tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29528023153518049162024-03-13T08:57:02.581-04:00YellaphantA Yellaphant never regrets.yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.comBlogger759125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-37728986030174371442015-07-24T09:28:00.002-04:002015-07-24T09:48:41.921-04:00Top 10 Reasons Why I Have Recently Become a Crazy Cat LadyAmong those considered dog people and cat people, I’ve always found myself comfortably and firmly positioned in Camp Dog, waving that Greenie flag proudly and drinking from the fountain of eternal, unquestionable devotion. I’d roll my eyes at the contempt that cats seemed to carry for their very owners. Their sharp claws and ruthless hunting for sport.<br />
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I once watched a friend’s cat carry a live, injured bird into the house, release it under the dining room table, and then toy with it – swatting it to watch it erupt into an attempt at broken-winged flight – only to pounce on it again. Naturally, I screamed, throwing back the chairs to break apart the depravity but the cat was always faster than I could lunge. Cats, man, stone cold. And kinda scary.<br />
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Throughout my lifetime dogs have been my running buddies, my fellow couch potatoes, my saving grace in heavy times. They are tail wags and wet kisses and hours of fetch on the beach. Cats are … cats.<br />
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Until recently. I’ve been domestically companionless for over two years now. Every time I saw a puppy on the street, I stop with increasing desperation to pet it. I’d linger at the rescue dog tent at the farmer’s market, asking questions and gauging temperaments of 100-pounds of pit bull muscle. I’d browse petfinder.com, <i>just to see</i>.<br />
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I am in no position to own a dog of any kind right now. Not even that giant blue Great Dane I admire in my neighborhood who I stop to watch lounge on his front porch. Not even the placid greyhound who meanders in the small, shaded backyard that abuts mine. And certainly not the rescue pit bull who would require hours of manic energy dispelled each day.<br />
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I barely have enough time to take care of myself right now. I’m away for the house for 10-15 hours at a time each day. I’m constantly on the go in my city and constantly daydreaming about other cities and countries to be on the go in too.<br />
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So then it occurred to me: maybe a cat. Sure, it’s a cat, but also it’s a warm body at night, right? It’s something to hang out with me on the couch when gasping over Game of Thrones and binging on Orange is the New Black. It’s something that will let me pet it. Probably.<br />
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Cats are totally low maintenance! They’re fine on their own for a day! A weekend, even! So what if they don’t come running to the door with an excitement so frenzied I worry that it’s having a seizure when I get home at the end of the day. It’s ok if I can’t take it running. Or even outside at all for that matter.<br />
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Cats: They’re there!<br />
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So my mind was (kind of) made up. I would get a cat. An orange one. I could afford to be picky until I found the perfect one because I was still a little unsure of the whole venture to begin with. A cat? Yes, I had to reassure myself. A CAT.<br />
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Months went by and save for one highly unsuccessful trip to the animal shelter – that came to a close with me circling the saddest looking dogs I ever did see in their little stalls over and over again in near tears – I remained feline-less.<br />
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And then it happened. My friend’s cat had kittens. Each kitten was a different shade of black. Except for one. Yes, a little orange boy. And he shall be mine, I declared.
Actually it was more like, “OH, ORANGE, DIBS, MINE.”<br />
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And after an eight-week waiting period, it was time to pick him up. But oh shit, I don’t have a single thing needed to take care of a kitten. So on my way, I pulled into a PetCo and unsteadily scanned the aisles. What might a kitten need? Food? Yes, food let’s do that. Umm … a litter box, yes definitely! Oh, and kitty litter. Umm … this kind? No, that logo looks weird. This kind? That looks fresh. Ok. What else? Toys for fetch? No wrong. Collar? Meh. This feather thing on a string? Sure! Oh, scratchy things!<br />
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I loaded my cart in the same way I imagine first time parents wandering through the aisles of Babies-R-Us would. Is this for your nipples? They make pee guards? Wait, babies do that? How do you even put that on? And by that I mean slightly terrified, wholly unconvinced in my abilities to care for this thing, and somewhat amazed at all the options that people have invented for doing so in the first place.<br />
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“So … getting a cat?” the checkout guy asked as he scanned my items.<br />
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“Yes … today … right now, actually … <i>IhavenoideawhatI’mdoing</i>.”<br />
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“Oh … do you have someone to help you care for it?”<br />
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I stared at the items in my cart and then at the man as I handed him my credit card. Was this PetCo employee hitting on me? Or was he confirming that he too clearly doubted my ability to keep a kitten alive for 10 to 20 years? Or was he a murderer gauging how easily he could follow me home to an empty apartment and kill me in front of my new kitten?<br />
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“YES. I have … one. He doesn’t know I’m doing this today …” I trailed off. “I’LL BE FINE THANKS. AND I DON’T LIVE ALONE FYI IT’S ALL GOOD BUSY NEIGHBORHOOD AND ALL.”<br />
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Because at that moment it occurred to me that my boyfriend did not, in fact, have any idea that I was picking up a kitten today. He was in the middle of a two-week work trip in the U.K. and our communication had been slightly spotty over the past few days owing to the time difference and our busy schedules.<br />
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When I got to my friends’ office – the kittens had been born to the warehouse cat – I eyed them all cautiously. <i>This will be great this will be great this will be great this will be great</i>, I assured myself.<br />
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After an hour or so of catching up, my friend had to get back to work and I was left standing … with a kitten. My kitten. My tiny orange kitten. Who I had named Taco. Because tacos fucking rule.</div>
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“Say goodbye to your family,” I said as I scooped up Taco and carried him to the car. “Forever. Oh god, I’m so sorry I’m a monster.”
Which is exactly how he made me feel for the hour-long drive back to the city as he cried – nay yowled – while alternating between climbing the seats, hiding under the seats, and pissing on the car rugs out of what I assume was pure terror and/or rage.<br />
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<i>This will be great this will be great this will be great this will be great.</i><br />
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And now about a month later, I can say with confidence that this is totally great. Cats are so easy, you guys! They don’t pee in the house no matter how long you leave them (except for that time boyfriend found him swatting his own poop around the dining room). They sleep all the time (except for at 3 a.m. when he’s biting my ass and pulling my hair and clawing up my legs to try to get me to play with him). They’re so calm (except for when he’s running around the apartment ricocheting off the furniture and clawing up the window screens). He even comes running when I call him (except for when he’s in the back of my closet climbing up my dresses with his sharp little claws).<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Just try and tell me there's a cuter damn family photo than this. Oh, you and your husband and your <b>baby</b>? Please that is so basic.</span></i></div>
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Not to mention, he’s just so damn cute. If you follow me on instragram you know this because I post pictures of him every day. I’m sorry.
Taco loves belly rubs and sleeping in laps and following you from room to room just to see what you’re doing. He comes running the instant he hears my keys in the door when I get home at the end of the day. He literally climbs up my legs and into my arms when he wants to be held and I’m standing still. When boyfriend opens his computer at the dining room table, Taco climbs onto his shoulders to see what’s going on. I can’t even, you guys. I just can’t.<br />
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So now here I stand before you today to admit: My name is Bridget and I love cats. Well, mine anyway.
My friends, however, can barely believe I’m now a newly minted cat lady person, so to explain, I will now share with you the top 10 reasons why Taco and I are perfect companions.<br />
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<li>Taco demands love and attention, but in a slightly passive-aggressive way. If you leave him for too long or fail to lavish enough attention on him, he will shit under the dining room table and then act like it’s a game. Same.</li>
<li>We both love cilantro. Taco loves it so much that he will pull the entire fucking window box of cilantro sitting on my kitchen windowsill to the ground so he can love it up close and personally.</li>
<li>Our energy levels swing from manic excitement to sleep within seconds.</li>
<li>Speaking of sleep, we both think sleeping is the fucking best thing. We can do it anywhere. On the couch, on the bed, on the hardwood floor, on top of boyfriend Doug (bow chicka), on my computer keyboard.</li>
<li>We’re both so fucking adorable.</li>
<li>We dig tall, bearded men. Especially the one that lives with us.</li>
<li>We love head rubs and cuddling.</li>
<li>We never talk about Crossfit or paleo.</li>
<li>We love being outside. Taco technically isn’t allowed outside, but if I’m sitting on the porch he does this really cute thing where he climbs up the window screen with his claws and hangs there yowling until you’re so distracted from whatever it is you were reading that you go inside to calm him the hell down. So yeah, I’d consider him “outdoorsy.”</li>
<li>If we’re hungry, we’re hangry. God help you if you cross my path if my blood sugar drops below a certain level. I can’t think, my stomach begins to eat itself, I get lightheaded, and the rage is real. This is what I imagine Taco is experiencing at 4 a.m. when he is clawing up and down my body and biting me from head to toe on the occasion that I did not fill his food bowl enough the night before. I don’t blame him. I do the same thing to Doug on the regular. Every time a bitchy word comes out of my mouth and my claws are bared, before he fights back he firsts asks me if I’m hungry. 99% of the time, yes I am.</li>
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Cats, man. Mine rules. You want to join the Taco party? <a href="https://instagram.com/yellaphant/" target="_blank">@yellaphant</a> on instragram for delicious Taco treats on the reg.</div>
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Until next time, just hang in there.</div>
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-41446325318811276372015-01-08T11:51:00.002-05:002015-01-08T14:44:53.721-05:00So this is 30A few months into my 30s -- a mere toe dip into the collective pool of what 10 years ago I would have told you was "scary old" -- I'd like to say I've done some grand philosophical thinking and have come to you today rich with life lessons for all. Like one of those internet memes that crop up on Facebook like the Ebola in the news. "20 Things to Stop Doing in Your 30s," "30 Things Only 30-Somethings Will Understand," "10 Ways to Love Yourself More in Your 30s." All of which I think essentially boil down to one single life lesson for us all: Give less fucks. And stop posting those stupid internet memes on Facebook.<br />
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1. Give less fucks: For about a week in the beginning of this new period of my 30s, I somehow got it into my head that I was probably a highly functioning alcoholic. I'd like to tell you that I've since figured out when to say enough is enough (this can also be applied to cookies, burritos, and stopping strangers on the street to pet their puppies) but that would be a lie. I have, however, figured out that hangovers in your 30s fucking suck. C'est la vie.<br />
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2. Give less fucks: Did your friend hurt your feelings? Give me a break and give less fucks. Friends are really important and if you've held on to them for this long, you should put in the effort into keeping it that way. Friends are the bomb. I'd be nowhere without my friends. Be a good friend yourself and put a lid on the drama. Be someone others can trust. Know when to keep your damn mouth shut. If you haven't figured out what it means to be a good friend at this age, then you're an asshole. If you're holding on to grudges, you're an asshole. If you're selfish, you're a selfish asshole. Spazz less, love more.<br />
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3. Give less fucks: Same goes to your boyfriend/girlfriend/lover/spouse/F buddy. Compromise often. Communicate clearly. Think of them first. Love the shit out of them. Sometimes it's hard. But it's almost always worth it. Some things just aren't worth giving the fucks over. Also you should give them sweet, sweet loving as often as possible because if you are reading this you're probably <strike>my mom</strike> <strike>really bored</strike> skewed towards crazy and they might love you anyway.<br />
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4. Give less fucks: And for those people who don't fit the above criteria? Give less fucks. Don't waste your energy. You're 30 now, you don't have any energy to spare. You need it for nursing your monstrous hangovers.<br />
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5. Give less fucks: Don't worry about the past. Your 20s are tough. They're a time of transition and emotional upheaval and mistakes and years of trying to figure out what the fuck you're supposed to be doing because you're pretty sure it's not <i>THIS</i> but what is <i>this</i> anyway and who are you really and what is your greater calling and why aren't you making any money and where are you supposed to be and how come suddenly your Facebook newsfeed is filled with weddings and babies and houses and dogs? Whatever, dude. You survived that shit. Pat yourself on the back because 30s are here and now you can relax and give less fucks. I experienced more near-death experiences, bodily trauma, and heartbreak in my 20s than many people do in all the decades that follow. But you know what? I learned so much about myself and other people from all that. And I really like the me that was borne from it all. But you better believe that every day I wake up thankful that that shit is behind me. I'm sitting here in my 30s overflowing with so much goddamn love for the people that are surrounding me now because these people rock.<br />
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6. Give less fucks: I'm pretty sure I had more super sage advice to give here but I'm so chill right now and giving so few fucks I can't even remember what I was going to say.<br />
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7. Oh yeah: Do good by your body. This can mean different things for different people. For me, it usually means getting a lot of exercise. Running, yoga, spinning, anything I can throw myself into fully and work up an awesome sweat. Why? Because it feels awesome when I'm done. I'm able to love myself a little more and give less fucks about all other things. It keeps me sane. It helps me make friends in a city that has become my home. You don't need to be a health nut or exercise freak. I'm just saying you're 30, do something every day that makes you proud of yourself or helps you blow off steam. Keep your body healthy so you can keep that heart ticking for another 60 years or so. I promise you will give so many less fucks. And then you can have the cheeseburger.<br />
