A lady brosef's agreement.

Several years ago, my friend EFB was explaining to JG why people blog.

“I just don’t get it. What’s the point?” JG asked.

“The point is to write funny things for your friends to read but then you really just reread your own blog and remember how funny you are. Because no one else really reads it except for your Grandma.”

“Yeah.” I chimed in, sipping my whiskey sour.

And that’s the thing. Who really reads your blog when you are blogging just to blog your thoughts and opine on all things humorous about being a hobo-spinster-librarian who stomps around Portland being incredibly self-referential and self-deprecating in what you hope is a really cute way, but is ultimately just fodder for your grandmothers anecdotes at bridge with the girls.

Or in my case, my Mom reading my blog and saying “Oh Bryanne,” out-loud to her five dogs and BN, who is probably playing Bubble Guppies on his Nook and only half listening.

But the thing about blogging is after a while it feels like homework. Which is why 1 in 5 blogs fail.

That is a made up statistic, but possibly fairly close to reality.

Everyone is always saying to other people, “You should start a blog.”

Just today, I read a comment on a friend’s Facebook status that urged said friend to start a blog about the funny things their kid says.

“You should start a blog” is the new way of saying “Write it down so I can read it later so I don’t have to listen now.”

Blogs are like assholes. Everyone has one whether they will show it to you or not.

The thing about having a blog that is about nothing but yourself and your experiences is that you have to talk about yourself all the fucking time and that is just so incredibly exhausting.

I’m not very good at expressing my thoughts on politics or current events. I usually just get really angry and say “What the fuck is wrong with all of you.” And that seems really boring to read on a daily basis. Also, sometimes I care more about what you can find on TMZ than what you can find on NPR.

If I was good at crafts or cooking, I could start a DIY or food blog, but I’m terrible at taking photos so there would be a lot of blurry shots of roasted vegetables and the very valid concern on the reader’s part that that skinny black thing they see in the photo might just be a dog hair and not a garnish.

So talking about myself or my dog is what I’m most equipped to write about, but then I really hate it when people say “I read your blog” in public.

What I’m asking for here is a gentleman’s agreement. I’ll write this blog and you can read it (or not) and then promise not to mention it to me in public.

Deal?

That smallness of all the things.

I want to leave all the bad things as distant memories that fade away from my mind until one day when I'm going through a box of pictures, or old papers, I come across something that reminds me of a time when I was unhappy. And I will look at that item and shake my head.

"What was I thinking?"

I will ask myself this.

I will ask myself, "Why did you do that?" It will have all been so silly. So easily managed. But in that moment, in that past, it seemed so big.

What was I thinking? I was thinking that the only way to go forth was the way I always had. But sometimes you have to gather the courage from inside yourself and make a change. You have to recognize the things that made you unhappy and you remove them from your life or you put them in a box so that when you see them again, you recognize them for how small they really were.

Evidence of Life.

I haven't blogged lately and the reason might surprise you. Or not. Since up until recently, I've been a pretty open book when it comes to my life.

I've had multiple existential crises.

Exhibit A  |  Exhibit B  |  Exhibit C  |  Exhibit D

I talk about my hair, a lot. Like way too much.

Exhibit A | Exhibit B | Exhibit C | Exhibit X

I talk about things I find in my clothes. 

A | B

And of course, Mondo.

Mondo 1 | Mondo 2 | Mondo 3

But I don't really talk about being really happy. I don't write posts about the great things happening in my life. Sure I do fun stuff and take vacations. But I don't write about things that are going great until they are done and things are not so great. Then I write funny things to make myself feel better about not feeling so great. 

But right now, things are actually great. 

And a part of that is because I'm out enjoying life and doing things. I'm cultivating healthy relationships. I'm laughing a lot. I'm eating a lot of brunch. I'm having a good time at my job. I'm working out and running. I'm trying to keep my shit together. 

So don't take my absence as a bad thing. You should be really, really, really happy for me. 

