tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79201966114415455552024-02-20T12:16:02.113-08:00My So Called LifeMy Life as a wife, mother, and everything else..prepare to be amazed!Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-64947765499125229362011-09-03T05:37:00.000-07:002011-09-03T05:37:38.093-07:00In other news, my life is still ridiculous...Psst... I moved.<br />
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Also, I <a href="http://myundercoverlife.com/2011/09/03/i-didnt-know-people-didnt-know-this/">blogged</a>. See you on the other site?Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-25545751273002451112011-08-23T07:41:00.000-07:002011-08-23T07:41:25.145-07:00I'm not really sure why I thought this was a good ideaBUT. At some point between 11PM and 1 AM, I decided "you know what I need? I need more distractions! I need MORE WORK TO DO! I need my own website!"<br />
<br />
And so. Here it is: <a href="http://myundercoverlife.com/2011/08/22/first-post/">Check me out at my new place</a>.<br />
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Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-51119590513032605072011-08-16T06:14:00.000-07:002011-08-16T06:14:06.213-07:00Why do people go to BlogHer? {The picture heavy addition}Somebody asked me why I go to BlogHer. I go for some of the same reasons that most people go. To network, my blog is tiny, but I love it. This year, I even went to a session or two. AND, I went to the convention hall. While I am not REALLY the kind of blogger that this event markets to (I'm not having another baby, not even for more swag), there were companies whose products I was actually interested in.<br />
<br />
But for me, it's also about:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbm4aw14a_F7QJXjS79BYyDqsZ1h65CE2Y9c0CFXeLHNcOQJjEEXqsytkSzmbxEB1YkGAhB6Tr2fjvD-2NjQbCgZ7D42lFtQlQyCup2o1fWbsneQtSNGsqXvzJfJfNFmHyhENC2UXz76h_/s1600/IMAG0149-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbm4aw14a_F7QJXjS79BYyDqsZ1h65CE2Y9c0CFXeLHNcOQJjEEXqsytkSzmbxEB1YkGAhB6Tr2fjvD-2NjQbCgZ7D42lFtQlQyCup2o1fWbsneQtSNGsqXvzJfJfNFmHyhENC2UXz76h_/s320/IMAG0149-1.jpg" width="258" /></a></div> Taking awkward pictures with friends that I haven't seen in a while.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRBQgV2fnFcdEt2M_I47OcYcr_fsUJnAMAQgyh_hy-0ks23k105Ut3z7NdWk6k8IxFnXurSJi_CTMS-6qXdYa_SkZIMszQ_Xd5LbXYL4jdmom8VhEKN8JmpsgXfc_9PpI2VsB13di6Vzj/s1600/IMAG0153-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRBQgV2fnFcdEt2M_I47OcYcr_fsUJnAMAQgyh_hy-0ks23k105Ut3z7NdWk6k8IxFnXurSJi_CTMS-6qXdYa_SkZIMszQ_Xd5LbXYL4jdmom8VhEKN8JmpsgXfc_9PpI2VsB13di6Vzj/s320/IMAG0153-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And dancing so long/hard that I had to take off my fabulous (hot pink) shoes.<i> (Pro tip: If you're going to wear 4 and 1/2 inch heels, MAKE SURE YOU BREAK THEM IN FIRST)</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqYLBnD-HKNLi3uixOLNvgSTQwd-eCa7n3tTMUJcKOrAME4njMxvO4KTUx0PLfiR3cAhZarqJpzMj5cldeqFDvz4QmNG1Q6-ce90NXWC6o1ccianySHrMlttGBBo3V2ZBuEGqPe5rYQZh/s1600/IMAG0148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqYLBnD-HKNLi3uixOLNvgSTQwd-eCa7n3tTMUJcKOrAME4njMxvO4KTUx0PLfiR3cAhZarqJpzMj5cldeqFDvz4QmNG1Q6-ce90NXWC6o1ccianySHrMlttGBBo3V2ZBuEGqPe5rYQZh/s320/IMAG0148.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And sometimes it IS about cake. Fabulous, awesome, <a href="http://www.mamapop.com/2011/08/sparklecorn-2011-all-is-love.html">SPARKLECORN</a> cake!</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIW8hTYMdIfsR1ySix2zhgVzwqi-Gw3VvgzQzUuOk-HAX90DfW_gEuCuPHk0mDqZQGZGcG0nbB7F2ln9DeUxKQHaUPbSblZWIM609Urb07TZqOiZbgcdoVgHn1MnTZUYpXTQy3aAuZpjtL/s1600/IMAG0154-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIW8hTYMdIfsR1ySix2zhgVzwqi-Gw3VvgzQzUuOk-HAX90DfW_gEuCuPHk0mDqZQGZGcG0nbB7F2ln9DeUxKQHaUPbSblZWIM609Urb07TZqOiZbgcdoVgHn1MnTZUYpXTQy3aAuZpjtL/s320/IMAG0154-1.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wore this special for <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/EmmieJ/status/99929331349983232">@emmiej</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>And wearing shirts that say FUCK, that end up disqualifying me from taping a 2 minute video from Hillshire Farms because APPARENTLY my shirt is inappropriate, and they like to keep it PG-13.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzU69NCxY9Yszjc5zAYTv_L0LWNdegu9LYalN2A28kyv2VJ1X4Sj030t4C3_hkPJFnDX98ZeB8VhQK8hBdZnqvtTZkNsvK3PzSeaogXXXc7k4kfXku85_M3XRN7FRXC3rUJQIfiPxMgSR/s1600/IMAG0160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzU69NCxY9Yszjc5zAYTv_L0LWNdegu9LYalN2A28kyv2VJ1X4Sj030t4C3_hkPJFnDX98ZeB8VhQK8hBdZnqvtTZkNsvK3PzSeaogXXXc7k4kfXku85_M3XRN7FRXC3rUJQIfiPxMgSR/s320/IMAG0160.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> It's about Aiming Low parties, where they have those words that you can put together to say weird things. (<i>My contribution: </i><b>This isn't about chest hair</b><i>. Which. OBVIOUSLY. Hopefully the lady bloggers at BlogHer weren't having TOO many issues with chest hair</i>)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYozMyXdIx79_bAMlbFziUsqrzOlDVkXPxna6gU5-oy0cjnTn9XbFy9otGZVgD6VXLaNliFLL0k-2yMTZNKgTByPN7sacDa1GxJR8_1by1bXmcV6WLcq6PWXHqNl5X1vv-BJuZJ9nYb1-1/s1600/IMAG0166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYozMyXdIx79_bAMlbFziUsqrzOlDVkXPxna6gU5-oy0cjnTn9XbFy9otGZVgD6VXLaNliFLL0k-2yMTZNKgTByPN7sacDa1GxJR8_1by1bXmcV6WLcq6PWXHqNl5X1vv-BJuZJ9nYb1-1/s320/IMAG0166.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>It's about taking pictures of the random things you find because I DON'T CARE WHO YOU ARE, THIS IS FUNNY. (And <a href="http://www.jennymae.com/">she</a> was too. And nice. Apparently there are REALLY nice people in Arizona, not just tumbleweeds.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjblLplZwSHALa-G-6z7bYCGZO-G0HoIf84IFGXtb3gzvUI7ajvpcAZlm4U4OJDhvZ1JVyfQ4ueIs3qbWR-6u96Wkp_Hru15WtjoQif8Sxj19Kd8nJJo-EeSaZy8yimHcY46uI5KM7HWl6S/s1600/IMAG0146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjblLplZwSHALa-G-6z7bYCGZO-G0HoIf84IFGXtb3gzvUI7ajvpcAZlm4U4OJDhvZ1JVyfQ4ueIs3qbWR-6u96Wkp_Hru15WtjoQif8Sxj19Kd8nJJo-EeSaZy8yimHcY46uI5KM7HWl6S/s320/IMAG0146.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>It's about dragging newbies along for the ride, and forcing them to get a <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/elftea">twitter handle</a>, and then telling them that HAI, I'm a blogger. All pictures that I take run the risk of being posted on the internet.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtg8Ev-nPAs1TzxET2cC6UhElM_jOq9zq55kHUrxmKyj5lvh7BvtPAcw1feZpQg8DrZDHwDRSz7gLPS9JPmad-rDpEml-yigXTmhGcDZ6QGC9aInfiXHPfn5yY4FBN8ZYIS6SibvibW4o/s1600/IMAG0168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtg8Ev-nPAs1TzxET2cC6UhElM_jOq9zq55kHUrxmKyj5lvh7BvtPAcw1feZpQg8DrZDHwDRSz7gLPS9JPmad-rDpEml-yigXTmhGcDZ6QGC9aInfiXHPfn5yY4FBN8ZYIS6SibvibW4o/s320/IMAG0168.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And about the end of the weekend, where after a weekend of hanging with all the friends who live in your computer, you have these stickers to show for it (FYI: Both penis stickers were given to me. They are both true. But. So is the one that says I'm awesome. Because I totally am.)<br />
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And it's about already planning next year's trip, to do it all over again. <a href="http://myundercoverlife.blogspot.com/2010/08/blogher10-recapor-how-to-drive.html">Hilton, I hope you're ready</a>.Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-1856013117069106302011-07-31T23:10:00.000-07:002011-07-31T23:14:27.450-07:00A Moment with The Brat<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: I'm on the way to the commissary. You want anything?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Brat: Can you bring me back some <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=mandingo">mandingo</a> cherries?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: *blink* Umm...NO. But I can bring you some MARASCHINO cherries. I'm pretty sure your dad doesn't want me to bring back any mandingos. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Man: Not at all.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: Also, Brat? When you get a chance, google mandingo.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I swear to you, these are REAL CONVERSATIONS that happen in my house.</span></i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>**Also? I texted this conversation to her aunts, while laughing so hard I cried.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>***But then I thought that this was too funny not to share. So here you go. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>****You're welcome.</i></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-27677255114873831612011-07-29T01:00:00.000-07:002011-07-29T01:03:50.815-07:00In case I never told youIt was fun.<br />
