It has not escaped my attention that I may, in fact be, a complete moron. There are various anecdotes that would actually prove this theory correctly. For instance, I picked up a National Geographic magazine about Space and the Universe and when I got home to read it, I quickly realized I was just looking at the cool pictures. They were swirly and twinkly with pretty colors..not my fault. The photographer- editor magazine dude should get a raise! Anyway..I decided that for $12.95 the least I could do was read an article or two. So I did. Which makes me want to build a deep underground bunker so that when the next huge solar flare wipes out all of earth's inhabitants, well in reality I'll probably still be dead, but not so much instantaneous powder form like all the surface walkers (that's who I would be warning on my doomsday, big cardboard sign-that I would swirl around while dancing with my headphones on the corner of Las Vegas Blvd and Flamingo, next to the dude in the platform boots wearing sparkly butterfly wings and very little else.) Yes.. the articles were terrifying. Asteroids colliding, moons doing things.. I don't know.. there were lots of big words and large numbers and it was really enough to make me want to eat A LOT of oatmeal cream pies, because really.. they always cheer me up. And according to these sciency astrophysicality types we're doomed in the next 600 years. Excusethefuckoutof me? I know. 600 years. Seriously ass face. You write this article all intimidating and making me feel helpless as an ant on a freeway and at the end you mention it's not really OUR concern, but it COULD be. (I guess those 2 cream pies will have to be considered unnecessary at this juncture). This is why I don't read smarty pants stuff, or watch sophisticated news shows like Fox (ahhhh hahahahaha! Bazinga!) You see what I'm getting at correct? It doesn't matter what view you take or what apocalyptic stance you dread the most...something..SOME THING will eventually get us. I'm not trying to be a Debbie Downer (wouldn't that be a great porn star name! Along with Hershey Ramrod!) but it's as if we all worry about our weight, our health, our status, our soul...and in the end...what? We might all end up on the wrong side of a bad B-movie and actually die an instant death by incineration (I hope I'm eating a Little Debbie). Not a bad way to go.
I know in that previous bit of intellectualizing I was trying to do there were multiple examples of my moronic self..but apparently I have no shame and will continue on this conversation thread. Another reason why I'm a complete moron, shit. I lost my train of thought. Well- hey..there ya go!
Oh yeah..I remember..after just watching the award winning movie (I should certainly hope anyway) Magic Mike- I have a quandary. Why is it called a Male Revue? I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I'm thinking Male Review- but obviously..that isn't the spelling and obviously technology has made it so hard to look up a damn word (when your technology runs slower than traffic jam) that I could really care less because the fact of the matter is hot shit and holy water..that boy is gifted (Mr Tatum- I'm single and I know stuff- call me!). Did you see those body rolls and no Mom I'm not explaining what that means..but it does not in fact have anything to do with the body rolls I am assuming you are thinking of- as he clearly has NONE of those. Think of it as a dance move. Have Kelly show you!!! ahahaha- Love ya sissy!
Bazinga! Oh Sheldon Cooper- you put the crack in my ass you're so funny.
Having had my own male stripper experience with an incredibly dreamy, oh so yummy -makes Channing Tatum look like a plain farm boy kind of guy- I can say with absolute confidence that it is a GIFT. You can't teach that kind of sex on legs wanna climb him like a jungle gym because of the simple way he moves his body...it is a natural talent. I know this because I myself- could never be taught that kind of yowza. Some of you have seen me dance, and more than one of you has said that I remind you of Drew Berrymore in "Never Been Kissed" when she's stoned, dancing on stage, riding a hot pink boa like one of those horse heads on a stick. (To summarize- DISASTER!) And Kim..who actually took me to a strip pole dance class can attest that I'm as sexy as two paraplegics fighting over the handicap seat. So I feel I have the knowledge regarding the talents and gifts of strippers..and I say HELL YES put pole dancing in the Olympics...much more exciting than badmitton or curling? wtf???
Have you ever imagined someone being a paraplegic from the waist up??? You know..they sit there all shaking a leg at you trying to get your attention, which would suck unless they learned REALLY BIG sign language and used their legs for it...that'd be one hot mess- especially if the lady wanted to wear a skirt...poor thing with her goodies hanging out. Someone get her some pants!
yes.. I have officially offended almost everyone. The cripples (is it bad that I'm giggling at using that word..it's kind of fun to go all politically incorrect- say it with me....cripples!!) The Strippers and the Porn stars..and even Little Debbie would probably wish to be removed from this particular blog even though it's just because she's an uptight bitch without a sense of humor and she was in the smart section of the blog anyway!
Dear Hostess,
Debbie called - she's seen Magic Mike- she wants a vibrator and a continuous loop of the scene in the movie where Mike is stripping to the song My Pony by Ginuwine. It's the least you could do.
Your faithful customer,
Brooke I want a hot piece of stripper ass so I might feel smarter Albertson
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
July 22, 2012
My sister called this evening to tell me that my Grandfather has had a hemorrhagic stroke. Bleeding in the brain that appears to be spontaneous, unlike earlier this year when he had a fall and hit his head. I wish I could sort out the emotion of all of this. The one thing that confuses me is the idea of karma. How is it that a man who becomes confused, potentially to the point of not recognizing his family or even understanding surroundings, can be living out some predetermined karma? He isn't of the same mind. I guess I just don't get how it's useful to his soul. I am of no authority on any of this, but I almost wonder if it's more for those around him. He wasn't a horrible man. He sometimes wasn't very nice or especially loving. He was a self made success in his working years. He provided for his children and his grandchildren. When he does die, I wonder what people will say about him. People that I have never met. Was he a different kind of man with them? Will they describe a man that I never knew?
It makes me think of my own mortality. At the end of my time- today or 50 years from now- I wonder what I will have been. What was my Grandfather like at 35? Was he like me with a quick wit, a perverted sense of humor and sometimes heartless approach to getting the job done? Did he move away from all of his family at a young age to find success? And when he found that success, did it change him? Did he regret? And how did the tide of life turn him from an absolutely non-spiritual man, to a devout church attendee, and what did he find inside of those sacred walls?
