Well played, Thanksgiving

I was preettttty cocky going into this Thanksgiving. I had just run a marathon, meaning my metabolism was satisfactorily high. I was well rested. I had my recipes for my contribution to dinner ready. And I knew there was a swimming pool of wine waiting for me.

As is pretty typical for me, by the time Wednesday evening rolled around, I was just about foaming at the mouth with Thanksgiving anticipation. Since I wouldn't be home in Philadelphia for the customary Night Before Thanksgiving Shit Show featuring an evening of awkward encounters with high school friends, I decided to crash my Massachusetts friend's Thanksgiving Eve tradition with her girlfriends. This would be a safe night out, I assumed. Usually, I deal with awkward encounters with people I haven't spoken to in seven years by binge drinking, which ultimately either makes things significantly better or significantly more awkward, depending on which way the crazy tide seems to be pulling on that particular night.

On a related note, my other pre-Thanksgiving tradition is to wake up with dry mouth, rush to get ready because I'm totally running late, and vomit up the previous night's tequila shots on the way to Thanksgiving dinner. I was determined to break that tradition this year and to actually show up to Thanksgiving dinner looking and acting like a human. A real, adult human with adult-like habits that don't involve binge drinking and vomiting out car windows.

I think we all know where this is going though because a couple hours and a few bottles of wine later, I was waking up in my underwear an hour before I was supposed to be at my in-laws' house and still had to cook six pounds of candied sweet potatoes and a pumpkin pie. Old habits die hard.

Never one to turn down a challenge, I faced Thanksgiving with my usual vigor and still managed to eat and drink myself into an uncomfortable near-comatose trance. Well played, Thanksgiving. You kicked my ass.

I woke up Friday morning still feeling ill, put on a pair of elastic-waisted pants, picked up Michael Farrell from the airport, and prepared myself for a long weekend of overindulgence. And we succeeded because it's Monday morning and I feel like the glutton from the movie Se7en starring that delicious Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman. Gah. Maybe I'll go on one of those colon cleanse diets or something this week. That'll fix me. Psshh who am I kidding? I'd be homicidal after 12 hours. Homicidal ... but probably skinnier ...

To pull myself out of my post-Thanksgiving gluttony funk, I adopted a child. Not a real child, but like, a child who needs Christmas presents. Well technically he is a real child with real child emotions and stuff, but I don't get to take him home or anything. I just get to buy him stuff for Christmas. There's a Christmas tree in my office with all these children's names on it and their Christmas wish lists. I got really excited until I looked at some of the lists. iPods, iPads, video games, DVD players. What the wha? Can I put my name on that tree? I'm way too poor to buy myself an iPad. I'm also incredibly (emotionally) needy. And I want, like, a lot of things. Does that count? Who do these kids thinks is adopting their wish lists? Warren Buffet? Steve Jobs? God? Part of me really wanted to find the most outrageous list and then buy the kid a football and put in an Mac Book box with a note that says "In my day, we used Walkmen with batteries to listen to our dangfangled cassettes. And Apple wasn't even cool yet. GO OUTSIDE YOU FILTHY ANIMAL. Love, Bridget" but I don't want to send mixed messages during the season of love.

Instead, I found the most practical child on that tree. My child is seven years old and requested sensible winter clothing like sweaters and hats and gloves. I imagine him to love Legos and after school snacks of apples dipped in peanut butter. He loves his baby sister and his parents and wants to be a doctor. He also styles himself after Cliff Huckstable. And because any seven-year-old who writes "scarf" on his Christmas wish list is SO adorable in my book, I'm going to buy this kid so much shit. I'm going to fill a shopping cart with Legos and Transformers and sensible winter clothing. And candy. Seven-year-olds and 26-year-olds named Bridget love candy. I can't wait.

I hope everyone's Thanksgiving was as enjoyable and and physically uncomfortable as mine. No. More. Rich. Foods. Happy Monday, ya'll. Get to work. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

The only thing as close as good as a holiday devoted to day drinking on the beach/in a backyard/in a field to the point of belligerence is a holiday devoted to day drinking around a table to the point of belligerence and/or tears AND eating until you think you might vomit into the fireplace.