<div>I loved hanging out with you, giggling over inside jokes, doing ridiculous things like headstands in hotel rooms. Oscar Movie Madness, and happy hours, and Vegas trips. Loud ghetto laughs at inappropriate moments, Super Secret Trips of Awesome, surprise parties, BBQ's, karaoke, and marathon movie nights. Just Dance competitions, 2AM texts, and I Spy. Picture booths, water gun wars, and concerts. Helping me get pictures with rock stars. ESPECIALLY THIS.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Thank you. </div><div>For not judging me. Much. Even when I was obnoxious. Or weird. For lending me money, helping me clean. For your helpful assvice. For giving me a shoulder to cry on, or crying with me, when I needed it. For just being there when I didn't want to talk. For knowing when I needed what. For being honest with me. For sticking up for me when I couldn't/didn't do it for myself. For standing behind me looking all menacing and shit when I started popping off at the mouth. For loving me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm sorry.</div><div>For hurting your feelings. Sometimes, I don't think before I speak. OR. I can be too blunt. Or mean, impatient, inconsiderate. I'm human. For getting so caught up in my life that I didn't call to see if you were okay. Or if you needed me. I can be selfish, and easily distracted. I wish that I had spent more time with you. I wish that I could take back that thing I said/did that hurt you.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I LOVE YOU.</div><div>I am blessed to have family and friends such as you. I have known you forever, and not quite as long. I met you when I was 5 years old, at work, walking to the bus stop, randomly, over the internets. I didn't know how fast we would click, how easily we would fall into friendship, how tightly we would hold on to each other. But I'm glad we did. I love you for loving me the way I am, for being able to read me like a book even when I haven't said a word. For being able to cheer me up when I haz a sad. For telling me things I need to hear, whether or not I wanted to hear them, sometimes without you even knowing it. I love you for being you.</div><div><br />
</div><div>If I never get the chance to say good-bye to you. I just wanted you to know today.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-10409548673280919202011-07-27T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-27T06:00:43.578-07:00You need to fill in your own blanksPeople are always asking me what I do when I go to Vegas, because every single time I go, I always have THE BEST. TIME. EVER. So may I present to you, my Saturday in Vegas. With all the stuff that's fit to print.<br />
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</div><div>Enjoy!<br />
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<div>Me and the two ladies I went to Vegas with had massages scheduled at <a href="http://www.hardrockhotel.com/#/relax/reliquary-spa/">Reliquary Spa at Hard Rock</a>. We got an excellent deal on TravelZoo. It came with additional body scrub. Ladies, (and gentlemen, if you like to get massages), GET THE BODY SCRUB. It was awesome, I felt all buffed and polished before she massaged all my knots and aches and pains. I forgot to bring a bathing suit, BUT. Luckily there was a bathing suit optional/ women only section that had a wet sauna and a jacuzzi, both of which I partook. Several hours later, when we finally left the spa area we went over to <a href="http://www.hardrockhotel.com/#/dine/johnny-smalls/">Johnny Smalls</a> for tapas. I should mention, this is the PERFECT PLACE FOR ME TO EAT. Because I can never finish a plate of food. I got to try a little bit of everything without having to commit to a whole meal.<br />
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After which, we finally threw on our suits and headed down to the pool for some <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1RGJRxNT_sxr8eHAn4LzEUO5OV_0tXOaAGvw2aFEac5KAWCSan1d4K-SEBsrTcU0UJUCYS6UJEqb-chWpDiNrtupaT2TWmfhrDBHdMzSMjwRkrMzNWKWkoOuSUOBn2lIanWak_GA0Pyy/">fun in the sun</a>. We spent a few hours hanging out before we decided to change into our fancy night clothes and hit the casino for dinner/gambling/more drinking.<br />
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</div><div>My friend found out a friend of hers was in Vegas the same weekend we were, so we met them at Blush, at the Wynn. We hung out with my friend's friends (who for the remainder of this post will be known as MFF). Who had a table. One of the friend had fallen asleep. And then he woke up and ______________. A lot. And then he _____________again. And then we did some dancing, and had a few drinks. And then ______________________. And then the waitress came over and she ______________________. And told us_____________.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So we all piled into cabs and went to __________. More table service. More bottles of Vodka. More shots. And then___________________asked if MFF _____________ . So we (the girls & I) went upstairs to ___________. (!) OMG, you guys ______________________________________! And then _______________________________________________________. MFFs _________________. And we _____________________________________________. </div><div><br />
</div><div>After that we (the girls & I) went/ stumbled back to our room at The Hard Rock (which, you guys, I upgraded to a fancier room.. And the view was <a href="http://twitpic.com/5un8ar">AWESOME</a>.) around 5AM. But I was hungry so I _______________________, while they _______________________. Around 6AM, I saw the sun rising, so I went to bed. Because in a few hours, we were going to get up and _____________.<br />
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Yeah, there's not a lot that's fit to print, is there? What do you want from me, people? What happens in Vegas is supposed to STAY in Vegas. I can't very well, fill in ALL the blanks.<br />
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At least you know I had a good time at the Spa.</div></div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-61061422126330055682011-07-14T13:48:00.000-07:002011-07-14T13:48:22.076-07:00And this is why I need to never be singleI went out with my cousin last night.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I hadn't really planned on it. I had actually planned to go home, and you know... be responsible and study. BUT. I was going to a place called Big Wangs. Who turns down going to Big Wangs? Not me, apparently.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It was fun. She works with cops, and they were a nice bunch. I didn't want to say "Fuck the Police" not even once.</div><div><br />
</div><div>She's single. And I'm not. WHICH. I DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM WITH. I feel like that needs to be said in all caps, in case anyone is not paying attention. I mostly like my husband. But even when I don't, I still want him around.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Anyhoots. Back to my story. So we have some drinks, eat some wings (and hot DAMN, they were good!). One of the guys bought a round of drinks for the table. The cousin was being chatted up, so I was playing wingman...talking to the drinkbuyer guy. When not <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_hD2L4qhwDyA2dqzzih46Q?feat=directlink">texting pictures</a> of my <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/X0ET9SxicGxWEBmGgo21nA?feat=directlink">ridiculousness</a>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It should be noted that I don't see myself as irresistible. Nor do I assume that every guy that talks to me is trying to get into my pants. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Drinkbuyer guy wants to know what I'm taking pictures of, and I show him. Because, why not? Pictures of my drinks, gratuitous pictures of myself, random look-at-my-cute-baby-kitties pictures. Whatever. Like you don't take pictures of your pets. So then he asks if I have any other pictures? Nope. Just got a new memory card.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I think I missed what he was actually asking for...</div><div><br />
