YELLAPHANT GIVEAWAY ALERT: Sheila's Inspired Designs

This week has been a whirlwind. I've been in Boston for work since Monday afternoon, churning out 18 hour days and using words like PHP and SAP and WTF and I need a drink. But the good news is I'm back.

And the other good news is, I've brought you present. It's a puppy another Yellaphant Featured Artist! But not just any featured artist. This is Sheila Stewart, of Sheila's Inspired Designs. And if you've been paying attention so far, it also means I have a GIVEAWAY for you.

Today, Sheila searches the world for the finest materials and unique beads for her jewelry creations, all of which are inspired by her travels. She uses mostly semiprecious gemstone beads, and imports Karan Hill Tribe Sterling Silver from Thailand via a free trade site that supports the hill tribes of Thailand.


But not long ago, Sheila was hanging out at my house watching Clarissa Explains It All and farting on my pillow. Sheila is Monica's big sister. We grew up across the street from each other, which pretty much means that Sheila was as much my big sister as she was Monica's. The three of us would zip around town on our rollerblades and make up commercials for our rollerblade wheel washing service, the Wonderful World of Wheel Washing (a giant puddle in front of their house) staring Klancy Nerrigan and Hanya Tarding (it was the 90s).

When I was younger, she babysat my bother and I every Saturday night, and every summer she spent her days at our house watching Nick in the Afternoon with Stick Stickly while my parents were at work. When I got my first visit from Aunt Flo, Monica was the first person I told, and Sheila was the second to hear, along with everyone else in the Acme parking lot. Which also might be when I got that little idea that it's okay to be loud, except for when you're stumbling around your future in-laws' house at two in the morning.

Without a doubt, Sheila was one of the driving factors in my early life that pushed me to be myself, no matter what. And considering that, within our two houses combined (which is where I spent all of my time), I was the only kid out of seven that wasn't diagnosed with ADD and ADHD, I thought that being completely out of your mind was normal and peeing your pants because you were laughing so hard happened to everyone. Is it so abnormal to carry a backup pair of undies? It's called planning ahead, people.

So without further ado, I present to you the artist formerly known as my babysitter and forever known as my friend.

You are what some people consider eclectic, what others would call bat shit crazy, and what I call hilarious. How does your jewelry reflect all of those pieces of you?

Well, I'm definitely eccentric! Most people would consider me a weirdo, but I prefer "artsy." You would too if people called you a weirdo EVERY SINGLE DAY! My interests are so varied and in some ways, I'm a paradox. I love to travel, but I like stability. I'm outgoing, but prefer nature to people. My jewelry reflects every part of me. You will see that the pieces in my shop range from subtle to gaudy. Dark to bright. Small to large. Earthy to elaborate. It pretty much depends on what mood strikes me while I'm making each piece. Having a multi-faceted personality helps me to create designs that appeal to a larger audience. I have something for everyone!

Let's take a word association test. When I say "Wonderful World of Wheelwashers," what do you think?

Oddly enough, Tanya Harding ... if only Nancy Kerrigan had been a rollerblader instead of an iceskater!

What are you listening to when designing jewelry?

My heart. Or the TV. Honestly, I tune everything out when I'm designing jewelry. Its almost like I hear nothing. I'm completely relaxed.

Who is the favorite person that you ever babysat for in your entire life and why?

Bridget Hanahan. Because her parents always paid more than anyone else on the block and had good snacks!

What goes into creating a piece of jewelry, from concept to completion?

The process can be pretty intense. I do a lot of research to be sure that my materials are unique, sturdy, artist-friendly, and relevant. I never stop hunting for unique beads. Thus, my car needs new brakes from me shouting "BEAD STORE!!!" and my husband slamming on the brakes so often. At this point, I can almost sniff out beads from a mile away. So, a lot goes into finding the right materials.

I also search the Internet to find quality free-trade components so that I can contribute to this crazy world of ours while enjoying the satisfaction of my hobby. The inspiration for the designs comes in tidal waves. I find the most inspiration in my travels, particularly the beach and nature. It strikes me as odd when people see just one color. I tend to see a color and all of the colors surrounding it, and then my mind starts processing all of the colors that would look good with that color. So, if you see purple, your mind tells you "that's purple." My mind tells me, "Purple ... OoooO! That would look amazing with lime green! Oh! and light blue!" Am I sounding like a weirdo ...OR am I sounding ARTSY? Anyway, the inspiration never stops. The hard part is finding the time to craft all of the designs. Luckily, I'm hyper and like to keep my hands busy.

Remember when we used to spell the names of our crushes in Twizzler Pull N Peels while watching SNICK? What was your favorite SNICK show and how does that relate to the way you make jewelry today?

Yes, I remember. I can’t believe I spelled out boys names on your basement floor with Twizzlers and then ate the Twizzlers off the floor. My favorite SNICK show was ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK. However, although he never had his own show, my good friend Stick Stickly taught me that popsicle sticks with googly eyes can inspire children to memorize addresses … and remember them for life!

