Wednesday's Song of the Week

B and I are back from Philadelphia stuffed with Christmas foods, Christmas booze, Christmas presents, Christmas cheer and lots and lots of really awesome family time. Actually, we've been back all week but I've been sulking around Boston for the past few days, nursing my Christmas-life hangover. We weren't even out of the Philadelphia area before I burst into tears on the Pennsylvania Turnpike because I missed Philly already. I then spent the rest of the ride wondering if that day was, in fact, the day I was going to die, since we decided to drive back to Massachusetts just as the east coast's Snowpocalypse hit. But at least I had my NEW iPHONE TO DISTRACT ME, BIYATCHES! AAAAHHHHHH! Do you have ANY idea how fun this thing is? What with its buttons and its apps and its smoothness and such. I've been ooing and ahhing myself for days. LOOK!



So in a small tribute to an absolutely wonderful Christmas in Philadelphia, I give you Philly's own Good Old War for today's Song of the Week. Because everything awesome comes from Philadelphia.




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Keeping the "Oh, Christ" in Christmas

I already told you how I'm way on top of my Christmas shopping this year. Not only that, but I'm more confident that people are not only going to like my gifts, but absolutely love them, than any other year past. This past weekend, with one week to go before Christmas, I just had one last quick trip to make to put the finishing touches on the gifts for a few of my family members.

I was in the city early on Sunday morning for a run and a Christmas breakfast with my Back on My Feet team. We were all wrapped up by 8 a.m., so I decided to take advantage of rising so disgustingly early on a Sunday to bang out the last items on the Christmas to-do list.

I merrily pranced into a nearby shopping center, a true Christmas shopper's delight with a TJ Maxx, Marshalls, Best Buy and Target all in one location. I knocked off a few things at the TJ Maxx and skipped over to Best Buy, still clad in my spandex pants, or as I lovingly refer to them, mah spandies. Now, I don't often ever go anywhere in public besides running in these pants, but I figured it was early enough in the morning that the chances of seeing many people who don't consider it perfectly fine to wear spandex pants in public were slim.

I was browsing the DVD selection when I felt a rumbling in my stomach. Oof. Way too much coffee at that greasy spoon diner. I headed over to the CDs. And that's when it hit me. I needed a bathroom. RULL BAD. I decided to power on though. Just a few more things and my Christmas shopping would be complete. Visions of shredded wrapping paper and delighted smiles filled my head. As I was fingering through the R's, it hit me again. Oh Jesus Christ. And then B called.

B: Hey where are you?

Me (barely above a whisper, focusing all of my concentration on my bladder): I'm at Best Buy.

B: Where?

Me: Best Buy.

B: Oh, great, since you're there, why don't you look to see if they have one of those cable box converter things for the blah blah blah blah blahbity bloop ... ?

At this point I can barely hear what he's saying. I've stopped listening almost completely. I've broken into a cold sweat staring at Ray Charles' face.

Me: I really can't. I don't have time. I need to get home.

B: Okay, but since you're there, why don't you just check?

Me: B, I gotta get out of here. I really have to go to the bathroom.

B: What?

Me: I've got to go to the bathroom.

B: Can you speak up? I can't hear you at all.

Me: I need to get out of here immediately. I really have to go to the bathroom.

B: What? Why? I still can't hear you.

Me: BECAUSE I'M GOING TO SHIT MY PANTS. I AM GOING TO SHIT. MY. PANTS.

The nearest employee looked up from the stack of iTunes gift cards and smiled at me. I threw my phone into my purse, grabbed a few CDs from the shelf in front of me and jogged to the cashier. I almost broke out in tears in the checkout line, hopping from foot to foot. I was an hour from home. There was no way I was going to make it. This shopping center was on the outskirts of the city. Where there even any restaurants that would be open this early near me? WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO?

And because I know you're all DYING to know, I'll tell you. I paid for my stuff, ran through the parking lot, threw my bags into my car without breaking stride, and made a beeline straight for the Target, which I figured had to have public restrooms. They have a Starbucks from crying out loud. They better have a loo. And they did. THANK YOU BABY JESUS AND YOUR WONDERFUL DAY OF BIRTH. My Christmas was saved. And so were my favorite pair of spandies.

