Why I would rather just sit and drink on a boat instead of do anything behind one

I'm going to tell a story. It's about me. Surprise!

Once upon a time, four country gals from Hamilton County packed their bags and headed to Destin, Florida as a graduation gift. And in the beautiful little city, they mostly just layed on the beach and chased sea gulls and got stung by a shit-ton of jelly fish and talked about guys they were dating and what they were going to do in college the next year and so on and so on.

One day, one of the girls, probably the cute little blonde one, had the amazing idea of going parasailing. Me, who is leary of lighting a gas heater, sitting too long in the garage with the car on, and little children teetering on precarious perches, declined the offer. No freaking thanks, I don't want to be strung from a rope 75,000 feet in the air behind a moving motor vehicle with nothing but The Gulf of Mexico underneath me. But to my friends, this idea sounds exciting, thrilling, nothing short of wonderful.

My stupid, stupid friends.

So, we dye my hair blonde that night and the next day head out to find some dudes wearing Bob Marley shirts who can take us parasailing.

So, just to give you an idea, this is what parasailing is meant to look like...

It did not go as anticipated.

I am strapped in the apparatus with two other gals, one of them my long time friend and the third, the ten-year-old sister of my other friend, her mother downing margaritas on the beach as she watches the horror that is soon to unfold.

We get strapped in and are hoisted into the air off the back of the boat and things are going swimmingly and it's actually quite nice. The view is beautiful and the ocean is spectacular to see from so high up. I'm having fun and have put any precautions or fears aside. Then suddenly, we hear a snap. And not just like you snapped your fingers snap, I mean a cable snap, as in one of the cables that has us suspended into the air has snapped. And it's loud. And insanely frightening. But we seem to still be safe in the air and still attached to the boat, so things seem okay. And then, without warning from our fair boat captains, we begin to lose altitude, and my friends and I are plummeted into the ocean, all the while still being pulled by the boat, which is probably going about 20 miles per hour.

This part is not fun. I immediately regret the series of events that led up to me being drug behind a boat at 20 miles per hour. And what's this? My bathing suit bottoms are coming off. And now we are being shot back up into the air. Hundreds of feet into the air. And as we are plummeted back into the water a second time and shot back into the air a second time, I come out of my harness.

The pathetic ribbon of a strap that is meant to be under my butt has naturally, during the course of water engulfing us, come out from underneath me and I am dangling from the thing, held in only by something under my armpits and the upper-arm strength of a teenage girl. Now, we are back in the air and I am literally hanging on by a thread, attempting to hoist myself back into my stirrup, all the while keeping my tiny bathing suit bottoms on, long legs kicking and swinging in the air. The ten-year-old next to me is crying and I am cursing like a sailor. My best friend is trying to help me pull myself together and Starsky and Hutch in the boat are yelling inaudible sounds at me, trying to "learn" me back into my harness, none of their advice being heard or taken into action. And why in the hell is this boat still moving?

After several failed attempts at my regaining composure and more trips back into the water, the two 'gents on board decide to put us out of our misery and (omg, here's an idea!) stop the boat, and let us drop into the water safely and pull us in manually. Apparently, the cable that snapped was the reel-them-in one and instead of just stopping immediately and ending disaster, they really wanted us to get our money's worth and strung out the horror for as long as possible.

We lived. And hopefully got our money back, I honestly have zero recollection of even boarding the boat or coming back on shore I was so shocked and angry.

You know when something tragic happens to people who are doing something they love, like that one armed girl who got attacked by a shark when she was surfing, and she still surfs? Well fuck that.

It's Free.

If you've never checked out the "free" listings on Craigslist, I highly suggest it. Not only might you happen into something you need/want, you also happen into the most ridiculous postings on the planet. Sure, it's free crap, but the best part is that people take pictures of their free crap and put it on the internet for you to look at and mock.

