Wednesday's Song of the Week

For the record, it's a beautiful day in Boston and I feel like absolute shit. How I managed to stay healthy for an entire New England winter only to get sick the last week of June is beyond me. Yesterday was one of those days when I left my house at exactly 6:30 a.m. and didn't get home until after 9:30 p.m. and I'm pretty sure I wrestled a couple alligators and maybe killed a hooker somewhere in between. In an attempt to help my immune system fight the good fight today, I woke up at 4:30, drove to Boston, ran seven miles, and just downed a handful of DayQuil and a half a pot of coffee. I'm now blowing my nose with a pile of rather rough paper towels I ganked from the ladies room and feeling a tad bit weebly wobbly. But it's all good because THIS WEEKEND IS FOURTH OF JULY AND HOLY SHIT THIS IS MY FAVORITE HOLIDAY OF THE YEAAARRRRRRRR. And NOTHING gets me all crazy-like than thinking about a three-day weekend of sunshine, day drinking, beaches and boats. And today is Wednesday, which means it's officially the day to start focusing all of your waking hours on the weekend. It also means it's time for the song of the week. Which is awesome because it means I don't have to waste my limited energy on writing a "real" post today. Get over it.

And get crazy with me with a little Gogol Bordello. Some of the most fun live performances I've ever been to? Absolutely. If this doesn't make you want to tear your shirt off, tie a flamboyant scarf around your neck and do some cartwheels then you are no friend of mine. Or I dunno, maybe you're just normal or something.



Tweet

Dude, where's my car?

Ever since the last Shiz That Happens in My Town, I've been eagerly anticipating the next "Dear Michael" column because I STILL haven't gotten over that entire jeans and the limo and the P.F. Chang's thang that happened last time I cracked open the paper. It's been giving me night terrors. Legit. But "Dear Michael" hasn't been published ever since. I've been waiting and waiting and then suddenly it dawned on me: Diva Michael read the Yella and then killed hisself. Or he's on vacation. Either way, I'm very upset because I need more. Like a baby penguin yearns for the sustenance of it's mother's regurgitated lunch, I too yearn for the backwater questions from tiny town locals and the backasswards words of advice from Diva Michael. It's just that disturbing. Like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Can't turn away. Gotta have more. Gonna have nightmares for weeks.

So instead of regaling you with tales taken straight from the local paper, this time around I will present you with a story that I'm pretty certain would ONLY happen in my town. And it didn't even make the papers. So it's kind of a Shiz That Happens in my Town/ You Know You Live in a Small Beach Town When ... kind of day.

I'm writing about this story not because I experienced it -- fortunately or unfortunately, you be the judge -- but because for the first time in a very long time, the opportunity has arisen for me to write about a story that doesn't involve my vagina or toenails on the public bus and I'm DAMN excited about it. And also it's the funniest story I've heard in months. MONTHS I tell you.

Saturday afternoon, after a day of beaching that actually didn't involve my ass hanging off the back of a boat, we went to a party in honor of a friend who this very day hopped on a plane with a one way ticket to Australia. And what better way to say goodbye than with lots of booze?

So first it was the pool party and then it was on the party bus and then it was the house party and then it was back on the party bus and then it was the bar and then it all gets a little fuzzy because SANGRIA! OLE! After the bar, B and a few of our favorites decided that instead of getting back on that bus, destination: Disasterville, USA, that we would hobble home together.

The next afternoon we reconvened on the beach for my favorite game of What the Hells Did We DO Last Night? when the greatest story I have ever heard came to life. Please prepare yo'selves.

While a small group of us decided to walk off our sangria after the bar closed, another small group hopped back on that party bus and rode into the night. The exact details of where exactly the bus left everyone off at the end of the night is still unclear because no one can remember, but wherever it was, there was a party going on. Boys and girls eventually stumbled off to their beds but one did not. And the next morning he woke up in a strange house to a strange man screaming at him to GET THE GODDAMNED HELL OUT OF HIS HOUSE. But wait, there's more.

Now this particular boy -- we'll call him D -- is one of the nicest, most relaxed people I've ever met. So the vision of him being shooed out of a house by some disgruntled man in his pajamas is one of my favorite mental images of the week. And as D's being pushed out the door he's all "wait, uhhh, can I call my friends to pick me up?" And angry man is all "GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE." Which, we can assume, was a no.

