My apartment is infested with ninjas

I know I put that CD on the dining room table. I took it out of my bag and I put it there. I know I left my red shirt hanging on my dryer rack. I did not hang it in my closet. I did not fold it into my drawer. I know I put my brown sneakers in my closet. I placed them carefully in my shoe rack. I saw them hanging there for weeks. These things are missing. MISSING. I didn't lose them because I know exactly where I left them but now they are gone. GONE. And at first I was all B, where's my stuff? And he's like I don't know what you're talking about. And when people say that it usually makes me suspicious because whenever someone says that on Law & Order, they know EXACTLY what the other person is talking about and they're probably running a child pornography ring out of their home office, but I just can't figure out what B would want to do with a red tank top or a women's size 6.5 shoes and also maybe I've been watching too much Law & Order recently.

Here's the thing: I live in a small apartment. There's not many places missing things could hide. I have torn the place apart. I have emptied drawers, turned closets upside down, and crawled around on my hands and knees for weeks. And all I wanna do is listen to some Ben Folds in incredibly cute yet surprisingly comfortable shoes. My life is in shambles.

There's really only one explanation. Ninjas, obvi. First it was mice. Then it was squirrels. Now my apartment is infested with ninjas. I must admit though, compared to the rodents, the ninjas are definitely much quieter and also they don't poop in the kitchen, so I guess besides the stealing shit part, I really can't complain all that much.

And now B's all uhhh is it possible that you just lost these things? And I'm all YOU NEVER SUPPORT ME I WANT A DIVORCE and he's like we're not married yet, dude and I'm like good thing because I kinda have a thing for ninja number three and he's all wait, have you been ambushing old ladies as they walk out of CVS and stealing their medication again? and that's when I plead the Fifth. Tweet

This is pretty much the funniest thing I've seen all week

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I am done with you, winter

I'm there. In that place where I feel like if I have to wrap a scarf around my neck and button up my coat and pull on my hat and put on my gloves one more time I'm going to snap. It isn't even February yet and I am done with you, winter.

B doesn't understand my disdain. He likes the cold. He is a freak. He sits happily next to me sipping his tea while I claw at my arms and legs. My skin is so dry I want to peel it from my body for relief from the itch. It has spread to my brain. I am restless. I pour over pictures of myself and my friends with tanned, shimmering skin and bathing suits and flip flops and I want to be there. Oh god, I want to be there.

Time is flying by, but suddenly it's not fast enough. There is still not enough space between me and the things that happened. I need more space.

In other news: my dog is so tired of me taking pictures of him. I'm serious. Everytime he looks all cute and I pull out my camera he does this freakishly human-like sigh. Like you know when you tell a kid he can't have that 56th piece of candy and he's all ooooooooh in that high pitched, drawn out kid way? That's pretty much exactly what Rooney sounds like. But it's winter and I'm stuck inside all night so I have nothing better to do. I'm sorry if I can't find more amusing things to do, like licking my own crotch or chewing the heels off my new red pumps or eating out of the trash.

And the other night when I was scrolling through all of the pictures on my camera I realized that most of them were of Rooney and B was all can you please not be one of those nerds who makes Facebook albums filled with nothing but pictures of your dog? and I was like psh please, dude, what kind of a dork do you take me as? and then he showed me an entire year's worth of my Facebook albums that primarily featured my old dog and sometimes a few friends, like that time I went on vacation for a week and the only pictures I took were of my dog. Whatever.


And yes, these are all new pictures that I've snapped over the past few weeks. Rooney just looks like he hasn't grown because he hasn't grown. I think he's a midget. I'm an equal opportunity dog owner. And in case you were wondering, he jumps pretty high and definitely wouldn't have any problem biting you in the balls, robbers, so don't get any ideas. Tweet

File this one under AWESOME

"It's spelled 'crap,' as in crap." Tweet

Oh yea, I'm alive and stuff ALTERNATE TITLE: The Yellaphant Magic School Bus edition

Apparently people are starting to worry because it's already Tuesday night and I told you that if you didn't hear from me by Monday, I was probably sitting in a jail cell learning the newest North Baltimore underground handshake from Skinny Pete. But I wasn't arrested. I was just really really really hungover tired. So hungover tired that I've decided once and for all that I am never drinking Jagermeister EVER again which is fine by me because waking up the morning after a night with that drink is pretty much equivalent to waking up with a fat trucker still wearing his wearing flannel shirt with cut off sleeves, a John Deere hat, and dirty tube socks in your bed who you also suspect to have punched you in the face the night before, you know what I mean? You regret it. For at least the next 12 hours.

