The First "Last Time."

Fear is interesting. You can spend your entire life afraid of something and when it happens feel something just short of relief. As if all the energy you put into worrying wasn't in waste, as if every last word was just as important as you made it out to be.

I know a lot of people say "you never know when it's the last time" but my parents have literally said that to me and my siblings almost every single day of our lives. If it wasn't that much it was still pretty darn close considering how often I say it to myself as an adult.

This blessing/curse rings in my ears constantly. In fact, when I was a teenager I remember getting in fights on the phone with someone in my family and still hanging up saying "I love you." I remember doing this specifically when I was with a close friend because she said "I thought you were mad at them." And yes, I was. But... you never know when it's the last time.

This mentality helped me with disregarding what my peers thought in high school, too. I know a lot of kids go through that embarrassment stage with their parents. Ya know, the "just drop me off around the corner" type of thing. But I remember being dropped off directly in front of groups of kids and kissing my Mom and my Dad goodbye. Sure, the fact that I never made the bus helped because it made these farewells more public, but it was the phrase "This could be the last time" that really made the situation what it was.

On this year's infamous Tax Day (April 15th) I realized I may have said the last words to my Dad. It was 11:30 a.m. on Monday and I was getting ready to leave Brian's apartment to go home and do my dreaded taxes; yea, I waited until the last minute. I had been doing the dishes before I left because 1- Brian never does them and it grosses me out and 2- I actually like doing the dishes, I find it therapeutic. So as I'm getting my stuff together after the dishes, feeling accomplished and ready to tackle the rest of the day, I glance at my phone. Missed call? Voicemail? Bad feeling.

I listen to the voicemail and it's my eldest sister Jackie telling me to call her right away, barely mentioning any reason why, just simply emphasizing the immediacy of the situation. So I call her back.

"Dad's been in a car accident and they're taking him to the University of Penn hospital. He passed out while driving and crashed into a pole. We don't know much but he is in serious condition."

I can't say I believed her. I mean, clearly this was happening but I remember just listening and not reacting. That is until Jackie put my Mom on the phone. And we both started sobbing. Of course Jackie quickly took the phone back and said, "Now I know why I'm the oldest." Leave it to my family to have the darkest sense of humor in times of distress.

I called Brian (he was at work) to tell him what was happening. I had to leave him a voicemail and let's just say mine was not as vague and calm as Jackie's had been.

Brian immediately called me back and said he was on his way to my house. I asked him a few days later what he had thought when he heard my message and he said, "I thought your life was about to change forever."

Okay, so now I'm driving to my house ignoring Jackie's instructions of "Don't speed." My family already had one car accident today, what were the chances of two? Apparently none, because I made it home just fine, or at least alive... "fine" was not the best description of my condition.

My brother Frankie and my Mom were already on their way to the hospital and Jackie was watching her boys and babysitting another little girl at my house. My other sister Kathleen was home and decided to graciously help me with my taxes. (Because yes, the government was still looming overhead and I had to do the crappy paperwork before I could see my Dad.)

By the time we were done Brian had arrived and he, Kathleen, and myself drove down to HUP together. We first went to the ER and heard he was in Trauma. I remember feeling so worried, as if my Dad was a child. How could he go through this experience alone?

I was even more amazed by my Dad's survival when Frankie, Brian, and I went to take a look at the car. It had been towed to a lot just up the street from the cafe I work(ed) at and the proximity was haunting. However, the car was more haunting. The beautiful, quiet, smooth driving Toyota was now unrecognizable. The front was smashed and hung off the body of the car like a child's tooth about to come loose, except there was no reassuring promise of another tooth.

Eventually he was placed in a room at HUP and they set up camp for him to stay for what would be 5 days. We heard different things: "It's his heart," "He has sleep apnea," "We're not sure if his Diabetes were a part of the reason..."

But for each possible reason we just wanted the real reason even more. And you know what? I don't think we even have one YET. But they have made sure it won't happen again. We hope.

