Pressing On.

I woke up today to my mother throwing a cat at my head and hurriedly explaining that the work men that our landlord hired to renovate our bathroom were here. On time. For once. Antonio's an older Portuguese/Italian guy who show's up at least four hours after he says he will, if he shows at all. So I was expecting to sleep in this morning. Which I could seriously need after my 3AM bedtime last night.
But no, I had to get up and round up the cats into one room so no one made a great escape into the great outdoors through the open walls. Two of our cats are feral. Which, after thinking about it for a minute makes them very much like old Vietnam vets. They're both incredibly paranoid and won't let you near them, and they know without a Shadow of a doubt that you're out to kill them, so they should at least attempt to kill you first. 20 minutes and some blood later I'm watching Tony, Antonio's much younger helper watch awkwardly as Antonio dives head first through the open bathroom window. Antonio is absolutely terrified of my dogs, which is slightly hypocritical seeing as he has several lovely family Pit Bulls sitting at home.

Tony, at the risk of getting caught laughing at his boss turns away and awkwardly pats a dog on the head.

Then it's all noise. They're tearing down walls and breaking windows and for some horrible reason - listening to Rhianna on repeat.

Today is also my mothers birthday, which of course, means I must make a half hearted attempt at baking. Please don't get me wrong, I love the idea of baking. I love the measuring and the checking and the frosting and all of that other cool stuff. However, the fact that I have yet to make a cake that doesn't collapse in on itself weighs heavily on my mind. A box of instant cake mix later, and I'm well on my way to another magical collapsing cake.

I start to worry about the boy that ever decides they want to marry me. Poor soul.

It's also at this point when I hear Antonio chattering on in a mix of Portuguese and English very similar to spanglish. Here I could pretend to tell you that, having lived in a Portuguese neighborhood all my life I somehow understood half of what he was saying, but in all honesty the only thing I can say to a Portuguese speaking person is "thank you" and some very choice words I learned when my neighbor found her husband cheating on her and proceeded to beat him with various sports equipment on their front lawn.
While not understanding the words I got the general jist. Something was wrong and it was in some terrible way going to effect me.
As it turns out they ordered the wrong tub. The tub they needed had to be 4 foot 6 inches, and the one they ordered was only four feet. Leaving not only a ridiculously tiny tub in the room, but a six inch empty space where the tub should have continued.
It'll be fine, he explains to me while Tony shakes his head.

I'll drywall the extra six inches. He says.

It's at this point that I send Uma into the bathroom with the command to "Get him". Antonio backs up against a wall and throws his hands up while also attempting to mask his movements and somehow keep his manly dignity. He fails however as the dog trots in wagging her tail intent on licking the drywall dust off his cheek.

You have to understand, if you know me, you've heard about my bathroom. It's four and a half feet by six feet. Which sounds like a perfectly nice size to most people. And it is, when the room is empty. Add all of things bathrooms need to be bathrooms and you're stuck in crowded, claustrophobic little room.

No way in Hell he's taking away those six inches.

Over Antonio's dead, chewed up body.

The problem is the 4 6" tub is a special order, and he isn't going to go around looking for someone who happens to have one in stock. We're at a stand still.

An hour of frantic cursing phone calls and Antonio's on his way out complaining about missing his lunch hour to go get a tub.

This leaves my self, my mother and Tony. An awkward 20-something year old who obviously isn't sure what he's supposed to be doing in a strangers house now that he has no reason to be there. He asks about the dogs and tells me about his girlfriend who works at a pet store apprehensively. So I give him a piece of magical collapsible cake that magically did not collapse today for the first time in forever. It makes him feel slightly more at ease, and seeing as I don't eat cake - somebody has too.

My writing class was canceled earlier in the morning and I'm left with nothing to do for the rest of the day. At least, nothing I don't already have an excuse not to do. So I wander the internet or marvel at how big 4 foot 6 inches by 6 feet really is.

About and hour and a half later, Antonio returns with a tub that should fit. After fifteen minutes of the the two of them trying to get it in I offer my worldly advice that the tub looks about an inch too large for the space. Antonio threatens to smack me and sends me away. 10 minutes and some stripped wood later, the tub fits and Antonio is thanking us for saving him the extra work of extending plumbing and adding more drywall.
"In fifteen minutes you'll be able to take a shower!" he announces. Glancing around the room that currently lacks walls I nod unenthusiastically, and then the house if filled with more Rhianna, a buzz of some sort of saw and a nail gun - a power tool that I've always felt very close too.

While this goes on I sit around hungry because they've blocked all access to the refrigerator and they're both in and out of the kitchen. I consider going down the street for food but decide I'm both too poor and too lazy for it. So instead I sit shifting through email and developing a headache.

I later find that the only place I can find any sort of relief is face down on my living room floor, cheek flush against the hardwood with limbs outstretched in shapes that almost mimic some sort of ritual sacrifice.

Twenty minutes later I decided that there were indeed things I needed to do (including going grocery shopping), I forced myself up and went along with my day.

