It’s Thursday night and I still have nothing to talk about.

It’s so bad in fact that I’ve contemplated opening the phone book to a random page and calling some random person with an awful cliche’ prank joke.

Yeah… it’s been that uneventful.

Sadly, Will won’t let me. He says it’s totally immature to do something like that. 

What does he know, right? He never has any fun (ha ha).

Finally Friday. I’m sure more interesting posts are in my future. After all, the weekend has arrived!

So Will has a pair of pants he uses to do stuff around the house in. I call them “work pants.”

Today we discovered they had a small hole in the crotch- and Will asked me to “fix them.”

Fix them.

As if I ran around the house in a big fluffy skirt and pearls and had breakfast prepared at 6:00 on the dot each morning. Perfectly prepared eggs over easy- never too runny.

Sigh.

The truth is that I’m no Donna Reed.

Times are tough these days in America and I really thought it would be a good idea to help stretch these work pants- so I went to Walmart today in hopes of finding a sewing kit.

Only Walmart- the place that has “everything-” did not have a sewing kit.

So I opted for a needle and thread and a prayer that all would work out.

But we’ll get to that part soon.

So I began aimlessly threading my needle, wandering in and out of the fabric.

Um- it pretty much looked like a three year old hacked away at it. Remember those yarn paper weaving arts and crafts things you used to make?

It looked like that.

You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?

Trust me. That means it was bad.

It was at that moment- when I realized I sucked and was cutting the yarn and hopelessly pulling it out- that it hit me.

I think as a whole we’re not nearly as domestic and self sufficent as we used to be.

I mean think about it- I freaking slapped pudding into a pre-made pie crust and topped it with cool whip and called it a pie.

AND

AND

I even complained about not being able to use INSTANT pudding.

Wow. How said is that!?

Sure- it technically is a “pie"- but seriously? That’s no pie.

I can barely sew a button. I will if I’m in a pinch, but the truth is that I have like 3 items of clothing that I plan on taking to a seamstress simply to sew.on.a.freaking.button! Seriously- I suck.

Do you guys realize that basic sewing used to be a household MUST like a decade ago? It’s so crazy to me to think how much things have changed over the years. It seems like are a lot of these sort of things in which were very common just a couple decades ago but are not as widely practice these days. Um- like making our husbands breakfast every morning, or stitching a dime size hole for crying out loud!

Yes- I realize it’s because we’re “out there” in the world, making a difference, changing the world, being amazing career womans AND wives and mothers. I get it.

I mean- sure I realize I suck for not being able to sew my husband’s pants, but the truth is that I’m in good company. I’d say there’s quite a few of us out there that don’t “make” our pies.

We hide dirty dishes in our oven when unexpected company comes because (gasp) there are times in which our house isn’t spotless.

We’re no Donna Reeds.

I’ll admit, I felt a little discouraged tonight when I couldn’t simply fix a tiny hole in Will’s pants. I should be able to do that! I should be capable of weaving a piece of freaking thread neatly in and out of a piece of thin cloth and taking care of my family! How hard can this possibly be!? Apparently pretty tough.

So I’m sitting here throwing myself a pity party because I’m not Donna Reed.

And I know you guys may think less of me-

but I want to be a Donna Reed.

There. I said it.

I want to wear high heels and make breakfast for Will and never sweat when I’m cleaning the oven. I want to be able to freaking sew.a.hole. for crying out loud!

more pity partying

So here’s what I’m thinking.

There are definitely things I can work on to improve my household. Small things.

The big things- you know- the seriously HUGE crisis things like sewing a pair of pants (ha ha)- I figure I’ll handle one case at a time.

...

Actually.

Guys-

maybe I am becoming a little bit of Donna Reed.

I mean- it’s 2009.

I can’t sew my husband’s pants.

I admit it.

However I know exactly where to go to get it fixed the right way. The first time.

I call that being smart. And resourceful.

Not only that- but I mean, while someone else is doing what they’re good at, I can work on doing something marvelous!

Like baking a real pie,

or- you know, painting my nails…

We’re living in a different time and Donna Reed is evolving. I guess it’s not about living our life like they did in the 50s. It’s about living smart in Donna Reed fashion, but also enjoying the modern technologies time has afforded us and combining the two into greatness!

So, although I can’t sew my poor husband’s pants, I can make a mean pie. And wear high heels. And paint my nails. And dial the pizza guy.

Genius.

xo,

The New Donna Reed

Me: It’s so humid today and I’m at the gym and it’s so busy and I’m sweating uncontrollably! I’m pouring! I’m so embarrassed.

