Yellaphant

Wednesday's Song of the Week

2009-11-11T07:22:00.003-05:00

On Monday night B and I went to the Monsters of Folk concert at Philadelphia's Kimmel Center. Hands down, it was one of the best live shows I've seen in a long time. But with band members as incredible as Jim James/Yim Yames, Conor Oberst, M. Ward, and Mike Mogis, that was expected. Nay, there would have been a hipster riot if it wasn't.

Seeing Monsters of Folk perform live was kind of like getting to eat all of my favorite foods at the same time. Jebus, does my life really revolve around eating this much? I guess it does. Anyway, watching four of the most talented artists of my time doing their thing on stage together is what I imagine sitting down to eat a meal of boardwalk pizza topped with cake batter ice cream and a heaping side of my mother's mashed potatoes and a chocolate chip cookie. Separately, they are awesome. Together, they make up a mind-blowing foursome. That's what she said HEY-YOO. Who's hungry?

And getting the chance to see them in a setting as regal as the Kimmel Center was actually kind of surreal, considering the audience. Picture, if you will, hundreds of bearded men in skinny jeans and flannel shirts flanked by rawboned women in absolutely killer slouched boots milling around the ornate foyer, shuffling their Chuck Taylor's on the marble floor, and peering up at the Greco-Roman paintings on the ceiling and muscled sculptures resting above their heads as they stand in line to buy the band's album on vinyl.

The post in which I realize my life revolves around cream donuts

2009-11-10T07:25:00.006-05:00

Last weekend my marathon training reached it's pinnacle. It was my last really long run before I start to taper, and at 20 miles, it was my longest. About eight miles into this run it dawned on me how out of my mind I must have been when I signed up for this marathon. Was I drunk? I couldn't remember, so I must have been drunk.

This was horrible. My entire lifestyle had been altered. Six months ago, Fridays after work meant a bottle of red, some pizza, a trip to the corner pub, and I'll see you in the morning. Now, they mean water, water, water, a giant plate of pasta, and (if I can stay awake long enough) maybe a few hours with the New Yorker and some serious contemplation about my bowel movements. I just got a horrifying look at what my life will be like in 60 years. And I'm living it now.

My Saturday mornings used to be a quick jog before breakfast and the rest of the day belonged to me, which was usually spent cleaning the apartment and walking the dog while texting my friends to see what the plan was for the evening. Now, they mean a run that usually lasts ALL morning, and an afternoon spent lying on the couch because for the love of GAH I don't even have the energy to get up and find the remote so I'll just lie there watching "Marley and Me" en Espanol and patting myself on the back because I just ran 20 miles and I didn't even shit my pants.

While I'm running, I pretty much can't get over how wretched of an experience this marathon is going to be. The furthest I've run is 20 miles, and that was no walk in the park, my friends. I can't even begin to wrap my head around another 6.2 miles on top of that to the finish line. People have been asking me what my marathon goal is. My goal is to finish. That's it. No, wait ... my goal is to finish without shitting my pants because did you know that happens to marathon runners all the time? And I'm not sure what it says about my life that pants shitting has climbed to the top of the Things I Hope Not To Do list. It went from number 63 right on up to number 3, beaten out only narrowly by die (which still holds the solid number one position) and get locked in a trunk with 100 poisonous spiders and don't even get my started on the spiders.

As part of Operation Don't Shit My Pants, I've been doing a little research about what I should eat the morning of the marathon. And people have been all toast! Peanut butter! Gu! Meat! So I asked my friend Jordan what he's been doing during training runs. This is his full report for the past weekend:

1 power bar and water when i got up
1 pb and j sammy after

1 gu before
1 gu after 8 miles
1 gu chomps shortly after
1 gu after 16 miles
1 gu after 20 miles

And this was mine:

1 bowl of frosted flakes when i got up (they're GRRRR-EAT!)
water after 5 miles
water after 10 miles
water after 15 miles
2 cream donuts when i finished.

And Jordan was all, "I don't see the problem" because Jordan is an asshole. And I was all "the problem was that I wanted three cream donuts but the bakery ran out." And that pretty much sums up my training plan.

ANYWAY. So the running part kind of sucks. But when I'm done running, it's awesome. I never have time to just lie on the couch and watch a movie in the middle of the day, but marathon training pretty much forces me to. And do you SERIOUSLY expect me to do the dishes after just running 20 miles? I have a golden Get Out of Doing Things Card all day. And best of all, I also get to eat whatever I want, whenever I want for the next 24 hours. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT'S LIKE? It's pretty much the greatest thing in the world. In fact, I can't think of anything better than the chance to eat whatever I want and not feel a twinge of guilt about it. All. Flipping. Day.

There's this bakery around the corner from my apartment. It's run by a friendly, middle aged Jewish woman with a bouffant. She's wonderful. And every Saturday morning, after my long run, my mom (who has usually run with me for half of whatever my distance is that day), meets me at my apartment, and we walk to this bakery to pick up some cream donuts to treat ourselves. This has become our weekly routine. And these donuts? Are incredible. I've eaten more soft, powdered donuts bursting with smooth vanilla cream filling in the past four months than I have in the past four years.

And these moments -- sitting at my dining room table with the legs that were gnawed by the dog, enjoying a cup of tea, a delicious cream donut, and some conversation with my mom while the early afternoon sunlight streams through the window -- are my favorite moments of the week.

Essentially, my life revolves around cream donuts.

And this got me thinking about what life will be like once marathon training is over. I'll have to go back to doing things like cleaning floors. And doing laundry. And NOT eating whatever I want, whenever I want. Ergo, no more cream donuts every Saturday morning with my mom followed by an afternoon of watching all the TV shows I missed during the week. EW.

Now, I haven't even run the marathon yet and I'm already considering signing up for another because I can't fathom my life without the cream donuts. But without my mom or my Back on My Feet team, who will run with me? I can't do 20 miles totally by myself. And do they even HAVE cream donuts in New England? It's like a different country up there, where people fish for fun and eat nothing but clam chowder and snow.

And am I out of my mind? Again? Considering putting myself through marathon training again just so I can eat donuts? When I first wrote about being Fatty McFatterson, I was kind of joking, but now I'm totally serious. My twisted, donut-crazed brain has just taken this to a whole new level. It's called donut delirium.

All you need is love

2009-11-06T07:56:00.001-05:00

BA DA DA DA DA.

So you know how we took our wedding pictures here?

Well now I'm always going to remember it here.

Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to get a good picture of a white ink tattoo? I could have played an entire game of Risk -- The Game of Global Domination -- TWICE in the time it took me to get something that remotely resembled what my wrist looks like now but I couldn't so I quit. Not that I've ever played Risk before. I don't do well with board games that don't entail constant action and/or drinking. Something about short attention spans and ADD or whatever. Unless it involves deciding which bar to go to next, I don't typically have the patience for things like strategy.

In other news from the Department of Things I Woke Up and Decided to Do, I chopped my hair off yesterday.

And I am dreadfully sorry for the quality of photos on today's post. But apparently not sorry enough to take better ones. Something something something lack of patience thing again because isn't it Friday? Don't we have better things to do? Someone open that bottle of wine already. GAH.

