Grateful Gratitude is GREAT

I was inspired from Krista’s blog (I’d give you the link but the dear has it set to private) to do another why gratefuls are awesome post so that I can focus on the super and not the sucky. I mean, I truly believe that for me humor is how I get through the yucky in life. It’s not for everyone, and I think sometimes people read my posts and wonder how I can crack jokes about a yummy – nay, delicious – doc when he was considering admitting me, etc, but it’s easier for me to do that rather than cry and wallow. And I’m not saying crying is bad. Or wallowing. Because I certainly do my fair share, just not on my blog. At least, not often. Things are weird for me right now, and this whole situaish is getting yawningly long and drawn out (that’s what she said) so I’m just going to think about why life is rad to forget about why it reeks for a bit:

*I have a flower in my hair. And though it only cost me $4, I feel like $100,000.01!!
*Lil C cracks me up. When I went to therapy yesterday, I was in the waiting room waiting for my madre to come and watch C while I went to bear my heart and soul. C kept saying, “Go away Mama, go talk to the lady!” He knows that when I “go talk to the lady,” he gets some serious Grandma time. But then, because my mom has stellar babysitting skills, while she was talking on the phone, C started banging on the door, yelling, “Mama, let me in! Let’s go!”
*Not to mention his haircut. My little boy just went from 2 years old to 22. He looks so old now and (dare I say?) DELICIOUS!
*For some reason stores that sell really cheap items (think Walmart, Kohl’s) always make me need to go potty while perusing their merchandise. And while I entirely realize this is TMI, I was just really pleased with my little bathroom adventure/emergency at Kohl’s - though I did run out before anyone saw me. Not eating or drinking enough or whatever can really mess things up down there. Nothing a good trip to ShopKo can’t fix.
*We finally found a realllllly awesome house to move into. Go 2 car garage and fenced in yard!
*My new hobby has become stick figures and the Paint program. Stay tuned.
*National Stay at Home Week IS ON. Love the premieres of all the smutty shows I watch on TV! Still have DH on my DVR, but finished Grey’s last night. Pretty sure had love palpitations when I saw Denny in the elevator (K squared, you were right!) but reallllly wished he had come back to life like Lazarus or whatever. I mean, it’s TV! Heeelllll-ooooo. You can do anything! Lame lame lamazoid.
*Racher directed me to this website that shows the 15 fattest cats ever documented all over the world. Here’s a little taste to whet your whistle, but peruse the entire site, it’ll totally hit your spot. Holy oh my moly I honestly had no idea cats could get that big. I mean, I thought Bobbi was the 8th wonder of the world, but here's this Maine Coone totally kicking her trash. Bobbi's not that big. YET.
*Pretty sure I love all you guys (well, actually, mostly GIRLS) in the blogosphere. Who knew such cool people besides me and my besties actually existed? Love it (AND YOU)!!!!

Doctor Delicious

Totally had my seriouslysuperscary (alliteration: 3 points!) appointment with my doc today. I hadn’t seen him in a few months, but was pleasantly surprised to find he was as delicious as ever. (Pretty sure he paid his way through med school with some male modeling. Hotttt.) He was so nice to me, too, which was SO WEIRD. I’m always expecting everybody to be mad at me since I suck or whatever at maintaining my weight. But maybe he was as deliciously excited to see me (?) as I was him?? (Just kidding Honey!) (You know how it goes.) At any rate, he like smiled at me and only mentioned the hospital twice instead of like nine times. He basically told me I met all the requirements for admission, but as long as I was seeing my treatment team weekly and gaining weight, then it wouldn’t be necessary as long as I MADE IT WORK (go Tim Gunn!) and didn’t need the tube again, (like after this second time) otherwise that so wouldn’t fly with him. I was so glad he was the bearer of good tidings today, otherwise I might have had to bitch slap him, and in return, pretty sure I’d have been karmically put down or something, no kidding. So Doc Delicious definitely sated me. So to speak.

This Weekend in Pics

This picture I have entitled, Trying too hard: when it just doesn't work for you. At any rate, I was trying to snap a pic of the curly do. Took me like 65 exposures till I stopped screaming in horror and went to mildly whimpering and settled on this one.

Lil C's first haircut in nearly a year. Clutching the teddy for protection. He was such a brave boy. Grandpa did a good job - Mama was realllllly relieved.