When I return I find that several sheets of drywall are already up, and Antonio is working on some of the last of it. Hope has returned that maybe tomorrow I can sleep in! They'll be practically done if they keep up at this rate!

Of course these are stupid thoughts, because they don't have anything really done. Unless I want to give up on this whole bathroom idea and instead decide to have a dark, empty green meditation room. Which, as my headache returns starts to sound like a lovely idea.

As Seven o'clock shows itself it becomes apparent that we'll have Antonio and Tony trekking through our home for at least another two days. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. It just kind of sucks.
You can't really act like it's your house when you have workmen wandering around now can you?

As the boys pack up to go I make a list of things I have to do tomorrow.
Sleep in is not one of them.
Another day, Another dollar, another 4 hours of sleep.

The Scene Is Dead. Long Live The Scene.

So this is something I've been thinking about since heading to a The Academy is Show in August. That show was dead. I mean, stick a fork in the crowd, we're catatonic. There were maybe 70 or 80 people there, most of them for one of the 5 local opening bands that sold their own tickets. This is The Academy Is people. For those of you who don't know who they are, go look them up. They've "Headlined" Warped tour, (Well, as much as a band *can* Headline Warped Tour). They've had multiple headlining tours, national and world wide.
They have a fan base. But I remember standing there in the crowd feeling a deep sense of disappointment. It wasn't one of the shows I loved attending, and it wasn't the band I fell in love with.
Nothings changed, they hadn't rearranged the dynamics, they hadn't replaced a drummer or don't something morally wrong to lose my respect. They just weren't themselves. The words of appreciation to their fans were hollow, the songs sung hundreds of times were just that, rehearsed, polished, overdone.
I've been listening to Alex over at Fake Pink Glasses talk about a feeling very similar. I met her at a show a year or so back and we hit it off (or maybe I just creeped her out). She's a biologist slash music blogger who I hold a great deal of respect for. I voiced my concerns about this show in question and at the time she very much disagreed.

FastForward a few months later to a dark club with Pete Wentz and a cute new frontgirl named BeBe and I think she's thinking the same thing.

The Scene Is Dead.
This has been proven by the decreasing numbers of concerts goers, the decreasing record sales, the decreasing amount of people who care.

I'm disappointed and in all honesty quite sad. I wanted the scene to continue, to morph to...somehow come back from life support.
I'm sick of going to shows and having 12 and 13 year olds running around caring more about how attractive a musician is then what his music is about. What his or her lyrics are saying. Please don't get me wrong, I'm not being hypocritical here. I get celebrity crushes and appreciate an attractive man just as much as the next person. Hell, I'll even talk about it with you.
I'm sick of the celebrity of the whole thing.
I miss the band dudes and the crew dudes who'd hang out outside a venue for hours and talk to you. Honestly talk to you. Not about the next record or how many awards they've won, but honestly talk to you. About life, about how they got there, about you.
I miss the little opening bands from a town no ones ever heard of who would completely light up and get all giggly you when you asked them to sign their 3 dollar CD you just bought. Because they're little and everyones ignoring them for the headliner and no one wants their autograph.
I miss those band boys (and roadies!) that remember your name.
I miss the people you could stand in line with and talk to about something other then male hotness or celebrity gossip.
I miss the scene.
So what was missing at that The Academy Is...show? Not the music, not the band, not even the fans, but the caring. No one seems to care anymore. Not the fans, not the management, and in some cases - not even the bands.

So, as Gabe Saporta and Alex say -
The Scene Is Dead, Long Live The Scene.

Update.

In the last several months I have....---->

Burned some bridges:
But that happens a lot anyway - where's the news?

Opened an animal rescue:
Look! News! I've opened a Rhode Island based rescue dedicated to adopting and placing dogs and cat who's owners can no longer care for them.
This is Paz, our first "Official" rescue:


And this is Paz in his new home:


Almost died:
That was fun.

Ran almost 100 miles.
.....ouch.

Started Geocaching:
Geekist, most awesome, most amazing, coolest thing ever.

Walked around in public as a member of Team Rocket:
I have an awful lot of fun.

Started Learning Latin:
Who the hell speaks Latin? Why does anyone even know this language? Oh? The church? Oh, gee, thanks, another thing to thank you guys for.

Wrote a novel:
Self explanatory.

And
Found a college.
Again.

Anyway, long story short I've been pretty busy. If I haven't been in contact with you, I apologize. (Although then again you *could* pick up the phone...) I'll be all over New England this winter covering all of my more major projects, and honestly, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update this blog. Which very much leaves me feeling a bit nostalgic. Anyway, I'm on twitter and Facebook. Keep in touch with me there.

-
Brianna.

‎In the great scheme of things what matters is not how long you live, but why you live, what you stand for and what you are willing to die for.

Uma is Elite.

