It’s no secret around the Internet that two of my best friends in the entire world are bloggers. If you’ve been reading here for any length of time, you already know that I absolutely adore Adam and Amy.

(If you’re new here - HI! Everyone, say “Hi” to the newcomers. “Hi Newcomers!”)

Here’s something that you might not know…

These two saved my life last year.

And my marriage.

I went back and forth on whether to talk about them together or separately (or whether to snub Avitable completely, because that kind of thing gets him so worked up and makes me laugh and laugh and laugh), but ultimately I realized that there was no way I could say what one meant to me without explaining how invaluable the other was.

About a year ago, my life started to fall apart. Most specifically, my marriage was crumbling. A combination of old hang ups and new issues I could have never anticipated came together to cause The Perfect Storm - and there was a time when I was absolutely certain we wouldn’t survive.

One week before my 7 year anniversary, I told my husband I wanted a divorce. And I meant it. The months that followed that were horrendous, for both of us.

The first person to notice was Amy. I didn’t even have to say the words for her to pick up on the signs that something wasn’t right. She would swing from righteous indignation on my behalf, to subtle warnings that something would have to be done to prevent permanent damage. And when I began to self destruct, she was the first person I ran to with my confessions.

She sat with me when I was alone. She listened to me when I was too ashamed to be heard by anyone else. She plotted Jared’s demise when he made me cry. And she welcomed him back into the fold when he proved to be more than either of us had expected. She taught me what it means to support without judgment; to trust in another person enough to believe that ultimately they would do the right thing - without any condemnation or “guidance”.

She gave me the strength to fight for my marriage.

And then, there was Adam. Adam willingly shared his own horrors in an effort to comfort me about mine. He reminded me over and over again that regardless of my reactions, my intentions were ultimately usually coming from a good place. And he offered me something that I needed so badly and yet had experienced so rarely - a protective instinct.

He is one of the few people in the world who have been able to see past a strong personality and an ability to “take care of myself” and see a vulnerability that wanted to be taken care of. His need to make everything OK gave me a safe place to let it all go when I simply couldn’t hold it together anymore.

And I don’t care how inappropriate that sounds, it saved me.

I have been really, really blessed with some amazing people in my life, and these two are some of the best. They’re encouragement, they’re support, they’re understanding - I can’t imagine getting through each day without it.

And on one day in particular, I’d like to thank them both. Both of their birthdays are Saturday (what are the odds?), and I would love it if you all would run over and wish each of them a very Happy Birthday.

Believe me, they’ve earned it.

P.S. Don’t forget to listen to me on BlogTalkRadio on Sunday for The Big One Year Anniversary Show!

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I am always surprised by hatred.

Anger, I get. Rage, I understand intimately.

But that personal hatred, that vile that some people carry around inside of them, it always catches me off guard. Specifically when I find myself the target of it.

My husband says I’m one of those people you either love or hate. No in between. I asked him again tonight what he meant by that, why it is easier to hate some people than others. He attempted to explain that I have “one of those personalities”. In an effort to explain why a “strong personality” would so easily incite hate, he noted that I “am who I am,” and that I “don’t change that - for anyone. Babe, some people aren’t going to be able to handle that well.”

He’s told me that before. My grandfather tried to explain this to me when I was very, very young. Looking back, I realize he was trying in vain to prepare me.

But still, it surprises me. Every time.

The first time I remember being overwhelmed by hatred was in highschool. I remember walking through the halls and holding back tears as a mob of girls proudly displayed their “We Hate Britt” pins. God that was agonizing. As a 16 year old girl I was devastated that I could inspire so much hatred in people. I felt helpless, unable to recall any specific thing I’d done that could have caused such disdain.

Those girls moved on to something else, and I grew up. I brushed away my tears and pushed through the rest of highschool, determined to hold on to who I was. As if there were any other options.

As I’ve gotten older, the hatred has come less frequently. Mainly I suppose because you get to choose who you surround yourself with more and more the older we get. Sure, living in a small town I occasionally had to hear about this person’s issue with me and that person’s inability to “handle” me. But aside from the infrequent misplaced gossip, I could basically go on about my merry way.

