Saturday, June 30, 2012

I do not like green eggs and SPAM..or do I, Sam?

SPAM.  Food?  Sort of.  The word is derived from "Spiced" and "Ham".  It is a true American creation which some people are as passionate for as others are repulsed by.

To give a little more information, SPAM is a canned precooked meat product made by the Hormel Foods Corporation, first introduced in 1937. I would go into greater detail as to what it consists of; however, it's still early here in the Rockies and again - the ingredients may not bode well with folks still drinking their coffee (especially if they happen to be enjoying a slice of SPAM along with it).  It has an indefinite shelf life which means that cockroaches and cans of this food will be our goodwill ambassadors to visiting intergalactic tourists long after we're extinct most likely due to filling our bodies with toxic processed, precooked, meat products.

Do I like SPAM?  This is a tricky question because it places me in awkward predicament.  If I say, "yes", I risk losing all creditability in social circles whose fine dining experiences extend beyond 7-11 and an occasional sit down meal at Denny's.  If I say, "no", then I turn my back on happy Sunday morning memories of the Bryant clan gathered around the stovetop asking for additional pieces of fried SPAM with their scrambled eggs.  If I choose not to answer..? 

To Hell with it...My name is Bri Potts and I like SPAM.  Wow!  I feel vindicated.  Now I can enjoy my cold SPAM sandwiches smothered in mayonnaise and catsup on white, processed sandwich bread in peace.  I will no longer feel compelled to hide my stash o' SPAM from my husband.  There is no shame in SPAM.  Dammit, now I'm hungry.  It's time to fry me up a piece or two of them there rectangular, jellied pieces of SPAM.  Ooohh weee!

Bon app├ętit!


Friday, June 29, 2012

Isn't it ironic?

In order to have a beautiful garden which attracts butterflies, I tend have a lot of caterpillars in my flower beds.  Caterpillars eat massive quantities of flowers.  By the time these little fellers emerge from their cocoons, the flowers are drooping and the butterflies hover across the fence where pesticides are king and poisoning is used to prevent the occasional bird splat on patio cushions.  To quote a very popular song, "Isn't it ironic?"  

I don't know where I'm going with this.  Most likely - nowhere.  It's merely an observation.

I've also noticed, as of late, that I've been craving Coke Slurpees, Hostess Vanilla Zingers, and copious amounts of Fritos drenched in melted cheese.  This is not a healthy lifestyle development.  Thank goodness I'm always broke.

To piggyback on the previous topic, I am absolutely not pregnant.  I'm 45 years old.  Yes, I love sex but to reiterate, I'm 45 years old.  Miracles are still known to occur but I don't believe Thornton, Colorado is on God's Top 40 List of Supernatural Hot Spots. My dear friends and blog readers, let's not even debate this.

Whatever I nibbled on an hour ago (and it wasn't a Coke Slurpee, a Hostess Vanilla Zinger, or copious amounts of Fritos drenched in melted cheese) has left a very disturbing taste in my mouth.  This makes me want to brush my teeth; however, my back hurts.  What does this have to do with the thick, gooey slime coating my teeth?  In the grand scheme of things, nothing except that I'm using it as an excuse not to move.  Sadly, this has me contemplating the stale coffee which has been sitting beside my laptop for the last two days.  I am a very gross individual.

I'm in denial.  I've been on the cusp of a deep dark for about a week now.  I'm in need of something - no, not my junk food cravings though that would certainly help - something to bring me back up and out of my depression.  My husband just came home and suggested sex.  Again, irony?  Most likely.  For the time being, and as much as I'm always game, for now I sweetly smile and say, "I have a headache."  The interesting thing is, it's the absolute truth.

My dog, Tulip, licks herself to the point of excessive nastiness and then believes it's perfectly acceptable to lick me while I'm breathing with my mouth open.  Do dogs have zits?  Random.

I don't like the sound my overhead fan makes when it's turned on; however, I don't like it when it's off and sweltering in my bedroom.  If I stick my earplugs in to avoid the noise then I become resentful of the fan because my earplugs annoy me.  If I don't wear them, I want to tear the fan from the ceiling which will most likely cause a house fire.  This will eventually lead me to standing in the sweltering heat because I'm homeless, begging for money on a street corner, and daydreaming about Coke Slurpees, Hostess Vanilla Zingers, and copious amounts of Fritos drenched in melted cheese.  It's a vicious, nasty cycle.

That's all.  This is all my brain can focus on.  My husband is determined that I don't have a headache.  He better not attempt fate.  I haven't brushed my teeth yet.


Thursday, June 28, 2012

Sticks and stones...

The other night, as I stood before a room full of young comedians and let my comments roar into the microphone, I made what I believe was a serious faux pas within the amateur stand-up world; I went after another comedian. 

As many of my friends know, I have verbal diarrhea.  I'm not usually a mean spirited person.  I don't like confrontations and I certainly dislike making an enemy before I make an acquaintance, but in my mind, this fellow had it coming.  You see, he made an underhanded, snarky comment about my weight a few weeks ago.  Behind my back, quietly, and for no general reason he muttered, "whale" or "walrus" or some other "w" seafaring, fat mammal name as I was leaving the restroom.  This didn't bode well with me.  Jackass (aka, landfarming, dumb mammal).

I suppose his comment had been simmering in my memory bank for a while.  "How dare he?  Who does he think he is?  He's not even funny?  He's an annoying, screaming prick who thinks the world owes him a laugh."  So, in my typical, unscripted, open-mouth-insert-foot moment, I called him out indicating that his iconic hat is funnier than he is.  He didn't see my act, yet based on the laughter and other various responses in the room, I'm sure he'll hear about it.  Oh well, I can't get any bigger than a whale, and in my mind I distinctly believe that's the "w" seafaring, fat mammal he called me.

Where am I going with this blog?  Good question.  I've been called a lot of things in my life - most of which - at the time, I most likely deserved; however, I despise people getting harassed about their weight or how they look.  Having been overweight for most of my life, I've built up some pretty thick skin.  When this fool mumbled his insult, I was paranoid.  I was going onstage soon, I came by myself, and it was my third attempt at stand-up.  My nerves were raw.  I'd just finished convincing myself that I was cute, cool, and collective when this happened.  He was a total confidence breaker.

Having sat in the audience and listened to the routines of the other comedians, I'm very well aware of how many fat jokes are made.  It seems that ugly and fat comments are acceptable and fat jokes even more so because apparently fat people make themselves fat - open territory so to speak

Okay then, let's consider this.  So people who overdose on Heroin are funny or those who die of lung cancer?  Maybe we can find some humor about alcoholics who drink themselves to death?   I realize that life is a joke, a running joke, but I would no sooner make fun of a handicapped person as I would a fat one.  What if I were a handicapped, fat girl?  You betcha.  It's perfectly fine to laugh and find humor at my own weaknesses but when I attack others based on theirs, I become a bully.

So bullies of the universe, listen up.  This "fluffy" girl now has a couple of platforms to voice my displeasure on.  The first obviously is this blog.  Hell's Bells!  Get me riled up and I'll ramble on for hours.  And now, I literally have a stage.  I may not be on it for long, but with every new endeavor in life, I'm giving it three months.  To the hat wearing Jackass, or, as I now affectionately call him, Asshat - don't mess with me again.  Oh, and by the way, this whale would have really impressed you 200 pounds ago. 

