Your Guide to Surviving Summer with No A/C.

It is my personal conviction that flaming heat is better than ice cold. I would rather be pouring sweat than in a sweater. Cold sucks. A lot. It makes me shiver and say weird things out loud. Things like "hebushineeene" and "sheeshimoag." Cold weather Tourette's, if you will.

But whatever. I live in Texas, so rarely anyone has to hear these inaudible utterances. Plus, I pretty much stay huddled at Donn's Depot when it's freezing outside because they have a really rad and what I guess is really old heater.

Moving on...

My car doesn't have a working air conditioner. My freaking car. Old Blue. The old money pit. The old pain in my ass. I only spend more money on rent and Taco Bell. She demands something new every time I turn around! "I need gas!" and "Change my oil!" and "Clean my windshield!"

UGGGGGHHHHH.

She's ridiculous. High Maintenance Bitch, is what I call her. Who has the time!?!?

Her latest shenanigan is her fuel pump. She actually thinks a new fuel pump is in order so that gasoline gets into the engine from the fuel tank... the audacity. So every time I try to crank her, she makes this embarrassing scene where I crank and crank and crank and nothing happens. So I'm just sitting there, at 7-11, clutching a chimichanga, screaming at my ignition, looking like a real dumbass.

And then the a/c. Right smack in the middle of May she chokes on me. And it got pretty hot in May. And I was like, "Okay, I guess I should have someone look at this fuel pump and a/c disaster." And the mechanic was all, "Yep, it's gonna cost you one arm and ohhhh, better throw in one leg." So I tuned out and started playing with all the keys that were beside his desk and pointing at pictures and asking who was this? and was he really a granddad? because he looked so young. Bald, but young. Then he asked me if I wanted to fix my piece of crap car in exchange for monetary transaction and I was like, "no."

So. Here is how you survive summer in Texas with a piece of shit car and no a/c. (And God willing the fuel pump doesn't actually go out when you're driving to San Antonio one day.)

-Always keep an extra change of clothes in the car.

Indubitably, your ass is going to sweat. off. Right off. Your arms are going to sweat in that elbow fold while you're driving, unless you drive with your arms straight out like Cruella deVille. Actually, that might help. Consider adding that to the guide. There will be sweat coming down your neck and into your shirt and Good Lord, the back sweat, it's insane. So upon making your arrival to let's say, Important Job Interview, and your ass looks like you just jumped rope in the attic, your extra change of clothes will come in handy. I would suggest traveling in a tank top but sunburn will become an issue (travel with SPF 97). I think maybe a light flowing top. Which brings us to the next point in where clothing is also key.

-Utilize body position/clothing.

So, you are rolling down the road, windows down, thighs on fire, leaning kind of forward to decrease back heat, and you stick your hand out the window and lo! A cool breeze of air comes through your shirt sleeve and into the blazing underneaths of your wardrobe. If positioned correctly, your hand can actually increase the flow of wind into the parts of your body that need relief. Ie: If you are wearing the suggested clothing for Traveling in Hell, your billowy top will give way to the current, and relieve your armpit, chest and stomach from the insane temperature that has built over the two hours your car was festering in the Target parking lot. Unfortunately, only one side of your body will feel any sort of relief. But on the up side, people won't wonder what the hell you are doing because you'll just look like you're doing that whole "enjoying the day, wind surfing with my hand" routine. Fellow drivers-by will nod and smile to you in passing whilst doing the same, but while they think you are singing lyrics to a song, really you'll be mouthing "HELP ME."

-Hydrate.

No bottle of Dasani will suffice here, people. We're talking sweltering, miserable, your dog will die if you leave him in your car, heat here. That pathetic bottle of water is going to be boiling lava hot within about fifteen minutes. In which time you can't even drive home in traffic in this discombobulated cluster the City of Austin calls roadways. Get a thermos. A good one. And I don't really know how to distinguish a good thermos from a bad thermos but I feel like it's important. Water is going to be key. Especially if you're traveling extended amounts of time. Granted, you will be going (hopefully) 70-75 MPH, which will ultimately make for a more pleasant drive, but on the road for two hours with no cold air and no water, you might as well drive off an embankment and hope for death on impact.