P: Brittny, do you want to make me angry? 1. You went to the gym. 2. It’s humid which gives the effect of a sauna. So it’s like you worked out double. So jealous!

Forgive me friends for I have sinned. It has been several weeks since my last confession.

Because it’s been a while, I will plunge deep into my heart and provide you with quality, meaningful confessions.

Like this one:

1. My husband parks my car in the garage every.single.day.

No seriously- I swear.

I know.

Pathetic.

So here’s the whole back story.

When I was 16 I got a car and- like all 16 year olds- was very eager to drive and be TOTALLY responsible with it.

So the thing with my car was that it was really long and it barely fit in the garage. In fact, there were many times in which the garage door lightly smudged the back of my car. Not only that, but we had a two car garage growing up so it was a really tight squeeze fitting the car next to the big purple minivan. So- long story (somewhat) short- my parents parked the car in the garage for me. Yes, I was TOTALLY responsibile- but why risk me doing something stupid, right?

Right.

So- one night I was being TOTALLY responsible and coming home late. Instead of calling my parents and telling them that not only was I late, but I also needed the car put in the garage, I opted to be the “good” and helpful daughter and park the car myself.

As I pulled the car in the rear right side of my car let out a painful cry of torture-

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH

I couldn’t stop! I kept driving, thinking it would be better.

It was worse.

Definitely worse.

I totally dented in the side big time. Plus the paint was destroyed.

Good job kid.

I know.

Anyway- ever since that I’ve been very leery of parking in tight spaces. Mostly because I suck. Mostly also because I have this reoccurring nightmare of doing something terribly stupid again.

So anyway, since we have the truck now it goes in the big part of the garage and we park my car in the third garage door, which is a tight squeeze (ahem- for me- not for anyone else, I’m sure).

Will knows this awful and totally embarrassing garage story, and although it’s been 10 freaking years, he still doesn’t trust me with “baby #2” (did you guys know that’s what he calls his car? I know- he’s crazy).

So there you go- I can’t park my own car in my garage. How’s that for a confession?

2. When it’s just me and Will eating at home I cover my baking dish in foil so I don’t have to wash the dish and instead just throw away the dirty foil.

Because I’m just that lazy. No other reason.

3.  Sometimes I pretend to be annoyed whenever I scoop ice cream (cookies and creme) for me and Will because “I’d rather he do it,” but the truth is that is that I totally love doing it because I always (always, always) give myself the giant pieces of cookies.

ha ha. I feel like I need to go to crunches after confessing that…

Anything you need to confess to lighten your load? 

"I’m 26 years old and I still loathe buying tampons. You’d think that was something I would have grown out of- but, no.

I wonder why, too? I mean- I realize it’s no big deal. I must admit, though, I really love when you go for me.”

“Yeah- but I don’t.”

“I know- but like I said, I hate it. When you go people know you’re just being a wonderful husband. They know they’re not for you. When I go, however, it is very, very clear that those super duper sized tampons are for me. Ha- or it could also be the gallon of ice cream I buy with them. That probably gives it away too. I mean- it’s this whole thing! Do you get a cart for the tampons, or do you tromp around the whole Wal-mart holding them discretely by your side while you casually walk to the entire other side of the store for the ice cream? Do you-”

(cutting me off)

“Brittny- lately it seems like anytime you talk about things or tell me stories it’s like you’re blogging.”

“Nooo. You’re crazy. I just like to drone on about things.”

And then I hopped out of the truck and began my tampon/cookie dough mission (thinking all the while about telling you guys about standing in front of the cookie dough section holding a jumbo sized box of tampons).

Um- between you and me? After assessing the most recent stories I’ve told Will this week? Yeah, he’s right. I totally talk in blog.

Today I had leftover chicken pot pie for lunch. It wasn’t too terribly awful for me so afterwards I decided to make lunch terribly awful by dipping vanilla wafers in a tub of peanut butter (I KNOW! So awful).

Oh, and before we move on to the rest of the story and I please, PLEASE tell you how much I hate calling those things mentioned above by their real name… “Nila” wafers? It makes me cringe. It’s like nails on a chalkboard and most definitely on the list of words I hate. It is for this reason I call them vanilla wafers- even if I’m wrong.

Anyway, I had about 6 vanilla wafers with peanut butter- straight out of the tub- and thoroughly enjoyed every awful second of it (until they were gone and I felt fat). It was at that point that I began to complain about my crappy eating choices.

