Another collection of thoughts not long enough for their own blog post ... and then I peed on myself

This is obviously a little late because I wrote it five days ago, but I've been busy, and I still think it's safe to say I didn't miss the boat. HEY-YO!

Did anyone else notice that the only thing Good Morning America was covering last Friday morning was the tour of that new big ass cruise ship, the Oasis of the Seas? Aren't there people dying somewhere in the world we should know about? Famines? Flood? Civil unrest? Why is ABC devoting so much air time to a tour of a cruise ship that 85 percent of their viewers will never be able to afford to step foot on in their lives anyway? Oh wait, probably because Disney owns it. Just like your soul.

I love you, Sam Champion, but don't think I haven't caught on to all those innuendos about the girth of the ship and the number of really long dicks decks, when there are probably more important things that also have really big girths. Like your wiener Africa.

And anyway, the last time the media made this big of a deal out of a ship, I'm pretty sure it did NOT end well.

So basically, you couldn't PAY me to be on that maiden voyage right now. I hate to be the one to tell you this, cruisers, but you're all gonna die. And I don't think that really cool looking wave simulator or elevator bar or the twenty four pools or the floral shirted waiter who is bringing you fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them is going to save you.

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On Monday night I had to drive to Massachusetts by myself. No big deal, I do it all the time. When I drive, I desperately want to avoid going through New York City via the George Washington Bridge, because, depending on the time of day, the traffic will make you want to slam your head on the steering wheel until the pain goes away.

The best way to avoid this is by driving around New York City and crossing over the Tappan Zee Bridge. But our GPS system, otherwise known as Cynthia, refuses to acknowledge that as a legitimate route to Massachusetts, meaning, in order to get there, I usually set the destination as the little town right before the bridge, and cross from there. Once on the Tappan Zee, I switch the destination to B's town in Massachusetts. Works like a charm every time. Until Monday night.

Because this time, Cynthia is an asshole and decided to take me across the George Washington Bridge. YOU SCREWED ME, CYNTHIA. And when I realized that was happening, I popped off the nearest exit to re-evaluate. Only by the time I got off the highway, I realized I had to go to the bathroom so badly that if I didn't find a bathroom within the next five minutes, it was highly probable I would pee my pants.

Only I was in bumbletown New Jersey, surrounded by industrial parks and power plants, without a rest stop to be seen with Cynthia screaming "RECALCULATING. RECALCULATING. RECALCULATING." And you know what's the WORST word to hear when you're driving and you think you might pee your pants? RECALCULATING. So I did what any self respecting girl with a weak bladder would do: I pulled to the side of the road and popped a squat.

But remember that little marathon I just ran on Sunday? My quads were so sore on Monday night, that when I dropped my pants, I realized there was no way I could bend my legs enough to get to an optimal squatting position. But those flood gates were already opened and that pee was coming. So I bent my knees as far as I could, held on to the car door for support, and peed all over my pants leg.

And then I drove four and a half more hours to Massachusetts.

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Bizarre-o land

Yep, I did it. And I didn't even poop my pants. Incredible. But more on that later. Like, when I can walk down the stairs without looking like I have a pole stuck up my butt.

Instead, everyone can head on over to my friend Shelley's blog, the Spotted Duck, where I wrote a guest post for today. I'll give you a hint: It's not about poop. Mostly.

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Notes from the Philadelphia Marathon

26.2 miles.

Check.

(no big deal)

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This post will absolutely get me hate mail

Apparently, last week a woman who lives on my block was followed home, pushed into her house, and sexually assaulted by an unknown assailant. I say apparently because I have been scanning the headlines for days and have seen nothing about it. I know of the rumor because the day after the apparent assault, one of the local news stations' vans was parked in front of my house. And despite what many of you might have predicted, I stayed as far away from this crew as possible. Momma don't wanna be one of those people.

Anyway, a neighbor later told me that the reporter was standing on the wet sidewalk interviewing residents because although this rape had occurred, the local political bigwigs had somehow managed to squelch the news, so as not to draw attention to the "black eye" of their town.

