I think it's called "regressing"

It's no secret that I love going home to Philadelphia to spend some quality time with my city and my family and friends. I can usually be spotted skipping around the city streets, French kissing buildings and park benches, laying my body across my favorite bars, pressing my face against the wet rings of beer and stroking the smooth wood while I purr my apologies for ever leaving. It's also no secret to those who know me in real life that going home can sometimes lead to a few "emotional setbacks" for me. Meaning, after a few good nights in Philly, I have been known, on occasion, to call B to calmly inform him that I will not, in fact, ever be returning to that tiny, cold Massachusetts town WHERE THEY DON'T EVEN PICK UP YOUR GARBAGE. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME, YOU MONSTER? P.S. please mail me the dog. Thanks, love ya ... But that's neither here nor there.

And as I've mentioned before, besides all the greatness of simply being home, being home also has some oft overlooked benefits. Like the fact that my parents' keep the kitchen stocked with the expensive cookies that I'm too broke to buy myself. And there's nothing quite like a good cookie binge to really make you feel like a mature adult sleeping in your childhood bedroom in your parents' house, if you know what I mean.

And recently I've discovered a whole new joy of being home: cable TV. Now, I watch very little TV. I usually just don't have the time or the interest. And you already know that as part of our little tightening of the budget belt this year, B and I cancelled cable. This was something we both agreed on, as B wouldn't budge on anything less than name brand toilet paper and gah knows my weekly trips to the liquor store wouldn't be lessening any time soon. We both have our standards. I did, however, agree to drastically decrease the impulsive shoe shopping. For the record, online shopping doesn't count because I only shop the sales. IT TOTALLY DOESN'T COUNT IF IT'S ON SALE! On a related note, I have been doing a lot of frantic rushing home from work to scoop up any packages left at the front door before B gets home. This skirt? New? No, I've had this for ages.

Anyway. I can honestly say that I don't miss cable. BUT IT WOULD BE NICE IF MASSACHUSETTS WOULD PLAY A PHILLIES GAME EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE. JEEBUS.

But last weekend, after being home for a few days for Easter, I flipped on the television for a little distraction while I was stretching after a long run. The vastness of channels overwhelmed me. There were hundreds of options where I usually have three. And it was all garbage. Beautiful, mind-numbing garbage. I went straight to the channels I don't have. BRAVO, MTV, National Geographic. My mind was flooded with "Real Housewives" DRAMA! "16 and Pregnant" DRAMA! Lions fighting lions DRAMA! I was mesmerized. I spent a good 20 minutes watching MTV Espanol before I realized no one was speaking English. Who knew Enrique Iglesias was so popular?! And that haircut is really working for him! See, TV can be educational! I feel so worldly now.

I can only imagine what must have run through my mother's mind when she came upstairs and found me lying on my back on the floor in a sports bra, eating cookies and watching MTV. Mind you, this was the afternoon directly after I had called the house at 3 a.m. because I was locked out and all of my girlfriends were sleeping over and could you please come downstairs and let us in? Giggle giggle giggle. I'm sure the real alarm didn't set in though until she found me rooting around my old closest looking for my high school uniform because I wanted to try it on, just for funsies.

My face would cloud whenever Massachusetts was mentioned. "Shhhh ... let's not talk about that. Let's talk about how great my butt looks in this Catholic school kilt." At this point, I don't think my parents would have been surprised if my high school boyfriend pulled up in his bright red two-door and we peeled off into the sunset to go dry hump in a parking lot. EARMUFFS, MOM.

Moving on. On one hand, I cannot even explain my draw to the music channels while at my parents' house. Even when I did have cable, I hadn't purposely turned on MTV for years. Unless of course, B wasn't home and I came across a "True Life" marathon. True Life: I Love True Life. One of the fantastic discoveries I made while drooling onto my chest however, besides the fact that Spanish pop music isn't really that bad, was that the Beastie Boys are back in action. And their new video is just about amazing. I got more and more excited with every new famous face that sprung up in this video. It's like a cornucopia of awesome people! What's more awesome than that? If you can name them all I will reward you with ... $1.37 in loose change that I just found on the bottom of my purse. Can you even IMAGINE the wrap party after this was shot? LEGENDARY.

It's just too good not to share. Now you can enjoy it too. Along with visions of me dancing on top of my bed in my kilt. You wish, turkeys.