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8. Give less fucks: That said, your body is your body. If you haven't made peace with it yet, you better pull out the ole' peace pipe and just accept to give less fucks. And if the peace pipe gives you the munchies, have the fucking nachos. Be kind to yourself.<br />
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9. Give less fucks: You don't want to go out to the club? Me neither! Having a hard time motivating yourself to leave the house because it's currently 7 degrees with a real feel of -14? Me too! Want to go to bed at 9 p.m.? I'm way ahead of you, sistah! We can give less fucks now. If you want to spend a Saturday night at home journaling about all of your 30-year-old feelings, that's a totally cool thing to do. This time of my life has brought a lot of new self awareness because of the time I've taken for myself. And I think that helps me be a better person to everyone else around me. So go ahead and nap.<br />
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10. Give less fucks: Turns out your parents were right all along. Time to give mad props.<br />
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I'm not saying I've perfected all of the above points of giving less fucks. Some days I wake up and I'm a real asshole anyway. Sometimes I'm selfish. Sometimes I send myself on a downward emotional spiral that often ends with me panicked over dying alone and childless with no real accomplishments to my name save for the fact that it seems like people love it when I write about my #vaginaproblems on the internet. Less vagina talk. That shit was for my 20s. I've matured and moved on to butt jokes.<br />
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So yeah, I guess I have done some thinking. I do that sometimes.<br />
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This decade is going to fucking rock. Party on, Wayne!<br />
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<br /></div>yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-47558912347863025292014-03-19T06:00:00.000-04:002014-03-19T15:39:02.094-04:00Summer is ComingHoly shit you guys THIS IS THE LAST DAY OF WINTER. And can I just say what the HELL did we just go through? At first the weather was barely worth mentioning on here, mostly because I talked about my deepening darkness-and-cold-induced depression ad-nauseum on twitter and also who the fuck cares? But after what feels like a year of sub-freezing temperatures day in and day out forever and ever during a winter that I’m not only trying to live, but to train for a marathon, is just plain hard.<br />
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Also, apparently I’m not … how shall we say it? … The best version of myself in the winter. Boyfriend has made it quite clear that there are two very distinct Bridgets alive in the world today: Summer Bridget and Winter Bridget. Summer Bridget is as happy as a lark and down for anything. She is agreeable and non-judgmental. She enjoys long walks on the beach and cooking delicious meals and always puts others first. Winter Bridget is going to chop your dick off and feed it to the neighbor’s greyhound. She is testy and tired and doesn’t give a shit what you think because you just don’t <i>understand</i> and omg UGH. <i>You adapted to the darkness but Winter Bridget was born in it</i>.<br />
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It seems like every plan that was ever made this winter was disrupted by 50 mph winds cold enough to suck your soul out of your eyeballs or enough snow dumped on the city to make you think you’re in Alaska, only colder. Valentine’s Day: cancelled. Celebratory dinners: cancelled. Life as we know it: cancelled.<br />
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Perhaps the worst part of all this winter was that I couldn’t even threaten to pick up and move south like I do every year because every stinkin’ state went through the same thing. Philly got dumped on, D.C. was buried, Atlanta didn’t understand what the hell was going on, and even Florida was freezing for a little while. Florida! What the hell is happening in the world?!<br />
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So I’ve been making an effort over the past few months to tuck Winter Bridget back in the dark little hole from whence she came and act like a real human. I joined a gym so I could take some of my running inside to help me feel less suicidal and prevent me from breaking my neck on the ice. I go to yoga to work out the kinks. I try to do adult things like occasionally go to the grocery store and make my bed.<br />
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And then the meanest thing of all happened. And I’m not at all surprised because it happens every March in New England, but that doesn’t mean it stings any less. Last week, for one day the temperatures soared into the mid-50s. Do you know what it’s like to have been living in the teens and then overnight have the temperature skyrocket to spring? Yes, I assume you do because most of you reading this are <strike>east coasters, just like me</strike> my mom. People raised their weary, wind burnt faces and actually made eye contact with strangers on the street. We smiled. We felt the sun on our cheeks for the first time in months. We swung our arms while walking. I felt like throwing my arms open and yelling at every person that passed, WE DID IT, YOU GUYS! WE MADE IT! WE ALL SURVIVED!<br />
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And then naturally it fell 40 degrees overnight and this week is once again cold, dark, and threatening snow. I’m gonna stab … someone … something … I don’t know.
But that’s all behind us now, you guys. Or almost anyway. It’s still cold as hell in Boston but this is the last day of winter. THIS IS THE LAST DAY OF WINTER. Let’s get all reverse GOT up in here because summer is coming. SUMMER IS COMING.<br />
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We just need to get through the weather cock tease that is a New England spring and we shall shed our layers and life shall be good.<br />
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<b>Side note: </b>Training for a marathon is HARD. Training for a marathon through an entire New England winter is HARDER. Training for a marathon through an entire New England winter while trying to raise $5,000 is the HARDEST. But doing it all for the program that saved so many lives after last year's Boston Marathon bombings sure does make it worth it. <a href="http://www.crowdrise.com/MGHEmergencyResponseFundTeam/fundraiser/Yellaphant" target="_blank">Will you help me get to 100% of my goal?</a><br />
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<b>Side note #2: </b>I'm sorry I used the work cock, mom.<br />
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<b>Side note #3:</b> SUMMER IS COMING.<br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-19031991530403296872014-02-03T23:19:00.002-05:002014-02-04T13:56:52.368-05:00One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humbleLet's say one day, in a flurry of activity, you decide to rid yourself of anything and everything that still tied you to the person that done fucked your shit up real good. But speaking of good, that's you now. In the real, every day, walk home from work with a smile way (unless, it's like the 10th week in a row of sub zero temperatures in which case you pull your hat down and wonder if four winters in New England have made you hard enough to thrive somewhere like Mexico City). You know that to hold on to this stuff would just be a waste of space. And, you realize, resources. So you put them on eBay. And by "them" I mean your wedding dress -- and DAMN that was a beautiful dress, but that's besides the point -- and your engagement ring. Because once those things are gone, you will be fully, 100 percent rid of anything that reminds you of that time you done got your shit fucked up real good. And -- BONUS -- you're broke as shit so if you could sell some high price items there's no telling what you could do. Like … say … go on that dream vacation you've been fantasizing about forever …<br />
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Now let's say that person was me because, <strike>people</strike> mom, I just had the single most amazing vacation I could have ever dreamed of. Okay, in my dreams I definitely left out the Southeast Asian super bug that was living in my intestines for a few weeks, but that was hardly a regard as I trekked my way through Thailand for two glorious, sun-filled weeks with the guy of my dreams. JIGGA WHAT? If you had told me a year ago that THAT would be happening this winter, I probably would have laughed you out of my dark, drunken presence and thrown an empty wine bottle at your head on your way out.<br />
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But it was a nice thought. And, as those eBay bids actually rolled in late last summer, one I realized could actually be a reality. Because, god damnit, after the year I had I NEEDED this vacation. There was the heartbreak and the surgeries and the Boston Marathon bombing and the move and the dog and, and, AND. And what better way to fund it? No, seriously, tell me, there is literally no other better way to have paid for those plane tickets. In the world. Ever. The end.<br />
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Travel has always been something really important to me. Exploration, new places, different languages, foreign cultures, stepping out of the comfort zone. And unfortunately it wasn't the highest priority for the person I was with for a while. And now, this was my ultimate way of being me again. The moment I started making this trip happen, I. Was. Back. And I. Was. Psyched.<br />
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And it just so happened, that I was now dating someone who put travel up there on the list of things that are Really Freaking Important, just like me. So when the word "Thailand" started to get bounced around in a "no, seriously" way, he was all in. And suddenly, after what seemed like a lot of talking but relatively little planning all things considered, there was I at JKF Airport two days after Christmas boarding a plane with Boyfriend that would take us to Hong Kong, and ultimately, Bangkok, Thailand.<br />
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Since I've been back, I've had a hard time figuring out how to articulate this trip. Was it fun? Holy hell yes. But that doesn't cut it. Puppies are also fun. Prank calling your grandparents is fun. Tacos are fun. Thailand was AH-MAY-ZING. Like tacos times infinity.<br />
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We spent the first week living as backpackers, ducking in and out of our guest house on Bangkok's (in)famous Khao San Road. Eating street food off of vendors nestled in between stalls of t-shirts, cheap knock offs, and beer.<br />
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We visited the Chatuchak market. I may or may not have thrown up my fruit smoothie on the side of the road next to a woman plucking chicken. <i>One night in Bangkok makes a tough guy tumble.</i> We visited the Grand Palace. We walked pathways and climbed stairs that were hundreds of years old, resplendent in centuries of tradition, religion, and royalty. We stayed out until 2, 3, 4 in the morning because time is lost on the streets that never stop playing music or hawking beers or dishing up the best Pad Thai and spring rolls I'd ever tasted.<br />
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Then we traveled up north into the jungles to what was my favorite city, Chiang Mai. We spent our days exploring the town, passing through the old city walls and visiting sacred temples. Monks, young and old, wrapped in orange hustled to prepare for the New Year's celebrations. We took respite from the heat anywhere that had free wifi and cold beer.<br />
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On New Year's Eve we sat at a table on the street, drinking large bottles of Chang as we watched the fireworks explode above us and around us and once, under my chair. We strolled through the bustling outdoor market, sampling different foods and haggling over the price of embroidered pillow cases and scarves. As midnight rolled past, we released a prayer lantern and with it our hopes and dreams for 2014. We got friendly with other tourists from around the world and toasted to health and happiness.</div>
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The next morning we boarded a crowded van and left the city for a day of hiking through the mountains, zip lining through the jungle canopy, riding an elephant, and relaxing on a lazy ride down river on a bamboo raft. Elephants. <i>Sigh</i>. Just elephants.<br />
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Back in Chiang Mai, I was charmed by the bustle of the outdoor markets, where fish were scooped from plastic pools, gutted, then wrapped in newspaper in front of eager shoppers' eyes. Bags of nuts and spices stretched down the aisles across from rows of fruits and vegetables and filets of fish I had never seen before. I was charmed by the small town feel, open air everything, and the dogs that sauntered down the dusty roads, dressed in t-shirts by the monks for the "cold" winter season -- a frigid 85 degrees up north to the typical 115 degrees of the summer months. The dogs delicately slipped the meat off of plates of alms left out for dead relatives, deftly leaving the rice and incense burning next to it.<br />
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In a whirl, we were back in Bangkok for a few more days. At this point in our journey, my daily Singha swilling and fried rice chowing was suddenly interrupted by a wee bit 'o the Asian stomach bug. And thank the almighty gods of travel, this perfectly corresponded with the first and only two nights we stayed in an actual hotel. There was full bathroom. With TOILET PAPER. And a bed with sheets that weren't just washed by hand in a tub on the roof. And also toilet paper. And a shower that wasn't over the toilet. Because the toilet paper. And pillows so comfortable I swore it seemed as if I'd never slept in a proper bed before. And a TV. And best of all? Toilet paper. So when we got back to the room after a days of exploring the Sukhumvit neighborhood -- <i>side note: holy sex tourism, you guys! I haven't seen that many dildos for sale on the side of the road since that one time in college … never mind </i>-- I collapsed into that bed as if I was Scrooge McDuck doing a belly flop into a pool of gold coins.<br />
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Luckily, dildos weren't the only thing easy to pick up in Sukhumvit, because I walked into a pharmacy, mimicked my symptoms to the pharmacist, and walked out with a bag of antibiotics and a gallon of electrolyte drink. VIOLA!<br />
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Which was good before then we were on the road again to Krabi. From Krabi Town, we climbed into rickety, long-tail boats powered by what looked like car engines that would take us around the limestone cliffs to Railay Beach. Railay was like stepping into paradise. Every day was sun and mid-90s temperatures. The turquoise ocean felt like bath water, and we spent more time in the water than out.<br />
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There was kayaking and hiking and climbing and every day, large beers as we sat on the beach and watched the sun set. In the afternoons, we'd stroll under the canopy of trees and caves as monkeys swung in the limbs above us and dropped down at our feet to watch expectantly if we had any food in our hands. Have you ever seen a monkey eat a can of Pringles? Because I have and it is HILARIOUS.<br />
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At night, we walked the narrow walkway that abutted the water to fire shows and live music and Muai Thai fights and lots and lots of beer. We sat on mats at bamboo tables six inches off the ground and sipped our drinks and enjoyed our food and talked about what our first American meal would be after weeks of eating Thai and days of intestinal rumbling.<br />
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After six blissful days of this, we reluctantly boarded a long-tail boat back to the town. As if a sign from the gods, our boat ride back was spent clutching the benches beneath us as wind and waves reared up, soaking us and our bags to the core. As I watched Railay disappear around the bend, I took every splash in the face as a sign: DON'T LEAVE, STAY, IT'S ALWAYS SUMMER HERE, YOU'RE GOING BACK TO WINTER, YOU FOOL! STAY HERE AND EAT RICE AND LIE ON THE BEACH AND NEVER BE COLD AGAIN.<br />
