My Career Makes the Earth Shake

A CFO, a VP and I walk out of a building after an earthquake....

....it sounds like the beginning of an awesome joke. It is not. This is my story.

The Earthquake
I was scheduled to meet with my team's new Vice President at 1:30pm. I walk in to his office, pen & paper in hand, and sit down for a nice chat where I plan to throw down so many amazing, profitable ideas for our company (errrr). Anyway, VP & I are enjoying our nice conversation when....his office moves. I think "shit, is that what it feels like when I run down the hall for free bagels on Thursdays?" Then it moves again. My fearless leader puts both of us in a doorway and then calmly says "we need to leave." We hurl ourselves towards the stairway along with 8,000 of our closest friends. At this point, I would like to say thank you to my colleagues who remained calm and polite....minus the bitch who packed up her entire desk (really? you're that important?) and kept wacking me with a printer she had jammed in her backpack.

VP & I burst in to the sunlight (like a movie...except he was not carrying me...I don't know why not). We look at the building. It is fine. I see some of my friends. They are fine. My heart rate slows. I am fine. Then it gets fucking crazy....

VP and I continue to talk. We covered a myriad of topics ranging from our budgetary hopes for 2012 to the war to gambling. No one else will come talk to us! I think they sensed the aura of power VP and I were emitting. Then our power duo became a trio....as our CFO walked up and joined our conversation. And this is what my face looked like for the next 20 minutes -

And yes, I am 98.3% sure there was something in my teeth the entire fucking time.

CFO is surpremely nice, was very concerned for everyone's safety and just wanted to reach his wife. Bottom-line: a totally normal person. And yet, I looked like the above because I was so terrified. Below are the words that came out of my mouth. The italicized portion is what was screaming in my head as I spoke -

Brie: Hi CFO, so nice to meet you. I'm Brie Jenkins. What fine weather we are having, huh? (Shut the fuck up. STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW. Career de-rail. DE-RAIL. SHUT THE FUCK UP)

Brie: I work on DMS. It's a fine, fine program (I hate French people. I hate project plans).

Brie: I agree, CFO. Istanbul IS lovely this time of year (where the FUCK is Istanbul?).

Brie: Me? Oh I have three children (who are absolute jackals). They are wonderful (I think I left one in the garage this morning). You're right, time DOES fly (at what age can they be my designated drivers - 12?).

Brie: I live in Leesburg. VP offered to drive me home. (I wish I could say that last sentence was a thought. It was not. It fell out of my mouth like a piece of shit. VP, who is a nice, kind man who saw I ran out with no car keys, no cell phone, nicely offered to drive me home....which I told our CFO....like some kind of psycho).

The BEST part of this entire debacle? The LOOKS I got thrown my way. Side-eyed WHAT THE FUCKs like you have never seen! People looked at the 3 of us in abject horror, and I could read their minds - "am I hallucinating? Is this the Apocalypse? Is Brie talking to the new Finance VP and the CFO? Is there something in her teeth?!" Oh how I loved those looks.

Finally, we were allowed back in the building. VP told me he would never forget our meeting. Oh VP, that would have happened earthquake or not as I surely would've tripped over something or snorted at a joke - most likely my own. I then stayed up all night waiting for our CFO to friend me on Facebook. UPDATE: he hasn't, but he's really busy planning our trip to Istanbul next year, guys.

Chalk Art

Ah, beautiful weather. I have missed you.

Warm sunshine on my face.

My kids riding their bikes.

Schibbies lounging on the deck.

And watching my neighbor's son come over to MY HOUSE and draw rainbow dicks on my driveway...and then leave.

You know his mom was like, "don't do that here. No, no - go over to Jenkins' house and do that. Mrs. Jenkins is drunk in a lawn chair in the yard while wearing a low cut top and a trucker hat. She will not notice. Go, go, go."

Even Then I Was Gangsta As Hell

Though I am blog friendly, Adobe Acrobat makes me its bitch each & every time hence the small snapshot above. However, it was too amazing an opportunity to pass up. I am going to break it down for you -

The real meat of the left article says:

"SJS 8th graders hosted a successful Spaghetti Night last month. The spaghetti dinner was enjoyed by SJS families as well as many parishioners.Congratualtions to the following SJS 8th grade cheerleaders who made the freshmen cheerleading squad at Bishop O'Connell High School: Melissa Smith, Leah Salvador, Jessica Falkosky & Brigid Schmutte."

The right article complete with Sports Illustrated-bound photo and entitled "Essay Winner" reads as follows:

"Brigid Schmutte, an 8th grader at St. Joseph's School in Herndon, was awarded $75 at the annual Law Day Luncheon for her essay on 'Why A Student Should Spend a Day in Court'. Her essay won first place out of entries from 23 Fairfax County Schools in a Fairfax Bar Association contest. The essay was part of an assignment for students who toured the Fairfax County Courthouse, visited with inmates, sat on trials & met with judges

Let's breakdown my thoughts on this -

1. Yes, I was a cheerleader in high school. It is the basic foundation for what would later become The Team. Did being a cheerleader make it hard to remain true to the Catholic values instilled (beaten) in to me? Absolutely NOT. I saw shit that would terrify the most hardened of vice cops. And now the Team keeps pumping out daughters and we live in fear of what is to come.

2. Who in their right mind takes 8th graders to jail? We were a bunch of hood rats in training and I clearly remember thinking, "aw yeah, we're gonna meet some PROSTITUTES! I'm going to ask them if you can get pregnant from kissing like my mom says!" (flashfoward 10 years to get the answer: yes, you can...hello, Dylan). We did NOT meet prostitutes. From what I can recall, we met a man accused of bouncing checks. Boo. Bring on the felons!

3. Do you see that my writing skillz were evident even back in the day? I won awards! Even pre-Charlie Sheen I made it cool to spew inane BS and throw it in the public's face.

4. I won $75? Where the fuck is that money, DAN? Best be collecting interest.

5. Why am I dressed like a transvestite, you ask? This was 1992, yo. TIES WERE IN. As were silk vests and asskickin' headbands & sexual shoulder pads. If battled on this issue, I will bring in guest blogger, Kathleen Abbott, to break down the finer points of early 90s head gear & fashion. Tweety Bird boxers NEVER go out of style and should ALWAYS be rocked at a boy-girl party.

