HeRp! My First Language Is Rrrebelling!

pic photos.net

pic photos.net


As meni of ju no, my firs language ees e-Spaneesh.  

I was born een Puerto Rico an moov tu de united e-states wen I was 9.  

I lern Engleesh preetee queeklee an do not hav an assen, onteel now.  WTH?

De older I get, de more my assen comes aut. Por qué?

Ees my brain gettin laysee?  

Eem I reverteen tu my chylhood?  

Ees de e-Spaneesh een mee rrebeleen?

Meybee my e-Spaneesh ees yelos dat I hav poot Engleesh on de top of my brrain forr ol thees jeers.  

Eet is sayeen tu mee,” NO MAS INGLES, Breekhous! Habla Español!”

 My keeds an hosban, laf at mee ol de tym nau. 

Plos, wen I get mad I nau e-suer een e-Spanish!  Muchos e-suers. CACA!

I feel lyk I hav turrets in e-Spanish.  The e-suers jus com aut a lot.  {Nickles Quarters Dimes!}

Wat am I tu du, ju sey?


I weel du absolutlee nada becos dat is jus de wei de cukee crumbles. Qué será, será.

I weel jus embrrais my e-Spaneesh an let eet com aut wen everr eet wans! Viva el Español!

I houp dat ju don hav a hedake after rreedeen dis pos.  

Eet ees achualee gud forr jur brrain tu du dis exsersise.

Sou, eef I see ju an I e-sound lyk Gloria een Modern Fameelee, jus le mee bee.

I lov ju ol!

Jez, I du.

Love Thy Neighbor?




As I write this, I am watching a new series on the A&E channel called, Neighbors With Benefits.  

Please don’t judge me, this is a no judgement post.

Mr. B (who is sitting right next to me), was channel-surfing and came across it.  Well, I don’t care who you are and how often you go to church, it is damn hard to turn away from this enticing show, to say, the PBS channel, when the neighbors in this show look like a bunch of Ken and Barbie dolls.

Oh, hold on.  Right now, two couples are making out with the other’s spouses.  They are in a public place and the bartender just noticed that there has been some kind of a switch-up.  Instead of A&E, I will now call it the Ay & Ew channel.

What I am learning as I watch (ever so intently), is that they do not call themselves swingers.  Instead, they describe themselves as living, In The Lifestyle.  That’s an interesting way to put it.  

Now that you know this secret term (you’re welcome), be sure never to say you are in a lifestyle unless you really are In THE Lifestyle and you want others to know.  Otherwise, they will erroneously think you are actually In The Lifestyle when you were just talking about your regular ‘ol lifestyle kind of lifestyle.  

Bottom line, don’t use the word lifestyle ever again – just to be sure.

By the way, if you are reading this and you are In The Lifestyle, please know that I am not judging.  You are free to live whatever lifestyle you choose.

So, this show has me thinking about my neighbors now.  Are any of them In The Lifestyle?  I know there are definitely Life-stylers in my little town (I’ve seen them), but how would I know?   Is there a signal Lifestylers give non-Life-stylers when they are interested?  I will have to watch next week’s episode to find that out. 

If I were to ever consider being In The Lifestyle with my neighbors, I would need to figure out which of them I would take benefits from.  

Let’s see, if I look to my left, I will find two moms with an adult child living with them and their dog (who poops in our yard).  They do have a hot tub though, which would be a great benefit for my aching joints. Hmmm…

Next to them, is a super nice, attractive divorced woman who has a tenant (with no benefits, I believe) living with her. I am pretty sure she has a cat though and I don’t do like cats.

To my right are my ghost neighbors.  They bought the house and all,  but are never there.  They spend most of their time in their other house they own about two hours away.  Huge benefit here: I could use their house for Lifestyle parties and they would never have to know. Hmmm…

Next to the ghosts, is a nice cookie-cutter type of couple who I am sure pay their taxes on January 1st, give 80% of their income to their church, organize their recycling perfectly (I’ve witnessed this) and cross all their T’s even though no one actually hand writes anymore. The only benefit I see there, is an OCD-immaculate house and lot’s of hand sanitizer. 

Next to the attractive divorced neighbor, lives a creepy man and his very kind handicapped wife.  I’ve never met a more socially awkward man.  He doesn’t say much and is never out of the house.  Gosh, I hope they don’t have people held hostage in their basement.  Note to self: listen for screams coming from their basement window when I walk by.

