Flynn Facts

A Poem of Address

2009-04-27T01:38:00.003-04:00

Dear Homework,
I don't like you and I never, ever will.
But I get to deal with you for the rest
of my life.
I get to give you.
I'll get to grade you.
Oh homework, whose brilliant idea were you?
I always tell my students that they should do their homework,
But right now I just don't really feel like doing mine.
So I am writing you a Poem of Address
Because I learned about those in school last week and
I think they're funny.

So how does it feel when the dog eats you?
How do you feel when you get forgotten at home?
How does it feel to be completely ignored
And left in a backpack all night long?

How do you feel when someone
makes you stay up all night while they work on you?
That's really inconsiderate.
I know you would like to go to bed and so would I.
But homework,
Right now I am procrastinating by
Writing you a Poem of Address.

Alright homework. Let's do it!

Falling Out of my Chair in Front of my Students

2009-03-24T00:11:00.003-04:00

Omph!

I just missed the seat in the auditorium and I'm going down. Luckily catch myself on the armrests. Now three of my students are laughing hysterically. I'm trying not to laugh. I do have a huge goofy grin on my face.

But I can't laugh because these kids were talking and being disrespectful of the musical director and that's why I tried to sit between them in the first place.

I can not laugh.

It's really hard to do.

After School
I am relaying the story of "How I Fell in Music Today" to my roommate. Suddenly I realize that the seats in the auditorium do not spring up like they do at the movies. If they are put down, they stay down.

Which means that kid didn't just move his leg. He put the seat up!

I find this even more funny. And really disrespectful. But mostly funny.

I am finally the teacher that got cleverly tricked by her students.

Oh I'm Visiting too! Um, I live here.

2009-01-14T23:50:00.005-05:00

When I first moved to New York City, it was very important to me that I didn't give anyone the impression that I was a tourist.

So I walked really, really fast.

And I felt like a total bad ass about walking really, really fast.

I also had a special policy for celebrity sightings: pretend like I don't care. That meant not taking a picture with Edward Burns (drool), keeping my mouth shut as Ben freaking Stiller walked past me on the street and treating Ryan Gosling like every cute boy I've met since high school: mistaken eye contact, look of terror and retreat.

I have adapted. I walk much slower--at a normal pace. Last summer I even tried to avoid sweating by walking really,really slowly, but it didn't work.

Now, when I want to take pictures or I need to ask for direction I pretend that I am a tourist and hope that I don't give people the impression that I do live here.

Two days after New Years Eve, I'm lost in the West Village. It's Saturday morning and I'm meeting my girlfriends for my favorite meal of the week, brunch. And West 10th Street isn't where I thought it would be.

So I start looking for someone who looks like he or she lives in the area, but wouldn't be all pretentious and bitchy like the guys that work in the neighborhood boutiques and definitely do not live there, but desperately want to.

I reject a few people and then pick the guy with the headphones. He totally lives here. He looks friendly.

Me: "Hey, can you tell me where W. 10th is?"

He whips out a map. He totally does not live here and he's going to give me directions and I do live here and I should know where I'm going, but I don't! Stupid streets with names!

Guy: I'm visiting too!

Sable laughs.

Me: I live here....

Guy looks bewildered. Maybe he thinks I'm lying. Maybe he thinks I'm really stupid. Maybe he thinks that he is super cool and I am super drool.

But he is just nice and I get to enjoy my eggs served by a pretentious, bitchy server.

Advice from First Graders

2008-12-08T23:01:00.002-05:00

Franklin: Ms. Bridget, you should paint your nails like my mom. She's a model. My dad is a wrestler.
Me: Oh yeah? What color?
Franklin: Um, yellow and blue and....(he ran off)

One day I attempt to paint my nails and it is a disaster. I show Frankline

Franklin: You need to get one of those, um...
Me: Manicure?
Franklin: Yeah, you need a manicure.

Me: Ralik, since I'm a student teacher...what kind of advice can you give me. What do you want your teacher to be like?
Ralik ponders for a minute and looks up at the ceiling.
Ralik: A princess.

Me: Jamil, what should I get my dad for Christmas? I never know what to get him.
Big smile. Huge eyes.
Jamil: A wrestling toy!!!

How I Got My 3rd Grade Class in Trouble

2008-08-08T14:09:00.003-04:00

Who are these Jonas Brothers that were on "So You Think You Can Dance?" last night? And can they really play the guitar? And why didn't that one kid shave his pubescent mustache? That can't be cute....

I have a lot to learn about today's "kid culture." This summer, all my third grade girls were decked out Miley Cyrus T-shirts, Miley Cyrus school bags. Everyday at least one girl was wearing one and many days several of them were. I've never heard one of her songs. But I've watched about two minutes of "Hannah Montana." Way over the top. I couldn't handle it.

My roommate informed me as we watched the Jonas Brothers performance that one of them date Miley. And then she asked me how I didn't know this. Aren't I suppose to know this? Yeah, geeze yeah I am. Kid research comes with the job. I have my work cut out for me. Luckily, K. taught me the Soulja Boy dance this summer. And not only do I really need to see "High School Musical 2," I actually really want to.

I missed out on NKOTB as a kid. I either didn't have that much interest in Bop or I wasn't allowed to read it. I didn't get celebrity boy crazy until I was in high school—Leonardo DiCaprio, *N SYNC (drool).

But I understand crushes because I was a boy-crazy little girl with a record three boyfriends in preschool: my neighbor Nicky, my classmate James (poor kid always had to hold my hand) and the olda boy, kindergartener Lee. I really doubt my feelings were reciprocated, but in preschool I was only concerned about who I liked.

Liking boys. I get that.

So one day my cooperating teacher steps out of the classroom and one of my third girls pulls out her Jonas Brothers folder.

"Ew, you like the Jonas Brothers?" says one of the boys.

"Yeah," she says as she roles her eyes in a duh-of-course-I-do-he-is-HOTT kind of way. All the other girls are squealing.

"So you all like the Jonas Brothers?" I ask.

"Yessssss" Squeal. Giggle. Squeal. Squeal.

I know nothing about these guys so I bring it back to a surefire super hottie for third grade girls because I have seen "High School Musical" and I did enjoy it.

"What about Zac Efron?"

Eruption of Squeals. It is loud. I am laughing. Boytalk with little girls is absolutely hilarious.

Boytalk is apparently not appropriate in school.

A student teacher from across the hall comes into our room. "Can you guys keep it down, our class is trying to take a test?"

Opps.

My cooperating teacher walks about into the room.

"What is Ms. C's class doing?!?!?!"

Double opps.

Eyebrow Eyebrow

2008-05-07T13:49:00.000-04:00

Madison Square Park in New York City. Sunny summers days bring out loads of lunch breakers, kids and their nannies, college students, dog park goers, hipsters, people who are dressed so slummy that I assume they don’t work 9-to-5 jobs and I wonder what they do for a living. Are they actors, artists, bartenders, bike messengers, freeloaders, who knows?

It also attracts me. Everyday as long as the temperature is above 50 degrees. If it seems warm in January, I’ll still freeze, but I try to eat there. Today I was wearing my really big sunglasses that allow me shameless people watching privileges. There’s no way anyone could see where I was looking.

Today there’s also an older dude with long curly black hair. The top part is gelled. He’s pretty tan and wearing high tops. He reminds me of Southern Virginia white trash, but he clearly looks like metro New York Italian, and yet if it weren’t for that gelled hair, I’d imagine him biking on a boardwalk in California.

I wouldn’t have even noticed this guy if he wasn’t in my line of vision as I sat on the ground. He gave me the eyebrows.

The eyebrows!!

The “Hey baby,” Eyebrow, Eyebrow Move. I like to use this goofball move on my friends. But this seemed like a legitimate pick up.

I dropped my head, ate my pasta and thought about Full House’s Michelle Tanner doing the eyebrows. That was cute.

But is there an Irish Bar?

2008-04-28T20:36:00.000-04:00

I have a major problem.

I am moving to the Upper West Side for a ridiculously cheap (Manhattan-style cheap) rent of $680.

One wall is slanted. The closest is in an inconvenient place. But it’s $680 and the living room and kitchen are basically the size of my entire apartment now. $680. In Manhattan. It’s like the jackpot. (I would say with monopoly money, but we are talking Manhattan where my teeny apartment that has become too small for myself alone—because my roommate lives with her b/f—so therefore, real money and we’ll go with the dollar, but not the Euro because it’s a slanted wall and not perfect.)

But there is one problem.

“Is there an Irish bar your friends can go to?” my boyfriend asked me.

“Uh?”

Baker Street: Irish lady yelled a me for not drinking, always thought I should hang out there, but I never do.

No idea what he’s talking about.

“You know, where you’re friends can go late night?”

Oooooh.

Yes. Well, no. I don’t know yet. I should have checked the neighborhood before I said yes!

Can I really move into a place that doesn’t have an Irish bar with in walking distance that my drunk college friends and the drunk Freakazoids (aka Freakazoid , Bazarama and Aggie-but not Aggie because she has only been there for car bombs on New Years Eve with a certain St. LouA-natic—yeah I know that spelling is wrong) can go to in their pajamas?

I have already said yes. But oh my, I hope there is one, and I’m frightened there’s not!

October 17, 2006

2008-01-30T21:32:00.000-05:00

The first time I went Brooklyn, Annie and I were shocked by the lack of noise. Stepping out of the subway onto Bedford Ave. in Williamsburg, there were no sirens blaring, horns honking or cabs speeding and abruptly screeching to a stop. On that grey December afternoon, hipsters were all around us, yet the lacking background noise whispered “suburbia” in my ear. But this is not the suburbia where I grew up, the minivan parked in the McMansion driveway suburbia, Brooklyn is an accessible semi-urbia, a retreat from Manhattan’s inescapable billboards that still retains a city flavor. Which is why I like Brooklyn.

I love Brooklyn. It’s harder to navigate than Manhattan, where counting equals a good sense of direction down to 14th St., before street names appear.

d.u.m.b.o. down under the manhattan bridge overpass?
Get out of the subway and a sign directs you through a park and down a hill where pavement merges with a cobble stone street and the Manhattan Bridge frames the Empire State Building. Missed camera opportunity #1.

I came for d.u.m.b.o.’s 10th annual art under the bridge festival.
Large galleries showed photographs from the city’s hip-hop scene, strange contemporary art sculptures of cotton volcanoes with eye glasses in the middle and photographs of Katrina’s devastation. How can a lens capture something so horrifying in such a beautiful way?

Artists opened their studios to the public. Some actually lived in them, grandparents and grandbabies ate soup in the kitchen as people perused through the living-showroom. Others were housed in dilapidated factory with no heat, starving artists? Not sure, a photographer’s opened studio had expensive equipment, but I couldn’t make myself go in because reaching the photographs required walking through his living space that college dorm room dirty, crusty dishes, clothes on the floor, an unmade bed—or was it an air mattress? Throughout this dark former factory that ignited thoughts of rapists, trash, cigarette buts, a single half-drunk beer bottle, pizza boxes and piles of wood were juxtaposed with professional gallery spaces showcasing impressive contemporary art.

Booze Quizz

2007-12-06T16:21:00.000-05:00

In an effort to think of Hott Alcohol trends for our next issue, and procrastinate, I e-mailed my friends and mom a bunch of questions about beer, wine and spirits (not liquor!).

Some of my favorite answers:

1. Have you discovered a new beer/wine/spirit/cocktail this year that you love?
Yes! Hot Toddy's. Whisky, hot water, honey, and lemon. I feel like a grandma drinking it but it's so damn delicious and perfect during the cold weather. Grandma!!

1. (I realized this is the 2nd #1 question. I made a mistake.) If you've tried those crazy flavored vodkas, what do you think?
answer from a guy: They're good, but kind of fruity. So the kind of drink I order when nobody is watching.

2. Favorite cocktail?
Long Island When I asked this question, I was thinking more along the lines of 5. fancy cocktails served in Martini glasses, and I wasn’t thinking cosmos or Appletinis. And I get Long Island! I don’t even remember the last time I had one of those. Major trouble!)

does a car bomb count? hmm they should… if not i guess a wiskey sour.. yeah...im a 70 year old man who drinks them at the club that’s baller

3. Favorite beer?
if i am in a bar then whatever the sam adams seasonal is (summer ale, oktoberfest etc.)
if i am grilling then corona light
if i am in pittsburgh yuengling or IC light
good logic

i discovered sam adams summer ale and blue moon...with lemons. they're not new, just new to me cuz i just started a life that includes beer. Sissy is growing up! I'm so proud.

4. Favorite wine?
Does Mad Dog count as a wine? Also, a boy answer

5. Have you tried sake? Cold? (That's the way the Japanese drink it!) Sparkling?
Yes! SAKE BOMBS! This really isn’t where I planned for this question to go.

6. Have you ever bought alcohol on the Internet?
Does beer on Fresh Direct count? Fresh Direct is lazy baller, but baller. So yes.

no, but i did look at absinthe once

no_ that sounds dangerous (shipping) I’m guessing dangerous for your bank account?

7. Have/would you ever visited a brewery, distillery or winery?

WINERY AND WINE CAVES IN FRANCE....I am totes
jealous.

Yes...does Busch Gardens count? I did actually go to the brewery there.

Have or would you want to go to a wine, beer, spirit tasting/festival? Would you pay to do it?

i haven't...but i so would for wine or beer…unless i can count my brewing chem class as a festival...we drank alot of beer in that class apparently I should have paid attention in high school chem.

8. Have you visited the ultra hip nyc hot spot, Tasting Room Eldridge? Wasn't it totally awesome?!

Best night of my life! I think I ran into paris hilton there. Paris was in my apartment?!?!

Yes, I have been to the nyc hotspot, the Eldridge Tasting Room, but I was not offered anything to drink. I will say that it was quite crowded and I felt very lucky to find a place to sit. Thanks mom. That makes me feel cool.

9. What is a big deciding factor in your alcohol purchases? More for your money (PBR! Natty!)? Labels (Mom!)? Trying new brands/varietals (type of grape:Merlot Chardonnay)?

It's usually goes something like this "how drunk do we want to get tonight?" Which leads to the Cheap (lots of alcohol for the $) vs Expensive (not as much, but excellent tasting alcohol) decision.

10. Have you ever been a baller and ordered bottle service? Did you feel like a baller? Did you hang with P. Diddy and Paris? Was it awesome? Is your life now complete?

I have been with ballers who ordered bottle service. One gets quite drunk.

i was with kelly one time when she tried to con a bottle of champagne from a bartender....and that didnt work so she ordered it... and i did feel slightly more baller...and slight drunker because she did con some shots...and car bombs... but i didnt get to hang out with diddy and paris...just a bartender we named 'schlitz' and some dj who gave mo business cards.

In my younger days I was a total baller popping bottles left and right. I just felt poor. I met P Diddy once, does that count? hahahaha

no. i am not a baller. but i still think bottles of champagne
are the most baller shit ever. i love that you used baller. Why thank you!

Yes and it was awesome except for the part where the waiter asked me to sniff the cork. I told him I really liked him so I trusted him and didn't need to smell the cork. So smoooooooth. I'm an idiot. Is this a true story?

Once or twice...I think the clubbing scene is for douchebags but the times I have been wrangled into getting a table/bottle service was for someone's birthday, so I sucked it up. Nonetheless, it was fun - I felt like a baller until it was time to pay my credit card bill.

11. Have you ever ordered a tasting flight?
YES, OF BEER AT THAT PLACE IN G-TOWN where this old dude farted a lot…and his preteen kids were sitting at the bar with him

12. Is Bridget Eldridge the most awesome person you've ever met? (This question will be graded and the only options at A+ or F, so you better answer correctly or the Boogie Monster will be visiting your closet tonight.)
A++++++++ I totally phrased this wrong, I meant I was grading you and you were suppose to say yes (and not no).

the last two threats you ahve now given me are the boogy man and something involving sensored

I'd give Bridget an A+. Thank Jebus for the bell curve though. :P What?!?!

Hair Traumas

2007-11-16T16:34:00.000-05:00

Who doesn't get out of adolescence without giving themselves a haircut? Who succumbs to giving themselves a haircut as an adult?

I 'd venture to guess that just about everybody out there cuts their own hair as a kid. I cut my bangs because I hated my new chin-length haircut. I wanted it "cut long." I look sad in all the Easter pictures that year and I'm pretty sure it was because I looked like a goon, but I don't really remember. But I haven't forgotten that a girl never gets over a bad haircut.

I got my most recent horrendously bad cut within two months of moving to New York. I didn't know where to go, and I chose an expensive place because I figured that would be safe. I was wrong and have only been getting my haircut when I go home to DC.

But that still wasn't as bad as the time I let my friend cut my hair freshman year of college. My friends said I looked like a wedding cake and a Christmas tree, but claimed it looked good. Liars.

I haven't had a cut since March , so it's split-ended like crazy.

In the summer, I got away with the messy, I just rolled out of bed, jumped in the shower, put some product in my hair and let the humidity make crazy look. And it sort of worked.

But now it's cold, and I have to dry my hair and it looks superbad—no matter what.

So last week I made myself late to work because I decided to give myself a haircut.

It was a last resort. I had tried to convince my boyfriend—who cuts his own hair and it look good—to cut my hair. But when we were standing in his bathroom, him with his scissors in his hand and me telling him to "just trim the ends and oh I should wet my hair first," he decided it was a bad idea. Probably a smart decision on his part.

At first I thought my self-cut look wasn't so bad. No Nick Arrojo look, but definitely better.

But today…I realized that I can't get away with such a stunt and I just can't freaking wait for my free Bumble and Bumble haircut in two weeks.

Vogue...Vogue...Vogue: There's Nothing to it, Just Strike

2007-11-16T16:31:00.000-05:00

Striking is so en vogue, so hot right now. First the Writers Guild, then the Broadway stagehands, this week, all week Aramark workers have been striking on Park Avenue, just around the corner from my office.