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And then, after one last whirlwind night in Bangkok that ended with a 4 a.m. impromptu stop at McDonald's because CHEESEBURGER, we were back on a plane to America. And now here I am. It's winter. I'm cold. It's snowing. Again. My tan is fading. And I haven't had a bite of proper Pad Thai in weeks.<br />
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So yes, this was the perfect trip. A whirlwind of adventure and relaxation and exploration and culture and fun. I loved every second. And, perhaps best of all, after 16 days of pure togetherness in some of the most extreme conditions, Boyfriend and I determined that we make rather ideal travel companions. And we have a long list of places we'd like to go.<br />
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And as with every great travel adventure, I also learned a few new things about myself. Like, for example, I LOVE toilet paper.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/R9cNtrrCP0E" width="560"></iframe>yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-85763520972492301402013-12-19T20:40:00.003-05:002013-12-20T14:01:13.056-05:00Boston Marathon 2014 - let's do this thing!<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Gratitude.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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That is the word that comes to mind when I hear the name
Mass General Hospital. Gratitude for the world-class care I was given by the
doctors there, exactly one year ago, when I was admitted for a third and final
major surgery in my lifetime (and two in 11 months) due to complications from
pediatric cancer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Six weeks after I was wheeled into the recovery room, I once
again laced up on my running shoes, new scars and all. Because of the amazing
care I received at MGH, I was running the 2013 Boston Marathon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Gratitude.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That was the overwhelming emotion
leading up to April 15. I had a hell of a year. The Boston Marathon was to be
my comeback.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In doing so, I asked for your help. <b><i>And you responded in a
way that took my breath away. </i></b>And then I ran a race that will forever be <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2013/04/boston-strong.html">my favorite race</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And as I turned from the roar of the finish line crowd to hobble
towards my medal, the first bomb went off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My heart was utterly broken. I cried, like, all the time. But in
the midst of it all, and while I continued to process what happened and
reconcile my greatest triumph with our city's greatest heartbreak, I reminded
myself of all the good that was April 15. Of the passion, dedication, cheers,
and motivation that make the Boston Marathon one of the best races in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And most of all, of the men and women
of our city who leapt into action when our city needed them most. Many of those
men and women were members of the <b>MGH Emergency Response Team</b>. </span>I am so
proud that the hospital that I feel such a strong emotional connection to played
such a leading role in the emergency response of the Boston Marathon bombs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because of men and women like those,
of the outpouring of passion and pride from everyone in Boston, I can say with
certainty that this is still our (<i>fucking</i>) city. The Boston Marathon is still
our race. <b>As of 2:50 p.m. last Patriot’s Day, I swore I would find a way to toe
the line in 2014. And once again, MGH is giving me that chance.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am running the 2014 Boston Marathon
for the Mass General Hospital Emergency Response Fund</span>. <span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Of the 39 Boston Marathon victims treated at MGH, the most
gravely wounded suffered from traumatic amputations, severe blood loss, and
third-degree burns. In the tragedy’s wake, MGH began raising funds to support
their Emergency Response Fund. And now, I am a part of that effort. Please help
me in <a href="http://www.crowdrise.com/MGHEmergencyResponseFundTeam/fundraiser/Yellaphant">supporting the program</a> that provides social services for victims and
families of disasters, as well as emergency care, disaster relief, and disaster
preparedness training by MGH.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am so proud to be a part of this team.</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.crowdrise.com/MGHEmergencyResponseFundTeam/fundraiser/Yellaphant">LET’S DO THIS THING</a>. <a href="http://www.crowdrise.com/MGHEmergencyResponseFundTeam/fundraiser/Yellaphant">Will you donate?</a><b> #Run4MGH<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-53911000324104145802013-12-05T21:50:00.000-05:002013-12-05T22:27:02.385-05:00A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day in four chapters.The days directly leading up to a marathon can potentially be some pretty stressful days. I analyze every morsel of food and every ounce of liquid that enters my body for its nutritional merit (or lack thereof) and dwell on how this extra chocolate chip cookie on Tuesday is TOTALLY going to come back to haunt me somewhere around mile 23 on Sunday and then I'm going probably going to puke or cramp or worst of all WALK and I'm going to hate myself FOREVER.<br />
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I do everything I can to minimize stress and stay off of my feet as much as possible. This should be kept in mind in the telling of the events that transpired a few Thursdays ago, the day that I was to drive from Boston to Philadelphia for the marathon.<br />
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CHAPTER ONE: THE POTTY INCIDENT<br />
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I woke up on Thursday morning in my usual early morning daze and pulled myself into the bathroom where I commenced my morning instagram, Facebook, snapchat, twitter, instagram, Facebook, snapchat, twitter, e-mail, instagram, twitter, snapchat checking, lather, rinse, repeat while brushing my teeth. For some reason on this particular morning, I fumbled as I went to place my phone on top of the toilet and watched in horrified slow motion as my iPhone fell into the toilet bowl.<br />
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With every survival instinct kicked into high gear - PHONE. NO. PHONE. CAN'T. LIVE. WITHOUT. PHONE. NO. NO. NO. - I snatched my phone from the toilet water almost instantly. Panicked, I raced to the kitchen and started rummaging through my cabinets, completely naked, looking for rice because I've heard that putting your phone in a bag of rice can fix water damage. That's when I noticed my next door neighbors were in their driveway, directly adjacent to my expansive kitchen windows, loading their kid into the car.<br />
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I dropped into a naked ass crouch and scooted over to the next cabinet and pulled a box of Rice-a-Roni off the shelf. Why do I have this? I don't even remember buying this? Is Rice-a-Roni even real rice? I shot up as I tore the top off the box, remembered again about the neighbors, shot back down and dumped the contents of the box into a plastic bag. All seemed to be working perfectly fine with my phone, but I wasn't taking any chances. And if it smelled like artificial rice substitute for the next few days, so be it.<br />
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By now, the clock was ticking away, I wasn't even finished packing for Philadelphia, I needed to shower, I had to leave for work in 15 minutes, AND JESUS CHRIST I DON'T HAVE ANY MILK FOR MY CEREAL. Needless to say, the morning anxiety didn't subside until I walked into my office an hour later, breathless, flustered, and utterly discombobulated.<br />
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CHAPTER TWO: THE FUCKING FUCK<br />
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Flash forward a couple hours my boss and I are at lunch at a Cosi across the street from our office. I had decided at this point that my phone was safely functioning at full capacity after a morning in the Rice-a-Roni bag and no apparent damage was evident.<br />
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Now, a few months ago I had the genius idea to combine the most necessary elements of my wallet with my iPhone case and viola! I had a protective iPhone case that also had a pocket for up to three of my holiest of wallet inhabitants: my license, my credit card, and my Charliecard. For those who don't live in Boston, that's my monthly MBTA pass. Best of all: No need to carry a purse!<br />
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After shooting off a quick email while sitting at the table, I placed my phone into my coat pocket and hung my coat on the back of my chair. No more than 20 minutes later, I put my coat back on to head back to the office and when I stuck my hands in my pockets, I realized they were empty.<br />
A frantic search of table, chairs, floor, and trash can was fruitless. The phone had vanished. No, let me rephrase that: My phone, license, credit card, and Charliecard had vanished. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!<br />
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Minutes later I'm back in my office and with the help of Find My iPhone on my computer, I see that my phone is making its way in and out of stores of Downtown Crossing. I immediately pull up my online credit card statement.<br />
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First, this motherfucker went to Payless Shoes and bought what I approximate to be eight pairs of shitty shoes. There was a Macy's less than a block away. They could have had a the best day of my fantasy life in that department store, stocking up on kitchen supplies and winter coats and expensive glass vases and this motherfucker goes to Payless. Get yourself some Ralph Lauren. Buy some real leather boots. Get a fucking fancy ass watch. Pick out a pocketbook that is way out of my price range. IDIOT. There was a Verizon store across the street. Buy yourself the new iPhone, you dipshit. Oh wait, you didn't need to do that BECAUSE YOU STOLE MINE.<br />
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THEN they went to Subway and bought what I also approximate to be 23 sandwiches and a cookie. WHO THE FUCK SPENDS THAT MUCH MONEY ON SUBWAY SANDWICHES? This motherfucker. There was the fucking Mandarin Oriental around the corner. GO GET A FILET AND $19 COCKTAIL. GO TO THE RITZ TEA ROOM AND ORDER A $30 POT OF HOT WATER AND TEA BAGS. WHY DO I NEED TO TELL YOU THESE THINGS?!<br />
<br />
They then disappear into the depths of the MBTA with my Charliecard. I bet they had a fucking field day riding the subway all day long because it was free. I bet they did pull ups on the overhead hand bars and danced through the turnstiles. I bet they hopped on the bus and boogied down the aisle, not because they needed to take the bus, but because they could do it for free. I bet they only went one stop. And then I bet they did it again.<br />
<br />
I cancelled my credit card, filled out any necessary online applications to get a new license and waited. I sat there stewing over this asshole's free public transportation rides, lunch meat sandwiches and cheap-ass shoes, waiting for the little green Find My iPhone dot to reappear back on the screen once they emerged above ground.<br />
<br />
I hit refresh. Over and over. I zoomed in and zoomed out. And then I saw it. The green dot had left Boston and was in now in Somerville. Wait a minute... HOLY SHIT THEY'RE AT MY APARTMENT. THEY'RE AT MY APARTMENT AND THEY'RE BREAKING IN AND STEALING ALL MY STUFF BECAUSE THEY KNOW I'M IN DOWNTOWN BOSTON. THEY KNOW WHERE I LIVE BECAUSE THEY HAVE MY LICENSE. THEY'RE STEALING MY STUFF AND RUINING MY LIFE.<br />
<br />
Panicked, I called the cops.<br />
<br />
"SOMEONESTOLEMYPHONEANDMYCREDITCARDSANDMYLISENCEANDNOWTHEY'REATMYAPARTMENTANDTHEY'REROBBINGMETHEY'RESTEALINGMYSTUFFOHMYGODTHEY'REATMYAPARTMENTISEEITISEEITONFINDMYiPHONEITSANAPPOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD"<br />
<br />
After hanging up with a very reassuring dispatch operator I once again refreshed my screen and there was the green dot … in Roxbury. Somehow, I had accidentally tracked my old iPod, which was, in fact, in my apartment sitting in a speaker docking station. I wasn't being robbed. They weren't at my apartment. And as my boyfriend reminded me, my license still had my old Scituate address printed on it.<br />
<br />
Ohhhhhhhhhhh dear. Can you get arrested for being an idiot? Because I'm pretty sure what I just did was so stupid it's against the law. When in doubt, remain calm and play dumb. My office phone rang. It was the Somerville police dispatcher (oh, Christ). She had dispatched three (!!!) police cars to check my apartment. They found a white male on the property to claimed to the plumber (he was). They checked all the windows and doors and everything seemed to be secure (uh huh). If I was at all uneasy when I got home that evening they would be happy to come back and walk me through the apartment to double check once again from the inside (holy god I'm an asshole).<br />
<br />
I thanked her profusely and hung up the phone.<br />
<br />
Now, the iPhone has this wonderful little option to switch your phone into "lost" mode from your computer or another device and send a message to the locked screen in case anyone finds it. That means I had the unique experience of being able to send messages to the person who was now in possession of my stolen iPhone.<br />
<br />
So I sent a message hoping for maybe a drop of remorse brought on by the high sodium levels from too much lunch meat:<br />
<br />
<i>Lost phone. If found please call 508-xxx-xxxx. Thank you!!</i><br />
<br />
An hour later my hope had deflated:<br />
<br />
<i>Stolen phone. Please call 508-xxx-xxxx.</i><br />
<br />
I watched that little green dot moving up and down the streets of Roxbury. And then I snapped.<br />
<br />
<i>HEY ASSHOLE I'M WATCHING YOU I SEE YOU ON WASHINGTON STREET I CALLED THE COPS AND THEY'RE TOTALLY COMING TO FUCK YOU UP CALL 508-XXX-XXX AND I'LL MAKE IT ALL GO AWAY.</i><br />
<br />
And that's when the little green dot disappeared from my life forever. I assume I spooked them and they smashed the phone. Jokes on them though because they were carrying around a phone all day that had just that very morning been in my toilet. SUCKERS!<br />
<br />
CHAPTER THREE: HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE AND PURGATORY IS THE RMV<br />
<br />
Phone down. Credit card down. All I needed now was a new license so I could drive the 350+ miles from Boston to Philadelphia in just a few hours. I'd also need an ID to pick up my race packet the following morning because, you know, I WAS RUNNING A FUCKING MARATHON THAT WEEKEND.<br />
<br />
Luckily, when shit hits the fan when you're in the downtown of a major city, things that can calm that shit storm are usually within walking distance. I hoofed it from my office the 10 minutes to the Chinatown RMV. And yes, a Registry of Motor Vehicles in Chinatown is EXACTLY what you'd imagine it to be. (Insert Asian driving stereotype joke here.)<br />
<br />
I checked in at the front desk, got my number (A 240), and proceeded to the waiting room where at 2 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon I hoped I might have a chance of getting in and out relatively quickly and (this should come as no surprise now) they were on number … A 70. And the room was filled with … people … all types of people. Just … <i>people</i>. Once again, EXACTLY the type of people you'd imagine to be slumped over on a bench a Chinatown RMV on a Thursday afternoon.<br />
<br />
There were no available spots on any of the benches and having spent a similar few hours not long ago at the Social Security office, I preferred to stand by myself and off to the side. It's cold and flu season, do you think I wanted to touch ANYTHING in that room? And with all of that … <i>breath</i> going on? Ew.<br />
<br />
Infinity minutes later, it hit me. Maybe I wasn't actually in the RMV. Maybe I had a LOST situation on my hands and while I THOUGHT I was in the RMV I was actually already DEAD THE WHOLE TIME AND I JUST DIDN'T KNOW IT YET?<br />
<br />