Should I die young- will my friends and family gather around and all relish in the memory of the same person? Will I be described consistently by those who knew me? Of course there are those who have hunkered down with me through my darkest days and who were there to nourish my soul, and they have an understanding of my deepest soul that others might not. Yes- I am who I am with everyone. I am still the competitive girl from high school. I am still outgoing without a bashful bone in my body. I am still the romantic that hopes for love like those found in the movies. I still work hard, sleep with a box fan, and prefer to drive the car than be the passenger. I like to lead not follow. I like to laugh and joke and be lighthearted as often as humanly possible. I also like to dissect the inner workings of my mind and emotions. I still find great joy in deep conversations about life, love, loss and living to our fullest human capacity. I am tolerant when it is called for and I am unmoving when it is necessary. I have found happiness in all types of places and I still search to find it fully within my own heart. Eiffel Tower, Great Barrier Reef- a beautiful lake in Maine. My current quest in life is to find it in the everyday of life. I am so blessed to have a great job, a loving handful of friends that I would do anything for and vice versa, a family who rallies around to share in simple conversation and an easy afternoon. I enjoy simple luxuries- nice sheets, good food, and the company of people who are worth the effort.
Dear Grandpa,
One of my earliest memories of you was on the 4th of July out at Boggs, when you guys lived in the trailer. You held me on your lap as the men were putting off fireworks in the road. I hated it. It was so loud and hurt my ears. You told me it hurt yours too. I have that one memory of you being protective of me. I cherish it. You used to always give us $20 each when you saw us, until I was in my late teens. You always seemed larger than life to me when I was younger. I remember when you and Grandma's friends would play a card game with nickels. I remember when you moved from that trailer to a house in Jasper. At Grandma's funeral, I remember a man grieving for the loss of a woman he'd known since his childhood, but who could only articulate how much you were losing in relationship to your own life. "Who would do your laundry now?" you asked.
I was taller than you by then. I began to see you as the older man that you had become. Now, I have seen you hold your Great Grandson and I have seen the wheel of life turn on you. Your best days are behind you. You reportedly have good days and bad days. You shuffle your feet when you walk. You fight hard to keep some form of control, but what I see is a man that knows his time is near and I can't begin to understand how scary that is. Maybe a stroke is in fact a blessing. To save you from the reality that you would never have been able to live with. The man with a sharp mind that is receding may be glad to go, so as not to endure a life of helplessness and dependence. I want to thank you Grandpa for everything I have learned from you. I want to tell you I was always proud to say I was Andy Albertson's granddaughter and I still am. I love you Grandpa. Then and now.
Always,
Brooke
It makes me think of my own mortality. At the end of my time- today or 50 years from now- I wonder what I will have been. What was my Grandfather like at 35? Was he like me with a quick wit, a perverted sense of humor and sometimes heartless approach to getting the job done? Did he move away from all of his family at a young age to find success? And when he found that success, did it change him? Did he regret? And how did the tide of life turn him from an absolutely non-spiritual man, to a devout church attendee, and what did he find inside of those sacred walls?
Should I die young- will my friends and family gather around and all relish in the memory of the same person? Will I be described consistently by those who knew me? Of course there are those who have hunkered down with me through my darkest days and who were there to nourish my soul, and they have an understanding of my deepest soul that others might not. Yes- I am who I am with everyone. I am still the competitive girl from high school. I am still outgoing without a bashful bone in my body. I am still the romantic that hopes for love like those found in the movies. I still work hard, sleep with a box fan, and prefer to drive the car than be the passenger. I like to lead not follow. I like to laugh and joke and be lighthearted as often as humanly possible. I also like to dissect the inner workings of my mind and emotions. I still find great joy in deep conversations about life, love, loss and living to our fullest human capacity. I am tolerant when it is called for and I am unmoving when it is necessary. I have found happiness in all types of places and I still search to find it fully within my own heart. Eiffel Tower, Great Barrier Reef- a beautiful lake in Maine. My current quest in life is to find it in the everyday of life. I am so blessed to have a great job, a loving handful of friends that I would do anything for and vice versa, a family who rallies around to share in simple conversation and an easy afternoon. I enjoy simple luxuries- nice sheets, good food, and the company of people who are worth the effort.
Dear Grandpa,
One of my earliest memories of you was on the 4th of July out at Boggs, when you guys lived in the trailer. You held me on your lap as the men were putting off fireworks in the road. I hated it. It was so loud and hurt my ears. You told me it hurt yours too. I have that one memory of you being protective of me. I cherish it. You used to always give us $20 each when you saw us, until I was in my late teens. You always seemed larger than life to me when I was younger. I remember when you and Grandma's friends would play a card game with nickels. I remember when you moved from that trailer to a house in Jasper. At Grandma's funeral, I remember a man grieving for the loss of a woman he'd known since his childhood, but who could only articulate how much you were losing in relationship to your own life. "Who would do your laundry now?" you asked.
I was taller than you by then. I began to see you as the older man that you had become. Now, I have seen you hold your Great Grandson and I have seen the wheel of life turn on you. Your best days are behind you. You reportedly have good days and bad days. You shuffle your feet when you walk. You fight hard to keep some form of control, but what I see is a man that knows his time is near and I can't begin to understand how scary that is. Maybe a stroke is in fact a blessing. To save you from the reality that you would never have been able to live with. The man with a sharp mind that is receding may be glad to go, so as not to endure a life of helplessness and dependence. I want to thank you Grandpa for everything I have learned from you. I want to tell you I was always proud to say I was Andy Albertson's granddaughter and I still am. I love you Grandpa. Then and now.
Always,
Brooke
Saturday, June 30, 2012
June 29, 2012
I consider myself an opinionated woman with an open mind. Some might use the term "know it all" or bitch...but this isn't an English lesson.
The "rant" you are about to read probably has absolutely NO basis in actual fact, but what I consider first hand experience. They are my thoughts on things and I have really wanted to blow some steam off on some of these topics. I also understand fully that I'm a bit dramatic and sometimes wholly inaccurate.
CRASH TEST DUMMIES
I would LOVE to "watch out for motorcycles". How about they NOT ride on the lane dividing line between traffic. Really? Inching your way up two or three car lengths at a stop light? or even better, zooming beside me and the other guy going well over the speed limit on the interstate to get through traffic? Who said they can do this? Maybe the bumper sticker should read Watch Our for MORONS who drive motorcycles. Tis the season for the low IQ to be out topless on a high speed piece of machinery. Some things really should have appropriate warning signs. Do not operate this machinary if you can't spell 401K.
NEXT!
