AmericanBridget (Jones)

What's been infultrating my inbox

2012-02-13T10:50:00.002-06:00

Gag this singleton with a silverware setting.

As if I needed more reminders of my Universe of Uno lately.

Doesn't all of the internets read my blog and know I have no Prince Charming waiting to sweep me off my feet with oodles and oodles of gerbera daisies and plumeria?

Letters to Strangers: The hot guy at the gym next to me

2012-02-08T13:11:00.001-06:00

Dear Young Treadmill Hotness,

You are fine. In fact, when you chose the treadmill next tomine my heart fluttered a little. Ormaybe a lot. Like I was in 7^thgrade all over again and you just let me borrow your pencil during ourpre-algebra quiz. It was love at firstsight.

Secretly I always wish for a prince or hot piece of ass tosit next to me on flights. Mostly I justget overweight old ladies or people who don’t speak English and smellfunny. So when you plopped your hot asson the treadmill next to me you can imagine what went through my mind. No, you have no clue what went through thepea-sized brain of mine do you? B-I-N-G-O, read myinternal banter between me and secretly, you.

Oh shite, I wore the wrong outfit to the gym today. Why did I choose the bra that makes one booblook smaller than the other? Gawd, I’m genius. Great, while watching myself jog in the mirror ahead I can see onebigger-looking boob bounce more than the other. Like two watermelons fighting for the summer picnic competition going onin there. I wonder if you noticeasymmetrical boobage I have going on as well? Note to self, need new sports bras.

Oh, my hair. What ahot, frizz-net mess. Did I actually think the bobby pins would hold in this ratnest? Holy love of Clairol, I can seethe fucking gray hairs framing my forehead from here. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to pull aDemi-Ashton relationship, so I bet I’m not even game in your book. You look 30ish. I look like I’m shaking hands with 40 (withasymmetrical boobage, mind you).

Wow, those are some calves you have going on. While starring at your legs that couldprobably run for 30 miles in stride without a glitch in your hitch, I’m almostfalling off my treadmill because my sense of balance is so off. Oh wait, hold on……………whew, that was a closecall. Running at a speed of 3.5 isdangerous compared to your pacing of 7.

Back to my bra. Did Iput on a bra from the laundry basket? What is that stench? Do I smellthat bad? Holy shit, I can smell Beirutfrom here. Oh hold please…. Selfcheck. It’s not me. It’s the big girl next to me who looks as ifshe’s taking her last breath and sweating out beer and Jaegermeister from threenights ago. For a second there I figuredyou thought that rift was coming from me. Wait, what if you do think it isme who smells like a pig’s dung hole?

And while I keep trying to catch your glance in the mirror Ihappen to look over at you while you drink out of your water bottle (all instride). Is that a wedding ring I see?

Shite.

Game over.

Too bad because my love for you could have been magical.

Kind Regards,

This Old Hag In Shitty Gym Clothes

Inside this ole' hiz-ouse

2012-02-06T09:26:00.000-06:00

Where I watch horrible reality TV.

(also where the Natives like to walk under the glass coffee table and leave snot marks)

Apparently I watched a lot of Rainbow Brite and Punky Brewester as a pre-pubescent.

Where I dine (alone) mostly

Apparently I dream of going on a safari one day. Can you find the gazelle?

Where I have sparring matches with the oven and the stove top

Where my white socks become pink and I inadvertently shrink clothes

Where I earn my bucks

Where I dream

Where I beautify

Where my guests beautify

If my dogs had an iPad...

2012-02-02T17:08:00.000-06:00

Via

I never thought I would be a Singleton dwelling in ahousehold with three animals, all of which have 4 feet and constantly hungrytummies. Thought by this age I’d hearthe pitter-patter of feet running to grab my leg and nudge at me for aPopsicle. But, all I hear are thepitter-patter at paws nudging at me to go outside to take a shidookie or begfor chicken liver treats.

Holy shit balls, I might be like that crazy cat lady we allfear. You know her. The slightly large lady who wears her Mumuoutside, rollers in her hair (though she never leaves the house), is constantlybarefoot and bares nasty cracked feet with a permanent shade of gray on thebottom of them (grossness) and feeds strays. Except, I don’t own a Mumu and the last time I curled my hair with hotrollers I was in the 7^th grade and Debbie Gibson had the top hit ofthe week and jelly shoes were in style. Pedicures are a pretty common monthly expense around here.

Except I don’t have cats.

And never will.

Cats hateme.

Instead I have three slightly sub-par in intelligence dogs. And, one of them is just on loan. Except that he’s been here longer than we allcare to recall and we’re not sure he’ll ever get adopted out. I’m his foster mom, but he thinks I amprobably his forever mom. The other twocanines are pure breeds, show extreme interest during treat/feeding time andwould rather sleep the rest of their days away rather than take walks or chasetennis balls in the backyard.

But, if they each had their own iPads,here’s my guess as to what they’d be surfing:

- 101CleverWaystoEscapeTheYard.com

- Lady and the Tramp (they think it is probably puppy porn)

- You Tube videos consisting of topics suchas: Ways to annoy master while she’strying to work, How to Catch and Kill Squirrels in the Backyard

- Chances are they’d probably log onto FoodNetwork.com and look up Paula Deen to see if there are any tips on how to makebasic kibble more tasty (sans the diabetes risks).

- They’d probably try out a game or two of Words with Friends but they don’t havemany friends, and I’m pretty sure collectively they can only spell wordswith 3 letters. Forget any words withthe letters, X, J or Q. It’d be a shortgame.

I can almost guarantee sites they would never ever log ontowould be:

- HowToBehaveAtAllTimesAndMakeMAsterHappy.com

- WhyDogsShouldn’tPoopInTheHouse.org

- Old Yeller off Netflix (they don’t do sad)

- Mensa.com

See? Lazy ass.

(Turn volume way up for proof).

Stapled face...not what you think, or maybe it is

2012-01-31T11:15:00.002-06:00

This is what I dealt with the other night.

My dogs are awesome.

And stupid.

She's fine now.

My TV and Africa?

2012-01-30T09:35:00.001-06:00

This weekend consisted of an entire weekend TV-free. Had ATT Uverse wireless cable installed on Friday.

It worked when the tech was here.
Now it doesn't.
Go figure.

So, this entire weekend I screamed at the TV. It now hates me. I'd hate me too if I was the receiving end of my yelling, bickering and constant tirades for 48+ hours. Like water torture for my TV, but probably worse. Now I feel sorry for it/him? (not really). I needed a boy to fix my technical glitches. No one showed up on my doorstep with a halo and a packet of tools and know-how to remedy the situation. Even though I asked God to send someone knocking. Whatevs.

And I missed the Real Housewives of Atlanta episode where those freak shows head off to Africa.

In last week's episode they planned a trip to Africa.

Just Africa.

They never specified what part of the African continent their destination was. That was helpful. As if people in Lithuania say they are going to North America and don't get more specific. I mean, Canada, US, New York City, Gary, Indiana? Let's get particular, folks.

What if I missed some tiger eating Nene on a safari? What if Cynthia's weave gets caught up in the Sahara winds? Or what if Marlo gets arrested for the bazillionth time and thrown into a den full human-eating coyotes?

In case one of the RHOA reads this blog (and it is highly likely), this picture is proof there are lots of countries in Africa.
Seriously, look at them all.
Who knew?

It's as if these housewives believe the entire continent is the same. Dry, hot, poor, etc. Couldn't be further from the truth. Not that I've been to Africa. But when I go, I'll be more specific as to my destination so you don't have to guess. Maybe, I'll narrow it down to a country. If you're lucky. And, when I'm in Africa I won't be watching cable, thus I won't be screaming at an innocent TV.

I'm still cable-less. So I decided to wallpaper my hallway instead.

Tear gas, onions and my trail of tears

2012-01-27T15:22:00.001-06:00

I made some chili (that everyone and their dawg has been raving about on blogger land and Pinterest) the other night.

It called for a shit ton of onion.

I started cutting the onion and it hurt my eyes like tear gas. Or pepper spray. Not that I've ever been caught amidst a riot of protesters and needed to be paddled down by law enforcement and sprayed, but if I had, that's what my eyes felt like.

Bastard onions. I don't even care for onions that much.

