Another collection of thoughts not long enough for their own blog post ... and then I peed on myself

This is obviously a little late because I wrote it five days ago, but I've been busy, and I still think it's safe to say I didn't miss the boat. HEY-YO!

Did anyone else notice that the only thing Good Morning America was covering last Friday morning was the tour of that new big ass cruise ship, the Oasis of the Seas? Aren't there people dying somewhere in the world we should know about? Famines? Flood? Civil unrest? Why is ABC devoting so much air time to a tour of a cruise ship that 85 percent of their viewers will never be able to afford to step foot on in their lives anyway? Oh wait, probably because Disney owns it. Just like your soul.

I love you, Sam Champion, but don't think I haven't caught on to all those innuendos about the girth of the ship and the number of really long dicks decks, when there are probably more important things that also have really big girths. Like your wiener Africa.

And anyway, the last time the media made this big of a deal out of a ship, I'm pretty sure it did NOT end well.

So basically, you couldn't PAY me to be on that maiden voyage right now. I hate to be the one to tell you this, cruisers, but you're all gonna die. And I don't think that really cool looking wave simulator or elevator bar or the twenty four pools or the floral shirted waiter who is bringing you fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them is going to save you.

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On Monday night I had to drive to Massachusetts by myself. No big deal, I do it all the time. When I drive, I desperately want to avoid going through New York City via the George Washington Bridge, because, depending on the time of day, the traffic will make you want to slam your head on the steering wheel until the pain goes away.

The best way to avoid this is by driving around New York City and crossing over the Tappan Zee Bridge. But our GPS system, otherwise known as Cynthia, refuses to acknowledge that as a legitimate route to Massachusetts, meaning, in order to get there, I usually set the destination as the little town right before the bridge, and cross from there. Once on the Tappan Zee, I switch the destination to B's town in Massachusetts. Works like a charm every time. Until Monday night.

Because this time, Cynthia is an asshole and decided to take me across the George Washington Bridge. YOU SCREWED ME, CYNTHIA. And when I realized that was happening, I popped off the nearest exit to re-evaluate. Only by the time I got off the highway, I realized I had to go to the bathroom so badly that if I didn't find a bathroom within the next five minutes, it was highly probable I would pee my pants.

Only I was in bumbletown New Jersey, surrounded by industrial parks and power plants, without a rest stop to be seen with Cynthia screaming "RECALCULATING. RECALCULATING. RECALCULATING." And you know what's the WORST word to hear when you're driving and you think you might pee your pants? RECALCULATING. So I did what any self respecting girl with a weak bladder would do: I pulled to the side of the road and popped a squat.

But remember that little marathon I just ran on Sunday? My quads were so sore on Monday night, that when I dropped my pants, I realized there was no way I could bend my legs enough to get to an optimal squatting position. But those flood gates were already opened and that pee was coming. So I bent my knees as far as I could, held on to the car door for support, and peed all over my pants leg.

And then I drove four and a half more hours to Massachusetts.

Bizarre-o land

Yep, I did it. And I didn't even poop my pants. Incredible. But more on that later. Like, when I can walk down the stairs without looking like I have a pole stuck up my butt.

Instead, everyone can head on over to my friend Shelley's blog, the Spotted Duck, where I wrote a guest post for today. I'll give you a hint: It's not about poop. Mostly.

Notes from the Philadelphia Marathon

26.2 miles.

Check.

(no big deal)

This post will absolutely get me hate mail

Apparently, last week a woman who lives on my block was followed home, pushed into her house, and sexually assaulted by an unknown assailant. I say apparently because I have been scanning the headlines for days and have seen nothing about it. I know of the rumor because the day after the apparent assault, one of the local news stations' vans was parked in front of my house. And despite what many of you might have predicted, I stayed as far away from this crew as possible. Momma don't wanna be one of those people.

Anyway, a neighbor later told me that the reporter was standing on the wet sidewalk interviewing residents because although this rape had occurred, the local political bigwigs had somehow managed to squelch the news, so as not to draw attention to the "black eye" of their town.

In other words, my side of the tracks are the wrong side. We be livin' in da hood, ya'll. Instead, they said they had sent out newsletters to everyone living on our street informing us of the news and reminding us to lock our doors and watch our backs and never climb in the back of the van to see the weird looking man's puppies. Only no one got the letter.

