TRANSPORTATION VINDICATION

After one too many free vajeen shows on the public bus, I put my foot down and declared that my public transportation days were OVER. B was driving maybe seven minutes tops from our house to his work every day while I was schlepping my life around like a bag lady from car to train to corner to bus capped off by a half-mile walk to the office two sweaty hours later. And just like Jennifer Lopez circa the 2002 movie Enough, I had ENOUGH.

So this month I have been taking B's car to work in the city while he rides his bike to work and it is glorious. It has changed my life forever and I will never go back. Granted, it's still an hour in the car each way and there's often enough traffic to raise the blood pressure a smidge and make me curse every godforsaken resident of Massachusetts, but I still save HOURS of time each day and return home in the evening with my spirits buoyed.

I'm no longer a slave to the clock. You will not find me sprinting down the commuter rail platform in South Station or waving my arms frantically as the number 7 bus roars past me down Summer Street or crying softly in my seat as the man in the bucket seat next to me trims his toe nails. That's the old Bridget. The new Bridget drives a CAR like a BOSS.

And after less than one month of pedaling his little bike to and fro in our town, B has decided that perhaps now is the time to start thinking about getting a second car. Not three years ago when I first suggested it. Or two years ago when I really began insisting that maybe it was time. Or last year when I said that it would really be practical if I had my own car. Or even earlier this year when I threw myself to the living room floor and begged not to be made to get on that bus again.

And why is that? Could it be because I constantly complain about the state of B's disgustingly dirty car? Or the idea of both B and I having the freedom to drive somewhere without having to schedule car time well in advance. Or the fact that his car eats gas faster than a fat kid stuffs his pockets in a candy store? Or even that I demand to drive something that has a working air conditioner because it's really just impractical to be driving to board meetings with some major swamp ass? No. It is none of those things. It is because B is tired of riding his bicycle. And you know what? I'll take it.

FINALLY my very own car is so close I can taste it! I'm 25 years old and have never had a car before. This is a big deal for me. It's like getting your first bike without training wheels. And it's exactly the bike you wanted with the purple handlebars and the white pedals and the pink streamers and oh my gah I think I'm going to pee my pants. Again.

And speaking of that first bike? I loved it so hard. I worked to keep it in perfect condition for as long as possible. You want to talk about OCD? I was a fucking spaz when it came to that thing. And I still vividly remember the day I was riding down the street with my friends and my little six-year-old self got a little too close to the curb. My perfect white pedal scraped against it for a few feet until I regained my balance and pulled away. And when I jumped off to examine the damage, I saw about two inches of the smooth plastic on the side of the pedal was now rough and scraped, as you would imagine happens to plastic when you scrape it against cement.

I. Lost. My. Shit.

I furiously pedaled home and tearfully begged my parents to take me to the bike store IMMEDIATELY so I could get a new pedal. I NEEDED a perfect pedal. This one was RUINED. It would NEVER do. Naturally, my parents told me to get over myself and my request for a new pedal was promptly dismissed forever.

On that note, I'm a little nervous that the first time I get a slight ding in the new car that I don't even own yet, I'm inevitably going to revert back to my six-year-old self, roll up into a ball, and cry because my car door isn't perfect anymore because I can totally see where the shopping cart touched it. This is currently on my mind because I recently shattered my near perfect driving record when I slammed on the gas in my driveway on a pre-dawn morning and backed right into my sister-in-law's car that I forgot was parked behind me. Lucky for me I married into a family of assholes who will NEVER let me live this down. Love you guys! Back into my new car and I will pee on your pillows! Kisses!

But you know what the most ironic part of all of this is? After nearly a decade of fantasizing about zipping around in my very own car, now that I've FINALLY been given the true green light (PUN! ZINGER!), I don't even have time to go car shopping. I'll be on vacation for the next two weekends. Then B and I have friends visiting every single weekend from now until forever. But mark my words, I WILL find the time somewhere and it WILL be amazing. Considering this, it may be a little premature, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that victory? Belongs to ME! Woo!

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

This song is awesome but the video gives me the creeps. Makes me all jumpy and eager to smack some drinks out of some hands.



