In case you ever wonder what gets me out of bed in the morning ...

Just like my 12th grade AP Environmental Science teacher always used to say, Bridget, for the love of GOD, pull your head out of your ass and PAY. ATTENTION. You make a living by what you get, but you make a life by what you give. This is my life. How flipping lucky am I?

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Back on My Feet, ya'll. Back on My motherflipping Feet.

Three teams of men from three different homeless facilities assembled and ready to run: a crazilion hours of time

Free sneakers, shorts, socks, and shirts for thirty two men and one woman: a magillion hours of time.

One fundraising event for 28 different company sponsors: a spazillion hours of time.

One sit-down breakfast event for 500 corporate sponsors: a babillion fuzilion omgzillion hours of time.

One chapter of Back on My Feet officially launching in Boston: worth more time than you can ever imagine.

See the pictures.
Read the story.
Watch the video.

Fuck. Yes.

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If you even *think* the word "LOST" in my general direction after Sunday I will fucking bury you. No offense.

I guess you might have been able to tell by my recent lack of posting that I've been working a heckuva lot of hours recently. Or maybe you thought that I'd been kidnapped by the local hillpeople. Both are reasonable assumptions, in my opinion. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your stance on kidnapping by hillpeople as an adventure sport), it's the former.

The big Boston launch of my organization is on Monday, so I'm in that slightly batshit crazy period as the minutes tick away and oh my gadge how is it 6 p.m. already I still have to print a 1,000 nametags and drop off 3,000 wristbands and plan a formal breakfast for 500 people and what about the PowerPoint and e-mail the board and collect more logos and finalize the agenda and and AND. But it's cool, ya'll. I got it covered. Because I'm having a great time doing it. It's exciting and meaningful and important and I haven't been responsible for even a single office fire.

Since I'm away from home anywhere between 12 and 16 hours a day, like I have so far this week, I reasonably or unreasonably drop the majority of the domestic responsibilities on B, who just a few months ago, wasn't even capable of picking up his dirty sweatsocks until I lost my shit and threatened to burn down the entire apartment.

Now, I say reasonably because I think it's fair for the person who is generally gone 12 hours a day to ask the person who generally works anywhere between three and six hours a day five minutes from home to do a couple chores, such as empty the dishwasher or sweep the floors or maybe even get dinner started. And the unreasonably part comes in when I come home and I'm utterly exhausted and gah help us all if there are dishes in the sink or dirt on the floor because I. Just. Worked. 12. Hours. AndthelastthingIwanttodoiscomehometoasinkfullofdirtydishes. GAH. Meaning, the majority of the conversations I've had with my husband over the last month have been an ongoing To Do list.

Ce la vie. ANYWAY. Like I said, this round of crunch time is almost over and after Monday I'll be able to breathe again. BUT before Monday comes Sunday, and if anyone has simultaneously planned an organization launch and a formal breakfast for 500 and a city-wide, multi-company event that all occur on the same day, you know the day before that big day is likely to be a tad INSANE. Like, lady in a bathrobe screaming at the pigeons while clipping her toenails on the public bus insane. At least, that's what I assume. And it just to happens that this day before the big day is this upcoming Sunday. And what I discovered last night to my utmost horror, this is also otherwise known as the night of the series finale of ONLY the greatest show on television: LOST.

B and I have been watching LOST for years. It all started in a cramped dorm room in New Zealand four years ago and has stuck with us from Auckland to Baltimore to Philadelphia to Boston. I'm emotionally attached to it. It's like my security blanket. It's traveled with me throughout some of the most important periods of my life and served as my entertainment comfort to curl up with on the couch while I suck my thumb and drink from my sippy cup. I'm invested.

And after Sunday, it'll all be over. GUUUUUUHHHHHHHH. But since I'll be running around the city like a madman on Sunday evening and won't even be coming home until Monday, I won't get to watch this final sure-to-be-utterly-heartbreaking episode until Monday night.

In other words, what I'm trying to tell you is this: IF ANY ONE OF YOU ASSHOLES EVEN *THINKS* THE WORD LOST IN MY GENERAL DIRECTION BEFORE I'VE SEEN THIS FINALE I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU.

Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't e-mail me. Don't comment here. Don't even THINK near me.

I'm a coffee drinker now. I get all hopped up and jittery. I startle easily. I throw a mean hook. If someone even starts to talk about what happens before I know if it's really Jack and why they're here and what happens to everyone else and what about Hurley and OH GAH THE BLACK CLOUD, there's no telling what I might do.

But until them, I'm back into my insanity cloud. Someone fax me a coffee. Tweet

SEEN: Boston Herald

IMMA CUTTA BITCH. Go, Flyboys, go.


Thanks to Bill Fox. Because he's Bill Fox.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I love songs with clappiiiiiinnnnnggggggggg. This is a perfect warm weather song. Now all we need is that warm weather back. Christeaks, New England, it's May. Get on with it already.



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SEEN: New York City Subway

TRUE DAT.

Thanks to Deanne for snapping that photo and always saving her nail clipping time for behind closed doors.

