Saturday, December 3, 2011

No Bovine November

Or what I tried to refer to as “No-Bovine-mber” for about a minute, but was too hard even for me to say.  My second attempt at quitting something for a 30-day period bombed, there’s really just no other way to say it.  After a successfully unsuccessful Sober October (read it!) No Bovine November stood to really make a statement in my life, or at least in my lower intestines.

Here’s the backstory:  I decided that I would pump Lent up on steroids, because I’m not Catholic, and quit something each month for 12 consecutive months.  I’m trying to choose things that would be beneficial for me to temporarily stop partaking in, to see if it would overwhelmingly better my life to quit that thing all together.  Sober October was a no-brainer; we all could cut back on the sizzurp.  But after seeing zero positive effects, I gladly (and quickly) reintroduced booze back into my life.  And just a quick word of advice:  after not drinking for an entire month, you unfortunately must ease yourself back into it.  Just ask Danea’s toilet and the sidewalk outside of Couture.

Anyway, my next journey would take me to a magical land of no beef, where I might get a glimpse into the world of vegetarianism.  If no cow for one month improved my internal wellbeing, then I might actually continue on to quit other 4-legged consumables.  But there were two obstacles I was up against for November, two that I really should have foreseen but was too cocky pay attention to.

I did not do this, nor did I honestly think I needed to.  Cow = beef, and beef = hamburgers, roast beef, beef and broccoli, ground beef, shredded beef, and all cuts of steak.  Easy enough right?  If it had the word “beef” in it I was going to steer[1] clear.  Ohhh, but what little Brenda didn’t know is that lots of things that her cute little brain always thought was piggy, was in fact probably cow.  Like:  pepperoni, salami, Lit’l Smokies, all stews and soups from a can, gravy on biscuits and gravy, and probably all “meat” from Taco Bell.  All things that she heartily consumed without hesitation or second thought during the month of November.  Switching back to first person, I honestly broke my rule without even knowing it.  I was sadly informed after consuming three of the previously mentioned items.

Being confronted with my first couple mistakes, I desperately tried to get back on my no-beef train.  As much as my heart was in the right place, my brain was not.  Ordering nachos with ground beef on top didn’t wave any red flags to me.  (Luckily I was with a devout vegetarian, who glared at me because, despite being good friends for the better of six years, I always forget she is a vegetarian.)  I honestly was forgetting that I was supposed to eliminate beef from my diet.  This can’t be contributed to my lack of effort at all; I am very dedicated to my overall mission here. 

As a legitimate Scientist,[2] I must look back at my experiment’s failure, and hypothesize what went wrong.  Could it be that after 26 years of cow consuming I am incapable of switching solely to white meat?  No; this wasn’t an incapable thing, just a short-term memory loss thing.  And a blonde thing.[3]  If happy cows come from California, so do yellow-haired girls that forget to quit eating them.  As a Scientist, I deduce that in order to be successful at this attempt again, I must remove all cow and pig from my diet, in order to dissolve any confusion.  It may have been that quitting bovine wasn’t a big enough task, therefore easily forgotten.  There is a lot in the alcohol family to remember:  beer, wine, vodka, whiskey, tequila, rum, well you get the picture.  Perhaps I must change my method to include significant changes in my habits, not just small alterations.  Stay tuned for next year; when I cut all 4-legged animals out of my diet, including Darwin’s fish.

[1] Excuse my pun.
[2] Not a legitimate Scientist in any sense of the word.
[3] Don’t expect to hear me say something like that ever again.  Savor it.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Answer is Always “Meaningless Sex”

OK.  I know we’re all still reeling from the shock that I, Brenda Johnson (née), landed such a killer dude.  No, no.  I didn’t marry an axe murderer, that’s just my 1992 way of saying he’s totally awesome.  (Circa ’93)  To say that I landed some not-so-killer dudes before him would be a disrespectful understatement.  In fact, eight years worth of imbeciles I had to riffle through to find the one.  From the 16 year old that wrecked two jacked-up trucks and ditched me on the day of my freshman homecoming dance, to the PTSD employee of mine with the palm tree tattoo on his back that read “Loyalty” I mistakenly had a fling with the summer after college.  Those are two very mild examples, be-tee-dubs[1].  Just a long list of winners; some real, bronze medal, Special Olympian winners.  In fact, another thing they all had in common was that they were all absolute, text-book douche bags.  When friends ask me how I found the one I shake my head, raise my shoulders, and grunt something that sounds like ‘idunno’.  I like to think that my Knight in shining armor was my reward for saying “no” to the ultimate used catheter[2] who finally “came around” just when I met someone else.  But that really wouldn’t give my husband enough credit at all.