The after. We likey!


Hangin at the park with my fam for a belated celebration of my dad's birthday.

He SO wasn't a fan of dinner.

Aw, I love my niecy. Pretty sure she is a beautiful individual.

Holding my new niece Chloe. I asked Big B over and over afterward in the car on the way home if I could have one. I want one I need one oh baby oh baby gimme gimme gimme!

Listening to my iPod with my Skull Candy and tube. Seriously, look how gross I look - that tube is poked like a foot away from my face. I couldn't tame it last night. Sad!

And thus concludes my weekend.

BEEing Viciously Attacked

OMG, I was just assaulted by a huge furry bee. It was zipping around my person and even my muscular arms swatting away could not thwart it of its mission to partake of my luscious smell. I had just had some strawberry cream cheese, and perhaps the odor still lingered. At any rate, after I smacked around the air cautiously a few times, it kept zeroing in on me, so then I had no other option but to stand up and start jumping and spinning around, causing passing cars to really stare. I even got two honks and a whistle of approval. Not only was this bee intent on murdering me, but also humiliating me in the process. THEN, when even that failed to foil the blood-sucking bee, I started trying to smash it with my hefty 3 pound book. It was a library book, though, and I didn’t want to get bee guts all over it and have to pay for it or anything. When even THAT failed to work, I began to realize that this bee was on a mission to sting me to death and have its poison send me into anaphylactic shock, where my helpless being would collapse, and no one would help me, but perhaps I’d illicit a few more honks.

So I decided to run. And my relaxing lunch break was over. I was really hoping to finish my chapter, too. Although, I’ll admit a small part of me wanted to get stung, (but not profusely, I’m not talking a reenactment of My Girl or anything) just a few dozen stings that would get me out of work for the rest of the day. However, my self-defense mechanisms seemed to kick in. That’s a powerful instinct; one that can’t easily be ignored.

So I remain sting-less, thanks to my dexterity and skills. But at least I got a few honks.

Her Life Was Not in Vain

I first met S when I was in my last stint in treatment, in December of 2006. She was a smart and witty 15 year old that had braces and a fantastic weave.
And she’s not here anymore. And it makes me sick.
My favorite thing about S was that she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. In the eating disorder world, so many of us don’t want to make waves, we don’t want to speak up because we value other’s feelings before our own. But not S. She’d speak up if you ticked her off, or if you were breaking some rule at CFC, she’d march right up to you and tell you to knock it off. I used to laugh and roll my eyes at W, because there was little S telling everybody what to do. But she did it because it was right and it was brave and because nobody else dared to do it.

I think about S being gone, about what an incredibly beautiful and talented 16 year old she is. I think about the world not having her anymore. I think about the things she’ll never do, about the family she leaves behind. I think about how lucky I was to know her for the three months we lived with each other 24/7. I think about all the weight she gained in treatment, and I think about how hard it was for her (and me), and I think about us rooting each other on. I think about the strides she made in therapy. I think about when she learned to smile again.
But mostly I think that I hate this murderous eating disorder. I hate that S felt so desperate, so scared, and so loathsome of the life she lead that she felt she had no other option than to leave.

It terrifies me because I realize it could be any one of us. I just got off the phone with my best friend, W, and she was sobbing, and I was empty, devoid of any more tears. We told each other we loved each other, over and over, as if it might be the last time. We cannot let the ED win, let the depression and anxiety that sometimes seems to rule our lives conquer. We are beautiful, intelligent, sane, wacky, flawed individuals. We are good people. We deserve to take up space in this world.

S will be missed. But her life was not in vain. I know that. I hope that she can know that, too.

An Up to the Date

So much drama for your mama going on right now. I hate stress; I swear it’s making me break out. Yuck. So, for your reading (un)enjoyment, here is the low down ho down of what’s been going on with the Briester:

I’m back to the freaking feeding tube again. For reals lost a lot of weight, I guess. I saw my dietician, H, yesterday and she was kind of having a mini freak-out about how I looked; I haven’t been to see her in 2 months (I know) (my bad) and she was shocked. I can’t do more than 3 cans of Jevity a night until I get my lab work done because of the re-feeding phenomenon. Seriously, so weird. Who knew your heart could stop beating when you start giving it a butt load ‘o nutrients again? You’d think it’d be happy. Huh. So I’m plugging along, again, which is soooooooo awesome, and I don’t think I even mean that sarcastically.