</div><div>Because THEN he says, why don't you go into the bathroom and take some pictures?</div><div><br />
</div><div>*blink*</div><div><br />
</div><div>Uhh...the fuck? Hell no. What's wrong with you? </div><div><br />
</div><div>Apparently THAT was offensive. Because then he told me I should go home to my husband. Um. I will. Don't worry. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Which leads me to ask...WTF is wrong with people? Why would a perfect stranger think it's okay to ask somebody they just met who wasn't even pretending to be interested, AND, told you she was married... AND? Doesn't seem like some Slutty McSkankypants, to go into a sports bar bathroom and take sexytime pictures for random dude, i.e. NOT HER HUSBAND? I mean, yes, I've been married a REALLY. LONG. TIME. But...why is this okay?</div><div><br />
</div><div>My assumptions for these types of situations is that it must have worked at some point with somebody (and if I ever find out who, I will kick her right in the taco), because why else would he ask? I know what they say about assuming, but still. </div><div><br />
</div><div>How about instead of asking strangers to show you pictures of their chocha, you find an AVAILABLE woman, and get to know her, and take her on dates and shit (because bitches like dates and shit), and THEN, after you and she are in some sort of relationship, you tell your SIGNIFICANT OTHER TYPE PERSON to go into random sports bar bathroom and take sexytime pictures? Because then it's you keeping spice in your relationship! And being adventurous! </div><div><br />
</div><div>Not pervy and weird. Or assholey and gross. Or any of the other thousand of offensive adjectives that was.</div><div><br />
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</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-33937720635617012472011-06-28T22:54:00.000-07:002011-06-28T22:54:58.254-07:00Sometimes I just don't plan things wellYou know what happens when I happen upon a random <a href="http://www.angryjuliemonday.com/2011/05/31/six-layer-rainbow-cake-tutorial/">Six Layer Rainbow Cake Tutoria</a>l right before a friend's birthday?<br />
<br />
Antics. Antics ensue.<br />
<br />
Me: <i>I can totally make this cake for Mo's birthday, guys.</i><br />
<br />
What happens: <i>I go out with The Man day before I'm supposed to be baking a cake, where after I take him to the movies, he takes me to a dive bar for dinner and proceeds to buy me Jamesons. STRAIGHT. Two drinks in, I realize that I needed to go shopping for supplies for fancy rainbow cake. So I make a haphazard list and make The Man take me to Michael's. I hope that I got everything I needed because now I'm slightly buzzed, and sleepy, so when I get home I go straight to bed: Do not pass go, do not collect $200. So, then, instead of making the cake the night before and sticking it in the fridge, I make it in the morning and hope that this will all work out before I have to leave by noon.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
So far, so good.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhLjZCvlWye-gSs640rb5LxCV3oteSWyCEJxHPc9bu-Z_hl_CuHEhM2OjP7V0KVA7IH6_Ul9dmbOIx7GZRkSiV5V8Hq2x5k_-881Dijk8wBz99i8Fk5xzIS_7QnJ2KSq9-9teub4oNbO0/s1600/rainbow+batter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhLjZCvlWye-gSs640rb5LxCV3oteSWyCEJxHPc9bu-Z_hl_CuHEhM2OjP7V0KVA7IH6_Ul9dmbOIx7GZRkSiV5V8Hq2x5k_-881Dijk8wBz99i8Fk5xzIS_7QnJ2KSq9-9teub4oNbO0/s320/rainbow+batter.jpg" width="320" /></i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Are you wondering where the purple is? *points down*</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table> But wait.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXy2D58B6_UsVIRjUu6Ch7GoR1RI4OmcQP8t0n2I5oFFSuuzMaEUax_w-PNaV6lrEDWGkszcGdQHTecQxQ3ecFzgNLDCshv8DeDJET1CTvFu8PdeDj98eSEG6xpuVWNJAqxeySXD7jt3U/s1600/purple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXy2D58B6_UsVIRjUu6Ch7GoR1RI4OmcQP8t0n2I5oFFSuuzMaEUax_w-PNaV6lrEDWGkszcGdQHTecQxQ3ecFzgNLDCshv8DeDJET1CTvFu8PdeDj98eSEG6xpuVWNJAqxeySXD7jt3U/s1600/purple.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It's 7 AM. I took this picture and sent it to my sister: <i><b>WHY DOESN'T THE PURPLE LOOK PURPLE?</b></i> I'm going to the store to get some purple gel. NO. I didn't get dressed to run to the store. I went in my jammies. Yes, I did. They didn't have purple. Luckily for me, I do slightly remember that red and blue make purple, so I buy some of that. And come home and add enough red and blue to make it PURPLE. (Aaaand then, I forgot to take a second picture of it looking more purply)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZI5HHd9ohHVuWW95jVxkRTK0yD-QNShZckuYDN0WBiy-N-NxfNXaHfSG1bIgO2164v76NRLkf6XaODX3HYIKUqx9S9OWxRtXv1TlLHfkE3DTPm8ZkogiJbgPMoa1CC4pBnSNbMvZ-OQTj/s1600/IMAG0817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZI5HHd9ohHVuWW95jVxkRTK0yD-QNShZckuYDN0WBiy-N-NxfNXaHfSG1bIgO2164v76NRLkf6XaODX3HYIKUqx9S9OWxRtXv1TlLHfkE3DTPm8ZkogiJbgPMoa1CC4pBnSNbMvZ-OQTj/s320/IMAG0817.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Straws. To make sure my cake didn't slide off</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfAN3s3IFSZwsNYRHs9FqM7d0Osm8zpsAbMSAK7Jkeifup9E8iPTvrz_3HCPT6JcE4ZedX1SxoAQ01KDOFhinCIE36JHo24-nHdVRsmeA84LP-VwYJAJWywH7bS1Rt9EtMXoNQPMEoCNJ/s1600/IMAG0819.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfAN3s3IFSZwsNYRHs9FqM7d0Osm8zpsAbMSAK7Jkeifup9E8iPTvrz_3HCPT6JcE4ZedX1SxoAQ01KDOFhinCIE36JHo24-nHdVRsmeA84LP-VwYJAJWywH7bS1Rt9EtMXoNQPMEoCNJ/s320/IMAG0819.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><br />
I went to Kitson. Because it's a perk of working at Big Fancy Hospital. All the fancy shops close by. I originally went for my niece's gift for graduation to buy something quirky for her to take with her to college. I found something. AND! They had these birthday candles!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYABIO1k_zAkG6isx3VbaGG_nUiQOfe3G3f5KYurLBqCt8DATF7ez8KAtJ_apq1Blx7EVv164GoDgpdyB9-ZbkrwdPDP6ablmQnDYJcXNSQ40RzfIPk8O982zDFsyJx8UGqy5gRSljTBZ/s1600/IMAG0824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYABIO1k_zAkG6isx3VbaGG_nUiQOfe3G3f5KYurLBqCt8DATF7ez8KAtJ_apq1Blx7EVv164GoDgpdyB9-ZbkrwdPDP6ablmQnDYJcXNSQ40RzfIPk8O982zDFsyJx8UGqy5gRSljTBZ/s320/IMAG0824.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not as brightly colored as I hoped it would be. BUT.<br />
Everyone loved it. So there's that.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The cake was yummy, y'all. If I ever make this again. I would totally add the icing colors to make it brighter. I would also not let my husband get me drunk so that I'm rushing around like a chicken with her head cut off with only a few hours to make a cake, praying every minute of my baking time that nothing goes wrong because I just DON'T HAVE TIME to make mistakes.Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-62095226096146444322011-06-16T23:28:00.000-07:002011-06-16T23:28:46.948-07:00No, really...take that off.<div><div>Today I saw a girl that not only made me scream on the inside, I screamed a little bit on the outside, too. This girl was at my niece's graduation. THIS GIRL just graduated. And like all of the other girls, my niece included, this girl was wearing the dress that she was going to wear to the dance they were going to after their graduation.</div></div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQZVNaydsTjd-uhRFzQFLG6eaVo29fudAEpNHZzdNQjzSxNe2oLs1e1ud3GHmBxKvhf1_f_5JR7WqOvXij2IOyj85rL7VEBe_MNCuKe0d5D9t0JZikXWcLLPnayPDhvXb4dS9BUodvpct/s1600/IMAG0863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQZVNaydsTjd-uhRFzQFLG6eaVo29fudAEpNHZzdNQjzSxNe2oLs1e1ud3GHmBxKvhf1_f_5JR7WqOvXij2IOyj85rL7VEBe_MNCuKe0d5D9t0JZikXWcLLPnayPDhvXb4dS9BUodvpct/s320/IMAG0863.jpg" width="98" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I should mention that *this* was an 8th grade graduation, I guess.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>At first, I was like NOOO, she can't be a graduate. Except, she's wearing the "I just graduated" lei, and she was running around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to get pictures with the girls who still hadn't come out of their cap & gowns, AND ALSO? MY NIECE TOLD ME SO. </div><div><br />