Friday after work I jumped in a friend's car and headed down to Baltimore with pretty much every other young Loyola College alumni. Blah blah blah Friday night. Blah blah booze and best friends and blah. And then on Saturday afternoon, as I opened up the door to my friend Mojo's car and puked from the backseat onto the busy streets of Federal Hill on our way to get pizza -- because, hello, puking inside the car is so college and I am too mature for that -- I knew that my nights spent throwing back shots of Jager as the bar lights come on were definitely over forever. Luckily, there is still an entire array of liquors that I still consider acceptable to scramble after at last call.

And it was a good thing I didn't exert myself too much on Friday because Saturday was the Big Night. Saturday, at exactly 6:30 p.m., the big yellow school bus arrived. We were on our way to the Bull and Oyster Roast, beetches.



















And the moral of the story is this: my friends are definitely more fun than yours. That's because when it comes to life, they're all definitely on the bus. Tweet

UPDATED: If you don't hear from me by Monday, maybe you should just assume I've been arrested

This weekend, hundreds of recent and relatively recent college graduates will descend upon that little slice of paradise known as Bodymore, Murderland Baltimore, Maryland. My bags are packed and as soon I leave the office, I'll be on my way to, like, one of the best weekends of the year: my college's alumni Bull and Oyster Roast. The last time I was this excited for something I ended up waking up the next morning wearing nothing but a thin layer of bubble wrap and a wool hat under someone's kitchen table. That actually never happened to me but one time I did wake up curled under my desk with no pants after a night of heavy drinking. But this weekend, I wouldn't rule out the bubble wrap.

Also have you seen this video?



I saw it on Twitter yesterday, and even though Jenny blogged about it today too, I had totally planned on blogging this thing last night, and anyway there can never too much press for fisting, right?

ANYWAY, fisting?! So when I saw this video, I e-mailed it to basically everyone I know because, hello, fisting? FISTING?! Someone seriously needs to brush up on her urban dictionary before she's allowed to speak in front of a national audience again. So then last night when I saw my mom she was all what's fisting? and I was all oh holy hell before I launched into a full fisting explanation and now I'm a little paranoid that my mom thinks I let B shove his entire hand up my hoo-ha. And now, when I get home tonight, B is gonna be all WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR VAGINA ON THE INTERNET?

Also, you know how urban dictionary likes to use their words in a sample sentence? Well this is one of the sentences for fisting:

"You could do with a severe fisting."

WHAT THE FECK? And when I read that, I totally said it out loud in a British accent like how the knights used to be all you could do with a severe lashing, farm boy to the peasants and the lady who sits at the desk next to me is like what did you just say? and I'm all you heard me and then I just stared at her for a while. But the moral of the story is, if someone says that to you, you should not trust that person and never ever take your pants off in front of them.

UPDATE: @TLA_Kate thinks she's the first person who showed me that video, but she's not. She's just drunk. Tweet

On maintaining my figure so I can squeeze into that very form fitting wedding dress. ALTERNATE TITLE: I'd rather eat cake

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Confessions: Sometimes I even disgust myself

I would like to preface this post by explaining to everyone that it is extremely cold in Philadelphia these days. And also, since my apartment is actually an old house that was converted into three apartments, the heater's control falls in the hands of the resident of the first floor. And he likes to keep it warm. And since I live on the second floor, the laws of science tell us that my apartment's a bit toastier than the first floor because heat rises. And in my old house, heat rises like a bitch. It is fecking 80 degrees in my bedroom. This makes for a very uncomfortable transition from outside to inside and from inside to outside. It also makes for an extremely uncomfortable and downright suffocating night's sleep. And every morning when I wake up, I can't breathe because this dry heat-cold thing is fecking with my sinuses in some majorly uncomfortable way. My relief comes in my morning shower. The steam just clears everything right up. I would also like to preface this post by explaining that sometimes I do things that even disgust myself but it certainly doesn't stop me from doing them.

