can you handle the truth?

I work for attorneys. I love my job. I really do. It is stress and makes me want to scream and people are crazy, but I like it. I think this is because I am a yellow and like pretty much most things. The red in me gets frustrated. The yellow in me wonders what is bugging Red so much. I don’t know what it is about law offices that strikes me as being so interesting. It could be that pretty much everyone is crazy, but the truth is I love my bosses.

Attorneys all love each other. The only people that my bosses will talk to without knowing who they are and what they want are other attorneys. My typical phone call routine is: “Law Office, this is Brittany, how may I help you? No, the attorney is unavailable at the moment. Can I help you with something?” If it’s a client, I try to help. If I can’t help, I take a message. If it’s an attorney, I snicker awkwardly and say, “Oh yes, Mr. Whatsaface, he actually is in.” I will then buzz my boss, tell him an attorney is on the phone, and a half an hour of school-girl-type giggling can be heard for the next half an hour.

Then there was the one time that I was at lunch with a friend. My two bosses were walking ahead of us and my friend says to me, “They are a pretty cute couple. Look how happy they look together.” I just laughed. I did not tell my friend they are my bosses, two married (to women) men. It would just ruin it. I did tell my boss, who looked at my other boss, who told me my friend is hereby unwelcome at the office. But pretty sure I caught a special glimpse pass between the two of them.

Attorneys are quirky. I recall working at a law firm a few years ago where my boss told me that no one should ever listen to country music. He then amended his statement, a special twinkle in his eye, as follows: “Except for Shania Twain. She can really sing, Brittany. She can really sing.” He made himself mixed tapes of every obnoxiously good old-man song ever. I have the fondest memories of sitting outside his office, listening to him sing along to Hamilton, Joe, Frank & Reynolds, Hall & Oates, and Gordon Lightfoot. His favorite of all time was Mamma Mia! but Shania held his heart.

(It goes without saying that when I got divorced, this is the attorney I went to first. And I’ll be darned if he didn’t give me a big hug and sit and talk with me for a good hour and a half about everything. Good fella.)

Attorneys like money. They do. Particularly more than the average person does, I think. My boss told us at staff meeting one day that he goes into the parking lot sometimes and weaves around the cars looking for change people have dropped. After a particularly good day of this vagabond-like behavior, he said, “I should take everyone out to lunch.” He never did. And by “everyone,” as it turns out, he meant “just me.”

So pretty much I’m feeling gross because I just wrote a blog about attorneys while I’m at work, all consumed with attorney-type stuff. I’m going to go home and shower. The end.

had it

I am blogging at the moment because I have had it. I just called a client to get copies of some documents that were not in the file they brought in. She insisted that she put them in there. I said “Okay, I’ll just have to double check because I couldn’t see them.” She said, “Okay, well gosh! Stop fighting with me about it!” and burst into flames. I mean… uh, tears.

Emotionally unstable as I am, I have difficulty with this kind of emotional instability in others. I choose to deal with it by looking adoringly at the following picture:

It’s my house! It’s a pretty little foreclosure (although 2,100 square feet is pretty big for just me) that I am getting for about $20,000 less than what I should be. As it turns out, the house we had in Logan technically is not mine (I was on the Deed but never on title), which means I am, for all intents and purposes, a first time home buyer. This means the government, bless its black little heart, wants to give me a whole bunch of money just for buying this precious little foreclosed house. If that scenario wasn’t perfect enough for you, Ogden is so ghetto that Ogden City wants to pay my down payment for me for actually wanting to buy a house in this sorry city.

Let’s add to that the fact that my real estate guy works in the office upstairs and got me a wicked sweet deal. I’m not going to lie. It’s got problems. (Let’s face it. It’s a foreclosure/short sale/house in Ogden.) The first being there are no appliances in the kitchen. Crud. Nope, just kidding. Problem solved. Real estate demigod is cutting me a check to cover the cost of appliances plus some “new tile” cash for–you guessed it! Ding ding! New tile! It’s a Christmas miracle.

And they lived happily ever after. With a big scary dog. And an alarm system.

scrooge behavior

I am struggling. I don’t like holidays. Unless Thanksgiving is considered a holiday. I like that one. But all the other ones… we can probably do without those. Let’s start with Halloween, since that is the one that is currently encroaching upon my life and choking me with its absurdness.

I don’t know how it happened but I started dating this guy a while back and he is not like me at all. I would say our primary difference can be encapsulated in the way each of us would handle the following situation:

Problem: You’re walking through the grocery store and see someone you know. Let’s say you don’t know them. Let’s say you saw each other once when you were five years old and you have a vague recollection of maybe seeing them once. And you could be mistaken.

