How can you resist when Sharon Jones belts and those Dap Kings blow those horns? I'm gonna say it again. How can you RESIST? SING IT, SHARON!
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Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The hills are alive with the sound of my screams
When you move 400 miles away from your home, it's inevitable that you have to make a few changes. And besides all those obvious changes (house, job (yeah right), friends), there's also all those pain in the ass changes. Like finding a new dentist and getting a good lady doctor and, worst of all, finding a new hair stylist.
This never used to be a worry for me. You are, after all, talking to the girl who would routinely roll out of bed in high school, throw my Catholic school girl kilt and golf shirt on top of the boxers and t-shirt that I had worn to bed the night before, brush my teeth, and show up at school with hair that I considered slightly disheveled but my friends called "sex hair" because it looked like I had just come from an extreme bedroom romp. Which I had ... by myself in my boxers, t-shirt, and a good book. And in the seven years since, I may have gotten out of the habit of wearing pajamas in public (shudder), but I haven't changed that much. But what I do love is my hair. On a good day, it's sassy boombalassy. Improperly managed however, and it's your 12-year-old punk ass brother.
In Philadelphia, I had one hair stylist and one hair stylist only. And damn she was fine. I could show up for my scheduled appointment with no idea what I wanted to do with my hair, tell her what kind of mood I was in (adventurous, flirty, happy with what I got) and in a few snips of the scissors, she would create a hair masterpiece. A hairpiece! Nope, that doesn't work.
I have very shot hair.
Not just any josey schmo with a pair of scissors and a certificate from Jean Madeline school of Beauty can cut and style to my exact specifications. The very few times over the years that I'd strayed from my girl in an extreme pinch have never ended well.
There was the time I asked for a trim and I left a salon with the Hillary Clinton.
And that one time I asked for a Rihanna and I got a Julie Andrews a la "The Sound of Music."
And even that time I wanted something sexy and I totally got Beckhamed. And yes, I do see the irony, thankyouverymuch.
Needless to say, I'd become quite attached to my Philly hair stylist, who always had me leaving the shop feeling like a rock star (and never once like a Secretary of State, Austrian fraulein, or soccer star slash international male sex god). So I know finding a new one will not be easy.
I've been up here in New England for a few months now, and I've been forced to sample the local stylists, and I must say I am not entirely pleased. There haven't been any "The Hills Are Alive" hairsasters, but I haven't yet found someone I'm ready to let in to my Hair Circle of Trust. Not all who cut may enter. But once you're in, gggrrrrllll we'll talk about your crazy-ass boyfriend, Jew-hating neighbors, and sister in rehab while you cut my hair alllll day! Maybe we'll even get drinks and talk about our lady parts. Who knows where it'll go. With a pair of scissors and some blond highlights ANYTHING is possible. Tweet
This never used to be a worry for me. You are, after all, talking to the girl who would routinely roll out of bed in high school, throw my Catholic school girl kilt and golf shirt on top of the boxers and t-shirt that I had worn to bed the night before, brush my teeth, and show up at school with hair that I considered slightly disheveled but my friends called "sex hair" because it looked like I had just come from an extreme bedroom romp. Which I had ... by myself in my boxers, t-shirt, and a good book. And in the seven years since, I may have gotten out of the habit of wearing pajamas in public (shudder), but I haven't changed that much. But what I do love is my hair. On a good day, it's sassy boombalassy. Improperly managed however, and it's your 12-year-old punk ass brother.
In Philadelphia, I had one hair stylist and one hair stylist only. And damn she was fine. I could show up for my scheduled appointment with no idea what I wanted to do with my hair, tell her what kind of mood I was in (adventurous, flirty, happy with what I got) and in a few snips of the scissors, she would create a hair masterpiece. A hairpiece! Nope, that doesn't work.
I have very shot hair.
Not just any josey schmo with a pair of scissors and a certificate from Jean Madeline school of Beauty can cut and style to my exact specifications. The very few times over the years that I'd strayed from my girl in an extreme pinch have never ended well.
There was the time I asked for a trim and I left a salon with the Hillary Clinton.
And that one time I asked for a Rihanna and I got a Julie Andrews a la "The Sound of Music."
And even that time I wanted something sexy and I totally got Beckhamed. And yes, I do see the irony, thankyouverymuch.
Needless to say, I'd become quite attached to my Philly hair stylist, who always had me leaving the shop feeling like a rock star (and never once like a Secretary of State, Austrian fraulein, or soccer star slash international male sex god). So I know finding a new one will not be easy.
I've been up here in New England for a few months now, and I've been forced to sample the local stylists, and I must say I am not entirely pleased. There haven't been any "The Hills Are Alive" hairsasters, but I haven't yet found someone I'm ready to let in to my Hair Circle of Trust. Not all who cut may enter. But once you're in, gggrrrrllll we'll talk about your crazy-ass boyfriend, Jew-hating neighbors, and sister in rehab while you cut my hair alllll day! Maybe we'll even get drinks and talk about our lady parts. Who knows where it'll go. With a pair of scissors and some blond highlights ANYTHING is possible. Tweet
Friday, March 26, 2010
Upon further reflection, it's possible we were all alcoholics in college
Who here remembers their freshman year of college? Of course you don't. Because it was freshman year and man that shiz was ca-RAZY. Especially those first few months, when those hundreds of 18-year-olds were first unleashed on the world of Ah do what Ah want when Ah want!
Most college freshman have already been well exposed to solo cups and Natty Lights, but certainly not to the degree of Freshman Year, when all the campus youngins realized they could actually design their own class schedules to ensure that they never had to be awake before noon. IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES.
And imagine how exciting those first few months were: Getting to know all those crazy kids you'd be spending the next four years with. Bonding with some of the girlfriends you'd end up being girlfriends with 4lyfe. Building your circle of friends. And booze. Etc., etc., etc.
Now, the spring of my senior year of high school, I met a guy who would be starting at Loyola the following fall with me and blah blah blah we dated. Within the first few weeks of school though, we started fighting. A lot.
In the midst of one of these verbal disagreements, I stormed off back to my humble dorm room to ready myself for a night out with mah grlz. But I needed some cash. My roommate was out, so I left a note for her on the dry erase board hanging on our door.
"kate - tapping mac. back in a flash"
In my family in Philadelphia, we refer to "going to the ATM" as "tapping mac." You know? Mac machines? Right? Welp, soon after I left that note, the boyf ambled over to offer his sincerest apologies. Only when he got to my room, he saw the note on the door and stormed off in a mighty huff.