The name of your Etsy shop is Sheila's Inspired Designs. So besides me, what inspires you?

Nature, the beach, relaxation, and beauty.

How does it make you feel that you were the driving influence in my life that made me completely comfortable to fart in public?

I’m married to a man who’s family doesn’t find potty humor funny. I cannot discuss my feelings on this matter in a public forum. P.S. Please make sure that your public farting doesn’t occur in my presence. Note to self: Don’t invite Bridget to parties.

If you had to choose a name for your style what would it be? Beachy? Hippie? Slightly drug-addled?

I would describe my style as casual elegance. Even when a girl is hippie-ing-it-up, she should look cute! ESPECIALLY if she's farting in public!


And because Sheila wants to be awesome to you too, she's offered to give one lucky winner a $20 gift certificate to her Etsy shop. To play, you can spend your long weekend at the beach browsing through Sheila's beautiful beach-inspired creations. Leave a comment with your favorite piece of jewelry, and you'll be entered. Tweet it with @Yellaphant in the tweet, and you double your chances.

Since it's a holiday weekend and chances are the crickets are chirping even now out there in the interwebs, the contest will be open until midnight on Monday, July 13 and I'll announce the lucky winner on Tuesday, July 14. ONE TWO THREE GO!

And don't forget, if you want to be a Yellaphant Featured artist, hit me up with I SWEAR I'M NOT DRUNK in the subject line.

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True lurve on campus (part 2)

With the wedding coming up quickly -- exactly 3 months to go -- I've been doing some thinking about everything that has happened in between the night B and I had our first date almost four years ago and today. All the things that have changed, and more importantly, the one thing that has stayed the same. You can read part 1 here.

I hurried through the halls on my way to the first day of creative non-fiction class with Mark Bowden. Must not be late, must not be late, gotta get a good seat, Mark Bowden, oh boy. I readjusted my bag on my shoulder as I wondered who else would be in class with me. Loyola was a relatively small school. During junior and senior years, it would be rare to walk into a classroom on the first day and not find at least one familiar face.

Just as I was about to rush through the classroom door, I looked up at exactly the same time as another body, moving equally quickly and coming from the opposite direction. We came to a stop, milliseconds from a collision, and once again I found myself face to face with B.

We both erupted into nervous laughter. Two near collisions in less than 24 hours. He had jumped in front of me the night before as I pushed myself to the back of the crowded bar, my face inches from his neck. And here I was in the same position the next morning, clutching my fresh notebook to my chest.

"Creative non-fiction?" I asked. Mojo was NOT going to believe this.

"Yeah," he smiled. I hadn't realized how charming that smile was the night before. It must have been smokier than I realized inside the bar. We laughed again over a few of the funny stories from the previous night. Before B and his friends had made it to Swallows, they'd been stopped at the door of a popular senior bar down the street, Craig's Tavern. The bar was too crowded, or someone forgot their ID. Some words were exchanged, and the doughy bouncer with the finely shaved head had ended up calling B's particularly skinny friend, Brendan, a pencil neck before shoving them all down the street towards Swallows, where my friends and I had been spending the better part of our night.

"ALL RIGHT, PENCIL NECK, YOU'RE OUT," B repeated this morning. This would later become one of our favorite sayings of the year. As we laughed, Brendan walked up and joined us at the threshold of the classroom. "PENCIL NECK!" we greeted him.

"Heeeey, you're in this class too?" he asked me as he greeted B. The three of us walked into the classroom and slid into the remaining three seats. I was happily situated in the second row, B was directly behind me, and Brendan and his girlfriend ended up in the row next to B.

I was ecstatic about this class. I spent the 40 minutes enamored with Mark Bowden's tales of how he got to where was that day, but spent equal parts energy listening to Bowden speak, and controlling myself not to turn around to talk to B. When Bowden would pause for questions, I could feel B's eyes on the back of my neck.

"Hey," B tapped me on the shoulder. "Can I borrow a pen?" I pulled one out from my bag and handed it back to him. He pulled the cap off and handed it back to me. "Here, you keep the cap, otherwise I'll chew on it."

I put the cap in the groove at the top of my grey desk and smiled. He chews on pens. Cute. As class rolled on, I couldn't not play with the cap, rolling it between my fingers. B handed the pen back to me as we all walked out of class together. "And I didn't put it in my mouth once," he assured me.

"So ..." I started. "Are you guys going out tonight?" Syllabus week was in full swing. Everyone was thirsty, happy, and eager for a few more wild nights out before the semester began in earnest the following week.

"Yeah! Where will you be?"

"I'm not sure. Probably be at Swallows or Craig's."

"Yeah, us too. I'll probably see you tonight then." There were five dive bars within two blocks of each other in Baltimore that were THE Loyola College bars. No matter who you were, it was likely that's where you'd be on any given night. Swallows and Craig's were the two most popular spots for the upperclassmen, and they were relatively small. If you were looking for someone inside, you'd find them.

