Up........Yours

On Saturday, we depart for the magical land of Florida. No, we're not going to the Magic Kingdom. We're going to Cocoa Beach…the land of geezers, poorly driven Buicks & a pool my mother swears is "the perfect temperature" but is actually 53 degrees because she has the body temperature (and temperament) of a wild jungle bobcat.

We are flying the friendly skies, and I'm starting to stress about flying with all this snow talk. Let us factor in that since the kids were born, flying is my kryptonite and I become a catatonic, unbalanced mess. Even the stewardesses walking around with snacks freaks me out because I feel like their movement - despite the airline's requirement that they weigh less than 98 lbs and have a name ending in -i - is really messing up the plane's balance and they should just sit the fuck down. 7 CRUSHED PRETZELS ARE NOT GOING TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER, DARCI. Meanwhile, my kids are engrossed in those in-seat TVs and Sawyer is always watching Food Network screaming "WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO MAKE HOT DOGS, DADA? HOT DOGS ARE MY FAVORITE!" and I swear the loudness of his voice has potential to disrupt the goddamn plane engines. And I sweat. Profusely. The entire trip.

($20 this will be our stewardess, Kelli, and no Pat, she will no be checking the tightness of your seatbelt)

Bottom-line I hate flying and I'm a tough gal. I can handle most things: "Brie, we have to pull 11 teeth from your head. Despite having the largest, loudest mouth that spews inane blabber, your jaw is actually quite small. Open wide." DO IT. "Brie, the baby is sunny side up but I feel like if we insert 19 instruments in there as well as 4 nurses' hands, we can get baby Logan out with only mildly traumatizing damage to your vagina." DO IT. "Brie, if your husband does not get a vasectomy immediately, you will be pregnant every year for the rest of your life." DO IT.

See - bad damn ass. But flying…with my kids? Our whole family? I just freak and the entire trip I am a shaky, WHATWASTHAT? mess. Pat attempts to be comforting with a lot of "it's OK…that's totally normal" but I am usually so unraveled at this point I just end up screaming, "oh, so you're a PILOT now? Last night, you couldn't even remember which Real Housewife of Beverly Hills has a glitter weave. It's ADRIENNE, DUMBASS! Everyone knows that! But now you're going to explain mathematical aerodynamics to the whole fucking plane? Well let me get my spectacles and pocket watch out, Dr. Aeronautical Engineer and listen as you educate us on all the HORSESHIT IN YOUR HEAD!"

And honestly, it is really like that because I take the express highway to Irrational Land and do not stop to fuel up with a bit of logic or Percoset.

So pray for us, friends, and when you see me on CNN being escorted off the plane and you hear the news anchor say "an unstable mother was removed from a plane this morning on her way to Orlando. Witnesses say she was choking her husband with headphones and screaming about hot dogs bringing down a plane. What a sad occurrence on Christmas Day, folks. She is a sick, sick person" please remember - I tried to warn you.

The Confession

Yet another email I sent out to my coworkers this week -

(This is what I'm going to look like post-1/2 marathon training, right? Strong, sleek, black? Lithe like a jungle panther, yes? I want to be a black panther...wait, why does that sound wrong?)

All - I appreciate the early birds who completed & submitted their slides early. Aren't you fancy? This special gift of free time on Wednesday night led me to begin what will surely be a positive, life affirming commitment to myself: I started running.

OK, confession: I signed up for a half marathon that will occur in June 2011. You say, "great job, Brie!" and I humbly shake my head and say "aw shucks, it's for charity........Loudoun County wine country charity" and then I win another Circle of Excellence Award but they have to upgrade it to Circle of Amazingness based solely on my good heart and the clever zingers I exchange with the cafeteria workers on a daily basis. Example: "Hey guys, I came down here just for the halibut. Get it? Get it?" It is like Def Comedy Jams up in this joint!

OK, confession part 2: I suck at running. I suck so badly that I told my father - who has always been supportive of anything I have ever done - what I was planning on doing and he laughed so hard, my mom ran in to his office and thought he was choking.

OK, confession part 3: sometimes my dad is a huge jerk.

OK, confession part 4: I have the lung capacity of a 104 year old man that lives in a smokehouse and worked in a coal mine for 78 years. It is that bad. BUT I tell you this deep dark secret so I can use your uppity judgments to motivate me. I'll be running & screaming, "take that OFM! I'm RUNNING! I may or may not be the one that called the copier a communist fuck this morning but you don't know because when you came to look, I was gone in a puff of smoke and speed! HAHA!" but then, of course, I fall because my kids keep putting Matchbox cars on the treadmill and I'm not paying attention as I'm too busy having these running fantasies and/or imagining I'm a back up dancer for Usher.

Wish me luck.

A Birthday Memory For My Father

The Christmas holiday is fast approaching. December is a lovely time of year in which I become a sentimental sap. Maybe it's because I have kids of my own now who relish in holiday traditions. Maybe it's because my brother is far away from us in Afghanistan and we miss him. Maybe it's because I use any excuse - even sentimental reflection - to drink and I start hallucinating about shit that happened long ago.

Ladies & Gentlemen, as a 60th birthday gift to my wonderful father, I give you.....