-Avoid contact

With anything. Other humans (holding hands is out, plus who in God's name is going to get in that hot box with you?). Don't put your arm on the console, it will literally burn the hair off your arm. And try to avoid putting on your seatbelt as long as possible. A hot strap belting you into your untimely death by melting? Count me out. If you are in a wreck and you have followed my instructions and are not wearing a safety harness, don't fret; your body will probably have turned to jelly now and the catapult from car to asphalt will feel much less injurious. And now that your car is most definitely totaled, you can finally get a new one.

Top Four Reasons People Love 'Top Five' Lists.

I recently signed up to become an Austin Examiner (examiner.com/austin), incidentally a Bar Examiner, where I pretty much get paid to write about bars. Wow. A real jump in life. But this way I can tell my parents I am supposed to be the at the bar. When my mom calls and is all, "What the hell, Brynnan, what are you doing at a bar at eleven AM?!", I can say it's because I'm making a living. And only getting paid, that is, depending on how often I decide to write something and how often you people read my stuff.

So be prepared, dear blog fans (I think there's at least twelve of you now), to be hammered with threatening e-mails and cluttered Facebook walls with my articles/reviews. Because if you can read to help me make money, I don't see why the hell you wouldn't. Oh, and if you could go to the Public Library and read the same article from every IP address, that would help a lot too.

So now the question is, how the shit do I get this ball rolling. I could start with all the bars that are on my regular playlist, but that seems too boring. So I thought I would start with a Top Five List? People love Top Five/Top Ten Lists. Dave Letterman? Who doesn't adore Dave? Cosmo's Top Five Things You Didn't Know Before This Issue? Classic. And the only part of the Cosmopolitan I read because for some reason I have a subscription to that magazine, that and Seventeen, which is incredibly embarrassing, mostly because my name is right there on the cover. Might as well say: "Brynnan's Seventeen Magazine Even Though She's Twenty-Six," and then the Postman rings his ice cream truck bell and the whole neighborhood turns out to see who in this world still receives Seventeen Magazine. It gets weird.

So. Instead of beginning my Examiner career as soon as possible, which the Examiner urged me to begin immediately, I wanted to write on my own blog first. So, ha! Examiner.

The Top Four Reasons People Love Top Five Lists

Because I couldn't come up with five...

4. Organization. People love it. It gets people out of bed in the morning. My Dad has lists going out the wazoo. On a yellow pad that no one has ever been allowed to write on except the oldest cousin Jamie who everyone thought was going to get a whipping for, but Dad just laughed and marked something off his list... ("Made a list today, check."). Chronology is almost as amazing as alphabetizing something. Except with numbers instead of letters. And it's easier because most of us have to recite the alphabet song in our heads before we decide if N comes before or after P, right? Numbers are so much more logical, and the same everywhere. I think. And counting down is truly exhilarating. The anticipation of what the number one spot will be is almost too much. Which is why I don't have cable anymore. VH1 really knows how to wear something out.

3. Bold Letters. Don't want to read the rest of this paragraph? No problem, you already know what I'm going to say, it's right there in the bold heading. Skimming is imperative in Top Five Lists.

2. People Love to be Told What's Good and Right with the World. Top Anything has to be good. It's at the top! "Top Five Bars in Austin"? This is going to be great! I can't wait to read about something positive and wonderful in the world! "Top Ten Ways to Make an Ass of Yourself"? Right on! "Top Five Reasons Why You Should Adopt this Dying Species"? Okay, but a little less cozy than I like to feel while reading Top Five Things. "Top Two Reasons Your Uncle Killed Himself"? Well, it doesn't work every time.

1. Another Complete and Total Waste of Your Time Online. Get a job, Keith.

Bum Bum Bum Bum BUMS! (sang to the TUMS theme)

If I were homeless, my sign would say, "Shit."

I don't give money that often to homeless folks. But the fancy strikes me usually if his or her sign is clever, witty, honest, or just so damn heart-wrenching I can't help but give him a dollar, or what I usually do, grab the entire cup holder's stash of change, which if I haven't seen a decent homeless sign in a while will probably be a pretty good haul. Today I saw one that said "Help if you can." Oh man, that one got me. I gave him one dollar plus Dr. Pepper.