When it was finally my turn, I walked briskly to the designated desk. In order to get a new license you need, at the very least, your social security card. And because I always have a "situation," here was mine: Just a few weeks prior, I went to the social security office to change my last name back to my maiden name and get a new social security card. My next step was to change the name on my passport because I will be traveling internationally soon (RIGHT?! More to come on that soon!). Then, once my new social security card had come, I would then go to the RMV to take the same corrective action on my license. Only I didn't have my card with me because I wasn't expecting to wind up in the RMV that day. But I needed my license to drive down to Philadelphia for six hours and again to get my race packet. I didn't have any backup ID because my passport was still floating around in somewhere between the U.S. passport office and my mailbox. And by the way, someone stole my license and I'm worried about fraud, can you please put a hold on that?<br />
<br />
In summary: I had no passport, no social security card, and now no license. And I was fairly certain my current license was being sold to a similarly built blond crack addict who would no doubt use it to open up a bank account in my name and ruin my credit forever.<br />
<br />
As you might imagine, my situation thoroughly flummoxed my RMV employee. After repeating my predicament three times, each time at a slightly slower speed, a light bulb seemed to finally go off.<br />
<br />
"Oh. I can't do that. I need your social security card to see that you changed your name. You see, we're connected to social security. We're all <i>the government.</i>"<br />
<br />
"Yes, but since your system is connected to the social security system since you are both <i>the government</i>, can't you just confirm in your system that my name had been changed?"<br />
<br />
And then she ever-so-slowly waddled to the other end of the room to make a phone call and ever-so-slowly waddled back. This happened a total of three times. And each time she returned to me, I repeated my request but phrased it differently, hoping that some combination of the words I was trying to portray would somehow make this work out for me.<br />
<br />
"I see you have my social security information pulled up on your computer screen there. See how that's my picture? It's me. Also, see how it says my name was changed to Hanahan last week? See it says so right there. I can see it."<br />
<br />
"Yes but I need to see your card so I can put it into our system for confirmation so I know it happened at social security."<br />
<br />
"But you said your system was connected to the social security system and I see that you could pull it up right there. Isn't that confirmation? You are <i>the government</i>. If it's in the system, it happened."<br />
<br />
Finally, she had me come with her to her supervisor who was in the middle of servicing another RMV customer. I explained my situation for the seventh time, she pulled up my social security information, gave me the once over, and nodded her approval. "It says right there her name's been changed. It's in the system." She then turned to me. "So now the old license with your old name is invalid anyway so no one can do anything with it. Don't worry about the theft."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I AM BRIDGET I HAVE BEEN BLESSED BY THE RMV GODS HEAR ME ROOAAARR.</span><br />
<br />
So we ever-so-slowly waddled back to my RMV employee's computer so she could print me out a new, temporary paper ID with my new name and address to match my social security number.<br />
<br />
"Here you go, your new license should arrive in the mail in seven to 10 days. There will be a hold on the license for your safety."<br />
<br />
"Wait, did you say there will be a hold on my license?"<br />
<br />
"Yes because you said your license was stolen. There could be fraud. This way you can't do anything with the license because there will be a hold on it. No one will be able to use it. This is for your safety."<br />
<br />
"Right but didn't your supervisor just say that the old one is no longer valid due to the official name change? So if this is the only valid license, there's no need for a hold."<br />
<br />
She stared at me blankly.<br />
<br />
"Because the person on that license that was stolen technically no longer exists in social security. So there's no risk of fraud."<br />
<br />
"So you want … a hold on your license? For your safety?"<br />
<br />
"No. I do not want a hold. No hold. I want to be able to use this license. Because this one is in my possession. I am going to need to use it."<br />
<br />
"But … your safety."<br />
<br />
"No hold. Please. No hold."<br />
<br />
"Ooookay but what if you lose it? Up to you."<br />
<br />
Yeah and what if I win the lottery or get hit by a bus or shit out a puppy there is no end to the what if's in life! Clearly the RMV is where logic goes to die. Wait, again, am I dead? Is this purgatory?<br />
<br />
I am now in possession of my new license and I'm still not 100 percent sure if there is or is not in fact a hold on it. Only the RMV gods know right now. And in the end, it gives me some weird peace knowing that Bridget Horne is now no longer officially exists in the eyes of the U.S. government and is not retired in a drawer or cut up in some trash can but in fact lives on in the hands of some goddamn derelict who's probably using it to buy underage booze. It just seems fitting. Rock on, Bridget. Rock on.<br />
<br />
CHAPTER FOUR: WE'RE NOT GONNA TALK ABOUT THE MARATHON<br />
<br />
I've had better days. But then again, I've certainly had worse. And at the end of it, at least I got to ungracefully shove some sushi down my face AND my boyfriend brought me Bad Day Cookies. So there's that. And then we drove to Philadelphia. We didn't get in an accident, as I was paranoid we would after all the other events of the day. We didn't get a ticket or run out of gas on the highway in the dark. Maybe I had gotten aaaaaall of my bad juju out of the way. And then there was the race.<br />
<br />
As per usual, around mile 14 I gave up running marathons forever. Mile 20 I gave up running forever. And mile 26 I thought I was going to shit my pants. I missed my goal. I spent the rest of the day and night washing away my self-loathing with beer. And the next day resolved to find a way into the Boston Marathon even though I've already been rejected from every charity team I've applied to. I'm a childhood cancer survivor who was rejected from not one, but TWO fundraising teams who raise money for childhood cancer. BECAUSE THAT MAKES SENSE. It's okay though. It's gonna happen, you guys, I can feel it. And when it does, I can't wait to think about shitting my pants on the Boston Marathon course.<br />
<br />
Boston strong, baby!<br />
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-81529062413083737952013-11-13T17:57:00.000-05:002013-11-13T17:57:01.000-05:00Taper Crazies: I has themI have a problem. A very real and pressing problem. I'm basically done with this season of marathon training, which for reasons not entirely clear to me was more mentally exhausting this year than in any year past. It's not uncommon for me to look forward to a run. Blow off some steam, de-stress, align some of the little ducklings of my life that may have scattered around like drunk little fools over the past week, and generally just start or end the day with a greater feeling of health and well-being than I had before I laced up my sneaks.<br />
<br />
But this time around, a few of my weekday runs and absolutely all of my long training runs required such a gargantuan amount of emotional effort to strap on some running shoes and get out the door you'd have thought I was embarking on an odyssey of pain, sacrifice, and sexual deprivation every time I walked out my door. I've just been tired. Tired and lazy. Tired, lazy, and hungry, like, all the damn time. Also, I have Netflix. So there's that.<br />
<br />
But I did the run. Every damn day. The track workouts and hill repeats and long runs that seemed to stretch on forever. Through the heat and the cold and the dark and the rain. In the mornings and in the evenings and in locations up and down the east coast. And, yes, every time I finished I was glad I did it and proud of the amount of me that I poured out on to the asphalt despite being tired and lazy and hungry and having an entire season of Breaking Bad waiting for me on Netflix.<br />
<br />
That's good. What's bad is that as a result of using all of that emotional strength to get myself out the door for those runs over the past few months I seem to have exhausted all of my other self-discipline. Let's take candy for example. Now, I'll be the first to admit that sometimes I'm a shitty eater. I love donuts. But not just love the way you love pizza or ice cream or your grandmother's gravy. I fucking love donuts. I want to marry a donut. If you could be considered a successful adult while eating donuts for every meal of the day, I'd do it. But I don't. I save them as one of those once-in-a-while, I've-been-so-good-this-week treats so that when I do allow myself to have one, I go fucking bonkers. It makes my whole day. My boyfriend doesn't bring me flowers; he brings me homemade apple cider donuts from a farm stand outside of the city. The man is a genius. This, I like to think, is a healthy relationship with a shitty food.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately for me though, I recently found myself in possession of a shit ton of Halloween candy. I probably have 15 pounds of it. Or rather, I did. Because I have been consuming this candy with the voracity of some kind of Tasmanian devil.<br />
<br />
What started as, <i>oh you've been working hard, go ahead and have a mini Twix </i>rapidly escalated to me lying on my couch watching a marathon of Sons of Anarchy surrounded by a sea of crumpled candy wrappers like some kind of shameless addict. When I tell myself to have <i>just one, for real this time </i>that realistically means I'm about to shove five Snickers down my throat before coming up for air.<br />
<br />
This afternoon, there was a fire drill in my office building. I walked out calmly with the masses of people and a few minutes later walked back in with a cookie the size of my head. I made the mistake of walking into Quincy Market to stay out of the cold and when I did, I saw it. The cookie the size of my head. All round and sugary and covered in artificially flavored candies. I had to have it. And oh, I had it.<br />
<br />
I have absolutely no self-control. If I see it, it's going into my mouth. <b>Bow.</b> It's like I see chocolate, black out, and snap to just in time to realize I'm already sucked into that downward spiral of self-loathing for the rest of the night because <i>what is wrong with you?! You fucking animal. Eat a goddamn banana or something. Why is this so hard?! Use some self-control, you monkey. The next thing you know you're going to be throwing your poop against the wall and peeing in the corner.</i> I assume that's the next step of candy binging.<br />
<br />
I've even taken to hiding the rest of my leftover Halloween candy stash thinking that as long as I don't see it, I won't eat it. But you know what the problem with hiding candy from yourself is? You know where it is, you idiot.<br />
<br />
I'm not even going to get into the booze I've been consuming lately because the last thing I need on my plate tonight is to field a phone call from my mother about destructive life choices. There's been a lot of weddings recently, okay? I've given up drinking no less than three times in the past month. I'm on it.<br />
<br />
The fact of the matter is, the closer I've come to the marathon, the further I slide. I'm a few days out from the race right now and feeling downright infantile in regards to basic life choices this week. My wardrobe is becoming increasingly questionable. I'm wearing a mustard yellow corduroy vest right now and I don't know how I feel about it. I don't KNOW where I want to eat lunch, there's just too much PRESSURE. And JESUS CHRIST I'M OUT OF MILK AGAIN WHAT IS GOING ON THERE JUST ISN'T ENOUGH TIME I CAN'T EVEN.<br />
<br />
In regards to traveling down from Boston to Philly, the most practical first step would be for me to get my car to my boyfriend's apartment this evening so we can leave directly after work tomorrow. But that would require packing for the marathon tonight and when I realized that last night, it triggered a panic spiral until I was sitting on my tub at midnight brushing my teeth and frantically texting my boyfriend that I CAN'T POSSIBLY BE EXPECTED TO DO THAT BECAUSE SPORTS BRAS AND GU PACKS AND HAVE YOU SEEN THE WEATHER FORECAST LIFE IS FUTILE.<br />
<br />
So yeah. The Taper Crazies: I has them. Pretty sure this year they're going to result in a 10-pound weight gain and impromptu purchase of that faux fur romper I saw in H&M last night because clearly juggling a marathon training routine, good judgment, and basic human decency is just too much to ask this time around. I gave myself the nervous sweats just writing this blog post.<br />
<br />
See you on the other side, folks. I was just about to write some asshole runner jargon about <i>PRing or bust</i> for this race that I just trained my ass off for but then I had another nightmarish flashback to my last Philly Marathon and <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/search?q=philadelphia+marathon">GUH</a>. <strike>But I'm gonna go out there and give it my damnedest.</strike> Fuck that. If I don't PR in this marathon I'm going to <strike>be very disappointed in myself</strike> blow a fucking gasket. Marathoning is so fun, you guys, I swear.<br />
<br />
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<img alt="andy-dwyer-running" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-276745" height="190" src="http://www.uproxx.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/andy-dwyer-running.gif" width="245" />
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-46979377532984271602013-09-16T10:29:00.000-04:002013-09-16T10:30:16.254-04:00Every conversation I had after 10 p.m. on Saturday night<img src="http://media.tumblr.com/c8838d9ec7f678d87131afad6d36e434/tumblr_inline_mt55flaBf21r79k32.gif" />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-82303158390162072352013-09-10T09:47:00.000-04:002013-09-12T15:23:26.618-04:00One yearLast week officially marked one year.<br />
<br />
One year since my life went off the rails. One year since everything was flipped upside down. One year since I went radio silent here on Yellaphant. One year since the worst day of my life. One year since my husband left me for another woman. And a significantly older one, at that.<br />
<br />
I never thought I'd write those words as a 28-year-old. Scratch that, I never thought I'd write those words <b>ever</b>.<br />
<br />
Who in their right mind would ever leave this fine piece?<br />
<br />
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<br />
There's a lot I don't remember from those first few months. The tequila bottle came out that first night and many bottles followed after. But there's a lot I'll never forget.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget how it felt to be told that I wasn't loved. Or the sound of his truck's tires reversing out of our gravel driveway. I'll certainly never forget how it felt find the proof of this other person in his life. Or how one by one his family, the family who I had married into, who had become my own, who I shared countless dinners and laughter and vacations and memories with, who were the only family I had within 400 miles, fell away one by one. I'll never forget my frantic pleading for time, for therapy, for anything and his emotionless refusal of everything. Our marriage wasn't perfect. I certainly wasn't perfect. Far from it. I'll be the first person to admit I've made my own fair share of bad choices and mis-judgements. But never could I fathom ever quitting. Everything good is worth fighting for. And I knew we had something good.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget that feeling when you just can't stand to be in your skin for a moment longer. When so much emotion is rising up in your chest that it's seeping out of every pore and there just isn't room enough for it within you. You feel like you might burst. Or puke, like I did.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget how my friends flew to my side in an instant. Kassie, Kelly, Taryn. How they stayed up all night with me and held me. How they took off from their jobs the next day and forced me to eat. How they tried to talk some sense into him. How they opened up their homes to me so I didn't have to sleep alone, even though they were allergic to dogs. How over the course of the next few months they were each a constant shoulder to cry on, and ear to listen, a mouth to reassure me. How they went, almost instantly, from best friends to family.<br />