Amends for Poor Spelling

I was sort of feeling bad about all the terrible grammar mistakes I made in my last post. I swear I read what I write before I post, but commas and extra words are like the cobwebs and dust in your own home, after a bit you don't even see it.

I stopped feeling bad about the mistakes at about 2 a.m. that night when after a rousing Candy Crush marathon (remember how I said I deleted it, well that didn't last long) I decided to bore myself to sleep by reading the news.

Which is when I saw this.

If ABC News can misspell "revealed" in a headline, then I can misspell whatever I want.

And now to change subjects abruptly.

Tonight a strange man came to the door. Luckily our dogs are assholes so there was no reason to open the door too far, but he wanted me to call him a cab. Apparently he was being hassled by someone down the street. So I called a cab. But of course it took forever to get the dispatch on the line.

And then of course the man kept wanting to ask if I'd called, talking to me through the door. I woke AM up and she came into the living room and yelled at him through the door, asking if he wanted a cab or the police.

Which I think is when she scared him into putting some money in our mailbox for our troubles.

Because he lingered for a very long time and because we live in the hood, we also opted to call non-emergency to have someone stop by.

And of course the cop that showed up fifteen minutes later (faster than a 911 call, if you ask me) was super hot. How is it that the cops that come to your house when you are wearing long johns and pajamas are hot but the cops that come to the door when you're looking mighty fine are old and clearly on a donut diet?

Huh? How is that fair.

I told him what happened. I said "And he said he put money in the mailbox." Officer McHottie put on some rubber gloves and opened the mailbox. Two crumpled up dollars sat inside.

"I don't want it," I said.

"Neither do I," he responded. And closed the mailbox back up.

He left shortly thereafter, I'm sure to drive by the park where all of the shenanigans happen late at night.

I'm so happy we keep a bat by our front door. And that Mondo and Seeley are jerks.

I can't decide if I should leave the two bucks in the mailbox for the mail lady or take it and buy myself a PBR.

And I really do owe the mail lady some amends.

Burritos are dead to me.

"Remember when we used to eat burritos every day?" asked my friend.

Yes. Yes, I do. And I miss them every day. But about 9 months ago I divorced burritos. I left the burrito lifestyle behind and broke free of the oppressive smothering hold burritos had on my life.

Have you ever ate a burrito so delicious that it was like a religious experience? Bit into the gooey, cheesy, warmth, breaking through its perfectly blanketed tortilla exterior?

I love burritos. Present tense. I love them so much.

Steak fajitas burrito from Chipotle, I love you.

Chorizo burrito from the cart pod on 50th and Division, I miss your face.

Thai burrito from that one nameless foodcart on Burnside, I want to take you in the alley and make you pregnant.

Last summer I started a new job and in my first week, a coworker asked me a very important question. "Burritos or pizza, Bry?"

I had to think about it very seriously. Of course, burritos. No question. But what did he want me to say? Did he want me to pick pizza? This was like one of those personality tests designed to tell the asker more about you then you were willing to reveal.

"Uh. Burritos, duh."

He nodded. "You're cool."

The problem with burritos lies not in the tastiness, but in the ingredients. Like any comfort food, it is chock full of fat and carbohydrates. Carbohydrates are like hugs that stab you in the back. They're like squatters that move in and live on your hips and in your belly and then they start hoarding. They start spreading their trash until your pants don't fit and you have zero energy.

Eating one burrito is almost the equivalent of all the calories you should eat in an entire day.

Why doesn't anyone invent the worlds smallest, most delicious, teeny tiny, appetizer burrito? The thing with burritos is that everyone is always trying to make them BIGGER and full of more STUFF. Like fries. Or double meat and cheese. Or tortilla's the size of the moon.

We used to go to Baja Fresh several times a week and eat the Dos Manos burritos. Do you know what dos manos means? It means two hands. Burritos for two hands. Burritos bigger than your head, one for each hand.

No one should eat anything ever that is bigger than your head. Or your fist, for that matter.

So even though burritos are my one true love, we are divorced. I left them behind to fend for themselves and I'm much happier for it.