Now, I was once getting rid of an obese tube-like television which shut off at the most inopportune times (say, when I was trying to, I don't know, watch something) and I needed to get shed of it. But no person in their right mind would pay ten dollars for it, much less come over and pick it up, which was a two man job, so I posted it under the free section on Craigslist and added a couple of pictures, you know, for allure, and then set it out on the porch with a giant sign that said "TAKE ME" on it. It was gone within fifteen minutes.

Then there's this:

Oh good. This looks like the frame department at Goodwill.

Another time, I was moving and realized I had so much shit that I didn't know how I'd been living with all this shit until I changed houses and realized I couldn't possibly have so much shit that I didn't need and couldn't sell so I set out a huge box of the useless shit and put an ad on Craigslist, sans photo of useless looking shit, but described in the ad fairly accurately all the piss-poor stuff I had shoved into this box: a picture of a cat without a frame, one cream colored heel with no match, a spool of black satin ribbon, several homemade decorative, art-ish looking pictures, a piece of pepperoni (partially nibbled), one antique greenish mirror with two shelves to match (one broken, piece in box), and two quite useful pieces which probably deserved a Craigslist photo: an hp printer (broken, but probably fixable) and a decent but cumbersome rolling desk with a glass top.

I posted the "Box of Crap" ad on Craigslist, left the box, printer and desk by the curb with notes on them "TAKE ME," and went about my life.

2:00 AM, after work, I come home, excited to see what has been taken. Surely the best items have been taken, that desk probably didn't last long. I bet the printer is long gone, too. But lo, I come upon the scene to find every single piece of useless crap rooted through and taken out of the box, including the single shoe with no mate, and the hp printer is the only thing that remains by the curb.

Wow.

The point is, Craigslist hounds LOVE CRAP. These people sit at home all day, looking at the "free" section, driving to other people's houses, picking through their worthless crap, loving life, and then go home and re-post it, taking pictures of it in huge, indecipherable piles.

?

Free... It's free. Come and get it.

Need some free food? It's on there.

Still seaaaaled...

No? No? Comonnnnn!

Oh! And all those loose DVD's you've been trying desperately to organize but have no means to?

Finally a solution.

I'm afraid I'm funny.

The other night I was at the bar and this large Jamaican fellow was trying to hit on me and kept trying to get my number from my friends. Then he went on to tell everyone that he was allergic to water. Mistake.

"Hold the phone," I said, "you're allergic to water?"

Who the hell is allergic to water? He kept on and on trying to convince a bunch of us that this was an actual diagnosis and he was afraid of dying so he didn't drink anything but purified water and "aren't you allergic to anything, Brynnan?"

"No."

"What, and you're not afraid of anything either?"

"No."

Then I really started to think about this idea. Of being afraid of shit. One of my friends suggested I might be afraid of dying. Nope. Bring it on. Spiders? That's what flip-flops are for. Snakes? They're darling.

I have had fears of things before, but they usually kind of expire. Or I outgrow them. For a second there I was afraid of the end of the world. It was right when my niece was born and I started getting real scared of a meteor shower or complete and utter natural destruction. But, for like ten days straight, I had these End of the World Dreams, every one of which I survived. So that kind of quelled that.

Then, for a hot minute I was afraid of my car going into a river. With me in it. Then I had this really rad dream about Old Blue (God rest her soul) soaring right into Hamilton's favorite source of giant catfish slash place to dump old couches, The Leon River. And what do you know if I didn't survive that with flying colors as well. I hauled ass out of that river with my red HHS Cheerleading bag and called my Dad on the river and told him what happened and he said, "Well! Get home!" So I did.

Lately, I have this fear that a tree nearby has just been struck by lightning and fallen on a wire that is tied to a clock and my sports car can't get up to 88 miles per hour and I can't get out of 1985.

I do not know what to do about this fear. Hopefully, some dream sequence will take care of it soon because I can't stand wearing red down-feather vests and dealing with overgrown morons named Biff.

Now I just have to do something about the fear of The Beastie Boys putting out yet another album.