In other words, my side of the tracks are the wrong side. We be livin' in da hood, ya'll. Instead, they said they had sent out newsletters to everyone living on our street informing us of the news and reminding us to lock our doors and watch our backs and never climb in the back of the van to see the weird looking man's puppies. Only no one got the letter.

I have no idea if this story is actually true, but I find it difficult to believe that if it is, it would successfully be kept from any other neighbors or media sources. In today's world, it's pretty much impossible to let out a good fart without half the city Tweeting about it two minutes later.

But I have been particularly more cautious when walking alone at night. I've changed my pre-dawn running route to streets busy with early morning commuters. I make eye contact with everyone I pass. I always check my back. And I never leave home without my homemade toothbrush shiv.

So last night, as I was walking the dog and talking on the phone with B (who was still at work) -- and this is the part where Mojo gets mad because damnit Bridget, Loyola Campus Security would NOT approve you KNOW you're not supposed to talk on your cell phone when walking alone at night DIDN'T YOU LEARN ANYTHING IN COLLEGE?-- when I noticed a man had been walking behind me for the past few blocks.

Granted, I was walking in the direction of a major street. People probably walk on this street in this direction hundreds of times every day. But it was dark and I was alone and although my dog is really good at being an asshole, I don't know how good he'd be at protecting me from a big scary man beast.

So I mentioned it to B.

Me: Ack, I think some dude is following me. What if it's the Ardmore rapist?

B: Stop it, not funny. And it's not the Ardmore rapist.

Me: If it is, I'm just going to yell.

B: Yeah, just yell.

Me: STOP FOLLOWING ME RAPIST.

B: Oh my god, you did NOT just say that to him. What is WRONG with you?

Me: It's called self defense, B. I took a class in high school. He's lucky I didn't knee him in the balls cause my tenth grade history teacher totally taught me how to do that in case I ever need to. Holla, Mr. Smith. And no, I don't think he heard me anyway, but it would be pretty funny if he did. What would you do if you were walking down the street, when suddenly some chick turned around and started screaming GET AWAY FROM ME, RAPIST?

B: You have some serious prob- actually, yeah, that would be pretty funny. I'd probably be all oh my god, EW I would never rape you. And then she'd get insulted and probably think I was calling her fat or something because girls are crazy, and then I'd have to be all not that I don't find you attractive. It's just that I don't want to have sex with you.

Me: And then she'd DEFINITELY think you were calling her fat and you'd have to be all No, no I swear you're a very pretty girl, I'm just a gentleman.

B: And gentlemen don't show their peepees to strangers.

Me: That would make a pretty good Curb Your Enthusiasm episode ... My god we are so fucked up. I would blog about this, but then everyone would know what assholes we are.

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COMMENT OF THE DAY: Ardmore is the quaintest ghetto I've ever lived in. ~ Tatiana

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I believe they call it "nesting"

I don't know what it says about me that I get such a huge kick out of buying stuff for our apartment. Stuff that's really useful. That could be used for our future house one day. That make things more comfortable and homey and nice.

But because we have no money for such niceties (because we're trying to buy a house to put them in), and because B would be totally fine living with nothing but plastic egg crates and a microwave, he has put me on a strict shopping ban. I'm not even allowed to talk about IKEA. I get that though. It's like I said about that place, you only plan on picking up one lamp shade and suddenly you black out and when you come to, you're loading your car with a new bookshelf, eight wicker baskets, two lamps, and a year's supply of votive candles. I think the Swedes pump drugs through the store's air vents that make you all grab-happy and blonde.

But then on Tuesday, my hairdryer officially bit the dust. And gah knows I can't survive in this cruel world without a hair dryer. The cards are totally stacked against us thin-haired broads. So on Tuesday night I needed to make an emergency run to Bed, Bath and Beyond, which happens to be one of the stores on B's Places Bridget Is Not Allowed to Go Without Direct Supervision list. So he accompanied me to the store like a parole officer escorting a pedo past a playground.

Me: Ooh HAMPERS!

B: Don't even think about it.

Me: This lamp is-

B: No.

Me: But I swear we really do need-

B: Put it down.

Me: But we're almost out of-

B: FOCUS.

Me: Clean-

B: Nein.

Me: For-

B: Time to go.