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YEAH, WELL YOU'RE AN ASS CLOWN, ZUCKERBERG

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Like most really good music out there today, I think the Fleet Foxes are one of the most underrated bands making music right now. I love absolutely everything about this song. It stands alone, yet is redolent of some of the greats: early Simon and Garfunkel, The Who's "Tommy," Woodie Guthrie, Pete Seeger, the list goes on. It's just gooooood.



I was raised up believing I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking, I'd say I'd rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me

But I don't, I don't know what that will be
I'll get back to you someday soon you will see

What's my name, what's my station, oh, just tell me what I should do
I don't need to be kind to the armies of night that would do such injustice to you
Or bow down and be grateful and say "sure, take all that you see"
To the men who move only in dimly-lit halls and determine my future for me

And I don't, I don't know who to believe
I'll get back to you someday soon you will see

If I know only one thing, it's that everything that I see
Of the world outside is so inconceivable often I barely can speak
Yeah I'm tongue-tied and dizzy and I can't keep it to myself
What good is it to sing helplessness blues, why should I wait for anyone else?

And I know, I know you will keep me on the shelf
I'll come back to you someday soon myself

If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm raw
If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore
And you would wait tables and soon run the store

Gold hair in the sunlight, my light in the dawn
If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore
If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore
Someday I'll be like the man on the screen

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My social disorder is assuming that everyone else has social disorders

It's no exaggeration when I say that I am probably one of the most judgmental people I know. B claims this is because I'm an asshole. But really, he's just jealous it takes him so much longer than me to decide that someone sucks. Within five minutes of meeting someone I usually know whether or not I will ever bother to speak to them again. Could be the way they talk, the Tea Party sticker they have on their car, the fact that they wouldn't share their ice cream with me or laugh at the Honey Badger video, or even that stupid Ed Hardy t-shirt they're wearing. And once you're on the Bridget Don't Care, Bridget Don't Give a Shit list, you're pretty much fucked.

But before you get there, I have a rigorous judgment process that ultimately places individuals into one of more of the following categories:

1) I LOVE YOU PLEASE BE MY FRIEND
2) I Like You, Let's Have a Beer and See What Happens
3) Annoying But Generally Harmless
4) Can't You Tell I'm Ignoring You?
5) Come Near Me Again and I Will Punch You in the Head

Once you've been judged, it takes a long time to climb out of whatever box that I stereotyped you into. On one hand, if you've been placed in category 1 or 2, you're probably going to have to stab me in the neck with a pencil and make out with my dad before you can ever get out of said categories. Even then, I'd likely chalk it up as an accident and promise to buy the next round. I totally understand that you fell into my dad's mouth. It happens. I understand. Once I like you, it's hard to get rid of me. Like that stray dog you threw a scrap of your sandwich to while on vacation in France who then followed you around for the rest of the day. I will swim across the Atlantic for you or die trying.

If you're in category 4 or 5 though, good luck and godspeed 'cause it's going to take a miracle to get you out of there. Transgressions by people in these boxes are totally unforgivable. Piss me off at any point and I'll probably throw a drink in your face and shove you down the stairs.

A friend and fellow judger and I recently had a conversation about how not only do we tend to decide upon a person's personality within an absurdly short amount of time, but we also typically decide if that person has a diagnosable social or psychological disorder within that same time span. Because, hello, doesn't everyone? On a related note, I cannot wait for the hate mail that comes with this post.

To be perfectly clear, there's nothing wrong with having any or all of these disorders. There should be no stigma and no judgment. But if society and pop culture have taught us one thing, it's that no one is just plain old awkward anymore; everyone has "social anxiety." Too shy to talk to girls? Social disorder. A bit too slovenly for modern society's tastes? Social disorder. Aren't too keen on making eye contact? Social disorder. And you know what's the most fucked up of all? All these kids are being medicated for their awkwardness. There are children running around on Xanax! If anyone needs a Xanax around here, it's totally me. Whenever I showed any sign of worry as a kid my parents told me to pull my head out of my ass because there were children dying in Africa. And you know what I did? I occasionally pulled my head out of my ass.

My friend and I chat for hours about family members and children and people we work with. According to society's new standards, just about everyone has Asperger's. Except us, of course. If I'm walking down the hallway and say hello to you and you do not say hello back, I'm just going to go ahead and assume you have some form of a social disability. If you do not make eye contact with me when I try to smile at you, disability for sure. If I'm running past you and give a wave while you quickly put your head down, low self-esteem.

