Like a dang carnival barker

Today’s beverage: post 5:30am run coffee with a side of bunny snuggles.

Tatted up like a dang carnival barker”

This is one of my dad’s staple phrases. I honestly should get it carved into my tombstone someday. It’s a joke, so nobody yell at him.

By most people’s standards, I am not really “tatted up.” I have four tattoos, five if you count that one is a cover up. There’s nothing wrong with the original; it’s not like I got “butthole’s butthole” tattooed on my butthole. (FYI I know someone who does indeed have that tattoo). No, I was just indifferent to the tattoo that was there and decided to cover it with something prettier.

Now, I know that not everyone is a fan of tattoos.

It’s gonna look weird when you get old.”

Yes, well so is the rest of me.

No one will hire you!”

Gainfully employed, thank you very much. I will concede that this is an old sentiment, and that opinions on tattoos for people other than ax murders have changed.

What about when you get pregnant?”

First of all, if, not when. Let’s normalize the concept that not everyone is able to, or wants to, get pregnant.

Second, if I get pregnant, that baby is likely going to make my skin all sorts of weird, regardless of whether or not I have a tattoo. I’ve seen pregnant people. Babies are jerks.

What if your significant other doesn’t like it?!”

Ok, well first of all, FUCK THAT NOISE! Your partner doesn’t like your tattoos? Find a new partner. For transparency sake, I had three tattoos already when I met my boyfriend, and I did discuss it with him before I got the other two. I wasn’t getting permission, but I do like to know his thoughts on things. Spoiler: turns out he loves me no matter what awwwwww

They hurt.”


They’re expensive.”

Question: if you’re going to have someone carve an image into your skin with a needle, you’d want them to be trained and qualified, right? Me too. It’s the same reason I’d never seek out discount LASIK.

“Tatted up like a dang carnival barker.”

My dad likes to act scandalized by the tattoos in our family, like he has delicate sensibilities or something. I’m in the lead with 4-slash-5, my mom has one, and my middle brother has one. He jokes that I corrupted my mom. When I got my first tattoo, I was 18. I got a winged foot on my left thigh, ‘cause….running. Naturally, I was nervous, because, to be perfectly crass, I’m a pussy. So my mom went with me. She even paid for it because she’s the coolest lady ever. Move over, Lorelai Gilmore.

At this point in our lives, my mom was undergoing treatment for cancer, but she surprised me by admitting that she’d be down to get a little ink. (I winced typing that, but I’m trying to be cool). At the time, her getting a tattoo was a medical no-no, so I told her that I’d get one with her when she was in remission.

Here’s the thing about your first tattoo. The biggest side effect is wanting a second tattoo.

I got bit by the bug.

My mom went into remission. YAY!!

So off we went for tattoos. She got a cute little shamrock on her ankle, and I got an infinity symbol on my ribs.

DISCLAIMER: Unless it is something racist, sexist, or otherwise openly offensive, you can get whatever tattoo you want, and who da fuck cares. If you like it, that’s all that matters.

DISCLAIMER PART 2: if you want to get a white ink tattoo so that you can say you have a tattoo, but no one will ever see it, I have a suggestion. Just lie. Say you have one. It will save you a lot of money, and as stated above, tattoos hurt.

My infinity tattoo would definitely be considered “basic bitch” status, along with anchors and feathers and “Live. Laugh. Love.” But I liked it, and a friend drew it for me, which was a neat added touch. That being said, there should be a written exam prior to getting a second tattoo. Like a Buzzfeed quiz called “Are you sure? Or are you just impatient?”

Fast forward a few years, and I now have the winged foot on my thigh, the cuuuutest T-Rex on my ankle, a watercolor elephant on one side of my ribs, and I recently covered the infinity tattoo on the other side of my ribs with lilacs. It’s not that I dislike that tattoo, but I was indifferent towards it.

Am I done? Probably not. And here’s why.

**I’m not going too deep into the following topic but to do my due diligence: trigger warning: I will briefly be discussing the topic of disordered eating. I also want to remind you all that I like to mix humor in with serious things. I’m not making light of anyone else’s situation, just my own.

Ok, let’s do this shit!

Body dysmorphia: a mental health disorder in which you can’t stop thinking about one or more perceived defects or flaws in your appearance.

I tend to describe it as living my life in a funhouse mirror. Most people, especially women, know what I mean when I say there are good mirrors and bad mirrors. I don’t know what some people are doing when they make these things, but you can go from supermodel to that blueberry girl from Willy Wonka real quick.

When I look at myself, regardless of the mirror, I do not see what you see. I do not like what I see. Specifically, in my mind, I am fat. This is in addition to a whole host of other “flaws” that I see that other people have told me don’t exist. Jokes on you, Brigid’s brain doesn’t give a flying fart what you think.

In the battle of emotion mind versus wise mind, my wise mind is definitely the kid who’d get picked last in kickball.

But Brigid, lots of people don’t like their bodies. Don’t be dramatic.

True. But there’s a line between seeing something you don’t like and seeing something that’s not there. When I look at myself, I tend to see proportions that are objectively, not possible.

To be perfectly clear, this is not meant to diminish anyone else’s opinions of their body. A friend of mine who does stand-up comedy has a really good bit about anxiety and it turning into a pissing contest. Everyone is trying to one-up everyone else’s anxiety.

If I have to be fucked up, I want to be the most fucked up. I am the Queen of stress, hear me roar, and nervously chew my fingernails.

*evil laugh*

I’m not trying to out-anxiety anyone. I may be competitive, but that would be like trying to see who could get the highest fever. No one really wins. I’m simply trying to create a clearer picture of the point I’m trying to get across.

Side note: I did once compete with a friend as to who could get the lowest blood pressure readings over 24 hours of wearing a pressure cuff. I lost. But I’m sure if you asked a medical professional, they’d say we both lost, which is why we didn’t ask.

Anyway, my body image issues, along with my other mental health struggles, have led to a lot of negative coping measures that wind their way in and out of my existence, such as purging and over-exercising. These aren’t constants in my life, but they have a tendency to pop back in an say hello despite the fact that I specifically told them that they aren’t in my COVID bubble. I accidentally wrote a whole post about this last month, which is safely tucked away in my drafts folder and will likely never see the light of day, except for being shared with my family and my therapist.

So what does this have to do with tattoos? Well, I’ll tell ya!

I don’t really like looking at myself in the mirror, but it’s kind of necessary. Otherwise I’d probably walk out the door looking like I wrapped myself in Velcro and threw myself into my closet. If it sticks, I wear it! Or I’d forget to put make-up on one side of my face. Though, honestly that might not be noticeable. I finally learned how to do eyeliner at the age of 27, and I usually do the bare minimum. Want me in your wedding? I don’t care how much the make-up artist costs, I’m paying. I know how to do literally nothing with my face.