I didn’t even know who they were until I purposely walked by them this morning. And I only just googled (completely different thought: should that be a capitalized verb? And do any capitalized verbs exist in the English language?) Aramark and according to its website, “global leader in professional services, providing award-winning food, hospitality, facility management services and high-quality uniform and work apparel.” Ooooh fancy. Not only that, but “Aramark Recycles!” And the 2007 FORTUNE 500 survey ranked Aramark first in its industry. So if this company is soooo great, why are these workers striking? I probably won’t ever figure that out, I just hope the conflict is resolved before Thanksgiving because I’d rather not come back to the chanting.

But if the guy who wears a feather hat and makes clucking (chicken) noises wants to come buy again, I’d welcome him back to our corner. That’s entertainment.

So Three Kids Walk into a Bar…

2007-11-12T16:28:00.000-05:00

… dressed as midget versions of their favorite “adults”— Snow White, Batman—and their mom, or nanny, is chilling in the doorway with a stroller.

“Trick-or-Treat!!!”

It’s Halloween at a bar in New York City.

I’m at happy hour with my co-workers, drinking some Sam Adams Oktoberfest, and while I knew kids hit up local businesses for candy in the city, I was surprised to see that some grown-ups are cool with letting kids trick-or-treat at a bar.

The Artica bartenders seemed to have the same feeling as they didn’t have any candy. The first group of kids were offered “their first beer” (a bottle of Miller Lite, which I believe was the first beer I ever tasted at 4-years-old), and ultimately the bartender gave the little girl quarters.

And then another pack showed up—middle school kids. The bartender told them they had no candy, but to come back in 10 minutes. Had the bartender offered those kids a beer, they probably would have tried to take it. Well, that’s what I would have done at that age.

So I Decided to Run a Half Marathon...

2007-10-15T22:00:00.000-04:00

Because I thought it would be a good way to meet boys. It wasn't. But it would be a GREAT way for boys to meet girls. It would be easy. Of course it's going to cost them months of training and they have to figure out a way to fundraise what most people would consider an obscene amount of money. Like $3900.

Ok, ok I didn't do it soley to meet boys. I've always wanted to run a half marathon. It was one of my two physical fitness goals. (The other being a pull-up, which I realize is never going to happen.) And I'd raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and since I have a friend who is a Lymphoma survivor, all the more reason to do it.

So I'm going to do it. Sunday. This FREAKING Sunday in San "Hilly as Hell" Francisco.

I'm going to run the farthest I've ever run: 13.1 miles.

I'll being visualizing the Gillies Special all the way through because on the back of the iPod that my friends gave me if says There's Gillies at the finish line. Which I realize isn't exactly true, but I can pretend.

Along with my other mantras: "Jenny Boom!" and "I am fucking awesome!" (Yup. I say that to myself when my legs turn into bricks That's totally embarassing.)

I'm running the Nike Women's Half Marathon, so therefore, it only makes sense that a bunch of hunky guys will be standing at the finish line to hand me my medal, a Tiffany's necklace in one of those fabulous turquoise boxes.

And there will be a pasta party! And a victory party! Followed by the NYC "Misbehaving Party!"

I'm excited.

It's been the hardest freaking thing I've ever done. Running this much. Raising nearly $4500.

But it's been good times:
-Wine Tasting in my apartment: complete with a book of maps that I pass around and brownies for the Cabernet Sauvignon AND the Kevin and Bethany dance showcase and the airator, man that thing was cool
-A pie eating contest: 15 jell-o chocolate pudding pies, 3 people, a total of 5 1/2 eaten. The winner, who consumer 3 pies, puked. He totes deserved the gift card. Sticking my face in pudding felt pretty nice. Like a really sticky, lickable facial mask. I probably wouldn't do it again. (But sign me up for the San Genarro canoli eating contest next year and I'll blow those professional eaters out of the water.)
-$484 in brownie sales at my office, and the 6th floor begging for more.
-getting "support" e-mails, which means someone else has donated. "WHO DO I LOVE TODAY?!?!"

Lists of Things, New York City Edition

2007-10-15T21:48:00.000-04:00

Things I do not like:
-horns, I freaking hate them. Seriously there are signs in my
neighborhood that say don't honk, fine: $a lot of money
-cabs, they scare me
-the cost of apartments. a paycheck a month. i should become an
investment banker.
-the cost of cereal...$6! seriously?!!
-that I haven't found a bar i really like
-That there are all these GREAT restaurants and I don't get to eat their food
-The overwhelming possibilities of things to do, stresses me out when
all I want to do is sit on the couch
-When it rains
-When I sweat, profusely, just walking to the subway.
-Redsky, bastards did have my freaking purse!!!
-Gristedes evil cashiers
-That Baskin Robbins is two blocks from my house

Things I like:
-That Baskin Robbins is two blocks from my house
-The choose 6 toppings big ass salads. I can make them last and last.
-That you can get a mani/pedi for less than $25 Monday through Friday.
(Not that I've got one yet. I'm afraid I'll get addicted.)
-The parks! Especially Central Park and Madison Square park, they keep me sane
-The Brooklyn Brewery, freaking cooooool
-The NYC TNT coaches, soooooo crazy
-Free or pay what you wish museum nights
-Blockheads! Margaritas!
-Divine Bar
-The crazy Indian restaurant on the left side with Babu the world's
best waiter who calls me "my friend," and definitely hit on Jackie
-McSwirly's, two beers $4.50: Light or Dark
-Best Cellars tastings on Tuesdays, they always get me to buy
something though, luckily all wines are $15 and under and TASTY!
-That there actually is free stuff to do here.
-NO driving for Bridget. I suck at driving.
-No car for Bridget. It sucks when cars breakdown.
-The abnormal amount of cupcakeries in this city.
-the Greenmarkets...farmer's markets. yum. tomatoes.
-free tastings at Wholefoods, a delicious meal
-the Wholefoods at Columbus Circle, I swear if you have the guts to
make eyes at a hottie, you could get picked up.
-Film festivals!
-Sample sales
-the MArket NYC
-that i've seen Ben Stiller walking down the street and Molly Shannon
in a kids toy store.
-Outdoor FREE movies
-Annie and Jess's parties, especially when I make it to them
-wheeping in front of Outback steakhouse until strangers told me they
were going to call the cops
-Bagel Works
-Bagel and Schmeer
-Java Girl
-Cocoa Bar, a wine and chocolate bar begs the questions, "Why didn't I think of this?"
-playing beer pong in bars
-the pizza place near my house
-The cleaners next door. They are the cutest.
-The cashier at Bagel & Schmeer who looks like he's 14. Not that I
like em young, he's always smiling.
-concerts at Randall's Island

"I Don't Just Hate You, I Hate Everyone"

2007-08-25T22:42:00.000-04:00

I used to have mad skills when it came to the unfairer sex. In preschool, I had three boyfriends. That's right: three, tres, trois, drei. Don't playa hate; I was merely meeting my neighbor Nicky for playdates (lucky boy, he even got kisses), holding my classmate James's hand—like everytime we lineuped (dude totally didn't know what was going on, but the teacher totally did and kept trying to get me away from him—and flirting with the upperclassman kindergartener Lee (olda boy!) at recess. But those days ended when I got to elementary school. I still liked boys, but after chasing Anthony-from-Kindergarten around the playground to kiss him didn't work out (I couldn't catch him so it turned into a game of torture), I've kept my affections hidden from everybody--even when I find out that the object of my affection is interested in me.

Needless to say, this is incredibly lame. My friend Laura who is, in fact, the goddess of flirting (and of talking at warp speed), came New York City to visit her Italian lover last January, and me. And we're in a club with the Italian and his Italian friends and one of them is clearly trying to put the moves on me but I'm feeling really silly.

Me: "Laura, I can't flirt."

Laura crosses her arms and stamps her foot.

Laura: "Bridget, we all know that the way you flirt is to ignore whoever you like. How's that working out for you?"

I shrugged. I nodded.

Me: "Bad."

Time Out New York did an article this summer about single women in the city--apparently there are some 180,000 more single women in the tri-state area than single men. There are crazy statistics in that article that I'm sure convinced some diamond hunters to move to the suburbs or Alaska.

So obviously the ignoring tactic really doesn't work well in New York City. So maybe that's my problem. Because it really is so freaking hard to meet people in this city. Or maybe I can really only get comfortable with people after I get to know them for awhile. So I thought maybe I should run a marathon because cause guys like sports. But after going to practice and noticing there was no guys and talking to my co-worker about how he tried to convince friends to train with him, I realized:
a)it wouldn't be manly if you trained with a group
b)fundraising $3900 is definitely a chick thing to do.

So one day when I'm walking home from work in June, I begin pondering my Lame Dating Life and I realize that I probably don't even want to date a guy that wants to live in New York because this city seems to attract assholes. I'm so deep in thought over this, it's like I'm solving philosophical problem of the century, and maybe I just am that I don't hear this guy talking to me. A guy is talking to me and I am ignoring him. By mistake. Not on purpose. Not cause I like him. My thinking cap is on trying to solve this dilema I have just discover so I don't hear what he's saying."

Big Black Man: Girl, I'm not trying to talk to you, I'm just trying to tell you you're belt's falling off.

Look of bewilderment. What's going on? Who are you? Why do you think that I think that you're trying to talk to me?

Me: I don't just hate you, I hate everyone.

Oh my god. Why did I say that? Better run. Better run fast. He was just trying to be nice. I really hate everyone right now.

When I told this to my parents, my dad threw his head back and laughed. Really hard. I got the sense he was proud of me. Proud of himself that he trained me well. My mom on the other hand, had the "I-am-NEVER-going-to-get-grandchildren-EVER" look plastered all over her face.

Softball—Pure Terror

2007-05-01T21:13:00.000-04:00

That's the only way I can describe tonight's softball game. I had to leave early, so the good news was that I got put in the first lineup, batting tenth and playing right field; the bad news was that I had to play.

After warming up and realizing that even though I'm not in fifth grade anymore, I still can't catch a ball because I'm still scared of it, I head to the outfield. But not right away. Someone was standing in right field already, if that was right field, and from what I remember of fifth grade softball, only three players get to stand in the outfield—and draw pictures in the grass with their feet and jump on ant hills and gaze at clouds shaped like ice cream cones—and three players were already out there. Plus, all the other outfielders were guys so I didn't want to get out there and be told to head back to the dugout or that right field was actually over there, on the other side. So I asked the "coach"--who told me that he went to UVA as we were walking to Central Park from the subway because I was wearing a VT sweatshirt--if I was playing right field, hoping he'd point me in the right direction of right field. Even though just I had listen to him read the lineup just minutes before and he had said, "Eldridge, right field."

"Is your name Eldridge?"

"Yes."

"Yup. Right field. Hey Dude-Standing-In-Right-Field, help out Bridget."

I do actually know right from left. (My left hand can make an "L.") On stage right is the dancer's right, not the audience's. So was I suppose to head to right field in regards to home plate (oh this is now making sense) or my right once I was standing in the outfield?

First play of the game, I'm already somewhat zoned out (balls never got this far in fifth grade), and the first batter on the first pitch hits the ball right, as in both "at me" and "right field," where I'm standing, and it sails way over my head. Shocked this has happened so soon (I had expected it at some point, definitely later), I sort of freeze and watch DSIRF run behind me and get the ball. Then I get nervous that he's going to throw it to me, but he can throw far enough that it will reach someone in the diamond, so I'm bypassed.

We're up to bat now and I'm tenth in line; I think this is good. We'll never go through ten players (As an end-of-the-line-up veteran, I batted once, maybe twice, per fifth grade game) so I'm certain that I won't have to bat. My teammates cheer things like, "Good eye!" and "Wait for yours!" I get nervous; I don't have a good eye. Then I'm up next.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm terrified.."

Everyone laughs. Bridget gets one point for camaraderie.

"Keep your eye on the ball," my girlfriend tells me.

I'm bad at that. I'm scared of the ball, I think.

I'm up. I tap home plate. I remember I'm supposed to do this to line my body up with the plate. So far, so good.

The pitcher is a chick and I've noticed that she throws pretty whimpy and slow, also good.

The ball leaves her fingertips. I think, This looks like I could hit it with out missing. I take a chance.

I HIT the ball. Am shocked. Must run. Must run actually fast. Speed up. Maybe I shouldn't. Am I going to be hit by the ball if it's thrown to first base? Turn head. Look for the ball. Yup, it's coming my way. Slow down. Don't want to screw up. Must touch first base. Must not leap over it like a ballerina.

A mere second before I daintily land on first base, the baseman catches the ball with his foot on the plate. I turn and look at the first base coach who is responsible for calling outs and who is one of the younger guys on my team. I flash my best goofily hopeful don't-call-me-out-cause-I'm-a-girl smile and raise my eyebrows expectantly. I think it registers, but he calls me out anyway.

Back in the outfield again DSIRF is instructing me where to stand. "Back up." "Come in." "Move a little more right." "Go back to the left." "Yeah, right there." While I am indebted to him because I would be clueless otherwise, I totally resent being bossed around because I think he thinks I'm annoying since I really don't belong out there. And uh oh, oh man, it looks like that ball is coming my way again.

"Shit," I either whisper to myself or yell a little too loud, I can't remember which.

The New York Times softball team has found our weakest link—and it's me. That ball isn't going over my head this time. I have a chance to catch it. I miss. I turn around and run after it. When I pick it up and throw it to the second base woman, I pretty sure the play is already over.

My team is batting again. A co-worker gives me sunflower seeds and asks if I'm new to the company. "No," I say proudly, "I've been there a year." A whole year. I can't believe It. She says she's been there forever. Then I realize I'm still new. I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to spit out the shells, but she doesn't. So I don't either; I just keep chewing. Like a real ballplayer. I want to spit. But who spits a wad of sunflower seed shells as big as the clump that's in my mouth? No one. That's gross. Is there a napkin around? I see a paper towel in the grass. I consider it, along with the other and another one I see. No, I'd rather spit. I move away from my teammates so I don't hit them and so maybe they won't notice the disgusting act I'm about to perform. The seeds sputter from my mouth, not in a big clump as I was hoping for. I spit like a girl.

Just before I'm up again, we get three outs. I'm saved. I'm relieved.

"Bella! Go in for Bridget," says da coach.

"Yessssss," I say a little too loud.

The game's not over yet, but I have to leave, so I tell da coach I'm heading out.

"You're not going out with us?" he asks.

Because I overheard guys talking about the post-game beer pong festivities, I say, "No. But I am better at beer pong than softball."

"Thanks for coming out," he says. "You coming out next week?"

"You bet!" I say, relieved that it's over, yet already excited for next week and looking forward to tomorrow’s post-game recap e-mail, in which I’ll be referred to as Bridget "insert nickname here" Eldridge.

This is Ethical Journalism?

2007-04-21T11:25:00.000-04:00

I've wanted to write something for a long time. And it's probably good that I waited because all I could come up with on Monday was, "I'm pissed."

I was mad people died, that so many people died—at my school in Blacksburg. Blacksburg. I couldn't wrap my head around it. I was just pissed. Simple as that.

Annie e-mailed me at work to say someone had been shot at VT. It was upsetting news, but these things happen. When we met for lunch, Annie told me she heard that now 22 people were now dead. I was shocked. How did the number get that high so quickly? Hadn't they noticed all the other bodies before? Of course, looking back, knowing the time line of events, it makes sense.

At work I was refreshing Google News incessently. Newspapers in Canada, Germany, Israel, Australia, Korea were running the story. Now the world knows about Virginia Tech for this? Not for its excellent engineering, architecture, communication (I have Hokie Pride for my degree, thank you), business schools? Yeah I was mad.

And that was before I started watching the news. When NBC flashed an image of Burruss Hall with type that said, "Massaccre at Virginia Tech" I yelled at the TV.

"Whaaat the..." (Unlike the networks, I'll use some tact here.)

As I watch "Dateline" Monday night, it becomes clear to me that the newscasters are "investigating" who is to blame—other than the gunman.

Wait, what?

Brian Williams and Matt Lauer are standing near across the street from the Drillfield. I know exactly where they are on campus. If it was light outside, they would be able to see the Duck Pond just yards away from where they are standing. They look cold. It is windy. I can feel that wind. I know those guys have brains freezes and I know what those feel like. I remember how I always use to say Blacksburg could rival Chicago for the Windy City moniker. (But now Jess lives there and she told me that it got the nickname from long-winded politicians who were campaigning to hold the World's Fair in Chicago.) Besides, Blacksburg is a town. A perfect college town. But also, with students and professors from all over the world, it's a very cosmopolitan for a town. (What interesting dinner parties professor must have...)

Matt Lauer says he was surprised that the VT students were surprised to see him in West End; that they hadn't yet realized that this was a national story. My first thoughts were: Cheese Quesidilla! I worked at Wired! London Broil! Going there every night of freshman year with Lizzie and Keni, after the football players "came out" so we could "people watch," er, so we could check people out and guess who each other liked. My second thought was of September 11: While its aftermath lasted for months across the country, it seemed to be over (in O'Shag at least) in a week. We were freshman. Our parents were far away. There was frat parties and there was beer. The country was hurting, but we were enjoying our first month of freedom. Blacksburg is a bubble, so of course, those kids were shocked to see you Matt, why would some big name news reporter from New York City be in Blacksburg, even if this had happened?

And how did you even get there Matt? How much traffic did the Roanoke airport see that day?

I stopped watching the TV stations after a journalist on the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric who was "reporting" on the students' feelings interjected her own commentary. First she generalized all students were upset the university only sent out an e-mail because, "Students don't have the time to brush their hair in the morning, they're not going to check their e-mail!"

How little you know about Virginia Tech! Most mornings I did not brush my hair because I was always 15 minutes late, but I ALWAYS checked my e-mail and my IMs, which I'm there would have been 15 asking me if I found out what had happened.