I got in the car and headed back to work. It was on my way back I discovered I had several smears of peanut butter all over my right knuckles.

Like a kid.

Or a psychotic out of control binge eater.

Who gets peanut butter caked on their knuckles!? Who aside from the aforementioned categories!?!

It’s like having dorito crumbs tucked away in your neck fat, or dropping jelly on your shirt and licking it off. It’s awful. And desperate.

So-

as if that weren’t bad enough, instead of doing the normal, adult, 26-year-old-thing and taking a napkin and wiping the smeariness off, I stayed true to fat camp kid protocol-

licked it off,

and kept on driving.

I know. It’s not old.

I’m not saying it is.

I’m just saying, “Wow- I’m 26. 26!”

Like I said- I don’t say that in sadness. I don’t say it like it’s all downhill from here. I guess it’s just hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I’m 26.

Don’t you still sometimes feel like you’re the exact same person as you were in high school and college only a little wiser? When I used to see 26 year olds I used to have this certain image in my mind. They were most certainly “grown ups,” had solid careers, a house, a dog, and kids. Because that’s what grown ups do! However, now that I’m 26 and a grown up I realize that 26 is so different when you’re actually sitting in the chair and not an outsider looking in.

I just feel the same. I guess as I got older I thought I would feel older. More “grown up.” Have you been there too?

I guess I’m beginning to realize that you don’t just wake up one day and have all the answers. In a lot of ways I am the same Brittny I was in high school, only wiser and more mature. When I have no idea what I’m doing I just work through it. It has nothing to do with being a certain age- after all, age is just a number.

Sorry for today’s ramblings. I’m 26 today. I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. But I’m figuring it out as I go and getting a little wiser each and every day.

Here’s to 26.

I really want to sit down and tell you guys about the slave driver of a gym Nazi I worked out with Sunday.

She kicked my…

well…

you know.

“How in the HELL did I get this GIANT purple and red bruise on my inner thigh!?”

I have no clue.

Oh- that’s right-

It was probably when she stepped on my leg and told me I sucked and “You CAN do 40 more lunges or I’ll cut you!”

Yeah…

I think it was that.

Anyway- I want to tell you about the Gym Nazi but I can’t.

Apparently marriage is about sharing everything.

The last Little Debbie Nutty Bar,

the living room TV,

the last Little Debbie Nutty Bar (crap. I already said that one...).

Well apparently now I also have to share our computer from 9-10 pm.

That’s right- Willy Boy is cutting into my blogging time. My gym Nazi storytelling time. My unwinding time.

Long story short- we’re having DVR issues (gasp!) so we can’t tape and instead have to watch a show on fox.com tonight “that simply can’t wait until tomorrow.”

Doesn’t he understand my need to blog?

A GIANT PURPLEY-RED BRUISE.

ON MY INNER THIGH.

The people need to know!

THIS GIRL IS A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT.

Sigh… he just doesn’t get it.

So- I’m off to share now- although I really don’t recall this computer crap being anywhere in our vows.

Here’s to healing- and a mediocre, not so great workout tomorrow.

<3

“I should probably get a hepatitis shot,” I thought to myself as I carelessly used an unlined public toilet for the fourth time yesterday.

I’m generally more careful, however it had been a long day. A really long day. I woke at 3:30 morning in order to shower, get dressed (complete with high heels), compile and condense my crap (unsuccessfully) and leave the house by 4:45.

I had checked in, gotten through security, and found my gate all before 5:30. I was in the air by 6:00.

I consider that a fairly busy morning. And early. A really early morning too. But who cared- it was a day trip. No big deal.

We had a fairly slow paced morning with a jam packed afternoon. We arrived, enjoyed a cup of coffee to awaken our tired brains, and prepared for the day ahead.

The coffee worked- but only for so long.

At least it was just a day trip.

By the time my meeting started (at 2:00 that afternoon), I was sleepy. Not only that- but seriously, what was I thinking with wearing these high heels!? Thank God it was just a day trip- and almost over.

The meeting went well and was valuable- but by the time it was over I was ready to drive like Mark Martin all the way to the airport to be home to see Will-

And sleep-

And most of all, get out of these freaking heels.

We arrived at the airport, got through security- you know the normal stuff.

We found our gate and also found a mob crowded around the little check-in counter.

“Hmm- this doesn’t look normal…” I thought to myself.

Perhaps I had finally tempted fate long enough had actually contracted some strange hallucinatory disease from all my careless bathroom use during the day- and this was all just a mirage.

