MEEERRRYYYY CHHRISTMAS! I know it's only Christmas Eve, but in the Yellaphant household, Christmas Eve is THE main attraction. Everything else that follows is just Christmas.
For as long as I was alive, and many years before that, Christmas Eve was spent sardined into my grandparents' rowhome with the entire extended family to eat and play and drink and eat and laugh and eat and drink and open presents and eat. And about that eating? We also eat.
Naturally, when I was younger, the best part of Christmas Eve -- besides the eating and drinking and laughter and love -- was the presents. And in my family, every child had gifts lavished upon them by every aunt and uncle. There's a lot of aunts and uncles in my family, and that means a lot of presents. And Santa didn't even slide his fat butt down our chimneys yet. Can you conceive how spoiled we were? It's disgusting, really. I mean gah.
We'd wait in agony as every adult sat around the giant dining room table and ate their dinner in what felt like slow motion. Whining quietly at the table's edge. And just as the dishes were cleared away and you thought you could finally run to the basement and shove your cousins against the wall to claim the best spot beneath the Christmas tree to start tearing that paper to shreds, the dessert came out and more wine was poured.
Five years later, when the last crumbs if the Christmas pies were being picked at, it was finally present time. And boy oh boy those presents. There were piles of toys and stacks of trinkets. Mountains of paper in reds and greens and golds, glistening to the point of ecstasy, just waiting to be eviscerated. Ah, Christmas Eve. It's a beautiful thing.
These days, I show up for the booze, obviously. And, um, the love. Because Christmas Eve is about surrounding yourself with the people you love the most and watching your mom get so drunk she almost falls into the fireplace and waiting nervously to see who's going to piss off who this year because it's just not a family holiday anymore without drunk tension and awkward moments.
This year's goal? To NOT get drunk and cry into my mashed potatoes. I assume I'll be eating a lot of mashed potatoes cause you can bet your ass I won't be eating that pork loin, murderers! And that drunk part probably goes without saying.
So Merry Christmas, everyone! ONE! MORE! TIME!
I just couldn't resist. Who wants Bailey's?
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Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The December Bender Log: Day 23 Alternate title: Wednesday's Song of the Week
If you live in Philadelphia, you already know that our party was canceled on Saturday night. Something to do with the 23 inches of snow that got dumped on the city Saturday afternoon and I CALL BULLSHIT, MOTHER NATURE. GAH. Why you gotta be so MEAN? So if we don't see you before Monday, when my life as I know it is OVER, you owe me a visit to New England.
So since I've stopped going to work, I've almost entirely lost track of time. Naturally, this has led to increased consumption of alcohol because what do you mean it's only 9 a.m.?
Taking this week to pack has left time for wonderful activities that things like "work" never allowed time for, such as lunching in the city. And finally doing some Christmas shopping. And getting my hairs did. And you know what? Being unemployed is AWESOME. I can't believe I didn't catch on to this trend sooner. No wonder it's so big right now. BA DUM BUM CHING.
There are, however, a few things we've neglected to do during this week we've set aside for packing. Such as packing. And, this probably goes without saying, but I FEEL A LITTLE DISORGANIZED. But here's the real shocker: I have not yet lost my shit. I've lost quite a few socks and a couple pairs of underwear, but my shit, is -- for the moment -- almost intact, for the most part. I know right? Big surprise for me too. I've been soothing the panic attacks with some heavy breathing and extra Jager shots. And, this song, which incidentally, is the perfect song to throw dishes into boxes and occasionally against the wall because B is telling me "THAT'S NOT HOW YOU PACK THINGS" for the 8 crabillionth time. OH I'M SORRY, B I HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE A PROFESSIONAL PACKER. This is why I don't waste my time packing. I have better things to do. Like that six martini lunch that's just calling my name.
Anyway, Jonsi Birgisson, the man behind the incredible Sigur Ros, recorded Boy Lilikoi in English, which is kind of a big deal being as all of Sigur Ros's albums were recorded in a made up language. And no, everyone who got a drunk dial from me during the past 23 days, I was not speaking in Sigur Rosish. I know English too. Usually.
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So since I've stopped going to work, I've almost entirely lost track of time. Naturally, this has led to increased consumption of alcohol because what do you mean it's only 9 a.m.?
Taking this week to pack has left time for wonderful activities that things like "work" never allowed time for, such as lunching in the city. And finally doing some Christmas shopping. And getting my hairs did. And you know what? Being unemployed is AWESOME. I can't believe I didn't catch on to this trend sooner. No wonder it's so big right now. BA DUM BUM CHING.
There are, however, a few things we've neglected to do during this week we've set aside for packing. Such as packing. And, this probably goes without saying, but I FEEL A LITTLE DISORGANIZED. But here's the real shocker: I have not yet lost my shit. I've lost quite a few socks and a couple pairs of underwear, but my shit, is -- for the moment -- almost intact, for the most part. I know right? Big surprise for me too. I've been soothing the panic attacks with some heavy breathing and extra Jager shots. And, this song, which incidentally, is the perfect song to throw dishes into boxes and occasionally against the wall because B is telling me "THAT'S NOT HOW YOU PACK THINGS" for the 8 crabillionth time. OH I'M SORRY, B I HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE A PROFESSIONAL PACKER. This is why I don't waste my time packing. I have better things to do. Like that six martini lunch that's just calling my name.