I hate to bore you out of your gourds and noggins so I will continue on to the juicy, delicious, red grass-fed meat of my story.  I have tried to come up with some dating tips for my single friends, “enlighten them” as you will, about how to find the right mate.  And don’t get me wrong – being single is not a bad thing!  I really can’t emphasize this enough.  I was pretty much single most of my life and I had a ridiculously fantastic time full of wild adventures and amazing friends.  But when you’re ready to cross the bridge of no return that is “finding the one” there are a few things that I think will make the experience more successful for the average to could-turn-into-a-cat-lady individual.

1.  Be single.  Like I said before, I really just cannot say this enough.  If I had never been single I would have never:
1.      Rode a party bus with my best friend and our 2 gentlemen callers of the evening – an amputee and a legal midget.
2.      Bought my puppy Bob Dylan who is unquestionably the best sort-of dog in the doggone world.
3.      Or win a dance off at John Henry’s on Burlesque night that got me a handful of cash and several shots of…whisky maybe?
Being single really shapes you into your true self, and ensures that you have your own stash of secret memories that you can live vicariously enough through to last you 20-30 years of happiness.  Conversely, make sure your future prospective partner does the same.  You don’t want your sig oth of two years to jump ship because they ache to know what “meaningless”[3] sex feels like.  I guess what I’m trying to say is have meaningless sex before you settle down.  Protected, meaningless sex.  No babies.  Embracing your singleness will make you more confident, which will make you more attractive, which will make you more likely to snag a jewel of a suitor. 

2.  Be picky.  Get into a relationship only when that person is worth getting in a relationship with.  And NO, not every guy is worth getting into a relationship with.  In fact most guys aren’t worth getting into a relationship with!  Girls are about 50/50.  Serial monogamists are my biggest pet peeve, second to that Pez dispenser Michelle Duggar, and, while also breaking rule #1, are lessening their chance at finding the right person.  They use a relationship as an excuse to get out of their other one.  When relationships are becoming your way in and out of a relationship, you really have a psychological carousel nightmare on your hands.  Odds are you’re not looking for the perfect person when you’re itching to get away from the dud you’ve been dating but just can’t seem to grow a ball or two to actually dump them.  People that are content to live unhappily in a blah or unhealthy relationship don’t have positive vibes burning through their skull, and those on the outside can certainly sense it.  A quality bachelor/ette is not going to be attracted to your insecure stench, so I say let the ol’ ball ‘n chain loose, eat a tub of Shweddy Balls ice cream, watch Ghost 3-8 times consecutively, and get on with your life!  (Again, commence with meaningless sex.)

3.  Meet people.  I can’t tell you how annoying it is for someone to listen to you bitch about how “I just can’t seem to meet the right guy” yet every Saturday night when I invite you out it’s just another excuse why you’re going to stay in, watch Ghost, and munch on Ben and Jerry’s.  Get a gee golly clue and realize that if you wanted Prince Charming to land on your doorstep without an iota of effort, move to f--king India and get an arranged marriage!  For the third and final time I will advise you to go out and have meaningless sex!  What this will do for you is get you out of the house, make you put less pressure on the idea of the perfect virgin individual that will steal your heart on a white horse, and relieve all that celibate tension and prudeness that you’ve been building up and judging me with.  If anyone were to ever say to me that I didn’t deserve my thoughtful and patient husband because I used to hang out with a lot of guys I might rip their face off.  Then, when I stitched their face back on, I would remind them that you must actually put yourself out in the world for that super special person to find you one day.  Girls that lock themselves up and can’t have fun don’t attract me and I don’t even have a wiener.  Also, men that use the excuse that ladies don’t like them – stop trying to meet hot, blonde 10’s and actually ask out a girl of your own caliber.  They’re better in bed anyway.

