Sorry Mom

Mother reading blog = bad news

Blogging about ugly sweater given as gift from mother = "You are getting nothing next year!"

And so...

Dear Enraged Mother,
The sweater is lovely, it really is. That is, until I flip it over. I'm touched that you would go out of your way to obtain such an exquisite article of clothing. The more I think about it the more I realize just how useful this sweater will be. I mean reinforced elbows? That's genius! You know how active I am, and I always find myself burning holes right through those darn sleeves. Now I can take up army crawling again, and never have to worry about my sweater wearing away and leaving my elbows unprotected and subject to nasty rug burns. Thanks mom! And yesterday when I tried to locate a picture of this sweater, I realized just how impossible it is to find. Old Navy doesn't even have it on their website and it's their sweater! You must have traveled far for this Christmas Gem! I had no idea it was such a hot commodity. And finally, compared to the Christmas Gem you gave Aimee last year (bathrobe made for clown), I am very grateful that mine is still wearable in public.
Love,
Bridget

Ugly Christmas Sweater

Confused? Read Previous Post.

And now for a sneak preview of my next post...

"Let's play a game called guess what I want and then buy it for me."~Megan
"Ok!"~Laura

Christmas Meme

I HATE memes. Hate them. However, I LOVE Poppy. Love her. The fact that she was gracious enough to even utter my name in her blog today made me skip around like a kid hopped up on sugar. So I shall appease her and take part in this Christmas meme. And away we go...

Three things I got for Christmas:
1) iPod! The fact that the soundtrack of my life, which is constantly playing in my head, actually comes from an external source is absolutely thrilling. If nothing else, it makes me slightly less insane.
2) Books. I am a literary nerd and received quite a few. If I had to pick one as my favorite, it would probably be Laurie Notaro's An Idiot Girl's Christmas: True Tales from the Top of the Naughty List. Hilarious.
3) Ugly Christmas Sweater (my mom is going to kill me for this one). It never fails that every year my mother finds some horrid sweater to bestow upon me. It's as though she believes that I am indeed the Ugly Sweater Advocate, born into this world to bring back into fashion that which the rest of the world has forsaken. Last year was what I like to call The Orange Monstrosity, which I put on Christmas morning to humor her, and then never ever wore again. I like to call these Christmas Gems. This year's Christmas Gem was preempted with my mother saying, "Now don't get upset," before I had even attempted to remove any wrapping paper. I held up the sweater and said, "This isn't so bad mom." Then I flipped it around to show the rest of the room and was confronted with a dreadful sight of unwelcome suede patches on each elbow. Seriously mom? *Sweater to be posted separately...won't work in this one :(

Three things I did not want to get:
1) Ugg boots. I detest their presence. Why would a girl wear something deemed "Ugg"?? Are we cavewomen now? Has evolution receded? What's going on? Knock it off.
2) Stephanie Klein's memoir Straight Up & Dirty. No thanks. I got your back Jen Lancaster.
3) A tiny tamarin monkey named Jalapeno to follow me around as a constant source of entertainment. This is a wonderful thought in theory, but I suspect would be much more trouble than it's worth.

I hereby tag:
1) Kenny of Kenny's Online Abode
2) Ogre of Flab to Fab
3) Megan of Timeless Torture
4) Slskenyon of Spark of Madness
5) Cat and Rob (I'm only supposed to pick 5, but I'm tagging you both)

Here are the rules, if you're interested:
1. Players start by listing three things he/she got for Christmas.
2. Then they list three things he/she definitely did not want to get for Christmas.
3. Then he/she tags five friends and lists their names.
4. The ones who get tagged write on their blogs about their Christmas wishes, and state the rules clearly.
5. Then tag five more victims. The tagger needs to leave the taggees a comment that says you have been Christmas tagged! and tell them to read the tagger's blog.

Merry Christmas

It's Christmas so I'm going to be nice.

This is rare. Pay attention.

I went to midnight mass tonight. The mass was being offered for my late grandparents, Glen and Dorothy Haskin. As I sat there I couldn't help but think about the many Christmas's in which we all gathered at their house for our annual Christmas brunch. Yesterday I went for a walk and found myself standing in their old front yard. Their house has been knocked down and is in the process of being replaced with a monstrosity of a residence that sticks out like a sore thumb on the block. Something inside me dies every time I see it.

But I can close my eyes and go back.

I can see the blue paint, the concrete porch, the little extra step by dad put in for my grandpa after the cancer robbed him of his vigor, the light post, the narrow driveway I used to shovel, the flower beds that I used to sit and weed for hours and hours lost in my own thoughts, the black chain link fence, the hose I ran over and sliced open with the lawn mower, the stump of the tree my dad and I cut down in the front yard, and then the pit that replaced that stump some years later which I used to twist my ankle in at least once a summer.

I can close my eyes and still hear Bob Seger blare over the radio as I repainted the deck in my last few weeks leading up to my first semester away from home, and I can see the wooden yellow bird atop the post, wings spinning in the wind. I can travel in the house and see the kitchen I spent an entire winter's break remodeling, and the "secret" door which connected my mother's old room to the backroom.

I can close my eyes and it's Christmas time there again. The village is set up. The little tree is lit and in the front window, adorned with the gulf ball shaped Santa that I got my grandpa when he just started his cancer treatment. The card tables, where I used to help my grandma wrap presents just days before, have been cleaned up and set for breakfast. The kitchen table is pressed up against the wall and filled with coffee cakes, bacon, sausage, ham, banana bread, and most importantly my grandma's scrambled eggs. The last memory I have of my grandma is when my mom made me go over there one night and fix her some eggs, sunny side up, because that was the only thing she really had an appetite for anymore. I remember being so terrified I was going to screw them up. I probably did too, but she would have never let on because that's exactly what my grandparents were about. Unconditional love. That's exactly what my Grandma and Grandpa Deutsch are about too. Never were there any two homes I have ever felt more welcome into than my grandparents'. And even though one of those homes is gone now, the memory of those who lived there is still just as alive and inviting. All I have to do is close my eyes.

So why am I telling you all this? Because Christmas is about love and families. Christmas is about God's love for us shown by sending his only son here to Earth to be born in a manger. It's about the Holy Family and how they had to stick together and get through trial after trial to make sure Jesus was brought into this world according to God's plan, and that he was able to survive and thrive in a loving family environment. Christmas is about our families too, striving to be like that of Jesus'.

Not every Christmas is going to be like the one before. In the course of life we must grow up and grow old. Our heroes will pass on, but new ones will be born to take their place. Our families will grow and take on new meanings. There will come a time where we must bend and accept changes and additions, or in some case loses. But Christmas...Christmas itself, will always be about the same thing. A little baby lying in a manger, oblivious of the impact he would have on the world. A husband and wife, cold and weary from an incredible journey huddling over this life they must nuture. A family. A family in the hands of God.

Keep that in mind this Christmas. Thank God for your families. And thank God for his willingness to share his with us.

Merry Christmas.

Graduation Fun

My sister Meghan graduated from Elgin Community College tonight with an Associates in Art.

Graduation ceremonies are such dreaded events. Generally speaking, they are long, stuffy, boring, and far too serious for my liking. Obviously with these preconceived notions I was not looking forward to Meghan's graduation tonight. I am fully aware that my sister has done a great deal of putting up with me over the last twenty one years so I decided the least I could do was put up with some inadequate speakers and a parading of strangers to see her walk for graduation.

The fun began about two hours before the ceremony when my mother insisted we leave an hour and a half before the ceremony began to ensure we obtained good seats. I calmly explained to her she was a raving lunatic, but in the end I could only convince her to wait and leave an hour before the ceremony. When we arrived into the nearly empty auditorium with 40 minutes to go till the ceremony started all I could do was shake my head, and be grateful I had brought along a book to read.

The first indication I had that this was going to be no normal graduation ceremony came from the large older woman sitting two rows ahead of me. I heard her squeeky voice exclaim excitedly at the arrival of a friend of hers. She got up out of her seat, shook the person's hand, and then plopped back down...to the floor. If you haven't guessed yet, these seats where of the likeness of that which you would find in a movie theater. The ones that flip up when no one is sitting in them. That is a hard concept for some. Upon getting up, her seat returned to its upright position and so when she went to sit down she went straight to the floor. The man behind her (clearly one of her family members) reached over and hoisted her up off the floor.
"I don't know how it happened!" she exclaimed.
"The chairs are spring loaded!" he replied horrified.
"What?! I've never heard of such a thing."
Who needs a book with that kind of entertainment.

Ladies and gentlemen, this was just the beginning. The graduates filed in and the speakers took their seats on the stage. A woman sat in the front lefthand corner of the stage facing the audience. It took me a moment to realize she was there to translate the speeches into sign langauge. Oh that's nice. Sign language is so fascinating, I should really learn. The president of ECC stepped forward to begin the ceremony with an introduction and the sign language lady stood up and began.
I know absolutely no sign lanuage, but I have seen many a sign language translator before, and this display was like nothing I have ever seen. This woman was dancing. Break dancing. The full body heaves her body was going through went along perfectly to the soundtrack I was playing in my head for her. Track 1 was Workin' at the Carwash. And she was working. Her facial expressions were probably the greatest things I've ever seen. They in no way matched the words that were coming out of the actual speakers mouth. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was mocking him. I just kept thinking WHY DIDN'T WE BRING THE VIDEO CAMERA?! It reminded me of a mime who had downed two bottles of NightQuil before attempting a performance. I just cannot believe that the motions she was making matched in anyway to the actual words that were spoken. You know how in the YMCA dance people extend their arms and point while bouncing their arm up and down, moving from one side to the other? She did that. More than once. She also did what I can only describe as picking up an invisible rope and, tying it into a lasso, and tossing it around the large woman two seats in front of me who could not operate her chair. I have no idea what any of the speakers said, but I clearly remember the sign langauge lady cocking an imaginary rifle and firing off two rounds.