I don't even own that mace spray that goes on your key chains because I'd be the one caught in the midst of some extravagant hold-up and I'd accidentally shoot the shit on myself. Seriously. I'd be all caught up trying to Indiana Jones the situation and forget to turn the nozzle the correct way and then screw myself mid-robbery. And then I'd end up on the news as a victim of a robbery instead of being a hero for saving a little girl from the bad guys in a dark alley.

Back to onions.

So, I made this crock pot recipe and cut the onions and then it just hit me. I couldn't see what the hell I was chopping because the tears are pouring out of my head in record speed. Like I was in the midst of reading a Nicholas Sparks novel and crying my eyeballs out, but I was in the kitchen with a huge ass knife tearing rivers that could rival the Nile. So instead of risking slicing my fingers off, I decided to do the next best thing I could think of. I stopped chopping those little bastards and went all MacGuyveresque in my own kitchen.

For real people, this is some brilliant behavior I exhibit.

Notice anything unusual?

2012-01-24T12:12:00.000-06:00

Anything strange about the pic of this rescued pooch?

Other than his under-bite perhaps?

Or his bloodshot eyes?

Give up?

Check out his right paw.

Gnarly, man, just gnarly.

Dude needs a pedi. Stat.

From the sidewalk to the catwalk

2012-01-23T11:24:00.002-06:00

I have expensive tastes but on more of a Spam and Mac n' Cheese budget. Doesn't mean I can't gawk and awe over fancy designer clothes and runway shows. I indulged my middle class self into the throes of high fashion and bizarre tastes this weekend. It was delightful and magical.

Essentially, I was in awe of the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit visiting this fine city of mine. Weird, eccentric, androgenous, under-worldly, exotic, beautiful all in one stimulating dose for my senses.

Next up, the exhibit travels to San Francisco. Go. Run. Take in the video faces. Then you'll know what the hell I'm chatting about.

Culture, though often strange, is still good for the soul. And more people should be open-minded.

I'll get back to wearing my off-the-rack shit from the mall, but I'll favor a day when I might indulge in some pret-a-porte fashion.

I'm AmericanBridget and I should stop shopping at Gap and Banana and spend more time selecting betteroutfits that express my personality, but I'd also need a raise and a fashion coach.

2012-01-20T13:39:00.002-06:00

I'd rather be at wineries tasting marvelous flights of reds and whites.

But alas, I'm stuck in my office trying to find solstice.

If only I could rewind the clock a week or so.

And start all over with friends on a trip visiting distant shores.

Here's to memories of gorgeous places.

And quaint little vineyard estates.

I'm American Bridget and I could use a cool glass of Chardonnay as I type.

More work space crushing

2012-01-18T09:49:00.003-06:00

Decorating and making a comfortable home is in my blood. I learned from my Mom.
Great, now I have another expensive hobby.

Sort of like clothes shopping.

A girl can never have too much.

I should learn to thrift, but I just like things new.

Except that I live in an old house, so go figure.

I do understand I am a walking-talking oxymoron.

Sans the moron part.

I digress.

Needless, I'm jonsing over a new work space.

Something to inspire me.

Ignite my creativitiy.

Inspire more writing.

My current workspace was designed this summer as a make-shift area just to keep me from going crazy.

Now it's time to get serious about the design.

All pictures compliments of RUE.

Girl trippin'

2012-01-17T12:57:00.002-06:00

Nothing better than leaving on a jet plane with your favorite college girlfriends.

And after 14 years of talking about it, we finally got around to actually booking flights.

Between weddings, babies, jobs, life in general we finally agreed to stop the nonsense.

We headed to SoCal for the long weekend for a 'lil relaxing, dining, shopping and most importantly headed to the surrounding wine country of Santa Barbara.

I bought a dress I don't need.
Peer pressure at it's best.
But when I wear the dress, I'll think of the fond memories.
Because these girls are freaking so much fun.
And always keep me laughing.

I didn't take a camera (shame, shame), but thank God it is 2011 and we all have smart phones. Waiting for the crazies to send me all their pics.

I miss them already.

And I miss our piss-your-panties-laughs.

I'm AmericanBridget and I have the best group of friends, ever. Period.

What if I grow old, and ...?

2012-01-11T20:52:00.000-06:00

Truth be told here on these here crazy interwebs, some of ussuccessful (?) single folk worry about the future. Grab a cold beer or a Coke Zero and let meindulge you further and tickle your noggin with things to ponder as I oft do …

Living a perpetual life as a Singleton is fine whilst youngand vibrant. Climbing the corporateladder for our envious careers, fancy dinners out with friends, girls tripswith spa treatments and wine tasting fill our lives in the meantime. But whathappens as we grow older and frailer?

Things that rack my brain and won’t leave me alone:

Instead of a gent running out in the middle of the night tothrow a package or two of pads and tampons on the trust ole’ debit card, who’sgoing to get me Depends if I accidentally run out of them and forget to pickthem up after a long night of bridge and iced tea?

What if I fall and can’t get up and the battery on that AsSeen on TV remote control that calls 911 is dead? Who’s going to help me get up and find mywalker?

Via

What if when I go completely gray and I dye my hair and itturns purple and then falls out? Who’sgoing to call me a pretty lady then?

Via

Who’s going to help me learn the remote control for the TVwhen technology advances faster than I am able to keep up with it?

What if I’m walking down the sidewalk and my false teethfall out and I trip on them?

Via

What if I never find love? What if I never get to call someone mine? What if I die alone?

What then?

Things I said this weekend

2012-01-09T11:14:00.003-06:00

In efforts to be a better dog mother, I'm trying to learn the virtue of patience, however I am severely anemic in that department.

Three dogs and one small house is starting to cave in on all of us and test our last nerves.

I've caught myself stating the following to any one of the three canines:

Marley, get her head out of your mouth.
Tulip, get off the coffee table.
Maddie, it's okay, he's not going to eat you...I hope.
Marley, let's use our inside voices.
Marley, stop digging at the hardwood floor.
Tulip, get out of the trash (said multiple times).
Maddie, it's okay, the thunder isn't going to get you (as she's shivering and panting in fear).
Marley, please stop boxing the other two dogs.

P.S. Still looking for a forever home for the small pony/foster dog, Marley, we've so kindly taken in (sigh). He's massive and overly energetic. He needs a farm or about 20 acres to run around on and annoy the cattle. Preferably them and not us.

Native # 1, Tulip (aka Diablo).

The problem with my home office

2012-01-06T12:42:00.000-06:00

I work from home most days so Ineed a space that motivates me, encourages me and makes me feelprofessional and grown-up. About 4 months ago I painted the guest room/homeoffice. Problem is, I’m tiredof the colors and tonality of this room. I even bought a bookcase to create a line of demarcation between thesleeping quarters and the working quarters. I chose mushroom and raspberry colors for the walls. I have orange accents punctuated around the room. Now I think I’ve out grown my love for thosecolors. Truth is, I get bored of designso easily. Must have been my upbringingand moving a gazillion times as a child.

I’m dreaming of re-doing this space and taking the time toactually create an inspiration board. Beloware some home offices from the HGTV site I’ve admired over the past fewmonths.

I’ve got a glass-top desk.
I’ve got a floating bookcase.
I’ve got a funky desk lamp.
I’ve got floating shelves.
So why don’t I love the space I earn my career in?

But, I’m tired of the guest bed throw, pillows and duvet.

I want a head board for the expensive mattresses I splurged on (and don't even sleep on).

I want to create two separate spaces in one room.

I need an area rug or two.

I want about $5000 to cover the costs.

I have expensive tastes.

Sometimes.

As in, I need to stop watching programs where expensive designers come in and transform rooms for $30,000 a pop. I've got about $500 to drop. Ain't no chance.

I'm a DIY'er sometimes.

Perhaps I'll be more of one this year.

Let's make that a resolution, shall we?

My grown up dinner party

2012-01-05T16:56:00.002-06:00

Via

If I were to invite some of the most influential or mostintriguing folks to dinner, here’s who’d I invite and why. There’s no real essence of strategy andmost of my reasons aren’t exactly mature thinking, but this isn’t the realworld and I’m allowed to cry at my own party if I want to.

Michale Buble

Who doesn’t want a handsome crooner to sooth us with hisvoice during the prayer and some after dinner drinkage? Rumor has it MB loves a stiff drink (or 4).

Via

Ne Ne Leaks from theReal Housewives of Atlanta

I’d want to ask her why she is always pissed off at peopleand why she hasn’t been able to remove the stick up her arse in the last coupleof seasons. And does she really thinkbeing a reality star is being a bonified celebrity? I’d also like to ask her towear a bra more often.

