Duel Living

Swamp Thing....

2010-05-11T19:38:00.055-04:00

My very active husband returned home the other day from a long hike. His shins and thighs covered in large scrapes and dirt, he socks caked in mud, his shoes the hue of dog shit cooked soft in the summer sun. He's an avid hiker. I'm glad he has stopped badgering me to tag along. I don't hike, or run, or ski, or climb, or jump, or bungee.

"Do you like my new water bottle?" he asked.

"Sure, it's great", I say as I glance over to the dirty looking aluminum bottle sitting on the steps beside me.

"Cool", he says...."but you can't throw this one out!"

Let's go back a little ways here. Maybe a month ago my husband came home from one of his numerous hikes and plopped a dirty, scuzzy water bottle swathed in duct tape on to the counter while I was doing dishes. When I asked him "What the HELL is that THING?" He proceeded to tell me he had found it on his hike in the middle of the woods. "SO YOU BROUGHT IT HOME?" I screamed. He whined that it was a perfectly good water bottle...even with the duck tape. If my eyes could have reached out and slapped him, they would have. "You found it in the middle of the woods because it's a piece of shit and some dumbass litterer person threw it away....why in the name of all things holy did you pick it up?" He looked at me and all of his sweetness, his innocense, his heart...was clouded by the most idiotic and asinine comment he could have made to me at that point...."cuz' it still works." "THROW...IT... AWAY", I growled. I could see his mind quickly trying to come up with a good excuse as to why he should not throw the duct taped relic into the trash...but he came up empty...as he should have...because there is no excuse...none.

So back to the present....all cuts, bruises and smiles, he proudly displays his "new" metal water bottle and forbids me to throw it away.

"Why would I throw away your water bottle?" I ask.

"Cuz' I found it in the middle of a swamp while I was lost." he answers.

"WHAT? YOU BROUGHT HOME ANOTHER PIECE OF GARBAGE? YOU PLAN ON DRINKING FROM THAT SWAMP THING? THROW IT AWAY...I'LL BUY YOU A BRAND NEW ONE....I THINK WE CAN AFFORD A WATER BOTTLE." I am baffled.

"No, wait...it IS new....there was a brand new tag on the inside! It's not garbage! Really...it's fine. It just needs a good washing."

So, my husband has a penchant for returning home with other people's garbage...I think he's lost his mind. (Too much alone time in the woods isn't good for anyone) I think we're on the fast track for that show on TLC....you know the one? Hoarders....Buried Alive! As I write this...Bren is in fact hiking....and before he left I forbid him to bring anything home. "But sometimes people find good stuff while hiking". He whined. "What if I find a $100 bill...can I bring that home?"

"That would be mandatory....disregard all my rules of bringing home garbage if it is PAPER money (and PAPER MONEY ONLY). I will welcome that swamp trash into my home with open arms.

That's all for now,

xoxox

Death Traps, Mouth Nipples, Water Bans, PMS....Oh Yeah...And I'm The Family Pussy... UPDATED

2010-05-05T20:37:00.004-04:00

I've had a week from hell. I want to just wipe this week from the books and start fresh...but nope...it's still going. Figures.

First, my driver's side car door lock broke. I couldn't get in or out. Death trap on wheels...ah yeah. I climbed over the passenger's seat, and got a shifter in the ass one too many times...so it went into the shop. $700 later...my lock works...but I now have to use 2 different keys....one to open up the door, one to turn on the car. What the F*ck? I still don't have my car, and it's one week later.

(this isn't my mouth...but my mouth nipple looked just like that) (Wish I was cool enough to have a gold tooth)

I didn't realize until a reader mentioned it...that this pic above looks a little like soft core porn....well it's not...so get your minds outta the gutter!

Then...I went in to have that fibroma thingy on my inner cheek (a.k.a mouth nipple) removed. I was so excited! No longer would I be accidentally chewing off my cheek while eating. But I should've just put a ring through that bastard and left it alone...because if I knew getting it removed would've sucked so hard...I would never have done it. Long story short...Novacaine wore off, pain hit, I cried...a lot, Tylenol didn't do shit, Doc prescribed pain reliever strong enough to use on a newborn babe, we went to the emergency room in the middle of the night, 6 hours of waiting and an IV of some really really good make you smile drugs, CAT Scan, blood tests, stumbled home, doubled up on Percocet for 2 days straight, missed work, my mouth tasted like metal from the cauterizing chemical, swollen jaw, egg on the side of my face, couldn't get the toothbrush into my swollen mouth, and there was this whitish slimy, gooey shit growing out of the pit that once was a nipple. It pretty much just sucked all around. I have never in my life felt pain like I felt from that little "removal". I think the doctor hit severed some nerves or something. He said I had a low tolerance for pain...my husband said that translated to him calling me a "Pussy"...can you sue a doctor for being an asshole? My father suffers from Rheumatoid Arthritis; my mother gave birth to me without so much as a whimper, moan, or curse word and I flew out in like one push; my sister had broken ribs while she was pregnant....basically...they can handle their pain. But me? Oh no... I get to be the family "Pussy"...and I got stuck with the small boobs too. Genetics...they're a bitch.

(Broken Water Main in Massachusetts)

THEN...our town was part of a water ban/boil water order. Some pipe burst in a neighboring town causing devastating water loss and 30 communities (2 million people) including ALL of Boston could not use tap water. I thought Brendan might die from lack of Dunkin Donuts large iced coffees. 4 days of no dish washing...and the damn dishes are almost up to the ceiling! We had to boil water to use to brush our teeth, wash our hands, water our cats. It's not easy to pour water out of a kettle onto one sudsy hand, then lather and wash the other while trying not to get the kettle all sudsy or toothpastey or whatever. It blew. A LOT. But it's over. I can shower without fear of E.Coli getting in my eyes. Let's just say the bottle of Purell got a lot of use.

And to top it all off...I was a raging bitch the entire week because it was that time of the month...nuff said.

That's All For Now,
xoxox

Dreaming About A Dining Room?????

2010-04-26T00:17:00.008-04:00

I have been writing this blog for almost a year now...and I write a lot about the oddities of my life....but I never have really touched on what I do for a living. I work in the interior design field....and I love it! It really is a major part of my life. I spend about as much time perusing design magazines, design blogs, retail stores, and catalogs as I do at work...so I eat, live, breathe decor.

In the beginning, it was my intention to pepper this blog with my projects, my favorite rooms, ideas and also my home life and familial misadventures...hence "Duel Living". But...that never really happened. I found that there were a million design blogs out there that said exactly what I wanted to say and could do it better than I ever could. Here comes another "BUT"....BUT....I find that there are just times when I can't hold back anymore and have decided to infuse this here blog (just once in a while) with some of my favorite things. I hope that's OK with all of you.

First off...the room that I have been pining over for over a year. If only I had the money to do it the way I see it in my dreams. My Dining Room. Right now it is a suckfest of mismatched shit and hand me downs. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns...that's quite a bit. The idea of my "dream room" has always been there behind my eyelids...I can see it...and soon....soon...it will become a reality. I wanted to share a very rough draft of my vision.

Behold...."Organic Modern"

The grey toned zebra printed linen will be the window treatments. (CLICK ON THE PICTURE TO ENLARGE FOR A LESS BLURRY VERSION). The table is a simple streamlined teak farmhouse style that I have mixed with some modern and inexpensive acrylic and chrome chairs. That all sits on a very thin wool woven rug with a simple geometric pattern. The sideboard is also teak and hanging above is a triptych of carved wood that has been white-washed for an organic "ethnic" feel.

The real beauty will be in the details. The art that I have yet to find. I see glass floating shelves with collections of pretty silver serving pieces and some found pieces of driftwood. Stone trays with sage leaves and river rocks. Things that don't usually match...but the "GO"....and they work. It's pretty colorless as a whole...but that's where I am right now. I'm "into" neutrals...soft, serene, simple. I want to mix texture and textiles....light and dark..."Organic and Modern".

Well...there it is. I will post before and after pics when I finish....which may take awhile. But I kind felt if I showed a lot of people....threw it into the universe....maybe the hubby would "allow" the process to begin sometime in this decade. So...feedback please??? What would you do if you could redo any room in your own house?

That's all for now,

xoxox,

I'm Smitten....

2010-04-16T21:29:00.004-04:00

Hello all,

What do you think of the new facelift? This has been in the works for over a month now. I have been working with Smitten Blog Designs and they did a wonderful job! The new look is just what I wanted...playful, whimiscal, humorous....and very me. I found the background red pattern and went from there. The rest came from the photo below as my inspiration.

Okay...tell me what you think.

xoxox,

The One Spider That Didn't Go SPLAT....

2010-04-13T07:00:00.002-04:00

I watched a spider crawl across my windshield. I couldn't take my eyes away. Brendan drove, I watched the spider. It wasn't supposed to make it down the highway...it was supposed to fly away...flatten on the pavement...but it didn't. We drove the spider home.

I am feeling like that spider. Here I am curled up in a ball...days whipping by me like the wind. To and from work, street lights passing in my peripheral. Flowers are blooming amidst the spring floods...and it's all speeding by while I'm just trying to hang on. Where are the cops when you need to be pulled over...told to slow it down?

Days and days of rain...now thousands of little mosquito babies will be breakfast for my new spider friend. The sun will warm his 8 creepy legs; he'll stretch them across his silken doorstep. Maybe this is what I need...to get out of the car, slow it down...sunshine on my face....and a little bit of breakfast on my front porch.

I bought khaki pants at the mall...and a spider clung for dear life as we drove home...how very existential.

That's all for now,

Brandi

P.S. I truly hate spiders. They creep my shit out. And of course the minute I start writing about them....one crawls across my computer screen...so...I smooshed it. It was a lil' one...no harm, no foul. Then....the mother of all spiders decides to crawl outta nowhere and try to eat me! (this all happened within a 30 second time frame) But don't worry...a nice thick copy of Lucky magazine and I taught that bitch a lesson. I fear that I have awoken the whole spider kingdom...and they only have eyes for me.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lilith_ecate/3521169469/

Heavenly Widened Roses....Seem To Whisper To Me....When You Smile.......

2010-03-31T00:30:00.004-04:00

I'm sitting here in bliss as the sound of the rain beating against the windows intermingles with The Cowboy Junkies in my ears. It's the only thing that seems to be making the rain bearable....when it becomes the rhythm behind an enchanting song...and the backdrop for a contented mood.

Enjoy....
That's all for now,
Brandi

Unburdening My Beast...

2010-03-24T07:00:00.004-04:00

I went out to get cat food this morning....in the pouring, driving rain. As "Beast Of Burden" blared from my car stereo, I pulled into my driveway seeing only the silhouette of my own little beasts scratching at the window...awaiting their chopped tuna sensation.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty...such a pretty girl....pretty......pretty......."

I had things on my mind. I left the umbrella in the car and decided to brave the downpour. I was to run in the house, feed the kitties, and then....go on a design consult (ON MY DAY OFF). Simple....quick....back in a flash.

Except...being the complete asshole that I am...I hit the button. The lock....I hit it....with the keys in the ignition, and the car still running. "Beast of Burden" still playing...but in that exact moment...I changed the lyrics.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid....stupid f*cking girl....stupid....stupid"

(I'm an ass)

EVERY SINGLE ONE of my neighbors in the entire neighborhood was at work. All of them. So I tried windows, climbed the roof and tried upstairs windows, tried basement windows...all to no avail.

"I walked for miles....my feet were hurtin'. " (with no umbrella, no purse, no cell phone) Cars splashed through puddles soaking me to the bone. My shoes leaked in the mud. My teeth chattered in rhythm with the pounding rain. I trekked to the nearest gas station and begged them to use their phone. The saint behind the counter saw how pitiful I looked...mascara snaking down my face....snot jingling from my bright red nose....crazy lady humming Rolling Stones tunes....and gave me his phone. I called my Mother-In-Law and luckily...she was able to bring me a spare set of house keys. A blessing!

I shivered my way into the warmth of my home and saw the little red light on the answering machine...it was work...the client had been waiting for me....I was 1/2 hour late. Damn...damn...damn! I called and sorried myself sick explaining my whole ordeal and bathed in her forgiveness and heart felt compassion.

Adventure kicked my ass today. That's how it all went down. Every single thing really happened...crisis transpired.

.....at least that's what I told my client..........

Really??? I must have hit snooze for awhile before the phone rang and my work woke my ass causing in an instantaneous freak out! So...I lied...and now...to you...I confess. I slept through my appointment. "Beast Of Burden" was just a dream....and I had an umbrella the whole time. But since I unburdened this beast of a lie...I feel a little lighter...though my cheeks a couple of shades redder in shame. My pants on fire....can you forgive me?

That's all for now,
Brandi

P.S. Care to share some of your more interesting lil' white lies? I feel the need for camaraderie here.

I Need To Get A Life....

2010-03-23T07:00:00.001-04:00

...Seriously, yeah, I've been M.I.A. but I think you should all thank your lucky stars. If I had been posting, you would have had to read about the following"

( I would say that it looks kind of like Fudge Brownie...with a little less fudge. BUT...it could look like Vanilla Ice...with a LOT less hair)

click on picture to enlarge

I have a mouth nipple. No...really...it's a nipple in my mouth. A triple nipple if you will. I went to the doc...it's a cyst (blocked salivary duct)...he stuck a needle in it...which didn't do shit...so it's still large and in charge. I've always wanted a nipple piercing...never got one because the rings would've been bigger than my boobs...and I'm quite sure that look hasn't yet hit the runways in Paris. So now, it's mouth nipple ring time...or a lancing...haven't quite decided!

Uh...let's see...as I said before, I have incessantly been rewatching The Tudors. I highly recommend that shit. It's got love, lust, betrayal, British accents...and some war, a few beheadings, stake burnings and boobs for the guys watching at home. The problem is...I know what's going to happen in every episode, yet every time I watch, I'm always brightened by that hope that THIS time...there will be a different outcome. Maybe THIS time Anne (poor poor Anne) won't get her pretty little head lopped off. Maybe THIS time that fickle King Henry VIII won't be such a prick...but alas...you know how it went....Prickdom.

See what I mean? My life has just been boring as hell. A couple of my super cool and friendly (commenting) readers have mentioned the fact that they were sick of looking at those plum colored balls...all oily. So, I felt compelled to check in, bet you wished I didn't.
I'm dull and blocked. Bitchin' combination!

I will try to have an adventure on which to report later this week.
That's all for now,
xoxox,
Brandi

Back Next Week...

2010-03-18T23:32:00.005-04:00

Without realizing it...I took a mini vaca from posting...and I promise to be back next week! The weather has been too nice, my life has been too boring, and I have been spending all of my spare time rewatching The Tudors until 5am.

Priorities....ya know?

Back next week...
that's all for now,
Brandi

Please Take My Advice: Don't Ever Eat Oily Balls - Plum Colored Or Otherwise.....

2010-03-09T07:00:00.002-05:00

Things I have learned while dining at an Indian Restaurant with my husband = 6. I'm sure there are far more...but 6 is all that I could remember...it was such an educational evening.

1. If you don't know what it is...don't order it. S'not worth it. Just isn't.

2. If you are American in an Indian restaurant...your table will look much more boring than everyone else's...cuz' they know how to order and you don't...and their food is much more colorful and delicious looking and yours looks like slop.

3. My husband holds his fancy ice tea glass like a wussy.

4. Do not stare at the people eating at the table next to you or inquire loudly, "WHAT DO THEY HAVE? THAT LOOKS BETTER THAN WHAT WE GOT. NO FAIR!!" Your neighbors won't really appreciate it very much...neither will your spouse.

5. Do not listen to your waiter...especially if he tells you everything is "Good". "Oh yes...is good. Yes is good too. Good. Yes you eat...is good". Funny how nobody else in the entire restaurant ordered what I was having....since it was so "good". Liar liar pants on fire!

6. NEVER EVER EVER EVER order deep fried plum colored dumplings of dried milk and refined flour soaked in sugar syrup. I don't know what I was thinking but it was the only dessert that came with vanilla ice cream...and vanilla ice cream needs to be in my tummy at all times. Next time...I will just order ice cream....dried milk balls in sugar syrup are not pretty...even if they are plum colored.

Don't get me wrong...I like Indian food...when I order it at some sort of mall kiosk where I can pick and choose what I am getting. Ordering off of a 5 page menu....whole 'nother story.

That's all for now,

Brandi

P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIL' BRO. I'M SURE YOU DON'T READ THIS...BUT I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY! LOVE YOU!

