I used to blog every. single. day.  There was barely a thought or event or special occasion that went undocumented in some form or another.

And then?  Well, I don’t know what.  Other shit became more important, I guess.  Or maybe I just got bored with it.  Or maybe I just started spewing all of my creative and communication juices in other places and didn’t have a whole lot left over. Or maybe whatever.

Point is:

My daughter’s birthday was March 3rd and I didn’t so much as mention it here.  I never finished talking about the day we thought we were going to be spending the day at a PR thing  in Tampa and found out we weren’t so decided to spend the afternoon at Disney together.  I never got around to talking about the Chuck E. Cheese birthday party or how madly in love the kid was with every. single. present. she received.  I never posted pictures of the heartbreakingly sweet and awesome birthday card her big brother made her.  I never wrote the obligatory “my daughter is five and these are all the things I love about her now” post.

And truth be told?  It’s been bugging the shit out of me.

Not because you care that she turned five.

Not because she’ll care or notice that she missed out on the traditional THE CHILD OF A MOMMY BLOGGER PERSON HAD A BIRTHDAY! celebration.

Not because of anything but one single thing I have been dying to share with the world.

This is a picture of Emma on the Big Thunder Mountain roller coaster at Disney’s Magic Kingdom.

And this one picture, this one snapshot in time, says pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted to say about anything in life.

Popularity: 1% [?]

Psst... thanks for stopping by! I hope I didn't traumatize you too badly on your first visit. Remember to subscribe to my RSS feed if you want updates from the site!

Posted in Kids and Parenting - Real Mommy Blogging, Photo Essays Tagged: emma, happiness, joy, life, meaning of life, pictures | 26 Comments »

Related Post:Miss Britt And Emma Play Hookie: A Photo Essay

Some days I wish I was one of those people who kept personal information private instead of giving in to some insane urge to share anything and everything with anyone who will come close enough to listen.

Today is one of those days.

If I was one of those people with a good sense of proprietary and common decency, I could come here this morning and tell you all that today is my 10th wedding anniversary. I would write something sappy and romantic about my husband and the ties that bind and the  joys of spending year after year with your high school sweetheart.  You would all be terribly impressed with our ability to overcome the odds and you would congratulate us and wish us many more happy years.  I could smile politely and try not to appear smug as I shared my marital success with the world.

If only I didn’t have such a big damn mouth.

Instead, I find myself almost embarrassed to celebrate this milestone.

Ten years ago today, Jared and I were married in a little church in Parkersburg, Iowa.  We have, technically, been married for ten years.  And while that sounds like a lot, like something to be proud of – especially considering today’s divorce statistics – I can’t help but wonder if it still counts as ten years if you kicked your husband out of the house for a month.

Do you get to celebrate ten years of marriage when you have spent so much of that time hurting one another?  Is it fair to rejoice on the anniversary of exchanging vows when you have, between the two of you, trampled on damn near every one of them at some point?

It’s hard to feel proud or smug today.  Instead, I find that I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

This could have all turned out so differently.  If it hadn’t been for marriage counseling, there is no way we would be where we are today.  No. Way.  And where we are is so completely different, so much better, than what I imagined for myself and for us ten years ago.

Ten years ago I was convinced that the key to our happiness was holding each other up.  I would take care of him and he would take care of me and in the process, we would both end up well cared for.  Love, I was certain, could conquer all.  Well – love and a whole lot of willpower, maybe.

I was an idiot ten years ago. What I didn’t know then was that we were doing damn near everything wrong.  We had no clue how to even begin communicating properly.  We were totally ill equipped for everything that life would throw at us, both small and large.  We survived the first several years of our marriage on little more than luck and determination and a stubborn refusal to admit that maybe we’d been wrong.

I look at who we are now, both separately and together, and the tools that we’ve gained in the last several months, and I wonder how in the hell we ever managed to survive before.  I have no idea how we’ve managed to come this far.

But I’m so, so grateful that we have.