We found some solace after they worked on his heart. He had A Fib on one side of his heart and the medicine wasn't working while he was at HUP. So eventually they had to do surgery to fix the condition. I was told it wasn't too invasive but apparently this isn't too true. They sent my Dad home Saturday and we were all a bit apprehensive about such a quick turnover. Apparently this was validated because when the home nurse came to check on my Dad on Monday she said he needed to see the cardiologist as soon as possible. So he went on Tuesday and was immediately sent to Bryn Mawr hospital, he had A Fib on the other part of his heart now. HUH? I thought they fixed him!

Thank God, the medicine worked this time and another surgery wasn't necessary. However, while we were still waiting on that conclusion, I went to visit him at Bryn Mawr and we talked in the sun room. A serious, deep talk that took almost dying for my Dad and I to find the time for. He told me about his gambling days before he met my mom, he told me about his family, he told me what he thought of me getting married one day, and so on. We've had talks like this a couple times before, and really only a couple times. But this time I felt like I had gone back in time and forward simultaneously.

We were sitting in the sun room of the 4th floor of the hospital, the same sun room I remember visiting my sick grandmother in when I was a kid... my Dad's mom. I was just a kid then but I could still picture that room. So bright and positive, like you're not in a hospital. And now I was there for my Dad and I was an adult talking about marriage within only "5 years," according to my Dad. Where did the time go?

My Dad is not allowed to drive for 6 months and I wouldn't want him to anyway. The situation could have been even worse. My Dad could have died, he could have killed someone, he could have done both. I don't want to take the chance that one of those possibilities could ever come true.

My family survived the first "last time" and I feel a little less worrisome waiting for the next bad news. Because we got past this one. We were blessed with avoiding this one.

Dance Like No One is Watching... Or Like Everyone's Dancing too.

My girl scout troop leader: "How long has she been taking dance lessons?"

My mom: "... She doesn't. She just made that all up as she went along."

There have been many cases throughout my life in which my mom has had to talk to "authority" figures and hold back laughter as they took my behavior way too seriously. 

When I was 8 years old I was in a girl scout troop and we had a talent show. At this time, I just so happened to be obsessed with the song "True to Your Heart" by 98 Degrees and Stevie Wonder. Yes, the same powerful anthem from Mulan. 

So naturally, I was planning on performing a dance routine for the talent show. However, the "routine" aspect of it all was pretty loose; pretty loose in the sense that it didn't exist. For both the rehearsal and show, I improved my dance and pretended I was in my bedroom at home just feeling the music. I don't remember the exact moves but I do know there was lots of leaping. Heaps of leaps!

After the show my mom told me how my troop leaders and everyone else thought I actually practiced and took lessons. And sure enough, I loved that I fooled them. They were all adults and I was just messing around, how could I not be impressed with myself?

I guess that's where my addiction started. 

This past St. Patrick's Day I went into Philly with Brian and my friends to celebrate the magnificent people of Ireland and dear St. Patrick ;] We went to a couple of bars and ended up at The New Deck Tavern in University City. This place felt like home. First off, it was run by a bunch of Irishmen. Secondly, it was serving awesomely festive beer bottles, and then it had a dance floor outback! Jackpot. 

By this point of the day, we were all feeling good. A couple of beers and a very strong Irish Car Bomb were making their presence known. Liquid courage at it's prime. 

The dancing ensued and 8 year old Bridget was back in her element. Flogging Molly started echoing through the tent and everyone was feeling happy-go-lucky. So of course I started Irish dancing.

I don't know how to Irish dance. I mean, I had learned a couple steps from my eldest sister years ago (possibly when I actually was 8 years old) but I only remember one. Let me say that again... I know only one dance step that is actually legitimate. 

However, it is easy to convince a bunch of drunk twenty-somethings that you know what you're doing when you're confident and have curly hair and freckles. The latter is clearly specific to Irish dancing, but hey, curly hair and freckles can be pretty persuasive for other things too, I'm sure.

So now I'm "Irish" dancing in an actual Irish bar in Philly and by some stroke of luck have not been called out by anyone. 

I start to gather attention, in addition to the attention I already have from my earlier dance battles with strangers that happened to be some of the most fun I have ever had.  And then people start to dance with me... oh the amusement I had in that moment was palpable. 

