Bachelorette party reslap 2: Because it took me an entire week to recover

In all likelihood, this will only amuse you if you were there.

My girls (and boy)

Because it's always a good idea

Me mum!

A dramatically placed fan

Me and my Mojo

It was inevitable

Breaking out the glow sticks, and you know how much I love glow sticks

Long time lovers

We're getting maarrried. To each otherrr.

I have no explanation for this

It's safer from over there

Just like high school

Exactly what I needed at this point in the evening ... a 40 of Lager

Loving

Oh really? Was Jerry Blavat at your bachelorette party?

bachelorette, bachelorette, bachelorette, bridget, bridget, bridget

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True lurve on campus (part 7)

With the wedding coming up quickly -- FOUR WEEKS TO GO, MOTHAFLIPPAS -- 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 catch up on parts 1 - 6 here.

"Okay," I breathed, feeling my guard crumble faster than I would have liked.

B took another step forward, put his hand behind my head, his palm resting firmly on my cheek bone, and kissed me.

After that kiss, it was as if that week-long glitch had never happened. In minutes, we had forgotten everything. As if a wave had come in and washed our minds clear. When we weren't with our friends, we escaped from the bustle of the campus and spent nights in the city, catching a live show, drinking strong beers, or holding hands in a dark movie theater.

The weeks flew by, but neither of us gave much thought to the dwindling semester. November was over in a blink. December had wings. We studied for exams, tied up loose ends, and went to holiday parties.

By then, even though it had only been a few months, it felt like we had been together forever. We had both melted into the other's group of friends. I was having more fun than ever at school. It all just felt so right. So much like home.

And then it was over.

By the time the last day of finals had ended, my friends and I had sold our books, packed up our apartment, and were ready to each embark to different corners of the world. I was off the New Zealand. Mojo was headed to Ireland. Caitlin and Emily were going to Italy. Talia, to Spain. And Kate and Julita to England. It was sad, this would be the longest we had ever been apart. But thrilling, MOTHAFLIPPING NEW ZEALAND, EVERYONE.

But then there was B and his friends. They'd finish up their last semester of college while we were gone, and then they'd be off to the real world. UGH, the real world.

I was the first to leave our apartment. B was driving me home to Philadelphia on his way home to Massachusetts for Christmas break. I waved out the car window as we pulled out of the parking lot as each of my roommates stood on the top of the building's balcony and screamed their goodbyes in the cold morning air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Most of my friends were in Europe a few days after New Years Day. But because I was going to the southern hemisphere, and the University of Auckland was in full swing of their summer vacation, I wasn't leaving the country until mid-February. That meant plenty of time for visits before B and I had to worry about our own goodbye.

We went skiing in New Hampshire with his friends. I had never even been to New England before. When Loyola's Christmas vacation ended, I worked at home during the week, and spent most of my weekends visiting B at school. If I couldn't make it to Baltimore, he came up to Philadelphia.

But I was ready to go. There was never any consideration that I wouldn't be. I was sick of working at the deli and good gah New Zealand was waiting for me. NEW ZEALAND. I could barely imagine what life wound be like there. Beaches and sky diving and bungee jumping and camping and busy city streets galore. It would be my heaven.

But what would happen to us when I was 9,000 miles away? Neither of us gave it much thought. We would be, just like we are now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I can't believe you're head over heels for this guy and I haven't even met him yet," Monica said.

"I know, it's crazy, I just have this feeling with him, you know? It's so different. He's so different. It's like, he feels like home or something ... I know it sounds insane ..."

"OH MY GOD YOU'RE GOING TO MARRY THIS GUY." She grabbed my arms.

"It's just ... I don't know how to explain ..."

"OH MY GOD. YOU LOVE HIM."

And then came the SQUUEEEEEEEEEE.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lying on our backs on B's bed the next weekend, I told him about the night at Monica's.

"I told Monica all about you."

"Oh yeah?" B raised himself on to one elbow and looked down at me.

I put my arms behind my head and smiled. How could I not looking into those green-brown eyes?

"Yeah. She toootally thinks we're gonna get hitched." We both laughed as B pulled me up to sitting position.

"What did you say to that?"

I began to stammer. Oh no, was that weird? Verbal vomit. Should I not have said that? Too soon? What should I say? I was not about to pull out the big L word.

"Oh ... I ... you know ..."

"Bridg ..." Heereeee we go. The pause lasted for minutes. Forever. Oh my gah I could have cooked a turkey in the time of that pause. "I'm in love with you."

He cupped my cheeks in his hands and kissed me. "I love you."

I pulled away and looked at him. And I smiled. "I love you too." And I kissed him back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night before I left for New Zealand, B drove up from Baltimore to celebrate Valentine's Day. We sat in the spare bedroom of my childhood house, the only semi-private space in the house. It was also the smallest. Situated above the garage, the ceiling was slanted down, much like an attic. But it was in the back of the house, down the hallway from where anyone else would be.

We exchanged CDs that we had made for each other. The top 20 of our all time favorite songs, filled with bands like the Allman Brothers and the WHO and Ani DiFranco. Then B pulled a book out of his bag. It was a photo album with instructions to fill it with pictures of myself in New Zealand over the next five months because B wouldn't be there to see me every day.

And then he handed me an envelope. I lifted the flap and pulled out the card.


"Love, having no geography, knows no boundaries."
-- Truman Capote

Truman Capote. The author of the book we first studied in the class where we first became friends. The book that was turned into the movie we saw on our first date. The night that we saw Mars.

And that quote. To a girl who was about to get on a plane and move 9,000 miles away from the boy she loved, the boy who had become one of the most important parts of her life almost overnight, that quote was everything ...

... To be continued.