And speaking of belligerence, this is the first year that I'm not spending Thanksgiving with my side of the family and I'm a little nervous. My family is very big on tradition. Everyone gathers at the same place at the same time every year to drink too much wine and eat too much food and have lofty discussion on politics and religion and the new art flick and the old neighborhood and sometimes there are disagreements and always there is laughter and lots of hugging and kissing and drunken professing of emotions. That's just how we roll.

And gah knows I spend my days wracked with guilt for leaving my family in Philadelphia and missing all the lofty conversations and disagreements and laughter and hugging and kissing and drunken professing of emotions. Because I'm the only one who's gone. I'm the only one who's left. And that's not easy. Because my family -- my whole family -- is my life. And tomorrow -- while not spending Thanksgiving with my side of the family -- I expect that missing to be heightened to the max.

Me: I'm a little worried I'm going to get inappropriately drunk and cry at the dinner table.

My mom: I hope you do. I'm going to drunk dial you from our table just to let you know how much fun we're all having.

Then last night, I turned to B in bed.

Me: Will you do me a really big favor?

B: What?

Me: Put down your book, this is important. Will you promise to get inappropriately drunk with me on Thanksgiving?

B: ...

Me: I just don't want to be the only one who's making a scene. It would really mean a lot to me.

B: Siiiiiiggghhhh. Yes. I promise to get drunk with you.

Me: Inappropriately drunk. Like, really, really drunk.

B: Yes, I will get really drunk with you.

Me: I'm also going to need you to be overly emotional. You know how my family gets all lovey? You're going to have to publicly profess your love for me a few times.

B: I'm not going to be hanging all over you -

Me: I NEED YOU TO BE DRUNK AND LOVEY. I NEED THIS. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT.

B: Fine, fine. I'll be drunk and lovey.

Me: Okay, thank you. It's a start. We'll improvise when we get there. I love you.

B: Jesus Christ.

So here's to getting drunk and lovey, crying into the mashed potatoes and eating yourself sick. HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!

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The good news is I didn't shit my pants in public

Yep. I did it. I ran the Philadelphia Marathon and I hit my goal time down to the second. And because I know you were all waiting with bated breath: I didn't shit my pants in public.

But that Wall? The one that every runner has heard about and I'm willing to bet not very many have actually experienced? That one? The one that makes you wish for death because surely death would be better than the pain that you're going through at that moment? When you seriously consider stopping, curling up on the pavement and letting all the other runners trample you like Mufasa in the wildebeest stampede that scarred your delicate childhood? When you begin to question just about every life decision that has landed you in your current predicament? When your conversation turns to grunts and you have no idea how to will one foot in front of the other? Well I hit that wall head on. Twice. And jeebus Christmas on a telephone pole it was no picnic in the park.

Now I'm sure nothing bores non-runners more than a runner talking about running, but because I'm still riding the tail end of the wave of that post-marathon high, I'm going to talk about it anyway. So sit on it. But for everyone's sake (myself included, because in case you forgot, it's post-marathon week and I haven't had a drop of wine in like, a week and a half, so I have a lot of catching up to do) I'll be succinct.

I ran. A lot. It was a beautiful day in Philadelphia and perfect running weather. I went out feeling great; hit my stride around the first mile and felt strong. Somewhere around mile five though, I started to feel a twinge of sharp pain behind my knee. At first I thought I took an awkward step, but after a few more strides, it wouldn't go away. OH HELL NO. Now, I managed to make it through almost four months of training -- and not just your mamby pamby jogging either; I'm talking every day I was out of my bed at 4:30 a.m. to log some miles before work; my weekends revolved around my long runs FOR MONTHS -- without feeling a twinge of injury pain. Not a twinge. And suddenly, five miles into my marathon, there's stabbing pain in my knee? It's like the god of running was all, Oh you thought you were going to prance on in here and have FUN? HA-HA you stupid, stupid girl. KABLAM! You shall feel my pain! Job well done, someone get me a Coke. Son of a bitch.