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Yellaphant does: the news

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Wednesday's Song of the Week: YOU GET TWO THESE WEEK, MOTHAFLIPPAS! IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!

I don't normally do this, but my friend Kevin just sent me this video and I died about five times. At first I was going to save this until next week, but I've just watched it six times in a row and I'm afraid I might not find it as funny by the time I hit number 887 by this time next week. It's just too good. Too, too good.

Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy with Will Ferrell & John C. Reilly from Will Ferrell

And if you haven't seen the original, then shame on you. SHAME. ON. YOU.

God, now I need to work really hard to find something even better than this to post on Christmas. How can you top Ferrell as Bowie and Reilly as Crosby? HOW CAN YOU DO IT?! [Editor's note: My Mommom is completely in love with Bing Crosby. So obviously, if you asked her how you can top it, her response would be Bowie as Bowie and most importantly Bing as Bing. I, fact, I bet you $5 and a blowjob that her exact response to this video would be: "But Bridget, I don't find this very funny. That man isn't nearly as handsome as Bing. He doesn't have his eyes."Obviously, the women in my family aren't about talent, prestige or ambition. We're all about looks. "The eyes" also might explain why three generations of my family's women are batshit obsessed with Paul Newman. RIP. Woo, I think someone's had a little too much Christmas cheer in her coffee today! MERRY CHRISTMAS, MOTHAFLIPPAS! The end.]

You're welcome.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I was really stressing myself out last night trying to think of a Song of the Week that would appropriately redeem me from yesterday's shameful musical confession. Then this morning, during that 5 a.m. drive to the city as I was cranking up the volume and singing along to "Felice Navidad" I realized I was overthinking it. It's Christmastime, ya'll! And who doesn't love a little Christmas cheer slipped into their coffee this time of year? Not that I'm promoting drinking at work or anything. That would be really irresponsible of me. Which obviously is not like me at all.

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Does this post make me sound like a pothead?

I spend a lot of time in the car commuting to and from the city every day. As such, I have a pretty good chunk of time -- well over two hours a day -- spent by myself. Some of the ways I pass the time are healthy and perfectly normal: I listen to music and spend a lot of time with NPR correspondents. Some are less so and can be broken down into three major categories:

1) Thinking too much.

2) Talking out loud. Alone.

a. Judging people. Out loud. Alone.

3) Frantically switching radio stations and suffering from a severe case of radio ADD.

Point Number One: Last night as I was driving home I noticed two women walking their dogs passing each other on the sidewalk. One woman's dog, a giant golden lab, went berserk trying to get close to the other passing dog. This poor, overly energetic dog was pulling so hard at his leash and wagging his tail so fiercely that I thought he was going to have a seizure.

And not to get all "I've Had One Too Many Bong Hits and a Bag of Cheese Doodles" on you, but here's what I couldn't stop thinking about after witnessing that: What if PEOPLE were the ones owned by some other greater life form? Hold on a second, I'm not done. Say that one day a bunch of aliens land on earth, take over and decide that humans are just so cute and loving that they keep us all as pets. These greater life forms far outnumber us. Not to mention they're vastly more intelligent and more powerful. But that's fine. For the most part they provide for us wonderfully. They exercise us regularly, feed us, take us on walks and pick up all of our shit. We are quite happy. But depending on the circumstances, we could go DAYS without seeing another human. And when we're out walking and happen to see one, OF COURSE we're going to want to run over and say hello. Why wouldn't we?! It's another HUMAN! One of our kind! At the very least we're going to want to shake hands, maybe give a kiss or so.

Considering this, OF COURSE dogs want to say hello to other dogs. Whenever I'm jogging or walking with Rooney, I always stop and let him take as much time as he wants with other dogs. That poor yellow lab was frantic just to say hello. I'm willing to bet the woman walking him spent way more energy yanking him away from the passing dog than she would have if she just let him sniff a little ass. A little ass is all he was asking for. And who doesn't need some ass every once in a while? Does this post make me sound like a pothead?

And THAT was just last night. You don't even want to hear how I over-analyze every aspect of my life until I feel like I need to pull over into the parking lot of the closest Dunkin Donuts, curl up in the fetal position, and eat a box of munchkins.