Also, the fact that I don’t like looking in a mirror means that I spend my entire day looking at my reflection trying to pick apart the things I don’t like. I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment.

Still waiting on the tattoo thing? I’m getting there, I promise! Scout’s honor!

My tattoos give me something positive to focus on, on the days when I have trouble finding the positives I was born with. I love my tattoos. I love to look at them. So when I need to try on a bathing suit, or change outfits 700 times to find the right one, I use them to refocus myself. They are my healthy coping.

Some people think that tattoos need to have meaning. So when I tell people that I have a big watercolor elephant holding a balloon on my ribs, they will ask me if it’s for my rabbit, who’s named Elephant. It’s a fun coincidence, but honestly I just thought it was cute. The T-Rex on my ankle? I like dinosaurs, and it makes me smile. The winged foot obviously has to do with running, of course. And my most recent addition, a diamond with lilacs poking in an out is just plain cool.

I don’t need meaning. I need something that I want to look at.

That’s not to say I’m going to cover myself head to toe. Just because you like oil paintings doesn’t mean every square inch of your walls is covered in framed art. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those if that’s what you want.

You do you, boo boo.

One of the things I actually like is that all of my tattoos are pretty easy to cover. It’s like I have secret body armor under my clothes…like deodorant! Except now that a global pandemic has kept me home bound, it’s shocking how frequently I forget to apply.

So while I have a few ideas for small things I’d like to add on here and there, I mostly focus my tattoos on the key parts of my body that I view as flawed. It’s why I don’t have a butt tattoo…because…flawless. *hair flip*

KIDDING…kinda 😉

At the same time, although I can easily point out “flaws” on my face, such as those caterpillars some would call eyebrows that I inherited from my father, I also won’t be getting a face tattoo. You want a face tattoo? Get a face tattoo! But I just don’t think I’ll be able to rock it as well as Post Malone or Mike Tyson. I’m leaving that to the professionals. I have my limits.

And with that, the sun is now up, and Elephant has bitten me enough times that it’s clear my attention is to be shifted to her.

Ok, Brigid, connect it back to the theme…working on my mental health is part of navigating my quarter life crisis.


So until next time….I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

A forgone conclusion

Today’s beverage: Mich Ultra Spicy Pineapple Seltzer….on the porch!!!! Every drink tastes better on a porch. It’s science. I checked.

I was a running stroller baby. Then I was a “bike ride while my dad runs” child, followed by a “run with my dad” preteen, culminating in a “run while my parents ride their bikes” adult.

It’s the ciiiiiiircle of liiiiiiife!

So yeah, me being a runner was a forgone conclusion, etched in stone since the time of the dinosaurs. In fact, when I’m tired, I even run like a T-rex. It’s a family trait. So I’m a runner. But that’s not to say I didn’t fight it along the way a little bit. In my mind, I was going to be a soccer player, the next Mia Hamm if you will. To be clear, I was the only one who felt that that that was a logical goal. I chose to overlook the fact that my most valuable skills as a soccer player were really just byproducts of me being a runner. Other people, smarter people, saw these things. It’s why every coach made me play midfield. It’s also why a player on another team once slapped me in the face because she got so frustrated that I kept beating her to the ball, thus effectively removing her from the game. There was not a single person in attendance, myself included, who did not know she was a better player than me. But somebody was just faster. *hair flip*

This brings us to high school and adding some running to my summer training to get ready for my first year of JV soccer. Every day my dad would take me on an out-and-back 3 mile run. Except it was more of a out-cry-back 3 mile run. God bless that man.

I quickly learned in that 9th grade soccer season that some of my teammates, and their parents, were not my biggest fans. I wasn’t a bad player, but in a perfect world, I sure as shit should not have been a starter. But your girl’s got wheels! In their minds, my playing time was a threat to their college scholarships. Want to hear a secret? YOUR ENTIRE HIGH SCHOOL TEAM IS NOT GOING TO A DI SCHOOL FOR FREE. And if I’m your barrier to that, you have far bigger problems. Calm down.

Fast forward to the first week of varsity indoor track, and I was sold on cross country. I LOVED my teammates. I still do! I’m in one of their weddings next year!

Added perk: my parents were thrilled. My parents are runner parents, and they like to hang with runner parents. I know this because my dad tells me…all. the. time.

I had done track and field during middle school (to stay in shape for soccer, obvs), and while I was successful, I struggled with living in my older brother’s shadow. I love my brother (now…back then? Meh.) but when you’re trying to prove yourself on your own merits, it hurts to have a coach not bother to learn your name. I was my brother’s sister, and that remained my title for two years. I thought I escaped this in high school when I established myself as my own person, until a coach from an opposing team asked my dad why he would travel to watch me race when my brother was the better athlete. I mean, he wasn’t wrong; my brother ran DI in college whereas I found my happy place in DIII, but like, what the actual fuck.

I won’t bore you with the details of 8 years of racing for my high school and college teams, but I will bore you with some things I learned along the way. Lucky you!!

I love the people that running has brought into my life. I have “friends from college” that graduated before I even knew my alma mater existed, and this is because of the support system our team has created throughout the years.

There’s a bond that forms between runners, between competitors. Watching someone hit a PR or break a record, even if they aren’t on your team, is a winning experience for everyone. Crossing the finish line and knowing that the person right in front or behind you has also completely emptied the tank builds an unspoken level of respect. Comparing blisters, lost toe nails, and sharing ice baths, and exchanging war stories of the first time you had to take a shit in the woods are also crucial bonding experiences.

But there’s also a negative side. Years of being told that you don’t “have a runner’s body” takes its toll. I have more of a soccer player body…I guess that happens when you play the sport for 14 YEARS! I lived in an environment where light means fast, where average is overweight. Teammates and I have discussed many times over the years that our standards for someone being “too thin” are unhealthy and wrong.

When you run competitively, your results are constantly under a microscope. Either you’re the fastest or you’re not. And when you don’t bring in the result that’s expected of you, you are picked apart…sometimes by coaches, sometimes by teammates, sometimes by family, but mostly by yourself. You have to be ready to get comfortable in your own head when you become a runner.

Having a good coach is key.

I loved my college coach. I thrived under his instruction. He’s certainly led to some interesting anecdotes throughout the years, and we definitely did not always see eye to eye, but all in all, he was an excellent coach on and off the course.

This was slightly different than high school.

Staggering your runs so that the slowest people start first and the fastest people start last is not the best way to foster confidence, especially when the fastest are expected to overtake the slowest every single day. Sending an athlete on a five mile run the day after experience heat stroke was also less than ideal, but I guess I’m still here.