Of course I kept going, and I managed to maintain my pace for another ten miles. Then around mile 16 it hit me. Or rather, I hit it: The Wall. The pain was now shooting from my hip down to the bottom of my knee. My gait shortened. My feet felt like they were shuffling. My pace slowed by minutes and if it weren't for my running buddy Jordan, I might have just curled up on the sticky curb and let the wave of used Gatorade cups and the sickly sweet stench of failure and despair wash over me. But with Jordan's constant encouragement, I powered on.

After a few miles of death and despair, largely spent longingly watching the spectators holding their cups of beer and shaking their cowbells and taunting me with their smiles and cheers of encouragement while I slipped deeper into a spiral of hate and self-doubt, I found a second wind. That beautiful, sacred second wind. And for a few blessed miles I glided. I'm going to do this! I'm going to hit my goal! I might even break it! The rest of the way will be easy! I am the golden god of running! My spirits buoyed and I felt on top of the world. And then as suddenly as it came, it left me in the dust. At mile 24 I hit it again: that motherflipping Wall.

I'm not going to do it. My legs are lead. I need amputation. I welcome death. I am NEVER doing this again. And that's when Jordan's gentle coaxes of encouragement got mean. No we will NOT slow down the pace now. We have come TOO FAR to not hit that goal now. We are GOING to cross that finish line strong. Finish strong? I just wanted to finish without vomit all over my chest. Jordan picked up the pace and I stayed with him. One by one we picked off runners ahead of us. Step by step I made it closer to the finish line. With one mile to go we were back to my original pace. By mile 26 we were damn near sprinting. My thoughts became hysterical. The pain had evaporated. The faces and screams of friends, family, and strangers blurred into one giant blob of adrenaline. My legs were pumping faster than I thought possible. The finish line ... I could see her. I looked at my watch. I had less than a minute to cross the finish line at my goal time. I wasn't going to make it. And then ... I did.

I made it. I crossed the finish line at my goal time of 3:45:35. A whole 25 seconds to spare.

And even though by mile 25 I was vowing never to put myself through that traumatic experience again, now I totally have to do it again next year so I can hit my NEW goal of 3:40. Imagine what I could do if I could just stay injury free for the whole run! I could do it!

Thank you to everyone who supported me. Thank you to those who donated to Back on My Feet (which, by the way, you can still do); to those who came out to cheer me on; to those who sent messages of Good Luck and Congratulations. You guys are awesome. When I wasn't thinking about death and failure on the marathon course, I was thinking about you. Especially you assholes who told me you'd be binge drinking while I was running. Fuck all ya'lls.

And now it's Tuesday, I'm walking like a 88-year-old arthritic with a pole up my ass and my worst enemy is the stairs. The good news is I only have two days of massaging my legs under my desk before I can get belligerently drunk on red wine, cry into my candied sweet potatoes because I miss my family and eat myself into a coma. Turkey Day, here I come! WOO! Tweet

26.2 miles or bust.

It's finally here. I've trained for this weekend for four months. I've logged over 566 miles. I've dragged my ass out of bed at 4:30 a.m. more times than I care to count. Even when it was cold. And dark. And pouring rain. And I had one too many glasses of red wine the night before. I have the support of my friends and family, who have helped me raise monies for an organization that I deeply care about. Hell, it's pretty much my life. I'm ready. Really ready. There's just one thing I'm worried about. And this morning, it hit my inbox.

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Yellaphant rant: File it all under WTF

I don't often talk about serious things up here in these parts. I like to talk about underwear (or lack thereof), lady doctors, and my inability to act like a motherfucking adult. But life isn't all vaginas and sunshine. There are other things that really get me goin' besides Cougar Town, shitty writing and my unshrinking level of student loans. Let's talk about some other stupid things that make me want to TYPE IN ALL CAPS FOR A WHILE, SHALL WE?

You know what really burns my britches?