Donn's Tales

Donn's Depot. My watering hole. I'm sure my "devoted followers" are familiar with the place, most of my goings-on happen either at work or at Donn's, which is where I go after almost every shift. It's nice to wind down and have a couple of drinks with your friends (ranging from ages 21 to 75) and also nice to walk in and not have to say a word to the bartender and he/she hands you a Miller Lite. Donn's is where the old but still partying folks come around 8 every night, cut a rug, and try not to break a hip. It's also the place where service industry kids come to unwind after a long day of waiting on people's dumbasses. The two crowds seem to mesh fairly well.

Most nights I know everyone there and when someone brings in a stranger from the outside, including myself who brings in friends from time to time, I get real nervous. Good Lord, it's like a lion's den in there. Most of the time I don't dare bring in a guy I'm seeing, way too many questions ensue and most of my friends (who happen to be men) look at the guy like he's the anti-Christ, silently sizing him up. Later they will bring me his carcass like a large cat would bring home an antelope for the herd, proud and pleased with the kill. (Thanks, guys.)

A friend of mine brought in a British girl the other day and you would have thought she was Princess Di. The poor girl couldn't carry on a conversation with anyone lest someone overhear her British accent and pop their way right into the mix. Her man-friend was less than pleased. I tried once to save her but gave up quickly due to the overabundance of man-crowding and shoving and continued onto the corner where I eat peanuts by myself and pretend to watch Sportscenter.

Donn's is also the spot of many a walked tabs and many a disappearing face. You can be carrying on a pleasant argument with someone concerning who had more affect in the lives of African Americans? Lincoln or Martin Luther King? and the next thing you know, you're fellow debater has flown the coop. Of course, in the bar world this is known as Houdini-ing. Some call it the Disappearing Act, some call it "She's Just an Asshole." (I prefer Houdini). It's a great way to cut out just at the right time so you don't have to go around and hug everyone, and tell everyone what a great time you had, and "OH MY GOD, I'LL FREAKING SEE YOU TOMORROW! DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS EVERYTIME!?"

No.

But people love to say bye. Love it. And when appropriate, like at Christmas and Super Bowl Sunday, I'll go around and tell everyone bye and I love you and all that good stuff. But not at the bar. It's not necessary. Which is why most night's, I prefer the Houdini.

The anti-Houdinis

Once, while on the porch of Donn's Depot, I had a hankering to leave. And once I get the hankering, it's hard to shake. I had to leave immediately. I stood up with my purse, quietly hoping no one would take much notice, but no such luck. My friends directly called me out on my disappearing attempt so I tried to quell them, "I'm just going to the bathroom guys. See? I'll leave my beer and koozie here. I'll be right back." And snuck off into the night. Directly after my departure, and from what my friends told me later, Best Friend Bo appeared, inquiring as to my whereabouts. Our mutual friends assured him, "She just went inside. See? She left her koozie here."

Bo scoffed, "That's not Brynnan's good koozie. That's a disposable koozie. She's gone."

He knows me so well.

Another once upon a time at Donn's, two of my favorite old time regulars, Winker and David Allen, were getting fairly tipsy on one side of me, while two of my younger male friends were getting also rather tipsy on the other side of me. David Allen pronounced, loudly and in slurs, "You gotta make a decision, honey! Which one is it gonna be!?" And while I thought that he was referring to my male companions to my left, I said hastily, "Oh, no D.A., I have very little interest in these two clowns."

DA: "No. What's it gonna be? Me? Or Winker? You gotta decide. You can't have both."

Winker (with drunken, embarrassed, 63-year-old laughter): "Yeah, sugar. Chose one or the other!"

Me (with pleading eyes at the bartender): "umm..."

DA (slyly, steadily) : "I gotta lotta... grated cheese... at home."

Winker: "I can lick my eyelid."

DA (loudly now, standing, still drunk): "I fought for your freedom in the war!"

Winker: "Well, you can't beat that."

Me... Houdini.

I used to have to watch "CatDog" with my little sister.