I had a boyfriend after college who coached. I asked him to train me for a marathon, and he agreed but he also told me within 30 seconds that my weight would be open to his criticism. Sadly, I wasn’t even really concerned. Now when I need coaching, I turn to my brother. We have similar running styles, and he can’t weigh me from several states away….not that he’d want to, because he’s a normal human being.

Obviously, there are some questionable coaching techniques in any sport. For example, I’m pretty sure that there are other ways to develop my core and reduce fear of the ball than having a teammate stand at my head and repeatedly chuck a soccer ball at my stomach. I’d also say having dance studio attached to a bar was iffy, but it was Irish dance, so actually I think that checks out.

Moving on.

Running, both in school and after, has taken me to a lot of places. I’ve raced in Boston, Disney World, through Churchill Downs, along coast of Maine, and even the exotic destinations of Iowa, Wisconsin, and Indiana. DIII just LOVES the Midwest.

I love running. I love the stress relief, I love the ability to test my body’s limits, I even love the fun tan lines! Even when there’s no race on the horizon (heyyyy, COVID) I still find joy in the miles. Here’s the deal though. You do something long enough, you’re going to run in to some bad experiences.

I was 16 when I got my first catcall that creeped me out. I was between games for a soccer tournament and went for an 8 mile run (key indicator that soccer was not my sport) and I was running in a sports bra since it was a billion degrees out. Some weird adult man whistled at me and said something gross about my body. I remember getting home and relaying the experience to my mom and being confused what he was commenting on. I mean I was less than 100 pounds, and my boobs hadn’t grown in yet! My mom would likely still argue that I’m a card carrying member of the itty bitty titty committee, but that’s irrelevant.

Over the years I’ve been followed (by cars, other runners, and a group of youths on skateboards). I had a lovely gentlemen pretend to jerk off at me. My favorite is when it’s raining and cars drive through puddles to splash you on purpose. Have you ever had a tween on a razor scooter spit on you? I have! And who doesn’t love to be chased by loose dogs?? Better yet, who doesn’t love getting bit by a dog and having the owner not believe you. Sorry I didn’t remove my pants to show you the bite mark on my thigh, but leash your dog, ya Karen.

Last year I scrapped one of my favorite running routes because a loose dog came out at me, and I crossed the street to attempt to get away. The dog ran in front of a car, AND WAS NOT HIT, because I knew the driver saw the dog and what I was trying to do. But the owner came after me, telling me to go jump off a bridge and die and that he was going to kill me because I almost hurt his dog.

Fortunately for me, the good continues to outweigh the bad.

I love that I can shoot a mean snot rocket (in the winter it’s more of a blood rocket). I love that there’s not a port-a-potty in this land that can scare me. At the same time, I love that runners take no shame in waiting in line to pee in the woods when the potties are full. We are a fit, but gross people. We’re good at testing the limits of how far one can go without a shower. You ever see a runner finish run with only one sock? You can bet money that they had a poopmergency somewhere along the way, but they still had a few miles left.

This took a fun turn for you all, didn’t it??

Don’t worry because here’s your reprieve.

To toot my own horn, something I’m trying to do more often, I’m no slouch when it comes to running. I have a marathon PR of 3:09, and I’ve won my fair share of races. But it’s a hobby, not a profession. I’m what you might call, “middle of the road.” That being said, a couple hundred bucks every now and again is a pretty sweet deal.

But I turned my running into money in other ways too. I was able to work in running stores for several years. The best part here is I got a paycheck and free gear! SCORE! This was clutch, because like most graduate students, I was poor AF.

And this lesson is what connects this topic to the theme of my blog…

*drumroll please*

Ladies and gentlemen, ya girl got her first paid writing gig!!!!! That’s right people, I’m breaking in to the game. WeeViews is an online running community that posts reviews of gear, races, and other things running. You can find my first post on in the Rundown, listing tips and tricks for gearing up without going broke. Give them a follow, write some reviews, check it out!!

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle (or a steeple) for another beer.

As we mature, the relationship matures with us

Channeling my inner Marshall Erikson here

today’s beverage: New Belgium Black Berry Black Tea Sour…a delicious beer with a real bitch of a name. Try ordering one of those when you’re already a few drinks in. People are gonna think you’re having a stroke.

*Disclaimer: that was what I was drinking when I wrote this. I admittedly have been sitting on this post for a few days to get it juuuuuust right.

I’ve lived in the same neighborhood for 5 years. Five whole years. To me, that’s a lot. I feel like I’ve grown up a lot since moving to Rochester, and leaving Park Ave when we find a house is going to be bittersweet. One the one hand, more space means more dogs, but I will miss walking to all the bars and restaurants.

But in my typical fashion, this thought has me reminiscing.

I love this neighborhood for many reasons. It’s safe, it is full of people my own age, it’s walkable, and there are tons of places to eat and drink. I feel like I’ve enjoyed them all over the years. But it’s funny. There are bars I loved when I moved here that I wouldn’t be caught dead in, and there are other bars that have grown on me.

I bet I’m not the only one, but I feel like I can track the evolution of my bar patronage in phases. Some of these phases overlap, and there has definitely been some backtracking, but it’s fun to look at it all and think, “man I was dumb.

Phase 1: Coming of Age

Call me lame, but I never had a fake ID. I snuck into one bar once when I was 20, and the bouncer promptly picked me up and removed me to the sidewalk. It was fine; I met a Golden Retriever. Gotta love small town colleges. Luckily for me, I had my whole senior year to enjoy the bars of Geneseo: the darkness of Kelly’s, the sweaty walls of the IB (RIP), and dirty water races at the Idle (no wonder most people got mono in college).

I turned 21 in Chicago. Well technically, I turned 21 on a train somewhere between Rochester and Chicago because I couldn’t afford the flight to my research conference. My first legal drink was purchased by my professor because I’m really cool.

Phase 1b: Dumb Adventures – finally old enough to drink, but with the common sense of a doorknob

Your early twenties. You’re finally done with school, but no one will hire you. All you have is free time, a credit card, and a minimal understanding of credit scores and interest rates. So you travel. Now, I don’t really like touristy bars. That makes me sound like a snob, but I don’t really want to pay $15 for a Bud Light. I also just really love a good dive bar.

To go back to my Chicago trip, all research students got beer tickets for the bar next to the hotel. So while I don’t like these bars, I’m not one to turn down a drink ticket. That’s how my lab (not the dog kind) and I found ourselves sitting at some Irish bar near Navy Pier. I don’t know why the birthday girl doesn’t get to pick her own drinks, but nevertheless an unwanted shot was sent my way. I figure, ok I can set this behind me on the bar and no one will be the wiser. False. Want to know who was the wiser? The gentleman I ended up dumping it on (not drunk, just uncoordinated). But while most men would be upset about being covered in a lemon drop, he ended up being our tour guide for the rest of the weekend. He took us to a ton of bars, resulting in me wandering out Chicago my last day with a sleeve of saltine crackers while I waited for my train. So it worked out.