This summer's egg-tastrophe: Do you remember when the majority of the country's eggs were contaminated with salmonella this past summer and it was all over the news for, like, weeks? And how they traced the contamination outbreak back to one or two farms? WHY DIDN'T A SINGLE NEWS SOURCE COVERING THIS STORY TAKE ISSUE WITH THE FACT THAT THE MAJORITY OF THE COUNTRY'S EGGS COME FROM ONE OR TWO FARMS?

Think about that for a second.

Billions of eggs being shipped from California to Maine can be traced back to the chickens from farms that two-fingered Freddie could count on one hand. These can't even be considered farms. They're factories. They're rows of windowless tin buildings literally stuffed with thousands of chickens -- alive and dead, healthy and sick -- most of which, have never even stood on their own feeble legs because they've been bred specifically to sit on their asses all day, too weak to even move from the pile of their own shit. And we wonder why eggs are contaminated? The birds are pumped with chemicals to make them produce eggs faster than is naturally possible. And don't get me started about the cruelty. You don't want to see me get even more self-righteous up in here. I've covered this all before.

Contaminated eggs from a farm should NEVER affect our entire country. One farm's eggs should affect a single county; a portion of a single state AT MOST. Food such as eggs, milk and meat was never meant to be produced -- or consumed -- at the rate we do today. The small farm is extinct in most areas of this country and those that are left are in serious danger of becoming so too. THINK ABOUT IT, PEOPLE. GAH.

DADT: Otherwise known as Don't Ask Don't Tell. Otherwise known as a shameful injustice against our heroic servicemen and women who don't have the freedom to be themselves, but continue to risk their lives every day for a country that still doesn't fully accept who they are. YOU'VE GOT TO ME KIDDING ME. The Marines in particular say they're against repealing DADT because Marines bunk in rooms of two and the knowledge that their roommate is gay could make them uncomfortable and affect their performance and confidence on the battlefield. You know what makes me uncomfortable? That people who think like this are representing my country. That and this weird rash I have on my legs...

Someone's sexual orientation should have NOTHING to do with your confidence in yourself or confidence in your service brethren's capabilities. A man in love with a man is no less physically or emotionally strong, intelligent or otherwise capable than the man fighting next to him who happens to be in love with a woman. Does sexual orientation affect your mental acuity? Does it affect how well you can shoot a gun or climb a wall or run long distances with a 60-pound pack on your back? DON'T BE AN IDIOT.

Sarah Palin announcing she's considering running for president in 2012: Are you fucking kidding me? When is she just going to GO AWAY? The whole Bill O'Reilly-Tea Party fanatical-gun totin' craziness-Glenn Beck school of nincumpoops is just dumb. Really, really dumb. For real. I'm tired of hate rhetoric. Let's just all take a chill pill (HA HA Rohypnol), LEARN THE FACTS, and start making some reasonable life decisions.

When you don't use your turn signal: I'm driving along behind you. I've had a long day at work. It's dark. I'm tired. I'm probably secretly listening to country music. When all of a sudden you come to a stop. Cars are whipping by us in the right lane. There is no end of cars coming towards us going the opposite direction. It is rush hour, after all. And I'm stuck, wishing I could step out of my car, tap on your window, signal you to lower the window, and punch you in the eye because I could have avoided this if you had had the common courtesy to put on your turn signal. A LITTLE WARNING WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!

Yeah, so that last one isn't really all that big of a deal all things considered, but it still gets my panties in a twist. And that's not all that comfortable when you're wearing a thong like I am today. Just file it all under WTF.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Gospel singer Mavis Staples recently released a new album and is currently on a world-wide tour promoting her new and old tunes. Mavis is currently 71 years old. Seventy one. She is touring the world with her legendary vocals, while other people her age can't even drive themselves to the grocery store. That's impressive. I hope I still remember how to tie my shoes when I'm that age.

While her music career started with her siblings in her family's church, she became most famous for songs about freedom, independence and equality while growing up black in the racist south. You go, girl. Mavis' song "Down in Mississippi" isn't new, but it's one of my favorites. That, and I just wanted an excuse to write the word Mississippi because it's fun. Mississippi. Mississiiiiiippi. Mississippi.