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True life: I used to be your mailman

I think it's kind of obvious that it doesn't take much to get my all uppity. This is a blessing and a curse. When I'm excited for something, it's like I have on those little horse blinders and all I can see is that really exciting thing that's about to happen and gah almighty this is gonna be the best thing ever and excuse me were you talking to me because I was just daydreaming about how this is going to blow my mind.

And whereas most people would often tell themselves not to hype it up -- whatever it may be -- too much, because then you'll be disappointed if it doesn't live up to the expectations of face-melting awesomeoness, I say poo poo to that. I'm usually so stoked by the time said event occurs that I'm high from the excitement and absolutely nothing can bring me down.

Like the first time I went to Bonnaroo. I looked forward to that festival for a good six months. I was obsessed. So when we got there and it rained for three days and flooded our tent and we had no dry clothes and nowhere to sleep and we all smelled like soggy mold and horse shit, I thought it was one of the most incredible, authentic experiences of my life and I couldn't wait to see what happened the next year. Maybe someone would get trampled to death. Or eat a batch of bad mushrooms. Or get lost and wake up in a bathtub of ice in a Nashville motel room. The possibilities are endless.

The danger of this extreme uppity-ness however, is that the opposite is usually true. If things even have a smidgen of potential to be bad, in my mind, they have the potential to be earth-shatteringly cataclysmic. Car crash bad. House fire bad. Fupa bad.

Like right now. I'm sipping on the most insane milkshake of emotions that I can barely remember how to spell my name. Yesterday marked exactly one month to the wedding. HOLYFECKINGSHEETTIMSOEXCITED.

But following the wedding comes the eventual move. And as you know, the mere idea of moving to a different city is turning me into a loon. The closer we get, the more I see myself morphing into Britney Spears circa 2007. I am THIS CLOSE to shaving my head and letting a small child ride in my car without a seat belt.

I am becoming obsessed. How often will I see my family? I'm going to miss my mommy. What if I can't make friends? What if the Massachusetts winter makes me want to stab myself in the eyeballs with a screwdriver? And the current flip-out flavor of the week: What if I can't find a job?

Let's be honest. Things are a bit dismal out there. That's strike one against me. When it comes to job hunting, I'm emotionally charged and manically indecisive and I have no idea what my next career step should be. Strike two. Conclusion: I am frighteningly close to being stuck in the dugout (in a straightjacket).

Things were so much simpler when I was a mailman. I'm sorry, mail WOman. Postal carrier. Whatever. The summers in between college I worked for the United States Post Office and it was the best job I've ever had. I was outside all day. When my route was done, it was done; there's no taking work home when you work at the post office. There was no stress. Zero. And I had a kickass tan and was in great shape.


Everyone's happy to see the mailman. We come bearing gifts. Postcards and birthday cards and packages from the Home Shopping Network. The senior citizens wait all day for the mailman. I would hang around and chat with them just because they wanted someone to talk to. Every day I hoped I had something good for them. A "Thinking of You" Hallmark card or a letter from an old friend. They'd invite me in for lemonade. They were the best.

Now, I do butt clenches at my desk to try to keep the circulation going. People in PR don't have the best reputation. But I DO get to write. I love writing. Maybe someone will hire me to write letters to senior citizens all day so they always have something good to get in the mail. I'd slip in pictures of big-eyed puppies and rolly kittens and we'd eventually have world peace.

World peace. I would do it. You're welcome, people.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

You know what I love? New music projects from established musicians. If at any point you've worn skinny jeans and striped t-shirts and walked down the street with your city's alt-weekly tucked neatly under your arm, you're well aware of Belle and Sebastian, and you're probably quite the fan. Well, B&S's Stuart Murdoch is playing with a new deck of cards and the ladies are in the hizouse.

Murdoch collaborated with nine different women to create God Help the Girl, a collection of songs that he wrote, but felt were in some need of lady vocalists to make things perfect, as ladies are apt to do.

And ladies, who HASN'T had a mob of angry gentleman waving their fists in their air, or your grammy, or your parish priest sigh GOD HELP THE GIRL in exasperation as you grabbed your purse and hightailed it out of wherever it is that you were? I mean, c'mon, it's the perfect name. Am I right? RIGHT?

Either way, this song is wonderful.



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Bachelorette party reslap: MAKE A CIRCLE, MAKE A SCENE

There are no words that can accurately describe my bachelorette party on Saturday night. Except that it's Tuesday and I'm still having trouble remembering how to tie my shoes. If my mother had any suspicions whatsoever about my drinking problems before this weekend, they were most certainly confirmed that night.

First of all, my friends got me this present -- which was probably the best present I've ever gotten in my life -- of ... wait for it ... 13 bottles of HanaHorne wine. They selected a different bottle of wine for different events throughout the next few years, like the bottle B and I will drink on our first anniversary, the bottle I'll drink when I put on all that insane lingerie they bought me, the bottle we'll drink on our first night in our new house, and the bottle I'll drink RIGHT NOW WITH ALL MY BEST GIRLFRIENDS.

Julita designed a unique label for each bottle of wine, and they named them all HanaHorne, which you would find hilarious if you went to college with us and you ever played beer pong against me and B. Trust.

And thus, the party was started.

And by party I mean shots shots shots shots shots to the face.

Naturally, there was a set of rules I had to abide by all night. Like you must squeeze 10 random butts and you must get a new guy to buy you a shot at every bar and you cannot enter a bar unless carried over the threshold by a boy and you must dance with a man over the age of 65 and on and on and on until every male we left in our wake had been degraded as a big slab of man meat in one way or another. Just how we like it.

I went to a college where drinking was not taken lightly. I've since had evenings that have stretched past the sunrise. I've spent entire nights dancing with my best friends. But I have never had a night like this. We made a mothaflipping scene. At the beach. In the restaurant. In the limo. And at every bar we stepped foot into.