What else? Nothing. My life is a barren wasteland of a corporate job bowing to The Man. I am a domestic/fertility/corporate/brunette goddess. I guess that’s the one plus I have going on in my life. I continue to thoroughly enjoy my haircut. Lil C is still my best bud, except yesterday we got in a fight and I bought him a fire truck to make it up to him. I guess I’m the adult or whatever, so I’m supposed to be mature. I need to immediately comprar this, and when I do, I know that my life will be complete. I already own it in white and red. I need its twinner.

That’s all, homies. LOVE YOU!!!!!
Holy oh my moly this post was all over the place. Whaaaaaat is up with that? Whateva.

Since when is it okay to hit someone with your car and drive away?

This morning as I was driving Lil C to my sissy’s before work, I was yielding at a light, waiting to turn left. I looked to the left and noticed a big black suburban trying to turn right. She kept nosing more and more forward until she had completely blocked the walk-way for pedestrians to use when they are crossing the road. I could see a young kid there, trying to cross the road on his way to school, but she was in his way, so he walked around her. The woman then, right at that moment, decided to turn right. Fortunately he saw her (SHE DIDN’T SEE HIM!!!!!) and jumped out of the way, instead “just” getting clipped on the upper thigh rather than getting completely mowed over. The woman paused for a minute, looked at him, and KEPT DRIVING. I was appalled. “DID YOU SEE THAT?!” I yelled at Cade. “HOLY SHIT!” The poor kid, he couldn’t have been older than 14 or 15, kept walking, but he was limping a bit and I could tell he was in shock – hell, I was in shock and I wasn’t the one who had freaking gotten HIT BY A CAR. As I turned left, he was on the other side of the road, trying to cross that intersection as well. I slowed down, rolled down the passenger window, and asked him if he was alright. He nodded uncertainly, and I think I may have embarrassed him. But I persisted. “Do you need a ride? Do you want me to take you home or to school or to the hospital? Can I call your mom?” Just as he was mumbling, “No, but thanks,” some prick behind me honked. Honked at me for stopping to talk to someone who had just GOTTEN HIT BY A CAR. Helllloooo…? Since when is it okay to be so in a hurry to get to work you don’t stop to help some scared kid? Since when is it okay to be so in a hurry to get to work you don’t actually stop when you hit another human being? Not one other person stopped to help him, to ask him if he was alright. Not one other person.

Sometimes I really do hate the world I live in.

The Whole Hairy Story

Didn’t Ghandi say that “You must be the change you wish to see in the world?” Well, then, in my case, I must have wanted the world to all start getting really fashion forward haircuts.

No, really, I wasn’t being that optimistic. I don’t have near that kind of faith in the world. I was, however, looking for change. Normally I’m the type to hate change. Change change change cry cry sad moan moan weep blah blah blah. But I didn’t care. This is previously coming from the girl who had suuuuppper long locks. (Think Laura Ingalls but with no braids or buck teeth.) Going to get my mane even trimmed an inch was agonizing.

But I just needed to get it cut. I needed to be different. I can’t explain it. But I had it whacked off and I didn’t bat an eyelash. I briefly wondered if it would be cool to have my stylist shave it, and then I could've started wearing cut-offs and smoked Lucky Strikes and hung out with punk-rock people who have long thin hair and wear circular eyeglasses, like Harry Potter but much much cooler. But then I thought about Britney Spears and totally realized that she ruined the impression we have of people everywhere who shave their heads. I mean, when Husband shaved his, I didn’t necessarily think emotional ruin and basket-case, but I DID think convicted rapist and/or ex-con. Holy oh my moly I’m digressing.

So I cut it.

That night, after I had cut it AND loved it, I woke up after only a few hours sleep. I opened my eyes and stared at the curtains for awhile, then promptly burst into tears. These weren’t a few lady-like, cleansing tears. These were sobs that hurt me so much they left me gasping.

B awoke to my tears and stroked my newly cut hair. He said, “Maybe you’re crying because you wanted so much to be different, so you cut your hair, but then you realized that you haven’t completely done all the changing you want (yet) on the inside. You still have elements of your eating disorder, and I know you still hurt. But I still love you. I love you because you keep trying to change.”