There's a man who I see on a daily basis. He wears a bow tie ... every day. If you're going to be so bold to include a bow tie into your wardrobe on a consistent basis, I'm going to be so bold as to assume that you are awesome. Only really fun people and grandfathers wear bow ties. Both tend to know how to make a great cocktail, go for the awkward butt grab in public and are generally overly friendly while they call you things like "sweetheart" and "doll baby." It just so happens that I'm a sucker for both really fun people and grandfathers.

I've come to the conclusion however that this man is neither really fun nor a grandfather. He seems to be a few years younger than me, so that probably rules out the grandfather bit. But every single time I pass him, I give him my friendliest, smiliest hello. In return, he points his head towards the ground, mumbles something incoherent and strides as fast as he can away from me. Every. Single. Day. Now, I'm used to people running as fast as they can away from me, but not people in bow ties. People in bow ties usually like me. Conclusion: social anxiety disorder. With a thing for bow ties.

I'm fairly certain it's a blatant sign of egomania that I assume that the only reason someone would not want to socially engage with me with is because they have a disability of some sort. Why else wouldn't you smile at me? I love smiling. But this is New England, after all. New Englanders hate smiling. So what we have now is a girl in her mid-20s stumbling around Boston smiling at everyone and becoming increasingly agitated when no one smiles back.

Conclusion: everyone else in Boston thinks I have a social disorder. I'm beginning to understand why the gynecological nurse didn't believe me when I told her I was not on anti-anxiety medication.

Prescription: 4,000 mg of martinis and 2 cc of WTF. Discontinue use if there is vomiting or key throwing.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

It's a bit dreary in Boston today. I think what I need is a little soul. And a dollar.




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Conclusion: Neither of us are allowed to speak in public ever again

B: Can I get away with using the word "son?" Like, what are you talking about, son?

Me: No, I don't think so.

B: Come here, son.

Me: You're emphasis is all wrong. Lower your voice. Downward beat.

B: Let me tell you something, SON.

Me: Lower intonation!

B: What do you mean, SON?

Me: THIS IS NOT WORKING.

B: You've got a lot to learn, son.

Me: You definitely do not have enough street cred to use this word. Toughen up a bit, get some more tattoos and start a couple bar brawls and then maybe you can use that jawn.

B: Use that what?

Me: That jawn.

B: That john? Like a toilet? Or someone who frequents prostitutes?

Me: No. J-A-W-N. Jawn. Like a thing. It's a word for anything. Like, pass me that jawn. Or, did you see that jawn?

B: I have never heard that word in my life. That's not a real word. You're making words up again.

Me: Look, according to Urban Dictionary it's a word that means anything and everything. Oh, looks like it originated in Philly. That's why you've never heard of it. You didn't earn any street cred in Philly like I did, SON.

B: If I can't use son, you can't use jawn.

Me: Totally using both from now on just to spite you.

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Next time I tell you nothing exciting ever happens, just slap me and send me to bed

Much to my delight, I was in Philadelphia last week for work and some very hardcore general life loving. I literally thought my heart was going to explode with happiness when I stepped out of the cab in downtown Philly on Wednesday afternoon. Turns out it was just gas. LOLZ JK, ya'll. Naturally, I commenced the Yuengling drinking as soon as I dropped my bags in my hotel room and barely stopped for breath until I found myself back in the Southwest terminal on Sunday afternoon, dazed, squinty-eyed, irritable and nursing a raging hangover that finally left me sometime around 2 p.m. on Monday. So yeah. Pretty typical Philly trip.

Thursday evening -- after a long Wednesday night followed by a very long day -- I found myself at an open bar at one of my favorite ale houses in the city. But wait. We had to be up and at 'em for the next morning's 5:30 a.m. run. 5:30 a.m. In the morning. The night after an open bar. In theory, one would think there is a simple solution to this: exercise self control. Of course. No biggie, I thought. I swing that all the time. I had a big 20-mile training run coming up on Saturday and should definitely not be consuming anything but complex carbs and water on Thursday night anyway. It would be fine. Self control would prevail. HA. I KNOW RIGHT? Self control? Have I ever met myself?

But before I ever reached that very fine line of "just one beer" and "please keep my tab open," I was catching up with a co-worker who I hadn't seen in a while.

"What's new and exciting in your life?" she asked.