And it was all thanks to the hard work and planning of my kick ass and scream obscenities Man of Honor Michael Farrell, some of the best friends in the world, and my mom who learned way more about the sex lives of one group of friends than she probably ever imagined possible.

End of an Era

There's a pee pee on that straw

All mah grlz

The Man of Honor ... off the scale

1 butt down, 9 to go

I swear this was a rule

shots shots shots shots shots

Bachelorette party in progress

More pictures that illustrate my lack of self control to come, I promise. Tweet

The what to wear to your own bachelorette party conundrum

This weekend is my bachelorette party. Tomorrow afternoon, all of my closest girlfriends from across the country will ascend on the Jersey Shore for a weekend of I'm not entirely sure what because they won't tell me but I'm gonna go ahead and guess that tequila will be involved. All I know is that my Man of Honor, Michael, has been planning FOR MONTHS. And I am trying not to squirt in my pants as I write this thinking about how excited I am to see my friends. Woopsies.

Especially considering what happened last time we were all together for what I've heard is supposed to be a proper event, but for us it was all bottles of wine and dancing and beads and falling into the drum kit and maybe a Philadelphia fireman or two.

But this week, every time I tell someone what I'll be doing this weekend, their eyes light up, and they all ask the same question. Not what are we doing, or who will be there, or even where are we going. Everyone wants to know what I'll be wearing. And I'm all ummmm you mean besides the drinks I'll inevitably be spilling all over myself?

And then I thought about all the accessories of the recent bachelorette parties I've witnessed in passing throughout bars in the city, which has only helped me decide what I won't be wearing: wieners, feathers, Miss America sashes, or a tiara.


So I thought about it. For days. Most often when I was supposed to be working. I'd be tapping away on a piece about greening your office space, but what I was really thinking was, Hmm ... green. I wonder if that green shirt is bachelorette party worthy? Because if you haven't figured it out by now, when it comes to this wedding stuff, I pretty much have no idea what I'm doing. Clearly, even dressing myself has become a challenge.

But then yesterday at work, as I was walking through the hallway one of my coworkers stopped me and was all "I LOVE that skirt. What a PERFECT party skirt." And I was all BOOYAH, BABY, DECISION MADE.

Please excuse the dirty mirror. And the weird lighting. And the dizzy angle. I took that on my lunch break, so obviously I was drunk. ANYWAY. I'll be wearing what B refers to as my Drunk Ass Ballerina Skirt. If Drunk Ass Ballerina doesn't scream bachelorette party, then strap a penis hat to my head and meet me at the bar because I owe you a blow job. The drink, assholes.

There is one, slight problem with Drunk Ass Ballerina Skirts though. Every time a good breeze blows, I suddenly become the most popular girl on the block.


But I figure, hey, I spend a significant portion of my time under the influence mooning people anyway, this will just eliminate a step for me. It's called resourcefulness, people. I have it. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

You know how I always get all sorts of sentimental about my summer jams? I could be listening to a song that I haven't heard in years, but if it was on heavy rotation during any particular summer, which is where all my happy memories live together, sipping cool glasses of wine, reading novels on the beach, and driving around with the windows down, I'll be immediately launched into a heavy bout of nostalgia for that exact place and time and all I'll wanna do is take all my clothes off and run through a bright field of wildflowers and feel the sun on my cheeks. My butt cheeks. You know that feeling?

The summer isn't even over yet, but this song just might make 2009's list of songs that make me want to run around nekkid and smiling, just like a baby. Who is drunk. And possibly developmentally slow, but it's kind of early still and you can't really tell and maybe potty training just isn't my thing.

I give you Phoenix's "1901."

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KIDS NEED HOPE NOT DOPE, YO

When I was in grade school and high school, we used to sit through all types of assemblies that were supposed to keep us on the straight and narrow, with our penny loafers polished and our plaid kilts no higher than two inches above the knee. Assemblies that told us all about the dangers of drugs and sex and abortions and eating disorders and Protestants and Birkenstocks with socks. Like that one time my friend Caitlin almost passed out in the auditorium senior year because they kept showing pictures of hypodermic needles entering track marked arms and in between toes on the projector screen and we were all LOLgiggles when she put her head between her knees and turned all eating disorder-pale because we were well informed about the color of eating-disorder-pale and I DO NOT SEE WHAT IS SO AMUSING ABOUT DRUG-INDUCED HYSTERIA, MISS HANAHAN.

Anyway, some time around eighth grade, we had some motivational speaker come in to talk to us about DOPE. And we were all ummm nobody calls it dope anymore and dude's so energetic he should try a little grass to chill hisself out. Only I'm sure I didn't think that at the time because in eighth grade I thought grass was just the stuff in your lawn and I was still too busy harshly judging anyone who would dream of touching marijuana for their lack of moral standards because What Would Jesus Smoke, ya'll? But at the end of the assembly we all got little plastic coffee mugs with the phrase KIDS NEED HUGS NOT DRUGS scrawled across. And it was awesome.

This has nothing to do with anything except when I was trying to think of a title for this post, kids need hope not dope was the only thing that I could think of. Probably because I'm high.

But tonight, TOOOO-NIGHT my besty-face, BF-F-LYFE, best bud Michael Farrell is giving a reading from the book "Teaching Hope," the new book from the Freedom Writers Foundation. The book is an amazing collection of stories from the Freedom Writers Teachers, a group of the country's most progressive educators assembled by Erin Gruwell, the original Freedom Writers teacher a.k.a. Hilary Swank in that movie with Dr. McDreamy.

Mikey F is one of these extraordinary teachers right here in Philadelphia, and he'll be reading a passage from his story, as well a few other Freedom Writers Teachers from the area. AND YOU SHOULD BE THERE. Unless, you know, you hate on the future of all of our children and shit like that.

