The Napkin Diaries

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?

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::

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.

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.

Uhh, that was my breakfast. Apparently, I've fallen into the "ohmygah I'm so bored with everything that I hardly know what to do with myself" category. Crap. My following wordy-ass paragraphs of crap will prove that I have fallen victim to this highly disadvantageous (is that a even a word?) category so you can basically just call me cah-RAY-zee.

After a typical Friday night consisting of binge drinking and board games, I woke up surprisingly early (and perky) on Saturday morning. I decided that I could no longer stand the sight of the weeds that were taking over our front yard. I hauled out the weeding tools, the mini wheel barrow, and the gardening gloves and sat down amongst the shrubbery and rocks and began to curse as I pulled the first ugly weeds from my yard.

After clearing out about a pound of unnecessary out of control grass, I also realized that it wasn't just the weeds that I hated, but the bushes as well. Especially the monster cacti-like things that lived in the corner that just looked evil. They were evil. I'd try to pull the weeds from around them and I'd end up looking like a cutter because I'd have tons of mini pricks and scratches all the way up my arms until about elbow-height. And that shit hurts, just FYI. So I'd end up all pissed off and sweaty and wondering why anyone in their right mind would ever plant such a horrendous "plant." Devil plant.

So I grabbed ahold of two of the larger "leaves" or whatever the fuck grows off of these painful things and pulled as hard as I could. It came out of the ground rather easily. So I moved on to the next one, which apparently had a giant family of worms that lived beneath it. Sorry worms. I had to seek out the assistance of my husband to pull out the mother cactus that lived between the two smaller ones. That thing was giant. And quite the bitch to get out of the ground. We cussed a lot. I bet our neighbors hate us... We finally got the damn things out of the ground and stuffed into paper bags that could easily hold a human and called it quits.

Well, called it quits momentarily. I then decided that I also hated these little wussy leafy shrubs that were in the flower bed area. I took a shovel to them and added them to the paper bag.

I apparently forgot to think ahead and actually plan for what I was going to do after I ripped these stupid bushes out of my yard. So now, I just have these massive holes in beds of mulch. And needless to say, we now own a "how to landscape" book. I have no idea what I've signed up for but I can tell you one thing, I sure as hell won't be buying any damn cacti.

i wrote this tonight on my myspace page and i actually laughed at myself. enjoy:

funny side note: a few years ago, i thought my eyes were going bad. so i went to the eye doctor and ended up with glasses. my parents thought i just wanted to be trendy and get super cute glasses. then they tried on my glasses only to realize that, they too, were blind as shit. they were like "crap! we're blind as shit too." good thing i got glasses. otherwise, there'd be a lot of blind cononies without hot frames driving around.
also, on hangover days, i have to drink milk. i can't drink water because it's too thin and reminds me of things like vodka and three wise men shots. milk reminds me of childhood. and i wasn't drunk then.
i wear a hair tie on my left wrist everyday. it has to match my shirt. i never actually pull my hair back though. don't ask question.
oh, also, i very much prefer plastic cups to glass. i break glass. and sometimes i even break plastic, like my pink plastic wine glass i broke in college because i was drunk and slipped on my too-long pajama pants. i ended up on the kitchen floor with a giant ass bruise, literally, ass-bruise, and a broken wine glass that was plastic. i saved my wine though. and i drank it. then i had to drink milk the next day.

