Happy Halloween

I just got back from a Halloween weekend in Provincetown. I don't even know what to say except Do you know how much fun gay Halloween parties are? Times ten.

via Who Says Women Aren't Funny

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Updated: Wednesday's Song of the Week

I recently came across this pretty incredible video that follows trick biker Danny MacAskill as he journeys through the Isle of Skye countryside, thanks to my friend Rob. It was Rob who showed me this video. DO YOU GUYS KNOW MY FRIEND ROB? HE SHOWED ME THIS VIDEO. IT'S AWESOME BECAUSE ROB IS TOO. And the thing that struck me almost as much as the amazing footage and stomach-flipping-inducing skills of this guy was how great the music backdrop was. Meet my new friends, Loch Lomond and the Jezabels.

I am digging Loch Lomond's Wax and Wire right now and have quickly become a huge fan of just about everything by the Jezabels. I had a really hard time deciding which song to use as this week's Song of the Week, so I decided to just use Danny's video and give you both! None of the videos I found for either of these songs do them justice quite like this video does anyway. They're gripping songs that deserve equally gripping imagery. This isn't just trick biking. This is bicycle as art. Love, love, love, love.

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Missing: one earring, pint of blood, dignity

BOY was I riding a high horse of I don't get black out shit faced pass out on the kitchen table in a pile of cold macaroni and cheese drunk on my birthday anymore on Friday. Because you know what I did on Saturday? I got a wee bit tipsy.

On Saturday I went out to dinner with a large group of family and friends and once I got a few martinis in me, I was rubber-faced before the main course even arrived. I imagine by the time we walked over to the bar, the words coming out of my mouth were mostly incoherent and possibly aggressive slurs.

When I woke up on Sunday morning I wasn't sure if I was lying in a grisly murder scene or a drunk asshole's bedroom. I was fully clothed, my sheets were covered with blood, and I had evidently taken the time before collapsing into to bed to fling a laundry basket of questionably clean clothes, a pile of books, and a few glasses of water all over the room, including all over my alarm clock. Why? I have no idea. A fit of rage? A feng shui adjustment? The voices told me to? So yeah, I suppose it was a birthday success.

The source of the blood, of course, was from my elbow which, incidentally, was my last memory of the evening but once they put on Bruce Springsteen and you know what? Nevermind, let's not get into it. But let's just say that it's Tuesday morning and I'm still bleeding from the arm and I am beginning to think that yes, maybe I should have gotten those stitches but that would have been, just, like, so annoying and someone get me another round!

And of course, my birthday present to myself was a hangover so bad I couldn't look anyone in the eyes on Sunday. I was cold, shaking, pale, watering in the back of the throat, and struggling to form complete sentences. I tried to mask my misery with the largest ice coffee I could get my palsied hands on and a giant cinnamon sugar bagel but nothing was kicking this doozie. Loaves of bread and all the bacon grease you could fit into an oil barrel would not have been able to undo what I did. I felt physically ill until late Monday afternoon. I was sickeningly jealous of everyone else in the world who felt normal while I wandered around in my sub-human state of misery.

Naturally, as each year gives me worse and worse hangovers, I can only imagine what I have in store for myself in the future. By the time I get to my 30th birthday, I assume I'll be hungover until my 31st birthday. Guh.

Thanks for all the birthday loving, friends. You really took care of me this year. And I will get you back for that.

The screen door slams

Mary's dress waves ...

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On turning 27

So I turned 27 yesterday. While birthdays often bring about days of introspection and contemplation about the direction of my life and oh how the time flies moments of amazement, I surprised myself by being pretty chill. In fact, I didn't give it much thought at all. Except for when I was tearing into the gifts my parents brought me because PRESENTS PRESENTS PRESENTS BIRTHDAYS ARE AWESOME.

My big treat to myself was working from home so I could do all those loads of laundry and finally clean the damn kitchen floor in between conference calls and emails. And yeah, it felt pretty good. After a home cooked meal with B and my parents I stayed up late drinking gallons of pinot and watching Bridesmaids for the fourth time this month. And that was awesome.

I've come a long way from waking up with birthday ring pops stuck in my hair and puking in trash cans in the cafeteria in front of my entire extended family and an ex-boyfriend amiright? Although if you were to proffer me with shots of Patron and ring pops ain't no way in hell I'd turn that shit down. Hell, it's only Friday SOMEBODY GET ME 12 SHOTS AND A SHIT TON OF CANDY.

