat food without taking miniscule bites that tease my appetite and make me choke on my tube. I just gobbled a tuna sandwich with foracious abundance, and let me tell you, it felt so good. Placing the tube at night is a...well, is a little tricky. Check out Dev's amazing blog post on the subject (she was at my house witnessing the whole horriffic experience last night). Particularly check out the comment Brandon left as well, because it's hilarious and reminds me all over again why I have a really neat husband.

But, you know, a few uncomf feelings regarding choking, snot, and near brain-pokage is absolutely worth it if people no longer stare at my face and wonder if cancer is killing me or something. Also, I developed an allergy to the tape that held it in place, and consequently developed a self-esteem ruining rash that looked suspiciously like acne all over my left cheek, and I hated it and it itched and made me feel ugly and gross. So now I can still try to recover or whatever, but also do it in the private of my own home, you know? And do it sans-rash, too.

I feel all weird and nervous inside regarding my last post. My first impulse was to delete it just as I posted it, but I tried to be strong and vulnerable (is that an oxymoron?) and show you all a little of the not-so-cool side of Brie Bee. Thanks for not being jerks about it. I'm debating posting some Serious Brie Moments every once in awhile, so we'll see. How's this for serious and sad and un-funny: I feel fat. I am fat. I am no longer special. If I can't be good at anorexia, what can I be good at? I don't want to be insignificant, mediocre. And now I'm just one of the masses. And now it's time to move on.

I'm going out of town this weekend, but I may still try to get an entry or two in. I'm going to get some hella needed R&R at an elite resort and just sun sun sun all weekend. I'll miss my man and my man-child, but really, not very much. ;) It's only for a weekend, after all. The weather in SLC is hideously wretched and moody. One day it's sunny, the next it's windy and back down in the 60's. And really, its bi-polar tendencies are kind of pissing me off.

Something Serious

I wrote this vignette several months ago, and I think only mi amiga over at Spilled Coffee (who is an editing god) and my mom have read this. A couple posts back, I know that many were gently reminding me that it's okay to not hide behind humor all the time, and trust me, this piece is completely void of anything that will make you chuckle. This is autobiographical, but it was about six years ago - thankfully this is nothing I've done recently. Mom, if you read this, I'm sorry to make you cry over this piece (again). Here it is:


Untitled

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. Where am I? I wonder, but the desire to know is not strong enough to make me move. I breathe in the musty smell of carpet, millimeters from my nose. I feel the chilly middle-of-the-night air blanketing my frail body. I shiver.

I open an eye. A candle, the flame stuttering in the slow measure of my breath, inches from my face.

Oh yes. I remember now. I roll over, look at the clock. 4:27. My body yearns for my bed, rising goliath in the dark above me. But my mind knows that it is a luxury it cannot afford. My spindly, shaking fingers reach for the weak candle, and I inspect my body. Protruding hip bones, ribs. Wasted thighs, taut stomach. Fat. Everywhere. Unacceptable.

I lie on my back and begin. One, two, three, four… Sit up, touch my knees, and back down. Sit up, touch my knees, and back down. You are fat, you are fat, you are fat… I begin to chant my mantra, the whisper nearly as imperceptible as my withered body.

I grit my teeth. I will not fall asleep this time. You are weak, you pig. You deserve nothing. I will exercise all night. I will exercise off my fat, and my fears, and my inadequacy. You are fat, you are fat, you are fat…
You are unacceptable.

The SUCKY Price of Gas, Bowling On Memorial Day, & Tube Stuff

I HATE the Arabs or the Chinese or whoever it is that I just (more or less) purchased my gas from. The price of gas is getting really ri-gosh-dang-diculous. Can we just talk about this for a minute? I mean, I went to fill up Agent Mulder’s 14 gallon tank this morning, and the total came to $57.84. I thought someone was ripping me off. I’m used to paying a lot for fuel, (hell, we all are) but I’m so over this. I know this is debatable, but I reallllllllly wish us United Statians could start digging for our own oil. We can build atomic bombs, we have a kick-ass armed forces, we are the brain children of incredibly lame shows like The Bachelor and The Girls Next Door, our unemployment is fairly low, we enforce laws and are otherwise not barbaric, so why must I go to the gas station and leave sans 60 bucks? (I bought a soda and some Famous Amos Cookies, too. Kinda regretting my lunch now. Can I even afford it?!) So, you know. I’m just saying. This blows.

Moving on. I hope everyone had a nice Memorial Day, yes? I didn’t go to a single graveyard, but I did, however; go bowling and beat my old high score. I bowled a 153. Shut up, jerks. That’s good. That was like, three strikes and four spares. I’m pretty sure my bowling magnificence is due to
a) my fluorescent pink pimped out ball, Cade’s Mama
b) my Boost fortified limbs with strength anew
c) a whole lotta skill

So I was happy. What better way to support our veterans than with a high score of bowling? I’m not sure.