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

It's Wednesday...Rant Day

Today is Wednesday.  Do you know what this means, my dear friends and blog readers?  It's "Breezy Rant Day".

I have to admit, my daily blogs have been less than daily as of late.  Something is seriously amiss with my brain.  Whether it's the unusual Colorado temperatures reaching over the 100 degree mark again, I'm running out of interesting topics (no, impossible), or it's taking me far longer to compile my thoughts into a cognitive posting - I can't be sure.  Something is up with me.  Perhaps I just need more sex.

My first rant is about those silly little men who hold the "Slow Down" or "Stop" signs at street construction areas.  Hmm..maybe I shouldn't call these guys, "silly".  After all, they're making quite a bit of money wearing fluorescent orange vests, talking into walkie talkies, and holding power over annoyed commuters.  They're actually smart now that I think about it.  No college degree necessary; however, they're raking in some big bucks to wave a stupid sign in my face.

How do I know these guys are for real?  I mean, seriously?  Why do I get the "Stop" sign when I'm obviously the only car on both sides of the road?  Are they screwing with me?  Do they sense I'm in a bad mood?   Do they know I have coffee waiting for me at home?  Are they taunting me?  What would happen if I charged through?  Ha!  I'd love to see their faces.  One day I will and then I'll call them, "sillies".

This reminds me of a time I drove through a produce checkpoint in Southern California.  The checkpoint is on the freeway back to Los Angeles from Las Vegas.  I've been waved through dozens of times except for once and this one time I was involved in an extremely intense conversation with my husband, Eric (we were discussing the difference between Charmin and Quilted Northern toilet paper).  The ranger indicated that I was to stop.  Was pineapple dripping from my mouth?  Possibly.  One can never be too sure with me; however, due to the ensuing discussion I unknowingly drove right past him.


"What?  It's softer and it doesn't leave pieces..."


"What are you talking about?"

"He wanted you to stop!"

"Huh?"  Sure enough, I looked into my rear view mirror and saw the checkpoint ranger hopping up and down, pointing at my speeding car, and yelling to his comrades to chase the vigilantes down.  "Shit!  I'm a fruit felon!"

As it turned out, the ranger's supervisors must not have thought my Ford Taurus was enough of a threat to send the cavalry out for me.  Whew!  I dodged that bullet.  My fruit fly infested produce was safe for another day.

Final rant for this glorious, smoky Colorado morning...

Costco.  I love this place.  I do.  I actually consider it a little slice of Heaven.  For me, this middle aged, suburban housewife, I consider it an escape from my personal Hell which is home.  I leave my two teenage, autistic kiddos mesmerized in front of video games and I'm off to wander the wide aisles of Costco.   I'm free to peruse without my boys calling one another "jackasses" or asking for swirled yogurt cups, free samples, or $600 bicycles.  Ahh..such bliss.

Here it bitching.  Moms and dads - must you bring Blake, Blythe, Brittney, and Blaise with you?  They're all precious, precocious, and for the most part - serious pains in the ass.  If they were behaived and stood next to you or sat in the carts...terrific.  But, since they're like my boys, and under the tender age of ten, they're worse.  You let them run everywhere.  They stand like little open mouthed morons to get their free samples.  They don't MOOOOOVE.  Sadly, I know where they get this from...YOU!  That's right, because you're the people who stand blocking the aisles, chatting with your friends (whom you just saw yesterday), and forget that you have awful children named Blake, Blythe, Brittney, and Blaise.  I hate you.

I'm feeling better now.  Until next Wednesday.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

The Zombie Apocalypse Started at D's Wedding...(or possibly before)

I've been so incredibly blessed in my last relationship and in my current marriage to have amazing mother-in-laws.  They're both beautiful, warm, and gracious women.  In fact, during my seven tumultuous years with Jeff, his mother was a comforting beacon of light.  No matter how the arguments transpired, she never chose sides or tried to smooth things out.  She was the noble country of Switzerland bordered by the ever battling monarchies of France and Italy.  And may I just say for the record - France and Italy suffered some terrible disputes over the years.

Eric's mother is a gentle and sweet soul.  She raised five wonderful and devoted human beings the likes of whom I've never known.  These four brothers and one sister are fiercely loyal to one another and their families.  Nothing will or can separate the bond which ties them.  Fran is funny, sincere, and completely down to Earth.  She cries when she feels like it, tells you when she's annoyed, and if exhausted not afraid to say, "Hey, I'm going to lie down - help yourself to whatever you'd like in the kitchen."  I adore her and want to be just like her when and if I ever grow up.

Mother-in-laws.  A tender topic.  The reason I bring this up is because I've heard so many horrifying stories of mamas gone toxic.  Realizing that I've never experienced this curse (thank God), I have nothing but sympathy for my friends who have.  What is this phenomena all about?  Have these women always been a little left of center?  A pancake short of a stack?  A bacon cheeseburger sans the bacon?  What gives?  OR perhaps their child's wedding day shocked them into thinking, "Oh my goodness, my baby has left me for another human being!  Who's going to warm up my oatmeal and wipe my ass in 20 years?"  Oh, woe to the spouse!  The misery she will bestow beginning on that fateful wedding day.

The tragedy here is that oftentimes these witches don't only destroy their son's or daughter's-in-laws lives;  they cause mayhem throughout the generations.  Grand kids and great-grand kids, cousins, and their spouses - everyone is affected by the selfishness of one nasty, bitter old woman.


The Zombie Apocalypse Started at D's Wedding...(or possibly before)

The title is a strange one - no doubt - but with all the zombie talk lately; movies, television shows, and books being published on the topic, it seems appropriate somehow. 

"Zombie"  Definition:  1.offensive term: an offensive term for a person considered to lack energy, enthusiasm, or the ability to think independently.

This is one of the many online definitions I found but the first which caught my eye.  I'll take it.  I hate using offensive terms but when the offensive term fits...

I have to admit, I don't know the intimate details; yet, I know enough to write a scathing blog about a complete stranger (lady, you messed with the wrong friend!).  My friend "D" (her name haz been zeriously shortened to prevent zay hag from plazing a ztrongah curse) took her mother-in-law on an extended vacation with her family this summer.  Already, a few weeks into it, the woman has caused hundreds of dollars of damage to their rental property, made disrespectful comments to my friend, and has been hurtful to her grandchildren.  Now she's demanding to go home because she is missing her pet.  Yes, that's right - kitty comes first.  Certainly my friend and her husband could say, "No", but to what end?  More nastiness?  Their summer vacation has come to a sad and sudden conclusion many weeks before it was due.  My last suggestion to "D", "throw mama from the train."

 "D"s mother-in-law is a zombie because - in all essence - she is dead.  She has no soul.  How can any person, anyone with a conscious, chose to destroy a family vacation knowingly - because c'mon, she knows what's she's doing!  She's not senile.  Not yet anyway.  How awful.

