Wednesday's Song of the Week

I dig this song, Lieutenant Dan.



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Just another website I need to Parental Control from myself

So last week after I admitted to the Internet that I sweat like a hairy Bavarian sausage maker in my sleep, the fat lady at the gym left a comment and was all "mabes you have hypoglycemia." As usually happens with things like this, I read it then immediately forgot all about it as I cracked open a well-deserved end-of-the-second-week-of-work beer. Then at about 4:43 on Monday afternoon that comment popped back into my head and I downright panicked because OH MY GAH WHAT IF I REALLY DO HAVE HYPOGLYCEMIA? So of course I WebMDed the shit out of that and the first thing that popped up was the word "diabetes" so then my panic peaked at near-hysteria because DIABETES?! I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE PAID MORE ATTENTION TO THOSE LIBERTY MEDICAL DIABETES COMMERCIALS. WHAT IF I AM LIKE YOU, WILFORD BRIMLEY? WHAT IF I DO HAVE DIABEETUS?! WHAT ABOUT THE APPLE PIE?!

Sidenote: At any given time, in any given place, if anyone ever uses the phrase "...if you're like me," you can pretty much bet that B or I will interject with "AND YOU HAVE DIABEETUS!!!1" And then fall all over ourselves laughing like assholes. It's also not uncommon for one of us to blurt out "if you're like me ..." in the middle of any mundane task, like loading the dishwasher, and then wait for the other to finish the sentence simply for the act of giving each other the pure joy of pronouncing "diabetes" as "diabeetus." And yes, B's Wilford Brimley impersonation is absolutely one of the reasons I married him.

While searching for this commercial on YouTube, I found a breathtaking amount of Wilford Brimley Diabeetus Dance Remixes. And nothing says awesome like a DANCE REMIX, ERRRBOOODDYYY!!1!



ANYWAY. As I was saying: Hypoglycemia. So then I read past that first word and realized that hypoglycemia does not in fact mean you have diabeetus, so PHEW for that. Sorry Wilford, I guess besides the white mustache and passion for Quaker oatmeal, we're not all that similar after all.

But by the time I reached the end of the WebMD hypoglycemia page, I was just about convinced that I too had hypoglycemia. Yes, I am hungry, like, pretty much all the time, and I do get headaches if I don't eat, like, pretty much all the time, but I thought that was just because I'm a fat man trapped in a little blond girl's body. Yes, I do sometimes feel unsteady and have trouble walking, but I thought that was just because I was drunk. And gah knows yes, I have sweat so much during the night that my sheets are damp soaked when I wake up.

And then I saw one of the causes of hypoglycemia is stomach surgery. Been there. Done that. HOLY SHIT I TOTALLY HAVE HYPOGLYCEMIA.

So on the train ride home yesterday I mulled over the fact that I'm probably dying of low blood sugar levels. Later that night, B treated me to cooking dinner for us all by hisself (all I had to do was cut the vegetables, make the salad, get the sides, and set the table. Isn't he just the best? Siiiggghhh).

B: Stop eating M&Ms, dinner will be ready in like five minutes.

Me: I can't, I need to replenish my dangerously low blood sugar levels before I pass out.

B: What now?

Me: Oh, I forgot to tell you? I was on WebMD today ...

B: Heeereeee we go.

Me: ... and I probably have hypoglycemia.

B: So now you're diagnosing yourself as a hypoglycemic?

Me: I didn't diagnose myself. A blog commentor diagnosed me. Gah, what do you think I am?

B: You're not a hypoGLYCEMIC. You're a hypoCHONDRIAC. Why don't you WebMD that shit?

I think decided not to pursue the concept of hypoglycemia anymore because visions of Mojo opening her mouth every morning to check her throat to make sure she had enough room to breathe were dancing in my head. And I know I already said that I wouldn't go on WebMD unsupervised anymore, but this time I really mean it. I'm totally Parental Controlling myself from myself. Eat THAT, Dr. Oz! Tweet

Workin' on my night sweats

Lo siento about the lack of posting this week. Having a job is totally time consuming, you know? And gadge knows I'm not getting anything productive done on that commute what with all the dodging of the nail clippings, anxiety sweats, and general pole germ paranoia.

It seems these days though, a lot of things give me the sweats. You know, like the really strenuous things. Like sleeping. That's right: I'm a night sweater. I'm not talking about a little sweat on the brow. I'm talking about waking up in the middle of the night and wondering if I peed gallons of sweat-smelling pee all over my side of the bed and then rolled in it until I wake up freezing and utterly drenched.