So here D finds himself, blinking into the sunlight, alone on an empty street with no way of getting home. He looks around and sees a truck that belongs to one of the friends who had walked home with us the night before. And in our town, people not only tend to leave their cars unlocked, but they also tend to leave their keys in the ignition. I know RIGHT?! What IS this place?!

Hallelujah, D thinks as he slides into the truck and peels back to relative safety. And as he is recounting the story of his rude awakening and subsequent shooing from this random house to our friends, the part of the story with the good luck truck comes up. And he's all, "thank God Jordy's truck was there because I took that back here." And our friends stop laughing are all, "no dude, Jordy's truck is parked at his girlfriend's house." And he's all "no no, I drove Jordy's truck here." And there all, "no dude, that is NOT Jordy's truck." And he's all "Dudes. I think I just stole a truck."

So off they go to return the truck to the approximate location from whence it was stolen. And because this is a tiny beach town and because in tiny beach towns everyone knows EVERYONE, it just so happens that another friend knew exactly which family the hot truck belonged to. And when he called him to tell him that D accidentally stole their truck but it was now being returned no harm no foul?, the truck's true owner was all "Awwweesssommmme. Thanks for returning my truck," in a voice that I love to imagine was exactly like Jeff Spicoli's.



And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what pulled these words from my mouth for the first time: "Holy shit, I love this place." Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

Ummmmmmmmmmm yes.

Tweet

Sorry about the Bust: the Slovakian ties the knot

When B and I first started dating, he told me that he had "three sisters and a half brother from Slovakia." To say that I was shocked is kind of putting it lightly. Not too many chaps would so quickly offer the information that their dad had gone to Slovakia on business, knocked up a broad and brought back a baby Slovakian to the girl they are trying to woo. Or at least, that's the first thing that ran through my mind anyway. What ACTUALLY happened was a lot weirder.

When B was 10, his parents decided to bring over a foreign exchange student for a six-week program. This student was a cute little European mushroom head named Matej. After his six weeks were up and Mat was scheduled to head back to Slovakia, he sat B's parents down and asked if he could stay and finish out the year. And after the year he asked if he could finish high school. Then after high school he went to college here. Then lived with B's family for another few years, until he finally left. And by "left," I mean he moved into a house around the corner.

Meet Mat.

And within that 16 years' time, Mat met a local girl named Kelly; a beautiful all-American girl. And this past weekend, Mat and Kelly got married. Which is why, on Tuesday, I finally feel like a human again. Because to celebrate the nuptials of the happy couple, Mat's family came to town from Europe. And when the Slovaks are in town, the Borovicka flows like wine and I end up passed out on the kitchen floor in my underwear every night. Every. Flipping. Night.

Which is perfectly fine when, like B and I, you can walk home from wherever it is you're consuming shot after shot after shot after shot of Slovakian liquor. Which is also why, by the time Sunday rolled around, I physically felt like I had run a marathon the night before. And being as how I don't particularly remember every detail from the previous few nights, I'm gonna go ahead and say it's possible that I did.

I think mostly though it was just my body threatening to curl up into fetal position and just die if I put one more drop of alcohol in my body because Jeebus Chrysler when it comes to successive nights of open bars, some people just have no limits. And by some people, I mean me. But isn't that the whole point of a wedding? To get so black out drunk you don't remember making your father-in-law spin you around the dance floor like a six-year-old? No? Bueller? Blokay then moving on.

I actually had some reservations writing about this wedding weekend here, mostly because the last thing I need right now is for my family to read about my drinking habits on the interwebs and then come home from work tonight to find those that are near and dear to me gathered in my living room to read me letters about how my self-destructive decisions hurt them while some camera man films from the corner and then broadcasts it on A&E after they cart me off to rehab. You know?

For reals though, I convince myself I'm going to end up on "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" at least once every other month and if I have to add "Intervention" to my list of Reality Shows I Do Not Want To Be Tricked Into, it'll just be a bit much for me to handle. And yet here I am. For YOU. I do it all FOR YOU.

Anyway. Wedding. All I can say is beautiful. The weather, the flowers, the bride, BEAUTIFUL. It was the perfect day for a perfect summer wedding and Kelly and Mat should be so proud for pulling it off because they literally did. For my wedding, I purposely planned it at a hotel simply so I wouldn't have to deal with all that stuff that you need to deal with when you have a wedding somewhere like your backyard, which is where this weekend's wedding took place. And oh what a backyard it was. This backyard was downright Gatsby.

(For the record, none of these photos are from my camera. At some point during the move, I lost my camera charger. The following pieces of blackmail are brought to you thanks to B's little sister.)

