The A Brie C's

Guest Post: Wh*res and Chihuahua

2013-07-19T11:26:00.001-05:00

Sorry for the absence, I've been busy to the max! SO much so that I didn't even write this post.

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not the coolest one in my family. Well, neither is my younger sister, but she is funnier than me. And didn't you know it but her small baby hands can write too? With the same hilariousness and same terrible grammar.

Here's one of her lovely stories about her life as a band geek that you should enjoy because I said so.

The 3 choices we had for our 2013 band trip location, New York, Washington dc, and Los Angeles. The high school and the incoming middle school band kids were given slips to vote where the wanted to go. I would have thought that the other two wouldn’t stand a chance against the big apple, but I was very mistaken. LA won under the impression that we would be hitting up them beaches, which was exactly what we didn’t do. Anyway, a couple months into 2013 it was time to set out on our week long vacation.

We arrived in LA and were driven to our hotel in our fancy busses, The Embassy Suites. Next to the Ritz, that is probably the best hotel I’ve ever stayed at. The inside had balconies surrounding all four walls, and was a beautiful indoor pond thingy. The girls were stationed on the fourth floor, and the boys were on the third. A little after we arrived, a high school choir checked in.

They were the mostly boys in the choir, and were no doubt the most attractive boys in the universe. They were posted just out of our reach, on the magical floor five. Anyway, we had a blast going around LA, living it up! We visited Hollywood museums, went to a Broadway play, took a dinner cruise, etc. It was probably the most fun anyone can legally have, until, one particular night in the hotel.

Apparently a fraternity had booked the ballroom in the hotel for an awesome party. ‘Awesome’ only pertained to their side, for the rest of us human beings, it was awful. The (insert college of choice) students were literally a riot. They girls, were dressed like they were supposed to be working the corner that night, and I’m a billion percent sure everyone was drunk. It was quite a display for both the college and high school boys.

In an attempt to resolve the situation before them, our director tried to get us as far away for the drama as possible. As the night progressed, the party got more intense and the stress levels of every adult in the hotel, was through the roof. The hotel staff warned the party animals that if they kept at the rate they were at, they would be forced to shut the party down. However, sensing that they wouldn't comply with these regulations, our band directors took it into their own hands to call up the coppers and shut them down.

Taking refuse on the fourth floor balconies, the vastly growing viewing party and I watched in amazement as the college students were being escorted out by the cops. I would have thought surely no one was that ignorant to get their self thrown out of a respectable establishment, but hey. Nevertheless, we sat with bags of popcorn and candy as all the events transpired. It all was starting to clear up, the party had officially been terminated but then, all of a sudden my fellow onlookers and I heard a bark.

I really wish this story was made up but I assure, you it isn't Now this respectable hotel I can assure you has a no pet’s rule, which is why it was such an odd thing to hear barking. We looked of the edge of the balcony, to see a Chihuahua peeking out of the bars from the third floor. Worried about the safety and well being of the dog, a handful of us rushed to the elevator. When we arrived, the dog seemed to be in a panicked state (not uncommon for a Chihuahua, but still). Our attempts of capturing the dog were very unsuccessful, as his speed was surprising. A lady emerged from her room and I tried to ask her if she knew the origins of the animal, and to be honest, I don’t think she actually spoke English judging by the way she looked at me. She retreated back into her room without a word, and I resumed trying to capture the pup. After about 3 minutes, the lady opened her door and the dog ran inside, leaving us all very confused. However, that was one problem solved, and there were still many more left to be deciphered.

Most of the college students were cleared out as the pup search and rescue team and I got back to our seats near the balcony. People still crowed around chatting and snacking, while we watched a college couple fighting with one of the hotel staff about being able to go up the elevator. Obviously, they didn't have a room here and were just trying to get away from the cops. Thinking the matter had been resolved; the staff member moved on to shoo others out of the hotel. While backs were turned, the couple got into the elevator (which was glass so we could all see them) and they went up to the top floor, and there they continued on to a secluded nook. I for one found this to be particularly peculiar, seeming as though they were up there for quite some time. That is until a cop went up there after about 20 minutes, and from where we stood, he had a pretty stern talking to them before they came back down and left.

I don’t know if you have ever been kicked out of an establishment, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to actually leave the premises. Unfortunately the college party animals and I don’t share this universal understanding, as they started the after party in the parking lot. One of the boys on the third floor informed us that we could watch it out of the floor to ceiling window that was at the end of the hall on our floor. We gathered against the glass and saw very many unpleasant sites.

One of these was a group of student in a circle smoking what I hope was a cigarette, but judging by all the crazy they had already cooked up, it was probably something illegal. Another thing we saw was a boy and girl chatting it up, when along came another girl who did not seem to like girl Number 1. She slapped Number 1 and stormed off, leaving the boy looking very confused. Number 2 went off to a group of girls and seemed to be boasting to them about what had just transpired. Number 1 cried as the boy awkwardly comforted her. Out of nowhere the couple looked up at the hotel, or more precisely, the third floor window.

All of our ninja modes were activated at that point, as we all scattered to the shadows. Maybe we had all just imagined that they saw us, I mean there no way they could have noticed 13 teenage girls smashed up against a window watching them. When we felt it was safe to resume our watch, we glanced over to see number 1 standing with arms folding looking directly at us. Convinced they would somehow threaten our lives, the viewing party and I decided to retire to our respective rooms for some much needed sleep. It had been a long day full of site-seeing, partying, cops, and escaped pets.

Great Moments in Undatable History Part 1

2013-06-20T12:46:00.000-05:00

As I continue to repeat myself, I am not well versed in the ways of romance and what not. A few years ago, I did claim to have "fixed relationshipping for guys" with no female edition to counter it because, let's face it, I haven't even fixed it for myself yet.

I think I have only been on one legit dating experience, in which it was deemed a date because we used a coupon that said the SUPER DATE DEAL. Apparently I take my direction from crafty advertisement. Besides that, it was a good date, I mean, there was ICE CREAM for cryin' out loud!

For all my inexperience in relationship-ness, I do tend to fall ass-backwards into situations where at least one party thinks there is romantic potential. And to much surprise, that person is only sometimes me.

Here is a collection of instances when someone was under the impression that I was emotionally mature enough to sustain a short to medium term relationship, followed by an unbiased analysis.

* As I wrote this I realized that its length exceeded even my own period of interest, so I broke it into parts. YAY PARTS!!*

Situation 1: I don't want a relationship

On more than one occasion, I found myself enjoying the company of someone who was at least an 8 (OMG), AND they could somewhat tolerate my ramblings (that's the dream afterall). We get along well enough: have the occasional deep conversation, give each other the odd compliment in which neither can accept, I'll even laugh when he farts. We also don't over indulge on hanging out together, random phone calls and text are limited, and this chick always pays for her own food (because I'm an independent woman, who racked up most of the bill.)

Everything is going well, everyone is happy and not pinned down to anything. Perfect.

Then, somehow, one party feels compelled to mention that they don't want a relationship

This of course is a blanket statement for things like "I don't want to make regular time for you" or, "You are a temporary band-aid on my currently broken heart and bruised ego from a previous dealio" and my personal favorite, "I don't like you but I'll kiss you and such when provoked by alcohol." All of these are perfectly justifiable reasons to not get emotionally involved with another individual and it shows some level of maturity to actually say that to someone.

So much so that when someone says that general phrase, I am relieved to know where we stand thus I can act accordingly - a reasonable human being that knows how to respect another person's wishes and boundaries. Mainly because I often feel the same way, as the following conversation will express:

Dude: I'm not ready for a relationship
Me: Great, me neither! I can barely commit to a month-by-month magazine subscription!

But when I calmly and maturely say the same phrase to guys, it goes like:

Me: I'm not ready for a relationship
Dude: GET OFF MY BACK WOMAN! I told you I'm not ready for this! I have a life, and I gotsta get my bro-time on. I NEED MY BRO-TIME!!!!

This reaction is valid if only preceded by, "Hey Sweetie-poo-butt, so I just got off the phone with your mom and she says that you sunburn easily so we MUST have a fall wedding if we want an outdoor venue. Oh, and do you like the name "Charleston" or "lil' Swiggi" for our prospective third son? I know how you feel about out of date dance crazes, but I've always wanted a child with an exotic name. Honeyfart, why did you just spontaneously combust? Is everything okay?"