Cat Calling..........

2010-03-04T07:00:00.004-05:00

OK, so the whole Zen Brandi....Ohm...happy bullshit has been delayed for reconstruction. Called off. On hold. Check back later. I've got a bone that needs pickin'.

I drove home from work last night to find that neighborhood cat (a.k.a. "The Front Porch Pisser) sitting on the roof of our porch...peeking into my bedroom window. What The Hell??? So...not only is that little bastard a Pissing Tom, but he's a Peeping Tom as well???

I climbed the stairs to find my cat Max sprawled across my bed in a very "come hithery, porno kind of....uh....sprawl." I immediately went into "Mommy Mode".

ME: "MAXIMUS!!!!! What are you doing????? What do you think this is...a brothel? What if that cat has a camera...you could end up all over the Internet!"

MAX: Eye roll....yawn....rolls over.

ME: "Oh...so it's no big deal to you? How long has this type of behavior been going on? After all this cat has done to our family and our front porch....you! YOU are allowing this...this...this...freak show to happen under my roof. I am ashamed....ashamed I say! Daddy and I always called you the Neighborhood Whore...but that's because you wouldn't leave the human neighbors alone...now I know the real truth. This is a sad day. What do you have to say for yourself?"

MAX: Shows me his big fat belly. (my heart melts...must give kisses...it's required by law)

ME: "OK...don't let it happen again."

What is the world coming to when you can't even keep domesticated animals from becoming Peeping Toms? Guess I'll have to start pulling the shades. My "boys" are becoming teenagers...first it's window shows for neighborhood kitties...next they'll be sexting or some shit like that.

That's all for now,

Brandi

OOOOHHHHMMMM.......

2010-03-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

Ok...today I am Zen Brandi. No telling anyone off....no shredding my underwear in the office shredder....no accusing foreign male ice skaters of being whiny little bitches. I've got the world on a string...and I'm sittin' on a rainbow.

It's March. That means it's not February. That means it's just a little closer to June, July, and August, and this makes me happy. Happy people don't rant. I believe my recent ranting was a side effect of the February Blues. (and stupid people/stupid underwear/stupid sore losing ice skaters)

I'm normally a really nice person....really...truly. Seriously. But when I blow my top, it's a gusher. I let it all spill out. I don't know if this is a blessing or a curse. I usually speak my mind...I know how to stand up for myself....and I am able to censor myself and limit my cursing...but sometimes it just feels so good to throw caution to the wind. Last week....it was pretty windy.

But like I said....today I am Zen. Ohm. Peace. It's March. I'm happy. The Olympics are over, today is my day off, and I plan to go on an underwear shopping spree. Bliss...pure bliss.

Life's a wonderful thing....as long as I hold that string.

That's all for now,
Brandi

Photo from here

Bottoms Up....It's Dunk Tank Time....

2010-03-01T07:00:00.003-05:00

I don't drink. I don't. I don't like the taste of ass in my mouth and I don't like feeling like ass the next morning. No...I'm not a recovering alchoholic (why do people always think that?). I just don't drink. Diet Coke is my beverage of choice.

BUT...and that's a big ol' BUT...there is one person in my life that makes me want to pop open a bottle of Goldschlager mix it with at mojito, and then chase it with a little antifreeze and get piss drunk every time I have any sort of interaction with "them". Really...it's that bad. It's chew my cheek, bite my tongue, dig my fingernails into my palms...f*cking bad.

I hate passive aggressive people. It's like...grow some balls and tell me how you really feel. Grating, dramatic, stupid commentary (which makes me feel like I'm a total idiot) masked by sugar coated sweetness just doesn't fly with me. I would like to put this person in a dunk tank and fire off a couple thousand balls. It would be a mandatory bi-weekly event if I had my druthers.

I have been reading some blogs by my interweb friends and there is a alarming amount of talk about "mean people" as of late. I hate mean people. They make me clench my anus and I don't like to clench my anus. They make me bitch and talk/blog behind their back, and enough is enough.

LISTEN UP SUCKY MEAN PEOPLE (and my nemesis...I kind-of hope you know who you are and I kind of don't...not that I'm a pussy or anything):

I will no longer take your bullshit. Period. Exclamation Point! I'm done. Just as with my favorite cotton panties, you no longer provide me with any sort of comfort/pleasure/or support ....so I'm theoretically throwing your ass out too. Oh, I'll be civil...just to keep the peace...but I won't be real, I won't be unguarded, and I won't be waiting to let you unload your stupid bullshit on my back....anymore. Boo-yaw.

Whew. That felt good. Cleansing. You all should try it. Normally I would just talk shit about this person to my cat who purrs in commiseration...but he's outside or off licking his asshole somewhere. Guess you all just have to do. And believe me...I love you for it.

That's all for now,

Brandi

There She Goes Writing About Underwear...AGAIN....

2010-02-26T07:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Victoria's Secret Cotton Bikinis (oh, and you too Walgreen 3 pack for $5.99),

The time has come for us to part ways. It's definitely you not me. Since middle school...I have worn your "kind"... and I have owned the saggy butt, the fraying crotch, the unstretchy elastic...but I have to say....that you kinda suck and I'm over you....I wanna find someone new.

Where did we go wrong? Why couldn't you just lay light and flat across my flesh? Instead, you pulled, and slid, and wedged...you split my ass cheeks in two...giving me four lumps and the dreaded panty line. I can't even tell you about all the remarks I have to endure from my co-workers.

I tried your little brother's style....the "Boy Short"....but he fared no better. That little f*cker gave me a bitchin' case of fredge (front wedge)....I believe the technical term is "Camel Toe". Maybe one can get by pickin' their seat once in a while throughout the day...but there is never a time or place to pick anything out of your crotch. I just don't approve.

So...attempting to evade the earth shattering appearance of the "panty line"...I broke my own personal moral code and...gulp...attempted to floss my ass. TOO MANY TIMES. I just don't get how I just didn't "get it". THONGS SUCK! Everyday I wore one of those vaginal torture devices...I was a bitch in Brandi's clothing. I would squeal into the driveway after a long day of work...ass crack rubbed raw...and fumble up the stairs to get to you my bikinilicious friend. But no more. You will be my polka dotted, zebra striped, white cotton savior....no more.

You and your "family" of organic breathability have really let me down. I have had to choose between 4 ass cheeks in the back, a set of lady balls in the front, or rug burn on my...well on my rug. I'm at my wit's end.

I'm setting you free...free to fall apart and pill at will; free to separate body from elastic waist. You can squander someone else's dignity and/or derriere. I'm done. I've come to believe that bamboo or modal or even rayon may be a better fit for me. I hope you understand. Good luck and Godspeed. I may keep some of you around for that one glorious week a month when....you know...uh...I'm riding the crimson wave...or whatever.

XOXOX,

Brandi

P.S. Does anyone know of a good pair of organic undies that do not make their owner's ass cheeks look like a couple of hogs dancing under a blanket? (aka...cause no panty lines) My ass will forever be indebted to your wisdom and suggestions.

Plushenko Is A Whiny Little Bitch....With A Bad Haircut...

2010-02-24T07:00:00.003-05:00

For those of you who witnessed the Olympic greatness known as Evan Lysecek the other night...you know...America dominated...and the Russians....whined like little bitches.

Evan was awesome! He spun and jumped and "snaked" his way across the ice and straight to GOLD. I do kind of wish Evan would've taken a little wardrobe advice from Johnny Weir...he could've changed it up a bit from this:

To this:

But....at least he didn't look like this:

Yevgeny Plushenko (what the hell kinda name is Yevgeny anyway) looks like he ripped off his outfit from a second hand shop dealing only in attire from 1981. And the hair???? Uh....hello? Russia? Anybody home? The mullet is best left on the tracks at Nascar. Nuf said.

So, after Evan won the Gold, Plushenko began his tirade. He whimpered and whined, bad mouthed and pouted. Then....he decided to award himself a Platinum medal. ??????? On his blog, he stated that because he pulled a Quad in the competition...he should've won. He goes on to say that if the others can't jump a Quad at the Olympics...they are just basically ice dancing. WAAHH WAAHH WAAH.

To Yevgeny I say: "Go take a shot of vodka and a chill pill. You lost. Deal with it. And get a hair cut...you need one. And P.S. you looked like a loser in the photo below. Work on it.

As for the rest, Skeleton competitors...you people are nuts! You couldn't pay me to go face first down an ice slick. Bode Miller....congrats on the medals, but you're still a tool. Ice Dancers...way to go, but I liked the Americans better. (I am not whining here) American Bobsled dude wearing the tight jumpsuit...you need a girdle, your spare tire and man boobs aren't really a great ratings booster...and they hurt my eyes. American ski jumper missing the tooth...uh...could you have at least seen the dentist before bazillions of people around the world had to witness your jack-o'-lantern grin? I mean really? You could've even just put a white sticker over the space or stuck a Chicklet in there or some shit like that. All in all....Olympics...I love you and still can't get enough.

That's all for now,

Brandi

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

2010-02-18T07:00:00.002-05:00

Happy Birthday Dad!

I love you more than any written word word could say. Thank you for my life. I can't believe you are 60!!!!!! You look so damn young! I'm proud to have you as my father. I am thankful to have you as my Dad. I hope you have a kick ass day!

Love you BIG TIME!!!
Reed

P.S. I'll call you later.

Ice Burns On The Ass Crack...But The Image Is GOLDen.,,

2010-02-17T00:32:00.009-05:00

Great Britian's Gillian Cooke going for the Gold, and "cracking" under the pressure.

The Olympics wear me out. My stomach is all in knots. I find myself dreaming about false starts, double axels, salchows, moguls, O' Canada, and....gold.

I literally get beads of sweat on my brow at the tense moments close to the finish...right before a jump, on the last lap. I'm way too wrapped up in this shit.

I can't watch anymore of those emotional tell alls about every single competitor...the failed previous Olympic attempts, the injuries, the brother with Cerebral Palsy, the family pet that traveled 3000 miles just to cheer on"insert courageous Olympian here". Those heart string tugging vinettes...ick...makes me just love everyone...and want everyone to win. Well...everyone except Bode Miller...that guy is a tool.

Let's talk about the Men's figure skating short programs....could their outfits be any gayer? I mean really? Mesh shirts with pink tassels? Feathers? Gloves? Did you see the sailor suit? I was waiting for someone to skate to "It's Raining Men Symphony #9". I LOVE IT!!! And notice how they can be doing the most amazing sit spin...and their hair never moves? I need help with that...I want my 'do to be sit spinnably steady ALL OF THE TIME. (Lately it's looking more Luge inspired)

I am waiting for the Female figure skating comps to begin. (Secretly I'm hoping for some sort of knee crushing pipe drama...but not really. Ok...really....but not REALLY really) I love the sequined velvet leotards with the fleshy colored sleeves. The blue eyeshadow and the star stickers by the left eye...I love it all. Oh Winter Olympics...you are just too good to me.

So anyway, GO USA, win, fight, rah and all that jazz. Go fast, pick cooler music next time. Don't hit the flag thingy. Point your toes, stick the landing, tuck your head, and don't forget to smile and show all of your teeth...cuz' your American damnit...and generally our teeth are pretty much all there.

And by the way...does anyone know why Canada spent bazillions of dollars on building the site for the Olympics, but they could only afford to give the medalists a head of lettuce instead of a real bouquet of flowers? Eh?

That's all for now,

xoxo Brandi

My Interest Is In The Future Because I Am Going To Spend The Rest Of My Life There. - Charles F. Kettering

2010-02-11T07:00:00.000-05:00

I've always feared that there is someone out there that knows me better than I know myself. I was afraid to admit that someone could see into the darker corners of my heart and call me out on them. I was afraid that someday I would meet someone on the street and they would say, "You aren't meant for greatness. You aren't going to be anything good. You are going about life all wrong. Your future holds nothing of desire, nothing of pleasure, nothing of note." I was afraid that someone would tell me something I didn't want to hear....because I already believed it.

I spoke with a psychic the other day.

I've always wanted someone to divine my future; I never saw it through because I was afraid. I was scared about spirits dancing in the doorways...spilling my secrets into a crystal ball. A pack of cards, incense and herbs...thickly accented tongues of women in brightly colored robes...this was all I really knew of what a "psychic" was. The Unknown...but not anymore.

I spoke with a woman (over the phone...YES...over the phone. And no...her name was not Miss Cleo) whom I found through a referral from Petunia Face. We planned a date and time through e-mail...and SHE called me.

She jumped right in to tell me I was stuck in the mud...had a lack of energy, no zest for life. (At the top of a page sitting in my lap, was a question I was waiting to ask until the end...it read....Why don't I have any energy, no zest for life? So the reading started like that. The hair on my arms never fully laid down for our entire conversation.

She mentioned a particular person who was "moving too fast...that needed to SLOW DOWN"...I found out just today, that that very person just recently got 2 speeding tickets. She "felt" the migraines that I suffer from. She felt the pains that plague the right side of my neck on a weekly basis. It was bizarre.

For a few days before our planned reading, I had been nervous if she would mention spirits or angels. That was always the part that I was most afraid to hear. I thought to myself that if someone came through...I would want my friend Laura to be there....she would be the least scary to me for some reason. At the end of our conversation...the reader asked if I had any other questions. I drew up the courage and I wondered aloud if there was "anyone around me".

The person she described...was my grandmother...but she was trying to "send through" someone else. Someone small, short, light haired....whom had met death with an impact...LAURA. She described Laura. She continued to speak about both my friend and my Grandmother (both well) and in those moments with this unknown woman whom I'd been so afraid to speak to...I felt very calm, and at peace. It was quite an experience...parts of which I choose to keep private because they were so profound.

I'm not quite sure if my reading has given me any real answers to my future. I do really believe that our future is always changing. But what I took from that 1/2 hour...was peace. It was so crazy, scary, heavy, and awesome all at the same time.

If anyone is interested in this woman's info...drop me an e-mail. I am happy to give my seal of approval and say...don't be afraid...she doesn't bite. It really was something I will never forget.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Wake Up Dear...There's A Monster In The Wall....

2010-02-05T03:01:00.005-05:00

So...last night I was just settling down for a night of dreaming and drooling...when a scratching noise in the corner of the bedroom caught my attention. My first thought was, "what the hell are the cats doing now?" So I turned on the light, and...nuthin', zilch. Max was happily perched on his kitty condo. Gus was snoring belly up on the recliner downstairs. Then I heard the noise again....WITH THE LIGHTS ON! That is when the situation became dire. Since all were present and accounted for, my second thought was, "what the f*ck is trying to get outta the wall?"

It was the middle of the night...but of course I was just going to bed. I sat there thinking to myself...maybe I had already started dreaming....but THE LIGHTS WERE ON! Scary noises aren't supposed to happen with the ever powerful lights on. Lights are like cryptonite to scary things and noises. Last night...the lights failed me. They failed us all.

I woke up Brendan. I'm sure he thought I was losing it. "Honey....Honey....Bren.....Bren....wake up! There's SOMETHING IN THE HOUSE! Listen............." Of course the noises stopped when I squealed aloud that they in fact existed. And Brendan began to doze again...eyes half open, ears all the way closed. "Wait....wait...listen!!!!!" Unfortunately for me...the noise presented again. Fortunately for Brendan...his wife wasn't a total nutter.

"It's probably just a mouse in the wall," said my husband. "It's not a lion. It won't hurt you. What do you want me to do?"

"GO GET IT OUT!!!!!! Check the closet, kill it, it's alive, and diseased, and infected, and it's trying to eat it's way out into our BEDROOM!!!!!!!!!! Maybe it's in the closet....go check the closet!!!!! IT'S A MANIMAL!!!!"

So Brendan pulled himself from the warm covers to humor me...and of course found nothing. He also went all the way downstairs to rouse a rather groggy and scraggly Gus from his belly up slumber to shove him in the closet at my command. Gus would have none of it. He just wanted to lay in front of the closet....and sleep. So did Brendan.

I sat up all night and stared at the wall. I willed the scratching and scampering to go away. The noise was too big for a mouse. This was a monster...a mutant...a killer. The cats started going crazy around dawn...pacing, and sniffing, and pacing, and jumping. The noise continued...I drifted in and out of sleep. It sucked hardcore!

Work was not fun...no sleep...scary visions of returning home to find a hole eaten through my bedroom wall and some random Rabied out ninja rat to be sleeping on MY side of the bed.