And for the next few years, that was the theme of me and my friends’ bar adventures…”so it worked out.”

We learned that if you go on vacation and just head a few streets over from the main strip, you can find a dingy bar where the patrons have parrots and you’re the only ones under the age of 50. You’re also the only ones who don’t look like you’ve fallen on “hard times.” And it’s the best bar you’ve ever been to! That being said, if you do opt for the popular bars, you might also get invited to a company Christmas party with an open bar, even though none of you actually work for said company.

Sometimes, you have to venture off the beaten path, or you’ll never get free tickets to a DMX concert from strippers on the sidewalk.

We did not go; we aren’t that dumb.

But eventually, you find a job, move away from home, and settle in to phase 2, with a few backslides into phase 1

Phase 2: Bro Bars

We all know our town’s bro bars. *cough* East & Alex *cough* We all go to them, even though deep down we hate them. They’re crowded. They’re loud. Somebody will steal your umbrella (ok, you may have given it to them). They’re full of bros. But like all phases of life, there are lessons to be learned here.

For one, only let your nice friends order drinks. If you want a drink the second the urge pops into your mind, stay home and pull up a chair next to the refrigerator. Otherwise, prepare to wait. You wouldn’t think this needs to be explained, but it does. For the record, just because you think it took too long for the bartender to take a drink order for you and your six friends, you do not get to write “fuck you” as the tip. On the other hand, if you witness this action and leave an extra large tip and an apology on behalf of that asshole, you will get excellent service for the rest of the night.

Next lesson: This is not the bar to meet the love of your life. While I write my way through this, remember that this is written from the perspective of a heterosexual cis-gender woman. Alter the pronouns as you see fit.

Anyway, bro bars are not for finding love, they’re for finding love if you know what I mean. To be very clear, there is no judgment from me if you want to bring home a guy you meet in a bar and then never speak to him again. Been there, done that. (I’d say sorry mom, but she already knows all of these things.)

Bro bars are where you perfect your lying game. It’s the perfect environment for creating a new you. Now I’m usually pretty reasonable about this. I’m not trying to occupy someone’s whole evening if I want nothing to do with them. But, if I hear you ranking me and my friends by appearance, an evil plan will be masterminded. Hey guy, you think I’m flattered that you pick me? Nope, but you better believe that I am going to pretend I didn’t hear you and your idiot friends, and I am going to waste. your. time. I will spend the rest of the night creating the most elaborate backstory you’ve ever heard. You’ll laugh, you’ll weep, you’ll fall in love. And then you’ll go home alone. And how will you know it was all an elaborate ruse? Because when you look at the phone number I wrote down, you’ll see that it is about 25 numbers long.

All this hustle and bustle gets exhausting, so you move up to phase 3. This is usually followed by an urge to become a hermit and never speak to another human ever again. But you just gotta keep chugging along…sometimes literally. Getting through this phase takes liquid courage.

Without further ado…..

Phase 3: dating apps

Hi! Millennial here. I’m no stranger to the dating apps. I met my boyfriend of 3 years on Bumble. But let me tell you, you get stung. A LOT.

I just can’t turn down a good pun!

And if you aren’t beaten down enough by Bumble, there’s Tinder.

There are three tiers of “success” when it comes to dating apps. You can knock it out of the park and find love, you can hit a double and go on a few dates with someone before turning it into a great friendship, or you can get hit with the pitch.

Pro tip: Do not use “your bar” for dates. Don’t ruin the bar!

Another pro tip: Know your exit strategy ahead of time. For me, it was having a new puppy. Nothing ends a date faster than ducking out of a hug and insisting that you have to leave so your dog can take a shit.

Unintended consequence of getting a dog? If you set up a date in the first few days you have said puppy, a friend will likely remind you as you’re sitting outside a bar, enjoying a beer, and basking in the accolades of strangers wanting to meet your new dog, that you were supposed to be on said date an hour ago.

Fun fact, you can apparently stand up a guy once and it’s not a deal breaker. But if you accidentally do it a second time, now you’ve fouled out.

But sometimes, if you’re lucky, one of those dates works out and then you can go back to all your favorite bars, significant other in tow, without a care in the world, thus graduating to phase 4

Phase 4: “your bars

Hello local breweries and quiet bars, my name is Brigid and I’m here to stay. You say you have a new Triple IPA? Well poor me a glass, toss me a bowl of peanuts, and keep that tab open. Maybe schedule me for an Uber in two hours.

Call me old and boring, but when I hang out with my friends, I like to hear what they’re saying. These darn youths and their music! I don’t want to leave a bar feeling like my hearing was damaged.

In my mind, this is me finally becoming a real adult! Go me!

End of the list right? Wrong! Because do you want to know what phase can overlap all others??


For a brief period of time, I was a hostess at pub with a friend from high school and some other great people. Only problem is that when it came to going out after a shift we were absolute fuckin degenerates.

There’s not much to say here except that I had a blast, we were horrible influences on each other, and I’m shocked sometimes that I’m still alive.

I feel like most people who work in a restaurant can relate. The hours are weird, you never have to be up early, you’re already downtown, and you’re flush with cash and the memories of customers being wrong. It’s anarchy.

Ok everyone, so now we’ve come to the part where I figure out how to tie this in to the quarter life crisis and side hustle theme….

Gather round…

I got this. It is likely that the reason I need a side hustle now is because I spent my younger years in bars and subsequently spending too much money on pizza and ubers.


So until next time….I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

Do as I say, not as I do

Today’s beverage: coffee….it is not even 7am people. Calm down.

Why am I up so early, you ask? Well my dumb ass agrees to run with a friend every Friday at 5:30am, so I am now firmly in the post run bunny snuggles part of my day. Well, I’m trying to snuggle. The bunny is licking all the dried sweat off my neck and face.

And speaking of bunnies, I have news on the whole growing up and buying a house thing. The boyfriend and I have officially done our first house tour. It won’t be the house for us, but that is not the point.

No, the point is that a good test of whether our realtor was right for us or not (she is; she’s great) was her being understanding of my requirements for Elephant.

As I surveyed the living room and dining room area of the house, I noted that it would be perfect for Elephant because with two area rugs and a runner, she would have unfettered access to two whole rooms!

And that was literally like my only comment about that area of the house. Because when one is considering making the biggest purchase of one’s life, one must consider the smallest critter involved.