And then I moved, and encountered a whole new group of people who had never been exposed to me before.

*sigh*

Apparently there is a very grown man that remembers me from a party, whom I wouldn’t recognize if he bit me in the ass (except of course, to ask him why he’d bit me in the ass), who spends quite a bit of time hating me. Like, openly, verbally, hating me.

It seems I’m one of those people that it’s not only easy to hate, but acceptable to loathe. Yeah, that part still gets me.

And then, there is blogging.

Read the rest of this page »

It’s supposed to be hard right now.

That’s what I keep telling my husband. When the hours get long and one day runs into the next and you long for a weekend that is gone before you realized it was here… I remind him, it’s supposed to be hard right now.

I remind myself as well.

When I look at people who are older than me, or “have” more than we do right now, or whose lives seem to be “easier” right now, I remind myself that there is always a back story.

There are the years he worked two jobs, while she brought the kids and dinner to be enjoyed in a parking lot between shifts. And they both wondered how long they could keep up the pace.

There are the nights after she went back to school, and her children learned to cook and tidy and pack school lunches in her place. And she felt guilty because she wasn’t there to do it herself.

There are the years he missed games and practices and homework, while he was struggling countless hours to give them a chance at more than just “food on the table”. And he feared it would all pay off too late.

It’s supposed to be hard, I remind him.

Sometimes I know the road feels too long to him. There are times when I know he feels like he’s been doing “hard” since he was 19, and he wonders if he can shoulder another 9 years. I remind him it hasn’t always been like this. I remind him of vacations and breathing room and days when it was easier. I remind him that this too will pass, and we’ll have “easy” times for a while.

I don’t know if he believes me.

I remind him that his parents have not always had “easy”. I remind him about layoffs and pain and struggles that he has long forgotten, but that I’ve heard them recall with an accuracy that tells me they will never forget.

I try to explain that this is just what it’s like at this stage. When you’re building. When you’re both working. When your kids are young and growing and needing. I try to remind him that this is just part of life, and that you can still suck out the good while you’re at this point.

Because there is still so much good in these hard years.

There are snuggles and whispers and firsts. There are proud smirks shared above little heads. There are stolen minutes after bedtime and before breakfast. The laughter, the squeals, the cries that can only be comforted with rocking and humming.

I want to look back on these years some day and say that we did it. I want to encourage a young woman someday that yes, it was hard - I remember it was hard - but it was worth it. I want to look back on today and remember that I had enough energy left at the end of the day to squeeze a little more Good out of it. And it was worth it.

I know that it’s hard, I assure him. Hang on, I tell him. I concede that right now, in this day, it feels hard.

But I promise him, it’s worth it.

The sting has lessened a little this morning, but it still hurts.

It’s just not supposed to happen like this.

Good is supposed to triumph over evil.

Right is supposed to win out over wrong.

And the man who loves the game is supposed to defeat the whiny little fucking bitch ass punk who doesn’t deserve to kiss the cleats of his opponent.

But, no. Not last night. Last night the world went terribly wrong and the Green Bay Packers lost to the Giants. And while Brett Favre, a living legend who plays on pure heart and love of the game, stays home - Eli Cry Baby Fucking Manning is going to the Super Bowl.

Blech. It makes me nauseous just to write those words.

I’m boycotting the Super Bowl this year. There’s no way I can stand to watch it. There’s simply nothing left to cheer for. No good can come from The National Football Championship this year.

On one hand, The Patriots can win (and probably will), and the media will go crazy over the first undefeated team since the ‘72 Dolphins team. And while I suppose that should be something worth watching, I just can’t get excited about The Patriots. There’s no soul there, no heart. No come from behind background story to get excited about. Well, unless you count the fact that they were caught cheating early in the season. Yeah, that’s a team that should hold the most fabled record in the history of the game.

But, I suppose, it could be worse.

Instead of a soulless team of cheaters winning, it could be Eil Manning.

Oh, puke.

