Mawwage is what bwings us togevah today

Below is my toast for the wedding tomorrow afternoon -- I could use some last minute feedback in the comments!

As many of you already know I can be a bit of a cynic which can make things a bit challenging when wedding season rolls around but I'm feeling pretty confident about the union of Kurt and Stacie. By the way, are we going with Kurcie or Sturt? The tabloids are going to need something to call you in duo form -- and by tabloids I mean my blog. Kurt and Stacies’s relationship has already suffered through a challenge that should have destroyed it. No, I'm not speaking of a secret illness that none of you were told about. Or the rigors of parenthood. I speak of the day last year when Stacie CRASHED KURT'S TRUCK. For those of you that haven't known Kurt for more than a couple of years let me assure you that preStacie he only had room in his heart for one lady and her name was Ford F250 (though personally I suspect he has many pet names for her on the side). Not only did he refuse to let anyone else drive Truck-y-kins but he made her all but inaccessible by lifting her roughly 75 feet in the air and removing the running boards. When I heard that Stacie had backed his baby into a pole I was sure that this would be the end of things -- certainly Kurt would break up with her after he murdered her. Shockingly Stacie not only lived but a big dent in his bumper somehow inspired matrimony. And so, even this cynic has to admit that what we have here is true love and if I’m going to admit it I might as well go all the way to toasting it. To Kurt, to Stacie, to Kurcie, to True Love.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

My day was supposed to be full to the brim with babysitting but at the last minute Miss D's grandma (not my mom, the other one) pulled rank and stole her away for the day so I was left with a huge expanse of empty hours and no plans to fill them. And so, never one to spend a day lolling around, I immediately went into project mode and descending upon and empty patch of dirt in my parent's backyard. My dad had recently torn down the shed that stood in this spot for my entire childhood and this barren plot was in serious need of greenery.

After a trip to the nursery and roping dad into putting a nice border around the plot we were ready to garden! Or rather... to rototill. Despite all posted warnings I choose to operate this heavy machinery in a skirt and flip flops cause I'm super hardcore (also known as stupid hardcore). In addition to around 75 tons of rocks and a disturbing amount of broken glass I dug up a dead squirrel and in further testament to my hardcoredness I picked it up and threw it into the trash without so much as a whimper. Perhaps I haven't converted to 100% city girl just yet.



After erecting the overly snazzy border dad announced that he was done with the project and that it was ALL me from there on out. This was Dad's biggest lie ever because what followed was me asking him questions like "Ok, is this enough dirt or should I add that other bag?" To which he'd respond, "I don't know! This is your project!" but as soon as I'd move forward without the extra dirt he'd begin to mutter things like "hmmm seems a little sparse, might need more dirt." Somehow we managed to finish without me throwing any dead squirrels at his head.

This Blog Entry is AWESOME! Good Job Brianna!

In my impressionable formative years my aunt Karen took me to a play that was... I think... about adults being really boring and probably something about love being complicated but that was mostly ok because being SUPER INTO theatre was how I was currently defining my entire personality and the play took place in a car on the stage. A real live car! Just like the ones I saw on the street everyday! CRAZY. Anyway, short of the car and the general theme of love/heartache/divorce the only thing I really remember about the play was a speech given by one of the characters (the dude, I think) about how he was a great cheerleader and he loved cheering people on and how that was really hard to do when the cheer receiver was constantly going on about how much they suck. This struck me as very profound at age 15ish and may have even spared my mother a few long whiny bouts of "woe is me no one wants to take me to prom because I am the ugliest duckling to ever waddle" (though she'll certainly be shocked to hear that there could have been EVEN MORE such outbursts). This post is not about love or cars or my adolescence (well, no more so than everything I've ever written is about my adolescence), it's about cheerleading. Sort of.

Like the lovelorn boy in that play, I am an awesome cheerleader -- not the most awesome, that title likely belongs to Gillian who I’m pretty sure once did a cartwheel when I won Settlers -- but I got a lot of rah rahs in my sis-boom-ba if you know what I mean (ew. no.). In high school almost all of my close girlfriends were actual cheerleaders of the pep rallies, booty shaking and sleeping with the football team variety but I was too busy with math team and the angst to get into a pleated skirt and tennis shoes. But today I find myself often the cheerleader at parties, at family events, hell, even Project management is at least 30% cheering people on (“two, four, six, eight your code is really great!”).