Later that night, he stumbled up to me at the bar and our conversation went a little something like this:
Freshman boyf: Who's Mac?
Me: Wha?
FB: I saw the note. Tapping Mac? Real discreet.
Me: WHA?
And that went on for a while.
Turns out he thought that when I was tapping mac, I was tapping some fine ass with some dude named Mac. And yes, I'm well aware that "tapping that" refers to getting yourself some booty. But being as "tapping" entered my vernacular as a means of getting money far before getting a little soemthin' somethin', that hadn't quite occurred to me until that moment. Incidentally, this immediately had me amend my mental Life Goals list to "date someone named Mac" so one day I could literally tap me some sweet, sweet Mac. Unfortunately, that goal was never realized. Yet.
BUT WAIT. THERE'S MORE. Maybe after that little absurdity of a fight, I had a shot. And then maybe I had another shot. Maybe another drink or two with the girlfriends. Drinking away my sorrows? Thaaat's about my style.
So when my roommate and I finally did meander back to our room, we both faceplanted hardcore into our delicious pillows. Some time later, our door opened. And in our dorm room, friends came and went so often through each others' rooms that no one locked their doors, so this wasn't uncommon. I turned my groggy little head toward the body standing in our doorway. Oh, I thought to myself. The boyf is here to apologize for being a freak, I assumed. I called his name. Yeah? He answered. So then I was all "okay whatever, I'm tired I don't want to talk about it now. Just go to bed." So he comes over and -- EARMUFFS, MOM -- crawls into my bed.
The night wares on and he is hogging my covers. I push him. Move over. He apologizes and rolls over. An apology, Finally. I rub his back. It's fine, I say. And then I fall back asleep to sleep the sleep of the drunken dead.
The next morning, the light streaming through our window wakes us both. And as we both slowly open our eyes I realize that I have NO IDEA WHO THIS GUY IS. I'll let that sink in for a second. I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THE DUDE IN MY BED IS.
So he jumps up and is all "um, sorry, I gotta go to class." And I'm all "WTF?!" And just like that, he's hightailed it out of that room faster than you can say "who the hell was THAT?"
So I'm all "Kate! Kate, wake up! I think some guy just slept in my bed" and she's all "no, it's fine. You were dreaming." And then I begin to think that maybe I was dreaming because SERIOUSLY, WTF?!
And then I go back to bed. Because that's how I roll. If it doesn't make sense, just sleep it off. Sixty percent of the time, it works every time.
A few days later, Kate and I are walking back from class together, discussing this bizarre incident, wondering if maybe it really was a dream because neither of us had seen a guy who fit his description since. As we're talking, we approach a group of guys standing outside the dorm. Suddenly, every single one of them starts laughing like they've just seen a fat kid in a weiner bikiener doing the Macarena for the last time.
And lo and behold the guy I drunkenly mistook for my boyfriend comes face to face for the first time with the girl who owned the bed he drunkenly mistook for his own in the room directly above his.
And after that doozie of an icebreaker we became great friends and he dated one of my best girlfriends for the next two years. And THAT just about sums up my entire college experience. WOO COLLEGE. Ohhh, gah I miss it. Someone get me a Natty Light. Tweet
Most college freshman have already been well exposed to solo cups and Natty Lights, but certainly not to the degree of Freshman Year, when all the campus youngins realized they could actually design their own class schedules to ensure that they never had to be awake before noon. IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES.
And imagine how exciting those first few months were: Getting to know all those crazy kids you'd be spending the next four years with. Bonding with some of the girlfriends you'd end up being girlfriends with 4lyfe. Building your circle of friends. And booze. Etc., etc., etc.
Now, the spring of my senior year of high school, I met a guy who would be starting at Loyola the following fall with me and blah blah blah we dated. Within the first few weeks of school though, we started fighting. A lot.
In the midst of one of these verbal disagreements, I stormed off back to my humble dorm room to ready myself for a night out with mah grlz. But I needed some cash. My roommate was out, so I left a note for her on the dry erase board hanging on our door.
"kate - tapping mac. back in a flash"
In my family in Philadelphia, we refer to "going to the ATM" as "tapping mac." You know? Mac machines? Right? Welp, soon after I left that note, the boyf ambled over to offer his sincerest apologies. Only when he got to my room, he saw the note on the door and stormed off in a mighty huff.
Later that night, he stumbled up to me at the bar and our conversation went a little something like this:
Freshman boyf: Who's Mac?
Me: Wha?
FB: I saw the note. Tapping Mac? Real discreet.
Me: WHA?
And that went on for a while.
Turns out he thought that when I was tapping mac, I was tapping some fine ass with some dude named Mac. And yes, I'm well aware that "tapping that" refers to getting yourself some booty. But being as "tapping" entered my vernacular as a means of getting money far before getting a little soemthin' somethin', that hadn't quite occurred to me until that moment. Incidentally, this immediately had me amend my mental Life Goals list to "date someone named Mac" so one day I could literally tap me some sweet, sweet Mac. Unfortunately, that goal was never realized. Yet.
BUT WAIT. THERE'S MORE. Maybe after that little absurdity of a fight, I had a shot. And then maybe I had another shot. Maybe another drink or two with the girlfriends. Drinking away my sorrows? Thaaat's about my style.
So when my roommate and I finally did meander back to our room, we both faceplanted hardcore into our delicious pillows. Some time later, our door opened. And in our dorm room, friends came and went so often through each others' rooms that no one locked their doors, so this wasn't uncommon. I turned my groggy little head toward the body standing in our doorway. Oh, I thought to myself. The boyf is here to apologize for being a freak, I assumed. I called his name. Yeah? He answered. So then I was all "okay whatever, I'm tired I don't want to talk about it now. Just go to bed." So he comes over and -- EARMUFFS, MOM -- crawls into my bed.
The night wares on and he is hogging my covers. I push him. Move over. He apologizes and rolls over. An apology, Finally. I rub his back. It's fine, I say. And then I fall back asleep to sleep the sleep of the drunken dead.
The next morning, the light streaming through our window wakes us both. And as we both slowly open our eyes I realize that I have NO IDEA WHO THIS GUY IS. I'll let that sink in for a second. I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THE DUDE IN MY BED IS.
So he jumps up and is all "um, sorry, I gotta go to class." And I'm all "WTF?!" And just like that, he's hightailed it out of that room faster than you can say "who the hell was THAT?"
So I'm all "Kate! Kate, wake up! I think some guy just slept in my bed" and she's all "no, it's fine. You were dreaming." And then I begin to think that maybe I was dreaming because SERIOUSLY, WTF?!
