Awkward is as awkward does

As someone who frequently finds herself in awkward situations, every once in a while I wonder why it is that awkward so often befalls me. And yesterday, during one of those soul-searching moments (most often brought on after nights of heavy drinking or pop culture consumption) it occurred to me: Awkward moments happen to me because I do awkward things. Like, all the time.

For the amount of awkward things I do each day, it's simply mind boggling that I don't have reputation shattering incidents every day. I just don't get caught. Mind you, this all occurred to yesterday as I was standing in the middle of my sister-in-law's living room completely naked.

Lou lives around the corner from my office so when I run with my Back on My Feet team at 5:45 in the morning, I usually grab a quick shower at her house before I head to work. My house is about an hour from my office, so my other option is to sit in my own filth all day which I've also done on more than one occasion.

But yesterday was one of those days when I was feeling ambitious. I was going to have a SUPER day. I was going to be productive! I was going to make phone calls! Many phone calls! I was going to answer emails! All of them! People were going to write me checks. Big ones! And I was going to be clean, damn it! I was going to smell all nice and shit! Yeah!

Because Lou understands my sometimes overwhelming desire for clean hair, she made me a copy of her apartment keys so I can come and go as I please. Yesterday I had a great morning run and arrived at Lou's after she has left for work but before her roommate had woken up. So as not to disturb her roommate, I did my thing as quickly and quietly as possible.

By the time I stepped out of the shower though, my legs were starting to feel a little tight. I had just put in a good 9-mile tempo run and neglected any real cool down for my leggies. [Author's note: I'm sorry for calling them leggies. Sometimes I just can't help it. Stuff like that just comes out. It makes me smile because it rhymes with eggies. Which is also funny ... fuck it, it just is, I'm leaving it.]

I stepped into the living room on my way to Lou's bedroom to get dressed when I had the overwhelming urge to do a few quick leg stretches. Obviously doing these in a towel would be cumbersome, so I wrapped the towel around my hair. And as I was standing there in the middle of my sister-in-law's living room, completely naked with a towel turban on my head, touching my toes, with her roommate sleeping just feet behind the bedroom door I was standing next to, it occurred to me, hey, wouldn't it be awkward if she walked out right now? Yes, that would be very fucking awkward. So what did I do? I put my hands on my hips and dropped into a lunge to stretch my calves.

I can make no argument that awkward moments "just" happen to me. I am fully responsible for just about all of them. I cause them. I am fully aware of all the flashing orange caution lights and I proceed anyway. I open my arms and welcome that wave of shame like a fresh summer breeze. I'm as awkward as an accidental boob grab on a daily basis. I have a limited brain-to-mouth filter. I tell child molester jokes to an audience full of parents. I don't pay attention when packing my bags so I leave home all the time without underwear and end up flashing my vagina to entire city buses. I drink too much at weddings and destroy precious family heirlooms. And also sometimes I lick faces. I fart in yoga class. I have more poop stories than I care to think about. I perform naked yoga poses in other people's living rooms. And I do it all with the utmost enthusiasm. Is it too much to put on a damn pair of pants? Yes, sometimes it is.

Sometimes that highly inappropriate joke is a real party pleaser (when you run with my crowd anyway). Sometimes I remember a clean pair of underwear and what a pleasant surprise! (Unfortunately for me, today was not one of those days!) Yes you should have one more beer! Yes I will take that shot of whiskey with you! No I don't want to go home yet! Sometimes you wake up shamed and with a soul-crushing desire for bacon, but sometimes you'll dance until dawn.

And always, always, life is better without pants.

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GO, PHILS, GO

102 regular season wins by the Phillies. Something tells me it's going to be a good post season.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I kind of love this song right now.

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This weekend brought to you by Instagram

Pictured: Berklee Beantown Jazz Festival, dinner and drinks in Kendall Square, Life is Good Festival, B being really really ridiculously good looking

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2 years

Today marks two years since this:

Remember that? Woo. Talk about a party. I'm pretty sure my aunts are still hung over. Like I said last year, six years ago we were flirting in dirty Baltimore dive bars. Four years ago we were moving in together in Philadelphia. Three years ago B bought some bling. And now, two -- holy shit TWO -- years ago we got married. There's also been the dog and the move and the house and all those good things crammed in between. Mature, adult-like things. Like the time we rented a gigantic slip 'n slide for all of our friends to get drunk and injured.

We celebrated our first anniversary at the wedding of one of my best friends. And then again with just each other during a weekend away in Provincetown.