Via

Bill Clinton

I’d want to get him really boozed up and see if he’d spillon his true feelings for Monica Lewinsky. Lust or a power effort just because she was there and available? I’d also like to ask him about what it meantto be the leader of the free world and give me the scoopage on what it’s like to wake up in the White Houseevery morning. I’d also ask about Buddy. I’d sit him next to Michael Buble because Ibet Bill would bust out the sax and Michael would start-up with some soothingjazzy lyrical.

Via

Katy Perry

I’d ask her why Russell Brand always looks like he’sconstipated in his pictures. Hisforehead looks too scrunched up and his eyes look like they’ve gone through oneto many rounds of the knife. I’d alsolike to ask her if the ceremony for better of worse or death due them part inIndia was worth it. I bet not. I’d also invite her because I’d be curiouswhat color hair she’d show up to the dinner party with. Pink, blue, brown, blonde…it’d be anyone’sguess.

Via

Andy Cohen from theBravo Network

Who doesn’t love a good-looking Jew who’s charming,hilarious, gay and always has great convo topics. Not to mention he’s got the best late nightshow around these parts and I secretly dream of being part of his clubhouse oneday. And maybe he’d give me a job at thenetwork as producer. I wouldn’t sit himnext to Ne Ne Leakes though. Chances areshe’s give reason to be hating on him as well and at my party there will nosour pusses.

Via

Prince Harry

Only because he’s a spitting replica of my college boyfriendand who doesn’t want hot royalty sitting at your dinner table? I’d make him sit next to me so I could stareinto his gorgeous blue eyes all night.

Via

Sarah Palin

Just because we’d need a punching bag for all-nightjokes. And no, you wouldn’t be able tosee Russia from my dining table. But shewouldn’t need a passport to get here either. Assuming she still doesn’t have one. I also think she’s really pretty, but I really want to know if the hair bump is actually from the BumpIt? To be even more atrocious, I’d sit her across from Mr. Clinton.

Via

Anthony Bourdain

He’d have to walk us through all the foods we’d be dining onand tell us their origination. He’s aworld traveler, eater and taste-tester so I’d lean on him for his vast foodieknowledge. Not to mention he’s hilariousand with his dry sense of humor he might be a good fit with Mr. Buble.

Via

Casey Anthony’s Dad

Did she do it?

Via

So there you have it folks. A list of some of the world’s finest (or not) folks I’d invite over fora night of noshing and drinking.

Who I wouldn’tinvite:

Any one of the Kardashians (over-rated,over-exposed). Except, I do like Rob K.
Kathy Lee Gifford (no one needs more of herbeyond the 4^th hour of the Today Show)
Casey Anthony
Jerry Jones (who needs him or his bad plasticsurgery face?)
The person who neglected and abused my firstNative, Tulip.

2011 rewind

2011-12-30T14:33:00.001-06:00

Via

All in all a decent year. Nothing remarkable, but not one I’d dust away never to be thought ofagain. I’d consider this year a moderateone thus far in the life of this Singleton.

Started off a bit rocky with hysteria stewing over my agingself but ever so slowly improved with dreams of home purchasing, DIYing anddating. OK, so things weren’t that hysterical, but age is always onthe forefront of my mind as I fear features such as crows feat, saggy boobs,etc.

Well, the dating thing. Errrr, ahhh, ummmm, well that wasn’t exactly one for the books. Being Houdini'd mid-date with the tab and stood upwasn’t exactly one of those moments I was most proud of, but I mustered throughwith self pride in hand. There was thetime I never heard back from $28 Worth. Door shut, locked and key thrown away never to be found again. It left me feeling like I did something wrongand only after weeks of self destruction, I realized it was his loss not mine. And I can’t leave out all the random creepers online whoreached out their hands with offerings of truck shows, shooting ranges and pigskinning.

I’m still in search of my Penguin and I won’t give up. Or maybe I should focus on my Seahorse asthey mate for life too.

So as I close down this chapter called 2011, I approach the new year with open eyes andan acceptance that this is a beautiful life and one I don’t want to pass me upwithout me being in the drivers seat. Zoomon.

What are your New Year’s Plans?

As for Me, Myself and I? I have a date with my Pizza Delivery Guy, Ben & Jerry and The Pilsbury DoughBoy. I'm cheating on all of them.

Truthfully, I am trading those threecharmers in for a night full of gluttony and waistline punishment munching on unhealthy foods, sipping red wine and toasting a bit of the expensive bubbly witha whole bunch of my awesome friends at midnight. What a better way to welcome in 2012?

Letter to my foster dog

2011-12-28T09:53:00.001-06:00

Dear Marley,

I’m sorry your former owner named you after that naughty dogfrom the movie. You sort of live up to it though. Actually, come to think of it, you probablythink your name is No. You sure do hearthat word come out of my mouth more times than The Pope does blessings.

I don’t appreciate the fact that you pawed and ripped awayat the new wallpaper in the dining room. You’re lucky I didn’t open the door and let you run away on your ownterms. While I’m pissed off at you, I’malso thankful I have an extra roll of it to repair the massive damage you cost. I realize your former master never trainedyou and you just don’t know better. Patience is virtue. This is alesson for me too.

In other naughty news, I wish you’d stop pouncing on The Natives. While you want to play, they are old and lazyand have no interest in your antics. Iwish you’d take a hint or 1000. Theyhate you and retire to hiding under the bed when you are around. Don’t you get it?

I’m just glad you recently got neutered. Your constant leg lifting was getting to beobsessive. Not to mention, you are hugeand I’m pretty sure your bladder is the size of a watermelon. What gives?

What is your obsession with squirrels and barking? Don’t you realize that the way to catch asquirrel is to sneak up on it? Yourobsessive barking gives you away. Not tomention, you’ve now proceeded to annoy my neighbors.

You need to find yourself a forever home. But not before you attend obediencelessons. That’s right Mister. You’re sonaughty you require professional help.

I love you. But,there’s a forever home out there who who’s missing a handsome soul and you’rethe perfect fit. I’m just glad you had aprofessional photo shoot so that we can better merchandise you.

Peace Out Marley,

Your Tired of Scolding You Foster Mom

Holiday Letter To Friends & Family

2011-12-20T09:49:00.001-06:00

My spoof of the obligatory holiday letter to friends and family.

Happy WhatEverYouCelebrateThisTimeOfYear,

Ah, where should I start with the random musings andramblings of my life captured in 2011? Ishould start by stating that while I know you are anxiously waiting with baitedbreath, I am still living with me, myself and I --- and have not yet taken alovah. I’m sure you’re now beginning toquestion if I am secretly hoarding cats and slowly becoming the neighborhoodcrazy cat lady. I can assure you I amnot.

January brought lots of snow and depressing days on lockdown in the house given that people can’t drive in Texas when the roads arewet, cold. Therefore, I consumedinsurmountable loads of hot cacao and gained about 2 pounds hibernating.

February brought more cold weather, but this time I decidedto begin my formal house hunting for a new abode. I thought I found a great house and while itlooked great from a far, people told me to run for the hills. And so my dreams of buying my first housebefore spring were crushed.

March brought more house hunting and an offer on a housethat didn’t go through. More sobbing andcomplaining to God.

April brought another birthday and a reminder that I’mgetting older and set in my ways. Not tomention, I buy what I want and don’t have children begging me when I groceryshop for Capt’n Crunch or Fruit Loops. Or to shop at that cheesy teeny-bopper girls store, Justice.

In May I finally made a purchase on a home that seemed theperfect size at the time and is now caving in on me.

June brought months of nesting and escaping the drought andheat, which left me delusional and feeling like I was about to hit menopausewith the heat spells and night sweats. Thank God I sleep alone in my bed.

July and August brought months of horrible online datingmatch-ups. Being stood-up. Being let down. Being left mid-dinner with the tab and 8ounces of shame. I high-tailed it to Mexico to drown out my sorrows and upon boarding the flight back to the States I began to go into bouts of depression because who wants to leave the beach and fancy drinks handed to you by cabana boy for the treachery of work and client emails all day?

September leaves me wondering what I did and thus, a notvery memorable month. Oh wait, I got robbed and those fuckers took all my expensive stuff.

October brought massive leaves falling in the front yard andhours spent in the yard trying to rake those bitches up. Never-ending. It also brought candy consumption like nobody’s business since the trick-or-treaterswere lacking this year.

