Wednesday's Song of the Week

Ummmm I think I'm in love with this? It makes me want to roll my hips and move my noodle arms all giggity-like.

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And your point is ...?

After organizing the overflowing bins of recycling currently sitting in our basement ...

B: You know, I find it kind of disturbing that we have twice as many empty wine bottles as we do all other glass recyclables combined.

Me: And what's so disturbing about that?

B: I don't drink much wine.

SO WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING, B?

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And you say Chi city, we don't stop naw we don't quit

Please excuse my tardiness, I've been having a love affair with Chicago. My long weekend in the city was nothing short of incredible. Chicago and I went through a lot together in that short time. Dollar beer nights, scenic runs on Lakeview Drive, roof top cook outs, live blues clubs, the worst whiskey hangover of my life, my first Cubs game at Wrigley Field, burritos the size of my head at 4 in the morning, a steady intake of bloody mary's, iced coffee and deep dish pizza, and the hottest day of the summer at the Pitchfork Music Festival.

How does one accurately put that experience into words besides that I love Chicago so much I want to throw it in the back of a baby blue Cadillac convertible, drive to Vegas, marry it in an Elvis chapel with a drunk homeless man as a witness while we drink whiskey from a flask with a mustache on it, accidentally get knocked up with triplets on our honeymoon in Tijuana, and live happily ever after with two dogs, three more kids, matching tattoos, and an affinity for making out in public? And right now I'm considering getting on to CafePress to make a t-shirt that says just that. Oh what the heck.

You're welcome, Chicago.

As predicted, Chicago was by far the friendliest place I've ever been to in my life. Everyone says hello to you. EVERYONE. When you make eye contact with people, they smile. When you're waiting -- in line for the water fountain, at the stop light, for the bathroom, to get in a door, on the bus -- strangers engage you in cheerful conversation. When you walk into stores and restaurants, you're greeted by people who actually seem happy to see you. When you drunkenly slur to the doorman that you believe deep down in your heart that the women's bathroom attendant does a very good job and is probably underpaid considering her level of thoroughness and not to mention that most people probably don't tip her, he smiles and promises that he will deliver this message to his manger, as you requested. And not just a doorman get the fuck out of my face smile. A REAL smile. Friends of friends greet you as if you were all old chums. Groups blend seamlessly. Everyone who lives there gushes about how much they love their city as if you were discussing a new boyfriend who totally impressed everyone when he showed up with flowers for you and a thirty pack for your friends. I can't figure out if everyone is so nice because they're so happy to live in Chicago or if because they love living in Chicago so much because they're nice and love everything. It's like the chicken or egg conundrum of the great Midwest.

So as to not give myself away as the east coast asshole I am, I jumped right on the friendly train ... perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. Granted, after a few drinks I tend to get pretty chatty anyway. But in Chicago, it's like I went into Operation Don't Be an East Coast Asshole hyperdrive. And in Chicago, I was pretty much a few drinks deep at all times. I talked to strangers in elevators. I chatted with doormen. I stopped people in the lobby of their building to roll around on the floor with their three-legged dogs and discuss society's misconception of pitbulls. I had conversations with cashiers. I cooed at babies and complimented children on their super rad sneakers on the bus. I discussed the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with my cab driver. I practiced my Spanish with the cooks at the burrito place. I WAS A WHOLE NEW ME, YA'LL.

I can't tell you how pleasant and relaxing this was. Vacation Bridget was certainly in full swing. Whenever someone asked me for my opinion, I let my usual assertive, opinionated self take a back seat and just shrug. Every option presented seemed like the perfect thing to do. Do I want to have fun or should we have fun? It's like I couldn't lose. Do you want to take the bus or walk? I don't care, I'm on vacation. Should we go to this bar or that bar? I'm happy with either, I'm on vacation. Oh my gah we lost half of the baseball tickets, this is a disaster! It's okay, we'll figure it out, I'm on vacation.