I guess we were on the same page but the book was written in different languages. Or maybe I started to speak Parseltounge and didn't realize it. CURSE YOU, GIFTS OF SYTHERIN!

Why he was wrong: This situation is special because it is one of the few that has occurred more than once so I can't pinpoint specific wrongness. In general, I would say that guys just assume all girls want a [insert famous Romcom hollywood starlet here] type life and he is the love interest. Get over yourself, I just like looking at your face. Your silent, non-speaking face.

Why I was right: Listen, I'm not completely heartless. I just know that if I let someone into the Pandora's box that is my upper-middle class dramatic life, they would get caught in an undertow of what seems like 24/7 PMS. Even I can't handle it. And I keep this fact to myself to seem like a normal functioning person. I'm doing you a favor so shut your mouth and listen to me - I'M NOT READY.

Final Dating Status: Dwindling friendship at best, mortal enemies at worst.

HERE'S SOMETHING ELSE

Take a moment to boost my self-esteem with a quick FB like or StumbleUpon thumbs up or whatever they do. You could even leave a post telling me about my spelling errors! I just like reading things :) thanks.

The Coffee Countdown

2013-06-12T13:35:00.002-05:00

*There's a spoiler alert that you might want to read first just in case you don't like the subject area of this post*

Here are some quick facts about me that I am sure I have already mentioned before:

- I would equate my metabolism to the phenomenon of the nutrient grab that takes place when a plant dies in the rainforest. My body absorbs food 20x faster than it should which means I am a food vacuum that is never satisfied.
- I don't drink coffee because mentally I am 4 years old and what's worse than giving children sugar infused coffee? For this reason I usually stick to unsweetend teas - semisweet if someone manages my sugar intake.

You would think that 4ish years of college would have taught me the finer points of coffee-ism, by which I would already be a connoisseur and could taste the difference between Guatemalan and English brews (or at least caffeinated and decaffeinated)

With that, I shall enlighten you on what happens when I ignorantly convince myself that I NEED coffee in order to stay up for a 4-hour shift after a sleepless night. This whole process took about 45 minutes and I am currently in the hangover portions of post-caffeinated life. I DON'T LIKE IT!

10: I arrive at my internship early because I know it will take me at least 15 minutes to figure out how to conjure an 8-ounce mug of coffee. I opened the top of the machine to release a whiff of the previous batch made earlier by someone much more accomplished than me. There was still some grounds left in the filter but I wasn't sure if old and new coffee grounds were like old and new money - they don't mix well. I asked the only other non-coffee drinker for help and we were both perplexed. EXPERIMENT TIME! I had a slight heart attack when the only bag I found contained whole beans (what the WHAT!?! Is that even legal to sell in 'Murica?) but was relieved to find a normal bag full of ground up goodness.

9: While waiting for my serving of alertness to filter, I become surprisingly alert for my current sleep deprived self. It was almost as if the promise of coffee was enough caffeine for me to function. I should have listened. Nonetheless, I made myself a cup-o-joe when the time came.

And I was left alone. In the kitchen. With sugar.

So naturally I poured about 4 tablespoons in with an unhealthy serving of french vanilla creamer. Tis unhealthy because I am still allergic to milk.

8: I drink all of the coffee in less than 3 minutes. It isn't as though I had a trough to begin with, but as I stated before about my physical characteristics, I process food WAY too fast, including a regulated drug such as caffeine which was in the beginning stages of my demise.

7: 17 minutes post coffee down I continue my work as usual forgetting that I just downed my biggest food mistake since the Thai food debacle of 2012. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary, in fact, I wasn't suffering from my mid day I'm-going-to-die-because-I-haven't-eaten-yet ritual. I was even communicating with my co-workers in a non-awkward manner. Everything was going swimmingly until...

6: ...midway though a sentence that I was fully aware that I was making, reality began to fade away as I realized I could feel my internal organs. They weren't doing anything in particular or even worth paying attention to, but coffee thought otherwise. I'm not even sure how that conversation ended. I just sank down into my chair.

I've made a huge mistake. And it would only get worse.

5: I tried to get back to my work because that was what the focus juice was for anyway - focusing. However, as I tried to revise a particularly important document I had been working on for a later meeting, the screen began to get blurry and I found myself squinting - just to squint. My body was shutting down.

4: With productivity at a daily low, I chose to give myself a minute to get a handle on the situation. This just turned into realizing how aware I was of the hairs on my arm which stood at full attention. That wasn't helping. I thought if I informed my mom - the only person who knows I shouldn't drink anything stronger than apple juice - about my condition she would be able to help. The following conversation transpired via text:

Me: I JUST HAD COFFEEEE!!!!
Mom: Oh noooooooooo
Me: My heart is a dragon song!!!!!

Note, I have no idea what that means

3: By this time I'm sure my mom had alerted the local authorities that a monster had just been born in the downtown area of our highly populated city, so I would soon be getting the help I needed. But not before my meeting.

2: I enter the room shaking out of excitement. IT'S A MEETING YAY I thought. I almost shouted it but thankfully my actions were stifled by the actual content of the meeting. I did my best to not tap, dance, or blurt out random exclamations as the business of it all took place. I just had to last about an hour and then I could go outside and roundhouse kick the caffeine out of my body. Then something amazing happened. I was beginning to awaken into a normal human being, defying the spell that caffeine had cast upon my soul. The meeting was almost done and I could feel the sweet relief of normality return, colors began to stabilize and the urge to burst out as one does in a musical began to subside. I was released from the grips of hyperactivity and it only took about 30 minutes. Everything was going right in the world! That is until...

1: That demon coffee decided it needed out of my body. NOW! It must have taken a detour on the path of digestion because I was sure this process should have taken at the very least 2 hours.

I'm sure other coffee drinkers are accustomed to this final step, so I beg the question WHY DRINK IT!?! It produces sweaty, jumpy, and mind altered work zombies that actually barely get work done.

The only thing my tortured body can do now is nap so goodnight and don't EVER invite me to starbucks. I've learned my lesson.

*P.S. Sorry it's a story that ends with poop.* :/

That Time I Got Stabbed

2013-06-06T11:40:00.002-05:00

As many of you know I am not known for my timeliness. In fact, it might be one of the attributing reasons why I was fired from my newspaper job in high school.

In regards to this website thingy, I feel that out of all the seconds in my life that I have, most of them are not worthy of anyone really caring to know about. But when I begin to weave a tale from my past, the oohs and ahhs that they receive tell me that I might just have really high standards on what I think is entertainment.

Oh well.

The good news is, as I look into the deepest corners of my mind, I can find a few good stories from my recent college years that could be potentially humorous.

This particular instance was when I began, and ended, the body piercing phase of my youth. Enjoy.

I knew I had always wanted to get my nose pierced, what with having a high tolerance for pain and wanting to limit the number of jobs I can apply for after college.

In my dorm there were several other girls who felt the same, so naturally they all flocked to the nearest body alteration workshop.

I, being too cool for school, waited until the hype was low and asked for a location of reference.

I should have known I was in for some fun when I learned the name... the asylum.

No wait that's not scary enough.

That's better. With a name like that you know everything is going to be alright.

I took my friend with me for good measure, although this particular person would probably lose in a match between someone who stabs people for a living. I guess anyone would unless they were made out of diamonds - but I digress.

When we reached the place, there were two workers, and the young spry fellow was quick to attend to my questions regarding minor self mutilation. It is a good thing too. The other man who was obviously on break was too busy devouring a sandwich with both hands. He caught my attention for a number of reasons. First, he had a handsome beard. A beard so prestigious, I wanted to shake its hand. the man must have known how great his beard was, because he was in a mutualistic relationship with it, where it caught the numerous crumbs that fell from the sandwich. Oh that sandwich, I'm not sure if it was cibatta bread or this guy had a bad cocaine problem, but there was an above average amount of what I assumed to be bread flour flying off of the hand held meal with every bite he administered. What didn't land in the beard found its way onto his hands.

