Monday, September 29, 2014

The story that MUST be told

Okay, OKAY ALREADY!  I've been instructed that I can not do another thing today until this blog has been posted.  This means several items have not been crossed off my "to-do" list.

I have not been afforded the luxury of my "Good Morning" deep breathing meditation ritual.  I depend upon these fifteen minutes of quiet reflection to ground myself.  This keeps REDRUM from occurring at the slightest provocation by my autistic sixteen year old who feels entitled to all conversations, the television and just about everything else.  I must BREEEEEAAATHE.  Despite the fact that the anonymous voice says, "powerfullyer" during the guided meditation is of no consequence.  I'm past this slight annoyance and merely wince while deeply inhaling my "Moonlight Sonata" incense then slowly exhaling the toxicity from my body which no longer serves me. Apparently, tomorrow I'll have twice as much toxic waste to exhale and the word "powerfullyer" will become more like a dull toothache which can no longer be ignored.

My painting project has been placed on hold.  It wasn't a major venture, just the entrance to the study and the back wall; however, all I needed was an excuse not to open a can of paint and alas here it is.

Today is laundry day in my home.  Bedding is stripped, clean sheets are applied and clothes folded and put away.  I'm wondering how far into the week shirts and jeans will sit wrinkling away in my dryer now that this blog demand has been placed upon me.  Oh well, my husband has made this request and I always do as I'm told..cough, sputter.


The Story That MUST Be Told

After high school, I was working two waitressing jobs while supporting myself through junior college and attending broadcasting school.  My life was exhausting but I was young and doing what I wanted to do.

While working the late shift, I met and befriended one of the dearest people I've ever had the honor to know.  We've since lost track of one another but this is our story.  His name has been changed for privacy purposes and my dear, if you happen to ever read this blog, find me please. I miss and love you dearly.

Carlos** was a tall, handsome Hispanic waiter with fair skin, green eyes, jet black hair and a mustache. When he spoke in his thick, educated accent he always had a sparkle in his eyes and a smile which could melt the coldest of hearts.  The moment we met there was magic between us.  He gravitated towards me because I was honest, made him laugh and worked hard.  He could make me blush with a simple glance and his laughter inspired me to make him laugh more.  Oh, he also LOVED my boobs.  (There's no denying this, did.)

The waitresses uniforms (they've since changed thank goodness, ladies!) were French peasant blouses; low cut, white and emphasized the curves of our breasts.  Carlos, being a good foot taller than myself, would come up from behind, place his hands on my shoulders, give a firm yet gentle shake while looking down purring, "Brrrrii, they'rre sooo beauutifuulll!" How is it possible he can still make me blush after all these years?  Will someone please open a damn window in here?

Needless to say, this wonderful man and I became inseparable.  After our shifts, we would go dancing or sit in my car talking late into the night.  I was becoming twitterpated.  Oh my goodness!  I was a willing and waiting participant in whatever Carlos had in mind for me.

One night, as we were sitting in front of his house, he suddenly became very serious as if our lives were about to change forever.

"Bri," he said, looking as if he were ready to weep, "I 'ave somtink to tell you dat I'm afraid will destroy our frenship."

Now, over the years I had become somewhat "full" of myself.  In other words, I'd become rather "overconfident" so I had this overblown, disproportionate idea that he was going to tell me he was enamored with me, head-over-heels in love with me, he couldn't resist my body another moment, that yes - he was ready to tear my clothes off and make mad, passionate love to me.  I mean seriously, what else could he possibly have to say?

"Carlos, it's okay honey.  Whatever it is, you can tell me.  It won't ruin our friendship.  If anything, it will only make it stronger."

"No, Bri.  I'm serious.  I'm afraid dat you will hate me after dis."

"Oh, baby no!  Not at all.  I'll always love you, you know that."

"Bri, (very long pause) I am GAY."

I sat there in stunned silence for a moment.  My eyes must have looked as if they were going to explode from their sockets.  And then IT happened.  Without warning I burst into the most hysterical laughter I can remember to date.  I do believe I wet myself.

Poor Carlos sat in his own stunned silence too hurt to mutter a syllable and then, "Why?  Why do you laugh at dis?  I tell you somtink so personal and you LAUGH?"