The man I’m married to now is my partner in every way.  He is strong and capable and wise and the greatest support system that any woman – any person – could dare to ask for.  He has the same pure heart that he had ten years ago, but now he also has an amazing ability to communicate in a way that is open and honest and brave.  He is relentless in his pursuit of a constant connection between the two of us.  He works every single day to make things better – both himself and his relationship with me.

I am not proud of what we have done to each other over the last ten years, but I am exceedingly proud to be married to this man today.  I am proud and relieved and grateful for what we have managed to build together in the last six months.

We celebrated our anniversary with two of our closest friends this past weekend at EPCOT.  We ate and drank our way through every single country, and we laughed and held hands and used our words to tell each other when the other person accidentally said something that rubbed one of us the wrong way – because, yes, that still happens, even on special anniversary trips.  We exchanged gifts days ago, because neither one of us has ever been able to hold off on gift giving.

He bought me a massage table, which may sound silly unless you know me and you know the thing I love most in the world is a really good massage.  And if you know me, you also know that I have major guilt issues about asking someone to do something nice for me – and so he also made me coupon cards for “45 minute, no strings attached, fully body massages”, and he gave me a hand held hole puncher to make it official like and adorable and seriously lady, please do not feel bad about asking me because LOOK!  YOU HAVE COUPONS!

Last night I heard strange noises coming from the garage – dinging and banging and ting! ting! type noises.  When I asked him what the hell he was doing, he told me to hush up and stop asking questions.  This morning, he woke me up with this:

The "traditional" ten year gift is tin. The "modern" gift is DIAMONDS. Good thing this is so damn romantic.

The banging I heard was him cutting out the American Heart Association heart from the back of a can of Diet Coke.  This was the closest he could come to tin, which, as he informed me this morning, is the “traditional” gift for the ten year wedding anniversary.  When I oohed and ahhed and swooned, he laughed off his romantic gesture by informing me that the “contemporary” gift for the ten year wedding anniversary is diamonds.

I think I prefer my tin.

And what did I give him?

Well, Jared doesn’t ask for much.  An occasional slap on the ass and kiss with some tongue and he’s basically a happy guy.  I am, without a doubt, the needy one in this relationship.  Maintaining my happiness and sense of well being requires constant time and attention and pampering and traveling and dear Lord we spend a lot of money on keeping me satisfied.  But Jared?  Jared doesn’t ask for much.  In fact, for the last two years, there has only been one thing that Jared has consistently said he wanted.

A motorcycle.

I hate motorcycles.  Or rather, I hate the idea of my husband on a motorcycle.  I don’t mind hopping on the back of one now and then for a quick little joy ride, and I certainly have no problem with your husband on a motorcycle, but I am terrified at the idea of my husband hurtling down the road with nothing but nothing between him and the pavement.

And yet, he has been yearning for a motorcycle for years now.  He went so far as to spend a weekend this summer getting his motorcycle license, even though he knew the chances of us ever buying one were slim to none.  While I silently hoped he would get over it, he took the only steps he could at the time to make his dreams a reality.

As our anniversary approached, I tried to think of something, anything that might be an appropriate sign of my love and affection and gratitude to this man.  Anything but the one thing in the world that I knew he wanted.

But – *sigh* – Jared doesn’t ask for much.

Unfortunately, the one thing Jared does ask for is expensive as hell. And so, no, I didn’t go out and buy him a motorcycle for our anniversary.

I did, however, open a savings account specifically for the purpose of saving enough money for him to buy a motorcycle as soon as humanly possible.  I set up an automatic withdrawal from our checking account that will deposit money into that account each month.  At least someday, I thought, he’ll get his bike.

And then I did our taxes.  And lo and behold, we actually got a little bit of a refund.  And so I promised to put every dime of that refund towards his motorcycle fund.

And then, lo, I found out that we had a little more money in an old savings account than I had thought, and so I put that money towards his motorcycle fund.

Today we have about half of what he needs in that account, but only because our refund hasn’t come in yet.  In a few days, Uncle Sam will push his balance up to about 90% of what he has said he would want to spend on “just a little motorcycle, nothing huge”.  Over the next few months, we’ll continue to put money into that account until, finally, I am able to give my husband back at least a little bit of what he has given me over the years.