We set off separately in the two directions that we'd come. I smiled as I walked over the crowded Charles Street walking bridge from the center of campus to the west side, to my apartment that I shared with my five best girlfriends. This was going to be a great year ...

********************************

B and I ran into each other more and more over the next week. We chatted online every day. And we went from hoping to seeing each other out, to planning on meeting out, to spending entire nights out together. And of course, we always had Bowden.

After the bars, we crammed into pizza booths with our friends and dunked our pizza in blue cheese dressing while Mojo and one of B's friends exchanged TMI stories and got feisty over the credibility of Dolly Parton.

"DOLLY PARTON BETCH," Mojo yelled from our cab outside the pizza shop while B leaned in the window and gave me his phone number. "DOLLYWOOD OR BUST," B's friend yelled back, as they burst into laughter.

"Call me right now, so I have yours," he told me.

One night, B was the designated driver. "Get in the car! Get in!" His friends called from the trunk of his black Ford Explorer. Mojo and I climbed in the back, and we all screamed songs from the radio with the windows down while the warm breeze whipped around us. When we got to our dorm, B circled the building over and over again. "ONE MORE TIME," we all yelled each time he got to the entrance. Our stomachs hurt from laughing.

This went on for weeks. And then it was a month. And then a month and a half. B would invite me back to his place after nights out, but would always call for the campus police to come and drive me home when the late night parties died down. One of the regular police officers became so familiar with me, that she'd often call and invite me out to da club with her and her bitches . You know, dat club that white women can't go to, but I'd be cool wit her. My backseat dancing at 3 a.m. had convinced her I could hang. [Editorial Note: If I had a dollar for every time I'd voluntarily gotten into the back of a city cop car for a dance party, I'd have, like, twelve dollars.]

When B and I were together, we were oblivious to anyone else. But we never kissed. Not even once. It was driving me INSANE. The air between us were electric, and the tension was rising with every passing day.

"ANYTHING?" Mojo would ask each night I walked into the door. "Nothing." We'd dissect every move from the night. "It seemed like he was flirting," she'd suggest. "I dunno. I just can't tell. It's hard when they're just NICE, ya know?"

"Maybe he's actually not interested. I can't even tell if he likes me. Every time I think somethings going to happen, I find myself in the back of the campus police car trying to explain to Officer Brown why I can't shake my booty at the club."

"He'd never call you so much if he didn't like you. What is WRONG with him?"

"Ugggh I have no idea. Want some nachos?"

By this time it was mid October. The air was growing cooler, but the electricity between us so hot it was shocking. Mid October also meant my 21st birthday was coming up. This was going to be huge. 21st birthdays are like national holidays. Only bigger. And drunker. This would be it. Something was going to happen, but I had no idea how ridiculous it was about to get first ...

... To be continued.

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Help me raise money for Back on My Feet and prove you're not an asshole all at the same time

Have you been feeling like a real asshole recently? Well then you are just so lucky you know me/stalk me/read me, because I have the perfect solution. Give me your money.

The economy has pulled the rug out from almost everyone, and more people are checking into homeless shelters every day than into the Holiday Inn San Francisco during Pride.

And in most cases, these people need some help getting back on their feet. [Did you see what I did just there?] That's why I'm helping raise money for Back on My Feet. I already told you all about my current obsession with waking up well before the crack of dawn to go running in the city with a group of homeless men, and how rewarding every moment with them is turning out to be.

Well, our biggest fundraiser of the year, 20in24, is taking place July 18 and 19. That means I have three weeks to raise as much money as I can for our organization. And, you know, it means I have to run.

There's a number of events within 20in24 that runners can participate in. Some of us are running relays. Some are running the ultramarathon. Others will be running around in their pajamas. And the rest of us will be jogging around in as many glow sticks as we can hang from our bodies and we won't even be on drugs.

If you couldn't guess it already, I'll be sporting the glow sticks because gaaaaah look at the colorssszzzz and running one 8.4-mile lap around the river at midnight on Saturday. I cannot even begin to comprehend those people who have signed up for the ultra. One girl I know has a goal of 12 laps. TWELVE LAPS. That's 100.8 miles. In 24 hours. My butt subconsciously clenches just thinking about the pain of 100.8 miles. You could probably squeeze a baby out of your vagina in less time and with less pain WITHOUT an epidural than running 100.8 miles in 24 hours. And I'm willing to bet that the aftermath of both ruin your sex life about equally. Unless this all happens at Pride, because I bet NOTHING ruins sex at Pride.

So now, WHO WANTS TO SPONSOR ME?

Every dollar raised during 20in24 benefits Back on My Feet. Donate $1 right now, and you can feel good about it all day, or at least better than you felt that day you ate the entire jar of peanut butter with a spoon while reporting MoveOn.org as spam.

Plus, the next time someone calls you an asshole, you have the total right to be all "FALSE. I donated to Back on My Feet." And then you can totally punch them in the face because nice people get away with that stuff a lot more often. Just ask Ghandi.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Two posts in one day? Yes, I AM that caffeinated.

