Once upon a time there was an ordinary Friday night. And on this ordinary Friday night, a girl and her fiance B decided to go see some live music. So they went to the North Star Bar, which just so happens to be one of their favorite places in their great city to see live music. Partially because it's cheap. How cheap? On this particular Friday night, three bands played for a mere $10. Ten dollars?! Yes, $10.
First the Payola Reserve took the stage. And they approved. Then there was George Stanford. And they nodded. And then there was Eli "Paperboy" Reed with his band the True Loves.
And when they said true love, they were NOT MESSING AROUND because the moment Eli walked on stage with his green suit and his leather shoes and his parted hair, this girl was all oh heeeeck yes. And then they started to blow their horns and bang their drums and strum their strings and she was in love.
And when Eli was all REPEAT AFTER ME, she was all MARRY ME, ELI. Then he got down on his knees and then she died. And then he was all UH UH UH and then she died again.
And then Eli looked down from his carpeted stage and saw this girl jumping and dancing and hooting next to this boy who was calmly drinking his beer, and Eli was intrigued. And he decided that he would like nothing better than to buy a nice big house with a wrap around porch and a white wooden porch swing and play the guitar and drink cool lemonade and whiskey on the rocks with this dancing hooting girl and her handsome fiance B. So this girl and her fiance B and Eli "Paperboy" Reed all moved in together. And every night the True Loves would come over because who can resist a good sing along?And also, who can resist a good True Love?
And they all lived happily ever after. Amen.
I said AAAAAAAAAAMEN.
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Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
LOVE'LL PAY THE RENT, BABY
Yesterday I got lots of good advice from you guys in comments and e-mails. And I appreciate it. It all made sense. Except for the dude who suggested I eat my neighbor's poop. Not completely the advice I was looking for, but I'll keep it in mind.
The suggestion that stood out most to me was Oceandoggy's, "Love'll pay the rent baby!! Spend as much time together as you can. Life is short and don't never forget it."
Partially because that's exactly what I wanted to hear. And because he was so confident about it in a sort of feck it all type of way and I tend to be a very feck it all type of person. Do you see how many exclamation points are in there? And also, that's exactly what I wanted to hear. And it really rang true. Because it's exactly what I wanted to hear. Did I mention I really love Oceandoggy's advice because it's exactly what I wanted to hear?
Life IS short. And having some extra money around would be nice mostly because we don't have any money, but it would be even nicer to have B around. Love WILL pay the rent. Or it won't, in which case we'll be moving in with Oceandoggy. You hear that, Oceandoggy? Get the guest room ready.
And Oceandoggy's advice is making me all atingle. It might be the exclamation points. I really respond to visual stimulation. It makes me want to drink red wine straight from the bottle and scream songs from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club.
B is staying here this summer. And there will be lots of drinking wine from the bottle and screaming songs from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club. And other things. And we will love it.
P.S. I think B might have been second guessing his decision this morning when he walked into the kitchen and I threatened to stab him. In my defense it was really early and we had been out late drinking beer and watching basketball.
P.P.S. I wasn't really going to stab him. All the really sharp knives were too far to reach without moving.
P.P.P.S. Not that proximity to knife would ever really be the reason I don't stab him. I kind of like him. Plus, I'd imagine that stabbing takes a lot of energy and I don't usually have the type of umph so early in the morning.
P.P.P.P.S. This is going to be the best summer, like, ever. Tweet
The suggestion that stood out most to me was Oceandoggy's, "Love'll pay the rent baby!! Spend as much time together as you can. Life is short and don't never forget it."
Partially because that's exactly what I wanted to hear. And because he was so confident about it in a sort of feck it all type of way and I tend to be a very feck it all type of person. Do you see how many exclamation points are in there? And also, that's exactly what I wanted to hear. And it really rang true. Because it's exactly what I wanted to hear. Did I mention I really love Oceandoggy's advice because it's exactly what I wanted to hear?
Life IS short. And having some extra money around would be nice mostly because we don't have any money, but it would be even nicer to have B around. Love WILL pay the rent. Or it won't, in which case we'll be moving in with Oceandoggy. You hear that, Oceandoggy? Get the guest room ready.
And Oceandoggy's advice is making me all atingle. It might be the exclamation points. I really respond to visual stimulation. It makes me want to drink red wine straight from the bottle and scream songs from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club.
B is staying here this summer. And there will be lots of drinking wine from the bottle and screaming songs from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club. And other things. And we will love it.
P.S. I think B might have been second guessing his decision this morning when he walked into the kitchen and I threatened to stab him. In my defense it was really early and we had been out late drinking beer and watching basketball.
P.P.S. I wasn't really going to stab him. All the really sharp knives were too far to reach without moving.
P.P.P.S. Not that proximity to knife would ever really be the reason I don't stab him. I kind of like him. Plus, I'd imagine that stabbing takes a lot of energy and I don't usually have the type of umph so early in the morning.
P.P.P.P.S. This is going to be the best summer, like, ever. Tweet
Thursday, March 26, 2009
I really shouldn't be trusted with making important decisions right now
This week has been a tad stressful. Mostly because B and I had a big decision to make, and as we learned, neither of us are very good at making big decisions. This is partially because as soon as I make up my mind, I panic while I consider every worst case scenario that will surely befall me simply because I made the wrong choice.
But this week we had to figure out what the next six months would be like for us. Since B's work dries up around here during the summer months, he spent last year living with his parents and teaching tennis on the South Shores of Boston, where he could make the big bucks. His parents own a couple tennis clubs outside of Boston, and B's last name seems to be the tennis authority in their town. And it worked well for us. I stayed here with the dog, and B went up north and raked in the dough. He had to save up for a big purchase last year, after all.
It makes sense for us to do the same thing this year. With the wedding in September, we'll be shelling out more than a few dollars over the next few months. And then there's all that jazz that happens after the wedding. Like maybe someday buying a house? The market is pretty ideal for first time buyers, right? And you know how when you buy a house you usually need a down payment? And how a down payment involves a payment. Of money. And blah blah blah. Blerg?
ANYWAY. This summer. A few months ago I brought up the possibility of B spending this summer here. Maybe getting a summer job at a country club in the area. Teach the country club biddies and their Lacoste-robed children Nathanial III and Emily Rose how to swing a racquet. Because frankly, I hate living alone. It's a total drag. I miss B when he's gone. Last summer I ate cereal for dinner four nights a week and would conduct entire conversations with my dog. I'd even craft his replies in my head and respond to his questions. We spooned while we slept. We shared a pillow. If I had to get up in the middle of the night to pee, I brought the dog with me to protect me just in case I walked into my living room and discovered a burglar. Or a ghost. I'm sure it happens all the time.
But this summer will be different. Primarily because the dog we have now is a jerk. And I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be able to protect me from any buglars. Even child burglars. And definitely not ghosts. But also because the summer is my favorite. And I'd like to spend it with B.