I called my family for support, made Bren call the landlord, Googled "Animal THING in wall"...and I found this:

That is when I lost my shit. THIS IS A DEAL BREAKER! I could maybe handle a mouse, a squirrel, a....gulp...rat......................but a POSSUM ???? HELLS TO THE MOTHA F*CKIN' NO!!! Those circus freaks are an abomination to the animal kingdom...and if there happens to be a possum in my wall..........I swear I will move out and never look back! I shudder at the thought of those beady eyes, that scary ass tail, that long pointy face waking me up just to say hello...then EAT ME! (I've had a few past run ins/bad experiences with Possums. There was an incident with a cat and mistaken identity....note to all readers...don't say "Here kitty kitty" to a Possum and try to pet it...it will growl, snarl, and then chase you....and probably eat you as well.)

The landlord has since brought a "humane" trap and set it in the crawl space near our bedroom wall. But if I find a possum in that trap....my animal lovin' ways are here-to-fore extinguished and there's gonna be a posse stringing up that possum...and the head honcho in charge.......is going to be ME. It's on you Possumy Piece O' Shit!

That's all for now,

Brandi

Cat Piss, Elephant Piss, or Husband Piss. Hey Neighbor Take Your Pick...

2010-01-29T07:00:00.000-05:00

The pizza delivery man probably was a little taken aback when he delivered our pepperoni pie and there was a crazy woman in a blue bathrobe, pink slipper socks, and a brown Snuggie yelling towards the door, "SORRY ABOUT THE PISS SMELL!!!!"

I think my husband's latest Facebook post captured it best. Our cats are engaged in a turf war with a neighborhood cat. And the other cat's way of "dissing" our "sons" was to piss REPEATEDLY on our concrete front steps. Bren said it was the other cat's way of "talkin' shit". We are a little bitter about being part of the collateral damage.

The responses that Brendan got on Facebook were hilarious! One of his long time college buddies just said:

"BB gun and a night scope."

Someone else said:

"Piss on your neighbors' front step and show them who's boss."

I really liked the last one...and then I remembered...my husband DOES have a penchant for pissing on things. Remember THIS post? Brendan enjoys peeing on random things: dead fish floating in the pond on his way home from work, his kid brother, his nemesis' car grill (so when he started the car it would heat up and smell like piss for eternity), and random homeless ladies while drunk in the Florida Keys. In Brendan's defense...he HAD been driving for hours before becoming intoxicated and unbearably full bladdered. And when he had started peeing in that vacant building and realized that the mound of garbage he chose as his ideal urination vacation hot spot was ACTUALLY a sleeping woman (she shouted, "hey, hey, hey") he DID move over a couple inches. The core of his being is basically good.

Anyhow...knowing that this pissing retaliation scheme is plausible (I have the able bladdered husband to prove it)...now we just need to find out which neighbor owns that f*cking cat.

At least we can be happy that our anonymous neighbors don't have an elephant...but then they would be much easier to find...

Oh yeah....and we gotta stop ordering pizza...the piss smell kinda kills my hankering for pepperoni, and now the pizza guy thinks I'm a f*cking Snuggie wearing nut job.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Leapin' Lizards....

2010-01-27T07:00:00.002-05:00

A man in New Zealand was arrested at the airport trying to smuggle out....are you ready for this?

Wait for it....

43 Geckos....in his Fun-derwear...I mean underwear!

Almost certainly, all of the geckos were on international "insurance" type business...and this German bloke was just giving them "first class" travel accommodations. Retch! Is that a gecko in your pants...or are you just happy to see me? That guy up there can put me in his....OK never mind...I'm married....and I'm sure my husband would look as good as Becks in nut huggers. Thankfully, he does not attempt to pull that "look" off. Becks looks like his trying to smuggle more of an iguana than a lizard...sigh.

Continuing with the "Party In The Panty" theme....my wonderful husband gave me the best birthday ever! No perverts....I wasn't talking about sex. I arrived at work to find a beautiful bouquet of lilies, came home to a bottle of champagne....and a scavenger hunt. Presents hidden all over the house...slippers, bathrobe, new James Patterson novel, Cd's, and a photo in a pretty bone picture frame. But the picture in that frame...was friggin' awesome. It was always my vision to have a picture of Brendan and I duelling with swords as the header photo on this blog. The fact that we playfully banter/argue....that is where "Duel Living" came from. I just never got around to creating something that would capture that idea. Brendan did.

It took him 6 long hours of Photoshopping Genius. My sword is way prettier than his. In the real photo...I was holding my bouquet....we should've done this in the first place.

And lastly...the funniest gift of all...and what is allowing me to post about underwear....yet again...was found hanging from the rafters in the basement. I was met with a blindfold and a cardboard tube...and a pinata. So I whacked away...and out spilled....underwear???

"It's a panty pinata!!!!" cried my husband!

All in all, whether geckos or pinatas....a party in the "pants" is the best "party" of all.

That's all for now,

Brandi

THEY SAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY...

2010-01-22T07:00:00.001-05:00

Apparently, the patrons of a Holiday Inn chain in Britain weren't getting a "good night's sleep". So...the sleep genius/dumb ass head honchos over there across the pond at the Holiday Inn came up with this new and innovative idea to offer human "Body Warmers".

With the cold snap happening in Britain lately...the Holiday Inn brainiacs thought guests would sleep better if their beds were warm and snuggly when they came in from the cold. This "complimentary service" provides clients with two people in "sleeper suits" who will get under the guest's covers and warm the bed for 5 minutes. Uh....anyone else think this is freaking CREEPY!???

I mean, who are these bed warmers anyway? Are they random hobos from some park bench? Or maybe they are "Professional" bed warmers that got a degree from some bed warming university. Did they have to pass some sort of exam where they had to get the bed to a certain degree and the chilly guest/guinea pig just had to fall asleep? Was that an instant A?

I don't know. I don't think I would take advantage of this complimentary service. I have never been one to have one night stands, threesomes, or casual pillow talk. I mean what do you say as these human bed warmers are leaving? "Was it good for you?" "Uh...call me?"

Nope, I think I'll stick to the good ol' fashion ways of warming up the bed: electric blankets and farts. I apologize to any hobos that I may be putting out of "work"...but I prefer my own flatulence to yours. Sleep tight...don't let the bed warmers bite.

That's all for now,
Brandi

P.S. just for purely selfish reasons...today is my birthday...and I love comments on my blog about ANYTHING more than candy, flowers, or cake. Happy birthday to me!

The Doctor Is Out.... And Happy Birthday MOM!

2010-01-20T07:00:00.003-05:00

Apparently, part of being a interior designer is also being a marriage counselor/prayer group member/mental health counselor/babysitter. I wasn't aware of this when I started on this career path. You would be amazed at how many fighting couples walk through the doors and open up their closet full of skeletons....to ME...and I am forced to listen. You would be appalled at the way parents just leave their children unsupervised. You would be stunned at the things that people ask my opinion on. I thought I was decorating their homes...now I'm holding hands and singing friggin' Cumbaya.

Today, I worked with an older couple...we'll call them Bob and Enid. Enid wanted a beige sofa. Bob wanted a soft sofa. Enid wanted to see sofa legs. Bob wanted to see no legs. Enid wanted linen....Bob wanted microfiber. Get the point? I pulled 10 fabric choices...Bob liked the 5 on the left...Enid liked the 5 on the right. I gave them cushion options....Bob liked the down cushion...Enid liked the foam and poly fill. I gave them swatches...they gave me a migraine. I felt like telling Bob to take Enid home, give her a little "slap and tickle" and to come back tomorrow when they'd loosened up a little bit. I mean really? How did they make it through 50 years of marriage if they can't even agree on a f*cking couch?

Awhile ago I helped this guy...we'll call him....Lenny. Lenny....had a SEVERE case of OCD. He wore rubber gloves out of the house (he lived with his parents...he was in his 40's). He had a weird fear of gum on the ground...so I guess the gloves were like his gum force field or something. ANYWAY...he came in to find furniture...none of which he would touch or sit on....for a new apartment which he was going to be moving into. OK...simple enough...but for some reason...that simple transaction between client and design consultant became more like patient/psycho-therapist. He called me multiple times a day/week. We discussed how the furniture was to be assembled. Would it be put together where anyone was chewing gum? Were the delivery guys going to be wearing the same gloves they used to deliver everyone else's shit? Did I believe in God? Did I think God/Church could help him with his OCD? Did I like the recliner or the arm chair better? And on, and on, and on. One day...Lenny called AGAIN...I sat down at the desk and prepared for another 45 minute Q and A session about the sterility of bubble wrap...but he surprised me. He said that being a person with OCD was extremely lonely...and in me...he had found a friend. Basically...he asked if we could hang out sometime (with my husband included). I was speechless. I mean, I didn't know this guy from Adam...and here he was trying to date...us. I decided the "relationship" wasn't going to be healthy. I didn't want to get into a situation where I was giving advice on a topic I had absolutely no experience with. I didn't want every conversation be about if my hands were clean, my shoes gum free, my relationship with God...what the best brand of bleach was. So, I broke up with his answering machine...and I blamed it on my husband...you know the whole OCD cock block routine...I figured he'd understand.

I am lucky I get to do what I love. And most days...I do love it. But....THE PEOPLE!!!! I sometimes just feel like saying....

"You should get a divorce....green goes really well with that."

"You're a nutter...get some shock therapy and sit on this lovely chenille sofa with the turned leg when you get home...I promise it will make the voices go away"

"Your children are the devil's spawn...we don't sell cages or straight jackets here but this floor lamp could double as a bat with which to knock your little f*ckers upside head."

"I don't know if I believe in God...but I definitely feel like I'm in Heaven on this bed...and I hear Angels singing when it's paired with that dresser."

"Thank you for your business...now can you please shut the f*ck up??"

Maybe that last one is a little severe. What do you think?

On a separate note..............

That's all for now,

Brandi

Boring Award Show Strikes Again....

2010-01-18T00:53:00.006-05:00

Seriously...how boring were the Golden Globes? Yeah, there were pretty dresses...sparkly jewels...newly unveiled nip/tucks. But...who f*cking cares?

In light of everything going on in the world right now, my heart just wasn't in it. I barely watched. I hoped for my favorites to win...most didn't. I swear it's all fixed. James Cameron paid off the Foreign Press. Mad Men is beginning to madden me. What the hell kind of category is television series/comedy/or musical? Why did Mariah Carey find it nessessary to show off her tits...AGAIN? I hate the word tits. I strongly dislike Mariah Carey. (Sorry E.L.) Did anyone else think that Mike Tyson was more excited about The Hangover winning than any of the rest of the cast that ACTUALLY was in the movie for more than like 5 minutes? What a friggin' tool! Go get another "tribal" tattoo on your face Mike...and don't ever speak in pubic again...your voice makes me want to rip my own ears off. Film/Television awards shows need more exciting moments...they should invite Kanye to the Oscars...now that's entertainment!

I'm boring myself here....so I'll see you Wednesday.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Truth Be Told...I'm Less Young Than Old...My Feet Are Cold...This Rhyme's On Hold...

2010-01-13T07:00:00.002-05:00

My birthday is coming...and I have a slight problem. I may be only turning 31, but my body feels more like 81 (achy). My social life is more like 51 (boring). My ass is like 61 (Saggy and flat). My boobs are like 11 (non-existent). My face is like 21...which is obviously OK, but...I'm just sick of people telling me I look "cute" (I hate that word...cute) and so young...and am I old enough to be married, decorate their living room, order a cocktail? That gets annoying...I know, I know, I should be thankful, but sometimes youth is confused for inexperience, or naivete, or stupidity. My mind fluctuates between 11 and 71 (infantile yet forgetful). I get the giggles when I hear the word penis...but sometimes I can't remember what a penis is. I laugh at stupid commercials...then I forgot that I ever saw them. I drive really slow in neighborhoods...but really fast on the highway...then I mix them up. (Sorry about your trash can Mr. Neighborman) So am I more young than old? More old than young? Let's see....

I'm Old: I would rather sit in my recliner and watch reruns of the Cosby show than go out to the latest club.

I'm Old: I got my first cell phone last year, never turn it on, and refuse to relinquish my land line. I will never text. I will never tweet. I really want a Jitterbug... That's all I REALLY need is a cell phone that says: Operator....Tow....911. Simple. Easy. Understandable. No retarded ring tones. No stupid buzzy tweety twittery vibrating. Just a extremely large buttoned cell phone named after a kick ass swing dance!

I'm Old: I do not know how to scan anything onto the computer. I do not know how to "Upload" a photo onto the computer. I do not know how to "Unzip" a file. I have no f*cking clue what the difference between a J Peg or a PDF or PDQ is...whatever...I don't know what they are....I know what P's and Q's are....and I mind them.

I'm Old: I miss Ann Landers.

I'm Young: I have yet to start reading the Obituaries. Rest In Peace Ann Landers.

I'm Old: I play Canasta, Cribbage, Pinochle, and Dominoes online.

I'm Young: I play the above ONLINE.

I'm Old: I have the night sweats and hot flashes of a menopausal woman.

I'm Young: I have the attitude, bitchiness, and that whole monthly bleeding thing of a normal chick my age.

I'm Old: I like my vegetables soggy.

I'm Young: I eat Reese's Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast, or lunch, or a snack...well any f*cking time I feel like it...cuz' they're awesome!

I'm Young: Is that a zit on my chin? I'm going to be 31 for $%^&*sake! When do the wrinkles cover up the zits...you know kind of sag over the blemish...lap over the pustule?

I'm Old: What were we just talking about again?

Anyway, my birthday is coming whether I like it or not. I have to start working on those "goal" thingys that I had laid out back in my 20's...you know...kids, home, career...the usual. I guess in that way...I'm still pretty young...I have a lot left to accomplish...but I just know that I could do so much more in life with a handy dandy Jitterbug and a big glass of Ensure!

To Your Health!

xoxox,

Brandi

Vampire Penguins And Zombie Guinea Pigs Are Awesome...

2010-01-11T07:00:00.002-05:00

I was perusing some of the "Blogs of Note" on blogger today...and I came across this gem....

http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/

You gotta check it out! A wife records her husband talking in his sleep every night...every night! And let me say...this guy is awesome. Here's a preview:

"Vampire penguins? Zombie guinea pigs? We're done for.... done for."

"Well that's just great. Peanut butter in my crack. Goddamnit."

"I can't control the kittens. Too many whiskers! Too many whiskers!"

I can relate in some small way to the wife of that husband. Brendan is a moaner. He moans in his sleep...and agrees a lot too. He is constantly saying UM HMM...UM HMM....UM HMM...like he's listening to a really really detailed story...taking it all in....and just...ya know...agreeing. It's kind of in this sing songy style too which makes it really cute...or annoying...depending if I am trying to sleep. UM HMM...

Of course I try to take advantage of all of this "consenting"..."hey Babe...can I go on a shopping spree tomorrow?" "Hey Bren...can I quit my job and become a reality TV watcher/reviewer...but basically just watcher?" "Hey Love...can we hire a maid, a driver, and rent some kids to play with from time to time?" And then I wait for the inevitable sing songy UM HMM granting my latest whim...but without fail...every time I actually have a great idea...he wakes up and says...."SHH...it's sleeping time."

F*CK SLEEPING TIME...you were just agreeing with the Sultan Of La La Land and all of his half assed requests...but when I want something that will benefit US (you would really enjoy seeing me in my new wardrobe while I watch America's Next Top Model) you wake UP??? Figures.

Once....just once, I would love to have him acquiesce to one of my rather small requests...and when he does....maybe I'll just be waiting there with a recorder like the wife of that Sleeptalkinman! UM HMM....

That's all for now,

Brandi

Snot Duty...All In A Days Work...

2010-01-08T07:00:00.007-05:00

I like my job...generally. I deal with a lot of bitchy, wealthy women who don't have any sense of taste, tact, or humor, but it's ok, because I just suggest they decorate their living rooms in puke orange...tell them it's the latest rage...add a little paisley in a pus green, and send them on their way. They fall for it...these rich, tasteless ladies. Like putty in my hands...I just knead them into submission, and they pay me for it.

Rich Bitchy Women: "Really, this orange color..."

Me: "It's called Mac N Cheese..."

RBW: "Right...Mac N Cheese...you really think this should be on my bedroom walls with the...uh...yellowy/green settee in the uh paisley?"

Me: "Oh yeah...it's the tits. All the rage in Dubai this year. You will be the talk of the town! And by the way...it's pus green...the color...it pops!"

I do have a lot of down time. Idle, lazy, Facebook perusing, ass picking down time. I'm not good with down time. If I was home...down time is golden....at work...down time is torture.