I'm not sure what it is in me recently, but I just wanna dance. Like, all the time. It's a little surprising that I've become so head over heels for the songs that make me shake my butt, considering I grew up entrenched in the more folksy side of the music world.

One such band that I've recently gotten into is Passion Pit. A number of bands seem to have taken a cue or two from some of the 80s classics, and these guys are definitely channeling their inner lover of tight leather pants, cardigan sweaters, striped shirts, and big bangs, just like every good hipster should.

Plus, they're totally awesome. So awesome, I had a hard time deciding on which Passion Pit song I should post today. So dance you're little hearts out to this gem, but be sure to check out the rest of the songs on their newly released Manners as well.



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My argument for why people who don't like dogs are probably just aliens: No dogs were harmed in the making of this blog post

I think it must have started with "Old Yeller." Why my parents agreed to buy me that movie as a six year old, I don't understand. I was obsessed with dogs when I was a kid. So obsessed, I'd run around my house on all fours and pretend to be one. I used to bite my brother. Clearly, I'm still working that biting thing. But I thought "Old Yeller" was going to be another awesome movie about dogs. Kind of like "101 Dalmations" goes country or "Milo and Otis" old school style. Maybe even "Lady and the Tramp" on the farm. Only it wasn't. At all.

When Travis walked out to that cabin with that shot gun I think my face melted. But, you know, there was a dog in the movie, so I watched it all the time. But I learned a valuable life lesson from "Old Yeller." Everyone who loves you so much they'd fight a bear AND a wild boar AND a raccoon AND a rattle snake for you will inevitably get rabies and you will have to shoot them no matter how much you love them back because love doesn't cure rabies, so that guy you're dating is pretty much hopeless but I heard his roommate's cute. Or something like that.

But ever since then I have handled the death of dogs in movies with about as much grace as a meth addict trying to do the electric slide. I don't just cry. I blubber. I lose all control. Snot runs down my face and I am completely inconsolable. I crawl into bed and hug pillows and rock myself to sleep. And you don't even want to know what I was like after my own dog died. I lost 15 pounds and the will to live.

When B and I saw "I Am Legend." I was all into it. I was on the edge of my seat. And then his dog died. *SPOILER ALERT, YA'LL* Will Smith's dog dies in I Am Legend. DID ANYONE ELSE NOT SEE THAT COMING? I mean, Jesus Christ Wears Galoshes, that movie messed me up for weeks. It's been about a year since I've seen that movie, and B's sister texted me yesterday to let me know she was watching it and she had just got the point where the dog died and I teared up at my desk just THINKING about it. Why'd you do it, Sam?

And that movie "Year of the Dog?" Guess what, THE DOG DIES IN THAT ONE TOO. But don't worry, that's not a spoiler because apparently that's on the flippin' box. I NEVER READ THE FLIPPIN' BOX. GAH.

Don't even get me started about "Where the Red Fern Grows." Just. Don't.

And one time when I was in gradeschool I accidentally saw a "20/20" special about how they eat stray dogs in Thailand and I wrote a letter to my governor about how Pennsylvania needs to invade Thailand.

I told you before how people keep being all "you should totes see that 'Marley and Me' movie it was soooo cute." And I have one thing to say to that. ARE YOU OUT OUF YOUR GAH FORSAKEN MINDS? [Editorial Note: I kept trying to write forsaken right there but I kept writing foreskin. I have no idea what my muscle memory is telling me. Probably that watching "Marley and Me" is about a good idea as a pile of foreskin. Because that's not even an idea. That's just gross.]

I'm also not sure what it says about me that I barely bat an eyelash when people die in movies or on television shows. Except for that time Denny died on Grey's Anatomy. Oh, Denny was so sweet and loyal and expressive. Just like a big ol' hound dog.

But anyway. My point is that I think most people who like dogs have this same reaction. No matter which way you slice it, it's always sadder when dogs die than when people do. And not just movies and TV either. I'm talking books too.

So then what about those people who don't like dogs? I've never seen a person who's "not a dog person" get more worked up than me over a person dying on the big screen, but when they see me curled up in a ball on my floor because Shiloh just crawled under the porch to die, suddenly I'M the one with issues.

But really, they're the ones with the empathy problem. Does it really matter that I'm more upset over the Golden Lab that had rabies than the dude in the green shirt that was caught in the crossfire? Possibly. But at least I feel it. At least I feel it.

And anyway, people with empathy problems probably don't even have souls, so at least I've got that going for me. And also, if the movies have taught me anything, it's that people who don't like dogs are always the ones who end up wearing ladies underwear while they strangle the neighbors because it turns out they're actually aliens. Or something like that.

So really it's exactly like that philosopher who used to argue why people should believe in God by telling everyone that God either does or doesn't exist, and if he doesn't exist and you don't believe, ya'll are cool. But if he does and you don't believe then you're pretty much fecked so you should just believe JUST IN CASE God does exist so you can fake your way into heaven. You know that dude? What was his name?