By the end of the song I had about 3 other people I was teaching to Irish dance. But really, I was teaching them the movements I made up to go with the music. But let's remember, I'm thorough. So all the moves were based around the single dance step I knew. I'd begin with that and then move into a bunch of fast steps that would be too hard to follow and then come back to the original step and teach them that. 

I should have been wearing my t-shirt which reads, "Blarney: Irish for bullshit." 

Then the music changed. 

The night changed too. Now it is last Wednesday night at Brownies in Ardmore. A bar that I always heard my older siblings talk about and always wanted to visit. 

My first night there proved worth all the anticipation.

I had just gotten off a 8 hour shift at the library and hopped across Darby road to see my friends for a drink. This was one of the the warm nights with cool rain, lovely. I was wearing a dress and thought I'd stay for a drink or two at most and head home since I had a 6 am shift Thursday morning. Oh how naive I was. 

I was in a bad mood so one drink turned into many and I was loosening up and laughing with old friends. Cool. 

Then they had the brilliant idea to go out to a bar. I'm a homebody. I like house parties and drinking at home way more than going out to bars and clubs. I like comfortability. Sometimes I'm a bummer with my friends who enjoy going out. But I guess it's good that we balance one another sometimes. 

I'm all for the balancing now, but as it's happening I'm usually pretty anti. 

Welp, they convinced me to go along with them. 

We get to the bar and there is a live band there and my friends and I socialize like crazy, making friends all over the place. And as a taken lady, I love to play wing-girl. =]

So once we've made enough connections, Shannon, Sam, and I start dancing. Eventually they make room and we get others involved. 

Sidenote: I'm pretty sure there were only guys at this place. I don't remember seeing any girls and as much as I'm close friends with mostly guys in sober life, Drunk Bridget is best friends with girls. 

I started doing my go to moves: ya know, the Matrix Bend and all that. Shannon and Sam were doing their thing as well. Unfortunately, my Matrix Bend and a soaked floor are not a good match and I fall... in my dress. 

I remember thinking, "This should be embarrassing." But what I remember doing? I continued to dance on my knees in the middle of the dance floor. 

Deb said that people at the bar were saying, "Hey look at those girls! That's awesome." and in her words, "Yea, those are my friends."

Awesome/Humiliating in retrospect? It's debatable. But part of the reason my friends convinced me to go out was because they said these were the nights for memories. And sure enough, I got myself a memory.

I also got myself two hours late for work Thursday morning. But I won't recall that in twenty years, right?

Early Bird Gets the Worm...

...But Sleeping in Bird gets the Nest all to Itself.

This is me circa 2010 in my dorm room at complete rest. Just about the time 6 am work days started.
 Photo Credit: Kasey Owens, my creeping roommate.

It's simple, if you wake up early you are an adult. If you sleep in, you are a child. Somehow the higher number of hours in sleep equates to a lower number in age.

At least, this is what's been proven from my daily lifestyle. 

My age fluctuates throughout the week so I apologize if you catch me on a day I go into work late when you want me to simply reply to really any type of communication you send my way. The same apology if you want to go out for a night on the town when I work at 6 a.m. Even more apologies if you tolerate my bipolar ages as I try to maintain these backwards hours of employment.

For example, my boss at the library (my late day job) texted me asking me to work an extra day. Cool. When did I answer? The following day when I was at the cafe, my early day job. And not only did I put off response until I was feeling more mature but I responded before 7 a.m. on that day. Thanks, Over-achieving Self... even though you've already waited over 12 hours to reply.  

On the early days my first alarm goes off at 4:48. And yes I say "first" because there is no way I ever wake up for that first alert. See ya, possible military career?

Anyway I am very much not a morning person. And then I realized I probably always pick jobs that require such an early wake up because I don't like to be at work during my favorite part of the day: late afternoon/early evening. As much as cleaning off my car in darkness using my bare hands (because I will never learn to keep a pair of gloves handy) is frustrating, the fact that I'm done by 3 p.m. makes me feel accomplished and able to do more of what I actually want to do during the day...

Which is sleep. ;]

Early days make me a superb daughter-that-still-lives-at-home-at-22, if such a thing exists. I feed the dog, let him outside, set the lighting of the house just as my parents like it, break the coffee pot in and take the freshest cup... you know, actions of a martyr.