Point Number Two: I also spend an alarmingly increasing time aggressively talking out loud to other motorists and judging them based solely on their choice of bumper stickers.

"Way to use your turn signal, you ASS."

"Really now, if you're going to put a bumper sticker on your car can't you at least take the time to put it on there straight? Nice crooked sticker. Oh, it's a Tea Party sticker. I see. WAY TO BE A MORON, YA MORON."

"McCain? Really? You're still a big enough dick to drive around with that sticker on your car? GIVE ME A BREAK, YA HOMOPHOBE."

"Got Platapus? I don't even know what that MEANS."

"Help ... someone stole my ... car? What? That's not even funny. You are not funny, sir."

"Coexist. I love that one. I would gladly be your friend, old lady. Get home safely now."

Point Number Three: While in the car, I pass much of the time frantically searching for good music. This has recently been a challenge, as I've been totally uninspired by the radio. This explains my recent lack of Songs of the Week. There is simply nothing out there right now that really strikes my fancy in a big way. That I've been willing to admit here on the blarg, anyway. That's right. I've been holding out on you. There IS a song that strikes my fancy and I spend the majority of my time in the car searching for it, I've just been too embarrassed to make it the Song of the Week.

Do you ever get hooked on one song and find yourself passing all of your car time switching between all the possible stations that might play this song until you find if, if you're lucky enough? Now, I've already admitted that I kind of like country music. I'm still totally embarrassed by this new turn of events. Me? Country music? Maybe I have been smoking too much pot.

The other night B and I were driving home from dinner and a song came on a local country station that I just happened to know all the words to. B was flabbergasted.

B: Wow. Just, wow. You don't just know the words to this, you know, like, all the intonations and stuff. You have this whole song memorized. How much time do you spend listening to this station?

Me: It's just easy to memorize, that's all. Not much time. I swear.

B: Yeah easy to memorize because all these songs have about one chord of music and all the words are about connecting the drinking bone to the whiskey bone and honkey tonkin' tonk party bone. [Editor's note: B fucking loves this song, and don't ever let him tell you otherwise.] Look at you! You've got the whole thing down. I am ashamed.

Me: I DON'T LISTEN THAT MUCH. [Editor's note: this is a lie.]

B: Ashamed. My wife loves country music. My wife.

Me: UGH.

B: Ashamed.

So it might not be too big of a surprise to learn that the song that is haunting me is a country song. And you know what? I've listened to A LOT of really bad country songs in my quest to find this song on the radio. Every day. For the past three weeks. There, I said it. I won't live in shame any more.

Now, before I share this song I have to admit that I've always had a thing for cowboys. My favorite movie of all time is Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Paul Newman ... in tight jeans ... and a dusty cowboy hat ... on a horse ... and that chiseled jawline ... and my gah the blue eyes ... I think I'm going to pass out. I guess this next step was just inevitable.

And I'm not entirely sure what it is about this song. The music snob in me has to point out that musically it's nothing special. But there is something that makes me ... swoon. Like a goddamned 16-year-old. This is one sexy song. Maybe it's his voice. Maybe it's the lyrics. Maybe it's the vision of a chiseled jaw in a cowboy hat singing this song. To me, obviously. And now I will officially step out of the closet as a big ol' fan of this song:

GO AHEAD. JUDGE ME. I DESERVE IT. But by golly I like this song a lot. So much that I spend the majority of my car time manically switching back and forth between all of Boston's country music stations until I find it. It's like it's 1994 again and I'm lying on my stomach in my bedroom, spending hours scanning for Boys II Men's "I'll Make Love To You" on my boombox so I can record it from the radio and put it on the mixtape and then design a really pretty cover with my Crayola crayons set. Jesus Christ.

And while we're on the topic, let's take a minute and talk about how inappropriate it was for my third grade self to be so obsessed with a song titled "I'll Make Love to You." Here's a few of the standout lyrics:

"Girl relax, let's go slow

I ain't got nowhere to go

I'm just gonna concentrate on you

Girl are you ready, it's gonna be a long night

Throw your clothes on the floor

I'm gonna take my clothes off too

I made plans to be with you

Girl whatever you ask me you know I'll do

I'll make love to you

Like you want me to

And I'll hold you tight

Baby all through the night

I'll make love to you"

Also? When I finally did get my paws on that amazing little cassette, MY PARENTS were the ones who put it in my Christmas stocking. What the HELL, mom and dad? Hippies, man. Hippies.

