The Present-Wrapping Cycle

Lately I've been miserably tired... it's this vicious cycle that I've accidentally sucked myself into and can't get out of. I totally blame Christmas.

Basically, I'm all nuts about Christmas and presents and being somewhat festive (by "somewhat" I mean that while I will decorate the shit out of my house, I absolutely REFUSE to listen to Christmas music while doing so. I'd rather stick pencils in my ears...) and so I've been shopping for, buying, and wrapping presents like every single day for the past 2 weeks. All while simultaneously decorating the house, inside and out, with all kinds of Christmas-y crap.

Being the OCD nut I am, I dump out all of my Christmas present wrapping supplies all over the living room floor and do not put them away until I wrap every single gift I happened to purchase that day. And sometimes this process goes on until 1:00 AM. Because in the middle of wrapping presents, I also do things like vacuum the 900 new pine needles that have fallen to the ground because our little kitties like to think the house is a RACE TRACK that they can tear ass around and they run under the tree and knock the lower branches with their fat tails or fat heads, for that matter, and thus create a pine needle 'splosion all over my damned living room.

So I vacuum mid-wrap sometimes. Other times, I bake brownies mid-wrap, because sometimes I like to pretend I am fucking Betty Crocker. Wait. Er, not actually fucking her, but you know, being her. Although I doubt Betty Crocker listens to "Shots" by LMFAO while baking. And she probably doesn't wear giant fleece fat pants with little bunnies on them while baking. She probably doesn't say "fuck" either. And she probably doesn't generally resemble me in any way. Whatever. Sometimes I bake. Shut up.

So yeah, my "wrapping" time tends to take like 5 hours because apparently I like to multitask. Or maybe it's just that I don't know how to NOT multitask. Meh?

SO. This is causing me sleep deprivation... all this Christmas shit. I stay up, wrapping, and vacuuming, and dance partying in the kitchen until 1:00 AM. And then I wake up the next morning all pissed off that I slept for less than 9-10 hours (yes, I said 9-10 hours. I need SLEEP, people!), and then I drink a fuck ton of coffee to counterbalance the super-tiredness from all of the "wrapping" the night before. Damnit. Dahmet. Bleh.

This morning was no exception. After my escapade last night (shopping, tanning, cooking steak dinner, wrapping, picture taking, vacuuming, brownie baking, laundry-ing, kitty playing, and bubble bathing) I was especially tired.

Usually, I wait until I get to the office to crack open my new favorite coffee: Starbucks Mocha Lite (woohoo less fat and carbs and calories! Win!). Today I waited only until I got out of the shower to open it.

So I sat on my little wobbly vanity stool with squinty eyes and attempted to shove some contacts in them and start the "get pretty" process.

Well, these little coffees come in a glass bottle from Bilo, so they have a little teeny lid. So I put the little teeny lid on the counter in front of me. Almost immediately I had two too many bad kittehs in front of me as well, that are not so teeny. And these two too many bad kittehs were LICKING my little teeny coffee lid.

Who knew bad kittehs liked to nom on Starbucks?! I can only imagine the havoc they are wreaking on my freshly vacuumed living room.

Oh vicious Christmas cycle, I feel we will meet again tonight...

Cranberry Juice From Hell

Okay, so apparently my immune system has up-and-friggin-left, because I have been sick as crap for the past 4 weeks. Remember how I mentioned that I went to Clemson and tried to relive my glory days and drank my face off and made fun of Laura for getting stuck in the briars? Well apparently that concoction of crap produces a very sick Nic.

I came back to Charleston and started feeling all cruddy. That was Nov 8. I called in to work sick on the 9th, worked from home on the 10th, had a wonderful federal holiday on the 11th that was spent wrapped in my zebra snuggie, I attempted to go to the office on the 12th and by Friday the 13th I was sitting on that scratchy crinkly paper in one of those stark rooms at the doctor's office. The nurse shoved giant q-tips up my nose and down my throat. Thankfully not at the same time, but still made me want to vomit. I hacked out one of those cat hairball kinda coughs where you gag and nothing comes up but it makes your eyes water and you hate your life. Thanks, nurse!

Luckily I was not diagnosed with H1N1 or strep, but I did win with the bronchitis and tonsillitis. At the same time. Woohoo, here we go wheezy cough and snotty nose! Oh and for the record, I totally sounded like Lindsay Lohan for the week. All raspy and shit. So whatever, I came home with 2 different medicines to make me feel better. Except instead, the codeine cough syrup decided to have a bad reaction with my insides and made everything all pissed off, and I woke up with a migraine that sucked all the color out of my face and made me almost puke for real (not one of those hairball almost-puke gag things). So, needless to say the healing process took a while since the medication that was supposed to make me un-sick was making me sick-sick instead. Dumb.

So I was finally feeling human again around the middle of the following week. Which may or may not have led to really awesome husband-wife time. But which totally, without a doubt, led me back to the doctor's office the following Friday, Nov. 20.

With a bladder infection from effing HELL.

Holy God, I would never wish that pain on anyone. Bleeding when you should be peeing is NOT OKAY. So I came home with 3 new prescriptions. I also came home with 2 jugs of 100% cranberry juice. Husband had taken me to see the doctor since I could hardly sit up straight, let alone drive a vehicle, and then he drove me to Bi-Lo to fill my prescriptions, which is also where we decided to buy said cranberry juice.

We stood in the juice aisle for like 17 minutes holding up different bottles of the crap comparing the percent of juice in each. Our ultimate decision was "well if Ocean Spray Cranberry has 27% real cranberry juice and this crazy $7 organic bottle of shit has 100% real cranberry juice, the $7 organic shit MUST be better and will make Nic all healthy at lightening speed!"

For the record, I have no idea how two smart people can be so dumb sometimes.

Have you ever TASTED the 27% cranberry juice?! Yeah, me too. It makes my face go like this ::scrunches nose, puckers lips, and squirts a tiny tear from left eye::

Multiply that by almost 4! (Yeah, you like my sweet math skills.)

So, like I said, or at least I think I said. Or at least I was going to say... we were driving home and I wanted to go ahead and take my cocktail of pills that warned me I would immediately become dizzy, slothful, and have pee the color of Rudolph's nose. (Not from the aforementioned blood, but from the little pills the color of wood that magically made your excrements a strange orange-y red tint.) And so to wash down these delicious little dots, I opted to take a giant swig of that 100% organic shit cranberry juice.

My mouth puckered so ferociously that I thought I might accidentally swallow my own face. Once my jaw released, I made the most giant tongue-click sound ever, as I'm fairly certain that was my tongue's way of saying it wanted to come out of my mouth and smack me in the face. My mouth immediately became as dry as the desert and all I could do was just shake my head back and forth, furrow my brow, and say "no."

After my mouth returned to normalcy, I immediately turned to Husband and proclaimed, "you've got to try this shit!" with a wicked grin on my face. Hey, if I'm going to do something gross, someone's gotta do it with me, right?

And so he did. Even though he witnessed every horrid involuntary action that just occurred to my face, he still willingly took as big a swig as I had. And his reaction? The same damn thing.

I continued to torture myself the entire ride home. Husband got a kick out of it, so I figured what the hell. Once we got home though, I couldn't stand it anymore, so he dumped a good 4 teaspoons of sugar into my stupid $7 cranberry juice. I sucked down what I could before the slothfulness really kicked in. Approximately 20 hours later, I woke up with a less burning pelvis and a much more hopeful spirit.

So I finally got over the pee pangs from hell and managed to stay out of the doctor's office for like 10 whole days. A new record! And then, I was back in by Tuesday Dec. 1 because whatever the hell bronchitis shit I had that started this horrid spiral of sickness decided to come back. Mother.Effing.Shit. So I came home with 3 new sets of drugs to cure this round of the crud. Doc gave me one of those z-packs, which I finished on Saturday Dec. 5, but guess what? I still have more snot that I thought was actually humanly possible hanging out in my face/nose/throat and it's really fucking up my whole life here, damnit. Dahmet.

So the moral of the story? Don't try to relive your college glory days because your immune system never fully recovered anyway, so you're just going to get sick. And always pee after sex. And for the love of God, AVOID bronchitis & tonsillitis at all costs because it will turn you bat shit crazy before it's all said and done and you will hate your life because you will be sick for over a month and not remember what it's like to taste food or breathe out of your nose and you will be reduced to being a mouth-breather and everyone knows mouth-breathers are pretty much the most unsexiest thing ever and no one wants that.

The Toothpick Fail

An accidental tradition has started springing up around this time every year: getting all shitfaced on a Tuesday when Laura's on Thanksgiving Break from school and therefore back in Charleston with nothing to do but get shitfaced on a Tuesday.

If you recall, I wrote a little post about Ladies' Night two years ago. While there were no stripper interactions this time, the premise was still the same - Laura was in town, which equates to "get your ass back into college-mode because you're about to act like a lunatic all night." For those of you that don't know Laura, please go "friend" my ass on Facebook (or better yet, just go "friend" her ass, or just her, whatever...) so you can watch her in action. And by "in action," I mean, watch her fail miserably as she tries to untangle herself from the briars that latched onto her and how all of her friends stand by to watch and laugh instead of actually help. We love you. :)

So as I was saying, Laura was in town. Which means I have a lot to live up to here. I took her strip club virginity a few years ago, so obviously I have to continue to offer wild entertainment. It's kinda like trying to continue to impress the man that you've been on a few dates with - you don't want him to ever think you're boring. Laura is totally *that* date, for me.