November brought dreams of turkeys and stuffing. Neither of which I ate during that onegluttonous meal on the Big Day. Turkeygives me the trots and stuffing is just soggy bread with seasoning. Gross.

So here we sit in December and about the only exciting thingis is that work ends in approximately 8 hours and I’ll pick back up on January2. Took my old ass car in for an oilchange and after it was all said and done it’s still running like a champ. Dogs are good and even the foster dog isgrowing on me.

Gawd, my life is so exotic. Sorry for the lack of pictures in this year’s holiday letter. You see, I’m horribly un-photogenic and myjeans are too tight and my dogs wouldn’t sit still long enough to take a photo. And I don’t have kids to brag about and showoff and not to mention, one of the beagles has incontinence and wears a diaperand who needs to put that in a picture? Just makes me look like I prefer to dress up animals or something; whichI don’t. Just a necessity.

So to you I say, “Happy What Ever You Celebrate This Time ofYear”.

Until Next Time,

American Bridget

On why I hate purse dogs

2011-12-08T13:54:00.001-06:00

I get it.

I really do.

I love my dogs too. Like they are my children.

But they aren’t.

They are canines who poo and pee outside because they canand the universe is their toilet. Theydon’t talk back but, they’ll never make itto Kindergarten given the pea sized brains and their often lacking attentionspans. They’ll never grow up to drivecars, marry off and provide me grandchildren one day.

They’re satisfied and nourished with ScienceDiet, chew sticks, belly rubs, warm baths, cuddle time, long walks on a leash anddog biscuits. I don’t dress them incouture outfits and they sure as heck don’t qualify to be purse buddies in myLouis Vuitton dog bag.

Via

So to the severely over-weight lady in the AT&T store onLemmon Avenue,

Please kindly shut your little annoying Chihuahua who’swearing the pink tutu and comfortably yapping like a fiend out of your pursewhile I’m trying to upgrade my iPhone next time I run into you at the AT&T store. If you want to take your dog shopping with you, take it to PetsMartor Petco (where the pets go). Don’t take the little shit intohomosapien-specific stores and allow it to yap the efff away while I’m tryingto converse with the nice sales lady over my never-ending 2-year contract.

P.S. If you can’t endure running errands without your caninecompanion at least train it to keep it’s ugly little mouth shut. It’s rude to allow it to bark incessantly at other store customers andnot discipline it. It’d be even ruder ifI drop kicked the little turd into next Friday, but my parents taught me how todisplay common courtesy.

P.S.S. I bet everytime you give that hairless little dog a treat you fork down a cheeseburger fromMcDonalds. Your underwear was hangingout of your fat pants the other day.

On how the apple pie poked fun of me

2011-11-30T14:48:00.001-06:00

The pie wasn’t devoured on Thanksgiving Day. My neighbor brought over two other dessertsthat far outweighed my apple pie endeavor. We chose to inhale those desserts over the former. At the time it was the right choice. Berry pie warm out of the oven andgingerbread pumpkin pie beat out my apple pie. Rightfully so.

As I type this, the disposal has just been turnedoff. The apple pie I baked for theThanksgiving weekend of gluttony is now down the drain. Mybattle with leftover apple pie had been keeping my mind occupied sinceSaturday. I was losing ever soslowly. A nibble at it here. A nibble there.

It kept tempting me.

Calling me.

Mocking me.

Luring me.

Patronizing me.

And it was in the freezer.

Nibble. Nibble. Nibble.

That pie. A true bastard.

It’s a f-ing pie for goodness sake and it was nudging meover to the dark side. Like Satancalling for one last temptation.

I don’t want to be stuffing myself into my holiday wardrobeso I shoved the frozen pie down the disposal, and as I watched the last crumbtornado down into the belly of the beast, I laughed back at it. I also might have given it the bird; agesture I found appropriate adjacent to the days post Thanksgiving.

Little battles win this war. This was definitely a tough battle, and I put on my armor to helpprotect me (read: new dress from Shabby Apple). Anything tighter would have had a button popping off or a zipper notbeing able to zip up. Tragedy would havestruck and I would have been brought to my knees heaving and crying in defeat. Throwing my over-stuffed apple pie eating bodyonto the floor flaying my arms in a toddleresque tantrum. Totally acceptable behavior for a girl ofmiddle thirty-somethingdom. But, none ofthat happened. Because, there is a Godand he’s helping to watch over me. Andmy waistline, apparently.

AmericanBridget: 1.

Apple Pie: 0.

After re-reading this post I realize how pathetic I sound. But, I don’t care. My sweet tooth (what’s left of them afterSatan’s Tooth Wizard friend ripped them out of my head) always gets the best ofme. Always.

Now, as the last crumb is traveling through various tributaries tothe sanitation department I’m off to jog 3 miles in the chilly weather. Sans the extra pie on my ass.

And then to eat the fresh veggies for a post-run snack.

I’ll beat this.

Yes I will.

Giant dog for sale

2011-11-28T11:16:00.001-06:00

I am fostering this giant creature.

I was told he was 50 pounds.

Maybe at birth.

He's a love and I'll find him a good home.

The natives could care less there is a small horse living with us.

I miss my chair

2011-11-20T13:21:00.001-06:00

It's been 3 months since I've sat in my favorite chair for hours on end.

The chair and I bonded for at least 4-5 hours at a time while I detatched from life at hand and put my worries on hold and booked it to Cabo.

I need to make another appointment with my chair again soon. Too bad my pocketbook is dishing out cash for a new security system, security fence, student loans and mortgage payments instead.

So I say to "my chair", I shall hope to see you sooner than later.

I saw them (warning: not a satirical post)

2011-11-19T20:09:00.001-06:00

I saw them.

Last night as I was walking out of Subway grabbing dinner togo before heading up to the hospital PICU to check on an infant patient I’vebeen volunteering for through my CASA case. Not exactly an ideal Friday night of reckless abandon and casualco-mingling I’m accustomed to.

Let me clarify further.

Via

I saw them.

Myfuture.

It came out of nowhere and hitme in the stomach like a football being hurled down field.

I saw a family of three get out of their vehicle and marchthrough the parking lot. They wereengaged in family-centric conversation and were not cognizant of mypresence.

The air was crisp. The perfect turning point between late summer and fall with that twingeof excitement in the air. I had been walking back to my car with my head downwhen I heard the urging voice of a child speaking to his parent with ascendingexcitement. I looked up to catch aglimpse and what I saw was them. What Iwant my future husband to be like - leading an excited family unit and gearingup for a family-filled weekend and glad to have wrapped up a grueling work weeknow breathing a sigh of relief now that he’s got at least 2 days of cocoon withhis wife and child before work calls again come Monday morning. I witnessed a child full of that pre-holidayexcitement. A father making promises tohis son for weekend plans and a mother smiling and absorbing the moment.

I was there watching their every move in awe of theircaptive unity, and I was invisible to them. What I saw was exactly what I have always dreamed of in terms of afuture family. And how I alwaysimagined what having a family of my own this time of year feels like.

I saw a father react to his son and it stung me. What I witnessed was exactly that feeling Iimagined watching my own husband interact with our child(ren). When I picture my future, I see no particularfaces. No names. Just that feeling of being at home and beingloved. My future.

One day. Oneday. No rush. All part of God’s plan.

What I saw excites me because I know what’s waiting forme…someday.

On how Satan’s Buddy Ripped Teeth Out of My Head

2011-11-17T14:21:00.001-06:00

At 26 my dentist kept mentioning at each check-up it wastime to have my wisdom teeth extracted. I finally put on my big girl panties and stepped up to the plate andgrabbed the bull by the horns. I had nodesire to have teeth that I was born with which a gazillion years ago duringPaleolithic times of dinosaur romping would have bided well for me whenmunching on vittles such as thick weeds and pterodactyl nuggets ripped out ofmy noggin, but alas it was necessary (or so I was always lead to believe). Besides, this was the age of e-mail,anesthetics and really good pain relieving meds. So as it was, I decided to make anappointment with my favored dentist to have the only 3 wisdom teeth I was bornwith removed.

Via

Let’s dissect this decision a little further, shall we?

1. Why are they called wisdom teeth? Seems if you don’t need them and they causenothing but aggravation the concept seems unintelligible to me.

