Scratchin’ Your Back

Okay, so, I’ve still been thinking about my You Scratch my Back, I’ll Scratch Yours post, and I realized that you all scratched mine, and I never scratched yours! So, yes, those of you who read my blog faithfully know an awful lot more about me than most people, but I thought I’d post some funny, quirky, and random things about me that I might not otherwise post – you all did it – so it’s only fairsies that I do it, too. Ya think?

So here are a few:

I once got beat up in a movie theater. I was ten and was seeing Apollo 13 with my grandparents and cousin and sister. I sat in front of a woman and she got pissed that someone took the seat in front of her, because she said she couldn’t see, so she started kicking and pounding on my chair, and then she punched me in the head. And it hurt. And my sister, who was only 14, bravely turned around, and said, “Don’t you ever touch my sister again!” (Which was funny because just before the movie we had been pulling each other’s hair out and scratching each other like wild monkeys.) …So then Crazy Lady was escorted out of the theater. I had a pounding headache afterward and couldn’t really concentrate on the movie. As soon as it was over, I didn’t want to leave the theater because I was scared she was out there, ready to make my ass grass, and my sweet grandma was like, “If you see her honey, just give her the finger!” (I look back on that and laugh.) Fortunately, she had already left the premises by the time the movie was over. I’m thinking Schizophrenia? The paranoid variety?

I started my period on my 14th birthday. Totes not the gift I was hoping for. I remember I debated for awhile on telling my mom, but finally decided to tell her, cuz why would I want to spend my babysitting money on pads? So I told her, and I swear on my life, she said the cliché term, “Welcome to womanhood!” And I was like gross groan moan boo double boo.

Once, during a runway show, I was in the back, changing into my second outfit, and my thong was on backward. (Oh, that’s why I feel all uncomfy down there!) And everyone saw my V. Mortification.

I’ve always wanted a white cell phone. They look so svelt. I always end up going for the pink or warm colored one in the end, though. And then I usually buy a white cover to put over it.

About 5ish years ago, I worked at a makeup counter. The lady next to mine, who worked at Chanel, was from Russia. She was staring at me intently, and I asked her what she was looking at, and she asked me, “Have you ever broken your nose?” And I was like NO, and then she said, “Huh. Okay.” And turned her back and walked away. My nose had been one of the ONLY things on my body I was not paranoid about, and then Russian Chanel had to go and ruin it all. I still look at my nose and wonder what flaw she was looking at…

My first therapist, poor thing, had no idea what she was getting into when she met with me. I was 17. I didn’t like her. She wore plaid dresses and moon boots, even in the summer. And she was so short she was giving me a complex because she like only came to my waist. Our Thang didn’t last long.

I always changed into my gym clothes for PE in a bathroom stall. I was too paranoid about my little boobies being seen, even in a sports bra. I did this from 7th grade all the way until my senior year, even when I was playing volleyball competitively. Now my boobies are big and I like them, but I’d pry still change in a stall anyway…although, after I got my fake boobies, I was at my sister’s house, and she was lending me a tank to wear cuz it was hot outside, and I said to her, jokingly, “Turn around, unless you want to see my boobs!” And she paused, and was like, “I kinda do.” (Seeing the new merchandise, you see.) So I laughed and she watched. I promise it wasn’t as weird as it sounds…suck. It really wasn’t!

And this is the last one I’ll leave you with, because I can’t believe I’m even saying anything, cuz it’s a little dirty no a lot dirty, and weird, and whatever:

So when I was in labor with C Man, they have a mirror above you so that if you want, you can watch the birthing process. Well, you’re not allowed to wear contacts while giving birth, and I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I couldn't see real well…all I could see was my giant belly and my V…and C Man was low and in the birth canal, and something just didn’t look right, and I was on pain meds, so I didn’t entirely have my wits about me, and I kept saying, “I have pulsating balls! Why do I have pulsating balls? What ARE THOSE?” And then during the contractions, when I was pushing, I kept asking, “Is he coming out of my butt? What is this? Why is he coming out of my butt?!” Strangest, most uncomfy feeling ever. Not only did I think labor gave me balls, but also I was going to be the first woman to birth a child out of her bum bum. Just like Mary, who was the first and ONLY virgin to ever somehow get pregs, I was going to be the FIRST and ONLY to have a child from my anus. I was not very happy about this. Fortunately he found his way out of the right, like, opening.