So after putting his feelers out there in the Philadelphia tennis community, B was offered a couple of jobs. They pay well and provide plenty of hours. Naturally, when he told me he was staying, I was elated. Thrilled. I wouldn't be the crazy dog lady this summer. I'd be spending my evenings drinking cool wine with the man of my dreams. I'd be able to go down the shore on weekends. Since I didn't have to worry about the dog being alone too much, I could go to happy hours with friends. We could go to baseball games. Awesome. But then I panicked.
Down here B would be working a lot. Too much. He could make slightly more money up north, working half the amount of hours. I think he'd have a nicer, more relaxing summer up there. He'd have more opportunities for long weekends, and (since his home town is on the beach) beach trips. But now it's too late. I expressed my worry about living alone this summer, and B doesn't want to leave. He'll be working 50-plus hours a week here, but he'll be here every night. He'll have some time off on weekends, but not nearly as much time as he would up north. But the job here offers steady work from April until September. His regular job down here starts to dry up now, and doesn't pick up again until the end of September. So even if he went north from June until the end of August, there'd be a lot of time he'd spend not working.
But up north, he'd be making so much in such a short time, that it wouldn't matter that he only works a few hours a week in April and September. The pay would even out. The club up north heard he was considering staying down here and countered with a slightly fatter paycheck. What about the money? We could use that extra cash. For a lot of things. Will it be significant? What about him? I don't want him working that much. He needs to have fun this summer. My panic sent him into a panic. And we spent every night this week debating the pros and cons of leaving and staying. I'd spend days prophesizing about the importance of happiness over money. And then the next night I'd worry over every single penny we've spent in the last year. He made charts. And did math. I watched him do math because I have problems with basic arithmetic. We'd rationalize everything. Then throw it all out the window. I'd repeat my mantra it's up to you, it's up to you, so I don't feel like a total asshole if B's down here working his tail off.
B has to give his decision to both clubs by this afternoon. Tweet
But this week we had to figure out what the next six months would be like for us. Since B's work dries up around here during the summer months, he spent last year living with his parents and teaching tennis on the South Shores of Boston, where he could make the big bucks. His parents own a couple tennis clubs outside of Boston, and B's last name seems to be the tennis authority in their town. And it worked well for us. I stayed here with the dog, and B went up north and raked in the dough. He had to save up for a big purchase last year, after all.
It makes sense for us to do the same thing this year. With the wedding in September, we'll be shelling out more than a few dollars over the next few months. And then there's all that jazz that happens after the wedding. Like maybe someday buying a house? The market is pretty ideal for first time buyers, right? And you know how when you buy a house you usually need a down payment? And how a down payment involves a payment. Of money. And blah blah blah. Blerg?
ANYWAY. This summer. A few months ago I brought up the possibility of B spending this summer here. Maybe getting a summer job at a country club in the area. Teach the country club biddies and their Lacoste-robed children Nathanial III and Emily Rose how to swing a racquet. Because frankly, I hate living alone. It's a total drag. I miss B when he's gone. Last summer I ate cereal for dinner four nights a week and would conduct entire conversations with my dog. I'd even craft his replies in my head and respond to his questions. We spooned while we slept. We shared a pillow. If I had to get up in the middle of the night to pee, I brought the dog with me to protect me just in case I walked into my living room and discovered a burglar. Or a ghost. I'm sure it happens all the time.
But this summer will be different. Primarily because the dog we have now is a jerk. And I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be able to protect me from any buglars. Even child burglars. And definitely not ghosts. But also because the summer is my favorite. And I'd like to spend it with B.
So after putting his feelers out there in the Philadelphia tennis community, B was offered a couple of jobs. They pay well and provide plenty of hours. Naturally, when he told me he was staying, I was elated. Thrilled. I wouldn't be the crazy dog lady this summer. I'd be spending my evenings drinking cool wine with the man of my dreams. I'd be able to go down the shore on weekends. Since I didn't have to worry about the dog being alone too much, I could go to happy hours with friends. We could go to baseball games. Awesome. But then I panicked.
Down here B would be working a lot. Too much. He could make slightly more money up north, working half the amount of hours. I think he'd have a nicer, more relaxing summer up there. He'd have more opportunities for long weekends, and (since his home town is on the beach) beach trips. But now it's too late. I expressed my worry about living alone this summer, and B doesn't want to leave. He'll be working 50-plus hours a week here, but he'll be here every night. He'll have some time off on weekends, but not nearly as much time as he would up north. But the job here offers steady work from April until September. His regular job down here starts to dry up now, and doesn't pick up again until the end of September. So even if he went north from June until the end of August, there'd be a lot of time he'd spend not working.
But up north, he'd be making so much in such a short time, that it wouldn't matter that he only works a few hours a week in April and September. The pay would even out. The club up north heard he was considering staying down here and countered with a slightly fatter paycheck. What about the money? We could use that extra cash. For a lot of things. Will it be significant? What about him? I don't want him working that much. He needs to have fun this summer. My panic sent him into a panic. And we spent every night this week debating the pros and cons of leaving and staying. I'd spend days prophesizing about the importance of happiness over money. And then the next night I'd worry over every single penny we've spent in the last year. He made charts. And did math. I watched him do math because I have problems with basic arithmetic. We'd rationalize everything. Then throw it all out the window. I'd repeat my mantra it's up to you, it's up to you, so I don't feel like a total asshole if B's down here working his tail off.
B has to give his decision to both clubs by this afternoon. Tweet
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Not just any pope, the real pope
Earlier this week I started following the Pope on Twitter because I figured if I could get a follow back and he saw me tweeting about what a good person I am and how good I am at not eating sugar, I'd totally score some pretty big points. And even thought the Pope insists that he is actually the real Pope with his Twitter name, the_real_pope, I really had my doubts.
First of all, the Pope didn't even know how to use Google last week, so it'd be a pretty big leap to go from not being sure where the power button on a computer is to twitterer in just a few days, you know what I mean? But then after reading all of the Pope's tweets, I started to come around again because spaghetti can be a pretty tricky word to master, especially with a thick German accent, so it kind of made sense. But then I realized it isn't the Pope at all. It's just some disgruntled chick from Texas, which is pretty disappointing because now I have to figure out some other way to get into heaven. Fuck.
Tweet
First of all, the Pope didn't even know how to use Google last week, so it'd be a pretty big leap to go from not being sure where the power button on a computer is to twitterer in just a few days, you know what I mean? But then after reading all of the Pope's tweets, I started to come around again because spaghetti can be a pretty tricky word to master, especially with a thick German accent, so it kind of made sense. But then I realized it isn't the Pope at all. It's just some disgruntled chick from Texas, which is pretty disappointing because now I have to figure out some other way to get into heaven. Fuck.
Tweet
Wednesday's Song of the Week
Each year we go to Bonnaroo, B and I find one band, usually off on a side stage playing at some odd time of the day or night that blows our minds. This year it was two guys from Montreal who call themselves Chromeo.
At that point, we'd been fans of Chromeo for a while, but had never seen a live show. When we wandered over some time in the wee early morning hours, we were immediately sucked into some kind of alternate world dance party with lights and balloons and jumping and gaaah and wweeerrr and we were in love. I had never seen a Bonnaroo show with so much energy.