2. You must be thinking why would this rather levelheadedgal make an appointment with her dentist to have her teeth extracted and not agood old-fashioned oral surgeon? Read onmy lovelies, read on…

For starters, I worked in an office where many of us young,single and healthy souls went to the same dentist. I had been going to this particular ToothWizard for years and so had many of my colleagues and we were all very pleasedwith his services. Upon furtherdecision-making, one of my colleagues had his wisdom teeth extracted from thissame doctor just weeks prior to my scheduled shindig. Watching my colleague recover from thisprocedure had me in high spirits that my extraction recovery would follow asimilar path. You know, the usual ---mild discomfort for a couple of days, treats of milk shakes and frozen yogurtwithout the guilt and back to work by Monday morning.

The day of the removal was upon me. It was an over-cast Thursday in mid-May 2002. I worked for a half-day and then ventureddown to the dentist office to have my 45-minute procedure. My boyfriend at the time was by my side as heneeded to drive my post-surgery high-as-a-kite-self back home. At the time of checking in and signingpaperwork, I looked over and saw what I thought was a strange sight. I thought to myself, “was that the anesthesiologist that just rolled his port-o-kit through the front door?” I tried to dismiss what I thought my eyes hadseen and went back to filling out my paperwork and handed over my insurancecard.

Minutes later, the hygienist took me back to get prepped andload me up with some sort of magic pill to put me in a state of euphoria. Interesting concept. Wish it had worked. This state of euphoria allowed me to countthe full 10-1 backwards. Usually peopleknock out around 4-5. Apparently I havea high tolerance to narcotics. Anotherdose from the wheel-about anesthesiologist and I was now ready for a good toothyanking.

Who knows how many minutes into the surgery it had been, but my eyesopened and I was awake. I felt no pain,but I recall a dentist standing over me with some sort of stainless steelmachinery yanking a bottom wisdom out of my noggin. The soundsmimicked a jackhammer inside my ear. Thedoctor was surprised I had woken up and indicated so to his wheel-about buddy. I was right. They were like Batman and Robin, except no capes and the Batmobile had been wheeled in via a port-o-cart. And well, except for the fact that there was no saving the world or my teeth. Iremember everything clear as day for those remaining minutes of post-subconsciousness. EVERYTHING. Including the conversation the doctor had tothe nurse that he was only going to remove two of the wisdoms and leave thethird in as it was just too difficult at this point.

Fast forward to the post-procedure. Most folks in an oral surgeons office getshipped off to a recovery room with a bed for a few minutes to wake up, collectthemselves, let things wear off and then head home. Not in my case. I got up from the dentist’s chair, was placedin a wheel chair in which I was falling out of because while I had no pain, myequilibrium was off the charts and I was unable to control my body. I waswheeled straight past other patients in the waiting room and to the car. But not before stopping briefly at the sign-in desk to be offered a silly pink carnation flower. One lonely flower. Each prior visit I gladly took the pathetic flower. It was the Dentist's way of saying, thanks for your business and cheery pick-me-up gesture for patients. This particular time I was so pissed about the fact that I woke up mid-surgery, was thrown into a wheel chair with no time to recover I believe I might have said a few non-Christian comments and the middle finger might have been my good-bye gesture. And I declined the pink carnation. And come on now, a carnation? The flower that says, "I didn't care enough about you to get you a real flower, so I picked up the cheapest one I could find and hope is will suffice".

24-hours after what I thought was a minor procedure and aday off work, I was in pain. Not the kindof pain you can tolerate, but the kind that is so constant and ever-present it brings you to yourknees begging God to either let you give your last will and testament or leave you promising you'll never, ever make-fun of another person for the rest of your life. I found myself trying to make deals with God. One deal after another. I'm pretty sure I promised him I'd feed the homeless at every holiday, go without brand-name shoes and drive a 1988 Toyota Tercel if that's what it took to rid me of the pain. I popped pain pills like they were Little Debbie Snack Cakes, but the 6-hour stretches betweenpills were agonizing as the pain would wear off after 2-3 hours.

My boyfriend had left on Friday to tend tosome out of town shannigans that weekend. By Saturday night I had blown through my pain pills and was nowcalling friends to borrow some of theirs. They abided. Sunday morning Icalled my BF pleaded with him to come home early and take me to an emergency dental clinic. Why notcall my dentist? Oh, I had. I had been calling him all weekend trying toget a hold of him to advise him that my pain was off the charts, the bleedingwasn’t stopping and something was amiss. Not one single returned phone call. Let me remind you….in 2000, there were cell phones. Satan’s Dentist had one. Apparently cell phones don't ring in Hell. Did you know that?

So by late morning on Sunday my BF drove home and walkedinto the living room to find me in the fetal position on the floor. My hair looked worse than Rosanna Rosanna Danna's, my pajamas hadn’t beenchanged since Friday and I could barely hold it together. He threw me in the car and took me to a localdentists office that he had called to beg them to open and let me in. Within 5 minutes the dentist asked me why Ihad chosen to get my teeth ripped out by a dentist and not an oralsurgeon. My rationale was poor, and Ididn’t need a lecture on my idiotic choice of medical professionals to tend tome. Thirty minutes later the newdentist did something to calm the pain down. It was manageable pain...at least.

By Monday I was still feeling like a mountain goat who hadtumbled 5,000 feet off a cliff, and I finally was able to contact my mother whohad been on a cruise during this. Shesnarked that she’d experienced similar pain post-tooth-op and admitted to me thatchildbirth was less painful simply for the fact that you knew it was going toend.

HOLY MOSES.

I’m now confident of the following:

Satan doesn't return phone calls.

I’d never be a good candidate for drug addictionas I’d need to fork over 4x the dough to be able to get anything that actuallyeffected my system and who can afford that these days.

I never did make an appointment to get the 3^rdwisdom tooth removed. It still lives quietlyin my mouth and I’ll never upset the little guy enough to have himremoved. We’re going to be partners forlife.

P.S. I fired my dentist.

Baby Oh Baby!

2011-11-14T18:52:00.001-06:00

Besides being a cynical gal hanging in a big city and fretting over the trials of my Singledom, I actually do care about others. I've been busy worrying about a little someone instead of blogging over the last week. I've spent endless hours at the hospital sitting by a baby's side in ICU.

I'm a volunteer for CASA (Court Appointed Child Advocates). It's a tough, but rewarding position in which I advocate for a child(ren) who have been removed from their home due to alleged child abuse and/or neglect. These children become a product of the court system and are often times left in the hands of CPS, group homes, foster homes or with relatives while their parents try and sort things out.

I'm asking you, Internets, for help. Here's what...

My little CASA baby could use your prayers. He's going to have to endure a 2nd open heart surgery and he's 2 months old. He's got an amazing team of physicians, RNs and RTs, but he's had a tough time of it over the last week with surgery and having to hang in PICU. I promised the little Boo that I'd ask God for his healing ways and comfort and that I'd reach out to everyone I know to help in this effort.

He's a fighter and a champ. And so are his doctors, nurses and RTs.

Thanks for helping Little Boo out.

And if you're interested in being the voice of a child in court, I'd love for you to think about becoming a CASA volunteer. It's a hands-on way to actually make a difference in the life of a child. The court system is confusing, kids get shuffled around by adults who study paperwork and processes and they deserve an active voice who recommends the best placement on their behalf. You can find out more by going here....

What is your chest worth?

2011-11-04T12:31:00.001-05:00

Immediately after reading this blurb on the Yahoo! News carousel I did a double-take. I mean, she must have been born perfect or had some magnificent plastic surgeon in the Bev Hills work on her to make her near Barbie-esque, ehhh?

Nah, we're talking about the actual travel cases. Like the kinds that folks boarded the Titanic with. And we thought Dolly's boobs were worth millions...

Worst Date Chronicles: A Martini Always Helps' Story

2011-11-03T14:12:00.002-05:00

And so, after soliciting the interwebs for Worst Date Stories, I've been hit with some pretty good shiners. I am darn thankful these little episodic nightmares didn't come knocking at my door. I'm obviously not the only suffering from bad dates alone. Read: operative word in this case could be suffering. Glad to know there is a population of us who can come together and start our own support group. With wine. And vodka.

This story brought to you by A Martini Always Helps.

Picture a combination of AAA, Abercrombie & Fitch, a wine bar and wait for it....small hands.

Left you lurking for more? I bet.

And a good story is bound to encompass the disasters of online love connections...or not.

Read on my friends, read on.