In all seriousness, it really needs to be said that this picture brings back a lot of memories of sort-of-innocent times. Big thanks to Dress Barn for my wardrode, St. Joe for showing me the judicial system (and how to get around it) and Dan & Krissy because LOOK AT THOSE CHOMPERS. And that shit was POST-braces. Imagine the before. Like Mr. Ed with a grating snort laugh and no boyfriend. Shudder. Thanks for coughing up that cash to encase my whole face in headgear for two years, parentals. It really helped me build my self-confidence as I repelled any boy in as 11 mile radius. "But my pershonality is sho awshome!" said with 18 rubber bands in my mouth.

Thanks to Phyllis for the picture - still the best hair braider in these parts.

Why Do I Talk To People? Part II

My usual Wednesday email to my team consisted of an edited, cleaner version of welcoming Brendan home. It's been a hit. A lot of tears. I work with real cry babies.

Just to keep you all entertained, I figured you would appreciate the below.

Note: we are in the midst of a real tight timeframe around testing and validating results on a project (are you asleep yet?). People are curently overworked, insane and pulled in 19 directions but we are pushing through. We held a meeting about keeping up the hard work and the Big Guy told us all to keep at it and go to him with any issues but this is how I not only captured it, this is also how I sent it out to our whole team:

"If you have deliverables in other areas and are currently working on something else, let Bob know and he can attempt to get you off."

Motherfucker.

(not Bob)

You could hear the wave of laughter on my floor as that hit inboxes.

Operation: Surprise Bitch!

Brendan left Afghanistan. Finally. We were told he would fly to Germany then Dover Air Force Base then San Diego. As Dover is close by (well, closer than San Diego), I figured my family could meander up there and pounce on Uncle Brendan as he came off his plane. Instead Brendan emailed us and said that they would only be refueling at Dover, he wasn't even allowed off the plane, they would be on the ground for 11 minutes and just maybe it would be hard for us to get on to a military facility.

Bullshit.

In my speech at Brendan's wedding, I toasted the fact that he is made up of the best qualities of our wonderful parents....while I am all the crap that is left over (have you ever seen "Twins"? I'm Danny DeVito). However, I have a touch of our parents' finer attributes mixed in with a little Brie-zhush. For example - did you just say I couldn't get on to a military base with 3 children who may or may not have tiger blood in them? CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! Oh, it wasn't a challenge? I don't give a shit! Cue me pulling up Dover Air Force Base on Google and guess what? They publicly list all of their phone numbers. I spent a large portion of Friday & Saturday calling anyone who would listen to my tale of woe ("he's coming back from AFGHANISTAN! He is Naval BOMB SQUAD! He didn't have leg hair until he was TWENTY TWO! Please help me see my brother!") and finding every detail I could about how to get on that damn base.

This is the basic formula of my triumph - Mom's ability to talk to anyone & everyone in the world and relay my wishes sincerely + Dad's patient, fact-based business-like approach to all obstacles + my own two cents (also known as my boobs) = Entry to Dover Air Force Base. HEL-LO.

I was told we could hang in the Passenger Terminal and Brendan & his team would have to go through Customs after landing at 4pm. This would put them outside at 4:30. I was calm and kept repeating this mantra: IwillnotcryandIwillnotscream. IwillnotcryandIwillnotscream.

Suddenly - and 22 minutes ahead of schedule - a smoky windowed door opened. And out walked Brendan.

I literally could not breathe. He looked at me, made eye contact AND THEN THAT ASSHOLE LOOKED AWAY. HE HAD NO IDEA WHO I WAS. So guess what I did? I screamed. I screamed so loudly and launched myself at him out of disbelief that he was actually home, rage that he did not IMMEDIATELY know who I was and just plain 'ol weepy big sister happiness. To my credit, I think I should go to war because apparently me hurling myself at a professionally trained individual who can bench press trees, disarm ticking explosives and kill you 19 ways with a spork is scary as shit. Brendan's face went white and got this HOLYSONOFABITCHHELLBEAST look. Once he realized who I was and felt my children clambering up his leg he was shocked and surprised.....which is almost unheard of in Brendan. He kept saying, "Brie? BRIE? ARE YOU HERE? ARE YOU HERE IN DELAWARE? Dylan? Sawyer? Logan? WHAT IS HAPPENING? Nonono, Sawyer, no horsey rides now.....IS THIS REAL?!"

It was one of the best moments of my life.

My kids did not keep their affections confined just to Brendan. They mounted his teammates and offered up hugs, kisses, high fives, nut kicks, demands for piggyback rides and a lot of screaming (thank you for enduring, Sam & Chase). Lo took a shine to Brendan's Chief and chose him, and him alone, to hug for roughly 5 minutes straight with her head on his shoulder. And trust - that was just about the sweetest damn thing. Nothing like seeing the man who safely brought his whole team home get a big cuddle from our curly haired crazy. Thanks, Chief.

We managed to grab Brendan and his friend Matt and take them out to dinner. Brendan had 2 beers, became drunk as shit and could not stop hugging everyone. Matt, on the other hand, is an actual man who held his alcohol and relayed some fun stories of their travels such as discovering Brendan crying in his bed multiple times while watching videos of.......Mohawk, his dog.

Dropping Matt & Brendan back at the barracks was bittersweet. It was so nice to hug Brendan oruselves and see that he was OK. It was fantastic to meet some of the guys who worked just as hard as he did over there. Today, they are homebound to their wives, and I can only imagine their excitement. We'll see Brendan & Amy in April when they come back to VA to tear it up for a special wedding. Until then, Homis.

My absolute favorite part of this entire adventure - during dinner Matt asked me "so how much older is Brendan than you?" Score. Thank you, Oil of Olay Regenerist system.

An added bonus, I received this text from Bryn as we drove home last night - "I can't thank you enough for coming all the way here for me. I will never forget the surprise of seeing you all for the rest of my life."

Awwwwww. GOOD. Because we got ice & snow on the way home and Lo had gas, so I'm not buying you a Christmas gift for the next five years. Welcome home, dummy.

The Wednesday Email....Coming Home

Folks - Sunday has the potential to be a fantastic day. My brother is flying home from Afghanistan and has a layover at Dover Air Force Base. My mother, in her psychotic, controlling, Catholic-guilt inducing existence, had declared that my family & I MUST be at Dover to greet Brendan….even if he is on the ground for 11 minutes. Sure Mother…attempting to get on a military facility with 3 children who act like hyenas on meth sounds like the easiest idea ever. Sign me up. Unfortunately, she will not let this go and despite my brother having NO IDEA when his flight gets in, it has been relayed to me that I must be present for his arrival…even if he flies in at 4am.

Cue excitement for me because I am envisioning a slow-mo paranoramic shot of a huge jet, the sun setting and my kids embracing my long-deployed brother while Enya plays. I think my brother has a different mental vision more along the lines of me screaming at my kids, them getting their grubby hands on classified equipment and/or peering directly in to a functioning jet engine. Either way, $20 my mother would hire a band and send 78 Edible Arrangements. We are THAT EXCITED.