</div><div>To say I was slightly horrified would have been an understatement. WHERE IS THIS GIRL'S CLOTHES? Where are her parents? Who let her leave the house in this outfit?! <strike>Get off my lawn!</strike></div><div><br />
</div><div>There are so many things wrong with this outfit:</div><div><ol><li>It's ugly. I'm sorry, it is. The back of this dress sort of scrunched (rouched? is that the word?) up, making it look even shorter than it already was.</li>
<li>It's too short. Even my evil stepmother said, if she sneezes, she's going to show everyone the business in the front and the party in the back. I'm paraphrasing. Maybe she was really talking about somebody's mullet. But still.</li>
<li>IT'S TOO OLD. You are a pretty, 14 year old girl. By the time you're old enough to wear a dress like this, you will know better than to wear a dress like this.</li>
<li>Leopard prints on the boob-al area. Just, no. </li>
</ol></div><div><br />
</div><div>I mean, seriously. I know that we can't always pick what our kids wear, and that we need to give them a chance to define their own style <i>(The Brat wore a Rolling Stones tee and a gypsy skirt to the graduation. Don't tell ME I don't know about giving teens some latitude)</i>, but I also think that when they are young --and she was young, SOMEBODY should be showing her how to pick a dress that is flattering and makes her look pretty without making her look like she's been shopping in the teen prostitute section of the JCPenneys. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Find something age appropriate. Save the barely there dresses for your 20's when you're trying to sneak into your first club with a fake ID. C'mon. DON'T ACT LIKE IT WAS JUST ME.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>My Dad: Well maybe she's wearing something under her dress...?</div><div>Me: Yes, Daddy. They're called panties.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-40686131991091812172011-06-04T01:41:00.000-07:002011-06-04T01:41:58.062-07:00I'm either a really bad mom or a really creative oneI've been asking The Brat to do her laundry for the last couple of days. She is sooo slooowww.<br />
<br />
Day One: She pretends like she didn't hear me say:<i> Hey, your laundry basket is ridiculous. It's time to do your laundry.</i><br />
<br />
Day Two: She sorts her clothes in her room.<br />
<br />
Day Three: She's starts washing. Mostly I think it's because she's run out of jeans.<br />
<br />
Day Four/Five: She's been working on a project and not getting home until after 9pm.<br />
...<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Hey Umm, if you're not going to wash these clothes, put them back in your laundry basket. They just can't be on the floor.</i><br />
<br />
Her: Okay. <i>See Day One</i>.<br />
...<br />
<br />
Today/Tonight<br />
<br />
I was exhausted. I was supposed to go out, but I didn't because I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. I fell asleep in my den watching the CSI Marathon.<br />
<br />
The Brat woke me around 1AM to tell me to go to bed. I go to my room and change into my jammies. And because I have the bladder of a pea, I decide potty, then bed. And on my way to the bathroom, I notice that her clothes are STILL IN THE FLOOR.<br />
<br />
Do I get mad, and go off on her? Nope. Because, I have a better idea.<br />
<br />
She's in the bathroom... I can hear her washing her hands, so I know I won't have to wait long.<br />
<br />
I stand RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR. I wait for her to crack open the door and say, <i>Didn't I tell you to pick up those clothes?</i><br />
<br />
I wasn't sure she heard me over her screaming though.<br />
<br />
But when I came out of the bathroom <i>(where I was trying to laugh quietly because her room is right next to the bathroom)</i>, her clothes were in a basket*.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*What? I'm the only person who gets a kick out of scaring a couple of years off of my kid's life? And, there was a bonus: She did what I told her to do. FINALLY. So, I win.</i>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-74513972351901036622011-05-31T22:18:00.000-07:002011-05-31T22:18:31.492-07:00No good deed goes unpunishedWhen I get home from work, I tell The Man, if you have anything that needs to go to the cleaners, give it to me, because I've got errands to run. He's gone for ten minutes. And he comes back with a bag as big as Santa's sack. <i>Take that any way you want. Ahem</i>.<br />
<br />
I just look at him. <i>WTF, dude?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Well. You've got stuff in this bag too</i>, he says.<br />
<br />
So I drag this bag to my car. Go to pick up The Brat's bus pass, stop by the beauty supply place 'cause I need hair stuff. And then I head to the cleaners.<br />
<br />
The lady just looks at me as I pull shirt after freakin' shirt outta this bag. I feel like this is some sort of magic bag, and eventually I'm gonna pull out a rabbit or some shit. And under my breath, I'm saying ... <i>Is this m'fer SERIOUS?</i> I thought I had some shit in this bag too.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsC6TYK3a3jtFAOuOwGBanWtM6prU1ZMMK0J123n_rdr8EngzoAOnHs4d_xi52pPHgQ2ixtmIRxSiokhccuMqW_65lZvlWmC_emmnTDbpcmkhUlOXnxyqNj8Yt_QM7ultgzuCYGJqkCyib/s1600/cleaners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsC6TYK3a3jtFAOuOwGBanWtM6prU1ZMMK0J123n_rdr8EngzoAOnHs4d_xi52pPHgQ2ixtmIRxSiokhccuMqW_65lZvlWmC_emmnTDbpcmkhUlOXnxyqNj8Yt_QM7ultgzuCYGJqkCyib/s320/cleaners.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, look. There it is!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Let's tally this, shall we?<br />
<br />
<b><i><u>The Man </u></i></b> <u><b>Me</b></u><br />
<br />
15 shirts 1 Cream Slacks<br />
6 pants 1 Black Dress<br />
1 FREAKING PEA COAT<br />
<br />
He better be glad I had money to pay this NOW, so that I could get a discount. Because I would be mad as hell if I would have had to pay $100 damn dollars because he tricked me into taking every shirt he owned to the dry cleaners all at once.Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-88529055790176058732011-05-24T21:09:00.000-07:002011-05-24T21:09:55.552-07:00Sometimes when I don't know what to write about...I don't write about anything.<br />
<br />
I just kinda look at my blog languish, and think, "but my life is so interesting! I went to Wango Tango!(don't ask...or, don't ask YET), my family is ridiculous!, my job is driving me crazy!" But, in reality, I'm also super busy. THANK GOD (no, really) for my spring semester being over. Homework, and studying, and worrying about passing Managerial Accounting was keeping me extremely busy.<br />
<br />
And then I don't have time to write all of the things that I want to write down, when I want to write them down. And then they kind of become fleeting thoughts:<br />
<br />
I was in Vegas this weekend, and Monday when I should have been getting up and getting ready to flee that place, I was watching Maury. Also known as The New Jerry.<i> Does Jerry</i> <i>Springer even still come on television? WHY DO THESE PEOPLE ON MAURY ALWAYS LOOK SO SURPRISED THEY GOT SOMEBODY PREGNANT? DO THEY NOT KNOW HOW SEX WITHOUT CONDOMS WORK?! Is Maury single handedly keeping that DNA place in business with all his shows about baby daddies?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>My friends and I always take the most ridiculous pictures. This Vegas trip was <a href="http://twitpic.com/517rtm">no exception</a>. I really hope she frames this and hangs it in the living room.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I had no idea that I was going to like Lady Gaga.Or T-Pain. Turns out T-Pain puts on a REALLY GOOD SHOW. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Why do I always have to convince people that I have a son that's 21 years old? Who lies about that?! Related: YES. I know I look young. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>You know it's bad when I say "I'm going to Vegas" and the girl who does my nails says AGAIN? WTF, dude? I've only gone ONCE this year.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>It SO SUCKS that I didn't get to go to Okinawa.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I love carpooling/saving gas money/ getting free stuff from work, I sometimes hate my carpool partner, aka Mr. Toad.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