Uma is a very mature two year old German Shepherd Dog. You have to understand, she was trained by Ivan Balabanov - the only American Shutzhund trainer to ever get onto the world team. She has thousands of hours of training under her belt. She can spot someone with bad intentions at 100 paces and take him down in 2.3 seconds to boot. She's bilingual. She is Elite. She is special, and she has papers to prove it.

So you can rightly understand the look she gives me when I walk into the yard with a 70 pound male mutt. He's huge, he's three years old, he's goofy, uncoordinated, he needs to wear a funny harness that doesn't really fit because he's worn it out with his pulling, so it flops to the side. He wouldn't know a bad guy if he bit him in the leg, and what the heck does sit mean anyway?

She stops several feet away and looks at him funny. What's wrong with him? He pulls suddenly and she's face to face with him. Her hackles raise and he wags his tail obliviously.

"No way," She thinks looking at me, "What did you do?" Her look turns accusing.

He continues to wag his tail and throws himself onto the ground. "Want to play?" he asks her.

She turns her nose away. "Hardly," She saunters off. She's too good for him. She is Protection dog, and she has an equally special boyfriend anyway.

She noses a tennis ball and delicately picks it up. "Throw it," she tells me.

"BALL!" He yells tackling her face. She loses balance and falls onto her side in a rare display of clumsiness. He gets the ball.

She lays there dazed for a moment before sending me a glare, ears falling back.

"What did you do and where did this little shit come from?"

Hotel Paper

Okay, so some of you who have read my blog have been asking why I haven't posted my fictional stories on my normal websites/here on my blog.

Some of you had asked if/why I had stopped writing.

This screen Cap of my current desktop should assure you that, no, I have not stopped writing. All of those document files are stories I am currently working on/in the process of editing.

I will be posting the sequel to the story I posted here several months ago titled "Just friends". It's been finished for almost six months but I never did get around to posting in. In all honestly I forgot I'd written it. Sorry guys!
In the mean time, enjoy Jason Dohring's gorgeous face. <3

EDIT: So after rereading the sequel to "Just friends" for the first time since I wrote it, I realized how absolutely terrible it is. It could compete with the Harry Potter fanfiction "My Immortal,". Seriously though, I realized how closely it mimics someone's personal life that is very dear to me, and I've decided against posting it anywhere. If you would like to read it, email me at briannamooradian at gmail.com and I'll send you a copy. Seeing as I don't know half my readers, I don't actually care who you are.
Again, I apologize and I'll work hard on finishing a story to post here or on any of my fanfiction sites very soon.

"Huh, that was weird,"

I am a strange person. I’ll admit it. Personality wise I’m very tolerant and level headed, while also being capable of becoming a mega-bitch in several short seconds.

No matter what group of friends I seem to be in, I’m the “Go-to” person for everyone drama’s, problems and gossips. I’ve been told I’m very good at dishing out advice, and ridiculously tolerant to others woe’s.

While I’m very good at understanding what people should do, I’m not very good at understanding WHY people do the things they do.

I don’t understand why or how people can completely disregard or abandon friendships or relationships that they’ve had for years because someone new and shiny comes along. Or because they’re following someone else's lead.

This bothers me. Not because I dwell on it or it still upsets me. It happens, it’s over. Get on with it. What bothers me is not understanding something. It gets under my skin. To the point where I can be slightly obsessive.

A friend of mine asked me to learn the chords of a song last week. The chords don’t exist and there isn’t any sheet music anywhere. I’ve spent the last week playing and messing with chords until my fingers have literally bled figuring it out.

So not understanding peoples motives truly bothers me.

Recently, an ex sent me a letter concerning his horrible plight of sitting there feeling guilty about what he did to me. It was well thought out and pitying and shallow and as always, all about him. When I showed it to someone they said (and I quote) “ Wow....He managed to make an apology letter offensive!”

Basically the letter explained how not only was I a horrible person, but somehow he also thought (with atrocious arrogance) that HE is the sole reason for me 'being the way I am now'! I mean wow. That's pretty epic.

I guess this goes back to that quote “Forgiveness heals us emotionally, not those you forgive,”

But here’s the thing, he wasn’t asking for forgiveness. In all honestly, I hadn’t thought about the kid in at least six months. He never made any great impact on my life. He did hurt me, several times. But it wasn’t anything major, and while I believe he’s kind of sort of scum, he wasn’t someone I cared enough about to be angry at.

So what was the point of the letter? Well it was to let me know (in a very nice way!) that, while I may never be a good enough person to reconcile with him like I should, he made such an impact in my life that I would, never, ever be the same again.

So, what exactly was the point? What motivates someone to sit down and write something like that, especially with it being almost two years after the facts?

I often wonder why we feel the need to feel better about ourselves by looking down on others. If anyone has any sort of scientific facts about this I would love to hear them, because it’s a genuine curiosity.

I guess in the end we aren’t necessarily supposed to know. We’re supposed to look at it, say “huh, that was weird,” and get back to that song we’re all working on.

So, for those of you asking about it, I’ll chalk the whole thing up as

“Huh, that was weird,” and try to figure out this next chord.