Ah, bugger. So this did turn out angry. But I'm also feeling Hokie Pride, loss, saddness, strength, hope for the Blacksburg community, the Hokie community, hope that this will help change our country's approach to mental illness.

One journalist, Hoda Kotb, a "Dateline" reporter and graduate of Virginia Tech, did a You segment about what it means to be a Hokie, what that school means to her. Watching it, I was so happy to see someone on national television expressing my feelings.

(Ignore Anne Cury when she says, "this once safe and serene campus." Virginia Tech is still a safe campus. And it will become serene again, with the expection of football games.)

Playing Lost & Found With My Wallet

2007-04-17T23:24:00.000-04:00

I lost my wallet. Again.

I got it back. Again.

So is my luck good or bad, or just simply balanced?

I know I have read that New Yorkers have been voted the politest/nicest big city folks. When I'm being shoved out a subway car onto the Grand Central platform and someone may have just grabbed my ass, I'm not thinking New Yorkers are nice people. But when I'm watching a postal worker unlock the mailbox that I may or may not have dropped my wallet into; when I'm listening to a voicemail from my roommate informing me that a little old lady just dropped off my wallet at our apartment; and when the little old lady, who I assume left me her number for a reward, leaves me a voicemail saying that hearing the happiness in my voice was reward enough, I couldn't agree more.

Chinese Fire Drills, A Creepy Farter and Quebec

2007-04-09T22:21:00.000-04:00

No one does Chinese Fire Drills out of necessity. We do them because we are dumb teenagers or dumb middle schoolers with our friends' even dumber parents and we want to be CRAZY for a whopping 37 seconds in the middle of traffic, when it's dark outside and inevitably warm (because no one's getting out of the car when it's 30 degrees outside in Northern Virginia, we don't even drive in snow flurries, unless we are desperate for milk and bread and toilet paper).

But when we hit a light last Friday night and Morrison asked if I wanted to do a Chinese Fire Drill, she wasn't asking Lizzie and I if we wanted to get wild and crazy, she wanted to put an end to the craziness of my driving. I've never felt so relieved. And then the light turned green and I had to keep driving—intense panic.

After a year in NYC, not only do I drive like my grandma (I was terrified of her driving when I was little), but i am now terrified of driving, just like my mom. Lucky for my sister I haven't started pumping the break; a little driving technique of my mom'S that makes my sister very car sick. Unlucky for everyone else on the road: These days I drive under the speed limit and I don't even notice, until people pass me, which happens on a regular basis, three or four times in a 15 minute drive to Ballston from McLean.

While I haven't been a regular driver for over a year, I do have a new New York driver's license, which receives lots of comments from Virginians: "That's weird, flimsy...it looks fake.""Where's your birthday on here?" "Wow you're an organ donor." And all I really want to say back is "Check out just how fat I look! I look so bad right?!?!" And with that New York driver's license, I've been home six times since Christmas, six times since i freaked out Katie on our road trip to Kelly's wedding. Six times in three months means I should be getting better, right?

WRONG!

I suck. I suck! And I suck even worse when Mo and Lizzie the back seat driver are giving me conflicting directions to Georgetown from Mo's apartment on x95s and parkways and one way streets. So when we stopped and Mo suggested a Chinese Fire Drill, and I say, "YES! Thank god! I was thinking the same thing! I can't drive anymore! It's toooo scary!!!!"...and then the light turns green. So I yell at everyone to get back in and pull over ASAP. Lizzie says she'll drive and Mo says, "No way, you drive too fast so you can't drive Bridget's Dad's car." Lizzie concedes, but is already jumping in the front seat to give directions (it is a Chinese Fire Drill) and yells, "Grandma! YOU get in the back seat."

When I slam the door of the backseat, I'm overcome, overcome with relief. The back seat is where i belong.

And then I start getting worried that Mo is going to get in accident, because that's next on the bad things that could what happen chain of events. So we get to Georgetown safely, phew, and Mo "I love my Jack Russell Terrier Mini Cooper License Plate Holding Loser" rrison is parallel parking my dad's Mercury Sable and she love taps the royal blue car parked behind us, that's less a love tap and more of a hit I'd take on a guy that broke my heart kind of tap.

And when Morrison and Lizzie turn around my head's in my hands and I say, "I knew this was going to happen."

Granted I always overreact so it probably wasn't that bad and there was no damage done to either car.

Sadly, our noses did not make it through the night unscathed.

Creepy old dude whose 13 and 15 year-old kids are sitting at the bar is trying to make small talk (please notice how the words "hit on" were not used, I don't want to vomit)..."blah blah slur slur do you have kids?"... us: "No."...a good 5 minutes go by and someone lets one rip..."Having kids was the best thing I've ever done! slur slur as long as they're not little brats"....FART FART FART slur slur slur FART...Lizzie goes into hysterics....15 minutes later..."My kids think I'm the coolest slur"...more and more and more and MORE farting...Lizzie and the bartender discover that they have something in common, their favorite province of Canada is, in fact, Quebec.

And all this happened in one hour.

Christmas Freaking Mircale, Volume III

2007-03-21T23:40:00.000-04:00

1. I get put in a cab.

2. Once I'm very close to Annie and Jess's house (not more than five blocks), I jump out of the cab because I realize that while I have a shopping bag with two bottles of wine, I don't have my purse or money.

3. I walk into Ray's Pizza and start crying cause I have no money for pizza.

4. I walk across the street and plop down in front of Outback and proceed to cry, wheep and start hyperventalating.

5. I attact concerned passers by who ask if someone hurt me...

6. I only stop when a woman says that she's going to call the cops to take me to a hospital.

7. I give everyone hugs and tell them to take the wine since I hated wine at that point.

8. Crazy drunk dude follows me since I forgot my wine and I tell him to keep it and stop following me.

9. Annie and Jess's apartment does not have their name by their apartment number or on their mailbox and I don't have a phone to call them so I just start hitting random buttons. Someone answers and scares me away.

10. Go outside and start waving at the neighbors with the big window that we meet the previous weekend.

11. Random dude comes out and says that no, Tim went out of town, so I start--he tells me later--weeping in his hallway.

12. I try to use Facebook on his computer for a very long time but I can't type.

13. The boys are leaving for a bar and say I have to come with them since I am stranded.
This stupid because:
a) I'm obviously in no condition to go to a bar
b) I'm weeping about a lost purse so of course I have no money or ID

14. After being swipped through on the subway, I am not allowed into the bar because I have no ID, shocker!

15. I start weeping again.

16. I decid my purse is at my office.

17. Random dude and I go to my office, it's like midnight and I convince the security guard who now always gives me a weird look that I left my purse at my desk to let me in.

18. My purse isn't there, but it must be at the bar that shall not be named.

19. They say it's not there. Bastards. It was.

20. Once we get back to Annie and Jess's I start yelling their names in a very "Say Anything" sort of way and it totally works.

21. Jess yells, "Where the hell have you been?!?!"

22. I call the bar which shall not be named all damn day long.

23. I go back to the bar which shall not be named and the bartender discovers that holy cow the phone is off the hook, but makes no attempt to look for my purse.

24. I am defeated. I cancel credit cards. Bank accounts. I call my landlord to let me in. I am TERRIFIED of sleeping in my apartment. I get the locks changed. I look up cell phones on eBay.

25. Five days later I get an email from the manger of the bar which shall not be named saying they have my purse.

Should I have gone in there and gushed, "Thaaaaaaaaank You!!!"? Probably. But all that came out was a very bitchy, "What took you so long?!?!?!" "I didn't want to go through your purse."

GRRRR.

Christmas Freaking Miracle, Volume II

2007-03-21T23:19:00.000-04:00

Maybe I've avoided this little diddy because this is where it all starts to get hazy. Judgement was out the window at this point.

WAIT A MINUTE!!! Seriously, not what you think, this was a night all in good fun, but remember I had planned on NOT getting drunk and I was pretty drunk as this point.

So we go to the after party at the bar that will not be named because I HATE, LOATHE and DEPISE it and all the people that work there. It is packed with my fellow co-worker, many of whom I had just become best friend with hours previously and most of which I have yet speak to again beyond, "Hi." (At the time, I thought, "I love these people. I am friends with EVERYONE!" But everyone goes back to pretending like no one else exists. Working world is soooo high school all over again, it's frightening.)

I'm chatting it up with my boss, and our now senior editor who found out she was promoted minutes before the Christmas party began and so I'm telling my boss, that I totally agree with his decision and was really happy to hear about it because she totally deserves it.

Luckily, he could not be convince to do a car bomb and left for home, because I was easily persuaded and while I do remember doing one, I was later told we did two...which makes some sense because everything else at that bar is as follows in no particular order:

-I realized that men, no matter their "status"--single, married, "meet my girlfriend"--are sleezy bastards, and that if provoked with alcohol they will hit on on young women with techniques ranging from very subtle gestures to the drink-tossing worthy crassness.

-A co-worker told me I was a "catch," when, I'm guessing, I was crying/whining about not having boyfriend.

-I got backed into a corner with my girlfriend by the "Skeezy Guys" I'd been hearing about forever

-I talked to someone about biking across the Brooklyn bridge when he was all up in my face and that is when...

I got yanked out the bar (leaving my purse on the floor), however I remember to get my bag with two bottles of wine I was bringing to Annie and Jess's Christmas/House Warming Party that I'll never make it to...

Procrastination Nation

2007-03-21T22:54:00.000-04:00

Yeeeah, ok, so I've been avoiding writing about all the fascinating stuff that is happened to me in New York, because I never finished my three-part volume on the "Purse Incident," and I didn't want to interupt the blog, but now I am interuprting the blog because it's MINE and I can do that!!

WOOT! Living on the edge.

Sadly, I've missed out on sharing some delicious stories with the internet, like how I was totally this girl on Monday morning, minus the pigeon. And how today, I scored not one, but TWO, that's two, dos, due, deux (why does "two" in every other language start with "d"?) bottles of the 1999 Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne, which is a whopping $125 a bottle. [drop jaw] And even coooler, Annie got one too.

And, and I got to see Denny from "Grey's Anatomy." (McDreamy and Denny down, McSteamy and Burke, please grace me with your McHottness.)

And oh my gosh my stomach hurts so bad.

***

But the rest of the purse story is quite hilarious and I realized that I was totally lame for taking a month after Christmas to even get through the first Volume, Yikes.

So not only is my New Years Being On Time Resolution not working out but I still can't stop with the procrastination.

Well, at least I haven't changed...

Christmas Freaking Miracle, Volume I

2007-01-22T23:39:00.000-05:00

December 15, 2006, (New York)—The day of the company Christmas party arrived with much anticipation. I had been hearing about it since my first week of work with this beverage alcohol company. Apart from the three-hour open bar—top shelf included—I could get as much of the famed macaroni and cheese from the high-end BBQ restaurant where our party was held. After hearing all the stories, my plan was to stay sober and stay clear of others’ silly mishaps, while trying not to enjoy it too much.

I thought things couldn’t get any better, but I received a cigar-smoking, wine-boozing gingerbread man nametag when I got into work that fateful day.

Oh my god, this was going to be the best company Christmas party ever.

While I thought it was super cool enough to take home and show my mom, there is a certain stigma around nametags that hasn’t seemed to go away since I left grade school. They’re awkward. Nobody wants to wear them. And I didn’t want to be the only loser wearing a cigar-smooking, wine-boozing gingerbread man at the company Christmas party.

So I put it on just before we entered the restaurant.

To my delight, not only was most everyone else wearing their nametags, but servers were standing in a line with trays of white wine, red wine, beer, mini sandwiches and hush puppies (I put the break on for those).

I did not, however, take a drink right then. Although I knew I could “Sip and Switch,” I was trying to play it safe: Do Not Be The Drunk One At Company Christmas Party.

All was going well, about two and half hours in, I had only nearly finished one glass of Champagne, taken a few sips of my Rosé Champagne with my lunch and left my tediously muddled Mojito at the bar after just a couple of sips.

Mostly, I was planning on Sipping and Switching the cocktails I had checked out on the restaurant’s website before the party. My new friend—that I made because she was wearing the same H&M dress as me—thought this sounded like a good idea, so we took a seat at the bar (Mistake #1) and each ordered a Coltrane’s Resolution.

Served in a Champagne flute, this little cocktail made with Lillet and blood red orange juice, seemed harmless, but I finished it (Mistake #2) before I remembered to Switch. Next, we ordered the Billie Holiday, the delicious apple cidery concotion served in a Martini glass and rimmed with cane sugar. I had seen someone spill on a colleague earlier in the party. At this point I got up to socialize and forgot The Rules.

“Last call!”

These words seem to have a Pavlovian effect on me: “Last call,” Salivate, “Where’s the bar?”

The bar was crowded with other Pavlov’s dogs who were looking to get one last free top-shelf drink before we were kicked out and sent back to the office. So I decided to take pity on the bartender, and rather than order another cocktail that I actually wanted and would have enjoyed, I took the easy road for the bartender, “Scotch on the rocks, please.”

Although I never drank the Patrón Tequila shot that someone had handed me and I carried around for awhile, and my new friend kept sipping my Scotch, I was officially drunk in a mere half hour or so. Quite possibly, a record.

Before heading to the “After Party,” some people went back to the office to grab their belongings, some wanted to finish up some work, and I wanted everyone to try Champagne with the wine sorbet I had in the freezer. Delicious.

About ten people were standing around my cube when my co-workers’ boss, who is sitting in my chair, suggests that I open the bottle of Irish whiskey, which I wouldn’t do because it is sort of like a trophy of my first feature. But I said ok to the Bailey’s Mint Chocolate, opened some mini bottles of craft whisky that the owner of that company never intended for me mix with anything—let alone with Bailey’s and ice in paper cups in my makeshift cubicle bar.

Mixing cocktails in my cubicle, by far the most fun I’ve ever had in that space.

Champagne and Caviar

2006-12-05T12:45:00.000-05:00

There are moments when I truly cannot believe how good I have it—for a first job anyway. This morning I went into the office kitchen to wash my pear for my 11 am snack, and the video department was cleaning up after a Champagne tasting video they just shot and asked if I’d like some Champagne and Caviar.

But of course, daaaahling! I’m a sophisticate. I do live on the Upper East Side. And I’ve never tried Caviar.

Well, it’s gross. Salty fish eggs aren’t for me, even with egg whites on top and even Champagne Taittinger Nocturne to wash it down.

But I am now sitting in my cubicle enjoying Melba Toasts sans Caviar, blackberries, cherries and a paper cup of a bottle of Champagne I could never afford, toasting the good life.

"Looks Like You Have a Boyfriend!"

2006-10-18T18:09:00.000-04:00

Today I got felt up on the subway.

Ha. Actually, I got my knee rubbed. A lot. It was kind of weird, but I won’t lie, I enjoyed it. I can’t remember the last time somebody rubbed my knee.

The only knee rub incident I remember was when my highschool boyfriend rubbed my bare knee while his mom was sitting in the backseat. We were in a Jetta, she totally saw. When we picked her up from BWI, she insisted that I sit in the front, but when he reached over, I completely regreted that I wasn't more insistant that she sit in the front. I mean you can't yell, "Aah! What are you doing? Get off me!" like you are totally disgusted with her child. That doesn't make a good impression either—and this was, in fact, the first she met me. Mortifying.

Knee Rub I'll Never Forget #2 started out innocently enough. I noticed that he was interested in the colorful shopping bag sitting on my lap. He obviously wasn't shy and reached out to touch it.

He smiled. I smiled.

Usually I ignore strangers but I couldn't ignore him. He was pretty cute; I had noticed him from across the train before I even sat down next to him.

Then he touched my knee and I thought nothing of it, this is New York City and people are always bumping, smacking, running into each other, especially in the subway. But when he started to stroke my knee I really wasn't sure what to do.

I was expecting his mom to do something, but she seemed to be oblivious to the events unfolding under her nose, so I had to keep my cool. Knee Rub I'll Never Forget #2 was in front of another mom. My picture is going to be posted on a website with a headline that reads "Hussy," warning all moms to keep my super soft knees way from their sons.

A persistant flirter, he continued to smile and touch my knee or my bag. I'll admit I encouraged him with smiles and waves. When the 6 train reached my stop, I smiled, waved and said, "Goodbye!" But he frowned, looking pitiful and dejected, rejected and completely distraught.

While his mother never seemed to notice any of this, an older gentleman sitting across from us had. As I scooched out, he said to me, "Looks like you have a boyfriend!"

"I know!" I said, happy that someone used the words "you" and "boyfriend" in a single sentence that was directed at me.

Oh, did I mention that "he" was a baby?

Look me up in about 20 years, baby!

Next Stop, Uh? Or Where the Hell Am I?

2006-10-17T22:30:00.000-04:00

I went to Brooklyn on Sunday and ended up on a train to, er, Long Island? The end of New York City? I'm honestly not sure where the heck I was once I realized that I was traveling in the opposite direction of the East River. This little side trip cost me 45 minutes of my life. But I was ok with it because I wasn't late for something like usual; I didn't even have anywhere to be!

But my excursion got me thinking about the unpleasant—and funny if it's not happening to you—things that happen to people in New York City. And the longer you're stay, the more you'll get to check off your list. Lucky you.

1. Getting on a train going in the wrong direction. (Usually this happens to tourists. Manhattanites when they venture off the island to the realm of street names—CHECK.)

2. Missing your train stop. (Usually, people who fall asleep, like my Italian friends who wound up in the Bronx in the middle of the night. That's right, Italians wearing tighter pants in the Bronx at 4 am. Dum-dums who aren't paying attention—CHECK. And, of course, people who get stuck in the train because other people, jerkfaces, with complete disregard for others sardine (Yup, I'm using that as a verb.) into train.)

3. Getting splashed by a bus, think "Home Alone in New York." (This happens to the people who aren't paying attention and don't jump behind their friends, or sisters. My sister got splashed when she was visiting me. When I told my friend about this, he said, "Don't you just wish you could go back in time and pull her out of the way?" "Um, no. It was pretty damn funny." Sorry Sissy.)

