Swings Are For Suckers

I can picture myself in one of those fuzzy soft-focus photos...on a swing...feet over my head...all dressed in linen...white Mary Jane shoes. The epitome of freedom...a soaring manifestation of bliss.

Unfortunately, I hate swings. I don't wear linen (it wrinkles)...and Mary Janes aren't in my Payless BOGO budget.

For me, bliss is...my feet over my head in my LazyBoy recliner...wrapped in my knock off Snuggie (yeah, it's a knock off...so f*ckin' what?), slipper socks on my feet. This scenario is so much more appealing...but much more in need of the fuzzy soft focus lens.




I am far from a thrill seeker. "Extreme" anything...is way too extreme for me. If napping was a sport...I'd be Olympic Gold.

I'm boring...I said it. But I am not bored. I enjoy being lazy and snugly and warm. Why do I have to hike my ass up some mountain just to hike it all the way back down? Why do I have to bungee jump off a bridge, when I can just walk over it, then under it...all while standing right side up? I would much rather read a book, get lost in someone else's story. I would much rather write a blog that maybe no one but my sister reads.

I don't care that I'm a boring slob in bathrobe...I'm a happy slob. Not sexy, not perfect, not neat. But what is the fun in being "extreme"...when you can't be "extremely" happy doing nothing. Aha! I've blown your minds!

Me? I picture myself skipping the dishes. I picture myself not vacuuming the floors. I picture my self all soft focus and fuzzy...with my feet above my head (in my LazyBoy recliner), slipper socks and Snuggie...re watching Twilight for the umpteenth time...in perfectly happy, sublimely euphoric...relatively simple but wonderfully "extreme" BLISS...





Oh yeah...and swings are for suckers.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Blog = Posted / Comments = None

This blog thing...I see why they so quickly fall by the wayside.

You rifle through the unremarkable days, awaiting something of note. You rack your brain for some genius spoonful of raspberry flavored insight to offer up to raspberry loving fans.

Then it hits...its time to write. The cursor blinks, the awaiting minion. The page is blank like inside of a gas station "Thank You " card.

Finally the sentences spew forth...black speckles against the glowing white page. Thought accomplished. Daily blog complete.

You contemplate the prospective comments. Voices of the unseen that you toil for. Did they read it? Did they hate it? Were they changed? The comment box counts zero. Zero is a number colored black.

So you prostitute your brainwork to anyone clicking by. Look at me! Look at me! Is is vain to abase ourselves to such levels for a comment on a page? Maybe so...maybe so.

When I told Brendan that I was scared to write a blog. He asked why? I whispered back, "what if nobody reads it?"

"Does it matter?" He replied.

No, it does not matter. My twisted thoughts are personal, but I choose to share them anyway. I do not expect anyone to care or comment. I write for love and...me alone.

Insight isn't an everyday kind of thing. I will wait until there is something halfway profound to say. At least something better...something more. Insight is like a once or twice a week kind of thing. I think. I'll probably still be hawking myself to whomever will stop and listen. Look at me...Look at me! That's the story of a blog.

Until next time, maybe not tomorrow, but maybe so. And don't you worry...I'll let you know.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Sister...You Been On My Mind...Sister We're Two Of Kind...

Sisters are something that only sisters can understand. There is a bond. There is a connection. The blood that runs in one's veins...relatively flows in the other's.

Niki-My Sister,

You carried me as a baby...your little play thing, your doll. My earliest memories are with you...my teetering body held steady by your hands, my little bony butt perched snuggled in your lap.

We shared our father, his love, his wisdom, his temper...his pain. I don't think either one of us could love another man the way we love our father...and only you can understand what I mean by that.

You astound me with the way you love me...the way you show me that you love me...always there at the other end of the line, laughing, joking, crying with me...or for me.

I watch you with your daughter, the hardships that you weather, and I know that there is no other woman that could do it with more compassion, love, and understanding as you do. Your "girl" is a beauty. A little you. She's going to grow up like I did, with someone that will move the heavens for her. I know you feel lucky to have her...your little miracle...but she's lucky to have you too.

I remember the night before my wedding...we stayed up talking so late. You laced the ribbons on my dress in the morning...it was perfect...you there...as always...it couldn't have been anyone else.

We are separated by almost a decade. It has hindered us in the past. As different as we are, I find I enjoy our connection so much more now that I can look back an appreciate all you've done for me, all you do now.

We share the blood of our parents. I feel you in me. A scarlet reminder that you are never far, always warm, and in my heart. You are the strong one...the one that can endure. The one that shows emotions so raw, but so true. It is a gift to cry...to cry for someone else's pain. It makes you the woman you are. In those ways...I...cannot compete.