Dog Shit Christmas:

A ways back, Dan decided it would be hilarious to move us to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I had just barely graduated high school. Brendan didn't even have leg hair. Mom had 11,000 dogs. No one wanted to go, but we did. Pittsfield has 2 seasons: Holyfuck Winter & 50 Degree Summertime. Lovely place. We had a gorgeous house that looked on to the mountains and every damn morning, Dan would say "look at that view!" and then he would scream, "Brigid, get the hell out of bed and go get a job!" It was a special time.

Dad tried everything to get Brendan & I to adore Berkshire County just as much as he did. He bought us snowboards. We tried it. I think I broke my ass. Brendan, talented in many ways, is pretty much helpless in the Coordination area. We ended up taking flasks and drinking in the woods like the Virginia hillbillies we are. He drove us up to Mt. Greylock and had us overlook the beauty of New England. Then told us we were all going on a camping trip and would be carrying our own gear. We got lost as fuck about 20 minutes in and Brendan started crying and saying we were going to have to eat Fritz, our dog. Lastly, Dad said, "we are going to go cut our own Christmas tree down this year!" I said, "no, we are fucking not, Dan." That's a lie. I think my mom said that. And off we went……

A dad, a mom, 1 son, 1 daughter and Hoban, our dog, ventured off in to the mountains lush with perfect Christmas trees and so many happy, caroling families. We grumbled and dragged our asses through 19 inches of snow. Dad declared, "here is the perfect tree! Morons, cut it down." That term of endearment was directed at my brother & myself. Armed with 1 fucking small hand saw, we started sawing at the tree trunk like damn lumberjacks. I got tired about 15 seconds in. Dad was saying, "get further under the tree, Brendan! FURTHER!" Brendan creeped his whippet thin ass down there and kept sawing while rolling around in needles and snow. Only I can hear him saying "sonofabitch fucking tree….fucking trees in the mountains…'cut it down, cut it down'…no, YOU cut it down, Old Man….mothershit ass." Meanwhile my mother is screaming that Hoban is cold. HOBAN. Can we mention Hoban is the DOG? The dog covered in insulating hair who eats his own feces? Yes Mother, let's rush back to the car for the DOG.

I am just laying in the snow contributing nothing other than wondering if we are going to die out here. Brendan continues to swear & saw under the tree….and then I smell it. "What is THAT SMELL?" Dad says, "it's holiday cheer, goddamit. CUT DOWN THAT FUCKING TREE, BRENDAN!" I said, "no…..it's dog shit." We all look around. We all glare at Hoban. We are in endless puffs of pristine snow. No dog shit. So weird because the smell is up my nostrils with a vengeance.

Brendan finally cuts the tree down. It falls over and we all stare at it. Dad says, "drag it to the car, morons." We begin dragging. THE SMELL. My mother is screaming, "Who stepped in dog shit?!" Brendan turns around and we see it…….pounds and pounds of dog shit covering the back of his coat from neck to ass. It's everywhere and everyone begins screaming. "It's on your back! Your BACK, DUMBASS! It's EVERYWHERE! Get the tree! Get the tree! Hoban is scared, we have to go! OH GOD, THE SMELL!" We are a damn disaster and then we make another fun discovery: we have just dragged the TREE through all the dogshit.

At this point, a cloud of unparalleled profanity erupts from every single person present. I vaguely remember Brendan crying that his precious lacrosse jacket was ruined and all he wanted for Christmas was Rogaine for his legs. I recall screaming at my mother that moving forward, I would refuse to wear dickies under sweaters and to stop accusing me of smoking 'The Marijuana' (to her it is a proper noun) as it was just clove cigarettes because I was edgy & cool. Mom was ranting about how this happened because we didn't go to church with her 19x a week and Dad….well, Dad got his Serial Killer Look. It appears very rarely and only at times of severe, aneurysm-inducing stress. (Note: it happened a year later when I came back from Australia with a $4,000 Visa bill…..on his card).

Dad simply said, "Get. In. The. Fucking. Car," and we did because you do NOT argue with the shaky-faced, white-knuckled Serial Killer Face. We drove home with our feces filled fir on top of the car. We silently cleaned it off. We placed in our living room…..and kind of got a warm feeling in our hearts in a "wow, this was kind of worth it" way. It brought the real spirit of the holiday back to us and we enjoyed a nice moment looking at that tree we had struggled so profanely to obtain. We hugged each other and chuckled quietly and shook our heads like "we so crazzzzy!"……and then that motherfucking tree fell over spilling water and needles all over my mother's spotless living room. My dad said, "fuck this," and we let that asshole tree lay there for days.

Happy birthday, Dan Schmutte - Florida Resident & A Supporter of Fake Christmas Trees since 1999.

Marriage: Day 2,190

Six years ago today Pat & I married in a beautiful ceremony at St. Peter in Chains (how appropriate) Cathedral in Cincinnati surrounded by wonderful family & friends...and Dylan...because he was in my uterus. Little did I know how hard marriage would be because well, no one talks about that shit. It's not like my Seventeen magazine had articles titled: "The Washing Machine & 8 Other Appliances You Will Teach Your Husband To Use Because He Is Not Stupid....Though All Behaviors Indicate Otherwise" or "I Am Not Your Mother" or "Ways To Get Out of Sex....1. Say 'I have diarrhea'." That would actually be the shortest article because that's all it takes.