4. Unwanted contact with birds. (A pigeon poops on you—CHECK. A bird flies into your chin, but that only happens to Annie. Pigeons eat your puke.)

5. Stepping in a black ice puddle, without boots. (This happens to everyone, snow, gah. Anyway, to keep with form—CHECK.)

6. Getting or nearly getting hit by a cab, a car, a truck, an SUV, a bike. (This doesn't happen to tourists much because they obey WalkingWhiteMan and RedHand, however, for those of us that live here, as my mom likes to say, "It's a jungle out there." CHECK.)

7. Seeing other humans, not dogs, pee. (Anyone and especially people who run along the East River or walk around Gramercy Park apparently.)

Oh Snap, I've turned into My Grandma

2006-10-07T19:18:00.000-04:00

My dad's mom, Peg, was big on reusing things that should probably not be reused. As a kid, it was torture, torture to watch this woman open a present because she opened it soooooo carefully so she could reuse the wrapping paper. I did not understand this at all.

A present, the most exciting thing in world, is in your lap and you delaying the discovery of what it is? What is wrong with you?!?! Rip IT OFF!!! Tear! TEAR TEAR!!!

(Christmas morning was race to see who could open all their presents first—my sister or me. So I could just not understand this slow, methodical way of opening a present.)

As I got older and more impatient, teenagers are like soooo busy and important, it just got annoying.

Oh goody, let's what Grandma open another present. Sure I have all day, it's not like I'm waiting for a boy to call me or anything. Hmph.

However, today I understand the importance of making moments like this last. Christmas morning lasts a lot longer these days. Mom have you made the coffee? Is there a lot? A lot, a lot Mom. When I do indulge in 4-buck-cup aka a Tall, Nonfat Latte from Starbucks these days, it is a treat.

I'e been "pulling a Grandma" with plastic bags. I have been, um, reusing the little plastic snack bags I put pretzels or raisins in. This, of course, is a means to save money, it's NEW YORK freaking expensive CITY y'all. Baggies accumulate in my purse. I'm a tool. I carry around plastic baggies. This would be very conveinent if someone cut their finger off, but I guess we'd have to wash the bag first.

But my reusing of plastic obsession got a little sicker today. I decided to make an omlet because I had a yellow pepper and a tomato from the Union Square farmers market in my fridge. After I grated the cheese, which was the last bit of the block, I saved the saran from the cheese to cover the leftovers. And then it hit me, Whoa! This is something Grandma would have done! ha. Uh oh. It's never pleasant moment for a woman when she realizes that she has turned into her mother—or grandmother.

Panic.

Anyway, that aside. Although Grandma saved all that wrapping paper over the years, I NEVER saw it again. My grandparents usually gave us money as presents—in an envelope. But one would think that I would have seen that damn Sally Foster wrapping paper again.

What did she do with it? Stack it in a closet, creating the world's biggest fire hazard? Did my grandfather throw it away once they got home? This is really starting to bother me.

The Pretty Colors of Fall, All 300 of Them

2006-10-02T21:42:00.001-04:00

Don't you love New York in the fall? It
makes me want to buy school supplies. I
would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened
pencils if I knew your name and address.

—"You Got Mail"

It has become a bit chilly in New York City (yet, they still haven't turned off the AC in my office...) and I can't stop thinking about this quote.

I'm really missing school this year. Way more than last year. Last year I just wanted a job...ha hA HA!

I'm even missing Virginia Tech's Drill Field, which I still blame for making me late to every class freshman and sophomore year when I had to walk across it—or maybe I was late because I wanted to see the end of "Trading Spaces" and I loathed Microeconomics...

But I don't just miss the all-nighters at the Math Empo, actually being able to sleep in past 10 AM, buying $2 liter beers of Natty Lite at Hokie House and VT football games—kids' uniforms and knee socks are getting me all nostaglic about my Catholic school days. I'm tempted to trek to the Brooklyn Target for a bright yellow box of 300 Crayola Crayons with colors like "Macaroni and Cheese" and "Blue Green" and "Green Blue."

New notebooks! Pens! Pencils!

Maybe I just liked the shopping...

Or maybe I miss the excitement of Pizza Wednesdays at St. John's Elementary School or tag days at O'Connell High School, dress down days that cost a $1 for student council fundraisers. Tag Days were a HUGE deal in high school, like, a total bigger deal than Fashion Week in Bryant Park—trip to Abercrombie & Fitch required. Of course these days I can eat pizza for lunch any day I want—if I disregard my bank account and my waistline—and I do have Casual "Jeans" Friday, for free.

Maybe, my boss wouldn't mind if I expensed a 50-count box of Crayons.

If You Didn't Know...Peeing in Public...

2006-09-26T19:05:00.000-04:00

Isn't just for homeless people!!!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in this city, even if you are the a proud tenant who turns in a hefty rent check every month, you may still choose to pee in the streets. Go ahead, everybody's doing it! Just get yourself a pair of manila folders to hold on either side of your junk while you whip in out in between a pair of SUVs that are parked next to Gramercy Park. Hell, it's the last private park in New York City—to get in youd need akey. Nevermind that Julia Roberts (who lives in one of the buildings surrounding the park) might see you, nevermind might traumatize an editorial assistant on her lunch break—for life. Please, relieve yourself, we all understand, a toliet—excluding of course those McDonalds and Starbucks on every corner—is just too damn far away.

The Cold Conspiracy

2006-09-20T16:43:00.000-04:00

I am pretty sure that my office has created a conspiracy to get us to dress better. We journalists, art directors and Internet geeks aren’t the best, or shall I say most professional dressers. (Exception: fashion journalists, I assume, I’ve never actually been in that kind of office…) Jeans day is Friday, but some people rock their dungarees just about everyday of the week, especially in the art department. One co-worker has said, “Pay me more money and I’ll get better clothes.” Ha!

So, it’s definitely not summer any more (yet my face still sweat when I walk to work, ew, but not ew enough not to walk, I call that Smelling it to The Man), but it’s FREEZING in this office, so I have started wearing jackets to create my signature pseudo-suit look (bottom and top doesn’t match, can be different colors or materials, either way, not looking too good is the only requirement).

I thought maybe, this conspiracy was all in my head, that I was the only one that started wearing jackets…but then the accounting guys started wearing long sleeve shirts and ties EVERYDAY instead of their usual polos and khakis. I thought to myself, “Bridget, you are not crazy.”

If You Didn't Know...A Truck Speeding Towards You...

2006-09-19T23:53:00.000-04:00

is really FREAKING terrifying.

Yes, I was nearly hit by a truck at 8pm. Holy hell! I was crossing the street during a White Man, which means "WALK!" not "HIT PEOPLE!" It was close. Too close. I have been joking for too long that I was going to get get it by a taxi (It happened to an editor I worked with). Once my health insurance kicked in I even boasted that I could get hit! I was kind of excited that I had healthcare...

And at 10:20 pm a Land Rover was driving in REVERSE down First Avenue. OK, this time, it was Red Hand, which means "DON'T GO YOU IDIOT!" Even when there is nobody coming down the street? Red Hand says, "YES! BECAUSE LAND ROVERS LIKE TO DRIVE BACKWARDS AND THROUGH RED LIGHTS ON THIS STREET."

Why, oh why isn't the laundry mat on the east side of the street?

New York: 4,349; Bridget: 1

2006-09-06T23:22:00.000-04:00

New York is a is a great city. But if I never moved here I could have continued my blissful awe of Manhattan from afar. Maybe it would have been better that way.

There's a lot of dog shit on the sidewalks here.

Just think, there's probably more millionaires per square foot of this island, yet it's covered in poo.

I can still enter the blissful awe whenever I watch "Sex and the City" or movies set in New York, but I don't feel like that place and the place I live are the same. I admit: I was hoping that I'd be living it up Carrie Bradshaw style, typing whitty observations on my laptop, buying shoes, attending exclusive parties, dating attractive men and wearing really ridiculously good looking, or just ridiculous (almost anything goes here) outfits.

But living in New York seems to be more about living like Frugal Fannie than Carrie Bradshaw. I've only bought four pairs of shoes since January, an all-time low this late in the year. When I look in the mirror each morning, I feel like the girl in "The Devil Wears Prada," just not so skinny. And my dating life has been, er, more than frugal.

However! My job has proved to just a little bit cool. And today I conquered my nemsis, the cute, fashionably dressed, PR party-girl.

The event: A party for Esquire Magazine.

The scene: The Garden of Ono at Hotel Gansevoort in the Meatpacking district.

The intimidation factor: A red carpet.

The overreaction: It was a small and cheesey red carpet.

The PR girl: fake smile, fake tan, fake blonde and more notably clipboard, pen, The List, and the power to say, "No, you are not on The List."

Me: Dressed in black (but different shades) and really incredibly cool Italian punk rocker shoes. (Can you see them from up there?)

PRG: "Who's next?"

I walked up.

PRG: "You're with them?" Pointing to a group of men.

ME: "No. Bridget Eldridge."

She scans. She scans.

PRG: "Whose list are you on?"

They confirmed! They confirmed! Yet, I knew this was going to happen.

ME: "Er, what?"

The pen stops.

PRG: "Oh ok. And you?" Pointing to Annie.

ME: "She's with me!"

Triumph!

PRG unhooked the ropes and let us through.

I turned to Annie: "Wow, that felt really good!" She nodded.

As I turned to check out the scene I overheard a petite seeminly true blonde ask a photographer, "Do you date models?"

"No."

Though I thought the night couldn't get any better, I met the most wonderful and attractive man who is taking me out to dinner on Friday, making my night complete. OK not that good, but it was an open vodka bar.

Sometimes, sometimes this city lives to its fantasy.

Hailing a Bus

2006-08-28T00:09:00.000-04:00

Annie lives smack between two bus stops on 3rd Ave., which travels uptown. After an episode of "Project Runway" last week I stepped out of her apartment to see that the bus had already stopped at the 23rd St. stop, so I hiked up my skirt (a little) and ran for the next stop. I didn't make it. (Of course.)

I didn't stop running and yelled, "You suck!"

Then, someone whistled.

The bus stopped!

I got on.

I didn't think the bus sucked anymore.

I liked the bus.

"Did you whistle?" the bus driver asked me.

I shook my head.

When I got off I made a point to display my gratitude with a big gushy "Thaaaank you!!" to the bus driver.

Someone hailed me a bus. And it wasn't even my doorman.*

*I live in a sixth floor walkup. We don't have a doorman.

D.C. Nostalgia

2006-08-18T17:28:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I honestly miss D.C.

Where as New York is all "I'm so snobby!" in a skinny, fashionable model/actress way; D.C. is "I'm so snobby!" in a I went to Princeton/Yale/UVA way.

NYC: "Oh my god I saw Ben Stiller!"
D.C.: "Oh my god I saw Barack Obama!"

NYC: "I wear a suit to Wall St."
D.C.: "I always wear a grey suit and a blue or red tie! (I like to mix it up.)"

NYC: "Check out my BIG ASS Balenciaga bag!"
D.C.: "Check out my BIG ASS S.U.V.!"

NYC: "I depise chain restaurants!"
D.C.: "My favorite restaurant is Outback Steakhouse, and of course, Starbucks! I just looove Starbucks."

NYC: "I'm a Manahattan snob!"
D.C.: "I'm a Northern Virginia snob!"

NYC: "I miss Target. There's one in Brooklyn. That's far."
D.C.: "I live within a 10 mile radius of SEVEN Targets!"

NYC: "I hate that skinny bitch Lindsay Lohan."
D.C.: "I hate that bitchy bitch Hillary Clinton."

NYC: "George Bush is such a dumb ass."
50-percent of D.C.: "George Bush is such a dumb ass."
50-percent of D.C.: "George Bush is such a dumb ass, but I have to do what he says or I'm out of a job."

Corners

2006-08-15T22:33:00.000-04:00

I think I saw a prostitute under the Queensboro Bridge at 6:45 in the morning. It was the start of a new day for me. I was dragging my ass to the gym. I guess it was the end of a day's, er, night's work for her. I didn't want to stare, so I didn't turn around until after I passed under the bridge and crossed 59th St. She was gone. Damn, that was quick. She really must have been prostitute. After all, who stands under a bridge at 6:45 am wearing skin tight shorts hiked up like to look underwear and high heels that lace up the leg that isn't a prostitute?

Around 2:30 pm this afternoon I'm standing on a corner myself. The Red Hand is telling me to stay put, so I'm standing there.

"You must not be from here, or you would have gone by now!"

I shot this man holding a McDonalds bag the Look of Death. I hadn't seen sunlight in over six hours and missed having lunch with Annie because I had been caught up with work—proofreading and putting changes into Quark—WITHOUT my left contact because it had broken in HALF. I felt like I was the Grand Duke with the monocle in Cinderella. So the Look of Death was more like a Skewed, Squinting Look of Death.

"I live here. I'm on my lunch break and I'm not in a hurry."

"Well, I'm from California!"

Hmmm. I care?

When the White Walker signaled that it was OK to cross he actually said: "Nice talking to you!"

If You Didn't Know...Honking...

2006-08-14T21:34:00.000-04:00

Is ILLEGAL in New York.

Unless, of course you are about to hit someone.

But, if you're not, and no one is in imminent danger of Death by Taxi—hence, you are just being an ass—then it will cost you $350.

Except, I've never seen anyone get a ticket for honking, but I did watch Kent get a $ 50 ticket for smoking a cigarette within the parameters of the outdoor subway stop at Yankee Stadium.

So I'll keep on keeping on with my "SHUT UP! Won't you juuuust shuuuut up!" plead to the just-emerged-from-the-Queensboro-tunnel jackasses when I walk down East 63rd St.

Let's Go Hokies InYourFace!

2006-08-08T23:17:00.000-04:00

There’s one sure fire way to be catcalled in New York: Virginia Tech clothing. You, the unassuming victim, will be walking down the street minding your own business when, “YEAH! WOO!” There’s a screaming girl walking down the street towards you, a girl, not a construction worker, not a skitzo, a normal looking girl.

You ask yourself (in an Australian accent): “WTF, mate?”*

And before you pass each other by, she gets in your face:

“Let’s GOOO HOKIES!”

Ah, but of course, you are wearing a Virginia Tech Hokies hat.

While this happens to me on a regular basis, just last week there was a run in with a dreaded Ooova-er.

“AH!” Imagine the voice of a cartoon super hero’s nemesis. “A..HOKIE!” he says with spite, spite! “A whole pack of Hokies! Gah! I went to U-V-A!”

I whip around, stick out my chest to proudly display VIRGINIA TECH FOOTBALL on my t-shirt, definitely my nemesis, “BOOOOOO UVA!” I yell waving emphatic THUMBS DOWN motions.

But sometimes, I’m the one catcalling the Hokies. Just today there was an unassuming (the person is always unassuming) kid is walking down Park Avenue and I see him.

Oh, I’m sooo saying something.

I actually get in his face—geeze, what’s wrong with me—as he passed by, “Let’s gooo HOKIESEEES!!!”

He turns around and I’m still smiling at him like a dirty, sweaty, catcalling construction worker, only I’m a dirty, sweaty, badly dressed 9-to-5-er who has removed the sweater of her outfit that is SO FALL and is wearing a tan tank top that makes me, maybe, but hopefully not, look naked.

WELCOME TO NY!!!

*Scary Side Note^: Über-popular at VT two years ago, this animated cartoon at is now completely outdated and just made me very, very old.
^Even Scarier Side Note: I still use most of the cartoon's "funny" phrases on a regular basis. woot...

Bottle Shots

2006-08-08T17:59:00.000-04:00

So today I’m doing a little background research on a brand’s new Web site that’s listing Alana Cumming as one of its “trendsetters.” And since Alan and I go way back to May—I averted my eyes as he passed by me at Iriving 71 and then I, no joke, found $20 (always wanted to say that)—I was surprised to see that he has launched a fragrance, “Cumming the Fragrance.”* He never told me about it anyway.

Yikes, Alan, cheesey bottle. And what are those thumbnails at the top, pictures of you? Hmmm, you have a piereced nipple, well I never knew that. Um, wait a minute, lots of sexy half-naked/totally-naked-just-not-showing-anything Alan Cumming pictures to sell a cologne? Why would…..oooh, I am definitely out of the target audience for this ad campiagn.

And oh my gosh, I’m at work and if anybody saw that, thumbs down.

*Hmm, cannot link the actual site, but type in Cummingthefragance.com to see Alan in the semi-nude. teehee

HelloHello x Two

2006-08-07T22:54:00.000-04:00

After two years of owning two t-shirts that say the EXACT same thing in different languages, I've finally realized: I OWN TWO T-SHORTS THAT SAY THE EXACT SAME THING IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES!! What's wrong with me?

I mean, I understand enough Italian to know that "Ciao" means "Hello." Heck, I know enough Italian to know that "Ciao" also means "Bye."

More importantly, who needs TWO t-shirts that say, "Hello! Hello!" In my personal expereince (obviously, doublely more than I was aware before) wearing such as phrase on a t-shirt is just an invitation for some smartass to say, "HELLO! HELLO!" all up in my face. Like you are soooo clever and NO ONE has ever done THAT before.

Hmph!

But, seriously HOW have I not realized—in two years—that I own TWO shirts that say the same thing? Two shirts. Same whitty message.

The only conclusion I can gather: The shirts have VERY different histories.

I acquired "Ciao Ciaco" during my Thanksgiving trip with Sable to Firenze! to visit LoLo (sniff, just realized all those images are gone, particularly the one with me and EIGHT Italians guys, stupid computer). This shirt is the STAPLE of the tourist bartering expereince in Florence. It only costs € 5, but I was buying five and I actually convined the ragazzi to give me ALL FIVE for ONLY € 20! Woot!

"Hello. Hello." Now this is a story. Coach Caroline made me this shirt in the Summer of 2004, because I did something silly, so she immoralized it on a shirt thanks to Ali at Le T-Shirt (who wants her to marry his son, but if he wasn't married himself, he'd probably be trying to get her to marry himself...).