We began our evening at Bucca's - Husband, Billy, Laura, and I sat in our favorite corner booth and ordered a shit ton of wings and shoved them in our faces in between chugging our beers. By 7:00 I had a buzz. Win. Of course one of the first topics at hand was "where is the night going to take us?" The obvious answer: Strip club. So, we decide that we should prepare. At this point, the probability of ending up there was pretty much 100%. (Don't you judge us.)

We didn't want to have to use the strip club ATM because they charge you like a $13 ATM fee, or some kind of bullshit, and of course the ATM only spits out twenties, so you have to then go to the bar to get singles, but instead of singles they give you $2 bills, which means you are essentially paying double for each time you go to the stage and that's just ridiculous and we weren't going to stand for that crap. And then when you have left-over $2 bills and you have to use them somewhere normal in society, people totally look at you with their "judging eyes" and assume that either (a) you are a stripper or (b) you were entertained by one. SO. Our preparation technique? Go to Bi-Lo, buy one ridiculous item and get a shit ton of cash back in one-dollar bills. It's not even 8:00 PM when we bust in Bi-Lo like a bunch of heathens on a mission. I opted to purchase a trashy magazine. The cashier gave me an attitude and was like "are you seriously only buying a magazine?!" I was like "Ummm yesssss. I need cash back. Duh." I was too embarrassed to get more than 10 ones, so I got 10 ones, 2 fives, and a twenty. Laura also opted for the trashy magazine route, but incorporated a pack of gum as well. Smarty pants.

So, after our Bi-Lo excursion, we went to Wild Wing where Amanda and Rachel met up with us. Yay, friends. The chemistry was apparently right because we all got super goofy and hilarious at this point. There was no real rhyme or reason to any of our antics. Basically a really good analogy for us is one of those cartoon tornadoes with arms & legs all flying out of the sides. You have no idea where the shit storm is going to go, you just know it's going to be an entertaining ride.

So remember how I was telling you about how Laura got stuck in the briars? Well that happened a few weeks ago when my old college crew got together for a football game (or really just an excuse to sit outside all day and pound cheap beer and pretend to still be in college. Whatever, I like to relive my glory days, as often as possible. I'm not sorry.) Well, at this particular tailgate, my brudder Michael was there. And let me tell you people, brudder is funny. As shit. Seriously. For whatever reason, his particular "saying" of the day was "jeet.da.beet.dur.dah....heee heee." Think Michael Jackson, people. You know, the beatbox-ish noises followed by the squeals? Yep, that's it. Brudder was all about it. He gets on these tangents and keeps a little phrase for a month or so and then moves on to the next hilarious compilation of words to play out. Well, obviously jeet.da.beet.dur.dah caught on. A lot. Like, Laura & I said it 200 times that day. And we may or may not have drove everyone crazy in the process. It was wildly entertaining for us... so much so that we continued our jeet.da.beet.dur.dah-ing during her Charleston visit. On a Tuesday. In a Wild Wing. at 9:00 PM with very few people in the place. And we may or may not have screamed this at the top of our lungs. And Laura may or may not have shoved her foot up in the air above her head while sitting in the booth while screaming jeet.da.beet.dur.dah.

(I totally should have written a blog like a good blogger would have about the Clemson Reunion weekend because then this blog would probably be even funnier, but I didn't because I suck and I'm sorry.)

Somehow then the conversation turned to Lady Gaga. Laura was pretty much obsessed with her new song, "Bad Romance," so she was pretty much singing it all night. But as Laura said she was "faking sucking" while singing it. Yeah, that's what she said. Totally. See, Laura actually can sing really REALLY well, but to not look like a total weirdo snob, she tends to refrain from seriously serenading us on a regular basis, so instead she opts to "fake suck" her singing abilities... which actually can make for a pretty hysterical rendition of Lady Gaga. What is it with us and singers who just grunt? "Jeet.da.beet.dur.dah." was soon replaced with "Rah ra ROMA maa." A very throaty, growly, Sharkira-esque "Rah ra ROMA maa," mind you.

And then the conversation turned disgusting... as in, I'm having a hard time actually typing this because it's so offensive. Basically, we all nodded in agreement that butt holes look like balloon knots. Little black balloon knots. Ugh. Gross. Now I have to take a shower. Moving on. Quickly.

And then, the most glorious thing happened. Laura was building her usual cryptic toothpick message... let me give you some background: this one time, we were at another Wild Wing, and our server was really bad, and she never checked on us or brought us any drinks and I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that that week our particular phrase of choice was "BIIIRTTTTHHHHDAAAAYYY" and so we got real mad. And Laura decided to take action to let her know just how mad we were. So mad that she left a little message for our server made out of toothpicks. That may or may not have spelled "fuck our server." (You can read about that shit show here.) Ahh, another tradition: toothpick messages. So, on this Wild Wing evening, it only seemed fitting for Laura to make more little messages for us. She was kinda in her own little world, dumping toothpicks all over the table, snapping them in half and arranging them ever so delicately on the dirty Wild Wing table, when suddenly, we really wanted to hear Laura beatbox. She's surprisingly good at this, I'll have you know. So we were all like "Hey Laura? Beatbox! Now!" And without hesitation, she took a deep breath, formed her mouth in the perfect beatbox preparation pucker, and let out a giant "ppppfftt tahhh pah teeee."

And then, the funniest thing in the world happened and none of us saw it coming...

Laura apparently collected a ton of air with that giant breath she took pre-beatbox. So uh, what comes in must go out?? And yeah, when she went to let out the perfect beginning to the perfect beatbox, all of that sucked-in air came wooshing out. With tremendous beatbox force.

Right on top of her toothpick masterpiece.

It was a fucking toothpick tornado. The most perfectly-time, unsuspecting fucking toothpick tornado ever to be seen.

I'm fairly certain I've never laughed that hard. Especially at something I didn't expect. All I wanted was to hear Laura whip out some sweet beatbox beats, maybe even Lady Gaga beatbox beats, but instead, I was selected to be on of the chosen few to ever be so lucky to witness the best accidental toothpick tornado in history.

Laura gathered herself and quickly resumed toothpick construction. Her masterpiece again showcased the general consensus of the events of the evening. Her masterpiece was artfully crafted to display the most perfect description ever:

Toothpick Fail.

And that's the time we got all shitfaced on a Tuesday when Laura was on Thanksgiving Break from school and therefore back in Charleston with nothing to do but get shitfaced on a Tuesday.

The Confused Bar

Here in Charleston, we apparently like to do things differently. Especially when it comes to our bar scene - or at least the naming of our bars in the bar scene.

A year or so ago, an old cafeteria-type restaurant was gutted and turned into this skeezy place called Rendezvous. For weeks, I was uncertain if it was a strip club, casino, or bar. There's no windows and the lettering on the sign is all red and pink and sexy. Apparently it's just a bar. I still beg to differ as I have never set foot inside.

Another restaurant closed down and a bar decided to take over it as well. The once Sticky Fingers in North Charleston has now turned into Market Street Saloon. The kicker? Market Street is downtown. And there is actually a saloon on the downtown street. However, the Market Street Saloon that is in skanky North Charleston, is NOT on Market Street. Tell me how in the hell you can name a Bar "So and So Street" and not actually require that it be located on So and So Street?! False advertising, much?

So whatever. After my stint of random illnesses over the past two weeks (thus explaining my hiatus, as well), I was more than ready to get out of the house, off the couch, and out of my fat pants. I mean, I love my fat pants, but I seriously needed to change clothes... at least for one night.

Our neighbors, Angel & Richard wanted to play and suggested we go to Market Street Saloon not on Market Street (MSSNOMS) (You like how it says "noms" at the end, don't you?)

So we went.

And let me tell you! That place is a SHIT SHOW. MSSNOMS = SS. Yes.

Because the bar is fairly new, the clientele hasn't exactly been established, and therefore it's every sumbitch for himself, apparently. There were the under-agers, the punks, the cowboys, the sorostitutes, the Navy boys, the skinheads... and us. Where we fit? I'm not quite sure. I am sure that I could have spent the entire evening without uttering a word and just watching the chaos around me. And the music selection? Oh dear baby Jesus. The DJ would go from "Shotz" by LMFAO to "Photograph" by Nickelback, to freaking country music. How does that make sense?! And where did he get his DJ degree? Sheesh. It jarred my brain every time a new song came on. At least he played "Single ladies" by Beyonce and I was able to do my rendition of her dance moves from the video. I know you're sad you missed that shit.

At one point, somewhat early in the evening, I noticed some dumb girl at the bar griping a couple of rags in one hand with her other hand strategically wiping the corner of her foul mouth. Bitch puked. All over the bar.

Bad enough right?

Wrong.

Bitch then proceeded to FIST BUMP everyone in sight for her aforementioned puke show.

We saw her later climbing onto the bar to dance. I anxiously awaited her plummet back to the puke-soaked concrete floor, however I was not granted this sight, as she managed to not fall somehow.

It gets better... later she was stumbling around, all zombie-like with googley eyes, with a tiny shot glass in her hand that she was sipping on like it was wine. Whichever group of men she would bump into she would stare at sideways and put up her fists like she wanted to fight them. Before she could vomit or perform a strip tease, her pretty, much-more-sober friend would come get her and guide her by the shoulders through the next group of victims to attempt to spare her dumbass any more embarrassment.