I am, however, psychic and have already seen how this will play out: I will drive to Dover on Sunday. I will finagle my way past guards, chicken-wire fences and a gaggle of young, hot wives. I will force my way to the front of the surging crowd to catch the first stateside glimpse of my brother. And I will yell, "HEY FUCKER! THE ROGAINE MOM SENT TO YOU IN AFGHANISTAN DIDN'T REALLY HELP! TOO BAD! I BROUGHT CHICK-FIL-A!" Because that is how my family rolls, people.

(Brendan is on right. He sent this picture to my sons and said "look, I found candy!" It's not candy nor is it helpful to me as a parent that my sons now consistently tell everyone there is an overabundance of candy in Afghanistan)

Please send your project information in by 9pm, people. It's a new Modern Family for God's sake.

Take That!....the comeback not the English boy band

I apologize for having gone MIA, friends. I occasionally have to really work at my job and while I always appreciate your (semi-stalking) "are you OK?" emails, I really could do without the "I knew your blog would start to suck at some point, liar!" ones. One such 'fan' actually wrote, "I bet you think & think all week and only can pop out ONE decent post. Real writers ALWAYS have material on hand!" Well guess what, whore? You're about to eat a shit sandwich...which conveniently can also be done in my van. I'll provide the necessary materials. I've reviewed some of my most recent emails to pals & family and have come to the conclusion that I - ahem - fucking kick ass at emailing people....when I have the time.

To A Coworker:
Admirable. You are really sticking to your latest character - Jonah, the shy Amish boy visiting the big city. Tell girls you like to groom your horse, Pepper. $20 you'll be the most popular guy in the bar.

To My Brother-in-Law who keeps asking me what to send my parents for a thank you gift:
So glad the Midol is helping. I crush it into most of Pat's meals.

Expressions of thanks and appreciations for the Schmutte's…….some options:

1. Fund a wing of Inova Fairfax and call it the Lamar Schmutte Old Person Taking Care Of Section. Mom loves Lamar (RIP, homey) and loves old people.

2. Get 5 Masses said for Mom. Two just says 'acquaintances', 6 says 'sexual desire' so 5 is a nice medium ground.

3. Fly to Afghanistan. Cut a lock of hair from Brendan. Bring it to my mother for her to weep over and forget, as always, that I exist.

4. Flowers, Edible Arrangements or Thai prostitutes are actually your best bet.

You're super neat. Anything you send will ensure my mother calls me screaming, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT ADORABLE CHRIS YOUNG SENT?" and I will most likely respond, "This is the amount of shit I am giving - click."

To A Friend:
Holy shit, it's almost 1pm. WTF? Where has the day gone?! I currently smell like Cool Ranch Doritos and desperately need a nap. I just emailed someone named Koch but spelled the last name Kock. I wonder if they'll notice.

To Another Friend:
My dad and I talked on the phone last night. He went on & on about how Lady Gaga really knows her shit and seems very educated and astute. I said, "did you watch the interview on Good Morning America?" and he said yes, and I said, "the one where she was wearing a body condom and had horns on her head?" and he said, yes, that one. There was some silence and I asked him what he thought of Miley Cyrus but he said she is common gutter trash.

To My Cousin:
Joseph, so wonderful to hear from you. Even more glad to hear you are officially someone's boyfriend though, until I meet J., I will believe she is a robot. Your pictures prove nothing. That could just be Clare in a Beyonce mask.

Actually the weekend you named, Bryn and Amy will be here! The timeline is packed but you guys are so welcome to stay here should J's parents find your inbred albino bloodline undesirable. We have the room and as soon as Kris knows you'll be within 50 miles of my house, she's probably going to order mobile toilets and sleep on my deck all in the name of Accommodating Joe.

As for my kids - shit. The boys are enrolled in lacrosse and karate. Dylan has displayed some coordination and ability to catch on to new skills. Sawyer has displayed his great need for an MRI and a straight jacket. Lo likes to now mock me while pointing her finger in my face. She is going to be really sad when I break that finger off and offer it up to Lamar.

We still have the drawings Uncle Joe did and the boys ask about you all the time. I always tell them we will continue to TiVo How To Catch A Predator until we catch a glimpse of you. Hugs!

Is there anything more beautiful than the English language? Thanks for being patient, friends.

The Wednesday Email....for DHJ

Guys - Today is a huge day for me. HUGE. Yes, it is my son's 6th birthday (IloveyouDylan) hence the mega adorableness above but that is not why I am giddy. Today marks the day that I…..became addicted to drugs. And not just any drugs but the BEST drug, the most fulfilling & phenomenal drug. The one that makes my heart race and I would buy it on the streets of Anacostia if I could.

Please meet my lady, the epidural.
Yes, having my kids was a fantastic experience. Welcoming life in to the world and hearing those first cries…yada, yada, yada. WHERE THE FUCK IS THE NEEDLE? Like any first time mom, I was pretty nervous 6 years ago. I was the first of my friends to have a baby. My mother was no help because I think she had me while on the Oregon Trail or fighting in the Revolutionary War.

My big fears at the time?
1) Not being able to eat during labor. This made no sense to me. How was I to fuel up for a grueling delivery if not ravaging a giant burrito for power?
2) Not being able to wear pants. My mother kept saying, "sweetie, you can't wear pants during childbirth." I kept insisting that I could make it work through a series of snaps and maybe a cape.
3) The Epidural Needle. You hear horror stories of it being as long as a Mack truck and some random doctor would just walk in to your room and jam it in your back with no warning and then take your kidneys.

Thankfully I overcame all my issues…well, not the eating one. I still find that ludicrous and during child #3 delivery, I actually slapped my husband's chicken nuggets clear across the room as he had the audacity to eat them in front of me (this was obviously before the beautiful epidural was received). I handled my following pregnancies with a stiff upper lip (OK, MAYBE a few crying jags in the bathroom when traffic made me late and I missed the Boston crème doughnuts on Free Bagel Day) because I knew….I knew my precious epidural and I would be reunited and it would be glorious.

So, happy 6th to my oldest baby. Also, happy anniversary to me & the epidural. Around 1:25 today I will slip in to a memory coma and relieve every glorious moment that drug gave me. The initiaI anxiety, the pinch....and then.....The Calm. The wave of numbness and beauty coursing through my spinal column whispering, "shhhh, it's OK. We know, we know. What fucker eats chicken nuggets in front a woman in labor? Trust, he is about to get an EYEFUL that he can never UNSEE. You SHOULD be able to wear pants during this. Really, you should. Shhhhhh. And yes, it IS unsettling that the nurse keeps checking your dilation while wearing her 19 carat engagement ring. Maybe you can force your vagina to steal it. I kid, I kid. Shhhhh."