I shouldn't wait for a special day to say it. I love you my sister. I love you my friend.

Happy Birthday.

That's all for now,

Bonz

What would you do for 10 Million Dollars???

A couple of years ago, I was tuned in to the radio and they were polling the listening audience...what would you do for 10 million dollars? My instantaneous gut reaction...pretty much anything...but the things they had in mind...well....

1. Would you jump in a dumpster full of thousands of needles?

A: If the needles were clean...gimme a boost on in. Acupuncture is said to be therapeutic right?

2. Would you dance through your neighborhood naked?

A: That one is a little harder...but sure...the neighbors could use a good laugh. With the glare off my ass, they might be dazzled into thinking I was a UFO.

3. Would you wear a Merkin to work for one full day?

A: First of all...what the hell is a Merkin? For those of you who don't know...it's a pubic wig. I know, I know...it's a mystery, but if I wore it over my pants...could I get 5 Mil instead?

4. Would you end every sentence you said to someone with, "...And you're a bitch!"

A: Uh...Hell YES! I kind-of do that now (under my breath) since I work in retail.

Ok, I wouldn't do ANYTHING. It's not like I have no sense of shame. But 10 million couldn't hurt in this economy. You could buy a whole lotta o' Merkins and make a really bitchin' coat for when you're freezing your ass off out on the street cuz' you got fired and now have no job or home having spent all of that dough on said pubic wig coat. Merkins are pricey these days. Plus, you'd be even colder with thousands of little needle holes in your skin, and your neighbors would be of no help cuz' you scared their children and burned they retinas with your glow in the dark pasty white skin. (Are we still talking about you?)

I'm keeping my job in retail. I'm keeping my skin intact. I like my neighbors, and their retinas. You can decide for yourselves what you would do for 10 million dollars.

That's all for now.

...And you're a bitch!

Brandi

Dad...You Are The F*ckin' Wind Beneath My Wings...

I remember riding home from ABC Daycare during Vermont "traffic" in our white van smelling of stale smoke and carpet glue. I remember learning to spell from the signs on the side of the road...

Pizza Hut,

Sunoco,

Kuala Muana. (gimmee a break it was a Hawaiian fusion restaurant)

I remember my father peppering that car ride home with words...forbidden words...shouting them at offending drivers abusing the road. I remember practicing those words when I got home, in the basement, in my little red battery powered Cabriolet convertible.

And damn...it felt good.

I have a bit of a potty mouth. Just a little tiny bit. And what I learned...I got it all from my Dad. He has the mouth of a sailor. A bad ass MO FO!

Under his breath,

over the roof,

through the window.

His hand gestures are pretty bitchin' too. I got those down while learning to drive.

There were curses...to this day...I STILL can't figure out...

Jesus H. Christ--------What does the H stand for? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

F*cking A-------(as in "f*cking A, where are my god damn keys?")

A ? I always wondered about that one. Maybe his Canadian roots were just coming out. F*cking Eh? What's that all aboot?

Shit and 2 is 8-----(as in "shit and 2 is 8! I can't believe it")

This one might be my favorite. A math swear!! Creative isn't he? (for all of you math nerds...you have already figured out that, in this case...SHIT = 6)

As a kid...I pushed my luck. I pushed it real good. I would trying sneaking a few curse words into my vernacular every now and again. Dad didn't like that. He said it wasn't lady like for girls to swear. If he only new what I said when he wasn't around.

Dad,

I didn't get you anything for Father's Day. Sorry, I'm broke. I know, I know...you always told me to save my f*ckin' money.

I'll learn one day I swear. (Hee Hee Hee)

I want you to know, Christ...I want the whole god damn world to know...that what you have taught me, kindness, generosity, patience (I'm workin' on that one), honesty, and love...I appreciate more than you will know. You and I butt heads...it's expected when two people are so alike...but we always come back for a second round. They broke the friggin' mold with us.

I wanted to thank you for a few things that make me...well...me.....

Snowmobiles, motorcycles, and the Naudie Lady

Waterskis, Red Rocks, and a Wolf Tree

Having a butt paddle with a painted hand awaiting on top of the fridge, but never really using it.

A bunk bed hanging from the ceiling on chains

4 Oreo cookies for a bed time snack

Showing me to appreciate the smell of a new jar of instant coffee (though sometimes I thought I was born to make you coffee)

Never making me eat Gram's salmon pea wiggle (that shit was alive I swear)

Tennesee Waltz's and Chantilly Lace

Smiling behind your pain

Letting me sleep on your floor when I was convinced I had Ebola after reading The Hot Zone

Teaching me that corn cob backscratchers are the only kind that can get the itch out

...Walking me down the aisle...