But today, to clear it all out even more, I blew my nose in the shower. And it worked wonderfully. And it definitely felt way cleaner than a nasty snot-stuffed tissue or god help me a handkerchief. And yea, it was gross, but then it washed away and was totally clean. I mean come on, it's not like I pooped in the shower or anything like that. THAT'S really sick. And I'm fairly suspicious that boys pee in the shower all the time, so it's kind of the same thing. And this got me to wondering if anyone else I know has ever blown their nose in the shower. Because really, it's quite efficient. And in fact, I'm pretty convinced they do.

Don't act like you've never tried this. And if you really haven't, then we probably shouldn't be friends because I'm pretty sure our imbalanced levels of propriety would make for some awkward dinner table conversation when I'm all you should have SEEN the balls on this elephant and you're like can you please pass the caviar? and I'm dude, you know we don't serve cow here, it's meatless Monday.

I'm also pretty sure this is not the type of stuff you should share with your blog readers. Or anyone, really. And I'm pretty sure that B is shaking his head while he reads this because this post is even worse than the time I declared Playtex the president of my va jay jay because now not only does everyone know certain things about my va jay jay, they know that sometimes I blow my nose in the shower. I blame this all on the man who lives in the first floor apartment. He's ruining my reputation on my blog. Asshole. Tweet

Don't act like this isn't your wildest dream come true, Philadelphia

Philadelphia's Please Touch Museum has always been pretty awesome. When were kids, my parents would take me and my brother there and let us loose to -- get this -- touch things. In a MUSEUM. We learned about all sorts of things like a kids version of city life and mechanics and art and touching. We pulled levers and pushed pedals and inflated balloons and constructed worlds. You want to see a kid go batshit? You take him to the Please Touch Museum.

This place was already like some version of Big on steroids, but now they've just entered a new realm of making kids' dreams come true. A crazy rich local couple just donated the movie's giant piano to the museum. THE giant piano. THIS giant piano.



And now I'm totally hyperventilating because I am this close to having my childhood life goal come true: to roll around on the VERY giant piano that Tom Hanks jumped around playing Heart and Soul on in 1988. I want to create a chaotic cacophony to the tune of every 80's child's dreams. And now I'm all I gotta go to the Please Touch Museum I gotta go and B is all ummm aren't you, like, 24? and I'm like FOOL, you don't UNDERSTAND this is BIG and he's I'm pretty sure that I understand you're a freak. So I think we're making progress. I WILL play that giant piano with my feet and I don't care how many small children I have to push out of the way to do it. Tweet

UPDATED: Today is definitely the best day *ever* for America

Hey, everyone. It's me, reporting from Barack Obama's inauguration. And by reporting from, I mean writing about it while watching it on TV. At my desk. In my office. Yea.

But watching it on the little screen is still breathtaking. I haven't seen that many people gathered in one place since Bonnaroo. And I'm pretty sure I haven't seen that many people gathered in one place who weren't on some variety of mind enhancing drug ever. But then again, those people are certainly dancing around a lot, so they're either really cold or they're on drugs, and even though the weather is hovering somewhere around fecking frigid, I'd still say they're all on drugs because wouldn't that be the best party, like, ever?

And besides being the day that will always be rememebered as the day that millions of Americans were all on drugs, it will also be rememebered by the world as the day when America officially began to change and maybe even started to be the cool kid on the block with the awesome dance moves. And hello, say it with me: hawtest president in the world.

But good dance moves and the dashing good looks aside, there are inumerable ways that America is about to take a new course starting today. An important course. A course of hope. A course of change. A course of blogger cliches.

And of course, I'm a bit excitable today. And as I sit here eating my banana, all I can do is smile for the future. And smile because I keep waiting for George Bush to give a speech then jump up and down and be all SEE YA LATER, SUCKAAAAS like that asshate frat kid who crashed your party, trashed your house, froze your underwear, peed in your radiator, and left you to clean up the mess the next day.