The saddest part about all of this? We all pretty much looked at each other in unanimous agreement - this little shit show of a drunk girl basically could have passed as my ex-best friend. And I used to be the tall pretty friend trying to save her from herself...

So on this Thanksgiving, I am most thankful for not having a shit show hooker trashcan of a friend that I have to babysit in the bar anymore. I am also thankful for the MSSNOMS for allowing me to witness the audacity that is MSSNOMS.

I'll count this as a win. Ah-thank you.

Possibly the Best Purchase Ever


I hate all of those info-mercials that are so horrifically ridiculous. They're train wrecks. You know you should turn away. You know you'd be better off without seeing the damage up close. You know it's really none of your business and you should just keep driving instead of rubber necking and slowing down the whole damn interstate.

But you don't. You don't do any of those things. You watch! All of those crap info-mercials suck you in. You even say to yourself or your husband or your fat cats, "This is ridiculous! Who would ever buy this? I am pissed off that this info-mercial is wasting my time!"

And then it grows on you. You keep seeing the stupid thing on TV. And you start to make fun of it. You start saying things like "I should totally buy that shit for Joe because it's that ridiculous and I know that he would pee his pants if he got it in the mail."

And then you find out that your favorite cousin has one. Because someone thought that Jen was Joe and totally sent her that shit in the mail. As a joke.

And then one day it happens. For no damn good reason. You secretly want one.

You want a SNUGGIE.

And you tell your husband that they have Snuggies at Bi-Lo. And you joke and say "Haha, they have Snuggies at Bi-Lo. On the side near the beer. And haha, maybe we should buy one one day. And oh yeah they come in zebra-print now."

See?!







And then one day your husband parks the truck at Bi-Lo on the side near the beer. And gives you a loving look and says "did you notice what side I parked on?"

And you squeal, "Snuuuuggieeeeee!"

And run in. And find the zebra-print one right up front. And violently throw it in your cart and smile at it like you won. You just WON a Snuggie!

And repeat the word "Snuuuuggieeeeee" for the rest of your Bi-Lo trip.

And then you take it home, wrap yourself in it all day, and do not move.

.....

And that, my friends, is how I may or may not have exactly ended up with a Snuggie. A zebra-print effing Snuggie.

Bad Luck Billy

We all have that accident-prone friend. He's the one that gets hurt at the most asinine times in the damn weirdest places. Bad luck just follows him around and sometimes, if you're standing too close, some of that bad luck rubs off on you.

Our favorite bad luck buddy happens to be Bill. Bill happens to be Husband's best friend. Therefore we happen to have the (mis)fortune of witnessing Bill... in all his glory.

One of the most unfortunate situations ever could have very well been the opening night of the season for the Charleston Stingrays hockey team. Bill brought Rachel out (on what was considered their "first date") with us to go to the hockey game. You may or may not have gathered that Husband and I pretty much look for any excuse to get all wastey face and scream at strangers, so sporting events rank high on our fun-shit-to-do list. The four of us got seats in the "risers" which are just foldy chairs down close to the ice/giant wall o' Plexiglas made for your protection from flying hockey pucks. Or so we're made to believe...

Before we could even get to our close-to-the-action seats, we had to actually buy tickets for them. And ticket buying occurs inside a giant coliseum conveniently located 15 minutes from home. Key word: inside. Husband and I start run-walking to the beer line after we buy our tickets, but we notice that Bill is rather far behind us. And standing in a weird hunched/contorted "oww" stance. With Rachel grabbing him by the ear. WTF? I'm all like "Why is she grabbing his ear? What did he say? What did he do?! Did he try to grab her boob and she does that whole grab-by-the-ear thing like Grandma does when little kids have too much sass?!" (Note: my grandma does not ear-grab, but yours might, so you get the point.)

So Bill and Rachel finally meet us in the beer line (we have priorities, people) and we see that Bill's ear is scarlet red (and if you squint, you could see a little heart beat) and has a perfect little pin-prick on the outside edge. What the hell happened?

Bill got stung by a fucking bee. Inside INSIDE, not outside, a giant coliseum. In October.

What.the.fuck.

Rachel wasn't scolding Bill for getting fresh. Oh no no. Rachel was PULLING THE STINGER out of Bill's ear. Inside the giant coliseum. INSIDE.

Only Bill.

So you'd presume that his bad luck for the evening would be over since you know, he got stung in the head by a fucking hornet. But no. Not Bill. Not with that kind of bad luck.

Remember how I mentioned that we had seats in the risers? And they're supposed to be all safe and shit because you're behind that giant wall of unbreakable glass stuff that is supposed to protect you from flying hockey pucks that come zooming at your face? Right. Well, that giant wall of unbreakable glass stuff can't protect you when the hockey puck somehow manages to come zooming OVER it (at WARP SPEED nonetheless) and nearly takes off your friend's face.

Bill seriously almost landed himself in the obituaries. Death by hockey puck. It came flying at like 4000 miles per hour straight toward him and zipped passed his head. It grazed the knee of the dude next to Bill. Bill was so totally thisclose to getting skull-pucked (bahaha, I crack myself up).

Someone give that kid a helmet. Jesus.

Celebrate

Today is my 2-year wedding anniversary!

Husband just had a dozen pink roses delivered to my office. He also just booked a romantic weekend getaway in Savannah, GA. We're going to stay at the Marshall House this coming weekend and be all cute and cuddly and sappy all over that city.

Cannot.wait.

Bat-a-tat-tat

For those of you unfortunate enough to not know Brudder, you are totally missing out. Michael aka " Brudder" (brother, duh. Get with the program) is 4 years younger than me and insanely intelligent. Total gym rat, life of the party kinda guy, and most importantly, is wildly amusing.

The kid makes me laugh. Every single time I talk to him. Seriously. And I don't just mean face-t0-face talk, I mean even stupid little IMs on Facebook talk.

Sometimes he sends me stupid shit, like this, to take up space on my Facebook so I look popular...
And then our conversation goes like this:

Seestor: Ewww, WTF is THAT?
Brudder: A bat being tooth brushed. Obviously.
Seestor: Obviously.



And then for the hell of it I googled "quotes about bats" and found this:

Bats have no bankers and they do not drink and cannot be arrested and pay no tax and, in general, bats have it made. (-John Berryman)

You're welcome.

Happy Friday, bitches.

Senioritis

Today I have Senioritis.

For those of you unaware of the symptoms of Senioritis, it goes something like this:

I don’t feel like doing shit.

Senioritis didn’t really hit me too hard in high school, mostly because I was just a teenager with a hellacious schedule of cheerleading, boys, and homework. Not necessarily in that order. It was demanding, let me tell you. It wasn’t until college that my Senioritis became more prominent. My prior schedule, now had new priorities: DRINKING, boys, and homework. Totally in that order. It was demanding, let me tell you. Let me also tell you that I really really enjoyed 2/3 of my schedule. Mmmmm, college…

I started seriously utilizing my maximum number of absences allowed per class during my senior year. And I would conveniently schedule them in a row. And there was no pre-requisites for taking these days off. Usually I’d wake up and be like “Oh today is totally a Personal Day,” (i.e. I ain’t doin’ SHIT). Well, sometimes the pre-req was that I drank the day/night before or was planning to drink during said Personal Day and therefore needed ample time to recover and/or prepare.

So, I have Senioritis today. But why? You ask. Because I don’t want to do anything. I don't care that I haven't been an undergrad in 4 years. I have Senioritis today, damnit.

I want to sit in a grungy apartment with my favorite people and fart around and do nothing but stir up trouble, or play Nintendo, or wear my crab pants (they totally have little crabs on them and I wore them all the time in college. I mean, they were pajama shorts, but I still wore them to take out the trash, and to hit on boys ( this one time I was totally wearing them with a trucker hat cocked to the side at 3 in the morning when I met this guy-turned-boyfriend as he busted all up in my girls’ apartment when I was partying in Columbia). Where the hell was I going with this??)

::wanders off aimlessly::

This One Time... I Thought I was Pregnant...

So you know what's like the weirdest feeling in the world? Thinking you are pregnant. It could also classify as the worst feeling in the world, but that’s more so when you’re 16 and don’t have any damn idea what you’re doing and you run to the bathroom every 20 minutes to check to see if “it” came, and then when it does you jump up and down in the hallway after class and hug your boyfriend and yell “I got my period!!” like you just won the non-baby lottery or something, but that’s not the feeling we’re going to talk about. (And I so don't know anything about that...)

We’re going to talk about when you’re a married woman, at an age when society considers you an adult, and you accidentally might be pregnant.

I thought I was pregnant last Halloween. I was at work (at the job from Hell) and something “weird” happened. This post is weird enough as it is, so I’ll spare you the details, but this weirdness, like doesn’t happen to me. My shit is on schedule and predictable. This weird business that occurred was neither scheduled or predicted. And so I freaked.

I called Husband early in the morning and the convo went like this:

Wife: So uh, I might be pregnant.
Husband: Whaaaat? What did you DO?!
Wife: Uhhhhh… you...?

I guess if I had to think about how I’d want Husband to respond if I told him I was pregnant, it wouldn’t really have gone like that. But I mean, that shit was funny, regardless. I got off the phone with a look of distraught strewn across my face and called the “Girl” office.