I don't know what is going on with my body chemistry, because this is an entirely new thing for me. It is downright unpleasant. And it is a mystery. I usually go to bed cold. This is Massachusetts, after all, and there is nothing on this sweet earth that I hate more than being cold. If I had my choice, I'd rather be running a marathon through a 110-degree desert than walking down a street with the temperature anything less than 40 degrees. No one wants to be around me when I'm cold. Because when I'm cold, I'm a miserable excuse for a human.

Since I usually go to bed freezing, I pull all the covers up to my chinny-chin-chin. One would think, then, that if I started to get hot in the middle of night, I'd kick some of the covers off. But apparently my comatose body is in such a state of deep unconsciousness that I can't even move. One would also think that since I have cocooned myself in a womb of blessed comforter warmth and began to reach that level on discomfort that produces gallons of sweat from every pore of my body that, at the very least, I would wake up. But I don't. Not until my alarm goes off and it looks like I just went swimming. And worst of all, I'm freezing because I'm soaked in cold, disgusting sweat.

Even though this is a near-nightly experience now, it still surprises me every morning. It's like waking up next to a sweaty stranger. I'm never entirely sure what happened, but I DEFINITELY need to change my sheets.

Since the weather has been getting warmer here in New England, I've taken layers of blankets off the bed. This hasn't helped. I can now go to bed completely comfortable and I will still wake up drenched. And it's not like I'm hopping into bed in my long johns either. I practically sleep naked, and the one item of clothing I do wear to bed -- my underoos -- I could absolutely wring out into the sink the morning and get at least half a cup of butt sweat.

B, as you can imagine, was a little surprised when he rolled over to my side of the bed after the first night of sweats and found himself in a swamp.

B: Oh my GAH did you pee the bed? It's DRENCHED.

Me: No I sweat like crazy in my sleep.

B: You sweat THAT much last night?

Me: You get shwasted and pee your pants ONE time and you face suspicion for the rest of your life? Plus, it's not like I ever peed the bed. I just peed my pants. ONCE.

B: ...

Me: Okay twice.

B: ...

Me: Fine. Two and a half times.

Be: Little Miss Pee Pee pants strikes again.

Me: IT'S SWEAT.

And he's getting off easy. Usually, I like to drape every available limb on top of B when I sleep. And before the nigh sweats started, he constantly complained that my skin was on fire. Now that I wake up in a puddle of NOT PEE, I graciously roll to the edge of the bed, instead of on top of B. Sometimes I'm so considerate it slays me. Tweet

Mein Kampf: city buses

I have a confession to make: Before last week, I had only been on a city bus once in my entire life. But that one time was in New Zealand and I don't really count that because all that sky diving and bungee jumping and glacier hiking left me feeling particularly brave. And also I was probably high. I was in New Zealand, remember.

I've never had a car, so I routinely rely on my friends to cart my ass around. And when that fails, public transportation is always my friend. Buses, however, have always been Mein Kampf.

I don't know what it is about the thought of stepping on to a public bus. It's just ... scary. The thought alone would make me clench my butt cheeks.

The public transportation system in Philadelphia isn't exactly the country's strongest. But from my neighborhood, I could easily hop on a train to Center City and get almost anywhere I usually needed to go from there with a little hoofin'. But if the train or subway didn't go there, neither did I. No way was I brave enough to try to figure out how to bus myself to a certain neighborhood, what with all the tokens and the transfers and the Asian men with really long, dirty fingernails who hog the poles (I assume). So I'd make B drive me. Problem solved.

Boston however, is a horse of a different color. Traffic is an absolute bitch, no matter what time of day and no matter where you are going. So driving is out. Wasn't there supposed to be some kind of Big Dig construction project to solve that problem? What happened there, Boston?

The public transportation in Boston, however, is fabulous. I can easily hop on a subway and get anywhere I need to go. I've seen buses floating around out there, but never needed one because I have been able to get absolutely anywhere I've needed to go within a block or two via the "tunnel train."

So as I was figuring out what my morning commute would be before my first day of work, I was pleased to see that the city's Silver Line would drop me off a few hundred feet from my office doorstep. Being as all the train and subway lines are labeled by color (Red Line, Green Line, Orange Line, etc.), I assumed the Silver Line was one and the same.

