If You're Finished Trying to Leave a Message, Get Lost

I have an occasional problem when I try to leave a message on someone's phone. About 20 percent of the time, the voicemail system malfunctions, in one of three ways:

• It states, when I have barely said hello, "If you're satisfied with your message, press 1." 
• It asks if I want to re-record my message—you know, the one that I didn't leave yet. OR...
• It says, 'Good-BYE," in that crisp, snotty, sing-song manner that 6th-grade girls use when they are done with you.  

I know what's happening: Human Digital Tone Syndrome (HDTS). I'm pretty sure it's a real thing, and I swear on a stack of iPhones I have it. There's a timbre in my voice that carries across a library (and sometimes two or three libraries and a handful of churches), even when I'm using my tiniest whisper. I am convinced, based on the amount of times this message shutdown happens to me, that my voice approximates at least one of the digital tones that confuses cell phones or office VM systems—and could probably set off global alarms if I'm not careful. I'm not alone, either - my friend Jill S. said it sometimes happens to her, and she's not half the loud talker that I am.

That's why I've started a GoFundMe account for those suffering from HDTS. Please give generously, and I promise your contributions will be used where they are needed most: to save all those potentially brilliant voicemails that are so sadly going unheard.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Citizen Cane

My 90-year-old father has two canes: a serviceable wooden one, dented and scratched, but good for poking elevator buttons even when we ask him not to, and frequently used when he wants to point suddenly in one direction or another, totally unaware of the heads swerving out of the way of a guaranteed concussion.

And then there's his "fancy cane." About five years ago, I bought him a beautiful Brazos Free Form Twisted Hickory Walking Cane. He loved it! It was cool, and casual, and just the kind of cane you'd want to be seen with, if you needed one to amble about your business. (Definitely too good for poking elevator buttons.) About a week after he happily received it, when he was shopping at Target with the cane slung over the cart, someone stole it. Who steals a cane from an old man? Somebody not very nice, that's who.

He was pretty upset about it. Well, he was pretty freaking mad, actually. Italian mad, if you know what I mean. I was, too, mainly because he was so crushed about the experience. Still, I said all the right things, like "Maybe the person who took it didn't have any other way to get one, and they were desperate." But we both knew they took it because it was cool. Damn those fancy canes sitting right out there in public! It's like a great leather jacket in an unmanned coat-check at a club.

I got him another one just like the first one, but my father is a once-burned, twice-shy kind of fellow, so it only comes out for the good stuff. The old, scruffy cane gets used in Maryland, but when he visits my sister in California, that state is worthy of the hand-carved version. So are visits to doctors, and certain restaurants.

But Target - nah, Target will never see that hickory stick again. And I'm kind of glad he's so cautious. I don't want to have too many canes attached to my order history at Amazon. It's just not cool.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Second Hundred

My first blood donation: I was a freshman in college, and it got me hooked on a lifetime of regular
contributions. I started out with whole blood, which I donated for a good part of my life, not quite every two months like clockwork, but close. More like a clock that worked most of the time.

Then, a handful of years ago, I was recruited to be a platelet donor. "Come and give every three weeks instead of every eight!," they said. "Spend three hours with us instead of 40 minutes!," they said. What a deal! I couldn't refuse.

Seriously, I couldn't. I know how important platelets are, and not just from the stats I've been given - from people I know and love. I've written before about how I learned from one friend, when her tiny son was fighting t-cell leukemia, that platelets are often scarce, and sometimes units had to be split between children who needed them. Two friends this summer were in need of a solid platelet supply: one to fight a near-fatal bacterial infection, and one who is battling cancer (and will continue to need them). So I gladly visit my platelet nurses on a regular basis. Mit, Chamberlain, Manuel, Hannah, Vanessa, Alberto...they've become pals, and I feel like I'm in an episode of Cheers when I walk in and hear them call my name. (Except they take fluids instead of serve them. It would be much more fun to go there and drink beer every three weeks. Mmmmm. Beer. But I digress.)

On  my last platelet visit, a few weeks ago, I quietly celebrated my 100th donation. I liked reaching that landmark - I'd been paying more attention to the numbers this year as I got closer to The Big One. It feels good, like having a silver dollar in my pocket when I was a kid: substantial and special; something I earned and could be proud of. And this weekend, I started on my second hundred: for all the moms and dads sitting worried by their little ones' bedsides; to pay it forward for the friends who might need them someday; for a range of other reasons...and because it's the right thing to do.

A colleague wrote me a text about this, when I told her I had just hit 100. She said, "Think of all those people out there walking around with a part of you in them." I never looked at it that way; at the sheer volume of individuals I don't know and will never meet who are forever linked to me, and I to them, because of this opportunity that came my way. It's nice, that thought. It's going to make the second hundred even better than the first.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Get Thee to a Pumpkinnery

What happened to you, Pumpkin? You used to show up in mild force in the fall. You entered quietly, with an orange elegance; the plumpest member of the squash family. We saw you in only two places: in crudely but happily carved orbs on our neighbors' porches, and as the crowning glory of our Thanksgiving meals.

But now you're shamelessly hawking yourself everywhere, like a reality star gone mad. What kind of merch deals are you making, anyhow? You're letting Glade pimp out your pumpkin scent, you're swirling yourself like a drunk coed into Pepperidge Farm bread, you're in Jello and Chobani and Kashi...and OREOS! Really, Pumpkin - Oreos? And I don't want to even talk about the lattes.