Some people let the homeless get them all bent outta shape, but for me, it's whatever. If you want to be homeless, that's cool. If you can't help but be homeless, that's cool too. But I have to say, I hardly believe that's the case. Anyolebody can pick up a shovel or pick up trash, so for the most part, I think homelessness is by choice. Unless you have zero legs and arms and mouth painting didn't pan out for you. Hopefully you're receiving some sort of living assistance or at least your second cousin Phil drops in from time to time to help you find the remote.

Yikes.

So last week, I was supposed to meet this guy I'm sort of calling my boyfriend now (that's a whole other blog) and went to the bar I thought he was at but he had moved on, so I sat with a couple of outta town clowns and entertained them by hammering a few whisky shots and making fun of their Movado watches while offering friendly advice about their love lives. I tired of them and decided to head to a bar where I thought my beau might be.

Outside of said bar, a friendly looking gentleman hobo approached me and asked if I had any change. "Why, you're not homeless," I said.

Homeless Guy: Why, yes I am in fact.

Me: That's dumb. You don't seem like you should be.

Homeless Guy: Why would you say that? I'm sitting here asking for change, right?

Me: Uh, yeah, I see that. Pretty dumb. You look like you could work at Whole Foods or something. I don't believe you. Do you work at Whole Foods?

Homeless Guy: No. But I went in it one time.

Me: Overpriced, huh?

Homeless Guy: So, do you have any change or what?

Me: Yeah, but I don't think I'm gonna give you any. Not for nothing, anyway. I know you're a smart guy. Tell me something smart. Read any good books?

Homeless Guy: I've read the Bible.

Me: Good. This is gonna be great. I haven't been to Sunday School in a really long time. Tell me a Bible story.

(Meanwhile, passers-by pass by, Homeless Guy asks for change, gets snubbed.)

Me: Dude, quit it, you're embarrassing me.

HG: Okay. So there was a son born unto a woman who couldn't bear children and his name was Samson. God sent him to his mother so he could be a great man and protect the Philistines from the Israelites.

Me: You mean protect the Israelites from the Philistines.

HG (flustered): Oh. Right. Yes. Anyway, as he grew up he found he was incredibly strong. He wrestled a lion and killed thousands of Philistines with just the jawbone of a horse.

Me: Wrong. It was a donkey.

HG (annoyed): Are YOU telling the story?

Me: Um, nooo. Pretty sure it's God's story. And I can't help you're butchering it. Next you're gonna tell me he fell in love with a girl named Susan and not Delilah and she cut off his earlobe and not his hair.

heartless wench

HG: I'm going off King James Version. How about you?

Me: I don't know, the correct version? You're wrecking the story. How am I supposed to give you money if you wreck the story? I know you're a smart guy. Maybe you just didn't read carefully. My name is Brynnan.

HG: Michael.

Me: Here, Michael. Here is four dollars. You're a shitty story teller but maybe you can buy a few good books at a garage sale with this. I'm going inside to meet someone. Check ya later.

Michael (head tilted, best sad homeless-guy-face on followed with insistent shoulder): You know what would really be nice? (puppy dog eyebrows) A drink.

Me: Oh yeah!? You wanna get drunk tonight!? Forget you're a bum!? Live large for a night!? Gonna tell me some more shitty stories!? Yeah, okay. Come on.

And that's how I friended a bum downtown. The bartender was none too pleased at me and even tried to kick us out based on Michael's sleeveless attire, but luckily bums travel with a lot of crap in a backpack so he threw on a tee shirt and ordered a glass of the bar's finest house wine. My favorite part was when boyfriend came in and I introduced Michael and boyfriend, not lost on the fact that I had brought in a bum and he would probably end up paying for both our tabs said, "I'll have what he's having."

Lola. L-O-L-A Lola. Lalalala Lola.

When I go out and meet new people, most often people who are trying to hit on me and I really don't care to invest too much time into, I like to tell them my name is Lola. It short, easier than "BRYNNAN! NO, BRYNNAN! NOT BRENNA, BRYNNAN. B-R-Y... forget it," and if they're real smart, they get the picture pretty much immediately and leave me the hell alone.