<br />
When I couldn't get out of bed in the morning, they made me. They helped me hold on, and when the time came, they helped me finally let go.<br />
<br />
And my own family. Hundreds of miles away. How my mom got in the car and drove to me the moment she heard. How she called me every day, multiple times a day. How even she pleaded with him. But he wouldn't listen to anyone.<br />
<br />
I did the depression thing. I did the therapy thing. I did the not enough eating and too much drinking thing. I did the tell your therapist to go fuck himself thing. I even did the whole total your car thing. Just for an added cherry on top.<br />
<br />
During the day, I'd walk my dog for hours. Listening to the most depressing fucking music I could find. At night, I'd write. I'd hope. I'd wait for another night to pass. Looking back on those words that I wrote is hard. I'm not sure what to do with them next. But I know I want to do something. Maybe they'll appear here. Maybe they'll appear somewhere else. But for now they're still mine.<br />
<br />
I stayed on in our house. I got used to being alone. My daily life revolved around my dog. He was the reason I got up in the morning. He greeted me with the devotion and excitement that only a dog can offer when I got home at the end of the day. In the mornings we'd run the wooded trails together. In the evenings we'd walk the beach. At night, he'd crawl into my bed and lay his head on the pillow next to mine and I'd hug his warm body until I fell asleep.<br />
<br />
Months went by. I couldn't bare to go home to my family for Thanksgiving, so I didn't. Christmas was approaching and I was gearing up for another major stomach surgery, this time to correct everything that went wrong the first time. To put my stomach back together. I went to my appointments alone. I dealt with the doctors and the questions and the worry by myself.<br />
<br />
The weekend before I was to go in, I threw myself a going away party. The last time I entered the hospital I didn't come out for over two weeks and 20 pounds less of what I was before. I wasn't sure what was in store for me this time or when I'd be able to be social again. I made up my mind that if I was going to be wheeled out of the hospital, I might as well be wheeled in.<br />
<br />
The night before my friends were there. Cards and packages came from those from afar. Sushi and wine from those who were close. I was never left alone until I was wheeled into the operating room. When I woke up, Kassie was there waiting. A steady stream of visitors kept my spirits up. My coworkers, who offered so much love and support and friendship for everything. And when it was time for me to go home, I once again depended on the arms of a friend to walk my slowly down the hospital hallway and into his car, where he drove me an hour to Kelly's house, where I stayed for the first few days. My mom drove up to spend the next week with me.<br />
<br />
I healed.<br />
<br />
After two months, I wasn't yet cleared to do any physical activity when I registered for the Boston Marathon. Another season was passing and I had had it. It was time to get back on my feet. My coworkers cheered and pushed me on. Then we had a beer.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2013/04/boston-strong.html">The day of the Boston Marathon started as one of the best</a>. When I crossed the finish line, it was the most triumphant moment of my life. I had done it. My friends and mom had come from up and down the east coast to cheer me on. No marathon or award or accomplishment achieved before could ever compare. The bombings that followed after, however, threw me into a wave of despair that not even I was prepared for.<br />
<br />
In the time since I had started running again, it became clear I couldn't afford to keep the house on my non-profit salary. When I began desperately searching for an affordable apartment in the city, it also became clear I couldn't afford to bring my dog. I trudged on and signed what I needed to sign and did my best to keep my head above water.<br />
<br />
In the days following the bombing however, I began once again to drown. When a grief counselor turned to me across the table in the days following the marathon and asked me about <i>getting back to normal</i>, the dam broke.<br />
<br />
I had no normal. I hadn't had normal for what felt like I very long time. The house that I loved in the community I adored, steps from the homes of my closest friends, was cluttered with half-filled boxes and every time I looked at my dog my heart broke into a thousand pieces all over again. I hated my ex whose coldness and nonchalance in all of our encounters left me feeling hollowed and angry. My city was grieving. I was grieving. I couldn't even remember what normal felt like.<br />
<br />
I began crying in that session with the counselor and I didn't stop for four days.<br />
<br />
But life goes on. And we have no choice but to keep going. So I packed up everything. I said the hardest goodbye of all, to my dog. And I left Scituate for the city. Once again, I wasn't alone. I was trailed by cars of my best friends who unpacked my apartment faster than I thought possible. That night, my first in my new apartment in my new city, I puked. For the first time since that first night exactly eight months before. And it kinda felt a little like closure. Though I do hope, when the time comes, that I don't mark the next big event in my adult life with another hurl.<br />
<br />
It's been four months since that night. And 12 months since that first night. Since then, even more change has taken place. There have been weddings and funerals, a new baby for two of my best friends and a new job for me. I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I have grown and changed and experienced more in the past year than I have in the entire decade before that. But finally, one year later, I am me again.<br />
<br />
And perhaps that was the hardest part of all this year. The lack of myself within myself. I went from a happy girl who was so very in love with her life to a hollowed out slop of sadness almost overnight. I lost myself entirely. I was angry and reckless and devastated to the core. This was not me at all. And from there, at the very depths of my bottom, there was nowhere to go but up.<br />
<br />
So here I find myself. Still learning this city. Still settling into my routine. Still letting go of anger and hurt. Still figuring out what it means to feel home in this new life of mine. But what I do know is <i>who</i> makes me feel home. My friends who stood by me and helped me every day of this year. Through sickness and in health. Through good times and bad.<br />
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I've thought about writing this for a while now. I've been asked over and over when a new blog post would come. I just wasn't sure how to put it into words. I didn't know how to write on Yellaphant. I didn't have any funny in me. I didn't know how to not pick scabs or poke scars. How to craft a tone that reflected that I was "good" without sounding flippant. How to portray the devastation while focusing on how very far I've come.<br />
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As Louis CK has said, <i>everything that’s difficult you should be able to laugh about</i>. My tennis pro husband left me for a bored housewife. That's at least worth a smirk. I certainly wouldn't have survived this year if I didn't have people who taught me how to laugh again. And now, when I laugh, I mean it.<br />
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Because I have come so far. I have tried so hard. I didn't do it alone, and for those people I will always be thankful for saving me, helping me, making me whole again. They have shown me what true love and true friendship is. They have helped make me a better version of myself. I am proud of the person I have become. I am grateful for this new life and especially for new love. So yeah, I'm good.<br />
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I'm back in the game, baby.<br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-73489992464802616642013-04-26T11:41:00.002-04:002013-04-26T11:45:38.036-04:00Whenever someone not from within the Boston office tried to give me an assignment at work this week<img height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/4c18dcc69c30231d944c98159d9f1d17/tumblr_mhz4e5x2dE1rjdfzto1_400.gif" width="400" />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-15513988941476931722013-04-23T15:54:00.000-04:002013-04-23T20:16:22.980-04:00Boston StrongI'm still very much processing the events that unfolded at the 2013 Boston Marathon. But for me, the purpose of writing has always been to make sense of the world. So perhaps putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, is what I've been missing over the past eight days.<br />
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Lucky. That is was the overwhelming emotion leading up to April 15. I had a hell of a year. A year that I was still in very much in the process of healing from both psychically and emotionally. The Boston Marathon was to be my comeback. The day that I pounded pavement for 26.2 miles along with thousands of other runners and proved to myself that I had the strength overcome.</div>
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To overcome sickness. To overcome heartache. To overcome anything. </div>
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And in doing so, I <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2013/01/redemption.html">asked for your help</a>. And you, my friends and family, responded in a way that took my breath away. You helped me raise $5,525 to help fight the hopelessness of homelessness in Boston. That's $125 above my goal. A goal that I looked at as almost unfathomable when I first signed my name on the dotted line of the Boston Marathon application.</div>
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You helped me train. We ran together through snow and rain and freezing temperatures. We ran the streets of Boston and got lost in Somerville. We ran through Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, and Newton, putting miles and miles and miles in our training piggy bank.</div>
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The weekend of the marathon, I had friends and family from Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City travel up the east coast to watch me out on the Boston Marathon course. My closest friends from Boston and Scituate joined the crowds.</div>
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That day, I was representing Back on My Feet. The non-profit that changed my life. The place I work and the men and women who in their own way, each helped me get back on my own feet this year while dealing with the complex issues of homelessness in our city.</div>
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So as I stepped into the starting corral in Hopkinton on April 15, to say I was filled with gratitude was an understatement. I was overwhelmed with happiness, excitement, and the sense that this day belonged to me. I wasn't worried about my time -- with two major stomach surgeries in one year, the fact that I was toeing the line at the world's greatest marathon was enough for me. I was there to take it in, have a good time, see my friends, take photos, and if I just happened to finish around four hours in the process: <i>fuck yeah!</i> Just another excuse for those celebratory beers that were waiting for me at the finish line.</div>
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And then I ran a race that will forever be my favorite race.</div>
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Hopkinton was a blur of families and American flags that seemed to pass in a flash. Ashland's streets were lined with cars blasting Latin music. Framingham smelled like a barbecue of Brazilian meats. Then Natick, where firefighters perched from their truck's ladder over the sea of runners, taking pictures and cheering for the sweaty throng. I'll never forget the scream tunnel at Wellesley College, with girls holding signs: "Kiss me I'm a cowgirl" "Kiss me I'm an amazing user experience" "Kiss me I'm an average human being" "Kiss me I have a British accent" which seemed to stretch forever.</div>
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On to Newton, where I knew the infamous Newton hills were waiting for me. Well dressed families lined the streets holding out freeze pops and orange slices. I took the freeze pops. Because hell yeah freeze pops! I had been running next to my friend Mary the entire race. We were feeling good and picking up pace. So far, I had been smiling for an entire half marathon. Do you know how it feels to be smiling uncontrollably for 13 miles? We met up with Mary's dad who jumped in, loaded with enough goo and water for us both. <i>That's what she said</i>.</div>
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As we turned the corner onto Comm Ave and the hills rose up before me at mile 17, I said goodbye to Mary and decided to pull back a little bit to make sure I had enough steam to get through these hills and the ever-menacing Heartbreak Hill just a few miles away. I jumped in a photo with friends and was surprised at the surge of energy a familiar face can bring, even after 17 miles.<br />
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The crowds began to thicken. What was just a single line of spectators was now becoming rows. More freeze pops, more goo. At the bottom of Heartbreak Hill, one of my closest friends jumped into the road, intent to take me home. By then, my thighs were lead and I wasn't saying much, but I was still smiling.<br />
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Together, we conquered the hill and headed towards the screaming tunnel of Boston College kids. They screamed my name, written on my shirt, for miles. I reached out my arm and slapped hands and took pictures. I got goosebumps. Granted, this could have been my body temperature regulation completely shutting down with system overload, but I like to think it was in response to the cheers.</div>
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We turned the corner into Brookline and again the crowds thickened, pulsing against the police barricades four and five people deep, screaming for runners, perhaps never realizing how much their rowdy screams of encouragement brought chills to the exhausted masses, pushing them onward towards Boston.</div>
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And then: Boston.</div>
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At mile 24, I saw my Scituate friends, my heartmenders and some of my best girls. I stopped for pictures and gave kisses. I was at a total loss for words. It could have been the emotions. It could have been the fact that I had just run 24 miles and was slowly going brain dead as my body shut down on itself. Who can tell?<br />
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At mile 25, my college friends who had traveled in to see me and my mom. More pictures, more kisses, more smiles, more mostly caveman-like grunts from me. And that was all I needed to take me home.<br />
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I ran past the Citgo sign and came out from the overpass and knew my first and perhaps my only Boston Marathon was almost over. And than I made that turn: right on Hereford Street, left on Boylston Street. And it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. The wall of sound reverberated in my chest. The crowd was five, six people deep. I no longer heard my name called, it was a roar. I picked up the pace as I ran down the final few blocks on Boylston Street, looking from one side of the street to the other, trying to take it all in, smiling from ear to ear. My legs were painful slabs of lead but they carried me forward. Leaving it all on the street. My heart felt like it was going to burst from my chest in happiness. Or maybe a heart attack. <i>Tomato to-mahto</i>.<br />
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And then I was home. I looked up at the cameras capturing my image, arms raised in triumph. I looked down at the yellow and blue finish line forever painted on the street as my feet touched it, with an official time of 3:57:08. I had been thinking about this moment for a very long time.</div>
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My friend Ali ran to the barricade of the finisher's corral and as we hugged I began to cry. The type of cry that shakes your whole body. I had done it. I had done it. This was not my first marathon, nor did I expect it to be my last, but it was certainly my most important. I had done it.</div>