The older I get, the more I realize that we will not be celebrating many more of those "50th Wedding Anniversary" events. It pisses me off that people judge someone based on their marital status, or lack there of. That there's this nostalgic and overly romantic ideal invisibly permeating every soul in this country, ridiculing us for- not sticking through the hard times, for giving up on our relationship, and sweet baby Jesus even forsaking our marriage vows. We're being brain washed to think that we don't have the "stuff" it takes to be successful in a marriage, and shame on us because of it. As if we are somehow lacking in personal strength and fortitude and have the values of a piece of plywood. I say..go fuck yourself. I'm going to get all Freakonomics on you now. Women could not get their own credit until 1975. My mother was married and had one child and it would have required her husband to get credit. That's not shit that happened on the Mayflower. That JUST happened. Women before that were married off by their parents (read: asshole fathers) for land, or hell maybe just a nice fat pig. Women had so little value in society, and even today do not always get equal pay as their male counterparts. So tell me, how is it that living and being married to a man for 50-60-70 years is romantic? Endearing? You can bet your sweet ass that alot of those husbands didn't think of their wives as equals or even care what kind of sexually transmitted diseases he brought home to her. Those husbands who could physically and mentally abuse those women for 5 and 6 decades. BRAIN WASHED. Women could not possibly imagine they had a choice to get out. Guess what? We do now. My marriages (yes 2 of them) taught me a lot about who I am, what I deserve, and what I kind of bullshit nonsense I will not endure. I want to thank my second husband for helping me to totally annhilate my credit. Men no longer get a free pass. Women are independent, successful, strong, and capable of being happy without some jackass trying to convince her otherwise. I'd gladly be married for 50 years, knowing full well that I can take care of myself if that train some how goes horribly off track. So please....take your passive aggressive guilt trip about how "they don't make 'em like that anymore" and shove it down someone else's throat.
ALIENS-
It seems so simple to me. Maybe it's just not as hard as everyone else is making it. I was having a conversation with a friend and the topic of moving to Europe came up. I immediately thought..that would take big bucks. You would need to have some serious cash to make that kind of move. I'm sure it would be amazing. Ah..the freedom we have to see the world and enrich our lives and our livers with yummy European culture. It's awesome that it is, in fact possible.
Open the GOD DAMN BORDERS and then regulate that shit. Let people come into our country and enrich their lives, better themselves as citizens of this world. Make it easier to get here and it will become easier to track people who are total ass wads and need to be deported. Imagine the 1 million people who would get the opportunity to pay taxes and apply for loans and start businesses. When those folks got off the Mayflower (really, twice in one blog?) they had no right to be here, but there wasn't any reason why they shouldn't be either. The locals didn't like us at that time..and look what happened to them...The Casino Industry. So I ask- what is the harm? Drug trafficing..seriously? Have you been to Southern Indiana? Pretty sure those entitled, white upstanding American citizens have done enough of that themselves. The more you build fences, the more you escalate what people will do to get here. Knock Knock??? Why, Jose! Nice to see you, come on in.
OBAMACARE
I am so far away from politics it's actually a shame, an embarrasing, uneducated shame. I just wanted to preface what I am about to say. I don't know the ins and outs of Obamacare or why everyone's in an uproar about the recent Supreme Court Ruling. What I know about healthcare is this......it's a dirty, money making racket. Hospitals and Doctors have historically been paid based on volume of services rendered. As you can imagine, the hospitals get bogged down with sick, chronically ill patients that end up getting hospitalized a few times a year. Can you say CHA CHING? Now. Being that a lot of people depend on some form of insurance, or government assistance, you can rest assured that those programs are not happy with $20,000 hospital visits (multiplied by millions and millions of visits). What is trying to be reformed is not only that everyone can get access to care, because it is a universal right, but that the care they do get is high quality and cost effective. You end up in the hospital and the surgeon cuts off the wrong body part..sure that's an impressive error. That is not what needs reformed (of course that should never happen, but it isn't what is spending our healthcare dollars.) What needs reformed is that patients who are hospitalized don't get sicker because of the very nature of being in the hospital. If that hospital wants to get reimbursed they had better get their A team out and make sure patients aren't laying in a bed of urine and feces, that there aren't a boat load of duplicated tests to find out the same information and that all patients get the minimum standard of good care. What we had WAS NOT WORKING. Sure Obamacare isn't perfect. It's flawed, there will be peaks and valleys while we all try to make it work. If you want to make a difference then put down your Big Mac and supersized Coke, walk your morbidly obese ass over to your computer and really start educating yourself on the health care crisis in this country, and THEN.. you run for President and change it. We need to be accountable for our own mentality of "I'm broken, now fix me". You didn't get to be overweight in the last month. Your smoking one cigarette didn't give you lung disease but the 30 years of smoking did, and the fact that your diet consists of all fast food all the time, is probably why you had to have bypass surgery at 45. It's not rocket science people. TAKE CARE OF YOUR BODY. Move it around once in awhile, eat things that are grown in a garden, and stop trying to embalm yourself with alcohol and preservatives (that last one was for me!).
That's all I have to say about that.
For Now.
I'm pretty sure I'll share more opinions later. I'm looking at you religion, plastic surgeons, and the welfare system.
The "rant" you are about to read probably has absolutely NO basis in actual fact, but what I consider first hand experience. They are my thoughts on things and I have really wanted to blow some steam off on some of these topics. I also understand fully that I'm a bit dramatic and sometimes wholly inaccurate.
CRASH TEST DUMMIES
I would LOVE to "watch out for motorcycles". How about they NOT ride on the lane dividing line between traffic. Really? Inching your way up two or three car lengths at a stop light? or even better, zooming beside me and the other guy going well over the speed limit on the interstate to get through traffic? Who said they can do this? Maybe the bumper sticker should read Watch Our for MORONS who drive motorcycles. Tis the season for the low IQ to be out topless on a high speed piece of machinery. Some things really should have appropriate warning signs. Do not operate this machinary if you can't spell 401K.
NEXT!
