The Roundhouse Kick

Let me start by saying there is no way I could make this shit up.  This really is my life, people.  

So, Friday was the basic beginning of another debauchery-ridden weekend.  You know, margaritas at lunch. Vodka at happy hour.  More vodka later.  And then strip club.  And this was a special, special night at the strip club because I got to take Angel's strip club V-card.   Does anyone else see a pattern here?  And should I actually be proud that I take people's skin bar V-card?  Regardless, I'm totally proud. Somehow I doubt my mom is proud though.  Sorry Mom.

So we get to Jaguars.  I was hardly in the door before some strange man smacked my ass.  Seriously?  Meh. I did my usual plea bargaining with the bouncer and girl-behind-bars-taking-my-$20-cover-charge and asked if they'd reduce the price for me since I'm (a) pretty much a regular and (b) a girl.  No dice.  However they did give me 4 get-in-free cards!  July's gonna be fun! 

So 5 of us roll in and scan the place for potentially awesome seating.  One of the half naked cocktail waitresses comes over and is all "sit here!" and smashes 5 chairs together. At the end of the freaking stripper runway.  We all kind of look at each other and shrug and take our front-and-center seats.  

We rated the strippers and got up for those that were most impressive (read: most upside down) and remained low in our seats for those that had obviously birthed at least one child or that were clearly coked the eff out.  There was one particularly tall pretty blonde one that we all liked, so a few of us went up to the stage to give her our $2 bills.  (Because "it's policy" to give $2 bills instead of ones when you ask the bartender to cash out your $20. Seriously. That's what she told me.) Well apparently I got too close.  Or she got too close.  Or she wore too tall of shoes.  Or damnit, something just wasn't right.  Because as she went to flip herself upside down on that greasy pole, something horrific happened.  And of course, it happened to me.

I got roundhouse kicked to the face.  By a stripper.  
Who the SHIT gets roundhouse kicked?  And by a stripper, no less?!


Angel was all "Ohmygod, are you okay?!  I felt the WIND!"

Miraculously I did not take a spike heel to the eyeball or get knocked out.  I also managed to walk away without a knot on my forehead. My pride however?  Totally bruised.

So the moral of the story here, kids?
It is better to give than to receive. This is especially true of a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the face.

How Nic & Erin Are Totally Gonna Get Famous and Shit

So. I was watching America’s Got Talent last night when I got pretty much the best idea ever.  I'm totally going to make me and Erin famous.  Why didn't I think of this sooner?!

After watching these crazy girls that did some ridiculous trapeze act, I obviously had the genius idea that Erin and I now need a trapeze act.  Or singing act.  Or dancing act.  Or whatever. So I was all “Erin and I need a talent."

And Dave was all “Talent? Ummm…Y’all drink vodka. At the pool. In the middle of the day. That’s about it.” Which... when you think about it,is absolutely true.  Don't you look at me with those judgey eyes.  You're just jealous.  I know.

So after a few minutes of creative thinking,  I’m fairly certain I know how to get our asses to Vegas.  Basically we need to show up with the following ensemble:  Matchy butt star shorts, Hello Kitty swimmy arm floaties, Katy Perry sunglasses, and a pitcher of cherry vodka with some crazy straws.  We will likely make kissy faces also. Because that's how we roll. 



Also, we have created the most awesome slogan ever that I need to have printed on my forehead. Or a t-shirt.  Or underwear.  Best slogan ever = I don't enable. I support.  HELLO!  Awesome.  And I totally do that.  I support.  I absolutely 100% support your drinking habit and bad decisions. 

So, yeah, we can just sit in a kiddie pool on the stage of America's Got Talent, turn up “Shots” by LMFAO and proceed to scream over the music about all the shit we did in college and how we want to relive our glory days.

They totally would have to send us to Vegas. It's a no-fail situation… but mostly because that’s probably the only place where this type of behavior is acceptable.

And go.

I Fall Down, Go Boom

Alright, someone needs to get me a helmet. Stat. Apparently I can no longer be trusted to keep myself safe from self-inflicted bodily harm.

Let me tell you about all the bleeding I've been doing. And no, this in no way is a reference to our monthly gifts.

Last Monday, like most Mondays, I was whiny, tired, and not excited about being awake. I was also attempting to concoct a delicious strawberry-banana smoothie with my newly found blender/food processor. (I shit you not, Husband and I found not one, but TWO, food processors in our home that were shoved into a dark corner in an over-crowded cabinet. For 3 years. Perhaps someone should nominate us for one of those Hoarding shows... (I'm kidding, our house is totally clean, we just tend to clean so well that we hide shit from ourselves. For 3 years.)) So, I didn't want to use the scary food processor blade thing because I knew I was too clumsy for that, so I was going to carefully put it away... until I jammed my thumb directly into the scary food processor blade thing. And bled all over the place. And then almost passed out from the gaping slice in my left thumb.

