Land of Confusion

Drumsticks from my very first
Phil Collins concert. Circa 1994.

I found out today that my lifelong hero, Phil Collins, has lost his ability to play the drums. For most people, this probably wouldn't be such a setback.

Phil Collins has let his heart beat through his drums for almost his entire life.

I've seen him perform live four times in my life. Three during solo tours and once with Genesis during the 2007 reunion. The guy is amazing. And he can wail on a set of drums like nobody's business.

Seriously, who doesn't beat out the drum solo to In the Air Tonight on their steering wheel when that song comes on the radio? Okay, maybe that's just me...but you all know the beat. You are playing it out in your head right now.

I imagine that he is at a total loss right now. And it makes me unbelievably sad to know that I will have to put in an old concert DVD if I ever want to see him play again.

His talent is now trapped inside a body that cannot cooperate. My sister said it best when she compared it to "having a million dollars, but not being able to spend it."

In case you were never able to see him live, I have posted a video of him in action. I hope that someday he will be able to go back to doing what he loves best.

Life is so ironic sometimes.
Click here to read the original news article about Phil Collins.


I thought that I had moved past this ages ago, but really I haven't. I just buried the pain so deep that sometimes I could barely tell it was even there anymore. I thought I was the strongest person ever.

And now, after giving birth for the second time, it has all come flooding back over me like someone pouring an entire can of salt into an open wound. It turns out, time doesn't heal. It just creates space in between the hurting.

I always thought that once I had children who were here with me, safe and sound, that I would feel better about all of this. I couldn't have been more wrong. It probably has made it worse. And now, after years of just trying to cope with it all silently, I've decided to take a different course of action.

I think it's time I actually let myself heal.

So, after almost a decade since my first loss, I have stopped smothering the pain and finally started grieving. I gave the babies an identity. I named them. And last night, I lit a candle for each one of them for the National Day of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness.

I can now give them the rememberance that they deserve and I can have some of the closure that I have been searching for.

Tummy Troubles.

In case you haven't heard via Facebook or by talking to me, Bronx has been having some digestive issues. He started throwing up after feedings over two weeks ago. Just to be clear, he was projectile vomiting Linda Blair style. It wasn't every feeding and sometimes he would go a day or two with no problems at all, but it still keeps happening. At first, we thought it was just because we were all sick with some kind of bug. But Bronx was the only one who ever threw up. And then we all got over the bug, but the throwing up never stopped.

The doctor suspected pyloric stenosis. It's a condition in infants around Bronx's age that causes the muscles around the stomach to harden which narrows the space for food to pass, and then stuff comes back up. It has to be corrected with surgery. It's another one of those things that is more common in little white boys (go figure).

So, last Thursday we were sent to the hospital lab to have a blood draw. Blood draws on infants are awful. Especially when you get a phlebotomist that can't find a vein. Luckily, the girl that drew his blood on Thursday hit his vein on the first try. There were still tears, but at least there was no torture.

The blood tests showed that Bronx's sodium levels were low. The doctor admitted him to the hospital on Friday for I.V. fluids and an ultrasound. The ultrasound of his stomach came back fine, but we stayed overnight for the fluids and for observation. This time, Bronx wasn't so lucky. The nurse who tried to start his I.V. (key word here is "tried") couldn't find a vein in either one of his hands and she took her time fishing with the needle. As a former phleb and the mother of the child being used as the pin cushion, it was awful to watch. And on top of that, before they even started they advised me to leave the room! The idea of leaving Bronx to deal with all that stress alone was so heartbreaking. The least I could do was make sure that his mommy was with him while all of this was going on. So, I stayed and watched the fishing and bit my tongue.

Eventually, the nurse gave up and later an anesthesiologist was called in to start the I.V. He tried Bronx's foot first, but it didn't work, so he ended up putting the line in his leg. They taped it up like crazy to keep it from moving. It almost looks like a little baby cast in the pictures.

After the I.V. was placed (which fell out on it's own the next morning) and his ultrasound was done, Bronx met his evening nurses. One of them was a student nurse who made the stay so much easier. Bronx took to her immediately and talking with her helped to ease my anxiety. It was so neat to see him stop crying and just listen to her talk. She was a bit sassy and I think he really liked listening to her speak. So, I took a picture of him with his new friend.

Later on that night, I almost lost it. Bronx started screaming and I could tell he was in pain. I called the nurse, who never showed and I called again. This time,  a different nurse came and explained that my nurse was tied up. I told her my baby was in pain, and asked if he could have some Tylenol. She said that she'd have to ask his nurse, who would have to talk to the doctor to get the okay. Poor Bronx waited and screamed for almost two hours while Matt and I took turns trying to comfort him. I would have given him some Tylenol myself and just told the nurses to make a note of it, but I didn't think I had some. The nurses finally did show up with the stuff and later on I discovered that I had Tylenol infant drops in the diaper bag.
The next morning they scheduled Bronx for an upper G.I. study, but then it was moved to Monday because the hospital staff discovered that the radiologist wasn't there on the weekends. Bronx was discharged later in the afternoon and we went back on Monday for the G.I. study, where they strapped the poor kid on a board and fed him barium while we watched it flow through his esophagus and into his stomach. A half-hour later they followed up with a chest x-ray. The results should have been ready by yesterday afternoon, but when I called they told me that they only had partial results and the nurse would have to call me back. Almost 24 hours later and I still haven't heard anything. It's starting to make me nervous. Keeping my fingers crossed.

Update: The doctor's office finally called and the tests came back NORMAL! No Pyloric Stenosis! No out-of-town surgery! The doctor is pretty confident at this point that he is just having severe symptoms of reflux, so he may need to go on medication, but otherwise he is fine!

The Lost Blog Archives : Wanna Get Punk'd by Someone Better Than Ashton? (2006)

This douchebag learned everything he knows from me.

Next time you head out to Michigan, you might want to bring a sister who gets off on watching you have a panic attack over a plate of crabcakes at a nice little outdoor cafe. Case in point, my sister Kila was completely unaware that she would be vacationing with the "punkmaster" when I tagged along on a family vacation over the past fourth of July. As we started our day roaming around little shops in the village, I fell in step behind Ki, and that gave me free grabs at everything in her open purse that was slung over her shoulder. I found myself gazing upon her cell phone, which could barely even be considered as being in her purse because it was clipped to her strap and hanging out of the top. So, being the considerate older sister, I had to teach her a lesson. Oh, and the phone was just screaming "Steal me" from its tempting location in that stupid purse. And that's when I snatched it and tossed it into my handbag in one slick fluid movement that would have even impressed and mystified the king of magic, David Copperfield.
The day went on, we shopped and I held my breath when Kila got out her wallet to pay for a pair of sunglasses. She was, of course, way too interested in the new accessory she was purchasing to have even a clue that her only lifeline to the world outside was missing. Many hours pass (somewhere close to five, if I remember correctly) until we all end up at a outdoor bar and grill. While we are eating, Kila starts to get out her phone and realizes that it has been abducted. "Quick, give me your phone Britt!" she yells in such a panicked tone that you'd think someone had cut off her oxygen. This was too good, she had asked me for a phone. So I handed over the swiped goods and she immediatly began to dial in a fit of psychotic anxiety. So stressed was she (I've been taking speech lessons from Yoda) that she did not notice for a good thirty seconds that the phone in her hand was the one that had disappeared. By the time she did, I had her angrily muttering, "Yeah, I got punk'd". Sucked for her, but now she knows who's boss in this family.

The Lost Blog Archives: The Brittany vs. Britney Deathmatch (2006)

Due to the fact that whenever I tell people my name is Brittany, I get this dumbass reply: "Oh, like Britney Spears!" and because now everyone insists on spelling my name wrong because of that shit-for-brains bimbo, I decided to throw out a little side-by-side comparsion. Hopefully, this showdown will prove once and for all that I am the better Brittany. (Hell, I even spell it better because I have two t's! Double the pleasure & Double the fun!)


Britney: Walks into gas station bathrooms barefoot contracting bacteria in an alarmingly gross fashion.

Me: Walks into any public place with shoes on!


Britney contracts a nasty case of athlete's foot while I remain disease free.
0 points - Britney, 1 point - Me.

Federpoon (aka. Mr. Britney Spears): Has no job, but still manages to bring in the goods by swiping Britney's Platnium plastic all over California. (I guess it does require a fair amount of manual labor to reach into your wallet and pull out that credit card.) Oh, and he is working on an album which could be considered as work, except all he does is talk into a microphone (badly) while everyone else at the studio actually does the work.

Matt (aka. my husband): Works two jobs, one full-time and one part-time. Oh, and he has his own credit card that I don't pay the bill for.


I wonder who's Visa paid for that gas....and that SUV.
0 points - Federpoon, 1 point-Matt

In this round, the criteria is : Which couple looks the least like white trash?

Britney & Federpoon:

Wifebeaters & three-day old unwashed jeans. However, no one is smoking Camels or drinking Red Bull.

Brittany & Matt:

Ah, a much more wholesome couple hanging out at the dock in matching sweaters. Sailing, anyone?

Based on a worldwide poll, Spears & Federpoon = White trash.
0 points total - Britney & Federpoon, 3 points total - Brittany & Matt


Britney & Federpoon : Held a "surprise" wedding at the home of their wedding planner. Lots of red ("traditional color for streetwalkers", according to Mrs. Doubtfire) and stupid little jogging sweats with "Pimps" and "Maids" on the back.

Brittany & Matt: Held wedding at a church, didn't use red anywhere, and NOBODY had jogging sweats.

Our wedding may have cost alot less, but I still win because I married someone who doesn't already have kids with Shar Jackson.

FINAL RESULTS: Britney & Federpoon are no match for Brittany & Matt. Start sobbing, losers!

Update: Since I originally posted this blog onto MySpace back in November of 2006, I thought I'd add in some additional rounds to prove why, 3 years later, I am still the better Brittany.

Extra Round #1: The Offspring

Both Britney and myself have two children. All of them are boys, so there is an even playing field for comparison, and since Kevin Federpoon is presumeably the father of both of her kids, I have no compelling arguements in the "at least my kids have the same daddy" category. Boo.

So here's the deciding factor. First a picture of my kids:

Notice the absence of any alarming headlines that might attract the attention of Child and Family Services.

Now, take a look at a photo of the Spears/Federpoon spawn:

Crack is clearly not the breakfast of champions.

If that isn't enough, let me refresh your memory about Britney's well-publicized parenting skills:

She gave Sean Preston his first driving lesson at 5 months old.

She did her car seat installation herself.

And let's not forget the time she almost let the baby go ker-splat.

This stuff is just from the first kid...and that was before she shaved her head or started attacking SUV's with umbrellas.

So, DCFS has never come to our house.

Brittany & Matt : 1
Britney & K-doodle : 0

Extra Round #2: Love & Marriage

Oh, who didn't see that coming?

Still married.

And did I mention that our marriage has lasted 4 years? Double the length of the Spears and K-douche union, which only lasted for 2.

Brittany & Matt : 2
Britney & ???:
Oh, screw the points. I still win. That's why my slogan is: Better than the other Britney.
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