The Napkin Diaries

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.

So you know what's like the weirdest feeling in the world? Thinking you are pregnant. It could also classify as the worst feeling in the world, but that’s more so when you’re 16 and don’t have any damn idea what you’re doing and you run to the bathroom every 20 minutes to check to see if “it” came, and then when it does you jump up and down in the hallway after class and hug your boyfriend and yell “I got my period!!” like you just won the non-baby lottery or something, but that’s not the feeling we’re going to talk about. (And I so don't know anything about that...)

We’re going to talk about when you’re a married woman, at an age when society considers you an adult, and you accidentally might be pregnant.

I thought I was pregnant last Halloween. I was at work (at the job from Hell) and something “weird” happened. This post is weird enough as it is, so I’ll spare you the details, but this weirdness, like doesn’t happen to me. My shit is on schedule and predictable. This weird business that occurred was neither scheduled or predicted. And so I freaked.

I called Husband early in the morning and the convo went like this:

Wife: So uh, I might be pregnant.
Husband: Whaaaat? What did you DO?!
Wife: Uhhhhh… you...?

I guess if I had to think about how I’d want Husband to respond if I told him I was pregnant, it wouldn’t really have gone like that. But I mean, that shit was funny, regardless. I got off the phone with a look of distraught strewn across my face and called the “Girl” office.

Nic: So uh, I might be pregnant.
Girl: Did you take a test and get a positive reading?
Nic: I took a test, but it said “no,” but I don’t believe it and now I’m pretty much freaking out.
Girl: Okay, we can do a blood test.
Nic: Okay, like now? Now would be good. Please?
Girl: Yeah, go to blah blah Emergency Care office and do a blood test.
Nic: Kaythxbai.

::Running to blah blah Emergency Care office::
Husband drove me there. I was all like “WTF. This is so going to ruin Halloween if I’m pregnant.” Obviously drinking is totally my priority. Like always. Don’t judge me.

Nic to Emergency Care Office Person: So uh, I might be pregnant.

…

So I did the blood test, but I wasn’t going to get my results until friggin Monday! Ack! Oh the decisions!! What do I do? Do I “ignore” this potential… baby?… for the night and drink my face off one last good time? Do I go out and not drink? (Yeah right. Who wants to be that guy?) Do I have just ONE drink? Do I fake sick and call my friends and tell them I have swine flu? What the HELL do I DO?

I know what I do: I go to Halloween Party. And I don’t drink. Or at least that is the plan…

So I get all slutty, because that is what every girl does on Halloween – it’s you’re annual “get as slutty as you want” free pass and I totally take up the offer every year. We had these ridiculously awesome costumes picked out – German Beer People Costumes. (Totally the Official Title) And we were going to rock that party, regardless of our intoxication level. Riiiiight.

And so we got in the car and headed downtown to the big ass party…And as I was all dressed up in my pig tails and Beer Wench costume, with Husband next to me in his little lederhosen, I burst into tears, ruined my slutty eye makeup and demanded he turn the car around because I could not stand the thought of being dressed like a whore and possibly being a mother at the same time.

I called my BFF all blubbery and squeaky and told her, “Hey BFF, I think [sniff] I [cry] might be [soooobbbb] preeeeegnaaaaant!”

And with that, Husband turned the car around and drove my crybaby ass home.

And I cried. Not so much because I was mad that I could possibly be pregnant, but because I DIDN’T KNOW if I was pregnant. And man, I suck when it comes to anticipation and surprises and all that crap. I need to know and I need to know NOW.

Then I found out a few days later I was totally not pregnant and wasted a perfectly good Beer Wench costume.