*Big Deep Breath*

And this where I do something that I have never, ever done on this blog before:

Ask for money.

Yes, I’ve asked for contributions for other people, but those were worthy causes.  And yes, I have ads on this site, so technically I make some money from you people all the damn time.  But I’ve never been one to put up a “tip jar” or flat out ask you to help pay for something because, quite frankly, as long as I’ve been able to keep myself in shoes and my children fed, there’s no good damn reason to ask you to dig into your wallet for me.

And yet…

I’ve put a widget in my sidebar where you can, if you are so inclined, donate to Jared’s motorcycle fund.  As I have outlined in painstaking detail here, he will get a motorcycle whether anyone else contributes or not.  But, well, if anyone would like to throw a few dollars our way, he may get it sooner or he may get a nicer one or he may, I don’t know, have money left over to buy a helmet.

I hope it goes without saying that I don’t expect anything from any of you and I will love you all the exact same amount as I do right now no matter what (TOTALLY A LIE!  I will not be able to help loving you a little bit more if you give us cash!) and that oh my God this is way more embarrassing than blogging about vaginas or marital problems or depression, and yet, still, I am DETERMINED to go through with it because, well -

I made the man wear a bonnet for this blog once.

And, um, er

AWKWARD!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME!

The end.

Popularity: 1% [?]

Posted in Love and Marriage, uncategorized Tagged: anniversary, Jared, marriage, relationships | 79 Comments »

Related Post:When families collide.

People who have gone through some form of therapy are probably the most annoying people in the world.

I imagine talking to them is like talking to someone who once watched an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  “Heart surgery?  Oh, dude, I’ve totally seen that done.  I can do this!”  Except instead of trying to bypass your aortic valve, they are constantly trying to dissect everything you say in order to identify your real motivation.

“And how does that make you feel?” they say.

“And what’s the story you make up about yourself then?” they ask.

Seriously.  Someone should probably punch those people in the face, or kindly remind them that seeking mental health help does not necessarily qualify them to give mental health help.

I’ve been through roughly one gazillion hours of therapy in the last year.

That pretty much qualifies me as the most annoying person on the planet right now.

And only someone who was exceptionally self aware would be able to say that with confidence. *snap*

My point is, it makes complete sense that I am sitting here mulling over the fact that all of you other unhealthy fuckers find yourselves on one end or another of what I am going to start calling The Responsibility Pendulum*.

A brief aside here – I am also contemplating the use of the word Spectrum and/or Continuum in place of Pendulum.  For now, my time on Dictionary.com and Thesaurus.com has lead me to believe that Pendulum is, in fact, the most correct term here.  Ahem.

ANYway…

The Responsibility Pendulum, as explained by Miss Britt

It seems to me that many, if not most, of our problems in life – including emotional distress, relationship woes, and all around general fucked-uped-ness – come from taking on too much or too little responsibility for our thoughts, feelings and actions and/or the thoughts, feelings and actions of other people.

Allow me to explain.

The Too Much Responsibility Side

Some people are responsible for everyone and everything.  Let’s say, for example, me.  (Pre-therapy and awesome enlightenment, of course.)  I am responsible for whether or not I am happy or sad.  I am responsible for whether or not my work gets done.

So far, so good.

I am also responsible for whether or not my husband is happy, what kind of people my children grow up to be, whether my friends feel valued and appreciated, whether or not my mother knows that she’s a good mom, how successful my siblings are, and whether or not Pakistan and Israel ever get their shit together.

As my husband’s wife, of course I am responsible for what he is feeling at every minute of every day.  If he’s feeling happy or proud or secure, it is because I am a good enough wife.  If he’s feeling sad or angry or frustrated or insecure, it is a sign that I have failed and am, therefore, not good enough.  His happiness is my responsibility.