I’d rather gouge my own eyes out with a fucking spoon than watch that son of a bitch even step out onto the turf on Super Bowl Sunday. I don’t care how many passes that bag of douches completes, I will never see him more than the whiny little brat in his big brother’s shadow. I’ll never forget that when this punk ass got drafted he bitched and moaned about the team who wanted to sign him and refused to play for them, ultimately getting himself picked up by a “better” team.

Eli Manning is everything that’s wrong with sports today. He represents the soul that’s being sucked out of a game that used to be about champions and struggle, and turning it into a heartless exhibition of statistics and skill.

Puke, puke, puke.

I’m sorry. I realize some of you have no clue what I’m talking about.

Imagine… um… it’s like… uh…

Imagine if Spiderman dies. Imagine if The Joker and The Green Goblin somehow found themselves battling for The SuperHero Awesomeness Cup. No, worse, The Green Goblin and Mr. Freeze as played by Arnold.

It’s that bad.

Or, um, imagine if you went to a Harry Connick Jr. concert and found out that he wasn’t playing because he’d been caught cheating on his wife and was embroiled in a nasty divorce. And Britney Spears was the replacement act. No, worse, Ashlee Simpson!

It’s that bad.

*sigh*

So, no Super Bowl party for me this year. I just can’t. Blech, puke, yuck. Nope. Can’t do it.

I guess I’ll spend the day at Disney or Universal instead - I hear that’s the greatest day of the year to go anyway.

What does it say about me that after two days I’m kind of bored with The Week of Miss Britt? It’s only day 3 and I’ve run out of material.

Clearly, I’m not that interesting. Or something.

Last night I had absolutely NO inspiration for today’s post. This morning it took my entire commute and an offhanded comment by a morning show DJ to come up with even a half assed idea.

I bring you The First Half Assed Idea Of 2008 The Week Today:

Miss Britt’s Bucket List

I’m going to be 28 tomorrow, so I figured I’d try to come up with 28 things I’d like to do before I kick the bucket (hence, “the bucket” list).

In no particular order, the list…

1. Appear on TV.
2. Get paid to write.
3. Own my own business. Again.
4. Take my husband to Europe.
5. Go to NYC, and see more than the inside of JFK.
6. Go to Europe.
7. Meet Amy, like, in real life, live and in person.
8. Host a family holiday at my house - with both mine and Jared’s families there.
9. Move to another state. Start over.
10. Live in another country, even if it’s only for a short time.
11. Ride in a hot air balloon.
12. Spend a week, or more than a couple hours, at a real life “Spa”.
13. Volunteer at a homeless shelter, with my kids.
14. See the Eiffel tower.
15. Take a cooking class.
16. Go to the Super Bowl.
17. Get a college degree.
18. Take Jared’s parents on vacation - out of the state.
19. Find a way to pay back my parents, for everything.
20. Fly first class.
21. Make a difference - an impact - to someone, somewhere.
22. See Prince.
23. Dance on stage at a concert. At a Prince concert. Oh baby, yeah.
24. Hear my son say “thank you” because he is genuinely grateful, not because he’s supposed to.
25. Take a Mediterranean cruise.
26. Climb a waterfall.
27. Take my kids to another country.
28. Win a real life actual award for something that actually means something to me because I did something that actually meant something… to someone.

Of course, while I was contemplating Bucket List worthy things in traffic I realized that I had actually done quite a few of these things. I’m a lucky girl. Or something. I decided to include those too because I had a hard enough time coming up with 28 things there’s something to be said for having lived the last 28 years.

Yes, I know. I have pictures to upload and doodle on and share. I have a week’s worth of vacation to somehow cram into one or two entertaining posts.

But you know what? It’s fucking COLD here. And when it’s COLD, I don’t feel like doing anything. (No, really, it’s the cold. Yesterday I cleaned my laundry room! Today? I… uh… well I heated dinner. It’s cold!)

So. I’m recapping 2007 Meme style instead.

It is so not too late for New Year’s Mumbo Jumbo. And if it is, it’s fashionably so.

Anyway - I ripped this off from one of my oldest and bestest friends (and college roommate, amongst other things.)

