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

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

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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.

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

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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.)

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

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We call ourselves The Orlando Mafia.

And every time we do, one of us invariably rolls rolls our eyes and laughs, “man we are douches.”  And then another one of us laughs too and agrees, “I know!  I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to hang out with us!”  And then we all laugh some more about how absolutely obnoxious and ridiculous the whole thing is, although one of us will no doubt remind the rest of us amidst all the giggling that, obnoxious and ridiculous or not, we are still very much so fucking awesome.  And again we will laugh at ourselves and each other.

And still we will insist on referring to ourselves as a Mafia.

And as obnoxious and ridiculous and douchey as it is – it fits.  It fits, perhaps, better than any other word we could imagine.

We are not criminal masterminds.  We do not wield any power.  We are, in fact, just a tiny group of four bizarrely mismatched people living in Central Florida: Hilly, Faiqa, Adam and I.

We are family.  Not by blood or marriage or legal paperwork, but by some intangible connection that makes no sense on the surface.

It’s hard to say what binds us together.  We’re not all mothers or wives or even women.  We don’t share a career field or educational background or life ambitions.  We are a motley crew of one working mom, one stay at home mom, one single woman, and one newly divorced man.  One Pakistani American, one Midwestern girl with small town roots, one California girl at heart, and one… well… where he lives and where he comes from doesn’t mean much to him at all.

We are all bloggers, yes.  But even in that we are vastly different.  One of us writes to make others laugh, one of us to make people think, and another still simply to be emotional champagne.  And one of us – that’d be me – for a reason no one really knows.

On the outside, we share no glaring similarities.

And yet, we make up this patchwork mafia, this family, because we are more than friends.  We have made each other laugh and we have made each other cry.  We have smiled and told stories and pissed one another off on more than one occasion.  We’ve shared secret desires and secret fears, both equally terrifying and revealing.

Like most families, we each play our own role.

She is the big sister you admire and find yourself imitating, because she is just so damn much cooler and more confident than you could ever hope to be.  She’s the one most likely to roll her eyes and least likely to get involved in your childish games, and once in a while you forget that she’s just as vulnerable as you.  Until the day you accidentally walk into her room without knocking, and just before she tells you to get the hell out of her room, you notice she’s crying because some boy broke her heart.  And in that instant you realize that this person you look up to is soft and squishy just like you, and you vow to bust the knee caps of the son of a bitch who hurt her if you ever get the chance.

She is the seemingly omnipotent mother.  You swear she has her shit together better than you ever will, and she makes it look effortless.  You call her for advice because you’re confident she’ll see answers where you only see chaos, and it’s hard to imagine she understands what it’s like to be lost or out of control.  And then one day you’re flipping through her old photos, and you see a younger version of a person who sure as hell looks like her, but can’t possibly be, what with that look of youth and uncertainty you see.  She sees your disbelief and smirks the smile of a woman with a history and smugly reminds you, “I wasn’t always someone’s mother, you know.”  And you think to yourself, maybe there’s hope for me yet.

He is some strange combination of the providing father, protective big brother, and eager to please little brother.  He seldom gives advice, but he usually insists on paying.  He listens to you cry, while secretly plotting to fix everything the moment you get off the phone – even if that means putting on his mercenary mask for a while.  He insists that you know that he is the strong one – until the day comes when he can’t be, and then he lets down his guard just long enough for those closest to him to rush in and comfort him.

And then there is me.  I’m not exactly clear what my role is here, but I know that my place is cemented.  It gives me comfort and strength and courage, because I know that no matter how far I wander, I’ll always have a place to come back to.  It’s hard to remember a time in my life when I wasn’t a part of them and they weren’t a part of me.

And now, one of us has gone.

Hilly, our California girl at heart, is headed back to her heart and her home.  And the term Orlando Mafia seems even more ridiculous than it did just three short days ago.