This whole scene made me glad this other guy was here because snow hands MaGee back there was not in any sanitary condition to hygienically do the biding of piercing my nose. After my transaction, I sat for a while, at which time the clean gentlemen when on break.

From the corner of my eye I saw the post sandwiched heathen slap his hands clean of excess flour and beckon me.

Warning sign #1.

As my support group and I followed powder hands into the broom closet under repair which was soon to be the scene of a voluntary stabbing, I felt slightly less confident about by choices but still not shaken enough to turn back now - I didn't want powder hands to judge me.

It came to the moment when I needed to assume the position of sitting in the dusty chair in the middle of the room which leaned back just enough so that I could see a massive spider in the corner of the ceiling wink at me before I closed my eyes.

To be honest the actual assault was not as bad as I imagined mainly because my imagination is so colorful it expands past the realm of possibility so I should have known. I expected there would be some sort of full body paralysis for several hours but really it was just some localized bleeding.

After the millisecond of trauma to the left nostril my bearded host asked me if I knew how to keep the area hygienically sound over the course of its existence. Actually his diction mirrored that of Hagrid so it was more like "Y'er know how t'er clean 'er?"

After decoding this half giant spreak, I answered no at which point he threw me a plastic cup of white crystals and said "thur ya go."

Was it logical for me to think he had just tossed me a sizable amount of cocaine? Probably not. But I threw it away for good measure.

I left and realized that after looking up nose piercing care that it was just sea salt. what a gentleman.

REAL Post-College Blog Talk

2013-05-30T11:20:00.002-05:00

I'm back after yet another hiatus and let me tell you I am quite upset. Please excuse me if this is not oozing with comical relief as much as previous posts, but if you enjoy reading the mental breakdown of a young lady then stay tuned.

In the past 6 months after college, I have had some really awesome (and really embarrassing) experiences. I even fulfilled more than 20% of my dreamboard. As a sidenote, dreamboards are actually quite magical things and I encourage everyone to make one.

I have been about to travel to see my friends twice, as well as host people in my great hometown. I have lived with amazing people and have kept a job since 2 weeks after graduating. I was even offered 3 jobs at once! In a pretty crappy economy, I am actually doing pretty well.I am truly grateful for all that I have.

But the spoiled millennial in me has to find some way to complain or else my body will cease functionality. It's not like I want to feel as though no matter how well I am doing, I not doing THE BEST or whatever, I just constantly strive for something that might need patience. But I'm too young to be that rational.

At least once a week I occupy my time with twenty-something blog posts about people feeling the same way. But they are not the same as me. Because their complaints involve feeling lonely in their OWN APARTMENT or being treated like a child at their FULL-TIME JOB. And I just want to scream AT LEAST YOU HAVE THOSE THINGS - which is ironic in itself because there are recent grads reading this right now thinking they at least had some of the things I have.

Yeah I live at home but it's not on the street. Yeah I have to wear a uniform at work but it's still a job. I have my own car. Things are okay, but they aren't great. They are not I-just-graduated-and-I-am-living-the-dream great.

And right now it's fine, I just feel like a very successful 16 year old. There are people in my circle who are getting married and popping out babies MULTIPLE BABIES. And I'm just sitting here looking at a cardboard representation of my dreams.

I guess I just wanted to say that while we all want to just stop and throw a pity party for ourselves at times, all we can do is relish in what we do have and try to be grown-ups about it. It's what we are striving for anyway - right?

That being said, grown-ups can still jump on the bed, eat copious amounts of candy, and participate in general shenanigan-like situations.

It's Black History Month so...

2012-02-01T16:31:00.000-06:00

...leave me alone about it. Every year the same events occur to me during the month of African-American Historical reflection. All will be calm in the classroom, with the exception of muffled conversations bout the epic adventures of the weekend. Then the teacher/professor/ authoritative figure head addresses the class with a tone filled with false excitement with just a dash of sympathy.

"Today is February 1, the start of Black History Month."

And as if I had turned on my magnet pants and everyone in the room had a brain made of a metal alloy, every head instinctively turns in my direction. Do I look like an Afro-pedia filled with various black facts? I understand that my pigmentation might give the impression that it is encoded with the events of the every African-American that ever lived, but I assure you, history is not my best subject, let alone American History. I am just as confused as everyone else why other people of my race enjoy the combination Fried Chicken and waffles. Maybe we like the idea of an unhealthy brunch. I don't know where you can get Jay-Z tickets for his new tour. Try Ticketmaster. If they ever start a Brie History Month, ask as many questions as you want.

To be honest, why are we even trying to remember the history of African Americans? It isn't really glowing with America's finest hour. Oh, remember the time segregation was a reality? Here's an idea, let's dedicate and entire month to that! Remember when that woman made history sitting on a bus just like any human should have been able to do? Let's put that on a stamp.

I'm not the only one who is negatively affected by this month. Did anyone read about Don Cornelius today? I'm not going to be the one to break the news to you but let's just say Love Peace and SOOOUUULLL were not enough to get him through another February.

I hope this post didn't make anyone feel too uncomfortable but then again that's how I'll be spending the entire month.

Happy Holidays.

Awkwardness Decoded...with Codes

2012-01-12T18:54:00.000-06:00

Oh my gosh looks who's back! Again again. I like to keep everyone clamoring for more posts so they don't get bored but I will admit a 4 month or so sabbatical is a bit much.

Anyways I have good news! My life is in shambles again so you have something worthwhile to read. Nothing too bad this time but it is in fact my personal response to reverse culture shock and a lack of social ability. Let me explain.

After being in a country where I wasn't allowed to voice my opinion or even show my ankles if men were around I have adopted a new lifestyle known to me and others who listen to my drunken ramblings as the corner dust syndrome.

The way I see it there are 125 types of people in this world but only 2 types worth mentioning for this demonstration. The first is similar to the social butterfly but in my chopped and screwed language it can be referred to as the light bulb.

The light bulb has the ability to brighten any room by turning their personality and charisma on and off at any given moment. Their sheer confidence alone can turn any "event" into a "shindig" in seconds.

These people go on to be successful members of society like the cool starbucks barista or the hobo who talks to himself. They may not be successful in the traditional financial sense but they are truly rich in friendship and maybe even a little debt. Either way they are a measurable strand in the fabric of community.

These are the type of people I idolize because they are able to express their thoughts and interact with others and maybe even have relationships. Sounds like a fulfilling well rounded functional life.

This isn’t to say the life of a corner dust isn't fulfilling but - let me explain myself first.

In contrast to the light bulb the corner dust is just some pathetic speck of a thing that lingers in those ever luminous parties hosted by the light bulb. Sure they have friends but they were probably acquired on some default bylaw of a social organization that the corner dust accidentally signed up for. Now it must resort to poorly decorating the background whilst its peers "shoot the breeze" and commit "small talk" - the ever elusive realms of communication that the corner dust has yet to grasp.

Don’t get me wrong the corner dust still has a lot to offer - maybe even more than the light bulb at times because I never said they were the brightest intellectually. I mean, look in your respective room right this instant and see if you have any corner dust. Is this the first time you've noticed it? Why? Because there is no point in acknowledging its existence because it doesn't seem to want or need to be in your life. You probably won’t benefit from it.

But a closer look at that room debris will reveal treasures. Like a shiny dime, a somehow not stale cheeto, or a strand of hair from that guy/girl that you used to play Xbox with and had a crush on. You know, real gems.

Had I not instructed you to venture to that discrete space, how would you have never been able to afford 1/10 of a ticket at the dollar cinema or enhanced your awkward shrine of someone you knew a few years back?

You’re welcome.

But the point of this exercise is to show that corner dust does not have the ability to express itself because it has come to the realization that it is meant to be ignored. It would speak up if it had a voice of its own but it has somehow been suffocated with loose wool fabric from your favorite winter blanket. (I'm sure I lost the analogy here somewhere but bare with me.)

Corner dust isn't a jerk for keeping these nuggets of gold from you or the rest of the world it just figured you didn't want them.

So for a few tips of recognizing people with these characteristics always look for those who plant themselves along the wall of gatherings of more than 3 people sometimes even literally in the corner just staring into the abyss hoping that someone will ask their opinion on whatever topic they are probably eavesdropping on.