Husband bought me some neosporin, some of that new skin crap that burns the piss out of your REAL skin, and some of those bendy bandaids for fingertips. Yay, Husband to the rescue. I went on about my week, sporadically bitching about my new-found handicap. "I can't try on pants because I can't undo the clippy hanger thing!" "I can't text!" "I can't curl my eyelashes!" ... You get it. I couldn't do shit. Important shit, at that.

Then after 5 days of the thumb slice, I added some knee slices into the mix because apparently I had forgotten all mah leg shaving skillz and shaved off some of my kneecap along with some knee hairs.

And then the following Monday, things got real ugly. Same scenario: Me, tired, pissy, not having it. Only this Monday, I opted not to attempt to make smoothie noms for fear of nearly slicing off my other thumb.

We had an 8:00 AM meeting with this cute little landscape designer chick who is going to help save us from our pathetic unlandscaped excuse of a frontyard. While she was bouncing around telling us how excited she is to "put in some accent lighting here and a pretty Japanese maple there," I decided I was going to kick some of our unattractive, good-for-nothing rocks back into place instead of on the sidewalk where someone could trip. (Oh hello Foreshadowing! I didn't see you there...)

And then it happened. There I was, in my cute 4-inch black platforms, one minute teetering on my left leg while pushing rocks out of the way with my right foot... the next minute, smack on my ass. In the middle of my sidewalk. My dress just centimeters from exposing my ridiculous animal print Victoria Secret Pink Collection hipster underwears.... My pride flattened under my ridiculous animal print underwears. Aaaand my ankle bleeding all over the pavement.

Needless to say I'm all hobbly and bloody on this disgustingly rainy Tuesday. At least I was smart enough to know better than to attempt to venture out for lunch on this miserable day. I'm going to stay safe, dry, and upright here in my new front office for the duration.

And hey, Next Monday? How about not being a jerk like your brothers. Mmkay?

I Did It Again

Okay seriously guys, you need to remind me that I am not 21 years old, I no longer can sleep through my first (three) classes, and I actually have to do real-life stuff.

READ: I cannot go to the strip club on a school work night!

How does this always happen? What started out as a friendly co-workery get together at the bar next door turned into a night with strange half-naked women.

I'd typically say "Let me 'splain," but really, there's not logical explanation for this. I went to happy hour with a group of co-workers. It was cool. We had some "team building." Had some laughs. Good stuff. And then we went home at 7:00 PM. I'm fairly certain this is where normal people would resume normal night time routines, like you know, eating dinner and going to bed before 11:00 PM.

Hi, yeah, remember me? I'm not very good at this whole "moderation" thing everyone keeps talking about.

Instead, I grab Husband and we go meet a couple of friends at a local bar, Carolina Crust, for some beers. And pizza. And apparently fucking tequila. We played some Bar Bingo (which is just Bingo with bar terms instead of numbers) and you'd be amazed at how crazy people get over needing someone with a microphone to say "N-Jagerbomb" and "B-Three Wise Men."

And seriously, why is it that after you have 3 buckets of beer, someone always says, "So. You guys wanna shot?" And everyone is all like "Yeah! That's the best idea evvvver." And then someone orders 5 shots of tequila. (BILLY.) So Billy ordered us some tequila, and then a little later we got our tabs from the waitress and Billy learned that each shot was $5. And that was just ridiculous. The shots were teeny, like didn't even make it up to the bottom line of the little plastic shot cup and the limes were disgustingly hard. (I don't have anything to say about the salt. The salt held up it's end of the deal.) So I mustered up some courage and decided I was going to argue with the bartender.

And by arguing I mean that I really went up to the bartender and said, "Soooo can I argue with you?" in the cutest voice I have. Asked him his opinion on how big a shot should be and how much he'd willingly pay for said shot. And his answer, as I'd hoped, was that he would pay less for more and then offered us another round of nasty ass tequila on the house. All the while, Husband was at the table saying "I bet Nicole will come back with free shots." I do my man proud.

So then, remember how we were talking about how someone always has the genius idea of ordering shots? Well, I always have the genius idea of going to the strip club. And sometimes everyone else is in that weird ass, dirty frame of mind where they just want to be balls-out ridiculous.

And apparently WEDNESDAY was that kind of night.

So Husband, Billy, and I venture to Jaguars. (I totally spelled it JUGuars at first.) And apparently a lot of other people were in a wild mood that night because it was surprisingly crowded. It was a typical stripper-y night. Lots of boobs. And beers. And judging. And laughing.