And obviously B made my shopping experience so stressful that I bought a hairdryer all will-nilly without first taking it out of the box and testing the buttons and I didn't find out until we got home that it's too hard to turn on because it hurts my thumbs AND WHY WOULD YOU DESIGN A HAIR DRYER WITH BUTTONS THAT ARE HARD TO TURN ON, REVLON? For reals, no matter how hard I try, I cannot turn it on. I have baby hands! But it's totally B's fault and now he will just have to deal with being called into the bathroom every morning to turn on my hairdryer for me.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

God I love this city.

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I'm trying to find the words that describe this song without being disrespectful

I fall asleep on the couch by 9 p.m. with a magazine draped across my chest. I constantly worry about pooping my pants. I steal ketchup packets from restaurants. And as if I needed another reason to feel like a octogenarian after my 25th birthday, I now spend a good portion of my time in the car analyzing how inappropriate songs on the radio are because in MY day, we listened to REAL music uphill BOTH ways in the SNOW.

The number one offender on my Ruining the Children list is "Sexy Bitch." What. Le. Feck? Have you heard this song? Because you've probably been missing a little piece of your soul since then, if you have.



"I'm trying to find the words to describe
this girl without being disrespectful."

That has got to be the single worst line in a song I have ever heard in my life. And hold on a second, cause I'm about to go Bill Cosby on yo asses: THINK ABOUT THE CHILDREN. And now I'm gonna do my best Betty Friedan: Do we want the street babies thinking it's okay to talk about women like this? You know they suck those things up like dirty little sponges. Like that time I saw my eight-year-old neighbor walking down the street with an iPod singing "I wanna lick, lick, lick, lick you from yo head to yo toes." Or the time I walked past the corner bus stop where a group of middle schoolers were arguing when one girl spun around, screamed "that's not what yo daddy said LAST NIGHT," and stormed down the street.

ESQUEEZE ME? When I was in middle school, the best comeback I ever had was "I know you are but what am I?" And does that child even KNOW what she just implied? I'm gonna go ahead and hope not. When I was 12 years old, sex was the very furthest thing from my mind, let alone sex with my friends' fathers. ICK. Unless we're talking about Katya's dad, then helloooooo, Mr. Redwood. Call me.

I'm the girl who had to have blowies explained to me by the "fast girl" on the walk home from school in eighth grade because GIRLS DO WHAT? WITH WHAAAAAAT? THAT'S THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I'VE EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE.

When B and I heard this song in the car this weekend, we tried to think of exactly how David Guetta would describe this girl, if he didn't have to worry about life's complications, like being respectful.

"I'm trying to find the words to describe
this girl without being disrespectful."

"One word: bigfatsloot."

"This girl looks like she loves to swallow wieners."

"Would definitely sex your dad."

"Could probably pay her for a little tug."

"The way she dances implies she's quite good in the sack."

"She probably already slept with all your friends."

"Really good at being a hoe."

"Herpeeeeeees."

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A new low even for me: toilet texting

The other night I got a text from my friend Carolyn requesting that I write a blog post about the public acceptance of toilet texting. I assume that message was texted to me while she was sitting on the toilet, and frankly it makes me wonder if all of my text messages from Carolyn are composed on the john. And I guess the public does accept it, because I'm totally fine with that.

And why wouldn't I be? It's not like it's dirty. If anything, it's more detrimental to the sender than the sendee. The sender is the one with the poop particles (THEY'RE EVERYWHEREEEE) all over her phone now. And last I checked, poop particles couldn't be sent via text. Unless there's an app for that.

I assume toilet texting's sudden jump in popularity owes to the fact that everyone who usually talks on the phone while they're going to the bathroom (admit it), has suddenly decided it's a lot less risky to use their thumbs. It's a new level of privacy. Because you know the whole time you're sitting on that toilet talking to your friend, you're wondering if they can hear what you're doing and then you usually don't flush because that would totally blow your cover and then you walk away and forget about it until your husband yells at you from the next room three hours later because oh my GAH what IS that?

I think my agreement that toilet texting would make for a great blog post is prime evidence of my brain's deterioration this week. I totally blame it on my office's temperature. One day it's as warm as mother's womb and the next I have to sit on my hands to keep them warm. But the majority of the time, it's the type of warm that causes clammy hands and temporary bouts of claustrophobia. The type that lulls my head to the side and makes me stare at my blank Word document for hours on end because what was I just talking about?