I’m also optimistic, because I think I’ve worked out a way to not rip out my NG tube and strip off all my clothes and run around my neighborhood going crazy and screaming curses, having gone mad from being tubaged for so long, and also I’ve figured out a way to not get the PEG tube, either. Who wants icky surgery? I’m going to run it by the old treatment team today. But even if they say no, I’ll still do it anyway, because it’s brilliant. Take out the tube every morning, and place it myself every night to get boosted up. That way no one will have to see this nasty tube anymore except husband and me in the privacy of mi casa. Perfect, yes? Why didn't we think of this earlier? (Thanks, Courtney, for the tips...:)

Lots 'O Pics

At my nieces' play last night -

Me: Ooh! Let's take a picture. Snap it, look at it. Honey, don't. You look like you have Down Syndrome. Let's take another one, and just smile normal, okay?

Snap the picture. Look at it. Me: Honey! You look worse! Brandon giggles. Him: Well, I wanted you to know what Down Syndrome really looks like. Me: Okay, okay, it's funny. But smile for real now, okay? Okay, let's take another one...

Take picture, look at it. Me: Hon - what is wrong with you?! Nope, nope, this isn't going to work. Let's take a breather and try it again later, okay?

A little while later...

This is the best we could come up with.

Cade playing on his "horsie" at Dino Towne.

Mid-lip smack.

Cade and Whit sleeping in Mama's bed...

I adore this pic - Cade's napping. Notice his little hand clutching the Jeep's wheel. Please do not notice, however; the lack of sheet and pillowcase. Geez. I was washing it, okay?

Cade swingin' at Whit's apartment.

My mom and I were at Kohl's, and we forgot his stroller. We put him in one of those laundry bag-esqe things they supply for the clothes you want to buy, and he was so not a fan. I think he felt hunted, or maybe like he was on display at the zoo. He wouldn't even let me take the second pic. So cute, in a really sad sort of way...

Tube Yoink

I’m not a very happy camper. It all started last night around 11:00 or so. I was totally asleep on the couch, (probably pretty comatose, I was sooooooo tired) and Bran was next to me watching Season 3 of Lost. My tubage was hooked up to the supplement, and it was dripping away, as always. Suddenly I shot up, legs akimbo, arms flailing, and started coughing the Dying’s Cough. I was hacking and spluttering, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t get air. Well, finally the fit passed, and I zonked back into my Zzzzz’s. Well, it couldn’t have been much longer after that, when a coughing fit seized me again. I’d never coughed like this, I couldn’t figure out what was happening. The burping and retching and choking...the Boost in my throat…it was hard to catch a breath…and then it hit me: SHAZAM! The tube had migrated from my stomach to my lungs. So all that lovely supplement was being leaked in some vital organ that it was so unwelcome in. Was I absorbing these calories? Where did they go once I coughed them up? Back to mi estamogo? I know not. Once we figured this out, though, Bran immediately turned it off, and I felt better.

I twisted and pulled and pushed the tube around, and I hoped it was back in my stomach. Well, today’s been weird. It’s been hurting me even more than usual, making me cough and sneeze and talk funny and be short of breath. I thought, suck. It’s probably in or near my lung(s) again. So on my break I took a grocery bag with me into a stall, tugged a little, and it sort of just slithered out on its own into the bag. And I feel amazing!

But it didn’t take long for the amazingness to wear off, and guilt replaced it. What would M and H (my treatment team) think and say about this? I was already concocting all sorts of reasons why I didn’t need the tube anymore, and I let myself build up an irrational hope that they wouldn’t replace it. So I paged H, and she called me back, and the home health nurses are coming tonight to put it back in. She called me at work, and I fled to the bathroom to cry.

I’m just so sick of this.
The world HATES me.

A Disappointed Dreamer Has a Weird Convo and Goes to Therapy

A conversation Husband and I shared last night (I have no idea where it came from or who spurred it):

Don't worry, Breezy, a lion would never eat Hairy (the fluffy monstrosity).

Yes it would! Why wouldn't it eat a cat – albeit a beautiful and perfect one?

Well, would I eat a midget?

?

It's the same thing!

I love my hubby. Where does he think up shiz like this?

And moving on...

My Archuleta Baby lost. I couldn't believe it. I was stunned, heartbroken. I murmured to myself (and in some weird way, I'm sure he heard) that I would more than make it up to him with a makeout sesh.
Really, I'd like to help in any way I can.
My sister called me crying. CRYING. And, she's like, seven years older than me. Laurie and I had a Pizza/American Idol/Baby Men Children party last night, and we were both utterly speechless. I'm trying to repress this memory. It just hurts too much.

I had a dream last night. Oh -- don't worry. If you're concerned I'm going to launch into a seven paragraph diatribe outlining every boring detail of my dream, do not fear; I'd never do that to you, dear readers! I've always found it fascinating (and unfortunate) that people can regale you with tales of their dreams that are utterly worthless and boring unless you were the dreamer itself. I've had to endure through many yawn sessions while I pretended to ooh and aah over a friend or family member re-living dreams like a shark swimming through pavement trying to attack innocent passerby, clown midgets riding unicycles, (which really though, is pretty damn cool) and a deer wearing an orange construction helmet directing traffic. These would be fascinating if I were tripping on coke and/or acid at the time, but if not...LAAAAAME.
Wow. That was a big digression there (and arguably more boring than if I had told you a dream in detail, anyway).