See what I mean? These random thoughts could totally be blog posts. Maybe I'll put all of these random thoughts into a hat and pick one.<br />
<br />
People do that right?<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-41732501407493665802011-05-01T17:45:00.000-07:002011-05-01T17:45:27.380-07:00So in other news, I'm still not ready...I took The Brat shopping today.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to. But, the bathing suit from last year is too small. And she was all "I NEED A BATHING SUIT." And I guess she kinda does, because her BFF has a pool and she spends a ridiculous amount of time over there. This year she asked for a bikini. A BIKINI.<br />
<br />
I've been dodging the issue of bikinis since she started high school. Because you know: BIKINI. ON MY BABY. Can you hear my internal screaming? Because I am screaming on the inside. And a little bit on the out.<br />
<br />
I tell The Man that we're going looking for bathing suits. His response is to get a one-piece. I do not respond. Because I already know that's not going to happen. And I don't want to fight before I even start the car.<br />
<br />
Off we go. My requirements: No string, no thongs, and if you can't use it to actually SWIM, I'm not even going to look in its general direction. (Thanks, <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/grace134">Grace</a>. That's an EXCELLENT rule). <i>I KNOW, MOMMY. </i>Well, I'm just saying because I don't want there to be any confusion as to what kind of bikini I'm going to buy for my 15 year old <strike> baby </strike> daughter.<br />
<br />
We grab a few. I also add that I AM NOT buying a bikini with cherries on it. WTF?! I really should have waited until I had back up for this. Did I mention that I hate shopping for bathing suits --even when they aren't for me? Anyways, we decide to try on the 2 finalists. She tries on bathing suit #1. It's cute. It's got boyshort bottoms. I take a picture and send it to her aunts. She tries on bathing suit #2. It's got a ruffle, and it is ALSO CUTE. I take another picture.<br />
<br />
I like them both, Brat. Which do you like better? She likes them both too. I'm leaning toward #2, because it's not only super cute, it's in her favorite color. Then I get the texts about the bathing suits, there is wailing because my baby is growing up and she LOOKS like a real live teenager in her suit. BUT. If these are the choices, everyone likes choice #2. So we put the first one back. It has been decided. We grab some shorts and a few tank tops and break for lunch.<br />
<br />
And, I get a text from a friend who must have gotten her texts late:<br />
<i>She looks so grown up! WHY???</i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Me</b>: Welcome to my world. I don't like it here. Gah!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
In case you were interested, here is the winning suit<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeU_a0gj2KliaK5FO9449KStVxBULBLX0erJD4WNwFOgw2OeM5lFyKu-yZ_1g4Uzd4LGP53O6FHENQ1tj-2an6spUomK_Asz5YR67FDZhkPwsTNOzcWLcQQ_liwEWIgVodGeVXA_n4bvxR/s1600/babysuit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeU_a0gj2KliaK5FO9449KStVxBULBLX0erJD4WNwFOgw2OeM5lFyKu-yZ_1g4Uzd4LGP53O6FHENQ1tj-2an6spUomK_Asz5YR67FDZhkPwsTNOzcWLcQQ_liwEWIgVodGeVXA_n4bvxR/s200/babysuit.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>NOT the Brat</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><i><br />
</i>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-42094444474436636812011-04-29T19:55:00.000-07:002011-04-29T19:55:45.096-07:00So this one time, in Baker...It just doesn't have the same ring, does it?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To clarify, Baker is around 90 miles from Vegas. Give or take. It is the home of:</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjI_szvejGFiYbfZXotMiyCFIXse532PgW66xLTO78xTk712j3S_Yag1cnEWwmHtdpYBPjJKsoc9_dy97js6xNSrPfoBkNpMZRfBGNVfsc8DNeY6tPMSr0P4ZJ8Ju7qWWlocxUNTIJdpKB/s1600/Baker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjI_szvejGFiYbfZXotMiyCFIXse532PgW66xLTO78xTk712j3S_Yag1cnEWwmHtdpYBPjJKsoc9_dy97js6xNSrPfoBkNpMZRfBGNVfsc8DNeY6tPMSr0P4ZJ8Ju7qWWlocxUNTIJdpKB/s200/Baker.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>World's LARGEST thermometer</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But let's face it, I don't drive all this way to find out how hot it is. And it's DAMN HOT in Baker in April.<br />
<br />
VEGAS, baby. I went there. I didn't go for the usual reasons though. EVEN THOUGH a decent amount of liquor was imbibed and a fair amount of dollars were dropped at the roulette tables. No...I went because my sister <strike>has gone crazy </strike>participated in the <a href="http://www.bakervegas.com/racehistory.php">Baker to Vegas Challenge Cup Relay</a>. Does anybody remember the part where I said that it is 90-ish miles from Baker, CALIFORNIA to Las Vegas, NEVADA? Ok, good.<br />
<br />
I going to write a post, but then it started getting LONG. REALLY LONG. So how about some highlights?<br />
<br />
<ul><li>My sissie ran almost 5.5 miles. At 9 o'clock. OF THE EVENING. I think it sucks that you have to spend the WHOLE DAY AND MOST OF THE NIGHT in Vegas sober, because you have to run a relay later that night. At least they party after their leg is over.</li>
<li>In order to be on the relay route, to hum the theme of Rocky at her before she passed the baton, I had to get my car marked with her team's <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/undercovermama/5670923275/lightbox/">number</a>.</li>
<li>I think <a href="http://sistuhgurl.tumblr.com/post/4674396339/appropriate-baker2vegas">THIS</a> proves that the LAPD has a sense of humor.</li>
<li>I thought it was very cool that each runner had a car following <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/undercovermama/5671384630/lightbox/">them</a>. <i>Warning: Not a very good picture, because I TAKE HORRIBLE PICTURES.</i></li>
<li>Being around all those cops and such made we wanna yell out the window, "FUCK THE POLICE", N.W.A-style. </li>
<li>Sometimes, I open my mouth even when I KNOW I should keep it closed.</li>
<li>#thatswhatshesaid</li>
<li>My husband thinks I'm ridiculous.</li>
<li>I really wish that we could have stayed until Monday, so we wouldn't have to rush back Sunday trying to beat the traffic.</li>
<li>I'm VERY PROUD of my <a href="http://twitpic.com/4lvv3k">Sissie</a> for participating.</li>
<li>On the way back from Vegas, we stopped at Alien Fresh Jerky. In Baker. Which is more than an hour BY CAR. And all I could think was, <i>"These mf'ers RAN from here to Vegas?! That's badass, but STILL. They are ALL outta their damn minds!"</i></li>
<li>Next year, we're going back. She's going to run again!</li>
</ul><div><br />
</div><br />
This still ended up being long-ish. What are you gonna do? Until the next Vegas trip!Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-87077569467994954812011-04-17T22:49:00.000-07:002011-04-17T23:32:14.476-07:00So, your kid is sick...I'm not trying to be a jerk. REALLY.<br />
<br />
<br />
But. If your kid is sick, TAKE HIM TO HIS PEDIATRICIAN. Let the GD DOCTOR decide if she/he is sick enough to see a Specialist and IF IT IS A MOTHER FUCKING EMERGENCY. This is why they are the damn doctors. Unless you are actually a physician, there's a pretty good chance your Pediatrician knows his shit*, and won't steer you wrong.<br />
<div><br />
Sometimes, your Pediatrician does want you to see a Specialist. But not RIGHT THIS MINUTE. Believe me when I say, if your Pediatrician wants your precious to be seen toute-de-motherfucking-suite, he will get his ass on the phone and make some phone calls to make sure this happens. </div><div><br />
IF, however, your kid has had some sort of oozing rash for going on 6 weeks, and hasn't even seen his Pediatrician, AND the only reason that HE MUST BE SEEN RIGHT NOW, is because you are going on vacation TOMORROW? We will <strike> judge you </strike> not treat you as an emergency.<br />
<div><br />