Likewise, as a parent, it is my job to make sure that my children are always happy.  If they are ever sad or scared or frustrated or, God forbid, fail, it is a reflection of my failure to do my job.  I will do absolutely everything in my power to avoid failing at that job because to do so would mean, in a nutshell, that I suck.

I do not wish to suck.

Here’s the problem with these scenarios: sometimes, no matter what I do, I cannot control how other people feel.  It’s almost like they have feelings of their own. And once in a while they even make their own decisions, and those decisions can have consequences.  It is, come to find out, really, really difficult to be responsible for shit you have no control over.  Like – really difficult. Like – damn near impossible difficult.

Now, on occasion, people in my life (i.e. my husband) have tried to tell me that I “shouldn’t care” or “shouldn’t let it bother me” when someone else is unhappy or unsuccessful.  Some people (i.e. him) have suggested that I should “let it go” because “it’s not my responsibility”.  On those occasions, I have thought to myself that “clearly it is a sign of my extreme awesomeness and noble character that I am willing to take on even more responsibility than necessary, ASSHOLE.”

After all, what could possibly be wrong with being too responsible?

Apparently, living with someone who is trying to control things that they cannot possibly control is not fun.  It can also make that person seem really judgey and bitchy.  It can also make that person really, really fucking crabby and resentful because WHY DO I HAVE TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERYTHING AND YOU ARE NOT EVEN COOPERATING!?!

Ahem.

ANYway…

The Too Little Responsibility Side

On the other hand – as in way over on the hand that belongs to someone on another fucking continent – you have people who are not even responsible for their own feelings, thoughts or actions.  It is not their responsibility or their fault if they are happy, sad, or mad.  It is neither their responsibility nor their fault if their life sucks or their job sucks or their relationships suck.  They are, in fact, happy or sad or mad or successful or unsuccessful because that person over there did this.

And, as we learned just a few short paragraphs ago, it is damn near impossible to control other people’s behaviors.  So if other people’s behaviors made you (insert emotion or action here), then it is their responsibility.  Not yours.

Ironically, the people on this side have problems for the same damn reason that the people on the other side do:

You can’t control other people’s feelings, thoughts or actions.

But if you give the responsibility for your feelings, thoughts or actions to someone else, you pretty much hand over control over your entire life to everyone else around you.

Do I sound sanctimonious here now?  Yeah, probably.  Because this is not my side, I tend to have a liiiitttttle bit of a problem being empathetic.  I tend to say things like “grow the fuck up and take some responsibility for your own life”, for example.  I also, maybe, perhaps, tend to get a liiiiiittttttle bit resentful of people on this side because SEE!? THIS IS WHY PEOPLE LIKE ME HAVE TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERYTHING!  YOU’RE DROPPING THE BALL, DAMMIT!

On occasion, I may get together with my fellow too much responsibility takers and commiserate about how really fucking noble we are.

Ahem.

ANYway…

The Just The Right Amount Of Responsibility Side

Because I am now brilliant and enlightened and exceptionally self aware, I have figured out that THE SECRET TO LIFE lies somewhere in the middle.

The key to happiness is accepting that we are responsible for our own feelings, thoughts and actions.

Full stop.

Ladies and Gentleman, at just 30 years old, I, Miss Britt, have GOT IT ALL FIGURED OUT.

I expect Oprah to be calling any moment.

“God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.”

Blah blah BLAH Reinhold Niebuhr Is A Show Off

Popularity: 1% [?]

Posted in Personal - Growth and Things I'm Trying To Learn Tagged: life, personal growth, relationships, responsibility | 70 Comments »

Related Post:Why “it’s not about you” is utter bullshit.

My relationship with my salon and hair stylist is sacred.

You see, I love my hair.

I have naturally blond curly hair, and it is, as far as I’m concerned, my saving grace.  I may be short and 20 lbs overweight and have saggy, pancake boobs – but I have fanfuckingtastic hair.  My hair is to my appearance what my humor is to my otherwise bitchy personality.

I am, as you may guess then, very protective about who and what I let near my hair.