Then there's the little fact that Chicago is pretty much overflowing with hipsters with tattoos. And you know what I love? Like, love love? Hipsters and tattoos. Drop me in a crowd of with a bunch of people in homemade skinny jorts, Toms shoes, and sleeves of tattoos on a hot summer day and I will pretty much have to keep checking my pulse because have I died and gone to heaven?! It's like Chicago was designed for us. Live music everywhere, an abundance of outdoor drinking spaces, clean beaches crowded with sunbathing 20-somethings, a beautiful juxtaposition of old and new architecture everywhere you look, clean city streets, a highly functional transportation system that will take you anywhere, bustling neighborhoods, good beer ... everywhere. Good gah excuse me I need to change my underwear. Again.

Not to mention, whenever I'm with my friends, I'm pretty much laughing from the moment I wake up -- disheveled, hair askew, with a taste of late night debauchery in my mouth -- to the moment I throw myself face down onto a bed, fully clothed, sometime around 5 in the morning. As my friend Conor put it, "we're pretty much the most ambitious group of alcoholics ever." We may be taking shots of whiskey at 3 a.m. on the dance floor of a blues club somewhere in Lincoln Park, but you can bet we'll be out of bed by 8 to go for a jog, grab some brunch where we'll drown our hangovers with mimosas and bloody mary's, and get going on a full day of sight seeing and engaging discussions of current events, philosophy, and orgasm jokes. OH!

Lucky for me (unlucky for my liver, sleep schedule, and general health) I'll be seeing these Very Good Friends and more again in a few weeks because I'm suffering through such a friend hangover of overwhelming love that I can barely function. It's like I just gotta throw my head back and OH!

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

My summer concert series has been treating me pretty well so far, with the big kick off at last weekend's Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago.

It was approximately 120 degrees in the shade and we spent the majority of the day talking about how hot it was while walking back and forth between the stages and the beer stands. When the sun went down, we were still sweating, but that didn't stop us from dancing our way through the best acts of the day, Cut Copy and TV on the Radio. Supremely awesome.

Next on the agenda is the Newport Folk Festival and I'm getting giddy over the all star lineup. It's just ... I mean ... I don't even know where to start. One of the artists I'm most excited to see is man who I've been itching to see live for years and I'm bouncing from foot to foot that my day has finally come: Amos Lee. He's just so ... with that voice ... and really now ... sigh. Not to mention, he's a Philly boy and do I even need to get started on THAT?

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I told you you're all assholes

Last night I got home from Chicago, dropped my bags at the door, flipped on the news, and this was the first story I saw. I SHIT YOU NOT.




Am I always right or am I always right?

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There may be ...

via this isn't happiness Tweet

Chi City

As I've told to just about everyone who had the misfortune of making eye contact with me this week, I'm going to Chicago today. I've never been to Chicago before and it's been a while since I've traveled to a totally foreign city in the good ol' U.S. of A. and I'm all tingly just thinking about new experiences and how different Chicago probably is than my usual stomping grounds of the 'illadelp and Boston.

For one, I've heard people there are, like, nice or something. This whole concept of "nice" truly fascinates me. I've heard that people in Philly are assholes, but I guess you could make the argument that I never noticed because I grew up as one of those assholes making lewd comments in public and shoving my way into doors and jeering at the gelled up Jersey visitors in Olde City and throwing batteries at Santa Claus at sporting events.

When I moved to Boston, I was truly startled by how cold people are in this city. Yes, I suppose they're cold because cold is literally all they know. It's the goddamn arctic here from December to May so people just keep their heads down and their parka hoods up and spend their time in dark corners sipping on their hot toddies. If you dare try striking up a conversation with a stranger next to you at the bar, you're usually met with a polite nod while they use their immaculate Top Siders to swivel their bar stool to turn their back to you, pausing only to pull their popped collars tighter to their cheeks to block out any further view of that blond girl who tried to talk to me. Bostonians are pros at the act of conversation evasion and general ignoring. Then of course there's that blond girl who usually sits at the bar judging everyone in her range of vision. Stereotyping is a sport, ya'll.

