True lurve on campus (part 10)

I'M GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW I'M GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW I'M GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW. With the wedding TOMORROW, I've been doing a lot of 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 - 9 here.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about the dynamic between me and B. So when we got engaged, I figured not much could change. But in tiny, inexplicable ways, everything did...





















BECAUSETHENWEGOTMARRIEDANDLIVEDHAPPILYEVERAFTERTHEEND. Tweet

My thoughts exactly

Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

As if it wasn't obvious. Three days.

Tweet

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

It's officially a frenzy, ya'll.

Today is my last day of work for TWELVE blissful days. But because of that, there's a butt load of stuff I have to do before I shoot out of here like a bat out of hell at exactly 5:30 this afternoon. No, make it 5:29. Because THAT'S how I roll during wedding week.

So for the past two days, I've been working my arse off to make sure everything still functions at the office while I'm gone.

First, I had print up an entire list of things for all of our visitors to do once they got to Philadelphia, in case they have any time to kill. Step one: Walk out hotel door, turn right, enter bar, drink.

Then, I had to walk around the office and steal a bunch of boxes so I have something to put all those Welcome Bags in when I take them down to the hotel tomorrow. This proved harder than anticipated when I found I was competing with the office cleaning lady who was collecting boxes to organize a book drive for the children at her church or something equally inconsequential like that but drop that box, bish, 'cause I will unleash the pain.

Then, I had to finalize the menu for Thursday's rehearsal dinner. And help coordinate my Friday afternoon of manis, pedis, and lunch with my bridesmaids. And finalize where everyone is sitting AND NO YOU CANNOT SIT NEXT TO GAMMY, FALKO. And make lists. Lots and lots of to-do lists. And check the weather every 13 minutes. And don't forget about all those e-mails and text messages I've had to reply to telling people that YES I AM so excited for the tornado of love that is about to descend on Philadelphia.

I've had to call B at least four times already today. Once because he had a color question. Once because I needed to remind him to pick up more gift bags and what do you mean they don't have orange? Once to ask him how to spell a name. And once to do I don't know what because I forgot was I was going to say when he picked up the phone.

And now I need a drink. It's noon o'clock somewhere.

I think the office is going to be okay while I'm gone. And if they're not, at least I won't have cell service in Aruba.

On a somewhat related note, B's been sick for the past week and a half, so I've been staying as far away from him as possible. People are shocked that I'm even letting him sleep in the same bed with me while he's probably contagious right before our wedding. I know, sometimes I even amaze myself with my generosity. I'm like the Mother Theresa of fiances.

But because of that I haven't even touched B in almost two weeks. First, he was in Massachusetts for five days, so touching is kind of out of the question from 400 miles away. But then when he came back he was all pukey, so I've been bathing in Purell every time we even sit next to each other on the couch. And I've been taking care of him by forcing him to rest dragging him out at night to drink shots of whiskey cause gah knows we need it. And if I wake up with even the slightest twinge in my throat on Saturday morning, I'm going to chop off one of his fingers. I feel like that's a fair punishment. Like I said, Mother Theresa.

Also, I'm pretty sure this is God smiting us for making fun of those people who get engaged and then stop sleeping together because they want to wait to make the marriage night more special. You know those people? That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life. News flash: even if you've stopped eating at the ole In-N-Out Burger, you still know what it tastes like.

But the other night we were at my parents' house for dinner and my mom told B he had better hurry up and get healthy and I was all "I KNOW, we haven't even kissed on the mouth in, like, two weeks." And my dad jumped up and was all "woah, woah, WOAH, no need to go into such detail." And now I'm kind of worried that the term "kissed on the mouth" is a euphemism for blowies or something like that. And I don't care if you ARE getting married, you still shouldn't talk to your father about blowies.

So yeah, we're working really hard pretty much around the clock to make sure this weekend is perfect for everyone. After that, it's up to you, friends. I'm expecting at least one good pants-wetting as my reward. And, oh yeah, a husband. But first and foremost, a pants-wetting.

Tweet

True lurve on campus (part 9)

With the wedding in FIVE DAYS -- HOLYFECKINGSHEETIT'SWEDDINGWEEK -- I've been doing a lot of 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 - 8 here.

And so it went. B moved to Philly, and spent his weekend down in Baltimore with me. That's when we had our first real fight.