During that summer I discovered that being the CRAZIEST person on the planet held the attention span of 5- to 8-year-olds for 2 minute spurts. So, the whole summer, "Coach Bridget, you are sooo WEIRD!"

One Wednesday night meet, Coach Caroline is talking to the coach of the other team, Coach Brad (Coach Patrick later discovered his name). I catch a glimpse of Coach Brad and decide that he's cute, (later, I decide he's not). They finish talking, she walks over to me, I assume he's gone and out of earshot when when I gush: "Heeel-LO! Heeel-LO!" I turn and right there is Coach Brad.

Smooooth!

At the All Star Meet, my fellow coaches dared to go up to him and say, "Coach Brad! Hello! Hello!" Caroline even said she'd buy my lunch. I was too humiliated.

****

I was thinking about how that summer turn me into a Wild and Crazy Guy, er, girl, after which I really could no longer take my self seriously...

For example, senior year I went on spring break in Jamaica that the DJ taglined: "Sex, Drugs, and JERK CHICKEN!" The night before I come down with bronchitis (diagonosed as pneumonia the next week) everyone is dancing on the beach all MTV-spring-break and I'm dancing all goofy. It's spring break. It's Jamaica. And I just can't bring myself to celebrate "Sex, Drugs, and JERK CHICKEN!" through my dancing because everyone seems ready lick the person next to him or her that I feel like I could just stand there and get hit on, so why should I even shake my booty, espcially when there's some crazy girl shaking her ass in a pink skirt.... Oh my, was that a butt check?

Anyway, whether or not standing around like a bump on a log would have enticed the boys, I'll never know. The next day I woke up shaking uncontrollably thinking it was the craziest hang over ever, until I went to the clinic and they told me that I had a fever of 104.

So, I'm walking back from the clinic, still shaking uncontrollably, and someone starts yelling at me, "Hello! Hello!"

I'm sick! Pervert!

"Hello! Hello!"

oh. damn shirt.

"hi."

All Hail Suburbia!

2006-08-06T14:55:00.000-04:00

I began telling people that I was from D.C. in high school. I realized that most people don't know where McLean, VA is. (C.I.A.!) But, D.C. is our nation's capital and while I now realize (having moved away) that most people know jack-poo-poo about their nation's capital ("I went to the National Mall in 8th grade and that's it"), at least they can point to it on a map.

That's saying something. Have you ever tried to point to a city in the Midwest in under three seconds? Impossible! But it certainly riles Midwesterners. One day when I was studying in b.f.e. (oh god, my initials!) Paderno del Grappa, Italy, a couple of my fellow study abroaders and I were examing a map of the U.S. that was hanging in the other cafe (total of two) of this little Italian town. They were both from Kansas (the program was through the University of Kansas and I had never met so many Midwesterners in my life, I found them to be, surprisingly, normal) and I was asking them where their school was located, "People on the East and West coast don't know anything about the Midwest, you guys just don't even care!"

I felt a little ashamed, but: Duh.

At Virginia Tech, I acutally began telling people I was from "Nova," which was troubling to adjust to, considering that in Northern Virginia, NOVA is Northern Virginia Community College, and we are major where-did-you-go-to-school snobs. (I also picked up "Y'all." I try to it use sparingly.)

So when I moved to New York, I went back to telling people I'm from D.C. and people think that I actually lived in the city ("Scary! Gun shots!") and I have to launch into an explanation on D.C.'s transient 9-to-5 nature. This inevitably causes an uproar with New Jerseyers, "You can't say that! I don't tell people I'm from New York!" (Ha. That's cause you are from Jersery. I went there once. I totally get all the jokes now.)

Really, I'm just going to start telling people that I'm from suburbia, it's pretty much the same everywhere, right? Then no one will ask me why I don't have a southern accent, "But you're from Virginia."

That's Northern. Virginia.

2006-08-05T16:46:00.000-04:00

This is how I feel about sushi. It's good. I like it enough (heart). But I could never eat a lot of it (gate) because it is RAW FISH (ew).

But sure have eaten a lot of it since I've lived in New York. People are crazy about it. And I totally get that. The transitive property (If a=b, and b=c, then a=c):

If (a.) Sushi's rawness grosses me out
Then (b.) I can't eat a lot of sushi (like McDonalds fries, yet, also gross)
And if I can't eat a lot then, (c.) I get skinny

So...Sushi will make me skinny! I'm so eating MORE. No, wait...

My Name! In HTML Code!

2006-08-03T23:41:00.000-04:00

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! So excited.

Interview with Unsung.

iCationNano

2006-08-01T22:00:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, New York makes me feel like I might be a crazy person. So, when I was reading the New York Magazine's "Summer Guide" issue that suggested I take a Nano Vacation, I repeated, "Cold Spring, NY, Cold Spring, NY, Cold Spring, NY" three-times fast and then I forgot about it.

Luckily, I was reading the magazine at the gym and hadn't finished going through the issue, so I went back and checked, ("Cold Spring, NY, Cold Spring, NY, Cold Spring, NY" three-times fast) and still forgot, but thankfully nymag.com came to the rescue!

And oh, did I do everything Corrie suggested, Foundry Café ($9 sandwich! holy shit. But as my dad always says, "Well since we're on vacation..."), Hudson Valley Outfitters for directions, because the the cute little old man at the Visitor's Center (a hut-like concrete structure) couldn't tell me how to get there. So I got in for directions and feel like I should buy something since I was going to be asking for directions. $8 bug spray! Holy shit again ("OK, since I'm on vacation...") and the lady tells me that I need a map. Efffff. Do I have "NYC Asshole" stamped on my forehead? I just bought BUG SPRAY FOR EIGHT DOLLARS AND SIXTY-THREE CENTS!!!, so, NO, thank you.

OK, I did almost everything, I definitely didn't make it the whole 4.5 miles. I might walk that much each day around Manhattan, seriously. But there are no major hills covered with rocks that bust open my forehead if I fell. I was also without someone with me to keep me going. Bridget! One we get to the top, we get to climb a BIG rock to see the ENTIRE WORLD! Really? Yeah. Oooooh, the ENTIRE WORLD! So. I stopped. I turned around. I slipped a little and freaked out that I would break my leg ALONE in the wilderness. Because THAT would happen to me.

I was taken aback when I stopped and what did I hear? Nothing. And then the bugs started up. But that nothing was pretty special.

The Hudson Valley Trail complete with Nature! Dirt! Bug Bites! A wilderness trail less than a mile from the train station! No honking! No sirens! No people talking on cell phones! (Except during the 1 1/2 hour train ride, of course.) Exclamation point!

And documented by my lovely CAMERA PHONE:

grass! rocks! dirt!

a plant that i cannot identify!

the hudson river!

cold spring's record store.

what prompted me to say that i might want a mini van one day, shut up.

Ode to Le Camera Phone

2006-07-31T23:51:00.000-04:00

I was going to post some totally rocking pictures that I took with my camera phone, but alas, the internet has decided that I am NOT ALLOWED!

BOO!

I've become quite the Japanese tourist. I take pictures all the time with my camera phone. ALL the time. Enough that I made people pose for a camera phone pic during dinner tonight. Yikes.

My digital camera has been broken for the last year as I left it in my backpack during one too many swim practices and it conked out. I have yet to fix it. But! It has been sitting in my apartment in NYC for a couple of months. Progress from sitting at home in McLean.

While I would take awesomely good pictures with my high tech Canon Rebel! that I bought two years ago all the time it:
a) uses film, which costs money that I don't have for the bad pictures I will inevitably take
b) is obvious, which is thumbs down when you are trying to photograph Dr. McDreamy or white leggings, yes WHITE! I know, you so want to see them. Gosh! Stupid Internet.

Unfortunately the camera phone takes pictures of the utmost crappy resolution—but without I would have missed documenting:
1. that I was three feet from McDreamy. drool.
2. Jess cleaning herself after falling in a mud puddle. HA!
3. the rabbit/French fight in Washington Square Park.

Oh wow internet, you are holding yourself in suspense. Why are you being so silly!?!

To: The Bathroom Talkers

2006-07-28T15:36:00.000-04:00

People. People. Seriously, what is up with having phone conversations in the bathroom? Even if you aren’t pulling a talk-and-flush, I am going to flush eventually, and then whoever you’re talking to will know that you are IN A RESTROOM! Doesn’t this concern you? Maybe you want to have a private conversation with your boyfriend, take a walk around the building! Maybe you need to call your cell phone company about your broken phone…do it from your desk, please. I would much rather listen to that discussion at my desk than while I’m trying to pee.

Update: Four Stitches and an Estimated $1200 Poorer

2006-07-21T01:15:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I got four stitches out of my finger.

Ten days ago I found out the harddrive of my computer had crashed. (Yes, this is related...) And the dude at the Apple store, was NOT very sympathetic about it. He was so nonchalant that I thought he was joking. He was not.

I was pretty upset with myself for letting this happen considering that:
a) My dad works with computers for a living and every Saturday during my childhood the computer was OFF LIMITS for several hours (It was the 90s, people!) while it was being BACKED UP.
b) I spilled water on my computer in the middle of senior year and was without a computer for three weeks, after I dried it out and turned it on, which lasted a good 15 minutes before it short circuited. So I had already gone through the pain of losing all the digital images of my college years! However! They were saved! It was only the motherboard. This time the Powerbook was not so lucky.
c) This was Sayonara! to $300, $336.73 to be precise. Which I could doublely not afford because I had joined a gym that I can't afford four days earlier, taking $300 out of my Savings account, that I was going to put back in when I got paid, but it went to Mikey at Mikey's HookUp in Brooklyn that nonchalant Apple guy directed me to for repairs.

So what I do?

I CLEAN! DAMNIT.

I was going to clean until I became a responsible adult and that meant scraping the purple nail polish that I spilled when I broke a bottle three months ago off the bathroom floor. And once I was down there...yikes!...the nail polish was on the toliet bowl, and on the wall, and on the pipes.

And oh wow! What's that there behind the toliet? A BIG PIECE OF GLASS COVERED IN PURPLE POLISH AND HAS DRIED TO THE FLOOR?

WHY DON'T I PULL ON IT UNTIL I SLICE OPEN MY FINGER?!?!

And then I went into HYSTERICS.

FlynnFact: Bridget has major blood curdling screams. In fourth grade she tripped and fell outside her mom's preschool classroom and the Pre-K teacher thought she had been hit by a car.

So hysterics....and here's why I am really proud of myself: I wasn't crying and freaking out because of the HEART BEAT in my finger. I was crying and freaking out because I had FAILED as a responsible adult. (And no one was answering their phone to come save me.)

So when Lizzie showed up in the ER, she found this to be quite humorous.

I'm also blamming this whole incident on my recent acquisition of health insurance and the FlynnFact that I like use, open, put on or wear whatever new thing I get, the second I get it.

But seriously, it could have been worse as I almost had health insurance.

But still, I shouldn't have boasted to everyone that "I can now get hit by a cab!"

Or maybe I should just learn my lesson and NOT take unclaimed Sunday papers. Because, maybe, that was really the cause of my hospital visit until 4 am.

And let me just say, there are some real characters hanging around New York City ER's in the middle of the night.

Hey Mom! Look what I did!

2006-07-20T01:31:00.000-04:00

Woo! That's French Bull
The last two sentences, may not be mine, but I SWOON over my words in digital land.

"Shit" that's Funny

2006-07-19T00:09:00.000-04:00

Two years ago I was saying that if we reelected Bush, at least we'd have someone to laugh at for the next four years. Not that we wouldn't have laughed at Kerry or that it's hard to find politicaliticians who've done or said something stupid each day, but when it comes to speaking publicly, or ~~privately~~ to Tony Blair on an open mic feed STRAIGHT to the "disgraceful" media, there's no one more comical than shit-talker George W. Bush.

The good Christian cusses! Muuhahaha.

What I really love about this story: every journalist mentions that Bush was "munching on a buttered roll" when he dropped the expletive.

As much as I dislike the man, he does have a point. HOWEVER, please, oh please get anyone to solve this latest world peace dilema or it will be:

"Premature Victory! And Buttered Rolls for ALL!"

The Great Wine Giveaway

2006-07-16T22:15:00.000-04:00

This is my desk at work:

Juan: Wow. You have a job. All college frat boys. Dream of.

Yes, yes I do.

Happy Birthday to Jackie

2006-07-16T20:47:00.000-04:00

For Jackie's bday I got her the coolest card.

Front (Black background, White writing): It's your birthday and I got you this card!!!

Inside (White Duh. Black Writing): This is the inside!

And then a drew a cool stick figure drawing of me and her holding hands and glasses of beer. Jackie with Bud Light. Bridget with Miller Lite.

Back: This is the back!

Jackie: Thank you for the card. It was awesone..and very Bridget.
Me: you're welcome!!!
Me: did you like the drawing
Jackie: I LOVED IT!
Jackie: it was beautiful

Jackie totally rocks my socks.

So I Never Did Find Out What Happened

2006-07-13T18:58:00.000-04:00

with the BOMB SCARE.

I forgot to watch the news. Opps.

And the next day I frantically looked from Metro New York: nothing; spent the first hour, or so...looking up stuff online: nothing; brought it up with my boss at lunch: a very disinterested-this-happens-all-the-time-"Oh yeah? Did you hear about the other one the other day?"

SO! I don't know what happened and so-called o'mighty seeks of truth, ahem, journalists have FAILED me. But my dad and my co-worker suggested that since no one died the story wouldn't be published, so as to not encourage any crazy bastards. Point taken.

However!

Do the o'might seeks of truth know that little ol'me was making herself a salad when her actress roommate burst through the door of the hallway-kitchen entrance and said (dramatically!) :

"There's a bomb scare!"

"A what? Are you joking?"

"I just talked to a lady and she said that they've tackled a man in front of the Chirping Chicken aand that he went in there with fake bomb a couple of days ago, but today he has a real bomb. There's police! And fire trucks! And the street is blocked off!"

"I JUST ate there!"

EMOTIONAL CONNECTION TO RESTAURANT THAT WAS ALMOST BLOWN UP!

"You should go out and see it!"

Then I couldn't really get myself out the door, Do I need my keys? Do I need a space suit? A shield? My dinner! I lie, I was just worried about my keys because I locked myself out of my apartment back in April. And my dinner.

Once outside: Why am I walking towards a bomb? Stupid. Yet, so curious! Oooh. Lots of cute firemen. Oh. I don't look so good, I was planning on doing laundry. First Avenue is blocked. Can't get to laundry mat. Involuntary procrastination. Sweet.

A curious observence: some New Yorkers didn't even care about this. Emotion, please! They were going for a run! They were going to catch a cab! Ha. Suckers. Point is: there were many people that tried to cross blocked-off First Ave.

And later when it was over and traffic had started flowing again. you would have never know it happened. On the way to the laundry mat I saw detectives talking to a man in a tie-dyed shirt, the same man people mentioned when I was standing around outside? There was a ton of broken glass on the opposite side of the street, but it might not have been related. The Chirppin Chicken was serving food. I was the only one still confused, curious and worried. To everyone else, it was late, dark and as Annie likes to say, "already tomorrow."

Upper East Side Bomb Scare

2006-06-28T19:46:00.000-04:00

NEW YORK (June 28, 2006)—There's a bomb scare going in the Upper East Side at this very moment (8:00 pm). At the Chirping Chicken (where I ate dinner two and a half weeks ago) at 66th and First Avenue. That's a whole block and a half from my apartment.

I can't find any news on the TV or on the Web, so I guess I am going to have to play journalist, here's what I know:

all of which is speculation, but who cares because I am first, FIRST! to put it on the internet

A man went into the Chirping Chicken the other day with a fake bomb.

Today he went in with a real bomb.

They got him.

He lives a building across the street from me and a couple of buildings up (and his neighbor really freaked out when she found out it was him).

He's Russian and had a long-time girlfriend.

There are men in space suits outside of the Chirping Chicken.

Traffic is at a standstill on First Avenue. Just imagine that.

There's lots of yellow tape and cute police officers standing around. (Bridget should put on something nice and try to get herself a date.)

There's a fire truck. (Probably more than one, but I can only see one.)

No one has been hurt. As far as I know. (Hopefully, this is true.)

I'm watching the 10 o'clock news tonight.

My roommate wants to go watch the Red Sox/Mets game at Baker Street Pub on 63rd and First. (I wonder how long it will take her to get there.)

Blacksburg, VA, Live and on Craigslist!

2006-06-24T13:21:00.000-04:00

So I already thought Craig was, like, the best guy ever, and now he's put The Burg on The List. He is EVEN cooler.

Thanks to Craig, when I moved to New York I found an apartment in TWO DAYS! (Which, I now realize was pure luck. I met some real crazies when I was looking for apartments in May because Heather and I thought we were going to be kicked out of our apartment to end up homeless and living under a bridge in Central Park.)

Blacksburg has arrived. Craigslist.org. You go Hokies. Craigslist is really something that the Hokies have needed for awhile, think subleases, selling microwaves, online dating—no—online hooking up?

I also recently discovered that Craigslist has a "Best of" page that is, in flynnfact, the most hilarious thing EVER, after The Onion.

And now that I'm on the subject of The Coolest Things on the Internet, Wikipedia.org totally rules.

Let's Go Hokies! I mean, Yankees! I mean, Pointy Shoes?

2006-06-23T23:58:00.000-04:00

I just returned from my very first New York Yankees game. And if that's not New York enough, I wore heels. Really super cool white heels that I got in Venice, Italy—very pointy and witch-like, with zippers and studs.

I wanted to take a pic of my shoes with the field in the background, but we were with Jessica's uncle and I didn't want to freak him out by swinging my feet over the seat in front of me (no one was sitting there when I came up with this brillant work of art in my mind's eye) and whipping out my camera phone to document the event. Italian shoes + Yankees game = If one of the players saw my shoes, he would totally want to date me.