My brother and I put forth our best efforts not to laugh outloud, but we had the entire row of chairs shaking from our stiffled laughter. My mother shot us dirty looks for the first few minutes, but she too could not resist outright laughing at the gestures coming from this woman. Eventually I realized that the only way to keep myself from laughing outloud or wetting my pants was to stare down at the ground. I tried. I really did. I just could not stand not knowing what crazy thing she'd do next. I had to watch her. Her whole body swayed back and forth with every movement. The one instance when her gestures actually matched up with the speaker was when I nearly lost it. The commencement speaker was talking about her days as a freshman and how she used to walk through the halls not talking to anyone and staring at her feet. The sign langauge woman stood in place and sped walked looking down at the ground. That's right, speed walking in place, head down. I bet you didn't think that was possible. Oh but it is.

When the sign lanaguage lady began to flash gang signs the soundtrack in my mind switched over to P. Diddy's Shake Ya' Tailfeather. I feel like if someone had taken the time to clear her some space she would have been on the floor doing the worm. No such luck. She did continue to entertain us, however, by leaning back, criss crossing her arms back and forth, and contorting her face as though she were on 8 mile trying to spew out some wicked rhymes. Can you believe this was a free show?

The speeches ended with an awesome send off consisting of the sign language lady putting her hands together and out in front of her like the diver from Mousetrap. Shen then swerved them back and forth as if parting through an invisible crowd. This was quickly followed up with her casting an invisible line and reeling us all in one by one. Fantastic! Bravo!

Did I mention the ceremony ended with large tables full of cookies being wheeled out into the auditorium? That was just icing on the cake. What an awesome night. Way to go ECC, you guys know how to entertain.

Oh yeah, and congratulations Meghan!

SPAM Tribute

Oh you clever spammers! You know just what to say in a subject line to make me yearn to open your junk email...or not.

I find your new tactic of poor grammar especially appealing, but I fear most people won't. Here's a thought, when you're trying to sell something you may not want to come off as a raging idiot before your email is even opened. Subject lines such as "It ready" say to me "I didn't finish middle school." At least hold off on revealing your complete incompetence until the email is opened, and then maybe you can wow me with some product "photos" you sketched in Windows Paint.

I especially love those who SPAM in hoards. I have always found that an overall lack of syntax that comes by the dozen has a much better effect than just receiving one email. It removes any speculation I may have had regarding simple typos, and confirms my fear that some people just have never been introduced to the apostrophe. Last week I had the opportunity to reunite with several old friends I never knew I had. My Inbox was full of emails bearing titles such as, "It Carol," "It Mike," "It Josh," "It Stephanie." Oh Carol! It really you?

So thank you spam "artists" for reminding me daily why it is important for me to stay in school. Good luck with your future endeavors. And no, I'm not at all annoyed with the amount of space you take up in my inbox.

Relax!

For all those trying to relax during finals week, let me recount the events of a certain relaxation session I was forced through last week...

As I crossed the threshold into my International Health Issues class I spied a funny looking older woman conversing with my professor. What do I mean by funny? Let me paint a picture for you. Her name was Maria. She towered at a height of 5'3 and her thin body was cloaked under a giant grey sweater which draped down to her knees. A lavender turtleneck emerged from the top of the sweater, which matched perfectly with the lavender boa she wore wrapped around....her head. Yes her head, like a ninja fairy. She had long brown/grey hair braided down as long as her sweater, and to combat the adverse weather conditions she wore tapered jeans tucked into hiking boots. One quick glance at her face suggested she might have rosacea, but a closer inspection revealed an unnecessary amount of blush plastered on in several layers.

Basically, I was thoroughly amused before she even opened her mouth. And when she did, everything just got so much better.

"I imagine some of you are a little stressed out at this point," she began. "Do you know what happens when you get stressed out? You stop taking care of yourself. You stop sleeping right, you stop eating right, and then you get sick!"
Check. Check. Check.
"So today I am going to show you how to relax--oh my look at these lights! These lights are stealing your Vitamin B!"
Excellent! She's a nutcase!
My professor scurried over to flick off the lights, and away we went.
"Close your eyes everyone."
NAP TIME!
"Feel free to fall asleep."
For real?!
"Now I want you to find your inner smile."
"HA!" Oops, that was outloud.
"You will find your inner smile behind your third eye."
Come again?
*Points to the center of her forehead* "Your third eye."
Hmmm...if we are all supposed to have our eyes closed, how were we supposed to see that? Good thing I don't follow directions well.
"Your inner smile is a glowing ball of light."
Interesting, tell me more.
"Your inner smile will travel with it's healing light throughout your body, smiling at your organs."
Smiling at my organs? Oh no, this is too much.
"Smile into your alveolar sacs....Smile into your gallbladder...."
(This was the beginning of a long drawn out process in which we followed our inner light throughout our entire body stopping at each organ to smile into it. Yes that's right, smile into it. She would stop and have us smile into every single organ and meditate on the usefulness of each one).
Midway through this ordeal she informed us that she forget to mention that our third eye was a beaming light, much like a flashlight shining into us, following our inner smile throughout our body. That information would have been so much more helpful from the start.

"I suspect some of you have some negative energy," she continued.
That might be an understatement.
"Smile into your negative energy. Transform it into healing light of smiling energy."
Why didn't I think of that before?! Mmmm...lalala...light..wala! All better! Genius!

Needless to say I spent the majority of the time focusing really hard on not laughing aloud, that is, up until the point I fell asleep. After which, I became very relaxed. So yeah, mission accomplished crazy lady.

In conclusion, good luck with finals this week everyone! If you get stressed out take Maria's advice and find your inner smile. Or just try to imagine what she looked like, that works too.

Crabby

I don't feel well, I am incapable of learning and applying organic chemistry, and I've run out of things to throw across my room.

I have this increasing notion that there is currently a stress induced ulcer forming in my stomach. That would explain the nausea and stomach pains.

I'd really like a large blunt object right about now...no reason.

So yeah. Happy day.

She's Not Completely Crazy

You know how there are certain words and phrases in the English language that just need to be retired? My mother is their advocate. She will not let them die.

My mom likes to whip out stellar phrases like, "I bet you dollars to donuts..." The best part is that she uses this phrase when she is trying to make a serious point about something, and she actually expects us to keep a straight face following its delivery.

The number one beneficiary of her ridiculous vocabulary crusade is the word persnickety. She is the only person I have ever heard use this word. With no exception, the only person. In fact, I live under the firm believe that if my mother stopped using this word, it would drop off the face of the Earth never to be heard again. This past weekend my mother dropped the persnickety bomb again, and this time it was in the presence of several other people. Judging by the strange looks and snickers that were exchanged between us after hearing the word, I suspect none of them had ever heard it used before either. This made me wonder if persnickety was even a real word. I knew what it meant and could define it, but only because I had heard my mother use it for so long. I suggested to her that she made it up and she fervently denied it.

I took it upon myself to look it up and check. You're right mom, it is a word. Sorry I doubted you. This in no way suggests that I believe you should continue to use this word, just that you're a little less crazy than originally suspected.

persnickety
One entry found for persnickety.
Main Entry: per•snick•e•ty
Pronunciation: p&r-'sni-k&-tE
Function: adjective
Etymology: alteration of pernickety
1 a : fussy about small details : FASTIDIOUS b : having the characteristics of a snob
2 : requiring great precision
- per•snick•e•ti•ness /-n&s/ noun

http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/netdict?persnickety

Group Projects

I shouldn't...I REALLY shouldn't. I promised myself I was going to be less evil...turn over a new leaf...blah blah blah. Last week, however, I was teetering on the edge and someone came up and gave me a giant push right off, so here we go. I've put my other book on hold to write something pertinent and useful to the general public. It's a self help book of sorts. I'd like to share with you chapter one.

Group Projects with Bridget: A Guide to Not Getting Shot

To Ryan, and all of his brilliant inspiring ideas. Thank you for letting me know it's ok to rant now and again.

Chapter One

I’m at a loss as to why professors insist on group projects. I’ve heard rumors that it helps one to learn to work well with others. That’s a nice thought isn’t it? Unfortunately it doesn’t take into account raving idiots, incompetent jokers, and hopelessly unmotivated bums. As I perused through my syllabi at the beginning of the semester, my mind quickly tallied the numerous group projects that were in store for me. Naturally, this sent a chill up my spine and it took every fiber of my being not to curl up into a ball and cry/change majors.