Anyway, Jonsi Birgisson, the man behind the incredible Sigur Ros, recorded Boy Lilikoi in English, which is kind of a big deal being as all of Sigur Ros's albums were recorded in a made up language. And no, everyone who got a drunk dial from me during the past 23 days, I was not speaking in Sigur Rosish. I know English too. Usually.
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Friday, December 18, 2009
What the HELL are you eating?!
Hold on to your hats, errbody, cause it's about to get rul preachy up in here.
So B and I have both been reading the new book by Jonathan Safron Foer, "Eating Animals," and by "have been reading" I mean I obsessively poured over every single page in about two days because I just couldn't turn my head away, the same way you sit through those gory horror movies pretending to shield your eyes every time some poor moron gets a cleaver to the jugular but really you just can't stop looking because HOLY SHIT, YA'LL. This shit is DISGUSTING. It puts the lotion in the basket.
Yeah. It was kind of like that. DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE EATING?!
I've been sitting on the post for a few days, skimming over particularly horrendous passages from the book that I wanted to share here. The ones that would turn your stomach. The ones that made B put his head between his knees because he thought he was going to blow chunks all over our living room. The ones that horrified me and made me angry at myself and at all those people who allowed it to get to this point where no one wants to know where their hamburger comes from because they don't care and they're going to eat it anyway thankyouverymuch. Or if you do care, the paragraphs that would make you feel like the biggest asshole on the planet for even considering putting a hotdog in your mouth ever again.
Because I think people need to know. And as someone who writes words that occsionally get readby my mom, I feel like I have the responsibility to tell.
Throughout the book, Foer also examines the question of eating meat from a practical standpoint. Why would you want to give up something that means so much to you for reasons beyond just "eating?" Thanksgiving turkey at your grandparents. Seven fishes on Christmas Eve. Family barbeques in the backyard. What are those moments without that meat? At what point does eating become more than nourishing yourself?
Because he hopes, and so do I, that by learning about the way these animals live and die before they ever make it to your plate, you will care. Is a life filled with suffering and disease followed by a gruesome, painful death worth more than your ham sandwich?
But these animals -- these cows and chickens and pigs -- are different than our other domesticated animals -- our dogs and cats and horses. They are dumb, you think. They don't know any better, you say. Did you know that pigs are as intelligent as dogs? That they love to play, thrive with mental stimulation, and seek affection?
What would you do if you heard of a factory filled with thousands of caged dogs -- diseased and dying from lack of care; crazed from lack of social interaction and the ability to move, to even turn around in their confinement; with bones that are too brittle to support their weight; covered in painful open sores; never having stepped foot in grass or felt the sun or heard anything besides the buzzing of the artificial lights designed to control their gestation periods, the screaming of their neighbors, and the churning of the fans that, if stopped, would lead to the suffocation of every living creature present within minutes because of the amount of gases and pollution produced from such an environment? And I'm not even gonna get into the damage we've done to the environment.
You must know: This is not necessary to create meat. Humans have nourished themselves with meat for thousands of years. Factory farming however, is relatively new. Our grandparents didn't eat meat from factory farms. Our parents might not have either. But we do. And we have a responsibility because of that.
The price of meat has only slightly increased over the past 50 years (about 30 percent). While the price of everything else -- cars, home, clothes -- have increased by up to 140,000 percent. Because by taking these animals out of the pastures and stacking them in cages so small they cannot turn around; by altering them so significantly that those that survive suffer from horrible birth defects, deformities, and disease; by branding them, pulling out their teeth, chopping off their tails, and pulling off their beaks without anesthetic (because anesthetic costs money and they already spend money on antibiotics to keep the animals alive in such deplorable conditions long enough to kill them), the production of meat is faster and cheaper than ever before.
I'm also not going to get in to exactly how these animals are slaughtered because I just ate my breakfast, yo, and I'd like to keep it in my stomach. You're welcome. But I will say this: It is violent. It is painful. It is often inaccurate, leading to prolonged suffering. And it implores the use of tools and techniques you assumed were thought up by the sick minds that bring you movies about horror and torture. Where do you think these cinematic sickos got their ideas, after all?
One more time for effect: What if you learned a dog had been skinned alive and left on the feces-covered floor to finish dying?
I'm sorry, I had to.
We don't have to stop eating meat. But being as over 99 percent of meat sold today comes from factory farms, it would be hard not too. But there's always free range, right? Actually, when that package of bacon says "free range," it simply means the animals had "access to outdoors," and that in almost all of those cases "access to outdoors" means there was a window in the factory that lead to outside? Tricky bastards, no?
But again, we don't have to stop eating meat. But we can take responsibility and demand better meat. Meat that is actually meat, not cuts that've been injected with so much water and flavoring that it quadruples the actual weight of the flesh. Meat that comes from a real farm, that lived a real life, and that was slaughtered humanely.