Nic: So uh, I might be pregnant.
Girl: Did you take a test and get a positive reading?
Nic: I took a test, but it said “no,” but I don’t believe it and now I’m pretty much freaking out.
Girl: Okay, we can do a blood test.
Nic: Okay, like now? Now would be good. Please?
Girl: Yeah, go to blah blah Emergency Care office and do a blood test.
Nic: Kaythxbai.

::Running to blah blah Emergency Care office::
Husband drove me there. I was all like “WTF. This is so going to ruin Halloween if I’m pregnant.” Obviously drinking is totally my priority. Like always. Don’t judge me.

Nic to Emergency Care Office Person: So uh, I might be pregnant.



So I did the blood test, but I wasn’t going to get my results until friggin Monday! Ack! Oh the decisions!! What do I do? Do I “ignore” this potential… baby?… for the night and drink my face off one last good time? Do I go out and not drink? (Yeah right. Who wants to be that guy?) Do I have just ONE drink? Do I fake sick and call my friends and tell them I have swine flu? What the HELL do I DO?

I know what I do: I go to Halloween Party. And I don’t drink. Or at least that is the plan…

So I get all slutty, because that is what every girl does on Halloween – it’s you’re annual “get as slutty as you want” free pass and I totally take up the offer every year. We had these ridiculously awesome costumes picked out – German Beer People Costumes. (Totally the Official Title) And we were going to rock that party, regardless of our intoxication level. Riiiiight.

And so we got in the car and headed downtown to the big ass party…And as I was all dressed up in my pig tails and Beer Wench costume, with Husband next to me in his little lederhosen, I burst into tears, ruined my slutty eye makeup and demanded he turn the car around because I could not stand the thought of being dressed like a whore and possibly being a mother at the same time.

I called my BFF all blubbery and squeaky and told her, “Hey BFF, I think [sniff] I [cry] might be [soooobbbb] preeeeegnaaaaant!”

And with that, Husband turned the car around and drove my crybaby ass home.

And I cried. Not so much because I was mad that I could possibly be pregnant, but because I DIDN’T KNOW if I was pregnant. And man, I suck when it comes to anticipation and surprises and all that crap. I need to know and I need to know NOW.

Then I found out a few days later I was totally not pregnant and wasted a perfectly good Beer Wench costume.

Fingers crossed I wear it this year…

I Picked the Best Quote Ever to Put Out in the Universe For Everyone to See

So I wanted one of those fancy Linked-In profiles that all the other cool kids are getting... so uhh, I got one. I set up a little goofy profile and found some people I know and voila, now I am part of the Corporate Facebook, if you will.

While completing my little profile [that doesn't say jack shit because I don't know how to "sum up" a damn thing mostly because I'm the wordiest motherfucker on the planet... case in point], I noticed that I could add my screen name. "Why of course, I want everyone I've met in the working world to be able to IM me at any given moment!"

::Shaking head:: Me. I'm a tard.

So I totally add my screen name. And then a little twitch happened in my face because I remember something mildly important about my profile.

I made it while I was in college.

And do you recall what I did while in college?

I shook my ass. Furiously. All over town. I even had DJs stop the music to announce just how furiously I shook that ass of mine.

So, obviously, I did what any smart college kid does... I made an awesome AIM profile. That says this and only this:

“I have hydraulics in my ass”

And now I don’t know how to take it off because I do not even know how to do AIM crap anymore because (1) I'm not in college anymore, (2) Husband is a computer whiz kid and hooked up this thing called Pigin that like combined a bunch of shit, and (3) I don't know. I just don't effing know.

Looks like I'll have hydraulics in.my.ass. for the rest of.my.life.

So uhh yeah, I'll let you know what happens when a co-worker asks me just what I meant by that whole "ass hydraulics" thing in my profile.

::Smacks forehead::

Office With a Window... Next to a Bar!

The new job is such a nice change. Oh, and get this… we keep BEER in the fridge?! I knew this was a good decision!

Yesterday, I really said to myself these words: “I actually do like what I do.” I like got EXCITED when I made a new form. Who does that?! My organizational skills actually make me want to gag some of the time. It was a really good feeling though, to feel like I'm doing something important and to actually like the process of doing said important thing. Gives me hope that I'm actually doing something right.

And! And and AND! I’ve been researching how to be a good interviewer, and HR guru, and right arm to VP. Boss Man was like "crap, you already know all my secrets so now I can't hide shit from you! You're like my WIFE!" in regards to talking shop about hiring. I shook my fists in victory and told him that's exactly what I was going for. So, now I'm researching what the hell my job title should be. I used to be a "Business Process Coordinator." Whatever the fuck that means, right? Right. I'm searching for an equally confusing yet empowering title to scroll across my business cards. If you have some fantastic idea for some catchy frou-frou name worthy of scrawling all over my email signature, office door, and any other obnoxious place, please let me know. I can only be so creative on my own here, people.

And yesterday, Boss Man and I were standing in my future office, you know, the current catch-all room? Did I mention it even has a window! (that window might only face the brick wall of the BAR next door, but it totally counts.) And did I mention that we live next door to a BAR?!

And he said “I might have someone else share this room with you, but it’ll be someone on a more senior level who’s mature and trustworthy; not one of the kids.” And I took that as a complement, because obviously he doesn’t look at me as “one of the kids” even though I’m younger than some of them. Holy crap – RESPECT?!! What a concept.

New job, I think I love you.

The Butterfly Effect

Sometimes, I'm pretty sure Husband and I don't actually say real words for entire days at a time -we just ramble in our “normal” banter of inside jokes and funny quotes we've picked up along the way.

So, without further ado, please allow me to enlighten you on The Butterfly Effect:

One typical Saturday we were in the truck going to Target because throughout the week I was able to make up a list of “ohmygah I absolutely have to buy this NOW” things and conned Husband not only into going with me, but actually driving my ass there. Win.

On the way to waste away my dolla dolla bills, a pretty, floaty yellow butterfly came fluttering toward our windshield. Oh this is going to be gross… I figured we’d have fluorescent smears all over the place but miraculously the bastard did some kind of stealthy butterfly-y sneak attack move that hoisted his fluttery ass up and over the truck.

“Dude, you almost just hit that butterfly,” I proclaim to Husband with a look of worry across mah pretty little wife face.

Without skipping a beat, Husband immediately assumes the persona of said butterfly. He releases his hands from the steering wheel, because, you know, driving is no longer the important matter at hand; being a BUTTERFLY is. So, he throws his hands up in the air with his elbows all tucked into his sides and starts nonchalantly flapping his hands and looking around. He looks over at me, as if I had now assumed the role of driver that nearly took his little butterfly life, and simply says, “Well fuck you too then,” in his best little matter-of-fact butterfly voice.

.........

Needless to say, anytime we have a near insect-killing incident in the truck, it’s pretty much a race to see who can start cursing and flailing around first.

Well, fuck you too then.

The End Beginning

I'm free! Free from the hell that was my first real, big girl job. Let's do a little recap of the last 2.5 years of my life that I've wasted away:

I had moved to Charleston with Husband (at the time he was Boyfriend, then soon became Fiance). He got me hooked up with a part-time admin job which I kept for about 5 months. I left that job because I managed to land a real 40 hr/week job at a bigger company. Just happy to have a real job with a real paycheck, I was too naive to notice the shit storm I was walking into.

My first boss was a living nightmare. He was this squatty little asshole with a serious case of dandruff who looked down on you (okay we'll figuratively since he had to look up at nearly everyone) if you didn't have 17 college degrees like he did. On a good day, he stood 5 and 1/2 feet tall. And yet for being dwarf-sized (in man height), he had an ego and an attitude big enough to accommodate, oh I don't know, fucking Big Foot. Initiative and creativity were bannished from the building. You were punished for having new ideas. If he didn't come up with it, then it wasn't good enough and would not be considered...

As if having his miserable ass prancing the halls wasn't bad enough, he then decided to hire this lousy excuse of a man who had a serious case of The Dunlop. Dunlop was fat, annoying, loud, full of himself, and disgustingly disrespectful to women. I was one of his first targets because I was a young, pretty, and intelligent woman. Those three things basically put a giant bulls eye on my back (though I wonder if he ever gave me credit for my brain). After taking his abuse for a few months, one day I decided I had had enough. That was it. I was no longer dealing with his meat head bullshit. He asked me to do the most retarded task and I said "you know what, NO. I'm not doing it."

This of course upset our Dunlop. "What? You only do what YOU want to do? What YOU think is important?"

I was fuming. Livid. Ready to strangle his big fat wrinkly neck. "You know what?! Yeah. I get to decide what deserves priority and what actually needs to be done! I besides, I don't actually work for YOU."

He yells at me with his fat all wiggling with rage, "I guess we're done here then."

I give him the meanest stink-eye I can muster up and growl, "I guess so!" And march my young, pretty, WOMAN ass out of his damn office.

I didn't give a fuck. I was tired of being treated like shit. I was tired of being discriminated against because of my age and gender. I was just tired.

Things quieted down soon after. Dunlop and I didn't speak. I didn't have a list of 50 irrelevant bullshit tasks piled on my desk, and I could actually do my job as it was intended.

And then something magical happened one day.

Our Dandruff-Doused Squatty Shithead Boss resigned. The sky opened up, the rain stopped, birds sang, and the entire building seemed to enjoy a collective sigh of relief. That hell that went on for the first year and a half of my life in this job was now over.