And then of course, go drop Martini a note and let her know how awesome she is for actually making it through the entire date.

___________________________________________________________________________________

I had joined the Match and had been on a few dates that weren't awful, but the date I had on the Thursday before I met my current BF was a true zinger. I knew I shouldn't have gone out with this dude from the start, but I ignored my instincts. I knew I was only going because he was of a decently hot level and therefore I blocked out the few idiodic things he'd said when we were writing each other. (For starters, he typed in all lowercase.....and only 15-year-old girls and e.e. cummings can get away with that.)

He showed up late to the wine bar I'd chosen and, without so much as an introduction, started complaining how I'd chosen a place that was "hard to find." It took all my strength to silence a "that's what she said" retort.

Luckily, his assholeness could no longer be hidden by what I had assumed would be a sort of Bradley-Cooper-ish hotness. He was barely eye-level with me (and in heels I'm 5'8" on a good day) and he had tiny baby hands. Also, his tan color wasn't normal. It looked like he went to Paris Hilton's spray tanner and they'd added a tinge too much "summer citrus" to the color mix. I wanted to hold a carrot up to his face and see if it disappeared.

After one uncomfortably long drink filled with enlightening conversation topics such as "the chicks I work with" and "why chicks can't sell things" and whether or not my boobs were real, I actually faked a yawn and said that I had to get up at 6 a.m. for a gynecological exam the next day. "Don't you hate when they don't warm up the spectulum?" I asked him with a laugh.

(OK, I really said "work meeting.")

Since he had parked a few blocks away, I don't know why I felt like being the gentleman of our date (maybe because I had bigger hands?), but I offered to walk with him back to his car. And because God loves pulling a fast one on me now and then, when we got to his ginormous SUV thing that could of trucked an entire soccer team comfortably across country, one of the tires was flat. Stellar.

Me: "Do you have AAA?"

Him: "No. But I can do this. It'll just take a minute."

Flash forward to an hour and a half later. Not kidding. Apparently, his truck o' manliness was designed to keep the spare tire attached underneath it in a fashion only bomb diffusers with the FBI could figure out how to free. My patience for him circling the car like a caged hyena ran out after about five minutes, so I went across the street to some hippie art gallery and found a wild-haired shirtless man smoking weed and creating an oil painting (again, not kidding) to help us. The two of them then squared off in a testosterone contest, each seeing who could figure out this trapped spare tire situation first, one using the power of Google (the hippie) and the other using a rock and a stick that he banged together to try to make fire.

The kicker of it was when my "date" decided this task was the perfect opportunity for him to remove a piece of his clothing so I could stop judging him by his hand size and instead judge him on his nipple size. When he took off his shirt in a manner I can only describe as "anti-sexy," I saw he was wearing a silver chain with a dog tag on it. It was clearly not an actual dog tag, a la the armed services, based on its shininess and A&F logo.

So I had to ask. "Did you fight in the Abercrombie & Fitch war?"

He looked at me, desperately searching my face to see if this was an actual question or a jab. I could almost hear the hamsters turning furiously on their wheels inside his head. "Could there be something called the Abercrombie & Fitch war? Was that how the store got its name? DID I fight in a war? Should I lie and say I did? Would that be hot? Should I take off my pants?"

I sat down on the ground. Not the curb, like the actual street where cars shat their oil and stuff every day. I gave up on on this date. On men. On life. I considered joining the hippie compound and painting away my pain, but then I remembered I could only draw stick figures and cartoon trees.

The $#&@%#* tire eventually was freed from the bottom of the SUV and my shirtless catch could drive me the few blocks back to my car. He asked if he could give me a call the next day and I said sure because I knew that would be quite difficult to actually come to fruition considering I never gave him my number.

P.S. Martini is correct in her mention that only 15 year-old girls and e.e. cummings are allowed to use all lower case letters in written communication. So. Right. On.

Heading to Zumba for another intense arse-kicking

2011-10-25T18:43:00.002-05:00

Back at it again.

I'll be attempting it with blood, sweat and tears. Mostly sweat and tears.

Wish me luck.

That I don't die mid-class.

Hoping the old lady in heels doesn't take the spot next to me.

I might run into her going the wrong way and she might kick me with her heel and poke my eye out --- or something.

Zumba: Round Dos

2011-10-19T10:14:00.000-05:00

I took my low self-esteem surrounding my Zumba techniques and checked it at the door last night as I tried to fearlessly walk back into my second class. I assumed I'd just add on to my learnings from my first class and at least have a base point.

My second time would be better than my first time.

Nope.

I was worse. Way worse.

This time I shook parts of my body that are technically unshakable. I looked like a noodle with no rhythm and no self control. There was no sexy, core-shaping, self control going on. My body shook uncontrollably because my muscles were so tired, and I was on the verge of sporadically convulsing mid-class.

Picture it:

Jim Parsons from Big Bang Theory + wet noodles = my attempt at Zumba

To make things even a gazillion times more embarrassing, there was a 55+ lady in class with sweat pants (elastic bottoms, ewwww) who wore heels in class. What? What? I suppose she was just there to enhance her Samba technique. Lawdy Lawdy, she sported dye-able pumps...in a gym. And still had more rhythm than I did.

After class, I routinely bent down to grab my water bottle and towel hoping not to collapse in my own pile of disgusting sweat. From there I courageously walked out of class to my car.

In sneakers.

Not pumps.

How a corsage could have me end up in the ER

2011-10-18T10:39:00.000-05:00

They say penguins mate for life. Phenomenal.

I’d like to find my penguin simply for thefact that I’d like to refer to someone of the XY chromosome on this blog with anickname like everyone else does in their blogs. Youknow, me writing ‘bout a sig other???? I’ll bet you twenty cents you can guess as to the nickname I would referto “him” as. Ok, I’ll up the anti to one whole G-Dub because I’m a bad-ass high roller.

I’d also like to find my penguin simply so I can peruse themen’s wear department and look at all the colorful pastel prints and ties andnot feel weird about the fact that I browse the men’s department simply becauseI like the clothes. I'd now have reason tobuy my penguin a really cute bow tie that is raspberry in color with cutelittle martini glasses on it.

Via

But, let’s be real. Basically,the bow tie would just be a means to an invitation to go to some fancy gala andshow him off. But darn it, it would be aballs-to-the-wall awesome bow tie. BUT!!!! (and this is a big BUT, not BUTT like yourstruly), I would NOT want my penguin to give me a corsage; I hate those things.They just get in the way when I’m on the dance floor popping the Kid-N-Playmove (or my recent Zumba techniques). Plus, they look better on grandmothers and are over-the-topmatronly. And not to mention, I alwaysend up stabbing myself with the pin that secures them (don’t get me started onHomecoming Mums). And by the end of thenight after I’ve been sweating to the oldies on the dance floor, the flowersare always wilted and I’ve lost flower petals. The skeleton of a crappy corsage always ends up looking like I am sporting a diseased fungus bouquet that sits just thenorth of my boobs and it draws attention to the fact that I probably need toinvest in a new bra or something. Seewhat I mean about corsages? Flowers areto be looked at, not worn. So basically,I’d like my penguin to wear a cute little bow tie and I would go sansgay-looking corsage and we would dance the night away…at that fancy gala.

Oh and the band would play at least one Josh Groban slowsong just to make the night even gayer. And because I wouldn’t be wearing a stupid corsage, I would be able tosnuggle into my penguin in a slow dance hold and that pin wouldn’t be pokinginto my chest causing me to bleed all over the dance floor and then some reallygorgeous, anorexic Spanx-wearing Dallas blonde in a really expensive dress that sheprobably put on her credit card and can’t afford but so wanted to wear thatDolce and Gabana gown to the gala would see the blood spewing out of my bodyand pass out from the horror. The medics would come and tend to both her andme and we’d leave on stretchers. Me fora fresh blood transfusion and she’d be on her way to get her stomach pumped dueto alcohol poisoning and not eating. Allbecause of a stupid corsage.

Back to penguins.

Via

Do you think penguins ever cheat on theirmates? I hope not. I've been cheated on before and if these birds can mate for life, I hope they would remain totally committed to each other.

But, if they did have a wandering eye, Two Male Penguins having a convo would go something to thetune of...

XY Penguin 1: I love my girl bird. We’ve been partners on this glacier since beforethe Exxon Valdese spill in '89.