The next morning I took the train into the city, fed my monthly pass into the turnstile like a good little commuter, and took the steps down to the Silver Line platform. And then a bus pulled up. And then I shit my pants.

A bus?! How do I know what bus to get on?! Any moron from the burbs can figure out the train. It only goes in two directions; just get on the one going your way. As more buses pulled into the platform, I broke out into a cold sweat. For me, figuring out a bus route is like figuring out the migratory pattern of a fruit fly. Buses crawl all over the city in no apparent pattern!

There is nothing I hate more than actin' a' fool on public transportation. You know at least 75% of commuters in the early morning are borderline miserable human beings and you know there is nothing borderline miserable human beings hate more than a passenger who doesn't know what the feck they are doing because if this moron from the suburbs makes them late for work so help her gah.

So standing there on the platform, I started to take stock of things I knew about the location of my office. I knew the address. I knew it was on the water. I knew the name of the office building. Suddenly, a bus pulled up with "WATERFRONT" blinking across the front. My office is on the water; this must be it. So I boarded the bus and sat tensely on the edge of my seat, my anxiety rising with each passing stop as all the other passengers eventually disappeared, never making a peep. Within 15 minutes, the bus had made a complete circle and I found myself back at South Station.

Blokay, I got on the wrong bus, but I was back in the station and I hadn't yet been accosted by any fellow passengers. I felt like a jackass in front of the bus driver, but no harm no foul, what else is new?

Thank gah the next bus to roll up had the name of my office building flashing across it's screen. So yeah, I guess it couldn't really be any easier. The bus might as well have pulled up with a flashing sign that said "GET ON ME, BRIDGET" (that's what he said).

Since then, however, I have had a few experiences that have reminded me why riding the bus was so ass-clenchingly terrifying. I haven't yet come across any many old Asian men with really long, dirty fingernails who hog the poles. I've come across something much worse. The man sitting next to me a few days ago was clipping his fingernails. ARE YOU SERIOUS, DUDE?! Do you think you are sitting in your undoubtedly grimy bathroom with a sink that I assume is filled with your shaving hair and probably some pubes? No. You are not. You, my socially retarded fellow-commuter, are sitting on a public bus NEXT TO A GIRL WHO CRINGES AT THE SOUND OF NAIL CLIPPERS. Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's socially unacceptable to clip your fingernails in public? I was appalled. So what did I do? I sat quietly in my little bucket seat, pushing myself into the woman on my other side as much as publicly decent and praying to gah almighty that a rogue nail clipping wouldn't fly in my direction. Barf times ten.

Then, on Friday evening, as I was waiting for the bus to come take me to the train station, I was scrounging through my bag to pull out my pass. Seconds later, the bus pulled up. As the other passengers boarded, I hopped in line behind the last person and threw my bag over my shoulder. And as I stepped onto the bus, the bus driver closed the door on me. Picture this: me, stuck in between two glass bus doors. Head in, butt out, 100 percent awkward. A bit shocked, I tried to pull my shoulders from the doors while the driver stared at me. And I was all, "uhhhh ... I'm getting on this bus." He stared at me for a good few more seconds before audibly sighing and finally opening the doors to let me fully in. I'm sorry I'm making it to necessary for you to do your job, Mr. Busdriver. I know you're on a scheule, but I promise it would have been faster to wait for me to get fully on the bus before closing the door. Awesome? Awesome. See you on Monday.

So now here I stand, world: Bridget Horne, bus rider. What once was mortally feared, is now tolerated surprisingly well. Skanky ass fingernail clippers, hazardous door closings, and all. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

Sweet grannie panties I am so into this band right now.



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Oh right, this is what it feels like to have a job

Today was my first day of work! In case you were wondering, it went a little something like this:



Thaaaat about sums it up. And yes, it WAS that awesome.

Speaking of shrimp running on a treadmill with the Benny Hill theme, that video was obviously sent to me by Jordan. Because if there's a video of shrimp running on a treadmill with the Benny Hill theme, you bet Jordan will find it.

I shook a crazbamillion hands, met the fastest man in America, and dove head first into what will essentially be my new lifestyle. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to scuttle my little shrimpy legs to the couch, where I will melt into a sea of blissful lethargy until I fall asleep with drool oozing down my face within approximately 12 minutes of butt hitting cushion. Tweet

Hello, have you met my HOUSE?

