Ohh O Ohh, The Tweetest Thing

Husband and I ran some errands downtown this past Saturday and decided to park in one of the garages instead of trying to fight for street parking. We also hoped the Celica would not steam up to 300 degrees since it would be sitting in shade. Do you know how sick I get of burning the piss out of the backs of my legs on my stupid dark gray leather seats inside my stupid midnight blue car? Why do dark colors have to look so goooood?! And why do I have to live in hot ass Charleston with my pretty dark car?! It's totally time to upgrade to that new Pearl Lexus I want. Mmmmmm. ::Drool::

Okay that has nothing to do with this story.

So, we parked in the parking garage. Also found in the parking garage on this particular afternoon, a teeny little bird who was just screaming at the top of his lungs like he was hurt. I immediately morphed into mom-mode and walked toward him. He let me get really close to him. I just talked to him, hoping that I could somehow understand what the hell he was screaming about. I couldn't. Damn it. Well, there wasn't really anything we could do, so we just had to leave him there and hope that he was okay. Sad face.

We came back and the little guy was in the same little corner, just screaming, crying, and pacing back and forth. I was like "That's it. We have to do something!" I was fully prepared to get one of my reusable Bi-Lo shopping bags from the trunk and scoop up the poor thing and just go put him in some bushes. Husband didn't exactly want me handling a disoriented baby bird. Understood. So Husband instead took my purse and put it down near the little screamer to persuade him to start hopping near the doorway and maybe get out of there. Birdy let Husband push him toward the light, but then he got a little pissed off and turned around to start screaming at Husband. Yikes. I was like "Uhhhh, back up. NOW."

I fully believe that he fell out of his tree and got really scared and lost and ended up in the dingy dark corner of the parking garage and then didn't know how to get back out. Once we got him near the opening, a bigger bird outside started screaming back at Little Birdy. "Is that his mom?!!" She swooped down and picked him up and put him on this little ledge. He was finally out of the garage! Then he flew off with Mommy Bird. His final tweet back at us was "thaaaaaaanks," I'm sure of it. Hooray, we saved Baby Bird! Good deed for the weekend, check.

Mid-Day Shoe Splurge


Like most average working Americans, I occasionally go out for a few minutes to pick up something for lunch. Today my craving was for the Chargrilled Chicken Garden Salad from Chick-Fil-A. Nom nom nom. Well, apparently another craving hit me as soon as I got in my car. A craving I could no longer ignore, a craving that I inevitably needed NEEDED to give into: a craving for shoes. Glorious PURPLE shoes. So, I'll admit, as much as I would love to spend upwards of $200 on every pair of shoes I want, I just can't. I don't have an overflowing bank account. But I do have a bank account that lets me slap down $80 for 3 pairs of shoes at Shoe Carnival. I know it's not the classiest of places, but I have surprisingly good luck there. And until my salary jumps to six figures, I just cannot justify plunking down the mega big bucks for shoes, clothing and accessories. I happen to like my Maybeline mascara from Target, my perfectly fitting black trousers from Banana Republic Outlet, and my silly dangly necklaces from Kohl's. I do tacky well. Tacky works for me. Which is why, my friends, the purple shoes could no longer go unpurchased. I saw them about a week ago when I made another Shoe Carnival steal-of-a-purchase for some black & white pumps and all of their 4 1/2 platform inches of glory. Similar to this slutty like thing pictured left. I'm fairly certain I was a stripper in a past life. Who else is 5'8'' and lusts after 4 1/2 inch platform stilettos to wear to her 9-5 office job? Something just doesn't add up. I must have been a stripper. Either way, I'm rather ecstatic that I now own purple shoes (along with a caramel pair and shiny round-toe black pair) to add to my collection. Unfortunately, my shoe rack is already spilling over... I hope Husband doesn't demand I throw out 3 pairs to make room for my new 3 pairs. I can't do it, Husband. I just can't. Now, what the hell I am going to do with purple pumps is beyond me, but you better believe I will be trying to make some kind of outfit that I can wear to the office tomorrow that will allow me to shamelessly parade around in my new favorite foot ornaments. I almost want to hug them, I'm so excited about them. Oh how easily I am pleased...