XY Penguin 2 w/wandering eye: That’s awesome man. I was at the Ice Bar last night playing amatch of our national past-time, Curling, with Hank and I saw the most gorgeous female penguin walkin. I made my way over to hit on her. She had the most amazing pair of flippers and her name was Birdie.

XY Penguin 1: Dude, you’re married.

XY Penguin 2: I know. But the life back at home is just starting toget too mundane. You know, wake up tothe wifey. After fishing for breakfastand having coffee with the otters and discussing the tragedies of the BPglitches with the sea lions and then making my way over to mingle with thePolar Bears and then warding off the National Geographic camera crew invadingour hood, it all just gets to be EXACT same each day. Plus, the scenery up here never changes. This bull-honkey about Global Warming has allof those Gore worshipers falling at his knees. If’s effing negative a bazillion jillion degrees each day in and dayout. If a warm front would at least blowthrough I’d be able to defrost my eyelashes for once.

XY Penguin 1: Speaking of those Nat Geo dudes,have you noticed how pissed the Polar Bears are since the camera crewinvaded? Those bears have gottencrankier in their old age. But seriouslydude, you’re married with kiddos.

XY Penguin 2: I know,bud. But, the wife nags and the kids are almostgrown and sometimes I think I just need a chance of scenery.

XY Penguin 1: Dude, we all look the same. Not to mention with live on ice day in and day out.

XY Penguin 2: I know. I mean at least dogs have more variety tochoose from, right? Heard Fido’s afterthat hot little poodle-lab- yorkie-pitbull designer breed over in Newfoundland. Not to mention, that tiny teacup little ratbastard chihuahua, Richardo, gets to jump in his master’s purse and shop atTarget. It’s so the in thing to gettoted around in some pansy bag and run errands these days. As if running around in the backyard isn’tgood enough any more.

It’s just Ithought that lady at the Ice House Bar had a real thing for me.

XY Penguin 1: Get a grip, man. We penguins arelike the royalty of the Animal Kingdom. You may want a change of scenery, but what other animal gets to dress upin a tux all day, every day?

And that’s that. Penguins, corsages and Josh Groban. And how a corsage could cause me to end up in the ER.

What do dogs sitting on top of massive pigs have to do with a degree in Social Work?

2011-10-17T10:19:00.000-05:00

Stumped?

Don’t stop reading yet.

This is f***ing fascinating stuff, and it’s your freaking lucky day; I’vebeen assigned to decode this riddle for all the interwebs.

I too was initially put off by such a thought regarding swineand social work.

You with me here, folks?

Let’s first thank the genius behind Mark Zuckerman. Because he invented Facebook (or was is theWinklevoss twins?), we are now exposed to the most amazeballs ads on oursidebars. Thisnot-so-private-your-ex-boyfriend-from-junior-high-can-stalk-you public Facebookdomain allows advertisers to post ads on the right margin of the outlet.

Are you following me yet?

Cool.

Let mypea-sized brain decode this pig riddle some more with an analogy for ya.

If I were an Alien visiting Earth and was so inclined to logon and start a Facebook page, I would fill out my likes (green M&Ms), preferences(3-fingered amphibians), education (Mars University, MBA 1999), relationshipstatus (single and ready to mingle), my exacerbated obsession with the TV showALF and my continued crush on Mork. Eventuallymy FB page would be populated with web ads that reflect the kinds of things Ilike, I need (or things marketers think I need) promoting such things as:

- Find your match-made-in-heaven Earthling (Earthling = homosapien residing on Earth) with a 30-DAY FREE TRIAL ON MATCH.COM.

- Nearest space craft repair shops are(Roswell, NM). $20 OFF OIL CHANGE.

- Is Pluto an e-ffing planet or not? To get a degree in Nuclear Science CLICK HERE

- Earthlings are obsessed with some over-weight, OCDcookie lovin’ obese guy in a red suit on the 25^th of December eachyear. TRY OUTS FOR ELVES IN TIGHTS OCTOBER 15, 2011 AT MACY'S.

You get the gist.

This type of advertising is called Geo-Targeting for thoseof you interested in learning the “science” behind marketing. Advertising is not all crayons and fancytaglines. People run metrics for eyeballstickiness and ad click-thrus. [Metric Calculator Dude = one of those jobs that most would rather chose Chinese water torture than having to do...I hear ya.]

OK, back to my Alien analogy (btw, did you notice the wordanalogy has the word a-n-a-l in it? tee hee hee haaa haaaa hardy haaaa haaaaaa squeel pee pee your panties laugh haaaaaaaa)… So these ads are specificallygeo-targeted to your/our particular likes and interests.

Moving on now.

I believe Facebook has allowed the most amazing advertisersto promote content through their site. The ads are always appropriate and “clean”.

Skip ahead to this morning.

As I was having another bout of A-D-D in the midst of doing somework for my “real” job this morning, I was lulled by the magic of Facebook andclicked on over. To my surprise therewas an ad promoting a career in Social Work. How admirable. These folks atFacebook must think highly of me and believe I am the type of individual whowould succeed in a Social Work career. We need more good social workers out there, FYI.

As if I wasn’t flattered enough that Mark Zuckerberg and hisarmy of smarties over in Palo Alto, CA running the machines behind Facebook,this ad promoting a career move into Social Work came with,,,,wait for it.............. a picture. Yup. Lucky me was targeted by an ad with a picture. So bril. Score. I mean, pictures are meant to tell 1,000 wordsand often times are the visual emotive part to entice consumers to “ACT NOW”.

Ladies and the one or two gentlemen who read this blog, Ipresent you with the most effective, on-target and fulfilling ad I’ve everreceived. I almost jumped out of my chair ciphering for my resume looking to update it. This ad almost changed my entire life because it was/is so effective. And it’s all because of thebrilliant geo-targeting via Facebook....and the use of the picture.

Along with myfantasies (or the fantasies that the gurus at FB and their advertisers think I have) about making the world a better place, helping those who oft can’thelp themselves, empowering others and perhaps advocating for children, it’spictures of animals sitting on top of other animals that strikes the mood tojump into a career of Social Work.

What the H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS?

I feel like posting something on Mark’s FB wall asking himthis:

Hey Mark, if you’re so friggin’ bril, can you help a poorgirl out and explain the correlation (a big word to use for a simpleton such asmyself) between animal beastiality and social work is?  Just curious, ya know?  Thx a gazillion million times.  Best, AB.

P.S. My next postmight just be about Josh Groban and penguins. Yeah, you’ll be waiting with baited breath. Promise.

That time I tried Zumba or like when monkeys are on crack spinning on a hamster wheel

2011-10-12T23:16:00.000-05:00

Via

Yesterday I trekked to the gym for an Abs class and got my timeswrong (typical). Instead of slyly creeping backout of the gym in disdain because I obviously can’t tell time, I decided to givethe Zumba class the good ole’ college try. I saw obscenely overweight people walk into the class and thought tomyself if these folks can do 60 minutes of cardio I can surely do a better jobat burning the mountains of caloric intake from the previous day. And so, I pulled up my big girl panties andwore my bravest smile into the class.

Holy shiz balls.

Who knew Zumba was the equivalent to monkeys on crackshaking every single piece of their existence for 60 minutes straight inside arave? Had I actually taken thetime to research what Zumba classes were like I might not have ever made acomplete mockery of myself. I shouldhave put myself right in the middle of a Brazilian Carnivale with a massiveheadpiece, a thong and something to shake my tail feather with and been morecomfortable pretending I knew how to samba my way through a crowd. Instead I busted into class with the grossestof tank tops, a sports bra that should have been retired about 50 washes agoand legs I should have more carefully shaved earlier that day.

There was more bootie shaking, twisting, more jiggling andshimmying than one could ever imagine. I’m pretty sure my intestines were unraveledand wrapped back up into my core 6 times over. Organs that were once in their proper places now reside in newcompartments of my inner body. I shookso much at one point an eyeball popped and I stopped mid-shake just to dust it off and heave it back into the open cavity on my forehead moments before the next bootylicious choreographed move. I’m quite sure I jumped out of bed this morningonly to step on my right kidney because it now resides in the bottom of myfoot. By the time the class wascomplete, my ass was numb from all the shaking, my knees were as wobbly as adrunken sailor on the prowl, and I was standing in a pool of my own sweattrying so subtly not to spew all over myself.

