I Disagree With Most Product Demographic Analysts

So last week I got shampoo in my eyes during 3 out of 5 showers. I wish I could write "Haha, just kidding" after that statement, but my mother frowns upon lying.

This got me thinking and I'm willing to bet that someone could make a pretty penny if they could come up with a marketing plan for products geared towards children, and aim sales towards adults as well.

I strongly believe that I could be onto something because there were three thoughts that quickly passed through my mind while my eyes were burning as if I were using acid to clean my hair with, instead of Garnier Fructis. 

My first thought was, "Ooowwwwww-cha!" 

My second, "Why is this the third time this has happened this week? Get your life together, little miss sloppy." 

And the last thought was, "Man, I should really consider investing in some Johnson and Johnson's No More Tears."

Why is this called "baby" shampoo? Would it make a person incompetent if they were to accidentally get a dribblet of shampoo in their eye(s)? Why has no one thought to make some No More Tears for adults? After all, shampoo in the eye(s) hurts just as much when you're 23 as it did when you were 2. Trust me, I would know.

There are so many products out there that would be fantastic for all human life forms, not just children. The more I think about it, I feel so discriminated against. I mean, I would love to walk into an Applebee's, throw on an adult sized bib and not feel as though everyone in the establishment was judging me. This is America, I think I reserve the right to eat, not only comfortably, but also sloppily, and not have to worry about staining my adult sized onesie for crying out loud.

Which... might I add... are so incredibly stupid and not practical whatsoever. Think back to when you were a kid... did you enjoy when your parents made you wear itchy footed pajamas? No. Those things were god-awful. Half the time you would wake up at 3 a.m. in a pool of your own sweat, have to unzip the whole thing so you didn't feel like you were suffocating to death, and you'd lay there awake, half naked, cursing your parents and their god-forsaken ideologies of making sure their children didn't get frost bite in the winter. Parents, a little suggestion- either go with the flannel sheets or the flannel pajamas... never both. Children do not enjoy sleeping in an inferno.

And neither do adults... which is why adult sized onesies are just simply ridiculous. Dear people who come up with these crazy invented products, quit spending time on impractical items for consumption and do something productive, like formulate a No More Tears shampoo for adults. 

Thank you and good morrow.

When life gets ya down...

We all have rough days. Whether they are the causation of our own poor choices or awful coincidental mishaps, these tribulations can take you from a day full of sunshine, puppies, and warm apple pie to one which consists merely of resting in a big pile of your own poo.

Bottom-line? Sucky days suck. Sometimes there isn't a damn thing that can pull you out of a funk, besides laying your noggin down, getting a little shut-eye and waking up the next day hoping that it will turn out better than the last.

... or...

 you can think of this lady...

When you have a bad day, try to remember that you are not stuck in a bathroom living in fear of seeing your kin-folk for 2 years and your skin hasn't adhered itself to a porcelain throne. That may be just the ticket to uplift your spirits and brighten your gloomy afternoon.

Don't knock it, unless you know it.

As a kid, I was furious with my parents when they wouldn't buy me the newest Barbie Doll during our weekly trip to the grocery store. I guess they were more concerned about saving money for more important things, like fixing our air conditioning and a little something called my college tuition fund. They didn't realize that the only thing on my mind was Barbies, Barbies, and more Barbies. I mean really, who needs secondary education when you can accessorize 10 new outfits and ride around in a hot pink Mustang GT all day long? Barbie doesn't.

As a pre-teen, I got upset when a popular girl received a note from a boy in my class. Said boy should have TOTALLY known I was crushing on him, but he didn't have a clue. I was livid because I knew the truth. He only liked her because she was cute and blonde. But he should have wrote me that dang note for goodness sake. I knew him like the back of my hand. I knew his favorite potato chip flavor, I knew that he loved Scottie Pippen, and I knew that his left eye twitched when he got called on by a teacher. I wish I could tell you that I grew out of my stalker Taylor Swift phase but as luck would have it, I didn't and I've recently Facebook creeped on the fellow. He now has 4 kids from 3 different baby mama's and posts/brags about being arrested for possessing obscene amounts of marijuana. I really have a knack for seeking out the prized-winners, I tell ya.