Thursday night was my team’s final dodgeball game because despite not sucking quite as much as I had anticipated (I think we're 3rd to the last otherwise known as SIXTH PLACE!) we still will not be attending anything like a playoff game... unless they start giving prizes for cheering. The nerds kick ass at cheering! A childhood of being picked last has left all of us sensitive and supportive to a fault -- all of our games are decorated with shrieks of "You are doing so good!" "Awesome job!" "Eeeeeeeeeeeek!" and "Hey guys! Don’t suck!" By our 2^nd or 3^rd game the Zogsports’ designated ref had taken to slowly telling us the score while backing out of decibel range because regardless of just how dismal the final results his announcement would be followed by the kind of hooting and hollering last heard at a moonshine fueled hoedown. Never has “You guys lost 16 to 4.” Been greeted with such enthusiasm! Cause seriously dudes that means we got FOUR WHOLE POINTS.

Over the past couple of months my personal dodgeball playing has shown noticeable improvement moving up from laughable to pitying. When the season began I was a one skill player – all dodging all the time. I couldn’t throw without resulting in a subsequent catch (and subsequent out, followed by “Good Job Bri! It’s Ok!!”) and I didn’t dare even try to catch. But boy oh boy could I run away from a ball and since dodging is, literally, the name of the game I considered myself a team asset anyway. But on the second to last game I managed to up my ball delivery from “toss” to a tightly wound up pitch that on occasion even got an opponent out. And on the last game through some miracle I caught THREE balls! There was much cheering – even from the ref and the other team! The key to succeeding at sports is to set the bar as low as possible so everything short of killing yourself is seen as a celebration worthy success.

Kickball starts in 2 weeks and I suspect I am not more gifted at kicking than throwing but I may need to invest in a pair of pompoms.

God Bless the Mule

I'm home for the week proceeding the Family Wedding Extravaganza (which will hopefully not serve as a catalyst for the Older Daughter Bloody Rampage Fueled by Lack of Organization Extravaganza) but before the fun of running errands to the florist, setting up chairs and telling mom that seriously those shoes look fine for the 75th time can begin we have to get through Memorial Day weekend in Bishop California, better known as Mule Days. As I have mentioned before, this is cowboy country and Mule Days is ostensibly a cowboy party to celebrate all that the mule has done for us (no, not glue.) but in my experience it's mostly an excuse to buy cowboy themed dishtowels and eat Indian tacos. But this year, in honor of my first Mule Days in 7 years I was determined to attend a show. My first choice was the Tracey Lawrence concert because we all know I'm a slut for the twang but sadly the concert was Thursday night and I wasn't going to hit town until Saturday so the next best option was the coyly named, "Sunday Night Show." And so after 2 margaritas and a plate full of very cheesy Mexican food my brother, future sister, favorite little girl ever and my friend Sky went to The Sunday Night Show. Turns out The Sunday Night Show is like a rodeo on laughing gas and includes all of the following events peppered by a announcer's pleas to "Thank lord Jesus for the fun we've had here tonight!", "Buy this beautiful Dodge pickup truck," and cheers that various cowboy participants disrobe.

Bed Roll Race

In this ode to a less than restful night a mule drags a bedroll across the arena where a cowboy/person of less than complete intelligence launches themselves onto the bedroll as the mule races back to the starting line. He who survives the subsequent roads burn wins!

Musical Tires

Ingredients

• Arena full of Mules
• Guy inexplicably dressed in a mule mascot-like suit which, even more inexplicably, has a mustache.
  
• Pack of people with no shame
  
• Record playing "The Wheels on the Bus"
  
• Guy in mule outfit with cap gun that he periodically shoots off in an obvious attempt at suicide via mule kick to the head.

This is exactly like musical chairs except you know, with tires, and angry mules and a more acute possibility of death.

Guy Riding Huge Horses Roman Style

Since "Riding Huge Horses Roman Style" clearly sounds like a new fangled sexual position I'm sure all of you are happy to see that this is just some crazy dude standing on the backs of two horses as they and their horse team buddies race around the track laughing about how hilarious it would be if this fool fell on his ass. Shockingly his ass remained in air.

