Bed Rocks

Apparently, the tard doesn't fall far from the tree...  Please enjoy an asinine IM conversation between two Cononies:

Brudder: mmm sleeping in rocks
Seestor: meh?
Brudder: haha i guess without proper separation that sentence could go either way
Brudder: sleeping in is great
Seestor: ohhhh
Seestor: yes
Brudder: lmao
Brudder: I AM SLEEPING IN ROCKS
Seestor: bahah
Seestor: that's what i thought was happening and i was all "WTF"

Comma to the Top

So, we've talked about Erin a lot on this blog.  Rightfully so, the girl is basically my other half and as of recently, we've deemed her a Sister Wife (along with Cortni, of course.)

(Husband is a lucky man.)

So. Erin teaches kids.  Little crazy monster kids.  I have this vision that they stand on the furniture and grunt and throw things and Erin has to scream at them and blow a whistle and beat on a cowbell while stomping her feet to get their asses to even listen to her.  Sounds like a nightmare really.  I have no idea how she does it.  And especially how she does it without being a raging alcoholic.

Well, apparently some of her monster kids have some MORON parents.  You know, the ones that name their kids "Shithead" *(It's pronounced Sha-theed. Duh.) 

Or La-A (The DASH don't be silent!)

Or. This is for real.  I'm not making this up... Erin was having some parent/teacher and I guess the parent was trying to spell out her kid's name that looked something like this:  La'Shani'qua

And do you know how she actually spelled the kids name? Out loud? To Erin?!

"L...A... Comma to the top..."

Yes people, COMMA TO THE TOP.  No apostrophe here. Oh no.  Comma.to.the.top. Hand gesture included.

Jesus Christ.

(Oh, and a fun side note: Erin also informed me that The Napkins Diaries is actually banned in all Greenville County Schools.  Probably because I do things like use the word "fuck," and talk about strippers too much, and have disgusting sex dreams, and I make fun of the way they spell their names... Imma consider that a personal win.)

It's Not For You

So the last two Tuesdays have been obnoxious.  I've left work at my normal 4:45 time, and then get on the highway and for some dumbass reason, I-526 is a parking lot and I miss my gym classes.  The first Tuesday that this occurred, my two work besties were already at Happy Hour at Sesame, so clearly there was only one place for me to go. 

If I can't burn calories, might as well consume them, right?  Whatever. 

So now that I was clearly on a downward spiral, I decided to chug my beers and willingly disclose the most disgusting sex dream I've ever had in my entire life.  And of course I decide to tell the two maniacs who will likely mock me for the rest of my life and never let me live this down.

See, there's a back story - Cortni has been taunting me basically since the day we met that I'm going to have the misfortune of eventually having a sex dream about someone in our office.  Particularly one of the more uh, disgusting ones.  And very hairy.  Every chance she gets she's all "Ewwww, you're totally going to dream about Hairball and all of his fluffy hair.  And you're going to run your hands through it and like it."

And then I die a little on the inside and I get a terrible mental picture and just GROSS.

And then one day, one horrible sad day, it all came true.  The dream happened. 

In the dream, I was laying all sexy on my bed, waiting for my "boyfriend" (let me be clear, my boyfriend in the dream was NOT the Hairball, but some anonymous cute boy), to come into the room for a nice naked surprise.  But insteeead, Hairball busted through the door.  And proceed to try to pet my face and tell me its okay.  In a quick attempt to save myself, I did this awkward cover-my-goodies move and cry "It's not for yoooooou."  And then I forced myself to wake up.

Y'all.  It was traumatic. I woke up sweaty, and not in the fun way.  I was so disturbed that I thought I'd have to take this disgusting dream secret to the grave.  How was I ever going to be able to speak of this?!

Or... because I'm apparently a sucker for self-sabotage and could only hold this little gem inside for a few days, all it took was about 3 beers before I was all pinky-swearing with them to never tell anyone.

So, I told them.  And they mocked me.  But surprisingly, I felt a little relieved that I shared my dark secret with someone.  Then the more we discussed the disgustingness, the more we thought it was pretty blog-worthy, but my main concern was that I would not be able to accurately portray the "cover-my-goodies" move. 

But no worries.  Oh-ho no worries at all. Clearly, Katelyn had this all planned out. Clearly, she created the most obnoxiously accurate picture ever.  CLEARLY, she was absolutely 100% able to perfectly depict the essence of my pure horror when Hairball walked into my sex-dream-gone-bad and forced me to whimper, pathetically, "It's not for yoooooou":


And with that, I leave you. 