I ask for projects all of the time. Please, please, please give me something to do!!!! Load me up with tasks where I can get lost in time and the minutia. But...sometimes this isn't a good thing.

If you need me tonight...I will be cleaning snot off of the windows up by the "North River" bedroom set. Yup...I'm not reallly planning on getting lost in that minutia. Don't get me wrong...I'm not too proud to clean snot. I am an interior decorator/furniture sales associate/snot cleaner upper...and I'm damn proud of it. But I would have rather continued to pick my ass than clean what someone else picked out of their nose. TOO LATE!

Ask and you shall receive. Down time = Snot time. If you've got time to lean...you've got time to clean. Blah blah blah. I was hoping to inventory our wall of fabric samples or something time consuming like that...but I should be thankful I'm not licking the toilet bowls clean. I love my job. Well, I like my job. Well, I have a job. Yeah, I have a job. Hallalujah!!! Please let me know if anyone needs any design help anytime in the future...I hear Snot Yellow #241 is making a comeback!

That's all for now,

Brandi

The Side Dish....A Husband's Worst Nightmare

2010-01-06T07:00:00.000-05:00

I will never claim to be a food connoisseur. I know what I like...and I generally will try anything...unless it contains fish...that's a no no.

I hate to cook. I don't know if it's because I don't know how, or if it's because I just don't like to do it...probably because I just don't like to do it...I'm lazy. I never learned the little nuances of cooking...where does the marjoram go? How much clove do I put in the rice? Does the raspberry truffle taste like it needs more bay leaves to you? You know...the basics.

So Brendan and I made a deal. He would do all of the cooking and I would do all of the clean up and the dishes. Pretty fair...pretty fair. And Brendan isn't a bad cook or anything...far from it...he's way better than me, but............he has an "issue".

Side Dishes.

Huh?

Side Dishes.

He makes f*ckin' weird side dishes. No, wait. It's not that the side dishes are weird, they just don't usually match the main dish...and that can be interesting. Still don't understand? Try these on for size...

Tacos and Mashed Potatoes

Ham Sandwiches and Canned Corn

Steak and Tater Tots

And my recent favorite...Some kind of Lunch Meat Sandwiches and Brussel Sprouts

And in Brendan's food world...rice goes with anything...be it beans, chicken, eggs, sandwiches, or hamburgers. Rice makes the meal. I think he heard too many Rice-A-Roni commericals growing up or something...it has now become the Boston, Massachusetts treat.

I should be thankful that he does all of the cooking (and the grocery shopping)...and I am...I really am. I am not hungry, though I have gone hungry on a few occasions when my Love has experimented, but I resort to granola bars or cereal. I think we need to get back to basics. Brendan needs to learn the food pyramid again, and I just need to either suck it up and eat my bagels with their side of tortilla chips, or learn to cook myself.

I guess I'll just suck it up. Cooking f*cking sucks! And in the future....our children will be the topic of conversation at every play date as all of the other kids speak of what they ate over at little Gustav Octavian Yeager's House (this is what my husband wants to name our child) Chicken Nuggets and Eggplant...Grilled Cheese and Beets.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Come Out Come Out Where Ever You Are!

2010-01-04T07:00:00.005-05:00

Today, I am forlorn. Usually I am opposed to it...lorn that is...but today, I for it.

Max...."the grey one"...my cat...doesn't like me anymore. Somehow, he got a scratch on his right eyeball, and it's all squinty and cute. I can't tell if he's mad at me because I've been calling him Popeye or because Brendan and I have been holding him down 3 times a day to put 2 different jellies in his eye. My guess is the jelly...but I'm taking it quite personally.

Max has always been a lover. We call him "The Neighborhood Whore". He flits from house to house soliciting belly rubs, food, love, attention. He has been found numerous times inside our neighbor's homes...laying on their sofas, eating their other pets' food. He worms his way in...and stays. He's adopted the 80 year old man next door as his best friend. He follows him on his walks around the cul de sac...and awaits the impending rub down/cool down on the front steps. This is Max...the lover.

Max has always been a drama queen. Since he was a kitten, he would attempt to break out...he never mastered that one (though he obviously mastered the "break in"...just ask the neighbors). He has always gotten his way...another scoop of food, a 4:oo am cuddle (it is difficult to refuse a 15 pound kitty sitting on your chest and licking your lips and head butting your face), the never ending game of in and out...in the house, out of the house....in the house, out of the house.

Max has always been a brat. He has this stare...his jealous stare. It's like I hear his voice through his eyes...a cross between Stewy from "The Family Guy" and Eeyore...he hates any attention that is not completely on him...especially if it is being paid to his brother Gus. Of course, when either Bren or I see this face...we go running to console our jealous little man...,"oh Max, we love you too...come cuddle...kiss kiss, love love." And we're right back in his furry little pocket once again.

Today I am forlorn because Max isn't being a lover, a drama queen, or a brat. He's hiding from me...under the bed, in the basement. He isn't purring for me, isn't showing me his fat little belly. He shrinks under my touch and leaps away. Like a child saying those 3 horrible words to their parent....I feel it in his eyes...."I HATE YOU!"

Today I am forlorn because I remember saying that to my father. I HATE YOU. He was probably doing something for my own good...feeding me Lima beans, brushing my hair, putting jelly in a scratched eyeball...but I didn't know it. And even if he told me that he was doing it for my own good....maybe I just didn't understand.

My cat is hiding under the bed and I am having a total meltdown. Okay, not entirely...but damn it kind of stings. It took over 30 years and a cat to make me realize how many times I must have stung my father the way that the scratches all over my arms are stinging me right now.

Kids can be little bastards. I know I was. I know I probably never said I was sorry...but I am. Hate isn't in my vocabulary when I speak of my father. I get it now. Max will come around...hopefully his eye will heal, and he won't get too fat from all of the extra food and treats we are plying him with to win back his love....but he'll never say he's sorry. He doesn't need to...he's a cat.

That's all for now,

Brandi

"OLD LONG SINCE" or Long, Long Ago

2010-01-01T01:18:00.003-05:00

Auld Lang Syne literally translated means: "Old Long Since"....or long, long ago.

Basically the song Auld Lang Syne says: Let's drink for old time's sake....and isn't that what everyone does?

"For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you’ll buy your pint cup !
and surely I’ll buy mine !
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne."

I just wanted to say...that if I drank...I'd raise my glass to you all on this the start of a new decade...the beginning of new friends...the memories of old...the spirit of kindness in or out of a cup....the wishes for good things to come for us all.

Happy New Year My Friends!!!

That's all for now,
xoxox, Brandi

Shh...Blitzen is gonna shank Santa...

2009-12-30T07:00:00.002-05:00

I had a "THING" on my face. It wasn't pretty. It was a pulsating, pain inducing leech of a pus filled mound that was smack dab on the side of my nose. It was not pretty. I know I said that already...but it wasn't. Oh yeah...then it spread. Cheek, eye, forehead....hair?

Pretty ain't I? I was going for the soft focus, big nose, pepperoni puff pastry look.

I went to see the doctor...and he told me I had....Shingles???? Don't only really really old bed-ridden, diaper wearing, moth ball smelling fogies get that???? Unfortunately for me...the answer was no.

Well, that's where I was for the last couple weeks...hiding Hunchback of Notre Dame style in my house coat and slipper socks. My hair was oil slicked and shingle pricked...and I'm sure I smelled awesome.

Brendan took every chance he got to mention the fact that I had Herpes. Even though it was just a "form" of herpes...he still decided my nickname would be Herps.

ME: "Hey Bren, guess what they call Shingles in Italy? St. Anthony's Fire. (cuz' it feels like fire)

BRENDAN: "Guess what they call em' in America? HERPES!"

Thank you Bren for your sympathy, your kind words, and your understanding. It was really a comfort that you were there to point out that the shingles on my face, so painful, so ugly were distant relatives to an STD...lest I forget...you are always there to remind me.

Slowly I started to heal...I went from pus filled lesions to scabby, flaky goodness with a smattering of pain and a shitload of itching. I picked...I said it...scars be damned...it felt good.

Finally the scabs started to flake off along with the rest of the skin on my face. It was so dry and badly in need of La Mer. I went back to work and basically sat on my ass...I felt like I had Mono again.

BUT....It's finally over!!!! I'm feeling better....and my spots are fading and easy to cover with spackle (I mean make-up). I missed you all so much, and want to say thank you for all of the get well comments and wishes....way better than any Christmas present!

*********************************************************

Brendan and his gang of brothers

(oh, and the old guy is the handyman....Eddie)

Brendan and I went to his parents' for Christmas this year. Bren has a shitload of brothers...and they all have wives and girlfriends....so it was like an Amish Christmas in Connecticut (with lots of booze and a little less facial hair....sans bonnets). We had a time. Having all those brothers together in one house....well....lets just say the walls were dripping with testosterone. If I hear the word girth or cock one more time...I'm going to have to check to see if I sprouted one...if I do...I hope it's got gobs of girth.

We Yankee Swapped, we injected H1N1 vaccines (Bren's dad is a doctor), we toasted, we played games, the women were subjected to an obscene amount of foul smelling odors and gag worthy noises...but it was all so much fun!

Me striking my "sexy" elf pose. FAIL !!!!

AND....I got a SHAM WOW! Hell Yeah!!!! Brendan would never let me have one of those nifty little f*ckers cuz' he said it was the same thing as a regular shammy (what dillhole doesn't know the difference between a SHAM WOW and a shammy?) BRENDAN .

Santa was good to me this year....well besides the whole "shingle" thing...well on second thought...EFF YOU Santa....you're a prick!!!! I hope Blitzen sticks his antler up your ass and throws you off a really really high roof. Since this year you were way too generous with the face fungus...let's work on 2010. Next year please bring me a new bathrobe...the camera case you got me this year somehow just doesn't cover my ass quite as well.

That's all for now,

Brandi

SHINGLE BELLS....SHINGLE BELLS...SHINGLES ON MY FACE !!!

2009-12-23T14:25:00.005-05:00

I haven't been having the best of holiday seasons. I am slowly recuperating from a bout with Shingles. (Yeah, I though only old folks got it too). I feel like I'm on a permanent Valium trip and I can't get off the ride. SO TIRED!!!

I just wanted to say Herpe Holidays...oops...I mean Happy Holidays! I hope all is well with you and your families, and that you all get good shit in your stockings or your menorahs (or whatever thing you put your holiday loot in.)

I will be posting again soon...I hope.

That's all for now,
xoxoxo
Brandi

WILL BE BACK SOON....

2009-12-14T23:22:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to let everyone know that I'm outta commission for a few days. I'm not feeling very well...and once I've rested and started feeling better...I will be back with a vengence. I'm hoping to post again in the next few days so check back.

See you soon!
xoxoxo
Brandi

The WTF Blanket

2009-12-07T07:00:00.001-05:00

Well...I finally got my Snuggie. And fashion be damned...it's the best $14.99 I've ever spent! I highly recommend it to all you assholes out there who keep your heat at 62 degrees like we do here at our igloo ( I mean house ).

It's long, cozy and all mine! Oh yeah...and my husband HATES it...but I just chalk that up to jealousy.

And then....a few days later....he shows me this:
And let me just say....we laughed our asses off! I like my Snuggie even more!

I really wanted the zebra one....
then I found this:

Well...all of you Snuggie haters....you don't know what you're missin'.

That's all for now,
Brandi

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes....

2009-12-04T07:00:00.003-05:00

Smoke and mirrors...that's all it really is isn't it?

Illuminated for a short moment...our own twists and turns, tendrils and ribbons...float then fade, and if we are lucky...someone...captures that moment and remembers.

Something misshapen. Something incidental...incandescently beautiful...rolling for a heartbeat then changed forever.

A wash, a flood, a flicker...a twirl of a lover's hair. A memory, a vision...a creation only seen by a focused lens. Exhaled grace. A snap of wanderlust. A pinafore that disappears as the decades form creases across that pretty dress.

This is smoke and mirrors...our lives lit like the grayish fumes from a cigarette. Reflected back upon ourselves...we see the cadence of our youth....maybe hear the tick of winding clock. Each one of us is like a Rorschach...what do you see when you look at the billowing wings? Do you see my eyes, my fingers, my liberty? Back lit from a candle, plumes of smoke dancing in time for one quick frame...a mirror is placed just so....can you see my secrets?

That's all for now,

Brandi

P.S. Brendan just came back from ANOTHER business trip, and while I was explaining this post...raving about how beautiful and amazing smoke art is...guess what popped up on the TV screen at the very same moment? Just guess! Yup...smoke billowing across a black screen. I looked at Brendan and said..."OH MY GOD! LOOK! I TOLD YOU SO! It was freaky. Well, it was a commercial for something lame...but it was freaky. If this makes no sense ***see previous post****

"I Speak Loudly For Those Who Have No Voice" - Captain America

2009-12-02T07:00:00.000-05:00

me in my Super Hero alter ego Underoos...."Knee-High Barbie"

I have a super power. Don't worry...you didn't know because I've never really told anyone before (except my husband). It's not really "super" like being able to fly or some shit like that...but I'm convinced that if I don't keep this power under wraps it will be coveted by fine institutions like the CIA, FBI, or NASA. I really don't want to be quarantined or mind melted by some sort of rogue super power stealing militia...it's mine and I'm keeping it. So don't tell anyone. K?

I don't know when it started....15...younger, older...who knows? But it's been going on for years and every time my abilities present...I blow my own mind that I am just THAT talented.

There is no name for what I am. Psychic? No...not reeaallly. Super duper Influencer? Um...maybe?

OK...so now I'll tell you. My "super power" is entertainment based. Huh? You heard me. See, sometimes I'll just be randomly thinking about some random old TV show or movie I haven't seen in years....and lo' and behold....I flick on the TV a day, or week later...and there it is...on TV for the first time since like 1986! Freaky right? It happens all the time.

A couple of weeks ago I was talking to my boss about some old TV show that I used to watch when I was little. I couldn't think of the name of it and it was driving me CRAZY! You know the one with the guy in the flesh colored body suit that showed all of his organs (it was educational not gruesome) and he had a 'fro? Well, I Googled, and I Googled...and I finally just called my sister...and of course she just automatically said, "SLIM GOODBODY!". OOOOHHHH yeah! Slim Goodbody! My boss then remembered watching the show and we laughed at how we both used to laugh at the "bulge" beneath the large intestine...anyway...2 days later my boss came into work and said, "you'll never guess who is going to be at my son's school tomorrow?" Nope I would never have guessed...."SLIM GOODBODY"!!!! No shit?

I actually made him APPEAR? I know, I know, it's crazy...but it's true. He's like 50 years old now and started making appearances at schools...and I...like...called it. You're stunned...breathe...it'll be OK. I only use my powers for good.

That was just one little example...there is too many to list. I "influence" things so often...old Roseanne reruns, the new season of Hoarders (you're welcome), Pee-Wee Herman's return to Saturday morning television....all me!

What would you call this "power"? It needs a name...or I need a super hero persona or something. Help! Just keep it on the down low. Remember...my powers could be desirable to the "enemy" and be used for evil if put into the wrong hands. Instead of The Blue Lagoon movie on TNT....you could be forced to watch reruns of this guy and his "happy little clouds":

That's all for now,

Brandi

Don't Let Husbands Decorate...

2009-11-30T07:00:00.000-05:00

Right now...The President of the United States is staring at me. Two French whores and/or Western whores (I haven't decided which, and it's a family debate) are also staring at me...though in much more of a "come hither" fashion. Oh yeah and whilst all this staring me down is going on...I am being held up by a cross bow toting Chewbacca and a laser-y gun wielding Han Solo. I better run down the train tracks to Fenway Park.

I did a bad, bad thing. I let Brendan decorate. All those things in bold....are hanging on my wall...together...clan of the crazy.

I should have learned from past experience. Previously, when Bren and I lived in our condo...I had relegated his decorative prowess to a closet. Yup...a closet. He set it up like a bar...hung his favorite Madonna poster, Han and Chewy, The Beatles album cover, and all of his other college-y shit. I was OK with that. I could close the doors on that. Now I'm eye to eye with the Head of State and some disease ridden, horse back riding (I've decided they're western), but still slightly French inspired trollops.

The Obama photo was really more of a joke. It was funny...let me repeat the WAS. Bren's very Republican parents were coming to visit for the first time, and my crafty lil' hubby decided he would throw our new Prez in their faces. Months later...Barry (as I have come to call him) is still on our wall. Now, don't get me wrong. I heart our wonderful country..."oh say can you see????", I "Pledge Allegiance" and all that jazz...but...I think we done gone and pushed it a lil' far now. Bren?