Then, there are the dog whisperers.  A couple in their 60’s living in a huge house with many incredibly behaved dogs.  I believe they take them in to train them and then return them to their owners.  I wish they had lived there when my kids were little.  I would have eagerly given them the kids to train.  They use lot’s of dog treats and they clean up the poop! If that’s not a benefit, I don’t know what is?

Lastly, I would have to consider the ominous single man, who lives in his mom’s house (she has since passed away), who still has a Farrah Fawcett poster inside his garage!  Really?  It’s in mint condition with no rips on the edges and thankfully, no stains that I could see.  We see Farrah’s shiny wispy hair every time we walk by.




I think after much consideration, I can tell you with all certainty, that I will not be living, In The Lifestyle with my neighbors, anytime soon.  I will however, consider moving to a more suitable neighborhood.


Do you have any neighbors with potential benefits?


She’s A Brick…House: Two Years Blogging



It is a special day here at brickhousechick.com

Two years ago today,  I started lettin’ it all hang out on my blog.

[[[Shake it down shake it down shake it down now]]]

As I reflect on these past two years, I realize that

I’ve worked my ass off to be mighty-mighty

and to not hold nothing back (well, except for my identity – oops)

I’ve looked at myself in the mirror (over and over again) and thought:

I know I’ve got everything
a woman needs to get a man, (
How can I lose with what I use
36-24-36 (
precisely), what a winning hand!

[[[Shake it down shake it down shake it down now]]]

After all,

The clothes I wear ( muu-muu dresses), the sexy ways,
make an old man wish for younger days (or no days)
I know I’m built (got huge arm wings), and know how to please
Sure enough to knock a man to his knees (with said wings)

The fact is that,

I’m the one, the only one,
who’s built like an amazon (
or three)

All kidding aside,

I think all of you are the true Brick Houses for putting up with my silliness and tall tales for two whole years.  I would not be so mighty-mighty if not for your friendship, support & loyalty.

I dedicate this special blogiversary to all of you.

Muchas Gracias!

*Now, click on the link below to get this fiesta started!

Caca Happens: Wipe It Off



*Pardon me as I use a bathroom words (over and over again) to make my point.*


It does not matter what we look like, how old we are, how we are dressed, the color of our skin, how nice we are,  how much money we make or how anal we are, the fact is that CACA HAPPENS.  To all of us.  All the time.

I am not talking about the kind of CACA from the book,  Everyone Poops.  I am talking about the kind of CACA that happens to us.  Be it small, huge, hard, soft, annoying, painful, life altering, unjust or plain tragic.  The kind of CACA that comes at us whether we are expecting it or not.  

Now, how we feel about whatever CACA  has been smeared on us at any given time, is rightfully ours and valid.    No one can tell us how we should feel about something, we own those feelings and they are ours to have.    

What we do and how we respond to the CACA however, is a choice we make.  We can control what we decide to do about all the CACA in our lives (and boy is there a lot of that stinky stuff being thrown at us from every direction.)

Let’s take a look at some CACA-ish situations that we face day-to-day:

CACA Number 1:

 You are a woman.  You desperately look for an empty parking space in a crowded parking lot.    You spot one but you have to drive by it because you have someone on your tail.  You now have to go back around and make your way back to what you believe is rightfully your spot.  Once there, you see a very attractive biatch woman getting out of the car that is now in your spot.  She smiles as she walks by you.  

What should you do about this CACA bestowed upon you?  Should you strain to get your space back or should you wipe it off?


Go ahead and sulk for a moment, feel angry at her for not only taking your spot but for being prettier than you (Grrrr).  Then, consider that she had no idea that you had “claimed” the spot and did what you yourself would have done.  Then you:





CACA Number 2:

Your flight has been cancelled, after being delayed 3 times.  You are now stuck at the airport because there is no movement and no way to get to your destination.  Crap.

Do you become explosive and storm over to the gate attendant and tell him he is full of it and that you demand to be put on the next available flight?




Although this truly is bull-caca and you feel inflamed (understandably so) that airlines stink so much for not caring about their passengers and suck them dry with all the fees they charge, you acknowledge that it is not the fault of this attendant and ask politely about your options.  You make a note to yourself to express your grievance through the proper intestines channels.  Then you:



CACA Number 3:

You didn’t get the job.  You were so sure you had it in the bag.   You thought the interview had gone smoothly with no pressure or issues. Caca!  What are you going to do now?