And then I go back to bed. Because that's how I roll. If it doesn't make sense, just sleep it off. Sixty percent of the time, it works every time.
A few days later, Kate and I are walking back from class together, discussing this bizarre incident, wondering if maybe it really was a dream because neither of us had seen a guy who fit his description since. As we're talking, we approach a group of guys standing outside the dorm. Suddenly, every single one of them starts laughing like they've just seen a fat kid in a weiner bikiener doing the Macarena for the last time.
And lo and behold the guy I drunkenly mistook for my boyfriend comes face to face for the first time with the girl who owned the bed he drunkenly mistook for his own in the room directly above his.
And after that doozie of an icebreaker we became great friends and he dated one of my best girlfriends for the next two years. And THAT just about sums up my entire college experience. WOO COLLEGE. Ohhh, gah I miss it. Someone get me a Natty Light. Tweet
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday's Song of the Week
You know songs that you only need to hear once and then they're pretty much stuck in your head forever? I've had A Fine Frenzy's "Happier" stuck in my head for about three weeks now. I sing it while I'm in the shower and when I'm cleaning and when I'm reading and when I'm cooking dinner and when I'm driving and when I'm writing blog posts about dog vomit. And at this point, I think it's making B a little paranoid. But you know what, I'm happier when I'm singing this song. Get it? See what I did there?
So naturally I had to give the rest of Bomb in a Birdcage a listen and I am downright schmitten. I totally dig A Fine Frenzy in a big way. And I also dig how there's been a lot of female artists featured in recent Yellaphant Song of the Weeks , like Florence and the Machine and Marina and the Diamonds and you know what I'm gonna do? Start a band. Cause bands are awesome and I've always had a thing for guys in bands. I mean really, who hasn't? Sorry, B, I'm totally starting a band and then I'm gonna bang lots of chicks because chicks LOVE bands. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. Oh, wait...
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So naturally I had to give the rest of Bomb in a Birdcage a listen and I am downright schmitten. I totally dig A Fine Frenzy in a big way. And I also dig how there's been a lot of female artists featured in recent Yellaphant Song of the Weeks , like Florence and the Machine and Marina and the Diamonds and you know what I'm gonna do? Start a band. Cause bands are awesome and I've always had a thing for guys in bands. I mean really, who hasn't? Sorry, B, I'm totally starting a band and then I'm gonna bang lots of chicks because chicks LOVE bands. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. Oh, wait...
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Tuesday, March 23, 2010
March is Mother Nature's hangover
Last week was kind of like a giant hangover. Probably because I was hungover. All week. First of all, it took me about three days to recover from last Saturday night. The mere thought of booze of any kind made my head swim and the back of my throat water. Clearly, my new found commitment to dirty martinis is not treating me as well as I had expected.
By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was just beginning to feel truly human again when everyone was all BLAH! Saint Paddy's Day! DRINK! So, obviously, I did. Then viola! By the time I emerged from the cloud it was the weekend again! But this time my closest friends from New Zealand came to visit Boston and here it is Tuesday and I'm finally able to speak somewhat coherently again.
The reason I have hangovers on the mind (besides the obvious reason), is because of a little something I heard Garrison Keillor say recently. On my ride to Philly a few weeks ago, I was listening to a Prairie Home Companion when Gar-gar described March as "Mother Nature's hangover." And was he right or am I still drunk?!
The winter rages for months and by the time March gets here, we all expect the sun to come out and the wind to stop and the flowers to bloom because hellooo, it's March, right? But it never works that way. In fact, it's usually nasty for another couple of months and we are ALWAYS surprised about it because in our picturesque 12-month calendars March is the month of green fields sunshine and yellow flowers! WHERE ARE OUR GREEN FIELDS AND SUNSHINE AND YELLOW FLOWERS?
Kind of like how we spend a night raging in the city sucking down vodka drinks and then are still totally surprised to wake up the next morning with cotton mouth and a splitting headache. Now, I tend not to get my panties in a twist over March because it always sucks. Except for this time last year when I was squirming around and kind of loosing my mind waiting for summer and talking about my vagina an awful lot, upon reflection. So this year, I vowed to just take March as it is (winter's horrible hangover) and patiently bide my time for sunny beach days and limes in my beer. And I aaallllmost made it. Until this weekend.
Every day last week was more beautiful than the day before, and by the time Saturday came around (the first day of spring, mind you), it was 70 degrees and nothing but sun and I. was. in. heaven. And then Monday got here and it's been cold and pouring ever since. HANGOVER.
I told myself not to get used to it. I reminded myself constantly as I sat in the sun in shorts and a tank top, reading my New Yorker, that it wouldn't last. That drinking beers in the Boston sunshine was a fluke. That I still had a good month and a half before dartying (day + party = darty) would become a regular occurrence again because good GAH there's nothing I love like a good darty. This is New England for cheese's sake. There was no way I was getting out of March that easy. Of course not.
So now I'm ready to just skip on past spring entirely and whip out those flip flops and tube tops so let's go, Mama Nature! Stock up on your B12 and let's darty! Tweet
By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was just beginning to feel truly human again when everyone was all BLAH! Saint Paddy's Day! DRINK! So, obviously, I did. Then viola! By the time I emerged from the cloud it was the weekend again! But this time my closest friends from New Zealand came to visit Boston and here it is Tuesday and I'm finally able to speak somewhat coherently again.
The reason I have hangovers on the mind (besides the obvious reason), is because of a little something I heard Garrison Keillor say recently. On my ride to Philly a few weeks ago, I was listening to a Prairie Home Companion when Gar-gar described March as "Mother Nature's hangover." And was he right or am I still drunk?!
The winter rages for months and by the time March gets here, we all expect the sun to come out and the wind to stop and the flowers to bloom because hellooo, it's March, right? But it never works that way. In fact, it's usually nasty for another couple of months and we are ALWAYS surprised about it because in our picturesque 12-month calendars March is the month of green fields sunshine and yellow flowers! WHERE ARE OUR GREEN FIELDS AND SUNSHINE AND YELLOW FLOWERS?
Kind of like how we spend a night raging in the city sucking down vodka drinks and then are still totally surprised to wake up the next morning with cotton mouth and a splitting headache. Now, I tend not to get my panties in a twist over March because it always sucks. Except for this time last year when I was squirming around and kind of loosing my mind waiting for summer and talking about my vagina an awful lot, upon reflection. So this year, I vowed to just take March as it is (winter's horrible hangover) and patiently bide my time for sunny beach days and limes in my beer. And I aaallllmost made it. Until this weekend.