The older I get, the more I realize that we will not be celebrating many more of those "50th Wedding Anniversary" events. It pisses me off that people judge someone based on their marital status, or lack there of. That there's this nostalgic and overly romantic ideal invisibly permeating every soul in this country, ridiculing us for- not sticking through the hard times, for giving up on our relationship, and sweet baby Jesus even forsaking our marriage vows. We're being brain washed to think that we don't have the "stuff" it takes to be successful in a marriage, and shame on us because of it. As if we are somehow lacking in personal strength and fortitude and have the values of a piece of plywood. I say..go fuck yourself. I'm going to get all Freakonomics on you now. Women could not get their own credit until 1975. My mother was married and had one child and it would have required her husband to get credit. That's not shit that happened on the Mayflower. That JUST happened. Women before that were married off by their parents (read: asshole fathers) for land, or hell maybe just a nice fat pig. Women had so little value in society, and even today do not always get equal pay as their male counterparts. So tell me, how is it that living and being married to a man for 50-60-70 years is romantic? Endearing? You can bet your sweet ass that alot of those husbands didn't think of their wives as equals or even care what kind of sexually transmitted diseases he brought home to her. Those husbands who could physically and mentally abuse those women for 5 and 6 decades. BRAIN WASHED. Women could not possibly imagine they had a choice to get out. Guess what? We do now. My marriages (yes 2 of them) taught me a lot about who I am, what I deserve, and what I kind of bullshit nonsense I will not endure. I want to thank my second husband for helping me to totally annhilate my credit. Men no longer get a free pass. Women are independent, successful, strong, and capable of being happy without some jackass trying to convince her otherwise. I'd gladly be married for 50 years, knowing full well that I can take care of myself if that train some how goes horribly off track. So please....take your passive aggressive guilt trip about how "they don't make 'em like that anymore" and shove it down someone else's throat.
ALIENS-
It seems so simple to me. Maybe it's just not as hard as everyone else is making it. I was having a conversation with a friend and the topic of moving to Europe came up. I immediately thought..that would take big bucks. You would need to have some serious cash to make that kind of move. I'm sure it would be amazing. Ah..the freedom we have to see the world and enrich our lives and our livers with yummy European culture. It's awesome that it is, in fact possible.
Open the GOD DAMN BORDERS and then regulate that shit. Let people come into our country and enrich their lives, better themselves as citizens of this world. Make it easier to get here and it will become easier to track people who are total ass wads and need to be deported. Imagine the 1 million people who would get the opportunity to pay taxes and apply for loans and start businesses. When those folks got off the Mayflower (really, twice in one blog?) they had no right to be here, but there wasn't any reason why they shouldn't be either. The locals didn't like us at that time..and look what happened to them...The Casino Industry. So I ask- what is the harm? Drug trafficing..seriously? Have you been to Southern Indiana? Pretty sure those entitled, white upstanding American citizens have done enough of that themselves. The more you build fences, the more you escalate what people will do to get here. Knock Knock??? Why, Jose! Nice to see you, come on in.
OBAMACARE
I am so far away from politics it's actually a shame, an embarrasing, uneducated shame. I just wanted to preface what I am about to say. I don't know the ins and outs of Obamacare or why everyone's in an uproar about the recent Supreme Court Ruling. What I know about healthcare is this......it's a dirty, money making racket. Hospitals and Doctors have historically been paid based on volume of services rendered. As you can imagine, the hospitals get bogged down with sick, chronically ill patients that end up getting hospitalized a few times a year. Can you say CHA CHING? Now. Being that a lot of people depend on some form of insurance, or government assistance, you can rest assured that those programs are not happy with $20,000 hospital visits (multiplied by millions and millions of visits). What is trying to be reformed is not only that everyone can get access to care, because it is a universal right, but that the care they do get is high quality and cost effective. You end up in the hospital and the surgeon cuts off the wrong body part..sure that's an impressive error. That is not what needs reformed (of course that should never happen, but it isn't what is spending our healthcare dollars.) What needs reformed is that patients who are hospitalized don't get sicker because of the very nature of being in the hospital. If that hospital wants to get reimbursed they had better get their A team out and make sure patients aren't laying in a bed of urine and feces, that there aren't a boat load of duplicated tests to find out the same information and that all patients get the minimum standard of good care. What we had WAS NOT WORKING. Sure Obamacare isn't perfect. It's flawed, there will be peaks and valleys while we all try to make it work. If you want to make a difference then put down your Big Mac and supersized Coke, walk your morbidly obese ass over to your computer and really start educating yourself on the health care crisis in this country, and THEN.. you run for President and change it. We need to be accountable for our own mentality of "I'm broken, now fix me". You didn't get to be overweight in the last month. Your smoking one cigarette didn't give you lung disease but the 30 years of smoking did, and the fact that your diet consists of all fast food all the time, is probably why you had to have bypass surgery at 45. It's not rocket science people. TAKE CARE OF YOUR BODY. Move it around once in awhile, eat things that are grown in a garden, and stop trying to embalm yourself with alcohol and preservatives (that last one was for me!).
That's all I have to say about that.
For Now.
I'm pretty sure I'll share more opinions later. I'm looking at you religion, plastic surgeons, and the welfare system.
Monday, June 25, 2012
June 25, 2012
There I was...(coming up on almost 2 years ago now) living a life I was ready to leave. Some of you know this story, a personal period full of pain and anguish for me. I revisit it now for personal reasons. For reasons I can't explain in detail, but that the word smith in me feels the need to talk about it now.
Heavier than any feeling imaginable. Darker than any blackest night. My thoughts, my body, my life was unbearable. I tell you that breathing hurt because of the mental anguish of knowing another breath would follow the last one. I just needed it to end. I could not FEEL that way anymore. I've said it before...death would have been kinder, easier in fact. This hollow, hopeless shell of a soul was not me and therefore was no longer of any use to me. My choice was insulin and metoprolol (a medication that drops the blood pressure and the heart rate). I stood in front of the drug dispensing machine at work calculating what I would need. Ironically enough it was my depression that saved me in that moment. I was so hateful of myself that I assumed I would not even be able to kill myself properly and I would end up living through it and forever be known as the nurse who tried to kill herself with stolen drugs. I walked away. Less than 12 hours later I was institutionalized.
This is not a glamorous story. It has no funny anecdotes and there will not be praying tongue in cheek at the end of it.
This was a time of being broken. Of self loathing, hatred in fact, and burial. I sat there..in that institution, not being helped by any "groups". Biding my time and putting on a smiling face (a face that just didn't have tears running down it). My people loved me. I cried to my sisters, my parents, my dearest friend Suzanne. I cried at the loss they would feel when I would eventually be gone. I could not...not live..any longer. I was dead inside.
Hope is a funny thing. We find ourselves hoping for all manner of things..good weather, a raise, a tall dark and handsome man to sweep us off our feet. Frivolous, petty things. I fully believe we should be taught the proper art of being hopeful, not to mention a few other things like self worth, confidence, love, and feeling understood.
The sad and unfortunate matter is that my story has happened to so many people. Maybe you. Maybe your loved one. The space a soul stands in during the very deepest of depressions is unreachable for the most part. Nothing logical will do. It is wholly miraculous to make it out alive. What brings the saddened soul to the surface is not the out stretched hands of those that love them, so much as it is the graceful spirit within that knows you have been down long enough. Breathing faith into the livable life.
