I'm just a bit of a hypochondriac

Whenever I have some kind of random symptom-type thing going on I always google it to see if some type of life ending disease or syndrome pops up.

One time (a few years back) I was laying in bed and my legs suddenly felt like they had been invaded, inside and out, by millions of little ants crawling all over me. It was a terrible, annoying feeling... and it was google that let me know that Restless Leg Syndrome does actually exist. (It hasn't happened since, though.)

A few months back, around the mid-semester point, I was noticing that despite getting plenty of sleep and nutrition I was constantly yawning, about every 10 seconds, from the moment I got up, until the second I fell asleep.
Google said something about it being related to stress/depression disorders.
Go figure.

So, that leads me to the recent spell of hypochondria. One that is recent, though recently frequent as well, not to mention having some (perhaps) genetic background.

The last week and a half, I have had four dreams that I can remember which somehow involve me getting into a physical altercation or fight of some sort.

The first was probably last weekend, or maybe even just last Monday, and the dream involved my dear, sweet cousin Eddy Jon. In this particular dream Eddy was irritating me in some fashion (really not a huge stretch of the imagination, actually) and I woke up as in the dream, and in real time, I punched him.
In real time, I just hit my poor pillow with all my might.

The second dream involved a kidnapper of some kind... one that I sort of jabbed at and ended up hitting the end table towards my side of the bed.

The third dream I can't really remember... but it involved me hitting somebody and my victim turned out to be my Mother this time.

She said the next morning, "Another way that you're just like your father? You beat me up in your sleep."

Years ago (I'd say 10 or 12) my Dad had a dream that he was beating up some old man in a parking lot. Mama woke up to a crushing punch to the stomach... two, I think... before saying "What the hell?!" and Dad woke up, apologizing up and down.
It happened during a week when a number of strange things were going on in the house.
Strange things that we Christians like to refer to as... supernatural. I suppose.

So, this morning, I had my fourth violent also real-time dream. It involved me kneeing some guy in the groin and my knee slashed upwards in the bed in a menacing display.

Well... I had to google it. Four occurrences in a weeks worth of time? Surely somebody had done some kind of research on it!

In a person with REM sleep behavior disorder (RBD), the paralysis that normally occurs during REM sleep is incomplete or absent, allowing the person to "act out" his or her dreams. RBD is characterized by the acting out of dreams that are vivid, intense, and violent. Dream-enacting behaviors include talking, yelling, punching, kicking, sitting, jumping from bed, arm flailing, and grabbing. An acute form may occur during withdrawal from alcohol or sedative-hypnotic drugs.
RBD is usually seen in middle-aged to elderly people (more often in men).

Go figure I'd be an exception.

This weekend I was in Lubbock with Sypria helping Emmy out with her bridal portraits. She looked stunning and it really got me more excited for her actual wedding. When they first started taking pictures I mentioned that I was getting a little "verklempt" and it was not a lie, really. Being the first of my closest friends to get married, and me being so heavily involved in it, is somewhat daunting. Even emotionally in some ways.
I swear I won't cry at the wedding, Em. You know me. I'll make fun of you if you do!

I have a funny story to tell you all about how I woke up this morning... but it will have to wait for a moment when I don't have a headache at 1am, because I'm just ready to pass out.

Hopefully I'll sleep hard enough to bypass the whole violent, apocalyptic scenario dreams I've been having lately.
(Surely having dreams about kicking the shit out of people and/or the world ending in violent chaos are good signs, yes?)

Much love,


Brit

Wal-Mart pick up lines... the hilarity ensues.

Ashley Christine and I bond in mundanely awesome ways. Sometimes we venture to the top of Sandia Peak to sit on rocks, smoke cigars, and marvel at the city lights. Other times we sit on the couch and watch CSI or Law and Order for a couple hours. Once she needed to go shopping so we went to Trader Joe's and had a field day in organic goodness.

Tonight... we made a 10:45pm Wal-Mart run.

I wanted to buy some straightening serum for my wildly unruly hair. I leave a more humid climate and the crap still gives me grief... and anyway, I'll be in such a humid state being so close to the Mediterranean in Spain that I might as well get well equipped ahead of time.

For the record, Ashley needed deodorant. She'll be thrilled that I shared that with you.

That being said, we were staring at the Nexxus hair products for awhile, trying to figure out exactly what I needed for aforementioned ridiculous hair.
As we're standing there (and try to imagine us standing right in front of one of those annoying poles that sticks right in the middle of the isle) somebody comes around the corner in one of those motorized Wally World motor chair things.
Now, since we're standing so near this pole in the middle of the lane, we both kind of glance back to make sure he doesn't need us to move, since we are kind of standing on the larger of the two sides of the isle.