So my point: I'm only going to say about my dream last night that it was very High School Musical-esque, and my twin brother and I were the stars. Only I couldn't sing, and everyone was making fun of me. Brett was also wearing a giant jacket that said Don Juan Boozer on the back, and I couldn't figure out why. And then I decked my English teacher. Or something. And during my dream, I said to myself, Wow. I really need to blog about this day, it's incredible! No one will be able to believe it! You know you're much too addicted to blogging when you even dream that you need to write in your crazy blog about shiz most others don't care about. (Although, to be fair, if I really did deck my English teacher - or anyone, for that matter -- it would be utterly blog-worthy, and I'd do it in a flat heartbeat.)

I have therapy this afternoon. I have a good feeling, folks, that I’m going to have a breakthrough. I’m pretty sure that I’m going to be cured just as soon as our one hour sesh is over. CURED. Stamp it in my file. Whammo. YESSSSS.

Cade Shenanigans (Or In Other Words, Why I Am a Bad Mother)

Cade’s nearly two now, and he’s really just so much fun to play with. He’s an incredible talker for his age, and I have endless conversations with him regarding ducks taking baths, fun bikes, big trucks, waffles please, eye hurts, poop in dipes, (diaper) fat cats, etc. The kid, really, is a great mimicker. Fantastic, actually. His capacity to ape anyone is borderline freaky. And once I realized this, I had to begin to be much more careful with the things I say or do so that he doesn’t repeat them in a very important public forum or something and embarrass me needlessly (this has happened on more than one occasion; the one that stands out most being when he started yelling JESUS!!! in church. It sounded like he was cursing, not saying it with reverence).

But, well, sometimes I forget. It’s hard to be a perfect mom all the time. Yesterday I said F-er. Really. Just effer. Not the real F word, because I never say that anyway (except when a rec therapist was forcing me to commit suicide repel off a 200 foot cliff in Southern Utah, but really, that was absolutely justified and a different blog for another day). So I muttered that under my breath, having just been cut off by some reject on the freeway. Then I heard in the backseat Cade gleefully shout, “EFF-UH!!! Eff-uh. Eff-UH.” So I quickly had to think of someone I could blame this on when my husband heard him and wanted an explanation for the Wee One’s potty mouth. I blame it on the red-head at the park. Totally.

And then, when I was watching American Idol, I got so caught up in David Archuleta’s hot bod singing, I was so overcome, I couldn’t help myself – I jumped up, wrapped my arms as best I could around the TV set, and humped it a little. We’re talking about a few harmless pelvic thrusts, people. But then Cade, quite predictably, started humping the TV too. And really, I’m not gonna lie, it was funny. Stuff like that has to be, it’s like a universal law or something. But really, it’s much funnier when it’s the neighbor’s kid or your sister’s tike because then you can laugh but also think, I’m so glad my kid is more well-mannered than that. You know? I mean, I have to take responsibility for his dirty shenanigans.

So I’ve learned the hard way: no more humping the TV.
Suck.

Ed Transference, Hives, and Weight Gain

I think I’m transferring my eating disorder onto mi gata, Hairy. Well, sort of. See, she’s not picking up on my eating habits or whatnot; I’m sort of forcing them on her. Wait. I know this isn’t making sense, and I promise I’m not an evil cat mama! Let me elaborate:

See, Hairy is like, well, the fluffiest monstrosity I’ve ever had to deal with. I actually feel bad for her, because she has so much fur everywhere, half the time she can’t even see. And it’s getting hot. And she’s starting to shed. She leaves fur clumps everywhere, a pathetic little path that I can track right to her various snuggle spots in my house. So, I decided to do something about it. I took her outside with a comb and a pair of shears and got to work. I just started cutting all of that icky icky fur away. And it felt soooooooooo good. For me. And I hope for her. The poor thing can at least groom herself now without gagging on her profusion of furaliciousness. And the more fur I kept cutting, the thinner I felt. It was so nice to feel empty and skinny again – so satisfying! So then I got the comb and kept brushing and brushing and brushing and got so much fur out, and I couldn’t stop, it was making me feel better. How weird is this? But Hairy loves it, I swear. Last night she was preening around, all soft and sleek and thinner looking, now that I’ve collected nearly a grocery bag full of fur. So then I called Brandon to tell him how beautiful she looks, and it went something like this:

I just cut off some more of Hairy’s fur and brushed her tons, and she looks so pretty, and I saved all the fur so that you can see how much I got.

Oh. Geez. Please. Please, don’t. I don’t want to see this fur. I don’t care. Just throw it away.

No. I want to show it to you, it’s so amazing! You’ll love it as much as me, I promise.

Okay, you can show it to me, but just so you know, I’m probably going to make fun of you a little bit so that you don’t ever save her fur again and want to show it to me.

Okay, that’s cool. But I think I’ll take my chances.

My mom advised I stop. She said she didn’t want me to take all of Hairy’s self-esteem and dignity away, and I agree. But I still comb her several times a day to get all that fur off. And I won’t stop. You can’t make me.

So, I’m pretty sure that since I can’t make myself skinny anymore, I’m trying to make Hairy thin, only instead of limiting her food, I’m limiting her fur. But this is okay. Right?