Solution as per Steve: “Hey! It’s a guy I know!” Steve is usually happy to see anybody he recognizes as having seen before ever in his life, and will talk to them for many long times no matter what.

Solution as per Brittany: “Oh man. It’s someone I know.” Maybe I should leave. Maybe I don’t need to get groceries right now. Maybe they didn’t see me. Maybe I’ll hide. (I usually hide.)

So I am getting better as far as the sickness goes but I’m thinking this weekend will give me a little kick towards the sick side again. Steve, as Weber County MVP, knows everyone and everyone knows him. He came to be the Weber County MVP by being such a chipper, easy to get along with fella. Everyone loves him. That’s cool. That really is cool. I just wish he wouldn’t get invited to so many Halloween parties.

I haven’t been to a Halloween party in ages. I haven’t dressed up for Halloween since I was in elementary school. My Halloween plans over the last several years have included sitting in my pajamas watching a totally anti-Halloween movie, eating pizza with the lights off. The lights off, obviously, is an attempt to thwart trick-or-treaters from coming to my house. I usually rent a threatening-looking Rottweiler to sit on my front porch with a sign around its neck that reads: “I bite children. For no reason.”

But alas, plans change and I am apparently going to a Halloween party. TWO Halloween parties. For Steve’s friends. I hang with the awkward crowd who doesn’t have Halloween parties, I suppose. Not only that, but I am dressing up, and I am bringing a famously good seven layer bean dip to the event. Not only that, but the ingredients to compile said dip required an extra trip to the grocery store. Not only THAT, but we saw someone Steve knew at the grocery store and I had to make awkward conversation in front of the apple juice.

I’m waiting to feel better about this holiday but it’s not happening.

last of the “sick” posts

my diet for the next week and a half

I am really trying to be upbeat and positive about all of this. Truly I am. Today I woke up the same way I did Sunday—choking on my own spit. It was lovely. I called Papa Bear who took the morning off work to drive me to the clinic while I bawled my eyes out, sit with me in the waiting room while I bawled my eyes out, sat with me in my appointment while I bawled my eyes out, and took me to the pharmacy (while I bawled my eyes out) to get all of the prescriptions you see above (you guessed it, wibmeo). In case you wondered, I’m marrying him immediately. And chances are, I’ll bawl my eyes out.

ACK!

So after talking to my mom yesterday, I decided that my swollen tongue and throat and neck and eyes and face was a freak allergic reaction to one of the medicines I was taking that I have taken 25,000 times before. I went to the store and got Benadryl. I took the recommended dose (plus maybe an extra sip) and zonked out. The problem–for the past few days every time I have managed to fall asleep, I have woken up every ten minutes when I try to swallow and the pain wakes me up.

So after sleeping for a record-breaing twenty minutes, I wake up and… what the… can’t breathe? That’s not normal. I’m usually able to do stuff like that. I call the clinic and, gasping for air, explain what’s happening. They tell me there’s a 2 hour wait and that if my throat is closed up I should go to the ER. I text my friend to see if he can come give me a blessing, which he does (THANK YOU!) and we drive down to the ER. My goal: To have health insurance the next time I go to the ER. At any rate, the diagnosis is I have strep. After two shots in my bum–one for penicillin and one steroid to make the swelling in my throat go away (the latter feeling akin to having chocolate chip cookie dough injected into my rear–comfort!), I’m on my way home.

And I don’t think I have to tell you what Papa Bear, the world’s most amazing manfriend ever, was doing during all of these shenanigans. Besides snuggling with me, sitting with me, holding my hand, running miscellaneous errands for me, going to my office to pick up work I can do from home, and hauling his precious little bottom from California back to Utah just so he could be available to do all of these things for me… he hasn’t really been much help at all.

fables

Love David Sedaris. Got back a few minutes ago from seeing him at Capitol Theatre. Nearly collapsed laughing so hard. He announced he has a book of fables coming out to a bookstore near you sometime next year. He told a few. One was sad but they were all mostly inappropriate and hilarious. He posed an excellent point. “I’m not sure someone with such low moral fiber should write a book of fables. I think it makes it worse to add animals.”

True story, Dave. Love you though.

Some lines (paraphrasedish, sorry Dave) I would like to forever remember:

• The waiter spoke soothingly to the kookaburra, the way one would talk to a small child… who happened to be wielding a knife.
• I didn’t see that uglyass bobcat show two forms of identification!
• I used to talk to my mom about [something] all the time, but I can’t now. Do you know why? Oh, because she is dead.
• My dad barged in the room wearing just his regular clothes he always wore whenever he was not at work–which is to say, his underpants.