I like cats better than dogs. Cats are assholes. And lazy. And really fun to torture. You can put duct tape on their front legs and watch them do the-floor-is-hot dance, or you can apply peanut butter to their nose and watch them freak out in hopes of cleaning it off. My favorite is Cat in a Bag. I used to put my Shop Kitty in a laundry bag, kind of gently swing it back and forth and threaten the kitty that I was going to throw him in the bottom of the river. All the while singing a little tune I made up called "cat in a bag at the bottom of the river." It's a Whaley Family classic now.

It's not fair that people can say they hate cats but you're hard pressed to find the asshole who's man enough to say she hates dogs. Well... I don't care for dogs. Inside dogs that is. Where I'm from, a dog lives, breaths, sleeps, eats and stays outside. No questions asked. If you see the dog inside the house, you gasp in horror and run and hide so you don't get blamed for it. And I didn't know that people physically paid money for mutts until I moved to Austin. I overheard someone say they wanted a wienerschnitzel or some such half breed as that and that they were willing to pay, oh, I don't know, $500 bucks for this pooch.

Me: Meeehhhhrrrr? Errrr, heeeeh?!? A-say a-say, whaaaaa? You want to PAY MONEY for that dog? Five hundred big ones? For that stupid little dog? I don't understand.

And I still don't. If you want a new dog in the country, you go over to your friend's house and ask when their dog is having puppies. But mostly you just kind of come into a dog in the country. People love dumping animals in the country, so you just go outside and there's probably a dog already there and then, poof, you have a new pet. And you probably just will call him Puppy or Dog or something really clever like that.

And when the dog gets ill, you don't take it to the vet to pay him (!?) to put the thing down, you call your Cousin Jeff to come out and shoot the dog and put him out of his misery, as well as save you from spending hundreds of dollars in bills ON A DOG.

When I was a young pup myself, we had this family dog that was pretty much the end all be all of canines. He was a black lab, beautiful, smart, and really something. Pa taught the dog how to track deer that had been shot out in the woods and retrieve them if they had been wounded and lost, saving the deer from dying a slow and miserable death all the while pleasing the hunter with the finding of his kill. Dad would come home looking like he had been attacked by a bear because Tracker would pull him through briars and fences and he had to keep ahold of the leash lest he lose Tracker and the deer. Tracker found many a deer out in Hamilton County. He also got shot accidentally in the neck once, helped us raise four raccoons and would sit in the garage and listen to Dad as he worked. Raddest dog ever.

And then Tracker got sick and started seizing one morning, and as upset as we all were, Dad called his sister's husband to come over and shoot our family dog. My sister, mother and I waited in the house when we heard the shot, me crying over my cereal bowl.

I don't think I started this blog with intentions of chastising anyone with dogs, or anyone who pays any given amount for the purchase or health of their dog, it just kind of spun out of control. Dogs are sometimes okay and you can do with them what you please. As long as your dog doesn't lick my face. Their butt-licking tongues on human faces? You have got to be kidding me.

The real point is that I love torturing cats. Torture is a harsh word. Teasing cats for my enjoyment is more like it. Right before this blog, my roommate's cat wanted outside and I knew she wanted out, but instead of letting her out, I put a blanket on top of her and then opened the door. She could smell the rain and out of doors just a few steps in front of her, but she couldn't reach it (what with the blanket over her). And I laughed. Out loud. For a good two minutes. By myself.

And then there's this.

See? Cats are assholes. Love 'em.

XANAX! It's like a hug... Except, not really.

I deactivated my Fbook account. Which means not only that I got solid sick of people's boring children/how-I'm-feeling/what-I'm-about-to-do posts (plus sifting through which people I would unsubscribe to or just plain un-friend), I am going to be writing a lot more on my blog. I have ideas, people. Ideas!

Cleo's all: "God BRYNNAN! You can't deactivate, you post every time I have to piss!" (No.) But yes, I do have things in my head and The Book is the best way to get that out there. Or maybe not? Maybe I've been drinking.