You would think that with age would come wisdom... but nope, not for this girl. I still find myself getting in a tizzy over insignificant things that in the grand scheme of life, don't and won't ever mean diddly squat. I have thought long and hard about this (mostly during my drive to work) and right when I think I'm getting somewhere close to a revelation, some jerk-off rides my bumper, I flip him the bird while rolling down the window and shouting nothing, but giving him my angry eyes, (because I'm god awful when it comes to face to face confrontation) and I completely lose my train of thought. I actually lose my train of thought during the formation of about 70% of all thoughts, which if you think about it, means I have the potential to become a genius surgeon, legendary inventor, monumental mathematician, and/ or a pulitzer-prize winning novelist, if I ever decide to apply all of my brain power at once. What I'm trying to say is, I could be a pretty big deal one of these days, if I ever get around to mastering concentration.

I had a point...

We all get a little emotional about things that we believe to be important, when others either disagree, are ill-informed, or simply don't care. When you love something beyond your own will and others just don't see why, it leaves you a bit frustrated to say the least. Think about what it means to be passionate. Being passionate about something/someone not only means you're madly in love with it/him/her, but it means you feel so strongly that you will become irrationally upset over it/he/she if anything/anyone threatens you and it/him/her. Make sense? Hmmm... let one of my favorite actresses, Kathy Bates, do a little demonstration for you.

"Cock-a-doody!" Haaaa, that gets me every time. 

Alright, maybe I'm not that crazy... but you should have seen me while I was reading the Twilight series and some butt-head had the audacity to poke fun at me for it. At that point in time, I guess you could say I got a little Annie Wilkes-ish on haters.

So, the next time some big nerd-burger starts going totally Luke Skywalker on you, have a little respect for his passion and don't belittle them for it. It's actually pretty amazing that someone can be so knowledgeable about anything that they could share every minor detail about it with another human being in a conversation without losing interest. Some of us like college football, some of us like Hello Kitty, others prefer slideshows of insect thorax cross-sections.

I say, whatever floats your boat... more power to ya, man.

When it rains...

My dating life has cycles. There are times of drought and times of flash floods. Too many metaphors? Fear not, I came prepared. I'm providing you with a few diagrams.

I give you Exhibit A...

The majority of the time, this is my issue. And actually, this particular part of my little problem really doesn't surprise me. If you haven't noticed, I'm kind of a freak of nature. Most dudes don't exactly get turned on by girls who start belting out songs from Funny Girl after two glasses of Moscoto. So, the fact that there are times when I'd be lucky if the mail man knocked on my door to chit chat, doesn't really blow me out of the water.

Of course, I get lonely from time to time when no one seems to be interested in me. I do have a heart and a pulse, contrary to what my friends may have told you. But I've become quite good at entertaining myself and 80% of my days I spend cracking up at stupid things I do, so I don't really find myself getting bored very often. I have this theory that people only get lonely when they're bored. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Freudians.

However, my real problem is with Exhibit B...

You're probably asking yourself, "Self, is she seriously complaining about getting too much play from men?! Is this girl really that ungrateful?" My answer to your inquiry is yes. Yes, I'm freaking complaining about this. It's ridiculous! Do you know how difficult it is for me to keep track of my life being a crazy, single, chubby-little-meatball of a girl? Ok, now imagine me getting attention from 8 different guys at the same time. My brain goes into overload mode and I can't keep anything straight. My thoughts become more scattered than ever. I hyperventilate, perspire, breakout into hives, run a fever... it's god-awful, I tell ya! The worst of it is... I honestly don't get it. Weeks prior to this new found popularity, I could have streaked nude across America and not even a 90 year old pervert would give me the time of day if I asked him for it. Then, all of the sudden, every male within a 15 foot radius feels a compulsion to either ask for my number, shoot me an awful line that makes me want to sock him between the eyes, or start humping my leg. (Canines seem to be in on this conspiracy as well.)

All I want is one guy. Simple. Not too much to ask for. Just a genuinely nice, decent looking chap who thinks I'm funny and cute and can recite lines from old Adam Sandler movies with me and who will buy me mint chocolate chip ice cream after I've had a bad day. That's it. That's all I want... nothing more, nothing less.

God help me in my quest for romance. I don't want to become a nun and I don't want to become a Mormon... but both options are starting to seem very viable at this point.