I've been told by people who grew up here that people take on airs because everyone who lives here is either from here or went to school here. They have their set group of friends, many of whom they've known since they've been in diapers, and they don't feel the need to let in anyone else, thankyouverymuch. Because making friends is just so ... sigh. If you had the misfortune of moving here post-college but pre-baby, you're pretty much set adrift and fight your way into a group of friends tooth and nail.

I once had someone who grew up in Boston but currently lives in Philadelphia tell me that very thing about Philadelphians, to which I called shenanigans. I'm used to striking up conversations with strangers. We Philadelphians do it all the time. Not only in the bar, but in the grocery store, the bank, the running trail. You try to pull that "friendly" shit here and you better prepare yourself to get stabbed in the face with the angry eye.

Every time I go to Pittsburgh, I'm struck by how polite people are. But I've heard Chicagoans just blow everyone out of the proverbial good natured water. I am so excited to observe nice people in their natural habitat. It will be fascinating.

Then there's the fact that it seems like Chicago's main demographic is people in their mid-twenties to early thirties. The city is like a veritable playground for my age group. But a playground where people hold doors for you and make eye contact and maybe even smile when you pass them on the street. I'm getting all googly just thinking about it.

My friend C-Mo has lived there since we graduated college and it seems like every week she has a new story of the great activities that Chicago offers its young business class. City-wide scavenger hunts and outdoor happy hours and community service days. I've seen some of these things in Philadelphia, but no one actually participates. Participating is for dorks. And in Boston, happy hour is illegal. YES. I KNOW. ILLEGAL. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? WHY DON'T YOU JUST STAB ME IN THE HEART AND LEAVE ME ALONE TO DIE IN THE GUTTER, BOSTON? Don't get me wrong; people still imbibe in a couple drinks after work, but they do it for the same price they would all day. WHAT AM I MADE OF MONEY? THAT should be illegal. Criminal, I tell you.

But in Chicago, not only does half the city participate in these activities, but they do so enthusiastically. They love games. They step out their doors with smiles on their faces and wave hello to their neighbors and meet their future husbands and wives while planting a community garden on an inner-city block that only hours before was littered with old tires and used syringes before the twenty-something swept in with their grins and their good intentions.

And because she lives in Chicago and is also one of the genuinely nicest people I know (coincidence? I think not), C-Mo has planned our entire weekend to make sure everyone gets the full taste of the grandness of all that is Chicago. When people come to visit me, they're lucky if I put clean sheets on the guest bed and even luckier if I went grocery shopping. They can, however, rest easy knowing all the empty space in the fridge that should be taken up by food is instead filled with beer. Half a dozen Very Good Friends are flying in from the east coast and we've got a packed weekend of rooftop parties and baseball games and sightseeing and lake-side beaching and music festivals waiting for us. Gah who knows if we'll even have time for it all?!

Good oolllll' Chi City, I can only imagine the magic you have in store for us.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Tomorrow after work I'm boarding a plane to Chi-ca-goooooooo and I'm pretty excited about it. I've never been to Chi-town and there's no better way to do it than with a gaggle of some of my favorite people in the world.

As I already mentioned, one of the items on our lengthy To Do list is the Pitchfork Music Festival. There are quite a few artists I'm excited to see here, and a lot of bands who I knew little to nothing about before I started digging in in preparation. One of those new discoveries is Toro y Moi and just LOOK at this dude and try and tell me you're not dying to be his friend. Just try and tell me. Try it. I won't believe you. Because, um, he's fucking adorable. ADORABLE.

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My heart was touched

“I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.”

— Edgar Allan Poe

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Yoga class: Just one more arena for public humiliation

A few months ago I started to get a teensy bit more serious about my yoga practice. In other words, I wanted to be able to touch my goddamned toes. But when you spend so much of your time with the wacky runner folk, the yoga types seem like a truly bizarre ilk at first glance. Runners worry over things like negative splits and personal PRs and how many miles you have you run to negate the 3,000 calories worth of beer you're about to drink. Yogis talk about things like engaging your pelvic bowl (yes you may) and action in inaction (does not compute) and honoring your light (I'll honor your light ... wait what?).