I've mentioned that I've worked as a CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant) in nursing homes.  I've been a patient care volunteer through Hospice.  I loved working with seniors; however, there were always folks at the care centers who had no one looking in on them.  No visitors.  They were always my first concern yet there were some who wouldn't take my love no matter how much I tried.  They refused the simplest of offerings.  These folks were bitter, mean, and hard-hearted until the moment they died...alone.  These type of people are the Zombies of life.  Their hearts died years ago.  They have nothing to offer.  They're walking, breathing, eating corpses and I have absolutely no sympathy for them.

I'm sorry "D" that you inherited one on your wedding day.  Not a nice gift to be sure.  Just remember that you have loving friends who'll support you through the dark times ahead.  Oh, and if you so choose to throw mama from the train - I'm thinkin' you'll get off scott free since she's already a zombie to begin with.

A scene from the movie, "Throw Mama from the Train"

Thursday, June 21, 2012

You want me to do what?!

Ahh...massages. I sure miss them. Back in the day, when I still had a few extra dollars to fling about, I would schedule one every month. Now, mind you, these Breezy moments weren't booked in beautiful, 5-star Denver day spas. No, not at all. My monthly 90 minute get-aways were at a local club where I paid a membership fee; yet, I circled the dates in red ink and looked forward to them as though they were in the Cayman Islands. Nothing came between me and the strong, skillful hands of my masseuse. There were occasions; however, when I did throw financial caution to the wind and booked weekends at ritzy locations.

Yes, my dear friends and blog readers, it has been noted in some of the finer establishments, that once I entered the sacred doors of these childless and serene havens, I did not emerge until closing time. I've been reputed to spend an entire month's salary in a single day. Do I hear murmurs of, "shameless, sinful spending"? Yes, I believe I do. Do I give a rat's ass? Absolutely not. Let me explain.

I am - as my blog title implies - a lunatic, extremely stressed out, and oftentimes ready to "blow", meaning lose my mind to the chaos that is my life. So - I’m thinkin' - spending a wee bit of cash to bring a crazy dame to a blissful state back to her family may not be such a bad investment. Capisce? Also, my man, never complains because - let me just say - I always come home relaxed and ready for hot, passionate...oh, ahhh, umm - sorry, rated PG13 blog…moving on…

Now that I've shared these awkward thoughts with you, I'll continue to share a few more. The first being that I can't believe it took me so long to get on a massage table. I waited. I had my fears. I was - I will admit - embarrassed. Of what?? You'll see.

This blog is dedicated to all the men and women who are still missing out on one of life's greatest pleasures...getting rubbed, squeezed, and handled – while naked – by a perfect stranger.


You want me to do what??

I've never made it a secret that I'm overweight, otherwise known to my sweet, autistic son, Austynn, as "fluffy". I prefer this particular f-bomb over the other word and you will often hear me refer to myself or others like me as “fluffy”. I think it's endearing. We do feel like marshmallows; so soft and pillow-like - not bony and hard. I love it.

This fluffy issue has always been one of the reasons which has kept me away from receiving a massage. It’s ridiculous now that I think about it; however, in my extremely overweight years I was intimidated to walk near a spa much less have another human being touch me other than my husband. At my heaviest weight, I was 347 pounds. My excuse was that I would break the table or disgust the clinician. So what? These were the type of excuses which brought me to that dangerous weight to begin with.

Today I'm much healthier. I have a better sense of self-confidence. There are still days when I look at my body and find things to criticize; however, I promptly tell that voice to stop and focus on something I choose to love instead. It gets easier each time.

When I was finally ready for this momentous event, I had worked myself into a frenzy over it. Eric and I were enjoying our first week alone without the kids since their adoptions. They were in overnight camps and my husband and I were spending time in a lovely Las Vegas hotel and spa. "Okay," I thought, "I'm going to do this." But then the worst imaginable thing happened - Eric went downstairs to gamble and I had a few moments alone with my thoughts...

"Geez, how is this going to be done?"
"Do I stay in my bra and panties?"
"Will she just rub my back?"
"Dear God in Heaven...should I have shaved all the way up to my ass?"
"OH NO! Will she rub my ass?"
"What happens if she is a HE?!
"Does, she, HE, IT rub my front? How does that work?"
"No one can see my boobs! They'll faint! I'LL FAINT!"
"Oh, dear Lord! It's too late! My arm pits are sweating! My thighs are sweating! I have dry mouth!"

It was time to take the elevator up to the spa. By this time, I couldn't breathe. I was shaking and dripping with sweat. To the casual eye, it appeared I had just run a marathon outside in the 114 degree heat. I had no time to dry off before being instructed to change out of all my clothes and put on the thick, warmed robe the spa assistant handed me. Lovely, it helped me perspire even more profusely AND, one size fits all actually means - one size fits size ten and below. My sweaty left boob was squirting out of the robe like a wet bar of soap.

Once I entered the warm, cozy room (no one in spas believes in air conditioning because remember guests are size ten and below), I was told to disrobe and lie face down on the warmed bed (really?) where my masseuse, Alex, would be with me in a moment. Uh oh…Alex? Such a neutral name; she, him, it…

SHE! Thank GOD!

Alex was a sweetheart. She discovered immediately – I’m guessing by the profuse amount of sweat and my unshaven thighs - that I was a massage virgin and did an amazing job keeping my mind off of my possible gas bubbles and dripping nose. My only miscue was the fateful moment when she told me to roll over. Instead of rolling, I hopped. Big breasted girls should never, ever hop especially when not wearing a bra. This resulted in a boobie flapping noise so obnoxious that it was clearly heard over the room's lovely background music causing me extreme embarrassment. It was heard in the facial room next door because I heard giggling immediately following my flop. Large, sweaty breasts flopping together; a sound not easily forgotten.

I have some male friends who've openly shared their non-massage reasoning because they are extremely hairy and/or God forbid, they're horrified should an accidental erection occur during the event. As most of you know me well enough by now, I did not hesitate to take these concerns right to the source in order to get their opinions. These folks are professionals, so yes - all of these things have happened before; the periodic fart, ze mazzive schwanzstucker, the hairy dudes, these people have seen it all and have worked around it so to speak. Nothing shocks them.

As far as the hairy factor goes, my arms are pretty gruesome in their own right. I've farted twice and horrifyingly enough, both times they woke me up with a snort. Admittedly, I started laughing so hard it was all I could do not to fart again. Life happens. Guys, if you get an erection, consider it a tribute to their expertise, I'm sure they'll be impressed and if not, throw in a few extra bucks for the humiliation.

My worst experience? I had a dude once who was quite impressed with my ass. I never quite understood why my boyfriends and now my dear one loves my ass - but to me, it’s quite a phenom. This masseuse was no different. He worked it. The blanket pretty much became a non-factor. I’m not saying it didn’t feel good but to have a gay guy named, Marcus hanging out on my fannie making the sounds he was making...well, I think I left with more knots in my shoulders than I came in with.

Anyway, for all of you newbies whom I haven't completely freaked out - give it a try. It feels GREAT!