I feel it is important at this time to state that I have a disease which I believe is clinically termed “Over Achiever’s Syndrome.” This condition creates in me an unnecessary desire to dominate any and all school work thrown my way. Clearly this presents issues when working with the less than motivated student, which I find upsetting. The fact that I am psychotic and driven should be an added bonus to group work. Instead, it is a green light for the slackers of the world to flock toward me and immediately cease putting forth whatever minimal effort they had in the past. I realize that I am out of control and that no one should have to work at the insane intensity level I do, but is it too much to ask that people pull their weight to the best of their abilities? Past experience has shown this is indeed too much to ask. Well guess what? I’m done. The Bridget of the past who smiles sweetly when you hand her a multitude of plagiarized pages (which will keep her up all night meticulously back checking your sources and citing them properly) is no more. No longer will she hand in a project which also displays your name when you have done none of the work. Today marks the birth of a new kind of Bridget. This Bridget will no longer mutter meaningless threats on your life in the comfort of her own bedroom or fantasize about blowing a hole through your head, she actually will kill you. If you do not abide by her demands, you will get shot.

Because I am generally opposed to the idea of cold blooded murder, I have provided a list of guidelines to follow so I don’t have to shoot you…execution style…with a crazy smirk on my face and a psychotic gleam in my eye.

1) Be present and on time to all group meetings.
When I say, “Meet at the library at such and such time so we can get this project done,” you will not call me 8 hours later on your way to work after standing me up and leave a message on my phone telling ME that the project is due in two days and that YOU think we should get together and work on it. You’ll have to excuse me, but my schedule is tight and I have not scheduled in “Post Idiot Partner’s Alcohol Consumption Recovery Period Make-up Group Meeting.”

2) Do not try to conceal from me the fact that you can read.
We are seniors in college, I am well aware that you can read. Therefore, when we need to look up information for our paper/project you are expected to actually read the articles yourself and pull from them useful information. Do not send me the articles so that I can do it for you. If you are going to be idiotic enough to do this make sure the sources you send my way are ones that can be used for the project. This will decrease your chance of getting fatally shot by 31.4%.

3) Follow my outline.

I know what I’m doing. If I provide you with an outline which spells out exactly what you are to do in order to succeed, follow it. For those of you who I feel are particularly unmotivated I tend to make the outline so extensive that the only thing you have to do is add conjunction words. Do not disregard my suggestions and write three pages of incoherent babble which has no factual basis. I will not use it. I will hold down the delete button for 30 seconds and watch it all disappear before my eyes. I will then stay up an extra three hours doing the research you should have done and write your section for you. This will make me irate and the next time I see you there will be a gun in my hand, and a bullet (or five) with your name on it.

4) B.S. and Research Papers/Projects Do Not Mix
Contrary to popular belief, “Research” is not code for B.S. When a professor asks you to write a research paper he/she actually expects you to look up information. The hints I throw at you for weeks about going to the library and getting some credible sources are not some crazy side effect of the anti-kill-your-partner meds I am on. Therefore, when you hand me your half of the research paper and I ask you, “Where are your sources?” do not look at me without a hint of alarm and reply, “I didn’t really think I needed to use sources. I just kind of B.S’ed it.” Based on our previous conversations regarding the project (in which I continually have to correct you and remind you exactly what the project is about), I am aware of the fact that you know nothing about the topic, and so have no business pretending you do.

5) When the rubric indicates the need to cite your sources, do it…and correctly.
Remember that there are two parts to citing sources. The in-text citation and the actual source being cited, which goes on the reference page. Do not send me your portion of the paper the day it is due with in-text citations (which are not done correctly in the first place) and no sources to place on the actual reference page. Believe it or not there is more than one resource which (Smith, 1999) may indicate and I cannot write up the reference for you based on a commonly used last name and a date. Actions like this increase your chance of being shot by 99.7%. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t cite your sources at all over this method. I realize that suggesting you use something like a writing guide which tells you step by step how to cite your sources is incredibly inconsiderate of me, and so all I ask is that you plug the information into The Citation Machine. At least then the corrections I need to make in the wee hours of the morning are minimal.

6) Be upfront about your issues.
If you are a raging idiot, I will find out sooner or later. It is best to just tell me right off the bat. I can work with you. I can help you. Do not wait until the project is due to tell me that you weren’t able to find any information or that you didn’t know how to do something. I need more time than that.

7) Choose your words wisely.
When I walk into class the day the project is due after staying up all night compensating for your incompetence and it looks as though I have been hit by a train and haven’t slept in weeks, choose your words wisely. At this point a coin is flipping in my head about whether or not I kill you or just maim you. Looking at me and saying in a disgusted manner, “You look rough,” will cause the coin to suddenly drop to the ground heads up. This does not bode well for you.

8) Compensate.
If extenuating circumstances (the sudden realization that not using your brain for the first 21 years of your life has brought about irreversible atrophy) cause you to not hold up your end of the project, then offset this offense with presents. I like pizza, chocolate, Border’s gift cards, money, ice cream, and expensive electronics.

9) Do not make light of your lack of involvement.
When you are contributing in no way to the project do not pretend that everything is cool between you and me. Do not try to carry on conversations about the weather or nudge me in the arm as you tell a funny joke. This physical contact might be mistaken for assault by my already hostile mind and I will respond with self defense (putting a bullet in your head). Instead, refer to number 8.

10) Become well acquainted with the bottom line.
Bottom line: I don’t hand in shitty work. If my name is on something, it will reflect the quality I am capable of producing. If you hand me what I deem “useless crap” I will not shrug my shoulders and hand it in anyways. I will fix it. It will take me hours. I will hate you. I will shoot you.

*By the way, if you’re reading this and thinking, ‘Oh my goodness, is she talking about me?’ Yes. Yes I am. Wipe that shocked, hurt look off your face. You’re welcome for the A.

Warning: May Cause Craziness

When I signed up to take Organic Chemistry I was told it would be hard. I was told I might not pass. I was told I would hate it. All of these things I expected. However, no one ever told me it would make me crazy...ok fine...more crazy.

Let me paint a picture for you.

It's a cold November morning. You find yourself in a room full of six of your closest friends. Their attitude is light and fun. They are busily at work putting up Christmas decorations and humming along to Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Where are you? In the corner, leaning over a text book, and rocking back and forth muttering to yourself. You are there for three hours and the only person you have a conversation with is yourself, and it's not at all uplifting.

The only thing keeping me from a padded room and a straight jacket at this point is my lack of access to sharp objects.

Please let me pass.

Wedding Lesson 1

My sister's wedding was actually very educational for me, and in addition to gaining a new brother-in-law, I also came away with some valuable life lessons. The first of which was taught to me by my very own new brother-in-law, Tom.

**It is important at this moment to state that now that Aimee and Tom are married, and Tom is officially part of our family, I will no longer be restraining myself. He shall be treated just as I treat my own brother and we all know that I'm not particularly nice to Johnny.

Although Tom's lesson doesn't apply to me as a woman, it is important for all you men out there, and I feel it is my duty to share this new found knowledge:

Do NOT, under any circumstance, leave your new bride at the church post wedding. This kind of action is highly frowned upon and causes a happy bride to turn into an angry bride who may consider chopping of your "hoo hoo" in the middle of the night (thanks Cat for that nice term).

It is understood that there is time to kill between the wedding ceremony and the reception, but when considering what to do with this extra time, the bride should be factored into the equation. When the ushers say to you, "Hey let's grab a quick drink at the bar," it is your duty to first collect your bride and then head over to the bar. It is not appropriate to get to the bar first and then request that your bride join you there. This is especially important when you make the decision to walk to the bar, and also require that she make the trek on foot. You are wearing a tux and shoes that do not hoist you an extra 3 inches off of the ground. She is wrapped in 50 lbs of fabric that poofs out to the size of the liberty bell. She is in a white dress with white shoes and does not want to walk 2 blocks to the bar. This causes her to turn on you and compare your actions to the more intelligent decisions of her friends' husbands...this is not a good start. She will say things like, "Michelle, did Mike leave you at the church?" Knowing full well that he did not. She will then continue down the list of all her married bridesmaids determining that you are the only idiot to commit such a crime. This is especially dangerous with a bridal party of 7.

Foresight is also recommended in these situations. You must consider the fact that a wedding dress does not allow for storage of any kind. Chances are your beautiful, and now hostile wife will not be carrying her ID with her. Therefore, when she arrives to the bar after having to walk several blocks in 30 degree weather, she is just going to become angrier when denied alcohol. Once it is established that she is ID-less, do not order her a pepsi and then proceed to have a shot with her little sister...even if this said little sister is myself, and appeasing her is vital to your future happiness in this family. Instead, you should leap up from your bar stool, sprint back to the church, go get the car, pick her up, obtain her ID, and take her somewhere nice where she can get a strawberry margarita.

Lesson learned.

You WILL Smile Pretty

I went home last weekend for my older sister's wedding. I was in the door all of 10 minutes when she pulled me aside and said, "You WILL smile pretty on Saturday." I stared back at her contemplating this command.

Am I capable of such a thing? Past experience has suggested not, but perhaps for Aimee's big day I could whip out a secretly hidden Miss America smile. Probably not. Is it wrong to have my mouth agape and my eyes shining wildly for the wedding photos? I probably shouldn't stick out my tongue either. There goes my two most popular signature poses. This is ridiculous. I bet Zoolander was never asked to not pucker up his lips or refrain from his famous magnum expression.

"Sure, no problem," I replied.

This was the beginning of a very anti-Bridget weekend.

