Wednesday's Song of the Week

I've just finalized most of my summer concert line up and I am pretty, pretty, pret-taaaaay excited for what's in store for the next couple months, musically speaking. First up on the menu is the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago. My ticket arrived in the mail a few days ago and I did the Giddy Dance as I ripped open the envelope. Which is easily confused with, but not the same as, the Gotta Pee Dance. Since then, I've been listening to many of the bands who will be performing to adequately prepare myself for dancing my motherfucking face off.

One of those bands is TV on the Radio. I've been a fan of these guys for quite a while and I've heard they put on an impressive live performance. And I'm ready. Oh, I'm ready.

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Salvation and cooler of light beer

DO YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT WEEK THIS IS? DO YOU? IT'S THE WEEK BEFORE FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND. AND OH HOLY HELL WITH PICKLES ON THE SIDE THERE IS NOTHING IN THIS CRAZY LITTLE WORLD I LOVE MORE THAN THE FOURTH OF JULY. Not Christmas, not No Pants Dance Parties, not vodka-soaked olives. Not even making out with your dad.

It's the one holiday of the year that truly revolves around beer, BBQing, and wearing as little clothing as possible. Besides Halloween. And St. Patrick's Day. And New Year's Eve. And Christmas at the Hanahans. But on the Fourth of July you get to do it on a BEACH. CHRIST what could be better than that I ask you? I am getting all hot under the collar just thinking about it. And I plan to get at it with all the energy, passion, and displaced fury of a uncontrollably hyperactive dog set loose on a room full of colorful balloons.

I am just going to tear this weekend to shreds. To SHREDS. To be honest, Fourth of July really snuck up on me this year. This time last year, we had been going to the beach for weeks. This year however, the weather shifted directly from winter to summer in a 48-hour period, stuck around for a couple days, realized it had forgotten about spring somewhere along the road, apologized for jumping the gun, and took a few steps back for the past week. So while my friends and family to the south have been soaking up the rays for a solid month, we New Englanders have been chomping at the bit for some warmth and sunshine. I can now say that I understand what a drug-addled addict jonesin' for a hit must feel like. Every day, checking the weather for the rain to stop and the sun to return. Already bruised and battered from the abominable winter from hell. Staring out the window beseechingly. Becoming increasingly aggressive and reclusive. Then the shakes come. The loss of appetite. The nail biting. The constant Facebook stalking of others in beachable climes. The paranoia. The mood swings. The pleading with the gods of weather. The hugging of the knees to to the chest and the rocking. It puts the lotion in the basket.

But this coming weekend that's all going to change. Because it WILL be sunny. It WILL be warm. And I WILL be firmly planted in the sand with my friends around me and a light beer in my hand for the entirety of the weekend. Rain is not an option. DO YOU HEAR ME GAH? I WILL NOT HAVE THAT SHIT.

I've been relatively ill for the past week or so, and upon looking back on a post from this time last year, I realized that I also spent the week before Fourth of July weekend aching and whining. This is a good sign. So if this year is anything like last year, I'll be sucking down rum punch, witnessing domestic disputes, losing articles of clothing, throwing full cans of beer, and crawling into my neighbor's bed in my bathing suit and sandy feet all before 9 p.m. on Saturday. One can only hope.

As such, I've been self-medicating by running myself into the ground, not getting enough sleep, chewing on DayQuil and washing it all down with a beer each night. It's like I like to test the extremes of my body. Oh, you don't feel very well, body? A little run down? HOW DO YOU FEEL NOW?!

Now all that's left to do is keep my head down and survive the week like the awkward little turtle I am. HUZZAH! Summer is really coming this time, you guys. I can feel it. And if it doesn't? Well, if it doesn't I will very calmly and collectedly get into my car, put on my seat belt, find an appropriately satisfying radio station and drive to Mexico never to return. LOLZ just kidding! No I'm not! Yes I am! No I'm really not! I will fucking burn rubber! Here's to sunshine!

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Wednesday's Song of the Week on Thursday. Oh, get over it already.