Andmaybe it was the drugs, but I was in heaven. I've scoured the Internet for almost a year searching for the ultimate Chromeo live at Bonnaroo video, but nothing comes close to giving that performance justice. What's wrong with these amatuerish videographers? Were they all on drugs. Obviously, yes. But this show will forever have a place in my live performance book as mind blowing.
Here's a teeny tiny little taste.
While I wasworking out lying on my back on my yoga mat yesterday, Chromeo's "Needy Girl" came on, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. So now I'm going to put it in yours too.
We can't make it to the 'Roo this year for the first time in many years, and I'm a little sad about it AND I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. GAHD.
Tweet
At that point, we'd been fans of Chromeo for a while, but had never seen a live show. When we wandered over some time in the wee early morning hours, we were immediately sucked into some kind of alternate world dance party with lights and balloons and jumping and gaaah and wweeerrr and we were in love. I had never seen a Bonnaroo show with so much energy.
And
Here's a teeny tiny little taste.
While I was
We can't make it to the 'Roo this year for the first time in many years, and I'm a little sad about it AND I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. GAHD.
Tweet
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I totally feel the same way about Philadelphia International Airpot when I fly on drugs
Prague's Franz Kafka International Named World's Most Alienating Airport
Another gem brought to my attention by Bradford Pearson.
UPDATE: You can stop calling, mom. I don't really take drugs when I fly.
UPDATE: I'm not on drugs right now, either.
UPDATE: I'm not drunk. It's 11 a.m.
UPDATE: You're totally right. Who wants a drink? Tweet
Monday, March 23, 2009
Life would be a whole lot easier if Guy Kawasaki said it was cool to pee your pants
Ya'll know that Guy Kawasaki guy, right? The one with that Alltop thing? And Truemors and stuff? Well Guy recently disclosed that he has a little help Tweeting from two other people. In other words, he uses ghost writers, on occasion. I found this article through a friend's blog and found it pretty interesting. Apparently some people are pretty upset. It is Guy Kawasaki, after all. The Internet cares if Guy Kawasaki uses butter or margarine. And if he folds his socks or ties them after doing laundry. And if Guy Kawasaki says you gotta eat cat food for a week to become a better blogger, people are gonna eat cat food for a week.
I don't see what the big deal is. Here on Yellaphant, I use ghost writers all the time. Like that one time I really wanted to take a nap so I grabbed the neighborhood meth addict and gave her a handfull of circus peanuts to write a post for me. It's not like she had anything better to do. Except yell at parked cars.
And sometimes I write posts after hours of heavy drinking, which is pretty much the same thing as hiring a ghost writer because I never remember writing anything so it's kind of like a totally different person.
And you know all those posts about vaginas? My mommom wrote those.
So I hear you, Guy Kawasaki. You can't be everything to everyone. You go, girl. And if you ever need someone to tweet about things that don't really make sense, you know where to look. Call me. Tweet
I don't see what the big deal is. Here on Yellaphant, I use ghost writers all the time. Like that one time I really wanted to take a nap so I grabbed the neighborhood meth addict and gave her a handfull of circus peanuts to write a post for me. It's not like she had anything better to do. Except yell at parked cars.
And sometimes I write posts after hours of heavy drinking, which is pretty much the same thing as hiring a ghost writer because I never remember writing anything so it's kind of like a totally different person.
And you know all those posts about vaginas? My mommom wrote those.
So I hear you, Guy Kawasaki. You can't be everything to everyone. You go, girl. And if you ever need someone to tweet about things that don't really make sense, you know where to look. Call me. Tweet
A Lenten update for all you assholes
Since I said I was giving up sugar 100 years ago, I have made a few amendments to the rules I have set forth for myself. When I said "I'm giving up sugar," I didn't mean the sugar that's in cereal, which is pretty much the main staple of my diet. And I certainly didn't mean the sugar in booze, which is also pretty much the pain staple of my diet.
I also didn't mean the sugar I drink in my tea every day, because really, it's so insignificant, there's no need to be so nitpicky. And more recently I have decided that I didn't mean the sugar that's in Skittles. Or marshmallows. And last night, when I was having ice cream for dinner, I decided I didn't mean the sugar in ice cream either. Or in rainbow jimmies.
So really, I'm doing pretty awesome in this no sugar thing I've got going on. I feel like I whole new person. I totally don't even need it. It's just that it's been so long. It's probably been months, right? WHEN THE FOOK IS EASTER THIS YEAR ANYWAY? CAN'T THEY JUST PICK A DATE AND STICK WITH IT? WILL THIS LENTEN SEASON GO ON FOREVER? COOKIES? COOOKIEZZRRRNNPTZ. Tweet
I also didn't mean the sugar I drink in my tea every day, because really, it's so insignificant, there's no need to be so nitpicky. And more recently I have decided that I didn't mean the sugar that's in Skittles. Or marshmallows. And last night, when I was having ice cream for dinner, I decided I didn't mean the sugar in ice cream either. Or in rainbow jimmies.
So really, I'm doing pretty awesome in this no sugar thing I've got going on. I feel like I whole new person. I totally don't even need it. It's just that it's been so long. It's probably been months, right? WHEN THE FOOK IS EASTER THIS YEAR ANYWAY? CAN'T THEY JUST PICK A DATE AND STICK WITH IT? WILL THIS LENTEN SEASON GO ON FOREVER? COOKIES? COOOKIEZZRRRNNPTZ. Tweet
Thursday, March 19, 2009
UPDATED: Snuggies are pretty much the most offensive thing I have ever seen. In other news, Mantracker is awesome.
Yesterday was B's birthday. Happy birthday, B! And to celebrate the birth of the man of my dreams I got him the king of all home beer brewing kits. I've only seen B that excited a few times. I'm talking borderline pee your pants excited. So I'm pretty sure I hit the present jackpot.
Neither of us realized exactly how much goes into brewing your own beer, and after a quick perusal through the manual, I'm partially convinced that B's first batch could quite possibly poison us both.
Speaking of vomiting, B's mom got him a Snuggie. As it is, I have an inexplicable aversion to fleece blankets. This thing is a fleece blanket WITH SLEEVES. That's just offensive. And now B's mom is going to be all what are you TALKING about? because B's family lives in Massachusetts which is pretty much the same thing is Antarctica so I can see why something like a Snuggie might be a useful evil up there. But even worse, she got me one too, and I pretty much fainted when I opened the package because I totally thought it was going to be filled with cookies. What kind of a SADIST is this woman? I might throw up in my mouth every time I see B shuffling around the apartment with this thing limply hanging from his body.
B, of course, loves it. Touche, B's mom, touche. I'm still waiting for the cookies. And don't even talk to me about Lent.