There was jewelry, there were dresses, there was makeup, and yes there were even pretty smiles! I went the entire day without a watch! This is unheard of. I ALWAYS wear a watch. In fact, I have a permanent watch tan, and the skin around my wrist has been worn into a watch band scar. Unfortunately, I didn't feel my black stopwatch would be very pretty clunking around my wrist, and I don't own sophisticated time pieces...so I went watchless. I ate vegetables! Two nights in a row! I didn't wear my glasses (don't worry I put in contacts, I felt vision was crucial for this day). I had my flippin nails painted! I even allowed a curling iron and 7 lbs of hair spray to be used on my head. The end result of all of this was a woman I like to refer to as Lady Bridget.

And so, without further adieu...Lady Bridget.

She is well behaved. She wears high heels and doesn't fall on her face. She is pleasant and engaging. She gives toasts and catches bouqets. She smiles pretty when asked and she would never be caught mouth agape, or heaven forbid, with food hanging out.

She is a figment of your imagination...

Consider this chapter one in a series of wedding posts...more to come.

Pizza Post

My sister's wedding is this SATURDAY! Oh my goodness that snuck up on me.

Unfortunately, I can't come home. It would be too shameful. There's something I promised someone I would do, and I never came through. How can I come home now? How can I show my face?

Oh wait...why don't I just do what I said I would. Yeah! That sounds great. Yes, I am carrying on a conversation with myself...it's hereditary.

And so a long overdue tribute to the greatest pizza chef I know...

Everyone has their hobbies. Some people like to collect stamps. Others enjoy a good day of shopping. My friend Auna loves to go fishing. Some of my less sane friends really enjoy running. My hobbies revolve around the consumption of food. More specifically, pizza.

Pizza and I go back. Way back. I have been ingesting that wonderful cheesy substance since I was just a chunk of a baby. As I child growing up in a family of 7, pizza became a staple because it fed a lot of mouths quickly and cheaply. And why not pizza? Think about how many food groups it covers. It could be it's own food guide pyramid. Seriously. You get dairy, grains, meat (if you're more bold than I am and actually put some on), fruits AND vegetables (simply because the tomato is such an undecisive plant...fruit posing as a vegetable).

I've had just about every type of pizza imagineable. Chicago pizza...oh how I love you Gino's East. New York pizza...you're good, but no deep dish. Yooper pizza...no thanks, cardboard crusts are not cool. I try to be versatile and try new pizza places all the time, and so I consider myself well rounded in the pizza world. When asked which is my favorite, well I have to just say there is no pizza in the world that can surpass the deep dished goodness which is Gino's East...EXCEPT Aunt Dee Dee's.

I can't describe it. It is the single greatest pizza in the world. I love every bit of it. The crust, the sauce, and the perfectly melted cheese. It is the most perfect pizza. I can eat an entire one all by myself and still be hungry for more. Let's face it, it's just irritating to be eating a good pizza that fills you up quickly. How inconsiderate of the chef to create such a treat that cuts you off after a few slices due to the unshakeable feeling of, "Oh no, my stomach is going to explode, which might cause a scene." It is not so with Dee Dee's pizza.

I think even more than it's fantastic taste, my love for this pizza goes with the memories I associate with it. Aunt Dee Dee has been making me pizzas since I was just a gangly kid who still believed frozen pizzas were acceptable (that was a dark time). Our families used to gather once a week to have dinner together and every other week Aunt Dee Dee would make her pizza. She'd be running around like crazy pulling them out of the oven and then shoving one in right after it to keep up with my bottomless pit of a stomach, and the ravaging hunger of my four other siblings and her own four sons. I just remember thinking, "Wow, she must really love us." Even now when I head home to visit, she'll go out of her way to make it for me when I ask. How cool is that? What a great way to get my pizza fix and be reminded of the wonderful selfless people I am blessed to have in my life.

Thanks for the 1000's of pizzas you've made on my behalf. It's awesome for me to come back to school with the overwhelming feeling of, "My Aunt Dee Dee loves me a whole 3 large cheese pizzas worth!"

Miss Dashwood

Today what I've suspected all along has been confirmed, I am soooooooooo Elinor Dashwood.

I realize this will not make sense to most everyone, but guess who doesn't care...

Sense and Sensibility?

Jane Austen?

You guys are hopeless.

Pumpkin Carving

HOLY CATS WHAT HAPPENED?! It's November 1st! I forgot to get a pumpkin and carve it. Halloween has come and gone. This is a tragedy. I ALWAYS carve a pumpkin. Stupid Organic Chemistry! I would have never forgotten to carve a pumpkin if it weren't for you! I'll have to wait a whole year before the opportunity presents itself again. NO! It will not do!

Lucky for me I made an important discovery yesterday. A certain someone, whom shall remain nameless to save him the embarrassment, has not carved a pumpkin in YEARS! Naturally, I declared a state of emergency and pumpkins shall be carved this Friday night. Yes it will be November 3rd, yes most people's pumpkins are smashed all over the street in front of their residence at that point, and yes whatever pumpkins I purchase will probably be half rotted out. That's beside the point. Focus people, someone's lost childhood is at stake here, and my annual artistic outlet has almost passed me by.

Apparently, my wonderful idea of reintroducing my friend into the world of pumpkin carving isn't testimony enough to my own greatness in the art because my talent has been called into question. Our little novice here thinks he can out carve me. The nerve of some people. I'll post some pictures and you can decide.

P.S. Thanks Ogre for providing the venue.

Smile Pretty?

It seems I've developed a condition in which I can no longer smile pretty for a picture...maybe I never could. Instead, I've acquired a trademark mouth agape look. Many wonder at my psychotic need to always have my mouth hanging open like a possessed hyena. The answer is simple people. Mouth open = one step closer to ingesting food. Or maybe it's just that my normal smile looks forced and unnatural...nope I like the former theory.

So why this random post? Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, or so I've heard. Hi, my name is Bridget and I can't smile pretty, but hopefully in time I'll be able to at least keep my mouth shut.

Dilemma

God is always throwing gifts in our direction, but many times we do not recognize these gifts. As I roamed the third floor of our library I happened to pass by a desk with a lone half eaten bag of Skittles lying upon it. The desk's previous owner had just abandoned it, leaving the Skittles scared, alone, and most importantly uneaten. I saw the bag out of the corner of my eye as I passed and did a total back pedal to go back and examine the situation. I stood at the desk staring down and the little yellow one which had tried to escape the bag.

Would this be considered improper? Unsanitary? Borderline psychotic/pathetic? Maybe this is a gift from God. It's not nice to ignore gifts. I am pretty hungry...
NO! WALK AWAY! NOT GOOD! Maybe just one...NO! OMG! THEY ARE TROPICAL FLAVORED!

I walked away...Skittleless.

Unable to shake the image of the orphan Skittles I sought some sound advice on the issue. I asked Kenric what his thoughts were on eating the Skittles. After much deliberation he voted in favor of the Skittle's lives. No eating. He mentioned some mumbo jumbo about not knowing who had been eating the skittles prior to my discovery of them, whether or not that individual was a nose picker, and what disease he/she may have had. I restrained myself from bringing up the fact that I had witnessed him set his hamburger right down on the table (as in off of his plate and on the table) earlier today and the fact that the nasty rag we use to wipe down all of the tables and then dunk into a bucket of communal waste water probably didn't set the stage for sanitary eating). Instead I considered his advice and had just made up my mind to ignore it, when OBD crossed my mind. Yikes we have less than two weeks, and the one and a half ice cream cones consumed earlier today (yes Rob one and a half...Christina couldn't finish hers) has already gone against my code red regulations.

Needless to say, the Skittles we live to see another day.

Well, that is until the janitorial staff comes across them. Somebody is going to cash in on that God-sent.

And the pics...

It's picture time...confused? Read previous post.

Bleached and gelled:

The beginnings of the reverse mullet (or perhaps Cali Ryne):

Crazy hair in hiding:

The black afro:

The renunciation of hair product (brief period)

And of course, the "I'm a tool" pic (just kidding...but seriously what is that cheesy smile)

And then there was this phase...

Ryne, on a scale from 1-10, how much do you hate me right now?

Clinician's report: This outburst is what is commonly known as delayed onset bitterness. This response can be avoided by not being a crappy wedding date. If a girl invites you to a wedding and hooks you up with a free meal and piece of cake, you had better dance with her and not disappear with some drunk chick for the entire reception.

Evil Little Bridget

I am going to come clean here. I used to be an evil child. Shocking isn't it? I was what one might call a tyrant. To be honest, I think most of my satanic drive came from my fascination with the way people reacted when provoked. My sister Meghan, for example, is a very calm, quiet individual, but I managed to push her right over the edge on more than one occasion. In fact, I remember one such instance when she shoved me down a flight of stairs despite the full length cast which occupied my fractured left leg. This is the annoying capacity I am capable of. Naturally I did not limit my victim selection to family members, but reached out to other poor souls including the mailman (dog poop on the back of his mail truck), and all of my sister's boyfriends (it's amazing what a well planned out scheme of locked doors, open windows, and a couple of squirt guns can accomplish). Although I am half way sorry for all of those events, today I need to focus on an injured party near and dear to me, who apparently is still suffering the ramifications of my mean spirited childhood.