What else? Oh, yesterday in therapy, my T gave me stress hives. Yup, it’s true. My leg started to itch, and I looked down, and there were those evil itchy red bumps everywhere. And, a few hours later, they were all over my arms and legs and elbows and neck et al. And I totally blame her. I’m fully aware that I may have just told you the nerdiest and/or most pathetic thing ever, (I mean, who gets stress hives?) but I couldn’t help it. Yesterday was such a good sesh, but also very difficult. So my body broke out to deal with the pain or humiliation or anxiety or whatever. It’s looking better, though. Some of the rash still refuses to vacate the premises, but most of it is gone.

Weight gain is definitely coming along. My mom told me yesterday that I looked beautiful, which I intuitively knew meant bigger. And I was right. My face doesn’t look so gaunt or whatever. Also, my coworker just told me that my stomach looks bigger. I kind of wanted to call her a dirty name, but refrained. I know it’s good, I know that weight gain equals life, but it’s still not easy to get those comments.
And now I want to go change my damn shirt.
SLUT. Her, not you.

Another Invasive Tube Inquiry

Okay, wow. So, for those of you that read my previous post, you know that I’ve been getting some pretty up-front questions about my tubage – all sensitivity flies out the window, and is replaced with a whole lot 'o audacity. But today, folks, well it just takes. the. cake. Seriously. You need to hear this. So keep reading!

Today was the first Sunday since I’ve been tubaged that I’ve dared venture to church. I knew that people would be nothing but kind and compassionate, but they’d also be very inquisitive, and seeing as I’m more or less a pretty intensely private person, (at least where the prying eyes and ears of neighbors are concerned) I didn’t want to go to church because I knew it would raise a lot of questions that I’d rather avoid. But, well, after nearly a month, I thought it was time to go. I didn’t dare go to the two classes, but I did tackle Sacrament Meeting. As I was walking into church, feeling monstrous in my new black dress that’s a size or two too big to compensate for the weight gain that’s on a pilgrimage toward my toosh, I noticed several pair of eyes on me as we sat down, but I tried to ignore them as I fervently wished I had brought a Xanax.
But I survived.
And as soon as the meeting was over, before we could even leave our pew, an acquaintance sidled up to me and exchanged pleasantries with Brandon and me.

Mr. B and I had already come to the conclusion several months ago that we had some mutual ancestors. He found it fascinating, I did not.

So after we swapped the how are you I’m fines, he asked if he could stop by our place today and bring an “interesting book” he had come across about our mutual ancestor (who’s somewhat well-known in our church). I said “Sure…?” And we more or less forgot about it. But about thirty minutes after we got home, while Cade was playing in the backyard and I was fixing sandwiches and Bran was doing the dishes, Mr. B came over with the book.

It took all of about two minutes for me to bore of my oohs and aahs over the book that I had zero interest in to begin with. But, well, he kept making small talk. And I’m thinking, ask me about my tube already. Isn’t this why you’re stalling? Just ask! Let’s get this over with! And of course, he finally did. And then he told me he was a therapist. And you know what went through my head? Oh shit. Yes. A curse word. On a Sunday no less!

So this was why he was here! He was concerned for me. He wanted to therapize me.
And me no likey.
So at this point, I can’t lie and give him the whole I have Chrone’s Disease or a malabsorptive disorder or cancer or whatever I usually say. Because he already knew I had anorexia. In fact, I’m sure he’d known for a long time. So I concede that yes, I do have an eating disorder, but that I’m fine! And great! And thanks for asking! He then tells me he works at a trauma center for people who have mostly been raped or abused, which led to an uncomfortable silence, because what am I supposed to say? Wow, that’s great stuff like that happens to people, cuz I guess it keeps you in business? That wouldn’t have gone over well.

So he just talked and talked, he stayed for probably nearly an hour. Asking what kind of therapy I had done and gone through, he said he had a few patients who struggled with ED’s, so this was helpful for him. But helpful for me? Eh. And then he asks me about my past, yada yada yada, and poor me kept looking at Bran to defend my honor or whatever, but he dutifully continued to stare at the kitchen table and pick dead skin off his hands.

So yeah. Suuuuuuuper interesting afternoon.

He’s even going to make me an imagery CD or something to listen to. Thanks. I think?

So, in conclusion my people: I’m not upset at him, because really, he was just concerned and wanted to help me. But I am a bit nervous that he’ll spread some pretty scintillating gossip around the ‘hood, but then I think, isn’t there some sort of patient/doctor confidentiality? I mean, obviously I’m not his patient, but he still needs to live by that ethical code, right, when it comes to stuff like this?

So yeah. Weird. But at least I got a free therapy sesh today. Ha.

A Bum Pizza, and a Lie

Last night Brandon woke me up from my requisite nap and asked what I wanted for dinner. I responded with a grunt, which he intuitively understood to mean pizza. So he goes off to Little Caesar’s, while I snuggle deeper into the covers, with no intention of ever waking up. But well, I eventually do, because I was hungry, and the smell of that ooey gooey cheese and grease was deeeeeee-lish. So I opened up the box, and, and – what the hell?! Okay. So you know how pizzas are usually a uniform, more or less perfect circle that is then cut into pie-like, triangular (this is starting to sound like I’m a Geometry teacher, and it’s frightening me) pieces? Well, it all looked uniform, but there was this one random slice that you could tell had been stuffed in there. It was like the last piece of a puzzle that didn’t fit, but you keep trying desperately to make it work. And my first thought was, who tried to cram that imposter slice in there? And my second thought was, why? So then I lost my appetite. Even Cade would have nothing to do with the bum pizza. He threw his slice on the floor, leaving a nice saucy stain on the carpet that looks like blood. Pizza last night: bad decision.