The point is marriage is a roller coaster of craziness that bonds you together for life (unless that insurance policy gets so damn high I just can't help myself) and offers up reminders that it's usually fun to have a partner to share it with (on occassion, I'd prefer Jake Gyllenhall or the Transporter). Seeing parts of myself and Pat in our kids is a daily revelation. Logan has my blonde hair mixed with Pat's curls. Dylan looks like my brother (gross) but acts just like Pat. Sawyer...well, that psycho is all me but I'm pretty sure he's going to have a hairy back like his father.

We take care of each other when we're sick -

Brie: (barfing her brains out due to alcohol poisoning) OHMYGOD, we are ROCKSTARS! We partied SO hard tonight, babe! It has to be like, 4am or something, right? WHOOOOOO!

Pat: It's 7:30pm and you passed out 45 minutes after everyone arrived.

Brie: Shit. You think Taco Bell is still open?

We help each other through the bad times -

Pat: Honey, why are you crying so hard? It's going to be OK. Tell me what's wrong. I can help.

Brie: The New Kids On the Block/Backstreet Boy tickets are $180! ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DOLLARS! They've gotten so uppity and are forgetting their fans have MORTGAGES and BOOB JOB PAYMENTS! I can't gooooooo! WAHHHHHHH!

And we boost each other's confidence -
Pat: You look hot today!
Brie: I have diarrhea.

Happy anniversary, Pat. I would do it all over again.....but might ask you to get electrolysis first.

Secret Santa's Tchotchke Emporium

Former SJS Saints know what I am about to talk about....Santa's Secret Workshop. Just the words affect me so deeply even 20+ years on. This wonderful portal to holiday cheer happens once a year at St. Joe. Students are given a budget and permitted to shop for Christmas gifts for family members. The excitement you feel when you find your mom that perfect horse magnet is unparalleled. Even as a 9 year old you scream inside, "YES! Mom is going to LOVE THIS! Even though she doesn't like horses....or magnets....or unwrapping things. But still - the Holy Spirit knows this is what she wants!"

Anyway, Dylan partook in this momentous event yesterday at school. He was going to shop for our family and asked permission to get Uncle Brendan something. How can you say no to such a sweet, unselfish request? I gave him a list of people to shop for and allotted $5 for everyone.

Here's how Dylan's purchases worked out:

Uncle Brendan - $7.....this holiday while Uncle Brendan is far away in Afghanistan and away from us at Christmas, he will be gifted with...well, whatever the hell this is:

It's a lizard....with a basket. Dylan said Uncle Brendan would like it "because it's funny, Mama." Here's my favorite part - the basket is multifunctional......the lizard can carry say, burkas or ordnance, in it OR.....

...transform himself in to Rice Paddy Supermodel Lizard and go undetected in the hills of Afghanistan.

Who had the most money spent on them following Uncle Brendan? Here's a hint:

Dylan felt he had been a good boy this year. SO GOOD, in fact, he should buy himself some gifts. These amazing, must-have purchases included a race car, finger puppet & 19 candy canes.

Coming in 3rd place for Dylan's well thought out budgeted holiday shopping: Mama.

I am to receive this lovely 'I Love Mom' pendant and fantastic matching purple stretchy bracelet which, to be honest, is so f'g tiny it could MAYBE fit a squirrel's wrist but none the less, I love it! And you better believe that I will wear this mother 24/7when he starts dating. ESPECIALLY if he's dating some strumpet with poor table manners. My amazing pendant will remind that bitch who comes first.

Next up, Logan & Sawyer tie with $2.50 spent on each of them. Sawyer gets a small race car toy (spot on, Dylan) and Lo gets this - I don't even know what to say. I AM loving the check mark indicating that yes, YES - this IS the MOOSE ANIMAL PLAQUE! You have chosen wisely, big brother!

Lastly, Dada. Oh Dada.

Dada gets this glitter basketball because.....well, I am now at a point where I think Liberace and Ted Nugent helped Dylan shop so I don't know WTF is going on or why we are receiving such gifts. The best part about this? This morning before leaving for school, Dylan whispered to me that this was actually yet another gift for himself.

Great shopping, buddy.

Worth the Second Post Today

Came home from St. Joe after baking bread with Dylan's class for their Thanksgiving feast. It was so fun, he & I decided to bake another loaf just for us. We got everything together, put it in to the oven and let the smell of warm pumpkin bread fill the house. He & I went outside and my heart was so full watching him run around playing with the dogs. Like below -

I ran inside to get my camera as I wanted to capture this wonderful moment with my oldest. I grabbed my camera, took one pic and was told "memory card full" which is so weird since our card should hold 8 million photos. I start going through the card and find about 60 pictures of this -

In case you are wondering, this is Otto's penis. Paging back through the photos it was obvious that at some point during his Bucket-monitored tonsil removal recovery, Dylan had gotten ahold of my camera. And taken some photos. Of the dog's junk. I did find 3 of the inside of Dylan's mouth and 2 of just his shoe. I guess I should be grateful he was just experimenting with photography and not slinging crack rock.