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Why I use the broken toilet, Alternate Title: Another flipping post about the bathroom

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and admit that I occasionally might exhibit what could be considered slightly obsessive compulsive behavior. But I completely pick and choose what I'm going to be squeemish about. I could not shower for a week and shit in the woods every day and be totally fine with myself, but I feel the need to disinfect my countertops at least three a day. I've shared toothbrushes, razors, loofahs, and bathing suit bottoms, but I wash my hands every day more often than the cast of Jersey Shore throws up a fist pump on a Friday night. I've walked around with dog shit on my face, but sticky children disgust me.

There is one rule though that you certainly don't need to be a germaphobe to live by, and that is the public toilet seat rule: Don't you dare sit on that public cesspool of bacteria and broken dreams. But here's where that fine line of restroom common sense and desperation blend a little bit. Do you consider your work bathroom a public bathroom?

It's certainly not private. As much as I would love to put a giant sign outside the ladies room that says "For Bridget's Use Only. Trespassers will be shot." I don't see that going over so well with the rest of the office lady populace. But it's not quite public either. The crack addict who stands on the corner and wants to talk to me about Jesus can't come in to shit on the floor should the need arise.

Being as I've already publicly admitted to having no problem pooping at work, you could probably deduce -- or should I say deduece? -- that I'm a shitter sitter when it comes to the work toilets.

But I mean come on. These toilets get cleaned more often than I clean mine at home. Every morning the toilet seats are up and there is a bowl of fresh blue toilet water just waiting for me to use it. I have no issue here. And just by the shear amount of times I need to relieve myself every day counts for something. I pee all the time. I have to. I'm a runner. I hydrate myself to the point of near drowning every day. I spend far too much time in that bathroom to worry about squatting. This is no dive bar or beach bathroom. There is no vomit in the corner or soggy toilet paper or puddle of liquid of questionable origin on the floor.

But here's where my slight obsessive compulsive tendencies come shining through. I have to use the same bathroom stall every time. And I chose this stall very carefully. Whenever I enter a new bathroom, I choose my stall based on the one I think gets used least often. If it's a public bathroom, I always go left. Most people are right handed, so they naturally turn right when entering a public bathroom. Therefore, I go left. Problem solving skills for the win, ya'll.

In my office ladies room, the stalls are only on one side of the room, thereby making my decision a bit trickier. But when I was examining potential stalls to decide which would be my new bathroom home away from home, I knew I hit gold when I found the stall with the broken toilet seat. Here's my logic: Who wants to use a broken toilet seat when you have plenty of other not-broken toilets to choose from? No one, that's who! Only a moron would do that. A moron ... or a GENIUS.

It's not really broken, per se, it's just ... crooked. And you can't plop down with too much force or your butt might end up in the water. The screws are a bit loose and it slides a little whenever you sit. Anyone who makes the mistake of sitting on that seat is not going to choose that the next time they use the bathroom. Therefore, I probably use the stall that gets used least often throughout the day. My butt is definitely the butt that's on that seat the most. And I'm pretty sure in nature, that means it belongs to me. That's like the number one rule of the jungle.

I might even go so far to bet that I'm the only one who uses it. It's like my own semi-private bathroom stall. I might bring in a magazine rack and tape my beloved Jeff Goldblum is Watching You Poop poster to the door to make it feel a bit more like home.

Oh Jeff, you get me every time. Tweet

One Righteous Run

I know it's Thursday already and I've barely even said hello, but I'm still processing the Awesome that was last weekend. There is nothing that feels better than being back in Philly. Nope, not even that.

Last weekend was Back on My Feet's 3rd Annual 20in24. And what, pray tell, is a 20in24? It is many things. It's a 24-hour race to complete as many laps around the 8.4-mile Schuylkill River Trail as possible. It's a relay. It's a Midnight Madness Run. It's a Pajama Loop. It's sanity sucking black hole of madness that locks you in a glass case of emotion, throws you into the river, picks you up, gives you a big wet kiss, and leaves you standing where it found you, humbled, happy, tired, and really sick of soft pretzels and Gu. It is awesome.