The readings will last from 6 to 7 p.m. at the Barnes and Noble at Rittenhouse Square, 1805 Walnut Street, followed by a dance party in the self help aisle. Just kidding about the dance party part, unless of course you're into that because I am TOTALLY down.

You can buy a copy of "Teaching Hope" there, obvi, because it's a book store. That way you could even get it autographed by Mike for his incredible contribution, or me for being really awesome at making pancakes and offending people. Or, you can order it on Amazon. All proceeds benefit the Freedom Writers Foundation that continues to train teachers in innovative, tried and true learning methods as well as continuing to sponsor continuing education for worthy and deserving students.

I'll see you there. I'll be the one in the back row smoking a doobie.

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Bitch sesh: Bank of America is the Anti-Christ, pretty much

A few weeks ago I was doing my weekly financial check on my bank accounts, credit card account, and gah have mercy student loans, when I discovered that something had happened to my measly Bank of America Savings account. It was gone.

A a college student, I only needed a minimum of $30 in my savings account to keep it open. So, feeling particularly save-y at the time, I threw in $75 or so. Deal done. And it stayed there for four years. Never touching, never being touched, just like my sexual harassment counselor's dream pupil. But suddenly last week, that $75 turned into $11. I clicked through for details and it turns out, all of that money had been taken out for a "monthly maintenance fee." Esqueeze me?

So I called up Bank of America and was all woah woah WOAH, where did my money go and what type of MAINTENANCE are you doing on an account that doesn't get used? And they tried to tell me that I had overdrawn in that account, so they charged me for maintenance, WHICH DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE and why are you charging me money IF YOU JUST SAID I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH OF IT.

No, I insisted, I had not overdrawn because I haven't touched that account IN FOUR YEARS. Turns out, last month, they SWITCHED MY ACCOUNT WITHOUT EVEN TELLING ME and took out all the money all at once and NOT over a six month period like they claimed to have done because don't you think someone who obsessively checks her banking statements (as people with no money tend to do) would notice that my savings account is suddenly significantly shrinking?

First of all, okay yeah maybe I should have called up the bank after I graduated two years ago and been all, okay people, I'm not a student anymore, so go right ahead and jack up my fees and shit, but I didn't. Because I'm a dirty liar and I've been known to shove small children. And because you know what's broker than a kid in college? A kid who just graduated from college.

Yes, I admit I was partially in the wrong here, but they never asked, so I never told. But what was worse than my little omission of truth was the fact that Bank of America changed my account to an account that was not of my choosing without telling me, and then subsequently charged me for being below the minimum of that new account without telling me. Very sly, Bank of America. Sly like an asshole.

So I switched to an account that was more aligned to my lifestyle of not having any money, and asked if it was possible for me to be reimbursed for that $60 that was taken from my account. And oh my gah are we still talking about accounts?

THAT would not be possible because the bank doesn't give you money back unless the bank is in the wrong. But, I injected, wasn't it WRONG of the bank to not tell me my time with the college student account was up? Wasn't it WRONG of the bank to not tell me that they would be switching my account? Wasn't it WRONG of the bank to not let me choose which account would best fit my current financial situation so I could AVOID being slammed with fees? Wasn't it WRONG of the bank to drown those kittens and punch your grandmother?


No, apparently, it was not. And then my BOA representative was all "I AM THE DARK PRINCE WELCOME TO HELL, MOTHERFECKER" which is pretty much an exact quote. Or maybe it was something like "thank you ma'am have a pleasant day," but it's all interpretive.

And now I've got to think of some way to make a quick $60 and prostitution is not an option, Falko, we all know what happened last time I tried that. It's not that I mind spending money on things that I need, like booze or clothes or booze or shoes or even booze, but I can't stand the thought of that $60 going to nothing. And anyway, shouldn't there be some recession clause that says banks can't be total dicks?

I currently have $4.27 in my checking account. Does it LOOK like I can afford to be jacked $60? After this, I can't even afford to buy a new tube of TOOTHPASTE which has not been going over well in the office, and those industrial size rolls of toilet paper that I've been looting borrowing from the cleaning lady's closet are really not fitting in well with my bathroom decor.

So basically, when I get fired for stealing toilet paper from the office and sexually harassing the CEO and stabbing a co-worker and carving dirty words onto the conference room table, it's entirely Bank of America's fault. And just THINKING about that $60 makes me feel a little stabby, so just watch your backs.

UPDATE: I just posted the link to this blog post on Facebook and the words that came up in that little image identification box were "Saltines $4.50" AND I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING YOU. I CAN'T EVEN AFFORD BUY SALTINES FROM FACEBOOK. AND THEY ARE MOCKING ME FOR IT.

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YOU BRING ME SHAME, ANDY REID

A few days ago B came home from work with some interesting news. Apparently the Patriots were considering signing Michael Vick. And oh-ho-hoooo did I mount my high horse, throwing around words like "morally depraved" and "no class Belichick" and "motherflipping cut off sweatshirts." And then I was all "we will NOT be watching the Patriots in. This. House." And B shook his head sadly and agreed.

Then last night we were out for a few drinks with friends when someone at the table got a text message. EAGLES SIGN VICK.

WHAT? That had to be a mistake, right?

Because minutes later the news was scrolling across the bottom of the bar's television screens. Thank gah I had a beer in my hand when I heard that because I needed a drink.

What is WRONG with you, Philadelphia? And then I look over at B, and he's got that smug look on his face as I quietly slide off my high horse and hand him the reigns. Be careful with her, B. She's a wild beast.

Scanning the headlines today, a few Philadelphia columnists even had the AUDACITY to get all everyone deserves a second chance. Vick is sorry. He learned his lesson. Blah blah blah.

And yes, I am all for second chances, when you fuck up once. Like, say, you hit someone with your car or you shoot yourself in the leg or you wake up in a parking lot three days later with THUG LIFE tattooed to your inner lip.