My Popsicle

Fact: My father is physically the strongest person around town. The basement of my family's home is quaint and cozy, with it's decor consisting of power racks and leg presses. He is a conservative, catholic, down-home country boy. His blue-collared, hard working attitude has been ingrained into his biology since his youth. Anything my Dad ever wanted, he had to work hard for until he got it. For him, nothing came for free and nothing was ever handed to him. In his world, you only need the bare necessities; he sees no point in frilly, frivolous things, unless you can use them while stranded in the wilderness, to skin your dinner. He has a firm grip on reality and never finds himself distracted by preposterous daydreams or nonsensical fantasies.

So... you have to empathize with a man like that, who wound up with not only a daughter, (We all know that men don't go into fatherhood hoping for a girl), but a daughter like me. A man who found pleasure in throwing metal plates around with his buddies, started attending tea-parties and memorizing songs from Mary Poppins, when I came about. (Let's be real, I gave him no other choice.) 

Talk about stepping out of your comfort zone, no man who places 1st in a power-lifting competition should ever be forced to play with Barbies. As painful and awkward as it probably was for him, he was and always has been a great sport in my life of goofy theatrics and silliness, supporting me in whatever I've wanted to do, since day one.

One of the things that I love most about my dear ol' dad is that he admits that he isn't the Superman that as a little girl I once thought he was, but you better believe he's trying. It seems like nowadays, most people become complacent in their lives once they acquire everything they think they need. A car, a house, some kids, a spouse and it's a done deal for most folks. But my dad wants to be better than all that. Don't get me wrong, my father is grateful for everything he has and loves his family with all of his heart, but on a personal level, he is constantly trying to learn new things. Most importantly, he wants to make a positive impact on the world, he wants to help others, he wants to know he's made a difference. He genuinely tries to be not only a good, but a great person. I guarantee that the man he is today is better than the guy he was yesterday. And the man he'll become tomorrow will be the best version yet.

Like most children and parents, more times than not, we struggle to understand each other. However, each moment I spend with my father, I learn something new about myself. And for that, I owe him everything.

And he loves me for the Crazy McCrayCray that I am. 

The other day I had a really weird dream. I went to my dad and said that I had a dream in which he and I went to go get smoothies from a new smoothie shop. The smoothie shop was "supposedly" the best in the world. When we got there, I received notification their secret ingredient was dog urine and then disgustedly declined the drink. 

After I disclosed this BEYOND ODD dream to my dad, he first looked completely grossed out, as if he might hurl, but then gathered his composure and laughed with me. What a guy! He still loved me after he discovered I am a raging lunatic, even while I'm unconscious.

Thanks pops. You rock.

"Good, better, best. Never let it rest. Until your good is better and your better is best."

- St. Jerome

Don't call me crazy, call me Jennifer.

When I was a kid, there were only a few things that I desperately longed for, with all of my being. Every night before I went to sleep, I would go to my window, look up at the stars and request small favors from the heavens above. One of them was my little sister, and shortly after that wish was granted, (and her teeth started emerging from her gums), I began begging the stars to allow me to exchange her for a cocker spaniel.

Something else that I would have given anything to acquire was the name "Jennifer". I remember being about 6 years old and meeting one of my dad's student assistants who worked in his office (named Jennifer). For some reason, the way this young girl carried herself really impressed me. I took careful mental notes on the girl's "swagger"... the way her sweatshirt was tied so fashionably around her waist, how her hair scrunchie doubled as a bracelet around her wrist, and the way she knew all the lyrics to the Ace of Base song "Don't Turn Around". She was so cool, so confident, so college, and I wanted to grow up to be just like her. So, after this informal introduction between I, a 6 year old with an over-active imagination and Jennifer, a Candace Cameron look-a-like, 

I became convinced that my birth-name, Nicole, just wouldn't do from that point forward. I was a Jennifer, and by-golly I was gonna become a Jennifer, if it was the last thing I did on this earth.

Needless to say, this didn't exactly fly with my parents, and it will do your tender hearts good to know that I am still a Nicole, and have no plans on legally changing that anytime soon.

It's funny when you reflect back on your life, and remember the plans you initially made for your future.

When I was in grade school, I was convinced that I'd be driving around a brand-spankin' new red mustang at the age of 16. Actually, as my luck would have it, I did end up driving a Ford; an old Ford Truck with a two-toned paint job and no air-conditioning. Man, I was hot stuff, cruisin' around in that sucker, as I'm sure you can just imagine.