*****</div><div>Okay, so your Pediatrician agrees/announces: You should make an appointment to see a Specialist. I know...this is your baby and now that you know you need to make an appointment, you want to get this over with as SOON as possible. So, not really an emergency, but who really wants a doctor's appointment looming in the distance right?</div><div><br />
</div><div>I hate to be the one to break it to you, but doctor appointments, far and wide, are rarely convenient. You can usually have the DAY you want, or the TIME you want, but not both. This is a universal truth. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Sometimes you get lucky. They have the elusive perfect day/time.<i> (This is as rare as one of those good hair days where you just sorta combed it out and everybody kept asking did you get your hair done because it looks THAT. DAMN. GOOD.)</i> But more often, they will not. Try to be flexible. You can't expect for them have an appointment for you the same day you call. Some Specialists only see patients on certain days, so they book up quickly. SOMETIMES THEY CAN SQUEEZE YOU IN ON A RANDOM DAY. SOMETIMES THEY CAN'T. Work with them boys and girls. They're doing the best they can. REALLY.</div><div><br />
If you feel that this cannot wait, because your baby boy/girl is SICK! ACTION MUST BE TAKEN IMMEDIATELY!! And the Specialist is unable/unwilling to DROP EVERYTHING (Other patients, obligations and the like) to see to your VERY SICK KID <i>(your emphasis, not your Pediatrician's)</i>, go to the Emergency Room. THIS IS WHY HOSPITALS HAVE THEM. For Emergencies.<br />
<br />
<div>Maybe they just really can't see your kid today. FOR WHATEVER REASON. Maybe, their assistant has already tried sweet talking them into seeing them anyways, even though we know they don't have the time, because Mom is crying and/or hysterical and baby is screeching in the background making us feel EVEN MORE GUILTY that we can't squeeze you in. Maybe.<br />
<br />
We're all people here, folks. We actually ARE here to help, AND a lot of us have kids, AND we know how it is to have sicky mcbabyface coughing/snotting up/feverish/puking/fill-in-the-gross-thing-oozing-from-your-kid's-orifice-here.<br />
<br />
You know what DOESN'T help? Giving the person who is trying to help you the business because we can't kick some kid out of their appointment date they've had for month, because you have decided that your kid's sick > some other kid's sick.<br />
<br />
<i>Also? It makes you look like an asshole. I'm just sayin'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*YES. There are exceptions to every rule. If your Pediatrician DOESN'T know his ass from a hole in the ground, WHY IS THIS PERSON TAKING CARE OF YOUR CHILD?! If you just disagree and think this is truly an emergency (yes, this bears repeating), Emergency Room. Go there.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>** This was a post that was SUPPOSED to go up on Thursday, after being bitched out by a parent who clearly had no concept that everything in the world did not revolve around them and what was convenient FOR THEM. Clearly it did not.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>*** But. I can almost guarantee that a parent is going to call Monday FIRST THING insisting that their darling be seen RIGHT NOW because they've been ON DEATH'S DOOR since Friday. But not sick enough to go to the Emergency Room. So. Still. THIS.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>****Also? I work for Specialists. Which means that we are NOT the first call. We will ALWAYS ask if you've contacted your Pediatrician. NOT BECAUSE WE'RE ASSHOLES. But, because that's what you're supposed to do first.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>***** Okay, I'm really done now with the asterisking. </i></div></div></div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-82956360534773378002011-04-08T07:42:00.000-07:002011-04-08T07:42:13.919-07:00Because I am nothing if not helpfulSo. This has been happening:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDm7iHmM3AhUVIUPo__cQaDUr7xb0PLAGHy2BaqG6MOyaOpgczpDNTCSqDdvMEbqoNpSYNqPA8dTTMTqa-cHWAbDH0Fh8HVbo4awHwkbmuyI43MTWfnUp0eAS0aFwonp0qO3LDuDwZn7C/s1600/twitter+retweet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="89" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDm7iHmM3AhUVIUPo__cQaDUr7xb0PLAGHy2BaqG6MOyaOpgczpDNTCSqDdvMEbqoNpSYNqPA8dTTMTqa-cHWAbDH0Fh8HVbo4awHwkbmuyI43MTWfnUp0eAS0aFwonp0qO3LDuDwZn7C/s320/twitter+retweet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I did a teeny bit of research. And by teeny, I mean I actually looked up the actual twitter handle of said nursing shirt people. Such hard work, yo. I mean I almost got a cramp in my pinky finger.<br />
<br />
WELL, HELLO @Undercover_Mama! It's like my name, only...DIFFERENT. And now I sort of feel bad. Because the peoples, they keep retweeting this, and I have nothing to give away. Except assvice, and #thatswhatshesaid jokes.<br />
<br />
So. As not to confuse those who are angling to win yourself a breastfeeding shirt. LET ME HELP YOU:<br />
<br />
Me:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_Ld29n-v5UUEhqOfaIGMyWIp454pZhTNMN6dK5Or5GLN4_Y6xtZwgje3pIjhDa5hg_it4wVeccI8h8HwVt0ST6NsaO8gRni_HhjtmikRK2GgGwGWPryPxqizm1k-H-vKXPaxh8_bg_ro/s1600/ME.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_Ld29n-v5UUEhqOfaIGMyWIp454pZhTNMN6dK5Or5GLN4_Y6xtZwgje3pIjhDa5hg_it4wVeccI8h8HwVt0ST6NsaO8gRni_HhjtmikRK2GgGwGWPryPxqizm1k-H-vKXPaxh8_bg_ro/s320/ME.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<ol><li>Married to Retired Marine</li>
<li>Works at Big Fancy Hospital</li>
<li>Breastfed both of my brats old skool style, without fancy hiding shirts because MY KIDS ARE OLD. </li>
<ul><li>And so am I.</li>
<li>And I wish a m-f'er WOULD'VE had something to say about it, so that they could get cussed the fuck out.</li>
</ul><li>NO UNDERSCORE</li>
</ol><br />
<br />
<a href="http://undercovermama.com/">@Undercover_Mama</a>:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ol><li>There is an underscore.</li>
<li>Not Me.</li>
</ol><br />
<br />
You're welcome.Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-37919575497687084902011-03-23T19:00:00.000-07:002011-03-23T19:02:07.810-07:00Because nobody is holier than thou...So let's talk about meat, shall we?<br />
<br />
I eat it. Because I can. Because I like it. Especially with BBQ sauce (insert your own racially insensitive comment here. I wrote that ESPECIALLY for you, Momo) AHEM. I am digressing. <br />
<br />
I don't think you're an asshole because you don't eat meat. Fuck. My Dad and my evil stepmother (she's not evil at all. It's just so much fun to call her that) are hardcore vegan types. Which is cool. I try to make sure they have some grass to graze when they come over, and they try to make sure we meat eating types don't starve when we come to dinner. SEE? RESPECT. It goes both ways.*<br />
<br />
I have a niece who has recently decided to go vegan. HARD CORE PETA type vegan. As in, "Now I look down upon you because you are a meat eater" vegan. OH. MY. GAWD, y'all. I was all...Is she gonna be one of those ASSHOLE vegans, who now is going to try to convert me, one facebook post at a time? <br />
<br />
I think the answer to that was yes, y'all. How do you tell someone that you have no plans to give up your meat-eating ways...?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e_hEbIgsX7U7xF4C-oMoFsqmBfpHgSE-qwMEprgHfY0dE9ipH0UpEhnhueGls_3gcy-gDEt2uSmRFt5mwt2aRXin-UqHm8N8cb7BOIruRm_OfwrShOp6plTb2yWNboxpRn341u5f283_/s1600/eatchicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e_hEbIgsX7U7xF4C-oMoFsqmBfpHgSE-qwMEprgHfY0dE9ipH0UpEhnhueGls_3gcy-gDEt2uSmRFt5mwt2aRXin-UqHm8N8cb7BOIruRm_OfwrShOp6plTb2yWNboxpRn341u5f283_/s320/eatchicken.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center">(I took out the video, because...UGH)<br />
<em>Also? I guess I should tell you that profile pic isn't her. </em></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"></div>I dunno. You think she got the hint? I REALLY hope that I wasn't too subtle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>* One time the boy came home and told me he was gonna go vegetarian, and I told him YOU NEED A JOB SO YOU CAN AFFORD TO EAT THAT WAY. And then the next day, I came home from work and he was eating a plate of bacon. The quickest change of mind ever.</em><br />