I wiped my eyes, tried to compose myself while stifling my giggles and then told him what I had expected to hear.  Then IT happened again but in reverse.  He burst into unrestrained laughter which echoed off my car windows and filled the night sky.  At that point I wasn't sure whether to be offended or not but since I adored his laughter, it hardly mattered - at that moment our friendship was sealed forever in love and admiration.

For the years I continued living in Southern California he was my go-to date for important events. The man who harmlessly buried his sexy mustache in my cleavage to make my ex-boyfriends jealous and with whom I offered to be his third when I met his equally gorgeous partner for dinner.

"Is she always like dis?" he asked Carlos shocked over his menu.

"Yes."  was his curt reply. "Bri, you are so disgusting!"

Damn, I miss my handsome Mexican man.  Darling, find me!

**Name has been changed for privacy purposes

Thursday, September 18, 2014

I opened the can of worms, let them slither now where they may...

Can of Worms
As many of you who follow my blogs know, I consider these posts self-therapy.  I throw my internal garbage onto the page hoping that it will help me somehow get over past demons and/or perhaps lend some assistance to others in similar situations - though I don't know how plausible it would be that anyone's life could possibly mirror my own.

One example would be this past May I made a concerted effort to end my life; however, since then - a solemn pinkie promise was made to my very best friend that another attempt would not occur unless we went out together in grand style, like Thelma and Louise. Since she's a meticulous planner and I'm a "fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-kind-o-gal" and she knows this, I'm fairly certain to outlive my children and grandchildren (longevity runs in my family, dammit).

The can of worms I mentioned in my title was a particularly bad "boo-hoo" moment I shared on Facebook this past week.  I was feeling sorry for myself.  I was having a bad week after coming home from a short family trip whereas I felt everything I said or did was scrutinized.  I've learned now to keep the can opener in the drawer but alas, I'm impulsive.  I wrote what had been festering at me for months.  I questioned why no one from either side of my family called after I OD'd to ask how I had been doing.

Worms, worms, icky, crawly worms of guilt and anger came pouring out from the proverbial tin cans of family members.  Yes, bad move on my part. I outed both my family and my husband's publicly on Facebook which in essence made them look like villains for not contacting me.  During the heated outcry I learned that some relatives had called Eric to check on my condition and that in my hazy state he had told me about the phone calls. Sadly, I don't remember these conversations.  I was detoxing off of high dosages of Valium and Ambien.  I was also in intensive outpatient therapy, private therapy or in my own personal avoidance therapy - secluding myself in my bedroom and hiding away from the unfamiliar noise of the world.

I do remember the phone calls I personally received; the voice of a dear friend from California telling me that "God wasn't ready for an ornery gal" like me and to "hang in there" because she loved me too much to see me go.  Yes, my sweet Joan, I remember your words.  Or my dear friend in Detroit who got angry with me, used some choice curse words and told me to "knock this shit off!"  Or the friends who sat vigil with my husband, or the neighbors who brought food for the boys or even the strangers across the globe who read my painful blog detailing my ordeal and their beautiful, heartwarming messages of strength.  One email from South Carolina read: "You Rock, Diva!  Thank you for putting yourself out there!"  That one made me laugh out loud. Thank you my dear friend and reader.

So yes, my pathetic, feel-sorry-for-myself-boo-hoo'ng did deserve some anger.  I apologize for putting my loved ones on the spot so publicly but I will not apologize for how I felt.  Calling Eric and offering him words of encouragement was terrific. Lord knows, I put him through enough this year. Asking him how I was doing was well and fine but nothing, nothing could have helped me more than to hear the words, "I love you" and "You're going to be okay" spoken by the people I needed to hear from the most.  I AM NOT a martyr.  It seems that people in our families have acquired this trait.  We suffer quietly through tragedies when instead we should be reaching out and asking one another for love and support. Why is this?  We only have each other?  We're family for God's sake!  

What I did NOT deserve was the self-righteous, nasty and all together false garbage spewed at me in a nasty rebuttal.  There was no "slippery slope" on that one.  I didn't ask to be crucified as a drug popping, alcoholic who craves the limelight.  The medication I take for my "mental illness" (since it's apparent that three different psychiatrists' diagnosis is being questioned by a non-expert) has been whittled down to two medications.  AND, not that it's anyone's business but I also take a medication for my heart palpitations and another for my GERD symptoms.  This hopefully settles the "pill popping" issue.  The alcoholic in me - wow, where do I begin with this?  I don't normally drink!  Ha! Only at big neighborhood parties or at an occasional bar - which, I have not been to for a very, very long time.  If I do go, I'll have a coke or some water.  Oh, pardon me, the last couple of times I got drunk was with my family!  How ironic!  The limelight comment...hmm, was that when I got up and danced with my Goddaughter?  I lived!  So what?!  I got up on stage, drank Tequila, laughed my butt off and lived. You should try it, it's fun.