Wednesday's Song of the Week

2009-11-04T07:43:00.002-05:00

The voice of Joshua James (no relation to Jim James) (who now refers to himself as Yim Yames) (otherwise known as the voice behind the wonder that is My Morning Jacket and one of the members of Monsters of Folk) (who B and I are seeing in concert next week) (which is also comprised of Conor Oberst) (otherwise known as Bright Eyes), Mike Mogis (who I don't know anything about), and M. Ward (also of She and Him) (with Zooey Deschanal) (who starred in my favorite movie of the year) (500 Days of Summer) (with Joseph Gordon-Levitt) (MARRY ME, JOSEPH GORDON-LEVITT)) (not that this Joshua James has anything to do with My Morning Jacket, Monsters of Folk, Conor Oberst, Bright Eyes, Mike Mogis, M. Ward, She and Him, Zooey Deschanal, or 500 Days of Summer BUT ISN'T JOSEPH GORDON-LEVITT, LIKE, TOTALLY THE DREAMIEST?) has been gracing my speakers fairly often these days. It's that rustic scratch that gets right to the core me of every time.

He can go light, a la "Magazine:"

And he can go a little bit heavier, a la "Black July:"

And he can even do that southern fiddle thing that sets my heart all a-flutter, a la "Annabelle:"

BUY IT, YO!

Also, how creepy is it that I have this dude in white face all over my blog's front page right now? I think I'm totally missing the boat on what that could symbolize but I'm not going to get into it because I'm trying really hard not to talk about wieners so much AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING ANYMORE.

When blog vomit becomes real life vomit

2009-11-03T07:50:00.003-05:00

Last Wednesday, I was sitting at the bar, watching the Phils clobber the Yanks when I was overcome with the overwhelming desire to go. And not just go, but GO. Like, right now. As I've talked about a brazillion times here, my sense of mental stability has been walking around with a limp and a couple black eyes recently. I'm perfectly fine one minute, then with a single thought, my anxiety is through the roof and the next thing I know I'm crawling around the back of my closet pulling coats and shoes over top of me and doing some really heavy mouth breathing.

I had given my final notice to work earlier that day, and the realization of LEAVING was staring me in my sweaty face. So I texted my friend Monica.

Wanna go on a trip?

Within minutes, I got a text back. Obviously yes. Where are we going?

And less than two days later we had two round-trip tickets to southern California leaving the morning after my last day of work in Philadelphia cause that's how we roll.

As I've said before, you know that friend that you've had for almost as long as you can remember? The one you met the very first day your family moved into the house you would grow up in? The one that's been there even as kindergarten became grade school, grade school became high school, high school became college, and college became the world? Even when the places you called home changed? Who was there for the first sip of alcohol in your life and is still there now when you get kicked out of the bar? The one who was there from the very first boyfriend to the very last boyfriend? Yeah, that's this chick.

So it's only fitting that we set off on what promises to be one last gigantic shit show of an adventure together while we still live in the same zip code. So if anyone lives in the San Diego area and wants to meet us for drinks/show us all the secret awesome places/bail us out of a Mexican jail cell, be sure to drop me a line.

**********

In other news that isn't really relevant but is too short for it's own post, B is convinced than blogging is turning me into an asshole and I think he might be right. Wait, let me rephrase that. B is convinced that blogging is turning me into an even bigger asshole than I already am and I think he might be right. Because ever since I started letting my sense of censorship really just slip away on here, I seem to have done the same thing in real life.

It all started with the va-jay-jay:

In an effort to liven up this week because Jesus is punishing me for throwing words like dirty sex around in places B's mom can read, like this blog, so he's bringing winter back in March which is totally not fair because ENOUGH ALREADY and who do I have to show my boobies to to get a little warm weather around here? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be Jesus because I don't think he was a boobies man. Speaking of vaginas, I was chatting with a friend yesterday and she was all you really DO talk about your vagina a lot and you know what? This whole week has been a vagina and it's only Wednesday.

Then, there's the ever popular pooping posts:

So remember when I went on that little kick of talking about poop a lot? I have a dog. Poop comes as a perfectly natural conversation topic for me. If picking up poop with a plastic bag was part of your daily life, I assume it would be natural for you too. And while we're on the topic of dog poop, let's talk about people poop.

Is anyone still out there? I can hear people collectively clicking the UNFOLLOW button and drafting letters to my mother about what a crass little girl I am. AND AT LEAST I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT MY HOOHAH AGAIN. You should be thanking me.

And of course more recently there's been the references to big black wein and the caloric count of a beej:

Also for the record, I wasn't afraid of penises because of that whole Catholic guilt thing. I was afraid of penises because they were ugly. And also my freshman year bio teacher told my class there were approximately 3,000 calories in a tablespoon of you know what, and if you want to strike fear in the heart of a Catholic high school girl, just tell her it'll make her fat.

Aaaaand let's not forget my proclamation of Chris Christie's affinity for eating dicks for breakfast:

Chris Christie, eats dicks for breakfast.

So now B is convinced that my sense of "Yellaphant" has made me feel entitled to do or say as I please no matter where I am, and who has to live with those consequences huh? HUH? Not the little blonde girl. The little blonde girl's husband who now has to fight a bear hunter in a bar because his wife hasn't yet learned that slapping is not socially acceptable behavior. Or smooth things over with the dude dressed as Kenny Powers at the Halloween party because his wife just poured a beer down his shirt (sorry, Kenny). Or explain to his grandmother that his wife didn't mean anything when she told her to tap dat ass. Soooooo yup.

Mac's Love Letter to Chase Utley

2009-10-30T07:32:00.003-04:00

I don't think I even need to explain how awesome this is. Because It's Always Sunny in Philliedelphia. Yuk yuk yuk.

Mac Sends a Love Letter to Chase Utley @ Yahoo! Video

Well, yeah, he's hot, which is, like, number one on my list.

Many thanks to @jerseyshorejen for bringing this little diddy to my attention.

Honeymoon Tales: On fighting bear hunters

2009-10-29T07:32:00.004-04:00

First, let me start this story by printing a small exert from the speech biffle Michael gave at our wedding as the Man of Honor ...

"More often than she would admit, B's calm, gentle nature has aided in Bridget's feisty, trouble-making tendencies. This 'senior from Boston' has shot me too many looks to count that say, 'here she goes again.'"

A few nights later, we were in Aruba, setting empty shot glasses down on the bar in a crowd of other newlyweds. Present among this group of drinkers was one particularly loud couple from what I can only assume was east of Bumble, make a left at the fork, past the swamp, middle of nowhere, squeal like a piggy, my biggest nightmare Virginia.

Rewind one hour. B and I slid up to the bar and ordered two beers, when we caught the eye of a cute little blonde with the biggest boobs I've ever seen. She stumbled over to us, grabbed me by the shoulders, and was all, "WELL AIN'T YOU JUST GOT THE PRETTIEST TEETH AH HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LAF? Ah would know. Ah'm a dental hygienist." And because I'm just about as shallow as a shot glass, I instantly liked her.

She called her husband over, who immediately launched into stories of his most recent bear hunting adventures. I shit you not. Dude. Hunts. Bears. Unless you count the particularly hairy men on the beaches of New Jersey, the only bears I've ever seen in my life have been safely enclosed in pens at the Philadelphia Zoo.