Or we can just preheat the oven to 425 degrees and continue doing what we've done for the past 50 years.
I made the decision to not eat meat anymore. I could write a book about why I made this choice, but Jonathon Safron Foer already did. And don't think this will be easy. There's nothing I enjoy more than a juicy cheeseburger with some lettuce, tomato, onion, and extra katchup. So now, I'm just asking you to take responsibility too. To make smart decisions about the food you choose to nourish yourself. To know where it comes from and why. And to decide what that drum stick is worth to you. A moment on the lips, forever on your conscious's hips. Don't have a fat conscious. GET IT?!
Just think about and don't be an asshole, okay? GAD!
WOOF! I feel so much better now that THAT's out there. It was like holding in a fart all week. It was all I could think about and it was getting rul, rul uncomfortable. I'm sorry if it smells, but you're gonna have to live with it now. Enjoy your cheeseburger, you murderous murdering murder assholes!
So B and I have both been reading the new book by Jonathan Safron Foer, "Eating Animals," and by "have been reading" I mean I obsessively poured over every single page in about two days because I just couldn't turn my head away, the same way you sit through those gory horror movies pretending to shield your eyes every time some poor moron gets a cleaver to the jugular but really you just can't stop looking because HOLY SHIT, YA'LL. This shit is DISGUSTING. It puts the lotion in the basket.
Yeah. It was kind of like that. DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE EATING?!
I've been sitting on the post for a few days, skimming over particularly horrendous passages from the book that I wanted to share here. The ones that would turn your stomach. The ones that made B put his head between his knees because he thought he was going to blow chunks all over our living room. The ones that horrified me and made me angry at myself and at all those people who allowed it to get to this point where no one wants to know where their hamburger comes from because they don't care and they're going to eat it anyway thankyouverymuch. Or if you do care, the paragraphs that would make you feel like the biggest asshole on the planet for even considering putting a hotdog in your mouth ever again.
Because I think people need to know. And as someone who writes words that occsionally get read
Throughout the book, Foer also examines the question of eating meat from a practical standpoint. Why would you want to give up something that means so much to you for reasons beyond just "eating?" Thanksgiving turkey at your grandparents. Seven fishes on Christmas Eve. Family barbeques in the backyard. What are those moments without that meat? At what point does eating become more than nourishing yourself?
Because he hopes, and so do I, that by learning about the way these animals live and die before they ever make it to your plate, you will care. Is a life filled with suffering and disease followed by a gruesome, painful death worth more than your ham sandwich?
But these animals -- these cows and chickens and pigs -- are different than our other domesticated animals -- our dogs and cats and horses. They are dumb, you think. They don't know any better, you say. Did you know that pigs are as intelligent as dogs? That they love to play, thrive with mental stimulation, and seek affection?
What would you do if you heard of a factory filled with thousands of caged dogs -- diseased and dying from lack of care; crazed from lack of social interaction and the ability to move, to even turn around in their confinement; with bones that are too brittle to support their weight; covered in painful open sores; never having stepped foot in grass or felt the sun or heard anything besides the buzzing of the artificial lights designed to control their gestation periods, the screaming of their neighbors, and the churning of the fans that, if stopped, would lead to the suffocation of every living creature present within minutes because of the amount of gases and pollution produced from such an environment? And I'm not even gonna get into the damage we've done to the environment.
You must know: This is not necessary to create meat. Humans have nourished themselves with meat for thousands of years. Factory farming however, is relatively new. Our grandparents didn't eat meat from factory farms. Our parents might not have either. But we do. And we have a responsibility because of that.
The price of meat has only slightly increased over the past 50 years (about 30 percent). While the price of everything else -- cars, home, clothes -- have increased by up to 140,000 percent. Because by taking these animals out of the pastures and stacking them in cages so small they cannot turn around; by altering them so significantly that those that survive suffer from horrible birth defects, deformities, and disease; by branding them, pulling out their teeth, chopping off their tails, and pulling off their beaks without anesthetic (because anesthetic costs money and they already spend money on antibiotics to keep the animals alive in such deplorable conditions long enough to kill them), the production of meat is faster and cheaper than ever before.
I'm also not going to get in to exactly how these animals are slaughtered because I just ate my breakfast, yo, and I'd like to keep it in my stomach. You're welcome. But I will say this: It is violent. It is painful. It is often inaccurate, leading to prolonged suffering. And it implores the use of tools and techniques you assumed were thought up by the sick minds that bring you movies about horror and torture. Where do you think these cinematic sickos got their ideas, after all?
One more time for effect: What if you learned a dog had been skinned alive and left on the feces-covered floor to finish dying?
I'm sorry, I had to.
We don't have to stop eating meat. But being as over 99 percent of meat sold today comes from factory farms, it would be hard not too. But there's always free range, right? Actually, when that package of bacon says "free range," it simply means the animals had "access to outdoors," and that in almost all of those cases "access to outdoors" means there was a window in the factory that lead to outside? Tricky bastards, no?