Anyone can see that you're out of control, and you need professional help. Yes - you need more than just a pumpkin patch, my friend - that's not going to help you kick this thing. You need rehab, and some good counselors to talk you down off of this high you're on.

Please don't cry - I know it was a great ride, and you will miss all those brand name friends you made. But this is really for the best - we'll get you back to that simple life you used to love. Aren't you tired, Pumpkin? Tired of trying to be all those things to all those people?

Aw, Pumpkin - I'm so sorry. Now you're making me cry, too. Damn, I wish I had a tissue...I can't stop...yum...pumpkin-flavored tears.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Three Priests Walk Into a Panera's, and...

Today I met L., one of my best friends, for lunch at a Panera Bread cafe. We got our meals, cracked open our Pellegrinos, and settled down for some lively (and slightly naughty) girl talk. And then...

And then along came three priests and sat down beside us. We raised our eyebrows and opened our eyes really big and smiley at each other like you do when something deliciously unexpected comes along. It was as if we opened US magazine and saw the section called "Stars! They're Just Like Us!," where you see someone famous pumping their own gas or carrying a bottle of Evian and a yoga mat while they're smoking a cigarette. Only this was real life, and it was "Priests! They're Just Like Us!"

Well, sort of like us. Two of them had gotten the "Pick Two" lunch, and had a half sandwich and soup; the other one had a whole sandwich. I kept trying to see what flavor soup and sandwiches they had, so I could know if the kind I usually ordered was holy enough. I saw one of them start to say grace, so I leaned really far over in their direction so I could get in on some of that blessing, because L. and I are usually so anxious to get to our talkfest that we skip grace completely. (I'm pretending here that I often say grace, which I don't, so that's probably a sin right there. The Sin of Posing.)

L. and I kept talking, our conversation punctuated by me saying "oops" every few minutes when I used words that sounded a lot like "duck" or the first part of "shitake mushrooms." There was something about those three collars barely a foot away that made my language take on the spiciness of evenings spent hanging around the seedy side of town. I couldn't help it!

But those padres didn't blink an eye. In fact, they started talking about their favorite soups, and in case you ever need to know this, priests like creamy tomato, broccoli cheddar and chicken noodle.

That got my attention right away, because I like broccoli cheddar, too, and that made me pledge to myself, right then and there, to watch my language the next time I was sitting near any clergymen in Panera's.

Hmmm. Broccoli cheddar. I never would have guessed it. Priests! They really ARE just like us!

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

"I'm Not a Hoarder, I'm..."

First, let me go on record to say this post is NOT about me! Well, of course, everything that happens here is all about me, so I guess what I'm saying is that I don't want anyone to think I'm a hoarder from the title. But I AM fascinated by the hoarding mentality. Ooh, I have so much to say! I'm rubbing my editorial hands together in anticipation!

There have been two major hoarding shows available to the viewing public. TWO. That's a lotta lotta episodes on hoarding. Why do you think they're so popular? I've thought about this, and there are a couple of standout answers. One, there are lots of hoarders out there, so it's nice for them to have a show that brings them some kindred spirits, kind of like having My Super Sweet 16 for bitchy teenagers to watch, or My Strange Addiction, so people who like to snack on the foam in their sofa cushions can feel like they're not really so odd after all.  Two, there are lots of people who want to look at these trash-filled, totally horrific homes and think, "Well, at least mine's not THAT bad."  Me? I use it for inspiration. Sometimes I like to put an episode of a hoarding show on when I clean house. It turbo-charges my work. It makes me move the sofa to clean underneath it when I don't feel like it, prompts me to pull my refrigerator apart and make it sparkle, makes me shoo all the rats out of the basement so I can mop the floor... (Just kidding about that last part. I don't mop the floor.)

It breaks my heart when people choose their junk over their kids; that children are ashamed of their homes and can't have their friends over; that they can't find their parents in all the newspapers. I can't understand how someone could hoard so much they have to leave the house to use a bathroom in a gas station - I mean, really... is that easier than cleaning out a 4x4 space? I was astonished by the handsome, well-dressed guy who lived in Alexandria, VA - so close to me I might have passed him on the street one day - who finally, after months of dating his pretty, well-dressed girlfriend, let her see his house, where he had to climb over piles of stuff (starting at the front door!) to get around. Yeah, you guessed it - that romance was over shortly after the show aired. Then there was the woman who hesitated to call 911 when her husband had a heart attack because she didn't want the paramedics to see the house (yikes! don't marry a hoarder if you have a bad heart!), and the homeowner who found a missing cat -  not only expired, but flattened - under a stack of magazines. I could go on, but you get the gist. 

Here are some of the things I love: When they show a lady in front of mountains of debris, and she says, completely without guile, "I'm not a hoarder, I'm a collector." Or they'll film a guy talking, and as he's saying something like, "It's messy, but it's not dirty," the camera pans so you see bugs crawling through the food-encrusted pots in his kitchen, and moldy bags of bread in the mound of litter on the counter. I love to see the crazy chaotic homes in the beginning of the show, and again when they're all cleaned up and liveable at the end. I was surprised when the lady who had almost gone broke buying Barbies and Barbie accessories but hoarded her own elderly mother out of her room found out her doll booty was worth $500,000 - that convinced her to let the show clean her house and her poor old mama got her room back. And I really, really, really love it when small children who have never known anything but hoards get a tidy house and their own space, and from their big eyes and stunned expressions, you'd think that the most amazing magic trick has just been performed in front of them - that is the BEST. I always send a thought out with the hope these newly organized homes will stay that way, but I know that some of them won't, because as we are reminded throughout the show, this is an illness.