Every day last week was more beautiful than the day before, and by the time Saturday came around (the first day of spring, mind you), it was 70 degrees and nothing but sun and I. was. in. heaven. And then Monday got here and it's been cold and pouring ever since. HANGOVER.
I told myself not to get used to it. I reminded myself constantly as I sat in the sun in shorts and a tank top, reading my New Yorker, that it wouldn't last. That drinking beers in the Boston sunshine was a fluke. That I still had a good month and a half before dartying (day + party = darty) would become a regular occurrence again because good GAH there's nothing I love like a good darty. This is New England for cheese's sake. There was no way I was getting out of March that easy. Of course not.
So now I'm ready to just skip on past spring entirely and whip out those flip flops and tube tops so let's go, Mama Nature! Stock up on your B12 and let's darty! Tweet
Friday, March 19, 2010
... and then Rooney puked on our bed
I didn't think I'd get to say this until July, but the weather in Massachusetts has been absolutely GORGEOUS this week. I have a slight sunburn on my cheeks. SUNBURN! Oh, the glory. And because the weather has been so wonderful, B and I have been taking Rooney on long walks through a golf course in our town. Since the course is still closed for the season, there are usually dozens of other dog walkers there, making it a huge doggie playground with sand traps.
While B and I walk or jog, Rooney spends his time zipping down fairways and leaping over sand traps like a dog possessed. On Saturday afternoon, somewhere around the fifth hole, Rooney skids to a halt cartoon style and starts furiously sniffing. Then he picks up a small clump and starts tossing it in the air. As we get closer, B yells to Rooney to drop whatever is in his mouth. A few steps further, and we realized what it was: a dead mouse. I repeat, A DEAD MOUSE. A mouse that had previously left his now-decaying body and passed into the great mouse heaven beyond.
So B's all, "oh my god it's a mouse!" And I'm all "IS IT ALIVE?! GET IT OUT!" And B's all, "no it's dead! It's a dead mouse!" And Rooney, who is suddenly paranoid that we're going to take it away, scoops it up and starts crunching dead Mickey's bones between his teeth. First of all, the last time B pulled something from Rooney's mouth, it was a pile of shit, so I'm pretty sure B wasn't sticking his hand anywhere near there. Second of all, as soon as we heard that horrible crunch, B dropped his head between his legs while I'm all "OH MY GAH THE HORROR. THE HORRORRRR. Um, are you going to puke?" And B's all "oh ... god ... it's just ... ehhhh ... I need a minute."
And after about two minutes, the mouse-eating incident was pretty much forgotten. What can you do about those crazy mouse-eating dogs, eh?
Later that night, B and I are in bed after a night that involved one too many martinis and far too many games of beer pong. But we're not just "in bed," we're dead-to-the-world, pillow-to-the-face, drooling-down-the-side-of-our-faces, not-gonna-be-pretty-tomorrow-morning asleep, when some time around 5 a.m. I hear a retching noise.
I've been a dog owner since I was a little kid, and I can say with utmost confidence that no good EVER comes from that retching noise. That sound can wrench me out of even the drunkest of slumbers in an instant. I respond the the sound of a dog puking the way that mothers respond to a crying baby in the middle of the night. I've been known to shoot out of bed to be at the scene of the crime before even fully regaining consciousness. It's a skill.
So I look over and Rooney is standing next to B's comatose body, getting ready to blow some serious chunks right next to his pillow. And then he does. B jumps out of bed to grab some paper towels and as he does, I take a closer look at the pile of puke. The room is still dark as night, but there is something in there that isn't normal.
And then it dawns on me. "OH MY GAH IT'S THE MOOOOOUUUUSEEEEEE. HOLY SHIT IT'S TOUCHING YOUR PILLOW. BURN THE PILLOW. BURN THE MATTRESS. THE MOUSE IS BAAAACK." And B's rocking back and forth hugging himself in the corner after disposing of the dirty paper towels because no way was I touching THAT shiz.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wednesday's Song of the Week: Happy green beer day!
So yesterday I was toying with the idea of going all Riverdance on your asses today for the Song of the Week in honor of everyone's favorite Irish saint, but then at my spin class, the teacher brought in a mix of Irish songs to workout to and literally every woman in that class went completely head-spinning, bile-spewing Exorcist on that poor instructor because BBWAAAARR they HAAAATTE Irish jigs, so we had to listen to the Rihanna dance mix AGAIN.
Well guess what, ladies, there are few things more adorable than a group of tiny children step dancing to Irish music (ah-hem French bulldogs), and few things I enjoy more than a good Irish jig. Considering I hale from a large Irish-Catholic family whose men consider beer nothing more than "something to drink when you're really thirsty" and when you want to drink, you drink whiskey, iijit, I guess it shouldn't be surprising that I greatly enjoy my Irish heritage.
But since you all seem to find Saint-Patrick's Day-themed music like, so totally obnoxious, I've decided to make one of my favorite CHRISTMAS songs this week's Song of the Week. Happy Saint Patrick's Day, bitcheeees.
Also, is there some kind of Irish law that prohibits bands from making music videos that aren't completely and bizarrely horrible? We all know awkward hurts my skin, and this is another one that has me keeling over in pain. STOP BEING AWKWARD, IRELAND. Tweet
Well guess what, ladies, there are few things more adorable than a group of tiny children step dancing to Irish music (ah-hem French bulldogs), and few things I enjoy more than a good Irish jig. Considering I hale from a large Irish-Catholic family whose men consider beer nothing more than "something to drink when you're really thirsty" and when you want to drink, you drink whiskey, iijit, I guess it shouldn't be surprising that I greatly enjoy my Irish heritage.
But since you all seem to find Saint-Patrick's Day-themed music like, so totally obnoxious, I've decided to make one of my favorite CHRISTMAS songs this week's Song of the Week. Happy Saint Patrick's Day, bitcheeees.
Also, is there some kind of Irish law that prohibits bands from making music videos that aren't completely and bizarrely horrible? We all know awkward hurts my skin, and this is another one that has me keeling over in pain. STOP BEING AWKWARD, IRELAND. Tweet
Monday, March 15, 2010
Like I need a new obsession: French bulldogs
It's probably not going to surprise anyone here that I very easily become obsessed with things. I don't just like the things that I like; I luuurrrve them. Spandex pants, solid color ties, Party in the U.S.A., cheese, multi-lingual children, kiwi birds. I'm getting myself worked up with love right now.
Well guess what, world. Bridget Horne has a new obsession: FRENCH BULLDOGS. And here's why. When we were in France, there was a French bulldog on every corner. I shit you not. French bulldogs IN FRANCE. Everywhere. How hilarious is that?! They were all waddling along with their owners, without leashes, perfectly behaved, and -- get this -- wearing vests. VESTS! ON BULLDOGS!