But again, we don't have to stop eating meat. But we can take responsibility and demand better meat. Meat that is actually meat, not cuts that've been injected with so much water and flavoring that it quadruples the actual weight of the flesh. Meat that comes from a real farm, that lived a real life, and that was slaughtered humanely.
Or we can just preheat the oven to 425 degrees and continue doing what we've done for the past 50 years.
I made the decision to not eat meat anymore. I could write a book about why I made this choice, but Jonathon Safron Foer already did. And don't think this will be easy. There's nothing I enjoy more than a juicy cheeseburger with some lettuce, tomato, onion, and extra katchup. So now, I'm just asking you to take responsibility too. To make smart decisions about the food you choose to nourish yourself. To know where it comes from and why. And to decide what that drum stick is worth to you. A moment on the lips, forever on your conscious's hips. Don't have a fat conscious. GET IT?!
Just think about and don't be an asshole, okay? GAD!
WOOF! I feel so much better now that THAT's out there. It was like holding in a fart all week. It was all I could think about and it was getting rul, rul uncomfortable. I'm sorry if it smells, but you're gonna have to live with it now. Enjoy your cheeseburger, you murderous murdering murder assholes!
We now return to our regularly scheduled Yellaphant program: WHO'S GETTIN' SHITTY WITH ME TOMORROW NIGHT?!?! SHOTS ON ME! God, that feels good.
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Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday's Song of the Week
Recently, what with all the tightening of the metaphorical belt and the pinching of the those not so metaphorical pennies, things that I used to do fairly frequently -- such as buying music -- have taken a back seat to paying the bills. But every once in a while, an album hits the scene and I feel like my chest is going to pop if I don't own it now now NOW. And surely, the near constant joy new music will bring me is totally worth, say, a beer or two less at the bar this weekend. HA! Like that'll ever happen.
So last week I treated myself The Avett Brother's latest album, "I and Love and You." TOTALLY worth those two beers that I say I won't have but know full well once my butt hits the barstool that beer is going in my belly. So yeah.
I first came across The Avett Brothers during one of my Bonnaroo experiences, on a mix CD the gods of music gift to all ticket-holding festival goers. I was instantly smitten with the southern-banjo-guitar-twang-indie feel, and their debut album became one of the most heavily rotated discs in B's car for the following year.
So when this fall's follow up was released I was all "WANT!" And then heard a couple songs and was all "NEED!" And then I bought it.
While this certainly isn't the strongest song on the album, it's definitely the catchiest, and it was absolutely a case of love at first listen. Just try to NOT tap your feet to this song. I'll give you, like, five dollars if you can. That's a lie. That's like a whole extra beer. You should be paying me for this crap. I accept payment in beers.
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So last week I treated myself The Avett Brother's latest album, "I and Love and You." TOTALLY worth those two beers that I say I won't have but know full well once my butt hits the barstool that beer is going in my belly. So yeah.
I first came across The Avett Brothers during one of my Bonnaroo experiences, on a mix CD the gods of music gift to all ticket-holding festival goers. I was instantly smitten with the southern-banjo-guitar-twang-indie feel, and their debut album became one of the most heavily rotated discs in B's car for the following year.
So when this fall's follow up was released I was all "WANT!" And then heard a couple songs and was all "NEED!" And then I bought it.
While this certainly isn't the strongest song on the album, it's definitely the catchiest, and it was absolutely a case of love at first listen. Just try to NOT tap your feet to this song. I'll give you, like, five dollars if you can. That's a lie. That's like a whole extra beer. You should be paying me for this crap. I accept payment in beers.
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Monday, December 14, 2009
The December Bender Log: Day 14
This lifestyle is simply not sustainable. But on I go. I seem to have contracted some sort of head cold from B. I suspect he infected me on purpose to slow me down and save himself from more nights of his critical role of designated driver. Possibly by heavily breathing in my general vicinity. It's also possible that my current immune system breakdown may be a result of the combination of successive nights of heavy drinking and early morning runs in the cold. This has yet to be decided.
A total of one Christmas present has been purchased.
A total of zero boxes have been packed.
A total of six giant empty Tupperware containers sit in the middle of our living room.
A total of eight piles of questionably clean clothes take up space on our bedroom floor.
A total of one shoe has been lost.
A total of three crying incidences have taken place. One of which was in a crowded bar.
A total of four days lie between my final day of my current employment.
A total of zero future employment opportunities have been attained.
Estimated amount of predicted total meltdowns: six.
Estimated amount of predicted time spent watching The Muppets sing Christmas carols instead of packing: Incalculable.
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A total of one Christmas present has been purchased.
A total of zero boxes have been packed.
A total of six giant empty Tupperware containers sit in the middle of our living room.
A total of eight piles of questionably clean clothes take up space on our bedroom floor.
A total of one shoe has been lost.
A total of three crying incidences have taken place. One of which was in a crowded bar.
A total of four days lie between my final day of my current employment.
A total of zero future employment opportunities have been attained.