"YA'LL EVER TAKE YOUR COON HOUND BEAR HUNTIN'? AIN'T NOTHING COON HOUNDS LIKE MORE 'AN HUNTIN' BEAR. MAH HOUNDS GET ON THEY SCENT AND THEY AFTER THESE BIG OL' BEARS AND WHOO-EY THEY GOT THEM CLAWS THAT CAN RIP YOU TO SHREDS, MAH FRIEND. AND SO THEY TEAR UP MAH DOGS GOOD AN I GOTTA TAKE EM ALL HOME AND STAPLE EM UP AND THEN THE NEXT WEEKEND WE OFF HUNTIN' BEARS AGAIN CAUSE AIN'T NOTHING COON HOUNDS LIKE MORE 'AN HUNTIN' BEAR."

And then, because talking about hunting bears obviously gets one all worked up, he took of his shirt. In the middle of the bar. Oh an also, bear hunters only speak in capital letters. They're loud. Like bears. I'm surprised you didn't know this. You must have never found yourself cornered by a shirtless bear hunter in a bar.

Fast forward. Me, B, Grizzly Adams, Grizzly Adam's wife, and two other honeymooning couples have just finished our third round of shots of "Southern Hospitality" graciously provided by Grizzles and his wife, when Grizz turns to me and one other new husband. "YA'LL WANNA HEAR A FUNNY STORY?" Yes, obviously, there is probably nothing more in the world I enjoy hearing than funny stories. I could sit and drink and listen to funny stories all night.

So he's all "SO AHM AT THIS PARTY WITH MAH FRIEND AND THESE TWO F*****S COME IN AND -" so then I'm all "Woah, woah, woah, WOAH. NUMERO UNO: not that there's anything wrong with that. AND B: DON'T use that word in my presence, pah-lease."

[Editorial note: there is not much in this sweet, delicious world that offends me, but the use of that word, in any sense, makes my blood boil like a bucket of lard on a hot day.]

So Gizz-man stops, looks at me blankly for a good three seconds, while the other husband squirms a little bit in his seat. And Adams continues his story. "ANYWAY, AS AH WAS SAYIN'. AHM AT THIS PARTY WHEN THESE F*****S -" So again, I'm all, "DUDE. I asked you not to use that word. It's IGNORANT. And HATEFUL. And what's your problem anyway?"

At this point, B is halfway across the room, lost in conversation with Grizzly Wife, and no doubt, her voluptuous boobies. And I, apparently, have just pissed off the still shirtless bear hunter. Other husband is clearly looking for the exit while Grizzly gets even louder,"WHAT YOU MEAN WHAT'S MAH PROBLEM? WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM? AHM TELLIN' A STORY." And I'm all, "FINE, TELL YOUR STORY." And he's all "SO THESE TWO F*****S-" And that's where the story ended because I put down my beer, wound up, and slapped the dude as hard as I could across his stupid bear-huntin' face.

And it just so happens that this very moment, when hand and fleshy cheek met, that B and She-Grizz happened to look over from across the bar.

"What the HEYALL?" She shot up from her chair as B was all, "Oh, CHRIST, hold on, I'll handle her. It's okay." Because he assumed -- as most people would -- that the Wife of Bear Hunter was out to "git" me after watching me slap her husband across the face.

She stormed up to us and as I turned, ready with an explanation, she pulled back and slapped him too. Hard. And then she was all, "WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOIN' NOW?" all up in his twice-slapped face, before promptly running from the bar in tears.

Grizzly Adams was not pleased.

Because then he was all, "WHAT IN THE HEYALL IS SHE SLAPPIN' ME FOR? WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER? AH GOT A GOOD MIND-" And then I'm all, "HE USED THE F WORD. I TOLD HIM TO STOP. HE WOULDN'T STOP. HE'S IGNORANT. I'M GONNA SLAP HIM AGAIN." And then things were getting a little chaotic, so B grabbed my flailing arm and pulled me behind him as he and the bear hunter squared off, nose to nose, both trying to yell louder than the other.

This is the part that I assumed B was going to knee him in the balls and run away because HOW THE FECK DO YOU FIGHT A SHIRTLESS BEAR HUNTER? This is also the part -- thank Dog above -- that the bartenders intervened and sent Grizzy Wizz on his not-so-merry way.

Yeah, so that happened. But this night, which ended up being one of the more memorable nights of the honeymoon, was far from over. We just don't need to get into all those pukey details here. Like, for example, the part when I stood up, proclaimed that I had been drugged, and demanded to be escorted home. And the part when I puked in the bushes. Oh, and also that part where I fell asleep on the bathroom floor. And that part when I danced down the hotel hallway real sexy like in my new lingerie. Cause it's just not a good night until you give your geriatric neighbors a front row ticket to the tush show. Yes, my friends, it was quite a night.

JIMMY SAY RELAX: Phillies in five

2009-10-28T16:11:00.005-04:00

If you live in or around Philadelphia, you're probably licking your Jimmy Rollins full-length poster on the mouth, and mentally preparing yourself for the start of what promises to be an amazing World Series. Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.

Also if you live in or around Philadelphia and you spend any decent amount on time online and on Twitter like I do, you've no doubt caught Black Taco fever, brought to you proudly by Philebrity. And as you may remember, depending on your past or current state of intoxication, pretty much the high point of my life was ~~my wedding~~ when my photo of Cole Hamels carting around his foo foo dog in a widdle woggie wackpack was featured on Philebs.

Welp, that photo is back, but this time, it's been Black Taco-fied. It's like the little photo that could. Every time you think it's gone, it just pops up again, in a stark reminder of how much of a giant namby-pamby Cole Hamels is. An awesome namby-pamby who just might play a crucial role in helping the Phillies cinch the World Series for the second year in a row, but a namby-pamby nonetheless.

It's moments like this when I imagine what it must feel like for parents when their "athletic" child graduates college. I never imagined it would make it this far, and I'm pretty sure it can't get much better than being Black Taco-fied, but damn I'm proud. Damn, I'm proud.

Wednesday's Song of the Week

2009-10-28T07:51:00.001-04:00

I'm going to be perfectly honest here. I didn't find this song by the Noisettes. Actually, if we're going to get technical here, it's just "Noisettes." There's no "the" in front of their name. But you know what? I hate when bands do that. It bothers the pee out of me. It's like Doves. And all those other bands that choose to keep the "the" out from the front of their name on purpose so using the name of that said band in a sentence is just awkward. AWKWARD. I like Doves. I like Noisettes too. It makes me feel like I'm speaking on a level only slightly higher than Frankenstein. Fire. FIIIIREEE.

Anyway, my Friend Bridget Squared otherwise known as B2 otherwise known as the other Bridget who shares my name but is not me tweeted it last week and I thought it was awesome. Mostly because of this chick's hair. My GAH it's amazing. Not that I could EVER pull that off because I'm pretty sure step one is being a sassy black woman. And step two is quite possibly some shearing scissors. But I can dream, yo, I can dream. Oh and also because this song is great. It's got that vintage feel with the current vibe and the himminy jimminy and the woo woo (only in da mornin') that I really enjoy. But mostly it's the hair.