Or perhaps ask them where they bought their fashionable new blouse or even what's up because most likely they have been rehearsing this conversation in their head for weeks and are just dying to shout their opinion about something. Just engage these pathetic wallflowers and you might find they have something beautiful hidden inside.

I should know - I've been there.

And consider this an informal public apology to those I've snubbed while trying to get a handle on my personal shortcomings. I'm new here remember?

Finally! the Summer Edition (Brought to you in August)

2011-08-20T22:51:00.028-05:00

I know I know, It's been a while. Just put the toaster down and get out of the bathtub, your reason for living is back.

As a side note I also have produced a new website thingy that is slightly more philosophical and possibly less entertaining but I'll do my best. And I cannot guarantee that there won't be any spelling errors so forgive me and my 3rd grade understanding of basic spelling once again. Now back to business.

This post was supPOST (pun) to be up about 3 months ago so pretend that its the first day of summer and not the first day of school for some of you. Enjoy.

My semester long ( and also summer long) sabbatical was brought on by a multitude of hardships like "college is hard" and "I just ripped my pants" and "WHO ATE ALL MY RICE-A-RONI!?! I NEED MY SAN FRANCISCO TREAT!" which sent me into an internal spiral of depression which has only recently been cured with the ice cream. This whole allergic crap is really effecting my well-being apparently.

But in that time at least 34 awesomely ridiculous things have occurred in which I feel I should alert my friends via website.

One thing that is quite fantastic is that the calendar struck June, which means I'm out of school, jobless, and waiting for the next stage of my life. Instead of sitting around like I have done for the past 13 summers, I have taken it upon myself to continue to learn things!!!

As crazy as this sounds, I have already gained a working knowledge of psychology, international markets, and have a loose handle on 2 languages.

Before you hit your stumble button, this whole thing is not how I am bettering myself, but how everyone can make the most of their summers instead of being bed ridden. Here's some personal stories that might enhance the next few weeks for ya - TRY THEM ALL!

TURN SOMEONE INTO A RACIST

I know, we are starting off pretty controversial, but racism can be fun when used to make others mildly uncomfortable, but also sometimes genocide when taken to the extreme*. So when my brain hurts too much too read, I go outside and what do you know there are tons of people out there, waiting for me to interact and potentially entertain.

Near my local grocer there is a wonderful establishment that offers skin tone alterations for a more bronzed look via tanning bed. Based on my genetic gifts given to me by my forefathers, I have never used these services - but those who work at this cosmetic parlor are not privileged with this information.

So when someone as hot chocolatey as me walks in into South Beach Tan, you can expect a multitude of hilarity to ensue.

And then watch as somone tries to explain to you your racial situation in the most PC way possible. But if they say "well thats cuz you're black" you just made a racist!

CLEAN YOUR ROOM

WOW there Brie, I thought this was supposed to be a fun guide to summer!!!! Yeah yeah yeah, but there is always some work that needs to be done.

To be honest I have no idea on how to coach anyone on how to clean a room. I have studied this outdated art under many gurus such as my mom or even a group of gay guys on a makeover show - I miss you Carson.

And even though I understand the basics (pick things up off the ground, put them in a better place) there is still something being lost in translation in which I find myself engaging in a completely different activity.

3 hours later......

CREATE A FALSE REALITY

Everyone knows that I'm not too outgoing when it comes to meeting new people or doing anything for that matter. But on those rare occasions I find myself in a situation where I want to be apart of something bigger than myself, like a community - and then it blows up in my face.

My most recent humiliation was at a high school believe it or not when parents of the high schools - and their older children who have a limited social schedule - watched a preview of the band show. I'm not much for paying attention so I spent most of the time looking around at the crowd.

And that's when I saw my Kindergarten teacher sitting like 4 rows in front of me!!!! She might be one of the greatest women on the planet and I wanted to show her how awesome I've become and also how she let me down by not teaching me the fundamentals of spelling (I'm sorry GUMS).

So after the mind-blowing band performance (seriously, high school bands are da bomb) I rushed over to the woman who started off my learning career, the lady who taught me how to count, the person who let me take naps in school!!!!!

I rushed up to her and gave her a hug out of instinct and it was returned whole hearted-ly. She asked me how I was and I told her all about college and next semester's Indian Adventure. She asked me about my family and I spilled all their beans too. As we were talking I couldn't help but compliment her on how great she looked - she always seemed kinda - droopy - but now she looked like 20 years younger.

And that's when I saw my REAL Kinder-G teacher stroll on by.

I had many questions like "who the heck is THIS woman? why did she ask me such personal questions? Does SHE know me too?."

None of these were answered.

GROW A LADY BEARD

My mom did.

***UPDATE****

ACCEPT DEFEAT

Based on my lack of enthusiasm for this post over the summer, many of you know that I did not keep up with pretty much my only responsibility to the world - making people giggle with theirs eyes on this here website thingy. The good news is that I can give you an actual account of what really happened this summer.

*I do not condone genocide and it is no laughing matter. But mild racism is.

I Can Fix That: Relationshiping for Guys

2011-02-15T22:13:00.001-06:00

Once again recent events in my life have prompted me into thinking the rest of the world, or at least the 6 people who read this, have similar encounters in their lives. After years of ass-backward relationship type situations with the opposite gender, I have compiled my most troublesome moments along with remedies in case you should find yourself in the same situation. And this advice is going to be pretty legit because I recently read like 12 seventeen magazine articles and they TOTALLY know all about guys – and dramarama!!

Courting a Young Lass

Here you are on a simple Tuesday afternoon, looking over your Biology notes before class even starts, just to make sure you retain your perfect 4.0 average in the class, when you look up at the clock to make sure you have enough time to memorize Meiosis when you catch something from the corner of your eye. The most beautiful earth inhabitant has entered the room, and is in your class! From the moment she clumsily stumbled into the classroom with arms fully occupied with textbooks and novels about angsty teenage witches and wizards, you knew your heart would never be the same. And just as the gods would have it, her seat is directly across from yours! Tis a good day indeed.

But do you even deserve this specimen of perfection? If you ever hope to one day procreate with something as magnificent as this new found love, you will need to get to know her on an intellectual, social, and personal level. This can be done through healthy reoccurring conversation over a period of time until a friendship develops and there is a comfortable aura when the two of you interact.

This will not be accomplished by establishing your dominance in the class by yelling profanities just before winking in the young ladies direction and ‘shooting the finger guns’ at her. She will most definitely take offense to the language and assume you have no home training. This will not be remedied by initiating a game of footsie for the remainder of class. Despite the look in her eye that looks like she is trying to remember if humans go through a haploid stage, she is contemplating whether or not to end the game of footsie by “footsie-ing” your jingle berries with immaculate force.

Asking for a First Date

If you have made it to this stage then you have successfully gained the young woman’s trust and asking the gal out on a date should be a breeze. Because you have already declared your love for her in your mind, you want to make sure every moment of your date is memorable in the best possible way. Before asking her in a nice and polite manner, make sure you have all the details planned out in case there any questions. Just a few tips on making the date the best it can be:

- Location: make sure the location is not too far from where either of you live. Your date might feel out of her element if it is more than an hour away. Across state trips are out of the question.

- Event: Make sure the event is casual enough so your date will feel comfortable and not out of place. It is stressful enough being on a first date, there doesn't need to be any added pressures.

- Time: No overnight or weekend long trips. Period.

Warning: Failure to utilize these tips might lead you to believe that it is perfectly normal to invite your new love interest to an across state wedding four hours away for a first date weekend getaway. No matter how much you sell it, it’s not going to work.

With all these tools in hand, the actual asking of the date should commence. As long as she says yes, you’re in.

If the love of your life so chooses that the relationship is not ready for a casual outing, fear not. Continue with your friendly antics until comfort ensues for the lass. Do not under any circumstances take her rejection as a hint that she likes to play hard to get and begin formulating a plan as to how to cajole her into mistakenly going on a date with you. This will result in your date fleeing first chance she gets as well as a scheduled junk punch next time she sees you.

Date Worthy Conversation

Here is a list of topics that are suitable for stimulating conversation that will impress your date as well as an example of topics that will send her brain spiraling into a pit of self-loathing for ever having thought you were worth interacting with for more than a billisecond.