In other news, the other night B and I discovered Mantracker, which is pretty much the greatest show ever of all those shows that have people running around in the wilderness and, um, making their own fires and stuff. Essentially, two people are released into the wild with a few bare necessities and a head start, and they have about a day to cross the finish line on foot before Mantracker, who by the way, is on a horse, tracks them down and captures them. And Mantracker is pretty much the most bad ass old dude cowboy ever, who usually doesn't have a problem rounding up these flounders. Technically all he has to do is get close enough to them that he probably could trample them with his horse, but if I were a producer on this show, I would totally give Mantracker a large fishing net or some kind of lasso to capture these people with and then he'd have to hog time them and drag them the rest of the way to the finish line in his net of failure.
And after watching one episode, I have decided that I would KICK ASS on this show. Not because I have any particular wilderness skills, per say, but I can run for a long time and also I'm really good at squirming. And each time Mantracker started to close in on these girls I got all giggly and nervous, just like I would when I was a kid playing a game of Free Ya'll whenever someone was closing in to tag me. If I knew I was going to get caught I would be overcome with fits of nervous giggles and I'd eventually have to stop running because I was laughing too hard, which is no way to be taken to jail, let me tell you.
And the other night as Mantracker and his Native American guide were closing in on these two chicks, one of them pulled out a can of pepper spray. PEPPER SPRAY? What are you gonna do? Spray the horse? Good one, chick. You deserved to be captured. When I'm on this show, I'm going to be way more prepared than that. I'm bringing my rape horn. I don't actually have a rape horn, but I would totally get one for Mantracker. And every time he closed in on me, I'd whip out my rape horn and blast him one because you know old people don't do well with startling loud noises and also it would probably spook the horse and then by the time he recovered, I'd be gone. Like a ghost. And you know what I won't be bringing? My Snuggie.
UPDATE: The Snuggie is pretty much a wall of static cling. After wearing it for a full five minutes last night, B was covered with every piece of dog hair that Rooney had ever shed in our entire apartment.
UPDATE: It only took five seconds, however, for me to decide that my libido had quite possibly been irreversibly damaged.
UPDATE: I can't stop looking at that picture of the chick reading the book in her Snuggie. It's kind of like a car accident. Also, if I was an aspiring model, the Snuggie is probably the last thing I'd ever wear for a camera, no matter how strapped for cash I was. I'd sooner wear nothing. I'd be a nudie model. And before you know it I'd be shooting porn because it's probably only inevitable in the nudie biz. And then things would get REALLY ugly around here. All because of the Snuggie. Tweet
Neither of us realized exactly how much goes into brewing your own beer, and after a quick perusal through the manual, I'm partially convinced that B's first batch could quite possibly poison us both.
Speaking of vomiting, B's mom got him a Snuggie. As it is, I have an inexplicable aversion to fleece blankets. This thing is a fleece blanket WITH SLEEVES. That's just offensive. And now B's mom is going to be all what are you TALKING about? because B's family lives in Massachusetts which is pretty much the same thing is Antarctica so I can see why something like a Snuggie might be a useful evil up there. But even worse, she got me one too, and I pretty much fainted when I opened the package because I totally thought it was going to be filled with cookies. What kind of a SADIST is this woman? I might throw up in my mouth every time I see B shuffling around the apartment with this thing limply hanging from his body.
B, of course, loves it. Touche, B's mom, touche. I'm still waiting for the cookies. And don't even talk to me about Lent.In other news, the other night B and I discovered Mantracker, which is pretty much the greatest show ever of all those shows that have people running around in the wilderness and, um, making their own fires and stuff. Essentially, two people are released into the wild with a few bare necessities and a head start, and they have about a day to cross the finish line on foot before Mantracker, who by the way, is on a horse, tracks them down and captures them. And Mantracker is pretty much the most bad ass old dude cowboy ever, who usually doesn't have a problem rounding up these flounders. Technically all he has to do is get close enough to them that he probably could trample them with his horse, but if I were a producer on this show, I would totally give Mantracker a large fishing net or some kind of lasso to capture these people with and then he'd have to hog time them and drag them the rest of the way to the finish line in his net of failure.
And after watching one episode, I have decided that I would KICK ASS on this show. Not because I have any particular wilderness skills, per say, but I can run for a long time and also I'm really good at squirming. And each time Mantracker started to close in on these girls I got all giggly and nervous, just like I would when I was a kid playing a game of Free Ya'll whenever someone was closing in to tag me. If I knew I was going to get caught I would be overcome with fits of nervous giggles and I'd eventually have to stop running because I was laughing too hard, which is no way to be taken to jail, let me tell you.And the other night as Mantracker and his Native American guide were closing in on these two chicks, one of them pulled out a can of pepper spray. PEPPER SPRAY? What are you gonna do? Spray the horse? Good one, chick. You deserved to be captured. When I'm on this show, I'm going to be way more prepared than that. I'm bringing my rape horn. I don't actually have a rape horn, but I would totally get one for Mantracker. And every time he closed in on me, I'd whip out my rape horn and blast him one because you know old people don't do well with startling loud noises and also it would probably spook the horse and then by the time he recovered, I'd be gone. Like a ghost. And you know what I won't be bringing? My Snuggie.
UPDATE: The Snuggie is pretty much a wall of static cling. After wearing it for a full five minutes last night, B was covered with every piece of dog hair that Rooney had ever shed in our entire apartment.
UPDATE: It only took five seconds, however, for me to decide that my libido had quite possibly been irreversibly damaged.
UPDATE: I can't stop looking at that picture of the chick reading the book in her Snuggie. It's kind of like a car accident. Also, if I was an aspiring model, the Snuggie is probably the last thing I'd ever wear for a camera, no matter how strapped for cash I was. I'd sooner wear nothing. I'd be a nudie model. And before you know it I'd be shooting porn because it's probably only inevitable in the nudie biz. And then things would get REALLY ugly around here. All because of the Snuggie. Tweet
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday's Song of the Week
I've been a big fan of Girl Talk for a few years now, and his incredible mashups still get my heart pumping. There's few artists that make me want to get up and dance quite as much as this mix master.
Girl Talk stopped by my alma mater Loyola College this past weekend, and put on, what I heard was, a fantastic show. Fellow blogger and ex-Philadelphian Bradford Pearson found this pretty awesome video by Baltimore photojournalist Patrick Smith. If you're a fan of ex-Philadelphians or funny people or people who think they're funny or music, you should check out Bradford. Tell him I said hello. And that he sucks. Do it. He'll love it.
Girl Talk at Loyola College from Patrick Smith on Vimeo.
Aaaah can you feel the sweat? Does this not make you want to throw on your favorite day-glo t-shirt and jump around with a couple thousand other sweaty bodies? Mmmmmm sweaty hipsters. Yeaaaah shakin' booties. Wearin' sunglasses inside. With really nice sneakers. Makin' babies. Listenin' to Girl Talk. Yeaaaah. Sweaty. I'm sorry, was I saying something?
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Girl Talk stopped by my alma mater Loyola College this past weekend, and put on, what I heard was, a fantastic show. Fellow blogger and ex-Philadelphian Bradford Pearson found this pretty awesome video by Baltimore photojournalist Patrick Smith. If you're a fan of ex-Philadelphians or funny people or people who think they're funny or music, you should check out Bradford. Tell him I said hello. And that he sucks. Do it. He'll love it.