I love him, and I love Hugh. Even though Hugh apparently doesn’t “get stuff.” They just seem like my type of people. That’s all.

willy night

I don’t have anything specific to blog about. Here are things that are going through my head at the moment (in no particular order):

• There are two camps of people in the world. 1) Those who love Will Ferrell and are probably going to Hell soonish, and 2) Those who hate Will Ferrell and should probably see a professional about this problem immediately. I belong to the first camp. I hope to see Will Ferrell there. I need to shake that man’s hand and thank him for the cowbell. And for Emiliooooooooooo! The mighty duck man!
• I’m watching the best of Will Ferrell. Speaking of Cowbell, Christopher Walken is about the most awesome freaking old dude ever. I could watch this video 100 times per day and never grow weary. I love that man more than life. If 2:45 to 2:53 is not the best eight seconds of your life, punch me in the face.
• Papa Bear Plug: For those of you who haven’t met him yet, let me just confirm what critics are saying. This boy gets two enthusiastic thumbs up at all times. I have been sick, exhausted, and disgusting-looking all week long. PB has come over to my house every day this week and just sat, snuggled, and/or watched my boring movies with me every second he has. His already super-protective sweet awesomeness has kicked into overdrive this week. I don’t feel it necessary to convince anyone I’m a huge baby when I don’t feel good. Despite this, every second Papa Bear has available he is spending it with me making sure I’m being taken care of. Love.
• You know the adage or whatever it’s called about having strength in numbers? This is crap. Am I the only one who feels strongest when I’m by myself? I find strength in solitude. Papa Bear is on a man trip. I swear he has more friends than anyone I have ever known. He is a celebrity in this town. So when he goes on man trips for the weekend, I take the opportunity to watch “The Best of Will Ferrell” and take myself out to eat. Am I alone here? I went to a Chinese Buffet and there is something about being by myself, sitting in a booth, eating copies amounts of spring rolls, reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies that just… fits me.
• It’s for that reason that being a girlfriend is very often difficult for me. I struggle with the codependency sometimes. I think I’ve got it all worked out now. Papa Bear can take out my garbage for me as long as he realizes that I could very well do it myself. He seems to understand that sometimes I need to pay for dinner. And before he makes a suggestion he very often prefaces it with my favorite words: “I’m not telling you what to do here, but…” It’s like magic.
• Enough about that, I’m going to David Sedaris tomorrow. I could not be more pleased with myself. I did try to find someone to go with because for some reason there is a very distinct and weird difference between going to a movie or Lucky Buffet by yourself and going to an event in a theater by yourself. Anyway, I couldn’t (find anyone). No one, anyway, that wanted to pay $40ish bucks for a ticket to go see someone whose books they have never read talk about stuff. I’ve never actually been to one of these types of things before. I’m just praying that he tells the story about the poop at a dinner party. So good. The man is a genius. I swear it to you.

Wow. Those were all about men. I’m going to go hug myself now.

wild things = worst. bad. anger. awful. more adjectives please.

As described to Marci: This movie held promise for the first eight minutes. Then the rest of the movie happened. That review should be apt to describe, but in case it doesn’t, this blog has the best review of this movie I have read. It echoes every single one of my feelings about this movie, except it doesn’t quite articulate how much I hated it.

HATE.

sickly

So in recent news, I am a medical marvel.

My eyes have been in varying stages of swollen (usually swollen shut when I wake up and open little by little as the day goes by) since Saturday. I just took a nap which means that they’re swollen shut again, which means that I am typing this post, essentially, without being able to see. I’m a genius. Just like how I have gotten ready for work the past two days. Truly beautiful, I know.

In addition to the stink eyes of death, I have had your basic run-of-the-mill flu-like symptoms. Sore throat, general achy ouchiness, headaches, constant sweatiness, and fatigue. Okay, so I’m usually fatigued. I love sleep time. But this is ridiculous. I slept a hearty eight hours last night and kept blacking out and falling asleep at work. I went to the doctor today, gave a urine sample, and somehow managed to achieve the deep stages of REM sleep in the 30 seconds it took the doc to run to the lab, pick up the pee, and come back and tell me:

“I have no idea. If symptoms persist until Friday, call me. You may have mono.”

Oh, yay!

As a side note, he was pretty sure for a while there that I was pregnant. He asked me if there was any possibility of me being pregnant. No. Really? Who do you live with? Myself. When was your last period? Like a month ago. Are you late? No. So you’re sure you’re not pregnant? Yes. Is it at all possible that you could be pregnant you just haven’t taken a test? No. Are you sexually active? No. You probably should have asked that question second. And am I being punked?