"New and exciting?"

"Yeah tell me a funny story. I feel like you always have exciting and funny stories."

"I ... well ... yeah ... well one time last week ... umm ... I got nothing?"

One hour later I was wearing a wig and ordering another round of shots while two of my co-workers were on stage the bringing the house down with a searing blues rendition of the Happy Birthday song during open mic night. Soooo there's that. When we finally did stumble back to our hotel rooms a few hours later, I picked up my phone and read a text message from another of my co-workers, "Bridge, don't freak out or the others. Don't tell them until the nite is over. I'm at the Jefferson ER. They think my thyroid is infected."

Per usual, I followed my instructions: "WOAH, WOAH, WOAH, Ed's* in the hospital, everyone! LET'S GO!" Three of us marched through the lobby as a final straggler walked in the front door of the hotel on her way to bed.

"Where are YOU guys going?" she asked bubbily, suspicious, possibly, that we might possibly be off to a really great party without her. Because where else would we be going at 2 in the morning?

"Ed's in the ER," I replied.

"Oh my god, I'll come!"

"You don't have to come, we got this. You should go to bed."

"Are you SERIOUS? I love the ER, I'm totally coming."

"You love ...? Welp I can't argue with that. Let's gooooo!"

So off we went through the city streets the few blocks to the emergency room, which in retrospect, we really did make into a pretty good party. When we got there, it wasn't hard to find Ed among the other miserable, bleeding masses who you would expect to be hanging out in an inner city emergency room at 2 a.m. on a Friday morning.

"ED! We came for you! We found you! We're here!"

"What are you guys DOING here?"

"We're here for you. We've got it under control."

"I don't really think --"

"SHHH. We got this."

The straggler marched over to the drowsy security guard to get some details on the triage situation.

"Excuse me, sir? Do you know how long it will take until our friend is seen?" she asked.

"I have no idea, sweetie."

"Okay, but if you had to guess?"

"I just don't know."

"What if we danced for you? Then would he be seen sooner?"

"Definitely not."

"What if we danced anyway?"

Meanwhile, I was in the corner trying to figure out why the vending machine was not accepting my quarters. I was parched and if I didn't get some liquid soon I was about to get rull rowdy. A man with a thickly bandaged hand who happened to have the great misfortune of sitting next to me eventually turned and helped me get that very necessary bottle of water.

"Wow. Thanks, man." I said. "I really needed that."

"No problem."

"So ..." I pointed to his hand. "Why are you here?"

Which is why I spent the next 20 minutes discussing the dangers of hanging your own shingles. Or maybe it was siding. Possibly gutters. Either way, I will certainly not be doing it any time soon.

Each time the nurse came out to call a new patient to the back we all jumped from our seats.

"Ed? Are you gonna say Ed? It's Ed right?"

"Ethel. Ethel Huntingdon." The nurse smiled at us with what was either contempt or amusement while One of Us Who Shall Not be Named But Was Definitely Not Me danced around the security desk.

"Wow," Bandaged Hand Man turned to me. "You guys are, like ... really nice."

"Actually, we're all pretty big assholes. We just sometimes do nice things. And don't tell anyone, but ..." I leaned in to whisper, "we're all kind of drunk."

Bandaged Hand Man nodded sagely.

A few hours later I was sitting in the examining room with Ed quizzing the doctor sternly because I was kind of over this whole "let's hang out in the ER in the middle of the night" thing and I already drank all my water and when you're a young doctor stuck on the night shift I bet you just love being aggressively quizzed by a slurring, barely comprehensible blond girl at 5 in the morning.

At exactly 5:15 a.m., after they finally wheeled Ed away for X-rays, I made my way through the hospital corridors, made a few wrong turns and walked past Bandaged Hand Man sitting in an exam room.

"HEY!" I popped my head in. "You're still here! Good luck with the hand, man!"

He excitedly raised his freshly bandaged hand in a salute. "OH HI! THANKS! GOODBYE! GOOD LUCK WITH ... LIFE!"

Do I look like I need it? Don't answer that. I emerged from the hospital's revolving door into the dark Philadelphia streets, bleary-eyed and disoriented with a bad taste of Staying Out All Night in my mouth. I looked at my watch. The run! The run was in 15 minutes. I started walking towards the hotel when I saw a runner pass me on the opposite side of the street. So I did the only thing I could think of at the time ... I buttoned my pea coat and I started running.