The spring of my senior year, St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday. And for a college student, no good can ever come of that. Actually, a lot of good can come of it. And entire day's AND night's worth of good. And gah knows I love me some day drinking.

Beer was served with breakfast. Naturally, beer with breakfast pretty much sets the tone of the entire day. Some time around 4 p.m., I realized I was famished. It felt like the entire senior class was crammed into Ryan's Daughter pub, so I squeezed my way to the front of the bar and ordered two sandwiches.

When I made it back to our table, I slid one over to B.

"Oh awesome, thank you SO much. What is it?"

"Chicken"

"Chicken? Oh I don't want this. I don't even LIKE chicken."

"What do you mean you don't like chicken? Yes you do."

"No. I. don't." He pushed the plate back in my direction and folded his arms across his chest. An entire table of heads turned from B back to me.

Oh no he dih'nt.

I shot up from my seat. "I GOT YOU THIS CHICKEN SANDWICH AND YOU'RE GOING TO FUCKING EAT THIS CHICKEN SANDWICH. YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL FOR THIS SANDWICH AND YOU DON'T EVEN CARE."

"Fuck ... your chicken sandwich." B stood up too and drunk eyes locked drunk eyes.

So I did what came natural after six hours of drinking green beer. I picked up the chicken sandwich, hurled it at B's face, and stormed off into the bathroom to cry my beer tears out to my girlfriends.

"THIS was your first fight?" Talia laughed as she held my head with one hand and her beer with the other. "THIS fight? This fight over a chicken sandwich? I really hope we all remember this tomorrow, because this is the best first fight I've ever seen in my life."

This fight -- this ridiculous, teary, chicken-throwing fight -- set the tone for how most disagreements between me and B would turn out throughout our relationship (with thrown food and a lot of laughter the next morning).

And for the record, B loves chicken.

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

Senior year flew by. My friends and I shared so many memories -- good and bad -- that I count that year as one of the most important years of my entire life.

We made it to graduation (still drunk, mind you). And if you're in college now thinking that that sounds like a good idea, I tell you now that it is not. And B, the one who actually dragged all three of us out of bed that morning, will probably agree.

After graduation, I moved in with B in a tiny attic apartment on the shirt collar of Philadelphia. I got a job right down the street as a writer. And B eventually got a job as a tennis pro.

We got a dog. We lost a dog. We got another dog. I was depressed. But eventually I got happy. And it seemed like life was perfect. That's when B asked me to marry him.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about the dynamic between me and B. I figured not much could change since we had already been living together. But in tiny, inexplicable ways, everything changed ...

... To be continued.

Stay tuned this week for the VERY LAST INSTALLMENT of True Lurve on Campus. BECAUSE WE'RE GETTING MARRIED, YA'LL. Tweet

Houston, we have a pooping problem

So remember when I went on that little kick of talking about poop a lot? I have a dog. Poop comes as a perfectly natural conversation topic for me. If picking up poop with a plastic bag was part of your daily life, I assume it would be natural for you too. And while we're on the topic of dog poop, let's talk about people poop.

Is anyone still out there? I can hear people collectively clicking the UNFOLLOW button and drafting letters to my mother about what a crass little girl I am. AND AT LEAST I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT MY HOOHAH AGAIN. You should be thanking me.

Anyway, some people hate pooping at work. I am not one of those people. But since I've made that perfectly clear, Yellaphant has gotten a daily influx of people with pooping problems looking for solutions on the Internet. And since we're talking about Googling potential medical issues, NO, IT'S NOT NORMAL. IT'S CALLED CRABS. MAYBE YOU SHOULD STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER AND CALL A DOCTOR.

And this is the part where all of my future in-laws shake their heads sadly because really? He had his pick of all those girls and he chose the one who can't shut up about poop? It's totally natural, you guys. I'm like the "Everyone Poops" of the interwebs.



Over the past few months, I've collected some of my favorite pooping Google searches that have brought people here, and narrowed down my favorites in this top 10 list. And yes, there were many, many, MANY more that did not make the list. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

1. Bitch poops at work - Bitches poop too, yo.
2. why can't i poop at work? - Stage fright?
3. rich people poop too - So do bitches.
4. moms pooping at work - And moms.
5. NO POOPING SIGN for office - I really hope this is not someone from my office.
6. Someone In My Office is Pooping - Again, I hope this is not someone from my office.
7. he pooped on me - Get out. Just get out right now.
8. poop on floor - I've heard a startling amount of stories about disgruntled workers pooping on office bathroom floors. Including at my own office. I don't even know what to say to that.
9. how does god make poop? - I'm pretty sure that God shits babies. That's how it works, right?
10. I am going to fucking poop everywhere - Good luck to you, sir.