Every member of Back on My Feet descended upon Philadelphia to lend a hand in any way we could. So from 5:30 a.m. on Saturday morning until 2 p.m. on Sunday afternoon, I shuttled volunteers, carried ice, handed out water, worked a rest stop, took temperatures, tracked runners, ran 17 miles, collected trash, and slept not a wink. Unless you count that time Jordan found me lying face down in the grass outside his tent some time around 5 a.m. But I was just collecting myself. And I loved every second of it. Mostly. Just about.

And speaking of Jordan? That asshole ran 93 miles in that 24 hours. 93 miles. And he farted the entire way, obviously. 93 miles is ridiculous. 93 miles is just retarded. And do you know what it's like running with someone who is in the process of running 93 miles? I was on my best behavior. You cannot be an asshole when you are running with someone who is running 93 miles. And you sure as hell can't talk about how tired you are because you haven't slept in two days. You can't even make fun of them for farting.

If they want you to carry their mushy peanut butter and jelly sandwich that you made for them the day before and may or may not have spit in, then you better carry that peanut butter and jelly sandwich. If they want you to wear their fuel belt like a pack animal, then you saddle up like the donkey you are. If they want you sing an Eminem verse with one mile to go before your pacer lap ends, then you pull out your favorite oversized chain necklace and get your Slim Shady pants on.

93 miles later and still an asshole smiling.

And all throughout those 24 hours, my mind teetered somewhere between "I TOTALLY want to try to run 100 miles" and "you couldn't convince me to do this for all the chocolate Teddy Grahams and Get Out of Blow Job Free Cards in the world."

To say that I was inspired this weekend is putting it lightly. I got to spend some time in the fox hole with the amazing people I work with. I got to see some great Philly friends. And I got to spend some much needed time with the familia in the city that I love the most. And good GAH I love that city. Thank you, home, you did me well.

And all of this came just in time because guess what season it is, errbody!! It's MARATHON TRAINING SEASON!!1! And GODDAMNIT that came around fast. This year, I plan on getting a little more serious about training. And by that I mean I hope to somehow run faster while still maintaining my regularly scheduled program of aggressive consumption of alcohol and cream donuts. I predict this will go quite well. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

I'm back from Philadelphia and my soul is filled with Philly love. So today? I'm just Janglin'.




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Philadelphia bound

Thursday was my last day in the Boston area for a few days, and by the time you read this, I'll be in PHILADELPHIAAAA. I will have been out of my bed like a shot at 3:30 a.m. to catch my flight and already likely situated in PHILADELPHIAAAA. I'm going down for work, so there will be little to no sleep involved for the next five days but I barely care because I'll be in PHILADELPHIAAAAAA. Oh and also? PHILADELPHIAAAAAAA.

I wrote my parents an email to let them know what I knew of my schedule regarding flights and events. It's 20in24 weekend, ya'll!!!1! And amid all the running and not sleeping and working and running and running and also the not sleeping, I'm trying to fit in as much time as possible with my parental units. I have a couple hours to kill in between the last Back on My Feet responsibility I have and my flight back to Boston, so I suggested to my parents that we grab lunch in the city and maybe take a walk through one of my favorite neighborhoods. Like Rittenhouse. Or University City. Or Fairmount. Or South Philly. Or Penn's Landing. Or Center City. Or or OR OROROROR when suddenly I became so overwhelmed thinking about all of these places -- some of my favorite places in the world -- that I burst into tears. And once that dam came down, the tears just kept on coming. I was sobbing. SOBBING. And all I could do was sit there at my desk, drying my tears and missing my home so much my stomach hurt and I thought I might vom.

And now I could tell you all about how I luuurve urban environments, but Boston ... sigh. Boston is so ... it's just ... I just can't warm up to it. I've found the city of Boston to be segregated and elitist and totally lacking in that scrappy, artistic vibe that is the lifeblood in Philadelphia because people here are too busy popping their collars and talking about their boarding school days. I recently heard someone refer to their "mummy" and I wanted to punch them in the face. But I won't go there.

I miss the flannel. And the dive bars. I miss the funky street festivals and the beards and the approachable art and the character of Philadelphia. Boston doesn't have the quirky, scrappy soul I love so much. The starving artists who transform cities. What culture Boston has is very ... expensive.