The moral of the story: I need to spend less time alone in the car.

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And now the bank teller thinks I'm a stripper. You know, the usual.

Recently, we've had some pretty frequent instances at work where I have collected relatively large sums of cash as part of a few fundraisers. As such, I've had to make some pretty frequent trips to the bank to deposit these relatively large sums of cash, most of which are in small figures, ones and fives and such.

As I was making a final count of a large pile of money at my desk yesterday before heading to the bank, I mentioned to my lovely intern that I always manage to get the same bank teller and he probably thinks I'm a drug dealer because I'm always depositing thick piles of cash. That's when my coworker piped in and said "no, he probably thinks you're a lady of the night."

"No, no," my intern interjected. "Not a prostitute, you have too many small bills. He thinks you're a stripper." Then off to the bank I went with their shrill laughter trailing behind me.

There were two tellers on duty at the bank, one of which was the gentleman I always have the pleasure of doing business with. I can't go to him today, I thought. He's definitely going to think I'm a stripper now. Why didn't this occur to me before?! What else would you think when a young woman comes in with stacks of ones?! STRIPPER that's what you think! STRIPPER!

I was next in line. Whoever finished first ahead of me is where I would have to go. Suddenly, my usual guy opened up. I had to move in. It would be too awkward to let someone from behind me go just to avoid him. I walked up to the counter and quietly passed over the deposit slip and giant wad of cash.

I looked down at the clothes I was wearing. Everything seemed pretty safe. Jeans, a heavy winter coat and boots. Certainly not an outfit that screamed stripper. My eyeliner was a little thick though. DAMNIT I WAS GIVING MYSELF AWAY. Say something. Be witty. Put him at ease so he knows you're not a stripper. Say something now!

"IT'S FOR MY WORK." I exclaimed, much in the same way someone who suffers from tourrettes might scream fuck or damn or Bob Saget. The teller stopped counting and looked at me. "Oh ..." he replied.

FUCK DID YOU JUST TELL HIM 'IT'S FOR MY WORK?' FOR MY WORK? OH, REALLY? DOES YOUR WORK INVOLVE A POLE AND A PAIR OF FIVE-INCH HEELS? MAYBE A KITTY-CAT THEME? WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? WHY DON'T YOU JUST SCREAM I'M A STRIPPER IN CASE THERE WAS ANY LINGERING DOUBT? FOR MY WORK, JESUS CHRIST.

I stood and silently watched him finish the transaction. He smiled pleasantly as he handed me the receipt and told me to have a wonderful rest of the day.

Recover, recover, recover! "Thank you. You too. I've got to head back to work ... AT MY OFFICE. Where I work. In .. the office. Thankyouhaveagreatday." [Great recovery. Slow clap. I'm sure you really set his mind at ease here. That's lovely. Still clapping. Very slowly. Keeping cool under pressure. One more clap.] I shoved the receipt in my pocket and headed out the door. Probably exactly like a stripper. So, you know, just one more anecdote for the autobiography, tentatively titled "Surviving Awkward: The tale of one amazing woman's journey through life."

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And now for your weekly emo post: The Ghost of Christmas Emotions. Alternate Title: "I'd know that vagina anywhere."

I'm sorry I've been so ... emo ... blegh ... lately. Part of this is probably because of the lack of running. And part of it is certainly because of the holiday season.

Round these parts, the Christmas lights went up before the Thanksgiving dishes were even clean. It's still the first week of December and I feel like we've been in full holiday swing for weeks. At first I was totally into it. This will be a big year. We've got a house to decorate! And room for a tree! I have Christmas cards to send out! And presents for everyoooneeeee! It should be noted that I've been Christmas shopping since before Thanksgiving. That's a new record for me. I've been like everyone's favorite holiday elf ... on crack.

But just as quickly as the holiday spirit enveloped me, so did the Ghost of Christmas Emotions. It's just like the Ghost of Christmas Past only instead of wearing a cloak of chains, he's got spikey black hair, black nail polish, and thick black eyeliner.