The bow-tied, sepia toned "ladies of the evening" and the Star Wars side kicks have been with Bren since college? Childhood? Over 12-15 YEARS now? ***sigh*** I can't make him part with them....no matter the promotion of gun violence and prostitution. I'm a damn understanding wife!

Fenway was a gift from Bren's Mom...and I like it. The train tracks were Brendan's attempt at photography (on one of his hikes...on train tracks)...it's actually pretty good...a little repetitive...but it's got vision.

I love my husband...and I love our home. Our office/den room...not so much. But...it's 2 am and me and the "clan of the crazy" are up way past our bedtime...so Redecorating 101 will have to wait for another day. Night Mr. President...be ready at 3 am when I call your ass.

That's all for now,

Brandi

That'll Be The Day When My Breasteses Sell You Cigarettes....

2009-11-23T07:00:00.001-05:00

I thought these were hilarious...maybe you will too. I can't believe there was a time when these ads actually sold products....just like now...I can't believe boobs can actually sell beer. Maybe one day ass cracks will sell nose plugs and belly buttons will sell contact lenses...but for now...I'm glad these ads are in the past....

Whoever thought up this Demure ad was a real Douchebag!

"It deodorizes so thoroughly, so pleasantly, you know you're the woman your husband wants you to be."

What a TOTAL crock of shit!

Since when has anyone lost weight cleaning the windows? I really don't know...I've never tried.

"Should a gentleman offer a Tiparillo to a violinist?"

Obviously he should! I mean what woman wouldn't want a 7" long phallic shaped menthol while she was simultaneously getting dressed and playing the violin? Come on! It's a no brainer. This woman has goals...you can tell.

1. Smoke a Tiparillo

2. Play the Violin

3. Get dressed...with or without bra

4. Get to the salon to change that f*cked up hair-do.

That's all for now,

Brandi xoxox

What Would Rachel Zoe Say?

2009-11-20T11:59:00.002-05:00

Ok...I would love if you would all let me know what you all think of the new design? Please? One of the blogs I really like recently changed her look and I hate it....but ofcourse, I would never say anything! So please let me know if my changes are good or bad. I love input!

Is this "Bananas"? Or am I just "Nuts"?

Talk to me people,
xoxoxo
Brandi

Jumpin' Jack Flash....You Know What It Is...

2009-11-19T07:00:00.001-05:00

Could it have got any worse? Yup...it's me remember? No I don't have scabies or anything like that...just the typical loser -y type of shit that always happens to me happened...yet again.

On my way to work...tunes were cranked...heat was pumpin'...traffic was not so bad...lights saw me coming and miraculously turned all green just for me...then...BAM! Shut down...like trying to move a stone sculpture I was. Late for work I was going to be...because...

I ran out of gas!

How far away way the gas station you ask? Only about 1/2 a mile...but way too far for my prissy lil' ass to walk.

So, I cursed the gods that obviously have it out for me...and called work. BUT WAIT! Yup, my phone is dying. BUT WAIT! I have the phone-in-the-car-plugger-inner-thingy! BUT WAIT! My car doesn't work...cuz' I ran outta gas! Through the beeps, I told my boss I would be late...and I would call her right back. Through the dying tones I called Bren and asked if we had road side assistance. Through the failing pulses...the last drops of power...I called for assistance...through my phone...grasping for juice...I got this:

Press 1 for English (beep, beep, beep...this is bullshit...)

Press 1 for a new claim (beep)

Press 2 for an old claim (bleeeep, bleep, blllleee....)

Press 3 for roadside assistance (3 damn it 3!!!!)

Press 1 if your car is immobile (beep are you effing kidding me? beep, beep)

Press 2 if your car is....(I can't friggin' wait for this...my phone is dying here people! Beep, BEEP, BEEEEEEP)

So, with the last ounce of strength and power that my phone could muster...I dialed work and said, "COME GET ME!!!!"

I walked into work with my head held low...for this is just too typical. Flat tires, missing keys, bad moods, gas tank on empty. The world has officially given me the finger. And now...I'd like to give it back.

On a lighter note...I'm in a better mood today. Could you tell? My car is safe & sound and has a full belly of gasoline. My phone is on the charger...and tomorrow...I'm going to get to work on time...even if I have to walk there naked, shoeless, and in my granny panties (cuz' I didn't do laundry tonight either).

That's all for now,

xoxo Brandi

Back Up....Back Up...Mind Ya Bizness...

2009-11-18T07:00:00.001-05:00

I am in a foul f*cking mood...the kind that would my shrink testicles...should I have been lucky enough to get some of those diamonds in a bag. I have no testes to shrink, and my boobs can't get any flatter...so my pissy mood has grown more despondent.

I have no real reason for this Bitch Fest...it's not like it's "Arts And Crafts Week" at panty camp.(thank you Hank Moody...I needed a reason to use that one) I just dunno...and I feel like venting.

I have seen way too many snotty noses in this past week! Mothers? Have you not heard of the recent outbreak of illness that is crippling our nation? Leave your sick and snot filled children at home, or at least wipe their noses and don't let them touch the shit where I work.

God Damn this whole dark before 4:30 bullshit! I hate driving to begin with...then I have to drive home IN THE DARK with 50,000 Bostonian assholes who don't know what a passing lane is...but do drive in the breakdown lane instead. Yeah...that's legal...between 7-10 am and 3-6 pm. Anyway...it's dark and I don't like it.

I used up an entire roll of toilet paper 3 days ago trying to get it started. Why the f*ck do they have to glue that first piece down? 17 tries later, all the plies pulled apart, I finally had a satisfyingly large enough wad, and then I hit cardboard. Cheap ass gas station toilet paper...$5 a roll...and now I'm left wiping my ass with aloe enriched Kleenex because I am too lazy to go to the grocery store. Oh yeah...and I'm in a bad mood...but my ass is as soft as silk.

What next? Oh...right...Brendan wants a Porsche for Christmas. I'm not even going to touch that one. Know what I want? A Snuggie...and yet he tells ME that I'M crazy! Won't his ass be cold standing in the driveway looking for his sparkly new Porsche on Christmas morning...and I'll be all warm and toasty in my new Snuggie...cuz' we can actually afford that!

Well...I'm done. I'm still all huffy and forlorn...but...now you know and can share my load. Speaking of which...I have to do laundry. Sonofab*tch! Screw it...I'm wearing Granny Panties tomorrow and if anyone has the slightest sense of self-preservation...they better keep their thong wearing, clean sock sporting, non-gas station ghetto toilet paper having mouths shut.

It's going to be a great day...

That's all for now,

Brandi

***I feel a little better now...thanks! ***

That's A Whole Lotta Lobster...

2009-11-13T07:00:00.000-05:00

"Talking about love is like dancing about architecture."

- Joan (Angelia Jolie) in "Playing By Heart"

The "Armani" sunglasses need to go!

My husband made it back to the States safe and sound. It was good to see his face....even though he was a little sunburned...he looked like he got a little Brazilian sizzle, saucy, ay yay ay.

He said the wedding was one of the best he had ever been to...Brazilian carnival dancers as tall and ripped as Amazon women (and barely dressed)...carnival drummers, lit dance floor, pyrotechnics, and dancing. If there was dancing...Brendan was happy.

Oh and meat...he said they ate a lot of meat. Meat off the grill, meat on a platter, meat on a stick. Meat for every meal.

Well, he made it back for two days and then he was off again...to Minnesota...eh? I'm missing him already! We've talked more on the phone than we've seen each other all month. Absence makes the heart grow fonder...pah!

Well, this post was not the most giggle worthy. I waited all week for something funny to say...alas...without my muse, I am blah. Next week, I promise to get back into the swing of things. If I walk into a door or trip an old lady....I promise to let you know.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Don't Be Tardy For The Party....oh oh oh oh

2009-11-06T07:00:00.005-05:00

Well, it's day 2 and counting. I'm missing my hubby so so much! I'm feeling a bit lonely here all by myself...though now that my two cats only have me to adore them....they are constantly fighting for my undivided attention. That takes up a good part of my day.

It kinda sucks having no friends to hang out with out here. I moved from Vermont almost 3 years ago (Christ...has it really been that long already?) and I still haven't made any non-work friends to speak of. Being a hermit doesn't help. But working in retail is the real ball buster.

What have I been doing with my time alone? WELL....what haven't I done? It's been "off the hook" here at my house! I have caught up on all my missed episodes of Supernanny, Project Runway, and The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I wasn't gonna be "Tardy for that Party". I love that song....what of it?

I also eat whenever and whatever I like...and because Bren's not here...I am not ashamed. You may ask, "how does she keep that girlish figure?" Well, I'll tell you. I eat a Fun Size Snickers ( or 3 ) for breakfast, a frozen pizza for lunch, and then a "sensible" dinner. Like tonight...I cooked...a can of beets. No really, I cooked em'...on the stove and everything...no microwave. Bren would never eat beets and they are my favorite, so why not make a meal outta them. My shit is gourmet bitches! I used seasoning too! Well....salt...but I sprinkled it in my hand, and pinched it here and there....Julia Child was wiping tears of joy in heaven.

So anyway, I was really bored so I thought I'd bore you too. You're welcome. Tune in next time when I talk about my laundry habits, my toilet cleaning prowess, and garbage day! It promises to be way better than anything I could have written about dumb ol' Brazil...and I am only calling it dumb solely because I am not there and am jealous.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Say Hello To My Lil Fren'....

2009-11-05T07:00:00.003-05:00

"Blue as the sky....somber and lonely, sippin' tea..." yeah that's me, all alone...so I put my records on, and let my hair down.

Brendan left for Brazil today...I'm missin' him already. I am not however, missing the 20 hour flight that he has ahead of him. Damn! I hope he at least gets to see some beautiful Brazilian women in thongs...he deserves it after that. (I'm such a good wife) I am staying home....taking care of the kids (kitties), and holding down the fort....with a knife next to the bed, an axe under the pillow, and a uzi in my Hope chest. Don't mess with the Zohan! This economy has not afforded me a trip to Brazil this year...but I got a really good price on my Mac 10 .45acp. It's shiny.

Before Bren left...our trouble making child (the orange one) came home smelling like gasoline. So as good parents do...we decided to give our "little man" a "little bath"...in the sink...with shampoo. Let me set the stage for you...our cat Gus, acts like he is on a permanent acid trip. He's a tweaker. We only had bathed him once before (skunk) and that was a blood bath. Or it looked like one. Tomato juice, the two of us, and a cat on crack. Bloody.

So anyway, we decided the sink was sufficient place to cleanse the smell of gas from Gus's arse...bad idea. Let's just say, Gus's ass still smells like gas but the kitchen window, stove, counters, and kitchen floor are sparkling clean thanks to Gus's "bath". He went from the cuddly little lion cub that he can be....to this:

I'm hoping the scars heal before New Year's.

"Maybe sometimes...we got it wrong...but it's alright."

Yeah, it's alright.

That's all for now,
Brandi

Have A "Whore-iffic" Halloween...

2009-10-31T07:00:00.002-04:00

Aw shit! They "Whore-ifed" Minnie Mouse. Now she's a Skank!

This awesome lady came into the store where I work the other day. We (my co-workers and I) were all standing around the counter chit-chatting, and we started talking to this "awesome lady" about Halloween.

US: "What crazy/sexy/cool costume are you going to rock this Halloween pray-tell?"

AWESOME LADY: "I don't know. I am a 3rd grade school teacher, and every costume out there is just so slutty. There's the prostitute nun, the prostitute school girl, the prostitute bumble bee. I just don't think 3rd graders are ready for that shit."

ME: "Yup, unless you want to be a whore for Halloween...you're pretty much screwed."

Okay, maybe the conversation didn't quite go like that...but that was pretty much the gist. When the hell did Halloween go from dressing up in a scary and spooky monster mask to seeing who can wear the least amount of clothes and barely covering the "important parts"? Oh wait...maybe when I turned about 16 and stopped enjoying Halloween.

I Googled some of these masterpieces of slutdom and just had to share...

"Trick or treat" my ass...it should be more like "tit or twat". Either way...someone's gettin' candy. (damn my filthy mouth)

Here's my favorites.

"The Prostitute Nun"

Is nothing sacred? Ever hear of the Thorn Birds?

"The Prostitute Nurse"

She's gonna have to cure her own cold with her ass cheeks hangin' out like that.

"The Prostitute Girl Scout"
She's not selling cookies.

Yeah, this is the Prostitute "Prostitute"

It's considerably realistic...she looks pretty wrecked.

There was just too many "prostitute (insert admirable profession/cute animal/or Disney character here) costumes to post here. I mean really...think of any sort of worker in any profession...use your imagination (got it in your head?) Ok, now picture them with their boobs hanging out, knee high boots, and fishnets....costume done...spooky right? Deserves candy right?

Who did you picture?

MOTHER TERESA?

Holly shit you sickos...she's a dead wrinkly old lady! You wanted to picture Mother Teresa with her boobs hanging out...and fishnets?

Didn't work did it?

Mother Teresa is a person...not a profession...you could've tried prostitute "missionary" or prostitute "saint"....that woulda worked. I bet there's a costume for it....white toga thingy about crotch high??? Oh and don't forget the halo....

I'm quite sure my husband would love it if I dressed up like....

"Little HO Peep"

BUT....I was thinking something a little more....I don't know....Amish???

Yeah! Amish women rock it hard core. Check out the bonnet! I seriously could use a bonnet in my everyday wardrobe. It's dainty. The web site says that this is a Pilgrim/Puritan costume....but you and I both know it's Amish. I'll carry a patchwork quilt or something...that'll add to the realism. (there I go again with my Amish sterotypes)

Shit....they don't carry my size....guess I'll just go as the crazy cat lady in her bathrobe again this year. It's pretty scary...just ask the neighbors...they see me in it everyday.

Happy Howl-a-ween !!!

Send all your extra Butterfingers and Mr. Goodbars over to Duel Living c/o my tummy!

That's all for now,

Brandi

Required Watching = SUPERNANNY

2009-10-29T07:00:00.000-04:00

As that ticking time bomb of my "biological clock" ticks louder and louder in my ears....I am seriously pondering if I'm up for becoming a mother.

See, I was raised by my father...a no nonsense kinda guy who gave me two choices...

1. His Way

2. Too F*uckin' Bad

Needless to say, I always chose "His Way", and in the event I chose anything else...I rarely did it again. Yo Dad...BRAVO! I am right now, at this very moment, applauding you. My teenage years were a little turbulent with you, but LOOK AT ME NOW!!! Perfection.

I work in a retail furniture store, and let me just say to all of the parents out there that may be reading this...WTF are you doing to your children? Yes, I say doing TO your children...because by giving them all of these "options" at 2,3,4,5 years old...they are bound to get it a little f*cked up.

Parents come into my store all the time and their children run rampant...out of control...driving me nuts. I am known as being the store hard ass...I don't care what the parents think. You better believe I tell their children NO RUNNING! NO JUGGLING the stupid shell ball thingys that serve no purpose but to tempt children to juggle them. NO SCREAMING! And parents...that means you too. If your kid is climbing on the seat of a 12" realistic bicycle (meant to sit on a shelf for some ridiculous purpose) get off your lazy ass and tell them NO! Don't scream at them across the store to "Please stop Little Becky/Jimmy/Frodo/Optimus Prime. Doesn't work does it? Nope.

I love the quote...

"This is not a democracy...it's a dictatorship"

True dat!

I believe in giving children choices that they are capable of making..."do you want to use the green crayon or the blue one?" "What book would you like to read at bedtime tonight?" I don't however, believe children learn from being given so many options. There is a point where there is no possibility of making sensible choices. "What do you want for dinner tonight Apple/Billy/Terminator/Brutus?" And when you say no to his request for Jolly Ranchers and milk shakes...he throws a fit. Well??? You asked him what he wanted for dinner Dumb Ass. He is just a 4 year old. My advice...put the chicken nuggets in front of him on his little Thomas the Tank Engine plate and tell him to enjoy! If he doesn't give him 2 options...