All I can say is "Gatsby."

Beauty and the Slovak we all know and love

Aaaand then we come to the toasts of Borovicka and the pitchers of mojitos and lawd above the boats filled with booze and that dance floor felt the ungraceful pounding of my feet all night. Until that brief respite when I dragged the mother of the bride through her house to get me a pair of flip flops and then proceeded to accidentally hip check the family bust of Poseidon which now lays in pieces on their kitchen table. I've never been so horrified of my drunken actions in my entire life. Not all those times when I peed in public. Or the time I made the cops drive me to a party. Or the time I ran into a glass door at the bar. None of those times were as horrifying as breaking Poseidon's face in front of the Lady of the Manor because at that moment I almost shit my pants. And all I could say, as my spine went cold and I stared at the bust -- noseless, cracked forehead -- lying on the carpet was, "Oh. My. Gah. I'm so sorry about your bust." Which may have sounded a bit more like "Homigarrrdabust." but I think the message was displayed.

Lucky for me, there's nine children who grew up in that house, so one more bust with a broken nose is no big deal for momma. B's convinced I'm the biggest asshole to walk the planet, but I think he's still just mad that I made him walk home from the wedding, which (it turns out) feels A LOT further at 2 a.m. after just having danced our faces off for the past six hours than it usually would. Surprise! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go chug some water and work on my salt intake.

sisters-in-law

Boats of booze. Please note the dude's gaze. Asstacular.

Hubby.

Rock.

Nom nom nom.

Can't stand no mo'.

This accurately sums up my evening of classiness and sophistication.

CONGRATULATIONS, KELLY AND MAT! I AM SOOOO HAPPY FOR YOU GUYS! Tweet

UPDATED: On how an entire MBTA bus came to see my lady bits

Yesterday started out as a lovely day, weather-wise. For the most part, June has been a bit of a washout here in Massachusetts, and it was a welcome relief to watch the sun rise over the city as B and I drove in for a morning run. Since we live so far outside of the city, it's not possible for me to go home to shower after each run before I have to head into work. And at first I was all "no big deal, I don't mind working in my running clothes." But then after a few days sitting in my own sweat and walking around the office trailed with the scent of eue de nasty, my office-mates were all "don't be silly, you can shower at my place." And I was all "I don't want to put you out." And they were all, "WE INSIST." So now I shower at one of my co-worker's apartments before we head into the office together. One point for personal hygiene.

And here's the problem with that: it involves a bit of planning ahead. Limited planning, I'll grant you, but planning none the less. This planning is in the form of packing a bag the night before with everything I'll need for work the next day. A matching outfit, shoes, makeup, jewelry, etc. This sounds simple, but if I ever make it to work with everything I need, I'm going to consider it a MONUMENTAL success. One day I forgot to throw in my makeup bag. Another day I forgot all my jewelry. Another day I didn't have any shampoo. I'm quite certain that within time, I'll one day pack everything except my clothes.

Usually I "pack" the night before, but we were out late at a family party on Tuesday. And in my harried state of packing at 4:30 a.m. on Wednesday, I forgot to pack perhaps the most important element of all. I had my makeup. I had my dress. I had my jewelry. I had my shoes. I even had my bra. But I forgot to pack my underwear.

Meh. Could be worse. I'd much rather spend the day free-ballin' than walking around my office without a bra. 'Cause that would just be awkward. The only problem with prancing around without any underwear while wearing a dress however, is the slight shock to the system you get every time a slight breeze comes through. Helloooooo, world! Once you get used to that though, it's kind of nice. Like running through a field of poppies with your arms thrown open and a slight breeze on your face. Only in this case, your face is your va-jay-jay.

The day passed uneventfully though, and I'm fairly confident none of my office mates realized that I was walking around in a near constant state paranoia of somehow exposing my lady bits.

And at the end of the day, as I headed towards the door expecting to walk out into the sunshine, I opened the doors and found dark skies, gusty winds, and pouring rain. Thanks, Massachusetts weather. You're a real asshole sometimes.

I had no umbrella and even if I did, it would likely have been too difficult to navigate my 10 minute walk to the bus stop holding an umbrella and balancing three bags on my shoulders while trying to keep one hand free to hold my dress down to prevent it from flying up with every burst of wind and exposing my pale lily ass to all of East 1st Street.