The Packer's Scramble

Each of four pack trains are given a collection of items deemed "hard to pack on a mule" (though my suggestion of "another mule?" was not seriously considered so clearly no one was trying too hard) and while the clock ticks are forced to pack up their train of mules and race around the fairgrounds without losing any of the haul.

Rise

FAQ

1. No I do not snooze
2. No I do not shampoo
3. No I do not make coffee
   

I'm Rich Bitches!

A week or so ago I was approached via email by a marketing company about placing a few test ads on a few of the posts on this very blog in exchange for MONEY! Obviously I was intrigued. And by intrigued I mean "My sell out dream has finally come true! Where do I sign? I can only hope that my blood makes good ink!" Finally the capitalist system is recognizing my genius by paying me $.67/post!

About that selling out thing. I suppose that as a arteeeeest I should be unbuy-offable, unwilling to compromise my writing for the sake of a few measly bucks, etc. Certainly just like all rock stars I expect all of my paramoures to read and adore every word I've ever written but, again like a rock star, I would like very much to get some paychecks and radio play (and, most importantly, some groupies). I have no shame because I know that secretly everyone wants to be a sell out ("I want ads. I'm jealous" -- Lisa (aka one smart cookie)), selling out your art is the new dotcom, the new pyramid scheme, the new cam girl, the new prostitution. And like all fools before me armed with only greed and laziness I am here to pimp myself out. After all, I sell out my project management skills everyday and I'm a much better (or at least more consistent) project manager than writer. I should probably consider excel spread sheets comparing actual hours to estimated hours and well crafted emails about exactly how bad things will be if I'm forced to build an entire web application by myself my real Art. Luckily, no one, save myself, considers being super anal a form of artistic expression and so no one judges me for going into the office everyday. The point is, mama has to pay the JCrew bills somehow and since my blogging is typically done from my bed while sipping a vodka gimlet I'll happily choose it over this building software racket. Moral of the story? Send me money and/or a new cashmere cardigan and I will happily do your bidding.

In addition to making me $175 closer to living on a yacht in the Caribbean this advertising adventure affords me the opportunity to link back to a number of old posts. This is fortuitous because I fear that many of my newer readers do not take the proper amount of time to thoroughly read and comment on every single post in my archives. Such an oversight could lead to people thinking that I'm not the most awesome and hilarious writer ever just because most everything I've written in say, the last 4 months, has been crap. Obviously this would be a disaster. Please, for your own good, take some time to peruse the writing (and the somewhat hilarious "Third Party Resources") that I give to you for free even though random marketing companies totally think it is worth money.

• Brianna Makes a Fool of Herself on National TV
• Brianna is Intimidated by Bikes
• Brianna Cooks Some Stuff
• Brianna, as Investigative Reporter, Calls Out The Local Pizza Joint
• Brianna Has No Shame When it Comes to Dating
• Brianna Bitches A Lot (This Time About Grocery Shopping)
• Brianna's a Slut for a Little Twang
  

Now, there is the question of how best to blow my $175 in advertising revenue. Ideally the money would go to something frivolous that also somehow manages to benefit the blog thus easily masking the frivolity. My only idea so far is a class which I could somehow parlay into at least one (or possibly 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) blog post. Or I could just buy $175 worth of liquor and live blog my slow decent into drunken stooper. But in the spirit of community (and in homage to my never ending laziness) I'm open to suggestions from the peanut gallery -- How do you think I should spend my loot?

Prithy Good Sir, May I Borrow Your Dragon?

I have a standing lunch date on Tuesdays with a few of my coworkers to play Settlers of Catan. Settlers is, theoretically, a German board game of world domination sort of like Risk or Civilization but the way we play it's mostly an exercise in embracing our nerdiness and mocking our coworkers. At both of these things we excel. And so when, at a party this weekend, it was revealed that 3 of my gamer cohorts have cast such a wide net of love over the world of games that somehow the nerdiest game to ever rise out of the dark depth of junior high has been scooped up for a great big slobbery hug. I speak, of course, of Dungeons and Dragons. This fact alone was plenty fodder for mocking, especially because the three of us with no ties to role playing refused to believe that the D&D afternoons that our friends attended did not include a certain live action element. At the mere mention of the game I conjured up images of cape clad boys wielding paper towel tube swords and yelling at one another in fake old English. "Hark! Prince Aridawn Lord of the Prairie Nymphs Demands an audience with the King of Fawnshire and there better be crumpets!" they shouted. There was some protesting of this imagined version of the game but there were also a number of confessions (I don't think that I need to say that alcohol had obviously been consumed) which supported my theory that the geekery was out of control.