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Wednesday is now officially called: Breezy Rant Day

Today is Wednesday so I have officially deemed this day every week, "Breezy Rant Day".  This way I can get all the crappy, non-digestible stuff out of my system and you, my "glass-half-full" friends and blog readers, will know which specific day to avoid my posts.  There you have it.  I'll bottle it up; my whining, bitching, moaning and complaining just for Hump Day, which seems - somehow - so apropos.

I'm aware that some people like this sort of stuff.  I'm familiar with your type.  You're the folks who prefer attending stranger's funerals over family birthday parties, gloomy, overcast days versus beautiful, warm ones, AND secretly love to undermine holiday get-togethers for the sheer entertainment value.  I get it.  I do.  To each his own.  That's cool.  It's actually comforting to know my misery will have some sort of company this morning.  So with this said, let my hostility begin ...

First thought..

Facebook.  It is an amazing form of communication.  I personally have reconnected with old friends from elementary and high school whom I assumed I'd lost forever.  I'm able to stay in contact with my family in California and have online chats with my best friend across town.  Wow!  It's amazing how far technology has brought us in such a short time.

However, this is why I'm riled..when I send out a friend request, I don't do it haphazardly.  I don't invite someone into my world to acquire numbers under my name.  I do it because I have a genuine respect for a person or I've known and liked them very much in the past and would like to re-establish that friendship.  If someone sends me a request and I accept it, it's because they know someone I love or admire and I'm intrigued by their personality. I'd honestly like to get to know them better.  My expectation is that Facebook "friends" communicate on some level with me.  I'm here..HELLO??  I exist.  Don't place me in some sort of "virtual" acquaintance box.  If that's the case, please "unfriend" me.  It's much more polite.  Whew!  I'm feeling better already!


I'm a "fluffy" girl.  I've always been, always will be.  My best friend and I were chatting about this the other day and I believe it's an issue which fluffy girls must share with other fluffies.  ENOUGH WITH THE SKIN TIGHT SHIRTS, LADIES!  Wow!  These complaints are oozing out of me.  My pores actually feel clearer!  To clarify.. Girls, you're beautiful.  I'm not saying you aren't - not at all!  HOWEVER, you would look lovelier, if your shirts fit appropriately.  Don't wear clothes which allow your bellies to hang out, cling to your rolls, or show how tight your bra is.  Also, while we're on the topic of bras (I'll try to be gentle because this has always been a tough topic for me) make sure they fit right.  I know, I know ladies.  This is painful but it must be brought to light.  Let's work on this issue POST HASTE!


Why is Nair Shaving Cream still being sold to unsuspecting fools?  Just askin'...

Until next week my dark, gloomy ones...until next week.


Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Pause for thought.

I love it when I look at my dog and say, "Tulip, what are you eating?" Like, what?  She's going to turn 'round and say, "Geez, ma!  Leave me alone already!  Can't you see I'm eating a choice piece of carpet?"  So, of course - I do the next obvious thing.  "TULIP!  WHAT ARE YOU EATING?"

We - people, pet owners, human beings, myself in particular - can be such dorks.  (*note to self for future blog postings: don't say Tulip's name while typing otherwise she'll growl, stare at me with those huge, beautiful, brown eyes, and guilt me into holding her.)  Why is this??  I'm going to take a few moments now and search for the answer to this last ridiculous question.

When I walk by a huge piece of fuzz (honestly, I'm not quite sure what it is) on the staircase, why - oh WHY - do I leave it there?  Perhaps the answer is in the question itself.  Is it because I'm frightened as to what it may be?  It's been sitting there for three days.  I think I've passed it more than 20-30 times a day in my endless housewifely duties - AND, in doing so - I continuously think to myself, "Ewww!  I should pick that nasty thing up."  Nope.  It remains untouched.

I'm forever in pursuit of a wayward smell.  Never mine own, of course.  I smell like roses.  Am I the only human being who'll actually walk out my front porch and step back in to determine if my house smells bad?  Possibly.  I can find fresh dog pee from up to two rooms away.  Unfortunately, no matter how well trained my sniffer, if the offender made his or her transgression while I was away and it had time to dry, it will rear its nastiness days later.  THIS is not acceptable.  I can certainly point my finger of blame and shame but I will not for the sake of another 18 years of marital bliss.  Crate training my friends, crate training.  Don't give in to the whims of your partner.  This is all I have to say about that...

Toothpaste and spit on a mirror.  Really?  No more needs to be written on this topic.

I've been typing this blog between folding underwear, talking on the phone, and eating white toast with peanut butter for the last hour.  I have not come up with a solution as to why people - myself in particular - have a tendency to be such dorks.  If anything, I've found more excuses as to why this term suits me so perfectly.  I'm hungry again.  The toast wasn't enough.  My brain is addled.

"Tulip are you hungry?  Tulip??"


Sunday, June 17, 2012

Happy Superhero Day, Papa Bear!

My dad didn't say much, he didn't need to.  He was "Papa Bear".  He growled when he was annoyed, giggled when happy, and spoke when he had something to say.  He intimidated the Hell out of every boyfriend who ever entered the house and he knew this - which in his own way - he loved. 

TV Character, Archie Bunker
He was a large, heavy set, guy who sat plastered in a recliner right down the center of the family room.  To describe my pop was like describing Archie Bunker in his "domain".  Truly, this was my father.  He had his TV tray sitting beside him, his glass of water (or "whatevah") on it, and then usually a plate of snacks my mom provided to keep his sugar at an "even keel".  At one time, my mom even provided him a little bell to ring. (This was not my dad's idea at all.)

Pop had a very dry sense of humor.  Between my mom's goofiness and my dad's penchant for off the cuff comments - I'm guessing those of you who know me well can figure out that the milkman had nothing to do with my DNA.  I'm 100% Baxter and Bryant all the way down to the little toe.

He worked hard 10-12 hours a day, sometimes 6 days a week.  Initially he worked in his father's metal foundry, then - slowly, proved himself to be an excellent business man and found himself in the front office.  His life was tough, his dad - my grandfather - was hard on him.  Grandpa Bryant never offered him any assistance.  My pop had to prove he could do it on his own. 

My memories of my father are amazing.  He was a simple man.  Though his life may have sounded mundane to someone like perhaps a rocket scientist - to me, a little girl growing up in Downey, California - he was a Superhero.

Every morning at 5:00am, as I heard him getting ready to leave for work, I would jump out of bed to make sure I'd kiss him good-bye for the day.  When he pulled into the drive-way, no matter how late or how crappy a day he'd had, he'd whistle a sexy salutation to my mother in the kitchen window.  He never, ever missed an Anniversary, Birthday, or a Mother's Day.  My mom was first in his eyes - always.  Whatever she said was law.  They never argued in front of the kids unless it was silly bickering.  He adored her.  I learned what love was by watching my parents.

My Dad, Richard Bryant
So with this said, "Papa Bear", the wonderful term of endearment your grandchildren gave you before you passed away, you are my Superhero.  You participate in all the craziness which occurs in my home on a daily basis.  You're in my family room front and center witnessing the madness which occurs at meal time.  Austynn continues to pray for your safety in Heaven, which still baffles Eric and I, but we go with it all the same.  Thank you for your presence in my weekly dreams.  It comforts me to know you're hanging around, but seriously?  I had you in that poker game last Tuesday night.  There is no way in HEAVEN you had a straight flush higher than mine!  I think you had some help on that one. 