What were these people doing before the Internet was invented? Who were they asking these very important questions? Were there poop fetish meet-and-greets? With the lack of some kind of anonymous outlet, were people inadvertently blurting out "he pooped on me!" after a few too many cosmos at happy hour with the girls?

And who do I have to show my boobies to to get some NORMAL Google searches every once in a while? Because every time I swear off writing about poop forever, someone else pops into my analytics with a whammy of a poop search and I just can't help myself.

Tweet

There can be no other conclusion besides the fact that I am, officially, lacking full mental capacity

Yesterday the ladies at my office threw me another bridal shower. For those of you keeping score, that's three showers that I've had for this wedding. And three parties that I've been completely and utterly surprised about, to the point of confusion, disorientation, and a few tears. I imagine the moments of walking into these rooms filled with all of my friends and family are probably a lot like a typical experience for late-set Alzheimer's patients, and I'm pretty sure that at 24, I'm supposed to be a little bit sharper than that, especially when I'm sober.

Apparently, for all three of these parties, hints were dropped for weeks in my presence. People accidentally mentioned a key fact while I was in the room, plans to get me to a certain place at a certain time were fuddled, or questions so blatantly obvious were asked AND I NEVER HAD A CLUE. Then, after the initial surprise of being yelled surprise at, I spend a few moments of confusion because why are you guys HERE? What are you DOING? My only conclusion is that I am about as oblivious as a three-year old child. Or a goldfish. Or bacon bits.

Yesterday at 4 p.m. my boss rushed into my office all aflutter and told me I had to go to the basement office to take care of an editing problem someone was having. And I was all "the BASEMENT? The basement NEVER needs our help. I can't go to the BASEMENT,."

Background: My office is a bowling alley that was converted into four floors of offices, plus a basement office that my company splits with a local recording company. I have no doubt that if I had to spend my day working underground, it wouldn't take long before I deteriorated into a pale, shaking, drooling creature with thinning hair.


And then he gave me one of those boss looks that bosses give. Like a boss. And I was all FIIIIINNNNEEE. But then as I was saving my work, I got a phone call from a different basement coworker who needed me to come down for another question related to a blog launch. Naturally, instead of my survival instincts or common sense or whatever it is that people have that make them smart, raising suspicion, I was all "the feck is the matter with the BASEMENT today? GAH."

Then, when I walked downstairs, all the lights were out. Again, no suspicion. First reaction: "The hell? Is the power out down here? What is WRONG with this basement?" But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed Lynda from accounting giggling next to the light switch, and only then did I think that this was a set up.

To kill me. In the basement.

But then the lights came on and everyone yelled surprise and BOY was that awkward. There was cake cutting and congratulations and gift opening but I was still too nervous to drink the punch just in case it had been drugged. But you can bet your buttons I shoved a massive piece of that cake down my gullet and if I die from an arsenic-laced pudding center, so be it. To a McFatterson, the pudding makes it all worth it.

So now I'm not entirely sure what it says about me that a ten days before my wedding, when I find myself in a darkened room filled with smiling ladies, that instead of getting all oh how lovely! They've thrown me a bridal shower, I start reaching for that shiv I made after looting the office supply closet because I don't want to die in the BASEMENT.

Never, even for a second, doubt a room full of women's ability to kill.

Thank you, ladies, for not only sparing my life, but filling me up with sugar and giving me wonderful presents. You surely know the way to my heart. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

So you thought I'd finally done it, huh? Set the office on fire and went for the boss's jugular with my stapler? Ran off to New Zealand? Broke into the local high school during fifth period biology and set all the frogs free? It's fine, really. I just went for a 15-mile run and spent a day at the beach. It's all good now. I've totally found my zen and shit.

AND I'M GETTING MARRIED IN TEN DAYS.

THAT'S TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY HOURS. AND, UM, TWELVE THOUSAND ... CARRY THE TWO ... UM ... STILL A LOT OF SECONDS.