1. Joel has an animal companion, he's a wolf and his name is Night Eyes.
2. Dan rides a magical horse and also owns two magic sword which he has named (god damn the booze for blurring memories badly enough to put remembering the names of horses and swords just out of reach).

And so first thing Monday morning the following all too hilarious emails went out.

Last names have been censored to protect my coworkers who, I assume, would like to someday know the pleasure of a woman (who they did not make up as part of some elaborate fantasy game set in Roman times and who also is not a character on a video game and who also does not ever need to be inflated.)

Email Chain #1

From: Brianna Klemm
Subject: Settlers tomorrow

I can't play tomorrow but provided you guys can manage to organize a meeting without my awesome project management skills perhaps Night Eyes can fill my vacancy.
Bri

From: Joel XXXXXXX
Subject: RE: Settlers tomorrow

And just when I hoped the drunkness would blur that memory out..

From: Jeremy XXXXXXX
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 10:52 AM
Subject: RE: Settlers tomorrow

I'm not sure I could drink enough to forget about an animal companion named Night Eyes.

From: Matthew XXXXXXX
Subject: RE: Settlers tomorrow

I wanted so badly to be the first person to drop Night Eyes this morning! Ahhhh! At least I know I am not the only one.

From: Brianna Klemm
Subject: RE: Settlers tomorrow

Can someone please remember the name of Dan's magical horse so we can start working that in as well?

Email Chain #2

From: Jeremy XXXXX
Subject: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

Since half of us are feeling especially cool in light of the "Night Eyes" revelation, I think its time for me to try and even the playing field. I have a new game called Puerto Rico that we should try playing. Since we don't know the rules we think we should probably play at a bar after work. Does tomorrow or Wednesday night work?

From: Matthew XXXXXXX
Subject: Re: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

I'm a maybe. Are there spells?

Matt

From: Brianna
Subject: Re: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

I'm also a Tuesday maybe and a Wednesday no... I would hesitate to suggest this but given the current low level of cool for the group as a whole how does Friday look?

Dan -- let us know if you'll be out gallivanting with Snow Angle the Wonder Pony (don't think that just because you refuse to share your horse's name that you will not be mocked)

From: Daniel XXXXXXX
Subject: Re: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

I think you mean "Snow Angel", but nice try.

From: Brianna
Subject: Re: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

Really? You think my typo somehow negates you having A MAGIC HORSE? nice try yourself.

From: Daniel XXXXXX
Subject: Re: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

Dude, you're a girl. You've always wanted a magic horse. You probably played with magic horse dolls when you were little. You're just jealous that I have one, and you don't.

From: Jeremy XXXXXXX
Subject: RE: Puerto Rico Playing (I haven't read all the rules, but it looks like there are no 'Animal Companions', sorry Joel)

Wow. I think this counts as one of those kamikaze defenses. I believe Dan just equated himself to a little girl that plays with magic horse dolls...

Jerry! Jerry!... Kermit is That You?

I like two kind of television -- really well written interesting shows that win awards (Lost, Big Love, etc) and really awful bottom of the barrel fare that one should likely be embarrassed by. Luckily, I long ago embraced my love for a good train wreck. When I was a teen my ideal way to spend a teacher in service day was lying on my parent's water bed (bowchicabowwow) with the remote in hand flipping between talk shows. I was a fan of Geraldo, Sally Jesse, Maury and Montel but my greatest admiration was reserved for the king of klansmen marrying pregnant vampire trannies: Mr. Jerry Springer. My preoccupation with chair throwing rednecks continued through college when I sucked my housemates into late night Jerry-a-thons (and where we noticed that one particularly ugly long blue polyester sleeveless dress was practically vying with Steve for costar status as it appeared on guest after guest) but college was an long eight years ago and after graduation I left behind not only mixing rum with powdered iced tea and decorating with tapestries but also my good friend Jerry. A few weeks ago when I discovered that my 19 year old cousin had a disturbing devotion to Springer I decided to revisit his show.