1. Eat It

2. Too F*ckin' Bad...go hungry.

You may ask why I think I know it all? You may think...sure...she doesn't have a kid how can she stand up on that soap box and preach to the parental choir? I'll tell you why. I was a nanny for a lotta years. I learned a lot about disciplining 3 toddlers without the having the option of corporal punishment (which sometimes sucked). I have also been childless for these last 30 years, looking in from the outside and watching all of these f*ck up parents reading books like "Never Say No To Your Child" and laughing cuz' they've raised a completely rude, discontented, and lost little kid. Of course you should say no to your kids. By all means, they have to learn to make their own decisions, but that comes in time...not in infancy. They don't learn morals, values, and respect from being able to pick out their dinner menu, or running in a furniture store.

Okay, I have stepped down off my soap box now. Thanks for listening to medium sized rant. My worst fear in life is to choose to become a mother and then to do the job badly. It is a juggling act...with kids...not little shell ball thingys...and I'm scared.

And don't get me started on....

1. Parents who allow their children to sleep with them until they are 9.

2. Children who are still suckling from their mother's teat at 5. (If it were necessary the rest of the animal kingdom would be doing it. Do you see 5 year old elephants still sucking their mother's elephant sized breast? Nope...she would have stomped that little elephant ass and said go get yourself a peanut or some shit like that.)

3. Rich parents who buy their children's love/adoration/place in college, society, and life. (MTV spawned the series My Super Sweet 16 to showcase bratty spoiled teenagers and instead created a cult of teenagers aspiring to have the latest Jay-Z knock off at their parties...and now their parents are expected to shell out.)

You know what I got on my 16Th birthday? I got the chance to drive my Dad's car to get Chinese food less than a mile away from my front door. And you know what? I grinned ear to ear the whole way!!!!

That's all for now,

Brandi

P.S. I'm sure someone is going to let me have it...I'm ready...and I'll still love you.

Perhaps I Might Borrow Your Grey Poupon?

2009-10-21T07:00:00.003-04:00

Perhaps.

I love that word. Perhaps. It's a possibility. It's an awakening. It's a bite of fate. Perhaps. Perhaps I will do something memorable today...make a friend, learn a word, eat something other than chicken. Perhaps, I will get dressed today...perhaps I won't. It's all in the maybe that is so intriguing.

A twist, a turn, an unexpected blink and that perhaps is reality. Poof. Done.

Endless choices are awaiting when preceded by perhaps...and nothing is off limits. I guess that is what makes it so damn tasty.

Perhaps, today I will meet a person who can change my mind. Perhaps I will fulfill a dream. Perhaps I will rip a hole in the ass of my favorite pants at work today...nope wait. I did that already....yesterday. That sentence should have read: Obviously I will rip a hole in the ass of my favorite pants at work. There's always a possibility of holes ripping and embarrassing scenarios when we're talking about me here. Perhaps I will shave my legs or hem my new pants...probably not...but perhaps. Conceivably I may laugh out loud or dance in front of the mirror...perhaps...I haven't decided yet...but the option is there. It's liberating isn't it?

Perhaps, you dear friends, will read this and think I'm nuts...perhaps you will not...you may or may not have already decided that. Perhaps is a rolling stone that only rests in decision. What choices will I make today?

Perhaps I will go eat some Sabra Hummus now...yes...choice made...no longer perhaps.

That's all for now,

Brandi

P.S. Maybe the real reason I love the word perhaps, is because it sounds like PURRHATS and who doesn't love a kitty with a cap? I'm a fan....they're just so jaunty!

Cuz' Mickey Loves Ya...

2009-10-16T07:00:00.007-04:00

"We write to taste life twice,

once in the moment,

and in retrospection."

-Anais Nin

I thought I would give a little "update" on a few of my previous postings. Revisit...if you will. Taste them again...as if once wasn't enough.

Folks...my toilet is flushing clear. I am officially back from the tacky. I have to say...thank God for the knock off 2000 Flushes brand...it was really more like 500. In this economy, I never thought I would actually be thankful for crappy products. Pun intended.

I think it may be time to retire my good ol' faux "Snuggie". I spilled hot chocolate on it...and it puts the "ug" in ugly...and takes the "snug" outta "Snuggie. I'm thinking I will invest in one of those new fashion Snuggies....like the one below...because I am feeling like I want to bring out my wild side. I think the zebra one will do that. It's my kinda "lingerie". Bren better watch out! I'm getting frisky with my loungewear.

I finally got a weekend off with Brendan. I only get one a month....which is tough. What did we do all day on a rainy Saturday? We watched Rocky I - V. "AAAADDDRRIIAAANNN". It was quite the marathon. Ofcourse I had to hear MANY bad Rocky impressions and watch Brendan "air box" with many invisible opponents.

Things I learned that rainy Saturday?

1.Brendan can't do a very good Rocky impression.

2.Brendan can't do a very good Russian impression.

3.Rocky II-V sucked.

4.Brigitte Neilson used to be quite hot.

5.I never want to hear "Eye Of The Tiger" again.

6.I never want to hear "Da Da Dant...Da Da Daaaant" again.

7.I had a really good day watching Rocky I-V with Bren. Yup, I said it. It was fun.

8.They had to put clothes on Stallone for the Rocky V poster...and a hat...he was getting man boobs.

Well...that's the update....maybe just a few more little things.... I am not getting a Brazilian wax now or ever. The cats haven't really been bringing any dead things home lately. Our heat isn't working upstairs. Our refrigerator sprung a leak and drowned the kitchen floor. Don't worry...I didn't know refrigerators leaked either. Gus stopped peeing in the plants but decided bowls of leaking refrigerator water were better. My bangs are getting longer by the day and ever more so unattractive. My beautiful little niece is playing tackle football. GO JJ! And I checked the tv guide for the next couple weeks...Lethal Weapon, Braveheart, and Die Hard were miraculously left off the line up...so I'm safe through October. Life is good in the Yeager house.

That's all for now,
Brandi

What A Girl Wants...

2009-10-06T07:00:00.000-04:00

I used to break the erasers off of pencils and put them in my training bra. See...I thought having pointy nips meant I was a "woman". That's all I wanted to be when I was a little 'un. I thought of all of the coolest things that all of the prettiest and coolest women I knew had...and I wanted them too. Like Farrah Fawcetts pointy nips...among other things.

My step-sister (before she was my step-sister) had a mouth full of the most beautiful metal. Her teeth gleamed when she smiled. She was soooo cool! She had the best dolls...the best "office supplies" to play "office" with...she wore high heels in high school...and she feathered her hair! I wanted to be her. She was a woman in my eyes.

So I stuck a barrette between my teeth and my lip...and smiled. I told everybody on the kindergarten playground that I...had indeed...received the awesome opportunity to "get braces". Slight problem...Gina Catalano (that uppity bitch) blabbed to the entire class that my "braces" were really just a plain ol' barrette. I was a fraud...a playground non-braces wearing, metallic tasting mouth fraud. Thanks Gina.

I wanted long fingernails too. I though that was the epitome of a woman...red claws. They were graceful and shiny, and great for pointing at stuff. I was a kid. My parents wouldn't let me get fake ones...so I tried everything. Bugles Snacks...pointy, perfectly conical for the "all around" fingernail look...and they were tasty too. I tried more barrettes...the snappy kind that you bent to close. Those were a little painful in the beginning...but after my fingers went numb...it was great! I didn't try and convince anyone but myself that they were real...Gina kinda ruined my mojo. I even saved my allowance for Lee Press On Nails! For the 15 minutes they stayed on...life was oh so blissful...and womanly...and red.

Yes...I did it all. I wore my "blankie" on my head so I could have hair as long as Crystal Gayle. (a big big dream of mine...HUGE). I bought fake glasses at Claire's Boutique (I did get away with passing those off for real for a few days...Gina moved away). I dreamt of beautiful gowns and satiny high heals that click clacked on the floor when I walked. All of these things were cool to me. All of these things meant being grown up. I wanted a pink car with a shifter. That was it. That was all. That's what a girl wants.

Fast forward. I suppose I can now say that I am a woman...though I still feel like I'm aching to find out what makes me so. I laugh at all of those things that I did to be beautiful...to be older...to be different.

Now that I need braces (at 30) I realize how much they suck and they don't make anyone a woman cuz' boys wear em' too. Long fingernails are for suckers...stuff gets stuck under them and you can't get a really good pick going without causing a nose bleed. I wear glasses now. Yeah...lucky me! That's exactly what I wanted and now I hate them. I still have flat boobs with perpetually pointy nipples. Now I know that this is way too much information...but it just goes to show...what a girl wants....loses a lot in the translation. I don't wear dresses...ever! Same goes for heels...whether they go clickty clack or not...they are uncomfortable and they are dumb. I hate the color pink and especially hate pink cars. I have a standard car with a "shifter"...it's a pain in the arse. I live in Boston...drive in bumper to bumper traffic...this isn't womanly...this is the cause of road rage.

What have I learned from this little diatribe? I had a really f*cked up vision of womanhood. Everything...all of it...that I wanted...is exactly opposite of who I am now. I just blew my own mind here! This is like therapy kinda shit. What was I thinking? And why didn't I listen to everyone that told me...I would hate braces, glasses were nerdy, fingernails were stupid, heels were painful, and none of it would make me grow up?

When I have children...I hope I have boys. They don't put stuff like barrettes or Bugles on their penises do they?

That's all for now,

Brandi

Because Brass They Are...

2009-10-01T07:00:00.001-04:00

My life seems crazy lately...not hectic crazy...but I may be going off the "deep end" crazy. I had a dream the other night that I quit my job to fulfill my life's calling. What did my life call me to do in my dream? Bikini waxing. Yup...vaginas of Boston need me. In my dream.

I woke up from a nap late this afternoon to Brendan bursting into the bedroom, bringing blaring light and harsh footsteps. What did he say to me? Not, "it's time to get up my Love." Not, "rise and shine." No...seriously...he said this...

"Como te los llamos." Which very loosely translated in some sort of Spanish means "What are your names?"

Then...

"My collar stays are brass." WTF? I asked him if I was awake? I couldn't wrap my head around what would possess my husband to NEED to tell me this...

I honestly thought I was still dreaming...but no...this was reality. My skewed reality. The one where my husband has a weird affinity for saying Spanish words in weird orders that mean absolutely nothing! My reality...the one where my husband fingers these little flat thingys that keep his shirt collars flat...and wakes me up from a perfectly good nap by informing me that they are brass...because...they are...brass...duh?

I have a husband that now has a penchant for house plants. We have books on plants people! He dusts each leaf lovingly with clean dish cloths people! This isn't the Brendan I married. I am in a weird grown up version of reality. So these new house plants...Bren's darlings...have become the peeing ground for one of our beloved "sons" Gus..."the orange one". Bren has now put rocks, aluminum foil, willow branches, AND anti-cat citrus spray in and/or around the potted plants...so what does my industrious little man in fur pajamas do? He backs up to the plant...and pees backwards, arching it into the plant! Aluminum foil...nope. Rocks...nope. Willow branches....pah. In what reality does a cat pee backwards? Oh wait...that's right...it's mine.

By the way...I got a brand spanking new windshield on my car today. For free. Yes free. In the great state of Massachusetts...you can get two replacements a year. Score....but oh wait...there is a brand new windshield on my car with a brand new oily, greasy, black hand print (that looks like it belongs to the big rock man in that movie "The Neverending Story") smack dab in the middle of my free new windshield. Figures. This is real life here people.

That's all for now,

Brandi

First Date = Porn....Obviously!

2009-09-28T07:00:00.004-04:00

The first "date" I had with Brendan...twas muy interesante. Being a "new age" kinda gal...I picked the boy up in my pimped out Geo Prism. That's right...I said pimped out...it had orangy colored racing stripes...ok, maybe it was just strips of rust...but the radio worked...straight pimpin'.

I drove to the house that Brendan shared with 2 other roommates that he didn't really know, and there he was..all 125 lbs and sideburns, sitting on the front porch. He said he was out there because he didn't want to be inside. "What's inside", I ask? He told me his roommate Gretal was having a "party". Yes...it was a party.

Inside, stood an old 32" TV on a rickety TV cart. From the front porch I could see a glowing flicker running over the enthralled faces of about 10 party goers. It wasn't until I got inside the door that I heard the sound. It wasn't until a little farther in...that I saw the "theme" of this little soiree. Yup. Porn. It was a porn party. And the girl throwing this little bash...was about 4'11", and had brown bobbed hair and glasses. And by the way...she was a total porn loving sex addict...who I later found out...was a "screamer". With an innocent name like Gretal...I shoulda figured that out. I have a porn name and am a total prude...see the pattern?

Brendan doesn't remember it being gay porn...but for some reason...that's the porn genre I have seared into my brain. Maybe I just like to remember it that way because it would make it all that much more disturbing to tell about. Whomever was doing the dirty on TV...the fact that the audience was of mixed gender and all so very into the "performance"...was actually the most disturbing part. I don't think they even looked up when Bren and I entered the room.

There was narrative happening too. Not from the actors on the screen, but the 10 sitting around watching it. I won't repeat...it's just all too much for this somewhat family friendly blog...and to be frank...I just don't think spell check would catch any of the assured spelling blunders that may occur. But for the purpose of painting a picture for you dear readers...pepper you imagination with lots of "ishy" adjectives and a smattering of 4 letter words and that should get you by.

Needless to say...I understood why Bren was on that front porch. Dinner somehow lacked its flavor, maybe because I was nervous sitting across the table from my new "beau"...maybe because every time I blinked I saw flashes of dangly "things" and the faces of the 10 that were watching those "things" dangle.

Yeah, that was our first date. The beginning of the end. (Just kidding Bren!) I think we might have made out after dinner....but somehow that has seemed to slip my mind....the pre-dinner show was just so vivid. There was just so much....(place "ishy" adjective and phallic resembling noun here)

That's all for now,

Brandi

Hot Cross Buns...

2009-09-22T11:35:00.004-04:00

I am feeling very "uncool" as of late. I am in that blah stage of my life where my mind is getting slower, my body is getting veinier, and my wardrobe is in desperate need of a little Rachel Zoe. I want someone to tell me that I look "bananas"...and for it to be a good thing. Instead...I am that girl...that "uncool" girl...when I so wish to be ROCK 'N' ROLL.

I want to live on an album cover (with hot pink lips). I would hang myself on a wall or live in a plastic crate of some really snappy alterna-kid's basement. That would be Rock 'n' Roll.

I'm growing my bangs out...and I really don't want to grow my bangs out. Bangs are Rock 'n' Roll...but not on me...with glasses. On me...bangs are super dweeby. Right now they are the Divinyls chick's length. I'm "rockin' the "I Touch Myself" "Look". It's definitely a "look"...and not only do I NOT want to "touch myself"...neither does anyone else.

If I had an axe (of the stringed variety)...I'd hammer on that shit! I'd riff till morning light and sleep the day away as the walls continued to vibrate from my awesomenosity. Sweet dreams..."Sweet Emotion". Bic lighter kinda dreams...all lit for me.

Alas...I'm more of a cassette tape cover in a glove compartment kinda girl. I have those uncomfortably awkward mid face bangs. (So not Rock 'n' Roll) I have no axe...not even a ukulele...not even a kazoo. I'm more of a recorder kinda girl. (Brendan calls them a Flutaphone...dork!) Remember recorders...4Th grade...? Remember the feeling of actual shame from playing in the mandatory "band"? Yup, that's my life. I'm in a permanent recorder band right now.

It is my expressed wish and ultimate goal...to never...NEVER... look like this woman. Effed up bangs. A "Femmullet", and flutaphones slung across BOTH shoulders! She is a Rock 'n' No.

Hot Cross Buns!!

That's all for now,

Brandi

Ah...There's Nothin' Like A Day-Glo At The Beach...In Brrrrrrrrrazil!

2009-09-17T07:00:00.000-04:00

Does a Brazilian wax take it all or does it leave a strip? I can never remember as I have never before contemplated maiming my genitalia in such a way. But now...having the opportunity to vacation in the place of its namesake...I am wondering....when in Brazil...should I "do as the Brazilians do" ?

Yes, I am going to Brrrrrrrrrrrazil. (make sure to roll the R's as you read this) And I am scared. I am so not Brazil. I am South Burlington, VT...I am like Duluth, East Bum F*ck. I am a plain Jane. I lack the sizzle. I lack the saucy. I lack the ay yay ay.