I don't know who would want anyone to know that they live like that, that they would be okay with all their junk and their shame being dragged out on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see, but I guess if I could get thousands of dollars of cleanup work done, and a team of people to purge and polish my house top to bottom in two days, and all I had to do was to be publicly humiliated on national TV and forever after in reruns, I might be open to it. And I know just what to say when my embarrassing stash of shoes is exposed, too: "I'm not a hoarder, I'm a collector."


Editor's note: This writer is neither a collector nor a hoarder, and in truth, sometimes her house is a little disordered...but she always knows where her cat is.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Difference in the Lumps

I've said a final goodbye to two friends in the last month - one with whom I regretfully lost touch other than some recent connections on social media, and another who couldn't speak on the phone in the last few months but emailed steadily with me, almost right up until her death. It's hard when we start losing friends with greater frequency: not only can we not live out our intentions to connect with those individuals "someday," but we are reminded strongly of our own mortality, and how brief our time here really is.

It's easy to feel untethered at times; to fail to see the humor and the energy and the lightness in the moments we own. I was having one of those mornings recently, and at the perfect moment, I heard my phone ding... and found this reminder from a friend who must have sensed my mood from Maryland to Massachusetts (thank you, K!). From author Robert Fulghum, author of "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten," this gem: “If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you've got a problem. Everything else is an inconvenience. Life is inconvenient. Life is lumpy. A lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat, and a lump in the breast are not the same kind of lump. One needs to learn the difference."

Time to get my head on straight. I've been thinking about lumpy oatmeal entirely too much. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I (Used to) Love the Smell of Chlorine

I love my time in the pool. LOVE IT. I go almost every day to swim and run in the blue, sparkling water. Until recently, my heartbeat would quicken when I smelled chlorine, I love it that much.

A story that hit the news in June ruined that for me. Oh, there were lots of clever titles about it, so let's just pick one at random. Okay, here we go: What Makes Your Eyes Red in the Pool? Hint: It's NOT the Chlorine. 

Yep, that's right. Turns out the more we smell chlorine, the more people have not exited the pool for - well, you know. THAT. And this isn't just any old survey, either - the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) says it's so. The science behind it, says the CDC chief, is that "nitrogen in the urine combines with the chlorine and it forms what's known as chloramine." Which, though "chloramine" sounds much better than "pee+chlorine," it isn't as palatable a name fusion as, say, Brangelina, which while unoriginal and overused, at least doesn't have anything to do with anyone's pool water.

The news doesn't stop there: Travelzoo told us this summer that 64 percent of Americans, 58 percent of Canadians, 46 percent of Britons, 44 percent of Germans and 41 percent of Chinese admitted to relieving themselves in a pool or the ocean. (There is a "while on vacation" qualifier for these stats, but really - do you think it makes a whole lot of difference in the numbers?)

I want to thank the CDC and Travelzoo for delivering information for this very important pretend file of mine: Things That I Would Rather Not Know About. 

I haven't noticed fewer people at my indoor or outdoor pool, so I guess everyone has decided that they can live with a little chloramine. But I will say that I'm starting to look sideways at the grownups  and children near me, and I keep a close eye on whether they're visiting the restroom or not. Because I swear, once those Travelzoo figures get above 75 percent, I'm outta there.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
 

When Your Anesthesiologist is a Mean Girl

Did you hear the one about the anesthesiologist who made fun of her patient and added a bogus hemorrhoid diagnosis to his chart?  By now, almost everyone has. And we also know that our suspicions about medical personnel mocking us in the operating room when we're unconscious aren't unfounded after all. (Makes me really glad I got that mani-pedi before my surgery seven years ago.)

Here's the quick recap: this guy in Virginia goes in for a routine colonoscopy, sets his smartphone to record the doc's instructions and never turns it off. It winds up in his pants pocket, and the pants are placed beneath the operating table. After the procedure, headed home, he hits play...and finds out that the female doctor who put him under also put him under the microscope: she gave a running dialog on what she saw as his questionable manliness and low aesthetic appeal. Riffing like a 10-year-old, she lobbed insults ranging from his lack of courage when she was giving him the magic sleep potion, to intimating that a rash the poor fellow had was syphilis. She was the worst offender, but not the only one. A few other people in the room thought they were comedians, too.

You can guess what happened next: he sort of gave HER a colonoscopy. Well, he cleaned her out of $500,000, thanks to a sympathetic jury that probably imagined themselves the butt of some other doctors' jokes (sorry about that - it had to be said). It appears that her office is now closed for business, too. And I'm pretty sure that if she ever practices again, she will keep her big old piehole shut about the patients.

I'm kind of sorry about that, because I'm missing a great opportunity, and so is she. I would have let her make fun of me for $250,000.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Sweet Baby James: Hymns for Agnostics

If you grew up when I did, and leaned more toward folk than rock, you probably wanted to be James Taylor if you were a guy, and wanted to be with him if not.