Dirty Myrtle Style

Lets be real here - The weekend of March 4-6 was EPIC.

I gathered up my 5 biggest party girls - Cortni, Erin, Angel, Amanda, and Lisa - stuffed them in the Jeep along with some ridiculous party favors and fantastic plans, and drove our asses up the coast for 2 hours to THE DIRTY MYRTLE!


Cortni and I decided a few months ago that we needed a Girls' Weekend.  You never really need a reason for a Girls' Weekend, but we figured it'd be more fun if we had some kind of event to plan around.  This year was going to be my "Golden Birthday" (turning 28 on the 28th), and my BFITWWW (Best Friend in the Whole Wide World), Erin, happens to celebrate her birthday 8 days after mine, and conveniently, there was a weekend right in the middle of our birthdays.  Therefore, it only made sense to head to The Dirty the first weekend in March.

Erin came down on Dirty Eve (the Thursday before we left) and her and I might have accidentally gotten buzzy at dinner and then went shopping at the Walmart.  Then we might have accidentally bought 6 Disney-themed cups that features characters such as Ariel, Tink, and Pooh...  Because drinking wine out of Princess cups just makes more sense, if you ask me.

First order of business:  turn on party tunes and consume 2 bottles of wine the moment we enter The Camelot Hotel!  Once we had a nice little buzzy buzz, we helped Angel muster up some courage to go get her nose pierced. And of course, the Myrtle Coupon Book would have a coupon for $10 off a piercing of your choice... so we all pile in the car, drive over to Jackie's piercing salon and stand around wide-eyed as we watch Angel willingly put herself through the pain of the nose piercing.  I conveniently failed to mention that it hurts like hell to let someone shove a needle through your nostril,  but instead encouraged her that she'll love it and it's a quick piercing (both true... but man it hurts like shiiiit to pierce your face).  She was brave and now has a freaking adorable little diamond stud on the left side of her perfect little swoopy nose.  Hotness. 

We went back to our hotel for some more dancin' and draaankin' in the kitchen.  It was then that I had the epiphany regarding why my friends are my friends and why we all get along so well.  After some random conversation peppered with burps, and grunts, and hand gestures, and sounds used to mimic complete thoughts, I realized the common link between all of my friends: we are noisy as hell! We use random sounds as much as we use real words to tell stories. We are all extremely animated and somehow, standing in a dirty hotel kitchen, it all came to me in that moment - I love my friends because they could all easily be characters on TV.  These girls have so much personality and good God, when you bring us all together, well, MTV could totally have another show called The Dirty Shore...

So then it was time to actually go drink outside of our hotel room.  We called a cab (and obviously did our best Pauly D "cabs are here" impressions).  We befriended our cabby, Randy, and promised to call him all weekend when we needed our asses hauled to the next given bar, and then set off for Broadway at the Beach to go make a scene.

Senor Frogs seemed to be the right choice for dinner.  We walked in, all loud and obnoxious, and fit right in.  We managed to have about 3 servers at any given time and they seemed to want to continually feed us Jell-O shots, which was totally cool with us, so we took some shots, danced on the furniture, and paraded around like morons for a few hours.  Erin was selected to lead the restaurant in the Cupid Shuffle - you go guuurl.  I don't even know how/why it happened - they started playing ass-shaking music, so clearly, that meant it was time for us to stop stuffing quesadillas in our faces and wobble toward the dance floor and as soon as we got over there, some guy (I'm now no longer sure if he worked there or was just enthusiastic about the Cupid Shuffle)  was all "YOU!  Get up here and teach us how to do th' damn thiiing"  and grabbed Erin.  So Erin led the entire place in the most awesome version of the Cupid Shuffle. Ever.

((... I knew I bought us those "We are total Fucking Bad Asses" pins for a good reason...))

After dinner, we went to Froggy Bottomz to shake our freaking asses.  Somehow we attracted the attention of the nerdiest "Bachelor" party ever, however by the end of the night we were fairly convinced that this pack of dudes were all liars and just using that as an excuse to dance like morons and occasionally smack Cortni's ass.  But really, you can't blame them because I make up dumb excuses all the time so that I, too, can dance like a moron and occasionally smack Cortni's ass.  

Also, were you aware that if you give people a prop while on the dance floor they will absolutely morph into a different person all together?  It's true.  I prefer to go the gangsta route.  Others opt to become seductive.  There are plenty of options, but the outcome is always the same: you instantly feel cooler than you really are but you think you're that cool because you now have a sweet dance prop.  Take a fucking fedora onto any dance floor and people will (a) flock to you, (b) try to steal it from your head every chance they get...bastards, and (c) take on a new "I'm a total bad ass" persona.  Amazing. 
We topped off the night by calling Randy and having him take us to the closest pizza place that was still open at 2:00 AM. 