I took the day off work on Monday to unwind after a particularly stressful few weeks and to get in some solid beach time BECAUSE HOLY SHIT IT'S FINALLY BEACH SEASON, YA'LL (see post below). Incidentally, taking a day off has completely thrown off my schedule because apparently I'm unable to follow a calendar like a normal human. I've already added that one to my List of Things Normal People Do That Bridget Cannot. It's fine.

So since I'm already a day late I'll shut up and get on with it. Without further ado, here is a list of things I am currently obsessed with:

My new honey-colored Ray Ban sunglasses

Temps in the 80s

Old men on bicycles

Dogs in hooded sweatshirts

Dahlias

Sweet tea vodka and water

Dark purple nail polish

Those extra hours of daylight

Just about every song on ADELE's "21" because sweet Jesus yes, girl, YES:

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It's beach season, baby

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I'll moving violate YOU

I've always considered myself a pretty good driver. At this point I've been on the road for more than 10 years and have more than a few notches on the old Road Trip bed post, so I've got at least a little experience tucked under my belt. Not to mention, I have the reflexes of a cat when I'm sober and, incidentally, I'm always sober while driving. Amazing, right? As such, my driving record is almost pristine, save for a minor accident involving my father's Saturn when I was 16 that was TOTALLY not my fault, you guys. I swear.

These days, I zip around Boston and beyond in my little Honda Civic like someone who was born to zip around Boston and beyond in a little Honda Civic. I rule the traffic circle. And this probably goes without saying, but I parallel park like a pro. Like. A. Mothaflippin'. Pro. Parking cars ain't no thang when you Aced the parallel parking test for a 20-foot United States Post Office truck. True Life: I used to be your mailman. WHAT?

As part of being what I consider a "good" driver, I try really hard not to be an asshole. I let people merge. I stop before red lights to let people out of parking lots. And I always give a friendly wave and smile whenever anyone else does the same. FACT: If I let you in front of me and you do not give me a thank you wave in return, I WILL become rageful and want to rear-end you in retaliation. A little wave doesn't take much. It's common courtesy. Do you also not hold doors and shove old people and eat puppies? You're a dick. Just sayin'.

But just because I'm not an asshole doesn't mean I probably don't drive a little too fast for my own good. Granted, I'm no crazy speedster like those dudes in souped up two-door Hondas with tinted windows and flames on the side of their doors. I'm typically always with the flow of traffic. But when you're used to frequently traveling long distances at a time (like, say, a daily commute of 60 miles or a regular road trip from Boston to Philadelphia), you tend to push the gas pedal a smidge harder than the average Joe simply because GOD I JUST WANT TO BE THERE ALREADY ARE WE THERE YET I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM I'M STARVING I'M LATE THERE IS NOTHING ON THE RADIO I WANT THE AIR CONDITIONING ON NO I WANT THE WINDOWS OPEN NO THAT'S TOO LOUD I WANT THE AIR CONDITIONING BACK ON NO IT'S A LOVELY DAY I WANT THE WINDOWS BACK DOWN THIS TRAFFIC IS CRUSHING MY WILL TO LIVE ARE YOU THERE GOD IT'S ME BRIDGET DID I MENTION I'M STARVING?

Why do I say "probably" when I refer to my speeds? Don't I have a near-perfect driving record, which includes a total of zero (yes ZERO) tickets? Well yes I do, no thanks to myself. I've been pulled over for speeding three times and for committing a moving violation one time for a grand total of four incidences with the men in blue of both Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. All of which resulted in zero tickets.

The first time I was driving too quickly down Lancaster Avenue in high school after watching my boyfriend play guitar in a coffee shop and that sentence right there pretty much describes the majority of my high school career. Le sigh. But the cop, likely sensing my and my friend's panic, let me go with a good, firm talkin' to.

The second time I was also in high school, speeding past someone driving far too slow down Eagle Road in Havertown. I still had my "junior" license, which required me to be off the road by 11 p.m. It was somewhere around midnight and just as I decided to take on this bold maneuver, I sped past a cop sitting in a 7-11 parking lot. This time, I played it cool with my friend Monica in the passenger seat. I'm so sorry, officer. I fell asleep and when I woke up I realized it was past my driving curfew and I just wanted to get home as quickly as possible and I am so, SO sorry. Another warning. This time I was sent off with a kind smile and a "I just want to see you safe."

