Saturday, February 23, 2013

Well, you might walk 500 hundred miles, but I 'bout wrote 500 blogs...

I've written and posted nearly 500 blogs since my self-awareness project began.  It started in March of 2010 and has continued until today.  It's not over, far from it.  We all make decisions causing us to take one road over another or stop at a particular red light.   There will always be roads to follow and dead ends along the way.  For better or worse, this is our lot in life.  We must find the joy in the silly, little moments and be willing to let go of the rest.

When I started this project, I was driven.  I had something to say everyday.  Now, two years later, I struggle.  I still have so much "rambling" about in my brain but the words seem to fail me now.  I'm proud I've been able to share myself to the world with humor; it's always been my weapon of choice.  My past loves, losses, tragedies, and great disappointments have been exposed but so too my many cherished memories.

My story isn't closed or finished but instead, transforming.  I'll be back from time to time with my whining, vanity, dark humor, and silly observations but not as much.  Keep an eye out for me my dear friends and blog readers.  Subscribe to my post via email on my blog page.  As long as there's a good story to be told..I'll be around.  - Bri



Friday, February 15, 2013

Post Valentine's's going around.

Be careful.  Are you wearing your face masks?  Washing your hands with hot, soapy water?  Getting a lot of rest?  I don't know about you, my dear friends and blog readers, but I'm carrying a small bottle of hand sanitizer in my pocket.  It can never hurt to be too cautious.  The Post Valentine's Blues is dangerously contagious and the news media plays the story down into virtual non-existence.  It's a conspiracy and I'd like to get to the bottom of it here and now during the worst of the epidemic - the day after.

It seems to hit women the hardest and the symptoms range in a plethora of maladies.  For some, it's bloating, vomiting, and overall physical discomfort.  It's as if they were spoiled rotten the night before and overindulged in either too much chocolate, champagne, fine food, or a combination thereof.  Yes, these particular gals are pathetic and they deserve the least of our sympathy.  Let's move on, shall we?  There are also women who wander about today in a lovesick zombie haze as if someone bonked them over the head with a cricket bat.  I feel that instead of being "bonked" that perhaps next time they should be beheaded and end the zombie apocalypse now before it has a chance to get started.  Finally, there are the tragic souls whose eyes appear blood shot from a long night of crying along with disappointed looks on their faces.  These are the women with whom I can relate with most and would gladly risk life and limb picketing with at the gates of the greeting card manufacturers.  Truly, to point any conspiratorial finger, one must begin at the root cause; the makers of the sentimental bah-humbug which gets transferred upon the unsuspecting masses.

Men are also susceptible to this disease but as a sex, they're a tougher lot.  They have a keen nose for a scam when they see it coming; however, they're tied to their counterpart's whims and therefore when their partners go down, there can sometimes be serious repercussions if they're not on "their game" beforehand.  For instance, if their loved one in question says, "Don't get me anything",  this is clearly a ploy Of course they want something. Their partner doesn't want to appear greedy or needy.  A small box of chocolates, a card, or better yet, a love letter will bring the dude to places he's only dared dream past his first date or honeymoon.  Trust me I know.  I'm a ploy player.  (I have my faults.  I am not proud but at least I'm honest.)  If the man in question buys into this ploy (pardon the pun) and does nothing but wait for his dinner to be served on February 14th, he'll most likely be nursing a concussion from the frying pan welt on the back of his head today.  As I've mentioned earlier, I'm writing about an epidemic.

Now, I'm sure many of you are wondering how I'm feeling this morning.  Am I wearing a protective mask?  Am I a little green around the edges?  Swollen eyes?  How's my dear husband doing?  Is he still lying unconscious at the dinner table?  Well, truth be told, I've taken more antacid tablets than I care to count and yet I'm still trying to finish off my chocolate cake for breakfast.  Eric took the day off from work, is grinning ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat, and is gallivanting around Denver with his cousin from Southern California.  I don't think I have the energy or the inclination to picket the greeting card companies today seeing as how my husband bought me four lovely cards yesterday and hid them throughout the house.  Do I have the Post Valentine's Blues?  Not yet but ask me after I finish off that last bite of chocolate cake...perhaps I'll have an answer for you by then.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Pardon my Swahili

Little things bother me.  Am I a whiner?  I guess now that I'm writing this blog, I'm coming out of the "whiner's closet" so to speak.  Those of you, dear friends and blog readers, who've come to know me over the years, have most likely become accustomed to my occasional sour moods and dry sense of humor.  Generally speaking; however, I take most things with a grain of salt.  I normally let the silly stuff bounce off me.  I tend to see the humor in situations and will offer up a giggle or smirk when the situation calls for it...BUT there are always a few exceptions.