It wasn’t.

Damn.

You know- because the reality of a mob is so much worse than a communicable disease.

It appeared storms in Dallas had caused several delays and even cancelations. As we looked on the screen we noticed our flight to Dallas had been delayed two hours. Instead of our lovely 6:30 we were now pushed back past 8:30.

At this point you try to settle in and began the lion-like hunt for an available outlet for your laptop.

Think National Geographic channel- cheetahs chasing the little gazelles.

Thankfully this cheetah was quick enough to secure an outlet to check much needed email. Hunger inevitably kicked in, and I gave up my post to eat. When I had finished, my flight had been delayed almost another hour. With each delay a call was made to Will- who was going to pick me up and take me home.

Home to my own bed.

And no high heels.

Did I mention I had been in them for 15 hours in heels at that point?

Heels and an extra huge purse.

Heels and an extra huge purse and an extra huge laptop bag.

After all- IT WAS JUST A FREAKING DAY TRIP.

Finally- 9:15. Everything looked good. Our flight from Dallas to Oklahoma was going to be tight, but we had about 15 minutes to get off and run to our gate before the plane left. We felt confident we could do it- with my heels in my hand, of course.

We arrived in Dallas right on time- 15 minutes to spare.

Thankfully.

“Okay- so it’s no big deal. I’m only a few hours behind schedule. Willy will be waiting for me at 11:30 and we’ll go home and I’ll sleep in an extra hour- rest my feet- and go to work. This will be fine.”

Only we sat on the plane. And sat. And sat a little longer.

Just when I got to the point in which my left eye began to twitch uncontrollably, the captain informed us there was no gate ready for us and we were going to have to wait a little while.

…

So I sent a text to my colleague who had made the earlier Dallas flight and was already in the airport waiting for the Oklahoma flight. I wanted to see if she thought we would be able to make it, or if it was simply too late.

“You’ll make it,” she said.

Thankfully.

I figured with all the delays it would be okay.

“Just a little longer, Britt, and you’ll be out of your heels and in bed, fighting with the dogs for space.”

We finally got to the gate- I began getting into sprint mode. We got to the gate and waited. And waited. And waited.

My eye began to twitch again.

The captain informed us that although we were at our gate we had to wait on an attendant to open the doors-

Or some crap like that.

I didn’t care. It meant that the chances of my cramped calves getting out of these heels and into my own bed were getting slimmer each second that ticked away on that plane.

It meant I was going to spend the night either driving all the way home to Oklahoma or in some skuzzy hotel.

It meant this was no longer just a day trip.

I could only hope something was delaying the plane to Oklahoma so that we could make it in time.

But that would be normal and predictable- and why in the world would I want that, right?

So of course I missed my flight.

By the time we got off the plane we were met by another mob.

Another mob that had missed their flights too.

And must have been wearing heels for 15 hours too, because they were super grumpy.

I mean, sure I was tired, my back was seriously aching from all the stupid weight I had towed with me. My calves? Pretty much numb at that point. My feet were permanently shaped in triangles to mold to my stupid pointy heels.

Yet somehow I wasn’t in an awful mood.

Okay- I was.

I think I said “What the hell” or something like that- but I didn’t get too mad. I don’t think I even cussed- which I consider a success in this circumstance.

I know-I’m such a classy lady.

So we stood in line with the mob to see what to do next. The airline put us up in a hotel because of the delay.

So much for my little easy day trip.

“At least we get another day of per diem!” my colleague said enthusiastically.

“Really? ’At least we get another day of per diem!’” I said mockingly to myself. “HOW LOVELY! Because I’m SO excited about $30 when I’m going to need $30,000 to buy prosthetic calves after wearing these heels all day!”

Men seriously have no concept of what it’s like being a woman.

Seriously.

Anyway, we loaded up and began the trip to our hotel.

The whole way there I began to watch myself begin to panic internally.

It finally hit me.

I’m.spending.the.night.

In these clothes I’ve worn since like 4:00 this morning.

I had no toothbrush.

No mascara.

Gasp! No deodorant!

And let’s face it- I’m a sweater.

Please- please just swallow me into the ground now.

There’s something interesting that seems to happen to you once you realize that your simple little day trip is going to turn into an overnight stay. A stay in which you’ve carelessly not planned for.

(um-sidebar! Okay so I’ve flown a million times and have never ever experienced any issues. So why, WHY would a simple day trip cause me problems, I thought to myself, right!?)

