10 Things I Can Do For You

Well that one special day has arrived again! It's Bren's birthday! Let's all send a collective wish of many happy returns to "The Man".

Dearest, Deary, Dear Bren,

I love you so much. There is no gift that I can give that will equal my love...so....for your birthday...I am giving you the best of me. The best that I can do...which is about 10 things.

1. I will not yell at you if you sing really really badly in the car TODAY.

2. I will not cower under my seat belt if you dance really really badly in the car today.

3. I will not tell you to "act normal" today.

4. I will not stare you down and wait for you to excuse yourself after you fart today...and if you blame it on the cats...I will believe you.

5. I will not get angry if you are simultaneously watching baseball, playing a computer game, and listening to music (really really loudly) TODAY. I can't promise about tomorrow.

6. I will beer you and not complain...even if I already sat down. But just today.

7. I will watch whatever movie or TV show you want even if it has Weird Al in it (or Arnold, or Bruce, or Jackie, or Mel, or Harrison). Today...but probably never again.

8. I will not ask you to wash your hands or if you washed your hands or check your hands to see if they need to be washed. (please just wash them on your own...kay?)

9. If there are dead rodents on the front path in the morning...I will not ask you to "chuck them in the woods"...take a day off...you can do it tomorrow. Hey...it's your birthday.

10. And lastly...I will give you the best of me...the best that I can do...today...without complaint, without any drama, and without regret. (Hell...it's only one day...and it's YOUR DAY!!!!!)

Because...Brendan, you give me the best of you everyday. Without complaint, without any drama (weeelllll????) and without regrets (I hope), and you DON'T wait for a special day. Thank you for all that you do, all that you give, and all that you are. I wish it was kosher for women to give their husband's cheesy jewelry because you'd be gettin' a diamond heart shaped pendant right about now. Instead...just look up...cuz' those 10 things up there...are for you.

Oh, and tonight at dinner...at the fancy schmancy restaurant I'm taking you to...

# 11. You can eat as fast as you want and I won't yell at you to stop and breathe! I also won't check to see if the other diners are watching how fast you are inhaling your food. And if they are watching...I won't care. I'll wave and smile and nod and give them a thumbs up to show them that I am proud to have you as my husband...my husband that I love...and that eats really really fast! (which can be really annoying and infuriating to watch...but today...I won't care...or I will act like I don't care) CUZ' HEY BRENDAN...IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!! I hope I get to hear your parents singing that song on the answering maching again this year. It really is a great tradition.

I love you Bren. Happy Birthday My Love. May all of your wishes come true.

That's all for now,

Love,

Mrs. Bratty Pants

Belly Button Asshole???

Everyone loves a kitty cat. Everyone loves kitty cat tattoos. Everyone has a belly button. Everyone has an asshole. So....in theory...everyone should love a hairy kitty cat asshole tattoo on their belly button...right? WRONG!!!

I get the whole tattoo thing. It's body art...it can be beautiful, or significant, or a memorial...or it can be....that tattoo up there. (I have no words) But...how do you explain this to your children? How do you explain it to the doctor performing your appendectomy? What do you say to your grandmother at the next beach party? What would they say to you?

"Thank God you don't have an outie?"

I love my cats. They are my "children". I see their assholes often. But never...have I imagined one day adding that vision...permanently...in ink...to my middle. But hell...maybe this guy did so his cats would be forced to see what he does everyday? Yeah???? Maybe that's it.

Well this guy's love of assholes is evident. I prefer to love my kitties by the front end...but what do I know? Maybe when they die, I'll feel different. So...I guess I should start working on growing out my belly hair now...just in case. PURRR....

That's all for now,
Brandi

Ronald McDonald Gets "The Talk"...

Once upon a time....my father brought me to McDonald's for "dinner". I must have been about...oh, I don't know...12 or 13. I ordered the "usual" Chicken McNuggets (BBQ, Sweet n Sour, and Hot Mustard). We took our grease and salt and sat on the spinning plastic chairs next to the watercolor of Grimace and the Hamburglar. And there...under the Golden Arches...next to a life size statue of Ronald McDonald himself...my father...gave me "the talk".

Oh wow! I remember feeling the salty fries sticking in my throat. I remember the watercolor painting dancing in my peripheral. I remember the underside of my eyelashes seeming very interesting...don't look up...don't look up.

"If you are going to have sex...use a prophylactic", he said.

Shit...shit...shit!!! Uh...ok...Bueller? Anyone? GULP. Breathe. GULP. Profa what?

"Uh...what's a prof-a-lastic?" Why? Why? Why?