On my way to work this morning though, I started thinking. Twenty seven, huh? Is that still considered mid-20s? Or have I crossed over the threshold into late-20s? Either way, I'm now a smidge too close to 30 for my comfort. I feel like I'm reaching that point at Thanksgiving dinner when you realize you should probably unbutton your pants because things are getting a little too tight. Thirty is big. Thirty is when you really need to have your shit together. You need to wear more clothes that are dry clean only when you're 30. And stop waking up in the bathtub. And you're probably not allowed to throw things very often. Thirty is kind of scary.

But 27 is a pretty good place to be if you ask me. I read a book this summer that said that runners are their fastest at 27. This is my year, mothaflippas! Yesterday was not only my birthday, but it also marked the one-month-to-go mark until the Philadelphia Marathon. BOOM! First race as a 27-year-old. I have a good feeling about this one, you guys. And not just because I've been training my ass of this year. But because I'll be 27. Science is on my side. My body is ready. Damn that last line sounded pretty creepy but I'm going to keep it in there. I'm 27. I do what I want. Plus, at 27, it's still socially acceptable for me to drink too much and get weird in public, as I am so apt to do. Run hard play hard.

This will be a good weekend. My parents are in town, I've got a nice long run planned and a bottle of Patron to eat. Yippie kay yay, see you on Monday. Most likely pale, shaky, and slightly confused.

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Know Ya' Boo

via Shlooby Kitten

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

My friend Mia sent me this song last week and I was immediately shmitten. Not only is the song awesome, but I can't stop watching the video. I'm just enamored by the whole thing. The expressions on his face are completely entrancing. I can't stop looking at his mouth. His teeth are, like, huge. And his eyes. Oh, yeah his eyes. Not to mention that voice. Phil Collins? Is that you?

I think I watched this at least a dozen times in a row after my first listen. Then I took a little break and listened to it on repeat for about an hour. By the time I was driving home from work, I had it playing over and over again on my iPhone and was belting all the lyrics at the top of my lungs like the most emo kid you've ever met in your life. The more I listened, the more obsessed I became. I went on a full-out bender. The more I listened, the sadder it became until I was damn right tearful. It's frankly amazing that I'm sitting here today and only drooling a little bit down my chest.

B always finds its concerning when I become particularly obsessed with "depressing shit." Like when I went on a rant about how Death Cab for Cutie doesn't make good music any more because Ben Gibbard went and caught himself cheery little Zooey Deschanel and their songs have gone downhill ever since. That man used to write poetry. POETRY I TELL YOU. Now it's just meh.

I don't love shit because it's depressing, I love it because you can see the raw emotion oozing all over it. Just look at this guy's face. Look him in the eyes and tell me he's not feeling something. And isn't that what we all want? To feel something bigger than ourselves? Yeah, maybe many of my favorite books, movies, and songs do touch upon some heartwrenching emotion, but it's just so REAL.

We don't create when we're content with the status quo. We create when there is something inside of us that screams for change. To somehow make something better. That's where all the greatest books and movies and songs come from. That feeling deep inside someone that was screaming to get out.

And whew this Song of the Week just turned into Bridget's Manifesto on the Creation of Meaningful Art and I'm sorry. I got a little carried away. It happens. I'm going to go paint my nails black and damn the man for a while.

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Whatever and ever

On Tuesday I was walking around amped up on life like I was the Queen of the Fucking Universe and today is Thursday and I'm already ready to physically attack the next person that looks at me the wrong way.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still in a pretty good mood, but I've had a couple Forgot My Underwear Days in between then and now and I'm feeling a little worse for the wear for it. Literally. Have you ever walked around all day in jeans without underwear? It's not the most comfortable endeavor. Frankly, it's a little distracting. Mostly because every time I forget to pack myself a pair of underwear I fixate on two things for the entirety of the day:

1) Great, now I have to fucking wash these jeans tonight. This is a hardship for me because usually I wear jeans for weeks before I wash them. Yeah, weeks. I'm such a dirtball I know, but they're jeans! They're sturdy and never look dirty and if they don't smell then what's the point of the wash? Cowboys -- the inventors of jeans, mind you -- probably wore them for months before giving them a good scrubbing on the washboard. And I promise you they were working a lot harder in those pants than I am. My friend Kelly would probably throw up in her mouth if she read this because she washes her jeans after every wear. Frankly I find this absurd. One, because I only own one pair of jeans that I actually love and that would require doing the laundry FAR more often than I can wrap my head around at the moment. And two, THEY'RE JEANS. And I know I'm going to get an email from someone telling me to stop being the dirty kid and buy myself another pair of jeans, but do you think jeans grow on trees, my friend? They do not. And if it bothers you so much you can buy them FOR me.