And besides the drugs and change and hope and pee, today is the day Americans came together from every corner of the country to support the man who will clean up our nation while John McCain silently cried in his oatmeal and George Bush booked his vacation to Cabo.

UPDATE: 10:11 a.m. Don't you feel like we should be drinking? We should totally be drinking. Why doesn't this office have any champagne? What kind of a sham place is this?

UPDATE: 11:34 a.m. They are playing a suspicious amount of circus music down there. And the announcer definitely sounds like a ringleader. Not sure what Washington is trying to tell us here. Also Aretha Franklin's hat is fierce.

UPDATE: 11:59 a.m. Mr. Justice = total patootie.

UPDATE: 12:06 a.m. WE DID IIIIIITTTTTT. Tweet

If every Monday commute was like this, I'd ride the train a lot more often

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Why am I even *at* work right now?

It's Martin Luther King Day and I am at work when I'm supposed to be out in my community doing service and helping people and junk, or showing off my awesome snowboarding skills on the slopes or sitting on my couch in sweatpants eating Cheerios out of the box. I'm pretty sure everywhere else in the country is closed except for the Asian deli on my corner. I didn't even get my mail today. I mean, wtf?

The only logical explanation is that my company is racist. And when I tried explaining this to my mom, she was like I have work too, you know and then I was all SCREW THE MAN. But that example doesn't even count because she works for a hospital and its not like sick people take a vacation from being sick and stuff. Or I guess they do and you could call that death, which is a drag, obviously and anyway, when you put it that way, I'd rather be at work than be dead, geez.

P.S. I don't really think my company is racist.

P.P.S. Please don't fire me. Tweet

This is pretty much the most messed up thing I've ever seen

So remember last month when ShopRite wouldn't give Adolf Hitler his birthday cake? Have a drink, readers mom.

And in the words of Adlolf Hitler's father, New Jersey native Heath Campbell, it all became a "circus of racism," because refusing to write Hitler's name on a birthday cake is pretty much the same exact thing as refusing to let everyone use the same water fountain. Have another a drink, readers mom.

Just knowing that someone out there has named their children Adolf Hitler and -- get this -- JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, keeps me up at night, which is actually a welcome distraction from the squirrels' bazookas. And just when you thought Heath Campbell's 15 minutes of fame were long gone, Hitler's name is in the headlines again. This time, because these poor kids have been put in custody of the state. Have another drink, readers mom.

Now that we're all good and lubed up, can I get a what the feeeeeeeeeeeck? And right now I'm thinking these kids have a few more problems than say, squirrels in the ceiling, like, maybe, crazy-arse parents.

And this story is causing me to loose control of my ability to think because there's just ... so ... much ... dumbbbssckkzzzzz. And also I'm pretty sure this is some kind of metaphor for something greater or maybe it's just New Jersey because uhhhhhh. Eck.

In completely unrelated news, B and I have decided to change Rooney's name to Pol Pot. Tweet

You can't spell class without ass

My college's biggest alumni event of the year is less than two weeks away, and I am wiggling with excitement. Every January, Loyola hosts the Bull and Oyster Roast, and with a name like that, you just know you're going to be slupping down plastic cups of beer in your most fabulous cocktail dress in your alma mater's student center until you find yourself teetering on the edge of sloppy and huddled in a circle of your friends while everyone cries because graduating from college was like, the worst idea ever. And the next morning when you realized you passed sloppy by three drinks and one dance on the bar before you remembered you weren't in college anymore and stumbled back to your friend's house to fall asleep on the hardwood floor, you'll be filled with the warm and fuzzies because there's only one group of people you ever have this much fun with and they're sleeping on the floor right next to you and maybe someone is vomitting in the bathroom.

And because whenever we do anything, we do it with class, I rented a big yellow school bus to taxi us around all night.