- Career

- Humor

- Politics

- Lame

Handling Money

There is no possible way that you could mess this up – except one. Instead of allowing her to pay for the meal or participated activity, do not insist that you use her dollar for a riddle and proceed to rip it for the punch line. This joke is in such bad taste, I have chosen the Internets as my main source to ruin its reign by telling you, the masses, the riddle and its horrifying answer.

On the one dollar bill you will find a dead president, a dairy product and a movie title. What are they?

The subsequent answers are to follow, George Washington, Half & Half (rip the dollar), and Gone with the wind (throw the halves to the wind.)

Please stop this joke; there are so many other ways to use the dollar in this economy like getting 1/3 gallon of gas or paying a highway toll or leaving a terrible tip. Just so many options.

Ending the Date

After driving the lady home in a safe manner, tell her what a great time you had and if possible, suggest another glorious evening together.

Do not sit in her car after she drove you to and from the venue and wait for a kiss.

Hopefully your Valentine's date went better than this.

As a completely related topic, please like my website thingy on facebook to get updates at the fan page titled "Incoherent Compliments."

Ouch! My Dignity!

2011-01-31T14:29:00.000-06:00

Before we get into the giggles, I would like for who are well practiced in the English language and have a keyboard to consider leaving a comment. Seeing as though 85% of my self-esteem is derived from the approval of others, the boost would be much needed. :)

With that being said, here is a story about how I lost a piece of my dignity hours ago!

As some of you may know, my current residence is in the great cornstate. And as of late, the weather has been very fickle. For the past few days, the weather has gone from about -10 degrees to 40 degrees but to put it in more relatable terms, "all humans should stay indoors until this mini-ice age is over" to "all hale the glorious sun! Praise the rays that demolish the evil ice dust!!"

Being the crazy person that I am, I typically enjoy when the freeze mister comes to town. Except for today.

I had been cooped up in classes or the library all day and because I have some sense about myself, I didn’t waste time in the morning by waiting until 8:58am to see if it was cold outside or not. I face the day without a preface, just like any champion would.

(Picture here later. maybe)

So when I went outside for the first time, I was filled with child-like joy to find that it was snowing. I am still new to this phenomenon that beautiful crystals elegantly float from the above abyss and place themselves on the earth, thus coating it with a thin layer of joy. The amount of beauty that the campus gains from this natural occurrence is indescribable. While trying to fight back tears of joy, I made my way over to my next place of business, but embarrassment would soon stop me in my tracks.

Because I did not take the time to check the forecast, my footwear was less on the practical side and more on the fashionable side. I'm sorry if I want to get good use out of my inside boots that were approximately 40% cheaper than my winter approved snow boots. I like to save those for a rainy day (pun intended.)

As I basked in the winter wonderland that was forming all around me, I forgot about the lack of traction my shoes failed to provide me. My happiness was taken from me as quickly as I received it as I fell on the newly fallen snow. There are several reasons why it was the worst moment in my life.

1) I was alone. Friendship is nice for several reasons. You are guaranteed gifts for birthdays and most holidays. Being distracted in class is a breeze with at least one friend around. And when embarrassment looms over your head like a cloud of eminent depression and woe, friends are there to laugh with you until your self-esteem reaches a healthy level. In this current event, there was no one to remove me from the cold grasp of public shaming, and yet I did not cry. Point for Brie!

2) No one acknowledged it. Not a laugh. Not a point. Not even an “are you okay young and feeble being? Because I am walking right next to you and I have at least an ounce of moral fiber, I will risk being late to my next appointment as to assure you are able to continue to your destination.” Nothing. I felt like I was invisible but also, I kind of pretended it didn't happen until...

3) The snow residue. Not only did I not realize that my butt had displayed on it my lack of coordination and gracefulness, but when I sat down, I melted the snow, thus providing a puddle in my seat and a wet spot on my pants. Good thing I wasn't planning on making new friends today.

P Squareds

2011-01-23T14:18:00.004-06:00

Yeah yeah yeah, you're looking at the title of this thinking I had a seizure while writing because it doesn't make any sense. Well SHUT UP because it does. P-squared is what I call things that irritate me, much like "pet peeves" but ironically, that phrase is something that irritates me so I shortened it to PxP or P-squareds. Get it? Great.

I enjoy most things in life and generally thank whatever created the universe for letting me live each and every day. But there are some things that make me want to surgically remove my ears or bluntly bash my eyes blind or render my olfactory nerve useless. Here's a short list of examples.

Also, this post containts no pictures so, sorry.

1) The smell of old people.

I love the elderly. They are like treasure chest of knowledge and wisdom nuggets that are distributed across the globe for me to discover and pluck of their intelligence before the world plucks them out of existence. I have been fortunate to know both sets of my grandparents as well as some of my great-grandparents and I even have chosen to follow in my Mudear's footsteps as a humanitarian of sorts. But with every superhero power there is a downfall and with the knowledge of a thousand books I guess you have to smell like a thousand armpits. I don't know if it’s the bengay or the denture gum that emits the Brie-repellant, but on some days I can't even bring myself to hug my relatives for fear of contracting the offensive odor. To give a better description of the scent, imagine a delicious peach being left out in the sun for an entire summer untouched with the exception of being basted with vinegar every other afternoon. Take that same fermented peach, juice it, and bottle it. Then sell it at your local department store under the name "White Diamonds."

2) People touching me

Each morning I have strict regimen of a 45-min shower, mainly consisting of me standing there, marinating in a moisturizer, followed by a skin hydration ceremony with three different types of lotions. I enjoy knowing that if Hannibal lecter used my skin as sweater material, he would confuse the texture of being that of a 600-thread count Egyptian cotton silk blend. But it would be difficult for him to obtain such an epidermal treasure because I hate people touching me. Maybe I was brought up with different morals, but hugging, cuddling, shoulder grazing, even space invasion, sends me into an anger spiral which may result in a brief human contact interaction with my fist and another’s face. I just don’t see why an audio conversation has to include social appropriate hand and small of the back molestation. Don't touch me unless I initiate!

3) An Interrupted Nap

When I take naps the world is at peace. Crime rates decrease; foods taste better, and once someone told me that gas went down to $1.50. I sleep so the rest of the world can enjoy a few hours of joy in the mid-to-late afternoon timeslot. So if you ever see me snoozing on a park bench or catching some zzz’s in a tree, just smile to yourself and go try and fill up your gas tank. You’re welcome world.

I also take naps because my recent energy intake has been low due to my college diet of eating all the food I buy at the grocery store in the first 3 days and then having to resort to being ‘inventive’ with things like saltine soup , honey butter sandwiches, and my all time favorite, rice plus anything casserole. There’s also this whole thing about how my blood refuses to absorb iron or carry the burden of lugging oxygen around my circulatory system because it’s cutting into its autobiography writing time or whatever. The point is if I don’t take naps, I will be as useful as a dead person, because I will in fact be dead.

But whatever you do, never ever NEVER attempt to wake me up. Why? because another thing that happens when I asleep is that my DNA make-up transforms into something similar to cross between a wolverine and a kangaroo who has recently been injected with pure testosterone. I lose consciousness and control of my body so I don’t particularly know what happens but I’m sure it does something like the following. I once had a friend who did not know of my condition. All the cops could find of them was their shoelace, covered in blood. So try not to wake me up.

I'll try to wrap this up because I have a bunch more but am sick of typing. But three big ones on my list that are worth listing include people who don't read my website thingy, intolerance, and hypocrites. (Ha-ha, get it?)

Spanish Eyes

2011-01-13T19:21:00.003-06:00

I've been told quite a few times in my life that I have pretty amazing eyes. I mean, I was once in a relationship(?) with someone only because they enjoyed looking into my eyes. Of course who wants to date someone that shallow, so I kicked him to the curb. This is all so you can realize just how special my ocular orifices are.

In being so special, you would think that I would take care of them. You would think that I would go out of my way to preserve their beauty, or at least take the basic steps of making sure the eye repo man doesn't come knocking on my door.

It is true that sometimes I have been known to go the extreme when it comes to my eyes, like wearing non-prescription fashion specs. I do this for several reasons. 1) I like how I look in them B) They make me feel slightly more professional on those extra professional days iii) I am terrified of eye paper cuts.