Now I Lay Me Down to Burp

Ah, Sunday night. Fresh from baths. Clean, crisp and spic & span for a new week. Aren't we precious? We were also just engaging in a belching contest. Adorable, I know. Though we cannot compete with this tornado of destruction-

Someone has discovered her new favorite game which is called Don't Try To Confine Me In Your Bourgeois Bedroom Attire I Am A Free Spirit Who Now Knows How To Work A Zipper So Put That In Your Pipe And Smoke It.

This game is also known as F-You, Mama.

MOOOOOM!

Despite being 31 years young, I still have many occasions to utter the childhood mantra, "Aw, MOM!" in despair. Take today's phone call from my mother. My dad is visiting from Florida to aid us during Tonsilgate. Mom is aware of Dad's TV musts (such as: no Rock of Love and marathon after marathon of Burn Notice) and was questioning our nightly viewing line up.

Brie: Yeah, kids will be in bed by 7:30 and I think some new show are on.

Mom: Well, it's Monday so Dad will want to watch "How Two And A Half Men Bang Your Mother."

Brie: DAMMIT MOM! (the new 'aw, Mom')

Mom: Oh Brigid, it's just what I call your dad's favorite shows of "How I Met Your Mother, The Big Bang Theory and Two & A Half Men."

This got me thinking of some of my favorite 'Aw Mom' moments -

Mom: (slightly drunk and not on the Holy Spirit) Who wants some Que-tila?

Family friend: Mrs. Schmutte, it's Te-QUILA.

Mom: Shut the fuck up. I paid for it.

Brie: Aw, MOM.

Sara: <giving Mom a birthday card she made> Happy birthday, Mrs Schmutte!

Mom: Oh thanks, Sara.

Sara: I made that card.

Mom: (drunk on birthday Cosmos) No shit. Thanks for the cheap effort.

Brie: MOM!

Mom: Brendan...get up. GET UP. <kicking a very hungover and passed out Brendan>

Good God, you're as useful as a six legged dick.

Brie: High five. You finally got that shit right.

LGJ

Age: 20 months

Weight: whatever your average baby sumo wrestler weighs

Interests: chipping her teeth, pacifiers, carbohydrates & going through my purse and throwing crap all over the floor.

Dislikes: Bedtime, jeans (they are a smiiiiiidge too snug on the thighs) & the Taliban

Nicknames: LoTimes, Bitchface, Hillbilly Tooth & NOLOGANDONTTOUCHTHAT!

Thanks for the pic, Uncle Mark!

T&A, baby, T&A

Today, Dylan had a tonsillectomy & adenoidectomy or, as all the profesh peeps kept calling it, a T&A procedure (insert Beavis & Butthead-style laughter HERE).

Dylan was not a fan of being stripped down and changing in to a tiger-covered nightshirt. Nor did he like all the machines. But he DID love the red hospital socks.

His procedure was fast and uneventful and when the doc came out and said all had gone well, we were relieved. He then mentioned "those were some HUUUUUGE tonsils." Hopefully, Dylan's 3am window-rattling snores will be a thing of the past.

Heading back to Recovery, I was anxious to see my boy. I saw him crying on his bed and ran to him. He said, "Mama! Mama!" and I said, "I'm here, buddy. I have you!"

He said, "Mama, I want to go to Bob Evans!"

Healing prognosis: Stellar.

Thir-tay

Happy 30th birthday to Uncle Brendan!

We call you a superhero because you are the most loving & generous uncle who is always down for a quick wrassle and a super big hug (and because your abs are something not from nature). We hope the best godfather x 3 has a fantastic day!

Stay safe, WE LOVE YOU!

Whittle Me This...

We miss Uncle Brendan a lot. We know he is busy and working hard and sweating a lot and...wait a minute...is that a palm tree? Is he sitting on his ass?

Huh. Well it's actually a palm tree made entirely of wood. So the good 'ol USA sends the best of the best - the best infantry, the best artillery, the best EOD and apparently the best whittlers.

Friday, I Beckon Thee

Finally - Friday. I have survived the week….though the day isn't over yet and it's valiantly trying to bring me down.

Exhibit A - Dylan creeping in to my room like a ninja at 4am to tell me he saw a car in our driveway. I bolt out of bed (while Pat snores the sleep of the dead) ready to murder anyone on my property line. Dylan says "the car is blue and verrrrrrry big, Mama." Something clicks in my barely-aware brain - "is it MY car, Dylan? Is that what you see?" Silence then……."yes. Remember today is Orange Shirt Day, Mama. I need an orange shirt."

Exhibit B - cafeteria credit card processing registers are SHUT DOWN. So that means CASH ONLY. The year is 2010. Who the F carries cash anymore? I am currently involved in an internal struggle of 'do I risk life & limb and head out in to Tysons for lunch OR do I die of starvation after I have already polished off the ketchup packets and straggler M&Ms I found in my desk?' NoVa friends, I'm gonna need someone to run a sandwich or something hearty - your choice - up here to McLean. We're besties. I know you can handle that. See you soon…..hello? Lazy bitches.

