Wednesday's Song of the Week

Every time I have a Mojo weekend, I know that besides all of the good talks and good times and good eating and good drinking, there will also be a lot of good music. It runs in the Mojo family. And inevitably, there is always one song that really stands out as the Song of the Weekend for us. Usually, it's the song that one of us is blasting from the speakers of our car as we pick the other up from the airport. When music hits you at the pinnacle of your excitement, it's hard not to scream your little heart out.

Last weekend, obviously the song that we danced to every time we were in the car going ... anywhere ... was Lupe. LA-ZER. Ohhhh goodness I lurve it.

But Mojo had some other bands up her sleeve and I left Pittsburgh with a full arsenal of new songs. One of those bands was Temper Trap. Obviously, I'd heard their first big hit, Sweet Disposition, while I was watching 500 Days of Summer 500 times but for some reason I never looked much further into them. Mojo played me a few songs from their latest album and I schmitten. And when I got home, I did some more digging of my own. And this? This I just love:

Someone's blowing some money on new music this week!

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The Yellaphant resumes yelling. Alt title: Scott Brown, throws chairs through windows

First, some housekeeping: You know you've been neglecting your blerg when ...

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 with thousands 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.

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.

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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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I recently came across the band Local Natives, and with each new song I hear I like them more. They're playing at this year's Sasquatch Music Festival in Washington in May, among many, many, MANY other incredible artists (Chromeo, Rodrigo y Gabriela, the Decemberists, the Flaming Lips, Wilco and, and, AND ...).

I've been begging to go to this festival for quite a few years now. But this year? Wow. Just, wow. Please? PLEEEEASE? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEEAAAAASSEEEEEEE?!

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I'm totally blaming the Girl Scouts for my impending divorce

It's no secret round these parts that I have eating habits that are pretty much on par with that of a 300 pound man. I'm hungry, like, all the time. I have an entire desk drawer in my office filled with snacks. And yeah, it's the big drawer on the bottom. You know which one I'm talking about. Instant oatmeal packets, peanut butter crackers, dried fruit and -- let's not kid ourselves here -- cookies. I could not survive the day without them.

This is a recent conversation I had with one of my coworkers:

Me: Oh, CRISIS.

CW: What's the matter? Everything okay?

Me: No. Definitely not.

CW: What is it? Did someone get hurt?

Me: My snack drawer is empty and I am STARVING.

CW: Oh ... kay ... Okay?

That said, it is no exaggeration that one of the great little joys of my life is Girl Scout Cookie Season. I'm really easy to please. This is a wonderful time of the year. The long, brutal winter is finally loosening it's icy fingers from the throat of New England; as a result, people are beginning to feel and act human again; the layers are being shed; and the Girl Scouts are selling cookies! You want to know what really brought about the Lenten Great Sugar Downfall of 2007? A single Thin Mint. How can I say no to a Thin Mint?! You tell me how and I will tell you that you are not human, sir.

So when I realized that Girl Scout Cookie Season was upon us again, I immediately tasked B with the very important job of finding a Girl Scout and buying her entire cookie supply. He works with children. Every day, in fact. It can't be hard to find a Girl Scout among all those sticky hands and snotty faces and germs. I only need one. And all of her cookies. Each night B would come home from work and I would ask him if he found any Girl Scouts yet. And every night he would reply, "Oh ... I forgot." The weeks ticked on and still no cookies.

Finally, as he was headed to work one morning I calmly requested that he find me a goddamn Girl Scout for chrissake there's like a million kids running around that goddamn place all day I just want my Thin Mints why is it so hard to find a goddamn Girl Scout!? To which he replied, "Oh ... I'm pretty sure they're not selling cookies anymore."

But then my mom came to visit and you know what she brought me? GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. Thank bajesus. But because this year I only have a single box of Thin Mints I have been carefully rationing them out. Each night after dinner I allow myself two cookies. That's it. They need to last. Because once they're gone, there will be no more Thin Mints until next year. I must enjoy these few moments of minty bliss. I must cherish them.

One night this week I walked into the kitchen to find B grabbing a handful -- yes, a HANDFUL, I KNOW RIGHT?! -- of Thin Mints from the box I had carefully hidden in the refrigerator. I had wedged the package underneath a bag of lettuce in the vegetable drawer because, you know, hiding things from B is kind of like hiding things from a six-year-old.