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What happened after that will be remembered by thousands of people for the rest of their lives. The thousands of runners and spectators will each have their own story of where they were and what they were thinking when the bombs went off. Who they tried to call first and what they said to them when they finally got through.</div>
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For me, I had turned from Ali and was walking towards the table staffed with volunteers hanging medals around necks and what promised to be the best post-marathon celebration ever when the first blast went off. I froze in place, watching the plume of smoke rise. People began to scream. </div>
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"It's not a bomb." I kept repeating to strangers around me. "It's okay. We're okay." And then there was a second blast, a second plume of smoke rising to the sky.</div>
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The rest of the day and for many days after were a blur or horror and sadness. My heart is broken. I cry, like, all the time. There is still a whole mess of sad to sift through. But in the midst of it all, and while I continue to process what happened and reconcile my greatest triumph with our city's greatest heartbreak, I remind myself of all the good that was April 15. Of the friendship, laughter, smiles, cheers, and motivation that made me run the best -- certainly not the fastest, but absolutely the best -- race of my life.</div>
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And that matters. The months of training and fundraising and wind and cold and snow matters. The entire Boston Marathon course and the amazing people who line the roads to cheer us on matter. The thousands of runners who crossed that finish line, and the thousands who didn't, matter. This is still our (<i>fucking</i>) city. This is still our race. We are still runners. We'll prove it. We'll be back next Patriot's Day. I know I sure will be. As of 2:50 p.m. last Monday, I'm in. And so will all the spectators along the course who make this race so very special. And that matters.</div>
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Boston Strong.</div>
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-17653341861801259992013-01-23T13:59:00.001-05:002013-01-23T14:33:04.389-05:002013 Boston Marathon<br />
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Redemption. That's what running means to me.<br />
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For three years I've been trying to earn a number for the Boston Marathon. And this year I'm running it. Of all the years I've been pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into earning a spot on that starting line, this is the last year I thought I'd get actually make it to Hopkinton.<br />
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Last year was hard. Like, really hard. One week in to 2012 I underwent emergency surgery. When I was seven years old I was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. Exactly 20 years later, complications from that initial surgery had sprung up and my intestines shut down.<br />
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I was in the hospital for two weeks following the surgery battling an array of complications. Once I was finally released, I learned to walk again on my own. And then once again I learned to run. The experience of a first run for one who has been forced to put her most necessary hobby aside for months can only be described as approaching euphoria.<br />
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Five months later, I learned I would be back in the hospital for another major stomach surgery. In between the act of finding a doctor I trusted and a hospital I respected for this last go-around, my personal world was flipped upside down.<br />
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I was shattered. Emotionally homeless. Kept alive solely by the kindness and support of my friends and family as I slept on their couches and cried in their arms. Running lost its joy. I couldn't bear to be alone.<br />
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But then one day I got out of bed and put on my running shoes once again. And every day I grew a little bit stronger. Every day I held my head a little bit higher. I went back to my team at Back on My Feet and found the support and solidarity I needed. I was bolstered by the friendship of my coworkers.<br />
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By then, it was time to head back into the hospital, two weeks before Christmas. I've been poked and prodded, measured and stitched, weighed and sliced into more times in the past year than I hope many will ever in their lifetime. And then, six weeks after I was wheeled into the recovery room with a scar in a perfect T running from my belly button to my bikini line and across, I once again put on my running shoes.<br />
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Granted, those first two miles were a doozie. But I was steeled by the fact that Back on My Feet was providing me with a number for the 2013 Boston Marathon. Every step I take over the next three months is one step closer to Hopkinton.<br />
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I am healthy. I am happy. I am stronger every day. Running is my redemption. With 2012 behind me, crossing the finish line on Boylston Street will be unlike any other finish line I've crossed. It is the starting line of my new life.<br />
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<a href="http://www.crowdrise.com/TeamBackonMyFeet/fundraiser/BHorne">Please join me in supporting the nonprofit that brings redemption to men and women across the country every day.</a> We will raise our heads higher because we are doing something great. When the world seems its darkest, we find dawn with the lacing of our sneakers. Whether it's one mile or 26.2, we will find redemption in our finish lines. Because they are just the beginning. <a href="http://www.crowdrise.com/TeamBackonMyFeet/fundraiser/BHorne">Donate here.</a><br />
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And if you can't give, don't worry, you're still awesome in my book. Come out to Boston on April 15 and cheer me on then ply me with beers. It'll be a great day.</div>
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For more information about Back on My Feet, just ask (I work there, duh!) or visit <a href="http://www.backonmyfeet.org/">www.backonmyfeet.org</a>.</div>
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-83743803552821422252012-08-28T11:05:00.001-04:002012-08-28T11:15:22.214-04:00One girl two cupsLast week I had to make my yearly appearance at the lady doctor and ... I'll wait for you all to stop squirming uncomfortably ... ready? ... as every lady knows, the first thing the lady doctor office usually makes you do when you check in to your appointment is to step into the little bathroom they have so you can pee in a cup. Over the course of my lifetime I've peed into hundreds of cups. Drug tests, doctors visits, that one time we got stuck in traffic on the way into the music festival. Peeing in cups is old hat for a girl of my class and panache.<br />
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I had been sipping from a water bottle during my entire drive to the office, so I felt adequately prepared for this least invasive aspect of every awkward doctor's visit ever. I smiled as the receptionist handed me a cup and quickly ducked into the single bathroom. <i>Single</i> because there's only room for one occupent, and also because it's the only bathroom for the entire waiting room of pregnant women to use. Now I've never been pregnant, but if every pregnant woman stereotype is correct, pregnant ladies love to eat weird things and pee, like, all the time.<br />
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But like I said, I was ready. This would be quick. I read the instructions printed on the wall about how to properly pee in said cup without peeing all over yourself in the process, which I did anyway. I hastily placed the cup on the table and pushed the faucet on with my elbow. Once I had satisfactorily washed my hands, I turned back to my cup 'o pee and noticed that in my haste to clean myself up, I hadn't properly put the lid on. So I gingerly picked up the now filled-to-the-brim cup in an attempt to snap the lid on tightly. But it wouldn't snap. So I twisted and I turned and I pushed all the while trying to keep the cup perfectly balanced. And then I dropped that cup of pee and watched as it exploded all over the bathroom floor.<br />
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And for a few brief moments alone inside that bathroom, this was exactly my life:<br />
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Only instead of the F-dash-dash-dash word, I was more like OH MOTHERF--CKING C--- BITCH ASS F-CK THE HELL DO I F--CKING PISS ASS FLOOR F-CKKKKKKKKK.<br />
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I scrambled for paper towels to soak up my pee that was now in a puddles across the floor, behind the toilet, and pooling in front of the sink. I frantically shoved the sopping towels into the bottom of the tiny little trashcan as I grabbed for more and more and more. <i>Oh my god my pee is everywhere. What kind of a goddamned jackass spills her pee all over the goddamned doctor's office holy shit holy shit holy shit.</i><br />
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When I finally had thrown the last of the paper towels into the trash and surveyed the bathroom for any loose splatters, it occurred to me that now I had three things: 1) an empty cup of pee 2) an empty bladder and 3) 45% less dignity than when I walked in. MOTHERF--CKING C--- BITCH ASS F-CK THE HELL DO I F--CKING PISS ASS FLOOR F-CKKKKKKKKK.<br />
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I looked at my watch. I had been in the bathroom for close to 10 minutes at this point. <i>Okay okay okay</i> I just need to pee again. But I couldn't. If you had stood in front of me and pointed a gun at my head and told me to pee I still would have come up dry, which is saying a lot for someone who routinely almost pees her pants. All of my pee was now at the bottom of that bathroom's trash can. After what felt like another 10 minutes, I finally was able to fill about 1/6 of the way to the line that they instruct you to fill. <i>That'll have to do</i>, I thought as I snapped the lid on -- carefully -- and thrust my now wholly inadequate cup of pee into the little cabinet on the wall to collect your pee cups.<br />
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I threw open the bathroom door, panting, a little bit of panic sweat still dripping down my neck, and came face to face with a line of fat, impatient looking pregnant women waiting to use the bathroom. I smiled meekly at them as I hurried past, wondering if any of them had any idea of what had just happened behind that closed door. Because god forbid any of those strangers know what I just did. Not until I blogged it to hundreds of strangers on the Internet anyway. Because, people, when shit gets weird at the gyno's and you haven't even seen the doctor yet, then you better buckle up for some grade A awkwardness headed your way. Title of my book?<br />
<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-15206148899031368642012-08-27T12:59:00.001-04:002012-08-27T13:09:09.651-04:00The Slip'nSlideapalooza playlist is complete13 hours of music and love. It already has 501 listens on Spotify. You know shit's gonna get weird. Prepare yo'selves.<br />
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Ne’er forget." class="shadowed" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8ehle029t1qzspj4o1_500.gif" />
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via <a href="http://shloobykitten.tumblr.com/">Shlooby Kitten</a>yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-26496030612187866012012-08-27T12:06:00.000-04:002012-08-27T12:06:13.369-04:00Summer summer summertimeThere's a lot of stuff I could write about right now, but the Second Annual Slip'nSlideapalooza is in exactly one week and in between all of the party prep and, you know, actual work I'll be doing this week, this is pretty much all I can think about. We're going to party hard. This hard:<div>
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yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-64832887789680475432012-07-25T13:06:00.003-04:002012-07-25T13:07:20.814-04:00Wednesday's Song of the WeekIs it just me or are songs just a bit more potent in the summer? Lyrics seem more relevant, as if they were written just for you. Sure, other people might like a song too but was it written for them the way it was written for you? Beats seem to be more in time with your life. The perfect song plays over the radio as you take a slow, sunset cruise home from the beach in your best friend's boat. Or as you drive past miles of sparkling ocean on your way home from work. Or as you sit in the sand with a sweating beer in your hand.<br />
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Every summer I become attached to particular songs for particular reasons, then when I hear them at other moments throughout the rest of the year they call back sand-filled afternoon, bare feet on warm wooden docks, and late nights spent sitting by the fire pit. No other season has a soundtrack so joyful as a summer playlist. So let's crank the volume up to 11 because THIS. IS. MY. JAM!<br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-7957901740429234702012-07-20T14:11:00.001-04:002012-07-20T15:05:40.551-04:00My argument for why my dog has probably prepared me for parenthoodIt dawned on me today, as I was dragging my dog down the street because he refused to walk any further, that owning a dog -- and in particular, <b><i>my</i></b> dog -- is probably a pretty good preparation for parenthood for a 20-something like myself. Dogs are awesome. They're supposedly loyal (though I often wonder if Rooney would be compelled to choose me over someone else. Or say, a basket of stuffed animals). They're fun to have around. They love you to death ... unless there's a stuffed animal in the room. It 's a pretty great feeling to come home and find your dog walking in circles because he's just <b>so damn happy</b> to see you he doesn't even know what to do. I wish my husband paced around shaking and moaning because he was SO psyched I just walked in the door. Dogs are great companions for walking or running or hiking. And I bet most of them are pretty good at protecting you in case of an emergency. I'm not sure what kind of emergency. Probably a rape or possibly a home invasion. Though again, I hope my home invader doesn't bring stuffed animals. And as I unfortunately found out this year, they're awesome to have around when you're sick. They'll show a gentle side you didn't even know was buried deep inside them and nose their way up to you and rest their blessed little heads on your belly as you lie on the couch.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So yeah, dogs are pretty great. But then there's a little personality quirks of my dog that so often remind me of a child in the permanent state of the Terrible Twos. He hates having his hair brushed. He despises baths. He makes a mess everywhere he goes.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Then there's the quirkier things. Take walking for example. As I alluded to above, I spend a significant amount of my walks with Rooney pulling him down the street. What kind of dog do you have to force to go on a walk with you? Dogs are supposed to love that shit. Not my dog. My dog often refuses to budge once we reach the end of the driveway. He stops in the middle of busy intersections and lies down while cars are waiting to pass. He'll walk like a prince and then suddenly drop to the ground and make you literally drag him until he decides to grace you with his ability to put one foot in front of the other once again while people laugh and point from their cars and porches. And when he does decide to walk, maybe he'll want to run and dart and sniff. And maybe he'll drag himself so slowly you've convinced yourself it's out of spite for you and your dumb human desire for exercise.</span><br />
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Have you ever tried to walk with a two-year-old child? Two-year-olds suck at walking. They're as slow as my dog. It's like, come <i>on</i>, kid.<i> Move those chunky little stubs you call legs. No, don't run there are cars around here! Hold my hand! No, get up. Get UP. I'll drag you up if I have to.</i> I'm pretty sure walking around the block with a two-year-old would take exactly the same amount of time as walking around the block with my dog.<br />