And just like I have a sexually confused shark mascot named Herbert who sits on my dashboard, I have a name for my drunk self too. My alias, or just the really riotous/hysterical/sometimes mean/sometimes a little cry-y person who comes out of me when I'm drinking: Lola.

While I drink a lot during the week, it's actually not that often that I get shit house fall on your elbow slap a cabbie climbing tree drunk. But when I do, Lola always takes care of me. She always knows the right time to leave the bar: just the perfect slot where no one will really miss you and you can sneak out after you've called a cab, and everyone knows you're kinda drunk but not drunk enough to worry about you or call and bother you later, and no one will ask you dumb questions the next day like, "whoa, your face was really stuck to that peanut container! Are you okay?"

And one time I had this really creepy cab driver who kept asking me some borderline intrusive questions like bra size and sexual fantasies (don't remember this) and while Brynnan would have not thought twice about the dirty situation that could have been upon her, Lola told the cabbie to stop two blocks away from my house at an apartment complex, wandered around the building waiting for him to leave, and when he pulled away, took Brynnan's shoes off and ran like hell to the house.

That's friendship.

She usually makes fairly good decisions and always sets the alarm early. She always has a glass of water waiting by the bed and she always says what Brynnan has been keeping in for the past few weeks in angst. (Some of you might know Lola from Facebook or our last argument.)

And while The Kink's "Lola" is really a man, and my gay shark comment from above might have thrown you off, I am not a dude. And this is not Lola writing this post, albeit it is 1:47 in the A.M.

Goodnight,

Herbert's Uncle Brynnan, Lola.

You Might be an Accessory to Murder and Not Even Know It

Remember when you would wake up in your best friend's bed and her dog was in your face and her roommate was in the room looking out the window and a cop was knocking on the door and there was police tape all over their house and there were two bodies lying dead in the neighbor's yard?

I do.

Two weeks ago, I went to San Antonio to play with two of my best girls, and this is how we woke up one Friday morning. To all that stuff. Up there. What I just said.

Alarming to say the least.

Whahahappened was...

This craaaazy ex boyfriend was stalking his ex girlfriend who was staying at her friend's house across the street from Reagan and Amy's house. He had been sitting in his car since 5 AM that morning, waiting for her to come out and go to work, pulled into the drive, (right in front of my car!) gunsablazin', shoots her, then offs himself.

Super cool move, right?. Jack wagon.

While Reagan and Amy talk to the police and sort of panic for a while, I go back to sleep. This isn't my neighborhood... I live far far away from this tragedy and well, we partied pretty hard at the old Thirsty Horse last night and I did one too many shots with that large Mexican guy named Vincent and danced... a. lot. So, yeah, I'm gonna go to bed, you guys let me know if the shooter wakes back up and starts wreaking havoc on our side of the street.

So upon waking, I politely ask CSI if I can get my car out of the crime scene and go on my merry way. Reagan told me later that night Old Blue was all over the news. She's pretty much famous. And has since been partially traumatized because she had a front row seat for all the psychosis.

This is Old Blue back in her better days. You know, before the two-tone hood and before the old Dodge Ram-ed us, and before the tire blew out and tore half the fender off. She's still running strong, people. Reag is on the left and my sister, Clyde is the dear in the middle. The awkward tall girl with the bad blonde hair? No idea.

So now you have an idea of who all is involved in the murder matter. Minus Clyde.

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

Just so you can get an idea...

So we all, fortunately, put the whole thing behind us. Until this weekend when Old Blue and I returned to the scene of the crime. We park, like always, on the correct side of the road in front of the neighbor's house. Old Blue seems hesitant. I talk her down and tell her goodbye for the weekend as I am going to have to leave her and go to the Gumbo Cookoff outside of town without her. And so, Reag and Ames and I leave San Antonio and have a grand old time with this girl...

Julie. (Steady as a rock, this one.)

Anyway, grand old time, etc, etc. Then Amy...

who had come back home early for work calls me up and says there is a strange note on my car. When Reagan and I get back to San Antonio, we find this...

on my car. In case you can't read it, it says, in the most passive and quite aggressive fashion: "Do you realize two people died last week because you keep parking here? Park on you house."

