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))