I don’t want to alarm anyone, but…I think Earth is pissed.

I don’t know if it’s because the hills keeps getting renewed, or because Mike Tyson got that tattoo on his face and everybody is still acting like it’s normal, but…ZOMG AL GORE WAS RIGHT.

We are having earthquakes, and tsunamis, and I just watched a video on CNN where a wave crashed through a cruise ship.

THE OCEAN IS ATTACKING US, PEOPLE.

It’s not enough that there are sharks in there?

Now water is killing people just for enjoying all you can eat shrimp buffets on the lido deck?

Which is just great.  Because Monday I have to fly again.

And we allll remember how awesome I am at that.

Now, I don’t want to be a rumor monger.

But, there are rumors, folks.  RUMORS TO BE MONGERED.

Birds hate me.

Like, I am pretty sure they want me to die.

Which is insane because we have so much in common.

We both hate cats.

Our constant tweeting makes no sense at all.

We both poop everywhere if you squeeze us hard.

And, I always eat the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle.

I have no idea why birds think I am an asshole.

So, with that information, and the fact that the planet thinks people are douche bags, I am totally even more afraid to fly, because I am convinced that, due to the recent uproar of nature to take back what’s theirs, a bird will junk punch my plane and I will die.

But, it’s to see my Anissa, so I have to risk it.

Which is why I will be drunk on the plane.  And, I will probably climb over you ten times to pee, and I totally won’t re-zip my pants afterward.   And, I don’t wear underwear with jeans.  And, I will probably weep sporadically.   And tell you about this time when I was little and I was climbing a tree, and I fell, and a stick pierced my butt cheek, and my brother told every one I had two butt holes.

So if you are stuck sitting next to me…you’re welcome.

P.S. #7 y’all.

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Andy is ignoring me.

I am TRYING to ask him if I look as big as this lady when I wear a bathing suit.

But he isn’t responding to my gchat from the bedroom.

Andy LOVES when I play the Am I as Fat as This Person!? game.

Second only to the Swear to Fucking God You’ll Tell Me if I Get as Big as That Guy Over There game.

And the OMG Does This Bra Give Me Back Fat game.

Oh, and the Boys, You Need to Wait Outside Because We are Having a Super Secret Closed Door Meeting with Santa About Next Year’s Presents game.

Except he actually does like that game, because it means we get to do it.  With almost all our clothes off.  It depends on how many lights are on and how skinny I am feeling that day.

It’s just, some days I need to feel pretty.  Andy hates those days.

Me: Name 3 celebrities who are prettier than me.

Andy:  Please don’t call me at work about this stuff anymore.

Me:  So….there are too many to list?

Andy:  There are none to list, now seriously, I have to go fix a problem.

Me:  Well, what about my friends.  Which of my friends are prettier than me?

Andy:  *Sigh*

Me:  If you love me, you will be honest with me.  I just want to know who you are going to try to have sex after I die.

Andy:  Why are you dying?

Me: Why does anything die, Andy?  Nobody knows.  It’s like solar eclipses.

Andy:  Actually it’s not.  Most things die based on some kind of scientific reason.  And, I think you misunderstand what a solar eclipse is.

Me:  I feel like you are stalling.

Andy:  *groan*  I really have to fix something here.

Me: …

Andy:  None of them.  None of them are prettier than you.  In fact, I feel bad for your friends when you are around them, because you are CLEARLY the prettiest.

Me:  That was kinda harsh.

Andy:  Alright, I gotta go.

Me:  You should have married my second prettiest friend, so after they die, you could have sex with me.  That’s a no brainer, Andy.

Andy:  Why do we have to have sex with eachother’s friends after we die?  Why can’t we just be celibate and mourn the loss of each other for a few years.

Me:  You live in a fairytale, Andy.

Andy: Let’s talk about it when I get home, I have work I need to do.

Me:  I hope I don’t die before then.

Andy:…

Me:  Mark.  By the way.  I would sleep with Mark.

Andy: Noted.

Me:  Ok, now go fix the robots, so they don’t malfunction and start feeling human emotion and murder everyone.

Andy:  The robots build cars, and they don’t look like people.  Do you even know what I do for a living?

Me:  Are you saying my job doesn’t matter?  Why are you selfish 90% of the time?