Anyway, it's exactly the same only in this case, you should just like dogs to fool the rest of us into thinking that you're not an alien. Because you can bet your arse when we have those first alien witch hunts, I'm totes diming you out for the alien that you are if you're on my Does Not Like Dogs list. Unless of course the alien witch hunts are when all the aliens come and burn the humans at the stake. Then I don't like dogs either. It's called survival instinct, people. I have it. Just sayin'. Tweet

The search for the perfect wedding shoes

Last week the bridal shop called to tell me my wedding dress had come in and I could not be more excited. And while I was on the phone with the bridal shop lady she was all, "so now you can make an appointment with the seamstress for your first fitting for some time next week, and don't forget to bring your shoes." And I was all "Oh mother F****R." Only I didn't say that out loud, I just said it in my head. What I actually said was something like, "oh sure yeah no problem" or maybe I just drooled a little, because everyone likes an agreeable bride. But the point is, I forgot about the shoes.

So on Sunday morning, my mom and I set out to find the perfect pair of wedding shoes. I don't have many requirements. They must be ivory. And also they should probably have a two to three inch heel. I'd like to avoid the ankle strap. Perhaps a slingback. Strappy is good. And for the love of gah they must be comfortable.

First we went to this place called a mall. Because we had heard on good authority that Macy's is the place to go for shoes. And on the way to Macy's , OH LOOK IT'S FOREVER 21. Forever 21 doesn't have wedding shoes but oh my gah dresses dresses DRESSES. FOR CHEAP.

Then we continued on to Macy's. BUT LOOK AN H&M I NEVER GET TO GO TO H&M. And ooooh there were shirts. Hundreds and hundreds of shirts. And don't forget those cute skirts. And how about that jacket? And YES I DO need another pair of big gold hoops. FOR CHEAP.

And I don't know about you, but there's something about shopping for wedding shoes that really works up my appetite. So by this point, I was starving (and also slightly hungover, but remember this is Sunday morning, so I thought that was a given). But we struggled on.

Finally we made it to Macy's and oh my gah shoes. There were shoes with heels and shoes with straps. Chunky shoes and comfy shoes. Ugly shoes and pretty shoes. But no perfect wedding shoes. So off we went to Nordstrom just to look because gurrrl, you think monies grow on trees? Still, there were no perfect wedding shoes.

But we weren't daunted. Just very, very hungry. So we left the mall and went to a place that sells wedding dresses, because surely a place that sells dresses will sell shoes to match. And there were shoes. Ugly shoes.

By now, I was all "shruffnimufzzerzzzz," which is hungry talk for please don't make me go to another shoe store I think my stomach is eating itself. But on the way home my mom was all "BOOYAH LORD AND TAYLOR" (or something like that because at this point I was pretty much passed out in the passenger seat) as the car screeched into the parking lot because Lord and Taylor always has the perfect shoes.

But Lord and Taylor did not have the perfect wedding shoes. I couldn't really see all that well though because all those black spots in front of my eyes were getting in the way of the shoes and lawd have mercy someone get this girl a hot dog.

So the shopping day came to a close and we stumbled into the house without the perfect wedding shoes.

Next time, we're shopping online. The end.

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A walk down memory lane: true lurve on campus

With the wedding coming up quickly -- 14 weeks to go -- I've been doing some thinking about everything that has happened in between the night B and I had our first date almost four years ago and today. All the things that have changed, and more importantly, the one thing that has stayed the same.

For those who weren't there when B and I first discovered each other, I thought I'd take another little walk down memory lane today, because we all know I'm a sucker for nostalgia. And also it's Friday and we could all use a little lurrrve.

When you're in college, late August means one thing: the joyous and largely intoxicated reunion with all of your friends back at school. The first week of school, aptly dubbed "syllabus week," meant late nights out with friends who you haven't seen for months, confident that all you had to do the next day was show up to class, take your syllabus, buy your books, and go home. Only a few professors had the audacity to actually begin class on the first day of class. Assholes.

One of the first nights back to school in August 2005, my friends and I went to our regular Baltimore bar, Swallow at the Hallow. I returned from that summer tanned and emotionally ready to start the new year. A few months earlier I'd come off a break up with my on-again-off-again high school boyfriend (with a few other chaps mixed in) who had decided to focus on his budding music career, and it was time to stay off.

The weather was warm, we were young, we were drunk, and we had no real commitments for at least one week. This was better than Disney World, if Disney World is your type of thing. Not judging. Actually I am. I'm not saying that adults that are obsessed with Disney World have some kind of creepy childhood complex, but I'm not NOT saying that either. And while we're on the topic, it's definitely NOT the happiest place on earth, but it IS the only place on earth where you'll find a bunch of former high school drama kids sweating in their overheated costumes in 98 degree weather for $7 an hour while some kid pees on their lap. Just sayin'.

ANYWAY. Swallow at the Hallow. After throwing back a shot of something red with mah grlz, Mojo and I turned to the jukebox. "Don't Stop Believing" was pounding from the speakers, and this had to be stopped. With Mojo leading the way, we snaked through the hundreds of kids jammed into a bar (that would have normally held 40 comfortably) on our way to the back wall where the jukebox was situated.