The episode begins with this alert: "Warning: The Jerry Springer Show may contain adult themes or strong language. Parents are cautioned that this program may not be suitable for children." MAY? Seriously Jerry I think you can safely promise an adult hour full of curse words that kiddies should not be allowed to hear. During the 15 or so seconds when this warning is on the screen viewers ears are treated to the comforting lull of a toilet flushing. Just a precursor of the classiness to come.

Now officially warned we open with the familiar chants of "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" and a series of scenes from shows of yore. Jerry starts things off with a quote from a 1991 show, "we can even talk without punching each other out." Aw Jer -- you sentimental fool. In '92 people hit each other with chairs, same in '93. in '94 there is punching and women in tapestry patterned vests, in 1995 a food fight, repeated in 96 with someone dumping a 5 gallon bucked of spaghetti on a woman in a bridal gown. 1997 stars a klansman throwing a stool at the audience. In '98 Jerry appears in a neck brace. '99 a fist fight. 2000 a man without legs walking around on his hands. 2001 a man wearing only a refrigerator box and a mop-like wig chasing down a navy blue 70s era car. 2002 a woman ripping off her shirt. 2003 revisits the food fight this time I think chocolate cake is involved. Food being flung again in 2004, and, in a nod to healthy eating trends, we're having salad. Again a bride is faced with an avalanche of food in '05. My god apparently the last 5 years of Jerry have been all food fights all the time -- in 06 we see some dude essentially breakdancing in smashed leftovers. 2007 has a very obese woman with a man's head tattooed on her forearm who is possibly.... eating a mans foot? or maybe kissing his feet? All I know for sure is that there is no food being flung. Annnnnd now it's 08 and the show is starting and Jerry is entering the stage via a fireman's pool while bathed in red light and fog.

THAT WAS JUST THE INTRO.

I took notes on the entire hour long episode with the intention of this post being a sort of Jerry Springer live blog but... it's too much! The problem with live blogging Springer is that, unlike almost everything else in the world, I am incapable of improving the humor level via snide commentary. Springer is my kryptonite. Springer stands alone. I don't believe that the Jerry Springer show is real. I don't even really believe that the Oprah show is real (the Tyra show is probalby also fake but I so badly want to believe...). The thing is once you accept the show as a total fabrication it becomes crazy fucking awesome.

The title of today's episode is "On top of Old Smokey" I will now take a moment to hypothesize on what this might mean. I'm guessing... something about burley bearish gay men who are secretly bottoms? Guess again. The theme is actually, "Living a double life has finally caught up with me." kind of yawn worthy in comparison -- I should get a job making up Springer themes. The first guest is named Smokey so I think it's safe to say that someone is getting on top of his ass before the hour is out. As expected the episode has fighting and pixelated boobs and wigs ripped from heads and, shockingly, only one on top of Olde Smokey joke. But this is not news -- this is standard issue Jerry and no one is really impressed anymore. But I am happy to report that the folks over at Jerry Springer HQ are still, over 10 years in, thinking outside of the polyamorous sumo wrestler amputee box.

So the show starts and Smokey is sitting there telling us about his 2 womens blah blah blah... then the camera pulls away to reveal the most awesome thing ever: a mini-stage in the background with 2 puppets on it -- one a blond girl with huge fuzzy puppet implants and the other an old man complete with mountain man full gray beard. THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW HAS PUPPETS! Oh man. As Jerry tries to get to the bottom of the story (Smokey apparently lives with both woman, one is his baby mama, etc) the puppets in the background "react" mostly by holding their heads in their hands and shaking in shame -- Smokey makes puppets cry. When Jerry makes a sad attempt at a joke he gets a budump-ba drum sound effect and the puppets guffaw uncontrollably. When we return from the third commercial break Old Man puppet has been replaced with young black girl puppet -- I suspect old man puppet had had enough of these crazy kids and went off to the senior center to have lunch and maybe play a round of bocce with the ladies. Later, when a fight breaks out between the girlfriends the puppets can be seen in the background acting out the entire performance. The puppets are my new favorite TV personalities (take that Holly, Bridget and Kendra). Would that I had the kind of muse that came to me with ideas like "we should get some puppets to reenact the action as it takes place on stage and one of the puppets should probably be a stereotypical Italian dude in a bikini." I predict in 5 years all studio audiences will be replaced with puppets -- Jerry is more than half way there since for some reason there is a dummy in the audience -- he appears to be wearing a Che Guevara shirt (I am not kidding.) and he is never acknowledged.