I am Aveda’s bitch, because their products are worth every damn penny I spend on them.  They make my hair curly and defined and shiny – and it is damn near impossible to have curly and shiny hair.  While I am frugal to a fault in every other area of my life, I selfishly spend hundreds of dollars on hair product every year without even a twinge of guilt because it’s my hair, and there is no cheaper alternative that actually gets results.

It was love of Aveda that led me to Lisa.

When I lived in Iowa, I got my hair cut at an Aveda salon by one particular stylist that I finally found who knew what the hell she was doing with curly hair.  She didn’t try to “tame” my curls, she made them fantastic.  Before moving, the very last thing I did was get one final haircut from my girl.  I may have cried a little when I got up from her chair for the last time.

When I moved to Florida and couldn’t prolong the inevitable any further, I went to the nearest Aveda salon.  Unfortunately, that is where the Hair Hate Crime of 2007 occurred.   BUT!  That is also where I found Lisa.

Lisa is the woman at the exact same Aveda salon who fixed me.  And in that one appointment, our first meeting, I fell in love with her.  Not only because she knew the difference between blond and shit brown, but because she understood my hair.  She got me and I got her and we would go on to have happy hair love forever and ever and ever.

Lisa is the one who helped me go short over a year ago (and wow, it’s been over a year?  Yeah, I’m totally justified in being so over short hair now and growing it back out.)  Lisa is the one who encouraged me to try pink last summer. She is the one who held my hand and helped me find a new way when Aveda discontinued their Sap Moss Spray.

Lisa is, to be clear, a goddess among stylists.

She was mine and I was hers.

And then, this morning, I got the news.

I was perusing the product aisles in my salon while waiting for my eyebrow wax.  “Hey,” I asked the receptionist, “is Lisa around?  I’ve got a product question for her.”  The size 0 blond squirmed a little on her stool and silently shook her head.  I should have known something was wrong.

A minute later, I heard someone behind me call my name.

“Britt?”  It was one of the salon owners.  He looked concerned and reached out to put his hand over mine, as if to say, maybe you should sit down.  “We need to talk,” he said.

“OK….”

“Lisa, um…” he hesitated again, searching for the right words.  “Lisa is no longer with us.  She left abruptly this Saturday.”

“OH NO!” I gasped.  All my prior years of bad hair while I wandered around in a sea of average stylists flashed before my eyes and I grabbed the pine table top used to hold pitchers of cucumber and orange water for support.  “I can’t… why?  What happened?”

He shook his head and I could see my own heartbreak reflected back at me in his eyes.  “We don’t know.  It was all so sudden.  She’s been with me since the beginning and this Saturday… I just… I don’t know.”  He shook his head again, unable to make sense of it all for either of us.  “I’m so, so sorry,” he told me.

“Man, me too.  What am I going to do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  “Teresa is really, really good.  She has curly hair, too.  I know, I know.  I really think Teresa will get your hair, I do,” he promised, and I kind of fell in love with him right there for talking about the mop on my head as if it was another person.

“I just… hmmm… I’ll have to think about it,” I told him, and he seemed to understand.  There was just no way I could even begin to think about Lisa’s replacement already.  It was too soon.  Too raw.  “I just can’t believe it,” I said again.  “I brought my friend from Pittsburgh to her.  Who will I send her to now?”

“I know, I know.”

I just can’t believe she’s gone.  And sure, maybe this Teresa Woman is fine - but fine?  How can I console myself with fine when what Lisa and I shared was perfect?

And while, yes, I can try and track her down – what about the salon that I adore?  I love that place.  They know me by name.  They are… wonderful.  Now I may be forced to choose between my love of the salon and my love for the stylist – assuming I’m even able to FIND her!

*sob*

My poor, poor hair.

Popularity: 2% [?]

Posted in Miss Britt - stories, memes and random facts about me Tagged: Aveda, hair | 39 Comments »

Related Post:I love

I received an email recently from Lauren Hoyt-Williams, PR Big Shot for SeaWorld, Busch Gardens and Discovery Cove.  It went something like this:

“So, um, I just wanted to follow up and see if you might actually be interested in RSVPing to the invitation I sent you for the upcoming event at Busch Gardens next week.”