Late days I wake up at 9:30, play on the computer and/or spend an hour in the tub reading, all the while cursing that I have to work later despite the fact that that's why I get such a leisurely morning. It's anything but hectic, despite my complaining. But hey, wasn't that what teenage years were like anyway?

The main point in all this is 22 is an awkward age. Years ago I would have been a bona fied adult and years from now this age will probably be the status of today's 18 year-old but right now? Well, right now it's the transformation. Then again, maybe this is what it means to grow up. It doesn't all happen at once, we all know that from puberty (which was just the worst, right!?)

The good thing with the transition from college-adult to full-blown adult versus adolescence... at least I don't have "red dots"* on my face letting the world know it's happening. Instead, I just make blog entries stating it straight out!

*as the lovely kids I used to babysit when I was a teenager would call them.

Waiting on Hipsters

Tumblr/waitressproblems

I've waited on a lot of different types of people.

In fact, just the other day I had three tables at the start of lunch: a table of 3 guys in their late twenties that run a gym and eat obnoxiously healthy but drink enough coffee to balance it out, a group of 4 elderly women that call themselves "the church ladies" and honestly expel compliments like carbon dioxide, and 4 teenaged girls that were clearly skipping class and I thought would be massively annoying but was pleasantly surprised by their abundance of "please"s and "thank you"s. That's diversity and it makes life interesting... well, on that day at least.

However other days, for example when tables come in all at once and Serious Bridget gets overwhelmed and thinks the world is ending, diversity sucks.

Let us just hop, skip, and jump back to a couple fridays ago and we are on one of those days.

It was a beautifully cold day and life wasn't so bad from what I remember. I had had a good breakfast crowd and the day was over halfway done with lunch already passing by. Then I looked up and down the (what sometimes feels like) mile-long restaurant came the crowd of plaid wearing hipsters acting like they own the place.

No, no, no. Just because you can quote J.D. Salinger and somehow live without ever eating a burger doesn't mean you're friends with everybody you've deemed cool enough to associate with since they enhance your intellectual superiority. Nope.

Also, please speak up because I can't hear you and I don't want to mess up your order, despite the indications of this post. Socially awkward isn't cute in this situation and also doesn't make sense when you're surrounded by 8 of your friends.

Moving along, we use an iphone app at the cafe. Using it is basically abuse, in my opinion. Since I don't have my own iphone and wouldn't want to use my own at the restaurant even if I did, I use an old one provided by my lovely employers (who I do like but simply disagree with about this smartphone thing.) I have to look at the screen rather than at my customers when they talk and this makes it harder for me to commit their orders to memory. Furthermore, if they change their minds it is back to square one (no pun intended) and I usually have to go over all their modifications again on the menu.

Well, this Day of the Hipster proved my abuse theory once again. After about ten minutes of standing at the table dealing with drinks, late arrivals of other guests, and excessive orders of the "half and half"... about 5 out of 9 of them changed their minds on what they wanted as their halves (for those who don't know, a "half and half" is any combination of 2 given: sandwich, salad, and soup.)

So as I said, I basically had to start over. Frustrated as I was, I realized I needed to walk away and go write it all down as best I could by memory. Which I did. And then realized I couldn't remember everything. Damn.

"Hey guys! Sorry about this but the iphone app is freaking out and I need to just go back and verify your orders so I can get it right for everybody. I hope you don't mind." Man, talk about socially awkward.

Then a glasses-wearing fellow said, "Of course it's the iphone's fault. It's a 3G."

Really? We're going to go there now? I never like going to 3G/4G Land in normal conversation let alone right now, sir.

Finally I decided to go verbally give the order to the amazing cook with great patience for my impatience while I waited for technology to catch up. Then my coworker delivered the food while I attended to other tables. God bless good people.

Upon leaving everyone decided to have separate checks and pay with cards. For meals under $10. I take care of this on the iphone at the table so there went another 15 minutes of my time waiting on the service to kick in and the hipsters to check out.

Tumblr/waitress problems

When that was through I was talking with my boss about the technical problems and the main boy that frequents the cafe (and was the mastermind behind the gathering) swooped in next to me and cut me off. I knew by that point his words were of great power and I should just shy away. So I walked outside for fresh air and to tempt myself with running away.