I don't really get a look at the guy, probably from some innate fear that this crippled/old/somehow-decrepit person will take my glance and ensuing look-down as some kind of judgment, but Ashley being Ashley looks that fool up and down.
He tries to maneuver around the small side of the isle, his motorized little car barely squeezing between shelves of hairspray and a really random, useless metal pole... and I start to feel guilty about making this poor, helpless fellow have to move around us.
Then I notice, mere seconds before Ashley begins to laugh... this young African-American guy driving the motor cart is just that:

Young.
Not crippled.
Kinda cute.
Sporting some bling-bling. Ice around his neck, if you will...

He starts giggling too and then once free of his tight spot drives to the end of the lane and then proceeds to hit on Ashley and I.

(We were perplexed by this, both being grunged out in wife beaters and work out shorts and no make-up.)

He asks if we go to UNM... we explain that Ashley does, but I go to Texas Tech...
He explains that he played basketball at NMSU, but is now transferring to go to school at UNM...
He asks if he can call us to find out where good places are to hang out on the weekends in Albuquerque...
He asks us, VERY CONCERNED, how old we are. Ashley laughs and says, "Oh, making sure we're legal, are you?" and he replied with a very honest, "Yup." or something like that. We tell him we're 22... he says he's the same...
He then promptly asks if that's OK and if we can hang out with black people, to which I respond (NO JOKE), "Oh, I love me the black folk." ...
He gets my number, labels it B&A, and then sets off once again in his motor cart on a deep, difficult search for cologne. Apparently.

Ashley and I last about eight seconds before we both fall to a crouching position, both very, very quietly, giggling massively at the sheer hilariousness.

You cannot make this shit up. It's like a Charlie Murphy True Hollywood Story.
I feel like I just played Prince in Basketball... and lost... and then he made me some pancakes.


GOD I love New Mexico!




Britney

Truth fact.

I long to have a career like Conan O'Brien's...


I have decided to start blogging regularly again. I had forgotten, until tonight when I gave the ole profile a makeover, how much it really helps my mind not go a little crazy... from time to time.

Just... throwing up on paper again. It releases some sort of deep tension in my stomach.

Also, since I'll be going to Spain in about a month and a half (frighting, I know) I thought it would be a good idea to start up before the trip, so I can gather a following before I get over there. So to speak.

I'm trying to find a home for my cat, much to my dismay. When I explained to my mom that I was doing this tears welled up in my eyes.
Yes. I'm THAT girl.
Don't get me wrong, I love this cat more than any dog I've ever owned. She's like my first child, no doubt... just insanely less difficult.
That being said, she is a BIT difficult. Combine her difficulty with my mother and Nana's hatred for her difficultness... well... all I'm saying is that there have been death/opening-a-door-to-let-her-wander-off threats and I wouldn't exactly doubt Nana doing one day, if pushed.
Especially since I get the feeling that she really doesn't like ME much more than Leia. True story.

If anybody I know reads this and is even MINIMALLY interested in rescuing my baby... please give me a call/text/facebook/aim shout out.

In other news, I have a job this week. Tues-Fri working the Brian Urlacher football camp at University Stadium. I actually met him today. He just sort of walked by my mom and I and said, "Hi. I'm Brian."
I think the simultaneous thought that shifted through both of our heads were, "Uhhhh... yes. Yes, you are."
Then he shook our hands and mom introduced us and the giant defense-laden man hand of Brian Urlacher tried to give me a Vulcan death grip via hand shake greeting.
I squeezed him right back, don't worry. My hands are long and skinny... but like tiny little ninjas. (Thumb War Champion, Ms. Pena's class, circa 2002)

Basically at the camp I'm the hotter, more scantily clad, non-retarded Bobby Boucher. Except, instead of coolers of REAL water, I have thousands of dumb little bottles of Vitamin Water to be kept fully stocked withing giant containers of ice at all times.
Apparently, according to the 8-year-old group... the orange flavor kicks ass.

Alas, I'm tired... and I still want to force my self to do this Tae Bo video because I still have 9 pounds to get rid of to be 130 (my target weight... which was changed from 125, because I'm starting to believe it's not possible. 5'8" and 114 lb Paris Hilton is a moronic freak of slut-driven nature.)


Cheers,


Brit

I should have gone yogging...

...but instead I watched 'Daily Show' videos online for about three hours straight.