"OOOOHMYGODWHATAREYOUDOING?" I asked him.

"Eating ... cookies?"

"THOSEAREMYTHINMINTS."

"... Yeah ...?"

"No. Nononono. You failed at bringing me my Girl Scout Cookies. You are NOT ALLOWED to eat any of these. These are mine. Spit them out. Right now. Out."

"But -"

"FAILED."

I took the cookies from his hand and shoved them down my own face while he watched his wife sink to what can probably considered new lows of gluttony, selfishness and -- let's be honest -- just plain ol' immaturity. Since then I have been carefully counting remaining cookies every time I take one to be sure that B has not been sneaking any while I'm not home.

It might surprise you that a 26-year-old woman would be so ... paranoid? ... obsessive? ... childish? ... there are just so many words that could work here ... as to count her cookie supply every night to be sure her husband isn't taking any (okay, it probably doesn't) but what SHOULD surprise you (even more) is that her husband totally WOULD steal them. And not because he loves Thin Mints the way I do (borderline inappropriately) -- because he doesn't. But because he would do it JUST to spite me. To send some type of message or something. Like ... oh I dunno ... stop being an asshole? So here we stand, in the great Girl Scout Cookie Off of 2011, just trying to see who can out spite who worse.

I can just picture myself in court right now.

"Yeah I stabbed him. But, Your Honor, HE ATE ALL OF MY THIN MINTS."

This will not end well.

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Happy St. Patrick's Day all you fake Irish wannabes!

May you never lie, steal, cheat or drink.
But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love.
If you must steal, steal kisses.
If you must cheat, cheat death.
And if you must drink, drink with your friends.


Because I'll be spending my St. Patrick's Day in the epicenter of Irish-America -- South Boston -- I'd be remiss if I didn't leave you with this. Happy drinking.



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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Holy shit this is good. Like, seriously, holy shit. I love absolutely everything about this.





This week's Song of the Week brought to you thanks to Mojo. Tweet

Then there was that time we almost stole a car

Last weekend my mom was in town for a visit. And as we are apt to do when ma comes to town, there was a lot of eating and drinking and chatting and various combinations of all of the above. One afternoon during her visit we decided to head into the city for some drinks and dinner. Naturally, I gave my mom and B a few options for neighborhoods and types of food, nodded my head as if listening intently and then took us directly to one of my favorite restaurants in the city so I could spend a few hours sucking down some of the best mojitos in town.

Our conversation went something like this:

Me: So what are you in the mood for? We could go to the North End for Italian. Or head downtown to grab some Thai and walk around the Common? We could always do the South End. There's this place I love there, the Beehive. Oh man, they have the BEST mojitos.

My mom: What's a mojito? Italian is always good.

Me: GREAT. TO THE BEEHIVE WE GO!

My mom: Well do they even have -

Me: Absolutely, I agree. Seatbelts on everyone!

And yes, they were delicious. But what I didn't remember was that it was Restuarant Week in Boston so after a few drinks at the bar when I started to feel like my stomach was eating itself, I realized that we couldn't get a table anywhere within walking distance. So we piled back into the car and headed to Dorchester to a funky little place I discovered thanks to a friends who waitresses there. Good bar, amazing food, great prices, what more do you need in life I ask you? You had me at "good bar."

While this restaurant is nestled on a quaint little street, it should be noted that half a block in either direction things start to get a little ... fringy. And that's fine with me. I love the fringe. But it's not a very large neighborhood and it is also not uncommon to pick up the paper and read about another shooting in Dorchester.

So. Dinner was delightful. I came close to licking my plate clean. A good time was had by all, and we eventually meandered back to the car. B was fulfilling his usual role of designated driver, my mom hopped in the front seat and I slid into the back. As I went to buckle my seatbelt I noticed the pile of CDs haphazardly strewn across the back seat. This struck me as odd for a number of reasons. One, I keep very good care of my music, so it's unlikely any of my CDs would be strewn anywhere. And two, the majority of these CDs were Kid Rock albums and ummmmmm?

I froze.

Me: Oh my god ... This is not my car.