I'm saying this in the ladiest like way possible...with a little pink ribbons ... and my heart on my sleeve....

That bitch Bette Midler said it best.....Dad...you ARE the F*ckin' wind beneath my wings.

I appreciate you. I thank you. I miss you.....I LOVE YOU.

Happy your day.

Peace Out For Now F*ckers,

Brandi

Homeless ladies falling down...falling down..falling down.

When you go to a baseball game, you think maybe you may get hit with a baseball. Maybe. You may get hit by some popcorn, or spilled beer. You never expect to be hit by a homeless lady carting her chariot of finerys.

Brendan and I decided to skip the subway and walk straight to the T after the game (the Red Sox won by the way). It's a lovely jaunt from the park. After getting past the stadium, the drunken fans start to fall behind and thin, the air cools and the food smells dissipate. Walking along Commonwealth Ave. is very pretty. The buildings are intricate, the doorways hidden behind ironwork at it's finest. There are chandeliers behind lace curtains, and the car horns seem to silence...knowing they are unnecessary. There is no traffic.

So there we were. All very La Di Dah. We were not noticing the other walkers...when BAM...a homeless lady falls right at our feet. Quickly, oh so quickly, my heart raced and I jumped to her aid. I noticed the braces on both her legs, and her tightly fitting powder blue dirt covered jogging suit. She weighed 250lbs or more. Easy. Her hair was long and raggedy blond, she had glasses. And she was strewn on the sidewalk below.

When something like this happens, to anyone, instinct fires, your heart yelps, you feel sympathy, and of course you help. I ran in front of this homeless woman as she reached for my hand...She reached for my hand...and I blanked. In less than half of a second...I reached back, but not before I saw visions flash before my eyes. Looking down at her hand, I saw painted black acrylic nails topped with countless band aids and scratches. I saw swine flu, and scabies. I saw a contagious portal of disease. But I grabbed it, and pulled.

It took four of us-me, Brendan and two guys passing by to get this woman up. She didn't come easy. There was heavy breathing and me clutching my diet coke bottle in my free hand like I was Samson and it was my hair. "Diet coke gods...give me strength." When she was up...she was off. Not a word, no thank you. We all just continued walking. But I couldn't breathe. I was scared. It had scared me to see a woman fall. It had scared me to think she might be hurt...but worst of all...it scared me that I had hesitated to touch her.

Sometimes human touch is all we have. I wondered how long it had been since someone had touched that homeless lady? She had her cart filled with things, but no hand to hold like I was gripping Brendan's.

The whole walk to the T had changed. I stopped noticing the beautiful buildings beside me. I heard the car horns honking and saw the people all around. The church so stoic shining in the moon was now a lean-to with blanketed shapes in the threshold. I saw the homeless like I had never seen them before. I had to actually be hit by one to really see.

Our short 2o minute stroll down Commonwealth Ave. had provided great insight...this sought after location, with it's chandeliers and iron gates was neither common nor wealthy. I will never live on that street. I could never afford to. But there are those that do, they enjoy it's beauty, it's quiet, it's chandelier's and statues. These people see the street unlike the ones inside those fancy doors...because they live on it...

I imagine that our fallen homeless friend had been doing the same thing that we were...taking a stroll down a quiet street, seeing the sights, imagining the life that she too will never lead. There isn't a big jump from me to her. Not in these times. I just hope, that if someday I fall, there will be a person there...who will not hesitate to hold my hand and pull...

that's all for now,

Brandi

Famous Dicks?

I hate my name. Sorry Mom and Dad. My mother told me that she named me after a character on a soap opera. Now that's classy.

It seems that every time I see a movie, there is a stripper named Brandie. I have yet to perfect my pole dance. My aunt once had a dog named Brandy...I guess that's a step up from stripper. I'm good at sitting.

And spelling it with an "i" at the end? WTF? Do I get any breaks? My grandmother didn't want me to be named after alcohol. I guess she is now rolling over in her grave since I went one step further and married someone with the last name Yeager. Cheers!!

But I guess I don't have it so bad. I could be named Dick. Dick. Who friggin' thought of that one? How did anyone get Dick from Richard? Was Richard once a brooding alcoholic that beat his women, cursed in church, and peed on school property? Did someone whisper to someone else, "hey...that guy Richard...he's a real DICK."???

And how did Dick....well...stick? (I don't think you all knew you were signin' up for real poetry)

I know we all know Richards. How did they become Dicks? Can you imagine holding a newborn baby and cooing,"who's my little Dick, yes you are."? NO, you can't! What parent would do this to their child?