And… back to the point! I asked him what he wanted me to do until then. Obviously falling asleep at work while on the toilet or standing at the filing cabinet won’t work. And my boss has requested already that I never ever miss work, despite the fact that I walked into work today and one of my coworkers took one look at me and said, “Holy shit.” (It’s a direct quote, so it’s okay, right?) I told this coworker that I was going to go to the doctor and figure this out and she said “Thank you!” something like twenty times. I think I caught a rogue tear of gratitude slide down her face. At any rate, the doctor told me to sleep as much as possible and to stop sharing drinks, breathing around people, and to cease kissing Stephen until I feel better.

He’s probably a quack anyway. But sleep is good and I never share.

death of a shoe salesman

For many years I have had an obsession with shoes. Every major milestone in my life over the last several years has involved the purchase of a new pair of shoes. When, for the purpose of being historically accurate in my blog, I endeavored to find out when this shoe fetish began, I was able to trace it back to 2004. I had just been shopping and bought a new dress. It was straight brown but was flattering in all the right places and was just adorable. I thought. My then-husband saw it and said: “It looks like you’re wearing a paper bag.”

Okay, so my husband’s an ass and I need some accessories!

Three to five days of standard shipping later, I was in possession of a stunning pair of pink and red polka dot espadrilles with 4.5 inch cork heels and I was in love. My legs looked fantastic. I would have to learn to walk again, but that is nothing when your feet are encased in the most delicious peep toes known to man.

From that point on, every significant happening in my life required a new pair of shoes. When I found out my husband had a girlfriend, I discovered a pair of beautiful red pointy-toed heels on the way home from the divorce attorney. A new job got me into my first regular, steady salary in quite a few years as well as a new pair of beautiful brown and white wedges that make my bum look delightful. Finally graduating from college, I was able to walk off the podium with a diploma in hand, the crown jewel of my shoe collection pinching my feet while gaining the admiration of all who lay eyes upon them.

On more than one occasion, I have done writing or editing work for friends or family and have been paid with shoes. Successfully battling the discomfort of explosive diarrhea in Peru and Argentina, I reward myself with shoes when back in the United States. As a general rule, the more obnoxious, the more uncomfortable, the more downright ridiculous the shoes are, the better. I haven’t bought a shoe with a heel height under three inches in years.

However, a more significant event in my life has taken place. I met someone, and he is fantastic, and is not an ass. And he is 5′7″ after a good night’s sleep, but most of the time I just like to think of him as perfect for me. So with the onset of this new fantastic boyfriend has come a shoevolution unlike any other.

I embrace flats.

There are some things that are true about flats. It is much easier when wearing flats to look like you have cankles. I may have cankles. Hmm. Your bum doesn’t look great in flats. Your legs definitely don’t look great in flats. But I have discovered–and this is a major discovery for me, so pay attention–that sometimes wearing really gaudy heels isn’t everything. You’re never going to say they’re comfortable. They might be comfortable for heels, but never just plain comfortable.

Since you all know I love lists, I have outlined the following reasons to love flats:

1. Flats can get away with everything. You can line a flat shoe with fur and this is acceptable. I tried on a pair of moccasins with my nice work pants the other day. They were warm, delightful, looked normal, and my heart cried tears of unadulterated joy. You can’t do that with peep toe wedges. It just doesn’t work.
2. The other day I was out walking around on my lunch break and someone commented on my ballet flats that Papa Bear and I have nicknamed my “Green Light Go” shoes since they are the exact color of a green traffic light. The woman who owns the boutique I was perusing mentioned that I am “little and cute.” I have never before been described as little. It was a dream come true. Seriously.
3. No matter how obnoxious your flats are, no one is ever going to allude to the idea that your shoes are reminiscent of someone who might work the corner of 25th and Wall. You get my meaning? Hooker shoes can be cute, yes, but it’s hardly a compliment for someone to say you’re wearing very whorish footwear.
4. Let’s be reasonable here. Tall shoes are adorable, yes, but hardly reasonable.There is nothing more humiliating than stepping out into the street and getting your foot stuck in a sewage drain or one of those blasted grate things. Also gone are the days of getting tiny stiletto heels caught in the sidewalk cracks.
5. Last item on my list is perhaps the most obvious. Flats are just so much more versatile. I wore my favorite pair of shoes–a zebra print pair of ballet flats–to a wedding, came home and switched into jeans, and then into some yoga pants, and then to bed, and my feet looked stunning the whole time. And yes, I just said I wore them to bed. I didn’t, but I could have. That’s all I’m saying. It would have been beautiful.

So moral of the story is this: You should all start dating guys who are just about your height or maybe an inch taller or so, get all sorts of flat shoes, and buy houses in the ghetto. Make sure the street right in front of your house has a grate in it though. Your neighbors will be impressed to see you walk over it hassle free. I know I would be.