Yellaphant Rant: the existence of "Cougar Town"

There is a show that I hate more than any other show currently on television. It succinctly sums up everything that is wrong with America in each one-hour episode and leaves me feeling frustrated, slightly enraged and rather hostile towards my fellow man, kind of like the way you might feel after witnessing a carney beating an elephant. And that show is "Cougar Town." Ugh. Just writing that title makes me shudder.

B and I discovered this show accidentally. We're in love with "Modern Family." We want to kiss it and stroke it and take it to bed. But after "Modern Family" comes "Cougar Town." Again, ugh. When the series first started, we didn't change the channel out of laziness and curiosity. But our curiosity quickly morphed into pure contempt. It's not well written. The characters are underdeveloped cut-outs. And it's based in Florida and I'm pretty sure the only people who live in Florida are semi-senile blue hairs in Hawaiian shirts, people missing one or more front teeth and those lost souls of high school theater groups who work at Disney World. But apparently there's also a budding population of cougars that I was unaware of. And let me tell you, with a husband who teaches tennis as a profession, I do not find cougars entertaining.

And yet ... Every week we don't change the channel. Every week while the "Modern Family" credits roll, B and I begin our preparation ritual:

"YES! Our favorite show is coming on next!"

"I don't know how I survived all week without Cougar Town."

"I can't wait to hear what catchy jokes and nutty situations they're going to delve into this episode!"

"Oh Courtney Cox. Just, oh."

And with every sentence, the aggression in our voices rises. I hate every actor involved in this show. The dumb blond. The idiot ex-husband. The slutty 40-something. Courtney Cox? More like Courtney Cocks. HA. Get it? Oh GAH, I really hope there is a drag queen somewhere in America with that name.

The script is pathetic. The jokes are trying harder than that kid in your freshman year class who desperately wanted to be funny but his untimely comments were either a) inappropriate b) slightly racist or c) just so plain not funny that his presence at a party just made everyone cringe and feel sort of sad.

B likes to count out loud every joke or catch phrase that you know the writers go to bed praying will be the next big thing. People love catch phrases. I spend the entire week quoting "30 Rock" catch phrases at inappropriate times after every episode. Last season I would walk around the house screaming, "that's a deal breaker, ladies!" after every time B didn't flush the toilet, left a fork in the sink, or threw a dirty sock at my face. Well I've got news for you, Cougar Town: YOU WILL NEVER BE FUNNY ENOUGH TO QUOTE. And in case you were wondering, there were four failed attempts in last night's episode. Four. We know this because we watched it, of course.

Last night, B and I were discussing why, exactly, we just can't turn away, despite the fact that we hate it. From the deepest fibers of our beings, we just hate it. And why, exactly, does a stupid show engender so much emotion from us? There's a shit ton of stupid television shows on. And you know what we do? We just don't watch them. We're barely even aware of their existence. And even though we consider "Cougar Town" to be the creme de la creme of the stupid shows, we just can't turn it off. It's our Kryptonite. The Ronnie to our Sammie, if you will.

Simple. We love to hate it. We actually like the way it engenders emotion in us. It's like staying in an abusive relationship because deep down inside, we kind of like it when our proverbial boyfriend slams our proverbial head into the proverbial wall. We like the pain. Like when Ronnie got a tattoo after hooking up with mad chicks and their breasts out at the clerb because he hurt Sammie so he "needed to feel pain." [Ed note: Two Ronnie-Sammie "Jersey Shore" references in two paragraphs? I am on FIRE today.] Like how I like the gag reflex that happens when I watch Jersey Shore. [THREE!1!] And we like that we can hate something so totally idiotic and trivial.

It's not like hating a political figure or a societal problem. Eliminating the existence of "Cougar Town" is not going to lower the murder rate or boost employment or fight poverty or make us all forget about Sarah Palin. It doesn't matter if we give a shit. And frankly, for two people who give a lot of shit, it's nice to not have to. It's exactly like how you check the Facebook pages of the people you dislike just as much if not more than the people you're actually friends with just so you can kindle your vehement dislike a little bit more. No? Just me? Okay then, moving on.

We can hate "Cougar Town" to our little hearts' content! And we love it! It's liberating! Next thing you know, I'm not going to be wearing any underwear to work ON PURPOSE. Now THAT'S livin', baby!

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My baby love done got married!

It's taken me three days to get this post out the door because I have oh so much to say about this wedding and every time I started writing about it I just couldn't get it right. So I'm just going to write and stop self-editing because in real life, gah knows I don't self-edit because I'm sort of an asshole. And we're off ...