Andy:  That sounds like fuzzy math.

Me: Don’t use Republican jargon on me.

Andy: Anddddd you’re not making sense.

Me:  Your FACE isn’t making sense.

And scene.

Everybody knows you are allowed to sleep with one of your spouse’s friends after they die.

It’s why we have wills.

Why do I have to be the person in charge of worrying about this stuff, Andy?

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One thing I learned early on, if you call in sick, always say it’s with diarrhea, because nobody ever questions you when you say you have diarrhea.

Same thing with parenting.

The baby is fussy, the boys are screaming and asking for, I don’t know, stuff, ANY STUFFS WILL DO, and Andy is playing Xbox, and I haven’t had a shower long enough to shave my bikini area into a shape other than crop circle in, like, two weeks.

So, I rub my stomach, and make a gassy face, and be all, here, take the baby, I need to go to the bathroom, my tummy hurts.

Which is the phrase we use when we have to poop, and yet, for some reason, don’t feel like we are mature enough to admit to each other that we do, in fact, poop.

So, I grab my Blackberry and sneak off to the bathroom so I have time to lock the door before the boys realize where I am headed and insist on joining me, because if labor prepares you for anything, it’s that you will never be in a room alone with your pants off, ever again.

I check twitter.  I read Perez Hilton.  When I hear footsteps in the hallway, I groan uncomfortably.

This is how I function with three kids.

I thought it  would be a bit more Mary Poppins, and a little less Survivor, but I’m adjusting.

It’s a process…that I will most likely grasp by the time my midlife crisis rolls around, which will be perfect, because I will need help getting up and around while I am recovery from my breast implants and tummy tuck.  I watch Dr. 90210, and there is no way I am going to be able to empty my body fluid drains without barfing.

Until the day comes that I don’t have to sweat my ass of in full body Spanx and jeans in the dead of summer, I will put on my martyr hat and shlep around in my full figure bra and my high briefs, and spend my days shuttling and tickling and bedtime reading and wiping and piggy counting and time outing and crying and eye bag treating and bathing and secret whispering and fart joking and wine drinking.

Which is infinitely easier when I have things like this crawling about.

I know, right?!

It’s been almost a year.

I didn’t know what to expect.

I didn’t expect to fall for her so fast.

Oh, sighhhhh…

I didn’t expect to already worry about boys breaking her heart or the colors of her wedding.

I didn’t expect the boys to be so gentle with her, or for Andy to swoon so much.

I will fuck them up, for reals.

And sure, I’ve had to explain why Jesus made her wiener fall off about 900 times, BECAUSE OMG HOW DOES SHE PEE WE SHOULD PUT ARMY GUYS IN THERE WHERE’S HER WEEEEEEEENNNNEEERRRRRR MAAAWWWWWMMMMM.

But, overall, she has made our family of five a whole, with very little interruption.

Cutest.  Thing.  Ever.

I mean, my body isn’t bouncing back this time.

And, I have hemorrhoids that aren’t going anywhere, any time soon.

But, on the plus side, this gets me out of anal sex for, like,  the rest of my life.

Which is way better than not having blood in your stool.

This is probably why Michelle Duggar has 19 kids.

Jim Bob loves to plow the backfield.

__________

*All photos courtesy the amazing Heather Durdil of Heather Durdil Photography, high five!

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The guy who sat in front of me in Political Science 145 smelled like a mix a baby powder and vinegar.

I was stuck behind him because the professor made us sit in alphabetical order.

His last name was Boda.

I remember it because it sounded like soda, which reminded me of baking soda, which made me laugh because vinegar and baking soda were what we used as kids to make our volcanoes erupt.

Isn’t word association fun!?

Anyways, all through the class, as the professor went on about international relations and human rights agendas, Boda would scratch away at his head, subconsciously pulling pieces of dry scalp from his hair.

And then eat it.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

For an entire quarter.

And, I thought, huh…this guy is never going to have sex with anyone.

Because, what type of person dates somebody who eats their own dandruff and smells like a giant, Baby Soft flavored douche?

For the first few weeks, I hated him.

He tested my gag reflux in a very unnatural way.

And, you know those guys who buzz their hair, even though they shouldn’t because their heads have bald spots and moles on it?