Bridget's Emotional Roller Coaster: Signs of a Mental Breakdown and/or a Case of the Crazies

2009-10-26T07:45:00.002-04:00

I'm sorry for the infrequency of my posts towards the end of last week. Remember in the beginning of the week, on my birthday, when I was all "I am totally in control of my emotions in regard to leaving all of my family and friends and moving 350 miles away?" Well approximately 6.5 hours later, I was writhing around on my parents' kitchen floor because WHYYYY GAAAAAAH? Which was promptly followed by more writhing and a couple tears on my living room couch. Which was then followed up by a good two days of me telling B that he not only ruined my birthday, but the entire rest of my life. Soooooo ... yeah.

But it's a new week and we are turning to a new page in the book of "Bridget's Emotional Roller Coaster: Signs of a Mental Breakdown and/or a Case of the Crazies." Let's see what this week has in store, shall we?

But don't get me wrong. Last week wasn't all bad. B and I opened our first joint checking account at the bank so we could deposit the wedding loot. Plus 10 points for post-wedding productivity! And it also felt pretty good to knock out a ton of our thank you cards. Ten more points! And then, I took a little trip down to the Social Security office and had my last name officially changed. Eighty points! Woot woot! Because now that the government recognizes me as a crazy old married bat with a tendency for dramatics, it must be for reals. AND our wedding pictures came in! Oh and also? Saturday was the four-year anniversary of the night we went on our first date. And the four week anniversary of when we got hitched. So we went out! To dinner! And drinking!

In other news from Things I Did Last Week, I got another tattoo. On Wednesday night my friend Lauren and I took a ride over to our favorite tattoo parlor in the city. There's just something about this place that I really enjoy. Maybe it's the thousands of tattoo options on display. Or the tattoo-esque signs painted all over the walls. Or the shop's proclivity for gypsy/fortune teller/carnival decor. Or the fact that every tattoo artist is almost entirely inked themselves. And there's just something about a rolled-up flannel shirt revealing two very tattooed forearms that gets me all uppity. Uppity in a totally platonic way. I'm a married woman now, people.

ANYWAY. I have a solid belief that for some people, the more ink they have tattooed to their body, the higher their levels of sass rise. Because our two artists had plenty of both. And they were awesome. My guy? The total twin of Geoff from Ace of Cakes, minus the baking ability (I assume), plus about 100 tattoos.

And because I have an overwhelming desire to be liked by anyone my twisted mind deems as "awesome," I wanted to make sure Tattoo Artist Geoff thought my tattoo was going to be as cool as I imagined it would. So I was all, "Do you think my desire for white ink demonstrates a failure to commit?" SPOILER ALERT: It's in white ink. And Tattoo Artist Geoff was all, "Ummmmm no?" And I was all, "Cause really, I'm not afraid to commit, I just got married, dude. And also I have another tattoo. And it's black. And I'm totally willing to pull down my pants and show you." And he was all, "Ummm." And Lauren was all "HA! And I'M the crazy one?" SPOILER ALERT: Yes, she is the crazy one. And I was like, "CAUSE I WILL TOTALLY GET THIS TATTOO IN RED, YO." And Tattoo Artist Geoff was like, "Ummm. No, I like the white, it'll work." And then I was thrilled because Tattoo Artist Geoff pretty much told me I'm awesome. SPOILER ALERT: My new tat is totally awesome. "Tat" is what we insiders say for "tattoo." I shouldn't have to explain these things to you people. GAH.

So then Tattoo Artist Geoff bandaged up my wrist and sent Lauren and I on our merry way. SPOILER ALERT: It's on my wrist. And then when B came home from work I held my wrist up and was like, "LOOK WHAT I DID TODAY!" And all the color drained from his face and he just stood there in the doorway staring at me and I think he started to cry and I was all, "What? It's totally discreet. It's in white ink. You should get one too and then we'll have matching tattoos like an awesome married couple." And B was all, "You got a TATTOO?" And was totally mad at me because my "fucked up sense of humor" is not amusing or something like that, whatever THAT means, but I think he's just jealous that I have another awesome tattoo and he only has one.

And yes, I will post a picture. But not until it's totally healed. Because tattoos done in white ink take a little bit longer to look healed than those done in black or color, mostly because it's white. Trust me, you'll love it.

Wednesday's Song of the Week

2009-10-21T07:31:00.001-04:00

Regina Spektor amazes me with the level of high quality albums she continuously produces. I mean, how often do bands have off-albums? Pretty often, I'd say. Bob Dylan's "Down In the Groove?" The Clash's "Cut the Crap?" Van Morrison's "Beautiful Vision?" Puff Daddy's "Forever?" They sucked butt. AND WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO MEAT LOAF?

But Regina Spektor is still going strong. Because just like all the albums she's released already, "Far" is pretty, pretty, pretty good, from what I've heard, IMHO. And even if you don't like Regina Spektor, I'm willing to bet you'd still have to admit chick's got talent. I mean, helllllooooo, remember Samson? That song can STILL, on any given day, depending on my mood, bring me to tears. But today, on any given day, depending on my mood, what doesn't?

And just how my blog ADD causes me to jump from seemingly unrelated topics in the middle of my posts, like saaaaay from music to PENIS, my music ADD led me to spend a good hour YouTubing just about every Regina Spektor music video I could find because today's gonna be one of those days.

Anyway, this week's song of the week is Eet, which I heard on the radio this morning on my way back from Back on My Feet (GIVE ME YER MONEY), and I immediately dug it. Ya dig?

Happy half way to 50 day to me

2009-10-20T07:07:00.002-04:00

As some of you know, today is my 25th birthday. Last year I forgot all about my birthday because BLING BLING BITCHES! And this year, I've been so busy worrying over houses and towns and the miles in between states that when I woke up this morning, I didn't even know what day of the week it was, let alone the date. And then Mojo sent me a text that was all "HAPPY HALF WAY TO 50 DAY" because, obviously, Mojo is a heinous bitch.

In other news, everyone has been asking how house hunting was this weekend. As you know, we looked at far too many houses for me to even keep track of, but they all had one thing in common: they were terrifying. I'm talking, oh-this-is-cute-they've-decorated-the-inside-of-their-house-for-Halloween-too-oh-no-wait-I-don't-think-that-these-are-decorations-and-that-might-be-a-real-dead-body-decomposing-in-the-basement terrifying.

So I will say that the trip was educational. I've been educated that I don't want to live in those towns. See here's the thing: B's home town, Scituate, is a bit of a trip from the city. A 40 minute trip. And in my mind, that might as well be 40 hours, because I don't play that way. I need to have my action immediately. I like to be surrounded by stimulation. And also I don't do well in cars. Something about ADD. And everyone in B's town was all "It's not that bad, we go into the city all the time, just take the train blah blah blah." But no. I insisted on looking at all houses in all the towns that lie directly outside the city. And I admit, everyone I had ever talked to from the Boston area had told me that I wouldn't want to live in those towns. So I lifted my nose, called them all snobs, and shuttled myself right on over to the Bates Motel while B's parents wrung their hands in the back seat.

Classic example: We went inside one house that pretty much had every square inch of flooring covered in rank ass carpet. And it smelled. Like death. But carpeting can always be ripped up right? So we made our way up the rickety staircase, past the crumbling walls, and into the master bedroom. And then we entered the jungle. The Vietnamese woman who lived there had papered the walls from floor to ceiling with jungle scenes. There were dusty, life-sized stuffed monkeys, panthers, lions, and birds perched on shelving all over the walls and above the bed. Have you ever seen a grown woman playing with stuffed animals in her bedroom? Well, now I can put that on my list of things I have seen that I hope to never see again.