Go ahead, Boston, you can send me your hate mail now. Or better yet, send me proof that Boston does have soul. That it has funk. Tell me about the best dive bar in town and I promise to meet you there. And I mean true dive bar that has some of the best music and best bartenders in town, but you'd certainly be afraid to use the bathroom there. Where is the mixing of cultures and meshing of ideas? I promise I'll take you up on everything and maybe even we'll document it here. But until then, Imma jus' go on hatin'.

Anyway. I'm pretty excited to get down there and if I know myself -- which I think I do -- I have a feeling that come Tuesday afternoon, I might be holed up in my parents' attic hugging my knees and singing the "Fly Eagles Fly" song. So you won't be hearing from me much until then.

But in the mean time, if you're in the Philly area and you want to see me "holy shit I'm so happy to be in Philadelphia" face this weekend, then come down to the Schuylkill River and participate in, cheer runners on at, or volunteer for Back on My Feet's 20in24! WE NEED MORE VOLUNTEERS! Just like last year, it's gonna be a great time. So see ya there orrrr see ya at another time.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Every time B and I decide that we're going to tighten the ol' belt straps and downgrade our cable package to basic cable, HBO blasts out some awesome new show that we just can't get enough of. When we moved in together in Philly, we were given six months of free HBO. And just as that six months was about to run out, the world gave us Flight of the Conchords. And then a year went by and we were finally ready to bite the bullet and flip the HBO switch off forever when True Blood was born. And helloooooo naked people! This year though, what with the buying of the house thing, we were looking to trim a little bit more fat than usual and cable was going to be the first thing to go. And then we saw Treme.

I. Love. This. Show. Based in post-Katrina New Orleans, it explores the daily struggles of an incredibly diverse and culturally rich city trying to pull itself out of the water and start living again. The acting can be sub-par at times, but that's entirely forgivable because the majority of their actors aren't actors at all. They're musicians. Real, New Orleans musicians. And as you can imagine, every episode is soaked in some amazing New Orleans music played by some of New Orleans' living legends. GAH IT JUST MAKES ME WANT TO GO TO NEW ORLEANS SO BAD I THINK MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE.

And good garsh I love the intro. I love the culture and the juxtaposition of images and most of all I love the music. Meet John Boutte. You're welcome.

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Yet another post in which I have to swear that I'm not pregnant

I feel like I owe you an explanation. I'm not pregnant. Let me say it again: I'm not pregnant. Why does everyone think I am? Why am I getting phone calls and text messages all night? Why is my mother calling me because she heard from someone who heard from someone who saw on Facebook that her daughter is pregnant? Let me essplain.

So last week I'm type type typing away at work when suddenly a g-chat window pops up from Mojo and she's all "have you heard the good news about Kat?" And I'm all "No?" And she's all "oh you gotta ask her!" So I whip out the BlackBerry and go to my BlackBerry Messenger (a.k.a. BBM a.k.a. Beautiful Black Man) and I'm all "Kat." No response. So I'm all "Kat?" No response. So I'm all "Kat Kat Kat Kat Kat Kat Kat what's new?" No response. So then I switch back to Mojo and I'm all "I can't get a hold of her. What happened?" And she tells me the good news. And it is grood!

A few hours go by and Kat Beautiful Black Mans me back and is all "I'm pregnant." Now here's where it gets tricky so follow closely. I KNOW Kat is not pregnant. I KNOW what the real good news is. But she doesn't know I know. Are you following? She's trying to trick me. So I decide to get in on the game and trick her back so I'm all "oh em gee I'm pregnant too! We can be pregnant TOGETHEERRR!"

For the next 30 minutes we furiously message each other with congratulations, pregnancy cravings, nursery colors and baby sexes. Neither of us will admit to the other that we are kidding.

Our conversation continues until finally Kat's all "Man all this excitement! Time for me to go to bed! You'll have to lay off the booze now!! But we're in it together!" And I bid her adieu 'cause being fake pregnant is very tiring.

Minutes later I get a text message: "YOU'RE PREGNANT AND THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT?" And I'm all "whaaaaa?" And then I get another "PREGNANT?!" And another "Congratulations!" And another "Oh my god I'm going to be an aunt!" And another "What the fuck is going ON?!" And another "I'm so confused!" And another "You're pregnant!!!!" Until I realize that there seems to be a problem on my hands. The problem being: suddenly everyone thinks I'm pregnant.