And then I calmed. Because I knew that B had gotten it exactly right. I knew that I had wanted to change…to change in any way I could. And I still believe that one day my insides can get a new haircut. A better one. Maybe not as fashion forward, and certainly not impulsively shaved, but maybe just a trim to get out all the heavy stuff in there, all the damaged ends. Clean it up a bit, you know?

So, while I continue to prepare for the Inner Haircut that it seems I’ve been working toward for, oh, you know, years, I’ll keep thinking, keep striving at trimming and snipping. We all know how attached we girls get to our hair, right? Inner/emotional hair is no different.

And yes, I realize all these ill-conceived metaphors may make it seem like I have an unduly amount of pubic hair. I do not. It is all purely metaphorical. I think.

Now, raise your hand if I've totally inspired you to go buy the latest issue of Glam Hair and schedule with your stylist!

Those Five Letters Save Me

I stared through the chipped, wrought iron fence to the pool beyond. It had been drained; the month of August ending, taking with it summer break and all of its customers. The dull, grey cement that was once the deep, aquamarine blue of water depressed me. I remembered being there countless times this summer, with Little C and L and all of my sisters, and now it was all gone, quiet and whispery, the only evidence left behind of sun and summer and tans was a half-melted bottle of sunblock and a Butterfinger wrapper that was glued to the cement with its own chocolate. The empty pool gaped at me, a grave for summer. I turned my back to it, wiped the tears from my cheeks that were sliding from behind my sunglasses. I briefly wondered how hard it would be for me to jump the fence and lie down in the deep end, and I wondered how long it would take for anybody to find me. Stop being such an angsty adolescent, B, I warned myself. Curling up in the deep end? Nice.

C’mon, C, let’s go. Mother and son turned from the fence and continued their walk around M Park. We climbed rocks and sat under a tree and watched a family play baseball in the diamond. We listened to a confused rooster continually crow out the announcement of dawn, and after awhile C started to imitate it, caaaackadoooollleedoo! He’d look at me every time he crowed, and I’d smile at him and laugh and he’d run off and play, his chest puffed out in pride knowing he was a good boy who did good things because his mama said so.

I stared at the sun and pretended not to care as C stomped on ant holes, trying to think, boys will be boys, and calm down, Brie, they’re just ants. After I couldn’t bear it anymore, I led him away.

The sun was setting, and it seemed that we had no other option than to go home. We were nearing the empty, hollowed out pool again, and I picked up C and hurried past it.

Mommy. C said this solemnly, tilting his enormous blue eyes up to me. C says Mommy in a number of ways, and just by the inflection in his voice, I can tell if he’s really saying that he’s embarrassed or excited or frustrated or scared. But this Mommy simply said I love you.

I love you too, I whispered, and kissed him on his cheeks and forehead about a million and two times. Mommy, C says again, and then pats me on the back. Mommy.

He squirms to get out my arms as he sees the car come into view , and he darts ahead, and then, just as quickly, stops abruptly.
Mommy, Mommy.
He comes back and takes my hand. Hold it! He instructs, and I obediently cling to my life preserver.

We drive home, singing along to Elmo, and I think that out of all the things anybody said to me today, Mommy was my favorite.

For those five letters save me. Every single day they save me.

Drug Induced Fun (or some may call it humiliation)

(but it can’t be humiliation if you are in no condition to remember it the following morning. Memory loss nixes the humiliation factor)

I was sick last night. Feeling pretty vomity. I decided that I needed to quickly go to the grocery store and buy saltines and Diet 7Up to settle the stomach. So, Big B and I got in the car around 10:30, but I had refrained to tell him I had taken all my sleepydrunky meds plus a Xanax and, thus, seemed more than slightly inebriated.

Brandon saw that I was sportin’ some serious nipple and said that I started crying in the store when he buttoned up my jacket. He was frantic to cover up my treasures, and that devastated me. I also called oyster crackers snoyster snackers and I was hysterically laughing about it, like, for realsies doubled up in the cracker aisle. Personally, though, I find the word snoyster to be pretty funny. It reminds me of boinker. You know?

The icing on the cake came, I believe, when I told B I could see his vagina. I believe the exact words I used, at least as B says, is “Eeeeeewwwwwwwy, I can see your vagina!” I'm having a hard time with this. Even my two year old son can clearly see the difference between male and female equipment. He can't even say the V word, or the P word, but he knows what's what and where it belongs on whom. He can't say snoyster, but he can tell that a man clearly does not have a V word. But give Mom a Xanax, and she starts seeing V words all over the place, even through baggy male undergarments.