ANYWAY. I don't do much toilet texting myself because I don't usually keep my phone on hand while I'm in my apartment. I toss it on the coffee table when I get home from work, and that's where it stays for the majority of the night. So the other night I brought it into the bathroom with me and started texting people.

Sitting on the toilet, thinking of you. xoxo.

Yo, what are you doing? I'm peeing.

Plans this weekend? I'll call you when I'm done in the bathroom.

And I guess I kind of lost track of time and was in there for a long time because after a while B asked me what I was doing in there and I was all, "working on a blog post," and he opened the door and saw me sitting on the toilet and was all, "whatever it is you're thinking, I advise you to just stop" and I was all, "YOU NEVER SUPPORT ME IN MY RESEARCH."

I hope you're happy, Carolyn. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

On Monday night B and I went to the Monsters of Folk concert at Philadelphia's Kimmel Center. Hands down, it was one of the best live shows I've seen in a long time. But with band members as incredible as Jim James/Yim Yames, Conor Oberst, M. Ward, and Mike Mogis, that was expected. Nay, there would have been a hipster riot if it wasn't.

Seeing Monsters of Folk perform live was kind of like getting to eat all of my favorite foods at the same time. Jebus, does my life really revolve around eating this much? I guess it does. Anyway, watching four of the most talented artists of my time doing their thing on stage together is what I imagine sitting down to eat a meal of boardwalk pizza topped with cake batter ice cream and a heaping side of my mother's mashed potatoes and a chocolate chip cookie. Separately, they are awesome. Together, they make up a mind-blowing foursome. That's what she said HEY-YOO. Who's hungry?

And getting the chance to see them in a setting as regal as the Kimmel Center was actually kind of surreal, considering the audience. Picture, if you will, hundreds of bearded men in skinny jeans and flannel shirts flanked by rawboned women in absolutely killer slouched boots milling around the ornate foyer, shuffling their Chuck Taylor's on the marble floor, and peering up at the Greco-Roman paintings on the ceiling and muscled sculptures resting above their heads as they stand in line to buy the band's album on vinyl.

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The post in which I realize my life revolves around cream donuts

Last weekend my marathon training reached it's pinnacle. It was my last really long run before I start to taper, and at 20 miles, it was my longest. About eight miles into this run it dawned on me how out of my mind I must have been when I signed up for this marathon. Was I drunk? I couldn't remember, so I must have been drunk.

This was horrible. My entire lifestyle had been altered. Six months ago, Fridays after work meant a bottle of red, some pizza, a trip to the corner pub, and I'll see you in the morning. Now, they mean water, water, water, a giant plate of pasta, and (if I can stay awake long enough) maybe a few hours with the New Yorker and some serious contemplation about my bowel movements. I just got a horrifying look at what my life will be like in 60 years. And I'm living it now.

My Saturday mornings used to be a quick jog before breakfast and the rest of the day belonged to me, which was usually spent cleaning the apartment and walking the dog while texting my friends to see what the plan was for the evening. Now, they mean a run that usually lasts ALL morning, and an afternoon spent lying on the couch because for the love of GAH I don't even have the energy to get up and find the remote so I'll just lie there watching "Marley and Me" en Espanol and patting myself on the back because I just ran 20 miles and I didn't even shit my pants.

While I'm running, I pretty much can't get over how wretched of an experience this marathon is going to be. The furthest I've run is 20 miles, and that was no walk in the park, my friends. I can't even begin to wrap my head around another 6.2 miles on top of that to the finish line. People have been asking me what my marathon goal is. My goal is to finish. That's it. No, wait ... my goal is to finish without shitting my pants because did you know that happens to marathon runners all the time? And I'm not sure what it says about my life that pants shitting has climbed to the top of the Things I Hope Not To Do list. It went from number 63 right on up to number 3, beaten out only narrowly by die (which still holds the solid number one position) and get locked in a trunk with 100 poisonous spiders and don't even get my started on the spiders.