My mom: What?

Me: OH MY GOD THIS IS NOT MY CAR.

B: WHAT?

ME: GET OUT OF THE CAR. THIS IS NOT MY CAR. OH MY GOD HURRY UP AND GET OUT OF THE CAR.

At this point I was frantically shutting the door and jumping back as if the car itself was on fire. Visions of someone running from a nearby house and pumping me full of lead for trying to steal their car flashed before my eyes. People have certainly been shot for a whole lot less.

Me: HURRY UP. GET OUT. SHUT THE DOOR. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.

And as I am wont to do in any surprising situation, I was overcome with a slight mania and a complete inability to control my laughter. This is an ongoing challenge for me. I laugh at inopportune times. When I find myself in awkward situations. At funerals. Whenever I'm nervous. I'm the first to laugh when someone says something offensive or inappropriate -- most likely because I'm just relieved it wasn't me. I started laughing on the altar of my wedding, and the harder I tried to control it, the worse I became. Tears were streaming down my face. I was gasping for breath as my parents looked on in horror. The grimace on their faces only made me worse.

When I was in grade school, we spent our recess times playing Free Ya'll. I went to Catholic school, we didn't have budgets for rich people things like "playground equipment" or"jump ropes" or fancy schmancy "balls." So we'd either crush a soda can and play foot hockey or play Free Ya'll. In theory, I should have been awesome at Free Ya'll. I was little and I was fast. I had no problem outrunning the boys in a foot race. But without fail, at that exact moment when I was a hair's width away from either being captured or escaping -- just as the adrenaline really kicks to give most people that extra jolt of energy -- that jolt would hit my system too hard and I would be completely consumed with giddy laughter. My whole body would tingle. I couldn't breathe. I'd have to stop and sit down until I could control myself. Naturally, this was usually on my way to "jail." So yeah, you're gonna fucking suck at Free Ya'll if you're gonna laugh every goddamn time you're about to be caught.

So I'm not sure if it was the mere thought of being shot for mistaken car identity or the simple ridiculousness of being in the back seat of someone else's car or even just the idea of an entire collection of Kid Rock albums, but I was pretty much in a tizzy.

My car happened to be parked right next to the wrong car. Same make, same model, same year. It was a dark street a dimly lit street night time. Hey, it could have happened to anyone. Even someone who hadn't just put away three mojitos and half a bottle of wine with her mother. I'm just glad she was complicit in this crime so she couldn't read about it here, shake her head in disappointment and call me up to berate me for my recent drinking habits. PRETTY SURE YOUR SEAT BELT WAS ON TOO, MOM. Take THAT.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

To usher in the spring. To welcome back the beginning of the days of short shorts and long days. Because this is the perfect song for a cold drink on a back deck, as you scan the trees' branches for new life, cross your legs and pull your sweater around your shoulders because it's not quite as warm as you'd like. But finally, it's warm enough. We're not quite there, but it's coming.

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It would be so much easier to just have a beer and call it a day

Happy Fat Tuesday, errbody! I'm pretty sure it's illegal to show your boobies to large crowds of people in Boston, so there won't be much Mardi Gras-ing on my end tonight. I bet you I'd get a lot more than beads thrown at me if I did though. Oh, human decency laws. Maybe I'll just head down to the ol' bus stop for old time's sake though. Because you know my life motto: It doesn't have to be Mardi Gras to publicly disgrace yourself.

Every year around this time, besides thanking the overindulgent culture of our Creole brothers and sisters to the Louisiana south for an excuse to drink on a Tuesday, I can't help but think about the things I should be giving up tomorrow. You can take a girl out of the Catholic Church, but you can't take the overwhelming sense of Catholic guilt out of the girl! LOLZ thanks mom and dad!!1!!

As a product of a life of Catholic education and a family of loud, drunken Irish Catholics, I grew up with a firm belief that this next 40 days was a time to try to make yourself a better person. Like, perhaps, be less of a loud, drunken Irish girl. Pssshhh I know, right!?

But over the past 10 years or so, Lent became something that had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with testing my own strength of will. Could I give up cursing? Fuck no. Could I give up shoving nachos down my face after a night out at the bars in college? Of course, I just replaced it with pizza instead. Then there were those few years I tried to give up sugar. Gah let's not ever go there again.