Soccer Mom

I don't know where the idea really came from, but one day, Husband came home with Season Tickets to the Charleston Battery (our pro soccer team). We have seats with one of our absolutely most favorite couples. At first, I started to get pissy and demand an answer as to why we would spend hundreds of dollars to watch a sport that I've never actually watched... Husband quickly replied "there's beer." Annnnd sold.
We've gone to two games so far, and can I just tell you, this was one of Husband's greatest ideas yet!

Okay, first of all, we have rockstar seats. We're on the first row behind the opposing team (whose "dugout" (I don't know what soccer players have so I'll use baseball terms) (yes I just put parentheses inside an already existing set of parentheses) has a giant plastic roof so people like us can't throw things at them), and we're almost mid-field. That sentence was just supposed to explain that we have good seats, but I'm all hopped up on Caramel Macchiato courtesy of Starbucks. Don't judge me.

Across from us, sits the Pirate Section. Okay, I'm not even kidding. They bring their own pirate flags and pirate horns, or conch shells, whatever. There's the Lead Pirate who parades around with his horn/shell and just randomly toots on it throughout the entire 90 minute game. Hilarious. I would like to bring a little recorder so I can be the Snake Charmer next to Lead Pirate. Sounds like a perfect idea, if you ask me. Instead, I just move my fingers in front of my chest, tilt my head down and mimic recorder sounds "newwwny newww neeee newwww" since Husband won't buy, support, or allow my recorder playing.

Second of all, there's beer. Lots of giant beer. Giantly priced, also, but who cares because we're watching soccer, listening to Pirate Guy and getting waaaaasted.

Our second game, we got a little smarter, and decided that we were going to tailgate. Yes, in the parking lot. Just like football. Technically it is football, in Europe, or whatever... Only a handful of other drunks participated in tailgate; most people drove by us looking confused as to why our truck bed was down and I was sitting on a cooler and all of us had giant cups in our hands. BTW, tailgating requires massive amounts of stinky bug spray. Gross. Okay, so we were pretty hammy by the time we even got into the stadium. I don't know about you guys, but the more hammy Husband gets, the filthier his mouth gets also. So, of course, the ref makes some atrocious call that causes mass chaos (well, at least for the 4 of us in the front row with giant beers), and we stand up and start screaming and booing and Husband blurts "Whaaaaat thaa fuuuuuuck?!" I was like "Husband! No! There's children! Lots and lots of children! Say 'hell'. Hell, even say 'damn,' but whatever you do, do not scream fuuuuuuckkkk in the middle of a bunch of seven year olds!" ::Forehead smack:: Something tells me we aren't quite ready for children of our own considering we drink beer in soccer parking lots and in soccer stadiums and then our obscenities become more obscene the more we consume our giant expensive beer. Whhhhhhatttt thaa fuuuuuuckkkk.

I love soccer.

Best.idea.ever.

No Pain, No Gain

I figured out what the "P" in P90x stands for: Pain. Yep. P90x is short for Pain 90 times. Husband and I have been slugs for 2 months. We haven't moved. Seriously. Unless you count moving our hands from the table to our mouths to swallow some calorie-ridden cocktail. I was supposed to be down 20 pounds by now. Instead, I'm exactly where I started... in January. Hell.
A co-worker of mine took on the P90x challenge and he actually lost 25 pounds and his wife lost 15. A few other people we know have attempted it and also got good results.
For those of you unfamiliar with P90x, it's an intense, kick-your-ass 90 day work out regimen that focuses on muscle confusion, which apparently is how you can become insanely ripped in just 3 short months. That's if you can pick yourself up off the floor long enough to do 6 workouts a week for an hour to an hour & a half each time.
You're encouraged to try the Fit Test before engaging in Day 1 of P90x. The Fit Test alone takes about 40 minutes and consists of wall sits, pull-ups (which I can do ZERO of. I mean, I can't even get my elbows to bend. I just hang there and whine.), sit-ups and 2 minutes of jumping jacks. I'll give you $10 if you can do 2 minutes of jumping jacks after 35 minutes of other ridiculous little torture tests. We made it through 1 minute before I freaked out because my calves seriously stopped functioning. Oh.the.burn.
So we finished the fit test and deemed ourselves eligible to participate, willingly, in this torture . But before the Fit Test came the most embarrassing part: the "Before" pictures. Uggghhh. I put on my "inspiration" bikini that's been hanging in my bedroom since January - which has obviously only inspired me to drink and be sloth-like - and I wanted to kill myself, just a little bit. Hi, I'm a fatty. And the only way I will ever show those pictures is if I end up looking like some kind of model when I come out at the end of these 90 days of Hell. And that's only a maybe. What a nightmare. Have you ever taken a picture of your back? Bleh. I get so used to bitching about my front, that when I saw what the other half of me looked like I was just like, "oh what the fuck." Okay, you get it, I digress.
So, we did Day 1 of P90x after our Fit Test. 56 minutes of pull-ups and push-ups. That's all. Did you read that correctly?? An HOUR of only push-ups and pull-ups. What.the.Eff. Okay, considering, I can get through about 3 real push-ups, I didn't have high hopes for this attempt. It was ugly. I actually fell onto my stomach trying to do the "Dive Bomber" push up. Yeah, go Google that shit and then try one. I bet you'll look like a moron too. And thank God, they make those sissy resistance bands that you can use to substitute pull-ups, because, it's going to be a good 89 days before I can crank out even 1 of those stupid things.
Needless to say, I'm sore. In a good way. I miss that. I'm so pissed at myself for falling off the work-out wagon, again, for the 100th time, but hell, at least I'm back on and trying again. I'm getting into that stupid Inspiration Bikini even if it kills me.