And I think by now we know how that day ended. Me. In a bar. Drunk. And suddenly, 40 minutes doesn't seem so bad. And that house that has been waiting for us to buy it in Scituate looks like the nicest house I've ever seen in my life. And I'm feeling pretty good. Which might have something to do with all those beers I just drank, but I'm just gonna go with it.

Which, now that I think of it, might have been B's parents' master plan all along. Because if there's one way to get me to agree to pretty much anything, it's by filling my belly with beer and making me giggle. First, this lady took us to the Boston College football game, where we sat in her box, drank all of her beer, and ate all of her New England clam chowdah. This lady is Joan. Hi, Joan! Joan loves B.C. Joan also loves Scituate. And we love Joan. And those are two of Joan's kids. Hi, Joan's kids!

I had never been to a college football game before (they're awesome) because at Loyola, we didn't have a football team (say wha?). Instead, we had a little thing called a piss-poor lacrosse team. And I'd certainly never been in a box before, unless you count that time my brother and I were playing hide and seek and I fell asleep in a refrigerator box in the garage. So naturally, I felt about as pimpin' as Kanye.

And then to prove that Scituate can be just as stimulating for little girls with supposed drinking problems like me, we all went bar hopping in Scituate, if by bar hopping you mean we went to two bars. But you know what? I had a great time. And I even met some fellow 20-somethings, which proved that Scituate isn't only filled with drunk old fishermen and beach bums. And you know what else? I totally have the soul of a beach bum anyway. Or, at least, I could, once I get over all of this anxiety and borderline manic depressive behavior that I seemed to have picked up while mentally preparing myself to leave all of my family and friends that until recently had left me writhing around our apartment and eating chocolate chips right out of the bag while I writhe around some more on the couch and paint my nails dark colors.

So ya. Maybe it was the booze. But I can honestly say that as my birthday present from myself to myself, I'm feeling pretty good about the whole thing. And when I need my mommy, she'll just hop on up and we'll spend a day at the beach. I'm not saying there won't be more writhing. Because there will definitely be more writhing. But I know that we're making the best decision B and I can make, and that makes me happy and excited for our new life together. AND WHERE ELSE WOULD I GET TO RIDE MY PIMPIN' NEW BEACH CRUISER THAT B JUST BOUGHT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY? SHAZAM! I'm about to be ridin' dirty, ya'll.

Permission

2009-10-19T20:30:00.001-04:00

Last weekend, Michael, B's sister, and I went to D.C. to demand equality. Because frankly, everyone's tired of asking permission.

Because how would you like it?

I can't wait until I can once again associate the word "marathon" with really long days of drinking beer

2009-10-16T07:40:00.003-04:00

I'm driving up to Massachusetts after work today for a full-out, weekend-long house-hunting marathon. Because as the world has been ever so politely reminding us, WE ONLY HAVE 43 MORE DAYS TO CLOSE ON A HOUSE TO GET THE $8,000 TAX REBATE. And, as you might imagine, house hunting from 350 miles away can be a tad difficult, what with the distance and work schedules and the distance and the time crunch and the distance getting in the way.

And because of these aforementioned difficulties, B will not be accompanying me on this little expedition. Because SOMEONE has to teach those ladies how to swing a tennis racquet this weekend. Instead, my other husband will be joining me: my mom. I bet B's parents didn't know that when I married into the family, they also got my mom as a package deal, cause that's how we roll.

Also accompanying us on this trip will be a motherflipping nor'easter. Cause apparently that's how Northeast U.S. weather rolls too.

Anyway. We have approximately 8 crazilion houses on our list to look at this weekend because, again, that distance thing makes popping up there not quite the easiest thing in the world. Also on our list: beer. And all of this running around and traveling and scheduling and examining and drinking thing is making that marathon training thing pretty difficult and can't I just be done already? No. I can't. Because this weekend I also have to fit in a 19 mile run and dang it I will get my miles.

And yes, I know, poor me running 19 miles through my first New England nor'easter in the wee early morning hours before I have to tackle a frantic day of houses, houses, and houses. Poor, poor me. It's horrible. HORRIBLE, I tell you. BUT YOU CAN HELP! By donating to Back On My Feet, you'll make all of this wretchedness worth it! Please, for the love of gah make this wretchedness worth it. Help get a homeless man or woman back on their feet.

Chris Christie, really hates kittens

2009-10-15T07:57:00.005-04:00

If you live in the Philadelphia area, you've no doubt been inundated with campaign commercials for the New Jersey governor elections every time you turn on your TV. In particular, with the present governor Jon Corzine's ads against Chris Christie

Like this one:

And this one:

To be fair, I don't know anything about the New Jersey gubernatorial campaign. Because who gives a feck about New Jersey? But my GAH I hate Chris Christie. Again, to be fair, I know absolutely nothing about the man, except for the few facts I've picked up from Corzine's ads. He could be a really nice guy. Right? Probably not. I hate Christie because these commercials make it so fun to hate him. For reals, I've never had so much fun hating someone before.

B and I were discussing this phenomenon recently because B also hates him even more than he hates onions. And B hates onions A LOT. But B hates Chris Christie mostly because every time he sees the above ad with Christie clapping, he wants to punch all three of the man's chins. Could Corzine's team have made Christie look ANY MORE annoying? Me thinks no. After watching those commercials, how can you not hate him? REALLY, DUDE? PRESCHOOL? WHY DO YOU HATE THE CHILDREN?

But why do we get so much enjoyment out of hating this man? Easy. Because it means nothing to us. We don't give a dang who wins the race because it doesn't affect us in the least. This ain't no McCain versus Obama hate. This is more like TV show character hate.

It's like how everyone loved to hate Sawyer during the first season of Lost. Ho boy did I hate Sawyer. But I loved to hate him. Given the chance, I would have grabbed his stringy ass hair and licked his perfect abs all over that island. But then I probably would have punched him in the mouth.

ANYWAY. Every time an anti-Christie ad flashes across our television in the morning as we're getting ready for work (which happens A LOT), B and I love to yell out our own narrations to the commercials. And this morning, it went a little something like this ...

ANNOUNCER: Chris Christie, Bush's friends, Bush's policies. Bad for New Jersey.

B: Chris Christie, eats dicks for breakfast.

ME: Chris Christie, fucked your dog.

And because hating on Chris Christie is so fun, I'm going to share some more of my favorites with you. Remember, we don't REALLY hate Chris Christie. We just play hate him. For fun. Try it some time.

Chris Christie, dropped the F bomb in front of your grandmother.

Chris Christie, really fucking hates kittens.

Chris Christie, ate that last piece of pizza you were saving for dinner even though you wrote your name on it and hid it way in the back of the fridge.

Chris Christie, strikes me as racist.

Chris Christie, stole your stapler.

Chris Christie, loves Bon Jovi.

Chris Christie, farted.

Chris Christie, set your bike on fire then blamed on neighborhood gang violence.

Chris Christie, always makes things awkward at the office Christmas party.

Care to join?

