The Napkin Diaries

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.)

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. 

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...))

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 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. 

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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...

Lately I've been miserably tired... it's this vicious cycle that I've accidentally sucked myself into and can't get out of. I totally blame Christmas.

Basically, I'm all nuts about Christmas and presents and being somewhat festive (by "somewhat" I mean that while I will decorate the shit out of my house, I absolutely REFUSE to listen to Christmas music while doing so. I'd rather stick pencils in my ears...) and so I've been shopping for, buying, and wrapping presents like every single day for the past 2 weeks. All while simultaneously decorating the house, inside and out, with all kinds of Christmas-y crap.

Being the OCD nut I am, I dump out all of my Christmas present wrapping supplies all over the living room floor and do not put them away until I wrap every single gift I happened to purchase that day. And sometimes this process goes on until 1:00 AM. Because in the middle of wrapping presents, I also do things like vacuum the 900 new pine needles that have fallen to the ground because our little kitties like to think the house is a RACE TRACK that they can tear ass around and they run under the tree and knock the lower branches with their fat tails or fat heads, for that matter, and thus create a pine needle 'splosion all over my damned living room.

So I vacuum mid-wrap sometimes. Other times, I bake brownies mid-wrap, because sometimes I like to pretend I am fucking Betty Crocker. Wait. Er, not actually fucking her, but you know, being her. Although I doubt Betty Crocker listens to "Shots" by LMFAO while baking. And she probably doesn't wear giant fleece fat pants with little bunnies on them while baking. She probably doesn't say "fuck" either. And she probably doesn't generally resemble me in any way. Whatever. Sometimes I bake. Shut up.

So yeah, my "wrapping" time tends to take like 5 hours because apparently I like to multitask. Or maybe it's just that I don't know how to NOT multitask. Meh?

SO. This is causing me sleep deprivation... all this Christmas shit. I stay up, wrapping, and vacuuming, and dance partying in the kitchen until 1:00 AM. And then I wake up the next morning all pissed off that I slept for less than 9-10 hours (yes, I said 9-10 hours. I need SLEEP, people!), and then I drink a fuck ton of coffee to counterbalance the super-tiredness from all of the "wrapping" the night before. Damnit. Dahmet. Bleh.

This morning was no exception. After my escapade last night (shopping, tanning, cooking steak dinner, wrapping, picture taking, vacuuming, brownie baking, laundry-ing, kitty playing, and bubble bathing) I was especially tired.

Usually, I wait until I get to the office to crack open my new favorite coffee: Starbucks Mocha Lite (woohoo less fat and carbs and calories! Win!). Today I waited only until I got out of the shower to open it.

So I sat on my little wobbly vanity stool with squinty eyes and attempted to shove some contacts in them and start the "get pretty" process.

Well, these little coffees come in a glass bottle from Bilo, so they have a little teeny lid. So I put the little teeny lid on the counter in front of me. Almost immediately I had two too many bad kittehs in front of me as well, that are not so teeny. And these two too many bad kittehs were LICKING my little teeny coffee lid.

Who knew bad kittehs liked to nom on Starbucks?! I can only imagine the havoc they are wreaking on my freshly vacuumed living room.

Oh vicious Christmas cycle, I feel we will meet again tonight...

Okay, so apparently my immune system has up-and-friggin-left, because I have been sick as crap for the past 4 weeks. Remember how I mentioned that I went to Clemson and tried to relive my glory days and drank my face off and made fun of Laura for getting stuck in the briars? Well apparently that concoction of crap produces a very sick Nic.

I came back to Charleston and started feeling all cruddy. That was Nov 8. I called in to work sick on the 9th, worked from home on the 10th, had a wonderful federal holiday on the 11th that was spent wrapped in my zebra snuggie, I attempted to go to the office on the 12th and by Friday the 13th I was sitting on that scratchy crinkly paper in one of those stark rooms at the doctor's office. The nurse shoved giant q-tips up my nose and down my throat. Thankfully not at the same time, but still made me want to vomit. I hacked out one of those cat hairball kinda coughs where you gag and nothing comes up but it makes your eyes water and you hate your life. Thanks, nurse!