Why was I wearing heels you ask? Because Jessica got the tickets in the middle of the work day and I didn't have time to go home and change because we were...what was that? The flip-flops I walk to work in? Yes, I had them in my bag the whole time. Huh? Well, because I didn't want to wear them! I wanted to wear my damn heels! They look so good! Shut up! NO! My feet do NOT desperately hurt because I ALWAYS RUN AROUND NEW YORK IN HEELS JUST LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW!

I lie.

But! If there was such a place as fashion heaven, shoes would be my saving grace. In a city like New York where people are running around looking so damn good all the time, I have realized that I:

-am not fashionable, AT ALL
-couldn't afford to be even if I wanted to be.

Luckily, most of my shoes ROCK and people compliment them.

I would like to be more fashionable, alas, I realize that with no Stacey and Clinton in sight, I will be continuing to leave my apartment every morning looking like a dork.

Time Out: If I ever saw Stacey or Clinton on the street, I would stop them and beg them shamelessly for help.

It didn't always used to be like this. I remember being at the mall in 4th grade, standing in front of a mirror at Hetch's while my mom waited in line at the cashier and thinking about HOW GOOD I looked. I was wearing my hair DOWN (big deal, I hated to shower in those days and only did so once a week) and was dressed in a white pocket t-shirt from the GAP (which, with the Limited Too, I considered to be the ONLY acceptable stores, but was OBSESSED with the Gap) tucked into my jeans that were rolled and folded up over my white socks (when I changed the color of the t-shirt, I would change the color of the socks so they MATCHED, very important) and my school shoes that were basically black leather cowboy boots that stopped at the ankles, more like cowboy shoes. This was my quintessential outfit. This was fashion. In DC. (Oh we are so plain in DC.) But that was 1992 and I did. look. DAMN. GOOD.

But 14 years later, it's 2006 and I desparately need summer clothes that I can wear to work. I counted a mere four shirts that are short sleeves in closet. Yikes!

The last time I faced the shit-I-have-to-actually-dress-myself-everyday experience was a couple of weeks into college. After 12 years wearing a uniform, dressing yourself in the morning within five minutes is just NOT possible. Of course, a few weeks later I discovered a new uniform—jeans, flip-flops and a t-shirt or sweatshirt...

So this was suppose to be a post about going to a Yankees game and yet I rambled about my wardrobe (I totally care about sports) and that I always feel like a major dork, especially when I wear those khaki pants from the Gap that are cut REALLY bad, but were only $17.

So yeah, next time I'm in DC wearing the college uniform and someone says, "Oh, I thought you would be wearing, you know, pointy shoes, since you live in New York."

I'll say, "I do. I wear them to Yankees games!"

A Four Hour Lunch, A Four Hour Lunch

2006-06-22T23:27:00.000-04:00

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful lunch.
That started in a Central Park,
amid this crowded isle.
The mag was a mighty pub of trade,
of spirits, wine and beer.
Two editors set off that day,
for a four hour lunch, a four hour lunch...
The shmoozing started getting rough,
they could not get away.
If not for the tasting of the vintage wine,
the Bridget would be lost; the Bridget would be lost.
The lunch took long oh much too long, how disorganized they were,
with journalists, the Gondelier too,
the Man that cheats on his wife,
the Half Naked Model, the Chilean, and rosé wine,
at Central Park Boat House.

*****

Before the lunch we saw a nun leisurely riding a bike through Central Park. She was dressed full robes and habit. I was so mad I couldn't get to my camera phone. So I drew a picture:

Freelance Swim Instructor

2006-06-22T00:28:00.000-04:00

Meet Coach Bridget: the crazy, goofy clown, er, swim coach that will definitely teach your PRECIOUS child to swim WITHOUT drowning. She may be wacky. She may be silly. She may not be on time. But she WILL jump in the pool fully clothed (t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, maybe sunglasses, hell, prescription glasses) JUST to entertain YOUR KID.

Coach Bridget specializes in teaching your child how to:
-swim with SPOONS (closed hands) and not FORKS (open fingers)
-dive, not jump, a la SUPERMAN style into the water
-touch with TWO HANDS, or not
-frog kick, "UP, OUT, aaaaaaaaand AROUND" (She can say it 7-times fast with a duct-taped mouth.)
-pick up stuff off the BOTTOM OF THE POOL

and most importantly,not really for swim team, but FOR LIFE...

-JUMP OFF THE DIVING BOARD!!!

Yes, she is a miracle worker, and in four half-hour sessions, YOUR KID, yes the very one that will not put his/her face in the water, WILL PUT HIS/HER FACE IN THE WATER for only $20 per session! Parents of New York, do not let this unique opportunity pass you by, it is already the second day of summer and your kid is a LOOOSER that CAN'T SWIM, yet.

*****

I swear I'm not making this up. I rock at swim lessons. Just read the testimonials:

PK got his nickname because he was afraid to swim without a kickboard, "Patrick with a Kickboard." But Coach Bridget changed that. Now, he's "Patrick withOUT a Kickboard," still "PK."

Vivian wouldn't stick her face in the water until Coach Bridget showed her that if you pretend to blow your nose in the water, bubbles come out. Thanks to Coach Bridget, she wants to be a dolphin trainer when she grows up.

Christopher didn't like to put his face in the water. Coach Bridget tricked him to go under the buoys and then Christopher really hated Coach Bridget after that and wouldn't get in the water anymore. When he grows up, he plans to sue.

Smooches

2006-06-18T02:04:00.000-04:00

At my sissy's 22nd bday BBQ today, I learned that my mother, my father and the DeBucks witnessed my second kiss EVER.

AaaH!

I don't even remember that boy kissing me goodbye. Apparently, my mom does.

Did they witness the god-awful-open-mouth-swirling-tongue-bit that was my first kiss? Or was the second round more tasteful? (Ha. Taste.)

I do remember the first kiss as it was long awaited. Since, like, the first day I of high school. And I was already in the middle of my sophmore year! I had spent the better part of my freshman year swooning over Leonardo DiCaprio in "Titantic" (FOUR times in the theater!) and at least once a week in "Romeo and Juliet." (Oh the pool scene!) I just knew that my first kiss was going to be AWESOME, even if I had to wait for it, for like forever.

I finally got that kiss when I turned 16. During my sweet 16th birthday party. He a freshman. Who became my boyfriend for a month. And now I know why my mom didn't like him.

It was a majorly lame first kiss. A bunch of people were in my room and then everyone cleared out. We sat on my bed. Our lips met, we opened our mouths and swirled our tongues in a circular motion. It was: EVERYTHING I DREAMED IT WOULD BE.

Bridget and Lizzie's Crosstown Bus Adventure

2006-06-17T00:20:00.000-04:00

I was almost killed last night.

I'm going to start a lobbying group that aims to install seatbelts in buses across the United States by 2011.

Most people that visit from DC are apprehensive about riding the public bus in New York. Northern Virginia's bus system is so complicated that we just avoid it all together--er, Northern Virginians are major lazy asses and would never walk to a bus stop, much less figure out how to take a public bus to work when they can drive their VERY OWN SUV!

Anyways--the buses in New York are straight shots north, south, east and west. They drop me off on the corner of my street, much closer than the subway! They take me through Central Park, while the subway does not. And I love them. Cell phone service, hello! And after a night of celebrating sissy's birthday with happy hour and sushi, I thought I would give her a call to inform that I had fun on her bday and I hope she did too.

Midcall, at approximately 10 pm Thursday night, the M 72 Bus slammed its breaks in the middle of Central Park. Sitting in one of the sideways seats, I slid and crashed into the seat in front of me that was occupied by a Jewish man wearing a Jamaican-inspired--red, black, green and yellow--kippot (I personally like these).
Lizzie came flying behind and crashed into me. Before I had realized that my skull was not cracked open, we had launched into a fit of loud, annoying, happy hour-induced laughter that went on for longer than it should have.

My poor sister was confused. Various friends were later drunk dialed on the walk home. My mom wrote me an e-mail this morning to say it was very nice that I called my sister, but "Why were you drunk?"

"A car bomb, Mom. Don't ask, you don't want to know what it is."

My Very Own Penguin!

2006-06-11T21:25:00.000-04:00

Media parties are pretty cool...booze, "Cheese, Gromit!" and gift bags! The schmoozing intimidates me, but I recently got a box of my VERY OWN BUISNESS CARDS and I just can't wait to hand those babies out.

"Hello Ms. X. So nice to meet you!"

Whamp. Whamp. Whamp.

"Why you don't say! Here's my card. Please keep in touch and let me know what is going on with your company!"

The last event I attended was at BED, which I honestly only attened because the nightclub was featured in an episode of Sex and the City and if I tried to get in on a Saturday night I'd be waiting in line for two hours. So I braved the rainstorm and I'm glad I did because Little Penguin Wine has started a promotion to save the little penguins of Austalia and I got a penguin adoption (and two bottles of wine and penguin earrings) in my giftbag! Woo! I am a proud penguin parent!

Ah! My Virgin Eyes!

2006-06-11T14:48:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I went to the Museum of Sex. hehe.

It was like looking at drawings of reproductive organs in a science textbook in middle school and giggling with friends, but a whole lot dirtier. Shower please!

I thought it was going to be more like: In the 1950s, Lucy and Ricky Ricardo of "I Love Lucy" slept in separate beds. But by the late 90s, characters were not only sleeping together, but baring it all on HBO's "Sex and the City." And Alfred C. Kinsey was the first person to study sex....

And less like: Invention. Red button with a sign that says "Press." And under the photograph of the inventor, "Joe Schmo from Springfield developed this spinning..."

Flynn Fact: Japanese prints and Pokemon will never be the same after "Peeping, Probing and Porn: Four Centuries of Graphic Sex in Japan."

Frenchmen. Frenchmen. Everywhere.

2006-06-09T01:49:00.000-04:00

The bootycall is living in an apartment with Frenchmen. And I can't get "Hee hee hee! Haw haw haw!" from The Little Mermaid's "Les Poissons" out of my head. It was a giggle fit at Lizzie's apartment last weekend when we could hear them speaking French upstairs, but were too shy to say, "HALLO!" So when we left her apartment, we spoke in bad French accents the rest of the night.

Lizzie: "I want to run up there and yell, 'SACRE BLEU!'"

I still haven't gotten over HOW FRENCH they pronounce their own names...DaMEEON! and OLeeeVIEER!

But it seems that it is le week of le french, because I was in Starbucks wearing these very awesome shoes:
The Polka Dots

When the man in line behind me said, "Ah! Beeautiful shoes!"

"Oh! Thank you!"

"Very beautiful!"

"I got them in Italy." LOVE telling people that.

"Oh! Well! I am FRENCH!"

Mental: "HE! HE! HE! HAW! HAW! HAW!"

Ben Stiller! Part 2

2006-06-09T01:28:00.001-04:00

I tried to write something. I failed. So I bring you, fair internet, an IM conversation—in pure unedited typing debauchery—between sissyface and myself regarding the week's Us Magazine-worthy event.

me: i saw ben stiller!
sissy: how?
me: how what?
sissy: how did you see him?
sissy: ben stiller
me: i was walking to central park with lizzie he was wlaking in the opposite direction
sissy: just by himself?
sissy: did you walk right past him?
me: yes and yes
sissy: wait so ben stiller
sissy: explain
me: he was walking and i was in awe
me: blushed and asked lizzie if that was really him
me: and she was like: mouth haning open
sissy: and he walked right by you?
me: yup
sissy: dizzy damn
sissy: did he look at you?
me: yup
sissy: were other people noticing him?
me: he knows i exist!!
me: OH MY GOD
sissy: hahahaha
me: not really
sissy: whoa dude
sissy: did he smile at all?
sissy: or was he like oh geez
sissy: peeeeooooooople noticingme
me: he smiled because we probably looked like blithering idiots
sissy: hahaha
sissy: that's cool
me: i think it was: these girls are dumb
sissy: see you can't just say that you saw ben stiller
sissy: you have to say that ben stiller walked by and looked and smiled at you
me: and knows i exist!!!
me: he was short
sissy: oh really?
me: if he married lizzie and they had kids...the kids would be pocket-sized
sissy: like 8 or 9 million people in the city and you ran into ben stiller
sissy: hahahahahaha
sissy: pocket-sized
sissy: they should name one of them polly

OHMYGODISTHATBENSTILLER?

2006-06-05T22:29:00.000-04:00

A real celebrity sighting on the Upper East Side tonight. None of that “How do I know him?” crap. This was the jaw-dropping-face-reddening-trying-to-be-cool-while-you-ask-your-friend-under-your-breath-is-that-a-famous-person-?-kind of deal. And I know that celebrities are human beings, but I was SHOCKED to see Ben Stiller walking down the street in real life just like he walks in the movies! Yes, one foot in front of the other. But I’m talking about the way he walks—walking all Ben Stiller-like down LIZZIE’S STREET. A whole hell of a lot closer to Central Park, but still, her street!

Speaking of how stars are “Just like Us!” I think that I am going to have to join Annie’s Us Magazine (Book) Club.

The 2004 ACC Champions Mug Debuts at The Office

2006-05-31T23:35:00.000-04:00

Not only do I have a job, but I display a coffee mug from my alma mater on my desk.

She Almost Knows Somebody Famous

2006-05-31T22:11:00.000-04:00

I don't remember what year it was when my parents decided that they would buy a second TV for our kitchen, but it was the year that my mornings began beginning with über-pepster Katie Couric. Because if there is one thing my mother loves more than the Today Show, it's Kaite Couric.

You know how as you get older, mothers call up their children to discuss the town gossip? Many of our conversations have included the phrase, "On the Today Show..."

In high school, mornings included:
a) getting out of bed 15 minutes before I needed to be in a car
b) putting on a uniform
c) Katie Couric's circa-7 am giggle.

The summer before my sophomore year of highschool my family spent an early morning "on the plaza" of Studio 1A. My father pre-set the VCR to record the Eldridge Family's debut on early morning television, which included my mother absent-mindedly staring into space at the temporary-people-fence for a good five seconds.

I remember Chris Rock was on the show that morning—possibly making fun of our then-president and who knows, maybe our future president or maybe not?Annie Curry signed my summer reading copy of Cry, the Beloved Country (I only know the title because I imbd-ed ((I verb-ed tehe.)) James Earl Jones. He was in the movie, which I never saw. But I remember that he was in the movie of a book I was suppose to read in high school, which I may or may not have read. Stellar Catholic education!).

My mother may not have been the best on air personality, but she was a darn good television fan. When Katie walked past, my mother called out to her, "I feel like I know you!" And the ever-gracious Katie responded, "You kind of do."

In one of the MANY Katie segments this morning—the hair through the years, the fashion through the years, the goodbyes, the goodlucks and the we'll miss you's—Katie talked about how people kind of do know her. And that made me wonder: What if she kind of remembers that one moment, the moment I remember my mother—starstruck.

Crappy (Literally) Things That Happened

2006-05-29T13:05:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago I decided I was psychic. I was sitting in McCarren Park in Brooklyn on a lovely Friday evening at the beginning of May. It was warm, not humid. People were playing softball and I was sitting at the edge of the park beyond Left Field. A gravel path separated the outfield and my patch of grass, but an inkling told me that a ball would coming flying my way and smack me in the head. Five minutes later this big dude is running towards me. "Heads Up!" I curled over covering my head in my hands, exposing my underwear to everyone sitting behind me. The dude rounded me like a slalom, trying to make the catch. "THUD!" I didn't get hit, but I was so close I could feel the dust.

Earlier in the week I had locked myself out of my apartment when my roommate wasn't in town. (Which really sucks at 11:30 pm on a Sunday night.) As I stepped through the door, unlocking it so I could get back in, I just knew I was going to lock myself out.

For about a week, I was pretty sure I was going to be hit by a cab, because I've imagined it thousands of times. It still might happen...

Anyways, Saturday afternoon I took Melina on a little tour of Central Park when something hit me on the shoulder. I turned right. I turned left. I did a little circle dance. And Oh My God! A bird DEFECATED on my shoulder! I must be psychic because my roommate and I had been discussing getting pooped on earlier in the week and coincidences just don't happen this regularly. Funny thing is that I was poo-ed on the moment I stepped out of the Central Park, which I believe if I conducted a study entitled, "Getting Pooped On in New York City," there would be a higher percentage of victims in Central Park than in anywhere else in Manhattan.

In closing I have to mention that my friend Annie was SMACKED IN THE FACE BY A SPARROW when she was walking on the street (in New York) the other day. This would only happen to Annie. SMACKED. In the FACE. By a SPARROW. A SPARROW!!!!

Everybody Stalks Chris

2006-05-26T15:34:00.000-04:00

I saw Chris Rock the other day.

He was sitting on a stoop. Chilling. And I didn't even recognize him. And then he manufactured a big toothy grin. (See: Johnathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated) Which made me notice the trailer trucks and I turned to my co-worker, "Was that Chris Rock?" "No way. What are you talking about?" "I bet your five bucks that if you back there, it will be Chris Rock." He didn't. But I swallowed my pride and asked the restaurant hostess Chris Rock's movie was filming in the area.

Last week his movie trailers (I've never seen so many) were all over my neighborhood. There were cables. Clothes. Random scruffy-looking dudes. And they were filming in the French restaurant my parents almost ate at the week earlier.

So yeah. I'm stalking Chris Rock.

And the list grows.

Dear Juan,

2006-05-23T16:23:00.000-04:00

There is a Juan in my office that does "The Juan Giggle," but not "The Annoyingly Uproarious Juan Laugh"—thank god.

Tenthennial Extravaganza! In 24 Great Smelling Colors!

2006-05-18T19:19:00.000-04:00

In celebration of the 10th episode, Teen Girl Squad is alive (as in video graphics) and in COLOR!! Written, produced, and now colored by Strong Bad from worldwide (on college campuses) homestarrunner.com fame, the newest episode features cameo appearance from some of your old favorites including Tompkins and "them olda boys."