But the whole thing got me thinking, and I’d like to take an opportunity to introduce you to Elephant and explain how we’ve gotten to this point where I’m making major life decisions based on an overweight lagomorph.

That’s right. Rabbits aren’t rodents; they are lagomorphs. Take that, MOM!

(Just kidding, love you momma bear)

Back to the task at hand.

I got Elephant for all of the reasons you should not buy a pet, specifically a rabbit, but mostly anything other than a goldfish or a tamagotchi.

Hence…do as I say, not as I do

Reasons I bought Elephant

1. My mom said no. I’ve always wanted a rabbit. We had dogs, cats, fish, and a short-lived and poorly ending journey with frogs, but rodents are not allowed in the house. (See point above. *harrumph*)

2. I was replacing a boy. Literally one month after moving in with my boyfriend at the time, he took a job 4 hours away and moved out. This relationship had more red flags than a sporting match between Switzerland and China, so I really should not have been surprised. But anyway, we had just rented a 2 bedroom apartment, and yet I slept on the couch with a coffee table blocking the door shut every night, and I kept an old night stick next to my bed. (This is an improvement from the steak knife under my pillow. You could say I’m a bit of a scaredy cat.)

3. I was poor and busy. I couldn’t get a dog because they weren’t allowed and also I couldn’t afford one. And I’m allergic to cats. Plus I’m just like generally not really a fan…except for maybe 6 cats. Their owners know who they are.

4. She was on sale! All the bunnies in the pet store were $50. Elephant was only $15 because she was a baby bunny that someone dropped off with a note at the owner’s door.

So I took my Harry Potter discount rabbit and home we went. She peed on me in the car.

Immediately upon putting her on the kitchen floor, I felt I made a terrible mistake. Watching her slide across the floor using her front paws, I thought to myself, “Fuck I bought a paralyzed rabbit! What am I going to do?!”

Spoiler- she is not paralyzed, she just cannot navigate hard floors. Thank the almighty Dwayne the Rock Johnson for wall to wall carpeting.

Our relationship was not love at first sight. For about 3 months, the only way I could get her to come near me was if I played dead on the floor. After about an hour of no movement, she would hop over, smell me, bite me, and take off.

Fast forward to today, where as I said, she’s literally licking sweat off my body while I write this.

Now despite my irresponsible beginnings in the world of pet ownership, I like to think I did a pretty good job. Elephant is litter trained, and as a result, she is now allowed out of her house full time. Her house doesn’t even have a door.

That being said, I’ve definitely learned some valuable lessons in the process of owning a free range rabbit. She may be litter trained, but the training ends there.

1. I should have invested stock in iPhone chargers (I have no friggin clue if that is properly worded, I don’t know money things.) She has a 6th sense for them, and they must be destroyed. I replace phone chargers more than I replace eggs in my refrigerator.

2. Baseboards are apparently delicious

3. Rabbits can and will eat your couch

4. If you trip over them, they do not accept your apology.

5. Be careful bringing dogs in the house. Because the rabbit will attack them…and occasionally hump them.

6. Beware of hysterical pregnancies and check under your pillow for nests. Excuse me while I go vomit from this memory.

7. If you don’t want a food bowl chucked across the room, especially at night, keep the bowl full

Having Elephant around has been a treasure. Some say that dogs are a good judge of character? Please, Littlefoot is a trifling ho and will love anyone that looks at her. But Elephant? If you can pick her up without getting mauled, then you get to stay.

Also, according to the internet, she died like 3 years ago. The lifespan of an unspayed rabbit is 3-4 years and Elephant is going strong coming up on year 7. I guess this makes her a zombie bunny.

Actually, she reminds me more of a drop bear than anything else. She’s a drop bunny!!

This is the point in the conversation where you look up drop bears if you don’t know what they are. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Also, listen to Bob Barker and get your pets spayed or neutered. I was a poor grad student.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Moral of the story, did I think that when I bought Elephant all those years ago that she would be such a big factor in the home buying process?

Trick question! Obviously. And if you feel otherwise, you shouldn’t own a pet. You monster.

Now get ready for some word magic, as I find away to tie this blog post to my general theme of navigating a quarter life crisis.

*rolls shoulders back, strikes a power pose*

Learn from my mistakes and lessons so that you can avoid some of the troubles I have faced.

There, that should do it. Tied up and packaged like a nice Christmas present.

Yeah I know, it’s a stretch, but I got up at 4:30 this morning so I don’t want to hear it.

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.


Today’s-ish beverage: Michelob Ultra Infusions: lime & prickly pear cactus

I have to say, the seltzers are way better, but the calories are still low, and I have a beach vacay coming up in May.

Either way, that’s what I was drinking when I started this post 2 days ago. Now I’m actually just drinking iced coffee, because my body runs almost exclusively on caffeine. I’m not even sure what being properly hydrated feels like. I’d probably get fewer headaches, but I just like to think of those as one of life’s little quirks.

Well folks, I did it. I arm wrestled a bear.

No. I submitted my first pitches for freelance writing gigs. My hat is in the ring. I have entered the gauntlet. I put some skin in the game. I have tapped out on that analogy.

I did arm wrestle my friend last night though. She destroyed me. She’s not a bear, but she does cross fit, and she’s very strong. There’s a reason I’m the only one on our Tough Mudder team that can’t cross the Funky Monkey. These guns are for display purposes only.

*kisses each “bicep”*

Shout out to Overall Obstacles. Returning to a Tough Mudder near you (if you live outside of Boston) June 2021

I also officially received my first, and likely not last, rejection. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this part. I could lie and say I was wildly successful right out of the gate, and you should all bow down to my excellence. Kiss the ring!

But as the kids say these days, honesty is the best policy. And don’t part your hair on the side. And don’t wear skinny jeans.

Jokes on you Gen-Z, I usually just wear sweatpants. And I look terrible with a center part so I guess I wasn’t destined to fit in with the youths. That’s fine. I just want to do jigsaw puzzles and paint by number on my phone all day anyway.

Back to writing pitches.

It honestly wasn’t as scary as I anticipated. I’m not sure why I procrastinated so long. Oh wait, yes I do, it’s just part of my charming nature aka my anxiety disorder. It’s cuter if you call it charm. Kind of like saying a house is charming when what you really mean is it’s smaller than your car and hasn’t been updated since it was cool to put carpet in the bathroom.

Maybe it’s because I’m used to professional rejection. Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t make a difference whether I send my resume to the employer or just use it to line Elephant’s litter box.

Side note: I have done that many times. It’s called being economical and eco-friendly.

Saving trees one failure at a time.

I once went through a series of job interviews where the interviewer informed me that I was almost the top choice, but there was just one person with better qualifications.