Isn't she just adorable?

And this would be Rooney's soon-to-be new kingdom, our backyard.

Let's step inside, shall we?

A fresh coat of paint in the living room.

And my, look at all those built-ins!

And more built-ins!

And even more built-ins!

And wait, some more built-ins!

And oh my gah more built-ins!

The papers have been signed. The downpayment has been paid. And now we wait as patiently as a booty-bumpin' crack addict waiting for his next fix for the settlement on April 30, when this house officially belongs to us. Can I get a what what?

In the mean time, the current owner has been letting us come in and paint, paint, paint to our little hearts' content. And if I had $5 for the amount of times I heard "for gah sake, Bridget, be careful with the trim," I'd have plenty o'bones for some delicious first-week-of-work happy hours. And all those white walls went to shades of bisque and sail cloth and golden straw.

And about that current owner? He has brought this house back from the brains-eating dead with his own two hands. Originally built in the 1920s, it had fallen into what some consider disrepair, what others would call downright naaaasty, but what the current owner considered POTENTIAL. Gah bless his little heart.

So for the past three years he worked and he worked and slowly but surely, this house went from nasty to absolutely beautiful. He has retained the classic 1920s charm, what with the crown molding and the chair rails and the glass door knobs and the antique sconces and the original front door, while bringing the house up to date with new hardwood floors and a brand new kitchen that he let us design -- what?! -- (which is still in progress) and new electrical and new ceilings and and and AND I'm having heart palpitations.

So there's our little beach house. And as this house gradually becomes our home, there will be plenty of disfuntional Yellaphant documenting for all to see.

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Cause when you're up, you're up

When I was in high school, my friends and I worked at a summer camp in Philadelphia that was free for inner city kids from low-income families called Camp Overbrook. We worked as camp counselors and life guards, and we loved every second of it. Every day, Camp O. would gather for afternoon announcements, and in order to get an entire camp of rowdy kids to shut up and pay attention for chrissake, we had everyone raise their right hand and sing a song. And it worked like a charm.

ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOOUUUUUCEMENTS. 'CAUSE WHEN YOU'RE UP, YOU'RE UP. AND WHEN YOU'RE DOWN YOU'RE DOWN. AND WHEN YOU'RE ONLY HALF WAY UP, YOU'RE NEITHER UP NOR DOWN. ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOOUUUUUCEMENTS.

Years went by, and my friends and I would still sing this aloud every time we heard the word "announcement" much to the disdain of our new college friends, who I might add did NOT respond well to The Announcement Song, which often ended with thrown beer cans and crumpled pieces of paper and sentences that ended with "... up your ass."

Anyway, what I would like to say is: ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOOUUUUUCEMENTS. 'CAUSE WHEN YOU'RE UP, YOU'RE UP. AND WHEN YOU'RE DOWN YOU'RE DOWN. AND WHEN YOU'RE ONLY HALF WAY UP, YOU'RE NEITHER UP NOR DOWN. ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOUNCEMENTS, ANNOOUUUUUCEMENTS.

Because I want to make sure you're paying attention when I tell you I GOT A JOB. And boy am I relieved because helloooo Mr. Paycheck, my bar tab missed you so. And also because after yesterday's post, as my friend Lora was all an announcement of an announcement?

Better mean one of the following:
1) you got a job
2) you are moving back
2a) this time to South Philly, in the house for rent two doors down from me
3) you got a baby up in your guts

I chose door number one! A JOB (and once again I feel the need to swear to you all that I am not, in fact, pregnant)! But not just any job. This is a job for an organization that I care deeply about. I believe wholeheartedly in their mission, and I've spent countless hours volunteering my time for them back in Philly. And now I get to do it every day! This is a job that will not only give me a sense a personal fulfillment (can you IMAGINE?!) but we'll be working towards a greater good (oh my gah I can barely stand it). I could not be more excited.

But wait! There's more! Right this very minute, B and I are about to walk out the door to hand over a check of our life's savings (ohmyfeckinggahI'mgoingtovomit) and sign some papers to BUY A HOUSE. A house! With doors! And a backyard! Right by the beach! And most importantly, the bars!

I'm now accepting applications for weekend visitors. Bring soft pretzels. The good kind. You know what I'm talking about, Lora.

