I started moving my old blog to here. So I do apologize if it messes up your subscription or your RSS feed. Or your Google Reader. Or however else you read my blog.
Should be done before the end of the summer :)
I guess you could use this as an opportunity to read my old blog which is pretty much the exact same as this blog. Other than the passing of time.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wherein Bry emails her face.
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Monday, March 22, 2010
Wherein Bry needs a hug.
"I need an attitude adjustment. I'm going to go take some coffee now."
I know people who use "attitude adjustment" to mean "smoke weed," but coffee is my drug of choice and this morning I was about two short fuses away from borrowing a needle from one of our resident diabetics and shooting it into the bottom of my foot.
I had a brief reprieve from my Jekyllian self when I booked a plane ticket to Boston and again when AM steered me towards an ARC of Wild Things by Dave Eggers.
But shortly after that I was back to what I like to refer to as "Bry is a fucking crazy bitch."
Contributing factors:
Right now I really want to be at home with my family who, for the second time in 3 months, are in Montana at the same time.
I feel like I am in limbo, with no set decisions on where I am living after April.
I saw KT on Saturday and just seeing her shiny face reminded me how few people in this world love me unconditionally and it sucks that I don't see those people more often.
Growing pains and kite strings are a bitch.
And now, to cheer YOU up, my favorite customer interaction so far this week.
A little girl with Autistic markers approached me in the kid's section and asked if we had any posters. "Like Hannah Montana posters."
"I'm sorry, we don't."
"Do you sell Disney posters?"
"No."
"Do you sell New Moon posters?"
"I'm not sure. We might be out," I told her.
"Well what DO you sell?"
"Books."
"Oh."
We did find a New Moon poster and she was happy. But it made me smile and wish a poster was the only thing I wanted in this world.
I know people who use "attitude adjustment" to mean "smoke weed," but coffee is my drug of choice and this morning I was about two short fuses away from borrowing a needle from one of our resident diabetics and shooting it into the bottom of my foot.
I had a brief reprieve from my Jekyllian self when I booked a plane ticket to Boston and again when AM steered me towards an ARC of Wild Things by Dave Eggers.
But shortly after that I was back to what I like to refer to as "Bry is a fucking crazy bitch."
Contributing factors:
Right now I really want to be at home with my family who, for the second time in 3 months, are in Montana at the same time.
I feel like I am in limbo, with no set decisions on where I am living after April.
I saw KT on Saturday and just seeing her shiny face reminded me how few people in this world love me unconditionally and it sucks that I don't see those people more often.
Growing pains and kite strings are a bitch.
And now, to cheer YOU up, my favorite customer interaction so far this week.
A little girl with Autistic markers approached me in the kid's section and asked if we had any posters. "Like Hannah Montana posters."
"I'm sorry, we don't."
"Do you sell Disney posters?"
"No."
"Do you sell New Moon posters?"
"I'm not sure. We might be out," I told her.
"Well what DO you sell?"
"Books."
"Oh."
We did find a New Moon poster and she was happy. But it made me smile and wish a poster was the only thing I wanted in this world.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Wherein Bry hears a song that sparks a memory.
There are many reasons that I will never do karaoke. Aside from lacking any sort of vocal abilities and the likelihood of embarrassing myself, I have the worst memory.
You might say, "Bry, they put the lyrics on the screen! Duh!"
While that is all well and good, I also do not remember how the songs are supposed to sound. If I can't remember the lyrics and I can't remember the melody, then what am I really doing? Slam poetry with the words of Journey's greatest hits?
I do have a great memory for many things. Mostly things I care about. The titles, authors, and plots of books, even books I have never read. Pop-culture tidbits (always my strong point in trivia games). And where to find the best cup of coffee within a ten mile radius. I also catalog every grievance or incriminating offense I hear about or witness so that I can use it against you (ask RF, he has been on the wrong end of this a time or two). But that is a story for another day.
Perhaps if I were a better singer and therefore interested in singing, I would be able to remember the words to songs. But I have never mistaken my croaky voice as worthy of an American Idol audition. My voice is better left to yelling at teenagers who run up the escalator the wrong way.
To this day, the only song I can remember the words to is Under the Bridge by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, though I can sort of fake my way through any NSYNC song (thanks to KT).
I do not remember the exact year, probably 1990 or 91, but I embarked on a hiking trip that consisted of 7 teens, two adults and two dogs. We hiked into the Blodgett Canyon near Hamilton, MT. The only song we all knew the words to was Under the Bridge. And we sang it 1000 times while trying not to concentrate on the 40lb backpacks and uphill terrain we were dealing with. By the end of that trip, the phrase "Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner" was tattooed on my brain.
To this day, whenever I hear that song I instantly think about wearing the same clothes for a week, eating ramen cooked over the fire, and pooping in the woods.