And okay, I have no idea how this happens, but it always does. Always. Somehow, I make eye contact with a stripper, and I smile, because I'm nice... and because I'm drunk. And then somehow "Eden" of Jaguars ends up on my lap talking thisclosetomyface about her life. And about how pretty my dress is. And all I'm thinking to myself is "Jesus Christ I do not want to see her garden." And then suddenly I somehow have a new stripper BFF. Every time!

So yeah, apparently I still act like I'm some lunatic college kid who can drink her face off until 3:00 AM on a Wednesday.

Cabin Weekend Extravaganza

Since Valentine's Day is meant to be spent with the one you love, and I prefer to do things in excess... I chose to spend it with the ONES I love. Or at least a few of them... orrrr the craziest of them. Yeah that's it. For not just only V-day, but V-weekend. Oooh, sounds dirty. I like it.

And, not that I need an excuse, but this made for a really good excuse to party my face off.

So Laura and I started scouring the interwebs looking for cabins in the mountains a few weeks into the New Year. Because mountains are pretty. Then we realized that we don't really live near mountains. Then we realized we don't really give a shit what's near the cabin, we just want to be in one together. Then we realized that we kinda lied about not caring what was near the cabin, because there was now one crucial factor that NEEDED to be part of Cabin Weekend Extravaganza. It needed more than just a cabin. It needed to be a cabin with a mother.effing hot tub.

For a moment's time, we considered the sketchy rental home with a trampoline, but when it came down to it, a hot tub was necessary. Perhaps another holiday will be spent on a trampoline...

So we found a skeezy cabin on a dirty lake in the middle of South Carolina. With a frickin hot tub. Fist pump.

And then Joe & Laura, Brudder Michael, and Dave and me piled into our cars and met in the middle of SC in our little lake cabin with the hot tub.

Laura and I busted into a spontaneous dance party within 7 minutes of being in the cabin together. After we filled up our red Solo cups with wine... and ice, of course. Classy, right?


What's so awesome, is that when we all get together, it's like we never missed a beat. We just pick up right where we left off... which was obviously in a dirty college apartment.

After a few hours of stuffing our faces, sloshing our drinks, and hugging all over each other, the 4 of them suddenly decided I needed to leave. Whaaat?! They were all like, "Nicole. Go downstairs to the Time Out Room*. Now." I didn't understand. But apparently they had conjured up some kind of fantastic surprise and therefore I needed to get my wine-loving ass downstairs. Hmph.

So they banished me. To the Time Out Room. All alone. For like 20 minutes! But they at least gave me part of my surprise to entertain myself with while hanging out in aforementioned creepy room of doom - they gave me a WAND! A Pretty Princess fairy wand. That lit up! Like a freaking rave, nonetheless. So I just swirled that around while I sat on the bed. Then I got bored and stood in the creepy step-dad corner for a bit, which gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I sat back down on the futon-bed and took a picture of my face and twirled my wand some more until Laura came to get me.

With a blindfold!

Ugh. Blindfolds.

So! She pushed me up the stairs, and took the blindfold off... momentarily. I opened my eyes to see a bunch of cute (read: PINK) cupcakes sitting on the counter, surrounded by 4 of my most favorite people in the world; so obviously they were like the best cupcakes ever.

Then they turned me around. To see the surprise. THE SURPRISE. Do you know what the surprise was?! A PINATA! My very own first pinata ever! 27 years old and never had a pinata! Let alone a frackin' surprise pinata! In the shape of a CROWN! That was pink and purple and said PRINCESS! Oh dear lord, do I have some amazing friends or what?!

So remember how I mentioned that they only momentarily allowed me to take off the blindfold? Yeah. That's why. So, back on the blindfold went. Husband spun me around and handed me a pool stick. Does anyone else see the potential for disaster here? Already clumsy girl, now tipsy and blindfolded, has been given a stick to swing into mid-air in hopes of beating the shit out of a cardboard crown hanging from the ceiling in a rented cabin on a dirty lake in the middle of South Cack. ::Shaking head::

I swung the shit outta that stick, too, let me tell ya. But I kept stabbing myself in the boob somehow. Meh? After a while of watching me fail miserably at knocking crap out of the pinata, they had mercy on me and let me take off the blindfold. I beat the hell out of that thing! And finally, all the goodies came flying out.