And to all of the Richards who became Dicks in adulthood...uh...hello...scratching wasn't enough? Did you have to wear it on a name tag? Who wants to be a Dick all of his life?

I guess I'll take my stripper name...at least my mother didn't name me something that I could shorten to the female genitalia. "Hello....my name is Vag...may I help you?"

Men just love their junk. They touch it often...display it in tight jeans. They don't greet each other with, "Hello friend, how is your day?" They say, "How's it hangin'?" Classy kind of...

Well...here are some famous Dicks. Let's ponder how they got there.

Dick Cheney...Ok ok, yes, the name fits. He is a real DICK.

Dick Clark...A musical Dick

Dick Tracy...A sleuthy Dick

Moby Dick...Really? Moby? I thought Dick was bad enough.

Dick (from Dick and Jane)...See Dick run. Run Dick run.

and last but not least...

Dick Butkus...A famous Chicago Bears player in the 60's really got the proverbial shaft. Poor poor Dick. His last name is worse than his first. I'm surprised he wasn't a porn star.

I guess I'll keep my name. Please don't sing that horrible song...I hate it! No you can't have a shot of me...no I don't like Brandy, and yes...I think I am a "fine girl".

that's all for now,

Brandi (but in my mind I'm really a Simone)

Ah.....Brendan....not in front of the neighbors...

Ok, so my husband Brendan loves to sing and dance. Love may not be a strong enough word. Brendan is infatuated with music. He can't stop his body from moving. I don't mean just when there is music, because he is usually doing this "performance art" when there is not.

(Brendan on our wedding day)

My husband is the smartest person I know. We are talking photographic memory kind of shit. But when the suit is off....let's say Brendan lives like he is in his own personal musical. This is a constant cause of eye rolling on my part. It's funny to most of our friends, amusing to onlookers, and curious to passersby...but to me...it's my everyday life.

Now I like music, and heck I like a good jig now and again, but I like the quiet too. Ah, there is sweet serenity in silence. I am a creature of the night. It is me at my finest. Me alone. I escape to it because, from the moment I wake up (Brendan "serenading me with James Brown's "Get up...get on uppah") to dinner time (Brendan and his gumbo song "hey gumbo gumbo, hey gumbo gummmmmboooo") to singing along with commercials, music while on the computer, in the shower, in the car and finally the lovely stylings of his snoring nighttime slumber, it is constant. CONSTANT! I am subjected to it. I marinate in it.

And the dancing! It's always at least a foot wiggle, leg shake or neck twist a la Billie Joe Armstrong. The movements, or series of gyrations garner attention that would discomfort the norm...but my husband...left unabashed. It's cliche, but he does march to the beat of his own drum. No...he is the drum, vibrating, echoing, rhythmic.

It gets aggravating...irritating...enraging! It's just mortifying to have to duck in the car when we drive up to a red light. I don't have curtains to keep the neighbors safe.

I have told Brendan to grow up. That men over 30 don't constantly dance and sing. I don't want to be an extra in his Staying Alive musical anymore.

I have been this bitch, this eye rolling bitch that doesn't let loose at inappropriate times. I have been an absolutely self obsessed, self-concious grown-up.

See I take for granted that my husband is basically always happy. He hears music in my silence, he dances while he pees! I am envious! Gone are the days when I sang "A Chorus Line" songs day and night, gone...the nights I snuck out to dance to 80's music with the high ponytail and blue eyeliner. Those were the best times of my life...and my husband...he has that everyday. And why do I care what people think? So he likes Madonna...I mean she IS like a virgin. Why am I embarrassed when Brendan cares not? I don't know...maybe I'm just...jealous? Sometimes...I get this glimpse, unafraid to really see...his soul. He is so free, and happy, and alive. I sit in my bathrobe, fondle the remote control and circumvent any sort of happiness that isn't buttoned up and presentable. Who knows why?

He is going to be an incredible father one day. You know the kind that plays on the floor with his kids. He's going to teach them to laugh at themselves, and be excited when the alarm goes off, a bright and shiny beacon for the day to come (or some hokey shit like that). I can't wait to have this little being in my life that will so love and adore his/her father, because Brendan...is one of a kind.

I probably won't forgive being woken up to horrible James Brown impersonations, I can't stand it when he sings during my favorite tv shows...but I guess he's pretty cool...he's on his own permanent high...forever young. He loves his life. I love him. Brendan...Bren. My husband.


****Just run if you ever meet Brendan when "You gotta fight for your right to PARTY" starts playing****


that's all for now,
Brandi