Blog It Out...

Yesterday was a very dark day in my life. As I am wont to do, I let my gas tank get down to the point where I would have been That Crying Girl on the side of the road who pushed her car to the limit and lost if I didn't stop for gas ASAP. So stop I did, and that is where it begins to get all fuzzy.

The Chevron I pulled into was selling regular unleaded gasoline at $3.99 a gallon. As I threw up in my mouth at the thought of having no choice but to fill my tank with most of my day's earnings, it occurred to me that I was also lacking milk at home to give to my son with his dinner. So I swiped my card, filling my tank, and headed inside to pick up the moo juice.  I found the whole milk my son requires and stopped. And STARED. The price tag below the gallon indicating the price was typed in Bold. $5.99. I took it to the counter and once again swiped my card. And then I died on the inside. 

After I pulled out of the lot, I called someone who I felt would also feel my hurt on this particular subject, given his propensity for outrage at paying $3.30 at the pump. After we discussed (in no particular order) juice, UTIs, Democrats, and the superiority of the East Coast over the West, we got down to the heart of the matter, and after I cried and gnashed my teeth, Andrew suggested I Blog It Out. So, though you may or may not share my pain at the pump, your sentiments of outrage, shock, despair, and/or disgust would certainly be appreciated.  

The Lawnmower Man

To: The Anonymous Lawnmower Man

From: Bree

Re: My Lawn

On April 23, 2008, someone mowed my lawn. And weeded. And edged. And pruned. And cleared out that nasty area around the palms. And I don't know who it was.

My first guess was that it was the handiwork of my super fabulous next-door neighbors, since, on several occasions, Lt. Col. Mike and the girls have been out there weeding, etc. But, when I thanked Ralita, she knew nothing of it. Yesterday, she confirmed that no, neither Lt. Col. Mike nor her father had done my lawn, but that her father had mentioned seeing "some guy" out there working. 

So, to you, "some guy," thank you. I know my botanical upkeep has slipped since Ian has been gone, but hey, it was winter, and it was ok. But now that it's warm again, and since I got that letter from the HOA telling me that my yard was "unacceptable" (but that's another angry story for another day wherein I tell the HOA to PISS OFF) I have felt slightly bad that I lack the ability to keep anything green alive. At least the inside of my house (when it's clean) looks substantially better than when Ian left! I feel slightly victorious about that.

So anyway, thank you again, Anonymous Lawnmower. That was very nice of you, and if you come forward and reveal your identity, you will receive an award.

Most Sincerely,

BriBro

Dear Pennsylvania...

I don't like you very much right now, as it seems all you are doing is prolonging an already exhausting election process. At least a win for Obama would have (mostly) solidified the Democratic nomination in his favor. At this point, my bigger issue is that neither candidate can seem to close the deal, and that doesn't leave me very confident that Democrats have their s**t together in the first place. Maybe the Dems need another four years to get their ducks in a row?

Assimilation

While I in no way consider myself a Californian, there are a few things of which I have recently become aware, that frighten me to no end. (Most notably, the fact that as temperatures dipped into the low 60s and the day was overcast, I thought to myself that "it's a bit chilly today.") I like lists, so we'll do it that way:

• The word "dude." While it's always been a part of my vocabulary, it has never had such a prominence in my vernacular until living in SoCal. Everyone is a dude. Duuuuude.
• "The" is, apparently, a requirement in preceding any highway. Directions to my house include: Take the 5 north to the 56 and head east. Take the 15 south to the Mercy Road exit. Also of note: never before,  in all my travels on the east coast, would I have made it to a destination relying on cardinal directions. Here, it's pretty much a given, but I constantly mentally think, "Never Eat Sour Worms."
• Flip-flops. All. The. Time. 
• Bicyclists. Man, do they effin' annoy me. But, when gas is at $3.60 a gallon for the cheap stuff, I can't say I blame 'em.  

Now, don't get me wrong, there are still puhhhhlenty of things about the left coast that still really piss me off. Numero Uno: It's called sarcasm, people. I don't actually mean it. Numero Dos: No Dunkin' Donuts. Numero Tres: Fires = NOT COOL. Give me a Nor'Easter any day of the week. Numero Next One: No Dunkin' Donuts. Numero Next One: Celebrities everywhere who actually think I give a shit about what they say, especially in regard to politics. And, lastly, there's no Dunkin' Donuts. 

But, I think, when it comes down to it, when we do eventually meander back to the east coast, there are a few things I will definitely miss.... ok, really, only one thing is coming to mind: mexican food. I do love me my cadillac margaritas!

40 Days and 40 Nights

Now that Easter has come and gone, and Lent has gone with it (and yes, I managed the WHOLE 40 days without celebrity gossip, and I feel like I'm a much better person for it... I will, however, be getting the scoop from Perez here momentarily, thankyouverymuch), my son and I will be embarking upon another 40 day stretch. Except this time, at the end of 40 days and 40 nights, our family will be whole once again.