And can I please take this moment to say that Joe and Laura should be in charge of stuffing every pinata in the universe, because I'm pretty sure they put the best shit ever into mine. Oh? You want to know what they put in my pinata o' happy? Well okay, since you asked nicely:
1. Pixie Stix
2. 1 giant Slim Jim (that contorted into a ready-to-wear headband shape)
3. Ring Pops
4. Hershey Kisses
5. Glow Sticks
6. Monster Truck Stickers!!
7. Mini Bottles
8. 1 Cadburry Egg (that no one got to enjoy because Husband flushed it down the toilet!?!)
9. Pirate Eye Patches

Awesome. I dumped it all into my lap and played with it. Like a 5 year old.

Then it was hot tub time. And you know the one thing you need to make your hot tub time complete? Pasta Salad. And actually what I mean by that is that pasta salad is the one thing in the world you definitely do not need in a hot tub. Because when you try to eat it, or you know, feed it to Laura with a tiny plastic fork and a pirate eye patch over your eye and a plastic solo cup of wine hanging out of your mouth, there's like a 100% chance that you will dump that shit all in your hot tub on the back porch of your rented lake house on the dirty lake. Trust me.

So after our skin got pruney and we ran out of drinks, and dumped half the water out of the hot tub from sloshing around like idiots, we got out. And put on our Snuggies. And slept in our little creepy beds. And washed, rinsed and repeat the next day. (Well, that's not entirely true... we weren't exactly the cleanest of humans that weekend... but we at least did the "repeat" phase, sans pinata. And pasta salad.)

And really, there's only one way to sum up the entire Cabin Weekend Extravaganza. And it can't be done with words. Oh no. It can only be done with a picture. One perfect picture of debauchery, as perfectly displayed by Laura:



And that, my friends, is how you do a Cabin Weekend Extravaganza.

*Time Out Room: Creepy small "bedroom" at bottom of stairs with a futon and wood-paneled walls. Only one small window very close to the ceiling to ensure no escape possible. Also equipped with strange cubby area, likely used by a step-father to watch a small child sleep.

Mr. Whistle

You ever find yourself wanting to stick pencils in your ears because you have some horrific song stuck in your head with no idea how it actually got there in the first place?

Yeah me too.

And we're talking really bad songs here people. Like "Tik Tok" by Ke$ha. Fucking Ke$ha...Or Jingle Bells. Or anything by Sheryl Crow. Or that wretched old folky "Someone's in the kitchen with Dina" number. Oh how I want to strangle Dina and whoever the hell is in the kitchen with her...

And the song always ends up in your head at like 9:oo AM on a damn Monday. A rainy Monday. While you have killer period cramps and a zit.

And you know why that song ends up in your brain?! Because my Husband whistles it to you! In his sneaky little Husband ways! He'll be in the shower and I'm trying to cover that aforementioned zit and shovel Midol and he's fucking shimmying around in the shower whistling. And I know he's shimmying because we have a glass door on that shower... And it's mindless for him. He doesn't even realize he's doing it. Hell, sometimes he'll ask me how some song got stuck in HIS head!

One night I just couldn't get "Someone's in the (fucking) kitchen with Dina" out of my head.

And I was all like "Ohhhmah gahhhh HUSBAND! I need to strangle you!!"
And he's all like "Why?"
And I'm all like "Because you made "Someone's in the kitchen with Dina" get stuck in my motherfreakin' braaain."

And do you know what he said?!

"I don't know that song."

What?! What the SHIT? Are you talking about?!

Apparently the man is so oblivious to his own whistling that he can pick songs that he doesn't even know.

Needless to say, I belted out the best, and by best I mean worst, rendition of "Dina" that I could in an effort to successfully secure the horrid tune into his brain also.

The verdict? No more Dina.

Win.

Get 'Er Done

Yeah yeah, so I've been a MIA. You would be too if you rang in the New Year in the effing ER because someone decided to tackle you in the middle of the dance floor. In the middle of a really crowded bar. While you were wearing fucking 5 inch platform shoes.

Seriously.

I got knocked out on New Year's Eve. Like, black-out knock out. Scary, huh? Had to get some X-rays and a CT scan - luckily I just got the shit knocked out of me. No broken bones. Just a really bruised ass and a splitting headache. (Yay for pain killers though!)

Between that and some other not-niceness I've incurred lately from some not-nice people, I've been a bit under the radar lately. But it's time to come back out and play. And do it right, damnit.

And well, if you ask me, there's obviously only one way to get back in the game of all things ridiculous and fun. One Big. Gigantic. Obnoxious way... And that is:

Monster Trucks.

Dead.Serious.

Husband got a text from our friend Adrian that said, "Monster trucks? Next Friday?"
Husband showed me the text to me immediately.
My response? "That's asinine! ... Let's go!!"

So we totally bought sweet tickets to the Monster Truck show coming to Charleston next Friday. Oh dear sweet baby Jesus. Now THIS is going to be entertaining...