So there you go. I hope your itch has been properly and duly scratched.
♥'s to you

Updating the Previously Updated

So, this post is going to re-update and explain some things about recent previous posts of mine. Ahem.

So you, ALL OF YOU – where have you freaking been all my life? All of the comments I received on my last blog post; I’ve totally been shrieking out and just LOVING all of the stories I’ve been reading. In fact, yesterday I was at the mall with a friend, and I was literally doubled over laughing in American Eagle, and embarrassment for me on her behalf was eeking out of her pores – but I couldn’t help it! The period stories, the ED stories, and the quirky things you used to do as kids…I love that I know these small pieces about you, my Anonymous Readers. We are connected in some way, however small, through Cyber Land, and it’s been total radness getting to know you more. I hope that you will come out of hiding more often, and I look forward to perusing through your blogs, too.

So I’m like A Guitarist. Ozzy Osbourne or Led Zepplin or whatever, totes get out of the way, cuz here comes BRIE! Whammo.
...And I think I’m turning into a hippie. Like, look at my right hand. Would you say the finger nail polish and ring combo is too much? (I wouldn’t.) However, I’m worried that it is making me look either 1) too emo or 2) like an eclectic sex therapist. What say ye? ...OH wait - back to the inner guitarist in me! So I’ve named her Francesca, and we are in love. Her strings are a little hard to finger, and we’ve been having some issues, but we’re working through them, and I really think our relationship is going to blossom. I’m starting lessons with a bunch of 10 year olds just after the New Year, and I look forward to the humiliation. It’ll be humbling and character building, right? ;) I can now almost play Brick without going too slowly or too awkwardly. I’m having fun. [insert happy emoticon]

So I’m trying not to be a “spoiled little princess” anymore. I’m, like, trying to clean, and though I haven’t cooked anything yet, other than my Hot Pockets in the morning, and popping open a can of Diet Coke, I’m kinda sorta counting that as making progress, haha, bahahaha. So I kinda like being a princess though, because I like fashion and clothing, and who doesn’t like a good back rub and having palm tree fronds waved near them when they are too hot? I also like being fed grapes. So what, right? ;) So I think I’ll keep some of the inner princess, but try, to, like, fire a couple of my maids and join in on the housework. Life is all about compromise, right?

I f i n a l l y got a new phone upgrade last night – I got the new Sidekick LX 2009 or some shizola like that; whatever. But she’s purplish brownish pinkish and I really really think she’s a neat broad. I have as of yet to name her. I’m thinking I’ll go with something feminine and obvious that just tickles me – like Violet. Yes, I like that. Violet and Brie, keeping up with friends; social networking; stayin’ cool, keepin’ fresh. We make a good team! Here’s a pic I took with her last night on my way home from the T-Mobile store where I adopted her. The camera phone is so much better than my previos phone's, so I may be taking a lot more, who knows, stay tuned! She has a greeeeaaaaat flash, cuz mama was seeing bright lights for about 5 minutes after said pic was taken.

I love you all! Even you lurkers out there – I don’t know you and I hope you’re not creepy, but I still like you and I hope you come out of the woods more. I like making new friends. :) Have a fun day, peeps!

PSers I'm so behind on blogs but I promise I'm getting to them. Don't be mads or sads, okay?

My name is Brie and I approve of this message.

You Scratch my Back, I'll Scratch Yours

Dear Readers,

I know there are a lot of you out there that I don't know, or have never commented.
Yet.
You know so much about me. And that not be fairsies, right?
So.

Leave me a comment, and tell me something - anything - about yourself. It could be about that one time you started your period in 6th grade and you had to stuff toilet paper in your unders cuz you didn't know what else to do, or it could be about your first kiss, or hell, even your natural hair color. Tell me anything, inane or scintillating or both.

I look forward to your comments, bitches.

With gratitude and warm regards,
Brie from Blogxygen

Strings

Big B got me a guitar and guitar lessons for Christmas. My vain hope is that I will be better at this stringed instrument than I was, at, say, the cello.
When Bster took this pic, I was playing Brick,by Ben Folds Five. Don't get too excited, apparently it's like the easiest song to play. But still. I am playing (something other than anorexia, cackle cackle). I'm soaking in my potential wondefulness right now.