<div align="left"></div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-10141395385446171732011-02-22T15:25:00.000-08:002011-02-22T15:25:40.404-08:00Reply All<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">It all started last Thursday. I received a random e-mail which CLEARLY was a mistake. Of course it was sent to a bunch of e-mail groups. But. Do you know what *I* do when I get e-mails that are CLEARLY sent to me mistakenly? I ignore and/or them. Unless I receive more than one. I mean, because, really? How many times will people:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 13px;">Reply ALL</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 13px;">Request to be removed from the mailing list</span></li>
</ol><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 13px;">Let me tell you: MORE THAN 50 TIMES.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">Remember how I said that normally, I just ignore/delete them?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">Yeah, so apparently, all it takes is for me to come in first thing in the morning and find ONE. MORE. E-MAIL. And then this happens:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">Hello Everyone (including: various MDs, my supervisor, AND my manager*),<o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><o:p><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">Perhaps you are not aware of this, but TO THE LEFT of the REPLY ALL button, is the REPLY button. If you are unclear on when it is appropriate to use, please use </span></o:p><a href="http://www.netmanners.com/email-etiquette/proper-use-of-reply-to-all/" title="http://www.netmanners.com/email-etiquette/proper-use-of-reply-to-all/"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">THIS GUIDE</span></a><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">THANKS! </span></o:p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;">*It also went to the Manager of SOME IMPORTANT DEPARTMENT. He said he will be sending that link to his staff. So. I guess they don’t plan to fire me for my insubordinance. YET.</span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-48198425070590744262011-02-16T16:53:00.000-08:002011-02-16T16:55:01.315-08:00Well it IS February<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Every February I e-mail my co-workers a BLACK HISTORY FACT OF THE DAY. I feel like I should say it in all caps, so that it can look important. I don't remember how it started. Probably because I <a href="http://myundercoverlife.blogspot.com/2011/02/this-is-why-opinions-are-like-assholes.html">enjoy doing things people don't expect</a>. Whatever. The point is that I send them. Regardless of how I feel about Black History Month. Which, don't get me started. Anyways, these days my sissie and I split the duties of sharing ::cue announcer voice:: MOMENTS IN BLACK HISTORY-Ry-ry (Yes, I kinda feel like it should have an echo, ya dig?) </span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But yesterday started my downhill slide into sickness. I'm not sure that I should be allowed to send e-mails that will be shared with her fancy co-workers when clearly I AM NOT WELL. Don't believe me? I present, without further comment, yesterday's Black History fact which was alternatively titled: My love/hate relationship with Disney:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-style: italic;">(Howdy. I’ll lobbing you all a gimme, because I’m starting to feel as though I’m being attacked by cooties. The bad kind. But I’m at work – I AM NOT CONTAGIOUS, and since I forgot the fact that I *actually* wanted to use, please to enjoy this one. <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/sistuhgurl">Sissie</a> – Don’t you use my fact tomorrow. LOL)</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know how when you feel sick, and you just wanna curl up in your bed with hot cocoa in your comfy <s>jimmies</s> jammies (DAMN YOU AUTO-CORRECT. I said JAMMIES, NOT JIMMIES. I can’t imagine that wearing sprinkles is in any way comfortable), and maybe watch craptastic television while intermittently feeling sorry for yourself, and sleeping, and drinking water (because being hydrated is important, especially when you’re sick!). Me personally? I like to watch movies. Disney movies to be exact. My favorite is actually <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEryAoLfnAA" style="color: #0000cc;" target="_blank">Aladdin</a> (Prince Ali, fabulous he, Ali Ababwa!), which I could watch a bajillion times. And I have a love/hate relationship with both the Lion King and the Jungle Book. I mean, clearly both movies are about black people, except the black people are ANIMALS and…*cough* sorry. I’m getting off my soap box RIGHT NOW.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ANYWAYS...And Beauty and the Beast. I mean, Disney makes the best princess movies, you guys. Pocahontas not withstanding. Colors of the wind. Hmph.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still though. Kinda hard to believe that it took Disney until 2009 to create the first African American Disney Princess (The Frog Princess: Tiana. Seriously though. What’s up with the animal references?)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And there you go! Today’s fact buried in my random ramblings about Disney and that fact that even the auto-correct on my Outlook is doing it wrong.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-2574902841999164622011-02-12T23:20:00.000-08:002011-02-14T08:51:44.944-08:00This is why opinions are like assholes...Because everybody has one.<br />
<br />
I have been told that I am not very black. Which...What does that even mean? <br />
<br />
Who gets to decide how black is black? I'm not black enough because I grew up in the suburbs? Because I went to predominately white schools? Because I speak WELL (which is usually phrased as "you sound like you're white"...which is another thing I don't understand)? Because I prefer alternative music to hip hop? Because I go to Renaissance Faires? BECAUSE I DON'T DO THINGS YOU THINK BLACK PEOPLE ARE SUPPOSED TO DO?<br />
<br />
The list goes on and on.<br />
<br />
I grew up in the suburbs because my parents wanted to live there. At five years old, I was in no position to have opinion on where I lived. Also? I should mention that I have gone to schools catered to gifted type students for as long as I've been getting an education. Yes. I'm a super smart motherfucker. And on top of that, my father would pop me right in the mouth for saying things like "huh?" and "yeah". So there was additional incentive to speaking properly. And just because I PREFER alternative to hip hop, doesn't mean I don't ever listen to Jazz, or R&B, or even rap. If I feel like it. I go to Ren Faires because they're fun. And my mom used to take me when I was a kid growing up. And I am keeping the tradition going by taking my kid when the Ren Faire returns to Southern California.<br />
<br />
But these things are neither here or there. Because I'm going to let you in on a little secret: <em><u>There is no measuring stick on blackness</u></em>. I am black; therefore, everything I do is something that a black person does. Even if that black person is just me.<br />
<br />
I'm black because it's what my father is, and what my mother (mostly) is. Like most, I am a mixture of other things. But I identify MYSELF as black.<br />
<br />
So who are you to tell me I'm not?<br />
<br />
<em>You can blame this rant on </em><a href="http://www.mochamomma.com/2011/02/11/on-being-black/"><em>mochamomma</em></a><em> and </em><a href="http://www.missdisgrace.com/2011/02/my-son-is-not-hawaiian.html"><em>grace</em></a><em>. And the fact that people can be assholes. </em>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-65288144030465897482011-02-09T12:15:00.000-08:002011-02-09T12:15:59.962-08:00This should totally be a Weight Loss Wednesday post...Except, I haven't lost any weight.<br />
Because I haven't been to the gym all week.<br />
Because I've been too busy playing hide and go tweet with <a href="http://fuckyeah-foofighters.tumblr.com/post/3121002306">THESE GUYS</a>.<br />
<br />
Somehow, though...I managed to lose an inch on my waist though.<br />
<br />
Not ungrateful. But still. I can do better.<br />
And then, this Sunday was the Super Bowl...So I'm sure you already know that any thoughts of "eating healthy" went right out the window, when the pizza (it was spinach and feta cheese, does that count?) got to the house.<br />
<br />