You know those friends who have those families that immediately make you feel like you're one of them? Like you could just show up any hour of the day or night, grab yourself a snack and plop down on the couch to watch trashy TV and no one would bat an eyelash? If I had a dollar for every time one of Lauren's parents came home and found me sleeping on their couch, I wouldn't have to be digging through my purse right now to find enough nickles for the vending machine.

And last weekend, my baby girl got marrrriiieeeddd.


Now, I'm not saying that my friends are all beautiful people, but ... actually, yes I am saying that. Is she not the most beautiful bride?!

The weather in Philadelphia was perfect. The dresses were elegant. The venue was breathtaking. And my baby girl got married!

We danced the entire night and I didn't even break anything, which is always a win in my book. The food was delicious. The music was great. And my baby girl got married!

As we all get older, many of us are at that point where we've gone through experiences that have tested our bravery, our beliefs, and our strengths. And when something like a wedding comes around, sometimes someone is missing. When Lauren's mom passed away in December, many of our minds went right to the upcoming wedding. But because of the grace and love of her family, there were pieces of her mother that were very much there. While there was undoubtedly heartbreak mixed in to this very important day, there was so much love. I get all melty just thinking about it.

And because of that, it was the perfect place for B and I to be as we celebrated our own first anniversary as a married couple. As a bridesmaid, I got to spend the entire day with the bride, reliving what it takes to get married. Not to mention, to be back in Philadelphia with our best friends who were all with us on our day, celebrating the love of Lauren and Mike was a reminder of what it felt like the day we were married. And it was amazing.

And now, the highlights reel.

9 a.m. Arrived at Lauren's for hair and makeup.

10:30 a.m. Finally got around to getting said hair and makeup done after ceremonious stuffing of the faces and girlie giggles because LAUREN'S GETTING MARRIEEEDD.

1:30 p.m. The bus is late. Picture time! The bus is late. How does a bus get fecking lost? Pictures, pictures, pictures! Clean that lipstick off your teeth you look like a hooker.

2 p.m. Bus arrives. Make it to church approximately 3 minutes late. NO NEED TO PANIC. GAME TIME. LAUREN AND MIKE ARE MARRIEEDDD.

5 p.m. Arrive at Please Touch Museum for photos and reception. Greeted by dozens of ethnically diverse children parading through the grand foyer of the children's museum banging drums and shaking tambourines. Get dirty looks from mothers after frantically taking pictures of said children because there are few things in this blessed world of ours I love more than little black children shaking tambourines. Overcome with cuteness and consider pulling one in for a hug. Decide against it as mothers often don't take kindly to strangers grabbing their children. Take bridal party photos on museum's carousel. Look around and realize bridal party is behaving worse than ethnically diverse children shaking tambourines.

6 p.m. Cocktail hour. Mix and mingle. Force B to take multiple pictures at carnival-style photo stands BECAUSE IT'S FUNNY, B, THAT'S WHY.

7 p.m. Party time. Make grand entrance on Michael's back. Kick off heels because good LAWD my puppies are barking. Dinner and dancing. Officially the first couple out of our seats as B leads me to the dance floor for the first slow song. How cute is he?!

Sexiest man I know. He's totally practicing for later. HAHA just kidding. We all know I was starfishing with a bag of Doritos by the time I was put to bed.

10 p.m. After hours on the dance floor with Lauren and friends, drag B to the photobooth to take drunk photobooth photos BECAUSE IT'S FUNNY, B, THAT'S WHY.

11 p.m. Reception ends. B is tired. Force him to board big yellow school bus to after party BECAUSE THIS IS NOT JUST A NIGHT OUT, B, THIS IS LAUREN MORAN'S WEDDING THAT'S WHY. Play Pass the Bottle of Wine on bus. Take it to "that level."

12 a.m. Proclaim to all who will listen that B is being passive aggressive because he does not want to continue to drink with me. Verbally accost him when he informs me that I am misusing the phrase "passive aggressive." And slurring.

1 a.m. Call my mother for a ride home. Kiss B because it's officially OUR FIRST ANNIVERSARY! Love you, B! Go to bed ... with a bag of Doritos.

PHEW. I broke into a sweat just remembering those highlights. I need a drink and a nap now please. On second thought, I'm fairly certain my mother is preparing to check me into rehab, so let's just go with the nap for now. For the record, I'm fully aware that this post doesn't really make sense, and while I'm not really okay with that per se, I'm too lazy to make it coherent.