In high school, I envisioned myself meeting a Ken-Doll-All-American type of guy as soon as I started college, falling madly and deeply in love with him after he wooed me with his Jane Austen-esque romantic tactics. I would then graduate at the top of my class in nursing, get married by 22, have kids popping out by 24, own a white-picket fenced house in the suburbs, and my biggest stressor in life would be racing to soccer practice in my mini-van with the smell of fresh happy meals consuming my senses. 

I was so sure of this fool proof plan.

Then, I discovered that drinking beer is more fun than studying, and boys are morons who think Jane Austen is a news reporter on one of the local television stations.

Things don't always turn out the way you dream when you're a kid. And that can really throw a wrench in your life-plans. Recently, a large majority of my friends began graduating from college, getting engaged and married, purchasing large ticket items, and I found myself right back at square one.

I am not where I had once envisioned that I would be at this point in my life, and about a year ago, this harsh reality check smacked me in the face and left a mark. I was depressed, distraught, and disappointed in myself.

Fortunately, I had an important epiphany, which actually happens to me more often than you'd think.

I'm not Jennifer. I am Nicole.

Large amounts of money, diamond rings, beautiful, famous acquaintances are not things that will ever bring me joy or happiness.

I've always felt that once you find comfort in being yourself, everything else will fall into place. My problem was, a small part of me still wanted to be Jennifer, because Jennifer was who society told me I needed to become.

Well here's what I have to say to society...

My life is my life; it's not anyone else's. I'm gonna go through the things that I need to go through, in order to get to where I need to be. People might not understand why I do things unconventionally, or differently from them, but that doesn't matter. They have their life to live their way and I have mine. I'm going to get through the tough times, no matter how hard I have to struggle, and I'm going to embrace the good times with every ounce of appreciation in my being.

I'm eternally grateful for the life I've been given, for the people in it, and for all of the wonderful experiences and memories I've acquired along the way. I'm equally as excited to embark upon the rest of my journey and what's yet to come.

And hey, now I actually love the name Nicole.

The Awkward List

There is nothing I hate more than awkward moments in life. So, my goal, (which I hope to accomplish via this post) is to decrease the amount of unnecessary uncomfortable life situations. My plan? Create a list of things that force thoughts of projectile regurgitation into my brain and hope that the idea of me vomiting from socially awkward scenarios will gross you guys out enough, that if you're the people causing these things to happen, you'll cut that crap out.

1. Conversations on elevators - I've literally never had a pleasant conversation with a person on an elevator, whether they were one of my best friends or a total stranger off the street. Think about it! Elevators are uncomfortable in the first place. They are normally small, not very well ventilated (which leads to unfamiliar and often times unpleasant smells), they either move too fast and make your stomach flip inside of you in 9 different directions, or move too slow and make you worry that your last thoughts in life are going to be a questioning of what in God's name the smell in the creepy elevator is from. So, in this already horrible situation, please do not try to make small talk with the person next to you. Use this time to pray for your own safe arrival to your destination, and do not add any more anxiety to the other parsons stuck inside these wire-driven death traps with you. Sure... you may think that a friendly "Hi, how ya doin?" never hurt anybody, but the next thing you know you're discussing why you think your athlete's foot has been flaring up lately and how your fiance just ran off with a midget clown from a traveling circus. No conversations on elevators. Please, just smile, nod, and be on your merry way.
2. Sighing/Grunting in public restrooms - Seriously people! Seriously! Not only is this extremely disgusting, but it also makes for hard decisions in the minds of the rest of the people using the John. Should we giggle? Do we grimace? Do we get the hell out of there before we die? I guess I sort of understand the sighing. There have been times that I have had to hold it on road trips and my instincts tell me to let out a sigh of relief the moment I get to wiz... but never do I ever follow my gut when it tells me to do this! Never let your mouth produce any noise of any kind in a public restroom. NO EXCUSES! 
3. Pausing/Stopping a song while someone is singing along - This is really directed towards my close group of girlfriends who think my voice is anything less than comparable to Whitney Houston's or Celine Dion's. But, I'm sure there's others out there like me. Hey man, it feels good to let loose and belt out a ballad every once in awhile! It does not feel good to be publicly humiliated when your friends hear you singing the bridge to "My Heart Will Go On" in the key of Kermit The Frog. That's just down-right cruel. Please have mercy and let the songs play.
4. The Sneeze Fart - This is also known as a pressure fart. We've all done it. We've all heard other people do it. There's really no way to avoid it. Actually, sneezing is a part of life that has many components involved which we have absolutely no control over. You can't control when you sneeze, (I think the "Say Banana" trick is a hoax), you can't keep your eyes open when you sneeze (very dangerous to drive and have a bad cold, folks), and if your body wants to let out a sneeze fart, then you're going to let out a sneeze fart. So, all I can say to those involved is... play dumb. There's really no other solution to this socially awkward moment. Turn the cheek and have pity on people who sneeze fart, because one day that person is going to be you.
5. Insert Foot in Mouth Moments - Personally, this normally happens to me when I've had one too many glasses of wine and I'm around people who I don't really know too well. The funny thing about these moments is that you can actually hear yourself sounding like a complete and total ass, but there's no stopping it once it's started. Family secrets are shared, creepy urges are unveiled, and both parties involved in the conversation feel more awkwardness in their pinky toes than a single person should ever have to feel in their lifetime. So, the fix to this problem is to always have a reliable DD around. A Designated Deflector, as I like to call them... is someone who is willing to deflect the attention away from you when you start sounding like an incompetent imbecile. 

