I'm Why I Don't Have Nice Things

I feel like phones are the bane of our existence.

Remember when you were little and you lived in Hamilton, Texas and could dial five numbers and get ahold of your grandparents? I do. You probably don't, though. Let me take you through it:

Hamilton's only prefix is 386 so all you had to dial is 6-blah blah blah blah. Isn't that insane to think about now? Not 254-386-1234, just plain old 6-1234. (Like Peter on Family Guy, "Seven? No, this is Four. You're looking for seven." Maura knows...)

I picked up my sister's iphone the other day and couldn't even dial a number out. It took me two solid minutes first of all to make the screen light up, another minute and a half trying to find a number at all.

"I JUST WANT TO CALL OUR MOTHER! HOW DO I CALL OUR MOTHER!? NO, I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW THE WORD OF THE DAY!"

And no one can have a good bar argument anymore without someone whipping out their iphone and completely ruining it. If this were 1994, you could argue with your friends for hours over who won the World Series in 1990, if Victor from Days of Our Lives really is Jennifer Aniston's dad, and whether or not Pocahontas and John Smith ever hooked up. I can't even begin to start a good bar fight without someone dispelling it with their phone. Disappointing, to say the least. And since everyone has their phone stuck to their heads or fingers, what is there to do at the bar? I stare at my bartender and ask her uncomfortable questions while everyone else entertains themselves on YouTube. If I can't start a good fight with these schmos, maybe I can pick on someone equally as unprepared as me.

"Um, hey, Beebe? Didn't you say the other day that cats have a secret claw in their shoulder?"

It's not necessarily that I'm dumb to technology or anything, I would just rather keep things simple. Which is why I have always relied on an old crappy phone to get me through the in's and out's and who, what, why, etc. I had the most sensational, sorry piece of shit phone. We went through a lot, me and Red. She had been dropped in a man's nasty toilet, cleaned, revived, thrown up against walls, put back together I don't know how many times, and still did exactly what she was supposed to do. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then one stupid day... she disappeared into THIN AIR. I was leaving my bar around midnight to head to my regular watering hole for a beer and night cap, but when I got there, phone wasn't with me! I assumed I had left her at my bar, but she was nowhere to be found. It had been flooding pretty severely so the only thing I can gather is that Shoal Creek took her away. I am still mourning the loss. And some hobo is living large with Old Red.

The next day, I went to AT&T to see if they could send out a search and rescue team and see if they couldn't retrieve her. They asked me to please leave the store. But a nice new salesman, Christian, gave pity on me and my attachment to the old phone and led me through the grueling process of acquiring a new phone. We talked for, what I can only guess five hours, (didn't have my phone on me so I had NO idea what time it was...) and finally came to terms with a touch screen, black, boring, not a piece of shit, phone. Really, it's whatever. As long as it dials numbers and stuff.

So it's a been a few weeks; me and boring phone are getting along pretty swimmingly, I guess. She has this nice little ding she does when someone texts me, and while the touch screen thing threw me for a bit, I'm growing used to it.

Boring Phone and I have moved to a whole new level: just now she *ding*ed so sweetly at me and I reached to retrieve her from my night stand, failed, and plopped her in a tall glass of water (which was ultimately set there for my nightly coughing attack, but proved less than useful on so many levels). So, now phone sits by the bed in a plate of rice, soaking up any tiny bits of moisture left, and tomorrow, we'll do a thorough blow-drying. I have faith that she'll pull through. And if she doesn't, I'm going back to Shoal Creek for my red phone.

Keep up the ridiculous bar arguments, people. Leave your phones dark and in your pocket.

More Tales from the Crypt

Just a little peek into the life of a single gal in the great city of Austin...

"Dating"

...

Ughhh.

I can't convey to you the sheer and utter disappointment that is probably spread all over my face at the time of these activities. I loathe first dates. Might as well bring your pen and Big Chief pad and take notes like you're at a job interview: "Hold the phone! You moved how many times in '98?"

While every date is not a Greek tragedy, I've been on some that are notttt sooo great.

The "Anti-Everything" Guy. This guy hated everything and everyone. The entire date was all about how much smarter he was than me; how his ten dollar words beat my sad eight dollar ones, how many allusions about politics and French literature he could pack into one story, and how he had been pulled over for speeding once but was taken in for being a smart ass and corrected the officer later at the station for not being read his Miranda Rights and got off the hook because he was sooo much smarter than the stupid cop. Fun things like this. Anti-establishment, anti-technology, anti-religion, anti-pets. All the while I'm sitting there, stuffing my face with sushi, wondering, "So why is this guy even wearing his cute little leisure suit? Isn't that supporting the part of society that condones the idea that we clothe our naked bodies? Shed those rags of establishment and let's see what you're hiding under that sorry attitude of yours." But we all know what that is. He probably rode his skateboard home, drank four beers and passed out feeling superior than everyone else in the world.