I can't believe my LaurMo is married. I'm so sad it's over. I wish she could get married every weekend. Le sigh. CONGRATULATIONS, LAUREN AND MIKE. Love you guysssssss!

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Because the best restaurant in town is always Home

B and I are staying at my parents house this weekend while we're home in Philly for my lover-friend Lauren's wedding. One because it's an awesome chance to squeeze some quality family time in during this quick trip. And two because B and I are too pathetically broke to rent a hotel room for the wedding. I haven't lived in my parent's house full-time since high school and just like high school, I anticipate awkwardly calling my parents for a ride home on Saturday night. Only instead of picking me up from our regular hang out spot at Lauren's house, one lucky parental winner will be picking me up from Lauren's wedding because I think we all know that I won't be in any condition to drive by the end of this little evening. Am I right or am I drunk already?

One of the best things about visiting home -- again, besides all the much needed Mommy-Daddy time because that's what it's really about -- is the food. Opening up the refrigerator here is like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. I never know what's going to be inside that magical box, but I know it's going to be packed with awesome, name brand things that I'm too cheap to buy myself.

Wednesday night as soon as I walked in the door, I dropped my bags in my old bedroom -- which, by the way, has been conservatively yet tastefully redecorated as a guest room (R.I.P. Dave Matthews posters) -- ran to the kitchen, threw open all the cabinets that usually contain food, grabbed the pack of Pepperidge Farm Chessmen cookies and shoved about six of them in my mouth before I even said hello to my father. Do you even know how expensive Pepperidge Farm cookies are? Those things are like gold. Sweet, buttery GOLD.
B and I don't keep many snacks in our house. The snack variety in my parents' house however, is astounding. Yesterday I walked into the kitchen and there was a giant bag of yogurt covered pretzels sitting on the counter. Yogurt covered pretzels? AM I IN HEAVEN? And it's not just junk. Even the fruit tastes better here. Apples, pears, oranges, bikinis, zucchinis, martinis, no weinies. The way I inhale food here, you'd think I'd never actually had a Dorito before.

The one downfall to my pure eating enjoyment however, is the fact that my parents don't have a dog. At home, if I drop something on the floor, I don't even have to bend down to pick it up because my dog-shaped vacuum cleaner is always at my feet ready to inhale anything that falls from my hands. Here, I actually have to pick shit up. Life is really hard sometimes.

On a slightly related note, one of the reasons I've been committing the sin of gluttony on a near daily basis these days is because my marathon training is in full swing so I'm almost always starving. At some point today I have to run 17 miles. Which sucks because what I feel like doing is staying on this couch all day and eating yogurt covered pretzels while watching a True Life marathon on MTV.

Feel like keeping me motivated, off the couch and away from the yogurt covered pretzels? Help me raise money for Back on My Feet! Just kidding. Not even Jeebus himself could keep me from those pretzels. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

This evening I'm hopping on a plane to good 'ol illadelph for the wedding of one of my best friends. We've been friends since high school, and when you've been friends with someone for that long, you go through a lot together. You go from football games, silly crushes, and sneaking shots of alcohol in the basement to college road trips, weekends down the shore, and bar hopping til the wee hours of the morning to real jobs, real relationships, and real life. You experience love and death together. You grow up. And then one day you meet a boy and you get married. And, naturally, you go from friends to bridesmaids.

Not only is this Lauren's Wedding Weekend, but it's also my and B's first wedding anniversary. As of Sunday, we will have been married for one year. That blows my mind. Blows. My. Motherflipping. Mind.

Five years ago we were flirting in dirty Baltimore dive bars. Three years ago we were moving in together in Philadelphia. Two years ago B bought some bling and I realized it was time to seriously start moisturizing my hands. And now one year ago we got married. And good GAH that was pretty much the best day ever, eh? Le sigh.

Jesus H. Chrysler what a year this has been, huh? I get all out of breath and hot under the collar just thinking about it. But this weekend, while celebrating all the love and happiness of my amazing friend, I'll also be constantly thinking of all the love and happiness that I've experienced with my amazing husband. And just like those words to the first dance we ever danced as husband and wife say, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me.

See you in Philly, B. Tweet

Maybe the filter's broken

I guess I should apologize for my lack of posting over the last week. My mom was visiting for five days, so I spent the first half of the week drinking pinot on the couch and watching Tosh.0 with her every night and since she's left I've had a serious case of sour belly. If it wasn't that time of the month right now, I would have convinced myself I was pregnant, like, two days ago. But it's probably just cancer. So phew.