Because Jon Stewart makes me happy.





What I do find interesting about this clip is how American civil religiosity still dominates the common media pundit's general vocabulary.
Now, this comes from a girl who when asked in an interview what three people (alive or dead) she would like to sit and have a conversation with, answered:

1) President Abraham Lincoln
2) Queen Elizabeth I
3) Ghandi


However, when the guy is played up as the savior of the African-American race, I always like to keep in perspective what a terrible, terrible job a good and decent man like Lincoln had walked himself into...

"My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or to destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that."

There is no judgment in this corner. Even I have to respect the awesomeness of our mythic civil religion.
It's... kinda the only mythology we can believe in.
Other than Star Wars.

Back in Burque

So, I ventured away from Lubbock last Friday, never to be back again. (Except in two weeks when I have to go back to turn in my paperwork for my Spanish Visa... or on June 29th when I'm going back to help Emily with her bridal portraits... or on August 6th through August 18th when I'll be there for the wedding event of the year/working at Gateway...)

I digress.

Moving was a terrible, terrible experience. When Jordan and I signed our lease (pre-me-working-for-the-place) I vehemently demanded we get a room on the first floor. It's not that I mind actually walking up stairs... quite to the contrary, I enjoy stair walking. I always walk two-steps at a time so I can get a minuscule, nice gluts workout. The problem I had with stairs, and what ended up being my third floor apartment, was all of the STUFF I owned that would need to be (FIRST) carried up three flights of stairs, then (SECOND) carried down.

A 50 pound Sony big screen, a similarly weighty Love Sac, a solid oak desk that my other great-grandfather built with his bare hands, my wood furniture that was bought for me when I was a week old, the skinny bookcase my Mom bought for me in Mississippi... not to mention the 300 gallons of MASS that IS my clothing collection.

I just have way to much crap, is what it comes down to.

Regardless, my father, Pop, and I all survived the treacherous move. I mostly made the 89 year-old great-grandfather sit off to the side so I wasn't worried about his well-being. Then I worked the 48 year-old father like... well... like a mule.
I'm actually really impressed he could walk up and down those stairs constantly for six hours while hauling box after crap-filled-box and still live to tell the tale.
Apparently he is ready to be a paramedic again. Lord knows he has the tenacity for it.
Though, he did admit he was quite sore the next day.

The drive back was kinda awful... only because I had gotten about 2.5 hours of sleep the night before, as I was still trying to pack and such.

A five hour drive on no sleep, alone, with only your cat to keep you company? Not fun. Eddie Izzard, as always, did keep me awake for a good three hours though.
The man is a god.

On the way back I went faster than the truck/trailer... mostly because I'm impatient, but also because I needed to run to Wal-Mart before I went home. As I was driving into the parking lot, my phone rings:

Me: What?
Dad: Do you want the good news... or the bad news?
Me: Ohhhhh geez. The bad news.
Dad: Your bag of shoes fell out of the trailer.
Me: Ohhhhh GOD..... *enter groans and moans*

Now, granted. I'm not a complete freak about shoes like most girls (or my mother... or Danielle... or Emily, for that matter...) but, I can't lie, they are an important part of my existence.
The two pairs of shoes I was REALLY concerned about were the brand new red tennis shoes Mom bought me for Valentine's Day and the $80 silver high-heels she bought from Dillards.

Dad said a few pairs were salvaged (THREE... actually) so I ran over to see what shoes I had left.

Thankfully, the silver heels were saved, which at the end of the day, were the most important. A few days later Dad was bragging about how he saved the best pair and I countered with, "You didn't save them. GOD did."
He laughed.

The Valentine's sneakers were gone though... but my older pair of pink sneakers were salvaged. The last pair were some flip flops... and then there were 3 singles: A left slip-resistant work shoe (DAMN IT), a left house slipper, and a left bowling shoe.

NEAT... right?

Anyway, the happy ending is (of course) the good news that Dad delivered after telling me the dreaded bad news:

Me: *continuing to groan and moan and bitch... basically...*
Dad: So you want the good news?
Me: Yeah, what is it?
Dad: You get to buy some new shoes....

Touche Daddy. TOUCHE.

Other than that exciting story, I haven't been up to much.
I took Mom out to dinner for Mother's Day. It was a really nice dinner/time until we started arguing politics.
We should, you know, probably stop bringing it up...

Today I'm going on the dreaded job search about town... looking for another waiting job to steal the last pieces of my soul away.
I'm going to hit up Olive Garden first, since it would be the easiest, but then I want to look around at some of the finer establishments that Albuquerque has to offer: PF Changs, Ticanos... um... Outback?
Ect.