This last bullet point usually gets giggles. hahah PAPER IN YOUR EYE!! laugh now. I didn't think so. So I make sure this life tragedy never happens to me by applying the necessary protective gear when I wake up on the occasional morning and feel that it is going to be extra papery.

Other than this, my eye care is sparse at best. Perfect example, today at around 5pm.

In an attempt to reduce my frivolous spending on exotic Asian restaurants, I recently purchased $50 worth of groceries. (To me it seems like more money, but I'm sure it will all balance itself out in the coming weeks or else I'm back on the Thai food bandwagon.) So today I decided to put my culinary skills to work and make some homemade chili.

It was all going pretty well, cook the ground pork, drain the fat, add the beans, the tomatoes, and the chili seasoning pack. Let simmer for 15 minutes. Seemed simple enough. But good ole' self decided that the $1.12 chili seasoning pack did not have enough, well, seasoning. So I went to the cabinet in which all the flavor possibilities imaginable are kept.

I just stared at all the options that lay before me for a good 3 minutes. Sure I could go the safe way and add some pepper and garlic powder, but what if..? What if I added Cinnamon and nutmeg..... and it was delicious!?! What if I entered a bowl of vanilla mint chili beans in the next cook-off?

And after my arm got burnt with some chili that escaped from the overflowing pot I quickly snapped back to reality and followed through with the task at hand. And I didn't even use my self-invented suggestions - I just went with some Cayenne pepper.

Anyone whose ever watched me try to open anything knows that caps were made to keep me out. Even armed with a deadly weapon, say a knife, I still can't crack the code of "push down and twist" or "open tab" or simply "twist." Its black magic as far as I'm concerned.

And this pepper cap was no different. With a good go at it with a knife, aimlessly stabbing at the top tap, I gave up and tried to pull the cap and deal with an open container of deadly spice. And this is just what happened. I spilled it. Not much, but enough to make it look like a red sand desert had sprung up overnight in our open utensil drawer.

Looking at the mess the only thing I could think to do was blow the pepper out. With a deep breath I blew into the drawer and sent a billion particles of flavorful inferno into the air. Of course these particles had to go somewhere. Some of them landed on the floor. I'm sure some of them even landed into the chili which was know far beyond done. But I would say that at least 999,999,900 of the billion particles landed in my eyes.

Have you ever wondered what it felt like to have tiny demons salsa dancing on your corneas? Or maybe having someone pour a thin layer of lava on your pupil? You can experience the sensation by simply loading up you eye lids with Cayenne pepper and I can guarantee you will not question that the feeling is equivalent to the previously mentioned scenarios.

On the plus side the chili was good.

A Holiday Story: Part 1 of 1000

2010-12-26T22:35:00.000-06:00

Firstly, MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE! And happy other holidays that are just as equally as important but too complicated for me to spell. I hope everyone's December has treated them with much love and expensive gifts, or at least one of those.

Mine is going pretty swell, with the exception of my heathenistic urge to strangle my only brother every time he ribs on me for expressing my true self, like when I laugh, breathe, or talk in a British accent - which is amazazing by the way - but I'm rambling.

Because everyday of my life this week has been filled with blog worthy tales, I'm spreading them out in a mini-series of Christmas stories. Many of them aren't even Christmas themed so don't worry if you are uncomfortable with Christian based epics. Even still, I might forget many of the stories or even get bored so this whole series might end three stories in. With that long introduction, I give you "The Missing Cell phone."

For those of you who do not know enough about me to keep track of the most important dates in my life, my birthday, which is the same day as Magic Day, is on November 14. Since my latest age advancement, I have been trying to be more adult-y. It doesn't help that I say words like adult-y, but I'm doing my best.

Some of the new hobbies that I have tried to enjoy include news article reading, drinking coffee made of less than 50% sugar and creamer, and not crying when things go wrong, like when my shoe gets untied en route to class and I know that everyone that passes me is thinking, "looks like that chick missed the short bus."

I've been doing pretty well with these (Except the whole coffee thing. Technically its sweet cream with coffee flavoring. And technically I shouldn't even be drinking that because I risk hives with every mouth burning swig of the concoction.) but I still haven't mastered one of the basics of life that even stupid lazy cats can do - remember where I put things.

Yes, it seems like an easy task, but there is a cycle that I go through when I realize that I have misplaced an object. Here's an example:

And this happened about 54 times this week. I've lost everything from my souvenir bag to my sister and I usually find them in places that are normal and in the ordinary. Yesterday…

…I misplaced my cellphone. I figured this out while I was walking in a crowded theme park Christmas night. At first I was an adult and did the mature thing and retraced my footsteps and the last place I had it was my back pocket. Checked it, nothing. Then the usual cycle set in.

But I stopped short of crying, and realized that there was a simple way to finding the missing cellular device. I had my sister call it. Now here is where it gets embarrassing.

Good news is I found it. And so did a family behind me. Instead of placing the phone in my back pocket like I originally thought, I had slipped it between my jeans and my leggings. And yes, I do wear leggings under my jeans about 40% of the time because I am scared of getting pants-ed but if I do, I will be ready.

Anyway – jeans, cellphone, leggings, public embarrassment – when the phone went off, it started to vibrate as well as put on a light show in my pants that was less impressive that the fireworks presentation that we had just witnessed, but definitely more entertaining to the two people behind me.

They must have seen it go off before I was able to feel it because I heard them burst into laughter and point at my legs, and since my figure is fantastic and I have the fashion sense of insert famous designer name here, I ruled out those as being the butt of their joke. It wasn’t until the vibrations started to gyrate my middle thigh that I realized where my phone had gone.

Oh but the fun didn’t stop there. My new task was to try and figure out how to get my phone out of my pants without falling behind from my family pack- because I wasn’t about to tell them that I had to stop transit in order to fish some electronic flashing vibrating thing out of my pants – or make it so obvious that the family behind me would have a story to tell at the Christmas party they were going to later that night.

While the Christmas pants light up show was still going on, I reached in my jeans with both hands and searched the place, all the while my audience behind me was enjoying the whole seen. After a full minute of searching, I retrieved my cell phone, but lost my dignity. Oh well, at least I didn’t cry!

Gluttony Getting the Best of Me

2010-12-02T20:55:00.000-06:00

Remember that time I used to write things here? Well, I sort of forgot I had classes to take. In an epic brain battle of deciding whether to become a super famous internet star or not dropping out of college, I choose the latter. Anyway, I wrote this a while back so the days might be weird.
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Hope you had a good day today. If not, this might cheer you up.

I got my first hangover last night at 11:47 pm on a Thursday. True story.

It gets worse. This wasn't caused by poor decisions with alcohol and lack of self control in an underage social scene. It was in my bed with a 32oz bag of candy accompanied by the latest episodes of The League and my oso pirata. Now let's back track this mofo titanic style! (I'm also very tired so please excuse this poor attempt at slang.)

Two years ago I found the holy grail of candies. It’s so fantastic, I made my own advertisement for it because it is pretty low key.

And this magic used to be available everywhere, in cornstate at least. To be honest, if I really sit down and think about it, this sweetened masterpiece might contribute to 23% of the reason why I choose to go to school here. You just can't find quality servings of copious amounts of sugar in bbqstate.

But alas, my interstate travels led me to cornstate, where the stuff pretty much grows on trees. My discovery of infinite candy made me feel like if the Trix bunny had finally killed those maniacal children and located the factory in which they made the Trix products. It would be just me and the sweet flavors of high fructose corn syrup and artificial fruit flavors.

But within months of moving to cornstate, the company decided to cut off the entire state and leave me on an island without the single most joyous edible delight in American history. That is until the woman who gave me life supplied me with the reason why I strive to live - candy.

On a simple Tuesday, I opened my mailbox to an overflow of my sweet-tooth's preference. Watermelon, green apple, blueberry. The gang was all there. As I wiped the tears away from my eyes, I gathered my treasures and made my way to my room.