Estimated amount of predicted total meltdowns: six.
Estimated amount of predicted time spent watching The Muppets sing Christmas carols instead of packing: Incalculable.
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Friday, December 11, 2009
Turn on the tree. And pick up all that shit.
Quality time with the family. An array of holiday parties with festive boozey drinks. Presents. The real reason I'm excited it's Christmas time? Because it's once again acceptable for me to watch this John Roberts video approximately 23 times a day. You probably think I'm exaggerating, but I assure you I am not.
If you've ever met me, I've made you watch this video at one point, Christmas time or not. You know how some people will guiltily admit they listen to Christmas music all year? Like when they're driving to the beach in July or pre-gaming alone in their bedroom on a Friday night in March? While I don't particularly want to hear "Oh Holy Night in June," there is no month that is too good for "The Christmas Tree." Only in December, it's just so much better.
It just never gets old. Tweet
If you've ever met me, I've made you watch this video at one point, Christmas time or not. You know how some people will guiltily admit they listen to Christmas music all year? Like when they're driving to the beach in July or pre-gaming alone in their bedroom on a Friday night in March? While I don't particularly want to hear "Oh Holy Night in June," there is no month that is too good for "The Christmas Tree." Only in December, it's just so much better.
Last year, while staying with my parents for the holidays, I made them watch it AT LEAST 18 times in between the time we got home from Christmas Eve dinner and the time we ate breakfast on Christmas morning because I didn't think they were properly paying attention, or else they would have been laughing louder. So naturally, I had to show it to them over and over and over again to demonstrate just how spectacular it was. By the 18th viewing, they were crying. Probably because they were laughing so hard.
And yesterday, after watching him put up the company Christmas tree outside my office, I made the CEO of my company sit down and watch it with me. I have confidence this will do wonders for my Christmas bonus.
It just never gets old. Tweet
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Yeah, but I'm really popular on my blog, so at least I've got that going for me
I've broken just about every rule I set out for myself in the very beginning of this whole blog experimentation thing I have going on over here.
1. Don't get too personal. I think it's safe to say that went out the window when I first wrote the word "poop."
2. Don't be an asshole. Have you met me? I don't even know where to start.
3. Don't ever talk about B. Umm whoops.
4. Don't write about anything that could be potentially incriminating. My whole life is potentially incriminating.
The list goes on. But one of the rules I picked up as the wheels really started turning here at Yellaphant, was that I always wanted to be sure to give thanks and props in a timely manner when given awards by other bloggers. Because let's be honest, once the magic juices (ew, juices) of my brain were unleashed on the world, it would only be a matter of time before those awards started rolling in by the motherflipping bushel. Am I right or am I drunk?
I'm totally kidding. I don't even know why you people show up here everyday. And no, I'm not drunk, I've only had three.
So much for that rule, eh? So now here I am writing a roll-up post for the last three awards I've gotten without giving any public thanks because I'm an asshole like that. To add to my assholishness (good gah when will I stop?!), I'm breaking the rules (have I no control?!) that come with these awards, and just passing them on to three bloggers each that I find deserving. So without further ado ... AWARDS! FIST PUMPS! POUND SOME BEERS!
From Anna at Around the Way Girl:
YELLAPHANT WINNERS:
1. Lora from Fever
2. Shelley from The Spotted Duck
3. "LiLu" from Live It, Love It
From B at Finding Bliss:
YELLAPHANT WINNERS:
1. Kate from From Ketchup to Chutney
2. Michael from Innocents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations
3. Jen from Down the Shore with Jen
From Heather at My Sunshine:
YELLAPHANT WINNERS:
1. Mic from My Dad's Happier Than Your Dad
2. Becky from Hippo Brigade
3. Deidre from DecoyBetty
WOOF. I feel so much better. And at least I've still preserved rule number 51: No talking about sex. Which TOTALLY reminds me of this story from last weekend that I forgot to tell you guys! So on Saturday night B ripped off his shirt and was all ... LOLZZZZ totally JK, mom! You too B's mom! Ooohoho life's such a party here at Yellaphant.
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1. Don't get too personal. I think it's safe to say that went out the window when I first wrote the word "poop."
2. Don't be an asshole. Have you met me? I don't even know where to start.
3. Don't ever talk about B. Umm whoops.
4. Don't write about anything that could be potentially incriminating. My whole life is potentially incriminating.
The list goes on. But one of the rules I picked up as the wheels really started turning here at Yellaphant, was that I always wanted to be sure to give thanks and props in a timely manner when given awards by other bloggers. Because let's be honest, once the magic juices (ew, juices) of my brain were unleashed on the world, it would only be a matter of time before those awards started rolling in by the motherflipping bushel. Am I right or am I drunk?
I'm totally kidding. I don't even know why you people show up here everyday. And no, I'm not drunk, I've only had three.
So much for that rule, eh? So now here I am writing a roll-up post for the last three awards I've gotten without giving any public thanks because I'm an asshole like that. To add to my assholishness (good gah when will I stop?!), I'm breaking the rules (have I no control?!) that come with these awards, and just passing them on to three bloggers each that I find deserving. So without further ado ... AWARDS! FIST PUMPS! POUND SOME BEERS!