As part of Operation Don't Shit My Pants, I've been doing a little research about what I should eat the morning of the marathon. And people have been all toast! Peanut butter! Gu! Meat! So I asked my friend Jordan what he's been doing during training runs. This is his full report for the past weekend:

1 power bar and water when i got up
1 pb and j sammy after

1 gu before
1 gu after 8 miles
1 gu chomps shortly after
1 gu after 16 miles
1 gu after 20 miles

And this was mine:

1 bowl of frosted flakes when i got up (they're GRRRR-EAT!)
water after 5 miles
water after 10 miles
water after 15 miles
2 cream donuts when i finished.

And Jordan was all, "I don't see the problem" because Jordan is an asshole. And I was all "the problem was that I wanted three cream donuts but the bakery ran out." And that pretty much sums up my training plan.

ANYWAY. So the running part kind of sucks. But when I'm done running, it's awesome. I never have time to just lie on the couch and watch a movie in the middle of the day, but marathon training pretty much forces me to. And do you SERIOUSLY expect me to do the dishes after just running 20 miles? I have a golden Get Out of Doing Things Card all day. And best of all, I also get to eat whatever I want, whenever I want for the next 24 hours. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT'S LIKE? It's pretty much the greatest thing in the world. In fact, I can't think of anything better than the chance to eat whatever I want and not feel a twinge of guilt about it. All. Flipping. Day.

There's this bakery around the corner from my apartment. It's run by a friendly, middle aged Jewish woman with a bouffant. She's wonderful. And every Saturday morning, after my long run, my mom (who has usually run with me for half of whatever my distance is that day), meets me at my apartment, and we walk to this bakery to pick up some cream donuts to treat ourselves. This has become our weekly routine. And these donuts? Are incredible. I've eaten more soft, powdered donuts bursting with smooth vanilla cream filling in the past four months than I have in the past four years.


And these moments -- sitting at my dining room table with the legs that were gnawed by the dog, enjoying a cup of tea, a delicious cream donut, and some conversation with my mom while the early afternoon sunlight streams through the window -- are my favorite moments of the week.

Essentially, my life revolves around cream donuts.

And this got me thinking about what life will be like once marathon training is over. I'll have to go back to doing things like cleaning floors. And doing laundry. And NOT eating whatever I want, whenever I want. Ergo, no more cream donuts every Saturday morning with my mom followed by an afternoon of watching all the TV shows I missed during the week. EW.

Now, I haven't even run the marathon yet and I'm already considering signing up for another because I can't fathom my life without the cream donuts. But without my mom or my Back on My Feet team, who will run with me? I can't do 20 miles totally by myself. And do they even HAVE cream donuts in New England? It's like a different country up there, where people fish for fun and eat nothing but clam chowder and snow.

And am I out of my mind? Again? Considering putting myself through marathon training again just so I can eat donuts? When I first wrote about being Fatty McFatterson, I was kind of joking, but now I'm totally serious. My twisted, donut-crazed brain has just taken this to a whole new level. It's called donut delirium.

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All you need is love

BA DA DA DA DA.

So you know how we took our wedding pictures here?


Well now I'm always going to remember it here.

Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to get a good picture of a white ink tattoo? I could have played an entire game of Risk -- The Game of Global Domination -- TWICE in the time it took me to get something that remotely resembled what my wrist looks like now but I couldn't so I quit. Not that I've ever played Risk before. I don't do well with board games that don't entail constant action and/or drinking. Something about short attention spans and ADD or whatever. Unless it involves deciding which bar to go to next, I don't typically have the patience for things like strategy.

In other news from the Department of Things I Woke Up and Decided to Do, I chopped my hair off yesterday.