Wednesday's Song of the Week

2009-10-14T12:46:00.001-04:00

I've been digging to Mayer Hawthorne on the local independent radio for a few months now, and I have just today discovered that this dude is white. Let me essplain. This guy's got the pipes and style of a brotha'. So naturally I was a little surprised when I YouTubed him today, and found this skinny white nerd with thick glasses and a squeaky clean sweater and tie set. Which of course, probably means the man can rage like a mothaflippa.

Unfortunately, the song I wanted to share with you doesn't actually have a video featuring Mayer, so fortunately for you, I'm going to share two.

Exhibit A:

Totally funkadelic, right?! Now, are you ready for this one?

BEHOLD: MAYER HAWTHORNE!

Is it racist of me to suggest that perhaps he's half black? I'm willing to bet it's the lower half. That's how he hits those high notes. I was just going to send out a challenge right here to Mayer to send me a picture to prove that he does not, in fact, have a giant black wein because the thought made me chuckle, but then I remembered that time in college when one of the boys stole one of our cameras and no one realized it until the next morning when we were looking through pictures of the night before and there was a photo of what we later discovered was a close-up photo of a male's tenders. And even though I swear I have totally gotten over all of my penile-fearing Catholic school girl issues, there is perhaps nothing that makes me want to blow chunks more than a close up photo of a male's tenders, you know what I mean? OH AND FOR THE RECORD, WE TOTALLY KNOW IT WAS YOU, FALKO.

Also for the record, I wasn't afraid of penises because of that whole Catholic guilt thing. I was afraid of penises because they were ugly. And also my freshman year bio teacher told my class there were approximately 3,000 calories in a tablespoon of you know what, and if you want to strike fear in the heart of a Catholic high school girl, just tell her it'll make her fat.

And just like that, this post has taken a totally unexpected turn and I really hope the in-laws aren't reading today but I bet they are so Hi, B's mom. Sometimes I swear I can't even control my fingers. It's blog vomit. One minute I'm talking about funky new tunes and the next thing I know I'm all BLAHHHH PENIS!

And because I need to change the subject really quickly, and you just have to see that white boy in action, I give you exhibit B:

Special Music Edition Tuesday: Lance Pants Jones, mix master extraordinair

2009-10-13T07:53:00.001-04:00

Remember back in May when I was all MOJO'S DAD IS AWESOME? Of course you don't. Because you were drunk. Again. Having spent a bit of time in the music industry and a lifetime as a music fan, Mojo's dad -- also known as Lance Jones -- is pretty much a walking library of all things of music quality, emphasis on the quality. If it's good, Lance knows it. Dude has a collection of live concert DVDs longer than "Roots," THE BOOK. And to let everyone else in on the goods, Lance holds an annual music DVD party that has gotten so popular that he's had to move it out of his house and into a hall big enough to accommodate a few hundred former hippies, so many of whom show up that he's turned it into a bonafide big ass charity event. BUT I DIGRESS.

The last time I visited Mojo, Lance put together a borderline incredible spring mix that I pretty much listened to to death. And because Lance knows how much I love his mixes and also because Lance is awesome, he has since thrown a few other of his mixed gems in the mail for me.

And in celebration of my nuptuals to B -- ready for this cute overload? -- he mix mastered the ultimate, double-disc, "BRIDGET AND BILLY TRUE LOVE ON CAMPUS ... FROM WOW TO VOW" compilation. These CDs are seizure-inducingly good because, as we all know, Lance Jones has the best, most varied taste in music, but mostly because you can just FEEL the love that went into it. Why? Because every song on that 42-song mix has the word love in the title. HOW AWESOME IS THAT SHIT?

And in my opinion, awesome shit deserves to be shared. So as a new Yellaphant extra special music treat, you can download volume 1 and volume 2.

I listened to these CDs as I got my makeup done in my kitchen the morning of my wedding, as the photographer snapped pictures in my living room, and until the moment I walked out of the door of my parents house to board the limo that would take me to the chapel on time. And I haven't really stopped listening since. There's something for errbody in there.

BRIDGET AND BILLY TRUE LOVE ON CAMPUS ...
FROM WOW TO VOW (volume I)

1. All You Need is Love The Beatles
2. Love and Some Verses Iron & Wine
3. The Crazy Cries of Love Joni Mitchell
4. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) James Taylor
5. I've Fallen in Love With You Joss Stone
6. Say You Love Me Fleetwood Mac
7. Your Ex-Lover is Dead Stars
8. Warm Love Van Morrison
9. I Might Be In Love Juliana Hatfield
10. The Girl Who Fell In Love With the Moon Boo Hewerdine
11. Someday You Will Be Loved Death Cab for Cutie
12. Love Streams Jesse Malin
13. Reach for Love Ollabelle
14. That's How Strong My Love Is Taj Mahal
15. Only Love Can Break Your Heart Neil Young
16. Better Love Steel Train
17. The Trouble With Love Is Kelly Clarkson
18. Lovedust Luna
19. My Love For You Is Real Ryan Adams
20. Skinny Love Bon Iver

BRIDGET AND BILLY TRUE LOVE ON CAMPUS ...
FROM WOW TO VOW (volume II)

1. Crown of Love The Arcade Fire
2. Modern Love David Bowie
3. A 100 Lovers Timbuk Three
4. Love the One You're With Stephen Stills
5. Can't Help Falling in Love Lick the Tins
6. (What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding Elvis Costello & The Attractions
7. Accidentally in Love Counting Crows
8. Tunnel of Love Bruce Springsteen
9. You Can't Hurry Love The Supremes
10. Love Me Two Times The Doors
11. Is This Love Bob Marley
12. That's the Way Love Is The Commitments
13. Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town The Killers
14. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover Paul Simon
15. Baby I Love You Aretha Franklin
16. I've Got Love If You Want It Slim Harpo
17. One I Love Coldplay
18. (Love is Like a) Heat Wave Martha Reeves & the Vandellas
19. Friday I'm in Love The Cure
20. I Know My Love The Chieftains with the Corrs
21. I Was Made to Love Her Stevie Wonder
22. Can't Buy Me Love The Beatles

The ultimate wedding party gift giving guide starring Cut Out and Collect

2009-10-08T08:20:00.001-04:00

As you could probably tell, my Man of Honor and bridesmaids totally kicked some pretty serious arse. They got me crunked at my bachelorette party, kept me sane during all the wedding prep, and made sure that I didn't pee all over my dress the day of my wedding.

My maids are far from typical. I make it a point to surround myself with the most extraordinary people I can find. My friends are some of the most entertaining, intelligent, hilarious, and unique people I've ever known.

And my super group of six are the women (and man) I would turn to whenever, wherever, no matter what. I simply cannot fathom a life without them. In all likelihood I would, at this very moment, be napping in a pile of straw after a hard day of indentured service for a traveling Bratislavan circus that I had taken up with while trying to win back my left shoe that I had lost in a scuffle with a bearded lady. Luckily, things will most likely never come to that.

So to thank them and my soon-to-be acquired sisters-in-law for being there -- during the wedding and always -- I wanted to get them a little something as adorable and unique as they are. Clearly, monogrammed tote bags weren't gonna cut it for the group that has saved me from a potential lifetime of scooping bear poop.