One must bury the shell of pain. Shed it and leave it to rot in the hell it created..and walk toward the beauty of being alive. It's not about huge mile stones or bucket lists. It's not about material possessions or fame and fortune. It's about the acceptance of being flawed, imperfect and lost. To embrace each day thankful for the ability to know oneself and ultimately be understood by that most important soul.
Love the people you will love. I beg of you to start with yourself first.
Heavier than any feeling imaginable. Darker than any blackest night. My thoughts, my body, my life was unbearable. I tell you that breathing hurt because of the mental anguish of knowing another breath would follow the last one. I just needed it to end. I could not FEEL that way anymore. I've said it before...death would have been kinder, easier in fact. This hollow, hopeless shell of a soul was not me and therefore was no longer of any use to me. My choice was insulin and metoprolol (a medication that drops the blood pressure and the heart rate). I stood in front of the drug dispensing machine at work calculating what I would need. Ironically enough it was my depression that saved me in that moment. I was so hateful of myself that I assumed I would not even be able to kill myself properly and I would end up living through it and forever be known as the nurse who tried to kill herself with stolen drugs. I walked away. Less than 12 hours later I was institutionalized.
This is not a glamorous story. It has no funny anecdotes and there will not be praying tongue in cheek at the end of it.
This was a time of being broken. Of self loathing, hatred in fact, and burial. I sat there..in that institution, not being helped by any "groups". Biding my time and putting on a smiling face (a face that just didn't have tears running down it). My people loved me. I cried to my sisters, my parents, my dearest friend Suzanne. I cried at the loss they would feel when I would eventually be gone. I could not...not live..any longer. I was dead inside.
Hope is a funny thing. We find ourselves hoping for all manner of things..good weather, a raise, a tall dark and handsome man to sweep us off our feet. Frivolous, petty things. I fully believe we should be taught the proper art of being hopeful, not to mention a few other things like self worth, confidence, love, and feeling understood.
The sad and unfortunate matter is that my story has happened to so many people. Maybe you. Maybe your loved one. The space a soul stands in during the very deepest of depressions is unreachable for the most part. Nothing logical will do. It is wholly miraculous to make it out alive. What brings the saddened soul to the surface is not the out stretched hands of those that love them, so much as it is the graceful spirit within that knows you have been down long enough. Breathing faith into the livable life.
One must bury the shell of pain. Shed it and leave it to rot in the hell it created..and walk toward the beauty of being alive. It's not about huge mile stones or bucket lists. It's not about material possessions or fame and fortune. It's about the acceptance of being flawed, imperfect and lost. To embrace each day thankful for the ability to know oneself and ultimately be understood by that most important soul.
Love the people you will love. I beg of you to start with yourself first.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
June 19, 2012
So there I was at THE country bar in Vegas, my first time and by myself of course. Now.. being that I lived in Nashville and that somehow makes me a superior judge of country bars, I was somewhat confused by the line dancing to hip hop and the enormous disco ball. I mean apparently "country" is different out west! Who knew!
I felt comfortable, even without cowboy boots or cutoff jean shorts. I was doing my thing..sitting back and taking it all in (read: smirking and judging the others). I have a fairly strict policy of not making eye contact with people who freak me out. You know the type. Out of the corner of your eye you might notice a guy limping, or an undesirable moving closer to you, and usually anyone in a cowboy hat and a belt buckle, but I had to let that slide here. These are the people you DO NOT make eye contact with. It didn't matter. The 5'3 Hispanic gentleman with a ten gallon hat on and I was still taller than him tapped me on the shoulder anyway. He pointed to the dance floor. I obviously assumed he didn't speak English. BUT NO! Not only did he not speak English, he could not speak at all. Or hear. Yes- a deaf and mute Mexican wanted to spin me around the dance floor (and really..how could he do that without being able to hear the music??? riddle me that!). Boy was I flattered..or not. The actual thought that went through my head was.."you're kidding me right?" I smiled and vehmenantly shook my head no and walked away. He obviously didn't yell any obscenities at me. Although he might have flipped me off.
Although, in hindsight I'm guessing he would have been better company than the lurking Arab man. (Also under 5'5") who asked if he could buy me a drink, and when I said no thank you he continued to stand and chat me up anyway. One would imagine after my fourth time walking away from the guy he would take a hint. I should have pretended I was deaf and mute. Damn...why am I just thinking that now! Would have been brilliant!
These encounters as a single woman really get me thinking. Is it me? Am I THAT girl? I wrongly assumed that it might be that I am alone in these bars. But then that would not explain the same types of men who wink at me on what I now like to call UNmatch.com. Really, your 63 with more hair on your upper lip than on the top of your head and you felt it appropriate to wink at me, a 35 year old woman. How's that gonna work? Take me out for steak and a side of viagra? Sheesh. Now..I'm not trying to be arrogant, but I'm not ugly am I? I mean, I have good grooming habits. I don't appear to be someone who hates old people or kicks puppies, so what's up with the completely inappropriate freak parade of men interested in me? Now there have been the rare occasions, ok...reverse. Rare occasion..not plural, that a normal appearing, non-cowboy hat wearing, employed man did reciprocate interest. The downfall is the deal breakers. He had 2 children. I just can't go down that road again. Unfortunately, as my great friends Suzanne and Chris pointed out, I might have to start dating younger men as to avoid that pitfall all together. Younger men. Have you met them? My heart breaks a little bit at the thought of an XBox being a permanent fixture in my living room or discussing why I don't want to go to South Padre for Spring Break. And to be honest, as much as I would love to be referred to as a cougar, I think I'll pass.
There are plenty of men out there to give me "attention". 30 somethings that know how to have just the right amount of facial hair and just enough charm to sound sincere, but in my experience they are all Industry guys. Translation..in Las Vegas you work in the Industry if you are a bartender, waiter, in a show, cook, etc. Further translation...I would be the Sugar Mama... that's fun..for like a week.
So what's a girl to do. ...Let's get real..what's a woman, who's been divorced twice, sliding down the back side of her 30's, who might want to have children someday- do about finding Mr. Right? (Tall, dark, handsome, childless, light hearted, and as successful as I am). I thought about twirling one of those signs on the corner. A big arrow that says "no really ..I'm not desperate". I refuse to do any more online dating. Seriously..edisharmony.com hooked me up with my ex-husband last year. No thank you. Next!