I made it to the morning circle -- mind you, still dressed in what people had seen me in that bar the night before -- just as everyone else was arriving. My own arrival has since been described by multiple witnesses as "... and then Bridget popped up, crazy-haired, waving her arms like a Muppet" which, incidentally, is not the first time I've been described as a Muppet and I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that categorization. But then again, I have always kind of considered Animal my spirit animal, so I guess it was only a matter of time ...

I got a few, "oh ... myyyyyyy ..."s but that's nothing new. I explained the situation, stuck around to give some hugs and say hello to old friends and waved the group off as they went for a quick run through the Philly streets. When the last runner receded from view, I walked to the hotel, went into my room, and faceplanted into my bed. When my eyes snapped open two hours later, I once again did the only thing I could think of at the time ... I took a shower and went back to work.

And THAT, my friends, was just the first 36 hours. I still have another 36 to go ... Ahhhhh, Philadelphia, you do me so good. Every time. Every time.

*All names have been changed for the sense of ... decency? Propriety? Respect? All of which you would lose should you ever be called out by name in this blerg. Thank gah I have none of that above? Am I right or am I right?

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Yeah yeah yeah I have like five posts saved up right now because I have A LOT to talk about round hurr. But you're going to have to wait until tomorrow. First, because it took me a few days to sober up after last week's trip to Philadelphia ... but I'll get in to that later. And second because I get a Get Out of Being Creative Card today because it's Wednesday and that means it's Song of the Week time! And at first I was going to use this as the Song of the Week, but then I decided that would be rull immature of me and after last week, I'm taking "maturity" for a test drive this week. PSSSH I KNOW RIGHT?! I ain't gonna pee my bed tonight! Ain't gonna pee pee my bed tonight!

So instead, I give you another Mojo-inspired band: Two Door Cinema Club. This song just makes me wanna daaaaaaaance. Just like this. (I've been practicing for you, Bill Fox.)




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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I recently came across Cee Lo Green's Cover of "No One's Gonna Love You" and I have to admit, I'm kind of impressed. If I hear that damn "Fuck You" song one more time I'm going to take a fucking hatchet to my car stereo, so I automatically want to hate on Cee Lo Green. Therefore, I think it's saying a lot that this song doesn't want to make me vomit and/or stir up any lingering homicidal tendencies. That's because I actually like what he's doing here. Throw in a little dub, add some dramatic strings: nice, Cee Lo, nice. I can get behind that.

But of course, nothing beats the Band of Horses original for me. It's been quite a while since a Band of Horses album has taken a spin in my stereo and I forgot how good they are. I just lurve this song. Like, really lurve.

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Just your typical Sunday morning text message conversation

Anonymous Apr 3, 2011 6:31 AM: I have the shakes. I owe u money for spicy tuna. And we stole your car. Title of your next blog post.

Anonymous Apr 3,2011 6:32 AM: Also hands down, drunkest person of the year award.

Bridget Apr 3, 2011 8:50 AM: I got violent in the Feng parking lot last night.

Anonymous Apr 3, 2011 8:51 AM: Oh god. How?

Bridget Apr 3, 2011 8:53 AM: Threw keys at B's head as hard as I could. Possibly some yelling.

Anonymous Apr 3, 2011 8:55 AM: No more dirty martinis for us.

In case you were wondering, I have a shockingly strong fast ball.

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In other Yellaphant news, it's time to kick some ass

Happy Opening Day, Philadelphia. I miss you like the deserts miss the rain. Ooohh Oooh.

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Happy April Fool's Day, SUCKAS

When my alarm went off at 4:20 this morning (!!!!) I was damn near homicidal when I heard those steady streams of heavy sleet pounding on my window. I looked outside to see the ground blanketed in white. I dropped an F bomb. More than once. I drove to the city with white knuckles, fish tailing twice before I even made it outside of my town. I ran through puddles of slush and lowered my head as the sleet stung my face. I winced as the truck barreled past and sprayed me with a wave of icy water, soaking me through my clothes. But then I laughed. I GET IT MOTHER, NATURE. HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY. HA HA HA. GOOD ONE. NOW GIVE ME THE FUCKING SUMMER.

After my run, I decided to make a quick pit stop at the 24 hour 7-eleven to pick up some supplies. And this is what happens when you work with Bridget Horne.

Happy April Fool's Day, boss.

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