I have no idea if this story is actually true, but I find it difficult to believe that if it is, it would successfully be kept from any other neighbors or media sources. In today's world, it's pretty much impossible to let out a good fart without half the city Tweeting about it two minutes later.

But I have been particularly more cautious when walking alone at night. I've changed my pre-dawn running route to streets busy with early morning commuters. I make eye contact with everyone I pass. I always check my back. And I never leave home without my homemade toothbrush shiv.

So last night, as I was walking the dog and talking on the phone with B (who was still at work) -- and this is the part where Mojo gets mad because damnit Bridget, Loyola Campus Security would NOT approve you KNOW you're not supposed to talk on your cell phone when walking alone at night DIDN'T YOU LEARN ANYTHING IN COLLEGE?-- when I noticed a man had been walking behind me for the past few blocks.

Granted, I was walking in the direction of a major street. People probably walk on this street in this direction hundreds of times every day. But it was dark and I was alone and although my dog is really good at being an asshole, I don't know how good he'd be at protecting me from a big scary man beast.

So I mentioned it to B.

Me: Ack, I think some dude is following me. What if it's the Ardmore rapist?

B: Stop it, not funny. And it's not the Ardmore rapist.

Me: If it is, I'm just going to yell.

B: Yeah, just yell.

Me: STOP FOLLOWING ME RAPIST.

B: Oh my god, you did NOT just say that to him. What is WRONG with you?

Me: It's called self defense, B. I took a class in high school. He's lucky I didn't knee him in the balls cause my tenth grade history teacher totally taught me how to do that in case I ever need to. Holla, Mr. Smith. And no, I don't think he heard me anyway, but it would be pretty funny if he did. What would you do if you were walking down the street, when suddenly some chick turned around and started screaming GET AWAY FROM ME, RAPIST?

B: You have some serious prob- actually, yeah, that would be pretty funny. I'd probably be all oh my god, EW I would never rape you. And then she'd get insulted and probably think I was calling her fat or something because girls are crazy, and then I'd have to be all not that I don't find you attractive. It's just that I don't want to have sex with you.

Me: And then she'd DEFINITELY think you were calling her fat and you'd have to be all No, no I swear you're a very pretty girl, I'm just a gentleman.

B: And gentlemen don't show their peepees to strangers.

Me: That would make a pretty good Curb Your Enthusiasm episode ... My god we are so fucked up. I would blog about this, but then everyone would know what assholes we are.

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COMMENT OF THE DAY: Ardmore is the quaintest ghetto I've ever lived in. ~ Tatiana

I believe they call it "nesting"

I don't know what it says about me that I get such a huge kick out of buying stuff for our apartment. Stuff that's really useful. That could be used for our future house one day. That make things more comfortable and homey and nice.

But because we have no money for such niceties (because we're trying to buy a house to put them in), and because B would be totally fine living with nothing but plastic egg crates and a microwave, he has put me on a strict shopping ban. I'm not even allowed to talk about IKEA. I get that though. It's like I said about that place, you only plan on picking up one lamp shade and suddenly you black out and when you come to, you're loading your car with a new bookshelf, eight wicker baskets, two lamps, and a year's supply of votive candles. I think the Swedes pump drugs through the store's air vents that make you all grab-happy and blonde.

But then on Tuesday, my hairdryer officially bit the dust. And gah knows I can't survive in this cruel world without a hair dryer. The cards are totally stacked against us thin-haired broads. So on Tuesday night I needed to make an emergency run to Bed, Bath and Beyond, which happens to be one of the stores on B's Places Bridget Is Not Allowed to Go Without Direct Supervision list. So he accompanied me to the store like a parole officer escorting a pedo past a playground.

Me: Ooh HAMPERS!

B: Don't even think about it.

Me: This lamp is-

B: No.

Me: But I swear we really do need-

B: Put it down.

Me: But we're almost out of-

B: FOCUS.

Me: Clean-

B: Nein.

Me: For-

B: Time to go.

And obviously B made my shopping experience so stressful that I bought a hairdryer all will-nilly without first taking it out of the box and testing the buttons and I didn't find out until we got home that it's too hard to turn on because it hurts my thumbs AND WHY WOULD YOU DESIGN A HAIR DRYER WITH BUTTONS THAT ARE HARD TO TURN ON, REVLON? For reals, no matter how hard I try, I cannot turn it on. I have baby hands! But it's totally B's fault and now he will just have to deal with being called into the bathroom every morning to turn on my hairdryer for me.

Wednesday's Song of the Week

God I love this city.