My husband's jaw clicks when he eats.  Often times I'm so engrossed devouring my own piece of chicken or bag of popcorn that I won't notice this annoyance yet if my mood is a wee bit left of center, it can literally make my teeth grind.  I usually suffer this distraction in silence because, after all, what can my dearest do about it?  Unfortunately, one day I snapped.  I'm embarrassed to admit this but I hissed rather nastily that I would prefer eat alone than to "listen to a popcorn machine".  Instead of returning my rudeness, he sweetly explained that no, he doesn't have TMJ but that his jaw clicks because his muscles haven't aligned properly after his brain tumor surgery.  "Okay like, whatever."  I've never mentioned it again.

I play Bingo with a good friend on Friday nights.  This is the cold and flu season, there's no denying it.  Lately the gaming hall has been a cesspool of infectious diseases.  There are people coughing and hacking up all sorts of nastiness around me.  Between singing the commercial "Ricola" in order for people to catch my not so subtle hints or chastising myself for not coming prepared with a face mask, I silently curse my Bingo compatriots.  Perhaps if I would win I'd feel some sort of financial retribution.  No, I'm a consistent loser.  Why I impose myself to the bio-hazard hall every week is clearly beyond me.

Last minute lane cheaters.  I wait my turn patiently in traffic.  I bide my time.  I allow fellow drivers to merge when they have their blinkers on.  It's those - pardon my Swahili - assholes who wait until the last possible moment to dart over without signaling and force themselves between myself and the car ahead of me...oh, road rage get thee behind me!!  Breathe Breezy!  BREEAATHE!! 

Okay..I'm officially out of the "whiner's closet".  Do I feel better?  No.  I could go on for several more hours but I'll leave those rants for another day.  I don't want to overwhelm my readers all at once.  After all, I've been told that people can only take me in small doses.


Friday, February 1, 2013

Sorry guys, it's a losing battle.

Men can't win.  I'm sorry, it's a proven fact.  When pitted against their female partners, it's a lost cause.  The guys may just as well throw in the towel, hold up the white flag, and walk away with their ball sacks attached because when it all boils down to it, let's face it girls...we're bitches.

I came to this hard nosed conclusion last night after making a horrific dinner.  In my mind everything was awful.  The T-Bone was overcooked and the potatoes were undercooked (Even after I'd riced them.  How does one accomplish this?).  The only thing which tasted decent was the pre-cut salad I pulled from the bag.  I continued lamenting while huffing and puffing pushing food about with my fork. I pouted over every bite erstwhile my loving husband, Eric, heartily disagreed and finished everything in front of him.  This infuriated me.  Let me repeat, this infuriated me.  Why? 

If my dear spouse had the unmitigated audacity to agree with me when I said, "Gee whiz, I really killed the cow", he most likely would have suffered the wrath of Medusa.  After 18 years of marriage he knows this.  He doesn't want to go that route.  Who in Hell would?  What angered me - now try to follow this logic - is that he disagreed because he wanted to spare my feelings.  We both knew the dinner was awful.  My opinion is that after having been married for so many years, he would be aware of how to avoid this situation.  I'd rather he be honest yet gentle.  Gentle is good.  For instance, he could have said something like, "Perhaps the meat was a little overcooked but it wasn't that bad."  This would have been perfectly acceptable.  Had he done this I might have stopped moaning and not gone to bed hungry.

While I'm on the topic, let me add a few other suggestions to save you male readers a bit of grief.

I don't know why women are obsessed with personal appearance but we are.  If you have facial hair poking out someplace it doesn't belong, chances are we will not let you rest until the offender has been removed.  This can mean several things.  If we've asked you to trim your eyebrows, nose hair, or - God forbid - ear hair before leaving the house and we're assaulted by the site of a mismanaged follicle, you will receive a warning to take care of it.  After that, it's war.  We'll attack it with any and all means to save you (actually us) the embarrassment of being seen in public with it.  I've been known to pull an unruly eyebrow from my husband while driving at 65mph on the freeway.  This is serious business gentlemen.  Take care of it or we'll do it for you.

If you do not want to be nagged for the rest of eternity, lift the seat before peeing, don't drip in front of the toilet lest we slip in it, replace the toilet paper, and DO NOT take a dump while your wife is relaxing in the tub.  Trust me, she'll be much gentler towards you when she sees those unruly facial hairs. 

And finally, unless you're actually fifteen years old, dear friends and blog readers, don't fart loudly in elevators, closed offices, or in grocery stores and then inadvertently look at your girlfriend or wife and say, "How gross!"  This has been a stumbling block in my marriage for years and one which has come dangerously close to my handing Eric's ball sack back to him wrapped in divorce paperwork.