Suddenly, someone stepped in front of me, obstructing my view of the back of Mojo's head, now disappearing into the crowd. "HEY, I'M B," he blurted out with the suaveness that some people might associate with autism. I stopped dead in my tracks. "I think we had a class together last year. Milton," he went on.

TIME OUT.

This is the part of the story in my first conversation with B that I slowly realized this wasn't in fact my first conversation with him. The previous year, my sophomore year, I had spotted a particularly cute boy in plaid shorts and a shaved head across the room from me in my John Milton class. After weeks of sitting a few rows away from each other, I had yet to have a conversation with him. He was the row closest to the door and was usually long gone by the time I got out.

One day, I had everything ready well before class was dismissed. My books were packed and I was ready to make a run for it. Once we were released I put my head down and beelined straight for the door and straight for this boy. But when I got in front of him, I didn't know what to say, so I blurted out what most students stuck in a John Milton class would say. "Tough, huh? I can barely keep my eyes open." The boy's eyes widened. "Um. Yeah."

And then he turned his back and quickly walked away. If he had been moving any faster he would have been running. I was floored. Never had I seen a boy seem more coldly disinterested. Naturally I had the only reaction any self-respecting girl in this situation would have had. WHAT. A. DICK.

TIME IN.

I never found my way back to my friends that night. B and I talked until last call. He was a senior. I'd taken a few photography classes with his roommate, but had never before seen B out at a bar. He was a tennis player and adored soccer. He had great taste in music. He came from a relatively large family and he liked to travel. We didn't exchange numbers. Loyola's a relatively small school. If he wanted to find me again, it wouldn't be hard, right?

When we got home that night, Mojo peppered me with questions about this boy as we fell asleep in our beds. Yes, he was good looking. Yes, I was interested. No, I didn't give him my number or get his. Yes, maybe I am an idiot.

The next morning I dragged myself out of bed for my first class of the day. It was a creative non-fiction class taught my Mark Bowden. I was pumped. Mark Bowden, man. A real author. A successful author. An author who'd had one of his best selling books turned into a movie. An author who was friends with Ron Howard. Dear gah please let cool be something you can catch through osmosis, I prayed. And in case you're wondering, it's not. Because every day I sit here and write about things like pooping at work and my neighbor who steals my underwear while Bowden counts his dolla dolla bills ya'll and makes more movies. Just let me dream, okay?

I hurried through the halls to the designated classroom. Just as I was about to walk through the classroom door, I once again found myself face to face with B ...

... To be continued.

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Who's got issues now?

I was going to write a snarky post today about how I CAN drag myself out of bed before 5 o'clock in the morning without the universe imploding on itself, but then yesterday I had one of those experiences with Back On My Feet that people hear about that inspires them to join an organization in the first place but that you didn't really think happened to everyone, just to the type of people who join the Peace Corps. Or that kid you knew in college who used to sleep outside underneath cardboard boxes so he could more deeply relate to the homeless. Or vegans. You know, those people.

So now I'm all mushy-like and my faith in humanity has been restored and I don't even care what you did in the past -- whether it be selling drugs or toting guns or stealing cars or skinning kittens to make tiny kitten coats -- today you are my running partner and we will get through this run together. And knowing that by running right now with you, maybe you'll find it easier to get up and do it again tomorrow, which might make it easier for you to stay committed to your program, stay clean, and get a job you can be proud of.

Yesterday I ran seven miles with a guy who a few years ago was selling drugs and buying Cadillacs with cash in Miami. Today, he's won't even touch a cigarette and he kept telling me how tough this run was, but it would bring him seven miles closer to his goal of 500 miles. Yesterday's run brought him up to 93 miles and he knew he could do it. Only 407 miles to go. CAN YOU WRAP YOUR HEAD AROUND THIS?

People have been asking me if I feel safe running through the city streets with homeless men, and the answer is absolutely yes. First of all, Back On My Feet isn't just going around chucking running shoes at that dude who sleeps in the doorway of the vacant building across from that restaurant with the really good pad thai. Second of all, I feel a lot safer with these guys than I would with most of the people who read this blog. Have you seen some of the stuff people have Googled recently? The top five search terms that brought people here last week were:

1. pants wetting at dentist
2. woman pooping at the office
3. i'm an alcoholic not a moron
4. very big fat men in his shower
5. touching my neighbor

YOU PEOPLE are the ones with issues. Sick, sick, sick. Oprah should totally do a show about whack job Google searches and what that means to our society going to hell in a handbasket and we're probably all wearing bras that don't fit right on the way down, and I would be an excellent source to go on the show and be interviewed and probably get a free car, because after blogging for a couple years, I know a thing or two about whack job Google searches. And boobs. Oprah, call me.