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Confessions: I kind of like country music

All throughout my high school and college days -- when my music snobbery was at its peak -- if you asked me type of music I listened to, I would probably have told you "everything ... except country."

Country music is hokey. Country music lacks any real musical skill. Country music is for girls with big boobs in too-small tank tops, cowboy hats, jean skirts and boots. And boys who were below my intellectual level. The type of boys who wear jorts and John Deere t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. And as if I needed any more reasons for my severe aversion to country music, just about every girl who I have ever disliked in my lifetime has coincidentally also had an outrageously obnoxious obsession with country music. Clearly, country music was for idiots and obnoxious people who have bad hair and totally suck up to the teacher in geometry class and DOESN'T THAT JUST DRIVE YOU CRAZY?!

I couldn't name one current country star, and the albums in most constant rotation on my iTunes were by bands like Ryan Adams and the Allman Brothers. This irony is not lost on me.

Towards the end of my senior year of college, my roommate brought Rascall Flatts into our house. We would turn the volume up and scream the words while we zipped through the streets of Baltimore in Mojo's white Honda Civic. This was the first time I dipped my toe into the country music pool.

Eventually my computer crashed and I lost almost my entire music library, including the single Rascall Flatts album I copied before graduation. But without Mojo, screaming the words to "Stand" just wasn't the same anyway. And that was the end of that, much to B's relief.

And then I kind of just forgot about country music. I was too busy drooling over bands that I wasn't embarrassed to talk about, like My Morning Jacket and Flaming Lips and Chromeo and Bon Iver and the Black Keys and Iron and Wine and and AND AND AND. I lived in Philadelphia. No one listens to country music in Philadelphia. We wear skinny jeans and t-shirts and sit in dive bars drinking Yuengling and listening to the old black guy from around the corner play jazz.

But then I moved to Massachusetts. And this summer I overheard people talking about something called Country Fest and I'm pretty sure I visibly recoiled. Could there BE anything worse in the world than paying money to sweat it out on a giant lawn with a bunch of girls with big boobs in too-small tank tops, cowboy hats, jean skirts and boots and dumb boys with jorts and John Deere t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and listen to bad music? COULD THERE? Me thinks no.

But then later this summer I read an article in the New Yorker about Brad Paisley and his many, many hats. And the thing that stuck to me was not any discernible fact about Brad Paisley or his hats, but about the culture of country music itself. And not the whole cowboy hat and John Deere thing, but the topic of most country songs. Unlike most pop music, the chart toppers in the country world are not typically about girls kissing girls and liking it or Cristal poppin' in the stretch Navigator or even dancing at the club, staying out until dawn and gargling with Jack Daniels. Most of these country songs are about first kisses and coming home to the girl you love and kissing your babies on their little baby heads and enjoying a beer in the back of your truck.

Interesting, I thought. That's kind of nice. And that's about as far as it went.

Then recently, while driving home in the dark after a 15 hour day, I couldn't find anything to listen to on the radio during my hour-long drive home and the thought of hearing one more goddamned Kesha song made my brain juices hurt. I was tired and cranky and just wanted to curl up on my couch and the dude in front of me was driving like a goddamned idiot and I was starving and then it started to rain and CHRIST. When suddenly that New Yorker article popped into my head. And then I did it. I lifted my finger and paused over the scan button. And then I pushed it. And stopped at the local country station. And I listened. And you know what? It was just what I needed.

It's kind of true. All the songs I heard were about first loves and kissing in the fields and sipping on beers in the summer sun and I totally dig that. After 20 minutes I was thinking about men in Levi's that sit well on tight asses and tight white t-shirts and men with bulging arms lifting bales of hay while sweat dripped down their nicely tanned backs. I don't exactly know what they'd be doing with those bales of hay, but they'd be lifting them -- over and over again -- and looking damn good while they do it. Yeup, maybe country music wasn't so bad after all.

And you know what, the music itself isn't all that bad either. Like I said, I've loved the twangy tunes of Ryan Adams and other Southern rockers and Bluegrass strummers for, like, ever. And there is a very fine line between Southern rock and country. Right? RIGHT?