2007 in Review (abbreviated slightly because oh mah hell, seriously?!?!)

JANUARY
1. Did you have a new year’s resolution this year?

I’m sure I did. It was probably to quit something or start something else. No, wait. I remember I went the
“resolve not to resolve” route last year. I’m original like that.

FEBRUARY
1. Who was your valentine?

I’m assuming my husband. If by “valentine” you mean “person designated to ignore said holiday”.

2. What did your valentine get you?

Salt in the wounds motherfucker. Salt, in the wounds.

MARCH
1. Are you Irish?

Actually, yes. In fact, there is a castle and a town somewhere in Ireland that bears my Nana’s maiden name.

2. What did you do for St. Patty’s Day?

Blah blah blah - who the fuck cares. THIS is the month I was SWEAT ON!!

APRIL
1.2.3. blah blah blah - fools, jokes, etc

I made a name for myself as a woman of class in April. The name part is true, at least.

MAY
1. What’s your favorite kind of flower?

Yellow roses. I don’t know why. But I remember my Nana having them by my bed when I visited her in Florida.

2. Do you like the spring?

Yes. What does this have to do with my 2007 year in review you ADD fucker?

JUNE
1. Did you go on any vacations last June?

If by vacation you mean “did you spend the entire month of June landscaping and remodeling a house to sell”, then… yes.

JULY
1. What did you do on the 4th of july?

Actually, the husband and I went to Florida. And bought a house. And sold two others. All over the Holiday weekend.

AUGUST
1. Did you do anything special to end off your summer?

Ummm…. let me think. Oh, yeah. We moved, a little. Have I mentioned that?

2. Did you go swimming a lot in the summer?

Not once, until after we moved on August 10th.

4. Did you go to the beach a lot?

Twice. Which is pretty good, considering it was a real live actual BEACH.

SEPTEMBER
All the questions for this month are retarded. And nothing really happened this month anyway. I still thought I had my mind way back when.

OCTOBER
1. What did you dress up like this year?

Marilyn Monroe. For this little Halloween party I went to. It was alright.

NOVEMBER
1. Whose house did you go to for Thanksgiving?

My first big holiday “away from home”, and we went to “De & Lee’s”.

2. What are you thankful for?

My family. And my friends. I don’t know if I could choose one over the other this year. It’s like one and the same.

DECEMBER

OK, seriously, it’s been like 2 days since December. You haven’t forgotten already - right?

This is the month I lost my fucking mind! Yay!

1. How would you rate your year on a scale of 1-10?

Sometimes you’re the windshield… sometimes you’ve got your ass in your brains.

2. What did you do in 2007 that you’d never done before?

Sold a house. Moved. Lived farther than 30 miles from my mom.

3. Did anyone close to you die?

Someone close to someone close to me. And I don’t forget. Which isn’t at all the same, I know.

4. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?

Peace.

5. What date from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

March 10th, 2007. He. Sweat. On. Me. Seriously.

6. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Going to the doctor.

7. What was your biggest failure?

I did not fail. I tried to blow up my marriage. I tried to let the Darkness swallow me. But the people around me refused to let me fail.

8. What was the best thing you bought?

Besides the house (of course), my red stilettos that I bought in Vegas. *swoon*

9. Whose behavior merited celebration?

My husband’s.

10. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

My husband’s.

11. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Going home. And coming back home.

12. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? mmmm…. more content
ii. thinner or fatter? at this moment, more fat
iii. richer or poorer? I’m not sure, actually.

13. What did you want and get?

Freedom.

14. What did you do on your birthday?

According to the archives, I played Cadoo. Which is pretty good - more than I usually do for my birthday.

15. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?

A Desperate Struggle For Age Appropriate - Without Resorting To MomButt

16. What kept you sane?

The Internet, actually.

17. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007:

Good enough, is perfect.

Oh, I was so smug.

“How do you like the weather up here?” “It’s awful! I can’t wait to get home!”

“Did I mention we were sweating in shorts and t-shirts last Friday?”

“Oh my, how do you people live like this?!”

“Oh it will be so nice to get back home to sandals and t-shirts.”

