But who cares about the Oscars when Charlie Sheen is now unleashing his Charlie Sheenness on the world like never before.
"I am on a drug, it's called CHARLIE SHEEN."
I just have one question: Who's a girl gotta talk to around here to score some Charlie Sheen? Because it looks RULL fun. Oh, Charlie. Chaaarlie, Charlie, Charlie. Charlie Sheen.
I have a strong distaste for Charlie Sheen, but I just discovered we have a lot in common and I am pret-tay excited. And by "a lot in common" I mean my new life motto:
“Most of the time — and this includes naps — I’m an F-18, bro. And I will destroy you in the air. I will deploy my ordnance to the ground.”
And this includes naps, mothaflippas. But don't forget: The only drug Charlie Sheen is on is Charlie Sheen.
I keep seeing commercials on TV for a newly restored Disney's Bambi on DVD and it is kind of fucking with my mind. At first I was all awwwwwww I loved Bambi as visions of hours lying on my little belly completely mesmerized by those adorable cartoon forest creatures came flooding back. But I had this weird twinge somewhere in the depths of my subconscious. The next time I saw the commercial, that little feeling got a little bit louder, a little bit more uncomfortable. By the third time I saw scenes from Bambi flash across my television screen it all came flooding back. That movie TOTALLY fucked me up.
This will probably come as a surprise to approximately none of you, but I was an emotionally fragile child. I'd use just about anything as an excuse to turn on the water works. Loud noises, fireworks, trucks horns, the Happy Birthday Song. All of these things have at one point reduced me to a giant ball of snot and tears. True Story: I hated being sung Happy Birthday to so much that on my birthday I would stand in my chair, put my hands over my ears, roll my eyes into the back of my head and scream as loud as my little lungs would permit in an attempt to drown out the singing. Every single year. Even then, I was a really effective communicator. My family, as you can imagine, loved this. Because they are all assholes.
Not to mention, all of my favorite movies were tear-jerkers. My favorite childhood movie of all time is An American Tail. I loved nothing more than curling around my favorite blanket, popping in the American Tail VHS and silently crying myself into oblivion on the living room floor. It's just so sad. Fievel is so alone. And he misses his family. And the world is just so big and dangerous. Oh god why, Fievel, WHY? And that movie has a happy ending.
You know the song from an American Tail, "Somewhere Out There?" The one that is played during one of the movie's most pivotal and lonely scenes? Oh you don't remember? Well here you go, good luck not cutting yourself after this one:
That one? STILL brings me to tears. I really wish I was kidding. A few months ago I was driving home from work and absent-mindedly scanning the airwaves for something to listen to when I stopped on some adult contemporary easy listening station and "Somewhere Out There" as performed by Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram was on and what do you think I did? I turned that volume up to 11 and sang my little heart out and I cried. Hard. Alone. In the car. Pretty par for the course for me, I'd say.
Once when I was little my parents had a mouse in the house. One morning as I was quietly sitting at the kitchen table eating my Kix, I saw it scurry across the floor and under the oven. I immediately dropped to my hands and knees and tried to coax the mouse from his hiding spot. When my parents walked in, I was lying on my stomach on the kitchen floor placing pieces of cheese in a trail from the oven to a tupperware container that I had rigged to trap him. I spent hours lying on the floor waiting for him to come out. I named him Fievel and planned on keeping him and caring for him forever. Surely he was alone and afraid and missing his family. Don't worry, Fievel! I will take care of you! I will be your family now!
The next morning I came down to pour myself my bowl of cereal and there he was. Crunched in a trap that my dad had set the night before. Dead. My father killed my mouse. And my dreams.
This incident was almost as traumatizing as watching Bambi for the first time. I was very young, three of four at the time. As any three or four year-old is, I was very attached to my mother. My father, remember, was a Feivel killer. I watched with rapt attention and was completely lost in the world of this little Prince of the Forest. I followed as he learned to walk. Learned to run. Made friends and discovered his world. Found love. And then his mom was fucking SHOT by a fucking HUNTER. Excuse me WHAT? I honestly don't even remember what happens in the movie after this scene because that is some heavy shit for a four-year-old to digest. Your mom can die? YOUR MOM CAN DIE?! Your dad abandons your family AND YOUR MOM CAN DIE?! I'm getting weepy just thinking about this.