We got up Saturday, looked through all our pictures to piece together the hazy parts of the night, then we recalled all the ridiculousness.  A few things we made fun of each other for: Cortni attempted to find a nice black man for Erin to make-out with, Erin may have been in the middle of some strange gay men sexy dance which happened to include the douchey guy in the white sunglasses and what we believe to be his boyfriend, and Angel threw her entire purse in the toilet - on accident, of course.

Of course we did the two things that you absolutely must do every time you visit The Dirty: 1. Get airbrush t-shirts and 2. Get henna tattoos. We came out with a bird, a flower, some angel wings, and a skull & crossbones. See? We really are total fucking bad asses. 


Then we started drinking again, because really, there was nothing better to do.   We sat around on the couch and played an inappropriate number of rounds of Never Have I Ever.  The outcome:  Yeah, we're all basically going to Hell.  But we probably already knew that anyway. 

We called Randy again and he took our asses back to Broadway so we could find some drunk dinner.  We ate at Hard Rock, but it was too bright and our waiter was a moron.  So we kind of ate in a hurry and did our best not to give him judgey looks when he said he didn't know how to split the check 6 ways.  

Then it was time for the piano bar!  And for real, Crocodile Rocks is freaking fun.  Erin, Angel, and Amanda left before they could witness my 5 minutes of fame, which was really unfortunate because I was completely made fun of by the entire bar, which surprisingly, or not really so surprisingly, I am very okay with.

Let me 'splain.  See, you can pay the adorable piano men to play you a song. Your money, combined with the audacity of your request,  may just be enough to have your song played.  Apparently, Cortni's $20 and scribbly napkin that read "Play something dirty for Nicole - it's her birthday" was exactly the right combination for MY humiliation. 

So Mr. Piano Man is all "Where's Nicole?  Come sit on my piano."  So I did.  In my ridiculous airbrush t-shirt, blinky button, and fucking (bad ass) fedora...  And the song he chose for me apparently required crowd participation, as in, the louder they are, the dirtier his song will get. While I cannot recall all of this beautiful melody, I do know that his lyrics contained words such as fisting, butt sex, and gang bangs.

For the finale, he asked Cortni to accompany me on stage and then he looked around for a "trophy."  He picked up a cup. I immediately knew what he was going to sing/do and I began loudly protesting that I would not participate.  Think about it - two girls with one cup.  Noooo.  He asked us both to hold onto said cup and that's exactly how he finished the song "blah blah orgy blah... two girls and a cup!"  I put my face in my hat and hung my head in shame.  But really, I was secretly proud that I was the only lady that got to sit on his piano and be made fun of for 5 minutes.  It was awesome.

(Unfortunately there are no pictures because my dumb ass had the camera in my back pocket the entire time I was sitting on that damn piano swinging my feet back and forth. It's probably okay that there is no evidence. But I'm okay with blackmail, so I really wish I had left the camera with Cortni & Lisa. I guess this means we have to go back and try again?)

Then we wanted to hear something ridiculous.  And rap-like.  "Yeah" by Usher was of course the only choice.  However, we did not want to pay anymore money for this, so we had to get real creative with it. 

And then the best idea ever happened.

Pay. in. MUSTACHE! 

I conveniently had a mustache in my purse.  What? You don't keep a stick-on mustache next to your lip gloss and iPhone?  Get with the program.
Cortni wiggled up to the stage to place our request on the top of the pile and directly in Mr. Piano Man's line of vision.  After he finished up the song he was on, which may have been along the lines of Cotton-Eye Joe, he looked over at his new request.  Written on napkin, and paid for in mustache.  And he then lost his shit and cracked up and explained that it was absolutely necessary for him to not only play the next request, but to explain to the entire bar exactly what he was looking at.  He was all "Okay, so the song request alone is completely ridiculous but the way it was chosen to be paid for means I have no choice but to absolutely play this song right now.  The song is "Yeah" by Usher, and I'm not kidding, it has a mustache attached to it!"

And with that, he put on his mustache and banged around on the piano keys and did a fancy mash-up of Yeah and some Ying-Yang Twinz shit and it was the most amazing performance ever for so many reason but mostly because he wore our mustache.