This is going to be AWESOME. Tweet

On living with squirrels

There are squirrels living in my apartment. They live in that little space in between my ceiling and the upstairs apartment's floor. And every night, between the hours of 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., they go INSANE. They run the entire length of the apartment and throw boulders and knock into walls and play vulgar rap music and launch missiles and hide their stupid nuts in my ceiling with their stupid claw hands that scratch the wood FOR HOURS. And they are so loud every night I wake up because I think the dog is frantically running around the apartment and bumping into things. But it's not the dog. It's the SQUIRRELS.

And remember when we had mice FOR MONTHS? This isn't as gross, but it is definitely way LOUDER and what is with our apartment and vermin I swear to blog I clean like someone with OCD. And squirrels are kind of gross too because when you shave them they look like rats. And right now there's a dead squirrel that I pass every day on my walk to work and over the past three weeks it's lost all of its hair and is now flatter than a pancake and EW THOSE THINGS ARE LIVING IN MY CEILING.

And last night when they woke me up I was like fuuuuuudddggeee because when things wake me up very suddenly like that I wake up all startled and a little frantic and I have to get my bearings for a second and B went to put his hand on my head only only I thought he was going to smother me with a pillow because we had just watched The Shining before we went to bed and you should never watch The Shining when you have squirrels living in your ceiling because you will probably think your fiance is trying to kill you.

And then I went back to sleep and had a horrible dream about male prostitutes. Living with squirrels is not easy.

P.S. Dear squirrels, Do not feck with me. I swear if you wake me up one more time I am going to burn the whole place down. Don't believe me? Ask the mice. And the Christmas presents.

P.P.S. Dear B, If you come home from work and see smoke coming from our windows, don't worry, it's just me burning down the apartment. I'll make it look like an accident. We'll use the insurance money to pay for our wedding. It'll all work out.

P.P.P.S. Dear Mom and Dad, We're moving in for a while. And we're bringing the dog. Tweet

If grinding your teeth doesn't cause dementia, drinking chlorine definitely will

Last night my mom and I went swimming. Not swimming like oh swimming is so fun look at my cute bathing suit let's lounge on the raft and sip from frosty glasses of fruity alcoholic beverages but swimming like kick your legs and move your arms and try not to swallow water until you feel like you're going to drown and call it exercise.

I've always loved the water, but I've never been on a swim team or anything. I can certainly hold my drink my own in the pool, but I never even officially learned the strokes you need to know to be considered a swimmer. I just observed the swimmers, then mimicked them.

When I was a lifeguard I used to give little kids swim lessons because of two words: big tips. Parents totally pay up when you're teaching their children stuff that could save their lives or make them the next Michael Phelps or something. And when you're in high school, a $10 tip is so bank. But teaching little kids to blow bubbles and kick their legs doesn't mean I'm on the swim team and if the parents tipped me extra because they thought I was, then who am I to correct? And if anyone asked, I was always totally truthful.

Mrs. mom: So are you on the swim team at school?
Me: Bitch, I'm the MVP.

I've always been more of a runner. But this winter, since I've decided not to spend extra money on a gym membership and hello Bossy's Daily Poverty Party, this totally counts, my mom and I have spent a fraction of a fraction of the cost of a gym membership and joined the pool at the public high school near her house otherwise known as Tina Fey's alma mater, where we have pledged to swim laps every week and walk around the halls pretending to be awkward teenage Tina Fey until we are politely yet sternly asked to leave the premises and marry me, Tina Fey?

Because while B gets his winter exercise by playing paddle tennis and wtf is paddle tennis, I get my winter exercise by complaining about how it's so cold and so dark and oh I should have run tonight but I think it's raining and are you gonna eat that? So this year I will keep my motivation high by bringing diversity to my workout routine in the form of drowning swimming.

Last night was our first night in the pool and we swam tried not to drown for one mile. One mile. And my mom, who was on the swim team a million years ago at one point in her life, was a bit more graceful than I was and I spent a lot of the time swallowing water and trying really hard not to blow snot into the water when I exhaled and I'm pretty sure I'm doing it wrong.