Always the bridesmaid, never employed I guess.

*hair flip*

I’m sorry, but what makes you think I’m going to feel better if I know that I barely missed out? Just tell me no and move on.

One of the best parts of pitching for these freelance gigs is that I don’t have to do the usual job interviews.

I hate job interviews. I’m sure that’s how most people feel, unless you’re some sort of masochist. To each their own! Whatever floats your giant, Instagramable unicorn raft.

Ohhh to reminisce on my old job searches…

There was the time I interviewed for an internship and the interviewer asked me what I weighed. And then, they had the balls to tell me that I’m not that small, compared to a figure skater. I mean ok, oddly specific and inappropriate, but you do you, boo boo.

There was the interview I did with a minor concussion because I fell on ice the night before. That was fun. I also couldn’t turn my head at all.

There was this interview:

“How comfortable are you with informatics?”

Me: “I don’t know what that is.”

“….Ma’am this internship is called ‘informatics in public health.’”

That ones on me, but in my defense I had found an internship already and had one foot out the door.

By the way, public health informatics is the process of using data systems and technology to shape public health practice. See? I would have been fine.

And then there are those interviews where you know the interviewer very well and you have to ask and answer questions like you’ve never seen them before in your life. As someone who spends most of their waking hours being nervous and awkward, this is a friggin nightmare!

In summary, the idea of sending someone a writing sample and they just tell me yes or no is pretty relaxing.

I just need some people to say yes. I need the money! I have mouths to feed! Specifically, Elephant. If you’ve ever been bit by a rabbit, you can understand why I focus all of my efforts and resources on not pissing her off. The trick is to drop the treats from about waist level so she can’t rip them out of your hands.

In hindsight, maybe BrigidandaBeverage, while an excellent name for this whimsical blog, was not the most professional name to use for my writing portfolio, but I already bought the domain so I sure as shit am going to use it. Plus, I knew a guy who got a job as a ski instructor despite never having skied before, so I feel like anything is possible!

I also like to tell myself that putting both sides of my writing styles on display shows that I’m a real Jack of all trades…Jill of all trades? I don’t know how that expression works.

I was reading a book the other day (it was a trashy book, but it’s funny, and I can do what I want) and the author wrote “Jilled off” as opposed to “jacked off” and I have to say, it gave me the heebie jeebies.

So anyways, keep your fingers crossed that someone thinks I’m a worthwhile hire.

Ok, I need to wrap this up; I have a Lunchable to eat. Because I’m an adult, and again, I can do what I want.

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

You’d think by now I’d have that little phrase memorized, but nope, it’s copy/paste until the day I die.

Bye friends!

Remember being young?

Today’s beverage: Sam Adam’s Boston Lager, Long Trail Angry Gnome IPA, and Long Trail Blaze IPA.

Don’t judge me. I was supposed to be at my brother’s house today, meeting my baby niece for the first time, and yet I’m here in my own apartment. Stupid ice storms.

Back to the blog.

As my boyfriend and I continue the journey to thirty (it almost rhymes if you don’t think too hard) we have decided that the next step in adulthood for us is to own property!

We are thinking a house, but I could be convinced to buy a plot of land and build a porch. Here’s looking at you, Scrubs.

Enter real life House Hunters!

But Brigiddddd, House Hunters IS real. No it’s not, we all know that. It doesn’t make it any less fun to watch. Calm down.

I am excited to look for a house. It’d be cool if it wasn’t a pandemic so I didn’t have to worry about germs, but you gotta take what you can get.

The first step was to decide what we wanted in a house.

Real talk, I have no idea if that’s the first step. We literally have no clue what we are doing. Like, do I just show up to someone’s house and say “this is mine now” all Christoper Columbus style? Do I convince the homeowner that the place is haunted by my family and they miss me? Can I pay with discontinued Girl Scout cookie flavors? I don’t know. I guess that’s why realtors exist.

Anyway, we decided to figure out what our “non-negotiables” were.

Here’s what I came up with. The house has to have:

1. Backyard – preferably fenced. Buy all the dogs!

2. Two toilets – ideally not in the same room

3. A space for my jigsaw puzzles

And that’s it. Pretty simple. 10/10 would not be a good House Hunters contestant. Especially because I have a job that’s not “baked potato artist,” and a budget to match my income.

But it got me reminiscing about the house I thought I wanted when I was a kid. In elementary school, I was 100% convinced that my house would have a room with a trampoline floor and Velcro walls, a room with a trampoline floor and padded walls, and a ball pit. Essentially I just wanted to throw myself around in a somewhat safe manner.

I also wanted room for my 100 dogs, because I anticipated a future animal hoarding problem.

Now that I’m old and wise, my priorities have changed. Not the animal one; that’s really only being limited by my finances and landlords. My boyfriend accepted long ago that if there’s a dog that he wants, it will just be in addition to whatever I have already decided we will have. He once said he likes golden retrievers, so I guess it will just have to get along with our Great Dane and future St. Bernard.

Multiple trampoline rooms would be awesome, don’t get me wrong, but when you throw all that in with the rest of the mansion, there’s no way I’d be able to clean all of that. And don’t get me started on the homeowners insurance. Good grief.

That right there is how I know I’m getting old and boring. I don’t want a big house anymore because I don’t want to clean it. Not that I clean much currently in my manageably sized apartment. The assumption upon entering the house is that you will leave with dog hair on you. If that’s a problem, then you’re likely not in my pandemic circle anyway, so it’s not an issue.

This brought me to a million dollar idea, though. House Hunters, but with KIDS. Like the kids pick the houses; not like adults see three kids, compare the pros and cons and then pick one. This TV show would be the end of my need for any future career soul searching.

Kid House Hunters (it’s a working title): Kids get to go through the houses and pick what will and will not work for them. Because kids aren’t burdened or bogged down with things like mortgages, or resale value, or making logical decisions.

Theres no way this room will fit all my Legos.”

None of these sinks dispense fruit punch. That is unacceptable.”

This could work for a trampoline room if we knock down that wall. Do you know if it’s load-bearing?”

No granite countertops?! What am I, some sort of peasant?!”

You have to admit, this show would be fantastic.

I’ve been spending so much time lately thinking about my profession, that it’s been nice to shift my focus to another aspect of my “growing up.” I’ve always wanted to own a home, and in partnership with my boyfriend, we are in the fortunate position to make this dream a reality.

For one thing, I’m so excited to hang a picture using a hammer and nail, instead of a command strip! That’s it. That’s the only reason I want a home; my hatred of command strips.

Ok obviously that’s not true…most of the time. But I have had the same picture frame hanging on the wall for 6 months, right up until that little bugger decided it didn’t want to be sticky anymore. So boom, down it goes. This wouldn’t have happened if the sucker was nailed up there.