My street cred has (once again!) been raised a couple notches, because guitar players are like the coolest people I don't know, and I am feeling good, because I’m hardcore, and I've decided to try it on for size and play with it a little. Look at me. Look at the hardcoreness! Bask in it, baby.

Time, Inevitably, Passes...

October 2007 , C at 14 months old --> December 2009, Cade 40 months old (luuuurve this new family pic, by the way. It's totally blow-upable material. Mama's gonna get on that.)

/nobr>

Cade and Mommy at zoo, June 2007, C Dude 11 months old --> C Man making friends with Teddy. Teddy is old and gross and like passed down by moldy generations, but C Baby is 40 months old.
N/nobr>
Wow.
Life passes quickly. Let's live it to it's fully extent, 'mkay?
Anorexia, Schmanorexia, be gone! Poof!

(still a little ^highwith the benzos. Insomnia blows. But the blowness
factor does not even rival the whole nightmare factor. So I prefer Door 1, as opposed
to Door 2, please and thank you.)

A Romance Sparks a Remembrance of a Relapse

At Target the other day, while perusing the books, I saw this:

[Holy alliteration of fury in the title of my post! And you KNOW how much this broad luuuurves alliteration!]

...and I laughed. I scoff at smutty sex novels, and the title only affirms the scoffability factor:
Tall, Dark, and Hungry? Really? I mean really?
And then I cackled to myself as I thought that Hey, Brie, that's exactly what you used to be:

TALL, DARK, and HUNGRY. Really, really hungry.

Dear Kendall,

Today is Christmas Eve. I wish more than anything that you were here today; here inside me. The holidays are really hard without you here. I am sad and anxious and ANGRY without you here. It just doesn’t seem fair.

I am just so sorry, Kendall. That word: SORRY – it’s not enough, so inadequate for that I’ve done, and that I could not keep you safe and protected from harm as I should have, being your mother. I can only hope and pray that you know what is in my heart and soul – that is the Christmas gift I would like to give you – that you can see and know that your wounded and broken mommy loves you so much and never meant you any harm. I really, really hope that you know that. I pray that God will give you that understanding; that one small piece of knowledge about your mother.

So, Kendall, Merry Christmas to you. Merry Christmas from the bottom of our hearts, from your family that has yet to meet you.

Merry Christmas, Little Sis!

Merry Christmas, Sweet Daughter.

Merry Christmas, Baby Girl.

I miss you so much.

You are good. You are my daughter.
And I love you.

xoxo,
Mommy

Creepy Christmas

So I was all set this morning to write a poetic and inspiring Christmas message, but then something awfully creepy happened to me this morning, and it’s much more entertaining to write about than the PEACE! and JOY! and GRATITUDE! post I was about to write. Eh. I’ll get to that a little later; I have a much more pressing matter at hand:

So this morning: I was getting in the elevator for work, and I get off on the 2nd floor. (Mama can’t take the stairs cuz her lungs be bad.) I was in the elevator with a man I recognize, because we often get to work at the same time, and happen to get on the elevator together startlingly often. I do not work with him or know his name or anything about him; I only know he gets off on the 6th floor. I nodded to him in greeting, and then looked just about everywhere in the elevator except at him since it was awkward and he’s a stranger (danger!). As I was getting off on my floor, he blurted, “I wish you got off on a higher floor, because I think you’re gorgeous, and it’d be nice to LOOK AT YOU LONGER.”

Holy crapola.
Merry Christmas to me?
Yeah, NOT.
I have the ijjer jijjers. (Shivers.)

The Royal Treatment

Today, in therapy, Big B and The T told me that I am a “spoiled little princess.”

Ouchies.

Annual Brown Family Christmas Party

My sister documented it better than I ever could. Click here to read all about it.

...and if you're interested, here's a recap from last year's party - I just re-read it and was a roarin'. :)

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Today is Day Two of potty training Cade. It SUCKS it is hell get me out of here, for realsies. Wow talk about roughness. But we are finally making some progress:

Earlier today we had just had a huge drama-fest on the toilet where he fiiiiinnnnaaaallllly went (a huge) poop, and I was laughing and kissing his tears away and telling him I was so proud of him, and he was so brave, and I loved him and I loved his poop, blah blah blah yakkity schmackity.