And I am dreadfully sorry for the quality of photos on today's post. But apparently not sorry enough to take better ones. Something something something lack of patience thing again because isn't it Friday? Don't we have better things to do? Someone open that bottle of wine already. GAH. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

The voice of Joshua James (no relation to Jim James) (who now refers to himself as Yim Yames) (otherwise known as the voice behind the wonder that is My Morning Jacket and one of the members of Monsters of Folk) (who B and I are seeing in concert next week) (which is also comprised of Conor Oberst) (otherwise known as Bright Eyes), Mike Mogis (who I don't know anything about), and M. Ward (also of She and Him) (with Zooey Deschanal) (who starred in my favorite movie of the year) (500 Days of Summer) (with Joseph Gordon-Levitt) (MARRY ME, JOSEPH GORDON-LEVITT)) (not that this Joshua James has anything to do with My Morning Jacket, Monsters of Folk, Conor Oberst, Bright Eyes, Mike Mogis, M. Ward, She and Him, Zooey Deschanal, or 500 Days of Summer BUT ISN'T JOSEPH GORDON-LEVITT, LIKE, TOTALLY THE DREAMIEST?) has been gracing my speakers fairly often these days. It's that rustic scratch that gets right to the core me of every time.

He can go light, a la "Magazine:"



And he can go a little bit heavier, a la "Black July:"



And he can even do that southern fiddle thing that sets my heart all a-flutter, a la "Annabelle:"



BUY IT, YO!


Also, how creepy is it that I have this dude in white face all over my blog's front page right now? I think I'm totally missing the boat on what that could symbolize but I'm not going to get into it because I'm trying really hard not to talk about wieners so much AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING ANYMORE. Tweet

When blog vomit becomes real life vomit

Last Wednesday, I was sitting at the bar, watching the Phils clobber the Yanks when I was overcome with the overwhelming desire to go. And not just go, but GO. Like, right now. As I've talked about a brazillion times here, my sense of mental stability has been walking around with a limp and a couple black eyes recently. I'm perfectly fine one minute, then with a single thought, my anxiety is through the roof and the next thing I know I'm crawling around the back of my closet pulling coats and shoes over top of me and doing some really heavy mouth breathing.

I had given my final notice to work earlier that day, and the realization of LEAVING was staring me in my sweaty face. So I texted my friend Monica.

Wanna go on a trip?

Within minutes, I got a text back. Obviously yes. Where are we going?

And less than two days later we had two round-trip tickets to southern California leaving the morning after my last day of work in Philadelphia cause that's how we roll.

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

So it's only fitting that we set off on what promises to be one last gigantic shit show of an adventure together while we still live in the same zip code. So if anyone lives in the San Diego area and wants to meet us for drinks/show us all the secret awesome places/bail us out of a Mexican jail cell, be sure to drop me a line.

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In other news that isn't really relevant but is too short for it's own post, B is convinced than blogging is turning me into an asshole and I think he might be right. Wait, let me rephrase that. B is convinced that blogging is turning me into an even bigger asshole than I already am and I think he might be right. Because ever since I started letting my sense of censorship really just slip away on here, I seem to have done the same thing in real life.

It all started with the va-jay-jay:

In an effort to liven up this week because Jesus is punishing me for throwing words like dirty sex around in places B's mom can read, like this blog, so he's bringing winter back in March which is totally not fair because ENOUGH ALREADY and who do I have to show my boobies to to get a little warm weather around here? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be Jesus because I don't think he was a boobies man. Speaking of vaginas, I was chatting with a friend yesterday and she was all you really DO talk about your vagina a lot and you know what? This whole week has been a vagina and it's only Wednesday.

Then, there's the ever popular pooping posts:

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.

And of course more recently there's been the references to big black wein and the caloric count of a beej:

Also for the record, I wasn't afraid of penises because of that whole Catholic guilt thing. I was afraid of penises because they were ugly. And also my freshman year bio teacher told my class there were approximately 3,000 calories in a tablespoon of you know what, and if you want to strike fear in the heart of a Catholic high school girl, just tell her it'll make her fat.

Aaaaand let's not forget my proclamation of Chris Christie's affinity for eating dicks for breakfast:

Chris Christie, eats dicks for breakfast.

So now B is convinced that my sense of "Yellaphant" has made me feel entitled to do or say as I please no matter where I am, and who has to live with those consequences huh? HUH? Not the little blonde girl. The little blonde girl's husband who now has to fight a bear hunter in a bar because his wife hasn't yet learned that slapping is not socially acceptable behavior. Or smooth things over with the dude dressed as Kenny Powers at the Halloween party because his wife just poured a beer down his shirt (sorry, Kenny). Or explain to his grandmother that his wife didn't mean anything when she told her to tap dat ass. Soooooo yup.

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