So I hobbled down the street, swearing like a motherflipper and becoming more miserable by the second. By the time I got to the bus stop, I was drenched. And here's the thing about this particular bus stop. The schedule says it passes every 10 minutes. This is bullshit. The bus comes to my stop every 20 minutes. The route is split about a block before. Meaning every 10 minutes, the bus turns the block before my stop and circles around a back route to get to the train station. And every other bus goes straight down the street to the same destination. As I was walking down the street, I saw a bus go down the block for the alternate route, so I knew the next bus would pass my stop.

Ten minutes of waiting in the rain go by. I see the bus approaching. Finally. But then, I see the bus driver put the turn signal on. NO NO NO. He's supposed to go straight. He's supposed to hit MY stop next. The LAST bus went that way. THIS bus should go THIS way. After 10 minutes of walking in the rain followed by another 10 minutes of standing in the rain, there was no way in HELL I wasn't getting on this bus. So I hike up my bags, sprinted across the busy street dodging cars like Frogger and waving my arms at the bus as I'm all "oh no you DON'T motherfucker." I would have rolled over car hoods, bulldozed children, knocked over senior citizens, ANYTHING to get on this bus.

As I reach the center of the intersection, I lock eyes with the bus driver. HALLELUJAH. He sees me! He's going to stop! At that precise second, an enormous gust of wind picks up and sends my knee-length cotton dress up to my waist. The result: VAGINA.

The bus driver winks at my as I board the bus, chest heaving, hair plastered to my head. "Rough day, huh?" No actually, Mr. Bus driver, it was a splendid day until you got a front row ticket to the Bridget peep show. And he STILL made me pay the bus fare. The nerve of some people. You give 'em a little va-jay and they don't even wave your fee.

As I went to take my seat, a fat, scraggly looking old man in one of the front seats facing the front of the bus sat staring at me, grinning like a motherfucker. If his smile was any bigger, it would have split his face in half. So it looks like I made someone's day. My work here is complete. Two points for always thinking of others.

Let's just tuck this one away in the Of Course That Would Happen file. When I got home that night, B asked me how my day was.

"My day? Oh my day was great. Pretty sure I can now be considered a Level 1 sex offender."

"What does that mean?"

"Public flashing."

"Yeah, that sounds about right for you."

If B doesn't buy me a car PRONTO, I'm filing for divorce.

UPDATE: This just about sums it up. I take the FML every day.


Thanks, Deanne, for always being on the lookout for appropriate New York City Metro signs that match my life. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

You know what I love? Like, really, REALLY all-out LOVE? When white boys have soul. And not just soul, but SOUL. Because sometimes you hear a song. And maybe you really dig that song. And maybe you think to yourself, Man, this song has soul. This song has funk. This song was brought up on the Jackson 5. This song has an afro and a bright yellow afro pick.

And then you want to find out who the Clive behind the jive is and Google Images is all BLAM: DWEEBY WHITE BOY. Again!


You certainly fooled me, Jamie Lidell. And I am im-pressed 'cause this song is awesome. I'll be watching you. Oh yes, I'll be watching ...



Tweet

Shiz that happens in my town

As most of you know, making the transition from Philadelphia to a small New England town wasn't easy for me. Living at the beach certainly has it's charms, but I'll always miss the dive bars, the hipsters, the soft pretzels, and the soul of those Philadelphia city streets. Not to mention, I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood. And my current town is ... not. As one of the only people who hasn't spent my entire life there (these people are OBSESSED), it's easy for me to take a step back to view the absurdity. Sometimes it's awesome. Sometimes it's sad. And sometimes it's downright horrifying. But at the end of the day, you always just have to laugh. Am I right, guys? RIGHT? Just laugh? Guys?

And as such, I've decided to make a new Yellaphant feature: Shiz That Happens In My Pants Town, in which I scour the Tiny Town Gazette in search of anything besides listings of local senior center events and opinions on the weather. I'm looking for the ironic. The ridiculous. The most knee-slapping, jaw-dropping, god gawd are they serious stories that happened in my town.

Just because you live with the townies doesn't mean you can't laugh at them.

Some chick got arrested for driving under the influence of computer cleaner. She didn't have a license either. Which makes sense, because when you're dumb as shit, why not go for gold? Frankly, I'm disappointed she also didn't have a baby riding shotgun without a seatbelt and a trunk full of endangered monkeys she was smuggling to a once-wealthy monkey collector hiding out in his foreclosed mansion in Cape Cod.

Asked if he knows or has heard about whether sniffing computer cleaner is a new trend on the South Shore, Ross said it was new to him.

“I have never heard of it in my life,” he said.