Girl Talk at Loyola College from Patrick Smith on Vimeo.
Aaaah can you feel the sweat? Does this not make you want to throw on your favorite day-glo t-shirt and jump around with a couple thousand other sweaty bodies? Mmmmmm sweaty hipsters. Yeaaaah shakin' booties. Wearin' sunglasses inside. With really nice sneakers. Makin' babies. Listenin' to Girl Talk. Yeaaaah. Sweaty. I'm sorry, was I saying something?
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Monday, March 16, 2009
I wonder how many goldfish I could buy with this
Today I got my first ever check in the mail from BlogHer which totally legitimizes every single time I've talked about my vagina on the Internet and called it writing. And when I saw the envelope in my mailbox I was so pumped and had all these grand ideas of putting my blogging checks aside every month to start chipping away at some of these wedding costs but when I saw the amount I decided that's not really much of a help at all and decided to use it to help pay for my weekly booze allowance instead. Or maybe buy something totally awesome. Like a vintage Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sleeping bag. Or a poison dagger. Or, like, a crap ton of tacos. There's so many options, really.
Because this morning, when I opened up my e-mail and read a weekly stats report for Yellaphant, the first search term that popped up was "shit in boyfriends mouth" followed immediately by "when you sprinkle when you tinkle" with falko naked women close behind, which by the way, I totally assume is my friend Falko Googling to see if any pictures were taken of him and naked chicks over the weekend after he woke up after a night of heavy drinking and didn't recognize where he was. So I was really starting to question exactly what it is I'm doing here.
Okay, I share some thoughts, I attract some pervs, I make some money, RIGHT ON. But then I realized that's pretty much the same exact thing as being a prostitute except I don't show my bubs or anything or make nearly as much money, which is awesome but kind of weird to realize at the same time. But at least this verbal prostitute will be tucking in with a pretty gnarly vintage Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sleeping bag. Or fatally stabbing bad guys with my poison dagger. Or eating lots of tacos. Whatever.
P.S. Today B's mom commented on one of last week's posts and was all "sometimes i wonder if i should fear for the lives of my future unborn grandchildren," and I was all pssshhh but now I think she might have a valid point.
P.P.S. This comment also came shortly after I told a group of lady bloggers that they can bet any babies I'd be having would come trained in how to run to the store and get me a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel when I'm too hungover to do it myself and I'm pretty sure at least a couple of them were totally offended. And one of them was like yeah that usually takes twelve years or so and hello, my sandwich would totally be cold by then.
P.P.P.S. I'm actually really good with children. I've had a lot of practice with my dog, the jerk. And this weekend when Mojo and I were walking Rooney and I was in the process of scooping up a pile of his poop in my hand, we decided that dealing with all of this dog poop totally qualified me to take care of a small child, should the need arise.
P.P.P.P.S. Just to make sure everything is crystal clear because I could potentially see a lot of distraught e-mails in response to this one, I AM NOT PREGNANT.
P.P.P.P.P.S. B's mom is seriously worried now. Tweet
Because this morning, when I opened up my e-mail and read a weekly stats report for Yellaphant, the first search term that popped up was "shit in boyfriends mouth" followed immediately by "when you sprinkle when you tinkle" with falko naked women close behind, which by the way, I totally assume is my friend Falko Googling to see if any pictures were taken of him and naked chicks over the weekend after he woke up after a night of heavy drinking and didn't recognize where he was. So I was really starting to question exactly what it is I'm doing here.
Okay, I share some thoughts, I attract some pervs, I make some money, RIGHT ON. But then I realized that's pretty much the same exact thing as being a prostitute except I don't show my bubs or anything or make nearly as much money, which is awesome but kind of weird to realize at the same time. But at least this verbal prostitute will be tucking in with a pretty gnarly vintage Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sleeping bag. Or fatally stabbing bad guys with my poison dagger. Or eating lots of tacos. Whatever.
P.S. Today B's mom commented on one of last week's posts and was all "sometimes i wonder if i should fear for the lives of my future unborn grandchildren," and I was all pssshhh but now I think she might have a valid point.
P.P.S. This comment also came shortly after I told a group of lady bloggers that they can bet any babies I'd be having would come trained in how to run to the store and get me a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel when I'm too hungover to do it myself and I'm pretty sure at least a couple of them were totally offended. And one of them was like yeah that usually takes twelve years or so and hello, my sandwich would totally be cold by then.
P.P.P.S. I'm actually really good with children. I've had a lot of practice with my dog, the jerk. And this weekend when Mojo and I were walking Rooney and I was in the process of scooping up a pile of his poop in my hand, we decided that dealing with all of this dog poop totally qualified me to take care of a small child, should the need arise.
P.P.P.P.S. Just to make sure everything is crystal clear because I could potentially see a lot of distraught e-mails in response to this one, I AM NOT PREGNANT.
P.P.P.P.P.S. B's mom is seriously worried now. Tweet
Friday, March 13, 2009
I've got my Mojo back, baby
One of my favorite people in the world is on her way to visit me this weekend. Remember Mojo? The tall one? Well as I write this, she's in her car driving from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia for the weekend. And remember how the last time Mojo and I were left to our own devices we couldn't walk straight for three days and I kept running into walls and putting my clothes on inside out because blah blah blah and whiskey? So it's only fitting that Mojo's visit falls on the final weekend of Philly Beer Week which also happens to be the weekend before St. Patrick's Day which also happens to be our favorite holiday to celebrate together like that one time when we had car bombs for breakfast and ended our heady celebrations a whopping 16 hours and a couple of bad decisions later.
Visits with Mojo get me pretty amped up. Kind of like drinking heavily when you're heavily medicated which I would have no idea about but I'm sure it's a trip. And I think it's kind of telling that this morning B told me he won't be home from work until 7 tonight, by which point he expects Mojo and I will already be drunk. Tweet
Visits with Mojo get me pretty amped up. Kind of like drinking heavily when you're heavily medicated which I would have no idea about but I'm sure it's a trip. And I think it's kind of telling that this morning B told me he won't be home from work until 7 tonight, by which point he expects Mojo and I will already be drunk. Tweet
Thursday, March 12, 2009
It's called discretion, and I totally have it
Today I had totally planned on posting the giant image of the female reproductive system that they made us look at Jesus class on Saturday while all of our friends were dressed in green and riding a bus to all the Irish bars in the area to drink beer but then once I actually got a good close up look at it on Google images I decided I have enough people coming to Yellaphant every day just waiting for me to one day get drunk and post pictures of my va jay jay and I don't want anyone to mistake that computer illustrated naked woman with the bad hair and small boobs for me. Sorry, Falko.