Your whole mind begins to turn to mush.

Your frame of reference becomes totally distorted and you have no good solid compass between what’s socially acceptable and entirely ridiculous.

“Okay- so do I take off my make up, or leave it on?

What am I going to do about not having deodorant? This is going to be bad on so many levels.

Do I stay in my undies? Try to wash them? Go commando?

Do I saturate my shirt in perfume to freshen it up?”

Suddenly these really easy everyday hygiene decisions become little crises.

What do I do!? What is the proper etiquette? This shouldn’t be that hard. Why is this so hard!?

The truth is that it’s hard because you’re only planning for a day trip!

Why wasn’t I prepared? Sigh…

So we got to the hotel late. I have no idea when, but I know it was after 11:00 and I could barely walk. I got my room key, tried to do a little work- which turned out to be fruitless because I was totally spent-and went to bed.

I got up at 5:30 this morning, got fully dressed in my work attire (except for the shoes. I went barefoot and hoped for the best) and went down to the lobby to try to pillage for at the very least toothpaste.

Turns out a lot of idiots are like me and don’t plan ahead. I scored toothpaste, a toothbrush, and- and- deodorant!

Men’s deodorant.

Men’s deodorant without antiperspirant.

But hey- who cares- it’s better than nothing, right?

I opted to shower and wash my face. I took my make up off but I didn’t remove my mascara.

I got ready.

I looked like death.

I had lipstick.

I remember a friend saying that all you really needed on an extremely ugly and off day was lipstick. That would make it all better.

She is full of crap.

I had a greasy complimentary breakfast and was finally, finally on my way home.

I arrived home this morning at about 10:30. I went home, freshened up a little, changed clothes, PUT ON FLATS, and went to work.

I was swamped, but hey- the problems I faced at work today seemed like a piece of cake compared to the whole dilemma of proper 2nd day undie etiquette.

It feels incredible to be at home. I’m so ready to slip into my own sheets tonight.

I no longer believe in day trips, will always be prepared, and am officially retired from business travel. At least for a while anyway.

<3

I know what you’re thinking.

I have a problem.

A drug problem.

That there is no such thing as “recreational” drug use.

That after one hit of Alli there is no going back.

You feel the high of controlling your fat intake because you’re terrified of crapping yourself,

the rush of oily farts as you think to yourself, “ Ohhh yeeahh, I am so addicted to this stuff. I <3 greasy gas."

You're right- that's exactly how it happened. Exactly how I became addicted.

It was that glamorous.

Okay not really-

after the first time I ate an order of mozzarella sticks, four cheese tortellini, half a loaf of bread, and a giant chunk of cheesecake I thought to myself, "I'll just take this one time."

One try won't hurt, right?

Before I knew it I was up to a three pill a day habit, figuring out when I was going to get my next fix. What I was going to eat- how much fat was involved....

trying to explain to Will how the hell the toilet was stained OSU orange…

before I knew it I was out of control!

P and I split a bottle- driving to every single Walgreens and CVS pharmacy trying to get our next fix- only we couldn't find any.

We began shaking and experiencing uncontrollable sweating and hallucinating- we were so addicted that we even drove to another city to secure another bottle of these little fat loss miracles.

As we split a "starter pack," ensuring we threw away the evidence in a dumpster three blocks away I felt a sense of peace. The shakes and scary flying goblins left my mind and I felt like myself again.

It was at this point- after driving to another city- that I realized I had a problem and I needed help.

Or maybe it was when P and I began to run low on our stash and actually contemplated cutting the pills open and using a credit card to separate the pills to get two hits out of one.

It could have also been at the point in which P and I turned the noun Alli into a verb- "Are you going to Alli after you eat that cheese pizza?"

"Are you going to Alli after scarfing down those three donuts?"

"We should probably Alli if we're going to eat these giant hamburgers at 1 AM."

Yeah, that might have been my low point.

My name is Brittny and I have an Alli-ing problem.

Not to be confused with the Alli side effects:

(sidenote: um- that’s pretty much freaking hilarious)

Yeah- it was at that point in which I decided I needed to get a hold of myself. Eating an occasional cheeseburger was far more desireable than crapping one’s self. Right?

I thought so too.

So, I got a hold of myself and became a “recreational” Alli user. It’s a lot easier to control- I’ll tell you that much! (ha ha!)

So there you have it- my drug problem and how I became a “recreational” user.

Anything weighing you down (if so- maybe you should “Alli")? Go ahead and share!