But after we finished I could barely walk and I was seriously craving a burrito so I guess I accomplished the whole exercise thing. And I just thought of a great new way to stay tough in the pool. Whenever my muscles are burning and I'm swallowing water and I think my eyes might be rolling into the back of my head, I'm just going to think about how this is way better than being someone's prison sex slave after having been purchased for thee packs of cigarettes and some prison wine and if I was, I'd have to be really fast and strong so I could stab them in the neck with my shank so I should just be thankful. You can also apply this motivational scenario to running, working, and household chores. And when my friend Conor showed me this book review from Amazon.com, it made us really thankful that we could read. Tweet

Enough with the Marley and Me crap, I'll see you on the wii court

I have not seen "Marley and Me" and I'm not planning on seeing it anytime soon because if you haven't figure it out yet, I am far too emotionally unstable for any movie that ends with a dog dying. I cried for three weeks at the end of "Old Yeller" and that was before I even ever had a dog. Three weeks. When my own dog died I lost 15 pounds, stopped sleeping, and went on a month-long drinking binge and you know what happens when you drink on an empty stomach. I'm also pretty sure that I'm suffering from some sort of post dramatic stress disorder because I get flashbacks and slight panic attacks every time I see a truck driving too quickly down the street. Not even kidding. I should WebMD that.

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In unrelated news, my arm is killing me. I got B a wii for Christmas and have since made it my mission to beat him in wii tennis and apparently I've been doing it all wrong because you're just supposed to flick your wrist and not swing your arm as if you were swinging an actual tennis racket and I might have given myself tennis elbow. WebMD?

You should also know that B is a tennis pro, so since I have no chance of ever beating him on the actual tennis court, beating him on the wii court is becoming an obsession. In all the matches we've played in the past week, I've won one game. And lost the ability to raise my right arm. But if nothing else, wii tennis has finally taught me how to keep score in tennis because before now I never had the attention span to properly pay attention to all that love, game, set, match, duece, whatever, blah blah blah stuff, you know?

P.S. B's not the type of tennis pro that gets paid to play professional tennis, he's the type of tennis pro that gets paid to have affairs with rich women and sometimes men in the movies. And teach people how to play tennis. But he is a pretty mean tennis player, if I do say so myself. Which, actually, might not say that much.

P.P.S. You would think that being engaged to a tennis pro would mean all these sweet free lessons for me, but it doesn't. That may or may not be because the last time he did try to teach me, the lesson may or may not have ended with a thrown racket and lots of profanity.

P.P.P.S. B is absolutely not the type of tennis pro that would have an affair with the rich housewife and that may or may not have something to do with these two words: penis fire. I am, however, negotiable about his possible affairs with other men, depending on my role in the situation.

P.P.P.P.S. Just kidding, B's mom.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Totally not kidding, B. Tweet

I hope teeth grinding is not a symptom of dementia

I've been grinding my teeth in my sleep recently and I've also been seeing a lot of commercials for WebMD so today I thought it would be a good idea to type teeth grinding into the WebMD search box to see if maybe I actually had yellow fever or something, which I don't, but perhaps I'm being bullied at school? And apparently I'm stressed or something. And that might be because recently I've been completely neurotic but at least I'm not chewing on razor blades yet.

All of my recent neurotic behavior has sprung from my constant worrying about the future and in particular a future that might not include living in Philadelphia and a quick drive from my parents' house and let's not get into it now because you're making me all panicky and did I mention I've also been biting my nails recently and according to WebMD nail biting is also a result of stress and oh really? I'm clearly not asking challenging enough questions so I typed in yellow fever and apparently jaundice is good for babies and I thought we left that shit on the Oregon trail and this site is totally whack.

Now I understand why WebMD is the playground for America's hypochondriacs and I can totally see why people get addicted to WebMD the same way they get addicted to IKEA. It's like 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. And on WebMD all you want to do is figure out how to stop grinding your teeth and then you keep finding symptoms and before you know it you think you have the plague.