That voice - that easy, silky, rangy, fluid voice - was the backdrop to much of my teenagehood, along with the likes of Carly Simon, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Roberta Flack and Gordon Lightfoot.

The lyrics, too, were as comfortable as your favorite pair of sandals; they were simple and straightforward, and could lift your heart and soul without a lot of show. That's why, when I read a JT interview in a flight magazine two days ago, something he said popped out at me: that some of his songs are like "hymns for agnostics, an attempt at some sort of spiritual food, at finding spiritual satisfaction."

I've heard a few of the songs on the just-released album, "Before This World" (his first new collection of work in 13 years), and they don't disappoint...it's the same sweet, sweet baby James; clear and true and yearning. And once again, though he's not that cool young guy with the guitar coloring my daydreams, and I am not that fresh-faced young girl in a peasant blouse wondering where life would take me, I still want to be with him. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Tough Mudder

Even polka dots can't make mud look fun.

I liked the idea of it: all the promos about mudbaths laud their calming nature, the warmth, the way your body is suspended and floating and drinking in all the nutrients from the mud, which is made from volcanic ash and peat moss. Yep, that's what I said...peat moss! I think you might see where I'm going next. 

Though I was told by many friends I would love a mudbath, I couldn't get past the aroma. It smelled like cow poo. It looked like it, too! And I willingly stepped into it and sat down! And guess what else? You don't wear a bathing suit, like I thought. So you can bet your volcanic ash there were a few thoughts in my head that weren't very restful. 

Once I was "installed," the attendant put cucumber slices on my eyes and a cool towel over that. Before she left, she said something that sounded like "Enjoy your mind," which I always do, so I kind of resented being told to do that, and then I realized she probably meant "Enjoy your mud." I think the employees cover your eyes so you can't see them all go in the back room and laugh and laugh about how many people are spending a fortune to be slathered in oozy dirt that smells like a barnyard. 

I should be fair about this: They DID spray lavender scent around my head after they "blindfolded" me, and it was so much better! For around 10 seconds! And then the poo smell came back. And of course my nose started to itch, so I had to pull my arm out of the ooze (it made a sucking sound...I swear that mud was starting to absorb me) and I scratched my nose, and got some of the mud on it, and after that I was pretty sure I would never smell anything but that for the rest of my life. 

It was a long 10 minutes, during which I counted to 60 for what seemed like a million times and I was certain they were leaving me in too long, but finally I was released. Past the shower to remove the remaining mud, then the mineral bath which was pretty nice, and then the steam room - fine, too. Then they take you to another room and and wrap you up all cozy like a baby in a big soft cotton towel-like sheet, and put more cucumber slices on your eyelids (which you should never do to a real baby, because they probably wouldn't care for it). Anyway, that last part was the nicest. I could have stayed there all day, but they don't let you hang out for too long because other people need to get over the trauma of their mudbaths, too.

I'm not sorry I tried it. After all, it was an experience, and writers need to have lots of experiences, or else they have nothing to make a big deal about and get a blog post out of. Would I have another mudbath? Well, since this happened in California, where they specialize in experiences, let's just say it's right up there with ingesting appetizers from a display where a live model is the hors d'oeuvre tray.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

What I Really Want for My Birthday

I didn't wake up and put on a party hat, but it's firmly planted on my head for the day - you just can't see it.

No matter how, um, "old" we get, there's always something just a little more special about our birthdays than all the other days in the year. And this one's finding me in an even mushier frame of mind than my normal. (I am admittedly pretty high on the sentimental scale as a matter of course.)

Once we've experienced a few decades of these events, there's not much we need or want in the way of presents. Except the "people stuff." That's what I want. And I have a lot of it! I am rich in what really matters. Like a close and caring family who can make me crazy at the same time they solidly have my back. Like unbelievably supportive, funny, smart, goofy, sweet and generous friends who make me better every day and are, for all intents and purposes, also my family. Like a remarkable network of colleagues (who, let's face it, usually end up being friends!). That's a pretty great trifecta.

Some of those friends are facing challenge I simply cannot fathom without going through it. They received a diagnosis, and subsequent treatment, and sometimes more disappointment on top of the original sadness. And they dig down and find more strength and courage somehow, even when they thought they'd used theirs up. One of these amazing souls is terminal, and talks about living past her "expiration date." She's spending some of her time teaching me what it feels like at the end of her life, what she is proud of, and worried about, and what she thinks I might want to consider while I have time to make some changes. And I know it's not just for me - she's doing it with others in her life as well. For her, and for my other health-challenged friends, I would love to plop a party hat on top of their noggins and say, "make a wish." And to a person, I'm pretty sure they would use that wish for someone other than themselves. These are the kind of people I know: what a gift they are to me.

This is why, even when I start to feel "mature" or "experienced" or any of the other ways we describe getting older, I will treasure whatever age I reach - because there are so many people who would love the chance to get there and might not.

I know it's time to stop writing when I start to get teary, and that's not what this is about. It's my BIRTHDAY, for crying out loud! Put those party hats on, and let's have cake.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
 

The Party's Over, Pal

My office sits just below my attic, and I'm here listening to a potential break-in. No need to call 911; I'm safe. What I'm hearing is a very single-minded squirrel trying to get back in, after he or she discovered that the hole they'd made, that allowed them (and their friends?) to tear down and cart off much of my insulation, has been plugged. Sorry, Charlie (or Charlene). Nothing behind Door #1 for you anymore.

