Bryanna and the City

Monday, January 30, 2006

That's, 2 steps forward, 1 step back?



I could get into all the dirty details, but even I'm asking myself "what were you thinking?" so I don't need to hear it from anyone else. I get it.

A man who speaks and looks like an ass-hole.

Plain and simple, yo. I get it. However, I'm not happy that I took two steps back, so to make up for this lapse in sanity I'll have to take 4 steps forward next time...or something like that.

Sorry for the somewhat crazy post.

Someone woke me up at 8:00 am this morning. It was a blocked call. And they hung up as soon as I answered. The point is, I don't open my eyes until 9:00 am these days and I'm a little frazzled.

Okay, so that's all. Oh, and on a good note, I haven't cried in about a week...I think it's the sans ass-hole thing :)

P.S. If YOU ever read this: I WANT MY EARRINGS BACK.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

"I don't have any panties on"

I was having some trouble deciding what to entitle this blog entry...I contemplated a few other titles such as "Rescue 9-11", "What the Skunk is That Smell?", "Just a Regular Saturday Night in the Ol' Basement Suite" and "Actually, it was the police department I needed"...However, in the end,"I don't have any panties on" won out because, well, panties is fun to type and say.

So, at approximately 11:00 p.m. last night, while washing my face and getting ready for bed, my nostrils detected a rather familiar smell...affectionately known as eau de Skunk. However, upon exiting the bathroom, my eyes and nostrils were assaulted with the most disgusting, eye stinging odor that I have EVER encountered. Okay, imagine a house, imagine a pissed off skunk and then imagine what it would smell like if that pissed off skunk was, indeed, INSIDE the house....well, there was no skunk inside the house, but gawddamn, it sure smelled like it.

My roomates, Danice and Beth, and I spent a few moments discussing and laughing about the potency of this skunk scent inside the house, even with all the windows shut. I however, had a feeling that this smell could possibly be something even more horrible than a skunk and perhaps not even a skunk at all, but in, propane gas. After retreating to our seperate rooms, I investigated this possibility with google and google seemed to agree:

Propane has a strong, unpleasant smell like rotten eggs, a skunk's spray, or a dead animal. Propane manufacturers add the smell deliberately to help alert customers to propane leaks, which can create a safety hazard.

Not wanting to perish in a firey ball of flames during the night, I quickly ran to Danice's room and revealed my suspicion. We decided to investigate the situation and, to make a long part of the story short, we both agreed that the source of the smell was coming from a vent on the side of the house and the source was actually from INSIDE THE HOUSE!

We ran back into the house to alert Beth, who had no pants on (we let her put some on), ran across the street and phoned the fire department. While waiting for the truck to arrive, we laughed about what we were wearing, however, I was the only one in my pajamas and, indeed, had no panties on (my mom would not approve, but I think the rule was "always wear a clean pair of panties in case of an emergency"..does no panties count?). Five minutes later, the truck arrived and not even parking, the fireman rolled down his window and said with a grin, "it's a skunk". After a few minutes of discussion about the smell and its strange potency inside the house, the five men and their truck left us...very embarassed, but even more upset that there was nothing we could do to solve the skunk smell problem.

Back in the house, in an attempt to seek out fresher air, we went upstairs and chatted for about 10 minutes and then decided to go back downstairs and call it a night. Not 2 minutes later we heard the creak of footsteps on the floor above us. We all thought that we were alone in the house. Our landlords were coming home the next night and their daughter rarely stayed over, the lights were off just minutes before and we didn't hear anyone come in. I was laughing so hard that I think I pulled a muscle...thinking about having to call 9-11 for the second time that night..this time requesting the police department (yes, I think there's an intruder in my house).

After getting our shoes on for the second time that night, we ran from the house in order to get a safer view of the unknown person upstairs. It turned out to be our landlord's daughter and when we went back inside, the first thing she said to us was, "I saw a skunk".

*Edited out funny fact from the night #1: Before leaving the house the first time, Beth turned down the heat register. I almost had a heart attack and screamed "don't touch it!"

**Edited out funny fact from the night #2: Danice, in response to the idea that it could be an intruder upstairs, declared "that would be r*t*rd*d". To which I responded through a fit of laughter, "well, I'm not going to get killed because you think it's r*t*rd*d!"

***Edited out funny fact from the night #3: When the firefighter told us to contact pest control about the skunk and that animals sometimes live inside old houses, I responded "I know, we have rats".