Runners spit and sweat and fart and blow their noses into their shirts. Yogis speak slowly and quietly and move fluidly and practice inner stillness and listen to weird music. So trying to marry these two worlds has been another example of Bridget Behaving Awkward: The Memoir. In general, I'm easily excitable, I'm constantly being reminded to please use my "indoor voice," and the word klutz would be putting it lightly. This is a whole new world for me.

But marry them I have. Every Tuesday night has become my Me Time. I go to my favorite class at the gym: Spin and Abs. For an hour I sweat it out on the spinning bike and then get hit with an extra dose of ab workout. It's no secret that I sweat like a priest in a sex shop (which is to say, profusely). And I'm not just talking some pit stains and a ring around the collar. I'm talking is it hot in here or did that chick just jump in a pool fully clothed? So by the time this class ends, I could literally wring out my underwear and fully fill an 8-ounce glass with my sweat. And then drink it.

Directly following this spin class is yoga. This leaves me little time to cool down, let alone put on a fresh pair of undies. So while the instructor and the one other student who regularly takes this class are quietly setting up their mats on the floor, I burst in, dripping with sweat, dropping shoes and other articles of clothing all over the place, grunting, mouth breathing, and cracking joints as I throw my mat on the floor and drop into whatever pose we're starting class with.

I've been in this spinning-yoga (or what I've recently taken to calling "spoga") routine for months now, but we just recently got a new yoga teacher. And when you're used to one particular way of yoga, this can be a little jarring. Especially for someone who had finally adapted from the grunting and groaning of the running crowd to the quiet and stillness of the yoga people. The thing is, I really dig this teacher. She's young. She's challenging. And instead of the typical trance-like yoga background music, she plays Ray LaMontagne and CSNY and Van Morrison and the Allman Brothers and the like. Again, at first this was pretty jarring, but now I love it. It brings me to a state of total calm. I'm, like, totally zen and shit. You should see me all peaceful and whatnot.

When I realized that this new teacher likes to touch you to adjust your poses, I started bringing a fresh shirt to throw on in between classes, but that doesn't mean I'll stop sweating. I am, after all, the closest thing to a fat, hairy, Bavarian man in a sauna inside the body of a 26-year-old blond chick with the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy. So when she comes in and grabs my hip to "further engage my flexors," all I can think about is how much I probably smell like an old sausage floating in bay water on a 90 degree day. I'm sorry, I whisper. Ew, sweaty, I smile meekly.

Then there's the head touching. When I sweat, I SWEAT from head to toe. Since my hair is short, it's usually completely soaked. This is just fine by me, except when this yoga teacher starts touching. The last ten minutes or so of class we spend in savasana, which I love. In other words, we lie on our backs with our limbs all willy nilly and just sink completely in to the floor with our eyes closed, breathing slowly, letting everything drain from our bodies. After a hard workout followed by another vigorous hour of stretching and poses, this feels like heaven. Even better, the teacher has taken to quietly coming up behind me, taking my head in her hands, gently pulling my neck to extend my spine even more and then giving me a slow, vigorous head massage while I melt in her hands. As much as I love these moments, I still can't get over the whole she is probably so disgusted that she's running her fingers through my damp, nasty hair right now thing. It drives me to distraction. All I can think about is how grossed out she must be. Which is awkward because I love these last moments of class so much I want to take them out back behind the high school bleachers and get them pregnant.

Now, I have a tiny head. Like, I can't even wear a baseball hat because I look like a six-year-old boy small. And not only is it tiny, but it's incredibly sensitive. You want me to relax, you scratch my head for a few minutes and I'll be putty in your hands. When I can't sleep, I ask B to rub my head until I doze off. There is nothing on this god forsaken earth that I enjoy more than a good head massage. Nope, not even that. Or that. Ew definitely not that, you sickos. And these final, blessed moments are hampered by my sweaty head anxiety and awkwardness.