So yes. I admit it. I ADMIT IT. When I'm driving home and I'm tired, sometimes I do turn on that country music station and think about a good romp in the hayloft. SOMETIMES I DO. JUDGE ME.

I still don't know any country music star's name, nor can I discern between one voice or another. They all sound the same to me. Kind of like how all Asian men look the same. LOLLZZZ JK, ya'llz. Let the hate mail cometh. BUT AT LEAST I NEVER SUCKED UP TO THE GEOMETRY TEACHER.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I don't know about you, but this is just what my Wednesday needs.

BUT HE SMELLS LIKE RANCH DRESSING.

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BABBIESS EVERYWHEREEEEE

One of the first things one of my friends said to me the night of my wedding was, "congratulations. You're safe. If you get pregnant now, it's totally not a big deal." And she was right. B and I were out of the unwed parents woods. Not that that's really a big deal anymore. It happens all the time and no one should be judged for it in this day and age.

And now that we've been married for over a year, people ask. When are B and I going to start makin' babies? I don't know, to be honest. Which I'm pretty sure is a good sign that we're not ready yet. That and the fact that every time I see a baby, I get all mushy inside; but every time I see a kid -- like a walking, talking child with snot down its face and sticky hands -- I'm borderline revolted. I want to stay away from the stickiness. I don't want it to touch my clothes and make my couch dirty. Kids are gross. They're compact disease carriers. And they're dumb. And sometimes mean. Blegh.

I also find it rather telling that the days I give most serious thought to when B and I will start a family are the days that I'm most hungover. You can't have hangovers when you're preggo! Who am I kidding? Pretty sure looking at pregnancy as a way of avoiding a hangover a sure sign that I should not be looking at pregnancy. I CAN'T EVEN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF.

I got to hold a newborn this weekend. He was so tiny and soft and beautiful. Holding him was easy and natural and felt really nice. It got me a little excited. I could be ready. But then he spit up and I got to hand him back to his mother when he started to cry. And then she had to take him home and I went out for beers with my friends. She was so good at being a mom. I'm totally not ready.

While we were out at a new bar that night, I bumped into a friend who I run and work with who was out to dinner with his wife and kids. We chatted for a while and then B and I headed off to another bar with our friends. When I saw him at our run this morning he asked me about the rest of my Saturday night. Where did we go? What did we do? And then what? After we had left the first bar, he and his wife had wondered aloud what we'd be doing next. "They could do anything," they said. "They have no responsibilities. They might be out all night. They can go wherever they want." After they returned home they said it again, "I wonder where they are now. Could be anywhere."

You can't do that when you have kids. You have soccer games and basketball practices and bed times to adhere to. But B and I? We could do ANYTHING. Just thinking about that this morning got me a little uppity. We CAN and we SHOULD. If we want to go drink beers in the middle of the afternoon, we do. If we want to get away for a weekend, we can. We need to do everything all the time BECAUSE WE CAN. And gah knows that's not going to last forever. Sooner or later the babies be a'comin'. I should be booking airline tickets to somewhere -- anywhere -- right now. I should go drink on my lunch break. We should do absolutely everything or absolutely nothing. WE HAVE TO LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE.

My mom once told me that when you're a girl, you spend your entire twenties worrying you might get pregnant and your entire thirties worrying you might not be able to. I don't not want to have babies. In fact, I want nothing more to be able to have a whole litter. That's the life I want. It's just a matter of being ready to make the switch from 3 p.m. beers to 3 a.m. feedings. If you ask my uncle, he'll tell you you're never ready. You can't be. Who would be? You just do. Clearly, at this point of my life people would expect it. I'm out of the woods, after all.

No, this is not a long-winded way of telling you I'm pregnant. Playaz please, I spent the majority of yesterday nursing the little red wine headache that could. All is normal. Sorry, mom. One day I'll have lots of kids. 500 of 'em. BABIES EVERYWHERE. But today I think I'll have a beer.