This year we crammed almost all of our favorite things into a single weekend: live music, good beer, and delicious food. Saturday gave us the South End Jazz Festival followed dinner and (oh so many) drinks in Cambridge. Yesterday we spent a beautiful day listening to some awesome tunes at the Life is Good Festival. Doesn't get much better than that for me.

And tonight, I get to go home to this guy. I am one lucky girl.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I've been on a huge TV On The Radio kick since returning from Chicago this summer. They put on a fantastic live performance and I definitely plan on catching them again sometime soon. Any band with a solidly decent horn section has a pretty good chance of winning my heart, and TV On The Radio snatched it right on up. And you know what I love almost as much as a solidly decent horn section? When a band knows how to be self-effacing. I just want to hang out with these guys. How could you not? See here and here (also, fairly sure that is the kid from "pooping back and forth forever" one of my all-time favorites in weirdness. Also, I can't believe I'm talking about "pooping back and forth" in a Song of the Week post. But then again, in college, I talked about "pooping back and forth" just about all the time. Please don't judge me. So, um, yeah.).

But here's the thing: there's bands out there with a great sense of humor who are just okay bands. And there's bands out there who are phenomenal musicians and entertainers and take themselves so seriously I think they'd be a total drag to actually sit down and have a conversation with. TV On The Radio is an amazingly talented group who know how to make fun of themselves. But you'd never know it by the topics and lyrics to most of their songs. There's some pretty heavy shit in there. So SWOOOOOON. And let's be honest, we all know I have a thing for the beard + glasses + tie combo.

Hellooooooooo:

But anyway. The music. Damn. If you're not familiar with TV On The Radio, you should listen to this song. And this one. And also probably this one. But at the right time of day, depending on my mood, this song on my stereo can give me chills:

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Confessions: I love Crocs

So the world hates Crocs. I get it. They're gross. They make anyone with any semblance of fashion sense cringe. Yeah they're ugly. Yeah they're made of rubber. Yeah they're for old ladies who spend their mornings humming Kenny Loggins while weeding their flower gardens and thinking about that wild time when they were 26 and went to Disney World with their boyfriend or a romantic getaway.

But you know what? I love Crocs. Yeah. I said it. I LOVE CROCS AND I WON'T BE ASHAMED ANYMORE. I'm fully aware this is a case when haters just gonna hate, but hear me out. And before you start leaving lit paper bags of dog shit on my doorstep, I'd like to be clear that I love a sexy pair of heels just as much as the next gal. I love shoes. Love them. Pumps, sneaks, TOMS, boots, sandals, I love them all.

Way back before Crocs had even made their explosive debut into mass awareness, before everyone with any fashion sense was even aware that the next cool thing to lift your nose at and scoff was just around the corner because ugh gardeners and hippies, I was at Bonnaroo -- the four-day music and arts festival in Tennessee (heaaaveennn). And some time in between not pooping for four days and having my face melted by some pretty amazing musical performances and also the scorching Tennessee heat, I was taking a walk through downtown 'Roo with my friends Monica and Gene. We were slowly meandering through the wares tents, sampling hammocks and examining peace pipes when we came across a tent selling Crocs. None of us had ever heard of Crocs. But they were bright colors and very clean. (I'm at Bonnaroo remember. That basically means I haven't showered in almost a week and have subsisted primarily on beer, granola bars, and an occasional grilled cheese sandwich.) Like I was saying, these Crocs were bright colors and very clean, and thus MESMERIZING.

"Try them on," the old man working the Crocs tent urged as he handed me a pair. I slipped them on and took a few steps. The next series of events may or may not have had to do with the hallucinogens, but within a matter of minutes this man had fully convinced me with the utmost certainty that Crocs were made out of clouds. I pushed a handful of crumpled bills towards his chest and floated off with my new pair of cloud shoes.

"You gotta try these, guyyssss," I told every one of my friends. "Just like walkin' on clouds. I'm walkin' on clouds guysssss." Suffice it to say I didn't take those Crocs off until I stepped into the shower at my house back in Pennsylvania half a week later to scrub off the layer of filth and grime because cloouuudsss, man. And I continued to wear those puppies until it was too cold to reasonably wear them in public. So they became my indoor slippers. My college roommates hated them. They're ugly. They're rubber. You look like a crunchy asshole. But I didn't care. I was largely sober, so I may not have been walking on clouds anymore, but they sure beat having to bend down and tie a pair of shoes, youknowwhatImean?