I will never allow you  -  and you know who you are - to point a finger of judgment at me again. Go there and I will have ten fingers ready to point right back into your hypocritical face. You proved by your comments that one, you don't listen with an open heart and two, you've never, ever truly known me.  That's a shame because I'm discovering that I'm a pretty awesome lady to know.  You said once that you're glad you're your own best friend.  I'm learning how to be good to myself too but I'm also blessed to be surrounded by wonderful friends or in my case, family, to keep an eye on me when I'm feeling down. Thank God I have them and yes, an amazing husband who at times I can't believe puts up with all the nonsense I continue to dish out.

Thank you Eric, Blackbird, and all my other dear, dear friends for your love and support.  One day at a time.

Now I'm off to dodge more incoming worms...

Saturday, September 6, 2014

A few scathing rants on a Saturday, anyone? Anyone?

It's time to get some rants off my chest; however, let this be a warning to any first time visitors; I have an impressive sized chest therefore this will be an equally impressive sized rant.  Go ahead...kick off your shoes, grab a drink and be prepared to hear some shocking revelations.

Bri and Her Husband, Eric
Since June 2008 I've written over 500 blogs and received some amazing feedback from people all over the world.  When I started posting my ramblings I would agonize over every possible grammatical error.  Should this be past tense?  Does a comma go here?  What the Hell is a hanging or is it a "dangling" participle?  You see, I never completed college.  I felt my writing wasn't good enough to share with the world.  WRONG!  What I realized eventually is that I'm not writing for anyone's approval.  Hello?!  Once I accepted this and wrote from my heart, I started connecting with my readers and this blog became what it was originally intended to be; a journal about my life be it funny or tragic.  It's honest and raw and I hold absolutely nothing back.  This blog is my working therapy session but the difference is I don't close the door, I let the world in.

Okay, so my dear friends and blog readers ask, where do these infamous rants begin? Well, let me tell ya...

The first one has been driving me crazy for the last several weeks.  You see, I did something to my smart phone (which wasn't smart) and now I receive notifications every time someone in this great big world posts a new blog.  Fantastic, I think or thought..or at least I did at first.

*** WARNING ***
If you are a sensitive first time blog writer or take insult to criticism then read no further.

BLOGGERS!  Are you seriously trying to destroy a perfectly lovely form of Internet writing?  Let me give you an example of why I scream on an hourly basis.  Here are some consistent opening lines which appear almost repeatedly:

5 (or 10) (or 20) Tips for Successful Blog Writing
---Um, sorry?  This apparently is not working for you because it's the first blog I personally mark for deletion.  And, by the way, who are you - virtual stranger - to give anyone tips on how to write a successful blog?  To quote one of my favorite movie characters of all time, Atticus Finch, "the unmitigated TEMERITY!"

Hi, my name is Chelsea and this is my first attempt...
---Like, OMG!  Seriously?!  Just stop at your second attempt before you have the entire world yacking in your too cute polka dot I don't give a damn bag.

Check out my blog!
---No!  Just no.

Hey, just started blogging any ideas...
---Really?!  If you have to ask, why the Hell are you writing?

And finally, my personal favorites, the posts with no titles or descriptions.  I can't wait to open what must be simply awe inspiring thoughts (complete and utter sarcasm).

Interesting blog writers of the world (and, by no means am I saying I'm one of them but damn, at least I have better bites than these!) UNITE!  Enough of this crap people.  It's getting embarrassing out there.  End of rant number one.  Moving on.

How ridiculous is it when you enter a public restroom which has an automatic toilet, an automatic soap and water dispenser comes the caveat...a MANUAL paper towel dispenser?  There's so much stupidity here that I can't wrap my brain around it.

And now my third and final rant because the first one was so emotionally draining. Here I go, wait for it..."I don't got none."  There's nothing more to add to this paragraph.  I believe it's self-explanatory.

Until my next unruly rant or silly experience or melancholy day or need to ramble uncontrollably about my out of control life...I just don't got none more to say.  *belch*  Pardon me!