We’ve joked about her going off to Vegas California and setting up a contingency there, but that we will inevitably be forced to shoot her in the eye a la Moe Greene. We may have threatened to cut her out of The Family completely, insisting that she was betraying us all by leaving and therefore needed to be shunned.

But we’re completely full of shit.

There is no us without her.  No matter where she lays her head at night, she will always have a place in our lives, because we are family.

We are more than family.

We’re the Orlando Fucking Mafia, bitches.

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Posted in Friends and Family Tagged: adam, avitable, bloggers, Faiqa, family, friends, Hilly, Orlando Mafia, Snackiepoo | 87 Comments »

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I used to update my blog regularly so that my mom wouldn’t freak out over whether I was dead or depressed or something.

But now she just calls me most of the time if she’s worried about me and she’s pretty much too busy to read my blog now anyway.  And if your mom is too busy to read your blog?  Well, why bother – right?

Twitter is pretty much the greatest ego boost in the entire world.  Even better than mamas!

ANYway – I promised Darla I’d actually post for the first time in damn near two weeks.  Two weeks?  TWO WEEKS??  How did THAT happen?

Oh, right – I’ve been busy.

First I had a Super Bowl party, where “party” means I sent out a last minute email and made a few last minute phone calls to a few of our friends and suddenly had HOLY SHIT THIS IS A LOT OF PEOPLE coming to our house – most of whom don’t watch football.  ‘Twas fun.  The end.

Then the very next day, Jared and I ditched work and went to Disney World.  Alone.  Without our kids.

In case you missed it:

WE WENT TO DISNEY WORLD JUST AS TWO GROWN UPS WITH ABSOLUTELY NO CHILDREN OR KIDDIE RIDES OR ANYTHING BUT JUST US!

Ahem.

It was a very good time.  And oddly enough, the grown up rides – while awesome – were not even the best part.  The very best part was wandering around EPCOT for two hours, drinking margaritas from plastic cups in Disney Mexico and eating Disney Moroccan food and deciding between Disney Paris and Disney Italy that we are, finally, totally planning a trip to Europe.  For next summer.  For real.

Sight. It was a very good time.

And then we came home and went back to work.

And I worked.  And worked.  And worked.  And worked some more.  Because come to find out?  Europe is not cheap.  See also: mortgage and water and groceries and Aveda hair products.

And in the middle of all that working, my husband informed me that he had “planned a Valentine’s Day/Rock band party, invited a bunch of people, hope you don’t mind! luv u!”

And then I considered killing him.  But just as I was about to strangle him for a) inviting people to my house when I was going to be nose deep in work for the foreseeable future and b) not, you know, planning something for ME for Valentine’s Day, he pulled me aside and said “hey, I hope you’re not mad, but I really don’t want Hilly or Adam to be alone this weekend.  I thought this could be fun for all of us, and I’ll handle everything.”

And then I kind of promised to love him forever and ever.

And you know what?  He did handle everything.  He sent the invites and bought the groceries and cleaned up the house and threw the coolest Valentine’s Day/Rock Band Party ever.

What, you may ask, is a Valentine’s Day/Rock Band Party?

It is a bunch of grown ass people dressing up as rock stars and getting together in a house to play Rock Band 2 on the Nintendo Wii – all while eating “aphrodisiac” inspired foods, including OMG AWESOME oysters.

Oh yes.  We totally did.

And we rocked our asses off!!

Until 11:30 at night.

And then, um, someone maybe kind of got really tired and started falling asleep on the couch.  LIKE A ROCK STAR!

That brings us up to Sunday – the actual Day of Valentine.  Jared and I took advantage of the fact that Hilly is still living with us and ditched her and the kids to go see Avatar, making us, officially, the last people in the entire world to see this movie.  We both loved it, and I don’t care what anyone says, it was totally romantic – and not just because it was a three hour long adult only movie.

So, there’s that.

Enjoy your vacation, Darla!

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Posted in Miss Britt - stories, memes and random facts about me Tagged: avitable, disney world, Hilly, Jared, parties, photos, Snackiepoo, twitter | 52 Comments »

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