What keeps distracting me is that this thing is so persistent. It really doesn't stop trying. It doesn't take time out for coffee, or to shoot the breeze on the phone with a friend, or to go stare into the mirror and think, "I don't even look my age" (not that anyone writing this post would ever do that). It just keeps working on that patch of the house that yawned open before (it was a small yawn, thank goodness) but yawns no more.

I heard it yesterday, and the day before that, and I daresay that at some point it will succeed, even though there's a metal plate up there now to further impede another intrusion. I can't help but think how many impossible things I might have achieved in my lifetime if I had gone at them with such focus and passion and drive.

Oh, well - I can't waste time worrying about that. It's time for me to go look in the mirror and say nice (if slightly fabricated) things to myself about my youthful appearance. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

T-T-T-T-Tat's All, Folks!

Tattoos. They fascinate us, educate us, gross us out, make us say "Aww...", delight us with their art, puzzle us with their placement...and they're everywhere. This morning at the pool, as I watched a group of elderly women start their water-bike class, I was surprised to see that of the eight women seated with their backs to me, four of them had tattoos. FOUR grandmas had tattoos on their shoulders. What are the odds? Pretty good, actually. Pew Research Center, Tattoo Finder, and Vanishing Tattoo have a ton of statistics on it. (But first, let's savor the deliciousness of seeing Pew in the same company as two tattoo organizations. Fun, huh?)

Forty-five million Americans have at least one tattoo, and they're getting them at more than 20,000 tattoo parlors countrywide, spending, collectively, more than $1.5M annually for the pain and the pictures. Yikes. 

I don't have one, and don't plan to get one, but they're well represented in my family. My father got one at 17 for his then-girlfriend Charlotte, and when he married my mother, one of his pre-wedding tasks was to blank Charlotte out with some leaves. But she has always been there, under that inky cover-up, still readable if you know what you're looking for, a lifelong reminder that you probably won't end up with the person you liked as a teenager. (Yes, I know some of you have. Good for you - hope your tattoos are still nice and crisp!) My millennial niece has three that I know of: some tiny stars on the inside of her left foot, something else on her hipbone (also thankfully small) and then... the big rose outline on her shoulder that she waited to tell us about when we were all out to dinner with a visiting cousin, because she knew her parents wouldn't make a scene in front of him. Ironically, he's got a honkin' tattoo himself, but it wasn't on display that night.

I have a friend who will get a tattoo when she's really down in the dumps (don't ask me how many she has - she was a very unhappy camper for a few years). I have friends who have gotten them for reaching a landmark age, or for beating cancer, or because they always wanted one and dammit, they're going to have one now.   And there are some people taking them off, now that they realize the tramp stamp is, uh, aptly named. Years ago, it was clear that getting into laser tattoo removal would be a great business to have. (After all, Pew & Co. say that 17% regret theirs, and 11% are currently having a tattoo removed.) So I had to grudgingly admire the business sense of Christopher Knight, who played goofy Peter Brady on "The Brady Bunch," and is now a key investor in Dr. Tattoff. Guess Peter wasn't as dorky as he seemed. (Oh, yes he was. Adorkable.) 

There are some remarkable unsung artists out there using skin for their canvas. They're helping out the 29% of folks who say their tattoo makes them feel rebellious, and the 31% of people who say it makes them feel sexier. Oh, and lest I forget, the 5% who say a tattoo makes them feel more intelligent. Probably because they tattooed a picture of Einstein on their stomach. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

B*tch!

Someone called me a name this morning. It caught me off guard on this sunny, happy day, when I was headed to the gym for a quick visit and then back to my home office. Parking is scarce, so on my third trip around the lot I saw someone leaving, rolled yoga mat in one hand, keys in the other. I followed her and waited with my blinker on for her to pull out...and another driver, coming from the opposite direction in full view of me and my peppy little turn signal indicating "that's mine, mine, mine," sped up and tucked herself into my space. Just. Like. That.

I don't engage with mean people - it's not worth it, especially these days, when anyone can be a "gun enthusiast." (Yes, there are quotes around it for a reason.) But I was annoyed, and I waited for the parking-space-thief to get out of her car, and said, reasonably, "You know, that wasn't very nice - you saw me waiting for that space." And she, totally understanding my even tone and the practicality of my statement, said, "I'm so sorry. You're right. Let me move my car."

Nah, that's not what happened. When I gave her my "wasn't very nice" line, she screwed up her face and hurled "B*TCH!" at me, and walked off.  There are a few things that went through my head:
- How can someone be that mad and mean early in the morning?  
- How can they blatantly take something meant for someone else?
- If I see her in the gym and say something else to her, will she beat me up?

First I seethed, then I settled. It's too bad that we can be feeling great and loving the entire universe, and one person can change the mood in a second or two. But releasing some endorphins helped. So did my trip to Target afterward, where I was filling a prescription and was told I had to wait 30 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I heard the pharmacist say, "Go get some new makeup." So I did, and then I retrieved my prescription, and when I got home I tried out my new cosmetics, and I must say that after I took a look at myself, I really AM quite the b*tch today.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Talking Stick

My sisters and I used a talking stick this weekend to have a chat with our aging dad. Oh, it wasn't as pretty as this picture. In fact, it looked a lot like a cell phone with the speaker function turned on.