Happy Father's Day, Pop.  I love you.  Maria. 




Friday, June 15, 2012

When all else fails, see a fairytale.

I know it's goofy, I'm not denying it.  I've often stated that I'm a "...happily ever after..." geek, but it's true.  Nothing quite brings me out of a funk than a good old fashioned fairytale.  Dammit, it's a little embarrassing; however, I own it.

Movie, Snow White & the Huntsman
Last night I sat in a movie theater, sitting next to my bestie, shoveling tons of oiled popcorn down my gullet, waiting for the Huntsman, Snow White's true love to kiss her and break the Queen's evil curse.  And let me just say for the record, if the three immature idiots in the front row continued making stupid comments, they would have paid dearly.  How dare they risk destroying my "happy".  I wanted to see the tender exchange, the moment. happened.  I clapped, albeit quietly so I didn't completely humiliate my friend, but I placed my hands together because I could not contain the warm fuzzy feeling inside of me.

Life is not a fairytale.  Shit happens.  I get it.  Parents get sick.  Tsunamis occur.  Favorite pets die.  Wildfires destroy homes.  Credit cards are maxed out to pay for groceries.  Kids are diagnosed with autism.  Partners stop listening. 

We need a break from the mundane.  So for me, I prefer to get lost in a little magic from time to time; some fairy dust instead of war and reality because, you see - I understand that side of life.  I hear battle calls from my kids on a regular basis.  I see poverty and injustice when I drive downtown.  A little "...happily ever after..." on a Thursday night can do folks some good every once in awhile.  It places us back into perspective and makes people responsible for our own happiness.

So, last night I watched a fairytale; a tried and true kiss-the-princess-and-kill-the-scary-queen fairytale.  Awesome!  I'm feeling better today.  Maybe I'll attempt to do some housework..just maybe.


Thursday, June 14, 2012

The trouble with sex shops...

Ha!  This topic just impulsively popped into my head (pardon the pun).  I don't want you, my dear friends and blog readers, to think that I frequent these types of business establishments often but I'm not going to lie either - I'm not a prude.  I've visited my fair share.  I find them extremely interesting and they're also, for today's modern woman, a necessity.  Certain ones; however, I wish I'd received some sort of warning before I stepped into.  You can't always tell from the outside what you'll encounter on the inside.  By this I mean, clientele, products, and/or cleanliness.  I'll let you consider this for a moment...ok, there you go.  Disturbing visuals, I'm sure.

There have been certain parties for which I've needed silly or obnoxious accoutrements, for example the six foot inflatable penis for my friend's divorce party last year.  In my mind, this was a "must have" inflatable which a newly divorced gal should not go without especially at an all women Martini gathering.  By the end of the evening, our blow-up was covered in red lipstick kisses.  The question is, could I have found this handsome feller at my local retail mall?  I don't believe so.

And what about every girl's best friend - our "C battery buddies"?  Ah, come on...I'm not alone on this one.  I know by countless conversations with women that many of us own one and these - girlies - aren't sold at any grocery store that I'm aware of.  We've all done a little shopping, haven't we?  Perhaps online or maybe we've let our partners take care of it for us?  It's all so seemly.  "If I order my toy, how will it be shipped?  In a nice, discreet brown box or will there be boobies all over it so the postal person will think perverts live at our address?!  If my partner buys the vibrator, he or she will probably buy the wrong kind or God forbid, get something else too..Oh my God!!" 

I, personally, have made the mistake of walking into stores with no windows in nasty parts of town.  Word of advice.  Es no bueno, or in other words - not a good idea.  I did my best not to run out clutching both my purse and body parts for fear of being assaulted.  Another place looked lovely and clean from the outside but once I walked in, I tried not to openly panic.  The battery toys looked as if they'd all been used, returned, and not sanitized.  Also, as I passed the video section, the first movie on the shelf was called, "Big and Bountiful in Boise".  The dude at the shelf was leering at me.  It was time to leave and leave quickly.

So, the trouble with sex shops is that unless you're familiar with the area, you don't know what you're getting yourself into.  You have to depend on your friends to suffer the humiliation beforehand.  I laugh when I remember my bestie telling me how one business asked her if she wanted to, "test her vibrator before she bought it."  She stared open mouth at the clerk trying to comprehend if the store had a private room or...

"I have some C batteries under the desk to see if it works the way it's supposed to."

"Oooohhh.  Yeah..that would be great.  Thanks!"

Now that's customer service.  This is where I'm buying my inflatables in the future!


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Another Random Ramble...

This is just another random ramble day (that was even a tongue twister to type!).  I have a bunch of odd thoughts flowing through my head as I sit here in front of my laptop screen.  I really must come up with a specific name for these days, a warning that they're upon you.  Not that it matters so much but at least this way you can relax a little more.  Old high school enemies can settle back and breathe easier understanding that they won't be the focus of my stinging arrows and former boyfriends need not worry about comparisons of length or stamina (not that I would ever share this information publicly).

My mind has wandered to the following...

Will my finches die if they inhale too much wildfire smoke?  Obviously since I don't want to find out the hard way, I've closed my study windows along with the rest of the house because their lungs are so itty bitty. But what about the birds outside?  Will the horrible, toxic air hurt the wildlife in my backyard?  In consideration of this, does my neighborhood blackbird-hating friend care??  (I'm withholding her name in an effort to prevent possible death threats).  To maintain our friendship, I've decided to avoid having this conversation with her.  We've had too many heated debates over her penchant for setting her cats upon them.  "...Blackbirds singing in the dead of night..."  What a lovely song.  Didn't an amazing English band once coin this lyric?  Rhetorical question.

Why does it take so long for the smell of barfy breath to dissipate from my dog?  It always amazes me that Tulip will yak on a Saturday and yet maintain this nasty stink until, for instance, today.  I used to believe it was merely lingering in her beard but no, she just licked my face.  I am completely and utterly wrong.  Disgusting.

I hate gnats.  I also look like an idiot when I can't seem to kill a slow moving one after several repeated attempts directly in front of my face.  Thank God my monitor camera is off...or is it?

"Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never..." Really?  Who the Hell came up with this stupid quip?  Of course they do!!

Why did I just eat two, not one, but two huge cookies?  Ugghhh...

I hate scheduling appointments because I'm God awful at it.  I know I've dedicated an entire blog about this in the past but I must reiterate how terrible I am at the process.  I have my scheduler wide open in front of me and I almost missed an appointment this morning with William's therapist by scheduling a doctor's appointment over it.  I was actually surprised when the fellow arrived at my house by the allotted time.  Good grief.  Will someone please save me from my own madness?

Where are my dogs and why are they so quiet?

I should not be cold in my living room when it's 89 degrees outside.

That's it for now.  I'm consumed by the walnuts between my teeth from the cookies.  I must floss before I totally lose my mind.  Until tomorrow...


Monday, June 11, 2012

It's time to reconsider my strategy...

Board Game, RISK
As I often do while playing the game of RISK, it's time to rub my hag hairs, squint my eyes in a calculating manner, and say, "I must take some time and consider my strategy..."