So. Gym tonight, and healthy food type things until next Wednesday's post. Deal?Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-30707028081053201802011-02-02T10:10:00.000-08:002011-02-02T10:10:35.009-08:00Weight Loss Wednesday: The What I've learned from tracking my foods edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.crossfitsantarosa.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/weightScale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" s5="true" src="http://www.crossfitsantarosa.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/weightScale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There’s too much salt in my diet</div></li>
<li>There are too many CARBS(“SUGAR”) in my fancy hot beverage</li>
<li>EGGS HAVE TOO MUCH CHOLESTEROL</li>
<li>I felt bad having to type in I had 3 Yard House Beers. But not bad enough not to drink them</li>
<li>I need to workout to obtain more calories to eat I need to go to the gym more.</li>
<ul><li>I WILL go to the gym if it means I can have dessert (my husband bought me a sour cream lemon pie. He is a saboteur)</li>
<li>Maintaining my hair is a bitch when I go to the gym every day</li>
</ul><li>I can feel that my clothes fit differently, BUT. I can’t find my tape measure. This is also The Man’s fault.</li>
<li>Sometimes, livestrong recommends things with lower calories than what I just ate</li>
<ul><li>But. If you recommend that I eat a tub of frosting because it’s less calories than something healthy, you’re doing it wrong.</li>
</ul></ul><br />
<div> </div><br />
Also? I NEED a cheat day. That cheat day is going to be SUPERBOWL SUNDAY.<br />
<br />
<div> </div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-55229872452113563802011-01-31T06:41:00.000-08:002011-01-31T06:54:34.815-08:00Happy Monday!Now that I have to be at work at 6! AM! on Mondays, I have to get up pretty early to get to work on time. Luckily though, because it's so early, I can leave a little bit later and still make it in to work on time.<br />
<br />
I don't know WHY it seemed like such a good idea to be unable to sleep until 1 o'clock in the morning. But there it is. I figured that I could come home and nap it off, since getting to work early means leaving early. <br />
<br />
And because I was so tired, I waited until the last possible minute to get up. In my case, 5AM. I will need to get out of the house by 5:30. MAX.<br />
<br />
And because I put on make-up almost every morning, OF COURSE I WAS RUNNING LATE.<br />
<br />
And because I was running late, and I'm not the kind of asshole who wakes up EVERYBODY in the house, just because I'm up, I got dressed in the dark.<br />
<br />
And because I got dressed in the dark, this happened:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZsyT7QZ5FYM-ygVberyM2pex3v7aHa8Ob9a-GCkdcdiOr-WXasMzMViuQr_T3_tAXSdOw3fd8N0jdVZtnZogN63nzNk2SfFonJNeo8KbegG_iLCijoLI7tJimCKokMUO0br6j8XlIhDp/s1600/Happy+Monday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZsyT7QZ5FYM-ygVberyM2pex3v7aHa8Ob9a-GCkdcdiOr-WXasMzMViuQr_T3_tAXSdOw3fd8N0jdVZtnZogN63nzNk2SfFonJNeo8KbegG_iLCijoLI7tJimCKokMUO0br6j8XlIhDp/s320/Happy+Monday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Would now be a good time to tell you that I have the EXACT SAME BOOT IN TWO DIFFERENT COLORS?<br />
<br />
Thank God I keep an extra pair of shoes at work.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcrCaRQlGYNn7iKaMfqqKiMHIANpREUyb47l8XCjvDdwdIzNIZI57bR0NwCdywc0MbJ4cB6oaqUA-FuxNaLbfdlyMwHoQ4Fk4n4Ja7Xy2iDnzqRiPx8IQk6gi7Pz8zK2rMMVvFotmhnI/s1600/pink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="302" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcrCaRQlGYNn7iKaMfqqKiMHIANpREUyb47l8XCjvDdwdIzNIZI57bR0NwCdywc0MbJ4cB6oaqUA-FuxNaLbfdlyMwHoQ4Fk4n4Ja7Xy2iDnzqRiPx8IQk6gi7Pz8zK2rMMVvFotmhnI/s320/pink.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fancy argyle tights y'all. I'm SUCH an adult.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Yeah, this Monday is shaping up to be a real winner.Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-78914576277261647082011-01-26T11:41:00.000-08:002011-01-26T11:41:54.114-08:00Weight Loss Wednesday?Maybe. This may be a thing. Or maybe it will just be a thing for a little while. Either way. Apparently I make lots of lists. <br />
<br />
<div> </div>So, I’m going to try to use this <a href="http://www.livestrong.com/myplate/">website</a> to track my food intake. STARTING TODAY. I would like you to know that:<br />
<ol><li>If I want to lose 2 pounds a week (or is it 1.5), I can only have 928 calories</li>
<ul><li>That’s not a lot of food</li>
</ul><li>I used it today withOUT regard to how many calories I ate so I can see how much I routinely eat</li>
<ul><li>FAT. THERE’S A LOT OF FAT IN MY DIET</li>
<li>Grande Chai Tea lattes are 200 calories (I didn’t drink the whole thing; I never do)</li>
<li>Now I only have 345 calories for dinner</li>
<li>Including any/all snacks</li>
<li>There’s an orange sitting on my desk and I’m scared to eat it.</li>
</ul><li>I’m DEFINITELY going to have to go to the gym, so that I can have sommore calories.</li>
<ul><li>Starting tonight</li>
<li>Who's with me?</li>
</ul><li>OMG. 928 Calories.</li>
</ol><br />
<div> It should be noted, that these calories do not include any sort of exercise. Which. I WILL BE DOING. So that will allow a couple hundred more calories. Also? Why didn't it have an option for sedentary job, but busy like a motherfucker once I clock out? AND? I don't really think that 928 calories is reasonable. But I guess if I eat healthier, maybe 928 calories is a WHOLE LOT of food? </div><div> </div><div>We'll see. Luckily I have the option to change it to something I think is more I WANNA LOSE WEIGHT BUT NOT STARVE TO DEATH IN THE PROCESS calorie goal.</div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7920196611441545555.post-9794758103649375382011-01-13T10:42:00.000-08:002011-01-13T10:42:05.486-08:00I have so many things to tell you, but let me start with last night...I do. I have a LOT OF THINGS to tell you.<br />
My husband turned 40 the other day, The Boy turned 21 and then I took him to Vegas stories. But. I've been busy. Or am lazy. Not sure which. Either way.<br />
<br />
Last night I went to the Slide Bar in Fullerton for <a href="http://chrisshiflettmusic.com/2011/01/08/rockers-in-the-round/">Rockers in the Round</a>. Last minute gig that a facebook friend mentioned. And me, thinking OH I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO BUT WORK TOMORROW decided, yes. It sounds like a GREAT IDEA. That's me, y'all. I am full of <strike>it </strike>GREAT IDEAS.<br />
<br />
ANYWAYS. So even though I have a whole lot of stories that I want to tell you guys. I'm going to tell you this one. Because I sent an e-mail to my friends about last night. Which, pretty much is a post. So. Enjoy:<br />
<br />
Subject: A few things<br />
<br />
1. I went last night. It was FUN. <br />
<br />
2. Chris was walking around ordering drinks at the bar AND NOBODY NOTICED HIM BUT ME AND SARAH. <br />
a. I did not drink. Because I was in FULLERTON. BY MAHSELF <br />
3. Then he stopped to talk to us. At some point I said, “See how much I love you? I’m going to be here until AFTER midnight, and I have to be at work at 7:30 IN. THE. MORNING.” (He says, well, I have to take my kids to school in the morning, so I feel your pain. And thank you for coming out. REALLY) <br />
4. He’s SO. SWEET. <br />
5. The people who go frequent that bar are some sketchy looking characters. FO SHO <br />
6. The opening band “something 257” SUCKED. HARD. <br />
a. Their drummer didn’t have any legs. <br />
b. No. REALLY. Wheelchair. <br />
c. And now I’m dying to know how he played the drums because we left during their set (see #3) <br />
7. I got home at 2AM <br />
8. He also said to be on the lookout for more random shows. <br />
9. Oh yeah: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu992ldIEIubOCXlzmmTNgqHicDH3LO3ag73tKAF18rFrq4lE54PnFoa1QDsuWrSmL7aqmlnI9D6cHdsLuSE4JXrfssLUHqvVX-Icm8ufVvzcEhya3kmbk2CU0vWrB7mcenaM88VUMo126/s1600/Shifty+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu992ldIEIubOCXlzmmTNgqHicDH3LO3ag73tKAF18rFrq4lE54PnFoa1QDsuWrSmL7aqmlnI9D6cHdsLuSE4JXrfssLUHqvVX-Icm8ufVvzcEhya3kmbk2CU0vWrB7mcenaM88VUMo126/s320/Shifty+pic.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Me. Chris Shiflett</em> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>(I'm not going to explain. Because you should know)</em></div><div style="text-align: left;">BOOYAH!</div>Briyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309090357259943681noreply@blogger.com3