Talking sticks were often passed around in tribal circles, so that everyone present had a chance to speak. One description I read also noted that it was particularly helpful for "those who may be shy." (Not an issue with me and my sisters - most of the time, we're all speaking at once. If you translate the word "speaking" generously. We're Italian, after all.)

Three of us were with our father in the tiny dining room of his Maryland house, and one was in California. We agreed that for this important talk, we weren't going to interrupt each other, so whoever was holding the talking stick/phone would have the floor, and we looped in the sister on the phone with each round.

We're worried about our father lately. He's always been remarkably able, even as he's grown older, even after surviving bladder cancer, losing that organ, and having his kidneys fail so that he undergoes dialysis three times a week. But we're seeing some changes, and we want him to consider living with my oldest sister in Phoenix. That means selling his house and giving up driving (even though he's a steady, careful driver who's never had an accident, and I, on the other hand...well, let's not go there). It means letting go of even more of the independence he's lost through aging and widower-hood.

We can see how painful it is to him that we view him this way, our strong, smart dad. The dad who was so handsome when we were young he would turn heads. The dad who worked so hard to keep his five kids safe, but lost his only son in a moment he was helpless to prevent. The dad who has spent some focused time in the last few years clearing out and repairing his home, documenting his accounts, and planning his funeral, to save us from those tasks. I can't visit him these days without tears sneaking up on me. If he does move to Arizona, I won't see him much, making the 20-minute drive I have to his home now seem like an instant.

Damn that talking stick. We had to say things, however lovingly, that hurt my father. We just want to keep him safe. And better a small hurt now than a big one later. But it doesn't feel very good, no matter how noble our intentions. And when we finished, he said, head low, "I'll think about it." It's a start.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

In Praise of Small Hardware Stores

Christopher's in Olney, MD.

I have always loved hardware stores, and there's something about a mom and pop establishment that brings out the handyman (uh, rather, handywoman) in me. Sure, the big stores are great for buying grills and outdoor furniture sets and circular saws, but give me a compact, family-run store every time for the small stuff.

I like walking in the door and smelling something earthy. (Peat moss? Do they still have peat moss?) I like the fact that the aisles are short, and you don't have to scan a mile's worth of five million kinds of doodads to get the one thing you need. I like knowing that at least some of the fresh-faced and very friendly workers are part of the family behind the name on the sign.

Even though all I needed today was a $5.00 flapper for my toilet, I was treated like a valued guest. Which made me buy two sets of chargers for my iPhone at the checkout. And some Dubble Bubble gum out of a big glass jar. And ensured that, like Arnold Schwarzenegger long before he got all creepy and we found out he had a secret kid, I'll be back.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Talk to the Hand

I'm having therapy. Not the kind you bare your soul over: this is all about the hand, man. Every Tuesday and Thursday since this month began, and for a couple more weeks, I visit a rehab center and spend an hour with Mike. I'm fine, really - just a numb ring finger and pinky on my left hand that isn't, as I first thought, CTS (Carpel Tunnel Syndrome). Nope. Mine is special. Luckily, it never interfered with this thing I'm doing now. (You know, writing.)

I have a whole series of exercises to do so my fingers will get with the program. Like throw a Kleenex up in the air and catch it between my thumb and my "problem fingers." (Don't try this at home - it's very important that you have a physical therapist observe you to make sure you're doing it right. And after you're done, if you have a cold, you don't have to return the Kleenex. Score! Free tissues!) Then there's the one where I have to stretch and mold putty in one hand without help from the other (it's harder than it sounds, and you don't get to take the putty home).

And there's more! There's a gripper thing - the Digiflex - with finger pads that feels like I'm an ice cream truck driver making change with it. And let's not forget the "arm bike," which is pretty much like a stationary bike, only ten times more boring, if that's possible. But my favorite, hands down (sorry about that), is the one where I get to shoot marbles. Yes, alleys and swirls and cat's eyes! Mike sets up a barrier with a towel and I fire those bad boys right down the center. I'm getting pretty good at it.

Today I noticed that the numbness is almost gone, but I didn't tell Mike yet, because I want another shot at those marbles next week.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I'm a Bad Mom, and I Must Be Punished

It's very risky to put a picture of a feline up anywhere on social media, lest one inadvertently be labeled a Cat Lady. I'm not. I happen to have one, but as a previous post (Cat Fight) has attested, mine is anything but warm and fuzzy. I take that back - she IS fuzzy. But she will never win Miss Congeniality, even if she's the only contender.

I'm a good provider. My cat—Peaches—gets fed well and sleeps 23.5 hours a day without disruption, has a nice home and clean "loo-box," and when she will condescend to let me pet her (which is practically never), she gets some sweet attention. I thought I was a good influence in her life. Until today, when I took her in for a dental cleaning and got a call from my vet. Who proceeded to tell me in a reproachful voice that he had to extract three molars and a canine tooth and that she had an abscess in her gums, and she must have been in a lot of pain from these bad teeth. And he guesses I just didn't see them? And then waited as I stammered through an answer, me feeling horribly guilty that I didn't pry open her mouth to check for suspicious-looking teeth (three of them in the way-way back) and faulty gums. And run an X-ray so that I could have figured out she had cavities. (Please don't tell me you all check your pets' mouths on a regular basis. I might have to bite you.) 