Over the past week, I've swung back and forth between Christmastime euphoria: pretty lights! cheerful music! happy people! family fun! And holidays doldrums: I miss the pretty lights in Philadelphia! I miss the cheerful music in Philadelphia! I miss the happy people in Philadelphia! I miss my family!

Here's pretty much an example of the way my thought process works when I'm in "a mood:" The house looks beautiful lit up with Christmas lights. -> It looks just like home. -> I wish my parents could come see how we decorated the house. -> They won't be able to see it this year. -> Mommom and Poppop might not EVER get to see it. -> That's because you abandoned your family when you followed your husband to Boston. -> Boston is not the same. -> Boston is cold. -> Boston is horrible. -> HORRIBLE. ->You have ruined Christmas for yourself and your family forever because you are selfish and unloving and nothing will ever be the same and you will freeze in Boston forever so you might as well just die.

As such, I've alternated my free time between furiously Christmas shopping, decorating and writing cards and drinking too much wine, listlessly staring out the window and listening to the Garden State soundtrack.

I think I've snapped myself out of it though. It took some tears, approximately two bottles of pinot noir and a few punches thrown at B, but I think we've climbed the hill. Life, after all, is what you make of it and I have decided to wipe the snot from my face and act like a normal fucking human being for chrissake. It took me more than a few days to get this post out the door because I was still emo-ing. And no one likes an emo at Christmastime. BUT EVERYBODY LOVES AN ELMO! BA-DUM-BUM-CHING. Get it? Because everyone goes apeshit for Elmo things at Christmastime? Right? Do people still do that? It's been a while since I've paid attention to the latest toy craze. I've been too busy tickling my Elmo. And my emo.

Anyway, I think that sufficiently explains my absenteeism here. Because unlike high school, I haven't actually been hiding out in the cafeteria and planning attacks on rival gang, The Nipple Cutters, with my fellow Sandy Vaginas. Snip snip, bitches. And now I have a totally non-emotional story for you! Which also may or may not include my vagina!

I've been meaning to write about this for about a week but, you know ... emotions. So last week I was at a meeting for work at a very fancy company. I even dressed up for the occasion. The usual skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors were at home. This was a black pants day, bitches. The meeting included a number of other representatives from non-profits throughout Boston. At one point during the event, I stood up to say a few words about a current program we have at my organization. Afterwards, I chatted with people as I made my way to the door. A few people had questions about what we do and how we do it and I was happy to talk about it. As I was heading from the coat room, a man about my age stopped me and asked, "excuse me, but do you have a blog?"

I froze. Thoughts raced through my mind: Is he talking to me? Does he look offended? Am I about to get punched in the mouth? I eyed him up and down assessing my threat level.

"Yeah ..."

"Is it Yellaphant?"

OH MY GOD RUN YOU ARE TOTALLY ABOUT TO GET PUNCHED.

"...Ye- n- uh ... yes?"

He immediately smiled. "Oh that's so funny I thought it might be you and then when they said your name was Bridget I thought it definitely was. I'm sorry to break the fourth wall and all, that's probably totally freaky."

Okay relax, this guy does not want to punch you in the mouth. Threat level zero.

"Ah, the fourth wall. I can honestly say this has never happened before."

"Yeah, well I live in Braintree so I totally got all the public transportation stories."

"Yeah! So you can relate."

"Well my commute isn't nearly as bad as yours. Because if you're taking the Silver Line then you're really out there. I mean, that bus isn't easy."

"I know, right?" And as those words left my mouth, it dawned on me. OH MY GOD THE SILVER LINE. HE'S TOTALLY REFERRING TO THE TIME YOU SHOWED THE ENTIRE BUS YOUR VAGINA. YOUR VAGINA. HE'S TALKING ABOUT YOUR VAGINA. YOU ARE STANDING IN THE HALLWAY OF ONE OF YOUR BIGGEST CORPORATE SPONSORS TALKING ABOUT YOUR VAGINA. VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA.

And that's when I got awkward, like I tend to do. "AH HA. Heh. Oh yeah. The bus. The office is way over there. Like, far. Heh. Yeah."

"Okay, well I don't want to keep you I just wanted to say hi."