Anyway I'm kind of obsessed with Back On My Feet right now and I can't really think of a better fit for me to try to make at least one positive impact on society in my lifetime. After becoming of source of information and entertainment for all of these Internet perverts, it's the least I can do. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

I don't usually ever run with music, but I'm always on the lookout for songs to add to the perfect running mix. Coincidentally, these compilations also make the for the best drinking music. But since this morning started with a long and enjoyable run through a few neighborhoods of Philadelphia and over the Ben Franklin Bridge and back, I've got running on my mind.

One of the bands that is always perfect to have stuck in your head while your feet are pounding the city streets is MGMT. Since the official music video for "Kids" was just released last week, I thought I'd throw this one out there today.

MGMT has a passionate following, so it's not surprising that people were pretty much crapping their pants for the release of this video. I was excited to see what these guys came up with, and expected nothing less than their neon-spandexed, body-painted, wait-a-minute-am-I-on-drugs best. But this video freaked the hell out of me. In fact, I was borderline horrified. WHO WOULD DO THAT TO THEIR BABY? I'm completely willing to bet that this kid will be traumatized for life and the first time he has a sleepover with his friends he's absolutely going to wet the bed and then he'll forever be known as the weird kid that wets the bed and is startled all the time, which will inevitably carry over into high school and then he'll never get a girlfriend or lead a normal life because every time he hears a tree branch scratching against the window at night he's going to break out into a cold sweat. And we all know what the next step is. Drugs. So yes, MGMT, I hope you are happy with your video, because you have destroyed this child's entire life. But I still like the song.



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Long weekends are never long enough, even if you don't waste your time sleeping

I've been away for a few days. I'm sorry. I've been busy not sleeping. I'm not kidding when I say that my entire long weekend in Massachusetts revolved around food, family, booze, and lack of sleep.

That last part is only ironic because when my mom and I set out on Thursday, the only thing I said I needed to do was have a well rested weekend so when I started my first Back On My Feet run at 5:30 a.m. on Monday morning, I'd be ready. Instead, our plane out of Philadelphia on Thursday night was five hours late. Naturally, there was nothing to do but sit in the airport bar for five hours, watch the bar tab rise, and count the hours of sleep I'd be losing that night. Which actually wasn't all that bad until we finally got to the part where the bar full of drunk Bostonians had to board the plane and have you ever seen a bar full of drunk Bostonians board a plane? Carrying your mother?

When I finally made it to bed some time around 3:30 a.m. I figured I had all weekend to catch up on my sleep. Until I didn't. Because you know that thing that happens on vacation, when your body doesn't want you to sleep because you want to be awake to savor every second of not being at work, kind of like when little kids are having so much fun playing that they don't even want to take a break to go to the bathroom so they usually end up peeing their pants?

Friday was filled with all sorts of great things like long jogs and house hunting and french onion soup and back decks and good lawd those Coronas and EEEEY BOROVICHKA!1. Then there was all those great things on Saturday like long swims and good books and beach naps and midnight drives and more Coronas and EEEEEY BOROVICHKA! And Sunday had all of those great things like morning tea and comfy couches and kisses on the head and another bridal shower and heartfelt welcomes and cards from future sisters that make you want to cry and gifts from your mom that you'll keep forever and don't forget all that wine but for the love of gah no more borovichka.

So that by the time Monday morning at 4:50 a.m. rolled around and that blaring alarm went off in the dark and I thought so this is what 4:50 a.m. looks like when you aren't drunk, I kind of felt like I was going to die. And for the rest of the day I struggled through what some people might call not fully functioning. And what others might call completely gorked. To which I might say, watch your back, mothaflippas 'cause I got my nine hours last night and now I'm ready to mentally destroy you. Or at least complete full sentences.

1. I should explain that one of the reasons we were in Massachusetts for the weekend (besides to go to the beautiful bridal shower that B's mom's friends put together), was to go to B's Slovakian brother's 2. engagement party. 3. His name is Matej. And this party also brought in a number of Matej's family members. And you know that stereotype of Eastern Europeans downing shot after shot after shot of some insane Eastern European liquor? It's totally true.

2. I should also explain that Billy's Slovakian brother is not a result of anything scandalous happening in Slovakia on a family vacation gone wrong. 4. About 15 years ago B's family was the host family for a Slovakian exchange student, and he never went home. And then so they turned into his real family.

3. Matej is getting married next June to a girl named Kelly. Yay, Matej! Yay, Kelly!

4. I totally knew what you were thinking, sickos. And who goes to Slovakia on family vacation, anyway? 5.

5. You don't count, B's family. So sit down. Tweet

Back On My Feet is the new safe word

Last weekend I did an 8K run with my mom and a couple of my uncles. While we were there, I noticed a large group of people sporting brightly colored shirts with the logo Back On My Feet prominently displayed across the chest. Last year or so I had read an article about this group who, as their Web site states, promote the self-sufficiency of the homeless population by engaging them in running as a means to build confidence, strength and self-esteem.

Meaning, four days a week at 5:30 in the morning a dedicated group of volunteers go running with men and women currently situated in various homeless shelters throughout Philadelphia. When I read about them last year, I was totally into it. And then I got to the 5:30 in the morning part and I was all does not compute do not understand system shut down. And I promptly filed it in my Never Gonna Happen File, because I'm not saying that I'm lazy, but I'm not NOT saying that I'm lazy.