So we then went upstairs to visit the 'rents, and were looking at the presents under the Christmas tree. (I figured since he'd just gone, he wouldn't need to go again for awhile.)

Suddenly, he says, “Mommy, my peeps hurts!” (His cue for saying I GOTTA GO NOW!)

So I grabbed him, tucked him under my arm like a football, and sprinted down the stairs, barreled into the bathroom, pulled down his pants, and plunked him on the toilet.

And he peed and peed. I was like an awed tourist at Niagra Falls.

Only, from all the lifting and running, I had given myself an asthma attack. Like, an acute one. Potty training my child gives me asthma. In what warped world is that okay?

Potty training: WIN
Asthma: LOSE

Eh. I’ll take what I can get!

Let's Get Real

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day?…"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child [or a sister or brother or spouse or friend] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

--Excerpt from The Velveteen Rabbit, written by Margery Williams

I’m becoming Real. With Kendall’s death, with my eating disorder LITERALLY almost taking my life, and then my soul, and then coming back from that. I am becoming Real by being a mother, and crying when Cade cries, and silently praying to God to heal his bladder and kidneys and emotional trauma he has suffered as a result. I am becoming Real because my husband and son love me, and I love them. I am becoming Real because life hurts. But would I really have it any other way? No freaking way.

...Because as the Skin Horse so wisely says, “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.” Because you know that the hurt you experience will match, one day, the joy you will feel.

No, Tragus is not a City in Africa

...it's a part of your ear.
And I got it pierced, baby.

Observe:

Waiting in anticipation (with a teeeeensy bit of fear in there) for it to happen...

Needle going in...


It really wasn't so bad - the tragus is all cartilage, so it really didn't hurt all that bad. What really hurt was him trying to put in the earring hoop afterward (which I have to wear for 6 weeks until I can put a cute little diamond stud in it.)

OUCH.

Mother EFFER!

Blood=HARDCORE

Breathe, Brie, Breathe...

After: I loves it!

Twilight Tee-hee-hee’s

I’ve read all the Twilight books. And, yeah, I’ll give it to ya that they were entertaining. Stephenie Meyer can’t write better than your average doorknob, but the chick can certainly get you hooked with plot and character development. Go her. (NO I'M NOT JEALOUS OF THE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS SHE HAS MADE OFF HER BOOKS.)

And yet, I cannot be obsessed with the books and movies like most others. I largely started reading the books because many will look back on this time and study our obsession with the series and, I think, I need to be apart of this. I mean, my major was (Is? Hopefully?) American Lit, and how could I not study the current epitome of American Lit? Right? Have I lost you? Is the Book Nerd in me making you want to back away from me slowly? I know, sorry. I scare off a lot of people when I start talking this way. Le sigh.

When I saw New Moon and was sitting next to my brother, we were laughing and mostly making jokes about it (most too dirty to post here). Brother was on my right; some girl I didn’t know was on my left. And she joined along with us in the joking. I decided right then and there that this chick was supersupercool and we could totally be friends on The Outside. I wanted to ask for her number afterward but I thought that might sound a little gay.

Anyway. I saw this on another blog today and was roaring. Please, please partake. And cackle with me. (You may need to click to enlarge to read the text.)

The coolest thing I’ve heard in a long time:

From W, my therapist: “You know, every day, more and more, I’m beginning to believe you can recover.”

I had no words.
Just a smile.

This is my A.D.D. Post

I think that this post will have about seventeen-hundred-thirty-two different subjects (*SQUIRREL!) happenin.’ My anxiety is winnin’ today, folksies, and wow, Mama gots The Distractions. Okay. Focus. Let’s get started:

Don’t take your ^benzos and then surf Facebook for an hour or so. You will regret it the next day when you see you messaged your old therapist. (Hi. Is this [insert therapist's name]? This is Brie Breivik. Hi I don't want to say more in case this isn't the right one. Hi. I like your picture. I had a stillbirth a month ago. Bye.) Because when you log onto Facebook the next morning and see what you've done, you will scream. Like you are dying. Because you wish you were dead; wish you were dying of maybe weirdness at your OWN FREAKING WEIRDNESS. (Freak freak I'm a freak!) Oh and then I decide to blame Whit who was awake with me and knew I didn't, like, entirely have my WITS ABOUT ME, and let me peruse FB anyway. What kind of BFF does that?! (One that has a sense of humor, apparently. Cuz if our sitches had totally been reversed I'd have let her do it too, then laugh and laugh and then dance in her tears.)