"Hi. Thanks. Okay goodbye. Good luck ... with ... it."

And a week later I still feel a bit awkward for being a total spaz. I've NEVER had a reader recognize me in real life. I'm just happy that my friends recognize me in real life. It was ... really, really flattering actually. I should have gotten his email address. I should have made him be my friend. Hell, I probably should have made out with him. IF YOU'RE READING THIS BRAINTREE MAN, THANK YOU FOR SAYING HI. It was really nice. Even though we were referencing a story about my vagina while standing in a corporate setting. That part was weird.

Sometimes, it's really hard being totally fucking famous.

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Not even my happy lamp is working this week

You'll have to excuse me, but I'm currently in a state of emotional turmoil. Everything was great and awesome and good coming off of the marathon. I gave myself that necessary post-marathon week of rest and was ready to go. Or, at least, I thought so anyway. I ran on Monday and was feeling pretty good. A few hours later though, I could barely walk. My knee -- that knee that gave me hell during the marathon; the one that made me question every life decision I'd ever made and and just pray for the entirely miserable experience to end -- is totally fucked. And, therefore, so is my mental stability.

Let me explain. I've been running forever. When I train for a marathon, I run almost every single day. On Sundays I rest. Every other day of the week revolves around a workout. That means since early summer, I've started almost every day with a run. Out of the past 113 days, 97 have included a workout. Not because I love running. Sometimes when I'm out there, I hate it. Sometimes I hate it more than anything. But I love being done running.

After a week and a half of not being able to run, I'm going insane. I'm totally stir crazy. And not to mention, I've been physically ill pretty much since I crossed the finish line, so I'm miserable to boot. I'm a real treat. I spend my days limping stiff-kneed around the office, sniffling, coughing and wallowing in self-pity. Today, my intern told that I needed to "take some happy lamp time." On a related note, Confessions: I have a happy lamp. And I love it. But not even the happy lamp is working its magical happy beams this week 'cause I'm a fucking mess, ya'll.

And the other thing? I have the eating habits of a 300-pound man. I'm hungry just about all the time and if I see food, it's probably going to end up in my mouth. [Editor's note: That's what she said.] Pizza, candy, cookies, pasta, sushi. Three weeks ago, I ate four cupcakes in a single sitting. FOUR. CUPCAKES. IN A SINGLE SITTING. On Thanksgiving, I literally ate myself into unconsciousness. I have no self control. Not to mention I drink. A lot. I love heavy beers. Belgian brews, Irish stouts, porkchops in a pint glass as my dad would say. I consume them all without giving a single thought to my waistline. I realize I sound like a piece of shit for saying all that in a world where every woman is obsessed with her dress size so GO AHEAD AND JUDGE ME. But not this week. Suddenly I'm obsessed with calories. I've been checking the scale compulsively. I'm afraid to eat anything besides salad and vegetable soup. How can I when I'm not running?

Last night I tried spinning, and even that hurt my knee. I can't run, I can't bike, I CAN'T DO ANYTHING WITH MY LIFEEEEEEEE.

I know how this looks on paper. I'm so annoying you hate me. You want to punch me in the mouth. Maybe even take out my other knee a la Tanya Harding vs. Nancy Kerrigan style. If I could just shut up and rest for a few weeks, my sickness would most certainly be gone and maybe my knee might even be better. But right now "a few weeks" sounds like a death sentence. In "a few weeks," I'll be 200 pounds. My body is collapsing in on itself and I'm a total fucking spaz. I mean, I'm always a spaz, but this week I've taken it to epic proportions, even for me.

I've never considered myself a crazy runner. I basically would run to stay in shape and not get fat. But now not being able to run is affecting every aspect of my life. I miss my Back on My Feet team. I'm whiney. I'm distracted at work. And I can barely function in social settings. My mental acuity is slipping. I JUST HAD TO GOOGLE HOW TO SPELL "ACUITY." I THOUGHT THERE WAS A "Q." I BET IF I WASN'T WEARING BOOTS TODAY I WOULDN'T EVEN BE ABLE TO TIE MY OWN SHOES. Guh. I can't even think of a good way to end this post, so I'm just going to stop writing abruptly. Like a fucking spaz.

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