After shithead left the building, things got better. Shithead's boss took over and he basically could have passed for Santa Claus. He was a sweet, fat, jolly even, man who actually cared about his employees. However, while he cared about us, he didn't really care to make changes for us. So we were still floundering around with no real direction with our figurative thumbs shoved up our figurative asses. (And for some people, those asses are mammoth, let me tell you. I work with some of the ugliest, fattest people Charleston has to offer. Sheesh.)

Then the Gate Keepers of Hell (aka: Upper Management) decided to fire Santa Claus. Because obviously us minions were entirely too happy and that needed to change. They also fired a few of the other respectable people... so that left about 3 people in the entire company that were actually worth a shit. Amazingly enough though, the Gate Keepers appointed the RIGHT person to take over the Charleston office once Santa had left. Our new boss was a band member turned business man who talked to much about drinking, actually drank too much, but also gave a shit about his people AND and and and, DID something about it!

So, our new Lead Singer (if you will) has been in the lead for the last 6 months. I was the right arm to this man.

Big ass decisions? Consult Nic.
Have an HR Talk with this heathen of an employee? Consult Nic.
Happy Hour on a Tuesday? Consult Nic.

He trusted me with everything. He actually cared what I had to say. He actually saw the potential in me and let me do crazy important shit - like write papers to help win the company millions of dollars. He said things like "I don't know what I'll ever do if you leave." This guy actually saw me for what I was worth... so I decided that I actually needed to be paid for what I was worth.

And then the battle started.

I came in livid one day because I was just sick of everyone expecting me to always do the right thing and do it quickly. I sat down with him and said, "pay me more or I quit," (that was the short version - this actually took about 2 hours to say). So, after battling with the Gate Keepers of Hell, I actually managed to wrangle myself a sweet ass raise. Things were looking up.

And then the Gate Keepers really showed their wrath. The rain started again. Only this time, it was sideways rain. The birds didn't just leave, they died. There was no sunshine. No rainbows. No smiles. We were in Hell.

The Powers That Be decided we needed to do this "reorganization" and our department needed to be swallowed by another department. Which basically meant "Anything that you did before?? Well fuck that. It's our way or the highway, bitches."

They made my job difficult. No, scratch that. IMPOSSIBLE. They added 14 steps to any given process. They bitched at us for not hiring enough people, but they were the ones slowing us down with their newly instilled 14 extra steps. I even sat down with Satan himself and asked if Charleston could continue to function the way we did before. His answer: "No. We're doing it this way now."

Turns out Satan is far more of a shithead than Shithead Boss #1 ever was. He's a squatty pig-headed, Napoleon Complex of a man too. Only with a British accent on top of it. He makes me cringe. He's a total bastard.

I had finally had it. I was crying on a daily basis. I was now riding around the hallways on a broom with a frown. I was once considered a "cheerleader" for the company and I was now a haggard bitch because they MADE me that way. I went absolutely ballistic on Lead Singer one Thursday afternoon and threatened to quit.

The following Tuesday, I did. I fucking quit.

I had managed to land a sweet job with a smaller company and received my offer letter from them the Monday before the Tuesday that I sought my freedom. I even got a raise on top of the massive one I got from my current shit hole of a job. I took that opportunity and ran. Oh I fucking ran fast too.

As soon as I told Lead Singer, "There's no easy way to say this, but I've taken another job," the shackles busted off of me, the boulder on my back rolled off and I could actually breathe fresh air.

Today is my last day. Today is the LAST time I ever have to feel this way. Today is the beginning.

I Figured Out Why They Make Fake Eyelashes

Fake eyelashes were invented for a very very good reason. No, it's not so Lady GAG-a can look like she has a peacock's ass taped to her face. No, it's not so drag queens can look even draggier. No, it's not even so Kim Kardashian's eyes can rival that giant butt of hers.

Fake eyelashes were made for people like me.

People who reach for sharp objects and aim for their face at the worst possible times. People who obviously should not be allowed to use electric eyebrow trimmers. People who accidentally lob off half of their REAL eyelashes while trying to groom their unruly Italian eyebrows and apparently do not have as steady of a hand as they'd like to think.

So, I've mentioned how I wander aimlessly in Target and never make it out of there without becoming at least $100 poorer, yes? The day I bought the electric eyebrow trimmer was no exception.

On a side note, let me also tell you that I have a terrible habit of doing irrational things when I'm pissed off. [Me? Do extreme things? And be all irrational and ridiculous? Never...] Especially when I'm pissed off at men. On this particular day, I was pissed off at work, but there are plenty of men that occupy the place that is work, so it counts. In the past, I'd usually take a pair of scissors and pick up chunks of hair and kind of chop them off. [Never did anything as crazy as Brit-Brit and shave my head] BUT I tended to want to change my hair when I was angry back in my college days and usually after all was said and done, I'd come out with jet-black flippy layers instead of silky strands of honey brown. Meh, it happens. We all deal with stress differently, right?

So I guess as I've gotten a little older, I've decided to take out my rage on other hair on my body. Don't want to discriminate, I suppose. However, since I could basically pass as an Olympic swimmer since I shave basically every inch of my body but my face, the only plausible option was to now attack my eyebrows. [I may or may not have an issue with body hair. And that issue may or may not have completely stemmed from the fact that I come from a gene pool of crazy hairy Italians with overbearing personalities to match their inappropriate amount of hair. And their inappropriate ability to drink their faces off. Whatever.]

So, right. I took mah rage out on mah hairs. I took that little, crazy, buzzing buzzer and smashed it to my face without every reading a direction. I tilted my chin down and aimed that eyebrow trimmer at the bushiest parts of my brows and it made that wonderful chompy noise similar to a paper shredder and oooh it was so gratifying. So I continued.

Note to self and/or any other lunatic woman who thinks dealing with rage means sabotaging her face: you should never, under any circumstances, tilt your chin down while trying to trim the bottom of your brows. Your EYELASHES live there.

So yeah, that paper shredder noise totally happened again. But this time, my brows remained in tact. My eyelashes?? Not so much.

The middle of my left eye now had eye lashes that resembled a "U" (but more like a U on an Etch-a-Sketch since no one really knows how to make curved lines on those things anyway.)

A slow and steady, "Sssshhhhhhhiiiiiiitttt," was murmured from my mouth as it fell agape while I stared in the mirror in horror. I slowly put down the buzzer and backed aways slowly.

"Okay, it's not so bad. Mascara can totally lengthen those stumpy middle lashes." ::Frantically coats left eye with blackest black mascara::

Instead I just have a limpy tarantula hanging over my eye... now what?!

I washed off the tarantula eye, put sunglasses on my face, mumbled to Husband that I need to go BACK to Target and got in the damn car. I found the big pack of fake lashes with 3 lengths to chose from. Oooh options! So I grabbed it up and got out of there as fast as I could and shoved my face back into the bathroom mirror when I got home. I did the whole open-your-mouth-as-wide-as-possible and poked my fingers at my eyes while holding these teeny bug-leg-looking lashes in my fat stumpy sausage fingers (Husband totally tells me I have sausage fingers and then totally tells the kittehs to nom on them. I now have a serious complex.) Thank God the Creator of the Fake Eyelashes also included teeny tweezers with the lashes because my sausagey fingers were way to giant to maneuver those things. After a few minutes, I successfully glued the shit out of those lashes onto my face. Thank God also that Fake Eyelash Creator included fake eyelash remover along with the super strong adhesive glue. Apparently Fake Eyelash Creator did not want that shit to fall off.

Needless to say, I've been wearing fake eyelashes for a good two weeks because my limpy-tarantula-excuse-for-eyelashes are not even trying to grow back with any kind of rapid speed so now I stick my face all in the mirror every morning trying to glue those little bug-legs to my eyelids.

All in the name of beauty, I suppose. Or at least in the name of I-don't-want-to-look-like-an-idiot.

Eyelash FAIL.

Donut Day

My [soon to be ex-] boss instilled this awesome delicious make-everyone-fat rule at work... Donut Day. On the first of every month (or sometimes the 2nd if he forgets because I didn't remind him) he brings in like 50 Dunkin Donuts. And there are always way too many to chose from. And I always go for the ones that are completely stuffed full of 9 billion calories of delicious frosting.

I just gorged myself on one with chocolate frosting on the outside and fluffy vanilla frosting on the inside. And I might have stuffed a couple of those Munchkin holes in my face too. And I might have washed everything down with a Diet Mt. Dew.

Please, someone check on me in 20 minutes to make sure I have not gone into diabetic shock.

Tuesday - Safe and Sound

Update!
Cutie pie Tuesday has been safely returned home to his owners! Husband called the vet, the vet did a 3-way call to the owners, and the owners did a happy dance when they heard the good news.

Turns out, Tuesday's real name is Leo and he lives about 6 houses down the street. Tuesday, I mean Leo, decided to dig his way under the fence and into freedom... even if that freedom only lasted a mere 6 hours... in a strange bathroom.

Happy trails, Tuesday. Perhaps we shall meet again.

Tuesdays with Morrie...Tuesday?

This morning was like every other typical workday morning: I hit the snooze button for an hour, Husband grumbles that he doesn't care what time it is, and we both roll around until 8:00 AM or so when we finally decide to throw ourselves out of bed. Okay so wait, it wasn't typical... Husband decided NOT to get out of bed when I did and proclaimed he was working from home today. Okay fine. Nothing out of the ordinary - he does that sometimes.