From Anna at Around the Way Girl:
YELLAPHANT WINNERS:1. Lora from Fever
2. Shelley from The Spotted Duck
3. "LiLu" from Live It, Love It
From B at Finding Bliss:
YELLAPHANT WINNERS:1. Kate from From Ketchup to Chutney
2. Michael from Innocents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations
3. Jen from Down the Shore with Jen
From Heather at My Sunshine:
YELLAPHANT WINNERS:1. Mic from My Dad's Happier Than Your Dad
2. Becky from Hippo Brigade
3. Deidre from DecoyBetty
WOOF. I feel so much better. And at least I've still preserved rule number 51: No talking about sex. Which TOTALLY reminds me of this story from last weekend that I forgot to tell you guys! So on Saturday night B ripped off his shirt and was all ... LOLZZZZ totally JK, mom! You too B's mom! Ooohoho life's such a party here at Yellaphant.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday's Song of the Week
For all the bitching and moaning and writhing on the floor and writhing on the couch and writhing on the bed and writhing back on the floor and writhing one more time on the couch I do about moving, there IS a reason I'm leaving all of my family and friends, packing all of my shit into giant tupperware containers, saying goodbye to the city I love most and trekking it up to the arctic shores of New England. Sometimes I just need to remind myself.
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Tuesday, December 8, 2009
An actual conversation I had with my mother while waiting in line for coffee at Dunkin Donuts
Me: Wait, I thought you didn't drink coffee.
Mom: I'm acquiring a taste for it in my older age. I drink more alcohol. I'm introducing coffee into my diet. Now all I have to do is start smoking.
Me: I'm sorry I've never smoked before, or else I'd offer you a cigarette. Unless you're talking about weed, cause then I can hook you up with some dank ass sheeeeeeeyat.
Mom: I've never been prouder.
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Monday, December 7, 2009
December Bridget would like to talk to you about her drinking problem
As I've said before, training for a marathon requires a few minor lifestyle adjustments: "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."
And all along I'd said one of the things I looked forward to most post-marathon was reclaiming my Friday nights. But it wasn't just Friday nights. It was any night within a two day period of a long run. And when you train for a marathon, long runs happen fairly often.
A few friends and I were discussing this situation as we set out on the marathon together. And the way my friend Pia saw it was this: December Pia was about to come out to play.
In November (and October, September, and August), we were marathon runners. We were people of discipline, perseverance, sound nutrition, andminds of steel pretty big whiners. But December Pia? Is ready to reclaim her Friday nights. And sweet jebus sleep in on weekends. And do it again on Saturday night. And take back happy hour ANY day of the week. And, inevitably, pack on some winter warmth. And and and and ... the possibilities are endless.
One week in, I think it's safe to say December Bridget is on task. And I'm not sure what it says about me as a functioning member of society that on Sunday afternoon, when I realized I had been out consuming alcoholic beverages with friends for four of the past five nights, I gave serious thought to turning the next three weeks of my life into an all-out bender. Because why not?
And all along I'd said one of the things I looked forward to most post-marathon was reclaiming my Friday nights. But it wasn't just Friday nights. It was any night within a two day period of a long run. And when you train for a marathon, long runs happen fairly often.
A few friends and I were discussing this situation as we set out on the marathon together. And the way my friend Pia saw it was this: December Pia was about to come out to play.
In November (and October, September, and August), we were marathon runners. We were people of discipline, perseverance, sound nutrition, and
One week in, I think it's safe to say December Bridget is on task. And I'm not sure what it says about me as a functioning member of society that on Sunday afternoon, when I realized I had been out consuming alcoholic beverages with friends for four of the past five nights, I gave serious thought to turning the next three weeks of my life into an all-out bender. Because why not?
What respectable college graduate DOESN'T consider making a game of how many days in a row she can get her drunk on? I'm moving in three weeks. I'm depressed as hell about it. And what better way to fight off the winter worries than by hooking my arm up to an IV of Guinness and spending every waking moment with the people in Philadelphia I care about? Because what goes worst best with sadness? BOOZE!
I have not yet entirely ruled out this scenario. It's gonna be an interesting month.
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Friday, December 4, 2009
It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
We're leaving Philadelphia. That's old news. I'm a tad upset about it. You already know that too. But before we go, I want to drink myself stupid with you violate you in a crowded bar have three too many shots of Jager, pour a beer down someone's shirt, and cry myself to sleep see you one last time.
I've decided to have a party. Well, it's not really a "party," per se. Because I didn't really plan anything out or rent a room or try to negotiate drink specials or even tell them we're coming. I've been really busy lately, what with all the staring at all those empty boxes that need to be filled and thinking about what a pain in the ass moving all this cheap ass IKEA furniture is going to be and spending valuable time at work making witty Facebook invitations to fake parties.