I also read around 45 pages in my book, and today I had to re-read the entire thing because I couldn’t remember a thing. What a waste.

Today hasn’t been nearly as fun. I didn’t spontaneously cry at the mall, and at lunch I didn’t try to show off private parts or say snoyster, though I did chat it up with a gay guy at Nordy’s about jeans. We both decided we are in love with Joe’s Jeans. THAT was fun.

But it was no drug-induced haze of snoysters and confusing private-looking parts.

I guess there’s always tomorrow, or, more likely, tonight.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go take my meds.

Hair Hysteria

The question remains: is it hair heaven, or is it hair hell? (Why am I amused "that elusive pimpernel" rhymes with this? 3 points for you if you understand the reference!)

More later on the hows whys wheres whos and wtf's? of why I cut it...

Saying Sorry Seriously Sucks

Alliteration: 4 points! Say THAT 5 times fast!

I am the epitome of non-confrontational. You call me a bitch (yes, it’s happened, SO sad) or tell me I’m really lame and stupid and such a burden on my family for still having my eating disorder (yes, it’s happened, once again, SO sad) or any other number of hurtful (but perhaps true?) comments, I smile because I don’t want to make YOU feel bad for making ME feel bad, and then I totally go home and think of all the things I REALLY want to say to you, but instead I cry and cry and plot a revenge that will never come to fruition.

If you insult my mom or my son, then my claws come out and I will tear you apart with my vicious rhetoric. But other than that, eh, I just can’t do it. I ain’t gonna do it. It wouldn’t be prudent. You know?

I wish I were more confrontational. I wish that I wasn’t afraid to stand my ground and tell your ass that you’re wrong, or that you hurt me, or that I hate your haircut, or that I think your toes are ugly. Honestly, every once in awhile, I just want to be mean. Mean like people can be to me, and get away with it like they somehow always get away with it. Just once or twice I wanna say what I want to say. I can’t imagine that kind of liberty.

Saying sorry certainly isn’t bad, it’s the brotherly or Christian or best thing to do if you believe in Karma or the Golden Rule. But if you say sorry for no reason, like I do all the time, then I’m only telling everybody that I’m a geekyweaky that can be walked all over. Remember how I’m a doormat? Well, this certainly doesn’t help me on the road to becoming the boots ON the doormat (or, in my case, probably stilettos on the doormat) at all, you know?

I just apologized to some co-workers for NOT SENDING a document that I did, in fact, SEND. I smiled demurely and drew them up again and perkily hand-delivered them. You know what? I think this is how serial killers are born and bred. Maybe. I mean, I don’t have a desire to go on a killing rampage (yet) (but who knows?) but it seems like resentments and insecurities and un-resolved anger can make MEN that are MAD at life or whatever morph into MADMEN. I think I’m on to something. Note to self: look into this.

So, readers and friends and family alike:
Be warned:
This chick might just be ready to put her stilettos all over YOU. (Or, at least side-step you, or jump over you. I mean, I don’t want to be the person wiping dog feces all over your mat. I’m just saying that I no longer wanna be the mat. Okay?)

[READERS PLEASE NOTE: Author apologizes profusely for potentially offending her readers. ]

updownupdownupdown

Up and _down it seems my life has gone. Sometimes the ups and downs occur so quickly that I have no time to pause for breath, to put a space between the upandthedown. Updownupdownup and then _down again.

I realize this entirely may mean that I have a bit of a mood disorder; perhaps a dash of mania and a teaspoon of depression and POOF! we have da bi-polar disorder. Or, perhaps a mild case, anyway.

But I hate labels. So we’ll stay away from them. I don’t want to be Brie the Anorectic, Brie the Bi-Polaree, or Brie the Model, or Brie the MILF (ha!) or Brie the Creepy Catophile, but, rather, just Brie. I mean, I know I may be a little lame, but, you know, ‘lame’ is another label, so we’ll stay away from Lame Brie, too.

So Brie with all her updownupdownupdownupdowns and then up agains will have to suffice. And one day, I hope that I can have an UP and then, maybe a s l o w d o w n, and then an UP again, but perhaps the _downs will be fewer and farther in between and they won’t occur so quickly thatIcan’tputaspacebetweenthem.