Exhibit C - this was the shirt I wanted to wear to show solidarity with my brother over in Afghanistan.

It was designed by my very talented cousin, Joe Otto, and every member of my family has one. However, it did not go with the cute ankle boots that I am sporting today but it will get some usage this weekend. Do you not get it? Do you find it offensive? You're a hippie...here's your sign.

Altar Boys?

Dylan now attends a solid Catholic school. We wanted our kids to have the best education as well as create a good relationship with God and religion. From this conversation that happened on the ride home tonight, you can see our dreams, and then some, are all coming true -

Sawyer: Poop. Butt. Diapers. Butt. Dog poop.

Me: SAWYER DANIEL! Stop saying dirty words.

Dylan: Mama, God does not like it when you say bad words.

Mama: (impressed & immediately patting herself on the back for shelling out big St. Joe bucks) That is RIGHT, Dylan! What else does God say?

Dylan: God created everything. God created animals and Red Robin and people and tractors and the night and my favorite food, shrimp.

Mama: Ah, Ok. Well yes.

Dylan: And God has one eye and no mouth.

Mama: What the....?

Sawyer: GOD IS A CYCLOPS?!

Mama: (losing control of conversation) No, no, no.......

Dylan: And God has angels and they do favors for him.

Mama: (relieved) Yes, they...

Sawyer (interrupting) Like get God BEER?

Dylan: NO SAWYER! Guardian angels watch over us on our shoulders and take care of us and make sure you are not a naughty boy!

Sawyer: Well I have 1 guardian angel AND I have Wolverine on my shoulders. And THEY BOTH WATCH ME and THEY WATCH YOU SO YOU DON'T TAKE MY CARS!

See - good, solid Catholic boys.

Punkins for the Punkins

Ah, pumpkin carving....such a seasonal tradition steeped in stencils, valiant attempts, bloody fingers, swear words and so much eff'g pulp that the dogs ALWAYS eat and then barf in my hallway.

I am over you, pumpkin carving.

Enter: MR. POTATO HEAD PUMPKINS!

Meet Pretty and her Princess Pumpkin!

Enter Wackadoodle and his...er, Skeleton Pig (?) Pumpkin. This had a Sling Blade feel to me.

Lastly, there's a wide-eyed Tickle and his Pirate Pumpkin - ARGGGGH MATEY!

Note: Dylan and Sawyer both made frequent mention that this pumpkin resembles Bucket. I made helpful mention that sometimes Bucket disciplined us while wearing an earring and yielding a knife. Another story for another day.

In full disclosure, I have to say we did this activity at 6:10am, hence the pajamas.

Crap. That is a lie. It was 1pm and I was too tired to pick out clothes for these monsters or myself. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Not Just Another Tuesday

I am usually known for my profanity-laced, sarcastic postings about rearing rabid children and dealing with my life which is like a frickin' tornado but today is not that day.

Today Uncle Brendan leaves for Afghanistan.

We are scared. Nervous. Apprehensive. Angry.

We will deal with confused children who want to see their uncle and cannot.

We will miss him each & every day and pray relentlessly for his safety.

But....

He goes with courage.
Bravery.
Determination.

We miss you already, Homis, and are praying for your fast & safe return.

Remember, just like Dad taught us -
Kick Ass. Brain On.

I Am An Egomaniac

(Recently distributed email to colleagues requesting weekly project information) -

Guys - I recently obtained my BPM certification (please hold all of your applause until the end of this presentation). Obtaining this certification has left me analyzing every process in my path which makes me a force to be reckoned with on this team. It also leaves me drunk with power and a bit delusional.

I decided to put together a P chart and detail my satisfaction with the cafeteria here in McLean. It is lacking in ingenuity, variety and who in the hell puts onions in mac & cheese, I ask you?! This is what we in the BPM biz call an 'out of control' process. You will note the high levels of satisfaction with the food in May of 2010 for 1 full week. It was Baked Potato week at the Action Station and I killed it. Yet it has never come back. This instance of unsatisfactory data is categorized in a special BPM group termed "jacked up." Random peaks of high levels of appreciation are of the 'special cause' variety and indicate days when maybe I just ate 3 bags of Doritos or screamed at the sandwich guy to make me "Thanksgiving dinner ON MY SANDWICH." His restraining order is totally uncalled for and results in a drop of unbiased data.

You know what would REALLY be fun - to chart your reasons for late slides. I have heard every reason known to man "bad connectivity, travel, t-ball practice" (yes that happened - you know who you are). My BPM approver actually suggested doing that. I just told him you all have late slides because you hate me. Truly I think he gave me my certification because he felt bad for me…and I started to cry when he asked me what "attribute data" is.

9pm folks.