Meet Ryne:

Well this is Ryne 3 years ago. Ryne and I grew up together because our mothers are best friends. Ryne was forced to play with me on a daily basis when we were young and I took those opportunities to impress upon him my birth given superiority (I am, after all, six months older). Our common love for Disney movies and Muppet shows made us close fast friends. Despite this friendship, Ryne was not exempt from the tiny depraved person which summed up my childhood existence. I'd even go as far to say that he probably received the brunt of it all...you can thank him later. For some reason I have vivid memories of tormenting him during recess calling him, "Whiney Ryney." I believe psychologists call this guilt.

For quite some time I've been able to convince myself that Ryne survived his childhood unscathed from my evilness, but his latest hair style change has made me rethink the situation. Yes that's right, a hair style change. So simple, and yet so revealing. For the past three years, Ryne has changed his hair style about every six months. At first I attributed this to sheer boredom, but lately I've been suspecting a more sinister cause. "Perhaps Ryne has a reoccuring identity crisis," I thought to myself, "What might be the cause of this? Maybe someone tortured him as a child, who would have done that? Uh oh..."

It's time for an apology, and fast...before Ryne ends up dying his hair purple, shaving half his head, and combing the rest over (I'm pretty sure that's the only thing he hasn't tried at this point).

I'm sorry Ryne that your Bridget-induced-insecurities caused you to buy bottle after bottle of hair gel and/or mousse. I'm sorry I caused you to feel the need to bleach your hair, and then bleach and mousse your hair.

I'm REALLY sorry that I pushed you to the point where you actually believed that a reverse mullet was ok...that was very wrong of me.

I'm sorry I caused you to reject your natural hair color so much so that I don't remember what it looks like.

I'm sorry you feel the need the place a large black afro on your head from time to time.

I'm sorry you have to place a baseball cap on your head everytime your short hair goes "crazy."

I'm sorry that you had to dye your hair brunnette. Being one myself I should have told you that nothing will come of it.

I'm sorry that one week after you did that you decided you needed to cut and style it and take that ridiculous, "I'm a tool picture."

Forgive me and embrace who you are. You're perfect just the way you are.

I had a bunch of funny pictures to go with these apologies, but this stupid blog system isn't letting me upload them. Perhaps I'll post them in their own separate entry.

Emergen-C

Hold on to your oranges people! Put the OJ in the freezer! Vitamin C has reached a state of emergency. This is no joking matter. Earlier this week I saw a fellow classmate of mine take a shot of EmergenC, which is basically a little pouch of goop chalked full of Vitamin C. Apparently the idea of sitting through the last 30 minutes of International Health Care was enough to send her into a state of hypovitamin shock.

With a raised eyebrow I questioned the substance she had just ingested to which she replied, "It's Emergen-C, you know like emergency vitamin C."

No Alex I don't know. Emergency Chocolate Swirl Snack Pack...yes. Emergency Vitamin C...no.

Perhaps it was our discussion on the starving children of third world countries and their distended bellies which caused this psychotic need for a hit of vitamin C during class. Then I had a theory that Alex knows something that the rest of us don't. Maybe she knows that the South will be hit with an onslaught of terrible storms that will wipe out the orange fields and leave us with nothing. Best to stock up now and shock our systems with Vitamin C as often as possible. Or maybe she knows of a plague of diseases that will attack the UP and she is the only one who shall survive because of her deligent use of vitamin supplements. Darn it, I wish I had such foresight.

Why else would such a thing be necessary?

Ideas? Anyone?

Operation Bridesmaid Dress

I forget...who did I appoint to keep track of my schedule for me? Well whoever you are, YOU ARE FIRED! Why didn't you tell me there was less than five weeks left until my sister's wedding?! You've completely thrown off my plan of attack. Operation Bridesmaid Dress was supposed to be taken up a notch weeks ago. Instead I've been combating my stress levels with oreos, ice cream, and pizza allowing a friendly, yet unwelcome bulge to fester in my abdominal region.

I am not one generally concerned about my figure (made obvious by the quantity of food I consume throughout any given day), but the nice little Russian lady at David's Bridal took my dress in so much that it squeezes the breath out of me and slightly resembles what I might look like in a opaque cling on wrap. I stared nervously into the mirror as she pinned the fabric to fit my dress like a glove. Gloves are made for hands, not tummies Lady! "I cho you!" she kept saying, pulling my dresses taught in every which direction. I'd rather you "cho" less of me. She finished, and the result was that I left thinking that I need to put Operation Bridesmaid Dress in effect ASAP.

I had good intentions, but I also had a shit ton of studying and homework to do, which quickly took precedence. At the time that was ok with me because the wedding was so far off in my mind. Now it seems I've warped ahead to some alternate universe in which my time has twindled to a matter of weeks? Excuse me...but no, that's unacceptable. The only option for me is to upgrade OBD to RED ALERT, which ultimately means less (notice how I say less and not zero, because one can simply not do without) pizza, and more (comparatively speaking this is not much) exercise.

Wish me luck!

It's On Like Donkey Kong

I have just received the grade for my first Organic Chemistry Exam.
And so in a highly censored Bridget Jones fashion all I have to say is:

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge!

My first inclination was to vomit all over the place, and then it was to sob all the way home. I did neither.

Instead, once again, I turned to Miss Jones for some inspiration:

At times like this continuing with one's life seems impossible, and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices, to give up and accept permanent state of undergrad and eventual eating by dogs…or not. And this time I choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad Orgo class and a failure to memorize organic structures. Instead I choose vodka and Chaka Khan.

And so I say to you, evil demons of Organic Chemistry, I won't go down without a fight. Although I already devote hours upon hours to you, I am not afraid to take it a step further. If you learn nothing else from life, jot this little note down: Never piss off an over achiever who does not value her sleep.

It's on like Donkey Kong.

Birthday Induced Heat Wave

Last year around this time the weather was absolutely wonderful. It was sunny and about 75 degrees. I remember this because today is my eldest sister Aimee's birthday, and she came up to visit me in the tundra last year around her birthday. The weather had been crappy leading up to her visit so I warned her to bring her winter coat and boots just in case it started to snow. She arrived with her boyfriend Tom expecting freezing rain at the very least. Instead she got sunshine and an engagement ring.

Last week the temperature struggled to stay above 45 degrees and the rain was on and off all week. Suddenly all is well again. It's Aimee's birthday, the temp is in the sixties today, and the sun is shining.

Who says God doesn't play favorites?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AIMERS!

But Popeye Says I Should

Today is October 2nd! Do you know what that means? The spinach scare is coming to a close! I read somewhere not to eat the spinach with best sell buy dates up to October 1st, so I think that means spinach is ok again, or pretty close to being ok again. And thank God for that. Seriously I haven't eaten in like a month because spinach has been deprived of my diet. What's a girl to do? Oh how I love to eat leaves instead of real substantial food. Why would I want cake and ice cream when such a delectable treat awaits me in the produce section?

For those of you who know me best...yes this is a load of crap. You know damn well I don't eat vegetables, especially those endorsed by a misproportioned sailor. I was really diggin' the spinach scare, and I'm sad to see it go. It's fun to watch skinny people the world over cringe when they have to put...gasp...lettuce on a sandwich, instead of their beloved spinach.

Carnivores 1, Herbivores 0

And the award goes to...

Have you ever seen a bird fly right into a nice clean window and fall to the ground? Do you try really hard not to laugh because you know that sucker is probably dead or hurt pretty badly? I don't. I let that laugh right out, and I can't help but think, "What an idiot."

Have you ever seen a human do that? Probably in the movies right? I know it's a simple comedic trick, but it cracks me up every time. What even semi-functional individual slams into a door? How do they not notice the handle? Why would they assume the door has just been left open for them? I mean seriously, who does that?

Oh wait...damn.

I had a meeting tonight for the student athletic training organization I'm president of over at Julie's house, our advisor and program director. As I came up the walk, I could hear everyone already inside chatting amongst themselves, and when I neared the door I focused in on Julie's little hotdog of a canine, Skipper. "They really shouldn't have left the door open, this guy looks like the type that might make a break for it," I thought to myself as I reached my arms down to his level and greeted him. I was just about to scoop him up when...crack! I hit the screen door (yes screen and not glass...screen as in black mesh, not clear glass) with a force that knocked me back about 3 feet. Laughter exploded from my fellow SATO officers and I tried to laugh it off and enter the house, when I realized the door wouldn't open. "Unlock the door," I laughed, but it was not locked. Apparently I hit the door even harder than I thought and broke it. Not broke it as in knocked it off the tracks, but more like broke it as in "now we must remove the whole thing to let everyone out of the house after the meeting" broke it. Basically my worst fear was confirmed tonight, I am the biggest idiot I know. And with that hope of the existence of a more idiotic individual than myself, also goes my next invite to lasagna night.

On the plus side, it was totally a Bridget Jones moment, and had I mastered the accent by now and yelled, "Bugger, bugger, bugger!" after colliding with the door, my life would be complete.

Say No to Orgo

Oh Organic Chemistry, how I loathe you. You are no friend of mine.