So, I’m at work today, and there’s a doctor that works here. He still practices part-time, and then does administrative stuff on the side. So, we’ve never said even like one word to each other. He has really great posture and walks with his palms forward, so I always shy away. Something just isn’t right about it, you know? But today, we pass in the hall and I smile, he nods, blah blah blah. But then he turned around, asked me if he could ask me a question, and this is how the conversation proceeded:

“Hi. I’m Dr G. You don’t have to answer this, but I was wondering why you have a feeding tube.”

“Oh, yeah. Umm…I just have a hard time gaining weight, so my doctors thought this was a good idea to help jumpstart the process.”

“Oh, okay. I have an 18 year-old patient coming in this afternoon who has anorexia.” He gives me a conspiratorial grin. “And frankly, I’m not sure what to do with her. I think I need to give her a feeding tube.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Wow. Anorexia. I know someone who struggles with that, and it’s so sad. Such a devastating disease.”

“Yeah, it’s just like the most frustrating thing ever to deal with. She’s so sick, but it’s all within her power to get better. She just has to choose it. It’s very difficult from a doctor’s perspective.”

“Oh yeah. I can imagine that would be tough to deal with. My doctors are glad that I’m doing this willingly. Wow! Anorexia, huh? Well, I guess things could be worse for me, huh?” I give a little laugh.

“Yes, they definitely could be. Just don’t ever go thinking you’re fat, okay? Because you’re very thin. I bet people mistake you for having anorexia all the time. Do they?”

“Um.”

“Anyway, thanks for chatting with me, I’m just trying to solve this little puzzle I’ve got.”

“No problem. Good luck!”

I am such a good liar.

Hungry?

I look hungry in this picture, don't I? Like, evilly hungry. In fact, I have a feeling this is the last thing Sour Cream & Onion Baked Lays or Red Vines see before they are shoved in my mouth. My greedy little grin. Muah ha ha!

Word of the Day

Denial: a defense mechanism postulated by Sigmund Freud, in which a person is faced with a fact that is too uncomfortable to accept and rejects it instead, insisting that it is not true despite what may be overwhelming evidence.

I am fully aware that there has never been any other word for any other day, but that is inconsequential. This. is. the. word. of. the. day. Or maybe even the word of my life. Denial. I am in it. Suck. At least, according to my therapist and the all trusty Wikipedia. I didn't realize it was possible to be in denial while a tube is in your nose. It seems...a bit...incongruous, doesn't it? But yeah. In case you were wondering, it's possible. Please learn this from me, and don't test it out yourself. :/

The Accidental Whistler

I have never been able to figure out how to whistle. This seemingly elementary ability eludes me (as do many, many other skills). However, I now whistle. Er, kind of. I don’t whistle, but my nose does. Well, the nostril with a tube shoved in there does. And it’s embarrassing. And I can’t help it. Between my necessity for no less than 64 tissues a day due to serious sinus irrigation issues, and the way the air caresses the tube when I exhale, well, it produces quite an extraordinary whistle. Last night when I got in the elevator as I was leaving work, someone slipped in just before the doors shut – never mind I was frantically pushing the ‘Door Close’ button. We politely smiled then stared at our respective walls.
But then: we hear it. A whistle.
She looks at me.
I look behind me, like, maybe it’s someone back there we didn’t notice…?
I smile ruefully and shrug my shoulders at her, then book it as fast as I can to my car, merrily (albeit begrudgingly)whistling the entire way. And it also woke me up last night. My own whistling. This is weird. Honestly, why is my life so weird? Who whistles out of their nose? I should be one of those freaks that goes on the David Letterman Show.

Oh, and speaking of last night. Sort of. It sucked. It was one of those I'm so tired I can't even sleep nights. It probably had something to do with the fact Cade was sleeping with us. This is pretty rare; every once in awhile he'll get an hour or so, but he got, like five hours of Ma and Pops sleep time. And this 26 pounder can throw around his weight, lemme tell you. And it hurts. I woke up more times than I can count because he was kicking me or (literally) rolling on top and over me. I even once woke up, and his head was nuzzled against my breasticles and his feet were horizontal and all over Bran's face. Since Bran was sleeping and I wasn't, I was secretly hoping he'd kick him in the jaw or something, but no dice. So I just sat awake and stared at the Liquid Evil drip drip drip into me.

I just finished an interesting book. It was The Host by Stephenie Meyer – you know, that one author that wrote that insanely popular vampire series that tweens and even adult women (coughmysisterscough) are obsessed with? And well, let’s just say I was pleasantly surprised. I have and will always maintain that she can’t write very well. In fact, I’m convinced a door knob could supply a more eloquent piece. However, and this is a big however; the lady is a rockstar at character development. She makes you so engrossed in the characters, you don’t care that the book almost seems to have been written by your six year old step-cousin that was born with some rare genetic condition involving the use of, like, only half his brain or something. But. Seriously. Go read it. You’ll be ashamed that you couldn’t put it down. I was!

Hablas HTML?

I’ve been learning some fun codes to make my blog more interesting. You should, too, so that I don’t get so mind-numbingly bored while reading yours. :)

Learn to speak HTML

Okay. I better get back to whistling working now.