I have seen too many Victoria's Secret commercials. (aren't they all Brazilian?) I am not 10 feet tall, nor am I hairless in "my down there places" (is that T.M.I. ?) nor do my buttocks ever hide a thong between them for the public eye to see...or really ever for that matter. (thongs are a last resort before laundry day...and you don't want to be around me on that day...it's not pretty) I don't really know what to expect. I am not comfortable in my own skin...much less viewing anyone else's. Where do I look while at the beach? The water better be flippin' fantastic cuz' I gotta feelin' I'll be staring out there quite a lot. I don't want to see Brazilian boobies or anything any Brazilian man (much less American man) may be showing. It's bad enough that I will inevitably gaze upon a banana hammock or two...let's just hope they're not white....actually let's hope they aren't white OR wet! ...And I am going with Bren's family...so let's hope that none of the men decide to try a thong...that could be a deal breaker.

I have seen only one (one is enough) movie that took place in Brazil, where American tourists get kidnapped, tortured, and have their innards ripped out for sale on the Black Market. Maybe I watch too much TV...but Brazil has two strikes already. Paling in comparison to beautiful girls and skirting the possibility of random organ harvestation aren't on the top of my relaxing vacation "TO DO" list. (I know harvestation isn't a word...but it sounds so good and smart)

I am going for a wedding...ah the joy of nuptials under a Brazilian sun. At least I think it's a wedding...the invitation is in Portuguese. But, whatever. It's a wedding...in Brazil...in November, so it's better than being here. (organ theft or no)

Will you all miss me? Will you all recognize me when I return all tanned and hairless with my ass cheeks all flossed and flappin'? Yeah....you will...as there will probably be no tan...I have somehow developed an adult allergy to the sun and am forced to wear SPF 90 and long sleeves...and remember....I am growing out the leg hair for a little "harvest" of my own.

Do I need red lipstick? For some reason I think all South American women wear red lipstick...no? Maybe I'll just get me some neon and spandex, feathers and LEE Press On Nails...anything to ignite my sizzle...my saucy...my Brandi ay yay ay. Should the above slightly derogatory stereotype of Latina women prove to be false...I am going to look like a complete asshole....in Brrrrrrrrrrrazil.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Menagerie of Death

2009-09-15T07:00:00.004-04:00

Most people love the "curb appeal" of their home. They plant flower beds, and window boxes. Their eyes twinkle as the sun glistens off a brand new brass knocker. Their grass is green, their pathway swept and shiny. There is a sleepy cat in the window. This is the average front yard of "most" people. But not mine...uh...no...not mine

I have dead bugs stuck on my house. Burnt moth wings like paper mache swaddle my front porch light. Little black whatever bugs coat the windows and the eaves...polka dotted house paint, the kind that won't rinse off.

I have dead animals on my front walk. Moles and mice pepper the pathway. Chipmunks and birds...frozen in forever...left as a present...no bow...just blood and feathers...and a pleased and chipper kitty staring up at me with pride.

I have a dead deer carcass rotting 30 feet behind the back yard fence, and a coyote that comes to visit it.

I have a husband that has taken a liking to using a large scooper (jai alai style) and winging the small dead animals into the woods behind our fence. They catch some pretty good air. He wants to get a BB gun for the "Hangers On" that the cats drag home. I don't deal well with the "Hangers On".

Dum da dum dum...my yard is a menagerie of death

Halloween is coming...I guess I won't have to decorate. I'm thinking about putting out twinkle lights this x-mas...it'll be the most morbid Santa scene in the neighborhood. Who needs reindeer when you've got 7 dead moles and a squirrel? I'll just add a little sleigh and voila! Home Sweet Home.

Yeah...so there's dead stuff everywhere. So the lawn is a little crunchy when Brendan mows. The mailman has to navigate spiders and moth wings...so what? Right? There may be dead gifts from our "children"...but they're given with love...so I love them...blood and all. We may have to resort to gun violence...but that's the price you pay when you have a "family". It may be a little gruesome...but its ours....

We're kooky and we're spooky...the Yeager Family...da da da dant...snap snap.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Who Will Save My Soul??? Who Wants It? Anyone? Anyone?

2009-09-09T08:00:00.001-04:00

One summer I went to a church that scared the "bah-jesus" outta me. You know the ones...lots of hand waving...halla-lou-jahs...and soul saving? Yes...I went to a Born Again church...during a REVIVAL...and Holy Christ Almighty it gave me nightmares!

I went with a friend of mine...who for all intents and purposes was a fairly normal girl...forced to go to church, and if I stayed at her house (which I did a lot that summer) I was brought along. Now, her family didn't just go to church on Sunday...nope...not just once but three, maybe four, sometimes FIVE times a week. That's helluva lot of prayin'!

I remember the energy that I felt in the air. The songs that made my body move even though they were about things that I didn't really think about. The music had a groove. The choruses were catchy. Until...people started laughing hysterically (I was told this was called "drunk in the spirit). Random people stood up during the sermons and babbled incoherent blah blah blahs (I was told this was speaking in tongues). It was quite a sight. Circus like. Pop concert like. Fun like. Until...I heard what they were really saying....there was a whole lotta stuff about the Devil and how he was going to get me. Being possessed was a huge topic during this whole revival. That's when I started getting a little scared...

My friend's mother was always nice enough...Betty Crocker meets Mommy Dearest. Often times when I slept over I would wake in the night to find this woman in a nightie with her hands floating over our heads, her lips moving in prayer, and me laying there wondering if I could find an exit in my half conscious state. She played Amy Grant in my friend's room when she wasn't there to cast out demons. I had no idea that Amy Grant held that kinda power. Apparently God approved of Amy Grant but not peace signs or frogs or reptiles of any kind as they were clear signs of "The Devil". My peace sign earrings were not welcome in that house all summer. My soul was in desperate need of salvation. My friend's mother, who performed exorcisms in her spare time, fancied herself the perfect person to save me.

I remember the day clearly. We were a bunch of hot bodies and warm breathes stuffed inside a small room vibrating with Jesus pop and guitar strumming. One of the suit wearing men invited all of the children to step up onto the raised platform in front of the crowd to be "saved". I watched all of them go up...rats to the Pied Piper...sinners to their savior. My friend rolled her eyes at me and and started up to the front. Her mother looked at me and said I should go too. A chorus of women around us said, "yes, yes, save yourself, let Him into your soul." They pushed me, they cajoled...I reluctantly went forward.

It was even hotter on the platform. The man in the suit hollered and waved his arms as he laid his hands on the children's foreheads. I watched in awe as they fell back into the awaiting arms of the other men in suits. Young bodies lined the floor, some looking as if asleep. Some were laughing (drunk in the spirit), some were rocking and praying. The man in the suit was in front of my face. I watched his hand slowly rise up to gently push against my forehead. I waited for the presence of God to overwhelm me. I felt nothing. He raised his eyebrows, and pushed a little harder this time. I remember a burning feeling in my toes that quickly seared it's way to the back of my neck then my head then back down again. I felt dizzy and then passed out (I think). I don't really know what happened. I felt dazed...scared...watched. I laid on the floor wondering how long I had to stay there. Waiting...waiting so I wasn't the first to leave. Waiting for a sign of salvation...waiting for a feeling of Him. It didn't come...I felt nothing but the eyes of a couple hundred and fear.

That was the last time I went to that church. I slept with the light on in my room for months. Some nights I would even sleep on the living room couch...afraid that my room in the basement was closer to hell than the sofa upstairs.

I've never really understood what happened that day on the platform. I have thought of it a thousand times. I think I just passed out. Plain and simple. I think I was afraid that if I didn't fall that everyone would think I was evil...possessed. I remember being afraid to laugh hysterically in front of all of those people. I remember how stifling hot that room was under all of the lights. I think it all was just too overwhelming for a 16 year old not ready to deal with her own salvation.

In the end...it wasn't Divine. I didn't feel part of something bigger...I didn't feel blessed or lit from within. I laugh now...when I think of that day. The lights, the people, the strangeness of it all. It is so far from who I am. Me...so not religious...so not possessed. For the people in that room though...it was that black and white. It's all good or all evil. Life is just not that simple.

I don't really think my soul needs salvation. I've got it tucked deep inside and it's pretty happy there...basically good...basically. I have no rituals, or congregation...but I think that if there is a God...me and Him are good. He doesn't step on my toes...and I don't step on His.

AND...I think He would like dancing to YMCA as much as the next guy. He may be God...but He's not stupid!

Hallelujah....and AMEN!!!

That's all for now,

Brandi

Summer Lovin', Leg Hair Shavin, Sweater Knittin'

2009-09-07T07:00:00.001-04:00

I don't want to hear another word about fall. I don't care about pumpkin pie or leaf peeping. I can do without turkey dinners and crisp autumn nights. Hell, I would invite the mosquitoes to my next BBQ if it meant just a few more weeks of summer. Glorious, wonderful, sunny, WARM summer. It's my kinda season.

Ok, so I didn't wear a bathing suit once this year...actually I haven't worn a bathing suit in about 4 years since my honeymoon...but that is beside the point. The point is...that in summer, the option to wear a bathing suit is there.

I just want to boycott winter. I am not looking forward to it. I am already beginning the arduous task of growing out my leg hair so I have something to do for the long cold months ahead. I plan to grow it, braid it, shave it, and knit it...into a sweater. Argyle baby! Yeah! Well...wait a minute....maybe I'll just leave it on...I'm gonna need the extra layer of warmth on my bird legs this year.

Shit! It's coming isn't it? There's no stopping it is there? I'm gonna be forced to eat pumpkin pie aren't I? If I change the way I look at it....will it change to summer? Probably not.

Screw it...guess I'll work on the pit hair too...Christmas is coming and I know a few lucky loved ones who could use a nice warm scarf scented with Secret Powder Fresh and Au D'Brandi Fabulous. If only I were a Yeti, I could knit one big scarf to tie us all together and we could all sing Kumbayah in front of an open fire. Ho Ho Ho. Let the growing begin....

That's all for now,

Brandi

A Little Change Could Do Me Good....

2009-09-02T01:39:00.005-04:00

A wise friend posted a very wise quote by someone I have never heard of...but whose words were needed...yesterday....that day...today....

"If you change the way you look at things,

the things you look at change."

-Wayne Dyer

Yes, I needed that. A reminder...that what I see, the things I perceive...are my own skewed visions...views that can be bent, marred, or buckled...or ones that can motivate, cultivate, and enlighten.

I have taken for granted many things in this life...never meaning to...but nonetheless...losing simple joy in what I have. I can be quick to judge. I get angry when the control in situation is not my own. I have seen shadows on cloudless days when I should be thankful to see the sun.

I know that I am not alone in becoming too indifferent. We all need reminders. I had a couple of particularly chaotic weeks...and in them...I saw not the accomplishments I had made, the people that I had helped, the man that I love, or the life that I have. I had everything skewed. I alone, let the chaos overwhelm me. I lost sleep, forgot to eat, grasped to control...and failed.

If I had changed the way I was looking at things...I would have realized that I was proving to myself and no one else...that amidst the clutter in my head, the pandemonium during my days...I was pushing through.

Thank you to my friend for putting a mirror in front of my face...because to change the way I look at things...I need to look inside and change the way I look at me...

That's all for now,

Brandi

10 Things I Can Do For You

2009-08-26T05:00:00.000-04:00

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???

2009-08-21T07:00:00.004-04:00

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"...

2009-08-17T06:00:00.002-04:00

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...

2009-08-13T07:00:00.000-04:00

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

It's Not Easy Making Green...

2009-08-05T11:31:00.001-04:00

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

I've Been Thinking About You...But I've Been Busy...Please Don't Forget Me...I Would Miss You...And I Promise I'll Write...

2009-07-30T23:42:00.000-04:00

Sorry there have been no posts since Monday. I have been a busy bee...toiling away at work...ah the life of a retail "design" associate. But I just wanted to let everyone know that I should be back again next week (hopefully less busy) with more. I hope that is a good thing.
Love to all,
Brandi

Romeo...Romeo...Please Come Carry A Swan...

2009-07-27T07:00:00.000-04:00

Once Upon A Time...I was in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. (please to be stifling your laughter...now) He was "IT' for me. I watched him "grow" through "Growing Pains". I applauded him in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" I drooled over him in "Romeo and Juliet". He was my Romeo...Claire Danes sucked it as Juliet.

I wanted to take my hand and brush that shaggy hair from his eyes. I wanted him to call to me on my balcony under a glowing moon and starry sky. I dreamed of him...with a swan slung over his shoulders...beautiful boy...beautiful bird. So I drew him in my diary...

My Leo...

With a swan...

Slung over his shoulders...

(cuz' that's what teenage girls draw...and swans are cool?)

Something changed. My love for Leo faded as most teenage crushes do. I watched him go through the world in the limelight...and I was happy that he was happy. It wasn't him...it was me. I wasn't ready for stardom, or commitment...or the jealousy I felt because of all of the other girls. So it ended. I grew up.

I did find love again...many times. There was Johnny and Brad...Keanu and Ben...Christian and Hugh. But it was never the same. I didn't see them under my balcony...I didn't hear them call my name...I didn't draw them in my diary...they were not worthy of a swan.

Then...I met Brendan. (collective sigh heard now) He was a bartender with sideburns, a skinny poofy haired vision in an Applebee's uniform. He was the Romeo to my Juliet...the Jack to my Rose...the perfect set of shoulders to drape a beautiful and dreamy swan.

We may not be movie material. We are a perfectly dorky pair. He may not write me sonnets, or fly me on a boat bow...but he'll always be my Brendan...and he'll always have a place in my diary...exclusively...with a swan.

(P.S. Please to not be peeing on it Bren)

That's all for now,

Brandi

Jazzercise....Find It...Feel It...Do It...

2009-07-24T07:00:00.000-04:00

I don't go to the gym. I don't run unless someone is chasing me. The few times I have glimpsed the inside of a sweat salon...I have taken up residence on the rowing machine...closed my eyes and felt the breeze blow me as I floated on a gondola through the canals of Venice. During this "exercise" there is a guy in a stripey shirt singing Italian love songs and pushing us along at a snail's pace. Needless to say...I sit in the gondola...I do not row.

BUT....and that's a big big BUT...if this were the kind of class they were givin' at the gym...I'd be there in a heartbeat....and I'd lose a ton of weight laughin' my ass off (sitting in the back...propped against a wall).

Please watch this...the whole way through...it's priceless. This is the lady who invented Jazzercise. She is a gem in white leggings with a tan to boot. I love her. I love her and her...freaky twin sidekicks.

...I pirated this video from Petuniaface. My blog stalks her blog....Thanks Susannah!...

Have a great weekend!!!
Brandi

Dad...I Promise To Never Text You About My "1st Time"...

2009-07-22T07:00:00.001-04:00

There is a phenomenon out there called "texting" that I just don't understand. It baffles me. Am I that far "out" of things that I am now 30 years old and...gulp...super "uncool"?

Ok, I can admit it...I have never been "cool", but I have always understood or at least admired everything that was indeed "cool". I participated in the whole pegging of the jeans thing. I owned the Victoria's Secret satin bra with no boobs to fill it. I sprayed my hair with AquaNet and smacked my lips with Bonnie Bell. I got it...but I don't now.

Remember pagers? I got pagers...I didn't have one...but I got them. Hello, call me now...911...you are needed. There weren't cell phones then...so of course this was communication at its finest...perfectly acceptable. Now we text, we twitter, we blackberry or whatever, we facebook, we blog. We have bastardized the English language...we have perverted simple communication skills...we have warped our connection to each other. I am so far outta the game.

I just got my first cell phone last year. I don't even know my own phone number. I never turn it on and nobody can get ahold of me. It is for emergencies...and playing Tetris while I'm on the toilet. I don't know how to "text". I don't get why I should be "texting" anyway. Can't I just call and leave a message or simply phone say, "hello?" I guess I now understand how my parents feel about e-mail. My texting is like my father's chicken peck typing skills...slow, muddled, and with complete lack of interest. How is texting easier than leaving a message? I have to press the numbers a billion times to say...WTF! This is not convenience.

If you need to tell me something...please don't text me. You can call and leave a message...I promise I won't pick up...my phone isn't even on...there is no chance of your having to hear my voice, or actually hold a conversation...I guarantee it. You can e-mail me too...I do check those (need a good price on a penis enlarger or some Xanax???) You can "snail mail" me. I still love getting a real live letter as much as when I was 5 years old.

We can plan and plot and bicker all without cramping our thumbs

...but maybe not our "style"...

That's all for now,

Brandi

FUPA SCHMOOPA

2009-07-20T07:00:00.000-04:00

Why is it...that every time I drag myself to the mall (Brendan in tow) to buy clothes (which I desperately need) I can't find anything that I like, or that fits, or in my size? Are the mall gods playing a cruel cruel joke on me?