"A condom Brandi...A CON-DOM."

Swallow, breathe, look up. Pause...casual shoulder shrug...

"Um-kay".

And that was it. That was the talk. Along with the Morman Teenagers Bible (we are not Morman) that preached praying instead of touching yourself... just use condoms...that's all he said. (The one time my dad didn't hide behind the big gray chair when "God's Followers" knocked on the door...was the day they were selling Teen Bibles...how did he get roped into that one?)

...We went home...and that was the day that Ronald McDonald lost his innocence. And from then on...any time I heard a word beginning with the PROF sound (proofread, professor, profess, profound) I always thought of condoms.

Fast forward to high school health class a few years later. Mrs. Can't Remember Her Name rolling a condom on a cucumber. She says to, "roll the prophylactic down the shaft and save room for a little "reservoir" at the tip. And there I sit...tasting Chicken McNuggets and salty bile, again starring at the underside of my eyelashes and picturing Ronald McDonald with a condom on his red and gold clown junk.

I am forever tainted. I get it all mixed up. Condoms and proofreading. Cucumbers and clowns. Latex and Grimace. Ribbed for her pleasure, Mrs. Can't Remember Her Name, my Dad, and me at Mickey D's sharing a shake, eating apple pie, and teaching good ol' Ronnie all about safe sex AND ba da dant dant da....we're LOVIN' IT!

That's all for now,
Brandi

P.S. Don't worry Dad...I still like Mickey D's. I think you turned Ronald McDonald gay...but I'm cool. Thanks.

The Innocense And The Gall Of A Child...

My niece is nine years old. She has a giggle that tickles my funny bones. She has a shrieking scream that can tickle my nerves. Jadyn. I love her as my own....she loves her Uncle Brendan more. Figures.

Jadyn is insightful. I wish I could take just a small peek into her kaleidoscope mind. She sees things at 9 that some will never see by 90...and my favorite thing...she hasn't yet learned the fear of saying them. Which, yes, I guess could be a bad thing...but for her...for me, it is utterly pure, innocent, and truth divine.

She questioned my sister if, "Aunt Brandi could have babies?" "Of course, why?", my sister asked.

"Because her boobies are so small."

At her rosy age, she realized that my small little knockers (maybe more like door bells) could starve a child...and oh how my sister loved it. Me...always the butt of a boob joke. 32 AA bitches. And when I have kids...they can suck it! Jadyn told her mother that she wanted her boobies to be like Aunt Brandi's and stay small forever...I give her another year, and then she'll have outgrown me. I guess I'm lucky my husband isn't a boob man...though I don't have a butt either...so he must be a nose man...I got a big one of those.

On a random car ride on a random day...my niece announced that, "sharks are little bastards!"

I'm sure it was incredibly difficult for my sister to maintain any semblance of composure. I know I couldn't have. But...she's right. Right? Sharks are indeed "little bastards". Where she learned that word...I couldn't know. Bastard being one of the many curse words that my family doesn't often use. We tend to pepper our conversations with the lesser four lettered kind. But that she knew how to use it...astounds me. She cursed...well. She used it right. I'm kinda proud of her.

I remember babysitting one night...the hours passing by as Jadyn tested my patience...in and out of bed. There was a movie playing in her room...I could her the dull murmur of annoying sing song. Out she came again...into the bathroom...quiet as a mouse. Then back to her room...and time went by. She was still. It was peaceful. I, being the intuitive kind of auntie, went to check up...and there in the flickering primary colored glow of the TV screen sat my niece...only not my niece. I flicked on the light...and there she sat on her navy blue sheets surrounded in powders and make-up...her face a prism of rouges and shame. I carried her into the bathroom and set her on a stool. I took a washcloth to her war paint and asked, "JJ...why did you do this?"

"I just wanted to be beautiful", was what she replied.

My heart ached. I wanted her to understand...and as insightful as she is...she may never understand. And to her I say it here and now...

Jadyn,

My wonderful smiling girl...you are beautiful. You have a beautiful laugh, a beautiful heart, and a beautiful mind. Chapstick, lipstick...whatever...you will never need...your mouth upturned in a smile is perfect enough. Your cheeks when they are flushed from laughter is the only color you will ever need. Your pretty eyes bright in wonder are the thresholds into your heart, and they need no painted door.

My boobies...Mommies boobies...your boobies...they are all just right. And as long as it's your mind that grows...the rest just doesn't matter. Bigger or smaller, they will fit you, and you will probably hate them no matter what you get.