You can either get thoroughly depressed telling yourself that you are the bowel of society and lock yourself in your room for months and call the company to tell them how foul their company is and that you would rather be a pooper-scooper than work for them, or  you could be sad that it didn’t go your way but strive to push harder next time and:



I  too struggle to wipe the CACA off.  It is not easy, especially when our reflexes tell us to react first and think second.  

But, if we can separate ourselves from the CACA when it is splattering itself all over us, and understand that oftentimes, we have no control of the situation or that this ‘too shall pass’, we will achieve our ultimate goal of becoming regular and content, no matter the CACA.




Besame, Besame Mucho

Rather than refer to Puerto Rico as The Island of Enchantment, it really should be called, The Island of The Kiss.  Isla Del Beso.  I grew up kissing, so it should not have come as a surprise during my recent visit, when I got kissed a total of 555 times (approximately).

My mom and her husband kissed me. So did my aunts, cousins, neighbors, the cleaning woman, the hairdresser, the manicurist, a chef, a wedding groom I barely knew, strangers and even a dog.  Multiple times.  Every time I saw them.  Again and again.  Muchos Besos.

I had somehow forgotten how much one gets kissed in Puerto Rico.  It is a lovely tradition in spite of the germs it spreads.  You feel instantly connected to the person and affectionately greeted.  I am back from my two and a half week visit, so if you see me and I kiss you, please do not take it the wrong way.   MMMUUUUUA!

As I mentioned in my previous post, Mi Casa Es Su Casa, I went to visit my mother in Puerto Rico, fleeing the record cold February from Hell of 2015 (Welcome March, I think I love you!)  Not only did my aching arthritic joints thank me profusely and my taste buds kissed me passionately for giving them such savory and sweet delights to taste, but my heart burst with immense love and gratitude from the abundance of kindness my mother showered me with, the entire time.

IMG_3053 IMG_3085 IMG_3100 IMG_3181 IMG_3348 IMG_3352 IMG_3354 IMG_3363 IMG_3380 IMG_3198

Mucha comida above

She made sure every single minute of my stay was comfortable, loving and fun.  I awoke every morning to a table set with linens and a healthy delicious breakfast with freshly squeezed orange juice.  The questions during our breakfasts consisted of what activity I wanted to do that day, what Puerto Rican food I wanted to eat and did I want white wine, red wine or both.

She hosted a family dinner where I got to see relatives that live in Puerto Rico that I don’t get to visit with often.  She made sure to serve my favorite rice and bean dish with steak and sweet plantain.  This is when at least half of those 555 besos took place.

As the days passed, my mother and her wonderful husband included me in all of their activities with their friends, to introduce me to those I had not yet met and to visit with the friends I knew.  We went out to lunch and dinner for several days in a row. And got mas besos.

I was dropped off at the beach resort anytime I wanted and picked up when I was ready to go home, always with a smile, kindness, love and wine.

My mother insisted on buying me an extra pair of the special shoes I wear that fit my arthritic non-matching feet, just because.  She also arranged for her hair dresser to cut my hair and give me a Keratin treatment ( sans the  formaldehyde) to tame my curls (jumping up and down with glee with my new softer hair.)  Do you see what I mean about her spoiling me?

Her love for her children has always been this strong (I have 3 siblings) and has never wavered.  What has changed, is the quality of life she is able to have now at the age of 78 with her husband of four years who adores her and is able to provide a financially secure future for them both.  My father passed away 17 years ago at the age of 62 and my mother had the struggles many widows have when they find themselves alone.  Her joy comes from her wish and ability to provide the special extras to her children and by spoiling them rotten.  And muchos besos.

After my diagnosis of ITP  in 1989, when I became gravely ill and had my spleen removed and the diagnosis of Rheumatoid Arthritis in 1992, my mother became my number one caretaker (well, neck and neck with my husband.)  She worries about me and hates to see me in pain.  That she can spoil me and make me feel better if just for a short time, is priceless.

Although I won’t see my mother again until November when she visits for Thanksgiving, I have a high reserve of love from her that will carry me through until then.

Besame Mucho!