So I flip open Facebook and it turns out that Kat had left me a little message on my wall. "I can't believe you're preggers!!! Congratulations!!!! Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!"

BITCH TRUMPED ME. PUBLICLY.

And thus the shit storm began. Texts and phone calls came in all night. I had to turn my phone off so I could go to sleep. People congratulating, wondering, asking. Bridget ... PREGNANT? Could this really BE? The next day, e-mails were pouring in from colleagues, friends, and very confused relatives.

I SWEAR I'M NOT PREGNANT, PEOPLE. You go and try to make one little joke and suddenly someone writes on your Facebook wall and the world thinks you are with child. And just as suddenly everyone is very worried about your drinking habits.

Since the Facebook wall posting on Thursday evening, here is a list of the responses it elicited, most within 24 hours. Because many of you would never want friends, parents, border control to know that you are actually friends with me, don't worry, I've removed your last names. Start from the bottom:

Like I said, bitch trumped me. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY KATYA. I'm sorry for all of the anguish this caused the rest of you. The pain. The confusion. I know it was hard on many of you. I promise Frozen Drink Night will go on with a non-virgin margarita planted firmly in my hand.

Not surprisingly, one day of fending this off led me to face plant in a giant margarita or four. Simply because I can. Because not pregnant ladies can do that. I also find this all a bit ironic considering I'm usually the one running in circles around the kitchen in a tizzy because I've convinced myself that I'm with child and I've been doing so much aggressive day drinking recently that SURELY there are going to be some MAJOR problems here and now my baby will never quite figure out that it's the ROUND peg that goes in the ROUND hole and the SQUARE peg goes in the SQUARE hole and it's all my fault remain calm remain calm REMAIN CALM.

It's not that I don't want to make babies. I do very much. In fact, I want a whole litter of babies. Blonde ones, obviously. And no ugly ones, also obviously. I just don't want to make babies right now. I like frozen drink night. And day drinking at the beach. And having the only responsibility of my day be walking the dog and occasionally doing some laundry because I'm out of clean underwear again.

So yeah. Just another day in the casa de Yella. Sorry to get your hopes up, mom! But it must be such a relief that friends came to the conclusion that I "drink too much to be preggers." So proud. So proud.

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You might as well just kill yourself now

This time of the year, I'm always haunted by something my grandfather often says: "You quit that whining before I give you something to whine about."


Meaning, you might as well get out your hobo gloves and snow shovels now, folks, 'cause summer's OVER.

After Fourth of July it's all down hill. This single phrase has given me more angst throughout my life than any string of words that have ever been thrown together to form a sentence. More than "Time for a pop quiz." More than "I know you are but what am I?" More than "Did you know that there are approximately 3,000 calories in a tablespoon of semen?" Even more than "We'll only be living with my parents for two weeks, Bridget."

Logically, this thinking doesn't make sense. Technically, summer literally just started. There are approximately two months of beach weather left. My family vacation is still weeks away. There is no need for alarm.

But already I can feel it. The Anxiety Spiral has begun.


I begin every morning by frantically flipping open my calendar and counting how many beach days are left before it will be too cold to walk around in a bikini. I record the times of sunrise and sunset every day because soon it will be coming ... The Darkness. The days are getting shorter already. Did you know that?! DID YOU?!!!???!111! As I drive in to run or work every day, I think about how horrible the drive is going to be once it's dark the entire way.

I also check the weather obsessively. I almost cried when I saw this weekend's forecast was filled with rain. BUT IT'S THE WEEKEND. IT'S MY BEACH TIME. WHYYYY, GAAAAH?! WHYYYYYYY????

I take this weekend's impending showers as a personal slight from the gods. Am I being punished? It is because I laughed when that little girl fell off her bike? Because I refused to make B a hamburger last night? Is it because I drink too much? It's the drinking, isn't it?

This year's anxiety is particularly strong. I blame that on the fact that I just came off what I consider to be The Winter of My Discontent. I was forced to move 400 miles away from the family and friends and city that I love. It was cold. It was dark. I felt very far away from civilization. I had no job. I had no money. I had no friends. And I was living with my in-laws. No offense, in-laws. LOVE YA! Blaah! Distraction! Blow jobs!