But you DON'T take a little vacay in the state pen and suddenly realize oh my GAH all those dogs I tortured were actually living things. More likely, you clench your butt cheeks whenever you hear someone behind you and you say whatever it is you gotta say to get you out of there and get your cash monies flowing back in.

Vick didn't just hurt one dog, he hurt hundreds. For years. It wasn't one mistake. It was a lifetime of messed up thinking. Like how the quiet kid in the neighborhood who shoots beebees at stray cats is always the one to turn into the woman-hating serial killer. The dude who is depraved enough to fight dogs isn't going to turn into a tender hearted puppy lover. He's still gonna be a morally depraved dick.

I have a rescue dog, and I've seen first hand the damage that dog fighting has done to other rescue dogs. The cruelty and depravity that is involved in tying a dog's mouth shut and releasing a crazed pack on him, hanging dogs, burning them, and torturing them to make them meaner. In my opinion, there are few people lower on the scum scale than someone who could do that to a dog.

And yea, my mom is convinced that I have more compassion for dogs than I do for most people, like how on the way to the shore this year we had a little issue when we were driving through Chester and we saw three pit bull puppies trot across the street and I was all "STOP THE CAR STOP THE CAR WE HAVE TO RESCUE THE PUPPIES." And my mom was all "what is WRONG with you?" And I starting flailing around in the passenger seat because "OH MY GAAAH SOMEONE IS GOING TO GRAB THEM AND PUT THEM IN A DOG FIGHTING RING PEOPLE ARE HORRIBLE HORRIBLE HOORRRRRIBBLLEEE." And I actually started crying a little bit. And she put on her life lesson tone of voice and was all "you know, Bridget, sometimes I worry that you are more concerned with saving puppies than saving people." And I was all "you would've stopped if those were three orphan children walking across the street. You're a speciesist. Like racist. Only for species." And she didn't say anything, she just shook her head, probably because she knew I was right.

And as far as Andy Reid is concerned, you probably are more likely to err on the side of "second chances" when you're related to someone who shoves drugs up his ass in prison. Sayin'.

Shame on you, Philadelphia Eagles. I'd rather tattoo a picture of bacon across my chest than support you this season, which, apparently, is really catching on with the hipsters and what is UP with that?

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Gah knows I love me a good riot

So you know how Twitter shit the bed twice this week? And everyone and their dad had their nerdstream's interrupted for, what? An hour? Two? And apparently at the SAME TIME Twitter was down, Facebook was too, so all those people who usually Twitter and Facebook their workdays away were left with nothing to do but work, and EW.

Of course, this brought on a mighty interwebs shit storm because NOW WHO DO I TELL THAT I JUST PAINTED MY TOE NAILS A WONDERFUL SHADE OF KISS ME PINK? And ZOMG JUST TOTES WINKED AT THE CUTE DELIVERY BOY LOLZZZZ.

But I missed all of this because I was, oh I dunno, WORKING MY ASS OFF. I haven't even had time to loot the office supply closet or use the office printer to print out pictures of Jeff Goldblum or prank call my CEO during office hours. Nosiree. I'm crankin' out some pretty solid work like it's my job or something.

Which is all well in good, and actually I prefer it, but I feel a little disappointed that I missed the Twitter riots. I always keep my pitchfork ready to go in the hall closet, and I can stuff a dummy to burn in effigy in seven minutes flat. HEY HEY HO HO (insert cause here) HAS GOT TO GO.

To vent my pent up aggression that could have been more productively aimed at Twitter or hackers or burnt grilled cheese sandwiches, I'll instead be waging war on the B's dirty socks that he leaves all over the apartment. And I'm not just talking dirty, I'm talking so gnarly and soaked with sweat and the stench of year-old camel cheese you'd need a hazmat suit to pick them up without feeling like you need to take a shower afterwards. Therefore, instead of asking him NOT to leave them all over the apartment and then picking them up when he does anyway, I'm just going to blow torch them until he a) stops leaving his socks all over the place b) runs out of socks or c) I burn the apartment down.

Either way, mission accomplished. Suck on THAT, Twitter.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

This morning I came in from my morning run with Back On My Feet (GIMME YO MONIES) to find B hovering around the television because "HELLO the most important game for teams who want to qualify for the World Cup is on today and oh my GAH they aren't telling me what channel it's going to be on and I need to record it and U.S. and Mexico and WHY WON'T YOU JUST TELL ME THE CHANNEL?" or something like that, which is a lot of words for B before he's had his morning tea, so I was impressed.

But then ESPN cut to commercial, and as B was writhing on the floor, one of those new iPhone commercials came on to tell me exactly why my life is incomplete without an iPhone and if I don't get one soon, before you know it I'm going to be lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood with no handy GPS in my pocket to tell me the way back and then even worse, I'm going to hear a song I really like blasting from some window and I'm not going to know the name and I won't have anything to tell me what it is and then I'll want to entertain myself by recording my voice and playing it back all sped up like Alvin and the Chipmunks and yes I WOULD like my own personal tour of Paris, BUT I WON'T BE ABLE TO and suddenly there's a million useless things that I can't do but I want to do and I don't know how I've survived this long without doing them.

ANYWAY. The iPhone commercial. You know when you're all uppity and you hear a song and you feel like if you don't scream the words along your chest might pop? It could be the worst song in the world but if you know the words and you don't spew them from your mouth your eyes just might roll into the back of your head. Luckily, the one on the commercial was just what I wanted to hear. And obviously they don't play the songs' lyrics on the iPhone commercials, because how else would you hear the voice telling you why your regular cell phone is a pile of cow poop that will absolutely be the death of you when you least expect it because can your regular cell phone save you from a bear attack? NO. But can the iPhone? MAYBE.