I left the house around 9:00 and started driving down the road. "Shit. It's trash day. Oh well." Husband always seems to pick Tuesdays to stay home. And he's the unofficial-official trash-taker-outer. So I figured we'd have a smelly garage for another week. Which really wouldn't matter anyway because I'm a little nuts when it comes to air fresheners, like so nuts that we actually have one in the garage. I don't know any other garage in America with an air freshener, but I'll tell you what - it's kinda nice to breathe in "clean mountain spring air" instead of stank ass rotten chicken. I bet you want one in your garage now too, don't you? Thank you Frebreze.

Husband called around 10:00 AM, I figured to say that he had joined the rest of the working world, but instead he called to tell me that he took out the trash. Excellent! And found a dog. Whaaaat??!

Apparently some little black lab puppy (6-8 months old, we'd guess) came bouncing up to Husband and was just like "hey what's up." So Husband looked around to see if bouncy puppy had a bouncy owner perhaps. No, no bouncy owner. Hmmm. So, like I said, Husband called me to ask WTF to do. He made a make-shift leash with some rope and just tied it to his collar and started to walk him around the neighborhood.

"He needs a name," husband said.

"Tuesday. His name is Tuesday," I said while giving myself an imaginary pat on the back for being so damned creative.

So now Tuesday is hanging out in my master bath eating some Beneful (because I'm also so damned nice and brought some nom noms home from the Target for him) and is completely pissing off the kittehs. They are like "WTF is in my bathrooms?! He better not gets teh toona nom noms. Teh toonas are not for sharing. Especially not with doof dog."

So now we have pissed off Murdoch, confused Moose, and happy Tuesday hanging out at home with Work-From-Home Husband. And I'm here. At work. Blogging about the ridiculousness. What the hell do I do with a Tuesday?

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

Husband and I traveled to Greenwood, SC last weekend to see our friends Emily & Michael that recently moved there. [We miss them dearly and secretly hope they come back to Charleston. Immediately.]

On our 3 hour trek to what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, we got a little stir crazy. GPS took us through some Podunk town called Saluda. The only thing is Saluda was a rape van...
As soon as Husband and I saw the rape van parked in someone's front yard with a big "for sale" sign stuck to the front windown, we both, in unison, proclaimed "Hey, we could buy that rape van!" Then we looked at each other, furrowed our brows and grunted. Does that mean we have to buy it then??

So after driving through miles of nothing, we eventually were spit out into the middle of Greenwood. Who knew? We got the grand tour of their new home and then they left. Michael the denist got called in to work for a few minutes, so they both had to leave as soon as we got in. We didn't mind... there was beer in the fridge. So Husband and I crack open some beers and head to the back porch. Of course I had to have a coozie for my beer... it's only right. I gave them away as favors at my own wedding for Christ's sake. I have to have a coozie. So I take it upon myself to rummage through every drawer in the kitchen in search of the perfect coozie. And wouldn't you know it? They actually have a whole drawer devoted to coozies. Hooray! So I rummage... and I dig all the way to the back because I could see a bottle coozie in hot pink. Oh that shit is MINE. So I grab it, and cock my head at it because it actually reads:

Now this coozie is right up my ally! Emily hadn't even used it though! There was still a little piece of styrofoam inside. I figured she wouldn't mind if I broke it in for her. I told Husband it was probably a gag gift from someone because that just wasn't an Emily-type of coozie [read: Emily is classy. Me, not so much.]

They arrived back home in no time and came to find us enjoying their beer on their back porch. Hey, you don't have to tell us twice to make ourselves at home.

I proudly showed Emily the ridiculous coozie I pulled from her coozie drawer and she doubled over in hysterical laughter. Whaaaat??

"I BOUGHT THAT FOR YOU!!!" Bahahahahaha!!!

Oh.my.god. I cracked up. So basically, I dug through her 25+ coozies, scouted out the most ridiculously tacky one I could find, claimed it as my own and then I was told it was actually purchased for me because I'm THAT TACKY. Ha. And how appropriate is it that I would find the dumbest coozie in the whole bunch.

I used that tacky shit all over town and proudly displayed my hot pink beer holder to everyone who would glance my way.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful, hate me because your boyfriend thinks so!

The Chomp Chain

I know, I know, I've been MIA and it's completely unacceptable. I blame my job 100% for throwing me the most bat.shit.crazy week of my life last week. I think I had a nervous breakdown on Wednesday. Here's hoping that this week I make it to at least Thursday.
Whatever.. that's [somewhat] irrelivant as it's not really fun news and doesn't have a damn thing to do with the chomp chain.

So... the chomp chain. Okay, so I'm a big nerd. Seriously. I had to pause Dr. Mario on gray-box Nintendo 3 years ago so that my [now] husband could propose to me. I play old school video games way more than any give 26 year old working woman should. We even have those Gamer Chairs that rock [literally, like back-and-forth, not like "ohmygah, these chairs are awesome," I mean, they are awesome, but they rock too...] and we have wireless controlers.

So... the chomp chain... I'll get to my point. Just give me a few more paragraphs. We have Wii. [That's a hilarious sentence.] And on Wii, there is a game called Mario Party. For those of you unfortunate enough to have not yet experienced the Mario Party, let me explain:

First, you get a group of 4 nerds, such as Nic, Husband, Brudder & Billy.
Then you fix your drink of choice.
Then you fight for a Gamer Chair.
Then you select your stupid little character.
And then, you guys all race around this little e-board and challenge each other in little mini-duals.
One such dual is quite possibly the most foul thing to hit Nintendo in all it's 20+ years of life.

What is this dual?
None other than Scrubbin' the Chomp Chain.

You remember the chomp chain, right? It's that scary cannon ball with teeth tied to a chain. He tries to bite your ass every time you get near him.
Okay, so the idea of the game is to wash off as much paint as you can - apparently a group of a-hole paint-ballers attacked the chomp chain and now he's a rainbow of disaster. Why you actually want to get him clean after he's been trying to attack you all these years is beyond me.
And how might you clean the chomp chain, you ask?

You totally bust out your best jack-off motion. I shit you not. The faster you can jam your Wii remote up-and-down, the faster you clean your dirty little chomp chain and the closer you are to victory [and perhaps orgasm. Hey, whatever floats your boat, right?]

Funny how a man always seems to win at this challenge.

So needless to say, this ridiculous little game became a topic of conversation at a happy hour a few weeks ago, and now it's one big running joke. Think of every bad phrase you have for whacking off... and now add one more: scrubbin' the chomp chain.

Ugh.

And on a side note, our friends Richard & Angel just got back from NYC and visited Nintendo World. And can you guess what they brought back for us as soveigners?? CHOMP CHAIN key chains!

Bahahaha.

I'm a nerd. One big chomp chain scrubbin' nerd.

New Blog Friends

I just wanted to post a quick note to say hello to the fun new bloggers that have started to follow my ramblings! I'm so excited that you have stumbled upon my page -here's hoping more continue to stumble.

This week has been crazy - I've planted 21 plants in my front yard. 19 of them were done all by myself [Husband dug 2 holes]. So now I'm exhausted and very very sore. But I have no time to worry about those things because my little brudder is in town all weekend!

I promise to come back next week with some entertaining debacles to blog about.

Happy Friday new & old friends!

Mexico: Ricky Bobby Racing Stripes

Guess what? This is the last of the Mexico Mini Series!
Okay so everyone remembers the adorable monokini right?
Well it was definitely a hit. However, it could also be classified as a hell of a miss too. Let me explain.
Okay, so those who know me [and/or have read that little blurb over on the right-hand side about me] know that I'm kinda retardedly obsessed with tanning. Don't judge. Some people have cigarettes, some are sex addicts and me? Well, I'm tanorexic. It could be worse. Deal with it. I keep telling myself that "when I grow up" I will "grow out of it." Well, I'm 26 and cannot see any forthcoming developments in the "growing the hell up" category. Meh.
I had been warned by Husband that Mexican sun is not the same as Charleston sun, so my SPF 4 was going to need to be upgraded to SPF 30. Humph. Fiiiiine. So I bought SPF 30 and 45. And I wore them on the first couple of days.
And then I noticed that my skin was not yet rivaling the Mexicans. And this was a severe problem.
Time for Nic's Plan B: NO SPF. So, for the first 4 hours one day, I opted for no SPF. I was in a regular bikini, so I had regular tan lines and very burnt forearms, but other than that, I was bronzed! Yesss, my plan was working! I put on some SPF after the hour 4 mark since my arms were crispy.
The next day, I decided to go the No sunscreen route again. And this time in the monokini. Okay, why I didn't see this coming is beyond me and I totally blame all those Miami Vice nom nom drinks for skewing my better judgement [if I even possess "better" judgement]. So, I laid by the pool alllll day. Sippin on my M-Vices and getting some serious tan skin. Yeah, tan skin on all the places that the monokini did not cover.You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

When I returned to our swanky ass room, I peeled of my pears and to my dismay, had perfect monokini tanlines.
Moron.
Husband shouts through his hysterical laughter: You have racing stripes! You're Ricky Bobby! I'm calling you Ricky Bobby for the rest of the trip! Bahahahaha *pointing & laughing. Riiiiicky Booooobby!
So, I went with it and conjured up a dialect of Ricky Bobby-isms and blurted such things as:
I like speed
I like to go fast
Dear sweet baby Jesus in yer little ghost manger
Don't you stick that knife in yer leg, Ricky Bobby
And my favorite - Don't you put that evil on me, Ricky Bobby!
What's a bit ironic is that earlier in the week, Husband and I [for whatever dumbass reason] were quoting Ricky Bobby - we were bumbling around the resort talking like rednecks proclaiming that one or the other better not put that evil on one or the other. Strange [referring to the irony... and possibly just ourselves also].
And there you have it; Mexico the Mini Series as told by Nic. Err, I mean Ricky Bobby [because I so totally still have those asinine stripes].