The Greatest Day of my Life

This little submission requires a smidge of background:
Back in 1989, Dan & Krissy decided it would be a super life experience to move us to St. Louis, MO (actually, I really remember my mom screaming, "I'M NOT GOING, ASSHOLE" but Dad bought her some shiny jewelry and we became Mid Westerners for a time). Brendan was in 3rd grade and I was in 5th and we were pretty nervous to be The New Kids (not on the block). Brendan's first week consisted of a spelling test…which he totally bombed. His teacher was not impressed with his backwoods Virginia education as he spelled white - WHYT and he spelled doughnuts - DOGNUTS. He cried all the way home while my mother attempted to look up the patron saint of spelling. This was also The Greatest Day of My Life as finally Brendan had screwed up and Mom was researching therapists for him & his spelling perversions. I could, for once, stuff my buck toothed chubby face in solitude without Brendan narcing to our mother that I had eaten 9 chocolate chip cookies.

Cut to the present. I ride Brendan's ass about this specific incident at any & all times…..mostly when I'm drunk though. I get everyone to ask him how to spell "white doughnuts". He huffs & puffs and gets 9 shades of pissed off and everyone laughs at the super hero Captain America figure that has the spelling abilities of a pine cone.

Some of you know that Brendan and his team are currently being filmed for a reality project about a deployed EOD unit and their experiences. I have had a hard time with this as 1) If anyone in this family is going to be a reality star, it should be me. Hello. and 2) I'm not sure how I feel about someone waving a camera in Brendan's face while he tries to work out how to disable a damn bomb. Being the obnoxious, pushy, older sister that I am, I tracked down the show's producers and emailed them.

I let them know that Brendan is more than some potential reality sensation. He's not the Living Hurt Locker or some indestructible entity. He's my little brother, my parents' only son, Amy's husband and a fantastic uncle to my children. He is an essential, important part of my family. He is not the next "Situation" or some jackass from "The Real World" because it doesn't get much realer than Afghanistan. I asked them to back off of his team while they are deployed, to get the hell out of their way and allow them to be safe, to think and to survive. For this, I would be grateful. For this, I would give them a gift……I told these producers that if they wanted to get a real reaction out of Brendan as he is notoriously closed off and appropriate at all times - ask him how to spell "white doughnuts." This is the phone call I just got from Brendan:

Brie: Hi Br---
Brendan: SHUT THE FUCK UP! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!
Brie: Uh, no. Are you O---
Brendan: SHUT THE FUCK UP! I was just mic'd and had 2 cameras on me and lights in my face and the producer lady sits down and says "are you ready?" and I say OK and put a big fake ass smile on my face and she says, "OK, the first question is…..how do you spell 'white doughnuts?" and I STARTED SCREAMING, BRIGID! I SCREAMED, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?
Brie: Oh. Tha's not go--
Brendan: I yelled, "who have you been talking to?" and the producer laughed and said, "I can't reveal my sources"and I said, "you've been talking to MY SISTER, haven't you? MY SISTER!" and she was LAUGHING, BRIE! LAUGHING AT ME!

I was wrong. I thought a crisp fall day in 1989 was the best day of my life. Nope.

It was today because today I proved to my smug little brother - I can get you Any where. Any how. Any time. Oh and that I love you and would do anything in my power to keep you safe including emailing reality show producers. But mostly - I can get you. That is the main point here, fool.

Archachar, bitch!

Go Maroon Team!

I am not in to sports. I don't take pleasure in screaming at the television about flags being thrown or obsess over players' stats (though I relish in their scandals). This is basically Pat's nightmare as he watches his precious sports and I contribute stellar comments like, "those colors DO NOT GO WELL TOGETHER.....isn't he dating Kim Kardashian? Hell, who ISN'T? Snort. High five!...when is this overrrrrrrrr?"

This, however, does not dampen Pat's enthusiasm and this weekend, he forced us all to REPRESENT: Pat started talking about team history...loyalty and pride...I just zoned out and thought, "hey, I look good in maroon. Suh-weeeeeeet. Wait, what's a Mike Shanahan? Is he NASCAR? Honey, why is your face purple?"

Anyway, we went to the Brown's house to watch the game. Pat acted like Natalie was now unrecognized as a member of the human race because she liked the Eagles. Why? Eagles are nice flying birds and oh.....it's a team. Natalie basically has an alter to her precious team at her house and I was a bit worried about sacrifices when the score started to climb. I contributed very little to football-oriented conversation and just ate chips. However, one conversation worth noting and is 100% accurate:

Brie: Wait, Michael Vick is a quarterback? When did that happen?
Ben: (insert most crazed, dumbfounded, disbeliving face EVER) Are you…can you actually….I just….get out of my house.

*In my defense, I totally would've known Vick's position had he dated Kim Kardashian.

What's In Your...STFU

Most of you probably aren't even aware that I work. Most likely don't even know what I do. That's OK, neither do I. What needs to be brought to your attention, though, is that I am hilarious and my office thinks so, too (eat it, Brendan).

Every week, I am responsible for sending out a reminder email to my team reminding them well, to do their jobs. I need project information from them to zzzzzzzz. Shit, I fell asleep. Work is THAT exciting. The bottom-line? You need to send me info, SO DO IT.

Regular reminders did not help. Things on calendars that would sound alarms and lock your keyboard until you said my name 3x were frowned upon. And so, the Funny Reminder Email began.

I think I'll post some of the better ones now & again and you can get a laugh as well.

