The Napkin Diaries

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.

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))

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.

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.

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?