I still have a punch list I'd like to finish up before Ian gets home, but I'm pretty happy with what I've already accomplished while he's been over there. I'm pretty proud of myself, too, for being able to handle everything that has been thrown my way. (Albeit, with less grace than I would have hoped for, but hey, I can't split hairs like that.) I never thought that I wouldn't be able to handle everything, but I'm surprised that I haven't had more meltdowns. And, aside from a bump here and a bruise there, Aaron is none the worse for wear, either. I know I should hardly expect a gold medal or a mother-of-the-year award, but I know I've done the best I can with what I have. I am, however, looking very forward to a nice, long vacation that involves a lot of sleeping and massages.

I realize that I'm rambling, and that this post is probably one of my least prolific and verbose, but it is, after all, Monday morning. Give me a break.

It (Updated)

I suppose the time has come for us to talk about It. But, it must be said, we really don't want to. This was a conversation I had with my hairdresser recently:

Sia: "Blah, blah, blah, blah..."
Me: "Uh huh."
Sia: "Blah, blah blah, blah bah."
Me: "Oh yeah?"
Sia: "OH! And I haven't seen you since It happened!"
Me: (pregnant pause... just because I like that phrase. It has nothing to do with me being pregnant. Because I'm not. That would be awkward, and I would have to do some serious explaining to Ian. In retrospect, this explanation wasn't worth the fun expression...) "Sia! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!"
Sia: "Oh, neither do I, trust me, honey. Worst night of my life. But I love that you know what I'm talking about."

That's right. My very Greek hairdresser and I, we're Patriots fans. And in a city like San Diego, once you utter those words, you are either met with laughs and jeers, or outright hatred. Here in the Whale's Vagina, sympathy, empathy, or simply someone who won't spit at your face is hard to come by. So we, the few but faithful, have to stick together, and we have managed to do that by honoring our silent agreement to just not talk about It. Since that fateful night in February, we've just sat here, our heads in our hands, wondering just where it all went wrong. We've only dared to peek through the slits in our fingers to see if Moss would ever get the ink in his pen working, and now that it is certain that 12 + 81 = 6 will return for another season, we can begin to assess the damage.

Sometimes, it feels like we're just emerging into the sunlight after a huge storm that swept everything away. We've lost a lot; our house is destroyed, and we lost some of our family members (i.e., Samuel, Stallworth, and Gay). There was so much hype, this was going to be the year. From week 4, all anyone could talk about was the Pursuit of Perfection, yet our boys kept their game faces on, week after week, chanting their mantra, "One game at a time." Bill "I'm a Football God" Belichick fed them regular doses of Humble Pie, and by the time Week 16 rolled around (in what would be a chilling precursor to The Night Which Will Live in Infamy), we were ready to make history. Which we did. Sorta. Not that that is what will be remembered this season. What will be remembered? SpyGate, the Perfect Collapse, and how much it hurt when we had to swallow that jagged little pill and admit that almost doesn't count.

Some people have laughed at us, looked at us right in the face, and said, "Cheaters never prosper," "What goes around comes around," and other cliche-ridden sentiments that can hardly capture our disappointment. What these people fail to realize however, that no matter what they say, or what comes out about our team (no matter how scandalous) that the Patriots will always be Our Team. We can no less cheer for the Chargers (unless, of course, they happen to be playing the Colts) than we can go a day without breathing. Through the good times (now) and the bad times (every year prior to 2001), the Pats will be our team. So go on and hate, because nothing you say will change that loyalty. Which (must get in a subtle dig here) is more than we can say for you, San Diego, and your fairweather fans who chant "Mar-ty, Mar-ty, Mar-ty" 3 games into a regular season. 

Now, all this might seem melodramatic and over the top, but when you're as emotionally invested in a season as Patriots fans were this season, it's bound to be a crushing blow. For those of us who actually have to work at it in order to even see the games, it's especially hard. We can't wake up, go to church, head to brunch, chat with friends and then come back home to settle in for a night of football. We actually have to get up, and find a place where 1) the game will actually be broadcast and 2) a place where it's well lit or 2a) there are other Pats fans in attendance. This year, after fighting and ultimately losing my battle (and subsequently, my Sunday Ticket) with DirecTV, it was more difficult for me to get out and see the games, especially once the single mother thing kicked in. So yeah, I was emotionally invested. And yeah, I did cry when It happened. 

But I'm over it. And though August is a long ways off, I'm more confident than ever that our boys will be back next year in top form. So watch out, 'cause here come the Pats! :)

The Best $10 I Ever Spent (This Weekend)

One of the best birthday gifts I ever received came from an ex-boyfriend. (Sorry, Ian! You showing up unexpectedly in Manch was top-notch, however.) For my 19th birthday, this guy took me to see the Goo Goo Dolls at The Tabernacle in Atlanta. For those of you unfamiliar with the venue, The Tabernacle was formerly an old church, hence the name, and is a smaller space, so to go to a show there means that you are within striking distance of whomever is performing.

Prior to the show, I had obviously heard of the Goo Goo Dolls and could even sing a few of their songs. After seeing that show, though, I was hooked and they became My Most Favoritest Band. I immediately had their album Gutterflower downloaded, and also picked up Let Love In when it became available. This weekend, while pushing a screaming child through the aisles of Target, my eye caught sight of this:

On sale. For $9.99. Love it.