Just watching these Bambi commercials makes me want to fly to my parents' house, dig out my old childhood blanket from the depths of the closet in my old room, wrap it around myself like a giant burrito, curl up on the floor, watch Bambi and cry. You know, totally typical behavior for a 26-year-old professional. The other part of me wants to buy the movie immediately because if it's just being re-released now, who knows when the next time it will be available? And I need to have it on hand when I have children of my own so I can fuck them up as much as my parents fucked me up by letting them watch Bambi. It must be done. And when they watch it for the first time and turn to me with their big, sad little eyes I will slowly nod my head and say to them, "that's right. And you know what else? The earth is broken, war is everywhere, and monsters are real." I like to set realistic expectations early. I am going to be SUCH a good parent.
P.S. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go curl into a ball and die.
A few years ago, MoJo and I were on a little road trip to Rhode Island that ended with an impromptu night out in NYC and may or may not have resulted in someone peeing on the side of I-95 outside of Philadelphia while the other was frantically checking the status for a flight that was supposed to have taken off approximately 10 minutes before. So ... you know ... the usual. And on that short trip, MoJo brought along a Horse Feathers album. We listened. And we liked.
I've been big into the Johnny Flynn Radio station on Pandora while sitting at my desk all day, and I've been pleased that Horse Feathers is given relatively heavy rotation on there because it's brought them back to me. And this song, "Curs in the Weeds," I find particularly beautiful. The gentle plucking of the strings is calming even on the busiest of days. And, ironically, "calm" had absolutely nothing to do with our trip.
Boss:So these people raised over $50,000 to put up a RoboCop statue in Detroit through a Facebook page.
Me:That's incredible. We need to think of a really fun viral campaign. 'Cause, you know, that's so easy to do and all.
Boss:Imagine if we wanted to put up a statue of one of our members in Boston. Philly already has their joke statue ... Rocky.
Me:EXCUSE ME. That statue is a LANDMARK. Rocky is not a joke. Rocky is REAL. Well, he's not real, per say, but he personifies the REAL spirit of Philadelphia ... which is ... real ... and ... can kick your ass ...WHATEVER AT LEAST HE'S NOT ROBOCOP.
I've been pretty sick this week. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was this sick. Sure, I'll get a cold every now and then, but this week I got knocked on my ass, like an overly excited child at a questionably dangerous petting zoo.
My mom is convinced I have the flu. She's a nurse, so I trust her medical judgment. She's also the nurse however, who told me that there was nothing you could do for a broken thumb, so there really wasn't a point in going to the doctor. And the nurse who fainted in the doctor's office that time I broke my wrist and she took me to get it set. And the nurse who refused to go get stitches when she fell during one of our trail runs, so she's left with a big scar on her knee today. And the nurse who hates blood, which was evident when my brother and I accidentally chopped his pointer finger off. Oh, kids.
One of my best friends' father is a doctor and she herself has not been to a doctor in probably 20 years. We both grew up laughing over our parents insistence that, "you're fine. Walk it off." I assume when the time comes I will follow the same parenting model that I grew up with from my own parents and grandparents. "It's a nice day, get the hell out and play." "You're fine." "Keep squirming and I'll chop you're whole goddamn foot off."
I finally succumbed to my fever yesterday and spent the day working from my bed. This was a move that I thought would drive me insane, but I loved it. The hours flew by. I hadn't been that relaxed in a long time. It might have been a little bit nicer if I wasn't feeling like giant bag of hot, clammy germs, but that's besides the point.
So when I woke up today, I was determined to head back to the office. I gave my body a day of necessary rest. Time to stop dicking around, body. Pull your shit together. I miss my running. I need to get back in the game. So I got ready, walked downstairs and found ... a dirty kitchen. Crumbs on the floor and counter. Opened mail scattered around the table. Dirty dishes in the sink. Gah knows how much I hate food garbage sticking to my sink. Gah knows. Savasaanaaaaa. It's okay. Find my center. I'll deal with it later. I flipped on the coffee maker, poured myself a bowl of raisin bran and headed into the family room to catch a few minutes of the news and found ... cotton fluff scattered all over the room from a stuffed animal the dog had apparently disembowled earlier this morning. More opened mail scattered around the room. Sand tracked in from boots all over the hardwood floor. A few dirty socks in the middle of the room. Dog hair ... everywhere. Savasana. Savasanaaaaaaaaa. Savasana savasana savasana.