Listen up kids this is important. If you ever get the notion that taking organic chemistry might be fun or, at the very least, beneficial, just say no. Say no to the little over achieving voice in your head. It is a BAD idea. Let's look at some pros and cons to prove my point here.
Cons:
1) You will never sleep again...no time for that.
2) You will spend hours upon hours doing the same kinds of problems over and over again, and never gain any real understanding.
3) Friends you used to have will stare vacantly at you thinking to themselves, "My he/she looks familiar...," as you pass them on your way to the library.
4) You will become depressed and eat a lot of ice cream and cookies and in turn gain some weight, making you more depressed...and the vicious cycle continues.
5) You will begin to develop back problems because just one text book isn't enough to hold all the "valuable" orgo information.
6) Your Netflix will come in the mail and all you can do is stare longingly at them everytime you pass through the living room (don't stare too long, or you will fall WAY far behind with your chem. problems).
7) Everyone will suddenly become your enemy, to the extent that if someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you, you glare at them and secretly curse them for having free time to do that.
8) You will become ten leaps closer to ending up in a straight jacket.
Pros:
1) If you do pass, you will have survived something truly amazing and I'll buy you a nice big cookie and a gallon of ice cream (see Con #4)
2) The right amount of counseling can cure anything, so one day you will be able to put it all behind you.

I am currently at the extreme ice cream stage of the organic chem disease and will do anything for a big scoop of ice cream, including, but not limited to...
Laying in the sand on the beach on a 50 degree day so that ice cream can be dropped into my mouth from the top of a ladder:

Advice from Austen

There are few people I hold a higher regard for than Jane Austen, and since I have no time to write a real post I decided to share with you some Austen advice I've taken up recently.

"Beware of fainting fits...Though at the time they may be refreshing and agreeable, yet believe me, they will, in the end, if too often repeated and at improper seasons, prove destructive to your constitution...Run mad as often as you choose; but do not faint." ~Jane Austen, Love and Friendship.

The Office

The Office had its season premiere tonight, and my life is once again complete. I don't know if you watch this show or not, but dammit you should. I'm telling you this for your own good. I myself had been suffering from severe withdrawal all summer long, and might have soon perished had it not returned this week. I'm not a big TV person, simply because I don't have the time, but I make the time for this shit. This season's first episode was amazing. I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself (but I didn't, that's Megan's thing). That's all I'm going to say about it. You've been warned. If you're missing out, it's your own fault now.

I Missed You

I realized something incredibly important tonight. To say that I have been overwhelmed and insanely stressed out so far this semester (yes it's only the fourth week) is the understatement of the century. Try as I may, I couldn't figure out why I was struggling so much. I have been overwhelmed before, in fact, it is somewhat of a constant state for me. Suddenly for some reason what used to be second nature to me no longer seemed possible.

I've felt so lost and hopeless. I spent the last few weeks obsessing on the idea that to accomplish everything I'm supposed to accomplish is not humanly possible, and I was right. It's not something I can do alone, as much as I have tried to. I got myself in over my head because I denied the help of the one person who is solely responsible for my success up to this point in my life. I thought I could do it all without Him, and I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I thought I was strong enough to shut the door on you and do this alone. Thank you for slamming the door back open. Welcome back God, I missed you.

P.S. Thanks Rob for the labyrinth, for the first time all semester I feel like I'm going to make it.
P.P.S. Thanks everybody for your kind words after my last rant. Once I light a burning bag of poo on the front steps of the GRE testing center I'll be completely over it.

GRE Results

Standardized Testing Association
1001 Asshat Ave.
Sucktown, USA 66666

Dear Bridget,

Thank you for taking the GRE. We appreciate all the time you wasted this summer studying for it. We regret to inform you that based on your scores you are officially an idiot. Several investigations have been launched since scoring your test in an attempt to figure out how you've made it so far in life. We are completely baffled you were able to graduate 8th out of 456 students in high school, when our flawless test clearly indicates you shouldn't have made it out of elementary school. We find your collegiate performance absolutely inexplicable. How is one to obtain a GPA such as yours when you obviously have no verbal or quantitative abilities? We assumed you had been bribing your professors thus far, but a thorough investigation into the contents of your refrigerator revealed that you are completely broke (you should buy less books and more food).

Here at the Standardized Testing ASSociation we strive on letting students know exactly how they will perform throughout their educational experiences based on a test they take in 3 hours. Life holds for us few distinctions Bridget, but one thing is certain, you are an idiot and you will go no where. We thought we had made this clear with your ACT score. Apparently you didn't get the message because you still went to college, and here we find you again. Hopefully this GRE score will deter you from pursuing any kind of future, as it is only fair to those who might have to encounter your incompetentence if you, heaven forbid, continue on in the medical field. We bet you are regretting putting your prospective graduate program codes into our computer because we totally sent them your scores! Yet another example of your idiocy. We hope that you hold no grudge and come back to us should you ever again need your confidence shattered and your self-esteem slapped across the face.

Ever Most Sincerely,

Mr. Ima Asshat
Standard Testing Association, President

Downfall of the Housewife

I'm officially 3 weeks into my senior year of undergrad and already I'm sleep deprived, malnourished, over worked, and extremely bitter. Which causes me to ask the all important question:

Who's responsible for the downfall of the housewife?

I'd like to meet that person, shake her hand, tell her thanks for women's rights, and then smack her across the face and yell, "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!"

Yes I understand the pressures placed upon the housewife in the past were unbearable with all the cooking, cleaning, sewing, children raising, and husband pampering. If only you could have held out a little longer. I'm sure you had no idea that microwaveable dinners were so near on the horizon, or that they would invent a pretty little box filled with colorful images known as the television that could simultaneously babysit and raise your child. I know you did what you thought you had to do, and I appreciate your efforts, but COME ON! You've ruined the rest of us. You do realize that don't you?

What did we gain from all of this? The right to vote? A lot of good that did us. The country is still run by megalomaniacal male chauvinists. Not that you boys aren't doing a fantastic job (of running us right into the ground), but I'm just not seeing where we fit into the picture. If women's rights were an attempt for ladies to escape the kitchen and child rearing duties, I can only say that it has failed. We are still expected to do all these things, but now on top of it all we are expected to have college degrees and be successful out in the world. As if menstruation and pregnancy were not large enough burdens to bear. Your psychotic pursuit of equality has changed to role of housewife to just a job women have on the side. It is no longer a worthy profession that little girls grow up dreaming about. Except this little girl! That was my dream job, and you ruined it. Now if a woman wants to stay home, raise children, and watch soap opera's she is labeled a mooch. She has to be actively employed and blog writing doesn't count (yet...I'm working on that). There goes my afternoons of locking the kids out of the house all afternoon while I curl up with a book. Thanks for nothing!

Instead I'm here having one pisser of a senior year in which I sleep an average of 4 hours a night and go for 18 hours straight in a day. I have bags under my eyes, I eat granola bars for meals because I don't have time to make a real meal, and I no longer even have time to punish myself by running. Excuse me, but I should have that right. If I were in 18th century England my chief concern would be tricking someone into marrying me, and as appalling as that might sound to the feminsts of the world, I'd be more than satisfied with that profession. If you avid readers have been long awaiting a return of an amazing writer like Jane Austen...forget about it. She's probably out there but she will never realize her talent because she's busy with her temp job and worrying about what trouble her children will get into for that half hour they have between their school getting out and her returning home from her job.

Wow this was a psycho bitter entry tonight...3 hours of sleep will do that to a girl.

The Napoleonization of Men

I have been fed a lie since I was 11 years old. When my 6th grade Health teacher told me that one day boys would actually cease to be 5 foot midgets and grow to be taller than me, I believed her. It is now 10 years later, and I'm still waiting. Seriously, what is going on? I am not even that tall, I'm only 5'7", and yet I find that there is an alarming shortage of male prospects taller than me. Basically, my generally single state is not my fault. I can't go dating someone who weighs less than me, my self-esteem cannot take that one on. And because I'm not anorexic, if you are shorter than me, you weigh less than me.
So my question is, what is stunting male growth in my generation? Was it all those artificial ingredients they piled into the Superman and Cotton Candy ice cream flavors? Was it a lack of physical activity due to hours and hours devoted to Nintendo 64 (this would make sense as it came out when I was in 6th grade, so maybe my teacher couldn't have predicted what was to come, in which case she is forgiven)? Were you boys hiding in the tunnel slides during recess inhaling illegal substances while us girls played Polly Pockets? Did you not eat your vegetables? Or perhaps was it your innate desire to be like the FisherPrice Little People you grew up with, and you just willed yourselves not to grow?
Regardless of motive or cause, the fact remains that the Napoleon style is back, and quite possibly here to stay. Needless to say it's an unsettling notion. I was depending on finding a taller, slightly chubbier significant other to make me feel better about myself. Now what am I going to do? Ugh...men are so insensitive.
I am aware that not all men are hobbit sized, but I'm also aware that the short skinny skanks of the world are monopolizing these men. Ladies, ladies, ladies...not cool. For you finding someone who soars above you in height and weight is easy, so why do you insist on sticking it to the rest of us? I mean come on!
I do realize that being short is something that many men are not proud of, and it's something they themselves can't change now (well there are procedures like breaking your legs and inserting rods...ok maybe that's asking too much), but the least they can do is bulk up a bit. Short guys...ok fine...you can't help it, but short skinny guys...what the heck?! You're only hurting yourselves.
Before the hate mail starts coming from the vertically challenged men in the world, let me just say, I have nothing personal against being short. My father is no giant, and my brother is the shortest kid on his cross country team and he's a junior. I'm just trying to raise an awareness that somewhere growing up, you probably did something wrong, and one day when you marry your short skinny girlfriends and have tiny little babies make sure you raise them to avoid these errors so that the average heighted women of the next generation will stand a fighting chance.

CIA and Facebook Join Forces!