I had been running into groups at various races for the past few years, but for some reason this time, something really clicked. And when I saw them in their colorful shirts standing in their circle with their arms draped across each other's shoulders saying their serenity prayer I was all HECK YEA I want to be in that circle and I want to commit and I want to change lives and I want to be a part of this. So I signed up.

And then at my orientation yesterday morning I got all heck-yea-uppity again, and now do you know what that means? It MEANS I'll be dragging myself out of bed every Monday and Wednesday at 4:50 in the morning so I can drive to my shelter to go on a seven-mile run at 5:30 in the morning with a group of volunteers and the committed men and women they've dedicated their mornings to. And I am SO excited. It's all I can talk about. And also I'm terrified because commitment makes me nervous and 4:50 in the morning is the next closest thing to Chinese water torture in my mind. The only time I've ever seen 4:50 a.m. is when I haven't gone to bed the night before and I'm probably rolling around in my underwear on your front lawn. True story.

So B's been on vacation in Massachusetts this week and every time he calls I'm all "and did I tell you it started because this woman would run past this homeless shelter every morning and then one day she invited a few of them men to run with her?" And he's all "yes you did," and them I'm all "and then did I tell you that it changed their lives and now they have HOMES and JOBS and SKILLS?" And he's all "yeah you told me that too, it really is amazing," and I'm like "but did you know that statistically speaking if you can get a group to commit to just going on a run four times a week the rates of job and housing retention go, like, WAY up?" and he's like "yup" so now I've just stopped answering my phone when B calls because I'm too busy telling Rooney how important this organization is.

In completely unrelated news, my boss walked into my office this morning and was all "I'm gonna rip that band aid off your neck, I'm tired of looking at it," and I was all "BACK OFF OR I'LL STAB A PEN THROUGH YOUR JUGULAR TOO," and he's all "no one stabbed you with a pen, it was a mole, and how long do you have to keep that on anyway?" And I was all, "SEXUAL HARASSMENT" because did you know that's the office safe word? Everyone stops what they're doing once you start yelling that. It's just like yelling rhinoceros during sex.

And now I hope no one from Back On My Feet finds this blog post today because I don't know how they'd feel having their organization associated with the same stream of consciousness that came up with rhinoceros as a safe word. But everyone needs one. That's just common sense, people. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

DO YOU WANT TO DANCE? DO YOU WANT TO TEAR THE MOTIVATIONAL POSTERS OFF YOUR OFFICE WALLS AND PULL DOWN THE BOOKCASE? DO YOU WANT TO USE A RUDE TONE OF VOICE AND SHATTER DISHES? DO YOU WANT TO RUN AND JUMP AND YELL? DO YOU WANT TO BAKE CUPCAKES WITH STRAWBERRY ICING?

I totes know what you mean. So I'm listening to Matt and Kim this week. This piano makes me freak, yo.





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I'm not sure what it means when I need an entire extra day to recover from my weekends

There's something about the warm weather that just makes drinking yourself under the table that much more enjoyable. At least, that's been my attitude every weekend for the past month or so. This past weekend was one of my oldest and best friend's birthdays. I'm assuming you can do the Yellaphant math for that one.

Totally JK, ya'll. And let me just take this time to formally thank our friend Andrew for making sure of that.

You know that friend that you've had for almost as long as you can remember? The one you met the very first day your family moved into the house you would grow up in? The one that's been there even as kindergarten became grade school, grade school became high school, high school became college, and college became the world? Even when the places you called home changed? Who was there for the first sip of alcohol in your life and is still there now when you get kicked out of the bar? The one who was there from the very first boyfriend to the very last boyfriend? Yeah, that's this chick.

And this weekend she turned 24. And when you're 24 years old and you've been friends with someone for 20 years, that's kind of a big deal. So this weekend we went out in style. And by style, I mean when I woke up on the beach at 5 a.m. next to a pile of sleeping bodies, I definitely wasn't surprised to find myself there. Again. The first time however, I was convinced I'd been kidnapped.

B called the next afternoon to check in while we were all nursing our hangovers on the beach and trying not to breathe in too deeply because everyone was still sweating tequila and he was all "are you ALIVE?" because apparently I'd called him some time around 4 a.m. to tell him I was dead. And I was all, "feels like it. That just might be the drugs though." And then he was all "are you in jail?" and I had to be all "um, thank you, Andrew" and Andrew was all "wow ... I mean ... just ... wow" because apparently I'd had a slight altercation with a bouncer the night before. In my defense, he probably did have a really small pee pee.

That's not me in the the tux, that's Monica. It was Monica's birthday. I'm the one with the beard. This picture pretty much sums up the night. I'll let you use your imagination, but I'll give you a hint: tequila, popcorn, twelve live squid, and Bill Murray. YES, I know that's not Bill Murray. And so does the bouncer. Tweet