If you look at my resume, you will find words like charismatic, stealthy, and jack of all trades. But nowhere on that 12-page description will you find "has self control." I don't know who let me bring that entire bag of candy into my room and left me to my lonesome, but they are the one I'm putting the blame on. What happened to those 19 5inch licorice sweets was gruesome. I devoured them mercilessly and didn't look back. For a moment there I thought I heard screams coming from the bag, for the previous victim's peers had seen their fate.

Well my gluttony finally caught up to me 3 episodes deep in my latest TV addiction.

As I attempted to break my lethargic streak and stand up to finally accomplish something for the day, all the sugar I had consumed Oregon trailed it straight to my recently numbed brain. I didn’t stand a chance. The newly converted glucose began punching my optic chiasm. My eyes then refused anymore torture by rejecting horrific beams of light being emitted by my 30 watt in the far corner of the room.

And something that is not helping my head throbbing is Duffy performing her single “well well well” live on Jimbo Fal (Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. If you don’t watch it, start.)

Have I learned my lesson? Of course not! its candy. I will continue to ingest until there isn’t anything left and am scavenging my apartment for scraps that might have flown off my mouth in the recent massacres while carrying the extra 13 lb I have earned.

Life well spent.

Procrastination!!!!

2010-11-24T15:43:00.000-06:00

I've been working on a new post and im doing the pictures. But while we wait, here is something random:

You're welcome.

Letters to Life: Money

2010-11-04T02:27:00.004-05:00

Dear My Bank,

Have you read the constitution lately? You know, the one made in the United States? Because last time I checked, it basically told me I can do whatever I want. Like if I want to own bear arms, I can.

If I don’t want to kill people, I don’t have to.

And if I want to run through a mall screaming “FREE APPLE PIE AT THE MASSAGE CHAIR STORE” knowing full well that there isn’t any pie, maybe not even a massage chair store in that mall, I can because I have the permission from the constitution.

But somehow I missed in your fine print that you do not follow the rules of America. Are you even an American bank? Because if not I'll tell my friends that I have an international bank account and I will earn more respect from them than I ever imagined.

This is the only explanation I can give to the fact that you will not let me express my creativity by nicknaming my bank account "The Money Pot." Is this so offensive that it will cause all other accounts within a 2 mile radius to lock, thus creating a mini recession in my town?

Will this pseudonym cause the dollar to once again devalue on the global economic scale until we finally ask a North African country for a loan?

Will this nomenclature be the fuel needed by Dick Cheney's monkey heart to keep him alive for the next millennium?

I didn't think so Bank. Are you just upset that you didn't get the idea years ago to name all bank accounts with this sweet name? You don't have to punish me just because my TAG teacher told me I have the creative capability of a rhino shooting condiments out of its horn onto a canvas to recreate edible renditions of work from the late Monet.

The least you could do is to feed my externally proclaimed greatness by allowing me to put my money in the correctly labeled "money pot" and not XXXXXXXXX8549 because when I shout that out loud I get stares - although sometimes a crowd of people with pen and paper in hand circle around and ask me to repeat it because I don't always remember to say the X's in place of my real account number.

One more thing, why is it that this name that is relavent to money is not valid but when I try "bacon hat" and "rusty mushroom" they are fair game?

Do you know how impractical it would be to have a bacon hat? You would eat it before you got outside. Then you would have a head covered in the shame that is bacon grease and no protection from the elements.

And mushrooms can't even rust!!! Seriously bank, read a book.

Anyway this is my formal goodbye from you bank and your pathetic services. You have forced me to withdraw all my monies and become a financial nomad, wandering the street corners for someone, preferably a bank, who will appreciate me and my infinite investment possibilities. If I can't trust you with my imaginative thoughts, I can't trust you with my $14.73 balance. You’re missing out.

Your displeased customer,
Brie

I Can Fix That: Chips and Salsa

2010-10-29T13:52:00.002-05:00

Chips and salsa. Might as well be called crispy delicious and liquid delicious. Why wouldn't you want your taste buds to marinate in the angelic flavors of the traditional Mexican appetizer and sports food staple?

Because it is embarrassing. There are too many variables going into the task of successfully preparing, serving, and eating CAS (chips and salsa - try and keep up).

Luckily I have recently made every wrong move when it comes to this particular eating experience only to acquire the knowledge of proper etiquette so I can pass it on to you, stranger.

Preparation:

The best thing to do in these first steps is to keep calm. I understand that this is hard to do, especially when there is so much to look forward to in the near future. Before you get the ingredients out, you need to prepare the necessary vessels that will hold the precious food things.

It’s best to use a bowl for the salsa and a plate for the chips – that is if you are at a fancy dinner party and plan on eating this meal with a fork and knife. You eat those chips right out the bag like a caveman would have had he had the chance to taste greatness.

Get over yourself

But as a caution when pouring the salsa into to the bowl, don’t be too overzealous with this step because it could result in spillage. And then who is going to clean it up?

Well not you of course, you are the one who got the courage to burn enough ATP to move your skeletal muscles and bones in a fashion that would shimmy you over to the room where these foods are kept to attempt to make a meal for you and your loved ones.

You’ve done enough buddy, take a breather.

Okay after the salsa is good to go, test the serving temperature and make sure it is not freezing because that tastes like salsa ice cream and as unbelievable as it may sound, it tastes like life is angry at you.

If it is at a lower temp than you would like, put it in the microwave for I don’t know, 1 minute or so. If you take it out and it’s hot, you messed up. BIG TIME. But there is an easy fix - just throw it away and go get some more at the store.

Chip Selection:

This is a careful procedure; like Operation without the annoying buzz sound. That is unless you start smashing all the chips with ferocious fists thus causing chip shrapnel to fly around the room and the buzz sound will be in the form of friends yelling at your ignorance.

And quite frankly if that’s how you take chips out of a bag, you don’t deserve the CAS experience and you can just leave.
Ok we got rid of that guy. To be honest, just choose a chip that looks slightly smaller than your mouth as to avoid playing chip Tetris and trying to fit the chip in at the perfect angle.

Transportation:

After dipping the chip into the salsa at the desired depth and collecting all of the salsa-y goodness your champion chip can handle, you have to bring the combination to your oral orifice.

Wow……..easy does it………EASY………that’s it just take it slow…….. aaaaannnd you spilled it. Okay don’t panic. It’s only on your shirt. This is easy. Make that your designated salsa shirt. Boom, now you’re dressed for the party!

Mastication:

Here we are, you have dressed for this occasion, you have chosen your first chip, and everyone else is cleaning up your mess because you are mentally superior to them.

Now chomp on that chip so your life will be propelled into a world where there are no international conflicts and every polar bear has a full square mile to do whatever the duck it wants to do. Of course, this euphoria will only last until the last crunch of the selected chip persists.

So how do you continue this CAS high? By shoveling as many chips slathered in salsa as you can in your mouth as loud as you can. This is key. The louder the crunch, the more peaceful the world is, the icier the polar bear world is.

Congratulations to you for single handedly curing the world of all its turmoil whilst enjoying its simple pleasures.

But what’s this? Some of your more envious friends will try to silence your diplomatic chews because they are not worthy of holding such power in their mortal jaws. So they will mask their jealously in requests that you are “making too much noise” or “chewing like a llama” which is a really weird thing to say because you shouldn't stalk llamas to observe their eating habits anyway.

If for some reason these friends tell you that your mastication process is slightly above the accepted decibel level for such an activity, there is only one solution. Chew louder. Jealously melts ice caps.

The Second Helping:

Sometimes during the chip selection process, you will let your guard down and find your hands have enveloped a chip big enough to serve the other chips on. You wipe away a bead of sweat from your brow due to the stress you have brought upon yourself by making this fatal mistake.

You have been in this situation in the past only to find that you must result to double dipping.

The first go at the ol’salsa bowl is a breeze. You even consider high-fiving that jerk who tried to start WWIII and hates polar bears. However, when you withdraw your partially eaten chip away from your mouth, you see that you have only mustered up the gall to remove only 20% of it. Shame

Doesn't this chip look like Robert de Niro?

So now you have a tectonic plate in your hand as dry as the Sahara Desert, pleading to be drenched in a salsa wonderland. So you go for it. And everyone just saw you. How do you back out of this?

Easy.

Say it’s your birthday. No one will scold an aging gentleman/gentlegal. And if they do – spit in the salsa. Then you can have all the salsa you want for the next 4 minutes if that because let’s face it, you are going to nearly drink that stuff.