In this episode, the Ugly One is throwing a "b'grl prty!" for her birthday, Cheerleader wears a "Sell Fish" dress, So-and-so reveals that she and the elusive Brett Bretterson have called it quits, and What's her Face spins around in circles the whole damn time.

Flynn Fact: It is...SOOO GOOD!

Fabulousness News

2006-05-18T10:31:00.000-04:00

The bootycall will be only TWO BLOCKS away this summer. Two blocks! So close that I won’t have to leave a toothbrush in her bathroom! I will be able to walk home to brush my teeth in my own bathroom!

Sophomore year of college I slept in Lizzie’s bed regularly because I lived in the dorms and taking the drunk bus back to campus with all the freshman was a bitch. So, I kept a toothbrush over there and called her my bootycall because she was always trying to put her arm around me in the middle of the night. HeHe.

So the bootycall is going to be living with Frenchmen. Like three or four of them with one bathroom. She said another apartment with one bathroom and five people told her it wasn’t a problem for them. I say the French are notorious for stinkyness, so she should be able to get in the bathroom whenever she feels like it.

Crappity Crap Crap Crap

2006-05-18T00:16:00.000-04:00

Was my catch phrase last week when everything was going wrong. I think I'll be using it for years to come. If you want to be cool like me, you can use it too. I don't mind.

So You Think New You City is Glamourous?

2006-05-17T23:27:00.000-04:00

Do ya? Do ya? Do ya?

I did. Most of the time I try not to. But with so much glamour all around me all the time...

Halt!

Before I go on, I think I should mention that I saw a dead mouse on the street when I was walking to the subway yesterday. I live in a fairly clean party of town, i.e. there is not a lot of trash on the sidewalks, but dog/human pee and poo smears are standard. This was the first rodent I saw outside of the subway (thank god my apartment is vermin-free) and the mouse was gutted. I could see it's muscles and it looked like chicken. I hope the dog enjoyed it.

...sometimes it is hard to forget that it is all a big fat lie. Like the multimillion dollar condominium I temped at on Wall St. The reception area was huge, beautiful and nicely decorated in the let's get a Mac because it's prettier, but let's put Windows on it kind of way. I watched La Dolce Vita on the plasma all day. Waiters brought me fresh OJ and coffee. But when I went in the back to return the glasses I found one small office for four people—cramped quarters to say the least.

That day one of the skinny beautiful women commented that most of the people that walked in didn't look like they had any money. She was right, they weren't carrying $1000 designer handbags, they were wearing tennis shoes, they had frizzy hair. It seems that in New York, those with money keep it in their bank account. Those with a little money flaunt it like Paris Hilton. And the rest of us try to maket ourselves happy by purchasing coffee daily, because hey we can afford THAT!

Ha.

I added it up. $1.25, five days a week, 49 weeks a year (not including vacation and holidays) totals $303.75!

A boss once told me that she never buys coffee because she would rather buy jewelry. I could buy a Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress if I give up coffee. The $1.25 street vendor coffee...I'm so glad I've kicked my Starbucks habit...$1215!

A New American Product: By Golly, It's Cola Flavored!

2006-05-16T22:46:00.000-04:00

Check out this new cola flavored liqueur. Yesterday, I got a bottle of the stuff. For free. Some say I have the best job ever.

I really love PR people. They are always excited. Peppy. Upbeat. They print their press releases onto sparklely gold paper. (The stuff I write comes out on plain white paper from the printer of death.) They also have the power to spread free random logoed stuff to the world like tank tops, bandanas, chapsticks, temporary tatoos. Do they think I'm a 14 year-old girl? eriously, change the logo and leave out the liquor out of the package and it could have been from Bonnie Bell.

But it is liquor. And the bottle will sit on my desk as decoration. Aging. Refining. Until I pack more than 10 people into my apartment (because that would be a challenge) for a cola liqueur tasting. Just like this guy.

I must say that I really enjoy the marketing strategy: "America's Liqueur." Imagine Rod Roddy from the The Price is Right saying the following:

Germany has Jägermeister. France has Grand Marnier. And the USA has Redcliff, the COLA FLAVORED LIQUEUR! For a really sick drink mix it with Red Bull!

America, we should really stick to sports. Or fast food.

I Won't be Homeless!

2006-05-16T00:02:00.000-04:00

Or living with this guy. I get to stay in my apartment. Phew.

I don't have to live with the cracked out dude in the East Village. I don't have to move my stuff across the East River.

Life if good. So good that I decided to offer a parking attendant at the parking garage next to my building a Twizzler. And the next time I walked by he handed me a flower and wrote his number on it. Actually, come to think of it...I always smile at those guys when I walk by.

I'm so naive.

The List

2006-05-12T17:35:00.000-04:00

1. Detective Stabler (Why would I use his real name? It is so much cooler to say Detective Elliot Stabler. If I were him, that'’s how I'’d introduce myself.) at the Westin Hotel in Time Square.
It was my third or fourth day in New York and I went by to pick up a copy of Where Magazine. And they were obviously filming. I stuck around to watch, but didn'’t think anything of it. This cute old lady came up to me to ask if I knew what was going on and I said I didn'’t. She suggested that it was a commercial. Ten minutes later Detective Stabler walks by and I think how do I know him? And then I pull a total giddy sorority girl on the old lady and she totally does the same and we squeal.

2. Ice-T was also at the filming. He looks like such a bad ass even from far away.

3. Jerry O'Connell was on the May 2006 issue of Men's Fitness and a friend of a friend was doing an internship with the company that put on the party at Nikki Beach.
Favorite quote of the evening: I have to reside in L.A. because of my job.

4. Blythe Danner may or may not have been reading the newspaper in Bryant Park. I did the whole, "How do I know her thing?"” again.

5. Elisa Donovan was at a showing of Kiss Me Again in the Tribeca Film Festival that I attended.
In my personal opinion, this 15-minutes of Clueless-fame star should have stuck to mean girl persona as opposed to the pyscho lesbian lover she played in this movie.

6. Surprisingly in the same night, David Blaine was in a fish bowl in Lincoln Center.

7. Alan Cumming decided to go to Irving 71 on Thursday when I decided to get a medium Chai at Irving 71.

And then I found $20, and who knows, maybe Alan Cumming dropped it.

Snap. Crackle. And Splash.

2006-05-08T22:51:00.000-04:00

Here’s a handy fact for all you bar-hopping ladies: there are some real assholes out there.

Duh.

OK, now here’s a little Flynn Fact: Throwing a drink in a man's face is best reserved for a deserving ex-boyfriend.

I know, I know. You’ve always wanted to do it. So did I. And then I did. And then the jerk threw his drink in my face. What the?

Clearly, he deserved it.

It was the day I completed my internship. I had NO idea what was next. I had been living in scared in New York for two and half months and now, I had nothing—no internship, no plan, no money, no job prospects. On the plus side: I had Clips! REAL WORLD EXPERIENCE! But still.

I’m sure I busted out with it because I don’t consider it to be a bullshit question. What you do is part of who you are. And asking questions is part of what I do. So I do it. Especially in my personal life. Asking questions keeps me from having to answer questions.

And with this guy I should have told him my name was Dakota and I was visiting from Walla Walla, Washington. Because we started arguing about something… Who knows, politics? Perhaps I was defending my popped-collar dissertation. I don’t know. But he went for the low blow. A blow so low, I don’t think I had witnessed it since third grade when my former best friend yelled, “You don’t know my mother’s maiden name!” I stopped being her friend after that because I had obviously overlooked the fact that she was an idiot.

So this guy…who was from like New Jersey…goes for that third grade “get em where their weak” tactic, with some mockery like, “Aw I dunno what I’m doing with my life. I did a little internship. ”

Splash!

Splash! Again!

Sable, my awesomely cool bad-guy-chasing friend: Come on, Bri. Let’s go.

Me: NO! He will go!

And he did. Ha!

The whole rooftop was starting. I had caused a scene. Awesome. Still. I won.

I think.

Flynn Fact #2: When you do something like the above, don’t tell your mother. She wasn’t happy.

Mom: You’re lucky that’s all that happened to you! You’re lucky he didn’t hit you!

Me: I think he would have been arrested if he hit me.

Mom: I read about this kind of stuff in the news.

Imette St. Guillen had been in the news.

Me: About girls getting beat up in bars?

Mom: YES! Well, I hope he didn’t have much of his drink left. I wouldn’t want it to get all over you.

Me: I do! I hope it was full! I hope he wasted his money!

Flynn Fact #3: But DO tell your father.

Later that night…

Dad: Say, have you been to any bars in New York?

Me: Don’t worry Dad! From now on I’ve reserved drink-throwing for ex-boyfriends.

Laughter? It seemed my father found this to be humorous.

Me: Wait, this is funny to you?

Dad: Yeah. I thought girls were going to do that to me a number of times. Next time, just don’t tell your mother.

Me: Point taken. Next time, Dad...you’ll be the first to know.

Yes I Did, But No I Did NOT Wait in Line to Touch the Fish Bowl

2006-05-08T20:24:00.000-04:00

I saw David Blaine in Lincoln Center. I did. But only because I was going to be walking by Lincoln Center anyway. And NO I did wait in line to touch the fish bowl.

Coach Patrick: That's what they want you to do. You stuck it to them!

Heck yeah. I'm bad ass. The badest bad ass that made the trip to see David Blaine. I even considered throwing something inside the fish bowl. But there were cops. And I have bad aim.

But I can tell you the meaning of life, I mean, I can tell you why David Blaine was in the fish bowl for seven days...a two-hour television special simply cannot be made out of nine minutes of breath-holding. Even David Blaine's death-defying card tricks will not keep a 5 year-old watching for two hours. But if you build a water bubble, put David Blaine in it for seven days, they will come.

Dear New York:

2006-05-07T23:34:00.000-04:00

Why are you hammering at 11:32 pm on a Sunday night? I know you never sleep, but please refrain from hammering between the hours of 9 pm and 6 am.

Love,
ME

Don't Bother Me...I'm Journaling

2006-05-07T23:28:00.000-04:00

Wow, I crack myself up.

Of Course I Can Tell You Where a Good Bar Is. Walk that Way and You'll be in the East Village. Which One Should You Go to? I have NO Idea!

2006-05-06T15:56:00.000-04:00

Last night Annie and I were walking around trying to decide what to do. (Like always, because we are bad decision makers.) And this couple stopped us and asked us what direction they should go in to find a bar.

How the heck did they think we live here? Because honestly, I'm just a tourist that happens to pay rent in New York.

We decided it was one of two things...

1. We crossed the street when the light was red. (Tourists do NOT cross when the Red Hand says it's not safe. It could be 3 am without a car in sight and visiting friends tell me that I'm not allowed cross the street.)

2. We were carrying big handbags. (When you live in New York you never know how long you'll be gone so you might as well have everything you might need with you. It was 10 pm and I hadn't been home since 8:30am.)

Maybe I'm a pseudo-tourist. I walk fast down 5th Avenue, but I always stop at Rockerfeller Center. I go to Lincoln Center to see David Blaine in the fish bowl, but only because I'm already in the area and do NOT wait in line to wave at him. I buy the big soft pretzels from vendors, but only because I don't have time to make myself dinner. Jerry O'Connell arrives at the Men's Fitness party and I follow my friends to get a look at him, but I vocalize that I'm not impressed.

It's a good thing my digital camera is broken and in D.C. or else I would have taken pictures of all of the above.

2006-05-06T01:18:00.000-04:00

Cliche for Thought: The best and worst thing about being an adult is making decisions.

Rules of the Beverage Business

2006-05-03T18:45:00.000-04:00

Back in the day I was a member of The Private Bush Club (TPBC), which I should probably not be divulging on the internet because it was private (obvi) and exclusive (there were four of us and we weren’t letting anyone else in damnit…not that anyone else ever asked…but not like anyone could because we didn’t tell anyone, duh). I may have been the Vice President because I was the second oldest. But we erased our memories as to never reveal the interworkings of the TPBC. But I do remember that we sold lip-smackingly good cookies. And lemonade. And CRAFTS!

Boy, did those crafts bring in the big bucks. I think we each went home with $12 that Saturday. For only 3 hours of work. That’s like $4 an hour and it was sweet. And I stuffed my face with Mrs. Denk’s chocolate chip cookies when I was alone at the table and everyone else was off taking a bathroom break or making more lemonade. Bonus!

But those were the days when I was making the big bucks. My first lemonade stand was not as profitable. A kindergarten friend and I set up a stand after school one day in the middle of winter—the only person that came was my mom. And she was pretending to be a customer. She didn’t drive up. She didn’t even bring out her purse. Just her wallet. Man, was I crushed.

That day I learned a very important lesson about selling beverages, you have to know your market— and McLeaners just aren’t going to buy lemonade at dusk in the middle of winter. Then, you have to come up with a rocking advertising campaign, as in fliers and signs that look damn good with bubble lettering.

I mean I practiced bubble lettering like it was my job—in my room after school, during school, but never during recess (Hey, we all need a break now and then!). Because presentation is EVERYTHING.

And that’s a principle I carry to this day. I will never allow an blurry image with a glamour shots back drop EVER be printed in a magazine. Sorry lady. I don’t care if you get your clients to send me a smaller image. I don’t care if you drop off a 5x7 you printed off your computer. When I say 300 dpi, I mean 300 dpi, even if you have to look it up in “Computers for Dummies.” Don’t assume that an actual photograph will cure the image’s blurriness. It will not. But hey, thanks anyway—I now have a little shrine to your product in my cube, a little decoration with a little cork off the top.

Hail to the Boot

2006-05-02T21:40:00.000-04:00

This time last year I was donning "The Boot," which was a real pain-in-the-ass. My favorite professor called me "Hop-Along." I was even more late to class because I was limping. And I had to drive everywhere. But I did get a Faculty/Staff parking sticker, which was amazing for dining hall dinner-rush purposes.

When I first moved to New York and I realized the insane amount of walking involved, I couldn't help praying to God that I will never again drink two Yuenglings at once, jump into a pool in a formal dress, trip and fall down concrete steps, which would clearly end with my stepping other people's toes in the subway with a big, fat BOOT for broken feet.

And when I see someone who has been cursed with the BOOT, I want to reach out, touch the person on the shoulder and say, "I know how it feels, man. But it sucks way more for you than it did for me. SUCKA!"

Oh I am so going to be hit by a bus.

Or a taxi.

Or a biker, as in bicycler, which for the first time today, I almost was.

Two Years Ago This was Cool

2006-05-01T22:14:00.000-04:00

This photo was taken en route to Italy--during my surprise visit to New York City, which involved hysteric crying, blisters from dragging around a suitcase I can fit in, and a $250 hotel room on 42nd St.

I found a magazine with a map of the city to serve as my guide for the day in the hotel room with the Tempurpedic Mattress (which I have to have one day). Score. Free map. I didn't read the magazine. A year and a half later I was working for the D.C. version. Four months post-firing I realized they were one in the same.

When you flashback through life, if your lucky (and you keep old maps), you discover the previews of your future. Which is oxymoronic, but I feel like I just made an important life discovery. Bada-Bing!

Two years ago I took that photo because thought the sign was really cool. Even though I have lived in New York only three and a half months most days that I don't even notice that my subway stop sign is a beautiful mosaic.

Well, shoot, the whole point of posting that picture was to make fun of my tourist-self for taking an ugly picture of something insignificant and silly, but I guess it turns out that those signs aren't insignificant if someone thinks they are pretty enough to photograph. (Such a work of art that snap shot is. Speaks to you, no?) Heck, balancing the subway's rodent problem with mosaic signs was genius.

How Do I Get a Photo on Here?

2006-05-01T21:58:00.001-04:00

Roses in an outdoor market in Ljubljana, Slovenia (according to the dictionary of bridget "loo-BEE-an-na").

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

2006-04-24T23:21:00.002-04:00

Or shall I say Cousin It? As this mop is looking a little freakish. Apparently, for Tom Hanks the storyline of The Da Vinci Code was not controversial enough. Choosing to sport a new look for the film, Hanks' stylists used a flat iron to smooth his long locks into a comb-back. No matter your opinion, rest assure that you are partaking in a serious national debate and keep informed with Newsweek.

First Job, Version 2 (J.1.2)

2006-04-21T11:25:00.000-04:00

Today I accepted my second first job--thats right, second first job, I was more or less fired from the first first job for lacking experience.

Beginning Monday, I will ride elevators, sit at a desk, and rewrite press releases into engaging and stimulating reading for professionals in alcohol biz at my new office on 28th and Park for $1000 less than J.1.1, even though I live in New York City, not at home with my parents.

Scary.

But I'm not unemployed and I have health benefits. Yes. Ben. Ne. Fits.

Oh, and I will be moving to Brooklyn or Queens or Harlem or under a bridge in Central Park.

How to Save Money in New York...Or Why I Don't Go to the Gym

2006-04-19T11:26:00.000-04:00

Call it my latest excuse--in the past year I set foot in a gym once, after the pneumonia and before the broken foot--but we all have to make sacrifices if we want to live in New York. And it's not like I haven't worked out in the past year. I went on a five-mile hike--panting--two days after my cast came off--like a dog. A few times last summer I donned some flippers and swam laps after lessons. And last fall I would run--walk--around my neighboorhood.

So when I moved here I wasn't about to dish out $75 for a gym membership that I wasn't sure I would use. Surprisingly, I am in better shape than before I moved here. Case in point--I actually ran around my neighboorhood over the weekend.

While I can't call myself "in shape" at this point in time, I was amazed that I ran so far--seven minutes!--over the weekend. (Yes, I'm seriously excited that I ran for SEVEN minutes.) The only other time in my life I was surprised by my athletic ability was after freshman year of college when I got my all-time best breaststroke time and the only explanation was that I had been lifting the past year. So why could I run as far as I did last weekend without getting cramps?