Ooh! PS: The card above had nothing to do with the post, but had me roaring nonetheless.

My BIG Buff and Other Stuff

Oh geez. I’ve had a weird couple of days. Allow me to elaborate, as you all breathlessly await:

I was privy to a spectacular! moment involving my 2 ½ year old nephew, McDonald’s, a urinal, and poop. Yep. The little tike crawled into the urinal, (mind you this ISN’T a toilet) sat in all the pee and germies, then proceeded to take a number twosie in it. My sister, his OCD freak mama who couldn’t take him into the bathroom because of her own germaphobic issues, had to go in there and clean up the mess (which, really, involved only pulling his pants up, stifling a scream, and running out the door). She came out, hyperventilating/sobbing, chanting, “I have to go to the hospital, I have to go the hospital, hospital, hospital…” She really thought she caught some suuuuuper contagious disease in there, like maybe Diabetes. After my sisters and I all shared a good laugh (at her expense, of course) and some Purel, we left before the Mickey D staff found out it was one of our kids who pooped in the urinal. Madness, I tell you. Never a dull moment with my sisters.

I have officially trumped my previous most embarrassing moment. I’d tell you what it was, except it was so underwhelming I don’t even remember it. This, though, I’ll never forget. Last night I was (yes, again) ^benzoed out. I wasn’t wearing any pants or annnnny underwear. And my bro-in-law was over. I wasn’t aware. So I wandered out there. And just stood there. And I’m pretty sure he saw. Everything. I’ve been doing the sob/cry thing, you know, where you’re like hysterically laughing, but that only fuels the madness more, and you can’t stop crying, and pretty soon you can’t breathe and you just can’t remember why you’re not wearing any pants in the first place and why was I out there just standing there doing nothing and he just saw meeeeeeee--! Yeah. Rough. I’ll never be the same again. Doubtful that he will, either.

I’m in a bit of a pickle, too. I haven’t done any modeling for a long time, as in, nearly five, six months. My agency only knew that I was “sick,” and they told me they’d tell clients who requested me I was not available until I felt up to it – they also told me I needed to gain some weight (shock!!!) before I came back. So, naturally, I just never called. My treatment team has not been anything less than explicit that modeling is something I cannot EVER return to. Doom to me if I do. So, you know, I accepted it, whatevs, and moved on. But they called me last week and left a voicemail, just to check up on me, and I promptly repressed the memory and moved on. But they called again last night; a client I worked with a lot in the past is requesting me for a runway show, and I just panicked and deleted the message again. Well, this afternoon, when I got into work, there was an email for me in my inbox from one of my agent’s assistants asking what’s up, am I available for jobs, etc? I have the hardest time just telling them to GO AWAY. And they never do. They’re like white on rice or me on Will Smith my husband or something. And I feel weird and nervous and, like, hunted. Is that weird?

So, yeah. Poopy issues, bein’ seen in the buff stuff, modeling shenanigans…weird. Yes indeed.

Mothers' Day

First of all, here’s a little somethin’ for all you moms out there, or really, just for any of you that find this funny.

My Mother’s Day has been grand. Brandon surprised me got me what I asked for; a memory foam pillow. These things are the friggin’ bomb diggity. I also got Mario Kart for the Wii, which is uber fun because you steer with an actual steering wheel. Never mind I drive like a drunkard high on acid. It’s still fun. I also got some new eyeliner from Mac, and it was mostly just because the story of Brandon wandering around Nordstrom looking for the Mac counter was too much to pass up.

Brandon also wrote me a beautiful letter, and I’m going to share a bit here, so you can all know why I have the perfect husband perfect husband for me:

…It is always very fun for me to buy you things that make you happy, and sometimes I forget how much you like words (cards) too.

…Today you deserve to be recognized. It should be said that you are extraordinary. It should not be said that you are a troubled person, have too many problems, or are weak. It would be much more suiting to say that you are terribly strong, insanely persevering, and unstoppable. I will always think of you more as a woman of progression than a sick girl. You are not a sick girl to me, but a mother who has been up against monster after monster, obstacle after obstacle. You have always stopped, inhaled, gathered your strength, and fought through the battle. If anyone was to ever write you off and deem you unworthy, they would never have been more wrong.

…I love you for loving me in my imperfections, for loving our beautiful son, and for starting to love yourself. I hope you know on this day and on all others that you are my world and my everything. Happy, happy Mothers’ Day.

Love, Brandon and Cade
(Cade contributed with some quite apt smudges)

And my mom. She mailed me a card, and when I read the front of the card, I thought that it was something many of my readers would find quite inspiring, as well. The quote is from Alice in Wonderland, which is a great movie book:

“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” -Lewis Carroll

To all you dreamers out there, those of you striving for recovery, sometimes falling, but always picking yourself up again, I tell you that you can do this, you can believe the impossible. That life is out there, it’s waiting for you, it’s beautiful, and it’s yours for the taking.

Thank you to all you who wished me a happy Mothers' Day, thank you to my hubby, and thank you to my mom, the one and only who taught me to be the mama I am today.

Title Change

Title change again. I'm sure Brie Cheese'll be back, but I like this for now. It's a good change; a breath of fresh air (pun absolutely intended).