Luckily I was not diagnosed with H1N1 or strep, but I did win with the bronchitis and tonsillitis. At the same time. Woohoo, here we go wheezy cough and snotty nose! Oh and for the record, I totally sounded like Lindsay Lohan for the week. All raspy and shit. So whatever, I came home with 2 different medicines to make me feel better. Except instead, the codeine cough syrup decided to have a bad reaction with my insides and made everything all pissed off, and I woke up with a migraine that sucked all the color out of my face and made me almost puke for real (not one of those hairball almost-puke gag things). So, needless to say the healing process took a while since the medication that was supposed to make me un-sick was making me sick-sick instead. Dumb.

So I was finally feeling human again around the middle of the following week. Which may or may not have led to really awesome husband-wife time. But which totally, without a doubt, led me back to the doctor's office the following Friday, Nov. 20.

With a bladder infection from effing HELL.

Holy God, I would never wish that pain on anyone. Bleeding when you should be peeing is NOT OKAY. So I came home with 3 new prescriptions. I also came home with 2 jugs of 100% cranberry juice. Husband had taken me to see the doctor since I could hardly sit up straight, let alone drive a vehicle, and then he drove me to Bi-Lo to fill my prescriptions, which is also where we decided to buy said cranberry juice.

We stood in the juice aisle for like 17 minutes holding up different bottles of the crap comparing the percent of juice in each. Our ultimate decision was "well if Ocean Spray Cranberry has 27% real cranberry juice and this crazy $7 organic bottle of shit has 100% real cranberry juice, the $7 organic shit MUST be better and will make Nic all healthy at lightening speed!"

For the record, I have no idea how two smart people can be so dumb sometimes.

Have you ever TASTED the 27% cranberry juice?! Yeah, me too. It makes my face go like this ::scrunches nose, puckers lips, and squirts a tiny tear from left eye::

Multiply that by almost 4! (Yeah, you like my sweet math skills.)

So, like I said, or at least I think I said. Or at least I was going to say... we were driving home and I wanted to go ahead and take my cocktail of pills that warned me I would immediately become dizzy, slothful, and have pee the color of Rudolph's nose. (Not from the aforementioned blood, but from the little pills the color of wood that magically made your excrements a strange orange-y red tint.) And so to wash down these delicious little dots, I opted to take a giant swig of that 100% organic shit cranberry juice.

My mouth puckered so ferociously that I thought I might accidentally swallow my own face. Once my jaw released, I made the most giant tongue-click sound ever, as I'm fairly certain that was my tongue's way of saying it wanted to come out of my mouth and smack me in the face. My mouth immediately became as dry as the desert and all I could do was just shake my head back and forth, furrow my brow, and say "no."

After my mouth returned to normalcy, I immediately turned to Husband and proclaimed, "you've got to try this shit!" with a wicked grin on my face. Hey, if I'm going to do something gross, someone's gotta do it with me, right?

And so he did. Even though he witnessed every horrid involuntary action that just occurred to my face, he still willingly took as big a swig as I had. And his reaction? The same damn thing.

I continued to torture myself the entire ride home. Husband got a kick out of it, so I figured what the hell. Once we got home though, I couldn't stand it anymore, so he dumped a good 4 teaspoons of sugar into my stupid $7 cranberry juice. I sucked down what I could before the slothfulness really kicked in. Approximately 20 hours later, I woke up with a less burning pelvis and a much more hopeful spirit.

So I finally got over the pee pangs from hell and managed to stay out of the doctor's office for like 10 whole days. A new record! And then, I was back in by Tuesday Dec. 1 because whatever the hell bronchitis shit I had that started this horrid spiral of sickness decided to come back. Mother.Effing.Shit. So I came home with 3 new sets of drugs to cure this round of the crud. Doc gave me one of those z-packs, which I finished on Saturday Dec. 5, but guess what? I still have more snot that I thought was actually humanly possible hanging out in my face/nose/throat and it's really fucking up my whole life here, damnit. Dahmet.