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Embracing the CUHM

Since I spend the majority of my week locked in an exhausting and morally perilous trek to and from the city, now that the weather's warm I'm more than happy to curl up on a bar stool at my favorite local bar overlooking the ocean in my little beach town on the weekends and totally unwind. And yes, that sound you just heard was B shitting his pants.

As with any little beach town, ours is filled with its colorful cast of characters, otherwise known as the townies. Granted, every neighborhood -- city or country -- has its whack jobs, but in the city, they're a bit less noticeable. In the city, we spend our time bopping in and out of countless watering holes. But when you suddenly find yourself ordering beers at just one or two bars, those questionable characters hovering around you, heavy breathing behind your back as you order another round become a lot more conspicuous.

After many weeks of careful anthropological observation, I have broken down the townies into distinct categories.

1) The guy who sits at the same bar stool every night. He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't smile. But everyone knows who he is because no matter what day of the week, he'll be there. Every. Night. And if you happen to be new to the area and you just happen to sit at the first open bar stool you see and that just happens to be "his" bar stool, he will stand directly behind you, not saying a word, just breathing heavily, his hands resting on top of his bulbous stomach, waiting for you to leave to he can plop his ass down on his stool with a look that just screams "HOW. DARE. YOU."

2) The guy who sits at the same bar stool every night who buys everyone else drinks. This is a popular man in the small beach towns. He laughs loud and he laughs often, his face ruddy, his skin leathered from either a lifetime of drinking or fishing or both. He is a good townies to know because hello, free drinks. I want to call this man Captain and throw my arm around him and laugh and laugh and laugh. Maybe we'll split a 30-rack and go fishing one day. Maybe we'll just talk about splitting a 30-rack and going fishing. Either way, it all sounds good over a nice cold beer at our favorite bar.

3) The guy who walks into the bar, takes a look around, and stands in the corner for the rest of the night, smiling at no one and nursing his drink. This type of man is met with equal parts pity and suspicion. Pity because it hurts to see anyone so socially awkward. What caused this debilitating awkwardness? A tragic love story? A mangling physical accident? A smothering mother? Who knows, but this subject is not quite right in the head. And suspicion because any man who is not quite right in the head is met with suspicion from me. Are you going to follow me into the bathroom, knock me out with a dirty hankie full of chloroform, throw me in a muddy pit in your basement and make a vest out of my soft, delicate skin? You never know. I'm never entirely at ease around these types of people because I feel like I need to be on my toes. You know what they say in the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared (to potentially be abducted by a perv who wants to make skin clothes out of you). And don't make eye contact. Momma didn't raise no fool.

I was discussing this beach town townie with a friend at the bar this weekend when in walked a variation of townies #3. Naturally, I was all "dude." And she was all, "oh no big deal, that's just Curled Up Hand Man," and turned back to her beer. My eyes became big as saucers because excuse me WHAT? Curled Up Hand Man does indeed have one curled up hand, which he hides surprisingly well, tucked beneath his other arm. And apparently, he's a bit of a figure in this town. Everyone knows Curled Up Hand Man. Oh, normal. Of course everyone knows CUHM. And you know what? Some people even love CUHM. Because when it comes to small town characters, just like when it comes to small towns, sometimes you just need to embrace the CUHM. Tweet

NUDE TANE

So I mentioned on Tuesday how due to my recent lack of sleep, coffee has become my new bff. It's gotten to the point where I'm pretty sure I can't even make a BM without it. Too much? WELL. Considering I was spending a precious $1.37 every morning on a cup of Au Bon Pain's finest brews, I figured it would be much more economically and environmentally friendly to hook up that new wedding gift coffee maker at the new casa and percolate some grinds myself in the morning.

So this morning I did just that. I've been a tea drinker my entire life. Whenever I needed a little caffeine lift, tea was my go to pal. The first time I ever had a cup of coffee, I ordered a small Dunkin D's sometime around 10 a.m. Despite a long day of heavy drinking, I was still awake, wild-eyed and wiry at 4 a.m., pulling pepperoni off of pizzas and placing them over the eyes of sleeping friends. This might go without saying, but I am very easily affected by stimuli. That's why drugs are so awesome.

Because I've always been a every-once-in-a-while coffee drinker up until now, I'd never actually brewed a pot of coffee myself before this morning. Ever. After thoroughly examining the instruction booklet, I hooked up the coffee maker and gave her a little whirl. The minimum number of cups, I noticed, was four. Four cups, huh? Usually, I just drink a small cup and I'm good to go. But four? Welp, waste not want not is what I always say, so four cups it was. Down the hatch before I was even out the door to catch my train. And holy shit, ya'll I think I'm having a heat attack.

My heart is beating faster than a racehorse's, my hands are shaking like a stroke victim's, and I'm pretty sure I'm taking REALLY LOUDLY. AND DAMNIT I JUST REMEMBERED I FORGOT MY BANANA.

Oh shwell, it's Friday. And what does that mean? IT'S NUDE TANE TIME.