I was even calm when my husband said, "can we get a continuous drip of this…..until 2023?" Shut the f.....oh yes, that's the stuff.

CNN Wants To Get It On

Perusing CNN….reading all about Egypt's main dude peacing out, blah, blah. Find an article entitled "How To Have Great Valentine's Day Sex" which is, of course, written by a man and all about how he is NOT going to take NO for an answer regarding sex on VDay.

Here's a direct quote - "this year there will be no extravagant dinner, no flimsy lingerie that will never get worn, no expensive jewelry bought at the last minute—and no possibility of not having sex."

Sounds sexy...and reads mildly like something from the diary of a rapist.

Read it here - http://pagingdrgupta.blogs.cnn.com/2011/02/10/valentines-day-skip-the-fancy-meal-and-go-straight-to-the-sex/?hpt=T2

His 10 step plan includes sexy dreams, a 30 second hug and going to CVS. A drug store? I'm hot already, do me!

Another fave quote - "If we speak during the day, I’ll make an effort to stay positive." As opposed to how you usually sound? On Valentine's Day I will be upbeat. Every other day, I will speak to you like a filthy indentured chambermaid.

I went to CVS, whore!

Anyway, that's not the best part….at the end of the article, CNN always suggests "Related Articles". After reading the above, you'd think more articles on sex or holidays or couples. Nope.

It read "What Does A Floating Stool Mean?"

I love you, CNN.

The Wednesday Email

Friends - I broke my blackberry this week. It fell to the ground and, very much like a movie, everything went in to slow motion with me screaming, "NOOOOOOOOOO MOTHERFUCCCCCCCCCCCCKERRRR!" and it breaking in to 8 chunks of metal, keys and exposed wire. Thankfully I have a friend who does tech support and could perform surgery on my silver friend. Everything came back including some new icons like the one that indicated voicemail.

Now this is new because I have never been able to check my voicemail. Never. I created a greeting, implemented a passcode….promptly forgot it and next time I tried to access the voicemail, it was locked. The 1s (my company's internal tech gurus) told me it was an "I D ten T error" which translates to 'idiot' (say it and look at the word) so I just let it go, and the voicemail icon, sensing my disregard, just went away.

Cut this week: I told the husband, "my phone is fixed and I have voicemails! I need to listen to them!" He went pale. He said, "you told me you can't check your voicemail? You said, and I quote, 'I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO CHECK MY VOICEMAIL'." Suspicion creeps in and I ask why this is terrifying him so. People, my husband has been calling my voicemail and screaming in to it when he is mad at me. Let's say we had an argument over bills and maybe we huffed at each other but attempted to be adult and mature and didn't say things like "well if you weren't at Chipotle oh, let's count it shall we? EIGHT TIMES THIS WEEK we wouldn't be having this discussion." He has BEEN CALLING MY VOICEMAIL TO DO JUST THAT.

It is now essential that I listen to these voicemails. The 1s….they didn't understand. They said they can't magically 'unlock' my voicemail so I can listen to my husband's rants. I believe the helpful 1s man said, "Ma'am, why can't he just tell you what he said? I can reset your voicemail but it will erase everything." I screamed, "NO RAHJESH! You do not UNDERSTAND! I need to hear these voicemails and know EXACTLY what my husband has been ranting about. He thinks MY VOICEMAIL is his private little place of safety. NO MORE! NO MORE, RAHJESH! WE MUST BREAK THE CHAINS!"

We are now locked in a battle of voicemail wills. My husband vs Me vs The 1s.

I will dominate.

I will get those voicemails.

I will also be getting a fan-damn-tastic Valentine's Day present. I smell your fear, asshole! He knows what's good for him.

My Quoteable Family

"Within 10 minutes of being on the dock, Sawyer had dismantled my fishing pole and I kicked your mother's Ray Bans in to the water goddamit!"
- Dad

"THERE'S MY FRIEND!"
- Mom frantically waving at obese sign spinner on street corner

Pat (listening to me sing along with the radio): You think when deaf people drive their cars they sign along with the music?
Me: Pat, they're deaf.
Pat: Annnnnnnd?

Sawyer: I wanna go in Bucket's murder home.
Meemaw: MOTOR home, Sawyer. Say MO.
Sawyer: MO
Meemaw: Say TUR
Sawyer: TUR
Meemaw: MOTOR HOME.
Sawyer: MURDER HOME.

Bucket: Sawyer, what town do you live in?
Sawyer: LEESBURG!
Bucket: What's your zip code?
Sawyer: 99.5 KYS FM.

"My dream vacation would be to go to an amazingly quiet beach that has clear blue water and I don't have to walk far to it and we have a great big house and all of our friends & family can come with us!"
- Me
"My dream vacation would be to go to all the places on Diners, Drive-ins & Dives."
- Pat

Dylan: Mama, I love my friend, Tommy. He has the nicest smile!
Me: That's so nice, Dylan! Why is his smile so great?
Dylan: Because it's like this! (smiles big & pulls eyes out to outer corners of head with fingers)
*Tommy is Asian. Fuck.

Me (pregnant, craving sugar & not wanting to share has plans to run in to CVS and eat monstrous amounts of candy under the guise of picking up something else): I need to run in to CVS. I need something.
Sawyer (in backseat): I LOOOOOOOOVE SOMETHING!
Pat: Something, huh? Like DORITOS?
Sawyer (in backseat): I LOOOOOOOOOVE DORITOS!
Pat: You shouldn't be eating that! You have been eating so badly this pregnancy!
Me: Um, EXCUSE ME. I am actually going in for vagina cream, OK? You want to come in with me while I waddle around CVS looking for VAGINA CREAM?
Sawyer (in backseat): I LOOOOOOOOVE VAGINA CREAM!
Pat (now nauseous): Dear God, look what you've done. Just go but I'm smelling your breath when you come back!

We Are All Under One Sky

My dad recently heard from Brendan in Afghanistan. We were all really happy to hear he was doing well and, Bryn shared the latest happenings for his team including moving bases, building shit and other crap that I don't care much to hear about. I just want to know he is safe. And he is. Sometimes. The below story is what he just relayed to Dad about something that happened one night:

Brendan had been asleep for about 45 minutes when a call came in that a drone (aka "eye in the sky") saw some fuckers digging a hole out in the wild. Spoiler alert: they were not making a garden. Brendan, his team and some Army fellas head out to stop these crazy Taliban shenanigans. The infantry ends up engaging the gardners in a gun fight (because gardners always have guns, right?). 1 fucker gets to go see Allah early, 1 is on his way and 1 runs like the bitch that he is. The guys request assistance from the eye in the sky to help locate Man #3, and I believe the conversation went something like this:

On the ground: Where is he? Can you locate him?