Oh my.

No, I did not realize two people died due to my car, nor do I have a house nearby to park on. And I shrug it off. Some idiot has too much time on his/her hands waiting around for my car to reappear which he/she has obviously and wrongly associated with a murder/suicide and there is nothing to do but laugh about it. Reagan, however, is pissed. And wants answers.

"No one is going to treat my guest that way," she claims. So, we go to the woman's house across the street whose friend she was letting stay there and who also just happened to die a week or so ago from a crazy ex boyfriend. Can't wait.

The lovely woman did not post the note, but she thinks it was her other neighbor next door who she told some inside information to. (Gaw leee this is a long story). Apparently, crazy ex boyfriend saw my car in front of the house and thought I was some new guy the girl was sleeping with. And they know this because of text messages between the two people who died. Text messages that I'm sure went something like this:

-Who the f*ck are you boinking who drives a blue mustang?!

-Tell him he drives a 16 year-old girl's car. And I'm going to kill him. Then you! And then myself probably.

-Ya like that? Bitch?

...and maybe so on and so forth. I can't say for sure because I didn't read their phones, the police did. And neighbor woman. Who told her mean, nasty man-neighbor. Who then blamed the death of two people on my 1998 blue Ford Mustang.

And here's where things get very real for Brynnan. I had to walk away from the woman's house and sit down to try and calm myself, which was shaking vehemently. I took the note off my car, kept it for my scrapbook at home entitled "Why Does Weird and Sometimes Scary Shit Keep Happening to Me?", and while Old Blue has had some trouble starting up lately, she cranked right up and said, "Let's get the crap out of this Hell Hole."

Someone is Messing With Us

So it's Valentine's Day. Or what I like to call Kay Jeweler's Day. That place really knows how to milk this holiday. I don't even have cable and the commercials are still annoying me. It's not that I'm bitter about VD, it's just that I feel like it's a load of crap. De Beers probably invented it right about the same time they started destroying people and their lives for hunks of stone in the earth.

Effing De Beers. (As I finger my diamond earrings I accepted from my sister as a graduation gift. Gaw! I'm a fraud.)

Anyway, so I tell Internet Guy (or MDCJ, or Handsome Redhead, or whatever you want to call him) that I don't want anything for VD and I meant it. He probably thinks I'm setting some crazy woman trap in which if he fails to get me something I will pitch a hissy fit and later throw it in his face.

Wrong.

Just like my dad says on his birthday when I call him and tell him "happy birthday, Dad!"... "Just another day, Brynn." What a buzz kill that guy is.

Lately, however, the roommates and I have been receiving small gifts in the yard. A little holiday cheer for the blue house. Someone is definitely messing with us.

One night I came home to this.

Seabiscuit? What is that? According to the poster, it's a movie. In which Jeff Bridges participates and where "a long shot becomes a legend."

So the night I came home to said poster, I first (naturally) took a picture. Then, since I assumed it was one of the roomies', I brought it inside, only to hear the girls the next day, "What the hell is this? Where the hell did it come from?"

It's from the neighborhood watch. It's from the man/woman who keeps leaving us extraneous gifts on the porch. It's from the orange cat who posts up on the porch furniture and vomits on everything. It's his way of saying he's sorry.

That's it. The cat did it. He's sorry. Love, Fat Orange Cat.

Acceptable. But how do you explain the red mountain bike in the yard at 2 AM. How did you manage that, Fat Tabby Cat? That bike is pretty hefty. I know because I lugged it into the house at 2:03 AM, leery that the owner of red bicycle was hiding behind the fence and watching, waiting for some thief to come along and drag his bike away, (drag because he had cleverly let the air out of the tires so it could not be driven) and then jump the thief in a crazy hobo-like rage. These are all the things that my head made up as I panicked over the bicycle for the good three minutes I waited before I made my move; ultimately deciding that, Thanks Guy, I have a new bike.