I’m slow to pick up on dance moves. My brain functions in exactly twocompartments: one for the feet and one for the arms. Little do they ever connect and work togetheron one circuit board. The top half of mybody is completely retarded and unrelated to the bottom half of my body. In college I perfected the late night dancefloor moves downing Zimas (with Jolly Ranchers for extra flavor punch) andvodka tonics allowing all my appendages to move fluidly in choreographedharmony. Not so much at 35 and stonecold sober (under horrid florescent light that shows off every single cottage cheese dimple).

The jiggling and shaking. Oh MY GAWD. The shaking requiredin Zumba is like watching me go into horrific bouts of epileptic rages without endin sight. And I can’t figure out of ifthe shaking is an appropriate amount of giggly or if the extra tonnage I carryon my ass shakes extra hard?

Pretty sure I’ll never be asked out by one of the gents inmy class. Mainly because who wants todate a monkey-like girl who moves like she’s experiencing convulsions and/orfor the fact that the gents in there happen to, well, like other gents.

I took today off from any physical exertion with theexception of the Weight Watchers chocolate bar I furiously stuffed into mymouth. Damn, I deserved that chocolatewonderness. My body is recovering from the head-pounding, neck breaking,shock-like after effects of last night’s whiplash episode commonly referred toas Zumba Class.

If you have two left feet, are rhythmically challenged and believe you have a chance in he** you could keep up in a Zumba Class, here's your PSA announcement. YOU CAN'T! You can thank me now. You're welcome.

Otherwise, have fun in there while the big boy next to you sweating like Richard Simmons in too-short shorts making total fun of you getting giggy with it.

Via

Applications for Worst Dates Eva!

2011-10-10T10:47:00.001-05:00

Calling for applications for WORST DATES EVER. I've spoken to a few of you who have tales to tell about nightmares on the town.

I want to share your chronicles so bring your clever.

Contact me for more details. Please? With a cherry on top? Make my day. It's raining here and I get blue when the weather isn't beaming with sunshine and puffy clouds.

AmericanBridget [at] gmail [dot] [com]

AmericanBridget@gmail.com

It'll be a hilarious little exercise, and for those of you worried about exposing gruesome details, you're welcome to participate as Anonymous.

Bring It.
For realz.

Via

P.S. In other news, I just popped my ankle while sitting here typing, and the pain has now traveled up my limbs into my thighs. What? In serious need of that Anti-Aging pill or a GPS to that Fountain of Youth.

We sure do groom the youngen's these days

2011-10-09T15:50:00.002-05:00

By golly, at her age the best I could manage was completing the entire chorus of my ABCs and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. What on God's green planet are we pumping into our foods causing little children to age children ahead of their time?

She's good.

Really good.

Somtimes

2011-10-08T13:05:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I just need to wallow in my sh**!

Today is one of those days.

I was at a meet and greet the other evening and someoneasked me if I was married. When Ireplied, “No, not yet”, I was asked why I was still single? To which I privately stewed inside. As ifbeing single is such a horrible, leparcy-esque type disease for thirty-somethingladies? While standing there wallowing my private anger towards this new acquaintance,I knew she was judging me while at the same time dismissing me because I wasnot coupled off. Her face said it all –contorted face turned to a look of sympathy. I could hear her thinking to herself, “Oh my, I am so thankful I am notin that poor girl’s shoes having to do everything alone”. As I stood there feeling defeated, I ponderedwhat else could have been bouncing around in her pretty little head:

- I bet she’s the type of girl who doesn’t datemuch.

- I wonder when the last time she had a steadywas?

- She must foster a ton of cats who roam thegarage and yard and that’s why she’s still single?

- Does she have to hire a handy man to help heraround the house?

- Who change’s the oil in her car?

- Where does she eat dinner? At the table or in front of the TV?

- I wonder at this age if she’s ever get married?

Why is it if we are successful, single, thirty-somethingwomen, we are dismissed as having something wrong with us?

OK, yeah, I struggle with bad hair days, would like to sheda few pounds and am tired of my wardrobe. And, OK, a dose of more confidence would help, but I don’t house cats, Iget my oil changed regularly, I eat at the dinner table and sometimes in frontof the TV and I do date.

So why the sympathy? My life is as good as they come.

Total Bridget Jones Move

2011-10-06T23:08:00.000-05:00

Today my physical biorhythms were left to be desired. I got up on the wrong side of the bed. I stumbled into the kitchen and bruised my thigh against the counter. Any by bruise, I mean a gnarly looking purple-green, ominous marking on my thigh. Thank gawd bathing suit season has officially shut down. I knocked over my coffee and tripped on one of The Natives sending her in to a h-o-w-l of growl in annoyance with me. All of this happened before 9:00 a.m.

The physicality decline of my body didn't stop there. I was clutsy getting into my car to run errands, and I tripped on the curb getting out of the car later on. A girl can only have so many good days in a row before she does something completely asinine in public.

Today was my day.

Totally. My. Day.

As I went to check out and pay for a stupid pack of pens in the drug store, I had the back pocket of my purse wide open. Apparently, it had been open for a while and I didn't notice it until I grabbed my purse off my shoulder to reach in for my wallet. And there for all the world to see was a tampon hanging out of the pocket of my designer handbag. A designer tampon to go with my designer handbag. A big, fat, stubby tampon hanging out for all the men in the drug store to witness as I aimlessly shopped around for a pack of pens.

It doesn't beat the time my boss in college asked me for pen and I grabbed a tampon instead, though.

Totally channeled Bridget Jones today.

Totally.

Guess who was blessed

2011-10-04T12:30:00.004-05:00

So, I was in my home office slaving away on Saturday morning when I was diverted with a bad case of A-D-D and my mouse started clicking over to my Facebook page. I saw one of the local wineries was having an animal blessing from 11-1.

What was a girl to do?

Well, of course, I loaded up The Natives and drove them over to the winery for a little loving and prayer. And I loaded up on two more bottles of the Summer Cab. I mean, two birds, one stone? A little Jesus shout out for the beagles and the blood of Christ for me all in one stop? Who wouldn't?

She blessed them with hopes for long, healthy and well-behaved lives. . . and then loaded them up with treats.

Of course.

Maddie receiving her blessing.

The Honey Badger (Tulip) receiving her blessing.

Cougarness

2011-10-03T17:10:00.004-05:00

A few Saturdays ago was filled with tasks such as cleaning theshitters, vacuuming, dusting, taking out the trash and the obligatory 3+ hoursof yard work. It was a day I set asideto take care of all my grown-up responsibilities that just had been staring mein the face for days. The loads of doghair I swept up could have stopped a train dead on its tracks. And cleaning the toilets is always a goodtime and reminds me that I am not yet royal enough to have the monarchy attendto all my medial tasks. Needless, I wascommitted to attending to my home rather than spending a gorgeous afternoonpatio-side drinking sangrias with friends watching college football.

But then I received an invite to (hold for it)….. to join agroup of girls consuming sangrias patio-side. Of course, I dropped my cleaning sponge like a badhabit, jumped in the shower and spent some time in the mirror fighting with myhair. And then I spent some more time inthe mirror screaming at my hair and berating it to death indisappointment. It was just one of thosedays where what ever I tried, my head of faux brunetteness wasn’t going tocooperate.

Fast-forward two hours, 2 shots and 2 sangrias in. I have forgotten about my rat’s nest head ofhair and kibitzing with a group of funny gal pals. College sports make me happy and so does theblanco queso served with warm tortilla chips. Part of the group dwindled due to family responsibilities and childrento tend to at home. The remainingwarriors and I moved on to another locale with visions of filling our wineglasses with quenching new wines. Throughout the afternoon I had befriended one of the ladies in our groupwho I respectfully referred to as the Cougar. She was hilarious, pretty, straightforward, divorced and holds apowerful job. We hit it off immediatelyand began exchanging jokes and camaraderies.

So on we went. We raninto a fine gent who stopped to give us a lift and befriend us in the 4 blocksit took to drive to the next watering hole. He was good looking. He wascharming. He was my age. He was personable. He was well groomed. Did I mention he was my age? He was also more interested in the cougar inour group than holding a conversation with me about well, anything. Maybe I had food in my teeth or a boogerhanging out or something? She had charm,she had confidence and she had great one-liners. She told me right out of the gate she wasgoing in for the kill and that I needed to layoff. I didn’t realize chics marked theirterritories so quickly. Apparently,those of the feline species do.

Even if I wereinterested in him, I had struck out before getting up to bat.

I don’t mess with cats.

Via Urban Dictionary