The "Karaoke" Guy. Wow, people. If you thought that 275 pound men weren't sensitive and knew how to hold their booze, you were dead wrong. You can't make this stuff up. Please, future husband of mine, don't let me out drink you. And for the love of God, either sing well or don't sing at all. Unless, of course, you know you're terrible, and then it's just charming. Good grief. This guy literally begged me to go to the karaoke bar with him. I was all, "Um, okay, whatever floats your boat," and then he's not even any good! What the hell!? Then, not only did he get hammered from three beers and a shot, he proceeds to tell me how the movie "Up" brought him to uncontrollable tears. Wow. I thought about afterward making him a list inscribed "Shit You Should Not Do/Tell a Woman on Your First Date."

And just to name a few more...

The "Let's Talk About Me!" Guy. I'd rather talk about Taylor Swift's most recent breakup.

The "This Isn't Really a Date" Guy. Really? Didn't we communicate beforehand and set up a time and a date for said event? "I'd like to see you again..." trying my best not to frighten him away, "maybe you can pencil me in?"

The "Challenge Everything I Say" Guy. I understand you don't agree with hunting innocent animals and eating them for sustenance, how did you order your steak prepared again?

I've been out with men who disappeared for thirty minutes or more, some who would not open doors for me, and while these days I try and keep it fair and pay for my share in the tab, some men haven't even offered. Guess I'm just old fashioned... I'm also picky as hell. I recently went out with a guy who had all kinds of qualifications except one silly little thing. I also couldn't put my finger on the silly whatever it was, but I know it was there. Mom would say, "go with your gut."

She also yells, every time as I'm leaving her house, "Be particular!"

And I am.

Can I Borrow Your Truck?

No one likes to move. It's pretty much the worst part of being a college student. Or the worst part of being a person who needs a place to live, for that matter. Anyway, since I'm not in college anymore and not moving every year, it's nice to look back on those times and recap the horridness of it all. I have moved nine times since I was 18 years old (a couple of homeless months in between where I was living out of the trunk of my car and a few friend's couches) which is a ridiculous amount of moves.

Once, I was being forced out of a beautiful condo I was living in (by forced, I mean my lease was up and they were like, "hey, you kind of need to go") and I just plain old did not want to leave my gorgeous condominium and instead of trying to find a decent place to move into, I staged a stand-in (which incidentally I was the only one aware of the stand-in because I was living alone and I didn't fill the owner in on the revolution that was taking place at 5D) and refused to pack anything until the day the lease was up and my ass needed to be gone. So when Mother Dear and boyfriend extraordinaire showed up to help me move my shit, there were no boxes to pack and nowhere to take it to. Enter last-minute-mildew-stained-blue-carpet-apartment-with-stripper-roommate-who-only-spoke-to-me-through-a-closed-door. That was fun.

(Thanks, mom, for making me face facts and move away from the condo. And all the other times you have cleverly packed a truck and/or U-Haul like an extravagantly thought out game of Tetris. And thanks, Bryan Parker, for moving me probably about five out of those nine times.)

This is me and my wonderful ex-boyfriend B.P.

...

Um, okay. Apparently in some drunken rage, I deleted any and all photos of my "wonderful ex-boyfriend," so here is a picture of Reagan with Bryan "Porker" at the Tap.

Another moving day, my current roommate Sophia and I were moving from campus to (current neighborhood) and Sophia, who had been in the apartment for a year before I moved in, had formed a sentimental attachment to the place. And while Sophia and I are a lot alike in that we don't like change, this time, I was excited for this particular move and wanted to haul ass to said destination.

Here's me: nasty ponytail due to no shower in two days from packing my ass off, doo rag (Antoine style), Hamilton Bulldog volleyball cut-off tee, cut-off shorts, Converse tennys, and mad determination (no-boyfriend-to-help-this-time style). I literally moved the entire apartment, heavy furniture and all, by myself, while...