Of course I'm ready to be especially nice to my cat, because the vet thinks I'm a Bad Mom. I picked her up, paid the vet bill that was the price of a two-day-advance plane ticket to California, and brought her home. I haven't seen her for hours, so—full disclosure—the cat pictured here, though a virtual twin, is not mine. Mine, I'm sure, is busy looking for pliers, so I'm about to lock myself in my bedroom and I'm going to try not to doze off tonight. Just in case. Paybacks are hell, you know.



© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Heatis Envy: Don't Be a Hater

I just rolled in this morning after a red-eye back from California. I was there for a family issue (not vacation), but it didn't hurt that I inadvertently picked the one week where my home town had at least a cumulative 12 inches of snow, with temperatures so fah-rrrrreeeezing people were whimpering as they ran from their parked cars into the grocery store and back.

And as much as I've hated it when friends or family down south or to the west taunt me with their lazy, hazy, crazy summer-like temperatures during our coldest days, I must confess I fell right into the trap. I bragged. I was obnoxious with my superior heat. I reveled in the knowledge that I was wearing sandals and sunning on a terrace when I knew that my pals in the east were shivering, booted, padded, gloved and hatted. I liked knowing that we could - think of it! - jump in the car in the morning without defrosting the windows.

But know this: I got my comeuppance. While I was enjoying the warm kiss of San Francisco climes, a pipe burst in my house in Maryland. Yep. That's one of those things that offer perfect "gotcha" symmetry, and in my youth such a cosmic smack-down would have been met with my mother's standard phrase: "God is punishing you." I am chastened by the experience, and I swear I won't show anyone my tan lines this week, lest more pestilence rain down on me. But if you want to see my daily pictures of the 70+ temp on the outdoor thermometer, just let me know. What could possibly happen?

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Bless Me, Father... and Could Ya Hurry it Up?

I'm what I call a recovering Catholic. Don't ask. Just know that I fully appreciate the tradition with which my younger years were shaped, I'm glad I was initiated into the important early rites of the religion, and I sure benefited from all the memorized catechism and lengthy sermons when I became an English major and was able to find the Trinity symbolism in record time in all the major works of literature.

So because I'm a bit of a fallen-away type, please excuse me if I'm coming late to this ashes-to-go phenomenon. I'm amazed! Tomorrow's Ash Wednesday, and if I want to go Episcopalian (known as "Catholic Lite – same rituals, half the guilt!") I can find a drive-through where I can get ashes and free coffee (a bona fide ash-'n-dash) and still get to my destination without missing a beat! Does that mean that we can soon compress confession into a McDonald's-type lineup, where we speak our sins into a receiver and by the time we get up to the window, we are handed our penance and just drive on out? Will they have "value confessions" we can pick from posted as we weave through the line, so if we don't have our thoughts together, or we don't like the sins we came with, we can just pick a set that seem like a fit?

I'm going to give that some thought while I'm waiting for my hot coffee and ashes. (I sure hope that adjective is in the proper place, or I'll have to write another post from the emergency room.)

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I'll Take Natasha and Boris Any Day

Remember just about a week ago, when I was waxing poetic about my new office? Well, it's still perfect. I still love it. But something has come to my attention since taking up residence in my new space.

I was hearing, now and then, the pitter-patter of little feet above me, and since no small children made their way down to my office at noon to ask for tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches cut into strips, I had to investigate. My attic isn't one of those pull-down contraptions with rickety steps up to a jumble of forgotten treasures. It just has a little baby door at the top of a carpeted staircase. So innocent and homey and Alice-in-Wonderlandish. Until I saw the fluff of insulation peeking out from under the door.

I banged on the door like an impatient UPS driver to make sure there was no movement behind there, and then opened it a crack. That's all I needed to see the utter destruction of poor Alice's secret hidey-hole. I slammed it shut, called the trusty pest control company everyone I know uses, and confirmed what I thought (squirrels) with one exception: I have since learned that mine were FLYING squirrels. Like Rocket J. Squirrel, of Rocky and Bullwinkle, only I don't think mine were wearing that cute little aviator cap or the goofy smile. But I do think they have homes and clothes and wigs and probably cars and boats made out of the insulation from my rafters, because there sure isn't much of it left up there.

So say what you will about the evil Natasha and Boris - and for that matter, the perpetually magic-trick-challenged Bullwinkle - they are okay in my book, because they have very politely stayed out of my home. But to Rocky, that dastardly scoundrel, I offer his favorite oath, "Hokey smoke!" Not cool, brutha. You owe me some insulation, and some restored childhood faith in cartoon characters. But if I can only have one, I'll take the insulation.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

How I Found Feng Shui Quite By Accident

Author Christopher Hitchens said, "Everybody has a book in them, but in most cases that's where it should stay." What does he know? Mine's giving me contractions, and they're coming every month now. This baby wants to be born.

Early this year, I made a big pronouncement: I'm going to tackle my book in 2015. After all, I already have my author photo ready. Now I just need about 65,000 words, charmingly rendered and placed in the proper sequence, and I'm done.