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I think they call that Karma

Ever since I wrote that post in which I shamefully confessed to recently using the R Word -- and for the record, I really do feel guilty every time I say it. It's just like word vomit. I don't even know it's coming until I've already projectile spewed it across the conversation -- I've been doing things that have not exactly been reflective of my level of competency. Wait, let me amend that. I've been doing even more things than usual that have not exactly been reflective of my level of competency.

Case in point: Two nights ago I was getting ready for bed. Everyone has their nightly rituals and mine includes packing my bags for the next day to ensure full body coverage while I brush my teeth and rinse. With a mouth full of mouthwash, I threw a bag of toiletries into my bag and decided to light a candle. I lit the wick and shook the match to kill the flame. Only the flame didn't go out. I felt the tips of my fingers get hot as the flame quickly ate the stem of the match. And that's when I blew mouthwash all over my bed.

It didn't even occur to me in that split second that if I blew, it wasn't going to be air that left my mouth, it was going to be mouthwash. So yeah. Instead of filling my rooms with the fragrance of warm apple cider, I got to go to bed with mint mouthwash wafting through the air.

Not only have I been doing things that are just dumb (really, really dumb. For real.), I've also been displaying a certain amount of -- how do I put this delicately? -- abnormal social behavior. In other words? Sometimes I act like I have fucking aspergers.

[Ed note: To fully explain this next story, I'm going to have to give you a little background. We have this friend. I swear. And he comes from a relatively large and relatively boisterous family. That's one of the reasons I enjoy him so much. I relate. Anyway. He recently told me the story of last year's family Christmas dinner, when a pair of dentures went missing and too many bottles of Wild Turkey were sucked dry and that there almost exactly sums up every one of my family's holiday parties only replace the dentures with car keys and add a little toilet humor with that apple pie and a few dozen more bottles of wine and whammo, you've got a Yellaphant family party every time. But my favorite part of my friend's story was his reenactment of his grandmother's friend screaming "GODDAMNIT, KENNETH" throughout the evening. And I don't know what it is about the thought of a little old lady screaming obscenities, but it just tickles me pink.]

ANYWAY. This past weekend we went to a Halloween party. And when I think about that evening now, I'm completely creeped out at myself for the way I behaved. And not the good type of Halloween creeped out. The Why Do I Ever Let Myself Go Out In Public Creeped Out. Let me paint you a picture: me, mask on, sucking beer from a can through a straw, leaning against a wall, talking to no one, staring blankly at everyone around me, stuffing a plate full of Rice Krispy treats into my mouth, and pausing from my feast of beer through straw and candy only to exclaim to absolutely no one in particular "GODDAMNIT, KENNETH." Over and over and over and over again. Every time there was a pause in the conversation, I would chime in from the corner. "GODDAMNIT, KENNETH." I'd interrupt people in the middle of stories to proclaim, "GODDAMNIT, KENNETH." It was like a couldn't stop. I was overcome with a sudden case of tourettes and all I could say was "GODDAMNIT, KENNETH."

To make matters slightly worse, my "mask" was a picture of my friend's head, enlarged to scale, rubberbanded to my head. People were visibly grimacing as they walked past me. I'm still not sure if those grimaces were because my costume was just so real, or if it was site of me, wig askew, silently stuffing fist fulls of candy into my mouth and talking to myself.

In my defense, I had just run 20 miles that morning and I didn't get a chance to eat dinner, so I'm pretty sure I would have been drunk after just 1.5 beers. Multiply that by about 6 and you're getting a little closer to my level of retardation antisocial behavior.

Also? I just spent the last 25 minutes searching for videos of snoring pugs and laughing out loud by myself. Normal social behavior for a 26-year-old professional? Meh. You're welcome.

So yeah. I act without thinking, practice little to no self control, and talk nervously to myself in social settings. People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw no motherflipping stones.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

If there's one thing I love it's a good super jam. And in my opinion, basically anything Ben Harper steps into is going to be awesome, including this new side project with Dhani Harrison (son of George Harrison) and Joseph Arthur - Fistful of Mercy. I just love that Southern twang. So dees? Dees is goot.

