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