As the show's main segment comes to a close Smokey claims to "put the mac in macdaddy" and one of the girls attacks him again with her huge blurry boobs. Jerry encourages the girls to force Smokey to choose and Girlfriend #1 agrees but then claims that she didn't understand what Jerry was asking of her. At this admission the audience demands a translator and they bring up some Latino show staff dude and he starts translating to Spanish. Shockingly this 400lb black woman does not speak Spanish. For the remainder of the segment (at least 5 minutes) the translator continues translating everything said on stage including "I don't bleeping speak Spanish!" Then Jerry points out that the puppets are demonstrating the fight between the two girlfriend and Smokey furthers the demo by putting his arms around the puppets and claiming them both as belonging to him.

And that's pretty much it -- Jerry '08 is talk show meets the twilight zone and then somehow takes sharp left at Sesame Street. It is totally worth tivoing. Until next time... Take care of yourselves and each other.

This is entry is cross posted at Burt Reynold's Mustache

The Rock Stars Have Left The Building

I have a friend named Jill who in college used to swoon over the idea of a rock star boyfriend and we would all mock her because Jill is beautiful and silly and totally the kind of girl that boys fall head over heels in love for, but none of those boys are rock stars. They play trombone in the marching band. They love Final Fantasy. They contribute the requisite $20 a month to NPR. They do not rock. And it's just as well, Jill would hate the pretension of a real rock star boyfriend. She'd hate the wife beaters and the muscle cars and the nonchalance. And most of all she'd probably hate his music.

It's easy to see why we all deep down want a rock star boyfriend. Someone to write moony songs about how the sunlight catching in our hair makes them want to rip our panties off. Someone so passionate about life that it oozes out of him into song. Someone who looks good in leather pants. Friday night while at The Hold Steady concert I gave my friend Jason 60/40 odds on me being willing to sleep with any of the guys in the band despite having no idea what they looked like. I already half love them for their crazy ranting rock and roll so I figured they'd have to reach new heights of fug to turn me off. They were, as Jason had warned, oldish (defined as "even older than us."). One of them looked remarkably like Chuck Klosterman who we all know I'd sleep with, but not because he's hot. Yet after a few rounds of bopping around the stage and screaming into the mikes I was sold. Panties? dropped.

I didn't sleep with the band which is probably fortuitous since last night between sets Jason and I stumbled upon a disturbing truth. If you date a rock star you have to love his music. Ok, maybe not if he's just "jamming" with friends on the weekends, everyone knows that dudes who use the term "jamming" don't deserve love. But if he's in a real band that plays gigs and shit? You have to be into it. You have to go to all of his 1am Tuesday night shows at Arlene's Grocery. You have to think his fedora looks hot. You have to smile sweetly when he spends a grand of your vacation fund on a new set of bongo drums. You're thinking, no problem! Surely your boyfriend is sexy and brilliant and totally rocks, right? Unfortunately probably not, I suspect that 95% of bands suck. On top of that there are lots of good bands who I don't love regardless of their talent. In fact there are whole musical genres that I doubt I could get behind even if their most talented and sexy front man were to proposition me.

No other occupation demands so strongly that its practitioners find significant others willing to be swear devotion to their craft. If you're a lawyer you do not expect your boyfriend to sit in the courtroom swooning at your every objection. Professor's girlfriends are never asked to listen attentively to recorded lectures. None of my former boyfriends have been caught beating off to my project plans.

After thinking this through I'm shocked that rock star boys have any luck at all when it comes to matters of the heart. Since it is well documented that only 5% of bands are legitimately worth listening to (See paragraph 3) one has to assume that most girlfriends of rockers are either delusional or liars and since I am neither I now happily lay down the dream of the rock star boyfriend.