For the record, THIS ACTUALLY WENT OUT THIS MORNING TO MY COLLEAGUES. I have zero shame when it comes to reminding you to give me shit that I need. And yes, everything below really happened. This is my life, people. Laugh away.

Hey guys. Here is why all your slides will be on time tonight -

Monday, September 20:

8am - My paycheck is still not in my bank account. Huh, that is weird…and beginning to get a bit bothersome as bills like school tuition, Nordstrom's & Chipotle are rolling in.

10am - HR tells me that they have stopped paying me because I am listed as being on maternity leave. News to me. Oh, and you've been on maternity leave since February 2009. No one is paying me until it is proven I am no longer on maternity leave. HELLO - she is 19 months old, her name is Logan and she likes nachos - TAKE HER.

10:30 am - HR tells me that Global One not only says that I am on maternity leave but apparently I am also single. Huh. Note to self: call Jake Gyllenhall ASAP.

11:29 am - I am pacing the cafeteria like a hungry leopard looking to assuage my annoyance with food. Shocking, I know. I get salmon…and Doritos. It does not help.

3:07 pm - send a meeting invite to Heather….it is immediately kicked back with the awesome message "you are not authorized to email this recipient." Stellar. HUMPH - I didn't want you to come to my BPM Presentation anyway, Heather!

3:10 pm - go to file an expense report. An error message saying "you are not authorized to perform this function" pops up. That mileage to Richmond on my minivan is not going to pay for itself! I eat 7 Snickers.

4:45 pm - pick up eldest child who is a gift from above and brightens my heart. He tells me he kicked some kid at school today.

4:50pm - I run over a squirrel.

5:07 pm - I am pulled over on Route 7 and given a speeding ticket.

5:20 pm - middle child has crapped in his pants at preschool.

6:03 pm - During dinner, husband says to oldest child - "what was your favorite part of your day, buddy?" Child begins crying, "Dad, the policeman was going to take Mama to JAIL for DRIVING SO FAST!"

As we go to press err, email, I still have not been paid. I will now do your slides for a $20 fee. I'm not saying they will relay the status of your project well and/or not contain profanities but I need income.

People, don't let me down. I cannot take anymore. 9pm.

Clever or Crazy?

This guy.

Sawyer can be a mystery to me at times as I do not know what being a Middle Child is like. I only had to compete with my brother, Zeus the Amazing at Every-eff'g-thing. So if Logan becomes a world class supermodel and also performs a little espionage for our country on the side all while volunteering at the local animal shelter every weekend with 6 pack abs, I'll know how that sorta feels and can handle the boys.

However - Sawyer perplexes me and makes me proud & insane & confused usually within a 3 minute span roughly 17x a day.

Yesterday, we took the posse to Home Depot. Pat had a hankerin' for a power washer and our brood was itching for an outing. Home Depot is great because they really can't break anything and if they do, well you just shove it behind some plywood in the door section. Anyway, the boys are high on great weather and brotherhood (or paint fumes) and were running in the aisles chasing each other playing tag. Very adorable and I thought, "they're so close, I love this," and turn my back (MISTAKE).

I hear Sawyer's voice…usually loud & melodious….this time with a touch of menace & crazytimes…"Dylan! Turn aroundddddddddddd, I have a SURPRISE for youuuuuu!" I whip around to see Dylan who is about 5 feet ahead of Sawyer running stop short and spin around with a glorious look of "oh, a SURPRISE? FOR ME?"

BITCHSLAP!

Sawyer's clocks Dylan across the face with a slap reminiscent of Ike Turner.

I laughed. No seriously, I did. Because that was a damn good set up. While yelling at Sawyer like we were in a military bootcamp, I wondered, "is he clever and cunning because he is a Middle Child or because he is MY child and I am about to reap some serious shit for the horror I brought to my own parents?"

Then I started drinking.

9/02/10

I have been waiting for this day for YEARS…only to forget about it because I run a Child Army, have a full time job and lose my car keys in my purse every eff'g day. Basically - other priorities took over. UNTIL my childhood pal (and Facebook pic posting biyatch) Melissa reminded me that today was the holiest of holy days (sorry Mom…I know that was blasphemous) -


HAPPY 90210 DAY, EVERYONE!

Let us all throw on a pair of Spandex shorts and watch Donna's nose and chest area shrink and grow, respectively, remember the Brenda-Dylan-Kelly love triange and rehash how many times Kelly has been burned/abducted/Single White Female'd and other random acts of drama.

Most importantly, let us focus all attention and adoration on one Dylan McKay. He was and IS the reason my oldest child is named what he is named (um - Dylan - for those of you not catching on).



Also - let us please take notice of the similar poses Dylan McKay and I both are sporting in these pictures? Coincidence or a soulmate indicator? Just throwing it out there……...

A Big Day!

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Well....that was special

We took Dylan to his kindergarten orientation today at St. Joseph's. He was SO excited to go and talked of nothing else all weekend!

Imagine our surprise then when he lost his shit and threw a humongous temper tantrum....the likes of which I have not seen since we told him that he is expected to wipe his own ass....forever.

The above is mildly reminiscent of what Pat & I dealt with...in public...in front of religious education providers, other kindergarten families and the side-eyed glances of my dead grandparents who were surely mortified as well.