When I returned my dear co-worker shook a bottle of rum at me and simply said, "Want some?" Yes.

**Please do not be offended if you are a hipster. I like plaid.

Tumblr/waitressproblems

Getting Real on Being Happy

Somehow two months have passed since I last wrote an entry. In that time I've suffered a horrible stomach flu, a persistently abusive cold, a lack of money despite excessive days of consecutive work, car issues, and discovering I have a medical ailment. Winter has never been my favorite season. 

BUT it is a new year and I'm determined to make this one a healthier and happier one. And it has already started as such due to multiple things.... 

1. My "ailment" as I so dramatically called it to lure you into my tale is hypothyroidism. Already this year* I have successfully received medicine for it and hopefully within the next few weeks can see an improvement in my health.  This will significantly improve my life in multiple ways. Energy levels increase, weight gain decreases and life is less unpredictable and hopefully by default, easier.

2. The holidays have passed so my income is finally going into my bank account rather than to gifts for my annoyingly huge and loving family. Granted I was indebted to people so I had to work for awhile just to get back to zero. Thanks again amazing family and friends that lent me those dolla dolla bills. 

3. I'm much less the "new girl" at my two jobs that I foolishly started at the same time. Still the "kinda new girl that doesn't know everything and my coworkers shadily watch to make sure I'm doing things correctly" but not the "obvious new girl" anymore! 

4. I probably have antibodies galore from my month of extreme sicknesses! So yea News, keep laying on the flu horror stories because I'm not scared at all. 

5. The days have officially started getting longer! Can we tell yet? Not really. But it's happening. Kinda like when you grow up. That's happening to me too. I can tell because I'm finally confident with the idea of being a writer and being one as a career. I'm excited for internships that will barely pay me but offer me a chance to be around words. So excited that I just couldn't wait and started writing my first novel. It's been over a week and I only have 500 words.. well, 502 words but the first page is done. And in my experience, the beginning is always the hardest part. Now it's time to write my story and start living one while I'm at it. 

I never thought I'd be in this place, even when I started this blog. It's interesting the way days go by and things get put off. It's maybe even more interesting the way certain things don't.

*I've been suffering symptoms for over a year and a half. So it's not like I aggressively attacked this thing. In fact, I didn't know what it was, yet convinced myself more than once that I had some terminal illness, however, I continually ignored it on days when symptoms weren't bad. In my defense, I did try going to the doctor's while I was still in school but that was inconclusive and it was my senior year of college so what was I gonna do... pursue it? I didn't have time for that. Then I graduated and didn't have time because I was busy lying in the sun. Finally I chose the holidays when i worked every day to figure out what was wrong with me.

P.S. Never again will two months go by without some life lessons learned the hard way by this 20-something ;]

P.P.S. Wanted to post these pictures to remind myself that while I had the gnarliest cold on New Year's Eve, I also had the biggest smiles with my best friends as we started the year spreading germs and cheer. Happy New Year everyone. I hope it brings you happiness and health, both in abundance. 

Handsome Jobs

"And what was your name?"

"Kevin. It's actually, Handsome Kevin."

I swear this was what the guy on the phone said to me yesterday when I called this cafe and asked if they were hiring. I don't know what else he could have been saying so when I heard him I just chuckled and said goodbye since that was the end of the phone call. 

They had told me to come in and fill out an application, then we could talk right away. Superb for multiple reasons.

1. An in-person application!? They must also practice the old school ways that I so passionately cling to. (This would later be confirmed untrue, but we will get to that later.)

2. Does this mean I could possibly be hired today? And therefore not have to be broke for much longer?! (This would be confirmed true.)

3. Lastly, I can find out if Handsome Kevin is, in fact, handsome! (Just kidding Brian, I had no desire for this one ;] )

So upon hanging up the phone I did a happy dance and proceeded to put on "real" clothes because my days at home strictly require me to wear yoga pants, a random tee, and festive socks. It is non debatable. 

On my way to the cafe I was on top of the world. I felt good about this life event and it was a beautiful Thursday; my favorite day of the week! Upon arrival, I scoped the place out to see the descriptions I read online become illustrated before my own eyes. It was adorable. Couches in the front with a coffee bar on the right hand side and also.... five pairs of eyes staring at me. 