Random Access Random

I don't really like to get involved with memes for the same reason I don't like to comment back on other blogs to gain internet popularity or publish "what do you think?" posts in an effort to get maximum comments (though, actually I might have one of those brewing.). The problem is that I take myself way to seriously. I have a tendency to fall into that pretentious I am a WRITER trap and we all know that serious writers, the kind that get offered book deal and guest spots on morning TV programs to add some quirky internet presence so that my Grandma and her friends in Wisconsin can shake their heads in a "those crazy kids" sort of way, they do NOT care about comments or subscriber counts and they certainly cannot be expected to respond to gimmicky things like a meme. Of course real writers also have ideas that are publishable not just 15000 Google docs full of unusable notes and a bunch of "I haven't written something worthwhile in MONTHS" guilt. They probably also do not devote entire posts to cooing about how cute their niece is (they also do not have a niece as cute as mine so really this is a moot point). They also probably don't have a friend as nice and devoted and willing to put up with YEARS worth of email describing the minutia of their dating follies using phrases like "doomed for life" and "totally going to die alone" but I do -- and if Mike wants me to mem it up I will. My book deal be damned.

Anyway, the meming goes like this:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
5. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
6. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

Now on to the random Brianna generator.

1. My youthful vigor and amazingly perky breasts aside there is a proper pants suit wearing 75 year old woman living in my soul (My inner Emily Gilmore). She makes me send out hand written thank you cards (actually that might have been my mom...) and refuses to let me out of the house in brown shoes and black pants and her little alcoholic liver demands to be fed whenever I enter a bar. It is because on her that my drink of choice is a vodka gimlet.
2. I l have next to no ability to appreciate visual art (go ahead, judge me, I put my thoughts on the internets so I pretty much asked for it). When wandering around a museum (because I have guests visiting and they demand culture or because I'm in a foreign country and god knows I will never hear the end of it if I don''t log a visit to whatever famous museum the country lays claim to) I am usually reduced to glancing at the art and quickly averting my eyes to read every paragraph of the author bio. There is one exception to this rule -- I love color block art, esp uniform blocks/pixels of different colors, double especially if they're organized in some sort of gradient progression from one color to another. Basically the color picker feature in Photoshop speaks to me.
3. I think I look awful in purple. Or rather I think I should think I look awful in purple based on one statement made by my mother roughly 15 years ago. ("Brianna, Purple is not your color.")
4. I have small feet and I am inexplicably proud of this as if I had something to do with creating my tiny tootsies and as if having small feet is some sort of valuable trait. Embarrassingly I suspect this is me bowing the the social expectations that women be petite and dainty. For a while the only part of me that I felt fit into this definition was my feet and so to this day when, at the bowling alley picking up my rented shoes my co-bowlers or the shoe rental lady exclaim that I have "such tiny feet!" I glow a little bit inside and then blush a bit on the outside for being so shallow/easily manipulated by the patriarchy.
5. My first "boyfriend" was a boy named Ben who lived next door to me in 2nd grade. We did a lot of playing together and my friend Jolene was "dating" his twin brother. Once he drew me an adorable picture of us holding hands on the beach which I can to this day picture with amazing clarity(me in blond pigtails and a blue bikini, him in red swim trunks, waves in the back ground and a wooden sign that says "beach" least there be any confusion), the picture probably still lives somewhere in my childhood bedroom. Ben and I had a falling out sometime early in 3rd grade and I went on to become queen of the Geeks and he to actual real life popularity leading my high school friends to speculate that if only I hadn't broken up with Ben 6 years ago perhaps I could have been popular too as if boyfriend alone could have made up for my membership in mathletics.
6. I failed my driver's test the first time for driving on the wrong side of the road. In my defense this was right after doing a 3 point turn and seriously, anyone could make that mistake. I went home and CRIED for hours (someone doesn't handle failure well...) and then my dad bought me flowers and gave me the patented Horst Klemm "This will not matter when you grow up and realize how awesome you are" speech (that dad dude was smart). I passed on the second try a couple of weeks later and that same day accidentally drove on the wrong side of the road AGAIN. Luckily I didn't kill anyone or get caught. I have managed to over come my obviously British driving roots and mostly stay on the right side of the road these days.
   

People Whom I Encourage To Be Random

Under Consideration and Montague because they are new blogy friends who you guys should check out
I Don't Think It's Going to Rain because Lisa will write about anything
Kajal's World on a Page because if she posts any more baby stories I'm going to die from the cute
Amy's Magical Place because she needs to write more.
Ultra Fine Flair because Gillian is really good at being random