Eye in the Sky: He is down on the ground behind a wall in the northeast area of your location. Subject is down and dead. Go recover.

Ground: Affirmative (enter walled in area…….GUNSHOTS)

Ground: SUBJECT IS NOT DEAD! YOU SAID HE WAS DEAD! SUBJECT IS SHOOTING!

Eye in the Sky: Our bad. He was laying down. Repeat: our bad.

(10 minutes pass)

Eye in the Sky: Subject is deceased now. Go recover. Subject is deceased.

Ground: FUCK YOU! You said he was dead last time and that fucker opened fire on us!

Eye in the Sky: Subject IS REALLY DEAD. We promise this time.

Ground: How can you tell?

Eye in the Sky: A dog is eating him.

Ground: SUH-NAP! OK then!

I also sent Brendan an email detailing a sweet moment with Sawyer one morning. We leave our house early so the moon is usually big & beautiful in the sky.

Sawyer: Oh Mama, look at that big Afghanistan moon!

Me: Well that's called a full moon, buddy. Why do you call it an Afghanistan moon?

Sawyer: Because Uncle Brendan sees the same moon in Afghanistan. I hope that big Afghanistan moon tells him I miss him so much!

Is there anything more innocent & amazing than that, for the love of God?! I wiped tears out of my eyes and reached back and hugged my sweet little boy with the good heart. I, of course, sent the conversation to Brendan ending it with "we miss you each & every day."

Here is Brendan's response: "Dear Sawyer, If the moon is out where you are, it is not out where I am. Could you pick up a fucking science book in between bouts of eating like a bottomless pit & falling down the stairs? Holy shit, I thought I'd come home & you would be smarter. Should I stay another 6 months?"

This was Sawyer's face after I told him that Uncle Brendan had emailed me and said to tell him thank you for Sawyer's nice moon comment and Uncle Brendan missed him so, so much!

Sawyer's response: Uncle Brendan is on THE MOON WITH THE MAILMAN?

Fuck.

Shoveling BS

Shoveling the deck last night because while I can tolerate snow, I can not tolerate the dogs pissing on my deck.

Pat, warm inside the house and standing in the doorway, keeps offering 'helpful' comments on my shoveling progress.

Pat: You think this is 9 inches? It really looks like 9 inches. I'm going to say 9 inches.

Brie: It's not 9 inches. I've seen 9 inches.

Pat : (indignant & screaming) OH REALLY?! And just WHERE have you seen NINE INCHES?

Can you tell he is no longer talking about snow?

Brie: (exasperated) In MASSACHUSETTS, PAT. MASSACHUSETTS.

Pat: (contrite) Oh. Sorry.

Begins closing door....

Brie: (whispering) In Massachusetts.......on a black dude.

Back door closes & lock clicks. He heard me.

The Enemy Inside the House

I miss my brother. This is not a surprise. It's hard to know someone you love is not only far away but in kindddddddd of a bad area and thrives on disarming weapons that are meant to kill people. Yeah, I don't sleep well a lot of the time. What amazes me, however, is just how much I worry & think about Brendan considering he has been a self centered asshole most of my life and his hobbies when we were younger consisted of He-Man, lacrosse and narcing on me. Some of the most heinous offenses were the ones that centered around him lying his face off to our parents….but telling me the truth. So there I'd be sputtering, "he's lying! HE IS LYING TO YOU!" and Mom & Dad would shake their heads and conjure up an image of their blond haired, blue eyed Aryan poster child and say "oh Brigid, you're just jealous." WELL YES I AM.

Here are my Top 4 Moments of Brendan Assholehood:
4. My parents didn't trust me a lot growing up. I mean, they would give me "opportunities for character building" and I would saaaaaay, invite 6 friends over, drink my father's Windsor and let our dog Lamar have beer then lock myself out of the house.....twice.... in 7 hours. Oopsie. It didn't really come as a surprise then when my parents needed to go look at houses in Masschusetts and I was told I was going with them.....while Brendan, 16 at the time, stayed at home. W....T....F? We land, look at 18 houses and around dinnertime call Brendan. Brendan relays that he does not feel well. Mom immediately is in Doctor Mode - "oh no, do you have a fever? Check it now. Are you doing it rectally? It's 103? OH BRENDAN! You're VOMITING? OH BRENDAN! You have pain in your chest and your fallopian tubes? OH BRENDAN!" Diagnosis: Brendan is sick. I am suspicious. I ask to speak to my ill, bedridden brother. This is what he says, "holy shit, I'm not sick. Are you fucking stupid? Kevin, Matt and I drank everything in the liquor cabinet. Did you know cooking sherry has alcohol in it? I am so hungover, I threw up off the deck. People are coming over tonight. Gotta go, bitch."

3. My wedding was a special day. Special for all the right reasons - it was lovely, romantic & organized in 6 weeks by my mother. It was also special because I was, for once, the only sober person in an 18 mile radius of our afterparty held at my parents' home complete with 3 grills going and a giant ass bonfire. The best part? Drunk Ass Brendan who kept telling everyone to "lick my balls" for no apparent reason. Many conversations with him that night went like this -

AUNT: Hey Bryn, can you grab me another beer?
Brendan: Only if you LICK MY BALLS.
Me: Brendan, please don't tell Aunt Kathy to lick your balls.
Brendan: I'm sorry......now LICKMYBALLSSSSSSSSSSS.

On & on & on this went. EVERYONE heard him saying this. However, the next morning when I told my mother that the best part (not) of my wedding day was having my brother ask every, single guest to perform oral sex on him, her response was "don't be ridiculous, Brigid. Did you do that, Brendan?" Brendan shook his head no and gave me this 'how could you say that?' look. "See Brigid, don't say horrible things about your brother. But what can I expect from someone who couldn't even wear white on her wedding day?"