But that piano from Matt Costa's "Mr. Pitiful" was playing away and it didn't even matter that I always get his name wrong and call him Bob Costas kind of like how B always calls Sheryl Crow Shania Twain* and I put my cereal bowl down and jumped off the couch and was all "YOUR MR. PIT, MR. PIT. MR. PITIFUL, WHO LET YOU DOWN? WHO LET YOU DOOOWWNN?" And B turned to me all exorcist like and recited the words to "Helter Skelter" backwards was all "CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO LISTEN? I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR, LIKE, 12 MINUTES FOR THEM TO TELL ME THE CHANNEL OF THIS SOCCER GAME?" as he projectile vomited green stuff all over the living room. So naturally, I sang louder.

And now you can too.



* "Shania hates mayo all right, and she can't eat chicken salad." Tweet

I'm sure people accidentally adopt orphans all the time

Last week B and I went to get our marriage license, because unlike the act of procreating, you need a license to get married in Pennsylvania. And what's that about, anyway? Because after a week of blatantly staring at people people watching on the beach, I'm pretty sure I picked up just about every way how NOT to be a parent. And shouldn't people have to take some kind of test before they're allowed to start poppin' em out? True of False: Dressing your 12-year-old child in water shoes and one of those bathing suits with the built-in flotation devices while on the beach will cause him to be single forever and never move out of his childhood bedroom and call you mommy until the day he dies. TRUE. Fill in the blank: Calling your child fucking annoying on a crowded beach is a ____ idea. Answer: bad. Multiple choice: A good way to keep track of small children on the boardwalk is to a) hold their hands b) use a stroller c) strap them to a leash. As for the rest of you, it's called birth control.

Anyway, B and I weren't entirely sure what to expect with the licensing process. Would WE have to take a test? Would there be a written component? Was an instructor going to take us out into the parking lot and ask me to make a pot roast? Would B have to demonstrate how good he is at picking up dirty socks and hanging up wet towels? Because I'm pretty sure that would be the equivalent to the parallel parking part of the driver's test for dudes and if so, B would fail and THEN what would we do? My mom would NOT be happy if we had to change our reception from the Hyatt Regency to the Las Vegas Love Shack.

Turns out we just had a fill out a form but even that was slightly nerve wracking because we had to go to the county's Orphans Court to do it and what if we checked the wrong box and ended up accidentally adopting an orphan? And it's not like you can just RETURN an orphan because didn't you ever see "Annie?" That Miss Hannigan is just the pits. And as we've already established, you don't need any kind of license to get a kid, so it's totally possible. Also, I'm pretty bad at filling out forms because I get bored about half way through and start rushing and don't read things carefully and end up with a non-refundable lifetime's subscription to FlavaMen Magazine.

But when we got there we didn't have to worry about any of that because it turns out they fill out the form FOR you. All you have to do is sit there and answer questions like social security number and mother's occupation and father's middle name. Then we had to put our right hands on the Bible and swear that we didn't make stuff up because I get a real thrill in lying about where I was born and what B's dad does for a living. And in case you were wondering, yes, swearing on the Bible in court IS everything "Law and Order" makes it out to be.

When we were done, B stood up and was all "woah so are we MARRIED?" And the state worker with all the heart shaped picture frames on her desk gave us exactly the type of look TV makes you think state workers give all the time. In other words, she basically told B to go stab himself in the face with her eyes. It was amazing. So no, we are not married, but we are licensed to wed, just like that lame movie. And surprisingly, after all that, I didn't even have a single dream about being pregnant. I'd call that a success. Tweet

True lurve on campus (part 6)

With the wedding coming up quickly -- 7 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.

I know I'm running a little late on this one. And after part 5, people are a little upset with B, like B's mom. With a goal of posting every Friday, it was only a matter of time before my days became a vortex of incoherencies and too much work and one more drink and before I know it I'm lying on my back in my underwear on the kitchen floor and my life is falling apart because I'm more than two weeks late on the next installment of True Lurve on Campus and I'M SORRY, ARA, GAH. As for the rest of you, you can catch up here.

"What the FUCK" I breathed as I stormed across campus. I slammed the door to our apartment and Mojo, Caitlin, and Emily walked out of their bedrooms as I let loose.

Mojo and Caitlin seemed as dumbfounded as I was.

"What the fuck?" Emily tore in. "What the fuck does he mean he has to figure shit out?" She sneered. "What a shithead. Good thing you never slept with him because god what a DICK. That makes, like ZERO sense. I don't understand how boys can be such assholes. You are going to have so much fun abroad hooking up with all those hot New Zealanders, Bridie, so it doesn't even MATTER."

But it did. And I couldn't stop thinking about it. B wanted to continue on with our friendship as if that little blip of blissful happiness and sister mercy the kissing had never happened. I, however, didn't. So I did the only thing I found logical at the time. I manically flip flopped between the sweet, witty, intelligent girl that he had claimed to be so attracted to just days before and the ice bitch.

We'd banter on, making each other laugh, things were so easy, so natural, and then I'd remember what we weren't. I'd cut myself off mid-guffaw. If he doesn't want this, then he's not getting it. He seemed to panic when I turned a cold, stubborn shoulder, and he'd begin to rationalize with me why the timing just couldn't work. I'd make my case -- who cares, let's try it anyway, how can we not, what if -- and when he wouldn't relent, I'd drop a "whatever" and walk away.

Throughout the week I tried to distract myself with school work. I had a 20-page paper due the following week for one of my journalism classes, and a stack of research on my desk covering almost every major element of rock and roll. There was one book I needed though. Most major papers covering the topics of music journalism referred to this one key book, and I needed it.

I walked across the dark campus on my way to the library. The streetlights threw distorted shadows on the bricks below my feet. Autumn darkness, autumn smells, autumn chill. I hurried my pace.