So this afternoon I sent out an e-mail to my senior year college roommates, all of whom were witnesses to Bridget's Great Sugar Downfall of 2007 when my behavior modeled less of a gal of strong will and more of a fat kid hording food at fat camp and then binging while locked in a bathroom stall.

Bridget (12:46 PM):
Happy Fat Tuesday, 5202. Katya, do you want to give up junk food again this year? It won't be as fun if I don't have to hide my cookie wrappers at the bottom of the trash can though ... :(

Carolyn (1:00 PM):
OMG. That just made me LOL.

Mojo (1:01 PM):
"Bridget!! ARE YOU PUTTING SUGAR IN YOUR TEA?"

"I FOUND THOSE WRAPPERS, BRIDGET!"

Katya (1:06 PM):
Maybe this year bridget should try another unattainable goal, give up being a bitch...

Oooohhh that would be so hard, you guys. Does that mean I wouldn't be allowed to tell B that he smells like ass, even when he does? Or tell my boss to take that new budget proposal and shove it up his ass, even though I want to? Or start yelling obscenities, picking fights and getting punchy after that last shot of tequila, even though what the hell else do you do after a last shot of tequila? I SMELL A CHALLENGE!

Also? Being as it IS Fat Tuesday and all, technically this means that I get a free pass to be a crazy bitch today, since starting tomorrow I'll be all nice and stuff. So you know what, Katya ... you can just ... just ... sit on it ... with your British accent ... which is all dumb ... and British. YEAH.

This is going to be the longest three 40 days of my life.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

As some of you know, I'm "training" for another marathon. Emphasis on the quotation marks. Kind of like how I always put quotation marks around the word "adult" when I'm referring to myself. Mostly because when I ask myself the question WOULD A FUNCTIONAL ADULT DO THIS THING? The answer is usually no. And then I do it anyway. That's pretty much how my training has been going. Oh sorry, my "training." WOULD A FUNCTIONAL MARATHONER EAT THIS DONUT? WOULD A FUNCTIONAL MARATHON FEEL SO AWFUL AT MILE 4? WOULD A FUNCTIONAL MARATHONER HAVE ANOTHER MARTINI? WOULD A FUNCTIONAL MARATHONER BE LYING IN FETAL POSITION ON HER LIVING ROOM FLOOR?

This has been one of the worst winters in recent history for runners in New England. This weather has sucked. SUCKED. Not to mention, I'm still feeling the after effects of the injury that benched me for a few weeks late last fall. And we all know what THAT did for my mental stability.

So last weekend, when I set out for my long run I decided that I needed to take a little music with me to keep my mind off the fact that I was surely going to want to hurl my body into oncoming traffic somewhere around mile 14.

The conditions on Saturday morning were not the best: more snow on top of the base layer of ice already on the ground. Not to mention I was running against a wicked wind in pretty much every direction. And then came the hill. My head was down. My thoughts were homicidal. I was dropping F bombs under my breath just for the sake of dropping F bombs. When all of a sudden, at the exact moment that I was cresting that gahd-awful incline, Florence and the Machine's Cosmic Love came on my iPod. The asphalt rolled away under my feet and the ocean view exploded in front of me. Below, waves crashed violently against the gray skies. And damn, that did the trick. I felt like I was flying. I was filled with so much raw energy. I could feel the music bouncing off of all of my cells. My skin was pins and needles. My heart felt like it was going to explode with happiness. Gah I love a good drum beat. Violently.

Fast forward another 10 miles and I was ready to shuffle back to the same hill just so I could throw myself off the cliff to the icy waters below once I got to the top, but let's end on a high note today, eh?!

I know I already used Cosmic Love as a Song of the Week last spring, but if you're anything like me you have the attention span of a hamster and the short term memory of a goldfish so we're totally cool here. And goodness I love this album. You get it again. BOOM.



Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you.

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If this doesn't quell your homicidal tendencies, then you might actually have bigger problems than we originally thought

OH. MY. GAH. My heart is exploding with love:



Happy March 1, assholes. Thank BAJESUS we're done with February. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to sit here and watch this for the next 43 minutes. Tweet