Why else do I love French bulldogs so much?
1. They look goofy as hell. Kind of like if a toad and Gizmo from the movie "Gremlins" met; fell in love; knocked back a couple bottles of wine one night; made sweet, tender love; and nine months later had a baby child, that baby child would be a French bulldog, a la the adorable family portrait I created below:
2. They snort.
3. They remind me of my fifth grade teacher, Sister Marguerite.
This new French bulldog obsession has caused me to completely reprioritize my life. Whereas if you had asked me my life goals 10 years ago, they would probably have been something like become a veterinarian, get married, make babies, and buy a house at the Jersey Shore. If you had asked me five years ago, they would have been do well in school and don't accidentally get knocked up. Two months ago? Get a job. If you asked me what would make my life complete today, it would be this: Get a French bulldog, name him Jean-Luc Picard, and prance around town wearing matching tweed vests.
Kind of like how Meg at 2birds1blog spends about 10 percent of her day Googling pictures of pugs, I spend an embarrassingly large portion of my time every day looking up clips of French bulldogs on YouTube. Like yesterday, when I was so hungover I was convinced death was upon me, what do you think I did all afternoon? And because of that, my life has been irreversibly changed by this clip:
I mean, come ON. I know my dog is pretty much as awesome as they come and all, but that's so cute I think I'm going to puke. PUKE. Tweet
Well guess what, world. Bridget Horne has a new obsession: FRENCH BULLDOGS. And here's why. When we were in France, there was a French bulldog on every corner. I shit you not. French bulldogs IN FRANCE. Everywhere. How hilarious is that?! They were all waddling along with their owners, without leashes, perfectly behaved, and -- get this -- wearing vests. VESTS! ON BULLDOGS!
Why else do I love French bulldogs so much?1. They look goofy as hell. Kind of like if a toad and Gizmo from the movie "Gremlins" met; fell in love; knocked back a couple bottles of wine one night; made sweet, tender love; and nine months later had a baby child, that baby child would be a French bulldog, a la the adorable family portrait I created below:
2. They snort.
3. They remind me of my fifth grade teacher, Sister Marguerite.
This new French bulldog obsession has caused me to completely reprioritize my life. Whereas if you had asked me my life goals 10 years ago, they would probably have been something like become a veterinarian, get married, make babies, and buy a house at the Jersey Shore. If you had asked me five years ago, they would have been do well in school and don't accidentally get knocked up. Two months ago? Get a job. If you asked me what would make my life complete today, it would be this: Get a French bulldog, name him Jean-Luc Picard, and prance around town wearing matching tweed vests.
Kind of like how Meg at 2birds1blog spends about 10 percent of her day Googling pictures of pugs, I spend an embarrassingly large portion of my time every day looking up clips of French bulldogs on YouTube. Like yesterday, when I was so hungover I was convinced death was upon me, what do you think I did all afternoon? And because of that, my life has been irreversibly changed by this clip:
I mean, come ON. I know my dog is pretty much as awesome as they come and all, but that's so cute I think I'm going to puke. PUKE. Tweet
Friday, March 12, 2010
Another actual conversation I had with my mother
My mom: He's not very social, is he?
Me: Doesn't seem that way.
My Mom: Does he even drink?
Me: I think you could call him a "casual" drinker.
My mom: So then what would we call you? The debutante of the drinking ball? Tweet
Me: Doesn't seem that way.
My Mom: Does he even drink?
Me: I think you could call him a "casual" drinker.
My mom: So then what would we call you? The debutante of the drinking ball? Tweet
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Notes from the Iberian Coasts (part quatro): Rock the Kasbah
After our absolutely amazing day in Barcelona, we docked in Alicante for the morning before hightailing it to North Africa. And after feeling downright almost kind of maybe proficient in Spanish while haggling with a painter on the streets of Barcelona, I was pumped and looking for any excuse to use my Spanish again in Alicante.
As we walked around, I read every sign aloud. "For rent," "caution wet paint," "If you lived here in Alicante, the beach would be your playground," "HALF OFF ALL SHOES!" while wondering how atrocious my accent actually was. Was I perhaps comparable to my Slovakian brother-in-law (that's a story for another day), who speaks perfect English, with a somewhat strong trace of an accent? Or did I more closely resemble the Russian kids who work on the boardwalk down the shore who say things like, "for you to like an sprinkle on your ice cream?" I was betting on the Ruskies.
Anyway. Amidst all the castle exploring and street walking and sign reading, what I really wanted to do was order a cerveza one last time while I could still use the word cerveza inside a bar and not sound like a total douche bag.
Me: B, let's get some beers.
B: It's nine o'clock in the morning.
Me: We're on vacation! Plus, it's raining, and what else do you do on vacation when it's raining?
B: In Europe? Oh, I don't know, explore an ancient castle? Visit centuries-old cathedrals? Check out a city park?
Me: But it's my last chance to not sound like an asshole!
B: I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure you left that station a loooong time ago.
Touche, husband, touche.
****************************
The next morning, the clouds were gone, the sun was streaming through our cabin window, AND WE WERE IN AFRICA. I think you know where I'm going next ...
It's hard to describe Tangiers without using mundane words like incredible, breathtaking, and at times mindblowing. But, um, like, it was. Tangiers was an assault to the senses, emphasis on ASSAULT.
As we wound our way through the dizzying streets of the city's kasbah, men and young boys would pop out from dark doorways and around corners, pressing leather belts, tin trinkets, and Chicklets in front of your face. Five euro, one euro, for you good price, ten euro. Naturally, my blond hair and our white skin was a magnet for hawkers of every sort of ware, who don't take no for an answer, hoping their insistence would finally put a few euros in their pocket. It was exciting and eye-opening and, at times, exhausting. Aaaand I just can't help myself ...
Our time in the kasbah was one of my favorite parts of the entire trip. The sites, sounds, and smells of the outdoor markets, the streets so narrow it would have been a squeeze for three people to walk down side by side, the colorful doors leading into unimaginable homes, the communal water spigots for washing dishes and clothes, the poverty, the color, the desperation, the beauty, the sweat.
We spent most of the day with our group who had hired a local guide for the day, which turned out to be an invaluable history lesson. With our guide, we were given the best of the streets and a sense of relative security, despite essentially walking around with a flashing neon TOURIST sign around our necks. And without him, we'd probably still be walking up and down the labyrinth of the kasbah streets, lost, dirty, and doing horrible, unspeakable things for a scrap or food or a few euros.