Let’s get back on track here.

In my first post, I said I was in the middle of a quarter life crisis. I have been getting to a point where I’m not really sure my career goals are what they once were. I sometimes question the academic path that led me here. But times like this, where I’m taking steps forward in other parts of my life, make me grateful and proud of where I am now.

I have a masters degree, a stable job that has thankfully survived the pandemic thus far, a comfortable living situation. I know that wherever I go from here, I have so many opportunities that will stem from where I’ve gotten myself so far.

I cannot end on such a sentimental note, so I will leave you with this: if you own a home that you are thinking about selling, and you have a working toilet in your basement, no walls, just out there living its life, waiting for a butt to grace its presence, you need to wall that shit off. Pun intended. Also maybe add a sink create the illusion that you occasionally wash your hands.

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

I’m that type of friend

Today’s beverage: chai tea…give a girl a break; I’m feeling bloggy, not boozy.

Like everyone else in the world, I learn new things every day. Today I learned that I’m the friend that other friends will tag to win things on Instagram.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, influencers and businesses like to raffle things off on Instagram, and they all follow a similar set of basic rules.

1. Follow us and like this post

2. Paste this post to your story and comment with your SSN

3. Tag a friend

4 Call your friend and threaten them until they also like and share this post

5. Get our logo tattooed on your left butt cheek

6. Tell us why you’d like to trade your first born child for this free bottle of shampoo

It’s all pretty straightforward. So like I was saying, it appears that I’m that friend that my friends will tag as step 3 in the process. Now, some people would find this annoying. Not me! I think it’s a positive, because it means that when people are scrolling through their followers, they see my name and think, “now this is a bitch that won’t fight me.”

*single tear drops down my cheek*

It just makes me feel. so. special.

And they’re right. I won’t fight them. Not necessarily because I care about them and want them to be happy. It’s not even that I don’t mind being tagged, which I don’t. No, it’s because I’d lose, and it would not be a close fight.

What makes me so confident in my demise? Let me explain…

I’ve been boxing lately, and to toot my own horn, I know what I’m doing. IBut this week in class, the instructor threw a real wrench in the works. Instead of just standing in one spot punching the bag, now we have to move like the bag can hit back. Want to know what I immediately realized?


I’d use the expression “I’m all arms and legs,” but I’m a small person and the saying doesn’t really fit my physical appearance. I mean, if I’m all anything, it’s torso. A better comparison would be to say I move like a baby dog, who’s also blind…and also drunk.

So, moral of the story? Tag away my friends, tag away.

Back to business here…

We are always learning.

Adapt or die, am I right? Seriously, am I right? Does that saying apply? Is it even really a saying? Because recently, I’ve learned that a lot of adages I thought everyone knew are actually just shit my dad’s best friend made.

Example: you can fit their brain inside a gnat’s asshole and it will bounce around like a bb in a bowling alley

I seem to have gone off track. Again.

AS I WAS SAYING, we learn new things every day.

In high school, I thought I wanted to be a teacher, right up until I learned that what I really wanted was to write in a grade book.

In college, I thought I wanted to be a doctor, right up until I learned that skipping freshman biology to play Super Smash Brothers on N64 just because I forgot my clicker (necessary for attendance points) was a strong indicator that I was maybe barking up the wrong professional tree.

…I also failed organic chemistry. Well, I would have failed, had I not switched majors and dropped the class, but you get the idea.

In grad school, I thought I wanted to be a zookeeper, right up until I learned I probably wouldn’t make any money or find a job. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but there are a finite number of zoos in this country. This wouldn’t work for me because I also learned long ago that I enjoy spending money I don’t have on things I don’t need.

At the end of grad school, I learned that a crucial piece to getting accepted into a PhD program is to match the name of the school you’re applying to to the name of the school in your essay. I’m looking at you, 5 universities out there that read all about how I would be a great asset to the University of Kentucky. Kentucky also didn’t take me, but it’s not like I got off to a good start in the first place.

In the end, I found the correct field, but it’s been a learning process.

And now? Now I’m learning that you don’t always find your dream job out of the gate. That may sound hella basic and naive to you, but in my defense, my parents were horrible examples of this. They both had careers that they loved from day one. And I’ve told them many times that they are to blame for me being lost in the shark-infested sea of adulthood. It’s very similar to how I learned that not all houses had laundry shoots, or how other people don’t call “eye boogers” “winkers.”

Tell an adult they have a winker and let me know how that goes for you.

Ok, the shark-infested bit was obviously a little dramatic. It’s not like I’m miserable in my field; I’m just trying to figure out exactly what I want to focus on still, and I was under the impression that it would be easy. Like, I know a lot of my passion in the public health field focuses on improving health equity, but how I can contribute to that is still to be determined.

So maybe the reason I take up so many part time jobs isn’t that I collect W-2’s like some people collect coins, or stamps, or cats. Don’t collect cats; that’s hoarding. No, maybe it’s because I’m trying to find my niche.

Just kidding; it’s because I like to spend money I don’t have on things I don’t need. Speaking of which, there is a shiny new jigsaw puzzle waiting for me on the kitchen table.

This concludes another episode of “Does the title match the content?”

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

I promise, it will be a beer next time.

It started with a bar cart

Today’s beverage: Saranac S’more Porter


Some of you may think 4pm is a little early for a beer. However, it’s Saturday. And to be fair, I’m trying to counteract the copious amount of caffeine I “accidentally” put in my system. God-forbid I go anywhere without thinking I need iced coffee. Hell, despite the fact that I was likely sweating out beer in my boxing class this morning, I filled my water bottle with a nitro cold brew. Since then, I’ve continued to put only caffeine in my system. But in my defense, we ran out of seltzer and I’ve grown accustomed to a certain way of living. You may call this being basic, but I call it…also being basic.

Anywhooos, back to the task at hand….

It all started with a bar cart. And it ended with an expense paid trip to Hawaii! No, it did not. I wish! No, it ended with a tequila purchase.

Pandemic projects; a lot of us have them, none of us need them. I do not buy into the idea that COVID is the perfect time “improve yourself.” No, this is more like the Hunger Games or The Road. You do what you need to do to get through it. You do you, boo boo.

I’ve been very fortunate, though. My boyfriend and I have stable jobs that we can do from home. Neither of us has gotten sick. Many of the people we are close to who have gotten sick have had relatively mild symptoms. And lastly, my mental health is controlled by medication.

But I don’t do “idle” well. I get what some might refer to as “obnoxious” or “annoying” or “un-showered”. COMMENCE THE PROJECTS!!