The South Shore prepares itself for an incoming group of temporary exchange students from Spain, France, and China. Meanwhile, Scituate residents prepare their children to see their very first Asian. Program coordinator for the South Shore prides herself that FINALLY someone besides a bunch of rich, white, Irish people are going to call the town home. For the first time. Ever. Residents need not fear, however, they'll all be gone in 19 weeks. Please remain calm.

“The people who are interested have been really excited to do it,” she said. “Others are like, ‘No, thanks. I’ll pass.’”

ED. NOTE: I would like to state for the record of this first edition of Shiz That Happens that I was having a grand ol' time writing this, until I decided to meander on over to the "Opinions" section, where I found the advice column "Dear Michael." And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go fucking kill myself. I hereby bequeath all my shit to whoever wants it. Enjoy.

Dear Michael,

My husband is planning a special date for our upcoming fifth wedding anniversary. We are taking a limo to P.F. Chang’s and then to a comedy club. I was wondering if I could wear jeans to this, or if I needed to be more dressed up?

Sincerely,

Jeans or No Jeans?

Dear Jeans,

I would not wear jeans if I were you. Especially because it will be after 5 p.m., and you’ll be in a limo, and P.F. Chang’s is a upscale restaurant. Why not make the experience complete for yourself by dressing up and making it just like when you and your husband starting dating. Give him something to look forward to when you get home, if you know what I mean.

Love,

Your Diva Michael

Please someone tell me this is a joke. In theory, this could be a lovely evening: dinner and then a comedy club. But THIS? This is so wrong. I could write an entire blog post about this question and answer alone. Yep. Takin' a limo to P.F. Chang's to celebrate the fifth wedding anniversary. First of all? P.F. CHANG'S? Here is how I imagine the past four wedding anniversaries were spent:

First: McDonald's
Second: Pizza Hut
Third: T.G.I.Friday's
Fourth: Bertucci's

And for the ever-important wood anniversary: P.F. Chang's. Also? Wood: tee hee hee. ANYWAY. I am going to willingly admit that I am a total snob when it comes to where I spend my hard earned paychecks. Not that these establishments have to be nice, per se. Some of my favorite places in the world are hole in the walls with wooden benches and bathrooms that could make a sailor cringe. But they have soul, you see. They have bartenders with sleeves of tattoos and tight black t-shirts that make my heart flutter every time. They have character. And in my mind, it's all about character.

I have a STRICT rule against ever going to bars or restaurants in shopping centers or strip malls. I'd rather french kiss my dog right after he finished licking his own ass than go to a happy hour at bar next to an Office Max, or worse, spend a romantic dinner splitting a bloomin' onion. Also, I'm incredibly judgmental. Tell me that your favorite place to eat is the Outback Steakhouse and I will assume you are an uncultured heathen and treat you as such for the remainder of our limited relationship.

Here's an idea for you, Jeans or No Jeans, how about you save money by skipping the limo and spend the evening somewhere that doesn't have two locations in every city and a section in your grocery store's frozen foods aisle.

And for the record, if you even have to ASK whether you can wear jeans or not, the answer is NO, YOU CAN'T. Put on a fucking dress. GARRRGGH I AM INEXPLICABLY AND ENTIRELY FAR TOO ENRAGED BY THIS. Okay, I'm taking deep breaths. Let's move on.

I take personal offense to "Diva Michael's" answer. He states three, definitive reasons why Jeans should should spare the jeans:

1) It's after 5 p.m.
2) They'll be in a limo
3) "P.F. Chang's is an upscale restaurant"

And I have three, definitive answers for you, Diva Michael.

1) No
2) No
3) You make me want to throw myself off the sea wall into the icy waters below and drown.

And to leave you all with the cherry on top of the but-these-are-my-dress-jeans sundae: "Give him something to look forward to when you get home, if you know what I mean." Yes, Diva Michael, I think we all know what you mean. I think my eyes visibly popped out of my head when I read this. And then I processed the entire question and answer section for a few minutes and threw up in my mouth. Yes, this is a small town. But we're only 40 minutes from Boston. We are not three hours from the closest metropolitan area in bumblebutt Arkansas. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?

I am NEVER reading this paper again. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week on Thursday. Get over it already.

It's a chilly, rainy day in Boston today. And there is no band that I enjoy listening to more on rainy summer days than Bon Iver. There is something about his calming voice that fills me with nostalgia. Visions of long car rides, slow sun rises, summer fields, passing years. Yakkity yak. See? Now I'm all soft. Who needs a hug?