Fingers crossed I wear it this year…

WaHhhhHhH! I leave for Cancun at 9:30 tomorrow morning! My excitement finally could no longer be contained as of yesterday evening around 8:00 PM when I plugged in my i-pod, jacked up the volume and wiggled my way to my gigantic closest while the "party mix" started to shake the walls. I scooped up, what I think was close to 20 dresses, and threw them onto the bed, hauled my enormous suitcase out and threw it on the bed too, and then watched the cats throw themselves into the suitcase that was now in their prime sleeping location. "Pay attention to me noooooow."
After unsuccessfully zipping myself into dress #1, in my sweetest wife voice possible, I screamed for Husband to come heellllppp! "I just want you to come hang out with me while I pack." Which really meant "I don't want you to do anything else but pay attention to me and zip me in and out of dresses and tell me which shoes match and tell me I look skinny and its okay that I ate chocolate donuts from the vending machine this week because I'm PMS-ish and pay attention to meee!"
He loves me.
So I think it took me like 4 hours to decide on 8 dresses and 5 pairs of shoes. I still don't know what I'm wearing to the stupid airport and God forbid I need pants. I'm not bringing any damn pants! I hate pants! I am bringing my stupidly tiny navy shorts that I plan to wear while hiking through some ridiculous jungle on an excursion that will lead us to a zip line that will spit us out some where in Mexico. Hope the navy shorts are sufficient because that's alls I gots. And I hope the jungle excursion does not turn into one of those scary movies where the vines try to eat your brains and the jungle people shoot tranquilizer darts at your ass and you end up upside down in some tree. Maybe I watch too many movies.
Meh.
Oh! My monokini came in and it is super cute and Husband loves it! Mind you, it hardly covers my ass (ahh, reminds me of the Cononie Coin slot days) but damnit it is cute with it's little sparkly orange pears. It will look even better in Mexican-tanned skin. Mmmm, tan.
So tonight I have to go finish packing my gigantic suitcase. I still have to fit in all my make-up products, hair beautifiers, yummy perfumes and whatever else will account for 28 pounds of luggage. I'm not allowed to go over 50 pounds. If I do... well that just means I get to bring another bag. Ha! I love Cancun already.

As I mentioned in my happy-dance blog about Cancun, I got to pick out new pretty fake jewelry to adorn my tan hands while vacationing in Mexico. There are plenty of good reasons why I needed to buy fake jewelry:

For a good 20 years of my life I was scared to death of guns. Like, I couldn't be in a room with one. They made my heart pound. When I was about 21 I finally sat down next to one and held it. Then I placed it neatly back into its little bag and didn't look at another one for a couple of years. Gave me the heebie jeebies.

Well Dave has since gotten me more familiar with them. And it just so happens that I've been raging mad for the past few weeks so the unanimous decision was for me to learn how to finally shoot one of these bastards. Wait, I mean, learn to shoot a gun. Not shoot a person.
And if you care to know why I'm so pissed off these days it's because I'm completely sick of men treating me with complete disrespect because they think they are "older and wiser" than me. Wow, I don't know how much longer I can bite my tongue but if one more person makes a comment about how getting married young is a terrible decision or decides they are going to "shoo" they're hands at me and tell me to "go do my little HR stuff" I'll probably pull my hair out. I mean, did people never learn the phrase "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all?" Ugh.

So we went to the gun range. I picked up a 9 MM, fumbled around with the bullets, which by the way, is the hardest part about guns - trying to get them into the little holder is extremely difficult, and then I made sure my giant ear headphones were on and my cool yellow protective eyewear were on my face right and then I aimed at the paper target and freakin pulled the trigger.

I shook. It was CRAZY! Like, I'll never forget that moment in my life. I fired the gun and I managed to hit the paper target guy that I had strung up. I put the gun down and waited for my hands to stop shaking and then I decided that I liked it. So I tried again. And again and again and again. I realized that I couldn't keep my eyes open when I was shooting because it was so damn loud. So I practiced trying to keep my eyes open and I tried out different ways to stand and I basically thought I was a total bad ass.

After getting more comfortable with the freaking weapon that I was holding, I remembered just how mad I'd been for the past few weeks and took aim at the target's face. I shot a round of bullets and brought the target back to me to inspect my damage. Yeah, hi, I shot a line of 4-5 bullets in straight vertical line down the guy's face. Apparently I'm a good shot, so we've learned. My catch phrase of the day: I'll shoot you in the face!! And my husband's response: I should have known she'd be good at this... she's Italian.

So needless to say, I'm glad I got over my fear of guns. I'm pretty sure it's the best form of stress relief I've found. Visiting the shooting range is like my new favorite thing. Oh, and PS: they have pink guns. I'm not even kidding.