This, I'm sure, paints a romantic yet sexy picture of myself for you.

Yes, this is what I do when playing the board game and when reevaluating tactics on how to approach a possible life changing career path.  I realize this is all extremely vague to you, my dear friends and blog readers, but if it's at all helpful, I'm rambling as usual.

Robin Williams, Comedian
Basically, last night, during one of my stand-ups, it was embarrassingly brought to my attention that I'm a wee bit crazy as in, "Robin-Williams-I'm-going-to-have-a-stroke", crazy.  Now granted, it was my third performance - my second scripted.  Most of the amateurs go up to the microphone with notes.  Notes??  No, not me.  I'm random.  I go up and what comes out of my mouth, God be blessed, just happens.  For five minutes I work off of adrenaline and memory.  So yes, I'm a bit hyped.

After the MC, made the comment and the audience laughed at my expense, my first reaction was looking for a first dark hole I could hide in but that's when I started rubbing those proverbial, but oh so real, spiky grey chin hairs and thought...hey, I am a spaz, I am going to have a stroke.  My schtick is my zaniness, I am a DRAMA QUEEN!

It's time to go back to the board game and consider how to take on Asia without weakening my borders to Europe and Australia while at the same time maintaining my armies in Alaska.  I can do this.  Haha!!!  I've won RISK before.  I can do it again!!

Sunday, June 10, 2012

My Colorado Family

I have such an eclectic group of friends.  I love the circle of people I've come to surround myself with in this stage of my life.  There's no more pretending, one-up'ing, competing, or trying to impress.  I no longer walk away from evenings with my feelings hurt wondering why someone said what they said or worrying if someone misinterpreted a random comment I made.  I'm completely free to express myself without the behind the back whispers of "game playing" or manipulation.  It's liberating and it's lovely.

Not all my friends could sit in the same room and have comfortable, flowing conversations; they're as different as the flowers in my garden.  This too is interesting.  As I'm writing, I'm grinning thinking about the different personalities I have in my life.  The how and where I've come to meet my friends are also extremely varied and unique.

For instance, my neighborhood family.  These were the first people my husband and I reached out to when we settled in Colorado.  Because we bought a home in a brand new community, the few houses behind and around us were in the same situation.  We were all new to the neighborhood.  With no fences up yet, living on an undeveloped hilltop, and having experienced three consecutive weekly blizzards, it was necessary to get to know one another quickly.  Eric and I invited the small group over for a holiday get-together and we hit it off immediately.  Our "family" was established.  Many of us have keys to eachothers' homes, our dogs play together, or we'll hang out on warm summer evenings, sit around a fire pit, and laugh until our sides hurt. 

I've met other friends through my children's special needs' groups.  We have the common denominator of "crazy" in our households.  We've been able to come together during some of our most challenging times and find humor and support in situations which would drive most families apart.  These friends are the rocks in my otherwise unstable existence.  When my boys push me to the brink of tears, I know who to call for sympathy, understanding, and if necessary - a couple of hours of mind numbing lingerie shopping.

I've also met Brenda, whom I'm sure will be my cheeky side-kick and best friend, Ethel Mertz, well into my senior years.  We're as different as night and day.  Jewish and CatholicFloridian and Californian.  Brunette and Blonde (well, sort of).  Science Fiction and Romance.  Punk and Blues.  What gives?  Nothing except for an amazing amount of love and laughter.

And finally, those miscellaneous, fun, and interesting people I've met along the way.  My hairdresser with whom I still want to go drinking with when we have a free night.  My son's best friend's mother - my "Bingo Buddy" and say-it-like-it-is pal.  Everyone needs someone like this in their life.  And finally, my friend who just moved out of state.  I could say anything and everything to him without blushing.  He is missed beyond words.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity for thanking this great state of Colorado for not only giving me a beautiful place to live but also introducing me to some of my favorite people of all Colorado family.  I've never felt more at home than when I'm here with you.


Friday, June 8, 2012

I've Been a "Crazy Hoochie Mama"

Anyone here a stalker?  Ok, that's a little dramatic.  How about, has anyone reading this blog ever once been a stalker, wanted to stalk someone, or perhaps erected a private shrine in passion over someone?  There ya go...that's better.  Now I've included just about all of you, my dear friends and blog readers, into the equation. 

I'm sure there's a few of you shaking your heads thinking, "Oh no, not me.  I've never done something so sick as to stay awake nights fantasizing over someone."  Give me a break.  We've all done it.  And truly, if you haven't, then you're just weird and you shouldn't be reading my blog to begin with. 

Who have I stalked?  Far too many men, I'm afraid, to be considered normal.  If at the time these guys knew what I was doing, they'd probably take out a restraining order against me.

What is it with love?  Actually, I don't even believe stalking falls within the realm of "love" falls more into the boundaries of "Crazy Hoochie Mama" and if you're a guy, well then I'll just call it like it is - you're a freak and you better get over it real fast before you start stealing underwear from washing machines or peeping through open windows.

My first stalking experience was my "puppy love".  Damn, I had it bad.  I truly believed I would die "whispering his name from my lips".  Holy shit!  I couldn't get any more dramatic than that, could I?  After he broke up with me I thought my life was over.  I would not recover.  How could I exist without his blue eyes, his lips, his touch..?  AND certainly, how could he exist without ME??  (I'm sure as most of you have come to discover I'm probably one of the most narcissistic human beings you'll ever get to know.)  He must be suffering so!  I must witness his agony first hand.

Good Grief.  What was I thinking?  He lived 30 minutes away from me.  His bedroom faced the front of the house which sat on the end of a very short cul-de-sac.  I drove a monster of a car which could be heard a mile away.  I was probably also playing some ridiculous love song and weeping loudly.  Was I a stealth stalker at 11:00pm on a warm weeknight circling his street?  I'm guessing not.  I was a Crazy Hoochie Mama.  Oh, the shame!

My other stalking obsession is with the television actor, Mike Rowe from the reality show, Dirty Jobs.  If, per chance, this delicious man were to cross my path anywhere at anytime, I would not hesitate to act like a complete and utter freak of nature.  I can barely watch his show without beating the Hell out of my poor husband as I'm normally all a'flutter.  Mr. Rowe, I realize I'm married.  My husband has graciously allowed you all rights and privileges thereof to me, his wife, in order to avoid future beatings, scratches, and bruises.  Next time you're in Denver, please look me up.  Yours truly, Bri Potts.  Meeeooow.

Current stalking issues, outside of Mr. Rowe, I can't say that I have any.  My husband, Eric would kick my butt if I did.  There was the boys' psychiatrist back in California whom I had an immense crush on.  When Austy told him he could come live with us, I almost pee'd my pants.  Crushes are healthy, stalking is scary.  I'll try to tone it down on Mr. Rowe.  Other than that, if you answered my initial question about currently being a stalker, than you need to work on toning it down a bit too you Crazy Hoochie Mamas and Peepin' Toms out there!!  ;)

Thursday, June 7, 2012

For the Love of Animals

Yesterday my sisters and their families lost a great dog before his time.  He was a "beast" of an animal.  I don't know how my family does it but when they get pets, their pets become mutants.  This mutt became a monster in both size and attitude.  Personally, even though he was willing to chew my foot off every time I visited California, I adored the big guy.  I made it my mission by the end of each stay to walk through the yard without the brute baring his teeth.