Yeah, I know. I’ve only lived in Florida 4 1/2 months. But apparently my blood really has thinned that quickly because I was fucking dying up there! (Where “there” equals “hell frozen over”.) I was so eager to get back to the warmth. I was so proud to be able to share my delight with anyone who would listen.

“Um, yeah, we don’t do cold down there” (Where “there” equals “fucking paradise”.)

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

I have been back in Florida for about 36 hours - 24 of which were warm and comfortable, soothing my poor chapped cheeks. The last 12? Fucking. Freezing.

No, really. The temperature here at this moment is 31 degrees. 31. That is below fucking freezing.

The morning news today was filled with “Severe Winter Weather Alerts” and “Cold Weather Safety Tips”. I was expecting a fucking corn price report during the crop break at any second. Oh. Wait. Not corn - but the oranges are in trouble! And quick - go cover your plants!

I had to turn on the motherfucking HEAT this morning! In my HOUSE!!

“Well, honey,” I told my husband this morning, “at least there is no snow. Remember a few weeks ago when I was whining about ‘if it’s going to be cold there should at least be snow’? I was full of shit. That crap is messy! Oh mah gawd I am glad to be done with that nonsense!”

Heh.

“We may even have snow flurries on parts of the coastline later today.”

That news guy fucking hates me. I can tell.

Oddly enough, I had this post written before Dawg added me to his List of Most Honest Bloggers of the year. The things I’ve discussed here lately have been called a lot of things - but “honest” is by far the most… um, honest.

Among the many emails I’ve received with encouragement and advice, some have been littered with words like “courage” and “strength”. Some people have gone so far as to say that my insistence on blogging about all of this shit is brave.

Of course, other people would say that splitting your veins in front of the Internet is stupid. Some are in the camp of “crying to the Internet is a desperate plea for someone to feel sorry for you and tell you that you are wonderful” and some are in the “for god sake’s think of your PRIVACY!” caucus.

And some still are just in the realm of “cannot understand” - no judgment, adoration or bizarre twisty hatred. Just *shrug* I don’t get it.

Honest blogging. It is what it is. But it’s neither bravery nor stupidity. (It’s obviously not a plea for sympathy either - but you already know that. Duh.)

The bravery thing kind of creeps me out - in that it makes me feel like a big fat fraud because seriously? Not. brave. Scared to death, to be quite honest with you.

Spilling my guts is not an act of courage. This is just how I’m wired.

Bravery and courage, I believe, come from doing things that are scary - and yet some people do them anyway. And while I get that personal openness is scary for some people - it’s just not for me. It’s just as natural for me to talk about the things that haunt me and shame me and scare the shit out of me as it is for me to share the things that make me laugh. I’m exactly the same online as I am in real life - what you see is what you get.

That’s not always a good thing - for me or the people around me. How do you look in those jeans? Well, I might try and tell you it’s “fine” - but “oh my god do not leave the house with muffin top” will be all over my face. What are my deepest fears and how can you use them against me? Hang around for five minutes, and I’ll tell you.

Honesty often means you don’t have the protection of things like privacy and boundaries. Not that I’m some vulnerable flower that needs to be protected (puh-LEASE), but it does tend to make for an apparently easy target.

And still, I don’t think “honest blogging” (or rather “spill your guts - ALL your guts - blogging”) is stupid either.

Does it make some people uncomfortable? Sure it does. Does it give people you don’t know well enough to trust ammunition to hurt you? Possibly. Does it open you up for criticism on some very personal areas? Absolutely.

But if this is Just How You Are, there is no alternative. If I showed up here and tried to be “smart” in an effort to protect myself, there’d be absolutely no point in me being here. If I showed up here and tried to be anything that wasn’t genuinely me - well… who would do that??

A lot of people blog without splitting their veins. And they’re interesting and entertaining - often more so than I am. And they are neither “NOT brave” nor necessarily smarter than me. They are being who they are.

And that’s not better or worse. It just is.