2) I wonder if anyone can tell that I'm not wearing underwear. I know it's highly unlikely that anyone would ever guess that I'm free ballin' it when I'm wearing pants, but if I happen to be wearing a dress that day, it can be a real problem. Need I remind you of the time I flashed my vagina at an entire MBTA bus? Luckily, this week I was wearing pants but I still can't stop these thoughts from entering my mind. It's like every time I have a conversation with someone there's a little voice in my head that's just screaming "YOU'RE NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR DO NOT ACT SUSPICIOUS." I'm not exactly sure what type of suspicious behavior my brain imagines would cause someone to suspect that I'm missing a very important article of clothing, but I think that nonetheless. Yes, living with myself IS a challenge.

Luckily, I didn't have a team run this morning so I didn't have the chance to forget my underoos. And if you ask me, the reason I forgot my underwear in the first place is because I've been so exhausted by the time I get home each night because I'm busier than ever at work which is awesome but totally draining, emotionally and physically. Then last night while on the phone with my grandmother I realized that I forgot her birthday on Friday and it is fucking tearing me to pieces. If anyone knows the guilt of forgetting a grandparent's birthday, then I assume you know what I'm talking about. The mere thought makes me weepy. All I can think about is the image of my grandparents sitting in their living room, drinking their Manhattans, thinking every time the phone rings that it must be their long lost granddaughter who abandoned them to move to Boston calling to wish her Mommom a happy birthday only to be let down ... again ... and again ... and again.

As many of you know, being so far away from my family is definitely something I struggle with, so when I'm an asshole and do something like forget a birthday while everyone else in my family is home celebrating, I get a little psychotic. And now today it's cold and pouring rain and add the whole week's mix into this and I just want to throw on some sweatpants, curl up on the couch, pull up my hood, pop "PS I Love You" into the DVD player and have a good cry for a few hours.

Lastly, it took me two hours to get to work today and I legit almost peed my pants. This isn't really a complaint since I was playing Words with Friends the whole time and I'm currently beating my sister-in-law the doctor for the first time ever so I'm feeling pretty awesome about myself, but I did have a moment when I thought I was going to run out of gas AND pee my pants at the same time and I had a long internal debate with myself about which would be worse. On the one hand, if I peed my pants I'd have to turn around and go home. But then I'd have to explain to my boss WHY I turned around to go home. And lord knows that would not be a very comfortable ride. Worse, I'd have to clean my car. On the other hand, running out of gas on the Neponset Bridge and clogging up the ONE functional lane they have right now would probably have gotten me murdered. So yeah.

And now the only thing running through my head after typing all of this is "WHITE KID PROBLEMS" so I'm going to shut the fuck up now and just deal. And yes I do feel better after a good rant thank you very much. B thanks you too because this means I don't have to throw a box of hard shell tacos at his head tonight. Again.

Also, in the spirit of Halloween: My friend Bill sent this to me the other night and I laughed so hard I cried real tears. Enjoy. Now I'm gonna go buy a pair of fall boots and feel better about life almost instantly. Ah, shoes.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Bon Iver's "Halocene" might just be one of my all-time favorite songs. Like, ever. When this song first flowed through my speakers I was floored. It just ... affected me. I had a moment. Not unlike the moments I have when eating cream donuts. Only better. As often happens, I didn't even know what to do with my emotions.

"And at once I knew I was not magnificent." Oh my gah it just gives me chills. I don't even know. And the video? Perfect. Just perfect.

Listening to Bon Iver's most recent album is like letting a silk sheet fall softly around your body. It just feels good. Whenever it is that I do decide to make babies, I fully plan on bringing them into the world while this song is playing. I don't even care if that means B will just have to stand next to me in the hospital room and hit* "repeat" for 12 hours. That will be his job and he will do it BECAUSE HE WILL OWE ME.

Why are these the first thoughts that enter my head when I hear this song? I don't know. Why do I forget to wear underwear and eat cheetos for dinner? We'll never know.

BON IVER "Holocene" from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.

*Author's Note: I totally had the word "push" here and had to strike it because it was freaking me out. Just ... I can't ... UGH. OH MY GOD I AM RUINING MY BON IVER MOMENT WITH GROSS BABY DELIVERY THOUGHTS. ACK. I'M SORRY. I RUIN EVERYTHING WITH POOP STORIES. What's that you say? This isn't about poop? Well let me tell you something that my sister-in-law the doctor just told me: IT'S ALWAYS ABOUT POOP. Oh my god I'm gonna puke. I think I'm having an anxiety attack right now. I'm gonna go put on some Bon Iver before I pass out.