okay seriously, what the hell. okay, i get sucked into info-mercials, like, a lot. and one day or night, i don't remember and it's irrelevant anyway, i made dave watch the pro-active commercial with me. you know, you see all the ugly zitty people first then you see how beautifully they have transformed. whatever. so we decided we want to use it. no, i don't have bad skin and neither does he, we're just dumb and like to spend our money.
so during our $202 shopping spree at walmart the other night, dave picked up the loreal equivalent of pro-active. and we began to use it. well, i guess i didn't really read the warnings or ask dave what was going to happen, but ohmygod, i look like a 14 year old boy going through puberty! ugh. okay, maybe not that bad, but my face did explode a little. and that has never happened in my life. like, maybe once a month i might get a bump on my chin or forehead, but that's all. so having like 5 at once is just ungodly to me.
well, ha, it took me like 20 minutes to do make-up this morning so i could cover up my disasters... and there is this one mean one in particular. you know you've all had it too. its the one right under your nose. well, mine is so monstrous that my lip has actually swollen and now when i smile, well, my smile is crooked. i cannot make kissy lips because it hurts my zit. i cannot talk properly because it hurts my zit. i couldn't even brush my teeth normally. wtf. seriously. i'm so pissed. remind me to start saving my money and to not fuck with things that are not broken. like my face. gaaahh.

there's this bar in west ashley called gene's and it is, by far, the most brillant bar i've ever encountered. here's why: they have table shuffle board, approximately 200 beers to chose from and mother effing connect four. no, i am not even kidding. they make a bar that has connect four at it. and you can play it while you drink your fabulous new favorite beer called purple haze. (yay, catherine finally suggested a good drink... haha) seriously, i don't know the last time i had that much fun. catherine got everyone shitfaced with her 9 rounds of shots... to the point where we wrote all over the coasters and proceeded to steal them. we also attempted to add our initials to the bathroom wall, but you see, our keys were not sufficing as well as we had hoped.
here was catherine's suggestion: well i have matches! we could burn our names into the wall!
my response: no catherine, that will burn down the bar.
catherine: oh yeah, you're right.
told you we were shitfaced. we basically just took like 20 pictures of us being drunk and cracked up all night. and apparently all kinds of funny stuff was said, but the only thing anyone can remember is me saying "if i had arm hair, it would be standing up right now!" in response to taking a violent shot of something...
okay, this is a little random and it may be hard to explain, but i seriously have to attempt to tell you people this. i makes me look like a moron, but its worth it. okay, so for months, catherine has been telling me that i need to try sake. well, everytime i read this, i pronounced it as saaake (long a). one day i asked dave "what's saaake? because catherine keeps talking about it." he laughed for about 10 seconds and then said, "you mean sah-key?"

oohhhhh. i get it now.

seriously, i thought i was smarter than that. and i mean, i really went for months wondering what type of drink this saaake was. okay, well to make it even awesomer, i was in target today and they have a freaking shirt that says "sake to me" you better believe i bought that shit. i'm wearing it tonight when we go eat sushi and talk about sake. and by the way, sake is gross, but the fact that i called it saaake and not sah-key for like 90 days, it completely ridiculous. and that is blog-worthy by my standards..

okay i attempted to highlight my hair a few hours ago. i wanted to put in this reddish color because i thought it would add to the nikkita look. yeah right. instead i came out with these chunks of blonde/copper/brassy gnarley looking pieces of crap. holy.shit. i was freaking out. so i ran to target with my hair soaking wet, no makeup and shorts and a tshirt. when i got there i realized i had forgotten to put on underwear. whatever. i was in and out of that bitch with some dark brown hair color in 6 minutes. seriously. i sped home and i am now currently waiting for the 25 minutes it takes to undo my stupid idea. i just hope my hair doesn't fall out. and because i did this little craft in a fit of hurry, i am now covered with these blackish splotches on my arms, neck and stomach, too actually. i managed to rip my shirt off before dying my hair because it's always a real pain in the ass to have a mound of hair dye solution in a pile on top of my head and then try to remove a shirt without getting the shit on it. damnit. so, now it's time to go wash it out. cross your effing fingers. i really don't want to look like a dumbass tonight.