Mexico: I Believe I Can Fly

The next outing happened on Thursday, and it was my pick: Tulum XTreme!
*throw arms in front of chest to make "x" and snarls lip.
First on the Tulum Adventure: well... Tulum, of course! It's basically a mini version of Chichen Itza (not to be confused with Chicken Pizza. Or so says the travel guides from the day before).

Ooooh pretty. I learned my lesson and opted for a sleeveless, airy top and the same teeny navy shorts. Tulum has a lot more trees and a much better breeze since it sits on the water. Right before I turned into a Pissy Pants, it was time to get back in the van and head into the Mexican Jungle.

Remind me again why I think I'm such a hard ass??

So, Cricket our instructor, showed us how to zip line properly. It consists of a lot of straps, a harness, some ultra-durable man gloves, a lopsided helmet, and a few more straps... oh and it helps if you have some courage too. And then we began our small trek to the first tower. The first 55 foot-tall wooden, rickety ass tower in the middle of the Mexican Jungle. WTF am I doing?! So, we climb. And climb. And eventually get 55 feet off the damn ground. When we got to the top of the tower, Cricket gave us a "psychological safety harness" and that is exactly what he called it. It was a stupid strap hanging from the top of the tower, which when you think about it, won't do you a damn bit of good if say, the tower plummets to the hard, jungl-y ground below.

At first it's kinda like "oh this isn't so bad, I can see the ground... oh wait... no, no, those are tree tops. Shit."

There was 8 of us in the group with Cricket. I was smack in the middle of it. The chick in front of me apparently was married to some kind of Wilderness Man because he was able to hold a camera and take pictures of himself flying over the tree tops. Gina, Wilderness Man's wife, was not as wilderness-y. Cricket asked us if we had any questions before he started shoving us off the side of the tower. Gina piped up with a "yeah I have one question... is it alright if we swear?!" And with that, she was pushed from the tower and a lovely "hooooooly shiiiiiiiiiit" echoed across the Mexican tree tops.

And then it was my turn. Oh.dear.Jesus. So I squat down, lean back onto my "monkey tail" harness (damn you monkey tail, you better hold up my sissy white girl ass) and Cricket pushes me off the side of the 55 FOOT TOWER. Have I mentioned we were 55 feet in the air? In Mexico? And the only way down was a teeny little wire a few hundred feet long? That landed on another tower that you had to climb? That was even higher that the last one?!! WTF.

I squealed. A kinda screamed and chanted "keep your eyes open!!" Half way through, when I figured that if I died, it'd be quick so I might as well just enjoy myself, I decided to let go of the ropes and just hang there by my little harness around my hips and throw my arms out in the air. Awesome. Absolutely awesome. But then it was almost time to dismount. And I'm a self-proclaimed horrible, ungraceful, moronic zipline dismounter. Actually I think anyone who saw me dismount would proclaim the same. See, you have to keep your feet up so you aren't lobbed off at the shin when you come flying in. So I kept my damn feet up. Waaaay up. To the point where I'm all wobbly and unable to find my center of gravity and oh, did I mention I just flew over the Mexican Jungle and might be a little shaky?!! Well Mr. Zipline himself over there helping us dismount apparently forgot what his first time was like and so he rushed all of us to hurry up and stand up and get the hell out of the way because someone else is coming flying down the zipline with their feet all sprawled out in the air. I basically made these idiodic face-deforming snarls and bumbled around whining "I caaaaan't" when he'd tell me to stand up. Yeah I never got better at that...

So, Zipline #1 = Success! Success in my book = Living & not peeing my pants! Hooray, success!

On to Zipline #2. Which you would think would get easier, right? Ha. WRONG. This one is still 55 feet, but a few hundred feet longer. Which means you go faster, and further, which means higher chance of death or peed pants. Crap.

Well, same scenario: I squealed and told myself to keep my eyes open and then got brave and touched some tree tops and then put my feet waaaay up. And then I bumbled around, whined about how "I caaaaaaan't" stand up or be a graceful woman and Mr. Zipline just needs to deal with the fact that I'm a clumsy white girl from South Carolina that doesn't know jackshit about what she's doing or why she ever thought she should do this. Humph.

And now: the Mother Load ZipLine. This shit put the XTreme in Tulum XTreme. Clever, Nicole... Now we are at the top of a 66 foot-tall tower. In the middle of the Mexican Jungle. It's like a rollercoaster... just the Mexican version. instead of wheels and giant steel bars to strap you in, you have hip harness and tiny wires flying 800 feet across a jungle. A JUNGLE people! So yeah, this one was 66 feet tall and over 800 feet long. Scary.Ass.Shit. About halfway through my ride to the other side (no, not to Hell, just to the last tower) I was really picking up speed. Annnnd it got a little too fast for me. So I pulled my arms and legs in (which was probably dumb since it made me go faster) and started saying out loud "Too fast. Tooooooo fast!!" As if there was a set of breaks someone could tap for me. I tried to puff myself back out and spread my arms and legs, but it was too damn scary. So at the end, I just threw my feet up but I came in sooo fast that I seriously should have just done a back flip for my dismount. I absolutely could not find my center. I looked like a turtle on it's back all flailing around while internally screaming "get me out of heeeeere!" I eventually stood up, all shaky as hell, and thanked God for not having me plummet to a bloody, jungl-y death. Thanks, God!

I survived Mexican jungle ziplining! Check that off the list.

Next up: 60 foot repel. Oh, what the hell... Seriously. One thing of note: ziplining is fairly easy because someone named Cricket pushes you off the tower and you have no control; repelling, yeah, not the same - YOU have control. And you have to lower your sissy white girl ass down a 60 foot hole in earth in the middle of a Mexican jungle.

So, for those of you who have never done a repel, you basically climb up another tower, similar to those wobbly wooden ones from the zipline. And like I said, instead of a good, hardy push from Cricket, the repel process is slow and painful and scary as effing shit, man! My first instinct was to just get really low when I first got to the top of the 60 foot tower. You know, kidna similar to how I got low when the lizard incident happened? Apparently my defense mechanism of choice, is to squat down slowly and be real still. I'm sure I'd do remarkably well with a burglar or foot-chase. Riiiiight.

I got done convincing this sweet girl (early 20s-ish) that she can totally do the repel and she'll be so proud. But then it was my turn and all I wanted to do was turn around and haul ass down the stairs. But for some reason, I bumbled toward the edge instead. Cricket harnessed me in and gave me a rope to lower myself down with. You're supposed to put your dominant hand a little behind your hip and your other hand near your stomach and slowly let go with your dominant hand. I understood the theory just fine - actually getting my body to cooperate with something so wrong was another story.

I first shuffled my heels half way off the edge of the 60 foot tower of doom. Then, I had to keep my legs locked at the knee and slowly lower my ass down so that it was parallel with my feet. To quote Gina: Hooooooooly shiiiiiiit. Cricket was like "Okay, you can start to lower yourself"

"No... I can't. I actually can't. I know what to do but my hand will not physically undo the death grip it has on the rope. You do it!!"

And so he did. Apparently, they've had many an experience with sissy white girls from South Carolina and modified their system to allow for a "safety" rope. The safety rope basically just means Cricket can lower your skeered little ass down until you can do it for yourself. So he helped me for probably the first 1o feet. Then I did a little bounce. And then I started to pick up speed, against my own will. But damnit, the rope was burning my hands even through the giant man gloves, so I kinda just flew down the last 20 feet or so just to keep my hands from catching fire. Oww. I was so shaky and scared and just glad I did it. Gah, it was really scary.

Our last adventure of the day: snorkeling in a cave! There was a big ass flood light under the water, so we could see all the fishies and big ass rocks that we were encouraged to avoid slamming into. Hi, remember me? I'm a clumsy ass and of course I kicked one of the big ass jagged rocks. Oww. Luckily no blood, just a bit of a scrap and some pain. It was so pretty down there, and holy crap did it feel go to swim in 75 degree water after sweating my ass off all over the damned jungle.

I must admit, I am so completely proud of myself for doing this. And now I get to claim that I am totally XTreme.

*throw arms in front of chest to make "x" and snarls lip.