Good for you. And happy birthday.

In Mourning in the Morning

2010-10-28T03:03:00.007-05:00

It's currently 2:35 at morning and I am thoroughly depressed. Not because my life is filled with the woes of never sustaining a successful relationship with a male human. Not because my dreams are slowly drifting away from my ambitious grasp as tragically as Mufasa slipped away from Simba. It's because I can no longer drink milk.

WHAT!?!

Sure, your first reaction is, "Why Brie, why don't you just pop a couple of help-me-eat-lactose pills and stop bothering me about your problems?" I have tried this method. Because like you, arrogant stranger, I thought that I was lactose intolerant. This was when I was young and naive.

The truth is, I cannot drink milk - because I am allergic. A moment of silence please.

Oh ok, or you could just laugh at how dramatic I am being. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?

No whipped cream. No milkshakes. No yogurt. No cheese (this doesn't bother me so much).

You still don't get it do you? No ice cream. POP QUIZ: Why was Hitler so evil? Because he was never allowed the delight that ice cream can bring a child of 12. As a result he killed people who were able to enjoy the splendor of crystallized ice suspending milk proteins and sugar and a dash of vanilla any day of the week. Don't quote me on that.

You like Christmas? Of course you do. Because the combination of heavy cream, cream, milk, eggs, nutmeg, and half a bottle of rum reminds you of how Jesus saved the world. But now Christmas will kill me if I try to enjoy it. Even Sandy Claws himself travels house to house chugging as much milk as he can before Rudolph complains about back pain from the added calories he has to drag on his transatlantic trek. If milk makes Sandy Claws happy, why can't I enjoy it. Is it because I'm Black? <<< It's ok to laugh at this.

But it isn't all bad in soon-to-be calcium deficient town. Now I get the chore of attempting to scrub hives off my body with my bare hands. I wish I had bear hands. Curse you homophones!

And you heard me right - hives. HIVES. No better way to let the world know you let your deadly milk addiction control you like having red circles of mockery blotching your skin like a make-up job done by a five-year-old hopped up on lucky charms.

So as I sit here contemplating how I am going to live the rest of my life without milk while scratching vigorously at every inch of my body, (no you don't get it - EVERY INCH. Under my nails, my auricles, my eyelids people, this is serious), you enjoy neglecting that delicious vessel of calcium protein juice you stow in your fridge.

Footnote: If anyone is a doctor, how long do I have to live?

Letters to Life: Food

2010-10-26T16:58:00.001-05:00

Dear Cheese,

I have a confession to make. I’ve been living a lie. I once thought that I loved you. I told everyone about how great you were in and on any meal type I had planned thoughout the day.

My heart would skip a beat when I would read on a menu that you were going to make an appeance on my plate, be it in a pile of shredded wonderment or seemlessly hiding in the main course like a ninja.

But I’m not the only one to blame for this love lost. I have only seen one side of you for the past 19 years - until now.

Sure there have been times as a child when I would step away from my normal daily intake of a block of mild cheddar and journey to the realm of string cheesery. But It always let me down. You let me down. And yet I would try again.

Next I tried a more humble route. A cheese with a sutble flavor and a track record for being delicious amoung adults and children with sophisticated tastes - cottage cheese.
I quickly discovered I can only bare the undelightful combination of gritty milk clusters slathered in sour protein juice if and only if it is accompanied by a mouthful of the acidic flavors of pineapple. Pathetic.

Ever so recently I once again made my way over to the dairy aisle with hope of discovering a new cheese that would send my taste buds on a tanalizing adventure. Due to recent news articles and about 12 hours of watching the food network, I had enough information to know that feta cheese was all the rage - and fads always lead to the best things right? Right?

Right?

This expierence taught me to never eat feta cheese, follow fads, or read news articles.

(I don’t how you cajoled an entire nation to think that it is socially acceptable to put feta in salads, sandwhiches, or even cereals, but if you can manage that, I’m pretty sure that you have used some similar ‘cheese magic’ to convince me of wanting you atop all of my foods. Tisk tisk, but also, touche.)

But all this trial-and-error does not amount to the personal torture chamber I found myself locked in between the hours of 9 and noon last tuesday. Alas, the theme of my cooking class that day was cheese. And, being a previous advocate for you and your cheesy friends, I was excited. But after tasting an excuciating 14 or 15 cheese flavors later, I wanted to dump my stomach out like when a fashionista inverts her purse to find her eyeliner. Needless to say it didn’t end well.

Blue cheese? REALLY? Who has ever come up to you on the street and said:
“man, I like you, but you’re missing something……….MOLD!”

No one in the history of life enjoys eating mold. Stop it.

And I also got ahold of your old high school pal Limburger. Next time you see him let him know that if I ever want the inside of my mouth to smell like a swamp marinated sock, I’ll eat a swamp marinated sock.

So here I am at the end of this road knowing that I can only tolerate mild cheedar cheese only with the occasional Italian ninja cheese that I find lurking in my infinte intake of pasta.

Forever disillusioned,

Brie

P.S. Why couldn’t you at least make Brie cheese taste good?

Everything is Stupid...

2010-10-26T15:59:00.002-05:00

...That is, until you are the one to try something. Becasue let's be honest, you are the coolest person you know. You shoot awesome right out of your nostrils and leave a path of envious followers where ever you go.

So naturally you have combed the world of all that it has to offer and aquired a liking for only the latest and greatest, sometimes even the oldest and.....boldest? Anyway, you get the picture, because you are IT!

With all this power of dubbing something cool, why waste it on things that you haven't tried yet? Those things are all stupid aren't they?

What if some random joe off the street came up to you and said, "have you tried shark slamming yet? It's this great new thing where...." but by then you are already not interested be cause it is something that a) the pinnical of awesome, you, had not even heard of and b) quite frankly it sounds stupid.

But then a weird process begins. You think your life hasn't been changed in any form or fashion from this minor encounter with a crazy townsperson's rants about shark snatching or whatever he said. But for the next few weeks it's all you hear on the media screens and the word papers.

And when people ask you again if you do this new thing that is all the rage, you put on your I'm-too-good-for-this hat on and say, "No way. I'm far too busy doing other things like trying to keep all of my fantastical from falling out of my head and taxes." And just when you think you have beat them in a battle of wits and responsibility, they throw you a curveball.

"Alright, suit yourself."

This sends you into a spiral that few have been able to recover from.

FIRST OFF what makes them think I have a butler in my house putting on my suits? I have sucessfully mastered the art of dressing myself at the age of 14 and NO ONE is going to tell me otherwise!!!! I bet they don't even own a suit. Do I own a suit?

When you get off your high horse and remember that that was a figure of speech, the real spiral begins.

It starts off as a cold sweat in the dead of night and a sudden sense of alarm which causes you to wake up in the middle of the night - shivering.

Since your immune system is top quality and there isn't a chance that a god such as you would be taken down by a microscopic virus, you sift through your mental memory box and try to remember what might have caused this moment of weakness. And then it hits you...

Shark slamming.

Now you have the chore of getting out of bed at midnight 30 and absorb all the information regarding this new fad. Alas, you will conform.

But you don't just conform, you take it to the next level. After realizing that shark slamming is the art of wrestling sharks for their teeth bits, your whole life exsistence is based on mastering shark slamming. You breath it. You drink it. You really can't do either of those because you can't eat or drink a verb but you catch my drift. It's all you know.

You're so good at this the ol' SS (that's what you call it and who ever doesn't is stupid) that people ask YOUR advice on the best technique or the best place to find a shark.

The last and final step to this madness is becoming the very thing you hoped you wouldn't. The scum of society. You are now the one who asks "Have you tried shark slamming yet?"

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

The good news is you now have permission from society to snub those who do not engage in this new found activity, especially if they haven't even heard of it. As a bonus you also receive 12000 more fantastical points to fit into your already overflowing noggin.

^^^^So what's the point of all those letters and words artistically placed to form some sort of saint-like diction and syntax? This happened to me. The story is about me. Not you. You are not that awesome. Get over yourself.

But it is true. All of it. Although my downfall was blogging. Not shark slamming because that sounds stupid.