In the markets, olives came in every color and flavor, and skinned chickens hung from hooks above our heads, which firmly cemented my vegetarianism in my head.
With a little free time to walk around the old city ourselves, B and I decided to test our bargaining skills and bring something home uniquely Moroccan. Should we get a vase? Maybe a handmade ceramic bowl? A candle holder? A small child and baby donkey? I was pushing for the small child baby donkey thing, but that could have been such a hassle in customs. So thanks a lot, America.
As we browsed one shop's selections, we were quickly ushered up the back stairs where it was possible we would either be
a) swindled into buying something cheap for a lot of money (gah forbid)
b) bound, gagged, and sold into the sex slave industry (meh, could be worse)
c) invited for mint tea (orgasmic)
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending) it was d) none of the above. The shop owner wanted to show us how he made their rugs. Upstairs was a giant wooden loom with a half finished rug. And then it dawned on us. How AWESOME would it be to bring home a rug? Oh you like that? We got it in Morocco. NO BIG DEAL. Oh you just spilled wine on my rug? THAT'S FROM MOROCCO, YOU ASSHOLE.
And this is where the fun began. We haggled and haggled and refused his prices, and even went so far as to walk down the steps and out of the shop when the shopkeeper chased us down and finally offered the rug for 300 euros less than what he said he refused to go below. THAT'S WHAT I CALL A HAGGLE, BIATCH.
So B and I walked back to the bus with a giant carpet under B's arm and a sense of triumph clouding our heads. We. were. awesome. It was exhilarating. I wanted to haggle like that every day!
On our way out of the kasbah, a young boy spotted B out of the crowd and latched on for dear life, trying his damnedest to sell him a small wooden camel. And for a good 20 minutes, this is all we heard: one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro come on man one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro.
He never even stopped for breath. It was impressive. Tugging on B's arms, thrusting the camel into his face. I'm still surprised all that effort didn't work, 'cause that's usually exactly how I get B to do something too. Pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks GAHDAMNIT PICK UP YOUR DIRTY SOCKS BEFORE I STAB YOU IN THE JUGULAR. That's what the kid was missing: the stabbiness. Gotta step it up, kid.
And when we finally made it back to the bus, we dropped into our seats, put our bags down, and let out a long contented sigh, when B turned to me, face pale, eyes gaunt, gripping my arm and was all, "that boy will haunt my dreams. I see him whenever I close my eyes. I hear him. My dreams. My dreams."
So yeah. I got an authentic, hand-made silk and cashmere rug and B got a new Freddy Krueger. It was an awesome day. Tweet
As we walked around, I read every sign aloud. "For rent," "caution wet paint," "If you lived here in Alicante, the beach would be your playground," "HALF OFF ALL SHOES!" while wondering how atrocious my accent actually was. Was I perhaps comparable to my Slovakian brother-in-law (that's a story for another day), who speaks perfect English, with a somewhat strong trace of an accent? Or did I more closely resemble the Russian kids who work on the boardwalk down the shore who say things like, "for you to like an sprinkle on your ice cream?" I was betting on the Ruskies.
Anyway. Amidst all the castle exploring and street walking and sign reading, what I really wanted to do was order a cerveza one last time while I could still use the word cerveza inside a bar and not sound like a total douche bag.Me: B, let's get some beers.
B: It's nine o'clock in the morning.
Me: We're on vacation! Plus, it's raining, and what else do you do on vacation when it's raining?
B: In Europe? Oh, I don't know, explore an ancient castle? Visit centuries-old cathedrals? Check out a city park?
Me: But it's my last chance to not sound like an asshole!
B: I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure you left that station a loooong time ago.
Touche, husband, touche.
****************************
The next morning, the clouds were gone, the sun was streaming through our cabin window, AND WE WERE IN AFRICA. I think you know where I'm going next ...
It's hard to describe Tangiers without using mundane words like incredible, breathtaking, and at times mindblowing. But, um, like, it was. Tangiers was an assault to the senses, emphasis on ASSAULT.
As we wound our way through the dizzying streets of the city's kasbah, men and young boys would pop out from dark doorways and around corners, pressing leather belts, tin trinkets, and Chicklets in front of your face. Five euro, one euro, for you good price, ten euro. Naturally, my blond hair and our white skin was a magnet for hawkers of every sort of ware, who don't take no for an answer, hoping their insistence would finally put a few euros in their pocket. It was exciting and eye-opening and, at times, exhausting. Aaaand I just can't help myself ...Our time in the kasbah was one of my favorite parts of the entire trip. The sites, sounds, and smells of the outdoor markets, the streets so narrow it would have been a squeeze for three people to walk down side by side, the colorful doors leading into unimaginable homes, the communal water spigots for washing dishes and clothes, the poverty, the color, the desperation, the beauty, the sweat.
We spent most of the day with our group who had hired a local guide for the day, which turned out to be an invaluable history lesson. With our guide, we were given the best of the streets and a sense of relative security, despite essentially walking around with a flashing neon TOURIST sign around our necks. And without him, we'd probably still be walking up and down the labyrinth of the kasbah streets, lost, dirty, and doing horrible, unspeakable things for a scrap or food or a few euros.In the markets, olives came in every color and flavor, and skinned chickens hung from hooks above our heads, which firmly cemented my vegetarianism in my head.
With a little free time to walk around the old city ourselves, B and I decided to test our bargaining skills and bring something home uniquely Moroccan. Should we get a vase? Maybe a handmade ceramic bowl? A candle holder? A small child and baby donkey? I was pushing for the small child baby donkey thing, but that could have been such a hassle in customs. So thanks a lot, America.As we browsed one shop's selections, we were quickly ushered up the back stairs where it was possible we would either be
a) swindled into buying something cheap for a lot of money (gah forbid)
b) bound, gagged, and sold into the sex slave industry (meh, could be worse)
c) invited for mint tea (orgasmic)
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending) it was d) none of the above. The shop owner wanted to show us how he made their rugs. Upstairs was a giant wooden loom with a half finished rug. And then it dawned on us. How AWESOME would it be to bring home a rug? Oh you like that? We got it in Morocco. NO BIG DEAL. Oh you just spilled wine on my rug? THAT'S FROM MOROCCO, YOU ASSHOLE.
And this is where the fun began. We haggled and haggled and refused his prices, and even went so far as to walk down the steps and out of the shop when the shopkeeper chased us down and finally offered the rug for 300 euros less than what he said he refused to go below. THAT'S WHAT I CALL A HAGGLE, BIATCH.