We left Croc Rocks and accidentally ended up at the strip club.  That served keg beer in red Solo cups.  We stayed just long enough to watch one of the strippers do some booty pop one-buttcheek-at-a-time thing and to witness some crazy bitch eating Wendy's. In the bathroom. Of the strip club.  It was time to go after that.  Jesus Christ.  We had Randy stop to get us more pizza and then we passed the shit out.


Sunday we all woke up hungover but happy with our success of the weekend.  We found a pancake place and stuffed our faces and talked about how much we love each other and how this was the best idea ever. 

And it totally was. 


The Dance Off

I love random ass nights - the ones where you have no plan and then end up having a dance off with your best friend and her husband in a downtown club that you're totally too old for.

Saturday night I was losing my mind and about 13 minutes away from shooting blueberry vodka in my underwear in my kitchen. Alone.  Husband was out of town and I was in desperate need of a party.  So I turned to the Facebook for support (read: I begged someone to invite me to do something).  Amanda came to the rescue and invited me out to Arts in Mt. Pleasant to check out one of her fave bands, The Average Savage.  Cortni and Steve came to play too, which means the "Blonde, Brunette, Redhead" trifecta was out, except now its a "Blonde, a Rehead, and a Fake Redhead," which isn't quite as Charlie's Angels but still pretty cool since it's us.

Whatever.

So we drank beer.  And told stories about strip clubs.  And totally wrangled ourselves some sweet Average Savage tank tops.  And while I did not get to be their guest Maraca player, I was happy to have earned myself a free shirt simply by being there.  I'm really good at getting free, unnecessary shit at bars. It's a gift.

It's no surprise that I wanted to have a dance party.  It just so happened that Steve challenged me to a dance off.  And well, Cortni is always up for shaking her ass.  And so the quest for the dance party began.

We wandered across the street, thinking Wild Wing would have something entertaining, but that was a bust.  Now the only solution was to head downtown.  I tried to haggle with the bouncer at NV, but they refused to drop the price - $10 for guys to get in? Really?  You are not that big of a deal...

So clearly, the only option left, and in my opinion, the best/worst decision we could have made, was to go to Purple Tree!  The three of us spent the night making some variation of a Nicole/Steve/Cortni sandwich, all while trying to protect each other from being completely molested.  As soon as we walked in, some dude was hitting on Cortni.  And as she politely tried to turn him down and ensure him that she was there with her husband, she turned only to find Steve and I already engaged in our dance off.  Sorry Cortni...

We took some shots.  We got low.  We laughed our asses off.  Total success.  So when do we go back?

The Treasure Box

I can't complain really.  My weekends tend to be like little mini versions of the Jersey Shore.  You know, drunk, loud, and accompanied by humongous frog slippers. 

I've had a spontaneous living room dance party, taken multiple "Snider Surprise" shots, and purchased a necklace that doubles as a treasure box... all in a 48 hour time span that was the M.L.Kaaaay Parrr-taaaay. Which is really basically  awesome. 

We accidentally started a tradition of getting together MLK weekend, and for the past 4 years or so, Erin, Emily, Michael, Husband, and I have spent that weekend in each others' presence. Drunk, of course.  This year, to spice it up a bit, we added Angel, Richard, Amanda, and Brian to the mix. We like spice.

Friday night, we hung out at home.  The girls sat on the couch and only shut our mouths when we were completely mesmerized by the new Ciara video "Gimmie Dat" (which I'm totally going to go watch right now...) Hotttt.  The boys however, chose to scream in the kitchen as they sat on the counters swishing their glasses of scotch.  We put Husband to bed around the time he started trying to give hugs with his arms AND his legs.  The rest of us stayed up long enough to hear Michael tell his story of the ab-shocker that he and 40-Friend Zach used to sit around using during our college years.  Bzzztt.

Saturday the girls shopped and the boys rode go karts.  Seriously.  Saturday night we took our asses to the bar.  We attempted Bucca's only to get pissed off because every time we ordered a drink from our waiter, he totally forgot to bring Angel's drink.  And it took like 9 hours to get a beer anyway.  So that's dumb.  We ended up over at the Wild Wing for a hot minute.  Well, long enough to have a photo shoot since it was basically time to bust out our props of the night - the heart sunglasses... and take a Jager bomb.

Somehow, we started talking about my stupid locket necklace.  Then we started referring to it as a treasure box.  Then we discussed how excellent the treasure box would be if I happened to have a cocaine habit.  Since I do not have a raging drug problem, we needed to find other items to tuck away in my secret treasure space.  Splenda was on option.  I do love coffee sprinkled with Splenda.  But Splenda packets don't really fit.  So we sprinkled some pepper in there.  But that just doesn't make any damn sense.  There was also the option of storing my pet ladybug in my treasure box. 