Some time after moving home for the following summer I lost that pair and I still have my suspicions. So I bought another pair. This time the brightest pair of orange I could find. Won't lose these babies. And I LOVED them. And I wore this pair all. The. Time. Four years after the first Bonnaroo experience, I went back for the third time with my Crocs snugly packed in my backpack. And as soon as the rain came, as the rain is wont to do when you are camping for a week, I chucked my flip flops and floated above the mud in Crocs for the rest of the week. Unfortunately this was the end of this pair because no amount of washing and scrubbing and hosing could rid my bright orange shoes of the mud in every little foot-massaging crevice. And if there's one thing I hate, it's dirty shoes.

I never did get another pair after this, mostly because as I ceremoniously tossed the last pair into the trash, B danced around in the behind me singing the No More Crocs song. I haven't thought much about Crocs in the past few years. Until this week, that is.

I've recently been having some foot problems when I run, which naturally means I've spent some days fluctuating between Normal Bridget and Motherfucking Psychopathic Banshee Bridget. I'm still not sure what it says about my emotional stability (besides the fact that she's a fragile, fragile beast), but if I can't get a good run in on a regular basis, I tend to just want to murder ... just about everyone, actually. Fortunately for me and everyone in the world who knows me, my foot wasn't preventing me from running, but I was living in a state of near-constant paranoia about exacerbating it into a serious injury right before the Philadelphia Marathon, of which I am training my damn ass for right now.

After spending a few weeks wringing my hands, I went to a sports-specific podiatrist. Turns out my little heel problem is totally treatable and I don't even need to stop running while it heals. The doctor wrote me a one-month prescription for some crazy-ass arthritis medication, handed me a hefty heel pad, patted me on the ass and sent me on my merry little way. But before I walked out the door he cautioned, "and no bare feet! Get yourself a pair of Crocs!" I stopped in my tracks.

"WOAH WOAH WOAH, YOU WANT ME TO WEAR CROCS?"

"Oh yes, they're great for this. Lots of cushion. You don't have to wear them in public; they can be your house shoes."

"Really? I get to ... could we say have to ... wear Crocs?"

"We could say that if you want to."

"Oh yes, oh yes I do."

Naturally, as soon as I got home that evening I was all DOCTOR SAYS I HAVE TO WEAR CROCS. IT'S PART OF MY HEALING PROCESS. IT'S GOOD FOR ME. I NEED THEM. And B was all Wha?

"Yup he wrote me a prescription for Crocs, see?" I handed him the piece of paper.

"This says 500 mg of ..."

"IT SAYS 500 MG OF AWESOME. AWESOME CROCS. GOTTA GET SHOPPING GOTTA GET SOME CROCS. CROCS ARE COMIN' BACK, BABY. CAN'T WAIT TO GET MY CROCS. GONNA GET A GREEN PAIR THIS TIME. BRIGHTEST PAIR I CAN FIND. OH YEA."

I haven't had time to swing by the store to pick up a pair of Crocs yet this week, but I can not WAIT to slip my aching feet into a brand new pair of cloud shoes. I don't even know where you GET a pair of Crocs these days, but I will find them. Oh yes I will. I just wish my college roommates were here to see their triumphant return. Nothing I love more than obnoxious footwear. Crocs, babies, Crocs. LET THE HEALING PROCESS BEGIN!

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I'm not ready

So long, summer.



via this isn't happiness

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

I have always had a weak spot for songs with clapping. No matter what I'm doing or how I'm feeling, whenever I hear a crescendo of hands coming together, I just want to jump up and clap too. When it happens at live shows, I want to put my arms around every stranger in that audience and jump up and down and invite them all back to my house for a big family dinner. I dig it.



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Can't get enough of Louie

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How does it feel to know you're an asshole?

A conversation while we put away the dishes after dinner last week ...

B: How does it feel to know you're going to be white again?

Me: What?

B: Now that beach season is over you're going to lose your status as the family Mexican.

Me: Are you talking about me losing my tan?

B: Yeah, it'll probably be totally gone in just a few weeks.

Me: Why would you say that to me?

B: I just want to help you face reality.

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?

B: Just sayin'.

Me: Oh my god ... I just ...

B: Winter is coming.

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Ten Years

via this isn't happiness

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Wednesday's Song of the Week on Thursday. Because it's still freaking raining.

I don't even want to talk about this goddamned rain. Or the fact that it's been in the low 60s since Labor Day. Or that, you know, summer's over and shit. I SAID I DON'T WANT TO FLIPPING TALK ABOUT IT.

What I would like to talk about is how much I am in love with this bearded man in that delightful suit. Good lord I love a well-dressed bearded man in appropriately matching footwear with a good leather band watch. Now THIS is a man I'd like to enjoy a glass of whiskey with. Oh yeah, and this song is pretty sick too.