Last night was really fun. It's been weird not having Megan with me. I kinda feel lost. And right now, Emily and Erin both are gone too - so it's just been me and Tucker. So without my girls here, I have to learn to like make new friends and shit. It's working. It's so cool when I find awesome people, and there is like a slew of them around Clemson this summer it seems. These people include, but are not limited to: Andrew, Sarah P, Mary Beth, their way fun friend Kevin, Jayson with a Y, and of course Candle.
Last night Andrew and I hung out and I had such a good time. We downed a big bottle of wine in like an hour between the two of us and talked our freakin heads off -like everything from motorcycles to borderline personality disorder. Yeah. Then we met Sarah, MB and Ellen and some other way fun people at Esso. Candle and Jayson ended up there also, so we had this awesome group of people that have never hung out together, but I've hung out with them all separately -- it was so cool to have us all together. But yeah... There is karaoke at Esso on Wednesday -- so not the same as Karaoke Tuesday. It just doesn't compare to TDs with Ed Miller.
We ended up at TTTs later; whereupon Candle stood on the booth and got the head shake from the owner. He apparently did not want to see our pretty Candle bust her pretty little ass. Fair enough. But it was really funny because it's not like she was even dancing; she was just standing up and talking to people. Yeah, this girl is so about to be my new partner in crime. Thanks to the 594 shots complements of Andrew, it is safe to say that we were all on the same level as Candle... no not standing on booths, but drunk enough to think its a good idea. Ha. Then somehow I started talking to Kevin (Sarah and MBs super fun friend) and holyhell, he's a Woodchuck fan! Wooohoo! And then he bought one for me!!! Even more woooohooooo! Ohmygah it was like heaven. If heaven came in a flavor, it would be woodchuck - and on a sidenote, if hell came in a flavor it would be prairie fire. We of course closed down the bar and then found our way home.
Now here comes the funny part of the night, or completely irrational insane part, whichever... So I locked my dumbass out of the apartment. I figured we could just pick the lock or go through Emily's window. Well, Emily's window was locked so that option was out and we were both too drunk to do the credit card in the door trick. Our final option was the kitchen window. The tiny kitchen window with nothing but 3 stories of nothing below it. It was unlocked though. So yeah Andrew scaled the fucking wall. Opened the window, pushed Tucker's fat head out of the way, got on the other side of the railing and shimmied through the window. And Andrew isn't little - we're talkin 6'5'' big dude here. Yeah, about the time he had one leg over the railing I had my phone in my hand ready to dial 911. Do you know how horribly bad that idea was?! And how completely stupid it was? And how bad it could have been?! GAH! Idiots. But Andrew did it perfectly. I guess if the whole normal career path doesn't work out, you could always scale walls and break into apartments through windows for a living for girls that lock themselves out. So thank you like a million gagillion times for getting into my apartment and for like not dying and shit. I'd prefer to keep you breathing and walking and all that jazz. You're kinda cool. So yeah, the moral of the story: don't leave your keys in your back pocket of your jean skirt and then change and leave your keys in the skirt and then lock the door and go downtown. Never ever ever do that. Bad.

Woo woo! I just learned that I can make my "comments" section open to anyone! That means all of you can post your comments on my entries! But if you are mean, I don't want to hear it. Gah. Don't be mean. So, blog is the anit-study. Really. My notes are in front of me and I'm just like whatthefuckever. Tomorrow is my last exam as an undergrad. Madness. So listen to my bonehead move of the evening: I wanted to make coffee, since I began studying tonight at 11:00 for my 9 am exam...genius. Well, I filled the pot with water, dumped it in and turned it on. However, I sort of left out the key ingredient in coffee -- coffee. Yep, didn't put any in the little filter place. Moron.
Tomorrow is frickin' Cinco de Mayo. Hi, my name is DRUNK. Its gonna be good.
So, I have an interview Monday with the SC Dept. of Mental Health! A REAL job! I am interviewing for the position of theraputic assistant. I'm really excited. I would love love LOVE to take this job. I hope it works out. Okay fine, I'll go study. I already got a B though this semester, which seriously screws up the 4.0 I was shooting for. Gah. I guess I haven't really done work though this year in terms of school - the only work I've done has been beer research. Yeah. Beer Reseach.