It's okay, I'm a writer, I'm ALLOWED to be bad at math. It's like a law or something.

Anyway, since I've been doing nothing but eating, breathing, kissing, and vomitting wedding recently, I thought I'd make today's song of the week OUR WEDDING SONG. For those of you who will be there, here's a little peek into the beginning of an evening of love before ya'll drink the bar dry and someone tries to make out with Gammy. I'll be watching you, Falko. For those of you who won't be there, sucks for you I'm still accepting gifts.



True love, people. True love. Tweet

The post in which I lose my mind but then am brought back from the ledge by fat black Mary

We interrupt this regularly scheduled True Lurve post to bring you The Post In Which I Lose My Mind. Mostly because I don't feel like writing about lurve today because B and I spent the majority of last night arguing on the phone. B's in Massachusetts for a long weekend to visit his family and do that whole bachelor party thing.

We were arguing mostly because I just felt like arguing. Do you ever have one of those days when you just need to punch some bish in the mouth? Work is stressful. I'm busier than ever. It's emotionally consuming to be stressed about work all the time and have to plan a wedding that's taking place in two weeks.

Oh and also? We're house hunting. From 400 miles away. Do you know how hard it is to house hunt when you can't actually see the houses in person? It's not all brilliant HGTV design stars and real estate mavens and just looook at the natural light that you expect shopping for your first house would be. It's more like tiny computer images and that's a little grainy and is that room actually painted puce and DO YOU WANT TO EAT NOTHING BUT RAMEN NOODLES FOR THE NEXT TEN YEARS?

It doesn't help that I have no idea what I want. A house is a big commitment. HUGE. Throwing a ball of this magnitude in my court right now is kind of like asking a six-year-old to cook Thanksgiving dinner for 26 people. I have no idea what I'm doing. There's so many factors to consider. And I'm pretty sure this will end with the fire department being called and a trip to family court.

One day I can't wait to decorate my little beach bungalow. Walk out my front door, hop on my beach cruiser with matching basket and bell, and head to the beach. Host backyard barbecues. Play the homeowner game. The next I'm wailing that B is not only dragging me away from my family, but from all the sophistications and scenes of the city. I want to be in a busy, young neighborhood. But I also want to be able to ride my bike to the beach. I want to still be able to afford to travel and shop. But also I don't want to get THAT ugly little thing. I want to be in the city. But I also want a backyard. We're BUYING a HOUSE so we had better like the thing.

I want I want I want. And I have no clue. And we had better hurry if we want to make it in time for that $8,000 rebate. That's enough money for, like, 80 roundtrip flights to Philly once we move to Massachusetts. Or the 800 bottles of cheap red wine I'll need to make myself forget how cold it is this winter. For someone who lives paycheck to paycheck, that's a lot of clams. Eight thousand mothaflippin' clams.

And yesterday, I just had one of those days when things were not looking too good. I spent a large chunk of 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. thinking of places I would rather be. Lost in the desert. Getting my teeth cleaned. Cleaning up the elephant corrals at the Philadelphia zoo. Splitting an appletini with Michael Vick.

I was annoyed with the house hunting process as a whole. I was annoyed that we STILL haven't gotten all of the RSVPs for the wedding AND YOU WILL EAT NOTHING IF I DON'T HAVE YOUR MENU SELECTION BY THE TIME I COUNT TO THREE. I was annoyed that it was raining and the dog was chewing on my arm.

I'm walking an emotional tight rope. Shelley and I have been discussing how we don't even know how to feel right now. Excited, yes, of course. But then stir in the stress. Definitely some worry for all those other things. Didn't I JUST have my first kiss? Didn't I JUST pick out my prom dress? Weren't we JUST doing keg stands in our college house, like, last week? WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S 2009 AND MICHAEL JACKSON IS DEAD?

But then today I was cleaning out my inbox when I found an e-mail from my Biffle with nothing but this image.

This was the front of the card that Michael got me for my 16th birthday. Inside: WHAT CHILD BE DIS?! Pure perfection. I LOLed all over the place. A big, sloppy snarffing LOL that definitely blew my cover if my boss was wondering at that moment if I was actually writing that case study or more likely Googling pictures of Justin Timberlake in his underwears. FTMFW, ya'll. For The Mother Flippin' Win. Tweet

The post in which I break up with my boyfriend, Farmer Al

I'd like to introduce you all to someone very special to me, Farmer Al The Farmer's Almanac.