Cerebral Vomit

I usually try to make my posts cohesive. But this, well, this is going to be everywhere. So deal.

First of all, I would like to talk about how painful it is for me to get in cars as of late. Especially my father-in-law’s. I seem to have developed some sort of debilitating car-sickness, and it’s getting worse, not better. Thanks to Missa, I’ve found that wearing sunglasses helps, even if it’s already dark outside.

Also, positive self-talk helps. Example: Ooooooh, I love feeling sick. I love this nausea in my head and stomach that radiates down to the very tips of my toes. I love it, I need it, I want it, I asked for it. Oh baby, oh baby. (Try it. It helps. Mind over matter, you see.) And yes, I seem to even get car sick when I’m driving! So last night on my way home from rolling, (translation: bowling) I got sick. My in-law’s car possesses some sort of evil power (in the form of a seat protector spray) that brings bile (and Boost) to my throat with every jaunt in the vehicle. Last night, I rolled down the window of the front seat and stuck my entire head out, panting like a Pekingese. And it ruined me for the rest of the night. Even saltines and blue Gatorade couldn’t tame the tidal waves in my stomach. But, turns out I do have a stomach of steel, and I didn’t throw up. Think about how bad that would be with a tube. Are you all thinking this? Picturing it? Yeah, gross. I know.

I’m bored busy today at work. Piles of contracts, emails, spreadsheets, gross. And car-sickness. Why do I feel car sick?

Last night I was a bit ^high on sleepiness and benzoes. Our curtains were not on our windows, because we had just gotten new windows installed that day, and they still had work that needed to be done. Apparently I asked Brandon if there were any Thomas Peepers around. Peeping Toms, I meant. I think. Apparently I also had a problem pulling my pants up. But I don’t want to talk about it.

Also: My cats are getting fatter. I’m still in denial about Hairy. For the last time, she’s not fat, she’s fluffy! Working off cat fat is really hard. Bobbi and I did it a couple years ago. It took months to work off all the depression weight she put on when I left her to go to treatment. She put it all back on, though, when I birthed Small Man. What should I do?? I’m worried about future heart conditions.

Note to self: never eat salt-water taffy with tubification. Or Gushers.
Also, I think my body has embarked cheerfully on a quest to digest this sucka. I wonder how many calories a tube has?

I’ve also recently noticed as a tube-face that delivery people: mailmen, FedEx or UPS guys, pizza delivery guys…none of these people possess any sort of sensitivity when it comes to my tube. FedEx Man peered at my face inquisitively yesterday, then said: “Is that some sort of medical device taped to your face?” No, it’s a blue tooth, Genius. Go back to your deliveries now. SkyMail Dude walked in just as I was typing this, and he asked me if I had Crohn’s Disease. I said yes.
Btw: What’s Crohn’s Disease?

I feel like such a reject. But at the same time, everybody loves me with this tube. They all feel so bad for me and smile so big, like their cheesy grins are going to get me better. Also, pesky sales people stay away from me. Something ‘bout the tube, it scares them off. Now that’s a perk I love!

So, in conclusion, and just so you all have gotten this straight: I am a ^high, car-sick Pekingese who has fat cats, a tube, and have recently discovered that salt-water taffy and delivery men don’t mesh with my tubaliscousness. The end.

A Rough Draft

Oh – geez, my pants are tighter on me and they’re my designer jeans and I couldn’t stop wailing, “I’m faaaaaaaaaaaaaat, I’m faaaaaaaaaat!” And Brandon couldn't stop shaking his head in annoyance and fake sympathy and I know this is technically, like, good, great, whatever, but all I can think about is how my tubification is making me bigger and my anxiety is really high and I almost crapped my pants but I know that this is a good thing, because I’m totally pro-Brie-life.

I Can’t Breathe! And Also: What If I Were an Inbred?

So, picture this: you’re underwater in a murky, cold lake, and you’ve been holding your breath. You wanted to hold your breath for awhile, you reasoned, just to see how long you could survive in this other, ethereal world. But then your brain sends rapid-fire signals to you: I need air, air, air, air! And you’re thinking, I need to break the surface, I need to breathe, I need a gulp of oxygen! You finally break the surface and suck in the most satisfying, perfect, pure swallow of air your lungs have ever tasted. And you feel better. Fantastic, actually. You reason that it’s okay if you’re stuck in the murky, desolate lake, because now you can breathe. As long as you can breathe, you’ll be okay.

That was me these past couple of days, folks. I was trying to hold my breath for awhile, and fill my ears with only the quiet emptiness of nothing. I wanted a short break from blogging, only to realize, as my mama pointed out, that I need blogging like I need oxygen. So I’m taking a giant gulp of blogxygen, and I feel better.

On another note, I warped these photos and couldn’t stop giggling like a mad school girl. This, I have decided, is what my family and I would look like if we were inbred:

What the?

Who the hell is rating my blog, and how did this happen? This is not a feature I enabled on my blog or something...weirdness, here. Can anyone elaborate?

P.S. I know I took a blogging breather, but this was freaking me out. ;)

A Quick Update and Then…

I’m going to go blog AWOL for a few days. There’s some controversy with my blog right now, a lot of tension and drama boiling under the surface, and I just need a break. Frankly, I’m not sure what to do.