So let me put it this way: B and I will be spending the evening of SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19 at NATIONAL MECHANICS at 22 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILADELPHIA from approximately 10 p.m. until 2 a.m. (or until I get kicked out). AND YOU SHOULD TOO. If you're our friend, colleague, blogger buddy, or Twitter pal, we demand a goodbye hug.
Let's do this thing, eh? What's the worst that could happen?
A lot. I'm sorry, I have a foggy definition of "personal boundaries" and poor, at best, grasp of the concept of "limits." Did I ever tell you about the time biffle Michael and I went out "for a drink" and four hours later found ourselves taking shots at an NAACP reception and promising our new friends that we would DEFINITELY be joining them on their church group's upcoming spring cruise? I'm not making any promises, but who knows where this night could take us.
Mmmokay then, let's review.
Saturday, December 19
I've decided to have a party. Well, it's not really a "party," per se. Because I didn't really plan anything out or rent a room or try to negotiate drink specials or even tell them we're coming. I've been really busy lately, what with all the staring at all those empty boxes that need to be filled and thinking about what a pain in the ass moving all this cheap ass IKEA furniture is going to be and spending valuable time at work making witty Facebook invitations to fake parties.
So let me put it this way: B and I will be spending the evening of SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19 at NATIONAL MECHANICS at 22 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILADELPHIA from approximately 10 p.m. until 2 a.m. (or until I get kicked out). AND YOU SHOULD TOO. If you're our friend, colleague, blogger buddy, or Twitter pal, we demand a goodbye hug.
Let's do this thing, eh? What's the worst that could happen?
A lot. I'm sorry, I have a foggy definition of "personal boundaries" and poor, at best, grasp of the concept of "limits." Did I ever tell you about the time biffle Michael and I went out "for a drink" and four hours later found ourselves taking shots at an NAACP reception and promising our new friends that we would DEFINITELY be joining them on their church group's upcoming spring cruise? I'm not making any promises, but who knows where this night could take us.
Mmmokay then, let's review.
Saturday, December 19
10:00 p.m. - 2 a.m.
National Mechanics
22 South 3rd St.
Philadelphia
Only you can make my dreams come true. I'll see you there.
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National Mechanics
22 South 3rd St.
Philadelphia
Only you can make my dreams come true. I'll see you there.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Wednesday's Song of the Week
Take a dash of DeVotchka. Mix well with Arcade Fire. Stir in a little French literature and some snappy suspenders, and I do believe you have yourself some Fanfarlo.
If THIS doesn't send you sailing blissfully through Wednesday, I don't know what will. A bigger paycheck, maybe. A doobie. If that cute guy in accounting would stop acting so goddamned capricious and just ask you out already?! That whiskey you have stashed under your desk. Don't think we don't know about that. We have our ways. Don't worry about it.
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If THIS doesn't send you sailing blissfully through Wednesday, I don't know what will. A bigger paycheck, maybe. A doobie. If that cute guy in accounting would stop acting so goddamned capricious and just ask you out already?! That whiskey you have stashed under your desk. Don't think we don't know about that. We have our ways. Don't worry about it.
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Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Notes from the Philadelphia Marathon (part dos)
People have been asking me about my experience with the Philadelphia Marathon. No one asked me my time. (4:22.) No one asked me if I even finished. (All 26.2 miles, biatches.) The only thing people wanted to know was whether or not I shat my pants.
Seems to me that you people are the ones with the pooping fixation.
As this was my first marathon, I wasn't sure what to expect.
I ran the first 13.1 miles with two of my friends from Back on My Feet. Which was wonderful because when you run with friends, you can do things like talk. And talk. And you can do a lot of talking for 13.1 miles.
And then, because we all run at different paces, we split up. But at that half-way mark, I saw my friends who yelled things like "GO, BRIDGET!" And then a few steps further I saw even more friends from Back on My Feet waving a sign that said things like "GO, BRIDGET!" (With glitter.) And all those GO, BRIDGET's really got me to ... go. (Because what says go more than glitter?)
And then came the hard part. Because while there were plenty of people hooting and hollering and calling my name (which, incidentally, happens fairly often when you get your name printed on your shirt with the command for people to cheer for you) as we ran through Center City and West Philly and Fairmount Park, those people really thinned ... out ... after ... that.
So I did what I tend to do under moments of duress and/or intoxication: I got loud. As the elites raced towards the finish line, already having come back from the turnaround point six miles away, I cheered for every name I saw (which was a lot, considering every racer's name was printed on his bib). And runners cheered for me. And as a whole, this was quite enjoyable. Like a walk in the park. Only faster. And for a very, very long time.
But then I made it to Manayunk, which, if you're not from Philadelphia, is that section of the city inhabited entirely by 21- to 24-year-olds who live in such a state of constant inebriation that they seem to have forgotten that they graduated college, which, naturally, means that's where the best cheerers were waiting. And they were loud. And after you've run 20 miles, loud is exactly what you need.
And after I passed the table of men giving out free beer to runners and passed the screaming group of girls dressed up as my Thanksgiving dinner and passed the restaurant giving out brownies (because if you haven't pooped your pants yet ...), I passed B and my parents. And that's when my mom, who has been my life-long running partner (and co-cream-donut-consumer), jumped in to run the last six miles with me.