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But it's not just the walking. There's also the constant need for attention. If Rooney wants to play, he'll stand in front of you and bark his loud-ass bark in your face until you play with him, if you have not immediately done so already. If you can't play with him right now because your nails are drying, <b>you'll be sorry</b>. He'll bark and bark and bark and if you still aren't paying attention, he'll start to misbehave.<br />
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Have you ever seen a kid take advantage of an adult's lack of attention by smashing his toy fire truck into his sister's face? Or drawing on the walls with crayon? Or pulling all the books off the bookshelf? Rooney basically does the doggie equivalent of emptying his juice box into your purse. He'll bark and bark and if your nails still haven't dried, he'll dart. There's that blissful moment of silence that immediately raises suspicion and when you look up, Rooney is rolling in the neighbor's compost pile. Or climbing on to the <i>one</i> good couch in the living room that he knows he's not allowed on. Or sprinting into the middle of the neighborhood kids' basketball game.<br />
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Then there's the seemingly pointless whining. There are times when my dog doesn't want to play and you know he doesn't have to go to the bathroom and he certainly doesn't want to go for a walk but yet he'll just sit there, whining. Forever. And you can't figure out why he's whining because he doesn't speak English. After all these years with Rooney, I'm pretty sure a whining kid will be no problem. Like Rooney, I'm pretty sure a two-year-old doesn't speak much besides in grunts and wails and maybe some monosyllabic words. And you certainly can't rationalize with either of them. Have you ever tried rationalizing with a dog? I have. And I'm pretty sure he didn't get my valuable life lessons. I'm betting kids are pretty much the same. Because they're also pretty dumb and really bad at making decisions for the first 10 years or so.<br />
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Oh, and let's not forget about the spitefulness. In his four blessed years on this earth, Rooney has mastered the art of favoritism. If I yell at Rooney for chasing the neighbor's cat, he won't look at me for the rest of the night. Instead he'll curl up on B's lap and wait for B to lavish him with pets. When I reach out to pet him, he'll jump to the floor and throw spite daggers at me with his eyes. I don't know about you, but I played that game <i>all the time</i> when I was a kid. My dad wouldn't let me get that jumbo candy bar even though I got an O for <i>outstanding</i> in conduct in my report card? I am NEVER speaking to him AGAIN. My mother is the only one who understands my pain. My mom yelled at me for dumping my yogurt behind the couch and not telling anyone? DEAD TO ME. My dad would NEVER do that to me.<br />
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And lastly, let's talk about how big of a dick my dog is. There is no shortage of stories of his mighty dickishness. Like the time he got kicked out of puppy obedience school for attacking the other puppies <i>(I can't even)</i>. Or the time he chased a feral cat into our apartment and we couldn't get it out from under our couch for two days <i>(you don't even know)</i>. Or the time he bit my friend Lauren in the nose <i>(like seriously?)</i>. Or how about just about every time he comes across another dog <i>(do NOT even get me started)</i>. Like I said, he can be a real dick.<br />
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The thing that most upsets me with Rooney though, is the way he behaves towards other dogs and sometimes humans. He is utterly unpredictable. Sometimes he loves them instantly. Others, he'll snap at them and go for the jugular before I even know what's happening. This has put me completely on edge every time we pass a dog on a walk. When a neighbor brings home a new puppy, I groan and pray that they'll get along. So basically, he's like an asshole kid. Sometimes he plays great, and other times he's a bully. Kids can be dicks too. And when they are, they totally suck. It sucks having a sometimes mean dog and if I ever have a kid that shows any signs of unprompted aggression whatsoever, I'm taking it back to whatever shelter I got it from because I just can not handle. When I see my friends' dogs being nice and playing with other dogs and going for runs and being otherwise obedient, I sometimes feel like the perfectionist mom with the fat, mean kid who sucks at school.<br />
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But despite all that, dogs are still pretty awesome. And even though I've said it like a million times, I wouldn't trade mine for the world. I'm assuming kids can be pretty okay too. And when the time comes that I do have my own, I think -- thanks in a large part to my whiny, yet totally awesome dog -- I'll be ready.<br />
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Just look how awesome the Mighty Roo is:<br />
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But anyway, I gotta go. My dog is whining for me.yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-78212370363439742132012-07-03T07:53:00.000-04:002012-07-03T11:59:32.920-04:00Give me Fourth of July beach weather or give me deathIt's here, you guys. IT'S HERE! Fourth of July is here. In less than 24 hours we will be fully enmeshed in my single <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/search/label/Fourth%20of%20July">favorite day of the year</a>. Nothing compares to the Fourth of July. NOTHING.<br />
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As seems to be a trend for me, I've been spending this week getting all jittery with anxiety about any and all forces beyond my control that have any possibility of interfering with the great and mighty awesomeness that are my usual Fourth of July plans. That is, boating to the Spit, drinking 100 beers from my awesome Joe Biden koozie, enjoying a perfect beach day, and eating grilled meats with my friends. Is that too much to ask?<br />
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In years past it has been <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2010/07/fourth-of-july-better-than-puppy-who.html">my health</a> and <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2010/07/this-time-of-year-im-always-haunted-by.html">rapidly disintegrating summer hours</a>. This year my current obsession is the weather. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous here for the past five days. Perfect summer weather for a beach bum like me. We've had some rain at night, but by then I've already had a substantial chunk of my sunny hours and I'm ready to lie on the couch in my sandy bathing suit and eat ice cream.<br />
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But despite the perfect weather of the past week, everyone is calling for rain for tomorrow's Fourth of July festivities. Nay, not just rain, thunderstorms. Nay, not just thunderstorms, but SEVERE thunderstorms. <i><b>What did you just say to me?</b></i><br />
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No no no no no no. NO. Do not accept. <span style="background-color: white;">Me, staring at the computer right now:</span><br />
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<img src="http://i.imgur.com/gHhne.gif" /><br />
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Take it back and give me something better. Give me yesterday's weather of 91 degrees and sunny. Give me today's of 81 and sunny. Give me Thursday's. GIVE ME SOMETHING BETTER. I have sun to feel on my skin and ocean water to play in and beers to drink and meats to eat with lots and lots of ketchup. These are the awesome things that I live for. My entire raison d'être. You cannot do any of these awesome things in severe thunderstorms. I NEED THESE THINGS. I need them now.<br />
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I've been checking the weather with a frantically increasing consistency the closer we get to tomorrow, willing that grey cloud and lightning symbol away with the same passion and obsession as a Sunday Baptist preacher in front of a captive congregation. LAAAAAWD DELIVER US THE SUN. Staring at the chance of rain percentage and praying to the gods of beach and BBQ and all that is holy that it drop down. Get low, low, low, low. Applebottom jeans, boots with the fur low. Hell, I'm concentrating so hard on dropping those numbers down with the power of my mind that I'm kind of surprised I haven't pooped my pants. If I would concentrate this hard on activities other than the weather, I'd be a millionaire by now. I'd have written 100 bestselling books, 50 of which had been adapted into blockbuster movies, and would be typing this while simultaneously doing the backstroke in my giant swimming pool of gold coins with my very good friend Scrooge McDuck.<br />
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Listen, I had kind of a <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/search/label/hospital%20vacation">rough start to the year</a> and I'm full swing into my comeback. Summer has always been my Very Special Bridget Time. But this year, I'm attacking it with a new ferocity. I'M ALIIIIIIIIIIVE. And I'm well. And I might be slightly self conscious of the current state of my beach bod because I still have a FUPA of intestines hanging out up front that make me look like I'm six months pregnant but it's fine, you guys. It's fine. Just load me up with enough light beers and pretty soon I'll be pulling my retro high bathing suit bottom down so everyone on the beach can crowd around and look at my super gross scars and comment that it doesn't <i>reaalllly</i> look like a FUPA (it totally does) and at least it's not leaking any more (whatever gets you through the day). Jesus Christ I need this holiday. JUST GIVE ME THIS DAY.<br />
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So maybe if we all cross our fingers and cross our eyes and hold our breaths and WILL that sun to come out and stay out and bless us with her warmth, I'll get my Fourth of July and next week I'll tell you all about how I spent the holiday riding boats and <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2011/07/happy-fourth-of-july-mothaflippas.html">crashing my bicycle</a> and drinking rum punch in the sun for our country. Because if it works, this will be me tomorrow:<br />
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And then I be like: <br />
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<img height="134" src="http://i.imgur.com/VWtA3.gif" width="197" /> <br />
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And then I'mma get all:<br />
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And then you know I be:
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<img src="http://img4.imageshack.us/img4/129/jefferson.gif" />
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And then on Thursday I'll prolly be all: <br />
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Happy birthday, America. Let's go to the beach.<br />
<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-10076579608589954792012-06-29T05:45:00.000-04:002012-06-29T09:29:18.704-04:00Happy weekend :)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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via: <a href="http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/">le love</a>yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-15089667022828904582012-06-26T07:42:00.000-04:002012-06-27T08:48:24.983-04:00Sixty percent of the time, it works all the timeHey. It's me. I'm here. I guess it's kind of funny that when I was half dead in a hospital room I still posted here more often than I do now. But for a while things were so busy at work I barely had time to come up for air. And then there was the aftermath of that where all I wanted to do was lie face down on the living room rug and just <i>be</i> for a little while. And now it's officially summer so after work I grab my paddle board and my book and I head down to the neighborhood beach and why would I want to do anything besides that? Ever. In my life. But now it's raining so here I am so huzzah!<br />
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A few weeks ago I flew down to Baltimore for my <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/2012/05/now-excuse-me-while-i-let-sap-flow-up.html">five-year college reunion</a>. Turns out if you take a bunch of friends in their late twenties, put them all together in the place that brought them together in the first place, add a bunch of cheap champagne and light beer, throw in your old favorite neighborhood establishments, add the alma mater and shake well and you will still behave exactly as you did five plus years before. Which, incidentally, makes you realize why you weighed an extra 10 pounds and slept until 11 a.m. on the regular because HOW DID WE LIVE LIKE THAT? AND SURVIVE? WITH OUR LIVERS, IQs, AND MOST OF OUR REPUTATIONS LARGELY INTACT?<br />
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So yeah. It was just about the best weekend ever. But, as I mentioned, it came in the midst of a very busy time for me at work. So when I booked my plane tickets, I made sure that I would be getting home at a reasonable time on Sunday afternoon. Time enough for me to relax, have a good meal, and get to bed at a reasonable hour before plunging in to what promised to be one shit show of a work week. Having learned from my past mistakes of booking planes home before 11 a.m. after weekends with friends, I chose a 1 p.m. flight. Thinking, in my current state of adult-like rationalization, that would give me plenty of time to get up, get myself together, grab some brunch with everyone and then head to the airport.<br />
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As I am wont to do when with the <a href="http://factandfiction-bridget.blogspot.com/search/label/VGFs">VGFs</a>, what instead happened was that we stayed out until 6 a.m.the night before, my alarm shocked me awake five hours later, I ran around like a madwoman throwing all of my belongings into my suitcase, barely managed to say goodbye to whoever else was awake, returned my keys to our college dorm room, and hopped in a cab to the airport.<br />
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Me, during every minute between when I woke up and when I got into the cab: <br />
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<img src="http://i.imgur.com/EtRPo.gif" /> <br />