There are so many more things that you should and shouldn’t do to meet your Perfect Match at[4]  And don’t you pee your little trousers, I will write about them soon.  These are the basics and the essentials.  Without these rules you will be alone and miserable the rest of your life.  OK, maybe not alone, but they’re really healthy and positive ways to live by, more than to just meet your “other half”.  Keep in mind that there is so much more to life than being in a relationship.  Even the best relationships still suck at times, and like you’ve heard time and again, you’ll find someone when you least expect it.  Honest to goodness.  The less pressure you put on yourself and the more you focus on a full life, the more someone else will want to be a part of it.

Now excuse me while I stop being such a vagina.

[1] Be-tee-dubs, also known as BTW, also known as ‘by the way’ if you live under a Geico sponsored rock.
[2] A used catheter is much worse than a douche bag, and should be used sparingly.
[3] I put meaningless in quotations in this example because your first try at meaningless sex is undoubtedly not meaningless. It really takes practice.  Just don’t take too much practice; that would make you a Jezebel.
[4] Actually, that’s my exception to Rule #3,  Meet hundreds of people just like you, from the comfort and safety of your hoarded home, just make sure to lower your standards by 79%.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Sober October

About two months ago I realized that I really like to drink, and found a reason to drink during most occasions.  If there’s ever an occasion where I can’t drink I either A. sneak booze in, or B. don’t attend.  I also thought that I may or may not have addictions to other things, such as cigarettes, food, and generally being a lazy asshole.  All this bad behavior came to a head when on a road trip in September I realized that I felt like crap the entire time.  Eating out most meals, drinking at them too, and trying to climb a mountain when I hadn’t hit the gym in over a month – just hit the Camel Lights – was really taking its toll on me.  I really shouldn’t be feeling this old or unhealthy, and got this idea that I would try giving up some of these habits.  Like the Catholics do during Lent.

Let me clarify: no, I am definitely not Catholic, but sometimes I like what they do.  Like getting wasted on a Tuesday night, dressing like a carnival tranny, and flashing their boobies to complete strangers.  Or pouring water on a baby’s face, calling it a baptism, and hoping that the thing might drown in the process, solving a problem that arose nine months ago.  So the holy Catholics give up one thing every year during a 40 day period called Lent, intended to represent the torture and temptation that Jesus went through, trolling through the desert one time.  (I’m not really sure how Mardi Gras is supposed to honor God, but hey – to each denomination their own.)

So I got this amazing idea to do my own Lent.  Problem: how do I pick which vice to quit?  Those of you that know me know that I come up with ingenious ideas 90% of the time.  What if I outdid those hypocritical titty flashing Catholics and did a whole year of Lent?!  I would chew Lent up and spit it out, and give up a different bad habit every month for twelve months,   starting with the vice that may cause the biggest issues for me in the future, and the one that started this fantastical idea in the first place: alcohol.  I’ll give up alcohol first, for one whole month.  And if in the end I feel no better, look no thinner, and make it through without a meltdown, then I will know that I can go back to drinking with zero guilt and a whole lot of catching up to do.


Sober October began like any other month.  The crisp autumn air blew through the trees; their red and yellow leaves illuminated like flames, eventually falling to the earth below.  I had given my comrades plenty of pre-warning that sobriety would soon take place, to prepare them for the chain smoker that I would become.  I’d convince them to hang out with me by offering myself as a 27-day designated driver.  (The first of October I had a wedding to attend, and the 28th of October I had Halloween to celebrate.  Let’s not get stuck on the details.)  Here’s the thing about being the only douche not drinking.  Everything is lame.  People are lame.  Places are lame.  And most importantly you are lame.  Your friends don’t want to hang out with you because they can tell you are having an insanely miserable time!  (Which answered a question or two I had about some people.)  Every party has a pooper, and for an entire month that pooper was me!  I couldn’t wait to drink and be normal and pee 20 times in one evening and make friends with total ‘tards[1] again!