This Just In!....

We're sorta trashy.

TGIF

Meemaw is in town which means two things - 1) lots of hugs and 2) dinners that look like this:

"I just made something light!"......not that we are complaining.

Logan Grace continues to mesmerize and enchant us all with her deep belly laugh, her gorgeous blond curls and oh yes - her bitchface. See Exhibit A - What the hell is this face?! Note the finely chipped tooth Lo inflicted upon herself while trying to participate in Older Brother Play. Please be aware this face is made when she is told NO. "No, Logan. Do not pull on the dog's tail. No, Logan. Do not try to drink my beer. NO LOGAN! YOU ARE NOT ONLY EATING GARLIC BREAD FOR DINNER!" Girl is gonna need Botox & veneers by the time she is 10. Start saving, Bucket!
Moving onward, my sons are wild animals. No one will argue with that statement. However, they are also so smart and have their moments are innocent adorableness like this - Ohhhhhh, look at the precious brothers reading together. How smart. How very Hooked on Phonics. How.....wait, is that the Victoria's Secret sale catalog? It is. Pat high five'd them both and was most proud when Dylan said, "can I sleep with this, Mama?"

The Brothers Head Case

These two - man, I love them so much. They are so very similar and so entirely different at the same time. I cherish their unending curiosity (Dylan) and explosive displays of affection (Sawyer).

Also, sometimes....I want to duct tape them to chairs and wait for the screaming to end.

The boys were both diagnosed this year with some hearing loss. Huh. And all that time I was screaming, "PLEASE STOP DOING THAT!"and they didn't....well, maybe there was a real reason, but I doubt it.

Anyway, we finally managed to go see the Ear, Nose and Throat doctor and all of his wonderful toys that look like this-

It looks like an eff'g flame thrower complete with scissors & sight scope. You can only imagine how THAT went over. He examined Sawyer....pulled back....examined him again....one more time...by now, I'm worried. He says, "you may want to see this....it's, well....it's blue." Shit. I look and sure enough - something blue. Guess what it is, guys?

IT'S A DAMN CRAYON TIP IN HIS EAR! I was expecting fuzz, surely dog hair but a CRAYON TIP? I got some stares. The doctor was prepared to remove it but Sawyer protested so the doctor backed down. I'm sorry - no. GET IT OUT. My offering of a oxygen-depriving headlock with promises of a still child got me MORE stares and a curt "that will not be necessary." Pansies.

Then he looks at Dylan and down Dylan's throat and says "whoa....those are the biggest tonsils I've ever seen on a 5 year old." Wow, OK. I guess I was wrong when I thought it was normal for a 5 year old to snore like a fat, drunk frat boy after a bender. Apparently it is NOT normal and I'm a horrible mother for not knowing this AND punishing my children by shoving crayons in their ears. Also - suggesting a headlock. This was not my day.

After a wonderful $120 specialist co-pay (trust me, I said, "A hundred and twenty WHAT?"), we bolted out of there with Sawyer blabbering about how excited he was for his "ear crayon" to fall out of his head. Annnnnd more stares. Sigh.

Cape Cheeto

My kids have numerous adorable qualities....and then some that are so annoying, I could pull a Mel Gibson on "Access Hollywood" and start ripping out my arm hair (it happened, YouTube it).

Sawyer knows certain topics of discussion are off limits at certain times - talking about dessert before we've even had dinner, asking about new toys when he's just received one. In my never-ending insanity, I usually end up yelling, "Sawyer, we are NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS!"

Cue lightbulb.
That little ass nows asks me to spell certain desires of his. A simple example would be this:

Me: Sawyer, eat your salad.

Sawyer: Mama, how do you spell croutons?

Adorable, right? Not yesterday.

Yesterday, we went to our super fun, favorite water park at Ida Lee and met our friends the Browns there. Lunch rolls around and Natalie pulls out a huge bag of Cheetos. The boys' eyes go wide. I permit them to have some but since they are both blessed with their Mama's stomach (that being: bottomless, never full & always ready for Cheetos), we had to curtail their competitive eating. Dylan lost his shit as 1) he was tired, 2) I had already yelled at him in the pool to stop playing Ninja Turtles and pretending Logan was Shredder and 3) who doesn't want more Cheetos?

(this is what I imagine the boys' college dorm rooms to look like)

Sawyer, I thought smartly at the time, retreated back to his towel while Dylan howled about injustices upon his Cheeto love, and I'm attempting to not choke him as he is getting louder each passing second. And then I hear.......

"Mama, how do you spell Cheetos?" and I whirl around and there's that little orange-fingered psychopath gleaming at the bag of Cheetos.

I scream, "SAWYER! SHUT THE HELL UP ABOUT THE DAMN CHEETOS!"

His response was delivered smoothly and measued: "Mama, I was not asking to eat the Cheetos. I just want you to spell it."

I honestly felt like I was in that movie "Cape Fear" where Robert DeNiro stalks some family and creepily says, "Cooooooounseeeeelllllorrrrrrr" every 8 seconds. It still gives me goose bumps. And so does the Spelling Buttface.