He was good for my family; a bunch of women and girls looking out for one another. They live in a rough part of town on a private, secluded street.  They needed a snarly, snarky dog like Maverick.  No ill-intentioned stranger was going to approach their gate without losing at least a finger or two.

I've never made a secret of my love for animals.  Big or small, gentle or ferocious - they all have something wonderful to offer and teach us. 

Thank you, big feller for looking after the girls and my mother as long as you did.  You left them too early but you're in a better place now.  This blog is dedicated to the wonderful pets we've loved and lost well before their time.

For the Love of Animals

"What the Hell is that?!",  came a question from one of the concerned customers in my uncle's veterinarian's office. 

"This", I said proudly referring to the shaking, bouncing crate on the floor, "is my cat."  One would never have guessed it by the snarling and hissing, but yes indeed - it was a massive, 24 pound, long-haired tabby named, Spontaneous and he was all mine.

I've had many pets in my life; cats, dogs, hamsters, goldfish, lizards, and assorted bugs, but Sponsie -- he and I were connected.  The moment our eyes met at the pet store and I was dared into buying him spontaneously - (hence, his name) - we fell in love with one another.  We were inseparable.

At the time, I was still living at my parent's house and not permitted to have pets but the moment my mother saw the kitten's big, green beautiful eyes peek out from my arms she acquiesced.  "He can stay but only outdoors."  That was ok with me.  Sponsie was home.  Everywhere I went, he followed me.  It didn't matter that I'd developed severe cat allergies.  I made due with swollen eyes and asthma attacks.  Nothing would separate us.

When I would lie out by the pool, he'd be perfectly content nesting in my hair. I taught him how to play Hide-n-Seek in the front yard.  This was great fun until he thought he could play it with everyone.  Imagine guests carrying plates of food up to the door and being "surprised" by an enormously fat cat.  This was not so good - especially if the guests were my aunts or grandmother.

He was very protective of me as well.  He never liked my boyfriends and always let them know it when the car windows were down and we were "parked" in front of the house.  Sponsie would climb into the car and let my boyfriends know what they were doing was thoroughly "unacceptable".

Spontaneous was also a "Tom Cat".  He could be heard at night caterwauling around the neighborhood.  All I'd have to do was give a special call, he'd stop mid song, and I'd hear the bells on his collar come running from wherever he was to greet me.  Usually there was an onion ring from a local fast food restaurant waiting for him at the end of his efforts.  Once, as he came towards me, I saw something dangling from his mouth.  It was long and moving.  "What the...?  Oh My GOD!  It's a RAT!!"

I started running for the garage; however, Sponsie thought it was a game AND he wanted the onion rings he clearly smelled.  He chased me into the dark garage and dropped the dammed rat.  Have I mentioned, dear friends and blog readers, that I'm terrified of rats?  Have I further mentioned that the rats where my parents lived were as huge as small cats?

I heard squeaking.  The rat was loose.  I couldn't find the light switch fast enough.  Laundry baskets and bikes were blocking my way.  The rat was getting closer.  Sponsie tripped me.  "OH MY GOD!  Where was the HORRIBLE THING!!  GO AWAY, SPONSIE!!  RAT!!"

Open the door!!  Freedom!  Deep breath, BREATHE!!

The next morning I looked out and found Sponsie's love letter to me.  The rat head.  Ugggh!!  I removed the gruesome thing and replaced it with the cold onion ring I'd saved for him.  That was the least I could do for his efforts. 



Tuesday, June 5, 2012

If at first you don't succeed, try, try, again and again and again and...

Failing is painful.  To own the fact that I did something wrong, or worse, publicly humiliated myself is simply horrible.

Personally, this particular "F-bomb" - the word "Fail" - has been known to wear out the elastic on my granny panties for years now.  It's kept me from moving forward with my life and more importantly, being true to myself.  Will I let it take control of my destiny again?  Will I allow its dark voice to determine my life's possibilities once more?  I hope not.  Failure is what I'm writing about today and my fear of it is precisely why I write this blog; to avoid making the same ridiculous mistakes twice.

Directly out of high school, I enrolled at the Los Angeles School of Broadcasting in the heart Hollywood, California while, at the same time, taking journalism classes and working at the campus newspaper at my local city college.  I was struggling but keeping up with my studies.  I managed to obtain my FCC license and in what spare time I had, was given an internship at CNN Entertainment Studios as a Production Assistant.  I was on the fast track into television news media, my ultimate dream job.  Despite the fact that my instructors, who were professional broadcasters, believed I could go all the way, I had absolutely no faith in myself.  I was afraid of failure.  I dropped out two credits shy of completing my courses at the studio and faded into oblivion.  I stopped going to school, never earned a college degree, and ended up taking miscellaneous data entry or waitressing work up until my current stint as a stay-at-home mom.

Writing - another glorious idea; something I've always felt I could do and do well but with what little college education I have under my belt, the dreaded "F-bomb" has reared its ugly head again.  I've been afraid of  failing at the only the only thing I've ever considered myself truly good at.  I fear that my tiny amount of self-confidence will be torn to shreds by a stranger's critique.  If someone - anyone - says my writing needs improvement, I'll have nothing to turn to.  No dream to hang my hopes on.

So, the question here, my dear friends and blog readers, is have I submitted anything for publishing?  No.  Just hitting the "Send" key on my first blog submission literally made me sick to my stomach.  The very idea that anyone in the world would have the ability to openly criticize my writing had me quivering in my virtual universe.  Some of you may have also noticed that recently I removed the "Comments Section" from my blog page. Ironically, it had nothing to do with opinions about my daily posts.  I recognize that there will always be people willing to disagree with my point of view.  This is perfectly fine with me.  It was done simply because I agonize over my grammatical skills.  I didn't want someone to correct me.  This sounds so absolutely pathetic as I type it.

Failure and Fear.  The words are almost interchangeable as far as I'm concerned.

This past Sunday night I stood in front of a group of strangers and for five minutes I put myself  "out there".  I tried to be funny; yet, to my ear on that stage, I only heard my friend chuckling off in the distance.  I saw blank stares from everyone else in the room; however, I managed somehow to keep it together.  I didn't run off the stage in tears but I sure as Hell wanted to.  Where was the laughter?   What was I doing wrong?  It was the longest five minutes of my life.  I was a complete flop.

Tonight my plan is to do it again.  Another audience.  A tougher crowd.  A later show.  Another stage.  I'll change up my routine.  No story this time.  Shorter quips. What happens if they don't laugh again?  Can I take that rejection once more?  AND, I have to face those other comedians.  Those same guys and gals whom I've seen before.  Who now know my name.  These folks who gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and said, "You were good".  No I wasn't but thanks anyway.  No false sympathy, please.  Give it to me straight.  Tell me I sucked and what I have to do next time.  I need thicker skin.  I'll take my bumps and bruises.