I need pants for work. I am down to 2 pair (which I wear everyday) and one pair is held together at the hem with staples...yes staples (and have been now for a year). The other pair is stained around the ankle from walking through the constant mud puddles and last winter's sludge. I am a fashion don't. Ever heard of a "fashion plate" ? Well...I am a fashion spatula, and any modicum of chicness drips right through the slats. Does someone want to nominate me for "What Not To Wear"? Puhlease?

And what is up with all of the high waisted trousers? I don't need pants to cover my nips....I need them to cover my ass. (It's flat but it's mine, and you don't need to see it) So this season the pants are high waisted...and the length is too long (I just don't wear heels). But every season seems to contain the pants with floppy front. You know, women's pants that look and feel like there's room for some balls? I don't have balls. Ladies....do you have any balls? If I had balls...I would buy these pants...but I don't have balls...so WTF do I do now? The girls at work taught me a new word...FUPA. For those of you not in the know...this means Fat Upper P*ssy Area. FUPA. OK....so I guess the pants designed for ball baggage are really meant for FUPA's??? This is all too hard....do they make FUPA underwear and bathing suits too? Have I been in the dark here? When should I expect my UPA to become a FUPA...and is it assured that it really will?

Fashion and FUPAs...F*CK!!!! Just give me a paper sack now...cuz' it's all goin' down hill from here.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Braveheart My Ass...Try Brave Wife...

2009-07-16T23:03:00.000-04:00

Brendan is watching Braveheart again...AGAIN. Don't get me wrong...it's a great movie and all...epic...really...but AGAIN???

There are movies that he watches incessantly...over and over...and over.

Die Hard ( #1 through Never Gonna Die...I think that is #64)

Lethal Weapon ( If Mel Gibson goes agro on my screen one more time...)

Old School (Yeah it was funny...the 1st ten times)

Indiana Jones ( And The Temple Of Suck) oooohh...he might divorce me for that one !!!

U5279HQ (or whatever...it has Weird Al in it...nuff said)

Yeah, they're all good movies...except the Weird Al one (I never actually sat through that...just can't do it...). But seriously...do men in general ever get enough...do they have to do everything til the point of blacking out?

Okay...so I watched Twilight like 30 times when it came out. That's different. I was practicing for the slight possibility that there may be a quiz later on...and this kind of thing really matters in the grander scheme of things.

I don't make Brendan watch The Color Purple (it has Oprah at her finest). He doesn't sit through repetitive screenings of Beaches (or my assured tears).

7 Brides for 7 Brothers...anyone...anyone? (Great friggin' movie...I mean...um...musical) I only made him watch Pride and Prejudice a couple dozen times...and again...that was for practical purposes. He needed to bone up on his...uh...ballroom etiquette...yeah...and his piano forte. (He's coming along quite nicely)

So...our movie preferences are mismatched...like our taste in food, and music, and genital scratching habits. But...as long as he keeps me company through the important things (like Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance) I will sit by his side through yet another painful 175 minute Mel Gibson flick with a big and loving and very very brave....HEART.

That's All For Now,

Brandi

Puddle Of UGH...

2009-07-16T07:00:00.000-04:00

Where are the hot sticky days of summer...the real ones...the ones where the sun burns your eyelids while you count the birds in a cloudless sky? Where are the roadside lemonade stands where children peddle sugary sweetness for a dime? Where are the watermelon seeds that litter the front steps...little landmines spit from a sloppy smile? Where are the freckles and tan lines from a day spent lazy on the sand? Where is the sun...the golden one...the incandescent light?

It has been raining....more to come. It doesn't cool...it doesn't refresh...it doesn't cleanse. It is just rain and thunder and wet.

Days are spent in dry blowing air...inside...and they trickle by...one by one. The summer is passing, the rain keeps falling, and the sun's not showing.

Maybe there will be a sun storm tomorrow...flashes of lightning gold...thundering silent warmth and dripping metallic rays.

But no...tomorrow it will rain...again. No lemonade...no sandy feet...no sticky chin. I will work in a stuffy room...read another book and count the days of gray and cloudy skies.

That's all for now,

Brandi

...ok, not my most uplifting post...but damn it...when it stops raining, I'll write a friggin' rainbow or something. Let's just all do a collective zenish OHM of prayer for sun, and if it works...no more depressing posts of UGH.

You Were Meant For Me...And I Was Meant For You...

2009-07-14T07:00:00.000-04:00

My mother in-law has a bowl of yellowed tattered photographs. I love this bowl. I love looking through it and seeing the people now considered my family when I didn't know them like I do today.

I see a woman who lavished her children with love...dressing in costumes, Friday night camp outs in the living room, reptiles in the tub.
I see a clan of brothers dressed in knee socks, hair cut in the shape of a bowl, those polo shirts with the alligator patch on the shoulder.

I see my husband as a baby...a big headed little wide eyed peach. When I rummage farther in the bowl I see my Brendan growing. A little lion cub on Halloween, a superhero on a Tuesday, a cowboy any day of the week.

I see a little boy, so intensely concentrating on his Lego's, the golden glow from a desk lamp highlighting his white blond hair.

For me, there are albums of old pictures. I love to see the Polaroids, the flimsy half blurry pictures of times I can't bring back...giggles I can't hear...games I forgot how to play.

My sister and I are there swimming daily in Lake Champlain, me with a pig nose made by chubby fingers out of pink construction paper-my hair a ratty tangled mess. I see me on the only pony I've ever owned...the kind made of plastic and springs...and his name was Blackie...he rocked me gently, but I ran him hard. Oh, and me in my Underoos...I loved my Underoos...I was Wonderwoman...I was Barbie.

I can see myself change through those photos...a little different with each passing year.

I think of how far Brendan and I have come from then til now. There is still a cowboy hat (no, correction...it's an Indiana Jones hat) and it he wears it every Halloween. Thankfully the knee socks and bowl haircut have left us, now replaced by a responsible suit and tie, and salt & pepper hair-growing more salty every day. Superhero underwear has been traded for a ridiculous pair of Winnie the Poo boxers...I'm still trying to hide them where he can't find them.

There is still that intensity when he concentrates. I love that look. It shows his passion for anything. It's why I married him.

Walgreen's (yes...I said Walgreen's) cotton undies are less "chic" than my beloved Underoos but much more cost efficient in the convenient 3 pack available for $6.99. I still believe I am Wonderwoman...Barbie can suck it (that anorexic, big-boobed bitch). The pig nose has been replaced by "my" nose...I'm still deciding which is better suited to my face. Blackie...my beloved Blackie...I don't remember what ever happened to him. Maybe we sold him to a farm where he could run free and rock wild and have little plastic Blackie babies...maybe he's in Barbie's dog food. I miss ya buddy.

I think that I have changed more than Brendan...I somehow lost something on my way up til now. He still has his childlike imagination...me...I can't imagine where mine went. But I like to "imagine" me not doing the dishes tonight!

Those photos that our parents took remind us...of how we used to be..what we were...who we were...that we were loved. I love looking at those pictures...and seeing us today. The same but different. I imagine that somehow we were meant for each other...the little us...cowboy and cowgirl...lion cub and piglet...a stupid haircut and a ratty mess...now all grown up and intermingled...now...the Indiana Jones loving Husband and the Barbie hating Wife...

That's all for now,

Brandi

Taking a Vaca Bitches!!!!

2009-07-09T18:43:00.000-04:00

My parents are coming to town....I need to clean my house. I need a maid! Oh....Brendan.....(sung in a sing songy come hither voice)

I just cleaned my entire kitchen floor on my hands and knees...it sparkles...oh yes it sparkles.

So I am taking a small break from da blog. I will be posting again next week...ya'll come back now...ya hear?

Brandi

P.S. I have Conjunctivitis, cramps, and a crabby husband...please pray for me or do an anti-rain dance or something in my honor....I'm gonna need it.

SUPERSIZE !!!!!! quack quack

2009-07-08T07:00:00.000-04:00

We used to cuddle..in bed, Brendan and I. We used to spoon. I 'spose it's called cuddling...in a full size bed..when really there's just no f*ckin' room.

Brendan flails...Brendan moans...he punches, kicks, and ends up mummified in sheet. The dreams he must be having...the wedgies he must be getting. The bruises I have suffered (and not the kinky kind)

Then there are the cats. My little "men" in fur pajamas. Gus (purrrrr) and Max (lick lick lick). They take up...well any flippin' part of the bed they want. Obviously! On my chest, behind my knees, on my feet, or sidled up to my side. Little furnaces...my personal feet warmers...my early morning (or anytime they want to ) wake up call.

It was a constant Battle of the Bed. I lost. I hugged the edge, ate sides of cat hair as a bed time snack....I complained...A LOT...we got a KING!!!!!

The theory behind the King size bed was perfectly logical. More room for Brendan...more room for me...the leftovers for Max and Gus. Ha Ha Ha. Someone didn't get the memo (hint: Brendan, Max, and Gus).

There is now a chasm of King between Brendan and me. I can make sheet angels and still not touch him. Though...he still does he nighttime Hokey Pokey...and ends up with a dazzling boxer filled crack. I miss those first few minutes when he held me.

Gus and Max...my cuddle muffins...my man candy men...they still smother my uneasy slumber and cat hair coat my tongue. I just can't bear to kick them out. They love me...they really love me...when I feed them.

We used to cuddle, we used to spoon. Then we got a KING size bed...and though I am less bruised and battered...I miss the tangled mess of my "family"...in the bed with no f*ckin' room.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Shits Ahoy!

2009-07-06T07:00:00.000-04:00

I'll never forget the day my mother fished my shit out of Lake Champlain. I can't really say it any less candidly. It's what she did...and I'll never forget it.

We were on the beach...me and her...her and me. I told her I had to go to the bathroom. And though there was a beach house privy...my mother...busy having relations with the sun...told me to "just go in the water."

So I "just went in the water". And out to sea it went...well actually...out to lake.

I was pretty proud of myself. I walked back up to my mother on the beach, plopped myself in the sand and giggled as I watched my turd-berg bob and drift, steamy and perfect.

My mother wondered what I was giggling about...I pointed to my isle of perfection...she froze in horror...and proceeded to dive right in.

I watched her dump her iced tea, and wade into the crystal waveless depths...cup in hand...then scoop and cover.

My fun was over...my mother so ashamed. I'll never forget that day...the day my shit submarine got shot down.

Today, I picture Brendan...in that same situation. What would he do if our child (someday) took a dump in the lake? Without a doubt...there's no question...he would have stuck a flag in it and screamed, " LAND HO !!!". He would be so proud. 'Cause that's just Bren...and guys are different. Brendan pees on dead fish on his way home from work...and why..."because you just have to pee on a dead fish!", is all he answers. I'm not talking about when he was 5

(he peed on meatloaf when he was 5)

(oh and his brother)

(on purpose)

(and told him he wet his bed)

(even though the wet spot was up by his head)

...he just peed on the dead fish last week, and probably yesterday. And he'll do it again tomorrow...if the dead fish is still there...or he'll find a live one that will challenge his ability and aim.

God I love my husband. God is he weird. Please don't let us have turd-berg producing children...please let them hold it in...I just don't think I could handle it if my kid dropped a deuce in the lake...and then my husband peed on it...

Thanks Mom, for fishing out my shit...(sh)it really means a lot.

That's all for now,

Brandi

Lost In Translation

2009-07-02T14:39:00.001-04:00

We went to our favorite little Thai restuarant last night for dinner...me, Brendan and his mom Jan. Thai food = yummy. Every time we go...we giggle like idiots over the names of the dishes on the menu. Somehow we just can't decide which to order???

1. Phucket Fried Rice (Phucket! I'd like the Fried Rice)

2. Prik Khing Chicken (Well, if the chicken is the Khing of Priks...I'm havin' me some of that!)

or a healthier choice...
3. Larb Salad (I'll have the salad please...hold the LARB)

So ofcourse me with my sick sense of humor thought I'd blog about it. Here are some funny asian signs that somehow...got a little "lost in translation". Enjoy!

"Civilized Urinating" Is there really any other way?

You can use em'...just don't embezzle em'

Perhaps this says it all...

My skin is feeling a little parched...I think I'll "TRY YES TO CARROTS"

This one is my favorite!!!

I'm glad Brendan takes the train to work everyday!

Bus = Luggage Gangsters

Train = Plethora of Luggage

That's all for now,

Brandi

Swings Are For Suckers

2009-06-30T18:54:00.000-04:00

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

2009-06-24T08:00:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-06-23T08:00:00.000-04:00

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???

2009-06-22T10:00:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-06-19T19:26:00.000-04:00

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.

2009-06-19T17:00:00.000-04:00

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?

2009-06-18T03:27:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-06-15T18:51:00.000-04:00

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

Duel Living

Swamp Thing....

Death Traps, Mouth Nipples, Water Bans, PMS....Oh Yeah...And I'm The Family Pussy... ****UPDATED****

Dreaming About A Dining Room?????

I'm Smitten....

The One Spider That Didn't Go SPLAT....

Heavenly Widened Roses....Seem To Whisper To Me....When You Smile.......

Unburdening My Beast...

I Need To Get A Life....

Back Next Week...

Please Take My Advice: Don't Ever Eat Oily Balls - Plum Colored Or Otherwise.....

Cat Calling..........

OOOOHHHHMMMM.......

Bottoms Up....It's Dunk Tank Time....

There She Goes Writing About Underwear...AGAIN....

Plushenko Is A Whiny Little Bitch....With A Bad Haircut...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Ice Burns On The Ass Crack...But The Image Is GOLDen.,,

My Interest Is In The Future Because I Am Going To Spend The Rest Of My Life There. - Charles F. Kettering

Wake Up Dear...There's A Monster In The Wall....

Cat Piss, Elephant Piss, or Husband Piss. Hey Neighbor Take Your Pick...

Leapin' Lizards....

THEY SAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY...

The Doctor Is Out.... And Happy Birthday MOM!

Boring Award Show Strikes Again....

Truth Be Told...I'm Less Young Than Old...My Feet Are Cold...This Rhyme's On Hold...

Vampire Penguins And Zombie Guinea Pigs Are Awesome...

Snot Duty...All In A Days Work...

The Side Dish....A Husband's Worst Nightmare

Come Out Come Out Where Ever You Are!

"OLD LONG SINCE" or Long, Long Ago

Shh...Blitzen is gonna shank Santa...

SHINGLE BELLS....SHINGLE BELLS...SHINGLES ON MY FACE !!!

WILL BE BACK SOON....

The WTF Blanket

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes....

"I Speak Loudly For Those Who Have No Voice" - Captain America

Don't Let Husbands Decorate...

That'll Be The Day When My Breasteses Sell You Cigarettes....

What Would Rachel Zoe Say?

Jumpin' Jack Flash....You Know What It Is...

Back Up....Back Up...Mind Ya Bizness...

That's A Whole Lotta Lobster...

Don't Be Tardy For The Party....oh oh oh oh

Say Hello To My Lil Fren'....

Have A "Whore-iffic" Halloween...

Required Watching = SUPERNANNY

Perhaps I Might Borrow Your Grey Poupon?

Cuz' Mickey Loves Ya...

What A Girl Wants...

Because Brass They Are...

First Date = Porn....Obviously!

Hot Cross Buns...

Ah...There's Nothin' Like A Day-Glo At The Beach...In Brrrrrrrrrazil!

Menagerie of Death

Who Will Save My Soul??? Who Wants It? Anyone? Anyone?

Summer Lovin', Leg Hair Shavin, Sweater Knittin'

A Little Change Could Do Me Good....

10 Things I Can Do For You

Belly Button Asshole???

Ronald McDonald Gets "The Talk"...

The Innocense And The Gall Of A Child...

It's Not Easy Making Green...

I've Been Thinking About You...But I've Been Busy...Please Don't Forget Me...I Would Miss You...And I Promise I'll Write...

Romeo...Romeo...Please Come Carry A Swan...

Jazzercise....Find It...Feel It...Do It...

Dad...I Promise To Never Text You About My "1st Time"...

FUPA SCHMOOPA

Braveheart My Ass...Try Brave Wife...

Puddle Of UGH...

You Were Meant For Me...And I Was Meant For You...

Taking a Vaca Bitches!!!!

SUPERSIZE !!!!!! quack quack

Shits Ahoy!

Lost In Translation

Swings Are For Suckers

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

What would you do for 10 Million Dollars???

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

Death Traps, Mouth Nipples, Water Bans, PMS....Oh Yeah...And I'm The Family Pussy... UPDATED