Whatever you do this weekend, I hope you are enterTANEd. Maybe even nudely. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

I'll be the first to admit that when I heard this song when it was released last year, I was at first all yea, Grizzly Bear, I dig because gah knows I have such a soft spot in my heart for adorable little hipsters. And then after about a week I was all meh. But now "Two Weeks" has made itself back to my audio field via the crossover world of car commercials that I would, under normal circumstances, find utterly offensive were it not for the fact that it's Volkswagen and I had a slight obsession with VW when I was younger. While my grade school and high school contemporaries were swooning over things like BMWs and Porsches, that old, white Volkswagen Rabbit with the bent antenna that was always parked down the street from the house we rented down the shore would send my heart into an absolutel flutter every time I saw it.

So yeah. This song had disappeared into that cranial filing cabinet of Pretty Good But I'll Forget About It In a Week until just recently. And I must say, I'm enjoying it so much more the second time around. Also? That commercial is adorably hilars. Gets me every time.



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Notes from the public transportation files

I spend a good three hours of my day commuting to and from work. Now, I'm not complaining (yes I am), but this means that I am getting far less sleep than I was, like, ever before. Which is fine (kind of) because I love what I'm doing during those hours spent awake (except for that commuting part). And I have far less time to do things like blog. Cause holy croly if I could only bother to squeeze out a couple posts a week when I was unemployed less actively engaged, imagine the monumental effort that goes into writing word vomitting now. What can I say? I do it for the money. HAH! I'll tell you what, good thing my nonprofit salary is so high or otherwise I don't know how I'd support that mortgage bar tab. HAH HAH! I find myself so much more amusing when I'm all bleary-eyed and slightly confused.

My commute however, is not that bad, all things considered. It's not like I'm sitting in traffic for an hour and half each way, slamming my head on a steering wheel. I'm riding right along in a moderately clean, relatively quiet train car. And then there's the bus and oh my blegh. But that train is frankly quite nice. While I spent my first few weeks of work happily plowing through (that's what he said) books at an unprecedented non-vacation pace, I know find myself gradually morphing into the people I found to be public trans oddities not long ago.

1. While reading my latest book, I often found myself laughing out loud. And not just subtle little chuckles, but full out guffaws that clearly attract the attention of my fellow-commuters. I was reading David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest" and I think it was one of the funniest books I've ever read in my life, simply because it was so utterly twisted. And what do twisted people love? Twisted humor. And pancakes. Moving on.

2. I find myself falling asleep more and more often on my train ride into the city in the morning. I am not dozing. I am REMing my face off. I'm having dreams. I'm snapping awake with a start and finding people staring at me and don't know if I'm supposed to be embarrassed or kind of creeped out that I'm being stared at. Like I said, the train ride is just so quiet and smooth and how can I resist catching a few Z's all nestled into my synthetic leather seat? I can't resist, frankly, because I usually fall asleep mid-sentence somewhere in "Infinite Jest" and you know those dreams are all sorts of fecked up.

3. I'm turning into an asshole. Okay this has nothing to do with my commute. I've kind of always been an asshole. But now there's a new type of assholeishness on the block. And her name is Commuter Bridget. As you know, I spent the first few weeks of my newborn commuting life absolutely terrified I was going to piss someone off. Now, I cannot describe the rage that wells up in my chest when some other asshole keeps the T doors open when I'm on my way to the commuter rail and holy crikes if this T doesn't get me to South Station in two minutes I'm going to miss my train and then I'll have to wait an entire hour and then you'll ALL be VERY sorry. And another thing? I've always been a brisk walker. Just about everyone who walks through South Station is slower than Bill and Karolyn Slowsky. So when I'm sprinting down the platform to catch my train, I'd appreciate it if your giant turtle ass got out of the way. If not, you might get an elbow to the ribs and I'm sorry, but again, missing that train is not an option.

I try to make up for my assholish commuter tendencies by overcompensating with niceness in every other circumstance, such as always giving my seat up for preggo ladies and anyone who looks like they might carry an AARP card (which, shockingly, I have YET to see anyone else do -- assholes), and thanking all the ticket people and bus drivers, and trying to be otherwise pleasantly cheerful because I'm sure it sucks to have to deal with tired, cranky commuters all day long.

Because I don't usually get home until 7 or sometimes 8 p.m., I have found the only way to squeeze my runs in (and thus maintain my sanity) are to do it before I catch the 7 a.m. train in the morning. Thus, I now drag my ass out of bed at 4:50 in the morning. Granted, I've done this before. But it's not very hard to get out of bed when you have a team of homeless men expecting you to show up for that 5:30 a.m. run. This is very different. And it's in the suburbs, making it infinitely more quiet and frankly a tad lonely on these runs. And whenever I do come across someone, I find myself wondering what in the hells they're doing up so early in the morning. But I will say, as I ran along the coast this morning and watched the sun rise over the ocean, life felt pret-ty, pret-ty, pretty sweet.

This new commuter schedule also probably explains my recent transformation from casual cafe visitor to full out coffee-addict. I am absolutely sub-human, falling asleep in my train seat and drooling on my chest until I get that first cup of coffee in the morning. My god I barely recognize myself anymore.

Welp, gotta go catch the T. And maybe the Hep. Note to self: buy hand sanitizer. Tweet