When I walk into the bathroom at work, I slink all low and bend my legs and like awkwardly penguin walk past the other stalls into a stall at the far end in case someone else is in another stall, cuz I'm so effing tall they'd see my head bobbing along past their stall. (This happened once and they actually SAID HI TO ME WHILE THEY WERE PEEING.) And who wants to know who is next to you changing their tampon or tinkling or whatever? Sick.

This morning I got my ear cartilage (re)pierced. I did it because a) it’s cute but MOSTLY because b) I wanted to feel some pain that didn’t count as me, like, hurting myself. The chick used the ear gun and pulled the trigger and it DIDN’T EVEN HURT. I was like, “That’s it? What a waste of 20 bucks.” (The left ear is the one that means I'm not gay, right? Right? Guys?)

‘Dis bitch gained a leeettle weight. “This is one small step for my thighs; one giant leap for my well-being.”
Or something.

And finally, I leave you with a couple pics.
This one is for Betsy.
and
It’s a long story.

Whit and I are totally hetero; the gropage was totally innocent. (And fun!)

This pic was snapped last night of my man-child. Does he look like a product of poor parenting skills because

a.) He is not in a car seat. (Be cool it was only around the block, in Whit’s Brave Little Toaster, within the neighborhood – Husband had my car and thus his booster seat)
b.) Mommy cheated and put him to bed the easy way, letting the car lull him to sleep, rather than having to scissor-lock (yeah, I know my wrestling moves) him in his toddler bed until he finally gives up and closes his eyes – and really, we’re pretty evenly matched once the fight(s) begin (and we might even be in the same weight category, if this were a legit wrestling tournament, haHA ;). Mom does not always win these matches. It be rough.
c.) Where his head and breathing pathway was, I know not. Or
d.) I was laughing my ass off when I saw him.

You will not be graded on your answer(s) to this quiz. Breezy just wants to get a feel for what you think. ;)

SQUIRREL!

*You’re totally lame if you don’t know where this comes from…

A Bowel Beseechment

Dear Bobbi,

Just droppin’ a line to ask you to do me a solid and not, like, do another solid unless it is, like, within the confines of your litterbox.

Cade is so not happy with his sheet situation right now.

I know the conditions are not ideal. I know you wish Daddy would change your litter, and you think Hairy takes too long in there, and hell, I’d hate having to tiptoe around in all my old and spongy poopies, too.

BUT YOU’RE A CAT.

So tough shit. (Pun absoresolutely intended!)

Love,
Mommy

Already Gone

Yesterday was a hard day. My need for Kendall sparked hot and fast and quick inside me, and before I knew it, the pain and mourning was more than I felt I could bear. The guilt I carry for her death, her absence; it’s everywhere, permeates every room and every thought I occupy.

Yet I act happy. I smile and say I'm okay! And doing just fine! Thanks for asking! And I put on makeup and nice clothes everyday and put my hair in hot rollers and look suave and put together and freaking fake it. Even today, I did this. Am I doing this to survive, to literally get through my days; my life, or am I doing this to hide, create yet another new mask that I am so good at placing myself behind while watching, hidden? I do not know the answer(s) to this question.

So I continue to do what I do: mourn Kendall in private, or with the few I trust, then smooth my hair and my clothes and tell myself sternly No more crying, Brie, and then step out of the bathroom, put on a smile, and perform.

I'm getting so tired of it. Yet there is no other choice, no other way. Life goes on. And so I must.

This morning as I was driving to work, Kendall sang me this song. At least, I’d like to think she would say this to me if she could.

Dear Mommy,

Already Gone lyrics*
As sung by Kelly Clarkson

Remember all the things we wanted
Now all our memories they're haunted
We were always meant to say goodbye

Even with our fists held high
It never would've worked out right
We were never meant for do or die

I didn't want us to burn out
I didn't come here to hold you, now I can't stop

I want you to know that it doesn't matter
Where we take this road someone's gotta go
And I want you to know you couldn't have loved me better
But I want you to move on so I'm already gone

Looking at you makes it harder
But I know that you'll find another
That doesn't always make you want to cry

…You know that I love you so; I love you enough to let you go

Love,
Kendall

*Song shortened by yours truly to avoid repetitive verses

...Maybe Kendall is trying to tell me that "someone's gotta go," and it was her, and not me, and I need to stick around and get through this for Brandon and for Cade and for me. Yes, for me, too.