Sophia: gorgeous straightened black hair, full clad in makeup and blue baby doll dress, moped around the apartment recollecting any and all previous times we had had in the dining room, at the pool, or by the sink. There was even a tupperware incident when Sophia, bless her heart, tried to help the moving along by organizing the plastic containers and packed them nicely in a cardboard, which ended in tears and tragedy; where she wondered aloud how it was that we had acquired so many tupperware containers together? and why did we have to get rid of some of them? and how would we ever replace them?

Throughout the moving ordeal I would momentarily have to pause in order to comfort my pensive roommate. I would be fervently shoving pots and pans in a box and look over at Soph, only to find her crumpled on the linoleum with a mixing bowl, crying.

"Brynnan, remember that time we made cookies? And we ate them all that same afternoon?"

"Brynnan, remember that time you had never watched 'When Harry Met Sally' and we sat on this couch together and watched it?"

"Brynnan, remember the time we didn't have any clean dishes and we had to eat from these Styrofoam plates?"

Moving sucks. If you can, I would highly suggest avoiding it.

The Dude can suck it.

Some of the perks of being a bartender are not only getting hit on by disgusting older men, but oftentimes accepting gifts from said disgusting older men. I have a semi-regular, Billy, who sits with me on Monday mornings upstairs at the bar and he generally just drinks a shit ton of iced tea and quietly eats his chicken fried steak while I yap his ear off. He's pretty legit. Billy is not one of the disgusting ones, although he is very hairy... he's an overall pretty nice guy.

Saturday, he brings a passel of good ole boys up to my bar and they're having a pretty good time watching some college ball, stuffing their face with wings, and messing with their bartender. After years of practice, I'm pretty good at handling being hit on. This is not meant to sound full of conceit... put any ole girl behind a bar pouring whisky and men are going to fall over themselves, it's just the way it is. Anyway, I actually had a good time with these guys, they were very nice guys and it's always nice to hear some new pick up lines.

Billy's friend, Tully, upon joining up with the crew: "Hey, Brynnan? Do you have a boyfriend?"

Me, reluctant to answer this question to any bar patron: "No, I don't."

Tully: "Well, do you want one?"

And then Brynnan, laughing her ass off. Good one.

Anyway, these guys eventually tell me how they are spending the weekend at Austin City Limits Festival, something that I have friends venture to annually but something that I would never imagine myself partaking in; waaay too much of a mess and waaay too much money. While I adore any outdoor live music venue, I couldn't bring myself to spend that much on three day tickets, plus miss out on three work shifts.

(Last year at Zilker Park, the ACL "shit" fest of 2009. People were literally wallering around in mud/waste from the fertilizer which caused rashes and other icky stuff, more affectionately referred to as "Dillo Dirt.")

Even still, if given the opportunity to attend ACL, I would jump on it. And Billy does just that for me. His buddy is leaving town on Sunday and they have an extra wristband so he says he'll bring it by my bar before then. I'm combelling! The utter elation of seeing The Eagles live and in concert is something that I cannot wrap my mind around. These guys are top five for me! (Zeppelin, Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, EAGLES, then someone else who I'm not sure of right now... in case you were wondering.)

So Sunday, sure enough, they bring me the wristband and I jet outta work and down to the park to join the mass exodus of music goers only to get to the entrance and find the old Billy boy has previously removed the band from friend's wrist and reattached it together, which in ACL world, apparently, is a huuuge no-no. The lady basically yanks it off my wrist and says, "I'm so sorry, I can't let you in." (I hate to use this term because it is so overused but...) FAIL. Fail, fail, fail.

There is suddenly a brief glimpse of my life flashing before my eyes. A life where I have never seen The Eagles and will never get to see The Eagles. How will I face my peers knowing that I had the opportunity and missed my chance? Floods of hippied out men and women are overcoming my eyes and I panic, but only for a moment. Fear turns to determination that I'll be damned if I got all the way through this shit storm only to have this bitch tear away my only chance at happiness this day. After I've been starring at her for about one solid minute while all this is unfolding in my brain, I turn away with fervor: I am going to find a ticket into this stupid show even if I have to steal one.

I push through the crowd and find a man walking away who I saw earlier selling tickets on the sidewalk. After I yell at him, he slows but we keep walking.

Brynnan: "You still got some tickets."

Guy: "Sure do."

B: "How much?"

Guy: "Eighty."

B: "AS IN DOLLARS?! That's insane. The day is more than half over."

Guy (smugly): "Eagles haven't gone on yet."

B: "Would YOU pay 80 dollars to see The Eagles?" (While I love The Eagles, I am also a pretty reasonable person.)

Guy: "I have, and I would again. I've also paid a lot less." (This does not help his case.)