Maybe last night was the single most worst night of my life?

There have been a few.

Once, in what I was sure was a good idea, I gathered all my ex-boyfriend's clothing laying about my house and took a permanent marker to every item, decorating his garb with niceties and poetry and heartfelt things, mostly stuff like "EFF YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT" and "I HOPE YOU EAT SHIT AND DIE," and you know... pleasantries like that. Then I went over to his house where he was entertaining some female companions of sorts and strew all his worthless crap all over his yard, knocked on the door and drove away. (Older, wiser sister on the phone that night: "Brynnan, I really think this is a bad idea.")

Another night (same poor boyfriend) had to endure the 21-year-old gal who had never indulged in tequila, and she who after the first few tastes, and for no real reason, proceeded to beat the ever loving shit out of said boyfriend. Boyfriend, well tempered as he was, quietly wrestled me down and sent me on my way. (Wow, somehow, that guy always comes out really great in stories, and me, not so much). Sidenote: I have since learned that punching men in the face is just plain not fair. I have also learned how to control my tequila intake in order to keep the "inside anger" quelled. Sometimes.

Of course, there's always the night you get the phone call that... same boyfriend!? why does this guy keep popping up!?... has been battered in the head and has a subdural hematoma and you gotta drive two hours because he's asking for you and well, he might die. Pretty vivid/horrid night.

And then last night.... happened too soon to even be funny right now! Wounds are still fresh. People are still angry. Namely me. I will say that if you are crying and your significant other/ex-boyfriend offers you a Xanax instead of solace/comfort/love, then that person is not worth much effort on your part. Sometimes all a person needs is a good old-fashioned hug. And some people (some men) don't know how to offer that kind of comfort. And that is not okay in my book.

My older sister and I used to fight. A lot, duh. We were children, and it was all about who built the better fort that week and who got to play with the deer eyeball and whatnot. And yes, there were broom sticks wrapped around small ribcages during chores and there were surprise shower attacks which ended in broken glass doors and cake donuts placed strategically in panty drawers, so what? But when we fought, our father would A) make us glove up and box, then B) hug. We fought and then we hugged. And said we loved each other. It was forced, naturally, and the two of us would do the whole stand face-to-face thing and I would pretend put my head on her shoulder and our arms would be dangling in nonchalance, but Father would not allow it. We had to "PUT YOUR ARMS AROUND EACH OTHER!" and look each other in the eye and say "I love you," and by that time, it was so ridiculous and hilarious that we were looking at each other and laughing, red Everlast boxing gloves wrapped tightly around each other.

AND THAT is how you end a fight. Not with prescription drugs. Moron.

And so, with that in mind, I have decided I need to start dating again. (This can only provide entertainment for my dedicated blog followers, because if there's anything I hate more than dating, it's that I love blogging about horrible dates). And I think I'm going to start dating some nerdy guy or something because I watched Weird Science for the first time tonight and dude, those dudes are cute. And nerds are always better than jocks or something like that. Plus, a nerd would probably talk to me about Hemingway and stuff like that. Which would be super rad. So long as he doesn't play video games.

And then I'll leave you these two songs. One, Mumford' and Sons: Little Lion Man (so apropos), and my newest and most favorite band right now, The Soldier Thread's: Anybody. Both lyrics are poignant, fitting and meaningful if you really want to get the whole feel of this blog.

I have no idea what I have been babbling about or where this blog went. I hope it is well-written and mildly entertaining. Good night, fellow Mexicans.

love! in a bottle

Some people smoke after work, some people kill things.

Saturday night I came home to a ridiculous ruckus in my kitchen. I had kind of been drinking and the house was pretty dirty so I thought for sure a possum was in the trash can. I stood in my bedroom doorway, which is right off the kitchen, in horror as I assumed some large critter had somehow made it's way into the house. I mean, the clamoring was pretty loud. I go to sleep.