I wracked my brain for a while, and then it came to me. I would beg the incredibly needle-and-thread-savvy Cheyne Little to help me. And she agreed! And I didn't even have to threaten to plaster the internet with all those pictures of her dancing around in her Joey Lawrence pajama set I took that night I got arrested outside of her house for stalking.

Obviously you remember Cheyne and her amazing Cut Out and Collect shop from our fun little Cut Out and Collect giveaway. Well, after a little brainstorming, and while I was all "well I want something totally versatile but also kind of classy so they can use it anywhere but also it has to symbolize each girl and I definitely want that Bling Bling Bitches sass but not too much sass and how about their names and if there is no action in the universe does time still exist and how long do I need to cook the macaroni, you know what I mean?" And Cheyne was all "totally." And we came up with the perfect project. We discussed colors, patterns, and embroidery options and then she set to work.

That's adorable Cheyne. And that's Lauren's adorable clutch before it became a clutch. Kind of like an adorable clutch fetus. God, I'm deep.

Within a few weeks, Cheyne had whipped up the eight cutest customized clutches I had ever seen in my life.

Each clutch was a unique color and pattern, and each had the first initial of the girl's first name (because if we've learned anything last week, it's that sometimes ladies' last names change) masterfully monogrammed somewhere on the front flap.

And because Cheyne's Cut Out and Collect prices are so reasonable, I was even able to buy each girl a small piece of jewelry and slip it inside their bag. And, of course, when I handed out the clutches at our rehearsal dinner, there was a collective SQUEEEEE that I think even partially deaf Uncle Bill in Maryland could hear. So the moral of the story is this: blah blah blah, Cut Out and Collect-4-lyf, bitches!

And don't worry, dear readers, that devilishly handsome Man of Honor was not given a clutch. Along with a "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" set of brass bookends (LoLzzZZ inside joke, ya'll!!1!), Michael got a customized set of cuff links. Inside one was a piece of a vintage map of Philadelphia (where we live now) and inside the other was a map of Scituate (where B and I will likely be moving in the very near future). You may commence crying ... now.

And you can find more just like them at the dlk designs Etsy shop.

Now, not to toot my own horn or anything, but if there were awards for giving the best gifts, I would totally have that shiz in the bag for this one. In. The. Bag.

Getting married is totally better than making out with your dad

2009-10-07T07:35:00.012-04:00

I could make a list of things that getting married is better than. Getting married is better than going to work, that's for sure. It's better than sleeping. It's better than that time I made out with your dad. It's even better than going to the beach. In fact, the list of things that getting married is better than is so long that I thought it might be easier to think about things that getting married is not better than. And there are no such things. Getting married is the best.

The night before the wedding I was a bundle of electricity. I imagine I felt like a six-year-old would feel like on Christmas Eve if you told her that not only was Santa on his way at that moment, but he was bringing that pony that she always wanted AND a subscription to the Wine of the Month Club AND he was going to stick around and let her ride on his sleigh. THAT'S how excited I was. I think I spent more time lying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling and wondering if I was asleep than actually sleeping.

The next morning I was out of bed like a shot and off to get my hairs did with my mom. Only then, riding home together with our hair looking perfect and my veil on my head did the enormity of what was about to take place really take hold. And then I puked.

I'm kidding, I didn't really puke. But I did come close.

And that's when things got crazy. And it didn't stop. The Motown was on the stereo and the make up was done and pretty soon the house was filled with giddy bridesmaids and clicking heels and flashing cameras. When the photographer arrived, we all pushed into my childhood bedroom to watch my mom button up the back of my dress and my friends help put on my shoes.

By the time we were out on my parents' front lawn taking pictures, I was shaking like a fever. And as we watched the last few people file into the church from the limo windows, I wasn't sure if my legs would hold me. Because HOLY SHIT, YA'LL IT WAS TIME TO GET MARRIED.

This is the part where I almost puked. Again.

But my legs did hold. And as one by one my stunning bridesmaids walked down that aisle in their beautiful orange dresses, I started to feel better. And then it was my turn. My dad took my arm in his and as we started to walk down that very long aisle and I saw B standing there waiting for me at the end, I felt on top of the world. Because HOLY SHIT, YA'LL IT WAS TIME TO GET MARRIED.

Every single moment of the ceremony was beautiful. From the flowers to the sermon and most especially the singers, it was perfect. And also, HOLY SHIT, YA'LL I GOT MARRIED.

After a round of pictures at Philadelphia's famed Love Park and even more at Penn's Landing, the reception was ready to begin. And oh what a party it was. The band was awesome. (I've heard) the food was delicious. And the dance floor was packed from the moment Billy and I finished our first dance to the moment the band finally left the stage at the end of the night. There were dance circles and conga lines, tunnels and spin the bottle. Perfect, perfect, perfect, everything imaginable was absolutely perfect. And blah blah blah are you tired of hearing about how PERFECT my wedding was? Because it was perfect.

Have you ever had one of those nights when everything was going at warp speed but regular pace at the same time? At 9 p.m., you could have told me it was 2 a.m. or 2 p.m. and either one would have made sense to me. And even though I spent almost the entire night on the dance floor, there was so much going on at the same time, I still feel like I need to interview every single person who was there to see what happened.

It was like I was living it and watching it at the same time. And I was so happy and excited and relieved that I spent the entire night smiling and laughing and hugging and dancing that I barely know who I smiled at, laughed with, hugged, or danced with. It was like being on drugs. I'd imagine. Cause, you know, I would have no idea. But I bet they'd be really, really strong drugs that make you euphorically happy but slightly confused and lacking all sense of time so you're utterly surprised when it's 2 a.m. and you suddenly realize that good GAH your feet are on FIRE and why are all of these people calling you "Mrs.?"

And when it was all over -- after the party it's the after party, after the party it's the hotel lobby --when B and I finally made it to the hotel's incredible bridal suite, I couldn't believe it.

It was over.

I stood in front of the full length mirror for a good 15 minutes before I could even begin to take my dress off. My beautiful, perfect dress that I will never get to wear again. And all those people who told me about post-wedding day depression? They clearly have no idea what they're talking about because I don't see what's so wrong with knowing that you will never feel so beautiful ever again for the rest of your life. Or have as much fun. Or be surrounded by every single person you love. Because psh, I get to go to work now. And fill in spreadsheets. And write case studies. I mean, c'mon.

So who needs a strong drink? It's noon somewhere, right?

There are no words, except "love"

2009-10-06T11:25:00.032-04:00

Yes I'm back. And even though I have so much to say about the wedding -- I feel like I'm bursting at the seams, it's oozing from my pores, I have week's worth of stories -- I don't even know where to begin.

So instead of sitting here, playing with words and no doubt hitting the delete button more often than not, I thought I'd let some of the photos from the day do the talking for me. I haven't seen any from the professional photographer yet, and frankly I'm as giddy as a newlywed (HEY YO BECAUSE I AM ONE) just thinking about them, but these are from the trenches. These a few of the thousands of pictures taken by my closest friends and family members.

Please to enjoy.

There will be many more to come, with words. Promise.

True lurve on campus (part 10)

2009-09-25T06:11:00.000-04:00

I'M GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW I'M GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW I'M GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW. With the wedding TOMORROW, I've been doing a lot of thinking about everything that has happened in between the night B and I had our first date almost four years ago and today. All the things that have changed, and more importantly, the one thing that has stayed the same. You can catch up on parts 1 - 9 here.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about the dynamic between me and B. So when we got engaged, I figured not much could change. But in tiny, inexplicable ways, everything did...