But don't worry, this is NOT going to be another post about my vagina because according to B, I have some kind of filter problem. It's called honesty, B.

But recently, I've started to think that maybe he's right. Maybe I do have a filter problem. Case in point:

B and I were walking the dog a few weeks ago when we passed a family who was also out for an evening stroll. Mom, dad, and two adorable little blond girls ... on leashes. One girl started pointing at Rooney and squeeling from across the street, so I crossed over to let her pet him. After a few minutes of polite chit chat, a car appeared from around the bend, going too fast for my comfort. Most streets in my town do not have sidewalks, and speed limits seem pretty high in my opinion for a residential neighborhood. Since moving here, I've become that person who runs into the front lawn so I can shake my fist at drivers if I feel they're going down my street too fast. While running, I routinely make the universal "slow the fuck down" sign with my hands as cars zip past me while catching their attention with a well-timed. "YO, asshole."

As this car approached, I pulled Rooney in on a tight leash and said, "hold on to your leashes, everyone."

Honestly, I expected a laugh. At least a little chuckle. So when I got nothing but a blank stare, I made a hasty retreat back across the street.

When I got there, B was all "what did you say that got you that look?" And when I told him, he did that head shake that everyone's dad does when once again you've brought the family shame.

B: Jesus, Bridget, really? These people are our neighbors, you can't say inappropriate things like that.

Me: B, their children are on leashes and I'M the inappropriate one?

B: I'm sure they're very nice people and now they'll never like us because you'll always be the girl who made fun of their leashes.

Me: I wasn't actually make fun of them. I was just commenting that they should hold them tightly. I was protecting them.

B: Right, hold them tight like a dog.

Me: Exactly.

End scene.

So there's that. In my opinion? That comment did just sort of slip out before I had much time to process, BUT if you're going to be weird enough to walk your children around the neighborhood like little golden retrievers, then you should be prepared when the blond neighbor who you once saw passed out on her lawn comments as such.

Another example you say? Okay. The very same weekend of the Leashes Incident, we were over our friends' house after a long day of sipping beers on the beach, which we continued well into the evening by sipping beers next to the fire pit in the backyard. Later that night a few more of our friends arrived, one of whom has just dyed her hair from light blond to dark brown. Now, I'm friends with this girl and I like her very much, but I'm still relatively new in town. Not everyone has been fully exposed to my poop stories, public farting, and general neurosis. [Side note: my goodness there are an awful lot of posts that come up when I search for "anxiety" on here.]

After I welcomed everyone, this friend replies, "oh I'm surprised you recognized me with my new hair!" To which I put down my beer, looked her in the eyes and responded, "I would recognize those boobs anywhere," before going back to my conversation without batting an eyelash.

In my defense, there was a lot of beer working against my filter that day and I still don't remember saying this, though half of our town has affirmed it. That's the problem with living in a small town. You let a few things slip and all of a sudden you're the girl who passes out on your lawn and occasionally says what could be interpreted as assholish things to random people. God, I am such a good neighbor.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Just to preface this, it's Wednesday morning and I'm hungover so UGH.

Anyway. Ever since the beauty that was Labor Day Weekend, it has really felt like fall here. I mean really. It's like Mother Nature snapped out of her hangover (much like I hope to do momentarily), looked at the clock and flipped that big old switch that says FALL the morning after Labor Day. I tried desperately to squeeze in a few more beach days last weekend but it just felt forced and chilly and kind of sad. Just like when your parents made you invite the weird kid to your sixth birthday party.

The dog days of summer are over, my friends. Those blessed, blessed dog days. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date to go cry in my bowl of oatmeal. Please to enjoy some Florence this morning, because I flipping love this song.

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Being responsible sometimes leads to cancer

Oh, Earl. Earl, Earl, Earl, Earl. I am happy to say that Earl is a big fat ninny because Earl did not affect my weekend in the least. In fact, it was the best beach weekend I've had in about a month. GLORIOUS. JUST GLORIOUS. And even though I look at Labor Day the same way a devout priest looks at a hooker (with great sadness, some general disgust and a hint of self-pity), this weekend was amazing. Mostly because it contained pretty much all of my favorite things: friends, drinking games, Disney songs, beach time, and a giant moon bounce slip n' slide. And I ask you, what else does a girl need in life?