UPDOWNUPDOWNUPDOWNUPDOWNUP
UPDOWNUPDOWNUPDOWNUPDOWN
UPDOWNUPDOWNUPDOWNUP
UPDOWNUPDOWNUPDOWN
UPDOWNUPDOWNUP
UPDOWNUPDOWN
UPDOWNUP
UPDOWN
and then
finally
UP

I'm Bringing Blogging Back

Alliteration: 3 points!

It’s been a loooong time since I’ve actually blogged. I mean, I’ve posted a plethora of pics, (and, I’m SO sorry – raise your hand if you got sick of staring at me and ‘lil C!) but that doesn’t really actually count as blogging, as I didn’t write much. I just can’t figure out what the H is wrong with me. Not really, you know, superdupersad, but not at all reallyawesomelyhappy, either.

I’m just kind of stuck in this in between place that’s starting to feel a bit uncomfy. Like, you know when you were in the 5th grade and you went on a field trip to see the ballet? And you had to look at the guys in their tights and see the outlines of their hoo hoo’s? That’s what I feel like! It’s awful!

I guess I’ve lost a lot of weight. My T said the word relapse when I saw her last, and I totally had to interrupt her and ask “DO YOU REALLY THINK I’M RELAPSING????” and she looked annoyingly amused and said YES. I beg to differ. I just think I’m LAPSING. Lapsing is waaaaay better than relapsing cuz it means you can dig yourself out of the massive pile of shit you’ve just dumped all over yourself and get clean and all better again without the hospital or treatment or WORSE a feeding tube. Well, scratch that.

I’m actually supposed to start using the feeding tube again. GUYS, that makes me so sad! Anorexia makes me cry!! Why am I so GD stupid? My poor ‘lil body is just realllllllly stressed since I, you know, didn’t really feed it for like 8 years or whatever. And now, when I do eat, my confused small intestines have decided it’d be a terrific idea to just not absorb any of the food or nutrients and instead just slide it right on through. Super annoying. Like, super.

So, I “promised” my T I’d use the tube this week. Does promise mean again that you’re supposed to do what you said you would or else you’re a really bad and un-trust worthy person? Damn. I thought so.

So, I’m at work, and I’m going to drink a Boost at 11. I set my alarm. Also, I’m about to partake of some peanut butter and crackers and maybeif my stomach allows it I’ll put some Cheezits in there. We’ll see. I mean, it’s pretty picky lately. I never know what I’m going to get in a day: Normal Stomach or High Maintenance Stomach. I think it might have multiple personalities.
Note to self: look into this.

Oh, and many thanks to Ms. A and Mrs. L for helping me through this weirdness. Trips to the petting zoo and Mimi’s and RR were much needed. You twosies are the best! Friends forever! Sad stuff never!

So, here I am, still doing the same ‘ol same ‘ol. Work: gotta love contributing to society n stuff. Being a good mama: so my son doesn’t turn out to be a sociopathic serial killer one day. Wifey responsibilities: not throwing gummy bears at B’s face, watching man shows with him, and letting him play Halo. Therapy: listen and learn and do do do.

Well, a real post! Please feel free to blog stalk then for reals stalk me if I continue to post an embarrassing amount of pics. But they say a picture is worth a thousand words orwhatever, right? So if I have no words, then it only makes lots o sense that pictures could do all the talking? Right? I know. Lame excuses. No more yoga pics or sad post-nappy faces anymore. I solemnly swear.

Okay, I have lots of blog catching up to do. On my break, of course. Bretty, call me! We have lots o contracting work to do!

you know you love me,
xo xo

Today in Pictures

Well, chickies, still no words, but how 'bout some pics?

Biting my nails in my sleep. Apparently I was hungry.

Good morning kiss from the Hair Bear. Seriously, that's a cat. A GIANT ball of furrylicious loveliness.

Good morning smile from the little C watching Cars on the computer.

Getting ready to run some errands. My left eye is conveniently covered...it's swollen, little C decided to kick me in the ocular cavity. Seriously, so many swear words went through my mind at the initial time of impact.

We went up to my parent's home, they needed help with a bit of touching up before they put the house up for sale. Since they are not currently living in it, B and I went to help. I felt so, like, Tim Allen in Home Improvement. Look at me with that screw-driver!