That’s not even the worst part.  Every 26 year old woman knows that the little extra lovin’[2] she has on her hips and can’t get rid of is due to eight solid years of Burnett’s flavored vodka mixed with Sobe.   The ‘Freshman 15’ doesn’t catch up to some of us until after college but it will, just you wait.  So when I decided not to drink for a month I assumed that I might lose at least a smidgen of tummy lovin’, maybe even a little in the face.  Nope.  This half saddened me, half made me extremely excited.  Saddened because a no-effort weight loss/but sober tradeoff would have been awesome.  Excited because it meant that my switch to vodka-sodas with a lemon hadn’t added any unnecessary lbs.  It took me until ¾’s of the way through Sober October to realize that 27 days without booze couldn’t possibly make up for the 2,920 days of beer pong, half gallon pulls, and tic tacs.  For how little alcohol I consume I’d have to think about calling it quits for a much longer period of time to see any real results.  (I might really need to take this diet and exercise thing more seriously.)

So in the end Sober October taught me that I have dedication, determination, an ass like Beyoncé’s, and an extreme desire to never go more than a week (2 days) without a glass of Chianti.  I can only hope that each coming month can teach me as insignificant of lessons as Sober October did.

Stay tuned to next month’s NO-BOVINE-MBER![3]  (I’m really sticking with the religion theme, aren’t I?  Hello Hinduism!)

[1] ‘Tard is not short for anything.  I pinky promise.
[2] Lovin’ is my new word for chub.  It makes it seem more attractive, right?
[3] I want to take this time to apologize to those who were forced interact with me this month; I won’t do it again until I know there’s a little hazelnut brewing inside my uterus. 

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again:  drugs are bad, mmmkay?  They’re fun, but they’re bad.  Rehab is when drugs stop being fun.  Amy needed to go to rehab.

But she said no.

And now she done got herself killed.  I once watched a TV special on Amy in which all her childhood teachers said she was an extreme talent.  Well that’s too bad, because no one took the time to listen; we all just sat in wait while she drank herself hideous.

It’s Hollywood’s biggest case of “I told you so” so far.  No one’s been focused on her musical ability, but asking themselves how it was legal to let this girl go about her life without a mandatory 24 hour suicide watch.  Now she’s part of the 27 club, with some actual geniuses, but we’re all just talking about the rehab.

I wonder how her daddy’s doing?  He thought she was fine.  And I don’t even give a shit about her autopsy report because it’s not going to tell me a damn thing I don’t already know.  Why did Amy think this would be a good idea?  The only lyrics I know off her whole album is the chorus to her one hit wonder; how could she have possibly thought that her fame would last much longer than 30 seconds after her demise?

This just in, my sources are telling me she had 2 albums.  Great, even more music that no one’s ever listened to.

I apologize; I don’t know why I’m being so sassy.

I guess I should feel bad for her?  But I can’t.  The only thing I’m going to miss about Amy Winehouse was that Elvira beehive.  Shit, if I want to sit and listen to a sultry jazz voice, I’ll smoke an entire pack of Marlboros on my balcony in 30 minutes and karaoke You Know I’m No Good, and preferably the Ghostface version.  This isn’t the first Hollywood RIP, so sad, too bad, don’t let the door hit you on your way out tribute.  I’m just so sick of it anymore.  I was totally bummed out when I heard that Ryan Dunn died, but good God, that man lived more than nine lives, and could have gotten more people killed driving that way.  At least he went out in a speeding car of flames (I’m sure Johnny wishes he had that on tape for Jackass 4G).

I guess it will take me becoming disgustingly famous before I understand why these “stars” do this to themselves.  I’ve never been the world’s most sympathetic person, but c’mon.  Hollywood deaths used to shock the nation, but now I’m taking cash and checks in my poll to see who’s next.  These things seem to come in 3’s and I’ve got $20.00 on Sheen, and $5.00 on Lohan. 

Always $5.00 on Lohan.