Now the thought of another winter is giving me hives. I'm in a good place right now, winter. Why gotta come all up in here and ruin that for me? I feel like I'm one of Pavlov's dogs. All you have to do is show me a picture of a car covered in snow and I feel nauseous. My chest starts to hurt and I get all twitchy. No. Do not want! Go away! Blow jobs!

I have compiled for you a list of things I would rather do than deal with winter:

1. Wipe my butt with poison ivy.
2. Go to the gynecologist.
3. Write a thesis on the reproductive cycles of snakes.
4. Flash a city bus.
5. Contract food poisoning.
6. Drink a bottle of maple syrup.
7. Go to Morton's Steakhouse with Bill O'Reilly.
8. Cry ... just cry.

So here I am, compulsively clicking the refresh button on the weather.com page, wondering if my weekend tan has faded at all since Monday evening, and stepping outside every few hours just so I can relish a few minutes of this glorious heat wave. It's all okay. Summer is here. Summer is now. Inhale. Exhale. Savasana. Savasanaaaa. Summer is here. Summer is now.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Oh hell yes. Heeelllllll yes. I am having a LOVE AFFAIR with this song. Can we say summer jam? Can we? Summer jam? Yes. Yes we can say that. I accept.

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Don't even think for a second that you don't still owe me. Cause you totally do.

My mom called me over the weekend to tell me to get some new material for this here blog blarg because she's tired of reading about what a sloppy alcoholic her daughter has turned into since moving to Massachusetts and don't I do anything less alcoholic-y with my life anymore because all it seems like I do is sit on boats and beaches and bars and drink beers. And I was all "false, mother. Thanks for playing, come again." But then I looked at some of my recent posts and realized that I might have to change the tag from "I'm not an alcoholic I just write like one" to "I'm just an alcoholic."

And for your information, this long weekend of Independence Day celebrations involved a bit more than sitting on boats and beaches and bars and drinking beers. It also involved five-gallon coolers of rum punch. TAKE THAT, MOTHER. At least my drinking habits are well rounded.

In other Holiday Weekend news, no one was eaten by a shark. Wamp wamp. And it looks like they caught the poor sucker. Wamp wamp wamp. I guess we'll all have to wait a little bit longer for JAWS 6: Imma Fuckin' Eat You, Scituate. Oh wells.

Also, this weekend is the weekend that I let slip to B that I love my life. I'm a little disappointed in myself because I've been doing a great job over the past six months of holding my misery and homesickness over his head because, obviously, it's entirely his fault. The reason? He OWES me. When I was gnashing my teeth and writhing around on the floor before, during, and after we moved up here, B was always eager to comfort me. If I wanted to spend a night in the city, we would spend a night in the city. If I expressed any form of homesickness, B would throw me on a plane to Philadelphia before I could even say "Ifuckinghateyouforruiningmylife." If I wanted pizza for dinner and B wanted spaghetti, a simple "You. Owe. Me." usually did the trick.

I'm not saying that I'm not hit with some seriously painful pangs of missing for the city of Philadelphia on an almost daily basis (because let's be honest, Boston doesn't hold a candle compared to my hipster haven) or for my collective family unit and Philly friends. I'm also not saying that I still don't writhe around on the floor every once in a while and occasionally break some shit because "YOU'VE STOLEN MY PARENTS' GRANDCHILDREN FROM THEM, YOU MONSTER" and I don't even have children. Lawd knows I have enough trouble taking care of myself.

But all in all, I'd say my life these days isn't too shabby. I love my job. I live at the beach. My mode of transportation of choice is a pimpin' bright blue beach cruiser with white rims. I've made some pretty awesome friends who fill my weekends with every means of ridiculous fun. I have a partner in crime. And this weekend, while cruising to our favorite beach aboard our friend's boat I looked around at some of my favorite people then out at the passing beach scenery then back to some of my favorite people then back to the passing beach scenery and I let out a low half grumble half mumble "Iflippinglovemylife." And B was all "EXCUSE ME?" And I was all "I flipping love my life." And he was all "one more time now?" And I was all "I. FLIPPING. LOVE. MY. LIIIIIIIIIIFE" and then I tore off my shirt and bit the head off of a live chicken. And B just kind of snickered. Asshole.