So we haggle a bit, this guy being the world's smuggest ass I've ever encountered in my life, me, trying to pretend like I know how to haggle. Anyway, he's dead set on fifty and while I normally would just walk away in a fury, I gave it to him because, well, I didn't have the time nor the patience to find yet another smug ass and have it out with him and I really wanted to get inside.

And my elation was returned! ACL is gigantic, beautiful, fun, more good adjectives, etc, etc, overall: wonderful. I joined up with Best Friend (who had to financially care for me the rest of the evening because of Mr. Smug Ticket Holder taking most of my cash) had a few brews and rolled around in the grass in pure happiness. We had a nice little setup all ready for The Eagles, not too close to the stage, but just far enough where we had some room to spread out, but Reagan and I both knew that I would not be contained. It is a known fact that during any general admissions concert, I try my hardest to get as close to the main stage as possible, snaking my way through the crowd with a perfect mixture of avid pursuit and quiet nicety, so as not to piss off any crazy broads who think that their "spot" is some claimed piece of land like a Sooner or something. It's an open piece of land, people. I paid just as much as you, actually less, and if I want to sneak to the front, I'm gonna.

But for the time, I was quite happy to just be there and take in the band who was playing at that moment and enjoy my friends. We each had our picks, Reagan wanted to hear "Take it to the Limit" and I chose "Seven Bridges Road," which I thought would be ideal for this venue. Acoustic, stunning, and a great way to show off each of their voices. Reagan asked me if I thought Don Henley would be there... I hadn't even considered that he wouldn't be! This worried me.

The show begins and what do they kick it off with? That's right, my pick. I called it. And of course, all of the original Eagles were there. And after a few songs and after becoming extremely annoyed with the lawn crowd becoming increasingly more noisy as the show went on, and not at all nearly as awestruck and silent as I was, my long legs could contain me no longer and I turned to Reagan and said, "I'll find you later," and took off to the front. This was to be expected and she was not upset, she knows me too well. Luckily, the song was a jovial one that I chose to do my snaking around to, so the crowd wasn't nearly as mad as they would have been if I was just pushing my way through; I sort of danced my way to the front, finding friends along the way, rocking out with random concert goers, and eventually, working my way up to a perfect spot in the crowd where my desire was satiated enough to retire the trek. And the set was two hours long! Two hours of pure Eagles. And even though I got whacked in the head with a glowstick AND a massive roll of toilet paper (what are the odds? It felt like the Michelin man punched me in the back of the head), I could not have been more pleased with the evening. When they quit playing, I just starred at the stage and whimpered.

And so, in final, while it seems to be some sort of popular trend to despise The Eagles, which I think is in part to The Big Lebowski, (thanks, Dude) I am sticking to my guns and I say, The Eagles flipping rock. And Dude: suck it.

Problems.

So: Big sister is going to the Big D (and I don't mean Dallas)...do I have to give royalties to Mark Chesnutt here? Okay, well, he said it first.

Anyway... this has not been a fun time for her. Or any of us for that matter. I love my sisters more than anything in the world so when one of them is hurting, I am hurting. Seriously. My back was on the fritz for a week when Alyssa was first going through all this shit. Divorce is no fun. Which is yet another reason I have not tied the knot. Cause I'm smart, yo. That's not to say my married peers are not smart, but come on people, fifty percent chance the person I marry is going to leave me for some girl named Lorine? Not happening.

So, needless to say, Alyss is going through a hard time. And apparently her and the younger sister were discussing her issues yesterday. I'm out with my friends and get a text from the sisters: What is your biggest problem right now?

This can of worms.

At the moment, though, I could really think of nothing that was plaguing me. Beautiful day, on the porch of my favorite bar with some of my favorite people, sun is shining and birds are chirping. After a bit of reflection...

-Bills, bills, bills.

-My car is literally a hunk of shit.

-I have NO idea what I am doing with my life.

But instead of all that, I just sent them: Student loans. Career.

Then I hear that when Maura was asked what her biggest problems were (keep in mind, 18 year old sister living in Hometown, TX, whose main concern is who's going to pay for gas on Saturday night) she responds: Um, I burnt my tongue on those pizza rolls you made me last night.

Classic. Classic Clyde.*

Meanwhile, our mother dear has pneumonia. So what with the divorce, illness, and cheese tongue, the family is in tumult.