Then Dad and I are supposed to work out and I also have to look into finally getting Leia fixed... so when I secretly bring home another cat my Mama can't do anything about.

*enter maniacal laughing*


It's nice to finally know where East is again.



- Brit

Cute kiddies

My family has always been blessed with the production of pretty babies.

My cousin Deminica -- after growing out of that whole "I'm-a-premi-that-only-weighs-one-pound-and-can-fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand" stage -- was a real cute kid.
Jeffery, too, was always one of the cutest kids you could pick out.
(And now... I think he's a little too hot... especially for a Drumm-Hugaboom or Hugaboom-Drumm... however he might hyphenate that name, if he hyphenated it. Which, coincidently, he does not...

... I digress....)

On the other side of the family, the twins, outside of the pure fact that they are TWINS and are therefore destined to be cute by simple fact of proxy, actually won a Halloween contest when they were a mere 4 months old based on their cuteness! That has to say something.

And, as for me, I was the first grandchild on both sides. I was also the ONLY grandchild on Dad's side for a full year-and-a-half and on Mom's side until I was 6.
Needless to say... I got told I was cute for a long, long time. And, although I might be biased: I've seen high school/college pictures of both Mom and Dad.
They were hot shit.
Probably why I'm a tad on the cocky side when it comes to my cuteness. I've never claimed I was beautiful... I know where my rank stands (a solid 8... perhaps a high 7) so, I'm not THAT cocky, I suppose.
But, I'm willing to proclaim for all to hear... I was a damn fine baby.
Don't believe me... or can't recall the memories of my absolute cuteness as a toddler? Fear not, I have one picture on file.



I know, right? It's Mom's favorite picture of me, actually.

Anyway, I was just thinking earlier (and by earlier, I mean for as long as I can remember...) about how my children are going to be the cutest children you've ever seen in your entire life.
I know I'm destined and required to think this about my children, regardless, but I mean this seriously: My babies will be so cute they'll be little baby models.
I'm calling it -- right now.
As a mother, you can't actually admit (to yourself or anyone else) that you made an ugly baby. Nine months and a full day of agony CANNOT equal an ugly kid.
You are OBLIGATED by your position of Mother Prime to claim (and BELIEVE) that your child is pretty.

Unless you are MY parents... then you have (and later document in a baby book) this conversation:

"She's pretty ugly, isn't she?" <-- (Vicky. Way to be a team player, Mother...)
"She's different." <-- (Woodrow. Nice, Dad. Thanks for the support!)

All I'm saying... is even though this baby, in my opinion, takes the cake as hottest child ever born (up to this point...)



(... and I only say up until this point because we haven't been able to see what THIS couple will produce yet...)



.... my babies will be cuter.

And play sports.

And have high GPAs, never misbehave, or argue with me.











...or I kill them...

...with my BARE HANDS....

Emmy's Getting Married!

Miss Emily Fletcher (whom I call Emmy) and my roommate Jordan are getting married next year on August 9th! (<-- Jess's B-Day)

Check out her website here... http://emilyandjordan.wedquarters.com


AND look at the bridesmaids dresses... of which I will get to wear for the first time ever! Woo!





Back of Dress

Truer words...

.... **glare**

Check out this BS...

ENGL 4301:

August Wilson, Gem of the Ocean
August Wilson, Joe Turner’s Come and Gone
August Wilson, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom
August Wilson, The Piano Lesson
August Wilson, Seven Guitars
August Wilson, Fences
August Wilson, Two Trains Running (in coursepack)
August Wilson, Jitney
August Wilson, King Hedley II
August Wilson, Radio Golf


ENGL 4313:

James Fenimore Cooper, The Last of the Mohicans (1826)
Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony (1977)
Zane Grey, Riders of the Purple Sage (1912)
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian (1985)
Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior (1979)
Jimmy Santiago Baca, Black Mesa Poems (1989)
Jane Tompkins, West of Everything: The Inner Life of Westerns (1991)

POLS 2302:

John Locke, Two Treatises of Government
Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison, The Federalist
Robert Remini, Andrew Jackson and the Bank War
Mark E. Neely, The Fate of Liberty
Robert Shogan, Hard Bargain
Louis Fisher, Presidential War Power
Georgio Agamben, State of Exception

Elephant Butte at the Shaw'ski

The photo album can be found by clicking...

HERE


and then, of course, there's this little clip...