Ok children, what have we learned today?! We have learned that I am very, very, very socially awkward. And if you were all my REAL friends, you would help a sister out and forgive my strange habits.

Great, so glad we got that out in the open.

"What's P.M.M.?", you ask...

Well, my dear readers, P.M.M. is a little acronym that I have concocted in my little pea-brain to help men understand why women are  clinically insane slightly mental the week before Aunt Flo comes to visit.

Males, I'm sorry, I know this subject matter makes most, if not all of you, want to blow chunks. However, unless you are deciding to live on a secluded island with Gilligan, and kill off Ginger, Mary Ann, and the rich guy's wife (Why does no one knows her name?) then you're going to need some education on matters of menstruation. I promise, I will not get graphic... well, unless I start exaggerating... and there's a pretty good chance that will happen. Anyways, please continue to read until you feel cold sweats overtaking your body, at which point, you should step away from this blog, and go find a cool compress.

P.M.M. stands for Pre Menstrual Madness.

To call what happens to us women, a syndrome, is a little insulting, in my opinion. Only because the word "syndrome" makes most men feel that we can take some kind of magic pill, and our symptoms will disappear. I will reference the popular television sit-com, Everybody Loves Raymond...

Now, don't you men think that if a tiny caplet would solve all of our monthly feminine needs, that the creator of this medicine would have been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize?! To my knowledge, this pill has not been successfully developed at this point in time.

Let's start at the beginning. Most of the time when girls get their first monthly visit, they are scared, nervous, and embarrassed, among many other emotions that can be very confusing to a pre-teen. I, on the other hand, had an out of the ordinary experience when that day came. I remember the day quite vividly. My family's washer had been broken, so my mother and I were preparing laundry to take to the laundry mat. My mother ordered me to use the restroom, as all mothers do before taking their children on almost any trip that may last for longer than a half of an hour. When I went to pee and discovered my new "development", I screamed at the top of my lungs. Now, for those of you who know me, you know that if I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, folks who live clear on the other side of town are wondering what the fuss is all about. My mom yelled up the stairs and asked why I was screaming. To her surprise, I burst out of the bathroom, grinning from ear to ear. I strut my stuff down our wooden staircase, slid down the banister, jumped about 4 feet into the air and landed by our front door, like I was Mary Catherine Gallagher. 

I exclaimed, "I'M A WOMAN! YIPEE!" And then pranced around the rest of the day, proud of the sanitary napkin I had stuck to the inside of my panties.

Oh, how naive young girls can be.

That was before PMS made my average size boobs feel like they look like this...

And before my back felt like I had been sleeping in a medieval torture device for the past 23 years...

And before my perfectly healthy ovaries felt like a sledge hammer had smashed them to smithereens...

(Don't worry fellas, those are prunes, not real ovaries. But I'm not joking... imagine an organ in your body that feels the way prunes look. Now, do you understand cramps?)

What I would do to go back to the days when I boasted about my period...