Twenty minutes later I was scanning the library shelves in the 1970s-era school library, thick with the smell of aging book glue, the orange-carpeted floor squeeking beneath my feet, the only sound on the floor besides the quiet murmer from iPod headphones. But the book wasn't where it was supposed to be. I checked with the front desk, and it turns out someone has it out, it's not due back for another two weeks. Feck. I knew I'd seen a copy of that book somewhere recently. Where had I seen it? Mojo's bookshelf? No. Who? Suddenly, I remembered exactly who. It was B. Double feck.

I pulled my cell phone out of my schoolbag.

"Hey!" B sounded jubilant when he picked up the phone.

"Listen, I need this book for a paper and I know you have it and I was wondering if I could just borrow it. I'm at the library now so I can just walk down the street to your apartment and pick it up."

"No, no stay there. I'll come to you. I'll meet you under the lamp right outside."

"Fine."

I zipped my jacket up to my neck as the fall air hit me outside the library's double doors. B was there, standing in the middle of the circle of light thrown by the lamp above his head. His hands were thrust into his pants pockets, his short sleeve shirt rustled in the cool breeze.

He held out the thick book.

"Thanks."

"Okay, no problem. Any time. I'll see you in class." His green eyes searched my eyes, and I had to be the one to look away first.

"Right. See ya."

I tucked the book into my bag and started walking back to my side of campus. I could feel B's eyes boring into the back of my head. Again. As I passed the library I turned around. B was still standing under the tall, black lamppost. He hadn't moved. I shifted the bag on my shoulder, pulled my collar up against the chill, and kept walking.

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The next day I stayed away from Instant Messenger. I spent the entire afternoon working on my paper, scrolling through the passages that B had underlined, intrigued by the sentences that he found most interesting, the little notes he scribbled in the margins, the words he circled. The art of marginalia.

"Ugh, this is pathetic." I slapped the book closed, and walked into the kitchen where the girls were snacking and chatting. I picked up a piece of popcorn and threw it into my mouth. It was dark already. God, I hating losing hours of daylight.

Suddenly there was a frantic knock on the door. We all looked at each other. The only people who would knock on our door in college was the campus police, everyone else just walked right in. The knocking continued. Emily opened our front door as we peered from the kitchen, and there was B. His shaggy hair was even more disheveled than usual and he was out of breath.

"Bridg, can I talk to you?"

"Uhh ..." I could feel all ten of my roommates' eyes on me. No one said a word.

"Please? It's important."

I led him to my bedroom and he shut the door behind us.

"I made a horrible mistake."

"What?" What was WRONG with this kid? It had been less than 24 hours ago that he was adamantly telling me why this could never work.

"Horrible. I know that. We should be together."

"What?"

"Please."

"What about all those things you said? Like New Zealand? And graduation? And the distance?"

"I was wrong. So wrong. I know we can make this work."

He took a step closer to me. I didn't move. I had spent the entire day resigning myself to the fact that we were done. It sucked and it didn't seem fair and it was totally stupid, but we were done.

"Bridg, we'll figure it out as it happens. We can make it work."

As I stood there watching him, I felt like he meant it. I wanted it to work. And if he did too -- and if he really did mean it -- then what was stopping us?

"Okay," I breathed, letting the smile spread across my face.

B took another step forward, put his hand behind my head, his palm resting firmly on my cheek bone, and kissed me ...

... To be continued.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Growing up, my parents exposed me to a lot of great music. My dad always had his Allman Brothers, Little Feet, and Joe Cocker tapes on constant rotation on any long road trips, and my mom typically defaulted to The Beatles, James Taylor, Stevie Wonder, Bruce Springsteen, and the likes. And I loved it all.

But every once and a while something different would be thrown in to the mix, and it would always stand out. I disintinctly remember sitting in the back seat of my parents' car as a little kid, driving down Route 1 the first time I heard Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" blast from the speakers. WHAT was THIS?

And when my mom told me it was Queen I was all "that doesn't even make SENSE. This is a DUDE," which is kind of like the time I asked my dad how John Lennon died and he told me he was shot by a nut and I looked down at my stomach and got all quiet and he asked me what was wrong and I was all "I think a nut would hurt a lot if I got shot with one, but I don't think it would kill me" and everyone laughed and called me adorable which is kind of unfair because when I say shit like that now people just call me blonde.

Anyway, no, this week's Song of the Week is not by Queen, but it is by MIKA. Which has nothing to do with the story I just told, except for the fact that if you ever had a thing for Freddie Mercury, you just might shit your pants for MIKA. Songs like "We are Golden," "Big Girl" and "Love Today," are sure to have every gay boy's heart aflutter. If MIKA was a soup, he'd be one part Queen, one part Scissor Sisters, and one part glitter.

But without a doubt my favorite is "Grace Kelly." Maybe it's because Grace Kelly is awesome. Maybe it's a Philadelphia thing. Maybe it's because I love me my gays. But anyway you look at it, this song just rocks.

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Philadelphia Marathon 2009: This will quite possibly be a disaster

Everyone knows that old saying about if everyone jumped off a bridge and blah blah blah. Well, I've found that in my life, whenever I come across that group of people who are heading towards the bridge, I drop everything I'm doing, grab a beach ball, and make sure I'm wearing a bathing suit that won't give me a totally awful wedgie when my ass hits the water.

It's disturbingly easy to talk me in to things. In fact, I usually don't need much coercion. The mere suggestion of doing something, like, say, jumping out of a plane, signing up for a triathlon, or yes, jumping off a bridge, usually has me screaming yes before my brain has even properly digested what exactly all of those things could entail.