So as depressed and anxiety-ridden as I am to see summer slip away like warm beach sand between my fingers, I must say that I feel pretty good about the way I handled this summer. I took full advantage of everything it had to offer and it took full advantage of me. And here we stand, waving goodbye to each other like two lovers who spent the past three months using and abusing the shit out of each other but having one hell of a time in the process. I'm bruised, battered, and in serious need of a dry-out, but BOY did I have some SERIOUS fun. This autumn, I resolve to make at least 15% less irresponsible life decisions. Or something like that.

And as part of my new, responsible, adult-like behavior, yesterday I went to the lady doctor for my annual visit. And now all the males who read this are groaning and clicking the "unfollow" button and shielding their eyes because I'm bringing that topic back. The LADY DOCTOR topic. Playas please, it's not like I'm about to tell you a story about period blood or malfunctioning tampons. I just want to tell a little story about cold vagina clamps and pap smears. Grow up. God.

So I may have mentioned on this here blerg how I've had a couple "incidents" at the homestead. And by "incident" I mean I've 100% convinced myself that I'm pregnant and that the baby is going to be "developmentally challenged" because I've just spent the past weekend every weekend ripping shots of Borovicka and drinking beers like I belong in Animal House. And I don't mean the movie. I mean a fucking zoo.

So I was eager to discuss some related questions, among others, with my lady doctor. Since I'm a new patient, I had to go through all the typical new patient questions when I first got to the exam room.

Nurse: Are you on any medications?

Me: Nope, just the BC.

Nurse: No anxiety medication?

Me: Um... no. No anxiety medication.

Nurse: Are you sure?

Me: Do I look like I need anxiety medication?

Nurse: Next question.

This first little interaction got me a little paranoid because seriously, do I look like I need anxiety medication? Was she so incredulous because I act like a spaz in public and could probably use some anxiety medication so I stop grinding my teeth over things like the end of summer? Or because every other patient in the office is on anxiety medication and it was rare to find someone who wasn't? And if that's the case, then am I missing out? Because I hate to be tardy to the party.

If things get awkward with the nurse before the actual gynecological exam even begins, you know you haven't exactly set yourself up for the best visit.

Because I'm an awkward person and I don't like silence while someone fondles my bubs, I always feel the need to talk to the doctor during the breast exam. On the scale of Things That Are Awkward About the Gynecologist, the breast exam should be pretty mild. I mean, you've still got the pap smear to look forward to! Not when your name is Bridget Horne. Because while I grasped for something -- anything -- to talk to the doctor about, my brain decides this is an appropriate time to bring up your favorite show and mine, I Didn't Know I was Pregnant.

"I mean, I really don't mind when I don't get my period but good lord I DO NOT want to end up on I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. Have you ever seen that show? Are some of those stories even medically accurate? Because REALLY? You thought you had food poisoning and then you pooped out a baby? REALLY?" Apparently lady doctors don't really like the term "pooped out a baby." So there's that.

And then, to top off my Lady Doctor Visit of All Visits, THIS conversation took place while discussing my medical history:

Doctor: So you had cancer when you were seven? That's very young. Can you tell me more about the tumor?

Me: Well it was in my abdomen, which actually brings up my next question. Naturally, I've had a lot of X-Rays over the years of my abdominal region which, as you know, is very close to my lady bits -

Doctor: Yes, that is close to your reproductive organs.

Me: Eh. Yes. Reproductive organs. So not that I'm ready for it right now, because, you know, the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant stuff.

Doctor: Right.

Me: So not that I want to get pregnant right now, but when I do, do you think all that radiation from the X-Rays will present a problem?

Doctor: That's a great question. No, I think you'll be perfectly fine. Luckily, when you undergo CAT Scans and X-Rays like you did, it doesn't centralize the radiation to one area. So your abdomen didn't get any more radiation then the rest of your body. What that means though, is that while that shouldn't have any effect whatsoever when you're trying to get pregnant, you're just a lot more likely to develop thyroid cancer or leukemia later in life.

Me: Oh ... well ... that's ... great ... news? What a ... relief.

Doctor: Yep! See you next year!

So don't worry everyone! When I'm ready, I'll be making babies 'til the cows come home! And when I'm done with that, I'll likely be DEAD. So at least I've got that going for me.

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F you, Earl. F you in the butt.

It's September 2nd and I might be having an anxiety attack. This weekend is Labor Day Weekend. The unofficial end of summer and therefore my life. God, I hate Labor Day. You can keep your three day weekend, I'd like to go back to a weekend in early July please. I told you this would happen before before we even knew what hit us. Didn't I just recover from my Fourth of July hangover? How is it September already?