I'm pretty sure that is the greatest compliment a recording artist could ever get.
You might say, "Bry, they put the lyrics on the screen! Duh!"
While that is all well and good, I also do not remember how the songs are supposed to sound. If I can't remember the lyrics and I can't remember the melody, then what am I really doing? Slam poetry with the words of Journey's greatest hits?
I do have a great memory for many things. Mostly things I care about. The titles, authors, and plots of books, even books I have never read. Pop-culture tidbits (always my strong point in trivia games). And where to find the best cup of coffee within a ten mile radius. I also catalog every grievance or incriminating offense I hear about or witness so that I can use it against you (ask RF, he has been on the wrong end of this a time or two). But that is a story for another day.
Perhaps if I were a better singer and therefore interested in singing, I would be able to remember the words to songs. But I have never mistaken my croaky voice as worthy of an American Idol audition. My voice is better left to yelling at teenagers who run up the escalator the wrong way.
To this day, the only song I can remember the words to is Under the Bridge by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, though I can sort of fake my way through any NSYNC song (thanks to KT).
I do not remember the exact year, probably 1990 or 91, but I embarked on a hiking trip that consisted of 7 teens, two adults and two dogs. We hiked into the Blodgett Canyon near Hamilton, MT. The only song we all knew the words to was Under the Bridge. And we sang it 1000 times while trying not to concentrate on the 40lb backpacks and uphill terrain we were dealing with. By the end of that trip, the phrase "Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner" was tattooed on my brain.
To this day, whenever I hear that song I instantly think about wearing the same clothes for a week, eating ramen cooked over the fire, and pooping in the woods.
I'm pretty sure that is the greatest compliment a recording artist could ever get.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Wherein Bry admits to dirty thoughts.
I have a terribly embarrassing habit when it comes to books and movies. Of recent note, this habit reared its head while watching the new Star Trek and, more recently, reading the Bones series by Kathy Reichs.
At various points into the action of these books and that movie, I grew bored. And when I start to lose interest, I begin to imagine the main characters engaging in naked hugging.
The only thing that powers me through the hours of reading and watching is the fervent hope that someone is going to do it.
I was pretty vocal in my review of Star Trek, saying "I kept wondering when they were going to do it."
How can the main character be as hot as Chris Pine and get absolutely no action? Well, on-screen snogging. They eluded to off-screen revelry. But I sat through more than two hours of space, technology, and weird aliens, and was rewarded with one small scene between Kirk and some green chick. Are you kidding me? Gross.
My need for sex scenes is not universal. I prefer the movies to be well written, directed and acted. But if I am bored, then I need something to look forward to. And that means shirtless, pantsless hotties getting it on.
Right now I am reading the Kathy Reichs mysteries that inspired the Bones series on Fox. They are very interesting and somewhat well written. At times the plot drags with weighty anthropology and forensic terms. During these times, I keep hoping the hero clears the exam table with one muscular arm and then throws the heroine down on the table and jumps her.
But I am five books into the series and they had one brief makeout session. Come on people! The only way to balance the smarty-pants lab investigations is with some steamy humping. Well played, Reichs, well played. I have six more books in the series to find out if these two idiots ever get together.
If this peculiar habit makes me a bit of a perv, then I guess that is my lot in life. And I will have to accept that I probably won't stumble across a sex scene in Confederates in the Attic.
At various points into the action of these books and that movie, I grew bored. And when I start to lose interest, I begin to imagine the main characters engaging in naked hugging.
The only thing that powers me through the hours of reading and watching is the fervent hope that someone is going to do it.
I was pretty vocal in my review of Star Trek, saying "I kept wondering when they were going to do it."
How can the main character be as hot as Chris Pine and get absolutely no action? Well, on-screen snogging. They eluded to off-screen revelry. But I sat through more than two hours of space, technology, and weird aliens, and was rewarded with one small scene between Kirk and some green chick. Are you kidding me? Gross.
My need for sex scenes is not universal. I prefer the movies to be well written, directed and acted. But if I am bored, then I need something to look forward to. And that means shirtless, pantsless hotties getting it on.
Right now I am reading the Kathy Reichs mysteries that inspired the Bones series on Fox. They are very interesting and somewhat well written. At times the plot drags with weighty anthropology and forensic terms. During these times, I keep hoping the hero clears the exam table with one muscular arm and then throws the heroine down on the table and jumps her.
But I am five books into the series and they had one brief makeout session. Come on people! The only way to balance the smarty-pants lab investigations is with some steamy humping. Well played, Reichs, well played. I have six more books in the series to find out if these two idiots ever get together.
If this peculiar habit makes me a bit of a perv, then I guess that is my lot in life. And I will have to accept that I probably won't stumble across a sex scene in Confederates in the Attic.
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