Tweet

You know you live in a small beach town when ...

1) You're in the middle of a delightful little jog in the middle of a delightful little afternoon when all of a sudden the wind starts to pick up, the skies start to darken, AND HOLY SHIT, YA'LL T'S THE APOCALYPSE. And best of all, you're miles, MILES, miles from home. So you joke to yourself, "I should just wave the next passing car down and ask them to take me home. Psh, yeah right." When suddenly before you can even finish that sentence of your ongoing internal jog monologue, that next passing car just happens to be two of your closest local friends who pull to the side of the road because "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? IT'S GOING TO POUR. GET IN THE CAR, YOU MORON."

2) After a night of unexpected heavy drinking at a party, it appears that both you and your husband are far too intoxicated to get behind the wheel of a car. So you decide to walk the 3.5 miles back to your house because it'll be an adventuuuurreee. Twenty minutes later, while you're booze-soaked spirits are still high, you begin to joke that, "no big deal, I'll just hail a cab," as you both stumble down the deserted street. Seconds after the words "there's no such THING as a cab here," pass your husband's lips, a car pulls to the side of the road. In it is a friend who, upon hearing what it is you're attempting to do, promptly tells you to get your drunk asses in the car because he's driving you home.

3) The morning after the aforementioned night of heavy drinking, you and you husband are still in bed with the hopes of simply sleeping off your hangover by staying in bed past 4:30 in the morning for the first time all week. When suddenly, there's a steady stream of knocking on your front door. You both stumble out of bed (literally) and pull on some clothes because omg what the HELL is that? Oh, it's just your town's Welcome Committee who has come to welcome you to the neighborhood by sitting you down at your dining room table to thoroughly review an entire bag of coupons to local establishments and maps of your town's sure-to-delight (the walking dead) historical elements while you sit there in a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, teeth unbrushed, hair uncombed, wondering if your head hurts so badly because this woman at your table won't stop talking or because of the unlady-like amounts of booze you drank the night before.

4) Your town has a Welcome Committee

5) Your town has a Welcome Committee who brings you a copy of your free local, weekly newspaper entitled "The Tiny Town Gazette."

6) The Tiny Town Gazette that is currently sitting on your dining room table fills you with equal parts dread and amusement because you now live in a place that has a newspaper called The Tiny Town Gazette. Laugh? Or cry? How about a drink?

7) The afternoon following your attempted 3.5 mile walk home in the middle of the night, you get a phone call from a different friend because "oh my gawd I heard you two tried to walk home last night and Jack totally picked you up from the side of the road," when you realize holy shit, this town is like Big Brother. How. Do. They. KNOW???

8) You find yourself looking for stories of police activity in the local section of the Globe because "I wonder if I'll know anyone who got arrested this weekend."

9) You realize that if you ever get arrested, your entire town will read about it in the paper the next day because for Gah's sake you can't even walk home without being spotted by everyone you know. And lord have mercy if it's The Tiny Town Gazette. Ha ha ... ha ... hummmm. Who needs a drink?

10) You find yourself drinking more. Way more. No seriously, who needs a drink? Tweet

After a few too many cocktails, even Jay-Z starts to sound like Descartes

There's been a lot going on at la casa de Yellaphant recently. It's pretty much officially summer, which means the New England weather no longer makes me want to hang myself from the shower rod. This also means that it's officially visiting season for those of us who live at the beach. NooOO0o one came to see me when I was threatening to drink cyanide in February. But now that the sun is shining strong and the ocean water is almost bearable enough to go swimming, everyone wants to stop by for a little weekend stay. In other words, I bribe my friends with promises of beach days and clam bakes. I'm not ashamed.

The first of those visitors was my mom (obviously). And then came Bossy. And that was boss. And now the friends and family are streaming in from every angle, like sweet little college freshman to a free kegger. Come to me, my little chickadees.

And that's because my house is like vacation. Yes, my commute is a bitch and a half. And yes, I do often work around 12 hours a day. But when I get home, the shoes come off, the ocean air hits my face, and it feels good. My weekends are spent at the beach and when I'm at the beach, I'm about as happy as a starving dog let loose in a bacon factory.

This probably explains why the past few weekends, I've mentally vacationed myself into a state of mental retardation. Which, in turn, would explain my recent state of mental well-being. Let me explain. Not only is shaking a week's worth of cobwebs out good for the soul, but after a few too many cocktails, I start to ponder what I consider at the time to be "profound thoughts." Upon further reflection, I was just drunk. But at those moments, I feel like the stars have aligned and everything is as it should be. It's like I'm spinning along on my little axis and then BOOM. I suddenly feel like fate has dropped me into that exact place at that exact time and dang that feels good.