And even though I promised myself I would really try to talk about my lady parts less often on the Internet, I think it's really important to address what went down last weekend while B and I sat in my grade school gymnasium for seven hours. And admittedly, the majority of that time was spent talking about things like communication and budget issues and painting your mother's kitchen to find God, but I'm pretty sure that only part that has burned itself into people's minds forever was when that one lady got up in front of the room and started talking about her monthly visit from Aunt Flo while her husband sat in the back of the room with his arms crossed smiling admiringly at his wife WHO BY THE WAY, WAS IN FRONT OF A ROOM OF 50 20-SOMETHINGS TALKING ABOUT HER VAGINA. And I thought I had problems. And clearly, since this subject presented itself to me at pre-cana class, it was a gift from God, so really, I'd only be further damning myself if I didn't spread the Good Word. See what I just did there? I'm probably totally going to hell for equating hooha talk to the Bible.
The accompanying image projected on a huge screen in the front of the gym was the exact same one we all studied in seventh grade health with the naked lady and the enlarged image of her reproductive system next to her. Only in my grade school, that class was also accompanied by a trip to the local high school to attend Chastity Day where we sat in the auditorium and listened to awful stories of regretted abortions and born again virgins and were then sent home clutching our I'm Worth Waiting For stickers in our pale, sweaty, shaking hands.
Ya'll remember what a vagina looks like right? I'm pretty sure everyone in the gym last weekend did too. Except maybe that lady's husband. BOOM. And while she was talking I kept looking around the room to watch as just about every guy's eyes rolled into the back of their heads and little sounds of compressed air came hissing out of their ears. And I'm pretty sure the dude next to me threw up in his mouth a little bit when this lady referred to her boobs as Thelma and Louise.
ANYWAY. I was going to post the picture so you could see what we had to see last Saturday. But I could see why that would totally offend some people on a Thursday morning. So I'll refrain. It's called discretion people, and I have it. You're welcome. Tweet
And even though I promised myself I would really try to talk about my lady parts less often on the Internet, I think it's really important to address what went down last weekend while B and I sat in my grade school gymnasium for seven hours. And admittedly, the majority of that time was spent talking about things like communication and budget issues and painting your mother's kitchen to find God, but I'm pretty sure that only part that has burned itself into people's minds forever was when that one lady got up in front of the room and started talking about her monthly visit from Aunt Flo while her husband sat in the back of the room with his arms crossed smiling admiringly at his wife WHO BY THE WAY, WAS IN FRONT OF A ROOM OF 50 20-SOMETHINGS TALKING ABOUT HER VAGINA. And I thought I had problems. And clearly, since this subject presented itself to me at pre-cana class, it was a gift from God, so really, I'd only be further damning myself if I didn't spread the Good Word. See what I just did there? I'm probably totally going to hell for equating hooha talk to the Bible.
The accompanying image projected on a huge screen in the front of the gym was the exact same one we all studied in seventh grade health with the naked lady and the enlarged image of her reproductive system next to her. Only in my grade school, that class was also accompanied by a trip to the local high school to attend Chastity Day where we sat in the auditorium and listened to awful stories of regretted abortions and born again virgins and were then sent home clutching our I'm Worth Waiting For stickers in our pale, sweaty, shaking hands.
Ya'll remember what a vagina looks like right? I'm pretty sure everyone in the gym last weekend did too. Except maybe that lady's husband. BOOM. And while she was talking I kept looking around the room to watch as just about every guy's eyes rolled into the back of their heads and little sounds of compressed air came hissing out of their ears. And I'm pretty sure the dude next to me threw up in his mouth a little bit when this lady referred to her boobs as Thelma and Louise.
ANYWAY. I was going to post the picture so you could see what we had to see last Saturday. But I could see why that would totally offend some people on a Thursday morning. So I'll refrain. It's called discretion people, and I have it. You're welcome. Tweet
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Wednesday's Song of the Week
I first heard Oren Lavie's "Her Morning Elegance" thanks to Rock & Roll Mama. I've heard it several times on Philly's independent radio station, XPN, since then, and each time I've fallen more in love.
How fantastic is that video? It's the perfect end of the winter song. Lavie's velvety voice pulls me from whatever frenetic state I happen to be in at that moment and places me somewhere calm. And in the middle of my slightly psychotic days, a song like this is exactly what I need. It's some kind of wonderful pollination between Nick Drake, Alexi Murdoch and Badly Drawn Boy.
Her Morning Elegance is soothing, but it still makes me feel like I need to move. I want to drop what I'm doing and take a stroll through the sunny city streets and fall in love with everyone I see, like the guy who's selling flowers and the old man walking his dog and the woman pushing a stroller and the meth addict who wanders up and down my street yelling at cars. I want to be alone, but surrounded by people. I want to shake off the stress of the day, maybe flip some people the bird, throw all my papers into the air, and skip out into the sunshine by myself. And look really pretty doing it in a cute spring jacket with a belt and really great pair of shoes. And then everyone will shake their heads and smile because there goes that really pretty, slightly unhinged girl, doing her thing again, you know? Isn't that what every girl wants?
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How fantastic is that video? It's the perfect end of the winter song. Lavie's velvety voice pulls me from whatever frenetic state I happen to be in at that moment and places me somewhere calm. And in the middle of my slightly psychotic days, a song like this is exactly what I need. It's some kind of wonderful pollination between Nick Drake, Alexi Murdoch and Badly Drawn Boy.
Her Morning Elegance is soothing, but it still makes me feel like I need to move. I want to drop what I'm doing and take a stroll through the sunny city streets and fall in love with everyone I see, like the guy who's selling flowers and the old man walking his dog and the woman pushing a stroller and the meth addict who wanders up and down my street yelling at cars. I want to be alone, but surrounded by people. I want to shake off the stress of the day, maybe flip some people the bird, throw all my papers into the air, and skip out into the sunshine by myself. And look really pretty doing it in a cute spring jacket with a belt and really great pair of shoes. And then everyone will shake their heads and smile because there goes that really pretty, slightly unhinged girl, doing her thing again, you know? Isn't that what every girl wants?
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Monday, March 9, 2009
This blog post was sidetracked by insanity, and for once, it wasn't mine
I had a whole slew of things that happened this weekend to blog about today. Like how B and I spent the entire day on Saturday in Jesus class so we'd be allowed to get married in the Catholic Church and even though B and I certainly aren't what anyone would consider religious, it's still something we I want to do because blah blah blah and besides learning how to communicate (which, by the way, I was already awesome at because I express my emotions so well all over the internet, like, every day), we also learned what a vagina looks like, I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING. Clearly, Jesus hasn't been reading Yellaphant recently because hello, vagina. And also, I'm still pretty sure I'm going to hell because I don't do things like paint my mother's kitchen enough and I say the word fuck way too often.
And then I was also going to write about how after this class, B and I went to a family party and as we tried to leave because we had a concert to get to, B realized HE LOCKED HIS KEYS IN THE CAR. Who the FECK leaves their keys in the car ANYWAY? And also I just said feck not fuck, does that count for anything? And when B called AAA to have someone come out, they told him that his parents cancelled his membership less than a month ago. But it's a good thing my uncle spent so much time breaking into cars as a teenager because two coat hangers and about an hour and a half and four beers later, he had the car opened.