He was totally one of those guys.

Then, I thought, poor Boda.

You’re smelly, and you match your socks to your shirts, and no one is ever going to touch your penis, and fuck, that isn’t fair.

Even Gary Coleman gets his penis played with.

Even if it’s by a creepy, life like sex doll from Thailand.

And, Boda should, too.

I mean, sure, he ate his own scalp and his head smelled, but maybe his balls smelled totally normal?

He could find a nice, farsighted, midget girl.  Or boy.  Whatever.

I needed to help.

I have an innate need to fix people up.

I’m like a motherfucking yenta.

But, every time I thought I found myself a semi-attractive midget wearing glasses, it ended up being an over developed eight year old with bowed legs or freakish long monkey arms.

It was frustrating, I felt like such a failure.

At our final exam, for the first time ever, Boda turned around to talk to me.  He asked me to turn the Sex in the City ringer down on my phone (Clearly, Boda was a giant asshat with no taste).

And, then I saw it.

OMG clear braces.

And, that’s where I draw the line.

Because, I’ll help a smelly guy get laid, but I won’t ever sick a pair of adult clear braces on some girl’s poor vagina.

You’re welcome.

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James Brown was the hardest working man in show business.

But, Andy is the hardest working man in Brittany business.

Which is totally way harder and weirder than show business.

I am still nursing.

Well, obviously, the baby.  Not sure why I felt the need to clarify that.

I am not an RN and I feel weird letting other people near my nipples now that they look like fake rubber vomit.

But, on account of my nursing, my ability to control my anxiety disorder is out the door.

I can take Zoloft, but the low dose doesn’t help me and the high dose makes me feel drunk.

Like, show your pussy, make out with a mime, who’s actually not a mime at all, but rather the deaf guy in charge of handing out flyers outside the YMCA, drunk.

So, I go it alone.

Well, kinda alone.

I call Andy at work every thirty minutes or so, so he can reassure me I am too young to have a heart attack, or that disease where your skin turns into tree bark isn’t as common as they make it seem on TLC.

He lays in bed with me at night, talking to me about random things when I am afraid to go to sleep because I worry I won’t wake up, and taps his fingers along my back to remind me that I’m still there.

He uses a sliding scale to let me know where I am in my thoughts.  Sometimes crazy awesome.  Other times crazy weird.

He tells me my idea to raise shrimp in our pond in genius, and even agrees to be the one to harvest them.  On account of my fear of dead bodies.

He googled throat cancer with me for an hour because it felt weird when I swallowed.

And, he outbid somebody on ebay for a box of pug sized diapers.

Which I think Henry is going to be pretty psyched about once they get here from China.

Andy does a lot to maintain normalcy in our lives.

I adore him for it.

And it pays well…in crazy.

Crazy awesome.

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I am not one of those people who ever hated high school.

I had a pretty sweet deal most of the time.

I had great friends, a boyfriend, I played soccer and was on student council, sang in  Glee, I had the lead in high school Musicals, and was on the newspaper and secretary of the Spanish Club.  But, that last one really just meant we spent the day eating el pop tarts and writing notes about ugly people.

Something happened my senior year of high school.

I skipped Spanish so much I was no longer an elected officer.

I was cut from Glee Club which was ridiculous, because my harmony on Love Shack was fucking brilliance.

I lost out on the lead in Oklahoma, despite the amazing audition piece I had with my friend, Casey, who was auditioning for the male role.  Never mind my superb vocals, my Mennonite garage sale prairie skirt, and the passionate kiss at the end of our monologue.

I mean, it was pretty much as romantic as The Notebook.

If the girl in The Notebook wore toe rings and liked kissing boys who were both gay and had an unhealthy obsession with Savage Garden.

Regardless.

Everything I knew to be true that year changed.

I thought high school had ruined my life, but that was the year I decided I wanted to be a writer, I volunteered at an animal shelter, and lost my virginity in the back of an 1988 Honda Hatchback to a Tears for Fears song.

I mean, what else did I have to invest my time in?

Glee Club?  Play Practice?  Conjugating verbs?

Nope.

But, if you every have a need for discreet hand jobs on wobbly high school gymnasium bleachers or someone to roll you a really tight joint, I’m your girl.