So the moral of the story? Don't try to relive your college glory days because your immune system never fully recovered anyway, so you're just going to get sick. And always pee after sex. And for the love of God, AVOID bronchitis & tonsillitis at all costs because it will turn you bat shit crazy before it's all said and done and you will hate your life because you will be sick for over a month and not remember what it's like to taste food or breathe out of your nose and you will be reduced to being a mouth-breather and everyone knows mouth-breathers are pretty much the most unsexiest thing ever and no one wants that.

An accidental tradition has started springing up around this time every year: getting all shitfaced on a Tuesday when Laura's on Thanksgiving Break from school and therefore back in Charleston with nothing to do but get shitfaced on a Tuesday.

If you recall, I wrote a little post about Ladies' Night two years ago. While there were no stripper interactions this time, the premise was still the same - Laura was in town, which equates to "get your ass back into college-mode because you're about to act like a lunatic all night." For those of you that don't know Laura, please go "friend" my ass on Facebook (or better yet, just go "friend" her ass, or just her, whatever...) so you can watch her in action. And by "in action," I mean, watch her fail miserably as she tries to untangle herself from the briars that latched onto her and how all of her friends stand by to watch and laugh instead of actually help. We love you. :)

So as I was saying, Laura was in town. Which means I have a lot to live up to here. I took her strip club virginity a few years ago, so obviously I have to continue to offer wild entertainment. It's kinda like trying to continue to impress the man that you've been on a few dates with - you don't want him to ever think you're boring. Laura is totally *that* date, for me.

We began our evening at Bucca's - Husband, Billy, Laura, and I sat in our favorite corner booth and ordered a shit ton of wings and shoved them in our faces in between chugging our beers. By 7:00 I had a buzz. Win. Of course one of the first topics at hand was "where is the night going to take us?" The obvious answer: Strip club. So, we decide that we should prepare. At this point, the probability of ending up there was pretty much 100%. (Don't you judge us.)

We didn't want to have to use the strip club ATM because they charge you like a $13 ATM fee, or some kind of bullshit, and of course the ATM only spits out twenties, so you have to then go to the bar to get singles, but instead of singles they give you $2 bills, which means you are essentially paying double for each time you go to the stage and that's just ridiculous and we weren't going to stand for that crap. And then when you have left-over $2 bills and you have to use them somewhere normal in society, people totally look at you with their "judging eyes" and assume that either (a) you are a stripper or (b) you were entertained by one. SO. Our preparation technique? Go to Bi-Lo, buy one ridiculous item and get a shit ton of cash back in one-dollar bills. It's not even 8:00 PM when we bust in Bi-Lo like a bunch of heathens on a mission. I opted to purchase a trashy magazine. The cashier gave me an attitude and was like "are you seriously only buying a magazine?!" I was like "Ummm yesssss. I need cash back. Duh." I was too embarrassed to get more than 10 ones, so I got 10 ones, 2 fives, and a twenty. Laura also opted for the trashy magazine route, but incorporated a pack of gum as well. Smarty pants.

So, after our Bi-Lo excursion, we went to Wild Wing where Amanda and Rachel met up with us. Yay, friends. The chemistry was apparently right because we all got super goofy and hilarious at this point. There was no real rhyme or reason to any of our antics. Basically a really good analogy for us is one of those cartoon tornadoes with arms & legs all flying out of the sides. You have no idea where the shit storm is going to go, you just know it's going to be an entertaining ride.