I was also going to write about how after we finally left my uncle's house, we met up with Bossy and some of Bossy's friends to watch Bossy's brother rock with his band. And how that band rocked pretty hard. And then we went to another bar down the street where there was another band who was rocking a little bit less, but then Bossy's husband and Bossy's brother got on stage and fixed things up a bit. And Bossy was all this is Bridget she writes Yellaphant and Bossy's friends were all Yellawhaaaa? And when B and I finally stumbled home after a very long day we had no idea if it was 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. or maybe 8 p.m. on Tuesday.
I was going to write about all of that stuff. But then I was Googling stuff about running with your dog because I've started taking Rooney on some of my runs to get out some of his freak juice and I started wondering about how often I should do this, or how long is too long, or if maybe he's too young, or if I should buy him those little booties that I see this other dog wearing on the running path we use which are totally weird but maybe good? And then I found this picture:
And I got totally sidetracked BECAUSE WHAT THE FECK IS GOING ON HERE? I don't even have anything to say about that.
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And then I was also going to write about how after this class, B and I went to a family party and as we tried to leave because we had a concert to get to, B realized HE LOCKED HIS KEYS IN THE CAR. Who the FECK leaves their keys in the car ANYWAY? And also I just said feck not fuck, does that count for anything? And when B called AAA to have someone come out, they told him that his parents cancelled his membership less than a month ago. But it's a good thing my uncle spent so much time breaking into cars as a teenager because two coat hangers and about an hour and a half and four beers later, he had the car opened.
I was also going to write about how after we finally left my uncle's house, we met up with Bossy and some of Bossy's friends to watch Bossy's brother rock with his band. And how that band rocked pretty hard. And then we went to another bar down the street where there was another band who was rocking a little bit less, but then Bossy's husband and Bossy's brother got on stage and fixed things up a bit. And Bossy was all this is Bridget she writes Yellaphant and Bossy's friends were all Yellawhaaaa? And when B and I finally stumbled home after a very long day we had no idea if it was 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. or maybe 8 p.m. on Tuesday.
I was going to write about all of that stuff. But then I was Googling stuff about running with your dog because I've started taking Rooney on some of my runs to get out some of his freak juice and I started wondering about how often I should do this, or how long is too long, or if maybe he's too young, or if I should buy him those little booties that I see this other dog wearing on the running path we use which are totally weird but maybe good? And then I found this picture:
And I got totally sidetracked BECAUSE WHAT THE FECK IS GOING ON HERE? I don't even have anything to say about that.
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Friday, March 6, 2009
Top 10 search terms that have brought people to my blog since I wrote about my neighbor who steals my underwear
1. i take my neighbors dirty underwear
2. underwear party
3. pooped my underwear
4. neighbors underwear in dryer
5. touching in underwear
6. went to my neighbor without wearing underwear
7. went to my neighbor in my underwear
8. i'm not wearing underwear
9. neighbor stealing underwear
10. my neighbor is an asshole
In case you were wondering, I still haven't gotten my dress back. He can keep the underwear.
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2. underwear party
3. pooped my underwear
4. neighbors underwear in dryer
5. touching in underwear
6. went to my neighbor without wearing underwear
7. went to my neighbor in my underwear
8. i'm not wearing underwear
9. neighbor stealing underwear
10. my neighbor is an asshole
In case you were wondering, I still haven't gotten my dress back. He can keep the underwear.
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Another post that might make me sound like an alcoholic
Last night one of my girlfriends had an appetizer and wine party, which is pretty much the best idea ever. Everyone brought a different dip or appetizer and a different bottle of wine. And because I've been plowing my way through bottles of wine at an unprecedented rate, yesterday I had to go to the liquor store to replenish my stock and choose a bottle to bring to the party. And the part I love almost as much as drinking wine is going to the liquor store and buying wine.
If you live in Pennsylvania you know that there are all sorts of whacked out rules and regulations about buying booze and you can't buy liquor and beer at the same place and you can't buy six packs at the beer distributors and you can't buy more than 24 beers from a deli and you can't buy beer at the grocery store and all the liquor stores are owned by the state because they like to tax you out of the arse.
But despite the fact that all state-owned Wine and Spirits Shoppes look exactly the same, I still enjoy my visits so much that I could spend an entire afternoon perusing the aisles. I love the smell of the liquor store. I love the way the bottles look lined up in neat little rows organized by country. I love the feeling of potential I get every time I step inside. Like maybe I'll discover a fantastic new wine I've never tasted before. Maybe I'll find a $50 bottle on sale for $12.99. Maybe they'll be giving out free samples again today.
And just like potato chips, I can never get just one bottle of wine. And in our house, B usually pays for the groceries and I pay for the wine, which just about evens out every week. So, naturally, yesterday when I walked back into the house after my trip to the liquor store B was all how many bottles did you buy this time? And it was considered a considerable success in personal restraint that I only came home with three.
ANYWAY. Not only was last night's party a fantastic idea because it gave me an opportunity to buy and drink wine, but also to spend an entire eveningstuffing my face with grazing on an array of homemade appetizers. I brought my roasted garlic hummus because my cooking skills don't really extend much further than throwing a bunch of ingredients in a blender and pushing the on button.
And now it's time for some Yellaphant math. As we've already learned, eight girls + eight bottles of wine + a table of food = an inarguable and inevitable night spent gabbing about hoohas. With some other pressing issues sprinkled in there like Old Bay on top of a plate of crabettes. And that's what we call therapy. Which may or may not have resulted in eight empty wine bottles and someone on their back on the kitchen floor. Naturally. Tweet
If you live in Pennsylvania you know that there are all sorts of whacked out rules and regulations about buying booze and you can't buy liquor and beer at the same place and you can't buy six packs at the beer distributors and you can't buy more than 24 beers from a deli and you can't buy beer at the grocery store and all the liquor stores are owned by the state because they like to tax you out of the arse.
But despite the fact that all state-owned Wine and Spirits Shoppes look exactly the same, I still enjoy my visits so much that I could spend an entire afternoon perusing the aisles. I love the smell of the liquor store. I love the way the bottles look lined up in neat little rows organized by country. I love the feeling of potential I get every time I step inside. Like maybe I'll discover a fantastic new wine I've never tasted before. Maybe I'll find a $50 bottle on sale for $12.99. Maybe they'll be giving out free samples again today.
And just like potato chips, I can never get just one bottle of wine. And in our house, B usually pays for the groceries and I pay for the wine, which just about evens out every week. So, naturally, yesterday when I walked back into the house after my trip to the liquor store B was all how many bottles did you buy this time? And it was considered a considerable success in personal restraint that I only came home with three.