And so... we wait. Will the gift giving continue? Are we going to get something for Valentine's Day? A De Beers diamond? A bouquet of red roses? Probably not. We're probably going to get a steaming pile of dog shit next. Because, let's be honest, someone is definitely messing with us. He/She is laughing his/her ass off because he/she keeps putting junk in our yard/on our porch, and we (mostly me) keep dragging it in our house and leaving it lying around looking cumbersome and really messing up the design of our living room. This is funny to this person. He/She is probably keeping a diary over how stupid we (okay, me) are. I know because if I were messing with someone by leaving random shit on their porch, I would for sure keep a diary about it.

Sister, Sister

Schwester. Hermana. Sorella. Soeur. Zus. Sister.

My sisters are the best thing that I have in my life. Thanks, parents.

Maura Lanell, or more affectionately and since the age of zero years old, Clydesdale.

The youngest of the three, this girl is phenomenal. ONE of the coolest things about Clyde is that she knows anything and everything about classic rock: she can name the song, year it came out, the lead guitarist, and how he died in his own vomit or plane crash or whatever.

She is incredibly easy going, up to a point of disgust oft times, and has a hard time passing by a couch (or any warm patch of softness anywhere) without falling asleep on it. Some of the best times I've had with Clyde were just driving around, listening to tunes, flipping a coin to turn left or right in the middle of nowhere, and just enjoying each other's company.

You can tell her anything and she does not judge, she is always accepting and charming beyond belief. While Maura is cool as shit, she is also uncommonly anal, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense... she doesn't care if you accidentally catch her hair on fire, but she'll plum flip out if you don't make her bed correctly; with this pillow here and this tag facing this way. Maura, like the rest of the women in our family, is at her peak in the summer. She functions best in the sun and she prefers her shorts short enough for her pockets to hang out the bottom. (And then Dad throws them away. And sometimes said shorts end up being mine and I'm like, "Hey Dad, why did you throw away my shorts? I'm 26, I do what I want." And he's like, "Come here, it's time for your whippin'." And then I run away and drive back to Austin.)

Maura despises the cold so much that it makes her vomit. She gets into her (skateboard) car and blasts the heat at such a high capacity that upon the car heating up, she finds she has created a hotbox which overcomes her with nausea and she gags and ultimately, vomits.

She is clever, smart, sensitive, and giving. There are countless times I recall Maura being a comfort to me when others were not able. A beautiful person inside and out. My best friend.

Best friend, that is, right behind this girl, who has known me every year of my life and who used to throw toys in my bassinet: Alyssa Dawn. Deta Dawn, Lyssie, Lyssa Belle, Ish, Assyla, Asylum, etc, etc.

Alyssa is one of the most dynamic persons you will ever meet. She is true to herself in any circumstance. She is proud, determined, and to some, a tad frightening. When I was in 1st Grade and Alyssa in 3rd, an older girl bullied me on the playground incessantly. Alyssa and I didn't have recess together but we passed each other on the way in/out. I had dealt with it as long as I could but I finally told Alyssa what was going on. She made me point the girl out to her, who was a year older than Alyss, and while I went back into school for the day and have no idea the exchange that was made between the two girls, the bully bitch never messed with me again. I almost feel sorry for her because God only knows what Alyssa said to scare the shit out of her. Empty threats, I can guarantee they were not.

Alyssa is honest beyond belief and sticks up for what she knows is right. She is incredibly knowledgeable about a little bit of everything; there are few subjects in which she cannot participate intelligently. She hates wire hangers, substitute cursing, ("If you're going to curse, you might as well say the whole damn word!") and when audiences sing the lyrics instead of the band in a live concert.

Her sense of fashion is incomparable to most. She is daring, bold, and striking. Eat your heart out dudes, she's taken.

Alyssa is like a classic country song that never goes out of style. She was country when country wasn't cool.

Lately, she's been dragging around this thing...

...Miss Bella Pearl. The newest woman in the family.

And of course, Maude: Joan Elizabeth.

This woman can rage on the piano, sing like a freaking dove, and do a mean Michael Jackson. (Thanks for learnin' us some moves, mom.) It is few and far between when all five of us get to be together and I look forward to it every time.

I could not live without my sisters and I cannot wait to see the woman that Bella Pearl will become. She seems to be coming along nicely so far, although her German could use some work...