Aaaand we're off. Pictures of our new love shack to follow. For a while it seemed like B and I were living by the rules of Murphy's Law (homeless, jobless, everythingless). And now things are turning around rather quickly. In a single week, actually. You know what they say: CAUSE WHEN YOU'RE UP, YOU'RE UP, BABY! Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

I'm going to go out on a limb here and admit that I've never been the biggest Pearl Jam fan before. That's right, I said it. CRUCIFY ME. I own the obligatory albums that I haven't really listened to since high school, because in oder to call yourself a true music fan, apparently your library must include at least some Pearl Jam.

But lately, Eddie Veder has been KILLING it for me. B and I saw them live a few years ago and I was impressed enough to put them on my list of Incredible Live Performers. But then this song came out this year and I am in lurve. It's a softer side of Veder that's often hard to find, and frankly, it makes me melt.





And don't forget to come back tomorrow for a HUGE ASS AWESOME ANNOUNCEMENT. Tweet

Another actual conversation with my mom. Alternate title: Take me hooooome country road

I'm back in Philadelphia again for the weekend to celebrate Easter with my family and obviously, I'm thrilled. And per usual, my 300+ mile drive down the east coast yesterday sucked MAJOR bazungas. I've definitely experienced worse Boston to Philly trips -- like the time it took me nine and a half hours to drive what typically takes six and good GAH I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown. But yesterday was no walk in the park.

First of all, I-95 was closed in Rhode Island. CLOSED. Kaputz. Cannot drive because it's been raining for the past week in New England and oh yeah half the state of the Lil' Rhody is under water. So my not so reliable GPS Cynthia took me some cockamamie route through bumbleburbs Rhode Island until the highway was finally opened again. Ten points for not peeing on myself this time though.

Then, of course, I hit intermittent traffic in every state I drove through. To top it off, the sun was shining (HALLELUJAH) but I was ROASTING in B's car because the air conditioner in his car broke TWO YEARS AGO and he refuses to get it fixed because do you think money just grows on trees? Open a window, woman. So I opened the windows but then I couldn't hear the music because I was driving on the highway so I turned the music up and then it was all just TOO LOUD so I rolled up the windows and and sweat through my shirt for the next six hours and BLERGH.

By the time I got off the highway, my t-shirt was soaked through, my butt was tingling, and I was so hungry I thought I was going to go into shock because I refuse to eat rest stop food because ICK. That said, I was slightly delirious and as I got closer to the town I grew up in, I started belting John Denver's "TAKE ME HOOO0000OOME COUNTRY ROOO000AAD TO THE PLAAAACE I BELOOO000NG," which is the song I always sing to myself when I'm on my way back to Philadelphia after a long time away.

It's incredibly ironic how much I enjoy this song considering he's singing about some backwater town in West Virginia, which is essentially my biggest nightmare. Guns, trucks, Rush Limbaugh on the radio, I'm giving myself hives just thinking about it. This may or may not stem back to the week after graduating high school, when all of my friends and I rented a house in the Outer Banks of North Carolina for two weeks. And for the second week of our stay, our next door neighbors were a group of boys from somewhere in the woods West Virginia. One night, they had wandered into our house for a party and let's just say things got slightly out of hand and a tad uncomfortable. As my friend Liz and I were herding them out our back door, one of them turned to us in his cut off jean shorts (shudder) smiled a huge, gap-toothed smile (shudder shudder), and proclaimed, a la "Deliverance," "when I come back I'm gonna make you girls SQUEEEEEL like a piggy." And then I shit my pants and had nightmares for weeks.

ANYWAY. I finally made it. The thought of Easter dinner -- which has always been one of my favorite dinners of the year -- powered me through yesterday's drive. But there will be no Easter ham for me this year. And when I reminded my mom of this, our conversation went like this ...

Me: Don't forget to have some vegetarian-friendly things for me to eat.

My mom: You're going to eat ham. I bet you will.

Me: Mom, I AM A VEGETARIAN. That means I DON'T EAT MEAT.

My mom: But you love ham.

Me: Yeah I did. Until I learned about it. I promise you, I will never eat ham again.

My mom: But you can on special occasions.

Me: Nope, doesn't work that way.

My Mom: Then I will be sure to eat extra for you and tell you how delicious it is with every bite. MMMMMMMM HAM.

Happy Easter to my Gentiles. Happy Passover to my Jews. And everyone have a FABULOUS weekend in the sun cause I don't know about you but I'm about ready to break out mah baving suit! Tweet