Basically.

(She was actually much cooler and more professional and tactful than that, but I’d bet you $100 that’s what she was thinking.)

ANYway, apparently I had been invited to a thing at Busch Gardens.  I pumped my fists mightily in the air and declared that “YES!  Finally!  I am being recognized and courted for my work as an awesome TRAVEL BLOGGER!“  I accepted Lauren’s invitation on my behalf of myself and “my child”, and then proceeded to tell said child that she’d be getting to skip school to go “spend a day with Mommy at Busch Gardens!”

When said child was not impressed, I told her that she would also be spending time with Elmo.  And did I mention skipping school?  Said child conceded that yes, she would, grace me with her presence.

At the same time, not said child – also known as Devin – assured me that he was supremely pissed that he was not getting to skip school.  After much negotiating and discussion, we agreed that “Elmo was for babies anyway.  Fine.  Whatever.”

Blah, blah, blah, Emma and I drove two hours to Tampa on Thursday morning to enjoy the perks of mom being a very important and highly sought after travel blogger.

We pulled up to the back lot of Busch Gardens as we had been instructed, and were met by a blue vested security guard who had been charged with guiding us to our destination.

“Mommy blogger?” he asked.

“Son of a -” but I didn’t finish, because I’m pretty sure that mommy bloggers aren’t supposed to swear in public or in front of their children or at special events or at son of a bitch I am here as a mommy blogger. I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride, and nodded my head.  I was directed to my reserved for mommy bloggers parking spot and lead to a big red tent.

Where I promptly forgot about my pride the moment I was presented with the greatest breakfast buffet ever.

I’m pretty sure that this is exactly the kind of exposure that Lauren Hoyt-Williams was hoping for when she invited me to breakfast.  Clearly.  The world needs to know that Busch Gardens makes fanfreakingtastic eggs.

While Emma and I were enjoying the best breakfast ever, another PR Big Shot got on a mic at the front of the room and started talking about making Busch Gardens more kid friendly and new attractions and did I hear him say something about free?

Ha!  Yes!  I bet THAT really IS what Lauren Hoyt-Williams was expecting when she invited me!  I AM SO PROFESSIONAL.

(Hm, apparently it’s a little more complicated than “all kids get in free”.  MOST PROFESSIONAL EVER!)

ANYway, presentation over, time for Sesame Street character greetings.  This is what Emma and I have been waiting for.  Cookie Monster and Elmo and Big Bird and Zoey and All Their Sesame Street Friends came out to sing and dance and take pictures with the kids.  The kids, of course, were thrilled, because what preschooler doesn’t absolutely love Sesame Street?

So. Not. Impressed.  I’m all “LOOK!  Zoey!  Bert!  Ernie!” and Emma maintained that “meh.  At least they had chocolate milk.”  Everyone started singing, and I was very excitedly singing along to C is For Cookie, and Emma was like “hm, well, I guess you like cookies or something?”  And I could not BELIEVE that this kid was not more excited.  It’s Sesame Street!  Live!  How can she NOT be -

Ohhhh.  Right.

My children do not watch Sesame Street.

I’m pretty much the worst. mommy. blogger or otherwise. ever.

But for the record?  She would have gone ape shit if Dora or Diego had shown up.  And she could have said hello and goodbye to them in Spanish.

Ahem.  ANYway, after spending most of breakfast being extremely unimpressed, Emma eventually warmed up and decided, “Meh. Ok. Whatever.  I guess I can *yawn* take a picture with these people.”

And thus concludes Part 1 Of Britt and Emma’s Skip Day.

(I know, you are on the edge of your seat right now.)

Popularity: 2% [?]

Posted in Kids and Parenting - Real Mommy Blogging, Photo Essays Tagged: emma, mommy blogging, parenting, Photo Essays, photos | 24 Comments »

Related Post:Who Put Me In Charge Of These Children?