Good thing I'm not really one for hypochondria except when I convince myself I have skin cancer a few times a year. Cheap home furnishings is a completely different matter though, which is why I'm not allowed to go to IKEA unsupervised. Tweet

This is my second post of the day but my dog is suicidal or he wants to cut me

The other day I was taking a shower and that's where I do most of my paranoid thinking and I suddenly realized it's way too quiet which can only mean that the Roon is up to no good. So when I get out I find him lying on his bed chewing on B's new box of razors. And he wasn't just chewing on the box. He had managed to open the whole thing and was going through each razor and chewing the blade off. WTF kind of dog chews on razor blades? So I panic and fish a blade out of his mouth and pick up all these pieces of broken razor and put him in some pretty impressive wrestling headlock so I can pull out his tongue and examine it and count four times to make sure I have all the blades and that he didn't swallow one or worse was saving one inside his cheek to slice me up with later because if you saw the look on his face when I took away the razor blades, it was totally bitch I will cut you. Tweet

Peanut butter pudding surprise!

Now that every radio station in the free world has finished their best song/album/blah blah blah year end countdowns, I thought I'd say goodbye to 2008 with my top 100 6 songs because let's not get carried away.

These aren't just songs that I liked. Because I liked a lot of songs. A lot. These are the songs that burned themselves into my consciousness. That when I hear them years from now, I'll remember this year and everything that happened between January 1 and December 31. These are the songs that kept me up at night in 2008.

6. Coldplay - Viva la Vida



5. Rilo Kiley - Silver Lining



4. Vampire Weekend - One (Blake's Got a New Face)



3. Ra Ra Riot - Dying is Fine



2. Bon Iver - Skinny Love



1. My Morning Jacket - Highly Suspicious

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It's just not New Year's without a kick in the head and a visit from the Froggy Carrs

Remember Wednesday when I woke up and I was all wtf in a frenzied, kenetic type of way and I was excited and nervous and ready? Yesterday I woke up and my wtf was all low and slow and gutteral and whispered and drawn out to a quiet wtffffffffff and I had to lie in bed for a few minutes before I could move to try to remember if at any point I had been kicked in the head by a horse the night before and then I threatened to call the spousal abuse hotline on B because he was up and looking quite chipper which kind of made me want to puke in his shoes and blame it on the dog and I felt so bad that I swear he must have been the one who kicked me in the head and he was all you can't call the spousal abuse hotline because we're not espoused yet and by the way, it was probably that bottle of pink champagne you drank and wtf pink champagne?

But there was no time for lallygagging because it was New Year's Day and I had a parade to get to. But then I stood up and decided to take a nap instead. And then I jumped up and took a shower and got ready and then I took another nap because oh my gah pink champagne and/or spousal abuse. But then I was ready and by ready I mean I was walking and really craving something fried.

And in my family, a longstanding tradition is to drag yourself to the New Year's Day Mummers Parade in Philadelphia. Because in my large family of Irish drinkers, the only thing to do after a night of heavy drinking is to wake up and drink some more.

And a big part of that tradition is our love affair with the Froggy Carr Comic Brigade.

And every year my aunt opens up her South Philadelphia house to friends and family and Mummers and we watch the parade and drink champagne and try to eat enough food to soak up all the booze from the night before. And a number of years ago one Mummer-enthused party-goer wandered down to the parade and came home hours later arm in arm with a number of equally intoxicated members of the Froggy Carr. And every year they return to drink more booze and eat more food and do the Mummers Strut in the kitchen and chant the Froggy Carr song. And hello, have you met hundreds of drunk Irish men dressed in drag the Mummers Strut?



So B and I spent yesterday afternoon in my aunt's crowded kitchen listening to the Froggy Carrs lament about the parade's budget cuts and drunk suburbans and have you ever heard a drunk South Philadelphian lament? Because in South Philadelphia, you're one of three things: an Irish Catholic, an Italian Catholic, or a moron.

And after a day of food and booze and family, we dragged ourselves home because after this week my body has consumed so much rich food and alcohol that it's currently staging a rebellion and I can't control my limbs or maybe I'm just dying of some horrible tropical disease that I got from drinking too much tap water and I just haven't noticed yet because I've been intoxicated for the past eight days and now I just want to go to sleep. And when we got home I checked in with one of my favorite blogs ever and OH MY GAH I'M ON BOSSY. So I frantically jumped to my stats page and OH MY GAH, BOSSY, MARRY ME? And welcome, all, to the first Yellaphant post of 2009. Let's take a nap. Tweet