But I've reached a new low. I've surprised even myself. The week before I left for vacation, a group of people on my Back On My Feet team were talking about the Philadelphia Marathon during one of our morning runs. You know, that 26.2 mile race? And at first I was all no way, amigos I have a wedding coming up and a honeymoon to go to and a heck of a lot of boozing to do before that gun goes off on November 22.

But each time I heard the words "I signed up too," I felt a little pang. And by the end of the run, having never seriously considering running a marathon before AND never running more than 13.1 miles in my life, this pang was eating me alive. This is a PROBLEM. It's like a DISEASE.

Later, at work, I found myself typing Philadelphia Marathon 2009 into Google before I really knew what my fingers were doing. It was like being drunk. Only worse because instead of standing on a table singing Raffi's "Bananaphone," I was sitting at my desk and no one in my office even knows any of the words to "Bananaphone." And before I even knew what happened, I had spent three slammin' pairs of shoes worth of dollars and I essentially signed my life away because there is no way I'm getting out of this one alive.

That's right. On November 22, 2009 I will run my first marathon.

Because I have no idea what I'm doing, I did some research and printed out a number of training schedules. Naturally, I chose the easiest one, which I'll be strictly adhering to. Kind of. For the most part. Okay, really, I'm screwed. An 11 mile run the morning after my bachelorette party? HAH. 17 miles the day of the wedding? I think not. A 19 mile jaunt the last morning of my honeymoon? Uhhh not so much.

So I'll hereby be referring to my training schedule as the Yellaphant training method, which essentially means I'll be running myself silly, when it's convenient and all.

And since it was my Back On My Feet team members who got me in to this mess, I'll be repaying the favor by slashing their tires RAISING MONEY FOR BACK ON MY FEET. And since 26.2 is kind of a big deal for someone the little problem of lack of self control, I'll be upping the ante. My goal is to raise $2,000, which is roughly the amount to get one runner equipped and running for one year.

Essentially, you're donating to a great cause AND you get the added satisfaction of eventually seeing pictures of me crumpled, possibly bleeding, and sobbing at the finish line because JESUS IN SWEAT SOCKS THAT WAS THE MOST HORRIBLE EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE.

Donate today! Cause you know I'll be nagging the shit out of you until you do.

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Ocean City 2009 and back

There is perhaps, nothing in this world so torturous as the Monday after vacation. I totally get the thought that you're supposed to come back to work from vacation feeling rested, ready, and motivated to kick things into high gear. But that's so not me. I'm not saying that vacation makes me want to take an extra sharp letter opener to the jugular of the real world, but ... wait, actually, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.

Anyway, vacation was awesome. I was on the beach all day every day for the past eight days. I'm so serious about my beach time, nothing could keep my butt from that beach chair and my toes from that sand. It started to spit one day around 3 p.m. but my mom and I had only been there for four hours so we just wrapped towels around ourselves and stayed for another two hours to make sure we at least came close to our quota. And besides that temporary weather glitch, it was one of the most sunny, beautiful weeks I can remember. And when it's just that good, there's nothing in the world I'd rather do than read a good book on a crowded beach. I won't even walk up to the boardwalk to go to the bathroom at the lifeguard station. That's what the ocean's for, anyway.

For me, the best part of going down the shore is that it's the same thing, every year. The same house. The same front porch. The same old furniture and hodgepodge collection of dishes. The same board games with the family, ice cream shops, and bicycle rides. The same jogs on the boardwalk and shops to browse through on the Avenue. Coronas with lime and crab cakes sandwiches. Perfection.

Some people don't get places like Ocean City. They don't appreciate it for what it is. Some find the boardwalk tacky or the beaches overcrowded. But in my opinion, there was no better place in the world to spend my summers. You're surrounded by people of all kinds. There's those whose children just got back from a week at the elite Main Line junior equestrian camp. The people who drive BMWs and own stock and know the exact numbers in their portfolios at the dinging of the bell every afternoon. And there's those who wear cut off sleeveless shirts and crosses around their necks and look like the type who'd be more than eager to tell the cameraman from the six o'clock news that this is just shocking. Didn't nobody expect it from their neighbor. He was always quiet, but polite.

At night, the talking and laughter spills from front porches onto streets teaming with people walking dogs, licking ice cream cones, and riding bikes. Generations of family members come together. When you're elbow to elbow with your neighbors, when you can hear all of their conversations and get to know which kids belong to which families, it forces a shooby solidarity. We're here. We're on vacation. We're happy. Together. There's no choice but to smile, say hello have a good day, and mean it.

That's why leaving this year -- the last summer I'll be one of the thousands of people from the Philadelphia area enjoying my vacation at the Jersey Shore -- took on a new element of heavy sadness for me. There is no place my family and I are happier. As I pulled out of the parking spot in front of our house in the pouring rain, and waved goodbye to my parents on the porch, staying for one more week, I felt the lump, thick like mashed potatoes, rise in my throat and the stone drop in my stomach. And yes, I cried on the way home from the shore. Like a little kid who doesn't want to wear pants who's forced to wear them anyway and isn't wearing pants the worst?

I was downright depressed the entire ride home. Alone. Listening to every sad song I could find on the radio. AND IIIII-EEEE-IIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUU. NOOOTHING COMPARES, NOTHING COMPARES TO YOUU. HERE I AM, ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE. Whatever, I was in New Jersey.

But as I crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge into Philadelphia, with the beautiful skyline and the Hyatt -- where I'll be getting married in less than two months -- to my left, the sun came out. Philadelphia is always breathing, but in the summertime, the city is screaming just to make sure you notice it. And it feels good.

Turning the car on to my street after being accustomed to sandy shores, the green seemed so thick I wanted to throw my arms open and pull it into my chest. It overwhelmed me. It swallowed me whole. And I was home.

And now I'm walking around my office in a daze and watch your back because I have a letter opener and I'm not afraid to use it.

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