Farmer Al The Farmer's Almanac knows all sorts of things that I wonder about every day as a farmer the farthest thing from a farmer, such as when to plant my corn, what to do about tomato rot, the astronomical calendar, how to plan my outfits according to the long-range weather forecasts.

Farmer Al The Farmer's Almanac always gives me the perfect excuse to go shopping because a brief spell of cool is headed towards the Northeast and I don't have a THING to wear.

But here's the thing. As everyone living in the Northeast knows, this spring and much of this summer was a complete wash out. It rained and rained and rained. And just when you thought the sun was finally going to come out, it rained some more. Then some time around mid-July, just as I was walking towards the window to throw myself out of it, the clouds cleared and summer finally began. But don't you think for a second that meant the rain was through.

There's been so much rain this year, I told myself, SURELY we're going to have a dry fall. SURELY there can't be more rain coming. SURELY we're in the clear for a warm, sunny wedding day.

But I've been nervous. Too nervous to turn to my old friend Farmer Al The Farmer's Almanac. I didn't want to see what he had to say. I wanted to think that things would stay dry.

But finally, my curiosity got the best of me. As I imagined all of the beautiful photographs we're going to be taking OUTSIDE by the water, with the sun shimmering above; in the city, with the sun's warm rays reflecting from the skyscraper windows; and in the park, with the breathtaking sunset, with the sun, with the sun, with the sun, I had to know. What does Farmer Al The Farmer's Almanac predict for September 26?


BITCH, NO YOU DON'T. YOU TAKE THAT BACK.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm not proud of it, but there were some mean words thrown around. I said some things I can't take back. But until Farmer Al The Farmer's Almanac tells me there will be sun on September 26, I just can't talk to him. I won't. And if gah doesn't give me a sunny day for my wedding present, then we are THROUGH. DO YOU HEAR ME? THROUGH.

Now, it's currently overcast and a brisk 62 degrees in Philadelphia IN SEPTEMBER. Who needs a hot toddy? Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

There are a few songs that no matter where I am or what I'm doing, bring me right back to a noisy Baltimore rowhouse packed with all of my closest friends, and without a doubt, Black 47's "Funky Ceili" is one of those songs. Because the amount of times we turned the volume up in our underwear and danced around the house in our underwear while screaming the words to this song in our underwear must be in the hundreds.

HE SAID YOU'VE GOT TWO CHOICES: CASTRATION OR A ONE-WAY TICKET TO NEW YORK.

I'm not sure why we ever became so obsessed with this song. Whether it was because we were a particularly Irish group or because we had a thing for jigs or because the more we drank the more we loved to scream, this song was on every single party play list. Besides the fond alcohol-soaked memories that are attached to this song, it remains on the list of my all-time favorites because, in case you didn't know, my friends often refer to me as Bridie, the Irish nickname of Bridget, and who doesn't love a good song with their name in it? It totally counts.

Good gah I love this song. And the fact that this is without a doubt the most awkward music video I have ever seen in my LIFE only adds to that love. I mean, wow. Just ... wow.



Tweet

This does not bode well for the wedding

No, not my wedding. Their wedding. So this couple goes hiking, right? It's a beautiful day. The birds are chirping. The sun is shining. It's a long weekend. Who doesn't love long weekends? So this guy? He pops the question. Right there on the beautiful hiking trail. She says yes. I'm sure there was some tongue action. Maybe even some heavy petting. I mean, come on, they're out there in the middle of nowhere. There could not be a more perfect proposal for two people who love the great outdoors. Until this chick falls of a cliff.

Let's review. He proposes. She says yes. And then she falls of a cliff. A FUCKING CLIFF, YA'LL. Am I the only one who thinks that might be a bad sign for the future? Now, I'm not a big believer in superstitions or religious praxis or sobriety, but falling off a cliff might possibly be a little wake up call from God Buddha Francine Hughes above. DON'T DO IT, GIRL.

It's kind of like when scientists test the intelligence of lab rats by giving them a little electric shock every time they do this one task, the rats usually stop doing it. Or how if I'm doing something (like running backwards down a sliding board) and it causes bodily harm (like falling down and breaking my wrist) I will probably stop doing that thing (until I've had a few too many cocktails and it again seems like a good idea). Only this isn't a little electric shock or even a broken wrist. It's a fall, OFF A CLIFF. Clearly, getting engaged is very dangerous work.