But first, I needed to re-seat myself, home-office-wise. My traditional office is in a great loft space in my house; I have always been able to work there easily. But for some reason, it didn't feel like the best setting for a book project in addition to my business writing. So I picked a spare bedroom, one that has been the repository for all things without a resting place, that was quickly heading toward becoming an extra closet. I'm pretty sure Jimmy Hoffa was in there at some point.

One week and one new desk later, I am cheerfully ensconced in my fresh and sunny office. Seriously: the paint color is named "Sunny." (These things aren't coincidences, you know.) It's got great natural light, and good juju. It has even been blessed by Peaches, the walking definition of feline bitchiness who doesn't like anything, but who has joined me to sleep hours away every day on the big sage ottoman I almost gave away—but which, of course, fits perfectly in this new place. (These things aren't coincidences, you know.)

It feels incredible. I can't wait to be in here in the mornings, and I haven't been this kind of happy in a very long time. And then I realized: I feng shui-ed myself with my office and I didn't even try! I have created a harmony between myself and my environment that is completely organic. (Aha! I've been wanting to use "organic" in a sentence unrelated to spinach, and I have done it!) 

So now I have my author's picture, and the perfect place to write, and if I can find a way to work this blog content into my book, I only have about 64,600 words more to go. (These things aren't coincidences, you know.)

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

MRI Yi! Yi!

"Do you have metal implants, tattoos, allergies, asthma, claustrophobia?" Those are just a few of the questions Earnest, my technician, asked before my MRI this morning. (Let me take a moment here to say that I always LOVE meeting a guy named Earnest. Because he usually is.)

But back to the subject at hand: Who isn't claustrophobic when they put a rack over your face and pack you in a tube and tell you not to move or it will take longer than the 30 minutes they promised? Not only that, even if you just had a bio break 20 seconds before you were put in place for imaging, all you'll be able to think about is how much you need to pee.  (Even though Dr. Oz says that from the time you think you have to pee and when you are really in trouble, it's about two hours, give or take. But that's no comfort in an MRI.) Oh - and your hands will surely fall asleep. And your nose will itch like crazy.

It's REALLY LOUD in there - that's why they give you earplugs; the squishy kind that look like candy, only don't be fooled! They're not! (And yes, I know about open MRIs, but my doc needed the type of sharp image you can't get from the airier version of the instrument.) It's kind of like being put in a big metal trashcan, and part of the time someone is drilling concrete right next to it, and part of the time it's being zapped with a taser, and from time to time your trash can is being pounded with a rubber mallet. In fact, I bet Earnest was sitting in his little control room during my procedure pressing buttons labeled "TASER" and "MALLET" and "DRILL" just to make the time pass. Because it's probably a pretty boring job to put someone inside a tube and just take a regular old x-ray.

At the end, Earnest gave me a CD of my images, similar to the way a couple would give you the favorite songs from their wedding as a party favor. Maybe I'll even make a label for it: "Anita and Earnest, January 20." I'm supposed to bring it to my doctor, but I might slip it into my laptop before then and take a look. It will be like me looking under the hood of my car - I know there's something wrong there, but I'll never find it.

First things first, though: I'm going to the bathroom, and then I'm going to scratch my nose as much as I want to.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Who Will You Call?

Around the middle of last year, a friend called with the sad news she had terminal cancer, with only months left to live. And then she said something that went straight to my heart: "I wanted to tell you that I loved knowing you." It was one of the most powerful and caring actions I've ever experienced. 

She made it easy for me to tell her what she'd meant to me as well, and though it might have been an awkward conversation for some, it was anything but that between us. She said she had lived a wonderful life and had been, and was, happy. She was one of my first role models in business, and though we were on separate coasts and didn't see each other often, ours was a friendship that picked up readily when we connected. It made me wonder who I would call if I were told my life was going to be shorter than I expected.

I have friends who make me laugh, who make me think, who startle me with their kindness, who are remarkably intelligent and talented, who have educated me and learned with me, without whom my life would be less colorful and mindful. And now I know: I will call them all. 

Thank you for this lesson, my sweet friend, for teaching me how to say goodbye with grace and peace and happiness. And let me say this once again: I loved knowing you, too. 


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Why I Need Two Suitcases

It's fun to get away. I like the simplicity and predictability of a hotel room, or the interesting not-mineness of someone's guest room. I have even learned not to take 20 pairs of shoes when I travel, which was a big change for me, requiring hours of therapy and a Zappos patch to ease out of the addiction.

But even after kicking the shoe habit, I can't stop taking two suitcases with me on a trip. And here's why: I keep thinking I'm going to live the life I don't lead at home out of my luggage on the road. I take a friend's manuscript I've been meaning to read and comment on. I take that four-step skin system I bought from my dermatologist that I stopped using after a week or two, so I can get in the habit of doing it. (I don't. Ever. I'm stuck at the cleanser stage.) I take the yoga video I don't watch in my own living room but somehow think I will pop into my laptop and pose with, quietly, in someone's home before they wake up.  And a few other things that guilt me out in my own habitat and give me the sense I'm making progress if I bring them with me. Oh, and since there's usually a little space left, a few more pairs of shoes. (Recovery is a process, after all.)

Well, I'd better go. It's time to pack again, and I have to figure out how to get my sewing machine and fabric in my second suitcase. You know, to make those pillow covers I can't get to at home.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie