I'm not making this up.

(in fact, it's worse. i'm just too tired to remember all the rest)


Dear passenger in 4A,

I smelled you the minute you walked on the plane and immediately I said a prayer. The flight attendant had already informed us that the flight was completely full and so I knew it would be only a matter of time before the seat next to me became occupied. There were only a few people left boarding the plane and you were one of them. As soon as you opened up the overhead bin above me to shove your bag in I knew I was doomed. I saw the sweat pits but even if I had been as blind as Ray Charles I knew what I was in for. The stench was atrocious. Seriously…why? How do you not realize how unpleasant you smell and how could you possibly think it’s ok to board a plane for 5 odd hours and subject the rest of us to unrecycled air filled with your stench. It’s just plain wrong! I realize that you aren’t from America and that perhaps where you are from there is nothing uncommon about that type of body odor. Perhaps I should give you a pass but no. You live in New York now. You told me so. That makes you subject to the same standards I hold other Americans to. And how do you add insult to injury? By deciding your sitting position of choice is with your hands raised above your head. That’s right…relax and let your pits breath why don’t you.

As soon as you sit down I get the feeling that you are overly excited to be sitting next to me. This does not make me happy. You even had a brief conversation about how pretty I was with the flight attendant. Ewww. You see, I’m a nice person but I really hate being all chit-chatty on planes. I don’t care about the gem show you were visiting in Tucson. I don’t care about what you do for a living in New York. I don’t care how Continental has very friendly flight attendants. I don’t care whom you voted for and why you think Obama has a good chance against McCain. I. Just. Don’t. Care. And why, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, did I tell you that I run track. I know better. I am a normal person with a normal 9 to 5 job that doesn’t require any further explanation or details. What do I run…How many hours do I practice…How do I make money…Where do I run at…Do I have a strict diet…How fast do I run the mile…What do I think of Marion…Am I going to the Olympics…you hit them all. You also fail to realize that I am no longer in any way trying to be polite. I don’t look up from my magazine. I give you one-word answers. I am borderline rude and yet still you trudge on. So now I’m pissed. Maybe it’s not exactly your fault that you smell but it is definitely your fault that you are making this plane trip a living hell. I would rather be sitting in the back row of the plane by the restrooms in a middle seat that doesn’t recline than sitting here next to you.

I finally decide to watch the movie even though I previously had no interest in doing so. I figure if I have headphones on and seem thoroughly engaged you might leave me alone. It does nothing for my nostrils but I am looking for small victories at this point. I quickly realize though that even this is not a deterrent for you. You tap me to ask me the name of the film. don’t know. You continuously look over at me every time there is a part in the movie that you find comical and laugh as if we are sharing an inside joke. we aren’t. I finally figure my best bet to escape you is to just sleep. You aren’t noticing my body language as I have scooted as far away from you as possible and angled my body towards the window. You are not respecting my reading or watching a movie. It’s all utterly pointless.

So I doze off. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to stay asleep too long and guess what awaits me when I open my eyes. Your feet. Your nasty, repulsive, offensive, revolting, disgusting, bare feet that are perched in front of us. I swear your toenails were straight out of a Freddy Kruger movie. How in the world do you think that’s okay? As I go back to reading my book you ask if you can ask me a question. Well you just did but continue since it makes no difference obviously if I say yes or no. I guess since I’m a runner and I, ummmm, use my feet, you think that maybe I have a problem with dry, cracked feet. I don’t. But I guess you assume if you bring YOUR feet up so that I can get a closer look as to what you are referring to, I just might recall having had that same problem and be able to recommend a fantastic foot cream that will solve all your problems. OH, DEAR JESUS.

I must thank you for taking the last twenty minutes of the flight to finally fall asleep and put me out of my misery. You were also very kind to give me your chocolate as you saw how fast I devoured mine and knew that I was hoping for another. But beyond that kind sir, you were without a doubt my worst experience ever.

It pays to be a Supermodel

(at least more than a track athlete!)

I will be spending the next couple of days in the Big Apple courtesy of Anheuser-Busch and Sports Illustrated. I did a modeling job over the summer that I will be sharing more about when it debuts in the next week or so, and because of that, I get to pretend I am the next Giselle for the next 72 hours. I get to fly first class, stay in an ultra swanky New York hotel, limo service…the whole nine. All this just to attend a launch party for the magazine. The crazy thing is, I am a teeny-weeny goldfish in this proverbial pond and I still get the red-carpet treatment. It makes me question why I give all my blood, sweat, and tears to a profession that forces me to take the cheapest flights I can find with 9 hour layovers in Uzbekistan, arrive at the airport only to find out nobody has remembered to pick me up, and share a room with Olga, the non-speaking Russian. In fact, I am leaving New York on Wednesday to head across the pond-- in coach of course-- to run a race on Saturday in Birmingham, England. My life on the catwalk will be short-lived. I plan on enjoying my life as a wannabe supermodel but given the fact that I’m not having any more growth spurts and my only curves come from the weight-room, I doubt I’ll be changing professions any time soon. It’s ok though…I’m quite content with where I deposit my blood, sweat, and tears.

Yoga for Dummies

I am an athletic person. Any sport-- any athletic activity for that matter-- is something I expect to excel at. So the first time I went to a Yoga class a few years back, I expected to awe everybody with how quickly I caught on and my incredible strength to do all the poses and contortions. I quickly realized that I grossly underestimated the difficulty of this form of exercise and how it does not cater to my strengths whatsoever. So, after a few visits I dropped that hobby like a hot potato. Until yesterday…

My friend asked me to go to yoga and my mind went directly to my experience the last time around and the idea of being the worst at something once again. This is not in my nature you know. I don’t ever suck at something. Except pictionary. I am horrible at Pictionary. But she assured me that it was the beginners class and just to be sure I checked the website and saw that indeed there were three levels of classes and the one we would attend was named “Basic”.

So there I was, in beginner Yoga class, situated at the front of the room because I arrived late, and positioned right next to Grams, a sweet 65-year-old lady to my right. Well guess what? I still suck. First of all, I take issue with the fact that I was forced to look around every time we were supposed to go into a new pose, as I was the only lost soul that could not figure out from the instructions of the teacher what was expected of me. Why are we using yoganese in the beginner’s class? All I know is downward dog…, which, by the way, kills my hands. Supposedly this is because I am supposed to be putting force through my knuckles and was using my palms. I dunno. What I do know is that when the simplest pose in all of yoga is giving me pause, I have a problem. But what really got me—what irked me beyond belief—is when we were in this side plank balance pose and I fell out of it early while Grams stayed in place with perfect technique. Have you seen my core? This was like someone showing Muhammad Ali how to throw a jab.

And is it polite to ask just what in the world are all the chants and sayings about? It seemed everybody else picked up the cliff notes and I did not. What are you saying? Why are you saying it? Honestly, I really don’t even feel comfortable trying to copy it because am I unknowingly praying to the Yoga God or something? And that ommmmm-ing is not something I have mastered. Where exactly are you bringing that sound from? My diaphragm seems to be broken because mine sounds like humming and that’s it. Besides that, it makes me laugh. I don’t know why, it just does. As does all the heavy intense breathing that is taking place around me. I know that is part of the point, at least I think it is, but I can’t listen to my breathing and focus on my breath when I am busy looking around trying to figure out my foot placement and what my hands are supposed to be doing. So I go through the whole class never really finding my calm center but I am hoping I got a good stretch out of it.

I have come to terms with the fact that I am no good at Yoga. Perhaps I will get better with time and practice. I do know that because my back and hamstrings are 5000% tighter than most people’s, there will be things I will always be behind at. When we are stretching and you are able to wrap your entire hands around your foot while mine stop mid calf, I call that an unfair advantage. I am wound differently. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t improve. Maybe one day I’ll be in the vicinity of my foot. So perhaps I need to focus on my individual performance and not compare myself to the Grams of the world. I will never graduate to Intermediate class, of that I’m sure, but maybe I can improve enough to not be the worst of the beginner class.

Picture of the Week

This picture is already on my Myspace so I apologize in advance if you are already a B*Fab follower. I've been slacking on the Picture of the Week posts--namely the "week" part of it, so I figured I was due. This is a picture of Snoop Dogg and I. Of course, Snoop didn't know he was taking a picture with me but that's quite alright. He was busy...I didn't want to interrupt. I'm going to be all original here and take it back to the Mastercard commercials from a few years back...

Cost to attend the party that Snoop was performing at: $1300

Amount of money Bri and friends paid to attend said party: $0

The look on partygoers (the ones who actually paid) faces when Snoop asked them if they liked to partake in his favorite relaxing activity: PRICELESS.

Lets just say that when parties cost that much to attend, they attract a different kind of crowd. Sure, there were your celebrities and lucky folks like us who found a way to get in, and then of course there was Snoop's huge entourage, but the rest of the folks were probably not Snoop's hardcore fans. They are sticking to their claim that it's only used for medicinal purposes...glaucoma and such.

History

History is being made today. I wasn't absolutely convinced at the beginning of this whole process that we really and truly would have a woman or a black man as our democratic candidate but it happened and it's huge. HUGE. I'm not telling anyone who to vote for...if you know me, you know my choice, but everybody is entitled to their own and all I hope is that you make one. (and if you MUST vote republican, at least vote McCain...lol).

My SUPER experience

I was in Phoenix for the majority of the past four days, with a quick trip back to Tucson to take care of an extremely hard practice I had no business trying to complete on my own. Obviously all the hoopla was surrounding the Super Bowl but for me, that was a little ways down on my list of priorities. I planned on visiting with friends, attending some good parties, seeing some amazing live performances, and watching the game from the comfort of my friends couch with lots of good food and company. That was the plan and the whole trip had not disappointed me thus far. Then I got a phone call that woke me entirely too early out of my slumber on Sunday morning. Bri, I have two tickets to the game today if you want them. Of course I’m still half asleep but I do have the wherewithal to mutter a coherent “sure” and agree to be at the hotel before 11 to pick them up.

I tell Nicole the good news but admit to her that I feel a bit conflicted. I had mentioned on more then one occasion that if I had tickets to the Super Bowl I would sell them in a heartbeat. I have been to the Super Bowl once before and it was cool and all…but I’d much rather enjoy a nice shopping spree on someone else’s expense. Give me the money and I will gladly watch the game on T.V. Besides…in all honesty I am not a huge Giants or Patriots fan. I had only committed to cheering for the Giants once they made it to the Super Bowl because I like the underdog. It wasn’t as if I was a die-hard, I was a self-admitted bandwagon fan. But I had tickets and they were free so I felt it would be extremely rude and ungrateful of me to turn around and sell them—especially since it would be known that I wasn’t in attendance. I truly felt conflicted though.

Since it was me + 1 I needed to figure out who would go with me. My first choice was my coach because of all he does for me but he was unable to make it. Nicole couldn’t go with me for her own reasons that most people would probably not agree with but that’s ok. I started thinking to myself… I could open up the invitation to anybody I know who is in the Phoenix area or I could sell one ticket and just go myself. The more I thought about it, the more I felt this was the best plan. I know plenty of people I would have loved to take and would have gladly sacrificed some extra skrillah in my pocket for them to be there with me, but it was last minute. This compromise was the best option. So I went to the Super Bowl by myself. I know…total loner. My friend came and sat with me though for about half of it so I was not completely by myself.

I must say that I truly enjoyed the experience much more than I thought I would. By the end of the game I felt like a tried and true New Yorker who cheered my heart out for my beloved G-men. I screamed, I jumped, I shouted, I hi-fived the entire crowd of Giants fans around me…it was an amazing experience. My shopping spree will not be as extravagant but I had the opportunity to see one of the best Super Bowls in person and be part of the electrifying atmosphere that was totally overwhelming.


i took this picture from the club level at half-time where you could see the whole stadium and it was so cool...except for the fact that it was Tom Petty...ummm, why???!!

Party like a ROCKSTAR!

On Thursday I drove up to Phoenix because it feels like forever and a day since I have been social and went out and had a really good time. So since the superbowl festivities were just up the road and my favorite road dawg of all time was going to be in town, I decided to make the most of it. We stepped out in style and got to borrow the SL blah blah blah. I am horrible with car names, but it was a Mercedes and it was definitely a lot flyer than my Civic, I know that much! We were almost tempted to let the top down just to take full advantage of the experience, except that it was freezing and we would have immediately been spotted as imposters for doing something so uncalled for at that temperature.

We got to our first party of the night and felt like VIP’s. That’s really because we were accompanied by a real VIP but we played it up anyway and took our turn posing for photos on the red carpet and being treated to complimentary cocktails. Normally, I have all the confidence in the world when it comes to negotiating with the big, bad clipboard holders but for these parties I thought it would be better to make sure we were with the big guns. I was not certain my batting eyelashes would get the job done!

I must pause for a second to comment on a phenomenon I was able to witness firsthand…the craziness of male groupies towards another male. Honestly, I thought this only occurred at Hannah Montana concerts but rest assured these men gave 8-year-old girls a run for their money.

After we spent a bit of time there we headed over to Diddy’s party because I’ve always heard that Diddy knows how to throw a party like no other. I told Jerry to go ahead and let the bouncers at the door know that Brianna Glenn had arrived and was ready to party and so we were escorted right in and taken behind the velvet ropes. I guess we missed his performance onstage and all that good stuff because it was taking place outside and I was not dressed for outside activities whatsoever. The night was definitely a success. We ended up running into our old friends from college and decided the night would be that much more enjoyable hanging out and reminiscing with people we know and like!


The next morning I woke up and headed straight to the track to run 5 300’s. Of course it was the last thing I felt like doing but that is never an acceptable excuse!