6 minutes later...BORING!! Time to do some yoga with Cade and let Bran do the rest of the tool stuff.

A few hours later, having just woken up from my nap, I was listening to B lecture me on the skinnynissity of my face...holy oh my moly is this not the worst pic ever snapped, like, EVER? My completely unfortunate looking face is so sad!

Playing trucks with C!

B learned the hard way that when they put the for ages 4 and under on the label, they meant biz-nass.

RR with my niece Marissa. The burger, I think, weighed more than she does. Also, it seemed gross because she's allergic to wheat (seriously, who's allergic to wheat?!) and had to eat it with lettuce wrapped around it. EEEwwwwy!

Now we're currently vegged in front of the TV watching Gossip Girls.

You know you love me, xoxo

(Fitty bucks if you know where that quote comes from...)

Blah Now, Blog Later

I seem to have no words lately. It’s not that I don’t want to blog…it’s just that…I have nothing to say. And I always have something to say! I’m not in any mood to be funny; I temporarily seem to have lost my ability to make anyone laugh. I’m not in any sort of mood either to be all doomy and gloomy, so I’m sort of just stuck.

I’ve received some lovely emails from some of my readers concerned…asking wtf brie? Get to blogging! …So I’m basically here to say that, well, too bad, suckas. For now, at least. Maybe words will no longer be elusive in a few days…

When a Hard A & a Soft A Make a World of Difference

Dear Ms. Dickinson,

Allow me to criticize you in simpler terms than you've ever yet yeard them:

a hole:

A-hole:

You are completely vile. And I can't stop watching your show. I am a weak, weak person. You are a creepy fifty-something that still poses in racey shoots for Maxim. You have old saggy woman boobeez. It's a good thing you don't live in Salem and were not alive in 1692. Otherwise you would so be snuffed out by now. I'm just saying.

Best wishes,

Brie

Her latest moronic quote:

On speaking about Tracy, one of her models who is beautiful and an incredibly small size 4:"Tracy's on thin ice as it is. I wish she were thin on thin ice, but she's not. She's just on thin ice.

You are such a gem, J. Way to be.

Old Mother Hubbard Lived in a Cupboard

Or, in my case, tupperware.

Fat Guy in a Little Coat

Brie + Dev +a size 2T vest + Bobbi = a much needed laugh
Bobbi for president!

Good Mood, Good Grief

Why, pray tell, am I happy? It’s so odd. I’ve been so used to either being a) sad, b) stressed, c) hopelessly sad, d) anxious, e) not anxious, but only because I’m high on ^benzos, f) in denial, (but I’m not) g) over-worked and feeling under-appreciated and under-paid, h) consumed and wearied with family drama, or i) all of the above at freaking ONCE.

But now, I’m simply, j) happy.

I’m not even sure what to do with myself. Good grief. This is weird. Am I suddenly on a different planet that is not the horribly awful earth that’s going straight to hell with all the global warming and raping and pillaging and war and mediocrity and grimy taxi drivers and bad movies and D-list celebrities? I mean, c’mon. We produced Perez Hilton.

I mean, the fates and the stars and the planetary orbits and astronomical bearings or whatever must be aligning just for me.

Cade woke up this morning, and didn’t yell “NO NO MAMA!” and roll back over and try to go back to sleep.
He smiled at me, and laughed.
We listened to the “woof woof!” song and then went through all the animals and their sounds. He likes the duck best (like his mama.)

My sister told me not once, but TWICE that I looked cute. I’m wearing a shirt today I rarely wear because I feel like it makes me look giantly boobalicious, and while this is normally a general rule that me likey the breastees, when a shirt makes you look fat and booby, it be no good. But my sissy denies this is the case. Also, I’ve recently learned that there is an unfortunate phenomenon known as the uni-boob. I worry about this.

I got some good news at work.

I discovered goodreads, which is, like, my mother ship. Why have I not signed up for the gloriousness that is this website earlier?

Today’s Friday, and I survived my hellish week of working full-time. Holy moly oh my guacamole how do you full-timers do it? This has been impossible. Yes, IMPOSSIBLYBRUTALDEPLORABLESUCKTASTIC.