She's already gone. But I am here. Yes. I am here.
Okay. Deep breath. Here goes.

Wholesome is the New Gay

Tonight Mama gots a little confused:

You know you’re a bad (or stupid) (unobservant, maybe?) (*cotton-headed ninny-muggin, perhaps?) LDSee (or am I an LDSer? Am I the ee'er or the er'er in this sitch?) living in Utah when you see two well-manicured looking guys eating together (and alone) at a restaurant and assume they’re gay.
…Only to realize they are, in fact, missionary companions.

There they were, like, preaching The Word, and I’m wondering what kind of hair gel #1 uses because his tidy little faux hawk looks so good and where I can procure it for Husband, and also thinking that #2’s jacket looks really classy and stylish. (I wish Brandon would wear that type of jacket, she thinks, sighing.)

Sorry, Big Guy Upstairs, for the confusion. But but BUT real proud of You for making approachable looking servants. Go You!

*extra love goes to the commenter(s) that can name the movie that phrase comes from

I love this Christmas story so much, I wanna take it behind the jr. high school & get it pregnant.

So, at work for the holiday season, HR sent out an email asking people to think of some of their favorite Christmas memories or traditions, and share them at our monthly staff meeting. Twin brother (and coworker) told me I should come up with something, since I like to write, and, to my surprise, I did come up with a little somethin’ somethin’. I mean, we all know that as I am sooooo busy with my dream job of being a receptionist, it was suuuuuper hard to find time to write, but I did; wow.

Along with one other whopping employee.
Out of about a hundred of us.

Now, you know me. You know that my memory wasn’t going to be sappy, or tearful, or even inspiring. Because that’s not how I work. I go for laughter. (And I had my boss all ready to start doing a pity laugh, so that in case no one else did, at least I’d get something.) But I did not need his pity laugh. I had them all rolling around on the floor roaring, thank you very much. (Score 10 self-esteem points for the Briester!)

…So, I’d like to share with you all the Christmas memory that I just read to my coworkers. It’s a goodie. (Don’t let the length daunt you. Have I ever let you down with a good story?) And even if you do hate it or think it's boring SHUTUP ABOUT IT because this is, like, for posterity's sake.
-----
Back when Brett and I and all of our siblings were younger, every Christmas Eve, to our utter dismay, our mom liked to host a talent show of sorts. Now, you need to understand that our family is spectacularly talentless. We do not sing or dance, or throw batons, or play the violin or even do magic tricks. My nine siblings and I have decided that only one of our siblings, our sister, Misty, who is married to our brother-in-law and co-worker,B, took all the talent from the rest of us – she is an absolute and literal genius at playing the piano. She gleaned all the talent from us, we decided, no kidding. So, naturally, she loved the talent show, because she, you know, actually had talent, and could bask in the glory as we’d all listen and sing along as she played beautiful and mesmerizing Christmas carols. Afterward, perhaps another brother or sister would plunk out an elementary song on the piano, glaring at our mom all the while because she was making them do it. One brave soul sang a song that was painfully off-key. (Silent Night has some ^high notes that the Brown family does not have the ability to hit!) So let’s be honest, we were all pretty mediocre. But we did it because Mom made us – and Mom always had the last word. So there it was. Brett and I had to perform; had to come up with some sort of talent. What on earth were we going to do?

Well, that year Brett and I were only ten years old and in the 5th grade, and we’d started taking cello lessons the year before, in 4th grade. Neither of us was thrilled at the aspect of playing the cello at all, but Mom thought it’d be good for us to be “cultured.” As if playing Kumbaya really badly on the cello could culture us, but whatever.

So, that Christmas Eve, in the year 1994, our mom had the brilliantly disastrous idea in her head that Brett and I should play a cello duet for the family. I was adamantly against this idea and kept refusing, sensing a catastrophe ahead, but Brett, with his usual calm and chilled out demeanor, just shrugged and said, “Sure, let’s do it.” I punched him in the arm and gave him a dead-arm. I didn’t even feel bad because he deserved it for getting us into this mess. (I still don’t feel bad about it, either. He knows why.) So we begrudgingly pulled out our cellos and decided to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star – it wasn’t even a Christmas song, but it was the only song we even knew how to remotely coherently play!