I hurried back into the kitchen and went on a cleaning spree. Because you know what's awesome to do when you're just barely coming out of your NyQuil coma? Cleaning. I scooped up the cotton, straightened up pillows, emptied the sink. I grabbed the thermometer I had been using for the past few days from the table next to the couch and pondered what to do with it. I shouldn't just put it away. It had just been in my sick mouth. But I don't have any alcohol to clean it with. But I do have ... alcohol. I stood in front of the liquor cabinet pondering which would be more effective for cleaning germs: Mount Gay or perhaps some Kettle One? I'm guessing the vodka because that looks more like sterilizing alcohol, right? Am I being resourceful right now or acting completely dysfunctional? Sterilizing a thermometer in a cocktail? Is my judgment still being clouded by NyQuil? Ugh, something tells me this is not something a highly-functioning adult would do. Or is it? I put the thermometer down and decided to figure it out when I get home.
When I did finally make it to the office, I was greeted happily by all of my office mates. I should explain that none of these people work with me, we just share a common office. Most of them have no idea what I do. All of them are men. And my relationship with them? Is hilarious. "Buenos dias, sunshine! We missed you yesterday. There was no sun shining for us here." "Morning, runner girl. Too sick to run today? Getting lazy on us?" "Bridget, you stop coughing near me, you hear me? Don't even think about getting me sick. Just get away from me." "Ay, you're back today! Did you miss me?"
I love working with these characters. They pamper me and make fun of me and always brighten my day. If you think chivalry is dead, I invite you to show up at the microwave line at lunch time. I'm sure the fact that I occasionally show up for work in my spandex running pants has nothing to do with this.
So ya, back in action today. Still slightly germy so keep your distance. Gah knows I have an affinity for licking faces and we wouldn't want you to get sick too now would we? Unless face licking is your thing too, in which case, rock on. I'm coming for you, Mary.
Last week, I ordered the Decemberists' newest album, The King is Dead, and I have been eagerly awaiting its arrival at my doorstep. Any day now. Any day. We all know patience is not one of my virtues. But I really like this song. Any day.
My Mom:How was your weekend in Pittsburgh with the girls?
Me:Absolutely amazing, per usual. Struggling a bit today. We never really made it to bed on Saturday night. Up all night drinking red wine and tequila with a group of Spanish men.
My Mom:It must have been a long plane ride home to Boston yesterday.
Me:Actually, it wasn't bad at all. Since we were all still drunk in the morning, I just stayed up drinking water. No hangover whatsoever. It was wonderful.
My Mom:I'll have to try that. Never too old to learn new tricks.
You're going to have to excuse me, because I'm a fucking mess. This week has been nothing short of spectacularly shambly and to be honest, I'm a little surprised I've made it this far without getting hit by a bus. I'm flying to Pittsburgh tonight and while I'm not usually a nervous flyer, I'm just about terrified to get on a plane right now considering how things have been going. If this plane goes down, I want you all to know that I've always loved you. Almost as much as I've loved myself.
On Monday I went and opened my mouth about how I was pleasantly surprised about my mental stability after five major winter storms before February. I wasn't even worried about the one that would hit us on Tuesday. I was doing GREAT. I was OWNING this winter. It was my bitch. My happy lamp and I were sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G and biding our time until spring would finally come around.
Then that sixth storm did hit. And I was still okay. It was a somewhat stressful ride home from work on Tuesday afternoon -- a white knuckle, hands at 10 and 2 kind of ride. My iPhone was snugly in my lap for the ride while I focused all of my energy on not fishtailing into the ocean. When I finally made it to my town, I dashed into CVS to pick up an emergency supply of ... things ... for ... stuff ...THEY WERE TAMPONS OKAY. IT WAS AN EMERGENCY TAMPON STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLIZZARD. I was tired and distracted and in need of an emergency tampon stop. THERE. This never would have happened if Playtex was still sponsoring my vagina.
When I was almost home, I realized I didn't know where my phone was. I turned around and after hours, HOURS of scouring the CVS and the parking lot and pretty much every inch of surrounding land by myself and with B's parents who I had frantically enlisted to help me, it was gone. Poof. Just like that. My iPhone 4 was gone.
And this was the breaking point for Bridget's tolerance of the winter of 2011.
