a) Strangers start sending you hate mail because you haven't written anything all week and HOW DARE YOU LIVE WITHOUT SHARING YOUR OFFICE BATHROOM STORIES FOR ONE MORE DAY.
b) Co-workers from different states send you request to please bring back some Yella. This I assume is because they've come to respect me too much in the days that have passed and they need to be reminded that no matter how awkward their own lives can get, there's always Bridget Horne to out-awkward anyone and make them feel better about their own life choices.
c) Your mother leaves you a message about how she gets nervous when you get quiet on the Internet because if you're willing to share demoralizing stories withthousands hundreds a couple of people about the gynecologist, public flashing and passing out on the front lawn and you haven't been blogging recently there are really only two options: 1) you've recently been behaving like normal human (and let's be honest: HA.); or 2) you're curled up on your kitchen floor throwing plates against the wall and weeping into a bottle of Merlot.
c) Your mother leaves you a message about how she gets nervous when you get quiet on the Internet because if you're willing to share demoralizing stories with
Well guess what, mom: NONE OF THE ABOVE! Bridget Horne: shattering expectations since 1984. I've just been ... busy. With real people things. Like work. And running. And this past weekend I was back in Pittsburgh celebrating the birth of my Mojo and WHEW. Which means that last week I was so excited that I had a hard time harnessing my energy into a keyboard. So every time I sat down to write a post, I would instead spend an inappropriate amount of time watching the Lupe Fiasco video for my new favorite flavor of the week on repeat. LA-ZER. YEAH.
So yeah, I'm here. I also want to thank you all for the outpouring of Girl Scout cookies I've gotten over the past couples weeks. Since I threatened to divorce my husband and/or stab him in the jugular with a fork, I've basically had cookies thrown at me from every direction. I'm not sure if it's out of kindness to me or to B, but I don't even care because I am STOCKED with Thin Mints. That was the most successful operation I've ever pulled off in my life. Is that how this blog thing works? I get a little stabby and you all mail me cookies? IF I DON'T GET $5,000 I AM TOTALLY STABBING SOMEONE. SOMEONE IMPORTANT. LIKE YOUR GRANDMOTHER. MAIL ME THAT NEW PAIR OF BOOTS I REALLY WANT OR I'LL MAKE OUT WITH YOUR DAD. IF I DON'T HAVE A VACATION HOME IN SPAIN BY THE END OF THE MONTH I WILL TOTALLY PUSH YOU DOWN THE STAIRS. Ready? Go.
In other totally unrelated news because I'm not good at organizing my thoughts at this moment and ya'll should just be happy I'm writing at all and GOD YOU ARE SO NEEDY, I am so excited about this whole new "daylight" thing that's going on right now. I work in a tin can, remember. During the winter, it is entirely possible for me to go entire weeks without seeing sunlight in Boston. It's been scientifically proven ... by scientists ... important ones ... that Bostonians have a Vitamin D deficiency during the winter months so how am I really expected to not be an asshole? YOU CAN'T ARGUE WITH SCIENCE, PEOPLE. But recently, my mood has shot through the roof. I went from "Threat Level: Stab You In The Face" to "Mildly Uncaring" to "Totally Fucking Psyched About Life" in a matter of a couple weeks. B has even stopped sleeping with a baseball bat on his side of the bed.
But while my mood has been lifting, you may or may not have noticed that my mind has been slipping. Like I said, it's the daylight. I get totally distracted by things like fireworks and flashing lights and ... well, light in general. One minute I'll have laser-like focus and the next I'll walk outside, realize it's still light and immediately start day dreaming about bikinis and beach days and totally forget whatever it was that I was just supposed to be doing. Every evening I walk out of the office, I'm completely surprised the sun is still shining. Like a goldfish who swims around and around in its bowl and is surprised at that little porcelain castle every time it turns the bend. I push the door open and HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THAT TOTALLY AWESOME THING. And then I'm swimming and swimming and OH MY GAH THIS IS AMAZING.
Case in point, my mom called me on my way to work one day last week to ask me if I had heard the latest about Chris Brown, and I was all ummmm no? I rummaged through my purse to slip on my sunglasses. YES! SUNGLASSES!
"WELL. He was on Good Morning America yesterday. And apparently he was screaming at his assistant in the dressing room and threw a chair out the window and was just generally a very large asshole."
My eyes widened as I maneuvered my car into another lane so I could get closer to the ocean to watch the sun bounce off the waves as I drove.
"WHAT?"
"Yes he just does not know how to behave."
"He threw a chair out the window?"
"Apparently. And then Robin Roberts was asking him some tough questions, like why he beat Rhianna."
And it was not until this point in the conversation that I realized my mom was talking about Chris Brown, the pop artist slash girlfriend beater and NOT Massachusetts Senator Scott Brown, which is who I had assumed for the past ten minutes that we were talking about. I've been living in Massachusetts for a while now, it's difficult for me to hear the name "Brown" and not have my brain register "1970s naked Cosmo centerfold slash Republican politician slash autobiographer slash let's not get into it (you reeeaallllly shit the bed on that one, Massachusetts)." Needless to say, I'm a little disappointed.
For me, sipping some Scott Brown Haterade is almost as fun as hating on Chris Christie (Chris Christie, ran over your dog with his car and didn't even stop to say he's sorry. Oh, god it just never gets old). There's just so much material to play with.
"WELL. He was on Good Morning America yesterday. And apparently he was screaming at his assistant in the dressing room and threw a chair out the window and was just generally a very large asshole."
My eyes widened as I maneuvered my car into another lane so I could get closer to the ocean to watch the sun bounce off the waves as I drove.
"WHAT?"
"Yes he just does not know how to behave."
"He threw a chair out the window?"
"Apparently. And then Robin Roberts was asking him some tough questions, like why he beat Rhianna."
And it was not until this point in the conversation that I realized my mom was talking about Chris Brown, the pop artist slash girlfriend beater and NOT Massachusetts Senator Scott Brown, which is who I had assumed for the past ten minutes that we were talking about. I've been living in Massachusetts for a while now, it's difficult for me to hear the name "Brown" and not have my brain register "1970s naked Cosmo centerfold slash Republican politician slash autobiographer slash let's not get into it (you reeeaallllly shit the bed on that one, Massachusetts)." Needless to say, I'm a little disappointed.
For me, sipping some Scott Brown Haterade is almost as fun as hating on Chris Christie (Chris Christie, ran over your dog with his car and didn't even stop to say he's sorry. Oh, god it just never gets old). There's just so much material to play with.
Yo Scott Brown I'm happy for you and I'mma let you finish...
I'm still holding out for a good chair throwing. But in the mean time, I'll be a bit more diligent here. Until I get distracted by something more exciting. Just setting realistic expectations.
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1 comment:
So what you're saying is I don't need to send you thin mints ;)
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