"Hi! Do you have an application?" Ah, such simple words to turn the situation around. Immediately "my friend" Kevin came up and shook my hand and the owner, Kristin, complimented my scarf. I love this place. And I also loved Kristin's scarf. 

They told me to grab some coffee and fill out the application. Then we chatted at a table and I found out Kristin's partner went to Millersville University, like myself. This is awesome and also super weird. It is weird because when I applied at Ida's Cafe (while at said university) my then soon-to-be employer told me he was from a neighboring town of mine and his wife went to my high school. Eerie Indiana.

I guess I have some magnet on me that brings me to cafes run by people that share my last place of residence. We all have a special skill, I suppose. 

Kristin told me I could do a trial run this weekend just bussing tables and that way we could both have a fair chance at seeing if this was a good fit. Genius idea. 

Yet, there is one thing I will have to get used to. They use an iphone application, or something similar, to put orders in immediately as I'd take them. Whoa, pressure! I mean, I still have a sliding phone. Granted, I think it is just as cool as the electric slide but most of the world thinks it incapable of doing anything. However, the cafe says I can wear all my earrings while working and Starbucks said I wouldn't be able to. So despite the technology at hand, I'll take the job ;] 

On To The Next One!

I got the job at the library! Unemployed Bridget is now Double Employed Bridget. I'd say call me "DEB" but I have a friend named Deb. Who is also part of the reason I have this job at the library now!

Deb's mom works at the library and told me to apply and then took me around to meet people when I filled out my application. The Appreciation Award goes to her because finally, after 5 months of being done with college, I not only have a job but I have one that looks good on my resume! 

Let's start that happy dance up again. (This girl* knows how to demonstrate a good happy dance via internet.)

*I don't know this girl. Honestly, I looked up "happy dance" to provide some images to brighten this entry up and found her post. Thank you to her.

Cleaning Out My Closet

The time has come. All my shelves in my room filled with old trophies, dolls, and knick knacks I've somehow accumulated in 22 years are about to be no more.

I figured that the only way to move on to the next stage in my life, especially one where I am now* a certified adult, would be to start fresh and weed out the excess of what was. I don't care for a lot of things decorating my life anymore, or at least other things have become more meaningful. While I am sad if I think about this too long, I guess it is something everyone goes through if they're lucky enough. And thank God, I am able to be lucky enough.

So where to begin? I guess with the medal I had from throwing javelin that fell off its ribbon a few months ago. It is always as if my room knows when I need to start moving forward. In the dorm rooms and apartment I've lived in over the past 4 years, all my posters and wall hangings started falling on their own when it came to the end of the semester or the end of my living there. Granted, I never seemed to have the utensils I needed to properly hang things (shout out to my old roommates Sara, Kasey, and Hannah for helping me out constantly on that end.) Yet, I like to think of it as a sign. Okay, two signs. 1-Start buying the basics for myself. And 2-Shake that etch-a-sketch of life and turn the knobs to get something new!

Have I started this process yet? No. It sounds like the worst. I mean, I am horrible at goodbyes. Which is why if you ever have said goodbye to me I probably either faded out silently and you never got a chance to say bye, or I made a big deal where I hugged you a lot. I feel incomplete just waving and walking away.

You may say, "Bridget, this isn't people." To which I say, "It is. It's me from another life." Because these are the things I loved as a kid, the things I cherished as a teen, and the things that make me smile to look back on now. Like silly notes I've passed to friends in class. Am I still friends with those people? Do I know what half the stuff meant? Nope! But I'm terrible at throwing it out.

For months I've been toying with that idea of going through things but it has only been recently I've decided to be done with a lot of it for good. All things take time. Which is why naturally the "clean my room" bullet has been on my to-do list every day for weeks. Sometimes I even try to trick myself and write it differently, i.e. "organize containers in room" or "sort through my clothes." As of yet, none have been successful.

Perhaps putting it to the blog will set my list in stone.

Regardless, I am making a conscious decision to simplify and rid my life of so many fractions. Because frankly, I was never good at math.


* I originally typed "not" instead. There is one big cake of irony that my life just can't stop taking bites of.