****Edited out funny fact from the night#4: While we were outside waiting for the truck to arrive, Danice and I complained of sore stomachs and headaches...drama queens.

Friday, January 27, 2006

"Big Syndrome"

I recently discovered that I suffer from something I'd like to refer to as "Big Syndrome". Okay, any fan of Sex and the City knows that Mr. Big was a huge ASS for the first and second a season and then rather unrealistically turned into an "okay" guy for the rest of the series. For those of you who have watched every episode at least three times (like moi), I want you to think back to the episode when Carrie gets back together with Big (I think it's the second time) and she wants him to meet her friends. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about Big (Carrie's boyfriend) agrees to go out for dinner with Carrie and her friends (Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte), but at the last minute, for a reason I can't remember, decides not go. So, Carrie meets up with her friends at the restaurant and is just about to tell them that Big is not coming (Miranda knows Big's an ass and already thinks he won't come), when Big comes walking down the stairs into the restaurant to their table....the BIG F-ING HERO. Now, the first time I saw this, my heart melted a bit....and I may have let out an "awww", but now it makes me want to throw my Cosmo (or glass of water) at the TV screen. All he did was do what he orginially said that he would do and just by showing up and not disappointing Carrie he's depicted as a great guy. Um, what? When did "just" sticking to your word become anything more than just sticking to your word?

When I thought about it some more, I, along with many other women I know, suffer from "Big Syndrome". It goes something like this, when you're so used to being disappointed by someone, you develop an immunity to it, so much so, that when they actually fail to disappoint, they are suddenly a wonderful person in your eyes. Common decency is suddenly replaced with something akin to an act of God. Oh, wow, you phoned when you said you were going, you're my hero! My, oh my, we actually are going out for dinner and a movie, instead of staying home and ordering take-out like you promised?!! Baby, I LOVE YOU! I think you get what I mean.

The sad thing is, when I actually dated someone a couple years ago who actually did all these things (phoned when he said he would, was ALWAYS early to pick me up, rarely broke plans and if he did, gave me ample warning and always made it up to me), I was COMPLETELY BLOWN AWAY. When I told him this, he laughed and told me that he always did this for people he respected, which is just common sense.

I know that recovering from "Big Syndrome" is going to take some practice and may be a long process, but I'm willing to try because I'm slowly realising that BABY I'M WORTH IT!

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

You can't keep a good rat down...or out!

Originally uploaded by bryanna1.
Just in case you figured my little rat problem had been solved.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006



Sexuality Prof: With a show of hands, please, how many people's parents taught them that masturbation was a natural and good thing?
Me: *looking around at the other 65 people in my class whose hands are down...I slowly raised my hand*

Talk to your children.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006


Originally uploaded by bryanna1.
One of my many New Year's resolutions is to be more self-assertive. By "self-assertive" I mean *excuse me while I rummage through my old Psych 320 notes*...ah, okay, by "self-assertive" I mean "communicating [my] needs and wants in an effort to gain another's understaning or compliance." In other words, I want to stop being such a passive and/or passive aggressive ninny and start getting WHAT. I. WANT.

So far, things have been going well. I took a dip in the scary self-assertion bath last weekend and expressed my feelings or rather my hurt/damaged/confused feelings to the man I've been dating for the past two months and although I blubbered through the whole thing, it felt wonderful to actually express myself and be understood and validated (well, between sobbing fits he could understand).

In all my relationships, I don't think I've ever been fully honest about what I wanted or how I felt about the relationship. Instead, I usually waited to know what he wanted or what he was ready for or what he was able to give me. And if it wasn't what I wanted I either let the relationship die off or remained for a while, unhappy and resentful. More than anything, it was my lack of communication that sabotaged my previous relationships.


Okay, this is getting very Dr. Phil-esque.

Actually, you know what? I feel that you should listen to my drivel and I want you to like it!

Um, yeah, self-assertion...self-assertion...

Friday, January 13, 2006


Originally uploaded by bryanna1.
After spending two years "living it up" in jolly ol' sisters have returned to us. Although I am very grateful and happy about their return (mostly to share in the madness which is our family), with it comes the criticisms that only sisters can bestow.

For example, while enjoying a nice dinner with our parents, my oldest sister blurted out something to the effect of "Bryanna has funny lips...'Joker' lips".