Okay, well I guess a three-day weekend isn't so bad right now. I have been working some pretty long hours recently. And the stress has kind of been getting to me. My body definitely feels worn down. A long weekend of beaching is definitely in order. I NEED it. I'll just throw on a super cute bikini and sit myself down in the warm sand with a cold Nick Lachey and soak up some rays all will be well, right?

Because this weekend that asshole Earl is coming to town.


Nope, not that Earl. This one.


It's been absolutely beautiful here all week. Nothing but sun and highs in the 90s. My favorite. So of course after being stuck in a windowless office all week, Friday afternoon will bring me nothing but violent, 100 mph wind and rain and the rest of the weekend will be too cold for the beach. You see that map?! FUCK YOU, EARL.

I JUST WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH, GODDAMNIT. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

B has been trying to calm me down all week by telling me that only crazy people get angry at the weather. You can't fight nature. Was it possible that I was overreacting? Well guess what, B. I'm fucking PISSED at nature. I'm furious. I'm compulsively checking weather.com every hour on the hour and biting my nails into little nubs because the temperature is not supposed to be dropping 30 degrees right now! I AM NOT MENTALLY PREPARED FOR THIS. CHRIST.

I'm also kind of questioning why the weather has the ability to send me into such an anxiety spiral. I have significantly more anxiety about the fact that it's going to be 72 degrees and rainy on Saturday than I was about the multiple major, potentially game-changing meetings that took place this week at work. But the weather? The weather keeps me up at night clenching my jaw and wondering why I'm such a fucking spaz. Clearly, the weather is affecting my mental and now physical health.

In order to distract myself from the fact that I likely won't be at the beach this weekend, I've been trying to think of some other equally fun things to occupy my time with over the three days of freedom. Or since nothing is as fun as a day at the beach in my book, at least something more endurable than cleaning the kitchen floor.

1) Paint my bedroom. This isn't really fun, but it needs to get done. We also need to paint the upstairs hallway and the stairwell and that space when you first walk in the front door and the kitchen and the kitchen hallway and CHRIST this is a lot of work and I'm kind of overwhelmed just thinking about it. PASS.

2) Take a day trip. I've been living in Massachusetts for eight months now (woah) and I haven't yet been to any of the Cape islands. Most people gasp when they hear me say this, so I figure it's something I should amend relatively soon before the winter comes back and swallows me into its dark belly of despair. We can take our bikes and tour around and pop into cute little local pubs for drinks and sammies and it will be adorable! But it's Labor Day Weekend, which means that both Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard are guaranteed to be more crowded than the line for Confession the day after Mardi Gras, hurricane or no hurricane. And there's the traffic and god I hate traffic. We could take the ferry, but that's pretty expensive and we're kind of broke right now. UGH. PASS.

3) Go shopping. Maybe adding some fabulous new items to my fall wardrobe will make the impending cold weather a little bit more tolerable. Because looking fabulous is always fabulous. I certainly need some new fall skirts. And lord knows I don't really have any acceptable shirts for the office. And shoes. Woah nellie, momma needs some new shoes. Did you not hear me say we're broke? I couldn't even buy a t-shirt from the WalMart sale rack right now. I'll be happy if I'm not eating dog food this month. PASS.

4) Drink. WELP, I guess we all know how I'll be passing my hurricane weekend. DING DING DING DING DING.

Clearly, I need another weekend full of booze like I need a root canal, but like B says, you just can't fight nature.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Being as multiple people sent me this song over the past week, I think it's begging for a little Song of the Week action. It first came to me by way of blog comment. Tatiana was all ya gotta hear this song 'cause it's awesome but it's totally NSFW. This got me excited for two reasons:

1) Someone besides my mother is reading this blog.

2) I was at work when I read the comment and that little "NSFW" comment really buttered my bread because if there's one thing I love, it's inappropriateness in all things.

I weighed my options for about 1.4 seconds: Staying on the professional, appropriate side of the line during office hours orrrrr pushing play and getting some quick shits and giggles. I think we all know what happened next. Instant gratification for the win.

And boy was it worth it. Because this song? Is a song I can really get behind. It plays to all my likes right now: funky tunes and an excuse to say the word "fuck." Sorry, mom. Please to enjoy. Oh, and uhhh ... NSFW? Unless of course you have headphones like I do, then BLAST IT!

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