So B and I walked back to the bus with a giant carpet under B's arm and a sense of triumph clouding our heads. We. were. awesome. It was exhilarating. I wanted to haggle like that every day!
On our way out of the kasbah, a young boy spotted B out of the crowd and latched on for dear life, trying his damnedest to sell him a small wooden camel. And for a good 20 minutes, this is all we heard: one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro come on man one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro one euro.
He never even stopped for breath. It was impressive. Tugging on B's arms, thrusting the camel into his face. I'm still surprised all that effort didn't work, 'cause that's usually exactly how I get B to do something too. Pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks pick up your dirty socks GAHDAMNIT PICK UP YOUR DIRTY SOCKS BEFORE I STAB YOU IN THE JUGULAR. That's what the kid was missing: the stabbiness. Gotta step it up, kid.
And when we finally made it back to the bus, we dropped into our seats, put our bags down, and let out a long contented sigh, when B turned to me, face pale, eyes gaunt, gripping my arm and was all, "that boy will haunt my dreams. I see him whenever I close my eyes. I hear him. My dreams. My dreams."
So yeah. I got an authentic, hand-made silk and cashmere rug and B got a new Freddy Krueger. It was an awesome day. Tweet
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday's Song of the Week
Monday, March 8, 2010
That pesky Yellaphant math is getting me in trouble again
Being back in Philly last week was a lot like being on spring break: surrounded by some of my favorite people in the world drinking beer in a (relatively) warmer climate for an entire week. And while being back home for the first time since we moved was tough at times, (I'm not gonna say I didn't call B at least three times throughout the week to tell him I would not, in fact, be returning to Massachusetts, mmmkay? But I'm also not not going to say it either) it was an amazing time filled with family, friends, and just about every Philly favorite I could squeeze into six days.
And on one of these days, there happened to be a long and arduous holiday-themed day of drinking at one of my hometown bars. After a solid four hours of some of my best in-bar flip cup, B asked me to close his tab so we could move on to another bar to have dinner with my parents. This statement alone obviously has good idea written all over it for so many reasons.
The total tab was $21. Now here's where the Yellaphant math comes in. I like to tip my tenders well, and we had gotten more than a few free rounds of drinks that afternoon, so I figured I'd leave a $10 tip. I wrote down the total I wanted charged to B's credit card: $31. But in my fuzzy-visioned state, I wrote $31 on the tip line. This, however, did not occur to me as I started adding those $21 and $31 figures together, and then writing the total of $52 on the bottom line, right on top of my John Hancock. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that not much was occurring to me in those moments except for the food I was about to stuff my face with.
I walked back upstairs, and as I handed B the receipt, what I had just done occurred to me. I think it goes without saying that B was all "WHAT THE FECK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!" And I was all "mmm ... drunk?"
After a marvelous dinner with my parents and a few more heavy beers later, we were all back at the $31 tip for a $21 tab bar, which also happens to be down the street from my parents' house. After a couple more drinks, I decided that the perfect solution to my re-re tipping situation would be to get the bartender to give me one of their long sleeved t-shirts, priced at $20. And he did.
So I walked right up to B, waved my free extra large shirt in his face and was all "BOOM I'M AWESOME. I can't wait to wear my new shirt" And he was all, "As a dress?" And I was all, "See, problem solved. Do I ever cease to amaze you?" And he was all "Definitely not," cause B's sweet like that.
So what have we learned from this? Math is not my strong suit. Neither is common sense, apparently. But am I awesome at flip cup or what? Tweet
And on one of these days, there happened to be a long and arduous holiday-themed day of drinking at one of my hometown bars. After a solid four hours of some of my best in-bar flip cup, B asked me to close his tab so we could move on to another bar to have dinner with my parents. This statement alone obviously has good idea written all over it for so many reasons.
The total tab was $21. Now here's where the Yellaphant math comes in. I like to tip my tenders well, and we had gotten more than a few free rounds of drinks that afternoon, so I figured I'd leave a $10 tip. I wrote down the total I wanted charged to B's credit card: $31. But in my fuzzy-visioned state, I wrote $31 on the tip line. This, however, did not occur to me as I started adding those $21 and $31 figures together, and then writing the total of $52 on the bottom line, right on top of my John Hancock. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that not much was occurring to me in those moments except for the food I was about to stuff my face with.
I walked back upstairs, and as I handed B the receipt, what I had just done occurred to me. I think it goes without saying that B was all "WHAT THE FECK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!" And I was all "mmm ... drunk?"
After a marvelous dinner with my parents and a few more heavy beers later, we were all back at the $31 tip for a $21 tab bar, which also happens to be down the street from my parents' house. After a couple more drinks, I decided that the perfect solution to my re-re tipping situation would be to get the bartender to give me one of their long sleeved t-shirts, priced at $20. And he did.So I walked right up to B, waved my free extra large shirt in his face and was all "BOOM I'M AWESOME. I can't wait to wear my new shirt" And he was all, "As a dress?" And I was all, "See, problem solved. Do I ever cease to amaze you?" And he was all "Definitely not," cause B's sweet like that.
So what have we learned from this? Math is not my strong suit. Neither is common sense, apparently. But am I awesome at flip cup or what? Tweet
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Another actual conversation I had with my mother
Me: I feel like I need a signature drink. Every classic character has a signature drink and a particular way they like it, you know? Shaken, stirred, straight up, with a twist, dry. Considering my new obsession with olives, I think my drink should be a dirty martini.
My mom: Acquiring a taste for drinks like that is the probably first step towards becoming an alcoholic housewife.
Me: ...
My mom: ... Mine's a vodka gimlet. Tweet
My mom: Acquiring a taste for drinks like that is the probably first step towards becoming an alcoholic housewife.
Me: ...
My mom: ... Mine's a vodka gimlet. Tweet
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Notes from the Iberian Coasts (part tres): Baaaaarcelona
A light snow fell upon the city in the early morning light as the Louis Majesty pulled into port at Barcelona on February 14. Watching the snow fall as I sipped my tea in the Royal Observatory, I regretted my decision to leave my knit Uggs at home. Yea, I own Uggs. I live in New England now. I get cold feet. SO JUDGE ME.
But I wasn't worried about the weather. Because I was in SPAIN. To be honest, I was obsessed with Barcelona long before I ever stepped foot in Spain. I studied Spanish for six years and never, ever get to use it. Not that I'm any good at it anymore. I can't remember what pair of underwear I put on this morning (spoiler alert: I'm not wearing any), let alone what I learned while half asleep in a classroom half a dozen years ago. But hot damn I was pumped to order some cervezas EN ESPANOL.