And finally -- and you all knew this was coming -- for the past two weeks in a row, I have accidentally farted in yoga class. If you are my close friend, chances are I've farted on you and then laughed and laughed and laughed. I'm pretty open. I've shared a bathroom with four girls for years. I've lived with eight girls. I've dressed, showered, gone to the bathroom, discussed sexual positions in details, and compared naked butts with them all. But farting in front of people I don't know? In a yoga class?! Oh gah no.

Towards the end of the class, we spend a little time focusing on our core strength. Now, I've already spent a good hour and a half before this working on my abs. By this time in the evening, I'm pretty tired. And for the past couple weeks we've done this strengthening by raising our legs straight into the air and supporting ourselves on our shoulders. Then, very slowly, we lower our bodies back to the floor. Then, even slower, we lower our legs to the floor by keeping them straight and lowering a little more with each breath. And this is where, usually somewhere with my legs straight out in front of me, six inches or so from the ground, my abs clenched, my teeth gritted, I accidentally let it slip.

Remember when I said there was only one other girl in this class? It's REALLY hard to pretend it wasn't you who farted when there's only one other person in class next to you. Who? Wha? Ew who was that? God. Rude. Farting in public. Like, what? Me? No. Who does that?

When it happened the first time, I didn't know what to do. I wanted to laugh simply on impulse, but was pretty sure the super serious student and super serious teacher did not find it as amusing as I did. Should I man up and give a giggle to imply my confidence? Should I apologize for being the dirty kid in class? Should I crawl out the door and never come back? So I took the awkward road. I completely ignored it. Maybe they didn't hear (they definitely heard). Maybe they were used to it (doubtful). They'd probably forget by next week. Maybe they did, but then I farted again the following week. If they had forgotten it the first time, they definitely wouldn't forget I was the farter after a second time.

This week, I walked into class with a fresh shirt and a new resolve. I will not be the farter. I WILL NOT BE THE FARTER. I WILL NOT BE THE FARTER. And you know what? I didn't fart. Thank bajesus. I still don't know how to solve the sweating problem, but I just might have to chalk that one up to Being Me. Needless to say, everyone on my running team got a good laugh at it next day, but these were runners. Runners laugh at farting and poop jokes. You want to hear some real potty horror stories? You spend a happy hour with a run club and prepare to clench your butt and nod your head with sympathy. Yogis don't really play those games. Bridget Behaving Awkward. Coming soon to a theater near you.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

If this just isn't the best gosh darn ride your bicycle to the beach song, then I don't know what is. I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT IS.




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In the summertime when the weather is high

It took a goddamned long ass time, but Massachusetts finally decided to let it be summer. And BOY did I cash in on that because as we all know ... bum bum bum buuuum FOURTH OF JULYYYYYY! I spent just about every waking minute of the past three and a half days outside loving life. As a result, I am sitting here today with a swollen knee, cuts all down the right side of my body, what feels like approximately 62 extra pounds of beer weight, and no less than 8 gagillion mosquito bites. FOURTH OF JULY SUCCESS!



As we all know I sometimes have a tough time living in our town. It's a good 30 minute drive from ... everything and in the winter time it's equatable to what I imagine closely resembles solitary confinement. With snow. And if there's one thing I do not do well with, it's anything at all with the word "solitary." But when the summer finally comes and the town swells with beach goers, my cold little heart begins to thaw and sometimes I can even be nice. I SAID SOMETIMES.

But by far the most redeeming quality of living in small town New England is what we call the Spit. The Spit is a giant sandbar that can only be reached by boat or by a good 20-minute walk down a a few pieces of wood thrown on top of some real nasty marsh muck. Being as we don't have a boat, B and I took to the gangplanks and trucked our way out there. The entrance to the marsh is about a 15 minute bike ride from our house. The beach cruiser was ready. I put air in the tires, polished up my beautiful aquablue fenders, and made sure my basket was securely fastened.