So now I'm a little worried I've lost some leverage. NOW whenever I want to get what I want when I want, I pretty much have to rely on B just being nice. I've totally fucked myself. Thanks a lot, life. You give and then you take. Tweet

Fourth of July = better than a puppy who shits $100 bills

I still feel like a giant sack of warm dog poo and dirty jock straps today WHICH IS NOT THE WAY I'D LIKE TO BE FEELING ONE DAY BEFORE FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND BEGINS. That means I have one day to nurse my body back into the model of physical health so I can beat it to hell for the next three by pumping it full of booze and barbecued foods. Must ... get ... healthy ... so ... can ... make ... self ... destructive ... choices.

My throat is so raw from days of coughing I feel like I just swallowed a knife that spontaneously burst into flames and I'm so damn tired I'm having a hard time concentrating on anything besides the cushiness degree of my couch cushions. (Cushiness degree: 7.5.) And since I'm harnessing my collective brainpower to will myself into better health, the most I can manage in form of communication is a half grunt half gurgle whenever spoken to. What do you want for dinner? Hugargd. Do you know where the scissors are? Mmrump. Will you join me in this meeting? Skzzerps.

But you shouldn't worry about me too much because I know full well that even if I wake up tomorrow feeling like an elephant is sitting on my chest and I can't remember how to spell my name, I'll still be out celebrating my freedom to make bad choices come tomorrow night. I will not succumb. That's what the British would have wanted and I am not about to let those Red Coats win now. FUCK YEA FREEDOM! AMERICA! DAY DRINKING! VEGETABLE SHISH KABOBS! FLYING UNICORNS WITH FLAMING TAILS AND AMERICAN FLAG CAPES!

It's no exaggeration when I say that Fourth of July is my favorite holiday to ever be invented by the American people. It's MILES ahead of Christmas. Christmas used to send me into fits of convulsions because PRESENTS!

But now that I'm a little bit older Christmas is essentially just a reason to buy stuff for people, drink too much wine before dinner and cry into your mashed potatoes over the hypocrisy of your now crumbling family unit. Plus, it's in the very beginning of winter, so the only thing you have to look forward to once it's over is MONTHS of cold and darkness accompanied by the guilt of not being able to shed those five pounds of Christmas cookies currently sitting on your hips because the thought of strapping on some running shoes and heading out into the tundra for a jog frankly makes you want to curl up in a ball on the couch and vomit all over your Snuggie. Just me? Moving on.

Then there's that other celebrated winter holiday: New Year's Eve. I fucking hate New Year's. People always start talking about it in November and by the time December 31 rolls around there's been so much planning around the evening that it's just about guaranteed to be a total flop. If I could survive just one New Year's Eve without falling down a flight of steps, threatening to divorce my husband, or crying in a corner, I might start to come around to it. But for now, MEH. Easter? Whatever, Jesus. Thanksgiving? Getting slightly warmer, but only because I'm a glutton and everyone knows it. St. Patrick's Day? Doesn't really count because I'm usually blacked out by 5 p.m.

But Fourth of July? Fourth of July is a beautiful thing. In my opinion it's the most underrated holiday ever. Where's the Fourth of July section in the Hallmark store? Where's a Fourth of July tree? What about a fat, jolly man who breaks into your house and leaves you cases of Miller Lite in the name of Independence? I'd dig that. There's still months of beach weather left, all proper celebrations are held outside and revolve around grilled meats, cold beers and fireworks, and it's a great excuse to spend a long weekend strutting around in your bathing suit and that awesome new sundress you just picked out for this very occasion! WHAT COULD BE BETTER THAN THAT?

And you know how I know THIS Fourth of July is going to be the best ever? Great White shark. Let's review. Great White spotted off the coast of a small New England beach town. Authorities state there is no need to fear and encourage everyone to hit the beaches for Fourth of July weekend. Sound familiar?



Someone's getting fucking eaten by a shark, ya'll. Laaaaaawd above I love that movie. This is going to be awesome.

So let's hope that my current diet of cocktail of DayQuil + coffee + fist fulls of multivitamins does the trick. Otherwise we're gonna need a bigger boat.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone. Don't go blowing any fingers off. Tweet