So, cheers. Here’s to hoping and wondering if I’ll wake up from this dream and plummet back to the reality of kindasortanotreallybeingindenialtryingtorecoverfromaneatingdisorderandjugglingworkingandbeingamamaandagoodwifeandagooddaugherandsisterandloverandauntanddealingwithahubbywhowon’tpregomyeggoandeverythinginbetween.
Congratulations if you got through that.

Good grief, yo. Got happy? I think so.

Hairy Porn

She's S U C H a beautiful individual.

Shutup. She is.

I Need One, I Want One, Oh Baby, Oh Baby

OMH I'm soooooo baby hungry. My husband's such a tyrant. He won't gimme another one. But, the stubborness of my hubby aside, I'm very pleased to announce the newest member of my family, Chloe Olive Brown. She was born to my sis-in-law and my brother yesterday afternoon. I'm so jealous (and begrudgingly happy for them, of course)!

It won’t be the Last Time I hear her Say

My body’s falling apart, she says.
I shake my head no, please, but I know. I know it is.
I look at her, and want to scream why won’t you just eat? Why? whywhywhy
But I don’t
because
I know. I know why.
Sometimes living seems
harder than
dying.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It hurts. It hurts her.
I could never go to your funeral, I manage. I’d die first.
Ah, you're such a little shit, she says.
And I smile wearily.
Leave it to her
to work 'little shit' even into a conversation
like this.
Look, I gotta go, she says.
But butbutbutbut
I love you.
I love you too, I echo
And we hang up.
And I pray
It won’t be the last time I hear her say
I love you.

Denial: I Ain’t in it, Baby

Why am I alllllllwwwwwwaaaaaaayyyyyyysss in denial? I’m beginning to think that I’M not in denial, EVERYBODY else is in denial about the fact I’m not in denial. Or maybe I have a paranoia problem. Are you following me? You are, aren’t you? FREAK.

But seriously. Why can’t I just be FINE? Why do I HAVE to be eating poorly if I’m underweight? And don’t laugh at me! I EAT. I don’t play food games. I don’t purge. I don’t exercise. So why can’t my body just naturally want to be thin? STOP LAUGHING!! That’s what my T did last night. And then she spent an unholy amount of time talking about denial. I’m not in denial. I know what it is. And most importantly, I know I’m not in it. Are you still laughing? If you’re my hubby or my T, you are. Look, I’m in a lot of things. I’m in a good mood because I just watched some guy trip. I’m INfatuated with my new Betsey Johnson watch. I’m in love with Brandon. And Cade. And my breasts. And my cats. I know it’s gay, whatever. But I DO love my cats dearly and deeply. And you can’t make me stop. I’m in a crisis due to some mildly alarming gray hairs already soiling my dark, silky mane. But what am I not in? You guessed it: DENIAL.

Can someone, anyone, back me up on this? If you do, I’ll vote for you for president of my fan club!

Denial sucks. Brie rocks!

National Blueberry Popsicle Month

Really? According to this website, September is the month of many ridiculously random things. Here are a few:

-Fall Hat Month
-International Square Dancing Month
-National Blueberry Popsicle Month
-National Courtesy Month
-National Piano Month
-Chicken Month
-Baby Safety Month
-Little League Month
-Honey Month
-Self Improvement Month
-Better Breakfast Month

So, who decides what random thing gets to be nationally (or even internationally – go square dancing!) recognized? I’ve never even tasted a blueberry popsicle. Maybe that’s why they’re recognized? Because nobody likes them, and for one month out of the year they get to feel special.

And - better breakfast, huh? Like, is that promoting eating a healthy(ier) breakfast than one normally does? If so, then I should focus on that this month. I’m currently eating Doritos and guzzling it all down with a 32 ouncer of Diet Coke. What if I dipped my Doritos in Ranch? Doesn’t Ranch have milk in it? That counts as calcium! See? I can make Better Breakfast Month really work, here.

Well, if it were up to me, here’s what I’d have September commemorate:

-Shiny Hair Month (on me, of course)

-Diet Coke Month (and, in my oh so important opinion, I think it should be EVERY month)
-Make a Mortal Enemy Month (‘cuz we all need one!)
-Recover Right Freaking Now From Your Eating Disorder Month
-Have a Breakthrough in Therapy Month (even a small one would be nice!)
-Say the Word Queefer At Least Once This Month Month
- National WTF Month
Well, that’s to name a few. What does September commemorate to you?

I need to plot how to say ‘queefer’ to a coworker today without getting fired. Any ideas?