ANYWAY. Not only was last night's party a fantastic idea because it gave me an opportunity to buy and drink wine, but also to spend an entire evening
And now it's time for some Yellaphant math. As we've already learned, eight girls + eight bottles of wine + a table of food = an inarguable and inevitable night spent gabbing about hoohas. With some other pressing issues sprinkled in there like Old Bay on top of a plate of crabettes. And that's what we call therapy. Which may or may not have resulted in eight empty wine bottles and someone on their back on the kitchen floor. Naturally. Tweet
Thursday, March 5, 2009
So pretty much it's my fault my dog is a freak
Today I wrote a whole post about how I think the reason my dog is such a freak is because he's been picking up my own freak energy and how our last dog was so calm and cool and happy because last year I was too and now I've pretty much broken our dog because I need to just chill the feck out but then the post started to get depressing and into all this deep, personal stuff about me and my worries and I realized that writing about my freak stuff was making me freak even more and the internet is no place for being open like that so I'm reigning it in and just letting you know that I'm working on it. And with any luck, maybe we'll both be a little less neurotic by summer time. On that note, who needs a drink?
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Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Wednesday's Song of the Week
In an effort to liven up this week because Jesus is punishing me for throwing words like dirty sex around in places B's mom can read, like this blog, so he's bringing winter back in March which is totally not fair because ENOUGH ALREADY and who do I have to show my boobies to to get a little warm weather around here? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be Jesus because I don't think he was a boobies man. Speaking of vaginas, I was chatting with a friend yesterday and she was all you really DO talk about your vagina a lot and you know what? This whole week has been a vagina and it's only Wednesday.
AS I WAS SAYING, in an effort to liven up this vagina of a week, I'm introducing a new weekly featurethat will probably last about two weeks before I forget about it or get bored with it, called Wednesday's Song of the Week, where I'll choose one of my favorite songs of the moment and share it with you.
If you've driven anywhere with me for the past three months, you probably know that Kings of Leon's Only By the Night has pretty much been on constant rotation in my stereo. And just about every song on the album has at one point been my favorite. This week, it's Be Somebody.
There's just something about the thought of a sweaty man loosening his tie that makes me weak in the knees. Oh my gad.
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AS I WAS SAYING, in an effort to liven up this vagina of a week, I'm introducing a new weekly feature
If you've driven anywhere with me for the past three months, you probably know that Kings of Leon's Only By the Night has pretty much been on constant rotation in my stereo. And just about every song on the album has at one point been my favorite. This week, it's Be Somebody.
There's just something about the thought of a sweaty man loosening his tie that makes me weak in the knees. Oh my gad.
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Tuesday, March 3, 2009
And you thought you were having a bad week
Found: B's sister, Merrimack College library, girl's bathroom, 3/3/09B's sister Kiley was taking a study break this afternoon when she found this love letter scrawled between a scribbled proclamation of Jesus' love for us all and the bathroom sink. She recently transferred to Merrimack to play soccer, and we're all really proud she's making friends already.
But seriously? I really can't stop thinking about the degree of crazy it takes to writes hate notes on bathroom walls. I'm talking batshit crazy. Someone has some serious issues. And clearly, this girl needs to learn how to resolve conflicts in a mature, collegiate manner: Get drunk and try to smother Kiley with a pillow.
It's my dic'tation.
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Monday, March 2, 2009
I guess I kind of talk about my vagina a lot
The other day I went out to a nice dinner with a group of girlfriends from work and, naturally, the conversation migrated exactly where you would expect it to in a restaurant with plush chairs and $17 glasses of wine: wild sex. And hello, B's mom, nice of you to stop by today.
And, of course, it was only inevitable that our discussion would lead us down the path to the lady doctor topic because when you're sharing va-jay-jay stories at the fancy dinner table you might as well go all the way, no? And if you're a lady, you inevitably have a lady doctor story. Because how can you lie in an examining room with someone's hand up your hooha and not have a few things to talk about regarding that particular hand and/or hooha?
And this is the part where B shuts his laptop exasperation because I'm talking about my vagina on the Internet again BUT AT LEAST I'M NOT POSTING PICTURES. Because that would be so gross. Unless that's something you're into, in which case I can totally do it.
Anyway. The lady doctor. I usually get all awkward and try to make some jokes because it just feels so wrong to go all the way to third without much of more than a hello. And I suppose humor isn't really the way to go when your feet are in stirrups or IF YOUR DOCTOR HAS NO SENSE OF HUMOR because that just usually makes it that much more awkward. Like telling jokes on stage when no one in the audience laughs and also you have no pants.
And this is the part where all the men who are reading this are getting a little uncomfortable because this is not turning out to be the type of post they had originally envisioned when they started reading and stirrups? Really?
And the last time I was in for a checkup I got all awkward when the practitioner kept asking me to move down. A little bit more. A little bit more. So I started babbling about how we used to make fun of my friend in college because she hated whenever we said the word scoot because it reminded her of the gynecologist because that's the word her doctor would always use to get her to move down the table. Scoot scoot. And the lady totally didn't get it and how can you even try to explain a story that's already awkward to begin with because you're talking about how awkward you feel at the gyno to the gyno as she's digging around down there?
After reviewing this post, I'm pretty sure talking about visits to the gyno should totally be off the list for things that are acceptable to blog about.
In other news, it's March 2 and Jesus is totally punishing me by dumping six inches of snow on Philadelphia right now. ENOUGH WITH THE WINTER CRAP ALREADY. But I guess you know what they say about March: In like an asshole and out like an asshole because March still fecking sucks. Tweet
And, of course, it was only inevitable that our discussion would lead us down the path to the lady doctor topic because when you're sharing va-jay-jay stories at the fancy dinner table you might as well go all the way, no? And if you're a lady, you inevitably have a lady doctor story. Because how can you lie in an examining room with someone's hand up your hooha and not have a few things to talk about regarding that particular hand and/or hooha?
And this is the part where B shuts his laptop exasperation because I'm talking about my vagina on the Internet again BUT AT LEAST I'M NOT POSTING PICTURES. Because that would be so gross. Unless that's something you're into, in which case I can totally do it.
Anyway. The lady doctor. I usually get all awkward and try to make some jokes because it just feels so wrong to go all the way to third without much of more than a hello. And I suppose humor isn't really the way to go when your feet are in stirrups or IF YOUR DOCTOR HAS NO SENSE OF HUMOR because that just usually makes it that much more awkward. Like telling jokes on stage when no one in the audience laughs and also you have no pants.
And this is the part where all the men who are reading this are getting a little uncomfortable because this is not turning out to be the type of post they had originally envisioned when they started reading and stirrups? Really?
And the last time I was in for a checkup I got all awkward when the practitioner kept asking me to move down. A little bit more. A little bit more. So I started babbling about how we used to make fun of my friend in college because she hated whenever we said the word scoot because it reminded her of the gynecologist because that's the word her doctor would always use to get her to move down the table. Scoot scoot. And the lady totally didn't get it and how can you even try to explain a story that's already awkward to begin with because you're talking about how awkward you feel at the gyno to the gyno as she's digging around down there?
After reviewing this post, I'm pretty sure talking about visits to the gyno should totally be off the list for things that are acceptable to blog about.
In other news, it's March 2 and Jesus is totally punishing me by dumping six inches of snow on Philadelphia right now. ENOUGH WITH THE WINTER CRAP ALREADY. But I guess you know what they say about March: In like an asshole and out like an asshole because March still fecking sucks. Tweet
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