I heard this story on the news while I was getting ready for work this morning. Usually, B ignores anything coming from the television so early in the morning -- unless it's coming from ESPN -- because recently it seems like the only stories being talked about on Good Morning America are John and Kate Plus Eight Minus John Plus Kate's Bodyguard Minus Any Remaining Shred of Dignity Plus Don't You Know Ed Hardy Shirts Are For Dueshebags? Or SWINE FLU SWINE FLU SWINE FLU THERE'S NOT ENOUGH VACCINATIONS WE'RE ALL GOING TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL AND GET SWINE FLU. But as soon as the headline "woman falls down cliff after proposal" was read, I heard B laugh from the bedroom. Only it wasn't just a laugh, it was a GUFFAW. Then, he rushed in front of the TV, just so he could laugh some more.

I can see where this proposal is going. There's going to be an earthquake on the day the of the wedding. The dance floor will be split in two. But it'll be one hell of a conga line. The day they buy their first house, there's going to be a meteor shower, and if I wake up with a space rock in my backyard, I know who to blame. And, inevitably, when she gives birth to their first child, it's going to be half man half piglet.

Or not. It could have just been the greatest proposal of all time. I'm pretty sure the national media wasn't alerted when B got down on one knee. So this could just be a sign of their extreme awesomeness. They should probably stick with the theme and get married as they jump out of a plane with monogrammed his and hers parachutes strapped to their backs. Or maybe that's exactly what they shouldn't do. Maybe they should get married in a bomb shelter.

Either way, it's a story they'll probably be telling for the rest of their lives, til death do them part (which thankfully wasn't this weekend). And I'm really glad that this girl got out (AIRLIFTED via HELICOPTER, just so we're all clear) without any life-threatening injuries, because now we can all share a chuckle this morning over the insane proposal story without feeling like total assholes. Tweet

UPDATED: True lurve on campus (part 8)

With the wedding coming up quickly -- THREE WEEKS OHMIGAH OHMIGAH OHMIGAH -- 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 - 7 here.

Disclaimer: This part of the story is totally boring because there's no conflict, and what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding? NOTHING, that's what. To spice things up for all of us and are you guys seriously still reading this, my friend Falko has volunteered to be my arch nemesis and go back in time and make things more interesting so that when I decide to write about my relationship with B to a bunch of stalkers strangers friends, there will be something interesting to say about this part. Aaand begin ...

B 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.

And the next morning I was gone.

After 24 hours of flying, I stepped off the plane and into the city of Auckland, where I'd be living for the next five months. Life in New Zealand was incredible. I made amazing friends. We lived in the center of an exciting, beautiful international city. We spent our weekends traveling to the beaches, forests, and mountains. We rented campers and spent two incredible weeks circling the South Island. We climbed glaciers, rode horses, jumped off bridges, and dove out of planes. We peed on the side of the road and drank beer and went dancing and laughed until we couldn't breathe.

Skype became my lifeline to B. A full 18 hours ahead of U.S. time, I'd call him when got home from the bars at night, and B was waking up to go to class. I missed him like mad, but we made it work. We trusted each other wholly, and not once did we ever have a disagreement. When you live 9,000 miles away from the person you love, things can either become incredibly simple or incredibly complicated. We didn't waste time thinking about it. We became expert communicators. I miss you. I love you.

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

For B's college graduation present, his parents gave him a roundtrip ticket to Auckland. I counted down the minutes until his plane landed.

The morning he was set to arrive I woke up at before dawn. I had ordered an airport shuttle the night before, and made my way down the dim hallways, past the life-sized chess pieces, through the grand front foyer where years before bustling travelers would line up to buy their train tickets out of Auckland, and into the crisp, dark city. The building where I lived had at one time been Auckland's main train station. It had since been purchased by Uni and converted into apartments that housed a few hundred of the University of Auckland's international students. The main foyer had largely been left untouched, preserving the look and feel of a historic train station, the perfect environment for those of us who couldn't dream of standing still.

My heart was pounding as the van quietly carried me out of the city. Sweeping steel building gave way to suburban houses and then we were on the highway. The black sky began to thaw to dark blue as the hope of dawn took hold.