2. One day, my mom pulled out a shoebox and said softly "oh wow, look at these." Her reverence and gentleness led me to believe something sacred was in the box and I walked over. It was sacred all right. A sacred violation of sibling trust and a testament to the pure shittiness that was my brother's narcing soul. In the box were tons - nay, THOUSANDS - of little notes written in Brendan's Unabomber scratch. "Dear Mommy, Buffy did not eat the 7 chocolate chip cookies. Brigid did. She is a liar. I love you, Brendan"....."Mommy, Brigid put a stick in my bike wheel and I fell over. I didn't hit a curb like she said. I'm a good boy, Brendan"...."Mommy, Brigid signed her own interims and told her teacher you were in Bolivia getting liposuction. Here are her last 6 report cards charting her descent in to juvenile delinquency. Oh, and I included the secret AOL address she is using to write all of her friends that you are, and I quote, 'a fucking hobag.' I love you, Brendan."

1. As we got older, Brendan and I developed a really great relationship with our parents. It became more about being a family instead of kids vs adults. We laughed a lot and told fun stories and enjoyed each other's company. So much so, sometimes Brendan and I would share things we had done in our younger days with our parents in a 'look what we got away with!' kind of way. Fun for everyone, right? Eh. Debatable.

A few years after high school, Brendan shared with my parents that pretty much any time he was left alone in our house in Virginia, he had people over. Didn't matter if my parents were gone for 2 days or 20 minutes. Brendan could assemble a mob quickly, drink my parents' alcohol and pretend to be sick when they returned and found him bleary-eyed & pale and get away with it. OH HILARITY, THY NAME IS GOLDEN CHILD. My parents laughed for centuries.

I do not like to be topped so I decided to reveal a bit of truth behind one of my more wacky evenings. In high school, I was at a party and backed my parents' Chevy Blazer in to another car as we had been told the cops were coming. This all happened while screaming "WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE NOW!" This was not a ding that could be buffed out with a Shamwow. I got out, assessed the damage, felt waves of Catholic guilt....and then I got the fuck outta there.

The next day, I told my parents that I - being the designated driver (90% true....2 shots of tequila don't count, right?) - was driving my very inebriated friends home, they were so loud and wild in the car and I was focusing SO HARD, DAD that I hit a fire hydrant in my friend's yard. My parents were pissed but not Serial Killer Face mad, and so I had to contribute some cash to fix up the Blazer and that was that. Mental high five.

HILARIOUS, RIGHT? DEFINITELY tops Brendan's lame "I used to have people over to the house" story, RIGHT? Wrong.

My mother started screaming at me about how this act was, in fact, a felony and she always knew I was up to no good shit with my friends and Christ knows that if I did this - AFELONYBRIGID!! - what else I had done. She started saying that Brendan, while "naughty" (her words), was never a fucking sociopath like myself. Enter the phrase "GODDAMMITBRIGID" times 78,000 and that was our evening.

And there was Brendan....smirking in the corner....probably writing a note to our mother:
"Dear Mommy, Brigid IS a sociopath and by the way, in high school she hit a parked car in the school parking lot and told the woman her name was Ally Sheedy because she had watched 'Breakfast Club' the night before and it was all she could think of. You know all this now because 6 months after the incident happened, the woman managed to track Brigid down, call you and tell her what a lying fucktard your daughter is which resulted in Brigid coming home from school one day and was caught unaware as you beat her fucking ass the minute she walked inside. That was a glorious day for me. I just wanted you to know that while you tore Brigid up, I invited 18 people over and we drank homemade moonshine up in my bedroom. I love you, Brendan."

I miss you, Dummy. Reading the above, I don’t know why. But I miss you. Hurry home, bitch.

The Team

For Maureen - 5 years cancer free! You phased cancer out like you threatened to phase Molly out back in the day.

I am lucky to have fantastic friends. Like, really fantastic. One such group is The Team. We have known each other since high school and I have actually known two of them since I was 6. We'z be tight. We can also fight like ghetto ass street thugs, and I have been known to be upset and tell others that whoever I am mad at used to be a man.

We've been there for the usual rigamarole: breakups, make ups, weddings with 17 feet of hair extensions, "is my boyfriend gay?" moments (for the record, Julie - he was) and vomiting all over your mother's newly painted kitchen (sorry about that, Tara). This past Saturday was a big celebration, however, as Maureen has been cancer free for 5 amazing years. Our goal was to be wild, OK? So we did what the Team does best - we got fucking crazy.

Great Moment Number 1: We walk up to the bar's entrance and I flash my ID for the bouncer. I am thinking, "ah, the old days. Holla - no cover charge because we are sexy as shit Here comes THE TEAM, BITCHES!" Well no, there was no cover charge because we were there before 9pm and the bouncer looked at my ID and said, "have a nice evening, MA'AM."

We enter and - holy crap - it is CROWDED. Who are all these....children? That girl needs a coat! Drinks cost WHAT? It was shocking. Our friend, Julie, waves from the back and we head towards her. Guys are looking at Julie - which is totally normal. But they keep double taking because not only is Julie hot, bitch be pregnant. Considering girls are wandering around this establishment with their vaginas in the breeze, Jules' 7 months along belly gets some glances but you can also see their consensus: I'd still hit that. Julie's husband, oddly, was proud.

Great Moment Number 2: Tap, tap on my shoulder and I turn around and find myself looking at some homeless kids. Well, they were dressed like that. "So, do you like this song?" Really? That's what we're going with? I said, "no, it sounds like Eurotrash. It sounds like Chumbawumba." Confused look. "Like Ace of Base....Boyzone." Blank stares. I realize they are roughly 22 and I should not be talking to them without a lawyer present.

More drinks. By this point, Jessie has taken 67 pictures of the two of us sitting on a barstool while we watched a girl rip off her sheer leopard print top (oh honey, fashion offense) and mount what I believe was a legal midget right in front of us. At first, I thought she was attacking him as her jaw unhinged and she basically ate his face off. Then I realized, dear God, it's a bar makeout session. I haven't witnessed one of these in years! The usual agreement for such instances is feigning casual indifference while sneaking occasional looks. But guess what? We're old now so we pulled up bar stools and blatantly watched with our mouths open. I don't know if this poor guy was being initiated in to a gang but he got his ass kicked. He tried to be sexy and gently push her up against a wall. Leopard Girl THREW him against a wall and continued to behave like the secret to eternal youth was deep in his throat.

This became the perfect time to whip out a little something Jessie & I snuck in inside her purse. Roofies? Cigarettes? No. Hot dogs. Bar food is pricey, and I knew I would get some drinks in me and need some carbs. So we stuck some hot dogs in to Jessie's purse. And ate them. In the bar. Yes, people stared but it was out of JEALOUSY and mental kicks to themselves of "why am I not that CLEVER?"