I like to think I have a bit of a knack for building shit. And like many people I know, the shutdowns have resulted in me having a bit of a knack for alcohol consumption. So I built a house for my liquor. Off I went to Home Depot (3 Home Depot’s in one trip to be exact because oops), and after 3 days I had a pretty nice bar.


Look at me, turning my alcohol consumption in to something productive. Excuse me while I give myself a nice pat on the back.

*pat pat pat*

And what goes well with a bar? FRESH INGREDIENTS!

Project 2: herb garden

All I have to say here is that the venture was short-lived, and everything died. Also, the parking lot of my apartment was not the ideal place to find rocks.

Project 3: new house for my rabbit, Elephant.

Elephant is a free-range rabbit in our apartment. She has been for years. She is somewhat self-contained by the fact that she won’t leave the carpet, but otherwise she hippity hops wherever she darn well pleases. Which for the most part, is no where. The bitch is lazy. The most activity she’s ever seen was that brief phase where she insisted on humping my Great Dane.

That being said, she still needs a house. For the past few years, it’s been a chicken coop, which looks great in my living room naturally. But she needs a house to store her litter box, because I’m not a savage.

She also needs a house because sometimes she has what we lovingly call “butt troubles.” If any of you own rabbits, you know they will occasionally have running craps. This is mostly due to poor diet and obesity. If you recall, Elephant is a lazy bitch. She is also an absolute fucking MENACE about food. Think Monty Python, but brown. We’re talking bowl throwing, we’re talking chasing and biting, we’re talking attacking the dog and destroying prized possessions. So yeah, she needs to go to “poop jail” sometimes, the sentence lasting until those poops firm right up.

Before anyone worries about her longevity, she’s almost 7 years old. Over the winter we had a scare when the vet told me that she likely either had uterine cancer or a bladder infection so severe that she would need surgery. Death was “imminent.” Fuck that noise. One week on antibiotics and we are good as new. So naturally, I’ve been telling people she beat cancer with pure stubbornness. Because what’s life without a little embellishment.

Back to the project. So I built her a new house. It had pretty lights! She ripped them apart. It had wallpaper! She tore it down. Some people just can’t have nice things I guess.

One project that didn’t have the desired outcome was my goal to start tracking my spending. So I was under the impression that if I did this, I would magically have more money. I do not. Turns out that I spend the same amount of money whether I write it down or not. Apparently, you also have to like create and follow a budget. Seems unfair to me, but whatever.

I also said I’d learn about investing, but after reading all the Game Stop stuff and not understanding a damn thing, I’m over it.

You could say I’m barely an adult.

My last piece of personal growth is that I’m now the proud owner of an orchid! Her name is Gale, after my two favorite Gales.

1. Gale the wind gust from Frozen 2

2. Gale from Letterkenny

IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN LETTERKENNY YET… that’s your only pandemic project. Unless you’re a degen from upcountry, then you can just go kick rocks. If you’ve seen it, you’ll get it.

If you recall, my herbs died (one actually never started growing), so I got something that’s harder to care for. I mean, maybe I’m just not being challenged enough. Isn’t that why kids throw things and bite each other in elementary school? Because they need a challenge? Maybe that’s why all my succulents have died, because they’re just not commanding enough of my attention. To be clear, I didn’t bite them. I barely eat salad, let alone a houseplant.

But That’s what I’m going with. I needed a challenge. I adopted Gale 6 days ago, and she. is. thriving. Stay tuned for updates.

Wait, that’s not my last piece of growth! I guess it would be this blog, obvsies. Because I sure as shit have not gotten to the part where I upload my professional writing samples, the ultimate purpose of this whole venture. You can’t fail if you never start, right?!

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

^ see what I did there?!

Hey Y’all! Welcome to my quarter life crisis!

Ok, so mathematically speaking, just shy of 30 is a little late for a quarter life crisis. But you’re also looking at the girl who didn’t get mono until age 25, so I guess I’m just a few years behind. BONUS! If this is a true quarter life then I guess I’m living to the ripe old age of 120. I’m also not southern, but this is my blog and I can say whatever I darn tootin want to say.

But I digress…

According to the directions, this is where I introduce myself. Ahem, my name is Brigid, and I am on a quest to make the income part of my taxes as complicated as possible until I decide what I want to be when I grow up.

Dream Job #1: zoo keeper…relevant job experience: none

Dream Job #2: professional singer…but I’ve got a voice even a mother can’t love, and terrible stage fright.

So we move on to writing. I’m going to try my hand at freelance writing. I’m thinking I can add it to my list of side hustles.

Is that this blog? Abso-friggin-lutely not! But what’s the saying? “Get you a girl who can do both!” I know, I know, I think that is more about finding a woman who can rock a baseball cap and miraculously never have hat hair. While I may be able to wear sportswear with the best of them, the closest I’ve come to a successful smokey eye was the time I opened a door into my face and gave myself a two black eyes. Pro tip: on the list of hangover cures you keep taped to your brain, a head injury should not be at the top.

But again, I digress.

I like to write. I’m good at it (not-so-humble lady brag for the win!) So here I am. I have a job in the public health field, and I can write some mean reports, press releases, and OpEds. But while I work on creating an online portfolio and finding people who will pay me to write, I might as well have some fun. It’s like how I made an Instagram for my pets. I know my rabbit will never be an influencer (the pointy-eared freeloader) but I still think the world should see her antics.

Now you’re probably asking yourself, what is the deal with this title? Well, first of all, from everything I know, alliteration sells…

#ManCrushMonday #TacoTuesday #WomanCrushWednesday #ThirstyThursday #FlamingFartFriday

Ok, so that last one may have gone off track, but you can’t deny that people love alliteration, and I’m here to GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT.

Second of all, it’s because as I blog, I’ll be drinking a beverage. (Let’s be real, it’s a beer). It doesn’t quite rank up with alliteration, but I’m a sucker for a good gimmick, and a good beer. Today it is Swiftwater’s Alpaca Kisses, a lovely IPA from one of my favorite breweries. Nothing like a little liquid courage to get the words a-flowin.

Now as much as I know you’re all dying to see what I have to say next, this means that I will only be doing one or two posts a week. Everyone has their own goals for their bodies, and that is fine, but my goals for me, myself, and I are not supported by a constant influx of liquid calories. And I’m nothing if not a stickler for arbitrary rules that I made up myself and are not monitored by anyone else.

*shoots finger guns and a wink at my Generalized Anxiety Disorder*

When I sat down to make a blog I thought to myself, what in the heck do I want to write about? I don’t know how to craft, I’m not a chef, and I have zero interesting hobbies. So I’m going to fly by the seat of my oversized sweatpants and see where it goes. Give me a follow and come along for the journey!

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.