Apparently the CIA has some notion that the most threatening terrorists can be found among the American college student population. Why else would they have joined forces with Facebook? I know that many of my readers have no idea what I'm talking about, but for my fellow college students, be afriad, be very afriad. They are on to us. They are watching our every move. I logged into Facebook today, and before I could even view my own profile I was met with a list of every move my Facebook friends had made over the last several days. It was unsettling. I now know unnecessary things like, "Laura added Fight Club to her favorite movies. 8:54pm," and, "Matt is now single. 10:11pm," and my personal favorite, "Kerri, Ellen, Jillian, and Bob joined the group Steve Irwin may you rest in peace. 10:08am." This list seemed to say to me, "You think the information we've gathered on your friends is creepy, you should see what we have on you!" Which in turn causes me to log off very quickly, close my curtains, lock my door, and never leave my apartment again. Seriously, I feel like logging onto Facebook is like making a call on an unsecured line when running from the authorities. I make sure I'm only on for about 30 seconds and then I sign off in hopes that I haven't just given them enough time to trace my location.
Not only is this a powerful tool for tracking down potential enemies of the government, but it is a stalker's wet dream. I can feel a nightmare coming on already. It will include a 5'2" pimply faced, 90 lb, toothless wonder with slicked back bleached hair wandering around Marquette with a handheld internet accessing device, which will lead him right to my apartment. On the way things will pop onto the screen like:
Bridget consumes an oreo, 11:35pm
Bridget turns on her radio, 11:40pm
Bridget consumes an oreo, 11:41pm
Bridget turns off her radio when confronted with the overplayed Daniel Powter, 11:42pm
Bridget consumes an oreo, 11:43pm
Why would this toothless wonder be stalking me? He's hungry. He knows there's a girl in his proximity who eats more than her fair share, and he's coming for my oreos.
Pinch me.

I've contemplated quitting Facebook altogether, but I feel like they've already gained all the information about me that they need. It's logged into a master database somewhere and stalkers and CIA agents the world over are analyzing it for some hidden message. They scour my list of favorite movies and books drawing conclusions like, "She likes Audrey Hepburn movies and she reads a lot of Jane Austen, clearly she's planning to conquer the world."
I bet right now they sense that I'm onto their operation and a team has been dispatched to come terminate my existence. If this is the last blog post you ever see from me then they've gotten to me, and it's up to you to fight the good fight in my place.
This is Bridget signing off, good night and good luck.

And ye shall bow down to me

Lords and Ladies,
I don't know if you are aware, but I have been elevated to a new title. Sir Ryan, of the far off land of Greene Baye (that's my attempt at making Green Bay look classy), has dubbed me B Queen. I always knew I was destined for greatness, I just had no idea it would come so soon. I'm not quite sure what population comprises my minions, but I suppose that can be worked out later. I'd like to take this opportunity to say thanks to those who got me to this point in my life.
So yeah...thanks.
Oh what?
You thought I'd sit here like a chump and actually list all of you off?
Are you crazy?
My blog posts are long enough already. And then there's that off chance where I actually forget to name one of you, and you're all, "Damn that girl, I'm the funniest friend she has, she wouldn't be where she is without me!"
No. I won't subject myself to this. Just accept my gratitude and know that if you're reading this blog, you're on that list.
Back to being Queen!
Hmm...my first order of business as Queen (I keep capitalizing it because it makes me feel even more special) is to banish all country music from Aimee's wedding! Hurrah! I knew I'd find a way. If anyone is under my rule, it has to be Aimee and Tom. Long live the Queen!
Now all I have to do is figure out how to make my new title as credible as a college degree, and I'll be as happy as a pizza forgotten about in the back of a refrigerator, which finally gets to live a full happy life until dying at a moldy age.
And for those anxiously awaiting my next blog post (Becky Stefan) get excited for "The Napoleonization of Men."

Bridget Jones...I mean Deutsch

I promised myself I wouldn't blog today. Seriously, I have a lot of homework to do, a presentation to finish for youth group, mass to attend, and a social afterward. I DO NOT HAVE TIME TO BLOG. So you're wondering what I'm doing aren't you? "Why are you blogging Bridget? Go do your homework!" I'll tell you why, I was innocently catching up on some reading (blog reading) while I consumed my breakfast and I suddenly came face to face with my cousin Kate's new blog entry. And now I have no choice. I have to do this.

It is absolutely insane how much my cousin Kate and I have in common. For those of you who are thinking, "Oh really, what do you guys have in common?" you obviously didn't click on the Kate link. Come on people work with me here! Go do that now. At least read the last two entries. I'll wait...
We good now? Ok.
I don't really know if it's just because we're both from Deutsch stock, or if it's a 21 and brunette thing, but darn it do we think alike. As I read Kate's entry this morning about the British inner monologue, my own inner monologue proclaimed Bloody Hell! Me too!
I'm sure you've all caught on by now just by seeing all the italicized type throughout my entries that I have an inner monologue that never stops. I mean literally, if you're talking to me chances are my inner monoluge is still going, no matter how much I try to quiet her. Although we're all aware that she's there, I've never really come out and talked directly about her. I most certainly have never mentioned that most of the time she has a British accent.

Time out...Is it weird I talk about my inner monologue like it's a seperate person in my head? I tried typing this entry with "it" in place of "her" but I wasn't feelin that, so "her" it is...time in.

Kate has a good excuse for her inner monologue going Euro on her seeing as she has traveled the world and she has fun British friends. I, on the other hand, have not really left the country (sorry Canada doesn't count) and the only accent I have been heavily exposed to is that of the Yooper, and goodness knows I don't want that.
Despite the odds, my inner monologue has some how gone British, and she has actually been that way for quite sometime. The sad truth about it all is that she's a byproduct of an innate desire to be Bridget Jones and a whole lot of Jane Austen reading, which has led to an unhealthy obsession with the 5 hour BBC Pride and Prejudice and any other film released dealing with any of Ms. Austen's novels.
Back to Bridget Jones for a moment.
Why on Earth would I want to be Bridget Jones? Well, I'm already more than half way there.
1) She can't ski...check
2) She can't ride...check
3) She can't speak Latin...check
4) She'll always be just a little bit fat...check
4) She's a horrid public speaker...check
5) She was often considered a spinster in the making...check (we prefer the term singleton)
6) She lacks style and grace...double check
7) She's an avid writer...check
8) She has a British accent...damn
9) She married Mark Darcy (Colin Firth)...YES PLEASE!
So you see really the only thing keeping me from marrying my own Mark Darcy is the lack of a British accent. And I believe this is the main reason as to why my own inner monologue has turned British on me. She's just trying to help me acheive my ultimate goal in life.
And then there's that whole Pride and Prejudice BBC issue. Um...have we seen this? It's amazing. And wouldn't you know Colin Firth is in that too, but this time as Mr. Darcy. Just a coincidence I'm sure. My obsession with Pride and Prejudice allowed me to branch out to many other BBC creations introducing me to television shows like The Office, and just about every mini series ever made. Fuel for the fire my friends. Fuel for the fire. I'm obsessed with any British film I can get my hands on. Love Actually, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Emma, Sense and Sensiblity, Notting Hill, hell even Nanny McPhee. You see this is a sickness. I want that accent, I need the accent. It's definitely in my head, but when put into practice out loud, it's absolute rubbish. I'm utterly ashamed of it. The Bridget Jones in my head does it perfectly, but I fear that when it passes through my actual lips, my stupid American tongue mangles it. So if you're ever wondering why I don't say much out loud, it's generally because I'm afraid one day Ms. Jones won't be content staying in my head, and I'll actually attempt a choppy, sorely off the mark, British accent aloud.
Clearly I'm unstable, and someone needs to fund a trip for me to go over to England so I can perfect my accent, and finally, like Kate, have a legitimate excuse for my British inner monologue.

Beware of the tall and skinny.