So, quickly:

I’m okay. I’ve gained a little weight (yeeeah!) and am still plugging along. They pulled out my tube last night because it got clogged, and shoved a new one up my left nostril to give the right one a break, so it was a bit alarming to have to go through that again, but I’m glad it’s over.

I’m back at work now, and am desperately trying to get in the groove of things and forget about what’s been happening over the past day or two. It feels awful to be at work, but it in a way, it feels nice to know I’m trying to be productive again (trying by the operative word, here).

I hope everyone is doing well and is enjoying the spring sunshine. I love spring, except for the asthma it’s giving me and Small Man. I really enjoy breathing, and I hate when I can’t. Go figure.

I’ll still be around reading others blogs, I’m just taking a step back from my own for a bit. I need to decide what to do. I hate drama.

Bye for now.

Today In Pictures

Cade loves my new sunglasses!

I love them too. But I love my pink headband more. :)


I love this pic! From left to right, my adorably gorgeous niece Ali, (with unfortunately closed eyes) Missa, my niece who happens to double as a dear, dear friend, (and who is having a sleepover with me tonight - I love GNO's!) Tube Face, and my sissy Brookie.

Sweet Child 'O Mine with his fire truck. He looks adorable, of course, but he's been bad today, so really, he doesn't look quite as baby-hot as normal.

We were taking advantage of the sunshine today. You'd think it being May, we'd be used to the sun by now, but it still seems to be a rare commodity. Nice pic far away, but not so nice with the tubage close up.

These pictures weren't taken today, but while we were at my madre's, she had these family photos, so I snapped a pic of them, because I thought ya'll might wanna see my family. The glare is because it was behind glass. Pictured here are mis padres (in the center) and all of the ten kids around them. My cute twin brother is in the very center standing in the blue shirt, and I'm at the bottom somewhere. Five sisters and four brothers. Wow. I know.

Bran and Cade and I are in the top left hand corner. This is my entire immediate(ish) family: parents, siblings, in-laws, and nieces/nephews. Yeah, I know there are close to ten million of us. Cade is the youngest grandchild (though there are currently two more on the way) and he's number 27. I was a niece when I was five. I was just a bebe!

Mission: Hospital Evasion

Guess who’s not in the hospital? Oh, just me.

What a relief. This is me "relieved" in the car after my appointment. I look...not caucasian.

I was so nervous this morning. Our appointment was in Lehi, which is about a half hour from my house, and since it was scheduled for 8:15, I had to get up quite early to get ready and for the driving time, and I felt like I was going to ralph up all my important weight gain. Held in the nerves, though.

So, I won’t lie; I was a sneaky little bugger. I wore two jackets and heavy pants and shoes when I got weighed. I know, I know. I sound like a devious crazy anorectic, but I found it quite necessary to wear all the contents of my winter wardrobe because I so believe that hospitalization is not necessary!

So I stepped on the scale, and I was supposed to get on it backward, but the bubble-gum chomping nurses-aid looked so ignorant, and I was right – she was – she didn’t know I was supposed to shed my many layers and shoes and get on backward. How can you not take advantage of a soft little baby eating disorder virgin?

So, the number was like nine pounds heavier than it was last time I saw my weight, and I just busted out laughing, because I knew that there was no way on this planet that I had gained nine pounds in, like, four days. I was pretty sure some of that was real, but not the majority of it.

So Dr S came in, (who, if you will remember, is beautiful, and whom I now refer to as Docalicious) and we talked for awhile, he mainly asked Brandon if I was really telling the truth and not lying, and I was trying to not be offended, cuz I ain’t no fibster, but really, I understand.

But then Docalicious saw me hunched over with the weight of my winter clothing collection, and asked, “You didn’t wear all that when you got weighed, did you?”

I of course start giggling, (Why am I such a moron?) and conceded that I had, in fact, donned my winter attire for the do or die weigh in. He actually laughed, but told me I knew better, and that his nurses, did too. I promptly negated that one, though. His nurses blow at following the eating disorder protocol for weigh-ins, but whatev.

So the point here is that I did gain weight, we’re pretty sure, but how much exactly remains a mystery. My dietician will weigh me on Monday, and I can find out how successful this weight gain mission is going thus far.

And, don’t worry, I already came clean to my therapist and dietician about Mission: Evade Hospital. I’m sure I’ll suffer the consequences on Monday when I see them. But whatevs. Totally worth it.

Except, now that I think about it, Docalicious said that they’re going to take my possible hospital admittance a week at a time. He went on to explain that they’re worried that the reason I’ve had so much trouble gaining weight in the past, even while in treatment, is because my body has been so depleted for so long, that it refuses to do what it should even when it gets nourishment and just continues to relentlessly eat itself. Or whatever. So even though I’m out of the hot-seat for now, I have to hope that this small weight gain is a weekly trend.

So, you still have to keep me in your prayers and thoughts and stuff, because I don't want some other lame disease. I've already got anorexia, I don't need something else that's super suckalicious.

This Is For You, Jana

Bananas, you requested a pic of me actually smiling with my tube. Here's one we took tonight at my twin bro's farewell party, and later, with my Boost pumping stripper pole.

Oh, and can we all just take a minute to appreciate how amazing my eyebrows look? I've got mad tweezing skills...