I don’t even know why I spent so many years upset about this.  Clearly it was for the best.  Otherwise, I could have very well went to college a virgin, and not know my way around a set of balls (read: do not put them in your mouth on a first date).

Unless…I could have gotten the lead in Oklahoma and then been discovered, like Katie Holmes.  She lived, like, 30 minutes from me, and was totally discovered during her high school play.

Fuck.

I could have been on Dawson’s Creek.  In a series of bad movies.  Then awkwardly married to Tom Cruise, and moping around New York City with stringy hair and tight rolled boyfriend jeans with heels.

High school ruins everything.

I could be a Scientologist right now.

And best friends with Victoria Beckham.

I could keep my loose change in her clavicles.

You know what, high school?  You can suck it, I give really good hand jobs, I am happily married with three kids and I get paid to write about my private parts on the internet, and Casey is a famous musician with a super hot boyfriend.  And what do you have?  A budget deficit and a skyrocketing teenage pregnancy rate.

I win.

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When I was 15, I decided I wanted to get a tattoo.

A butterfly.  On my left hip.

No reputable tattoo parlor would tattoo a 15 year old girl without parental permission.   Or pierce my private parts.

Thank God for ice cubes, apple slices, lighters and safety pins.

But I never let things go.  Ever.

I was getting that damn tattoo, so I asked around until I found a really scary looking guy who agreed to do it for me at his house for $75.

Which seemed like a totally awesome idea.

I mean, what could go wrong?

A 50 year old man with gray hair down to his waist, a gigantic python tank in the kitchen, and a coffin shaped coffee table in his living room?

This guy is clearly not at all a serial killer.

My best friend Jordan held my hand as I laid on his dining room table.

It hurt so bad, and that fucking snake stared at me the whole time.  Probably because it planned to eat my body after this guy raped and chopped me up.

I am such a good decision maker.

I hid that tattoo from my father for 2 years, until one day I was careless in a bikini.

I was taken to the plastic surgeon the next day to get it removed.

Back then, they didn’t laser them off, they just cut them out.

It was the worst surgery I ever had, next to getting my wisdom teeth out, and the only reason that trumps the tattoo removal is because the anesthesia made me vomit for 14 hours straight.  And, you can’t vomit when your face is numb.

You re-eat, like, half of it.

The doctor who did my tattoo removal was a family friend.  And, by family friend, I mean, he did three of the four of my Great Uncle Frank’s face lifts.

My Great Uncle Frank’s face looks like Heidi Montag, but behind his ears, where they keep hiding his oldness, looks like a retired porn star’s vagina.

My parents also appear to have questionable decision making skills.

It took 6 months for that hole in my hip to heal, and if you look at the scar hard enough, it still looks like a butterfly, if you like, put a crayon in Stephen Hawking’s mouth and asked him to draw one.

Even so, still totally a butterfly.  I win.

Our second year of college, I got this really awesome idea about Andy and I getting matching tattoos.

Because, like my elementary school principal, Sister Mary Beth (aka Sister Mary Death) told my parents, I never learn.

Plus, Andy had never gotten a tattoo before, and there is nothing I love more than seeing people in pain because of my actions.

Sigh.  Boys with ink are soooo sexy.

As long as it’s not a Looney Toons Character.  Or lyrics from a Jesse McCarthy song.  Or anything, that in any way, makes your belly button look like something’s butt hole.

I have now decided, because it’s almost Valentine’s Day, I am going to get something of relevance tattooed on my wedding ring finger to show Andy how awesome of a wife I am.

Marriage pissing match?  Owned.

Pam and Tommy did it, and even though they are technically divorced, they still totally bone.   They are in it for life, and while some say it’s because they both have Hepatitis C, I am sure it’s because of the tattooed wedding rings.

So, I am now debating what to get on my finger.  I wanted to get Drew because it looks pretty in cursive and when Andy and I first started dating, I tried to get him to start using that half of his real name, but he wouldn’t have it.

How romantic does Brittany and Drew sound?!

He is obviously  selfish and refuses to look at the bigger picture.

Whatever, Drew.

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I get emails.  Here is where I answer some of them.