So.. and I cringe a little at admitting this, but fuck it. I have enlisted the expertise of a professional Matchmaker. (yikes!!!) I know what you're thinking. OH MY GOD...those really exist?! and umm...yes. I filled out form after form of personality questionnaires, authorized a background check, and jumped head first in the idea of taking my "happily ever after" just as serious as I would purchasing a home, planning for retirement or an epic vacation. And I am telling you right now...I am freaked the fuck out. What if they are all cowboy hat wearing Arabs with snaggle teeth and a lisp? Do normal, good looking, successful men really need to use this service? I would like to think that I am a normal (shut up), fairly ok looking (with makeup and jeans that make me look skinny) and successful (regardless of what my single digit credit score says). So there has to be at least a few prospects out there?
I'm going to die old and alone with cats.
hahahaha....or not.
I'm investing in my future happiness. Time to put up or shut up folks. So.. wish me luck, and give your super cute cousin/neighbor/co-worker/brother my information so that I don't end up dating men who will be out on parole in 10 years (or 8 for good behavior). Because really..if the matchmaker is a bust..I'm going straight to the correctional systems!
Dear Heavenly Father-
My sexual promiscuity may be your reason for making all good and decent men be repelled by me. I get that. For the record I just want to say, if you didn't want us to like it, then you shouldn't have made it so much fun. Huh? See my point. So in my opinion you are partly to blame for this. Now that we have gotten that little issue straightened out I would just like to say thank you for allowing me the strength and fortitude to kiss a lot of frogs and still not give up on my Prince Charming. Your faithful servant, Brooke, Queen of the Frogs.
I felt comfortable, even without cowboy boots or cutoff jean shorts. I was doing my thing..sitting back and taking it all in (read: smirking and judging the others). I have a fairly strict policy of not making eye contact with people who freak me out. You know the type. Out of the corner of your eye you might notice a guy limping, or an undesirable moving closer to you, and usually anyone in a cowboy hat and a belt buckle, but I had to let that slide here. These are the people you DO NOT make eye contact with. It didn't matter. The 5'3 Hispanic gentleman with a ten gallon hat on and I was still taller than him tapped me on the shoulder anyway. He pointed to the dance floor. I obviously assumed he didn't speak English. BUT NO! Not only did he not speak English, he could not speak at all. Or hear. Yes- a deaf and mute Mexican wanted to spin me around the dance floor (and really..how could he do that without being able to hear the music??? riddle me that!). Boy was I flattered..or not. The actual thought that went through my head was.."you're kidding me right?" I smiled and vehmenantly shook my head no and walked away. He obviously didn't yell any obscenities at me. Although he might have flipped me off.
Although, in hindsight I'm guessing he would have been better company than the lurking Arab man. (Also under 5'5") who asked if he could buy me a drink, and when I said no thank you he continued to stand and chat me up anyway. One would imagine after my fourth time walking away from the guy he would take a hint. I should have pretended I was deaf and mute. Damn...why am I just thinking that now! Would have been brilliant!
These encounters as a single woman really get me thinking. Is it me? Am I THAT girl? I wrongly assumed that it might be that I am alone in these bars. But then that would not explain the same types of men who wink at me on what I now like to call UNmatch.com. Really, your 63 with more hair on your upper lip than on the top of your head and you felt it appropriate to wink at me, a 35 year old woman. How's that gonna work? Take me out for steak and a side of viagra? Sheesh. Now..I'm not trying to be arrogant, but I'm not ugly am I? I mean, I have good grooming habits. I don't appear to be someone who hates old people or kicks puppies, so what's up with the completely inappropriate freak parade of men interested in me? Now there have been the rare occasions, ok...reverse. Rare occasion..not plural, that a normal appearing, non-cowboy hat wearing, employed man did reciprocate interest. The downfall is the deal breakers. He had 2 children. I just can't go down that road again. Unfortunately, as my great friends Suzanne and Chris pointed out, I might have to start dating younger men as to avoid that pitfall all together. Younger men. Have you met them? My heart breaks a little bit at the thought of an XBox being a permanent fixture in my living room or discussing why I don't want to go to South Padre for Spring Break. And to be honest, as much as I would love to be referred to as a cougar, I think I'll pass.
There are plenty of men out there to give me "attention". 30 somethings that know how to have just the right amount of facial hair and just enough charm to sound sincere, but in my experience they are all Industry guys. Translation..in Las Vegas you work in the Industry if you are a bartender, waiter, in a show, cook, etc. Further translation...I would be the Sugar Mama... that's fun..for like a week.
So what's a girl to do. ...Let's get real..what's a woman, who's been divorced twice, sliding down the back side of her 30's, who might want to have children someday- do about finding Mr. Right? (Tall, dark, handsome, childless, light hearted, and as successful as I am). I thought about twirling one of those signs on the corner. A big arrow that says "no really ..I'm not desperate". I refuse to do any more online dating. Seriously..edisharmony.com hooked me up with my ex-husband last year. No thank you. Next!
So.. and I cringe a little at admitting this, but fuck it. I have enlisted the expertise of a professional Matchmaker. (yikes!!!) I know what you're thinking. OH MY GOD...those really exist?! and umm...yes. I filled out form after form of personality questionnaires, authorized a background check, and jumped head first in the idea of taking my "happily ever after" just as serious as I would purchasing a home, planning for retirement or an epic vacation. And I am telling you right now...I am freaked the fuck out. What if they are all cowboy hat wearing Arabs with snaggle teeth and a lisp? Do normal, good looking, successful men really need to use this service? I would like to think that I am a normal (shut up), fairly ok looking (with makeup and jeans that make me look skinny) and successful (regardless of what my single digit credit score says). So there has to be at least a few prospects out there?
I'm going to die old and alone with cats.
hahahaha....or not.
I'm investing in my future happiness. Time to put up or shut up folks. So.. wish me luck, and give your super cute cousin/neighbor/co-worker/brother my information so that I don't end up dating men who will be out on parole in 10 years (or 8 for good behavior). Because really..if the matchmaker is a bust..I'm going straight to the correctional systems!