I have failed at this and I will continue to do so - but dammit, I will not give up on this dream.  Even if it doesn't take me anywhere further than the amateur stages of Denver I will keep it up until I hear the laughter I know I'm capable of receiving.  Fuck those "F-Bombs" anyway!  "Fear" and "Fail" are just a couple of 4-letter words some idiot made up.  Yes, they're words and as my dear friend over the weekend said, "words hurt" but my dearest I disagree...they only hurt if you allow them to.   


Saturday, June 2, 2012

Last night I howled at the moon...

Can Breezy be a little naughty? 

We all have it in us to misbehave.  We all, every single one of us, at one point in our lives just want to let our hair down and howl at the moon.  So why don't we?  My friends and blog readers, I'm throwing this rhetorical question out to you...

What holds you back? 

Everyone has their own reasons for not going a little crazy, for not living on the edge.  And I suppose everyone has their own definition of what living on the edge means.  For some it could be as mind boggling as switching out their favorite Sunday night meal of Roast Beef and Potatoes for Chicken and Rice.  For others, it could mean catapulting off cliffs into the ocean hundreds of feet below.  And finally, some people might believe it's all about experimenting with drugs and dangerous lifestyles.

Now I'm back at my original question; yes, I can be a little naughty.  I don't hold back and I'm at a point in my life where I'll howl at the moon and am not concerned with what others may think about it.

The reason behind my craziness is because I've always known that life is fleeting.  And no, it has nothing to do with my recent down-the-middle-of-the-cake-birthday-celebration of 45 years of age.  This is not a mid-life crisis I'm having.  Certainly being in my forties helps with self-confidence.  I can say and do things now that I would never have dreamed of doing in my twenties.  However, I've always been aware of just how quickly time passes and because of this, I refuse to sit on the bench and watch it slip away.  I want to laugh, dance, and celebrate my short existence.  I want to lift my arms to the sky and breathe in the fresh air.  When there's a thunder storm, I want to be part of the power - I want to feel the electricity tingling through my skin.
So how do I do this other than carrying a lightning rod into the middle of a storm cell?  There are lots of ways but last night I went to an Adults Only Club with my husband and his friend.  I danced risque with the topless ladies and felt my life source coarsing through my body.  I had a great time as I watched my husband's eyes light up with admiration for me.  What a pleasure I had giving him that time.

How do you live on the edge?  What helps you remember that life is fleeting?  If you don't or haven't started considering it, perhaps you should start now.  I tried Sushi yesterday and y'all know how I feel about seafood...  THAT WAS HUGE!

(By the way, I almost gagged...and I still hate fish.)

Friday, June 1, 2012

A little comfort for Austy.

Last night my 13 year old adopted, autistic son had another major meltdown. These temper tantrums - oops Austy hates that term, let me rephrase - these flare-ups happen when he feels that we "dis" him (disrespect - thank you gangland terms).  Hmmm...let me consider this for a moment.  Ok.  Considered.  Done.  Exhausted.

"Sweetie, it's time to take your bath.  Please stop playing.  I asked you to do this ten minutes ago..."

"I KNOW MOM!  GEESH, GIVE ME SOME SPACE ALREADY!" He screamed this nastily as I heard him continue playing in his room. 

Eric then suggested that he go in and gently move him along.  I greatly accepted.  A few moments of talking transpired and then I heard Austynn's voice raise to a low growl, "Get out of here!!"

"I will NOT!  Now knock it off, buddy.  What's goin' on with you?"



At this point I got up to see what the Hell was going on.  That's how Eric and I work.  When one of us gets escalated with the kids, the other one steps in and takes over.  It's just easier this way.  Our boys know what buttons to push.  Things can get out of control far too quickly.

"I've got it, Eric"  I looked straight into my husband's eyes and nodded slowly as if to say, "I totally understand.  Go breathe and get away from this kid."  He nodded back.  He was angry and hurt and disappointed.  It's amazing what a little boy can pull out of an adult man with just a few words, actions, or completely lack thereof.

"That's it, go to bed.  Don't take a shower, Austynn.  I really don't care.  It's seriously not worth your nastiness.  You'll just be smelly and gross tomorrow.  Oh - and as a consequence for being so rude and taking your time earlier - you've lost your radio privileges tonight.  See you in the morning."

"NOOOO! Don't you DARE take my radio!  I'll kill you!  If you touch anything in my room, I'll murder you!!"

"Too late, Austynn.  I've already taken it and put it away.  If you need something to comfort you, you have the things in your Comfort Basket.  Good night."

To explain, the Comfort Basket is literally a basket of things that his occupational therapist recommended we keep nearby for blow-ups exactly like this one.  He can turn to it and look at things that might settle him down when he's extremely overwhelmed.   There's some special stuffed animals to touch, one of my sweaters to snuggle into, some laminated pictures of fond memories, words that will spark his brain into a concept, etc.

It eventually worked but not until Eric and I sat in our room and listened to our son rage four-letter murder plans at us for a second night in a row.  Respect??  What's that?  We certainly don't receive any.  It's hard for us to to be expected to dish it out to children who lie to our faces, steal from our nightstands, threaten to murder us in our sleep, and never consider thanking us for anything without a nudge from the other parent.

I know our boys have been dealt a rough hand in life.  Aspergers and horrific trauma.  A double dose of horror.  An autism which is nearly impossible to detect without a nasty social stigma and memories of abuse, neglect, and trauma so terrible we could never even begin to imagine; however, parenting these boys for as long as we have, we're tired.  Pooped.  Some days we're just ready to close our bedroom door and say, "No mas (no more).  Mom and Dad are done for the day, the week, and will possibly just go fishin' for a few months (I don't even eat fish unless it's deep fried to the point of tastelessness)."  Basically we're exhausted and we need to do some brainless activity for awhile.  Something where we don't hear kids screaming accusations at one another, slamming house doors, kicking feet through dry wall, and threatening  to blow up the house with natural gas.  I'm thinkin,' is this too much to ask, is it?


William and Austynn,

I'm sorry.  You do have my respect.  I love you up to the moon and back again, around the stars and to me again.  Respect is a tough thing in a family like ours.  You see, it's something that comes with a lot of hard work and time.  As a group, we've been struggling with it for years.  I know you love your Dad and myself.  It's just really hard for you guys to show us.  It's hard for you two to show a lot of things because of your Aspergers.  You don't know how.  But we know it's there.  Sometimes, even after you say ugly things and try to hurt us with your actions and fists, you want to sit with us or snuggle.
William, you want to just "hang out".  You want to be with us in our room and talk about everything.  That's your way.  You want to make us proud of you.  I get it.  I understand you.  I love you.  You want me to look into your beautiful brown eyes and tell you that you're good and that I forgive you.  You're looking for forgiveness and that's your way of saying, "I'm sorry".  My son, you're forgiven.

Austynn, you want to be snuggled because you were never held or snuggled as a baby.  You were never told how lovable you are.  Well, no matter how many strings of 4-letter words you throw at me, how many ways you manage to come up with killing me, how many holes you kick in your bedroom walls, or how many ways you figure out how to destroy your body or this house, you are wonderfully lovable and LOVED.  You, my little terror, are forgiven too.

Ok, now I'm really pooped.  Time for an emotional nap.  Goodnight, boys.  Mom's goin' fishin'.