1.  This new site is amazing thanks to the design genius of Maria and Andi from BigSea Design.   It’s like they crawled into my brain and created exactly what I didn’t have the words to convey.  I went to them with a bunch of “ums” “wells”  “blargs” and “make me pretties,” and they turned out something that I can only describe as absolute rad-ness.  Thank you ladies, I can’t wait to work with you both again on even more projects!

2.  Gigi’s Flower Monkey hat?  I got it here, they are awesome, tell them I sent you!

3.  Yes.  I kiss my mother.  With this mouth.

4.  Oh look up top, you can shop now!

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So, I just looked at my cousin’s Homecoming pictures on Facebook.

The good news, she is adorable.

The bad news, I am pretty sure I’m now illegitimately pregnant with the child of a 16 year old boy who looks like he doesn’t shower any more and has a trucker hat on.

But, it’s cool, because 8 of my friends are also pregnant.  We totally planned it that way.

Like a pact.

When did teenagers start going to dances looking like bad sex?

I mean, no one had a bra on, and the boys basically had their wieners out.  I am surprised there wasn’t jizz all over the floor the way they were all touching each other.

OMG I am the minister from Footloose.

(sidenote:  I hate typing the word jizz, and I always spell the word wieners wrong.  Thanks spell check!)

Sigh.

In short: EVERYONE HAS GONORRHEA.

And, by gonorrhea, I mean Ed Hardy shirts and eye glitter.

I just don’t remember it being like that when I was a teenager.

We wore flannel, and listened to altrock, and only gave blow jobs to people we dated longer than a month.

I should totally become a Sex Ed teacher.

I would be like, listen, you can have sex if you want, but only do it if you want your clitoris to hang down to your ankles and your balls to itch.  For the rest of your life.

And then, I would show them the video of when my perineum ripped during childbirth.

Nobody would have sex again.

See, Republicans?  You are doing it wrong.

Less Jesus.  More Taint.

Hopefully by the time my kids are teenagers, everyone will live in their own personal bubble, so their private parts can’t touch.

Clearly, I have time.

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I can’t fire people.

I do not have it in me.

If I am ever in the position to fire someone, I would hire someone to do it for me.

Because I would probably cry.  And lose control of my bowels.

Unless that person did something really, really bad.

Like slept with my husband or touched small children or animals inappropriately.

Because that is disgusting.

No matter how cute the dog is.

On that note, I have only ever been fired once, and it wasn’t even a real firing, because I had totally already quit.

I was an event planner for a local country club, and my boss was this four foot tall Australian Oompa Loompa from hell.

Have you ever been yelled at by an Aussie who barely clears your pubic hair?

It’s scary.

I mean, she looked like a chubby little baby, and you just wanted to pick her up and pat her red little back until she burps, only instead of burping, she would, like, eat out your jugular.

It was a difficult place to work.

I was too apathetic to price gouge brides on cheap fillets and room temperature shrimp.

After a year, while my boss was on a walkabout*, I turned in my two week notice.

Because, honestly, she scared the fuck out of me.

She called me the next day and bitched me out in some crazy ass English-Aboriginal hybrid, threatened to rip my rectum out, started sobbing, and then asked me to stay on another month until she came home.

I really didn’t have anything else going on, so I did.

Each day at work, I would do the walk of shame, unshowered, in the previous day’s mascara, smelling like Big Macs and beer.   I showed the facility in nylons speckled with nail polish where the runs had started, and had baby powder in my hair to hide the grease.

My boss came back to work to find me in my office watching Maury Povich and eating a Taco Supreme.  I smelled like a bong.

She left and then returned 10 minutes later with the security guy.  She told me I had to leave, and not steal anything.

I was shocked.

What the hell would I steal?

Chair cover samples?  The dignity I left behind in the other room when I was bargaining the buffet price of Chicken Cordon Blue?  Her little person shoes?

She escorted me the whole way out.

When we got to the door, she wished me good luck in life.

I called her a whore and told her to go home to Middle Earth.

I cried the whole drive home.

Some days, I still day dream about her being deported, like Elian Gonzalez, only instead of this cute little Cuban boy voice, she is screaming and all red faced like a tiny little Australian Sam Kinison.

It’s the best day dream ever.

*All my Australian terminology comes from Crocodile Dundee.  You’re welcome.  Mate.

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