Case in point: Memorial Day Weekend. After The Winter of My Discontent, I was more than ready for my first official weekend at the beach for the summer of 2010. The beach of choice in my town is most easily accessible via boat. People pull up in just about every floatable device imaginable -- from kayaks to lobster boats -- drop anchor, and jump on land with coolers, bbqs, and dogs. Heaven? Heaven.

After a full day of sun, sand, and far too many cans of light beer than necessary, my friends and I hopped on the boat and headed back to the harbor. Cruising along, the sun began to set. The music was playing, my skin was lightly sunburned. Then that new Jay-Z song come on. Typically, it really burns my toast when hip hop artists take a one-time hit, add some hip hop bridges, and turn it into a new hip hop hit. Gah knows I dig me some Jay-Z (dude has SKILLZ), but the first time I heard "Forever Young" I wasn't sure if I should pull over to the side of the road, turn off the car, and throw up in my mouth or turn it up, throw back my head, and sing along. So naturally, I did what I do every time something makes me slightly uncomfortable. I ignored it.

But when that song come on during the boat ride back from the beach and I heard that chorus, I nearly peed myself I thought it was so profound. It hit me straight to the core. Straight. To. The. Core. At that moment, that song was meant for US. For every young soul riding a boat back to the harbor after a perfect day at the beach. How did Alphaville know when they first wrote that chorus? How did Jay-Z know I would want a revival of this cheesy song at that exact moment? Surely, he created this cheap knock off with us in mind. It was genius. Brother, it was DEEP. It was like being smacked in the face with a little I think therefore I am. Yes, I really DO want to live forever, forever, forever young. I mean, come on, just the thought of mini vans, arthritis, and nursing homes make me want to drive a car into the closest telephone pole. I'm young therefore I am. More like I think therefore I'm drunk. HA. Heavy, Jay. Heavy. And then I tried to pee off the ladder on the back of the boat and fell into the water. No big deal.


Tweet

When they make the movie of my life, it'll be called "Locked Out: The Story of Bridget's Mental Retardation" starring Heidi Klum, obviously

Yesterday started like any other Wednesday. I got up at 4:30. I got myself out the door. I drove to Boston. I ran with my Back on My Feet team. And I sweat like hell.

Since it would be impossible for me to drive an hour back to my house to take a shower before work, I opted to shower at one of my co-workers houses, who lives a few miles from the office. How convenient! I pulled up to his house and applauded my own good luck for finding a parking spot right in front of his building. Oh how cocky I was.

Since I had locked my car during the run earlier that morning, I had taken the car key off the key ring and tied it to my running shoe laces. So when I took the single key out of the car's ignition, I thought to myself "Bridget, it would be mightly smart if you put this key back on the key ring now so you don't lose it later." Then I grabbed my bags and scampered up his steps.

This was my first in time my co-worker's home, so I admired the view of the city street below from his living room window while he finished getting ready for a meeting. When I peered out at my car below though, I noticed for the first time that I was parked directly in front of a no parking sign.

Oh, haha, silly me. Didn't even notice that now, did I? So I grabbed the keys and headed downstairs to move the car up a few feet. And when I got to the car, what did I see? The single car key sitting on the driver's seat behind the locked car door. MOTHER.FUCKER.

So I rushed up the stairs, called B at work and was all, "so I locked the key in the car and I'm parked in a No Parking zone in the city," and he was all, "..." and I was all, "B?" And he was all, "WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?"

There is no remote to B's car. Nor is there a spare key. We don't have AAA. B was an hour away at work. And I had to be at the office in an hour. No big deal right?

Finally, we decided that I would call AAA, pretend to be B's sister who is a AAA member, and see if I could get away with it. When the AAA man pulled up, his arms covered in sleeves of tats and his tinted sunglasses slung low, he asked for my membership card. This was my type of dude. "Ummmm ... I don't have it?" Then he asked me for a form of ID. "Ummmmmmm ... I don't have that either?" And he was all, "you don't have your license?" And I was all, "I dunno?" and gave him my best doe eyes. A good three minutes of uncomfortable silence from AAA Dude followed, until he finally shrugged his blessed little shoulders and popped my lock. And then I was all, "MARRY ME AAA MAN." My day and no doubt a VERY expensive towing fee had been saved by the Dude.