Dear Heavenly Father-
My sexual promiscuity may be your reason for making all good and decent men be repelled by me. I get that. For the record I just want to say, if you didn't want us to like it, then you shouldn't have made it so much fun. Huh? See my point. So in my opinion you are partly to blame for this. Now that we have gotten that little issue straightened out I would just like to say thank you for allowing me the strength and fortitude to kiss a lot of frogs and still not give up on my Prince Charming. Your faithful servant, Brooke, Queen of the Frogs.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012
So there I was being so funny and cool as usual (shut up! I am to funny!) and sending out text messages about how my sister Kelly and I were staying at THE PALMS for the weekend. About to hang out with Flo-Rida, Diddy and 50 Cent (by hang out, I mean wait for hours in the sun driving up a $180 bar tab until Slo-Rida decided to grace us with his presence for 30 minutes). We were TOTALLY Rock Stars! Unfortunately...the auto correct on my phone decided we were rocketeers instead. FAIL! It was fun saying that we were partying like Rocketeers all weekend..eventually all the cool kids were doing it.
Although there was an unfortunate crotch incident that occurred (thankfully to Kelly and not so much me)..let me just explain it this way...a young woman decided to stand and dance where Kelly was sitting and Kelly dared not inhale too strongly in fear of catching a whiff of her lady parts (did you just sniff? what is THAT about!) You can imagine, what with all the sweating in the sun.. and I think she was European (not ur a peein!). Those were some really fun 30 minutes though...looking at that hot piece of man muscle! Flo-Rida not the female European.. WOW!
Our rocketeering continued on later that evening at the Playboy Club and Moon (Diddy wasn't worth $150 per person..just sayin) and drinks were had, food was eaten, and two beautiful sisters went home without incident! Whew...
And then...the pain rained down upon me as if a burning hot poker were being held to my flesh (I kind of feel like I have the authority on what the fires of hell will feel like). That crazy bitch sister of mine got me into a tattoo shop and my stupid ass thought..sure ok! I watched her get one..didn't seem so bad..and since I had always wanted a tattoo and said I would get one if I ever could commit to one thing..and I had recently thought of a cool quote I would like..then apparently the fires of hell aligned perfectly for me to fulfill this masochistic experience. Fucking Shakespeare with all your smug and witty verbiage. "To thine own self be true" my foot! literally on my foot. FYI...it hurts THAT bad. Kelly and the tattooed ink master were all chatty chat chattin about her cold feet as he was inking her ankle..he mentioned she should put on a foot sweater! HAHAHAHA foot sweater. How funny right?!?! Where I come from we call it a sock.. but hey.. to each his own!
Later that night at Ghostbar...Sis decided she was gonna tear da club up! Hell yes...there were 3 bouncers involved. Because my little sister can get a little out of hand in a big way. (snicker, snicker, snort...you go sissy!) OK..before my mother calls and asks if she got arrested..here's the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Sitting there minding our own damn business and trying to get cute pictures of ourselves on our phones so we could post them on Facebook..(hence proof of how cool we are!) her purse, not zipped, fell toward the back of the couch and her driver's license fell down between the crack of the cushions. 3 burly bouncers had to come and disassemble the damn couch so she could get it back... yep...totally Rocketeers.
The next day at our own little pool party (no the burnt flesh was not in the sun or the pool!) was good times starting off at noon with a pitcher of mojitos (or after 3 pitchers what I liked to call Mo-G- toes!)
The escapades of one very confidant woman I'll just call the mermaid on crack were thoroughly enjoyable. Picture that slow motion Christy Brinkley hair shake on a 45 year old black woman coming out of the pool, with a short blond fro. And you can bet your sweet ass she had her swagger on...the kick of her hips when she walked almost made her look like her legs were different lengths. RE DICK U LUSS! oh...and she was with the DJ or so she told anyone who looked in her general direction as it's hard to tell if you're making eye contact with someone wearing sunglasses! oh funny funny times. Our catch phrase..."Whatch yo name is shawty!" That's "What is your name short girl" in an urban dialect that I haven't quite placed yet. Kelly left early for reasons I can only presume were related to me drinking 3 pitchers of mo g toes! I doubled up on the milk thistle so there was not even a lick of a hangover! Which is totally how a rocketeer parties.
The shenanigans were even more fun when Robin and her two long time friends showed up.. They were super fun and it's great being single and partying with married women...as they are always trying to hook you up with hot men. Well..by hot..you know I am starting to question Robin's opinion of me. In Santa Monica there were the questionable German dudes (not attractive but totally fun) and then this weekend some old man named Arthur? or Arnold? ugh..really Robin? You think we would've been good together...I might have to take you off my man hunt duties. Less beer gut and gray hair and more within 10 years of my own age. Please and thank you! wink wink.
Dear Yahweh,
What's up shawty?!?! I write to you in full confession of the greed, gluttony, and whatever the names of all the 7 deadly dwarfs are, that I participated freely and willingly in each one. Feel free to text me and I'll get you on the guest list the next time you're in town. Your faithful servant, Brooke.
Although there was an unfortunate crotch incident that occurred (thankfully to Kelly and not so much me)..let me just explain it this way...a young woman decided to stand and dance where Kelly was sitting and Kelly dared not inhale too strongly in fear of catching a whiff of her lady parts (did you just sniff? what is THAT about!) You can imagine, what with all the sweating in the sun.. and I think she was European (not ur a peein!). Those were some really fun 30 minutes though...looking at that hot piece of man muscle! Flo-Rida not the female European.. WOW!
Our rocketeering continued on later that evening at the Playboy Club and Moon (Diddy wasn't worth $150 per person..just sayin) and drinks were had, food was eaten, and two beautiful sisters went home without incident! Whew...
And then...the pain rained down upon me as if a burning hot poker were being held to my flesh (I kind of feel like I have the authority on what the fires of hell will feel like). That crazy bitch sister of mine got me into a tattoo shop and my stupid ass thought..sure ok! I watched her get one..didn't seem so bad..and since I had always wanted a tattoo and said I would get one if I ever could commit to one thing..and I had recently thought of a cool quote I would like..then apparently the fires of hell aligned perfectly for me to fulfill this masochistic experience. Fucking Shakespeare with all your smug and witty verbiage. "To thine own self be true" my foot! literally on my foot. FYI...it hurts THAT bad. Kelly and the tattooed ink master were all chatty chat chattin about her cold feet as he was inking her ankle..he mentioned she should put on a foot sweater! HAHAHAHA foot sweater. How funny right?!?! Where I come from we call it a sock.. but hey.. to each his own!
Later that night at Ghostbar...Sis decided she was gonna tear da club up! Hell yes...there were 3 bouncers involved. Because my little sister can get a little out of hand in a big way. (snicker, snicker, snort...you go sissy!) OK..before my mother calls and asks if she got arrested..here's the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Sitting there minding our own damn business and trying to get cute pictures of ourselves on our phones so we could post them on Facebook..(hence proof of how cool we are!) her purse, not zipped, fell toward the back of the couch and her driver's license fell down between the crack of the cushions. 3 burly bouncers had to come and disassemble the damn couch so she could get it back... yep...totally Rocketeers.