Six hours later, after resigning myself to the fact that yes, it was in fact gone -- either to a snow plow or a tire or some punk ass motherfucking kid who just scored himself a brand new iPhone -- I collapsed onto my couch and let the despair and self-loathing wash all over me. When B came home and found me there, he laughed. Like an asshole. It's just a phone, he said. JUST A PHONE?! It's only a thing, a possession, he said. A THING?! A POSSESSION?!
Let me explain something. B and I are both nerds. But we are very different types of nerd. B knows how to play Dungeons and Dragons, but he barely knows how to type a text message. I, on the other hand, work myself into a tizzy over new technology. I think it's romantic when husbands and wives tweet with each other. I love sleek keyboards. I need convenience and instant gratification. And I thought the iPhone 4 was the single most remarkable development to ever hit the market. And it didn't take long before my life revolved around it.
My phone was chock full of amazing photos, funny video, notes, recipes. I navigated, I emailed, I tweeted, I Facebooked, I photographed. I did everything with my iPhone by my side. It's sick how dependent I became on it. And when it was suddenly and irreversibly gone, I reacted in pretty much the same way a drug addict in withdraw would. I was twitchy and stabby -- one wrong word could set me off. I was in mourning. I miss the sleek feel of that little flat screen in my hands. I miss it's melodic ring, calling out to me: Someone is contacting you. Someone needs you. Pick me up. Caress me, it said. I play back old memories like home movies. The first time I opened the iPhone 4 box in that beautiful Apple store. Playing Angry Birds while sitting in the passenger seat. Scrolling through text messages. Snapping photos and sending them off to friends and family to amaze them with the incredible resolution. Running my fingers down it's case as it rested in my pocket, just to know it's there. Like an addict's NA token. Gone. GONE. And, because I'm an asshole, I hadn't gotten around to synching all of my new data to my computer. So when I say gone, I mean it.
And that's when the anger took hold. Isn't that one of the 12 steps of grieving? Or is that 12 steps of AA? Whatever. I probably need both. I was fucking angry. I hate winter. If it wasn't for that storm I never would have been so distracted, so careless. If it wasn't for the two feet of snow on the ground I would have noticed immediately if my phone fell from my lap. I would have found it instantly. I would still have it. It would still be mine. JESUS CHRISTOS I HATE WINTER AND I HATE COLD AND I HATE SNOW AND I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO CURL UP IN A BALL AND WATCH AN ENTIRE SEASON OF WEEDS IN ONE SITTING WHILE EATING CHEESE DOODLES AND DROOLING ON MY CHEST.
Now, I need to say that I fully realize what a big fat asshole this makes me sound like. Egypt is in shambles, children are starving, the earth is broken and this chick's talking about an iPhone. I've had some traumatic experiences in my life, and while this doesn't really hold a candle to some real shit, I'm still gonna go ahead and file this one away under my Traumatic Life Experiences folder because it still sucked. It was my Christmas gift from B. It was special. I am saddened. So yeah, it's just a phone. But damn, that one hurt. I'm not even going to think about the financial aspect of losing an iPhone, because that just takes me back to The Bad Place.
ANYWAY. Back to my complaining. Then some other shit happened this week that was annoying but not altogether overbearing, and had it not been for the iPhone debacle I would have let them wash over me like a cool breeze. I lost an earring. I got a parking ticket. I miss my mom. Instead, I've taken everything to heart as a personal attack from the heavens. Someone up there is out to fuck with me. My life is in shambles.
Today, however, I am determined to make a comeback. I am going to reclaim my life! I feel like I have risen from the dead. My sister-in-law swept in yesterday and lent me her old iPhone to hold me over until I'm up for an upgrade. iPhone! She has saved my life. Hallelujah. I am risen. Last night B and I went to the Chromeo concert and danced ourselves into a frenzy. B is a fine good dancer. I love watching that boy move. Dance! Tonight, I'm getting on a plane and flying to Pittsburgh to spend the weekend with three of my closest girlfriends. Girls! I own you, life! You are mine! UNH! I RULE! Now if you'll excuse me I've gotten myself a little worked up. I need to go shotgun a beer and fist pound some people while making grunting yea boi noises.
On a related note, if you're my friend, send me your phone number. Guh.
Tweet
We're currently in the middle of the SIXTH major winter storm since Christmas. There's already more than two feet of snow on the ground. And now we have more snow. And ice. And despair.