I've been listening to the National since a friend in one of my college photography classes pulled up a stool next to me in the darkroom one day and handed me one of their current albums and I realize how musically snobby this sentence sounds, but I'd just like to be sure we're all clear on how cool I am. "Check these guys out, I think you'll like them. They're not very popular, but they are incredibly good." And damn, she was right. And I'm happy to see that five years later (and 10 years after their first album), they are gaining some well-deserved popularity, finally breaking out of the indie-music snob scene and into the greater wave of popular music knowledge.

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Things That I did at Slip 'n Slideapalooza

There was so much going on at Sunday's party and I was so busy flittering from group to group and filling my belly with rum punch that I couldn't even tell what it was that happened. It's like I missed my entire party. The next morning I had texts waiting from friends who couldn't making it expecting stories and I had to be all, "uhhhh ... well there was the ... with the keg ... but I think something about a child molester ... burning things in the fire pit ... and Bono was there ... with the drugs ... um I don't remember?"

Flipping through the camera the next morning, everyone began to let out collective groans as the night wore on before our eyes. Things got pretty weird. Pret-tay, pret-tay, preeet-tay weird. What I do remember was awesome. And also slightly horrifying. And since what does flash across my brain as memories can't really be strung together into cognizant paragraphs for your own reading enjoyment, I'm just going to spew what I know into a list. It's like if you were walking around the backyard in the dark and every so often flashing a camera and catching moments. That's pretty much what my brain feels like. What I do know for sure is that I woke up early the next morning suffering from a serious case of the shakes. It's Wednesday, I'm still having trouble forming complete sentences and my muscles are still sore. I thought I was in pretty good shape, but I guess one's body is never quite prepared for being hurled down a gigantic inflatable slip n' slide at alarming speeds over and over again. But the great thing about a slip 'n slide party is that the slip 'n slide is the great equalizer. Some people can out-drink, out-dance, or out-perform others in general party functions, but EVERYONE looks like a doofus flying down that slide.

So without further ado, Things That I Did at Slip 'n Slideapalooza:

1. Drunk dialed my grandmother.

2. Told a child molestation joke to the parents of all present neighborhood children which was, needless to say, not well received.

3. Was primarily responsible for the tearing of my father-in-law's shoulder.

4. Mercilessly made fun of a 12-year-old child after beating her in a slip 'n slide race.

5. Cheated while racing a 12-year-old child in a slip 'n slide race.

6. Vehemently denied cheating while racing a 12-year-old child in a slip 'n slide race.

7. Did an interpretive dance for my in-laws that went on far too long for most people's comfort.

8. Bullied my neighbors into agreeing to form a neighborhood party committee.

9. Appointed myself neighborhood party committee queen and crowned myself.

10. Forced my neighbor to go home to get zebra-printed duct tape "because it's an emergency!"

11. Used my neighbor's entire roll of zebra-printed duct tape to make wizard staffs out of beer cans.

12. Cheated in flip cup slip 'n slide races, affectionately dubbed "flip 'n slide."

13. Threw cups at my accuser when accused of cheating at flip 'n slide.

14. Ate off of my neighbor's plate of pasta salad with my hands.

15. Told my Ukranian neighbor that I suspect him of spying while admitting that for the first six months of living in Scituate I thought his name was "Conrad."

16. Passed out while still standing, legs flexed, leaning against my bed only to be found what we assume was hours later by friends.

There's about three other numbers that I just edited out of that list. And playas, you know it can't be pretty if I'm suddenly editing myself. If onnllllyy I had the power to filter my thoughts in real life. Oh, how different life could be. I'm not proud of all of it, but it happened. But knowing myself, it could have been a lot worse. And also, I'm pretty popular with the neighborhood now, so at least I've got that going for me. This is DEFINITELY going to be an annual event. WOO! SLIP 'N SLIDEAPALOOZA!

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They call me girl! They call me Stacey! They call me her!

via Shlooby Kitten

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It's going to be a good weekend ...

Woman at the gym: Do you have any plans for Labor Day?

Me: A bunch of my friends from college are coming up for the weekend. So we'll probably beach it on Saturday. I'm having a party at my house on Sunday. I rented this huge 31-foot slip n' slide. It's like a moon bounce mated with a slip 'n slide.

Woman: Oh that slip 'n slide sounds like fun. I didn't know you had kids. How old are they?

Me: ... I don't have kids ... That slip 'n slide is entirely for me.

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