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.