Mexico: It's Gettin' Hot in Here

Good news people, I took the little stupid finger splint off so now typing, writing, shampooing and living in general have become much easier. Do you even know how much you use your pinky?! Sheesh...
So, lets go back to Mexico (please?) and continue our little recap of my wonderful trip. Husband and I are always up for a little adventure or two. I knew I wanted to do something nuts (like zipline over 2000 feet of the Mexican jungle) and he'd most likely want to do something "smart" like go learn about history. He always wants me to learn... perhaps he is trying to tell me that my knowledge of tanning beds, pedicures and high heels just isn't vast enough. So he suggested we go see Chichen Itza, the 5th Modern Wonder of ze World.
So Wednesday morning we get up at the ass-crack of dawn to take the 2.5 hour journey to the Yucatan Peninsula to see these crazy Mayan pyramids. We were loaded on to this little skeezy van first and the driver didn't shut the door all the way, so you could hear the palm trees wooshing by and you could see the pavement through the crack of the door. Oh God, I have to ride like this for 2.5 hours? Kill.me.now. About 10 minutes into the trip, the driver pulls off the road pretty quickly in front of a Quicky Mart. I thought they wanted coffee but instead they told us to get out. What the hell?! Then I looked in front of us and saw the massive bus that was going to take us. Oh. I'm an idiot. So, as soon as we board the bus, the crazy driver & hosts bust out the 40s of Corona. It seriously was no later than 9 AM. We passed. I didn't want to wander around some foreign tourist trap with a buzz and wind up getting kidnapped or something. I'm so paranoid.
About an hour into our drive, we stopped at a cenote (a pool of water underground that formed when the earth decided to collapse into the underground river). There was like a billion people, it was like a billion degrees and there was no way in hell I was going to jump off a 30 foot cliff into a pool of underground water. I took pictures of the fools who did. We got some really awesome pictures and then boarded the bus to get to our final destination. More beer was offered. I still declined because (1) I didn't want to get kidnapped (because obviously I am more prone to kidnapping when I'm intoxicated... or so says my logic) and (2) I don't even think I drank beer at 9 AM during Spring Break when I was damn 18 years old and (3) I have a finicky stomach and feared morning beer would give me Montezuma's Revenge (which we'll discuss later...which I inevitably contracted).
So we finally made it to Chichen Itza. And it's pretty awesome. It's also at least 110 degrees in the middle of the afternoon. In June. In Mexico. Dear God, why? We trekked around for 3 hours looking at all of the giant pyramids and walls and columns. So it gets so hot that I actually do the tacky sleeve-roll up thing and tucked my sleeves into my bra straps. An hour later, I got even tackier and moved my cute, low side ponytail to a big fluffy crooked knot on top of my head. And finally, a half hour later, I did the tackiest of all, and tucked the bottom of my shirt up so my entire middle was hanging out in the sweltering heat. I didn't care! I was so damn hot! I seriously was dizzy and having trouble breathing. Thank God I didn't have any more hair on my head or fat on my body because I would have so overheated and died.
We found some shade which happened to be where all the little Mayan vendors were hanging out so we bought stuff from 3 out of the 300 of them. It got a little annoying after the 50th one approached us "$1, $1... half off... free." Even after we bought stuff, they were like "one more, one more" and when we told them we had "no dinero" they were like "okay, then it's free!" Bah. Leave us alone, already! We bought a "good fortune" mask that is pretty scary looking, an obsidian statue of some kind of cat (puma? jaguar? tabby?) and a pretty necklace for me.
After our long, hot tour of the ruins, we were fed some really gross lunch. Like, really gross. And then we got back on the bus... where there was more beer. And this time, I was too hot, too tired and too flustered to worry about being kidnapped so I openly welcomed the cup after cup of Corona from a 40. And about 3 hours later, when we returned to the resort, I was happily buzzed and finally back to a normal temperature.
So while it was absolutely awesome to see the 5th Wonder of the World, it might have been a lot better to have done so, say in the snow. Because 100+ degrees just doesn't work for me.

Next Up: Ziplines & Ricky Bobby

"Breaking" News

Uhh, so I can't really type since I had a little mishap this weekend. Want to hear the lamest story ever? Okay, here it goes:
I'm the clumsiest hoomin on earth. I was at the beach Saturday and I have one of those excellent lounge chairs that folds out 3 times so you can prop your feet up or lay on your stomach. Well I was trying to lay down on my back so I put my left hand out to brace myself. I managed to miscalculate where my hand was going to land, and instead of bracing myself, I crumpled my left pinky into the metal "gear" of the chair. Note: I wear fake ass nails, so when the gear went up under my nail, there was immediate intense pain. And blood. I held my finger as tight as I could and tried to hold back tears and cuss words. My finger nail now feels similar to a loose tooth...which gives me the heebie jeebies.
I held some ice on it and toughed it out. My father-in-law made me a stout bourbon & ginger when we got back to the condo and I just wrapped it tightly in a band aid. I woke up Sunday still with a heartbeat in my pinky and now also some yellow ooze under my nail. Crap. I WebMd'd that shit and it basically said "see a doctor, you idiot." So, Husband and I spent our afternoon at the Urgent Care. The nurse was like "so when's the last time you got a tetnis shot? How about a flu shot? What about a pneumonia shot?" I was like "uhhhh."
So I now figured I'd be getting 3 shots along with someone trying to clean out the ooze from my mangled finger. Not cool.
Much to my surprise, the doctor opted for some x-rays. He thought I had fractured my finger! Who fractures their finger trying to sit down?! Seriously. I got to see the x-ray and it actually looked like there was a teeny crack near the top of my finger. The doctor told me it wasn't fractured though - just jammed all to hell.
So now I get to wear this wicked splint all taped with white medical tape and take some pain killers and tell people that I'm a klutz and almost break bones while trying to sit my fat ass in a beach chair. Moron.
So needless to say, I will not be typing more of the Mexico Mini-series until I can use all 10 digits. Doh.

Mexico: Jerk Birds, Strip Clubs & Sake. Oh my!

One of our first nights at the resort was spent exploring (it is unfair for you to assume I can keep track of the nights considering a drink was in at least one of my hands during almost every hour of every day). It was a bit maze-like and you can easily find yourself asking "how the hell did we end up here? And where the hell is here anyway?" We heard some music coming from somewhere, so we kinda bumbled toward the sound. We turned a corner, and all we see through a small doorway is a half-naked group of girls that moderately resemble the Pussycat Dolls.

Dave's response to the sight: Did we just find the strip club?!!

We would too. If ever there were a couple of maniacs to randomly stumble upon a strip club in the damn middle of a foreign country, it would totally be us. So, instinctively, we wiggled our way to the doorway to peek inside to see exactly what the hell was actually going on.

Not a strip club... but rather a mock performance by 5 mediocre Mexican girls. The "lead singer" did resemble the real PCD lead but the dancing was atrocious. They were all sloppy and droopy and off beat. Ugh. I could have done a much better job. And the thought did briefly cross my mind to march my tipsy ass up to the stage and push little miss "PCD Nicole" out of the way. After the bad rendition of the PCD group, oddly enough, a Michael Jackson rendition came on, which of course, turned out to be quite eery since he passed away the day after we saw the little skit. Weird, huh?

The following day, we relaxed out by the Snack Bar Pool and we happened to be sitting close to the cabana that housed all the yum-yums. Little did we know, this cabana belonged to a bird. A very angry, aggressive, pissed off bird. After reviewing his jerk-like characteristics, I appropriately named the little asshole none other than Jerk Bird. Man, Jerk Bird was pissed.off. If you were a bird, and you got anywhere near him, or his cabana, or any of the tables near his cabana, he would fly straight at you, get right up next to you, puff up, scream and flap his giant puffy wings until you got the hell out of his space. Jerk Bird was quite the jerk, indeed. And he had a very particular schedule. He'd fly in around 8:00 AM to clock in and he'd leave later in the day around 6:00 PM. Seriously. Mexico apparently hired the meanest crow (or something resembling a crow) they could find to watch over the Snack Bar to ensure no other bird came anywhere close. Oh, Jerk Bird. He was there everyday too. Occasionally, he'd take a break and hang out next to the pool and wiggle around in the water to take a bath. And on really special days, he'd poop in the pool right after he was done with that bath. Nice guy, huh? I bet Jerk Bird started Bird Flu with his pool-pooping antics. Jerk.
So the last topic of Blog 2 in the mini-series: Sake. We had made reservations at the Asian restaurant called Sensai on Night 2 or 3. I was having a hard time deciding what to drink. Beer was too heavy, I was sick of the fruity frozen shit and I wanted to catch a good buzz without too much effort. Therefore, the drink selection for the evening could only be one... or two... things: bitter house wine and bitter house sake. No delicious fruity flavors to mask the distinct afterbite that makes me involuntarily click my teeth either. The wine was basically straight vinegar and the sake, like all unflavored sake, tasted like hot vodka. We... no Husband... ended up making friends with the couple to our right. They were young and apparently were also looking to destroy their livers via sake shots. Every time the waiter came around, another round of sake came too. Husband talked sooo much. You know Husband is drunk when he busts out his bar stories... the rounds of sake were coming so much that I didn't realize the waiter had kindly placed a full shot glass conveniently behind my elbow. Apparently, I was going to grow fingers from my elbow and grab the glass, or so the waiter thought. Pfftt, no. I knocked my big ass elbow right into that sneaky little shot glass and poured the hot vodka right down the front of me. My blue/white striped dress because quite see-through in the white sections and my thighs were burning from the hottness... oh, and it looked like I peed myself. Moron. I opted not to tell anyone, but instead act as though I took the shot and carefully wrap my arms awkwardly around my middle. Riiiight. I eventually just started flapping my dress and grinding my napkin into it. And I just took more shots to forget that I cared that I looked like a dumbass. Husband continued to tell stories throughout dinner. From what I understand, he doesn't recall anything he ate, but remembered that it was good. How sad to not remember eating fried ice cream... damn you sake! *Shaking fist. We continued our binge right over into Onyx (the Privilege bar). And exactly how did I know when to stop our binge? When Husband thought we were in Barbados. "Husband, do you know where we are? I think we should call it a night... you seem... tired." Bah! As any good wife would do, I kindly reminded him of his little mishap with geography and ensured that he did in fact know we were in Mexico. Not Barbados. *Smirk

Up Next: Hottest Place on Earth & Extreme Zip Lines