So we hesitantly began the song, and we weren’t even sure our cellos were properly tuned – (why we knew not how to tune our cellos after 1 1/2 years of lessons should demonstrate to you our outstanding ability of cello suckage) and let’s be honest, we sounded HORRIBLE. Not just bad, but like really really really ridiculously bad. Our cello song resembled that of an alarm going off where people panic and start running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Or, like, maybe a cacophony of squealing pigs. Remembering the rendition of our crappy song still makes me cringe. This, I realized, was definitely not going to be one of our finest moments.

And I was right. Immediately, our older brother (the jerk) busted out laughing. And, not, like, this little giggle to himself that he tried to stifle. We’re talking about an all-out cackle – the guy was practically rolling around on the ground roaring. Shortly thereafter, many of our other siblings started to laugh too; it was contagious, laughing at our pathetic display of our supposed “talent.” Mom started yelling at everybody to shut up and swatting whichever kid who was laughing that was within arm’s length. But it was too late. Once the laughing began, it was impossible to control. We were in for it.

I really and truly wished I was like dead, right at that moment, or maybe being mauled by a giant man-eating bear, or something, because I decided ANYTHING would be better than the humiliation my bratty siblings were generously heaping upon me. I bowed my head over my cello, long hair covering my face, and started sobbing. Mid-playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Brett started laughing and waving his cello bow around and posing for pictures; he was absolutely un-traumatized with the less-than-impressed crowd.
So…If you didn’t know already, you’ll all know now that Brett and I have very different personalities. I’m much too sensitive, while my twin brother could and still can effortlessly brush off other people's poor opinions of him. Man they were being jerks and he didn’t even care!

So naturally, I dramatically ran out of the room crying, all the while sobbing, I did my best, I did my best, and after Brett had performed for the tough crowd a little longer, loving every minute of it, he came over to me, where I was dramatically sprawled on the stairs, bawling, and he put his arm around me, and like the sweet brother he’s always been, and said, “It’s no big deal, Sis. You did do your best.” And I had, which is the pathetic thing. And Brett, like always – then and even now, made me feel better. He always can.

After that fateful Christmas Eve, I never played the cello again; I absolutely refused to ever go back to lessons, though Brett made a valiant effort for another year. Along with Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, he also eventually learned to play This Land is Your Land. Two songs in two years. Go him!

Every Christmas, without fail, my brother (who instigated the laughing-fest back on that momentous Christmas Eve) suggests Brett and I pull out our old cellos and play them a lovely tune. Brett laughs, and I do too, but secretly I am plotting his demise. One day I will have major payback. I await patiently. And he’ll know why, oh, he’ll know why.

So it’s been 15 years since that Christmas Eve, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. And I, for the record, will never ever make my child play the cello.

Or perform in a talent show.

Our family’s Christmas Eve talent show, in the years following, has never been quite so eventful. And it’s also never again involved cellos, so, so fortunately.

Thirsty

What? We were out of the cans.

Make a Life

Last night I watched the film, Julie & Julia. I didn't absolutely adore it, but I didn't loathe it, either. It gave me no love for cooking, and all the food and repetitive repetitive repetitive cooking and chomping away certainly didn't cure my anorexia (especially the "boning the duck" scene) oh and (you have NO IDEA how many jokes Husband could come up regarding the phrase "boning the duck" I was amazed at his skills but also totally eewyed out) as well as the sad little lobster murders.

BUT.

It renewed my L O V E for this blog. (And let's be honest, it left me a little jealous too, because she had a famous, amazing blog and gazillion times a billion times all of my readers combined.) My blog is not famous, nor will it ever be. Showtime will never make my blog into a mini-series. I doubt I will ever make money on this blog. But to me, it's amazing. To me, Blogxygen loves me as much as I love it, almost as if it is a dear friend, a confidant. (Yes, you can laugh at me now, I'm cool 'wid it.) Regardless, it has saved me. It has given me my quirky writing style. It has given me confidence to finish the novel I have been writing for two years. I've known since as long as I could read and write that I would be a writer. I may not have published anything yet, but nearly every day, I put these words out there for the world to see. I make myself vulnerable, I make myself real. I am not published, but my words are being read. I AM A WRITER. And I love Blogxygen for that.