And yes...sharks are little bastards. But don't say that word. You are better than that word. Stick to the 4 letter ones (when you get older)...they are way funner to say. And sharks won't hurt you...unless provoked...so don't provoke them and you should be cool.

I love you my little one. You are not mine...but I am yours, and I am always here. I will always come bearing magazines for your to play with...if that will make you smile. Your heart is too simple to read...but your mind is a mystery. Your mystery intrigues me...and I thank you and love for that.

Love always,

Aunt Brandi

...and that's all for now

QCP Parties and Getting Old?

So this weekend I went up to Vermont for a "little" family reunion. Once large fiestas with blinking shirt pins and falling trees...the Queen City Park reunion was rather mellow this year. Don't get me wrong...it wasn't a total snoozer...I did get felt up by my drunk uncle, and at one point my aunt did whip off her bra to revel rather perky ta ta's on that chilly day. But...we had all changed in the years since we had last gathered to eat, drink and be merry.

Yes, we had all gotten older. Hair was graying. Skin less tan than before. My mother and I compared varicose veins...we bonded. Even the dogs had aged. The once young pups full of slobber and kisses were slower, hollower, and shaking. The time has ticked by without my realizing...yet again.

I have been thinking a lot lately about getting old. I wonder what I'll be like. Will I be as scared to die then as I am now.

I picture myself...my organs and skin all stitched together over crackling bones...snot rags up my shirt sleeve...the smell of moth balls on my underwear. Will I still be with Brendan? Will we mash our toothless gums together in a frenzy of rickety kisses? Will we still be able to gaze upon each other blind to the beauty that has been lost...blind to the years that have gone by...or will we just be blind? I picture Brendan in a sweater cardigan...half bald...liver spots and paper thin chicken skin-tea baggin' his balls in the toilet cuz' he has to sit down to pee...I picture this and smile...because it is a comfort...that if he is ever that old...at least he is still around. It would be amazing to hear his singing voice at 90. Will he still be wiggling and whistling? We will most certainly still have cats...but will we have gone through all of the Roman emperors to name them after?

I can't imagine what it will feel like to be...old. Will I enjoy my wisdom? Will the loss of color in the world make it any less beautiful to see? Will I be able to appreciate the wrinkles...the ones that are marked scars upon my face that were ironed in by every smile, every joy, every laugh? Will I be able to look in my own tired eyes in the mirror and see pass the whitish haze that covers the stories of my youth that I will hopefully remember in my heart? Will I be able to love the topography of my skin...each speckle once a kiss...each popped vein...marking blood shared with the ones I love?

Yes, I am scared to grow old. As it has been happening since the day I was born...I just now have begun to take notice. Those around me are growing old too. I think they look beautiful in their wrinkles and their wisdom. I only hope that I will age with grace and go out with a flurry.

It was an early night on Saturday down in Queen City Park. The corn was sweet. The ribs were phenomenal. The young children colored the day. And though we were all a little changed...the core was still strong. My family was together...and the love was still there.

That's all for now,

Brandi

It's Not Easy Making Green...

It has finally happened. I am ashamed, embarrassed...and a little scared. It happened one day out of the blue (quite literally)...there I was, nonchalantly making a pit stop to the loo...and when I lifted the lid...shock! Dismay! Horror!

MY TOILET WATER IS BLUE! I AM TACKY!

Yes, it keeps the toilet clean. Yes, it is a reminder of the days I lived on St. Thomas VI and I starred out of my front window to an ocean so blue and so beautiful. Yes, it is a lesson in color theory...yellow and blue make green. But...I always have connected blue toilet water to being old. I have blue toilet water...therefore...I am old?

My Grandmother had blue toilet water. My oldest aunt had blue toilet water. See the trend? It has come now to my generation...and my toilet. I'm screwed! I'm not going to take this lying down. There will be no pink toilet paper. There will be no fluffy lid cover or plastic padded seat full of cracks that slice my little ass checks. I will take a stand (or sit).

Brendan did it. Why Bren? Why? 2000 flushes Bren...2000! If it weren't for water conservation...I'd be up there right now flushing away...but alas...I heart the earth. They sell the clear kind ya know? CLEAR! It's chic, and young, and clean. And not BLUE!

I just get the heebs every time I think of sitting on the toilet...peeing...and that blue chemical water is splashing back up on my perfect unblue ass.

Nobody can come over to my house. You are not invited for at least another 1986 flushes. I ache for the day that Caribbean blue turns to a soft pastel, and I will see you all again. Until then...I may sneak in a couple extra flushes for good measure (don't tell on me).

Blue toilet water...WTF?

That's all for now,

Brandi