Sunday, Roommate cleans house while I am out with my mother and sister. Good, maybe possum got scared of the clean and left from whence he came. She also tells me that Cat ran into the house the other day carrying unidentified object in mouth and when she dropped it in her food bowl, it scurried away. (Lucy, doing exactly NOT what cats are supposed to do with mice.) Well, good. At least now we know the ruckus is a mouse. But Good Lord, it sounds huge.

And as I am standing in kitchen, talking to roommate later that afternoon, noise ensues again. Frightened, Roommate and I both jump onto the counter.

"OMG. Mouse is stuck in trap! And dragging it around making a much more gigantic noise than it's size!" I realize.

Now this means that one of us is going to have to physically retrieve the trap, mouse and all, and dispose of it properly.

Crap.

We try the ole broom method but only succeed in pushing mouse closer to under the stove, not good.

"I'm going to have to actually grab the whole thing. Mouse and all," I decide. Gross.

So I reach under our counter where we have removed the base board and grab the trap, little mouse fighting with all it's might to pull away from me, one arm and leg stuck in trap, which might come undone any minute and mouse might run up my arm and into my mouth. I pull myself together and pull out the trap with mouse, Roommate diving out of the way in the same sheer terror I am feeling, and take it out to curbside trash can where I throw it in, still alive. Mission accomplished.

I wash up and head to work. All the while carrying around this terrible feeling that mouse is still alive in trash. Get home from work, eat some pasta and drink some wine with Roommate, still thinking about mouse.

Now at some point, I smell rotting watermelon rinds in the kitchen trash and have to take it out. This means I have to face the poor mouse again. (Dread). I can't just throw more trash on top of this little guy and hope he dies in a few hours. I should have beat him to death with the broom! I should have smashed him with a brick! Oh my gosh, I feel terrible! So I take him out, still attached to trap, and put him in the yard. Perhaps Lucy will finish what she started! But no, she noses the mouse in disgust and moves on with her life, rolling around in the dirt next to him, suffering, and panting pretty heavily and now, scared out of his mind from the cat encounter, doing this circular dance because one side of his body is stuck in the trap. And I'm just standing there with a flashlight watching this pitiful display.

Roommate and I discuss. "We can't leave him like this. What do we do!?"

Roommate: "Maybe we should drown him?"

Me: "Ew. Are you gonna hold him down?"

Roommate: "Maybe we could string up a little noose and hang him."

Me: "Oooo, yeah! We could hang it up in Other Roommate's Room. No! We're just getting weird now. "

Roommate: "Or we could nail him to a board."

Me: "Okay, now you're just talking about crucifying the mouse. We need Second Roommate, she will know what to do."

And so nothing really gets accomplished and we drink more wine.

Roommate #2 comes home and after hearing sad mouse story, berates me for letting this go on and decides, yes, we need to kill it and she decides what's best it to cut it's little head off and she will be the one to do it. And while I know R2 is a strong woman who could do the job, I cannot let her endure this, so I stand up to the plate.

I go into my room and retrieve my memorabilia Winchester hunting knife which has never left it's case until this point, grab the flashlight and go out into the yard, R2 following. Mouse, still alive, gives one last circle dance, I instruct R2 to look away, and with the most ease, and really almost like butter*, cut off mouse's head, mouse letting out the most awful squeaking noise one has ever heard. (I didn't hear anything.)

R2 claims mouse is still alive because his head is convulsing, but I assure her, he is dead, he just doesn't know it yet. And while I assure her by going over the laceration again, I end up kind of pushing the mouse into the earth, leaving only it's tail above ground, which is wagging out of control. ("Stop it, mouse, you're making such a scene.")

We go inside, leaving mouse for some wild animal to hopefully dispose of. I feel good about mouse's misery ending, yet I find that I am shaking vehemently. While I have killed wild animals before, it was always for some greater good, ie: to feed my family who most often couldn't afford brand name cereal. And all those times I shot a deer or rabbit or squirrel, I found that I was shaking afterward but I thought it was just excitement. Now, after I have killed mouse in such a horrifying fashion, I find that it was adrenaline.