I’ve stopped wearing make up almost entirely.  I haven’t done my hair in two weeks.  Most days I come to work wearing a T-Shirt and jeans.  And not a cute vintage looking casual chic t-shirt - the same T-shirt I’m probably going to wear to bed later that night.

I know that’s no big deal for a lot of people.  I realize that many woman go all natural on a regular basis, and that’s cool.  But for me?  I’m not that girl.  My lack of concern for my physical appearance isn’t a sign that I’m outgrowing vanity.

It’s because I’m just too tired to care.

(Yes, depression, signs, blah blah blah, I know.)

I would expect anyone that knows me to notice, after a while.  I would hope that the person who lives with me would see that I’m just not trying anymore - and wonder.

It’s not his job to fix me.  It’s not his fault that I feel like this.  It’s not his job, it’s not his fault, it’s not about him.  I know. I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW!

But I resent like hell that he doesn’t ask.

I come home and take a nap after work more often than not now.  Sometimes that means the kids don’t get dinner until 7 or 7:30.  And while I know it’s not going to kill them, it’s definitely outside of the norm.  And it’s not what I want for them, or for me.

It’s not his fault I’m tired.  It’s not his job to make me get out of bed and face my life. I know.  I know I know I know I know I KNOW.

But I hate that he doesn’t pick up the pieces while I sleep.  I hate that uses that time to sit on the couch and watch TV while the world continues to pile up outside my door, waiting for me to get back to it.  And while he’ll happily do anything I ask as long as I’m standing over him watching it get done like some kind of task master from hell - I’m so tired of having to ask.
He can’t fix me.

This isn’t about him.

I know that in my head, but it doesn’t stop me from being angry.

Or lonely.

I wish he would carry the world for me, run with it while I quietly fall apart in the background.

I wish he would wrap the Christmas presents like he promised to, because I’m not going to keep asking.  I can’t handle the resentment mixed with guilt for being a nag and a drain.

I wish he would figure out the health insurance papers like he promised to, instead of collapsing on the sofa beside me while I try to drown out the world.  I’m not going to ask or expect more because it’s not fair - but I’m seething with disappointment.

I wish he would encourage me to get out of the house or go get my nails done, instead of happily accepting my excuses of wanting to save money and being too tired.

I wish he wouldn’t pretend not to hear when I complain about the constant pain in my neck and back, and offer a massage.  Because I’m not going to ask and feel like a burden.

I know it’s not fair.  I know I’m expecting him to read my mind.  I know I’m hoping for skills that he is simply not equipped with.  I know it’s better than being alone.  I know he’s a good father and husband and I’m lucky and being selfish and must be absolutely awful to be married to right now and oh my God yes I am still talking about all of this.  I know.

I know.

But I wish…

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be seen.

Me.  The girl who was born with an insatiable need to be heard wishes desperately that she could just disappear.

I long for sleep.  I want to crawl into a room and close the door and shut the blinds and finally lose myself to the darkness that is stalking me.  Until it’s gone.  Until everything is better.  Fixed.  Done.

For fleeting moments I want to reach out - to connect.  I search pathetically for a life source that I can tap into for support, hoping I can sustain myself through someone else’s strength.

Except I can’t.  They can’t.  They’ve heard the story before and it’s not changing.  Their helplessness crushes me.  Just as soon as I extend my hand, I recoil in horror at my own neediness.

I don’t want to be held or consoled.  I want to wander off into the abyss and know that someone else is taking my place in the world, picking up the pieces I left behind.

I need so badly to cry.  To scream.  To quit.  To heave this weight off my chest and run away.  I need to disappoint you all so that you never expect anything from me again.

I can’t stand you looking at me, watching me, wondering what is wrong with me now.  I hate your desire to make it better, because it keeps me here.  Your concern blocks my escape routes like an immovable stone.

Stop being sorry.  I don’t want your sorrow added to my own.  I can see the disappointment and frustration in your eyes.  Your patience is fading and I know.

You can’t help.  Your suggestions and quick fixes and talking and patience cannot touch the darkness.  You can’t fix me.  I hate that your efforts are futile.  It reminds me how lost I am.

Please, if you cannot save me, look away and let me fall.