Julie & Julia reminded me that people read my blog, even if I've never met you, and even if you've never commented. And by you, my fun little friends, reading this, you are connected to me, and I, to you. Many of you probably never comment, but you know this quirky, sometimes desperately sad, funny, working-through-the-shit-in-life chick. And I pray every night that I am making a small difference in this world, and especially in your worlds. Because you certainly have changed mine.

On Saturday I was making a to-do list; with Christmas around the corner (Where did the time go?! Fetch, man.) I've had so much to do. So I was quickly scribbling all the things that needed to get done before 1 pm, and my mom said, "Oh Brie, don't forget to put getting a lunch on your list." (A sigh, grumpily.) It was the last item on my list - sadly, the farthest from my mind. But I obediently jotted it. And this, somehow, is what I wrote - as I was distracted by the convo Whit and my mom were having:

I wrote, make a life. Talk about a Freudian slip, eh? (make a lunch, make a life...) How many times have I heard the phrase, from countless therapists and dieticians and friends and family, that FOOD=LIFE? I've heard it. A lot. But it is true, as much as it sucks. So, that's what I'm going to do. Make a life. A real one. One that does not involve starving myself and wasting away so I take up as little space as possible. I'm going to make a valiant effort to not look like this anymore (like, people say I'm just a teensy too skinny)

(although seriously check out my belt it was like $125 and is pretty damn saaaa-weet.)

and focus on my amazinglicious, wiser-than-his-years husband

and my perfect son

...and learn to mourn Kendall in a way that does not slowly kill me.

In short, (HA! This post is annnnything but short :) I'm going to make it. Make a life.

With your help, and with the help of Husband and Cade and Kendall and my family and my friends. I'll do it. Oh, and with the ayudame of the therapist. I NEED the therapist, haha.

So, as some chick at CFC used to say, I'm going to use God and my Skills. Cracks me up every time, but hey, it's true.

So help me. I need and want your comments; love; support. This Girl's blog you read is a pretty closed off person. I can be somewhat open because largely I feel anonymous in this forum. But I am real. I am Brie. And I am hurting and I am finally, after years and years of this, admitting it. Admitting I have a problem. Getting out of denial. Admitting I need help, that I can't do it all on my own. This Girl, wow. This Girl has made The Realization: she can make it.

So thanks for reading this. Thanks for loving me. Thanks for supporting me.

Now go MAKE A LIFE of your own.
And I can't wait to read about it.

I love him.

Mommy & Cade, December 2009

We’ve Got Each Other’s Backs, Yo

--A loyal friend laughs at your jokes when they're not so good, and sympathizes with your problems when they're not so bad. ~Arnold H. Glasgow

--A good friend is a connection to life - a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world. ~Lois Wyse

And lastly, BUT best of all:

--Friends are the turkey bacon bits in the salad bowl of life. ~Whit & Brie

Believe

I woke up this morning, and I was grumpy, naturally, at having to go to work and actually get dressed, and, like, function. I walked in the bathroom at 6 am to pee and didn’t turn on the light because it was too bright; besides, peeing in the dark is fun. (What? I'm so peetarded.)

ANYWAY...I then turned on the shower and jumped in. And when I got out to towel myself off, I (finally!) saw a surprise that I had managed to miss in all my pissy work sucks I want to go back to sleep and eat an I-suck-I-kinda-wish-I-was-dead-cuz-I-don’t-believe-life-can-get-better sandwich. (With avocados, and hold the mayo, please.)

Brandon does not want to partake of that sandwich. And he refuses to make it for me.

Instead, he made me this. (It wasn't a sandwich, but it was still amazing. Although let's be honest, I really could use a sandwich, haha. ;) While I was sleeping, he did something to make me believe.

I BELIEVE IN BRIE, it says.

I BELIEVE. I believe life can get better. I believe I can live a life on earth without Kendall.

I BELIEVE LIFE CAN GET BETTER. "Because she gets what she wants. And she wants to get better."

YOU CAN DO IT. Cade scribbled that Mommy can do it, too.

BRIE...I will do it. I can do it. I believe. And I know you all do, too. Believe in me, I mean.

I believe in all of you, too. You can do it. Just as I can.