The third time I got pulled over was a good seven years after the second. This time for making a left turn off of Day Boulevard in South Boston 20 minutes before it was legally allowed. A cop was sitting just around the corner, flagging down an entire row of cars. After ticketing three people ahead of me, the officer took my license and registration. This dude was not fucking around. No smiles, no do you know why I pulled you over rhetorical questions. Just stone, cold, sunglasses-down badassery. This time I knew I was busted. He took my papers to his car while I fiddled with the radio. B would kill me. Minutes later he jogged back to my window and threw my papers onto my lap, "it's your lucky day, girl. I just got an emergency call. AND DON'T DO IT AGAIN." And he sped off through Southie. Thank you, Jeebus!

And finally, my last experience occurred on the drive to Cape Cod for Memorial Day Weekend with Mojo sitting shotgun. We just turned off the Bourne Bridge and were a mere few miles from Doug's beach house. Our excitement level was wavering solidly between heart palpitation pumped and pee your pants crazy. The music was up and we were on the look out for a place to stock up on beer before pulling into Doug's. And then he got me. Ooooh he got me.

Panic flashed across Mojo's face. "Oh god, Briiiiiiidg. Now you're really going to need a drink."

But this time, after all those other times, I knew my time had come. For realsies this time. And I was okay with that. "It's totally fine, Mo. My time has come. I technically owe the country, like, hundreds of dollars anyway for all those other times I got pulled over and never got tickets. It had to happen eventually."

The cop was at my window. "Do you know why I pulled you over today?"

"I was going too fast," I replied meekly, my eyes cast down in contrition.

"And do you know how fast you were going?"

I looked at Mo. I looked at the cop. I had no idea how fast I was going, actually. I mean, it couldn't have been that fast. I was pretty much with the flow of traffic, right? Granted I was in the left lane, but it's not like I was going 90. Right?

"Fif ... ty ... five?

"Seventy."

"Oh."

"And do you know what the speed limit is?"

Again I was stumped. I watched the other cars flying past on their way to sandy shorts and limes in their beers. I had no idea what the speed limit even WAS.

"Fif ... ty?

FIFTY?! Why didn't I say 65?! That would have put me just five miles above what I "thought" was the speed limit. FIFTY?! I should just write MYSELF the ticket and when I'm done use the same pen to scrawl "MORON" across my forehead so everyone around me would know to approach with caution because this chick is dumb. FIFTY?!

"Fifty-five. HOW MANY SPEEDING TICKETS DO YOU HAVE, MA'AM?"

Oh god I was so busted. And by a state trooper to boot. This would not be pretty.

"Zero." My voice was submissive, resigned, wilting by the minute like a flower petal shriveling in the sun.

"ZERO?" His voice was incredulous. He tipped his sunglasses down his nose to more thoroughly scrutinize the poor specimen before him.

"Zero." I got a little bit bolder.

"ZERO speeding tickets?"

It's not like I was going to offer up all those times I got stopped for speeding but DIDN'T get a ticket. I mean, I know I'm a moron but I'm not an idiot.

"Zero speeding tickets."

"I'll be right back ... ZERO?" He called back on his way to his car to plug in my information and return with what I assumed would be a hefty fine from the staties. When he came back to my window he handed me back my license and registration. "Well I'm not going to be the asshole to give you your first ticket today. I don't want to be that guy. Drive safely and you ladies have a good weekend."

I was speechless. Utterly incredulous. "Th-th-THANK you, sir!" I stumbled as he walked back to his car.

"Wow! I can't believe that!" Mo exclaimed. "Was he hot? I couldn't see."

To prove that I was mature and could sometimes make adult-like decisions, I decided not to turn directly in to the liquor store parking lot that we were sitting in front of with the cop and instead pulled into the right lane, where Mojo demanded I stay for the remainder of the drive. I was immensely relieved and filled with the overwhelming desire to pee. And yes, we did stop at the next liquor store we found to stock up for the weekend, where I did relieve my bladder in the Employee Only room because PHEW.