So remember how I was telling you about how Laura got stuck in the briars? Well that happened a few weeks ago when my old college crew got together for a football game (or really just an excuse to sit outside all day and pound cheap beer and pretend to still be in college. Whatever, I like to relive my glory days, as often as possible. I'm not sorry.) Well, at this particular tailgate, my brudder Michael was there. And let me tell you people, brudder is funny. As shit. Seriously. For whatever reason, his particular "saying" of the day was "jeet.da.beet.dur.dah....heee heee." Think Michael Jackson, people. You know, the beatbox-ish noises followed by the squeals? Yep, that's it. Brudder was all about it. He gets on these tangents and keeps a little phrase for a month or so and then moves on to the next hilarious compilation of words to play out. Well, obviously jeet.da.beet.dur.dah caught on. A lot. Like, Laura & I said it 200 times that day. And we may or may not have drove everyone crazy in the process. It was wildly entertaining for us... so much so that we continued our jeet.da.beet.dur.dah-ing during her Charleston visit. On a Tuesday. In a Wild Wing. at 9:00 PM with very few people in the place. And we may or may not have screamed this at the top of our lungs. And Laura may or may not have shoved her foot up in the air above her head while sitting in the booth while screaming jeet.da.beet.dur.dah.

(I totally should have written a blog like a good blogger would have about the Clemson Reunion weekend because then this blog would probably be even funnier, but I didn't because I suck and I'm sorry.)

Somehow then the conversation turned to Lady Gaga. Laura was pretty much obsessed with her new song, "Bad Romance," so she was pretty much singing it all night. But as Laura said she was "faking sucking" while singing it. Yeah, that's what she said. Totally. See, Laura actually can sing really REALLY well, but to not look like a total weirdo snob, she tends to refrain from seriously serenading us on a regular basis, so instead she opts to "fake suck" her singing abilities... which actually can make for a pretty hysterical rendition of Lady Gaga. What is it with us and singers who just grunt? "Jeet.da.beet.dur.dah." was soon replaced with "Rah ra ROMA maa." A very throaty, growly, Sharkira-esque "Rah ra ROMA maa," mind you.

And then the conversation turned disgusting... as in, I'm having a hard time actually typing this because it's so offensive. Basically, we all nodded in agreement that butt holes look like balloon knots. Little black balloon knots. Ugh. Gross. Now I have to take a shower. Moving on. Quickly.

And then, the most glorious thing happened. Laura was building her usual cryptic toothpick message... let me give you some background: this one time, we were at another Wild Wing, and our server was really bad, and she never checked on us or brought us any drinks and I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that that week our particular phrase of choice was "BIIIRTTTTHHHHDAAAAYYY" and so we got real mad. And Laura decided to take action to let her know just how mad we were. So mad that she left a little message for our server made out of toothpicks. That may or may not have spelled "fuck our server." (You can read about that shit show here.) Ahh, another tradition: toothpick messages. So, on this Wild Wing evening, it only seemed fitting for Laura to make more little messages for us. She was kinda in her own little world, dumping toothpicks all over the table, snapping them in half and arranging them ever so delicately on the dirty Wild Wing table, when suddenly, we really wanted to hear Laura beatbox. She's surprisingly good at this, I'll have you know. So we were all like "Hey Laura? Beatbox! Now!" And without hesitation, she took a deep breath, formed her mouth in the perfect beatbox preparation pucker, and let out a giant "ppppfftt tahhh pah teeee."

And then, the funniest thing in the world happened and none of us saw it coming...

Laura apparently collected a ton of air with that giant breath she took pre-beatbox. So uh, what comes in must go out?? And yeah, when she went to let out the perfect beginning to the perfect beatbox, all of that sucked-in air came wooshing out. With tremendous beatbox force.

Right on top of her toothpick masterpiece.

It was a fucking toothpick tornado. The most perfectly-time, unsuspecting fucking toothpick tornado ever to be seen.

I'm fairly certain I've never laughed that hard. Especially at something I didn't expect. All I wanted was to hear Laura whip out some sweet beatbox beats, maybe even Lady Gaga beatbox beats, but instead, I was selected to be on of the chosen few to ever be so lucky to witness the best accidental toothpick tornado in history.

Laura gathered herself and quickly resumed toothpick construction. Her masterpiece again showcased the general consensus of the events of the evening. Her masterpiece was artfully crafted to display the most perfect description ever:

Toothpick Fail.

And that's the time we got all shitfaced on a Tuesday when Laura was on Thanksgiving Break from school and therefore back in Charleston with nothing to do but get shitfaced on a Tuesday.