But first, we had some things to see. And in Barcelona, most of the things you see are pre-tay awesome. First there was Park Guell. Designed by crazy Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi in the early 1900s to be a housing community, it was too far ahead of it's time and, as most things ahead of their time, it failed. Kind of like Kitten Mittons.
No one wanted to live in crazy. Little did everyone know how crazy it was all about to get. I would have lived there with you in the madness, Gaudi. Personally, I don't understand who wouldn't want a giant mosaic salamander in their backyard (or a cat with mittens). For serious. I'm a sucker for bright colors. Kind of like a mocking bird, but with a shorter attention span.
Then there was la Sagrada Familia, and when I first stepped foot off that tour bus, this church took my breath away. The enormity was overwhelming. The intricacy was awe-inspiring. Entire Biblical stories unfolded in front of our eyes, and I felt that I could stand beneath those torrents all day and something new would constantly emerge. And yet, amidst all the beauty and art, I couldn't stop thinking about those drippy sandcastles my cousin and I loved to make at the beach.
From there, we scuttled through the historical district and then it was time for cervezas! And in my opinion, there is perhaps no better way to get to know a city than to sit in a crowded, sunny location, order a beer the size of your head, and people watch to your squeaky little heart's content. Which is exactly what we did with a few fellow travelers.
Clearly, with beers like that, it doesn't take long for my people watching to go from 0 to 10 on the subtlety scale, with 0 being a silent observer and 10 being a bit closer to "CHECK OUT THE BAZUNGAS ON THAT LADY. WOO BOY YOU CAN'T GO JOGGING WITH THOSE PUPPIES." And I was dangerously close to boob talking by the time the check came.
We meandered down the bustling city streets and gradually made our way back to the boat, but not before a little haggling on La Rambla. In La Rambla, they'll steal your underwear without ever touching your pants, my beerpanion told me. That? Is one of the greatest phrases I've ever heard. In. My. Life. Mostly because it involves the word "underwear" and UNDERWEAR! HA!
I've tried to use it multiple times since I first heard it, and so far it's just not working. First I was all, "oh, you're going to the grocery store? Watch out, they'll steal your underwear without ever touching your pants." And B's all "nope doesn't work." And then I'm all "oh, you're taking the dog for a walk? Watch out because ... um ... underwear ..." And B's all "just stop."
So instead, I've decided to actually practice removing one's underwear without touching said one's pants. So far the best I've done is perfected the art of giving painfully good wedgies. Turns out, pulling harder and faster isn't the key. But it does add to the element of surprise. STEALING YOUR UNDERWEAR ATTACK! SHAZAM! (That's what she said.)
So yeah, Barcelona was wonderful. And nobody's underwear was stolen. Not off the boat, anyway. HEY-YO FIRST VALENTINE'S DAY AS A MARRIED COUPLE. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. STEALING YOUR UNDERWEAR ATTACK!
Tweet
But I wasn't worried about the weather. Because I was in SPAIN. To be honest, I was obsessed with Barcelona long before I ever stepped foot in Spain. I studied Spanish for six years and never, ever get to use it. Not that I'm any good at it anymore. I can't remember what pair of underwear I put on this morning (spoiler alert: I'm not wearing any), let alone what I learned while half asleep in a classroom half a dozen years ago. But hot damn I was pumped to order some cervezas EN ESPANOL.
But first, we had some things to see. And in Barcelona, most of the things you see are pre-tay awesome. First there was Park Guell. Designed by crazy Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi in the early 1900s to be a housing community, it was too far ahead of it's time and, as most things ahead of their time, it failed. Kind of like Kitten Mittons.
No one wanted to live in crazy. Little did everyone know how crazy it was all about to get. I would have lived there with you in the madness, Gaudi. Personally, I don't understand who wouldn't want a giant mosaic salamander in their backyard (or a cat with mittens). For serious. I'm a sucker for bright colors. Kind of like a mocking bird, but with a shorter attention span.
Then there was la Sagrada Familia, and when I first stepped foot off that tour bus, this church took my breath away. The enormity was overwhelming. The intricacy was awe-inspiring. Entire Biblical stories unfolded in front of our eyes, and I felt that I could stand beneath those torrents all day and something new would constantly emerge. And yet, amidst all the beauty and art, I couldn't stop thinking about those drippy sandcastles my cousin and I loved to make at the beach.
From there, we scuttled through the historical district and then it was time for cervezas! And in my opinion, there is perhaps no better way to get to know a city than to sit in a crowded, sunny location, order a beer the size of your head, and people watch to your squeaky little heart's content. Which is exactly what we did with a few fellow travelers.
Clearly, with beers like that, it doesn't take long for my people watching to go from 0 to 10 on the subtlety scale, with 0 being a silent observer and 10 being a bit closer to "CHECK OUT THE BAZUNGAS ON THAT LADY. WOO BOY YOU CAN'T GO JOGGING WITH THOSE PUPPIES." And I was dangerously close to boob talking by the time the check came.We meandered down the bustling city streets and gradually made our way back to the boat, but not before a little haggling on La Rambla. In La Rambla, they'll steal your underwear without ever touching your pants, my beerpanion told me. That? Is one of the greatest phrases I've ever heard. In. My. Life. Mostly because it involves the word "underwear" and UNDERWEAR! HA!
I've tried to use it multiple times since I first heard it, and so far it's just not working. First I was all, "oh, you're going to the grocery store? Watch out, they'll steal your underwear without ever touching your pants." And B's all "nope doesn't work." And then I'm all "oh, you're taking the dog for a walk? Watch out because ... um ... underwear ..." And B's all "just stop."
So instead, I've decided to actually practice removing one's underwear without touching said one's pants. So far the best I've done is perfected the art of giving painfully good wedgies. Turns out, pulling harder and faster isn't the key. But it does add to the element of surprise. STEALING YOUR UNDERWEAR ATTACK! SHAZAM! (That's what she said.)
So yeah, Barcelona was wonderful. And nobody's underwear was stolen. Not off the boat, anyway. HEY-YO FIRST VALENTINE'S DAY AS A MARRIED COUPLE. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. STEALING YOUR UNDERWEAR ATTACK!
Tweet
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Wednesday's Song of the Week
I'm sorry I've been a little MIA recently. After our 10-day trek through Europe, B and I hightailed it to Vermont for a lovely little weekend of falling on our asses, and now I'm in Philadelphia for the week and good GAH it feels good to be back in my city. Like, so good. Like, when the city skyline grew out of the dark highway I almost burst into tears good. And then my favorite radio station played this song and I did.
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