Once we got out there, we had a perfect day on the Spit. Sunshine, friends, beers, water that was actually slightly above freezing, and some famous Fourth of July rum punch. When the boats started to pull away after a long day, B and I made our way back to the bikes.

Now let me tell you something about my beach cruiser: I love that bike. My entire life I've lusted after those big, beautiful beach cruisers I would see the local kids cruise around Ocean City with whenever I was on family on vacation. Granted, a beach cruiser just wouldn't have been practical living in Philadelphia. There's no place for cruisin' on those city streets.

So when we moved to the coast, the first thing B bought me was a bright aquablue cruiser. This bike is pretty much the equivalent of a 1969 Cadillac convertible. It's large, it's not designed for sharp turns, it has an impressive paint job, and it holds a lot of shit. Every time I slide onto that extra wide white cushion seat and start a'pedalin', I'm possessed with the ghost of Mungo Jerry and just can't NOT sing. In the summertime, when the weather is high ba da da da da da da da da da da da. And on our ride home, sing I did. Over and over and over. Down hill and up hill. Taking my turns wide, the wind in my hair, a smile on my face. And then I got cocky. I started getting fancy. I had a belly full of rum punch and I was feeling fine. The weather was high, life's for living that's our philosophy. And then something happened. Maybe my tires hit a patch of sand. Maybe I took a turn a little too sharp. Maybe I got distracted by Lucille Bluth driving next to me screaming names.



Most likely, I just plain dropped. But drop I did. I went down. Hard.

Evidence A:

Lovin' on life, shit-eating grin on my face.

Evidence B:

Not so cocky anymore.

But like the little trooper I am, I got back up on that mighty steed and I rode her the rest of the way home. The rest of the night was a happy blur of barbequed foods and Bob Marley songs.

When I woke up in my sandy bed the next morning, I rolled over to a shooting pain down my leg. what the wha?, I thought as I pulled myself into a seated position. There were patches of blood all over the sheets. I was horrified. HORRIFIED. Until I remembered that it was mine. I looked down at my knee, which by then had stopped bleeding but had blown up to the size of a softball.

Fourth of July: 1

Bridget: 0

The rest of the weekend was a perfect combination of cook outs, fireworks, patios, and beaching. And at the very least, I now had something to write about Fourth of July weekend besides just the beaching and the boozing and the BBQing because apparently my mother is tired of fielding phone calls from concerned family members about my extra-curricular activities. It's okay, mom, just don't tell them about all the pots. But this? This is something different for once. Something that maybe my mom would be proud of. PERFECT: beaching and boozing and BBQing and bicycle DUIing! Finally I has something notable to write home about.

Dear mom,

Camp is great. The food is okay. I drank too much rum punch and fell off my bike. Yeah, the one you said is so big even I wouldn't be able to fall off of it! LOLZ! Oh, me! Fallin' off bikes. Not wearin' helmets. Actin' all drunk in public. Lyin' on the side of the road. Don't tell Mommom and Poppop. Please send money.

XO,

Bridget

And for the record, I also read a lot of books. So there. I drink too much. I fall of bicycles. I read lots of books. I sit quietly for hours and try to think of a solution for world hunger. Sometimes I do the dishes. But you know what? Drinking and falling off bicycles makes for a much better blog post.

And lest I forget that I live in a small town, by the time I made it to the beach yesterday for some final Fourth celebrations, approximately three-fourths of the town had heard about my little fall and BOY isn't that just HILARIOUS? You spend a few minutes rolling around on the side of the road and suddenly everyone knows about it.

So yes, this weekend was fantastic. I may not have solved world hunger. But I did solve how to have an awesome Fourth of July weekend. And I plan on repeating that formula for the rest of the summer. Minus the whole falling off the bicycle thing. HOORAAAY SUMMER!

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It's always fun to get away from camp, even for an hour

Happy long weekend, errbody. See you on the other side. Sunburned, nauseous, and overwhelmed by a list of voicemails from your mother about your self-destructive life choices.

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