The next day at our own little pool party (no the burnt flesh was not in the sun or the pool!) was good times starting off at noon with a pitcher of mojitos (or after 3 pitchers what I liked to call Mo-G- toes!)
The escapades of one very confidant woman I'll just call the mermaid on crack were thoroughly enjoyable. Picture that slow motion Christy Brinkley hair shake on a 45 year old black woman coming out of the pool, with a short blond fro. And you can bet your sweet ass she had her swagger on...the kick of her hips when she walked almost made her look like her legs were different lengths. RE DICK U LUSS! oh...and she was with the DJ or so she told anyone who looked in her general direction as it's hard to tell if you're making eye contact with someone wearing sunglasses! oh funny funny times. Our catch phrase..."Whatch yo name is shawty!" That's "What is your name short girl" in an urban dialect that I haven't quite placed yet. Kelly left early for reasons I can only presume were related to me drinking 3 pitchers of mo g toes! I doubled up on the milk thistle so there was not even a lick of a hangover! Which is totally how a rocketeer parties.
The shenanigans were even more fun when Robin and her two long time friends showed up.. They were super fun and it's great being single and partying with married women...as they are always trying to hook you up with hot men. Well..by hot..you know I am starting to question Robin's opinion of me. In Santa Monica there were the questionable German dudes (not attractive but totally fun) and then this weekend some old man named Arthur? or Arnold? ugh..really Robin? You think we would've been good together...I might have to take you off my man hunt duties. Less beer gut and gray hair and more within 10 years of my own age. Please and thank you! wink wink.
Dear Yahweh,
What's up shawty?!?! I write to you in full confession of the greed, gluttony, and whatever the names of all the 7 deadly dwarfs are, that I participated freely and willingly in each one. Feel free to text me and I'll get you on the guest list the next time you're in town. Your faithful servant, Brooke.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
April 5, 2012
So there I was......sitting on a stack of cushions listening to The Guru speak about spirituality. It was myself and one other young woman who I will only call..The Tart. Seriously..who wears a black lace shirt to hear someone speak about the mysteries of the universe? Who? I'll tell you...The Tart. I digress.. so at this juncture in my life I have basically buried the crazy Naturopath in to the back recesses of my mind and decided that my quest will continue. Which leads us back to the stack of cushions, The Guru, and The Tart. He's exactly what you are picturing. White linen pants, long white linen shirt, a simple long brown beaded necklace, barefoot and just shy of waist long straight gray hair. Oh yeah..I was totally feeling the vibe. Vibe, incense overdose...whatever. He's very interesting. "All that is, is all there ever was and all there will ever be." Pretty straight forward stuff. I think he was dumbing it down for you know who.. but, I can't really be sure. He talked about things and as he would say something, I would naturally think in my mind (where else right?) of a comment or maybe a question. Which he would then respond to. I swear this guy was reading my mind. SWEAR. Which was a thought I eventually had while sitting on that cushion. It went something like this----"Wow, he's totally reading my mind. Amazing. Thank God I'm not thinking about his penis. OH SHIT, now he knows I'm thinking about his penis. I have to stop thinking, penis. Shit. The more I try not to think about it.. the more I'm.. fuck..don't visualize it! Shit. Row row row your boat gently down the stream. penis. marrily marrily marrily marrily whew no penis, life is but a dream." Yep. Who's the Tart now? Needless to say, eye contact was a bit tricky afterwards.
Is it just me? Does any of this happen to other people? I'm sure it must. I mean come on. I'm sure The Guru has been in many a meditation and known exactly who passed a silent "all that was for lunch" fart. I'm certain. Hell he could probably tell what the main course was.
Do they have homes for people like me? Maybe home is not the right word. I think the word I'm looking for is institution.
Let's change the subject before anyone gets any ideas.
April 14th is the 100 year Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic and I have been invited to a "Titanic" party. Yes, a costume is required. They will be handing out cards that tells whether you were in steerage, first class, etc. My take on the whole thing is that there is no damn way I'm putting on a long skirt, high collared shirt and some ridiculously offensive hat. But..I don't want to be a party pooper, so I will go dressed in all white- as, wait for it, the iceberg! bwaahhhahahahaha. I just kill me! This is important because later in the evening I have a 40th birthday party to go to and at least I can go out in public in all white and no one will think anything of it. Then again this is Vegas and if I had some early 1900's get up on people might give me money to take a picture with me. Hmm...a thought to consider.
Dear All That Is- I know it's been awhile since we've chatted. You've been especially kind to me lately and I would like to express my gratitude. I know with my recent breakup that I might have some karma coming at me and I'm ready for anything you throw at me. Not like that whole "penis" incident. That totally took me by surprise. Well played on that one by the way. So thanks for your gifts and glory, and The Hunger Games. Katniss totally rocks. Your faithful servant, Brooke aka The Tart.
Is it just me? Does any of this happen to other people? I'm sure it must. I mean come on. I'm sure The Guru has been in many a meditation and known exactly who passed a silent "all that was for lunch" fart. I'm certain. Hell he could probably tell what the main course was.
Do they have homes for people like me? Maybe home is not the right word. I think the word I'm looking for is institution.
Let's change the subject before anyone gets any ideas.
April 14th is the 100 year Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic and I have been invited to a "Titanic" party. Yes, a costume is required. They will be handing out cards that tells whether you were in steerage, first class, etc. My take on the whole thing is that there is no damn way I'm putting on a long skirt, high collared shirt and some ridiculously offensive hat. But..I don't want to be a party pooper, so I will go dressed in all white- as, wait for it, the iceberg! bwaahhhahahahaha. I just kill me! This is important because later in the evening I have a 40th birthday party to go to and at least I can go out in public in all white and no one will think anything of it. Then again this is Vegas and if I had some early 1900's get up on people might give me money to take a picture with me. Hmm...a thought to consider.
Dear All That Is- I know it's been awhile since we've chatted. You've been especially kind to me lately and I would like to express my gratitude. I know with my recent breakup that I might have some karma coming at me and I'm ready for anything you throw at me. Not like that whole "penis" incident. That totally took me by surprise. Well played on that one by the way. So thanks for your gifts and glory, and The Hunger Games. Katniss totally rocks. Your faithful servant, Brooke aka The Tart.
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