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.