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The best kind of autumn weekend is a summer one

This isn't really a post, per se, this is just me getting rid of some verbal vomit because today I feel awesome. Nay, I feel fucking awesome. That's because I just spent the last three days on the beach. In October. In Massachusetts. MASSACHUSETTS. Do you know that we didn't even have a spring? Nor did summer even start until July. It went directly from winter to the Fourth of July and just as we were sinking our feet into the deep pools of a chilly autumn, WE GOT SUMMER AGAIN. FOR THREE WHOLE DAYS. I HAVE A TAN AGAIN. OH GOOD GOD I HAVE A TAN. AND FRECKLES. FRECKLES! I WENT SWIMMING. IN THE OCEAN. IN A BIKINI. IN OCTOBER.

Last week was a rough one. I mean, woof. By the time Friday came along I was so exhausted I could barely keep the drool off my chin on my drive home from work. As I sat at one of the many, many traffic lights I hit on my way home, I leaned my head back on the seat and let my eyes close for just a second. A few peaceful moments passed when I heard the window of the car next to mine roll down. The grizzled old man sitting in the passenger seat leaned towards me and yelled, "YOU SLEEPIN'?"

"I was just resting my eyes!" I swore back.

"WELL, GIRL, AT LEAST YOU AIN'T TEXTIN'!"

THAT'S the kind of week I had.

I knew this weekend was going to be unseasonably warm, but when I got home from my long run on Saturday and got a phone call to be on the boat in 15 minutes, I almost shit my pants.

We boated to the infamous Spit and spent the afternoon with our feet in the sand and many, many beers in our hands. We grilled up some grillables and watched the sun set as we stoked the flames to our makeshift bonfire. And as we boated back to the harbor the wind on our faces was a warm summer breeze and the lights from shore sparkled like the stars in the sky. I mean, this shit was fucking magical, people. Then on Sunday, we did it again. And on Monday, after a morning spent running and hiking in the woods, I pulled out the Beach Cruiser and cruised myself on down to the neighborhood beach for one last go at it.

It was pretty much scientifically impossible to squeeze one more drop of happiness into my body because I was oozing it from every pore. The boat! The beach! In October! UGH!

And although throwing my beach stuff into the Cruiser's basket and starting to pedal home last night through the sandy beach parking lot was definitely one of the sadder bicycle rides of the year because I knew this time it was definitely the last of the season, I still couldn't help but smile. Look at me all happy and mentally balanced in October. I am going to tear the rest of this autumn up. And I'm going to keep on tearing shit up through winter. All the way through winter. I'm not going to stop some time in early February and go on a homicidal bender like I did last year. And the year before. And also a little bit the year before. This year will be different. This year I'm really gonna do it. I'm going to be balanced in January. I'm going to smile in February. I'm going to be nice to people in March. I'm not going to threaten to pack my bags and move to Southern California every day of April.

This weekend was exactly what I needed. Life is freaking awesome. I love everyone. I am ready to attack this year like a rabid wolverine.



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Wednesday's Song of the Week

When I first heard this song, I was all hmmm. And then I listened again and I was all ahhh. And then I listened again and was all HOLY SHIT THIS SONG IS AWESOME. I'm kind of obsessed right now.

Despite the fact that I listened to Florence + the Machine's last album "Lungs" to death -- seriously, I don't think there was a day last winter or spring when I did not listen to that album -- I had low expectations for their upcoming release, "Ceremonials." I just wasn't sure if my girl Flo could keep up the momentum of awesomeness. Welp, I was wrong. Quite happily wrong. Gah it is just GROOD.

Not to mention, Florence Welch has cemented herself in the top three on my list of Girls I Have Crushes On (why helllooooo Rashida Jones, how you doin' girl?). I think I officially have a thing for red heads now.

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She touched me in child's pose

B: Did your yoga teacher touch you in any inappropriate places tonight?

Me: Unfortunately, it was a full class so I didn't get all the individual attention I have so come to enjoy.

B: That's a shame.

Me: But she did touch me in child's pose. I really like it.

B: Um wow. That should be the title of your next blog post. She Touched Me in Child's Pose ... And I Liked it.

Me: It's very soothing! Get down on your knees, I'll show you.

B: No! Help! Rape!

Me: I'm serious, B! It feels so good. It just opens up the hips.

B: You know you're really not making an argument for yourself, right?

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Everybody dance now

via Shlooby Kitten

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