Great Moment Number 3: Maureen's younger brother joins us and brings with him 4 guys that smell like Chinese food. I immediately want some spring rolls. I am told "you're pretty hot....(FUCK YES).....for an old chick." I say that I am equal parts flattered & horrified but refuse to let a comment by a grown man wearing track pants AND A CHUCK NORRIS T-SHIRT bring me down.

Great Moment Number 4: Being hot & old & bitter, I need to do something that boosts my ego and, luckily I have stupid friends that continually drop their shit everywhere. Enter: Maureen's cell phone. I select random guys and begin texting them. Dave L. gets to read the text "I'm horny". Eric receives "I have a yeast infection." James opens "do you like bukaki?" Jessie and I think this is HILARIOUS and begin singing along to whatever god-awful song is playing with the chorus: "we fancy....yeah, we fancy. We fancy, yeah."

At this point, ummmmmm, we lose Maureen's cell phone. Whoopsie. I mean, I tossed it on the bar. It had to be safe there, right? Notsomuch. This leads to a 45 minute ordeal of Maureen wanting to shut down the bar, body scan every one inside and then finding out I had been texting random guys.....well, nuclear explosions are kinder. But MIRACLE - after many repeated calls to Maureen's phone, someone answers! Maureen's college friend, Jenny, begins the following monologue: "THIS IS THE STATE POLICE, YOU WHORE! BRING THAT PHONE BACK! I AM THE POLICE! YOU BRING IT BACK HERE TO THE STATE POLICE NOW, WHORE!" The best part? 90% of this is slurred. And the person on the other end of the line is slurring & crying. Maureen speaks to a responsible party on the line (i.e. a less drunk person) and announces, "we need to go to Georgetown!"

Um, no. By now, lights are on in the bar, it's closing time, I need more hot dogs & to properly remove my makeup and apply my anti-aging regime. I believe my helpful, understanding declaration to Maureen was "we are not going to fucking Georgetown for your fucking phone!" In most cases, this would be cause for a full out war but Mo is too overjoyed to have her phone (somewhat) found and so she grabs a manager who had been helping us who is sporting a full set of braces AND RUBBER BANDS and screams, "YOU GUYS, THIS IS DAMENICA'S DAD!" Holy shit. No one gives a crap about Damenica or her dad because I'm too busy trying to get Jessie to stop caressing the bouncer who is telling us "ladies, you need to GO....ma'am, stop touching me....ma'am, grab your friend and go." Even me telling him that we are fancy and have hot dogs is not enough to assuage his annoyance.

We stumble out in to the night and pile ourselves in to Maureen's car (with a sober driver who greatly wanted us to shut the fuck up). Jessie begins yelling that my coat's fur hood is exasperating her allergies. Jenny says her feet hurt. Maureen is plotting her phone's retrieval for the following day complete with night vision goggles and calling 5 of us to let us know her whereabouts at all times. I realize - We. Are. Old.

This stellar evening ends with me sharing a bed with Jessie for about the 827th time in our lives while we cram chili dip in to our faces and continue to talk about how motherfucking fancy we are.

Goodbye & good riddance, Cancer. You were never a welcome Team member. Kinda like Lebanese chicks. Yet another Team mission accomplished.

Why Do I Talk To People?

INTENT: Find coworker in crowd of people & congratulate him on the birth of his new child.

DELIVERY: "Well hey there Big Daddy!"

Everyone silent & staring.

Fuck.

CONCLUSION: You are the office whore.

Everybody Poops...Just Not In Their Van

This blog post is brought to you by the letter V....as in 'violated.' Could I use it in a sentence? Sure.

"My husband violated my trust by relaying the below story to a room full of people this past weekend thus ensuring two things: 1) I wanted to violate his face off and 2) until further notice, Pat can violate himself in the shower."

WARNING: if bathroom humor/issues are not your thing, walk away.

WARNING: I am SERIOUS. If I receive one email about how gross & horrible I am, I will pay your vehicle a visit. And trust me, after reading what's below - YOU DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN. You have been warned.

Motherhood has brought me some amazing revelations: I never knew I was capable of loving little drunk midgets so mightily, I am more patient than I ever thought possible, eating PlayDoh, dog food & nickels will not kill you and......carrying people around in your uterus - even small ones - really fucks up your innards.

Some of you have seen my minivan. It is littered with car seats. This is obviously because I am carting around no less than 72 babes daily. Drop offs & pick ups are the bane of my existence at this point. I am, however, prepared because I play the "What If....?" game. What if Sawyer rips the knees out of his pants? What if Dylan & I are stuck in traffic and it's dinnertime? I always have extra snacks, water, diapers, wipes & clothes on hand. Bitch, I am READY.

One scenario that did not make the "What If...?" list: what if Mama's pregnancy-destroyed insides start acting up and there is a van full of kids? Really should've seen that one coming.

THREE YEARS AGO.....

Dylan was in preschool and Sawyer was still at an in-home daycare thus my two morning drop offs were always a clusterfuck of "WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES? We are NOT bringing the Schibbies to school!", etc. I would guzzle coffee, throw the boys in the van and tear down Route 7....every, single day.

I had successfully dropped off Dylan one morning and was in the process of delivering Sawyer when my body said, "oh girl, things are about to get fuckin' crazy up in here!" Bent over, tears running down my face and the soundtrack to Pocohontas blaring in the backseat, I realized I was not going to make it to the nearest bathroom (which, let's note, was not in my own home but would have to have been a chain restaurant or a church - yes, I've done that).

I swerved the van in to a parking lot still unsure of what was about to happen. In the beginning, I think my plan was to go in to a diaper. And NO PEOPLE, this was not something I thought was OK or NORMAL or NO BIG DEAL. I'm crying, cramping & thinking of calling my lawyer friends to see if going 'big pottys' (as we call it at our house) in your own vehicle is illegal. Then I see it......a plastic bag that we have stored for "What If.....?" Scenario Number 16: What if a child shits up the back and we need to toss clothes somewhere? This brave plastic bag would now serve a higher purpose.

I'm not going to go in to details here, guys. But here is what I WILL tell you: this is happening - motherfucker, THIS IS HAPPENING - and I'm in the back of my van while my almost two year old son is in his car seat saying the following: "No Mama....no caca. NO MAMA NO. Seesaw no caca. MAMA CACA. Ewwwwwwww. SMELL. SMELL. NO CACA, MAMA!"

I still have yet to work out who is more scarred from this event: me, Sawyer or the Transformer that was in the back seat with me. Sorry, Optimus Prime. I salute you for maintaining eye contact with me and never flinching.

Once this task was accomplished and I began mentally setting aside cash for Sawyer's therapy, I - being efficient & fastidious - wrapped everything up really tight.......and threw it in to the woods while I prayed, "don't let someone find that and decide to run DNA on it."