And deer season is upon us so I have to call my dad every week or so to ask how his blood pressure is.* During deer season, us sisters are not allowed to cause any kind of trouble which would require our father's attention. Maura broke the electric can opener at Dad's house one year and we starred at one another in disbelief and fear and she said: We'll tell him after deer season.

One of my first deer: Fred. He's pretty gnarly.

IT'S BOW SEASON! While I don't bow hunt, I can't wait until rifle season starts. Here is one of my dad's pals who lives and breaths hunting. How did this blog go from Alyssa's divorce to Karl Barker? Anyway, it's one of those creepy hunting videos where he whispers into the camera and says strange things because he's by himself. Kyle is hilarious, though. 2:22 (if you don't watch the whole thing. And nothing dies, so no one report me.)

Third Hunt of Archery Season/Longbow Cam Test from Kyle Baker on Vimeo.

I'll stop now. This has gone nowhere fast.

*Maura has several nicknames, the most frequent of which is Clyde/Clydesdale.

*Dad owns a deer processing plant which requires his presence 100+ hours a week.

The Ambiguously Gay Auto Body Repairers

So Friday night the girls and I had what we like to now refer to as The Rager: Shruti and my "un"birthday party (I guess we might as well call it Sophia's unbirthday as well...) complete with many, many Jell-O shots, butt loads of friends, and one too many keg stands. Good time had by all. Except that guy who passed out in the lawn chair and I pushed him out of at four in the morning. Dude, don't pass out at a stranger's house where you are susceptible to trickery.

So needless to say, even though I went into work Satuday at five, I was still hurting pretty good. I don't know if it was from moving a full keg from the front yard to the back or hanging over it during the party.

Sunday, even worse. Straight up hours late to work, dragging ass all day, still unshowered since Friday (what with waking up and realizing I was supposed to be at work and I wasn't...) the list goes on. And Sunday evening I could not wait to go home, shower, rest for a bit, and spend some much needed quality time with my best guy, Bo.

On the drive home, this guy in the passenger side of a big white truck with writing all over it waves at me to roll down the window and I think I have a flat or something. But no. It's those auto body repair guys who drive around all day, searching for hunks of metal like yours truly and making estimates and repairs for what seems like reasonable prices at the time. It's like impulse shopping. Old Blue is a magnet for these dudes.

So while we're weaving down Lamar, this Mexican Guy and I are having a pretty detailed conversation for the speed at which I head down a curvy road.

MG (yelling): Let me fix those dents and messed up bumper you got! It won't take me long.

...road curving...

Me: Dude! Some guy already "fixed" it! (Rest assured, I animated the " ".) And look at the shotty job he did. No thanks, man.

MG: I can do it better than that. Thirty minutes.

...road curving drastically...

Me: How much are you going to rob me for it?

MG: PULL OVER! We'll talk about it.

Me: Ugggghhhh.

And so I proceed to a well lit, well populated area (in case mother reads this) right off the road, haggle with these two guys who seem honest enough, and end up coming to terms with a price that I am pleased with. And then things start to get kind of weird. These two were literally the most in your face people I have ever faced in real life. While the driver of the truck (who was wearing a Coach belt and matching flip flops) went to working on my car immediately, the portly passenger guy, or the apparent voice of the operation, asked me the most intense and personal questions I have ever felt inclined to answer besides when at the doctor's office, most of which I can't repeat online.

-Where do you work?

-How many people are you dating?

-Guy or girl?

-How much do you make?

-How much does he make?

-How old are you?

-Do you have any children?

-When was your first kiss?

Etc, etc, but much more personal. Then during the inquisition, the well dressed and becoming more increasingly gay sounding one would stick his two cents in: He only asked you that because he pretends like he likes girls. Or: Don't listen to him, he wanted to be a cheerleader. Hanz would heckle Franz about being gay, and then Franz would tell me about his three kids and wife and their ultimate sexual fantasies together. And then the ambiguously gay duo guessed my bra, shoe, and waist size accurately because they "love women's bodies so much."

Needless to say, Brynnan was confused. And when the light began to fall, frightened.

"Good Lord," I began thinking to myself. "This is all an elaborate ploy to get me off the road and close to their truck so they can stuff me in it and rape me. This guy doesn't really like Coach, his girlfriend bought him this belt and he's just wearing it as part of the scheme! They're probably going to take me home to her so I can fulfill HER fantasies."

But Ace and Gary turned out okay, two pretty stand up guys who did a good job doing what they do and having fun along the way. Even so, hide yo kids, hide yo wife, and for goodness sake, don't let your husband go to the auto body repair shop alone.