There I was, plopped on the couch dipping Tostitos into salsa and stuffing them one after another in mouth as I watched some quality VH1. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an instant message pop up on my lab top. I leaned over and picked it up to see the message. It was from my friend Dan.
"Hey want to go for a quick run later?" he asked.
"Hmmm," I thought to myself in mid-chew, "I did just eat a whole lot of chips." I looked down at the roll created where the chips had chosen to congregate and sit in my stomach, and thought hard about the fact I had to be fitted for a bridesmaid dress in 3 weeks. I swallowed my last chip and replied, "Ok, yeah sure."
Now let me explain something here. Dan and I were not on the same page when I agreed to this. When he said, "later," I assumed he meant 5 hours (sufficient time for chip digestion), when in reality he meant 2. That, however, paled in comparison to my misjudgement of how far he thought we would run. When I got over to his apartment he said, "How far were you thinking we should go?" I shrugged and before I could answer, "I dunno, like 2 miles," he said, "I was thinking around 4." My jaw dropped and the chips in my stomach did a back flip in rebellion. I was about to make a compromise of 3 miles when he said in his smug little way, "I dunno, I'm feeling pretty good today, but if you don't think you can go that far, we can do a shorter run."
Now he had done it. My stamina had been called into question and my pride was on the line.
"Oh I'll give it a shot," I said while my inner voice screamed You freakin idiot!
We head off at what I think is a pretty quick pace when he turns to me and says, "Would you like to pick it up yet or slow it down?" Which basically means, "This pace is pretty slow, can we go faster now?" But the chips in my stomach are saying, "Go any faster and you'll be face to face with us in 3 seconds." So I tell Dan our pace is just fine.
As we run along my inner monologue is no longer attempting to be a good sport about things. I start yelling at Dan in my head. Oh my God are you trying to kill me?! Stupid Mr. 6 ft whatever-I only weigh a hundred pounds-Dan! We approach a busy road and I get excited. Yes we'll be forced to stop for a moment, I can finally catch my breath and let the chips settle! As we reach the intersection I come to a dead halt but Dan just continues to jog in place, heaven forbid he lose a step today. Flippin' Rocky! I'm stopped for all of 2 seconds when he shouts, "We're good!" and goes darting across the street. The light hadn't even changed yet. Damn you!
We continue along and I keep glancing nervously at my watch. I know we're going faster than 10 minute miles although I'm trying my best to slowly decrease our speed without him noticing, and yet we are quickly approaching 20 minutes and still heading away from his apartment. For those of you mathematically challenged, when we reach 20 minutes it will mean that we've gone at least 2 miles, and we're still headed away from the apartment. Jerkstore! 4 miles my ass! My eyes begin looking for a good place to suggest a turn around, but I see that he's hell bent on making it to Presque Isle Park. We continue along the bike path and I keep debating suggesting pulling off to the side and stopping to stretch, but my pride gets the better of me. I begin to wonder if I might die out there. 20 minutes has come and gone and we are still headed away from the apartment and I start to will away my belongings. Cheryl and Liz can divide my Cubs stuff between themselves, Meghan can have my CD's, Ryne can have my truck (since his current car is a POS), Aimee and Tom can have...
"We're good!" Dan yells as he darts across another street without skipping a step. Jackass!
We approach the entrance sign to Presque Isle Park and I anticipate the turn around. We run right past it. I debate between bursting into tears or faking a heart attack.
"How you holding up?" he asks me without a hint of exhaustion in his voice.
I hate you! If I live through this I'm going to come after you with a baseball bat!
"I'm good," I say as I gasp for air.
We pass through the archway into the park and he doesn't even slow down, but I had, had enough so I slowly put on the breaks. He notices and says, "Oh should we turn around?"
F yeah we should turn around you skinny little...(I went on for quite some time here)...Prefontaine wannabe. "Yes let's turn around."
"Because we can keep going if you want."
I glance down at my watch which is now saying 25 minutes, so yeah we're talking at least 2.5 miles here, meaning a total round trip of at least 5 miles. "No let's turn around." I say, my voice ringing with desperation.
He laughs.
Asshole. I'll cut you!
We pass a drinking fountain on our way back and Dan asks, "Want a drink?" Good man!
We both stop and take a sip, but the entire time he is still somehow jogging. As in he's drinking from the drinking fountain and still jogging. Who is this guy? I stagger away from the drinking fountain and am in the process of trying to convince my legs that they need to start running again when I notice Dan jumping up and down and wheeling his legs around in a bicycle motion. Evil bad man!
Not once after the drinking fountain did we ever stop again, not once at each busy road did we ever skip a step because somehow "we" were "good" at every single street. I distinctly remember as we crossed over the last busy street seeing a white lumina coming down the street just as I reached the other side. "You're 10 seconds too late you jerk! You could have hit me and put me out of my misery!"
I start to sense that we are within five minutes of the end of this hellish ride, and I begin to thank God because my legs are screaming and my asthma is reaching its peak. Dan chooses this moment to turn to me and say, "I usually end my runs with some sprints and then a cool down."
Oh holy hell! With one eyebrow raised, an ounce and a half of oxygen left in my lungs, I wheeze and say, "Go right ahead, I'll meet you at your apartment." With that he takes off sprinting. Seriously, who is this guy? I come off the bike path and look at my watch which now reads "51 minutes." Over 5 miles! I didn't sign on for this shit. I look ahead and see that Dan is now walking. Thank you God! I stop and I walk. Dan waits for me to catch up and when we are about 200 meters away from my truck he asks, "Do you want to do lunges to your truck?"
In the words of Raineesha Williams, 'Does hell go with no?!'
"I can't do lunges that far."
"Ok we'll just do it for a little bit."
My pride somehow still exists and I begin to do lunges. I stop after about 20 feet of that mess, and Dan of course continues. I walk along side of him for a while feeling stupid, and so I try to start up again. I go down once and feel my hamstring tear in rebellion. I can't move. That's it! I officially hate you! We are no longer friends! You will carry me the rest of the way.
I must have yelped out in pain when my hamstring pulled because Dan was very concerned and kept asking me if I was ok. He obviously can't read thoughts though because he did not once attempt to carry me.
We stand outside his apartment building and Dan wipes away the single bead of sweat that has formed on his forehead, while I ring out my shirt, and he asks, "Do you want to go run again tomorrow morning?"
I hope you choke on your ego Twigman! "We'll see."
BEWARE OF THE TALL AND SKINNY!

Stay Away From the Books

Today I went to Target. It sounds harmless enough doesn't it? Well it's not when you're as financially challenged as I am. I NEEDED a few things, you know, for survival purposes. My budget is extremely low so I made a list to ensure I wouldn't spend too much. My list was as follows:
1) Notebook (for Cheryl)
2) Pens
3) Clicky Pencil (this is the scientific term for Mechanical Pencil)
4) Folders
5) Shampoo
6) Loofah (yes that's a necessity)
7) Laundry Detergent
See just a nice simple list. As I drove over, I told myself Stick to the list! Stick to the list! And no matter what, do NOT go down the book aisle. I had a plan, I was going to stick to it.
I walked confidently into Target and picked up a basket (notice just a basket, not a cart...budget tactic number one). I chose a route which would take me directly to the school supply section bypassing clothes and shoes (budget tactic number two). Unfortunately on my way over to the school supplies something shiny caught my eye. And yes I am that pathetic...something shiny...like a moth to a flame. It was the jewelry section, but more importantly the watch section. I needed a new watch. The ten dollar cheapo watch I had purchased a week before had successfully worn away the skin around my wrist and so naturally I needed to upgrade to something more classy like a $15 dollar watch. It was just a tiny added expenditure. And so the first item to enter my basket was $15 worth of "not on my list." After that I was right back on track. I headed straight to the school supplies. Just stay away from the books I repeated to myself. I found myself standing in an aisle filled with folders and notebooks and overflowing carts manned by women arguing over what to cook for dinner. These women were standing between me and Cheryl's 3 subject notebook. Not wanting to be rude, I slipped back out the way I came and attempted to cut around by way of the next aisle over. But when I turned to go down this particular aisle, again I was met with arguing women and overstuffed carts. I jumped over another aisle...same thing. Without thinking I turned down the next aisle over only to be met with shelves stacked with...you guessed it...books! "How did this happen?" I said aloud, a wide grin spreading across my face. "I'm not supposed to be here," I whispered to the books. I looked suspiciously around. Don't touch them! I tried to walk away, I did. But then the Shopaholic Series was staring me right in the face. I'd heard good things...I wondered if I'd enjoy them...just needed to read the first page...I reached out...I picked up...dammit the book was in my hand. I read the first page and laughed out loud. I wanted it, but there were so many of them. No! Wait till Christmas! I put the book down. Hurrah! Good job me. I continued to walk down the aisle, and then I saw it. My eyes lit up like they do when someone sets a package of oreos and a glass of milk in front of me. There in front of me was none other than The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro. "Mine!" I proclaimed, picking it up without thinking and depositing it in my basket. Then right next to it another Laurie Notaro book, I Love Everybody (and other Atrocious Lies). Again I reached out and grabbed it up, but my reason rose up for one last stand, keeping me from depositing it in my basket. No Bridget...too much money. I flipped the book over, $12.95. I quickly grabbed up the other one from my basket and flipped it over $11.65. $25, no Bridget you can't afford that. You can buy it cheaper on Amazon.com. Yes, I could buy it cheaper. The books start to gravitate back toward the shelf and then the crazy half of me rebels, But if you buy it used for $2.95 is that really supporting the author? Laurie needs our support. Buy her book for real! Dammit. Laurie is my hero, she's so damn funny, I have to help her. And into the basket the books go. That's $40 of "not on my list" floating around in my basket if anyone's keeping track (not including tax!). I gathered up the rest of the items on my list (minus the detergent because my basket was too full for that at this point) and I'm almost to the checkout when I realize how hungry I am. I'm suddenly convinced that I will perish before ever reaching my apartment again if I don't eat something in the next 5 minutes. I rush over to the snack aisle and pick up a little 97 cent box of Honeynut Cheerios. Good investment. Unfortunately I exit the aisle on the other end which backs up to the coolers. I just scan over them as I walk toward the checkout, and then I notice the little tiny pizza in there. Mmm...pizza. I don't even like frozen pizzas, but I suddenly felt the NEED to have this one. I picked one up ($5 of "not on my list") and scurried for the checkout. That's $45 dollars of "not on my list." Somehow this hasn't even registered in my head as the innocent cashier tells me my total. My face takes on a psychotic look of dismay as she asks for $72 dollars. I just stare back at her. Oh holy geez. It's not all for me, I try to comfort myself, as if Cheryl's $2 notebook was what had sent me soaring over my $20 budget. "You owe me big Laurie," I mutter out loud as the cashier gives me a strange look. "Real big."