I thanked my driver and hurried into the airport. I had plenty of time before B's plane was scheduled to arrive, so I paced. This would be the first time we'd seen each other in almost four months. At this point, we'd been apart for almost as long as we'd been together before I left.

But when I saw him walk through door from his gate and our eyes met, I felt the dam burst. He dropped his bag mid-stride as I leaped into his arms and he folded himself around me. And in the middle of the bustling Auckland International Airport, as hurried travelers stepped around us, B kissed me that way that could make my stomach flip.

But as suddenly as we had collapsed into each other's arms, a figure appeared. IT WAS A NINJA, YA'LL. In a single liquid movement, the ninja scooped me into his arms and flung me over his shoulder like a carcass. And then I was all "WTF, bro?" And he was all "let's spice this up, baby" and I was all "FALKO? Is that YOU?" And he was all "It is I. I have used my ninja skills because I feared my natural good looks and uncanny resemblance to Harrison Ford might not be enough to disarm you." And I was all "Put me down, dude" and he was all "NEVER. You know my life motto: jet skis and butt sex" and I was all "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

But just then, B jumped out from behind a magazine rack and pulled out these INSANE skills and before I knew what happened, Falko was in a headlock that not even a ninja could break and I was all "My Prince Charming" and B let go of Falko and scooped me up and by the time we turned around he had disappeared as quickly as he had come, but we could still hear his voice being all "I'll be baaaaaaack" and shit.

That is totally true.

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

For the next two weeks, B and I experienced New Zealand together. I took him to all of my favorite spots in Auckland. We took day trips out of the city to go hiking through the beautiful mountains overlooking breathtaking beaches. We rented a van and went camping. We went Zorbing, rafted down an underground river, explored caves, went mountain biking, and tried our hands at rock climbing. And we were always on the look out for ninjas. I was able to share the country I had fallen in love with with the man I adored.












B's time in New Zealand flew by and we were closer than ever. You learn a lot about a person and yourself after living with them in a van with no shower for six days. The morning B left to fly back to America, I rode the crowded bus back from the airport alone. When it reached my stop, I kept riding. This bus was comforting. I watched all the familiar Auckland streets pass by the window. I finally got off a few miles from my apartment, and walked home slowly. I missed B more in the days to follow than I ever had before, like a numbing ache in my chest. I felt every single one of those 9,000 miles.

But the semester was almost over. Everything was wrapping up at the University of Auckland. My friends and I squeezed every last thing we could into our remaining days. And a little more than a month later, on July 1, we were all on a plane back to America.

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

New Zealand had changed things between us, but not in the way we had once worried. Suddenly, I couldn't imagine my life without him. And I had a calm confidence told me I wouldn't ever have to.

B and I saw each other often that summer. Suddenly, the distance between Boston and Philadelphia felt like nothing. One night in August, as I was getting ready to go back to Baltimore for my senior year at Loyola, B called me.

"I have an idea, and I want to know what you think."

"Okay ..."

"I got offered a job ..."

"That's awesome! Congrats!"

"It's in Philadelphia ..."

"Wait, what?"

"And I was thinking that Philadelphia is a lot closer to Baltimore than Boston is ... and then after you graduated, I'd already be in Philly ... so ... What do you think?"

You could have just told me that from now on tampons would be free and that eating cupcakes was just proven to burn calories and I would not have been more excited. B was moving to Philadelphia ...

... To be continued. Tweet

The post in which I confess to being a gluttunous Fatty McFatterson

If you know me, you know that I'm hungry, like, all the time. I'm talking from the moment I get out of bed in the morning to the moment I go to sleep at night, there's an 87 percent chance that I'm thinking about my next meal. The other 13 percent is usually reserved for dog poop and wedding seating arrangements. That's what my life has become. Food, dog poop, and wedding seating arrangements.

Anyway. Since I run a lot (and also because I lack a thing most people like to call "self control"), I pretty much let myself eat whatever I want whenever I want, to an extent, because you don't want to cross me when I'm hungry.



When I'm jonesin' for some munchies for more than 30 minutes at a time, my head starts to hurt and I usually start to feel a little woozy. I would totally suck at being a third world child because I absolutely would have eaten my younger brother by now. Desperation knows no bounds when all you can think about it a giant plate of spaghetti you're about to face plant into as soon as you get home from work.