And after all that, I STILL made it to work by 9, with a confusing mix of feelings of "good lawd I'm dumb" and "hells yes I'm awesome" floating in my head. When I got to the office, I found one of the office interns waiting outside. He was locked out and wanted to know if I had a key. "Of course I have a key! Hooo boy walk with me and I'll tell you a little story about being locked out!" I said as I reached my hand in my bag to pull out my office keys. And in the pocket where those keys usually live was nothing put a few pennies and an empty gum wrapper. MOTHER.FUCKER.

Once again, the keys were sitting in plain sight, right on top of my desk behind the locked office door. And so we waited for the next person to show up to work. And waited. And waited some more while I pondered the meaning of locked doors as an omen of impending doom. Finally one of my co-workers arrived and let us all into the office.

Later that morning, once I was finally settled at my desk and cranking out some work, B called me. "You locked the house."

"Yeah?"
"You locked the house and my sister needs to get in to walk the dog."
"MOTHER.FUCKER."
"I married the most retarded person I've ever met in my life."
"Yeah, well your feet smell like mold SO WE'RE EVEN."

For the rest of the day, I walked around in a state of complete paranoia. When I went to the bathroom, I was worried I'd somehow lock myself in the stall and no one would find me for days and I'd have to survive by drinking toilet water and chewing on toilet paper to pass the time. Surely, the building was about to catch on fire and I'd find myself locked in the office with no choice but to jump out the seventh floor window. Every corner I turned, I expected to find a locked door and my only chance of survival on the other side.

At home last night while baking cookies for a friend, I explained to B that I generally consider myself to have pretty good luck. I think I just needed to get that day out of my system and then I'd be good to go for the rest of the year. And he was all, "or maybe you're just a liiiiiittle dumb." And I was all, "always a distinct possibility." Then I pulled a tray of perfectly golden cookies out of the oven, burnt my hand, and dropped the entire tray on to the floor just as a splatter of melted butter hit the bottom of the oven, sent up a plume of smoke, and set off every smoke detector on the first floor.

Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

This song makes me want to nod my head, shake my fingers and give a little "heyyyaaaa beeeetchessss." Just me?

Tweet

Aliiiiiiiiive! Aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!

Good morning, world! I don't know about you, but I feel like a brand new gal. I finally got a few full nights' sleeps tucked under my belt, I'm pleasantly sunburned, and I'm tucked into my little train seat hoping the ticket man doesn't notice I'm still using my May monthly pass and that no one sits next to me. Fight the system, bras!

And hooo boooy did I need this weekend. If you couldn't tell from last week's measly posts, I was feeling a bit ... shall we say ... emotional after the entire "just launched the Boston chapter of Back on my Feet" thing. Could have been the utter lack of sleep. Or the four-day diet of beer and french fries coupled with the fact that I was too deliriously tired to lace up my running shoes all week. Or maybe it's just that I was so flipping pumped that we finally launched. Who knows, but I spent my week walking around in a fog so thick I could barely tell my ass from Curled Up Hand Man's curled up elbow. Speaking of which, I recently found out that Curled Up Hand Man's name is actually FOLDED Up Hand Man. God, I can't even get my townies straight. I have so much to learn.

So when I finally stumbled off the train on Friday afternoon and found myself slightly confused, blinking into the sunlight and the potential of a three-day weekend, I damn near shit my pants. Because nothing spells awesome to a sleep-deprived gal who's starving for her return to a social life like a three-day weekend devoted to beachin' and boatin' and day drinkin'. And beach and boat and day drink we did. And to be honest, I'm as shocked as you are that I'm not just now waking up wedged in between some drift wood with seaweed in my hair and sand in my mouth. It's a Memorial Day miracle!

So when I fell off the back of the boat while trying to pee and friends took a tumble on the dock while trying to put on a pair of shorts and B emerged from the marshes and found us all giggling in a harbor bar booth with missing articles of clothing and a pair of white galoshes on my feet because I lost my flip flops, I knew that we had succeeded. Memorial Day was a success. And by success, I mean shit show. And that is exactly what I needed. Welcome back, summer shenanigans. Oh how I've missed you. It's been a long, cold, lonely winter. Doo doo doo doo.

And this is what I'm thinking about as the train barrels towards Boston and I gear myself up for another week. Mostly because I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that I really have to poop after chugging that extra large cup of coffee. Too much, Falko?

I'm BACK, bitches!

Tweet