BECAUSETHENWEGOTMARRIEDANDLIVEDHAPPILYEVERAFTERTHEEND.

My thoughts exactly

2009-09-24T06:05:00.000-04:00

Wednesday's Song of the Week

2009-09-23T17:57:00.003-04:00

As if it wasn't obvious. Three days.

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

2009-09-22T07:38:00.001-04:00

It's officially a frenzy, ya'll.

Today is my last day of work for TWELVE blissful days. But because of that, there's a butt load of stuff I have to do before I shoot out of here like a bat out of hell at exactly 5:30 this afternoon. No, make it 5:29. Because THAT'S how I roll during wedding week.

So for the past two days, I've been working my arse off to make sure everything still functions at the office while I'm gone.

First, I had print up an entire list of things for all of our visitors to do once they got to Philadelphia, in case they have any time to kill. Step one: Walk out hotel door, turn right, enter bar, drink.

Then, I had to walk around the office and steal a bunch of boxes so I have something to put all those Welcome Bags in when I take them down to the hotel tomorrow. This proved harder than anticipated when I found I was competing with the office cleaning lady who was collecting boxes to organize a book drive for the children at her church or something equally inconsequential like that but drop that box, bish, 'cause I will unleash the pain.

Then, I had to finalize the menu for Thursday's rehearsal dinner. And help coordinate my Friday afternoon of manis, pedis, and lunch with my bridesmaids. And finalize where everyone is sitting AND NO YOU CANNOT SIT NEXT TO GAMMY, FALKO. And make lists. Lots and lots of to-do lists. And check the weather every 13 minutes. And don't forget about all those e-mails and text messages I've had to reply to telling people that YES I AM so excited for the tornado of love that is about to descend on Philadelphia.

I've had to call B at least four times already today. Once because he had a color question. Once because I needed to remind him to pick up more gift bags and what do you mean they don't have orange? Once to ask him how to spell a name. And once to do I don't know what because I forgot was I was going to say when he picked up the phone.

And now I need a drink. It's noon o'clock somewhere.

I think the office is going to be okay while I'm gone. And if they're not, at least I won't have cell service in Aruba.

On a somewhat related note, B's been sick for the past week and a half, so I've been staying as far away from him as possible. People are shocked that I'm even letting him sleep in the same bed with me while he's probably contagious right before our wedding. I know, sometimes I even amaze myself with my generosity. I'm like the Mother Theresa of fiances.

But because of that I haven't even touched B in almost two weeks. First, he was in Massachusetts for five days, so touching is kind of out of the question from 400 miles away. But then when he came back he was all pukey, so I've been bathing in Purell every time we even sit next to each other on the couch. And I've been taking care of him by ~~forcing him to rest~~ dragging him out at night to drink shots of whiskey cause gah knows we need it. And if I wake up with even the slightest twinge in my throat on Saturday morning, I'm going to chop off one of his fingers. I feel like that's a fair punishment. Like I said, Mother Theresa.

Also, I'm pretty sure this is God smiting us for making fun of those people who get engaged and then stop sleeping together because they want to wait to make the marriage night more special. You know those people? That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life. News flash: even if you've stopped eating at the ole In-N-Out Burger, you still know what it tastes like.

But the other night we were at my parents' house for dinner and my mom told B he had better hurry up and get healthy and I was all "I KNOW, we haven't even kissed on the mouth in, like, two weeks." And my dad jumped up and was all "woah, woah, WOAH, no need to go into such detail." And now I'm kind of worried that the term "kissed on the mouth" is a euphemism for blowies or something like that. And I don't care if you ARE getting married, you still shouldn't talk to your father about blowies.

So yeah, we're working really hard pretty much around the clock to make sure this weekend is perfect for everyone. After that, it's up to you, friends. I'm expecting at least one good pants-wetting as my reward. And, oh yeah, a husband. But first and foremost, a pants-wetting.

True lurve on campus (part 9)

2009-09-21T06:42:00.005-04:00

With the wedding in FIVE DAYS -- HOLYFECKINGSHEETIT'SWEDDINGWEEK -- I've been doing a lot of thinking about everything that has happened in between the night B and I had our first date almost four years ago and today. All the things that have changed, and more importantly, the one thing that has stayed the same. You can catch up on parts 1 - 8 here.

And so it went. B moved to Philly, and spent his weekend down in Baltimore with me. That's when we had our first real fight.

The spring of my senior year, St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday. And for a college student, no good can ever come of that. Actually, a lot of good can come of it. And entire day's AND night's worth of good. And gah knows I love me some day drinking.

Beer was served with breakfast. Naturally, beer with breakfast pretty much sets the tone of the entire day. Some time around 4 p.m., I realized I was famished. It felt like the entire senior class was crammed into Ryan's Daughter pub, so I squeezed my way to the front of the bar and ordered two sandwiches.

When I made it back to our table, I slid one over to B.

"Oh awesome, thank you SO much. What is it?"

"Chicken"

"Chicken? Oh I don't want this. I don't even LIKE chicken."

"What do you mean you don't like chicken? Yes you do."

"No. I. don't." He pushed the plate back in my direction and folded his arms across his chest. An entire table of heads turned from B back to me.

Oh no he dih'nt.

I shot up from my seat. "I GOT YOU THIS CHICKEN SANDWICH AND YOU'RE GOING TO FUCKING EAT THIS CHICKEN SANDWICH. YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL FOR THIS SANDWICH AND YOU DON'T EVEN CARE."

"Fuck ... your chicken sandwich." B stood up too and drunk eyes locked drunk eyes.

So I did what came natural after six hours of drinking green beer. I picked up the chicken sandwich, hurled it at B's face, and stormed off into the bathroom to cry my beer tears out to my girlfriends.

"THIS was your first fight?" Talia laughed as she held my head with one hand and her beer with the other. "THIS fight? This fight over a chicken sandwich? I really hope we all remember this tomorrow, because this is the best first fight I've ever seen in my life."

This fight -- this ridiculous, teary, chicken-throwing fight -- set the tone for how most disagreements between me and B would turn out throughout our relationship (with thrown food and a lot of laughter the next morning).

And for the record, B loves chicken.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Senior year flew by. My friends and I shared so many memories -- good and bad -- that I count that year as one of the most important years of my entire life.

We made it to graduation (still drunk, mind you). And if you're in college now thinking that that sounds like a good idea, I tell you now that it is not. And B, the one who actually dragged all three of us out of bed that morning, will probably agree.

After graduation, I moved in with B in a tiny attic apartment on the shirt collar of Philadelphia. I got a job right down the street as a writer. And B eventually got a job as a tennis pro.

We got a dog. We lost a dog. We got another dog. I was depressed. But eventually I got happy. And it seemed like life was perfect. That's when B asked me to marry him.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about the dynamic between me and B. I figured not much could change since we had already been living together. But in tiny, inexplicable ways, everything changed ...

... To be continued.

Stay tuned this week for the VERY LAST INSTALLMENT of True Lurve on Campus. BECAUSE WE'RE GETTING MARRIED, YA'LL.