Was I working out without realizing it? Sleep-running? Hardly. Then it hit me...I have become more of a power-walking fiend than any of the old ladies in my McLean neighborhood. Which explains why everyone that's come to visit seems to be lollygagging.

I dodged people, strollers, dogs, and sparks flying from construction sites everyday as I walked to work on 47th and 3rd. I've gone on long exersions that took me from Chelsea to Tribecca to the Financial District and NoHo, which lasted all afternoon and always involved shopping and cupcakes. I climb stairs in the subway stations when the escalators are out of service, frequently, or by choice, once. Last week I trekked to the UPS building, which is pratically in New Jersey. And this week I unloaded, organized, and put away $400-worth of bulk-packaged groceries, I had ordered for the XE Capital office.

So without the help of Jenny Craig, The Biggest Loser, or my local Y, I am on my way to the Presidential Physical Fitness Award, if I can find a kid to steal a patch from.

How to Land a Job in New York

2006-04-13T09:16:00.000-04:00

One of the past year's great mysteries, how to land the elusive full-time job I would actually want--and not be freed six weeks later.

It is strange to think that a year ago I couldn't handle the thought of a 9-to-5 and these days, not only I am I obsessed with finding a 9-to-5, I crave it, dream it, and would it if I could. Oh to be able to pay my rent, my bills, and buy groceries without feeling guilty!

So far I've learned that if you want to move to New York, you have to show up, even if you don't have a plan. You temp, you sublease--expecting a secure job and a perfect apartment before you get here is not only impossible, it's just plain silly.

Here's what I've learned:

1. To get an apartment in New York, you need a job in New York. To get a job in New York you need an apartment in New York.

2. If you don't personally know someone moving out of an apartment, you are going to be paying a hefty broker fee. Luckily a man named Craig Newmark has a solution and while providing me with mine I came accross this article on Jessica's coffee table, which was next to her couch, which I was sleeping on because Annie's roommate is obsessive compulsive. I should also mention that I met Jessica the night I came over to sleep on her couch. Oh New York!

3. Temping is the best way to get the elusive "New York experience" Annie's interviewers claimed was required. (There is also unpaid internships, but that requires savings or loan.) It seems that employers are afraid that us southerners are not going to to be able to handle the hustle and bustle and dog pee of New York--this goes for anyone that didn't grow up or go to college on this god forsaken island.

4. No matter how compelling my argument, I will never convince people that I am not from the south. I am beginning to accept that most of the country does not know anything about their capital, besides the buildings that occupy The Mall, which for some will conjure the great white building of Tysons Corner. (This last point has nothing to do with job hunting, but it pisses off enough that I'm mentioning it. ((I suppose I deserve it since the kids I was in Italy with were from Kansas and they complained that people from the coasts knew nothing about the midwest, which I couldn't argue with.))

Insert brillant concluding sentence here.

I Love Coffee...Just Not When I Make It

2006-04-12T13:40:00.000-04:00

Today is the first time I made coffee for an office. Through three internships, a six-week stint in a "real" 9-to-5 job, and four adminstrative temping gigs, I have never made anyone a cup of coffee in an office besides myself.

In this fifth temping experience and first that will last more than two days, I made my first pots of coffee for an office. It is strange that I've been out of college for almost a year and this is the first time I was asked, expected, required to make a pot of coffee as part of my job. It is not that I think making coffee is beneath me--it is definitely not--if there is anything I've learned in the past year it is that a college education gets you in an office, but it doesn't mean that you will be using your brain once you get there, at least not 100 percent of the time. My problem is that whenever I make a pot of coffee, it is always disgusting.

My mother began to teach me the art of brewing the perfect cup when I moved back home after graduation. Not ready to enter the rat race, I signed up for one last summer of jumping in pools fully clothed as a swim coach. The enthusiasm required to entertain 50 seven year-olds at 7 am requires massive amount of caffine from the perfect pot of coffee, thus the coffee brewing quest.

As of yet I have mastered the too strong and the too weak varieties, this morning it was too strong. I winced as someone took a sip of my coffee, he didn't make an ick-face or pour it out, but he couldn't have thought it was good.

It is my hope that I will achieve the perfect balance of grinds and water by the time I am finished with this current gig, which is doubtful--but a girl can dream.

The Suitcase Incident

2006-03-31T15:13:00.000-05:00

My friends’ freshman dorm room looked like a tornado stormed through, spitting up not only clothes and shoes, but a TV, microwave, toaster oven, and even a suicidal fish (excavated days later). If the National Weather Service had to publish a report on the conditions of 640 O’Shag, they would probably refer to weather systems as Tornado Katie.

I’d never met anyone with more bathing suits, tube tops, halter tops, colorful preppy pants, and in general, random crap than Katie. She had a serious online shopping habit that was with fueled her mom’s credit card number, which she had memorized. So when Katie was packing her suitcase for a weekend in Texas, I wasn’t surprised by the size, it was as large as the suitcase I would eventually I take for a semester in Italy. The size the salesman said was for a family and was too big for me.

Katie arrived in time for the 6th floor of O’Shag’s Sunday night procrastination ritual, and we had packed ourselves on the futon between Katie and Sable’s lofts for the Texas trip details.

Although, Katie had gone to see a pseudo-boyfriend, I couldn’t help, but ask, “How much of that stuff did you actually use?”

“I needed options!”

“Like three purses? Did you actually wear all those shoes?”

“No.”

“I bet I could fit in that suitcase!”

I did. And Katie zipped me up.

“Leave a little room for air,” said Jackie with a laugh. At lease I thought it was Jackie, but I had become a little disoriented, not being able to see what was going on around me, and yet a new-found confidence had surfaced.

Next thing I know Katie is wheeling me down the hall, howling with laughter as I wave to my hallmates. And she parked me in front of RA Steph’s door.

“Hey! Check this out Steph!”

“Hiii!” I said with a wave. I always enjoyed her reaction to our crazy antics, she obviously enjoyed them while telling us we were idiots, which made me feel pretty cool.

“Oh my god! What are you guys doing? Who’s in there?” she said.

“It’s Bridget!”

Being a practical jokester Katie thought we should mess with the 5th floor boys, so about ten girls, RA Steph even joined in, followed the suitcase in the elevator. Katie parked me in front of Dan and Nate’s door and the girls hid around the corner trying to keep their composure, I would only hear stifled giggles as I knocked on the door. Of course, the buggers weren’t there.

I was feeling brave. I was concealed. “Put me in front of some random door!”

Next stop: study-lounge-turned-dorm-room.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

No answer.

I wasn’t going to take no for answer. I didn’t care if this guy was in the middle of beating his best score on his PS2, making out with his girlfriend, or wacking off, we were going to have a conversation. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Uh?” that’s all he could manage to say to the waving hand from the big black suitcase.

“Oh hello!” I perked up, “How are you doing this fine evening?”

“OK. Do you need some help?”

“Oh no.”

“I’ll unzip you.” Abort. Abort. Ceasefire.

“NO! No, just go back inside. And shut the door.” I said. And when I didn’t hear him move. “Now!”

I wondered if he was cute and that if he hadn’t been making out and he was cute, would he have made out with me? I was being wheeled again.

“Heeeey RA Dan,” said the girls. I waved.

The butthead grabbed the suitcase from Katie (at least I think it was Katie) and wheeled me into the boys’ bathroom.

“AAAAAAAH! Get me out of here right now!”

“Let’s go into the shower.”

Getting into the shower stalls involved going over a painful bump. I could hear my friends’ laughter. Assholes. Then he parked me. I cringed, waiting for Dan to turn on the water. If he did I would have to find a way to unzip myself and run out of the bathroom barefoot. Oh the fungus! The athlete’s foot! And that was just the beginning, in a college dorm at Virginia Tech, remnants of virtually anything gross and disgusting could probably be found on the bathroom floor of a boys’ bathroom.
By the grace of the dorm gods, Dan either didn’t think of turning on the showers or he knew that if he did, Katie would drop kick his ass to Wednesday and he would have to watch his back for the rest of the year.

Then, we head to the lobby because everyone decided it would be really funny for someone to get on the elevator with me in the suitcase.

Cucooned inside the suitcase, inside the elevator on the first floor of O’Shag I was imagining my friends strategically positioned around the lobby pretending nothing was going on. Of course, who walks in, but Dan and Nate. When the elevator door opened, the suitcase fell over. Thud. Then a simultaneous gasp, squeal, ohmygod and as the elevator door closed, shrieks.

“Aw, fuck.” Luckily, I didn’t go anywhere.

Once I was rescued from going nowhere Katie unzipped me and expectantly looked at me as if I was suppose to get out. But it was Sunday night, I thought about the peeing, the puking, I had heard that went on in this very elevator very weekend.

“ Zip me back up. I’m not touching this elevator with bare feet!”

Crazies

2006-03-31T10:21:00.000-05:00

Crazy people, one of the staples of New York City, they are everywhere. Crazy New Yorkers, think cabbies with a death wish, homeless leading solo sticking-it-to-the-man protests, women walking miles in four-inch heels, men with tupees, but people never think of the man using the internet at the computer next to him or her viewing old lady porn. Such an innocent bystander may be trying to mind his or her own business, not ignoring, just not even noticing what the man is viewing, until he brings attention to himself, by coughing, mumbling or making other strange noises in response to the old lady porn. At first notice of the troubled soul, the IB might go into ignore mode until old-lady-porn-lover drops a Kleenex under her desk, which if he does, she continues ignoring the situation by averting her eyes from his Kleenex-fumbling near her legs to an inevitable first glance of crazy man’s computer displaying thumbnails of the old-lady-porn brings. Trying to quell my fears that this was not happening, that I was in fact hallucinating I took another glance and yes, that is an old lady seductively staring back at the mumbling stranger and me.

What to do in such a situation as this? I adjust my baseball cap to block the view, but he is still murmuring, coughing, enjoying. Has the librarian behind me noticed? At least not yet, or she has and doesn’t want to deal with it. And I can’t ask her.

With 32 minutes of internet time remaining at the 67th Street Branch of the New York Public Library, I click done, end now, and run, far, far away.

Diiiiiiiet Coke

2006-03-10T16:44:00.000-05:00

Diet coke commercials have always been better the coke commericals-Cindy Crawford, that sexy worker guy. I clearly remember trying to hold the "diet" note as long as the guy playing the piano in a jazzy uber-90s-cool commercial. Yes, you know which one I'm talking about. Or, not. And I coudln't really tell you, I just remember singing diet till I lost my breath.

But these Diet Coke drinkers are in some kind of secret cult, so secret that some of us belong and don't even know it. Think about how you feel when the waiter says, "We have Pepsi, is that ok?" I am not even big soda drinker, but I always have to supress the urge to yell at the poor guy, "No! No, It is NOT ok. Give me my COKE!"

In 3rd grade I gave my Diet Coke-addict teacher a 6-pack (she didn't drink coffee) and holiday coaster as her Christmas present. It got my A's the rest of the year.

In several of my college marketing classes, professors and text books discussed how the Pepsi Challenge threatened Coke to develop the New Coke, which bombed despite marketing research that said it would blow Pepsi out of the water. The only catch was that Coke was already doing this.

Here's the deal: in blind taste tests, Pepsi was also favored over Coke, so Coke developed a formula that was as good as Pepsi's and replaced their old formula. As luck had it, people (this was in the 80s of course) protested this new formula, and Coke brought the less-tasty, but better selling formula back.

A nice little history lesson for why many of us are devasted when we enter a Pepsi institution. Myself included, who actually picked RC Cola (which I have never purchased) during a blind taste test in middle school.

Coffee While I Work

2006-03-08T11:12:00.000-05:00

I have finally discovered a reason to get out of the windowless intern office to get up and walk around, the coffee machine. Yes, Questex, finally got one since moving offices over a month ago (on my birthday) and more importantly, I finally discovered that it existed yesterday. It’s been around since last week and I didn’t even know it! Best of all, it is from Flavia, the same liquid stimulant company that Bain had, which is really exciting because I like to play with the machine. The final product is not great, but it has caffeine and it is an excuse to recharge with a walkabout.

"May I...?" Stammer, Stammer, Choke

2006-02-28T16:37:00.000-05:00

I have a serious fear of talking on the phone.

This irrational fear became more apparent last week, when I made cold calls as part of a research study on newspaper advertising for the management-consulting firm I temped at last Thursday and Friday. And yes, after over two hundred calls I do feel it is vital express that I was not acting as a telemarketer, but a bona fide teleresearcher, if you will, for a company paying Bain & Co. a lot of money to make their decisions and thus, my $14 an hour for all 16 hours of hell.
Some of the numbers had names, I could ask for, others I had to politely convince the poor receptionist to put me through to someone to annoy. It got to the point where I was assuming what kinds of people were going to be assholes, lawyers, businesspeople. And for the people with names next to their phone numbers I tried to ESP to run away from their desks before I dialed the number.
So even now, I just made a call at my internship and it was very scary, just like making phone calls to boys I liked in high school, or in truth, the boys I liked last year.

2006-02-14T18:33:00.000-05:00

Lizzie texted me last night, "Are you alive my snow baby?"

"More like dirty slush baby."

So New York got over two feet of snow and I really didn't notice the amount until I walked to work Monday through dirty slush and stepped through black ice puddles that looked like asphalt. Lucky for me, my pleather boots turned out to be water proof. Unfortunately, they are not lined. If I had money beyond my budget I would be investing in some seriously geeky water proof, furry lined boots and a long parka with a faux fur hood, so I wouldn't just walk to work but stamp, jump, and conquer snow piles on my way. Those items would also have come in handy when it was snowing on Sunday and Dan suggested sledding in Central Park. If I had those items then I could have hit the hills in Central Park with all the cool kids in elementary school.

Countdown to Valentine's Day

2006-02-08T18:16:00.000-05:00

Six days and ignoring. Actually, I was planning on making cute Valentines for friends and family, but I don't have the money because I'm living in NEW YORK. Yes, I have been without my own computer for 39 and counting. When one goes to a school like Virginia Tech, one has a major problem when one can't online shop at one's choosing. However, that was just an example because I'm not really sure what it is that I do when I sit in front of my computer and moreover, it is a horrible example because i live in NEW YORK so why would I shop online when I windows shop/shop on my way home from work everyday anyway?

So Happy Valentine's Day...

ROAR! I am Lionness!

2006-01-04T17:07:00.000-05:00

I am LIVID!

When my articles came out in the collegiate times I was always pleasantly surprised with the changes. Wow, I've never been so disappointed in my life by what I just read! I don't even want to put it into my portfolio. My article was turned into a piece of crap! It wasn't all that great to begin with. But it came out as the worst thing I've ever written. Bastards!

And even the short articles were made d.u.m.b. Did some intern do that?!?!?!! Or the one sentence my boss added to a story gave her the right to add her initials to MY byline?

GRRR!!! I just got some motivation.

5 am...WHAT?!?

2006-01-04T05:02:00.000-05:00

I'm up at 5 am for no good reason. I didn't party, study, watch movies, chat with girlfriends or make out all night long. Why the heck am I up?

This can only mean one thing.

I need a J.O.B. and I need it now!

However, next week when I have a job, I'm sure I'll be wishing I was staying up till 5 am for no good reason. :-)

Italian Dogs, What the Guidebooks Don't Tell You

2005-12-23T02:23:00.001-05:00

Fashion is life. Italy, the great country of Gucci, Fendi, Dolce and Gabbana, Prada, Armani. In every town the fashion elite parade down their own imaginary runway. But you don’t have to have lots of money to be fashionable. How to be fashionable in Italy? Wear black and grab yourself a pooch to bring everywhere.
If Italy is the land of pasta, then Italy's wealthiest region the Veneto is the land of dogs. I spent three months in Italy. I think I saw one cat. To be fair I’ll make it two. I’m sure one slipped my mind. Cats aren’t very trendy.
Italians love dogs. Dogs are as fashionable as fur, leather and black. Dogs are furry, many are black. They are the perfect fashion accessory! It makes me wonder, is it important for your pet to match your outfit? And if so, are black dogs a more desirable pet than a brown or white dog? Black dogs will clearly go with more outfits.
But don’t worry owners of brown and white dogs. Designers make bags to carry your cute little dog if he doesn’t match your outfit. En route to a winery I overhead two American girls discussing this perfect solution for the nonblack-furred dog.
“Did you just say that designers make bags for carrying dogs?” I asked.
Was I hearing this correctly? Italy's modern day Italian heroes had eased the stresses of an essential fashion accessory not matching an outfit. Bravo!
“Yeah, Fendi, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. They all make them. And if I had a little dog I would have to get one,” she said.

Dogs should and must be brought everywhere. They are allowed everywhere. Nicely dressed women can, or maybe just pretend they can manage a stroller, a crying child and a wandering dog. But even under all that pressure they still look good!
On one occasion I saw a white dog with brown spots. He was alone. He was in a bar. It was the first night I ventured to “La Piazza” with my fellow study abroaders. I was savoring the pure flavor of a €.80 glass of wine when I noticed a man sitting by the door. He was a snooty looking fellow with long dark ponytail, my epitome of a stereotypical Italian. The chain-smoking-espresso-drinking-tight-jean-wearing Italian man. And he was reading the “Pink Paper,” Italy's major sports paper “La Gazzetta dello Sport.” (I must mention that I was tickled pick when I discovered this.) Next to the man was fat dog hanging out in the café-turned-bar. Apparently he was enjoying the Eurotechno while I imagine he waited for some of his friends to show up. They could inhale smoke, as only true Italian dogs do. And maybe they would get doggy bowls of wine. Being Italian, the dogs would probably order a higher quality wine than the tap wine I was drinking.
Becoming aware of this bizarre fashion trend, I decided what I wanted to see the most in Italy was not the Colosseum or The David, but an excessively make-uped woman dressed in the latest designer clothes and the highest heels dragging around her doggie in a matching outfit.
My dream didn’t come true. But in Florence I saw a man pushing his dog in a baby carriage. And that was good enough.