Cartoon Nikki

My fabulous friend, Amanda, took it upon herself to create a South Park character for me. And it's pretty much perfect - it's this cute brunette with a big smile, outside on a sunny day just enjoying her little girly life... and then you look closer and there's a giant beer in her hand (most likely a Magic Hat #9) and the words "what it is" across her little girly outfit.

Yep, Nicole, to a T... or an N.

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Accidental Paperie

Sometimes I click something online, which leads me to click somewhere else which occassionally leads me to awesomeness.
That happened today. In my stumbling fit, I came across return address labels. Ohmygah, all I want to do is order some of these and send everyone I know a card that just says "don't you love my cute labels?!"




And, holy crap, they make lunch box notes! Okay, seriously, when I'm a mom, I'm putting a note in my kids' lunches everyday that says something ridiculous like "hey, don't pick your nose" or knock knock jokes:
Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
Candy.
Candy who?
Candy cow jump over de moon?


So now I'm currently on a mission to find cutie fru fru stickers to put all over the mail I want to send all over the world. Guess that means I need to overhaul my stamps too because something tells me my relatives think I'm a little spazzy when I send them a thank-you card mid-March that has a Nutcracker stamp on it. Yes, time for neutral stamps and absolutely ridiculous address labels with polka dots and monkeys and little swirly letters all over them. Gimme gimme gimme.

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Dirty on 85

Remember the song from college by Youngbloodz called "Dirty on 85?" Yes? Well good. I know what inspired them to write that song: Freaking Atlanta.
Okay, first, you do actually have to drive on 85 to get to Atlanta (if you're coming from Greenville, SC). And 85 is actually filthy. Everyone drives like morons, and God-forbid it rains while you're on 85 (which it always does because that is the highway to rainy, soggy hell). The roads were obviously made with pavement labeled "best for use in the rain if you want to produce so much spray from your car that you can't even see the car in front of you." And 85 spits you right out into downtown Atlanta. Full of smog, douchebags in Porches and homeless people. Lots and lots of dirty homeless people. While trying to walk just one block, we were approached by 3 different bums. Ugh.
Oh, and apparently the valet at the Rennaisance hotel is under a sappy tree filled with pigeons because my car returned to me with 800 pellets of sap all over it and almost the same number of bird poops. Topped off with a nice flyer for some hip-hop party of the century. WTF.
I'm never going back to nasty Atlanta. And I'd also be completely content with never driving on dirty 85 either.
Gross.

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What It iS

Okay so it's typical for Dave and I to get an inordinate amount of energy before we go to bed at night. We end up laying around cracking up being complete morons. This week was no exception... well, once I got over the food poisoning/stomach flu that I contracted from Denny's. Or maybe it was from the strippers we saw before Denny's. Not the point.
So I was trying to ask Dave "what is it," but it came out more like "what, what wachatk it, scschh, shit, damn it." I completely could not make sentences, so instead, I gave up and in my loudest, deepest man voice just screamed "WHAAAAAT IT IS?"
Come to think of it, I never got an answer.
Worth it.

WHAT IT IS?!!

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