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Once I was safely nestled into the cab, I congratulated myself. Here I was: 27 years old and finally getting myself to the airport at a reasonable time after a weekend such as this. Okay, it was a little rushed in the beginning, but I would get there, check in without working myself into a nervous frenzy over missing my flight, grab a bite to eat, and wait patiently and calmly for my flight. I had done it. <span style="background-color: white;">Sure I ended up missing brunch with all of my friends, but it would be worth it. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I was an adult. I was mature and responsible and the universe would reward me for acting as such.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">When I checked my luggage and printed my boarding pass, what instead came out was a note in the shape of a ticket telling me to check in to the terminal to pick up my <i>actual</i> boarding pass. <i>Weird</i>, I thought to myself. <i>I guess that's how BWI does it though</i>. So I moseyed through security and scoped out the terminal I would be spending the next hour and a half. Realizing how hungry I was, I decided my first stop would most definitely have to be for food. Because, in all honesty, when is my first stop anywhere for anything not for food?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I bought myself a nice, greasy sandwich, pulled out my book, and nestled in for the wait. About 30 minutes before boarding time, I remembered that I should probably go ask the airline representatives at the terminal desk about my ticket. So I headed over to the tall counter and handed them my slip of paper.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"Hi," I smiled calmly, pleasantly at the woman behind the counter. "I'm not sure what this is, but do I need to get an actual ticket?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"Oh I'm sorry, honey, but there's no more seats on that flight."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"Wh-what?" No, they must mean for other people. Other people who hadn't bought their tickets yet. I already had a ticket. I bought it months ago.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"You see, we overbooked and since you were the last to get to the airport this afternoon, I'm afraid you got bumped."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Suddenly the room started spinning. I stared at the woman, with her bob haircut and her big toothy smile and shiny lip gloss and her denim-colored collared shirt. Why was she smiling? Did she think this would calm me? And what was it about collared shirts with company logos stitched above the heart that made them look so demeaning? But this woman held my destiny in her hands and she was squashing it. Mashing my dreams of stability and responsibility with her mortar and pestle of overbooking and airline policy. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"B-b-but I got here early. I've been here for an hour. I had a sandwich. This can't be right. I booked this flight in April."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"I'm afraid it doesn't matter when you planned you're trip, ma'am. You should have come to the desk sooner."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"Well if I had known that this is why my boarding pass didn't print, I would have. No one warned me. I've never seen this before." I thrust my non-boarding pass over the counter.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"I'm very sorry. The airlines always overbook because usually a few passengers don't show up. This time they did. But don't worry, we've got you on the next available flight out of here. And we'll happily compensate you for your trouble."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Compensate. I like that word. I work for a non-profit. I'd walk through Downtown Crossing in my underwear and a clown wig throwing fish at passersby for the right amount of compensation. Besides, this woman works for an airline. She probably has upwards of 50 unreasonable people yelling at her each day. People who are rude and wear sweatpants in public and don't know how to travel well. I'm a seasoned flyer. I can take this. I will smile and try to make her day a little bit easier despite this inconvenience.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"Okay. I understand. That's fine as long as I'm on the next flight. What time does that go out? 2:30?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"9:50 p.m., ma'am. All the other flights before that are also overbooked."</span><br />
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<img height="176" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0nbhl3qKi1qaj1om.gif" width="319" /> <br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Suddenly the room started spinning. All at once, I felt very, </span><i>very</i><span style="background-color: white;"> hungover. Sweat began to pour down the back of my neck. My hands started shaking.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"NINE FIFTY?! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO UNTIL 9:50?!" All at once all of my careful, adult-like planning had unraveled. I would not get home to relax, eat a good meal, and get to bed early. If I leave Baltimore at 9:50 I won't even make it back to my house until midnight. Oh gaaaaaaah I was so tired. So very tired. And hungover. And hungry. Tired and hungover and hungry. And sad. Here I was at the airport all by myself while my friends were still all together. Probably eating delicious waffles and laughing about the night before. I bet they had bloody mary's too. Oh, I would kill for a bloody mary right now. I was so very tired and hungover and hungry and sad.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"I don't know what you're supposed to do until them, ma'am. We are very sorry for your trouble."</span><br />
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"Excuse me minute." I backed away from the desk and slunk over to the nearest wall. With my back against the wall and my bags at my feet I called B to tell him what rotten terribleness had just befallen me.<br />
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"WHAT? That's outrageous.How can they do that?"<br />
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"I know it's outrageous. DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT'S OUTRAGEOUS? What can I do though? Force my way on to the plane. Pretty sure that comes with terrorist charges these days."<br />
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"You've got to get back there and fight that."<br />
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"I know what I need to do. I don't need you telling me what to do. Don't get snippy with me. I didn't call for you to get snippy with me. I called so you could tell me that you feel bad for me! Just tell me you feel bad for me! And that you want to buy me a present for my emotional distress."<br />
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"I feel bad for you."<br />
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"Thank you so much, I know it's horrible, isn't it? You're such a good listener."<br />
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"Now get back in there and fight it."<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">My phone binged with a text message. It was my friends. They were sitting on the campus quad eating bagels and laughing over the weekend. They included a photo. Suddenly, the shakes became much worse. I grabbed my bags and stormed back over to the counter.</span><br />
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"BUT I LEFT MY FRIENDS FOR THIS."<br />
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"Ma'am?"<br />
<br />
"MY REUNION. IT WAS MY COLLEGE REUNION AND I LEFT MY FRIENDS FOR THIS. I DIDN'T EVEN SAY GOODBYE TO EVERYONE. I WAS AN ADULT. I HAD A SANDWICH. THEY ARE EATING BRUNCH AND I CAN'T WAIT UNTIL 9:50. I'M SUPPOSED TO GO TO A RELAXING DINNER AND GO TO BED. YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME MISS MY FRIENDS AND MY RELAXING DINNER. THIS IS HORRIBLE. HORRIBLE."<br />
<br />
The representative turned her back to me and picked up the phone behind the counter. "We're going to need Sondra here. Gate D."<br />
<br />
She spun back to me, smile as big as ever. "Ma'am as I mentioned, we're very sorry and you will be compensated with a travel voucher the price of your ticket plus enough for another trip."<br />
<br />
"I DON'T WANT ANOTHER TRIP. I WANT THIS TRIP TO BE OVER"<br />
<br />
Another woman walked up to the counter that I had currently draped my noodle arms over, head in hands, butt thrust precariously close to the person in line behind me. "Hello, ma'am, we're terribly sorry for your trouble today." She bore a name tag with the title "Sondra M: Customer Service Manager" emblazoned on a pair of brass wings and a little heart on her chest. Wait a minute, I've seen this television show before. <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xI_UIrzOZAQ&feature=related">I am in total shock. You can put this on TV.</a></i> Where they going to escort me into a little room for being a disgruntled passenger? Was I being filmed right now? Is this real life?<br />
<br />
"As we mentioned, ma'am, you will be compensated with a travel voucher for four times the amount of your ticket for your troubles today."<br />
<br />
Suddenly, my mind began to clear. I was an adult, damn it! I make adult decisions! I speak and act like an adult.<br />
<br />
"I'd like a personal check."<br />
<br />
"Excuse me, ma'am?"<br />
<br />
"I'd like a personal check for five -- not four -- times the amount of my ticket. And I'd like a guarantee that I am on the top of the list for stand-by for every flight to Boston between now and the 9:50 flight." Holy shit did I just say that? Look at you, girl. Empowerment! Give her a sniffle for good measure! You are distressed!<br />
<br />
Sondra and I stood, our shoulders squared. She didn't blink. Nor did she break her smile. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back. After what felt like minutes, her face broke out into a large smile as she took out a pen. "That's no problem, ma'am."<br />
<br />
I watched in awe as she wrote out a personal check in my name. Holy shit, it worked. I stood there, silenced. She tore the check out of the company check book, handed it over with a smile. "Have a nice day, ma'am. Hopefully this helps."<br />
<br />
How I tried to play it as she handed me the check:<br />
<br />
<img height="184" src="http://i.imgur.com/05KKe.gif" width="320" />
<br />
<br />
What I was actually doing in my head: <br />
<br />
<img height="168" src="http://i.imgur.com/Q2lqC.gif" width="224" /> <br />
<br />
"Y-yes. Yes, this helps." I mumbled as I tucked the check into my wallet. "First in line for stand-by, right?"<br />
<br />
"That's right, ma'am."<br />
<br />
And with my personal check for just the perfect amount to have covered my entire weekend of travel, eating, drinking, and general debauchery safely stored in my wallet, I went straight to the airport store to buy myself one of those fancy neck pillows and a new book to help me pass the time. I've never bought anything more than a pack of gum at an airline convenience store before. But I had money in my pocket and time to kill and wooooey did I feel like airport royalty. <br />
<br />
<img src="http://i43.tinypic.com/rarnzp.gif" /> <br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">And when I was about half way through my new copy of "50 Shades of Grey" my name was called for stand-by for the 7:10 flight. It certainly wasn't as I planned it, but for a free weekend, hell yeah I'll take it.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">So in conclusion: When attempting to act like an adult, sometimes it pays to just throw a temper tantrum. Sixty percent of the time, it works all the time.</span><br />
<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-91468240427517034942012-06-20T09:58:00.000-04:002012-06-20T09:58:17.837-04:00Wednesday's Song of the WeekTo celebrate the Summer Solstice, Boston seems to have swung right on into summer mode. Just two days ago it was cold and dreary and today they're calling for a high of 98 and I am not complaining. Not one bit. I'll take it. I'll love it. I may get swamp ass, but gosh darn it, I'll love that too.<br />
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I plan on celebrating this weather and the solstice by heading down the beach tonight with a good book and my stand up paddle board and that thought alone is about all I need to get me through this day. Helllooooooooo, summer!<br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-63057470143863608582012-06-13T10:38:00.000-04:002012-06-13T10:38:01.781-04:00Wednesday's Song of the WeekAs I mentioned yesterday, the past few weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. Nothing new around here, I just feel like I'm finally now emerging from one of those fun house tunnel of love rides where the entire time you're not sure if you're having a great time or utterly terrified or a combination of the two. I've been a tad under the weather since I got back from Baltimore so I spent the first few days nursing my friend hangover and the past eight nursing a wicked cold. Could have been the all-night parties from reunion weekend, could have been the stress of pulling off a fundraising breakfast for 600 a week later, could have been the two weeks of just about non-stop rain in Boston, WHO KNOWS WHO CARES BUT BOY AM I GLAD THE PAST WEEK IS OVER.<br />
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My friend <a href="http://idontfeelbadaboutit.blogspot.com/">Maggie</a> posted this song on her Facebook wall today and I am SHMITTEN. Maggie, I do believe you just discovered one of my summah jams. Many thanks to you, many thanks.<br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-72022919364203075552012-06-12T14:53:00.002-04:002012-06-12T14:53:40.259-04:00I went to my college reunion, was hungover for days, and had the most stressful week of the year at work and this is how I feel<img alt="" class="shadowed" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m04m8j4Puo1r4x6r1o1_500.gif" /><br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-13230019456981702552012-05-30T07:27:00.000-04:002012-05-30T13:31:41.586-04:00Now excuse me while I let the sap flow up in hereTomorrow afternoon I'm heading down to Baltimore for my five-year college reunion. Five years. How is that possible? That means we've been out of college for longer than we were in college. That also means that I have known most of these people, some of the most important people in my life, for almost nine years now. That's almost a decade. And what seems like a very long time has actually gone by in the blink of an eye.<br />
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Five years. Five years following what we all in some way considered a pretty bad day. Most people I've gotten to know "on the outside," that is, outside our happy little world of college, were thrilled on their graduation days. We were a miserable group. And not just because we were cripplingly hungover and uncomfortably bloated from four years of too much beer and late night pizza. We were heartbroken that we were leaving the comfortable, happy safety net of our school and of each other.<br />
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There would be no more debate and discussion in our intimate liberal arts classrooms. There would be no more lunches under the sunshine on the quad or holiday carols sung in the chapel for us. No more little grey desks or quick steps up the old, creaking stairs of the Humanities Building because you were late for class. But most of all, there would be no more living within arm's reach of your best friends. No more late night dance parties on the regular or Sunday mornings spent on the couch in sweatpants recounting the events from the night before. No more movie marathons or Wednesday night Mug Nights. No more Paper Moon Diner or Mo-Town banana pancakes. There would be no more raiding of each others' closets because you were tired of your own clothes or pulling outside all of the living room furniture to better enjoy the lengthening days of spring. No more crawling into each other's beds to cry about a broken heart or always, <i><b>always</b></i> having a hand to reach out to when you needed it most.<br />
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We were off. To Philadelphia, Chicago, New York City, D.C., Pittsburgh, Bangkok, Germany. Suddenly spread across the globe like spilled grains of rice scattering across a kitchen floor. No longer in the next bedroom or down the hall or right next door or "in the boys' room."<br />
<br />
Five years. In five years there have been weddings and law degrees. Vacations and moves. Promotions and funerals. Mistakes and lessons. Break ups and hook ups. But most importantly, there's always been Us. In the five years since I moved away from my Very Good Friends, we've continued to play exceptional roles in each other's lives. If anything, our bonds together have grown stronger with distance. We've proved -- to ourselves and to each other -- that friends as valuable as these are worth holding on to.<br />
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We send letters and make phone calls and thank god for texts. We take plane rides and long drives. Assemble by the dozens or in small groups of two. We have dinners and drinks. And drinks. And also drinks. We go dancing and touring and throw really great parties. Then wake up in the morning to find those familiar bodies spread out across the floor, on air mattresses and couches and packed together in beds. Because as long as we're together, we're happy.<br />
<br />
And now we're headed back to where it all began. And I am very excited to be able to say to all of my friends, that I kept that promise you made me make on my wedding day. The day I married my very best friend. The one I met in our favorite small college bar and got to know during walks across campus and in our favorite class. When you hugged and congratulated me and, wiping away a few happy tears, asked me to make a promise. I'M NOT PREGNANT FOR THE FIVE YEAR REUNION! LET'S DRINK 100 BEERS!<br />
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2952802315351804916.post-12739875804102540992012-05-25T17:00:00.000-04:002012-05-25T17:00:04.133-04:00IT'S MEMORIAL DAY WEEKENDSUMMER HERE I COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!<br />
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(via <a href="http://shloobykitten.tumblr.com/">Shlooby Kitten</a>)
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<br />yellaphanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04473037506487677049noreply@blogger.com0