So lets back up a little...when I was about 12 years old, one of my sisters commented on my "widows peak", taking it to be a "bad thing"...I...I...shaved. it. off. Yes, I am a freak. It took years to grow back and I suffered many motifying comments at the mouths of my sisters.

Anyways, the point is that whenever my sisters comment on any part of me, they usually end it with, "she'll probably cut/shave/amputate it tomorrow". Ahh...the loveliness of having sisters. But don't worry, I don't take such things lying down, so to speak, anymore.

The rest of the night was spent arguing about who had the nicest lips and who acutally "had" lips at all.

There isn't really a point to this post, I just didn't have anything else to write about.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

"you little shit!!!"

Usually when someone witnesses a *rat running up a flight of stairs inside his or her home, he or she screams and allows it to run away and hide. I, however, prefer to chase after it while screaming, "you little shit...git yo' ass back here!!!!"....which I did about five minutes ago and my skin is still crawling.


The Beauty true.

My schedule for this semester is pretty pimp. I get a three day weekend, plus my earliest class starts at 2 pm. So, what does one do with all this time in the morning before class? Some reading for one's courses? Watch tv? Clean the house? Oh no, no, no , no, silly people. One does her hair for three HOURS...ha ha ha...oh, fiddilly-dee, what a life for me!!!

The Liberals made me cry.

For the past month or so, I've been an emotional time-bomb...not that anyone is actually aware of this fact (I know how to hide it well). I'm not entirely sure why, exactly, I'm not depressed, I'm actually quite content at the moment, but the strangest things have caused me to well up in tears. Just last night, I had to stop myself from bawling after watching I Liberal commercial for the upcoming election...yeah, politics is sad, no? And that's not even the strangest one. Perhaps the sad part about this election is knowing that no matter who wins, our country is going to be run by a male twat.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

...and this is why I lurve my program...

During my first class in my "Sociology 369: Sexuality" course....

Prof: This isn't a "how-to" course, I'm not going to give you sex tips, however, don't be surprised if your sex life improves after taking this course.

"This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin"

I hate, hate, HATE it when people play songs for me and ask if I know this group or that it's a gawddamn competition or something. People do it to me ALL THE TIME! I'm NOT a music person, yes, I like it, yes, I dance all the time to music. But I'm not a collector. I don't have an iPod. I don't download music. I buy c.d.'s and I use a Walkman when I go for runs. I like music. But it's not my life. So, please, please stop asking me if I've "heard of this group", or "this song". Grrr.....However, yesterday this exact thing happened to me with one of my roommates, which I didn't mind because I ended up actually LIKING the song. It's by a group called "Stars" and the song is "Ex-Lover is Dead".

God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across pont champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad I
was trying to remember your name…

This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin

It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love…

Live through this, and you won't look back…
Live through this, and you won't look back…
Live through this, and you won't look back…

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say

I'm not sorry there's nothing to say...

The hardest thing about beginning a relationship

is knowing when to end it.

Well, for me, that is.

I'm a notorious second-chance-giver. Even when I know in my head that the crappiness of a particular person, or dynamics of a relationship will not change, I continue to have hope, that maybe, just maybe he gets it this time, that things will be "better", but they never are. Never. Well, yes, perhaps for the next two weeks or even the next month, everything is just peachy. He calls you when he says he's going to. He holds your hand while you walk to the market to pick up some food for dinner. He does not forget or cancel date plans....yes, he's "perfect". You're perfect. it's all coming up roses....and then things slowly erode and you're back at the crappy beginning cursing his name, planning your break-up speach, just waiting for him to make just one more dumb-ass move that would warrant you to dump his sorry ass and exit the relationship a woman scorned and single...again.

Or, at least that's how it works with me.

I guess the only thing harder than knowing when to end a actually doing it.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

36, 24, 36...or something like that.

My bestfriend is getting married in August. She phoned me a couple of nights ago frantic for my measurements because the colour for the dresses that she chose is soon to be discontinued. So, luckily, I had to get some newly purchased jeans hemmed because I'm short and that's what short people do. I wasn't sure if random measurement taking was part of a tailor's job requirements, but when I asked her she was more than happy to strap a blue ribbon around my bust, waist and hips. If 36, 24, 36 is the ideal...let's just say I'm a little off...lacking in some areas and over abundant in others...when she told me my hip measurement (read: ass) I realised that my trunk was packing some definite junk and I'm a get, get, get, get, you is all.