So last night, when B and I decided to push dinner back a few hours so we could take Rooney to the dog park, I knew I'd have to be exercising some major self control to get myself to dinner time. Naturally, when we were finally driving home from the park an hour later, I was so hungry I couldn't think straight.

We decided B would drop me off at home so I could bathe the dog who had spent a good portion of his time at the park rolling in dog shit, while he went to Chipotle and picked up some massive burritos STAT. I wrote down exactly what I wanted AND FOR THE LOVE OF GAH HURRY, MAN. AND DON'T FORGET THE CHIPS. Like I said, food and dog poop. And seating arrangements.

When B got back, he was smiling smugly and was all "there is no way you are ever going to eat even half of this burrito." And I was all "WATCH ME" because by then everything was going dark and I'm pretty sure I could hear Michael Jackson's angelic voice telling me to just close my eyes and step into the light.

And now I really wish I had taken a picture of the two burritos to compare them because mine was literally twice the size and four times the weight of B's, easily. But I didn't take a picture because I was too busy devouring it like a starving hyena devours a day-old antelope caracass as soon as B placed it on the table.


I assure you, this is no exaggeration. That burrito weighed as much as a small child. A small, warm, delicious smelling child filled with chicken and corn and rice and guacamole and sour cream and lettuce and onions and green peppers and crack cocaine because when I bit into that burrito, it was like biting into a rainbow filled with puppies and unicorns.

And I ate the whole thing. And then I ate the bag of chips B also brought home. And then I decided to make cookies because it was possible that there might be a millimeter of space left in my stomach that wasn't taken up by crack cocaine rainbow puppy unicorn. And half a bowl of cookie dough and two cookies later, I couldn't move. I had finally eaten myself into a near coma. Like I said, utter lack of self control.

Hello my name is Bridget, and I am a gluttonous Fatty McFatterson. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

I've been meaning to post this as a song of the week for the past few weeks but never got it up because what were we talking about again? Mark from the Poverty Jet Set posted this video of his friends' band to his blog and I was immediately smitten. I sat at my desk and I JAMMED. And then I jammed again. And again. And one last time. Because this song is just awesome. And this video is just so Philly. And gah knows I love me anything that is so Philly. Except when I don't.

But then I forgot because, like I said, krrssszzzzzzmkbrrrp. And then last week Bradford Pearson was all blah blah blah Macho Man Randy Savage and then BOOM FREE ENERGY. And jammed again did I.

So thanks for the reminder, Brad. And thanks for the introduction to another awesome band, Mark. And YOU? Just listen. And for gah's sake just relax.



Tweet

Of moles and men

B: Rooney caught a mole today.

Me: WHAT? HOW DID HE DO THAT?

B: Well, I think it was already dead. It was lying in the overgrown area of the neighbors front yard.

Me: What did he DO with it?

B: He just kind of tossed it around a little bit, and then I think he realized it was dead so he put it back.

Me: He tossed it around? How did he toss something that big around?

B: Big? I said it was a mole.

Me: B, moles are big. They're like the size of groundhogs only they're darker and have no eyes and have big creepy front claws for digging. And also they wear yellow construction helmets just in case there's ever an underground tunnel collapse.

B: Um, no. They're the size of mice and they have squinty little eyes and they're kind of cute because they look like tiny old men.

Me: No way, dude. Didn't you ever see that cartoon mole on Winnie the Pooh? He was totally up to Christopher Robin's waist. Moles are big.

B: You're taking biology lessons from an episode of a cartoon show you saw 20 years ago? Do you think Disney draws all their animals to scale? Did you also think mice walked on two legs and wore suspenders, and that your pet turtle would turn into a 6-foot tall ninja if you exposed it to radioactive waste? What is wrong with you?

Me: No, I don't think it was drawn to scale. If a mole came up to my waist, it wouldn't be a mole, it would be a Rodent of Unusual Size. Duh. They slightly exaggerated the mole in Winnie the Pooh. Because moles are the size of rabbits.

B: I can't wait for you to run home and Wikipedia this so you see how wrong you are.

So then I did. And according to Wikipedia, moles are 15 cm long WHICH PROVES NOTHING because I don't speak centimeters but I'm pretty sure that's still bigger than a mouse. So I win by default, obviously.

P.S. Take this quarter, go downtown, and have a rat gnaw that thing off your face.

Tweet