And let me tell you something about that last six miles. The marathon training schedule peaked at 20 miles. That's a lot of miles, but not as many as 26.2. And it was that last 6.2 miles that made me a little nervous leading up to the marathon. No no, everyone assured me, you only need to train for 20 miles because adrenaline will get you through that last 6.2, no problem.
That was a lie. A dirty, stinking lie.
Those last 6 miles hurt like hell. But with my mom there with me, they hurt a little less. And I got a little bit of that steam back. Not much, but a little. Which, on a scale of holy shit this is HORRENDOUS to oh my gah this is AWESOME inched the needle towards eh, not so bad.
But then that beautiful last half mile happened. That part where you're desperately searching for the finish line, but the closer you get, the thicker the crowd and the louder the cheers and, quite miraculously, the faster your legs. ADRENALINE, BABY. And as my mom jumped back into the crowd and I wound my way through that tunnel of people and felt my legs getting faster (I certainly didn't see THAT coming) that pain didn't matter anymore because that. Was. AWESOME. The next morning though? That's when the pain would matter again because hoooo boy I had no idea stairs were so tricky. And I'm sure my neighbors who happened to see me walking to work on Monday morning were left wondering what, exactly, I had stuck up my butt that weekend.
But when I crossed that finish line and my friend Monica put that medal around my neck, I totally understood when all those people (who I had previously written off as batshit crazy) said that running marathons is like an addiction. Bring it on. Momma's got a lot of cream donuts to eat.
Seems to me that you people are the ones with the pooping fixation.
As this was my first marathon, I wasn't sure what to expect.
I ran the first 13.1 miles with two of my friends from Back on My Feet. Which was wonderful because when you run with friends, you can do things like talk. And talk. And you can do a lot of talking for 13.1 miles.
And then, because we all run at different paces, we split up. But at that half-way mark, I saw my friends who yelled things like "GO, BRIDGET!" And then a few steps further I saw even more friends from Back on My Feet waving a sign that said things like "GO, BRIDGET!" (With glitter.) And all those GO, BRIDGET's really got me to ... go. (Because what says go more than glitter?)
And then came the hard part. Because while there were plenty of people hooting and hollering and calling my name (which, incidentally, happens fairly often when you get your name printed on your shirt with the command for people to cheer for you) as we ran through Center City and West Philly and Fairmount Park, those people really thinned ... out ... after ... that.
So I did what I tend to do under moments of duress and/or intoxication: I got loud. As the elites raced towards the finish line, already having come back from the turnaround point six miles away, I cheered for every name I saw (which was a lot, considering every racer's name was printed on his bib). And runners cheered for me. And as a whole, this was quite enjoyable. Like a walk in the park. Only faster. And for a very, very long time.
But then I made it to Manayunk, which, if you're not from Philadelphia, is that section of the city inhabited entirely by 21- to 24-year-olds who live in such a state of constant inebriation that they seem to have forgotten that they graduated college, which, naturally, means that's where the best cheerers were waiting. And they were loud. And after you've run 20 miles, loud is exactly what you need.
And after I passed the table of men giving out free beer to runners and passed the screaming group of girls dressed up as my Thanksgiving dinner and passed the restaurant giving out brownies (because if you haven't pooped your pants yet ...), I passed B and my parents. And that's when my mom, who has been my life-long running partner (and co-cream-donut-consumer), jumped in to run the last six miles with me.
And let me tell you something about that last six miles. The marathon training schedule peaked at 20 miles. That's a lot of miles, but not as many as 26.2. And it was that last 6.2 miles that made me a little nervous leading up to the marathon. No no, everyone assured me, you only need to train for 20 miles because adrenaline will get you through that last 6.2, no problem.
That was a lie. A dirty, stinking lie.
Those last 6 miles hurt like hell. But with my mom there with me, they hurt a little less. And I got a little bit of that steam back. Not much, but a little. Which, on a scale of holy shit this is HORRENDOUS to oh my gah this is AWESOME inched the needle towards eh, not so bad.
But then that beautiful last half mile happened. That part where you're desperately searching for the finish line, but the closer you get, the thicker the crowd and the louder the cheers and, quite miraculously, the faster your legs. ADRENALINE, BABY. And as my mom jumped back into the crowd and I wound my way through that tunnel of people and felt my legs getting faster (I certainly didn't see THAT coming) that pain didn't matter anymore because that. Was. AWESOME. The next morning though? That's when the pain would matter again because hoooo boy I had no idea stairs were so tricky. And I'm sure my neighbors who happened to see me walking to work on Monday morning were left wondering what, exactly, I had stuck up my butt that weekend.
But when I crossed that finish line and my friend Monica put that medal around my neck, I totally understood when all those people (who I had previously written off as batshit crazy) said that running marathons is like an addiction. Bring it on. Momma's got a lot of cream donuts to eat.
And in case you were wondering (because I know you were), you can still donate to Back on My Feet.
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