Great.

*Come to find out, after speaking with my most trusted mouse resources, a mouse can be killed merely by stepping on it, one strike with a broom or rock of your choice, or simply by squeezing it's little bones in your hand. There really is no need to get your Winchester hunting knife you got for Christmas involved. Sicko.

On Wetting Oneself Part Deux

Summer is my favorite time of year.

But I also like when summer has just about worn you out and then that light little breeze comes along and you're like, "damn, fall is pretty rad, too." Sadly, in Texas, it only lasts like a day or two, but the point is that God made seasons for a reason. You get plum burnt out on one season too much. Especially summer. Geeeeeeeez. Enough already.

And then there's deer season!

Every hunter starts to get that itch around September and October. The "I need to kill something other than these blasted fire ants" itch. The need to be enveloped in camouflage and sit for hours in a deer stand, watching nothing but branches and weeds move and thinking to yourself, "Holy crap! Was that a deer? No... Shit."

That hunter...is not me.

While I know several men and women who participate in the ridiculousness of getting up at four AM and spreading around doe urine and rattling antlers and snorting buck snorts... it is my personal conviction that going outside with a gun, some corn and a jacket tends to do the trick.

Oh, and my Dad.

Dad pretty much tells me what to do and I do it. He does that really annoying hunting voice like on the hunting shows where you would rather strangle yourself than hear what the hunter has to say (like that hissing whisper voice you did when you were a kid and were supposed to be in bed and you didn't want your parents to hear down the hall but you wanted it to be loud enough for your sister to hear in the next bed): "Well... we decided to cut around through the back pasture... cause we know the bucks wonder up into the north part of the field...and we did a few snorts and rattles... and BY GOD if that sonofabitch didn't come a runnin'..."

One of the first hunts I can remember with my Dad was at my Hey-Hey's place. I was pretty small, young enough to only remember the traumatic parts of the trip...

Dad was hunting on the bank of a tank and had set me up in a mesquite tree ("Stay there. Be quiet") while he laid out on the bank and looked out over the prairie at the deer, waiting for el guapo to show his big ugly face, I guess. I remember it being pretty cold and me being a tiny little thing, I had to pee pretty quick.

"Dadddd!" (in the hiss whisper) "Daddy! I hafta go to the bathroom!"

Dad, compliant, mildly annoyed, rises from belly position and takes his tiny girl below the bank to take care of her business and returns her to tree perch with a "Stay there. Be quiet."

Now I don't know much about time and the world around me at this point, but I'm going to say about twenty minutes later, the same situation unfolds. Only this time, Big Boss Man is much more agitated and much less compliant to little girl's requests. Little girl senses her father's anger and becomes worrisome, frightened, and wants more than anything in the world to not disappoint her Dear Old Pa.

The wind continues to blow on the tip-top of the bank, while Your Humble Narrator is in precarious mesquite tree, and Pee Urge Number Three comes along.

Now, I'm a smart little gal. I know that if I tell my pa I have to pee AGAIN, he is going to get all huffy puffy at me, yank me out of the tree, set me behind the bank, and probably miss the shot of his life due to his whining little bratty kid who can't hold her pee in. So, I did what any good child would do and I pissed myself. I mean I really let myself have it. The flood gates opened and there was no stopping the warm, youthful flow of relief. I surely can't remember if I did it out of fear or spite. My tiny little jeans soaked and me, a tad pleased, a tad ashamed.

Father of course, after hefting his child out of the tree and discovering that she had pissed herself, felt terrible (only after, of course, scolding me for pissing myself) and probably had a considerable time explaining himself to my dear old mother, who must've not allowed such goings on any longer because I don't remember going out with Dad again 'til I was ten or eleven when I got to kill my first deer. Also about the same time I stabbed Dear Old Dad while gutting said deer...

Now that's a whole other blog...

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."