On a side note, I had totally debated about writing this post because I figured as soon as I put it all in writing and shared it with people I would immediately get pulled over for something and get slapped with what would be sure to be a multi-hundred dollar ticket and points on my license and the whole kit and kaboodle to REALLY make up for all those times I got off but then I realized if I just stopped speeding I could totally prevent my doom but then I realized that every time I tell myself to drive slower it lasts about five miles or until the first person cuts me off and then I realized IT'S CALLED MATURITY, BRIDGET, GET SOME but then I realized I just don't care and maybe by visualizing myself getting a ticket after writing this post I would prevent it from happening because that's the way my mind works.

I'll let you know how it goes.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Basically all of my new music comes directly from the mouth of MoJo these days. It's like I don't even have to try anymore. This is no different. As the legendary Lance Jones once said, enjoy the Damnwells. And you better damn well like it.



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Just having a Tuesday

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Butt cancer ... that sounds about right

The internet was all a-twitter last week over the newly released health report that states that cell phones might be causing increased incidences of brain cancer. At first I was all duh because I assume everything causes cancer. I convince myself I have cancer approximately half a dozen times a year, on average. This could be because of the whole been there, done that thing, or it could just be because if I'm not crippled with anxiety about life decisions, it might as well be cancer, right? And I'm not talking fleeting thoughts either. I'm talking beliefs as strong as your Sunday Southern pastor's. Interestingly, I always take it rather in stride. I sort of just shrug it off and mention in passing to my friends and loved ones how I'd like my ashes scattered and which songs I'd like played at my service and how long I'd like the open bar to go on for. JUST IN CASE, YOU GUYS. For the record, ya'll are getting crunked. It's on me.

I don't trust microwaves and refuse to consume artificial sweeteners. Just last week I proclaimed that it was highly probable that I had Leukemia because I kept waking up with inexplicable bruises on my thighs. Turns out I was getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and walking into my bed post on the way on a near-nightly basis without remembering any of these incidences. Every time I find a freckle I hadn't noticed before I count the days left until the doctor tells me I have skin cancer. And gah knows whenever I feel a twinge of discomfort in my stomach, I assume I have a tumor. Or I'm pregnant. Which would probably be worse. So yeah.

But then if you actually read these articles in their entirety, it's pretty clear that there's no real conclusive evidence that cell phones cause anything except fenders benders because you were playing Words with Friends while driving. And lordy knows I love a good national frenzy, but remember what happened when everyone went ape shit over the swine flu? Nothing. The same amount of people died from the flu that year as they do every other year. And if I'm just as likely to increase my risk for cancer by eating pickles or drinking coffee (which is not at all), well then I'm just going to continue on my merry pickle-loving, caffeine-infused way. And to be honest, I'd rather take my chances with cancer than wear a bluetooth headset because BARF.

And anyway, I spend significantly more time walking around with my cell phone in my back butt pocket than I do talking on it, so if I'm getting cell phone-induced cancer anywhere, it'll probably be in my butt. And now every time I WebMD butt cancer, the only topic that pops up that's even remotely relevant to my life is the subcategory of Marijuana and if WedMD is trying to tell me marijuana causes butt cancer then I am going going to consider my butt fucked. That pun was totally unintended, but I like it so it's staying and my mother is picking up the phone to call me and complain about my filthy sense of humor in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... SORRY, MOM.

Click to enlarge. (That's what she said.)

In an interest in preserving the butt, I've consciously tried not to carry my cell phone in my back pocket as often which has led to an alarming increase in incidences of dropped phones. So unless the World Health Organization is willing to pony up for a new phone for me, I may just have to side with the butt cancer because gah knows I don't handle losing phones very well. This post doesn't even make sense and I've already lost interest in what I'm talking about so it's over now, okay? IT'S OVER. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, WHO?! GAH.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

There's something about this song that breaks my heart.

I've gone crazy, couldn't you tell.

I threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell.

Now I'm covered up in straw belly, up on the table.

And I drank and sang and passed on the stable.

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