Fistful of Mercy - Father's Son from Fistful of Mercy on Vimeo.

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C+ for effort

Earlier this fall I came home from work one night and found two giant gourd-like things sitting on our kitchen counter. I dropped my bags on the floor, picked one up and turned to B, "ooh what are these?"

"I don't know. I think they're gourds. Our neighbor dropped them off."

"That is SO cute. Gourds, huh. For, like, decoration?"

"I guess so. What are you going to do with them?"

"I dunno. Decorate."

So I placed the giant vegetable back on the counter and that is where they sat for weeks. When I bought a pumpkin for Halloween I moved the gourds to the front step next to the pumpkin for what I considered some festive decoration. And there they sat, outside our front door, for another week or so. Until my father-in-law came over and inquired as to why, exactly, we had two butternut squash sitting on our front step.

"Oh. I didn't know these were squash. I thought they were for decoration."

And that's when I learned where B got that "B look" he does when I do things like accidentally drop the R word in public or pass out on the front lawn or insult the neighbors. So I brought the squash back inside and placed them back on our counter. I'd been contemplating how to cook them ever since.

Every time I passed the butternut squash in the kitchen they taunted me. Every time I threw a frozen pizza in the oven or warmed up some pre-made Trader Joe's stir fry or ate a bowl of cereal for dinner, they judged me. I had to do something extra special with those squash. Should I turn them into some delicious roasted butternut squash soup? Or how about baking them up with some sweet potatoes? Maybe I'd go wild and stuff them with peppers and breadcrumbs.

Finally last night on the way home from work I decided THIS was the night I was going to cook those squash. I was going to dominate that kitchen and make something delicious. I was going to go Fannie Farmer on errbody's asses and when B got home from work and the warm smells of fall cooking and delicious spices overwhelmed him he would scoop me in his muscular arms have his way with me right there in the kitchen and this was going to be AWESOME.

To start, I grabbed the biggest knife I could find and started chopping. Not sharp enough. I grabbed another knife and went at the skin again. Still, not sharp enough. What the fuck, this was hard. I grabbed a third knife and, determined, cut away the outer skin. My muscles strained as I scooped out the seeds and chopped the squash into small chunks.

Forty five fecking minutes later, I had manged to chop up both squash and I only cut one finger. I threw all the pieces into a pot and boiled them, then mashed them up with butter, ginger, nutmeg, brown sugar and milk.

DONE. I had a pot of delicious mashed butternut squash. Now what? Should I bake up some fish? Make a salad? Add another vegetable? Fuck no. I just spent an hour making mashed butternut squash. I was exhausted. So I ate a bowl of mashed squash, washed it down with a fist full of leftover Halloween candy and was passed out on the couch before B even came home. Sexy homemade meal FAIL.

Honestly, I don't know how these Rachel Ray types do it. And what about the women who have things like "children" to care for while they make their delicious home cooked meals? It was Monday night and I was still hungover from Saturday. I CAN'T EVEN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF.

All I had to do was not burn the house down and even that was a bit too taxing for me and I was pretty sure I was going blind from my two-day hangover at the same time and YOU try cooking while you're going hangover blind. I can't even imagine going through all that effort, like, five times at once to make a complete meal. I only made one side dish and that took, like, an hour. Christ, how am I ever going to host something like a Thanksgiving? BEING AN ADULT IS SO HARD.

All I want to do is cook frozen pizzas and eat Halloween candy and wave my Magical Adult Wand -- no, not that kind of Magical Adult Wand -- and have that frozen pizza turn into a fully cooked homemade meal of mashed butternut squash and pan seared swordfish and asparagus and gravy and homemade apple pie for dessert! This post is making me tired just writing about cooking all that stuff. And hungry. Now I'm tired and hungry and I don't have the magic cooking wand powers to do anything about it. GAH.

Who wants cereal?

Speaking of "being an adult" and "doing the right thing" and "not passing out on the front lawn," it's election day so don't forget to vote. That would be a real dick move. For dicks.

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