Side story: there was a lady bug in my bathroom on Friday morning.  When I came home from work, he was still there.  But it was cold outside so I didn't want him to freeze but I knew he must be hungry.  So what did I do?  I totally brought in some leaves.  No, I wasn't drunk.  Or snorting cocaine.  Although I can now understand why you are starting to think I might have a drug problem if I am keeping pet lady bugs in my bathroom and bringing them leaves from the bushes in my front yard.  Whatever.  Erin was all "you're gonna be real sad when you come in and find him upside down and crunchy!"

And it's true.  I was sad when I found him upside down and crunchy.  I placed him outside at that point.  BUT if he was alive, or if I was gross, or if I wanted to kill him, I could have put HIM in my treasure box.

I digress.

Instead, there was only one answer... one disgusting, completely disturbing answer, for what to put in my treasure box.  Amanda's queef.  That was the only answer for what should go in the treasure box.  Now if you'll please excuse me, I need to shower because I am completely appalled with myself for even telling you that.  Have you ever typed that word?!  It's so dirty.

Clearly it was time to leave the Wild Wing after that conversation.  So we took our dirty half-drunk asses to Market Street Saloon Not On Market Street.  You know, the MSSNOMS.  So we could shake our dirty half-drunk asses!

Amidst the dance party, I managed to acquire a secret admirer.  Must have been the treasure box, right?  So this guy, we'll call him the Green Hornet (since he was wearing some stupid green t-shirt that probably had some stupid saying on it like "welcome to the gun show," which would be cool if I wore it, but wasn't cool on the Green Hornet).  So dude keeps getting all in my space. I, however, am completely oblivious because I think I'm hot shit and am dancing around like I own the damn place.  Big surprise.  All the while, Husband is watching Green Hornet try to mack.  Husband eventually is all, "NICOLE!  Get over here!"  I shimmy over and am all "Whaaaa?"  And that's when he clued me in that this guy kept getting really close to me, would open his mouth to say something, and then scurry away.  Poor thing.

So we got kicked out at 2:00 AM, which is really too early for bars to close, if you ask me, so we decided to take the After Party back to the house.  I had managed to get bank ass parking (first spot in the lot), but that meant that there were now swarms of drunk people in said parking lot.  So my dumb ass asks myself "Self? What is the best way to get a herd of drunk ass people out of my way?  HONK at them!  Repeatedly!"  Riiiight.  Took me 15 fucking minutes to get out of that parking spot. 

We get to the house and turn up the music as loud as we possibly can.  And thus commence Dance Party Round 3.  It looked something like this in my living room:


Every once in a while, we'd come up for air to take some effing shots in the kitchen (that looked like a fucking tornado on Sunday, PS.)  Oh, which reminds me, who the hell is responsible for concocting the shot that contained coffee creamer?!  Seriously.  Also I remember looking up at one point because Michael and Richard had stumbled next door to get more liquor because the 17 bottles we had already clearly was not enough for the 8 people in the house...and these dumb asses come over with 3 more bottles of liquor and the life size fucking cut-out of Paris Hilton. 


Bitch is still in my house too.  But I turned her around so she has to face the wall so I don't freak out when I wake up in the middle of the night and think some Blonde Burglar is trying to rob me and steal my treasure box.  I'll smack a bitch...


I think we passed out around 4:30 AM.  I awoke to a kitchen explosion.  That I didn't clean until Monday because I kind of couldn't move from the aforementioned shit I participated in.  Totally worth it.  

I love MLK Weekend.

Gettin' it done in the Twenty One-One

Alright, so it's been a while. I kinda got side tracked and did that whole "get skinny" thing. And I also kinda lost all of my creative powers for the better part of a year. Rude, I know, right?

But. There's good news: I'm back. Beeetches.

I'm making a little plan to tell some stories over here once a week. I have some good party shit lined up this year and I'm hoping some funny shit happens at them.

I also have plans to make this little corner of the blogosphere prettier. I've started by putting fat little owls at the top. See? Fat little owls clearly make things better. Actually Husband did that shit for me. I can't edit worth a damn...

So, I'm back. Hopefully I'll be a little more organized. And if I'm not organized, hopefully I'll at least have a lot of dumb shit to tell you that will make you laugh and forget about how unorganized my fatty owl blog is.

In the next 48 hours, Imma tell you about the dance party that was this past weekend. Because it's cool to act like a college kid when you're 38 days away from turning into a 28 year old woman.

((Commence 1/3 life crisis))