I would like to say that was the end of that. Sadly, no. One bout of shameful van shitting was not enough to slam my colon closed during drives. It has happened once or twice since the first time. And again, this is not something that I PLAN or RELISH. But when it's pouring down rain, you have two or three sick kids in a car and your ass is screaming, "Chipotle wants to say hi again!" you do what you need to do, OK?

The below happened on Saturday night. My beloved, my partner, my husband got drunk and started running his mouthhole about my butthole. My 'friends' (this is still being debated) found my intestinal issues to be hilarious instead of recognizing that I need to be tested for colitis or an uncloseable colon. One of these so-called friends tucked a plastic bag in to my jeans. Whatever, dicks. I said "hello, old friend. Stick around. I'm going to put you in my van for later use."

The bottom-line? Sometimes shit happens......and sometimes it is happening in my van while my kids cry and "The Incredibles" is playing.

I'm Always Listening, Folks - The Wednesday Email

For those unfamiliar with the Wednesday Email - these are actual emails I send to my colleagues each & every Wednesday in an attempt to get them to send me project information. Polite, perfunctory requests did not work but getting them to laugh always guarantees a reply.

Gang - welcome to 2011! It's a whole new year and a fresh start for all. That doesn't mean I will forget some of the best moments of 2010 I've had here. Below is a list of my favorite conversations and/or quotes that were actually said during the year.

"I cannot be expected to remember what I did last month."
Of course not, how silly of me. Why don't you go take a nap? You've earned it.

"You know what I learned today? You are Brigid AND Brie! You're ONE PERSON NOT TWO! I DID NOT KNOW THAT!"
Can I get paid like I am two people?

"That's not my job." - August 2010
"That's not my job." - November 2010
"That's not my job." - December 2010
This, by the way, has become my favorite drinking game.

"I can't come to this meeting - THE VISIGOTHS ARE DOWNSTAIRS!"
This may or may not have been said by me.

Person: I'm looking for Asheesh.
Brie: I'm going to need a bit more information than that.
Person: He's Indian.
Brie: Okkkkkk, I meant his last name or department but let's see what the address book can help us with. Whoa! Look at all those Asheeshs!
Person: Which one of them in Indian?
Brie: Wow.

Brie: Good morning, I'm going to need you to review and approv -
Person: Approved.
Brie: You haven't even looked at the docu -
Person: Approved.
Brie: You don't even know what I'm going to -
Person: Fine. Good. Done. Approved.

"I'm so sorry I have to cancel this meeting last minute. I'm incontinent."
Spellcheck wins again….at least, I hope so.

"It's snowing. Can you bring my laptop to my house?"
Note: NO ONE brought the laptop to the house. We've all seen episodes of 'Law & Order: SVU' start like that.

Flo Rida

Most of you are aware we fled NoVA for some glorious holiday times in Florida.This was the boys after TSA gave us a thorough pat down and tested Logan's water (I kept insisting it wasn't vodka..."that is NOT what we are checking for, ma'am").

Then we arrived. Enter My Parents -

Here's what you need to know about my family - we are ghetto.....but in a classy, sorta Jay- Z way. You know Jay-Z: he's kinda hood but likes 400 thread count sheets and collecting Hummel figurines. Well, that's actually Krissy, my mom, but you get the idea. Example 1: my mother is an amazing cook. AMAZING. For Christmas dinner, we had beef tenderloin, creamed leeks, grated potatoes & cheese and drinks galore all laid out at an immaculately set table with name cards and candles. Then we got a call from Brendan who tells us that the film crew has told him they have never heard another person on the planet swear as much as him. This destroys my Catholic, holy, sainted mother who screams, "that fucker! They are going to have to bleep every fucking thing he says on TV!" while waving around her Waterford wine glass.

Note: you will not see many pics of Krissy/Meemaw as she feels a photo steals your soul. Or is that vampires? Whatever, they're basically the same.

Example 2: Meet Trainwreck, my dad's boat...and I use that term lightly. Trainwreck was purchased so my dad could do work on the dock (another loosely used term) and not worry about damaging a pricey investment in the process. Do you like that Trainwreck is tied to the dock with no less than 19 ropes....because someone might steal it, Bucket? Because you want to train my children to be aerialists?

See - ghetto....but classy.

Here's a breakdown of each of our big Florida events:
DYLAN
Jesus, take the wheel. This kid ate another tooth. Yes - another because he ate his first loose tooth...and while in Florida he ate his second. He found it hilarious and it didn't help matters that Bucket was laughing like a loon. I gave Dylan a choice - he could either stop eating his teeth & get braces when he is older (and with the way Pat & I looked as buck toothed teens, he will need it) OR I will purchase him a colonic machine that will assist him in monthly tooth loss recovery. Choose wisely, my son.

SAWYER

This fucker ate Miracle Grow from under my mother's couch one day. Miracle Grow. He walked up to me and mumbled, "Mama, my face hurts" and his teeth are covered in chalky blue shit and his breath smells like a goddamn Meadow's Farm Nursery. I freak out. I jam my finger in to his mouth and rub the blue shit all over my finger...then rub it in to my own mouth. Pat is screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I apparently feel like my mouth is a mass spectrometer and could tell me what the substance was. I did get a nice burning sensation in the back of my throat. Don't worry - mojitoes cured it, and Sawyer lived through the night and will never eat Miracle Grow again since Meemaw made him say a rosary and learn about saints that were martyred by being forced to eat shit found under couches.

LOGAN

This child climbed right in to my heart while we were in Florida. I oozed love and adoration for her as she would sleep until 9am every damn day. It was bliss. Then she would fuel up by eating 1 piece of candy from each of the 89 candy dishes that my mother has casually distributed throughout the house and re-enact The Exorcist: The Sugar High Cast Out.

MAMA

Obviously this picture gives evidence to the fact that during my holiday in Florida, I did a lot of half marathon training, read some novels and crocheted. WHATEVER IDIOTS. I drank & napped my face off! This lovely moment was caught by Pat when he was taking my picture and was saying, "I love you, I love Christmas, I love our family" and I'm thinking "Jesus Christ, can't you see my ice is low? Ugh."

PAT

So this is my dad's car. Pat swears he & the car have "a connection." Pat finds any & all opportunities to take that car out and his most used line in Florida is "I have to go run some errands." What are those errands? I have no idea but if my mother wanted Tampons & an anal bleaching kit, Pat Jenkins would be out in that car full force to fulfill those needs.

COMING SOON!

Flo Rida Part 2: The Boat Ride & Schmutte Bonfuego