Regardless, even through all the trials and tribulations of woman-hood... I'm proud to be a woman. I am not ashamed of my curves, even when I sometimes bruise myself on tables and countertops because I'm not used to the size of my childbearing hips. I like that I get emotionally attached to people and feel the need to nurture those around me. I love wearing heels, even though they make me want to amputate my feet the morning after I wear them.

I remember being in a class during high school and overhearing a conversation between a guy and a girl. The guy was a very light-hearted, fun-loving, happy-go-lucky person and I liked him a lot. The girl had a dark sense of humor, chains hanging from her belt loops, and 3 inches of black eyeliner caked across both eyelids. Needless to say, I never really related to her, with the exception of that afternoon. The boy, noticing she was in a fouler mood than most other days asked her what was the matter. She simply replied, "Well, if you really need to know, I'm bleeding to death." and turned right back around. That was literally the most eloquent and profound statement I have ever heard, in my entire life, hands down.

So, in lieu of her, I am still going to declare that I love being a female, periods and all, and I don't apologize for my bitchy-ness... especially not during the weeks I'm convinced that I'm bleeding to death.

Dear Lazy Shoppers of America

If nothing else, this post will be short and informative. Hope that keeps the majority of you tuned in.

Today, I was running a few errands; you know, shopping for a couple of items that I was in dire need of... i.e. a replacement for the 3rd camera I've managed to break and a replacement for the sunglasses that Lake Erie ate during a vacation trip with my closest girl friends. (Bud Light and Inflatable rafts may or may not have been involved with both incidents, but that is besides the point.) 

Anyways, I was pulling into the store's parking lot, searching for a spot that came directly after the designated handicapped parking areas (because clearly a 23 year old female in the prime of her life, can't risk breaking a sweat from trotting across a blazing-hot, pavemented, hell on earth. Especially when this girl is single. I mean, come on... smelling of body odor in a classy boutique like, I don't know, Wal-Mart, where male models are notoriously lurking, would be entirely too chancy.)

...

So, I'm trying to find prime parking. Most days, this conquest is a failed attempt, and I end up transforming into my alter ego, a white trash ingrid, stereotyping any not-like-me person into the category of horrible drivers and screaming profane words (windows up) insulting the way in which their parents conceived them. **REMINDER** This is my alter-ego... an energy formed from inexplicable anger which I can't control or harness. It's a Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde type of deal, ya dig? We've all got them. Don't judge.

However, today, there was no need for Bobby Bill Thorton (that's the alter-ego's name) to come out... because ALAS! A spot was wide open and waiting... no, no, BECKONING... for me to pull on in. 

And so I did! And so it was good.


... until... DUN DUN DUN!

As I began to proceed, the lady parked in the spot in front of me was finishing up unloading her cart into her Lexus. Now, this lady looked as if she had just finished her daily 5k, sporting the tightest of Spandexed running gear, with a half eaten banana in her right hand and a Nalgene bottle full of high quality H20 in her left. At her age (which was probably twice my senior) she looked to be in impeccable health.

I waited to let this fit little woman finish up her unloading and return her cart to the Cart Corral. I looked down to turn the radio station, and as my eyes moved back up to my windshield, I noticed that this exercise-crazed woman was steadying/parking the cart, directly behind her car, to make sure there was no chance it would hit mine, after I parked.

She then got in her car, put it in drive, and sped off.

Now, if this lady weighed in close to 400 pounds, I would have no need for this post, because I would have let that one slide for her. Hell, if she'd weighed 200 pounds I'd even probably give her the benefit of the doubt!

But you cannot tell me, that this 100 pound woman, who probably trained with Lance Armstrong in her hey-day, could not walk a measely 25 feet to return her cart to it's rightful home! Ya just can't, damnit!

Oh, perhaps I'm forgetting to recollect that she obviously had superhuman powers, beyond this world, to stop the wind from blowing so that my car would not get scratched, dinged, or impaled by the wild steal-netted beast on wheels for the duration of my shopping experience. Gee, can't believe I didn't remember that minor detail.

My point is, for the love of God people, PLEASE RETURN YOUR CARTS TO THEIR PROPERLY LABELED DESIGNATED LOCATION! YOU'RE MAKING ME CRAZY!

That is all. Good day.

I might as well just come out and say it.

*DISCLOSURE*

This post will consist of random sporadic thoughts that have entered, lingered, and perhaps escaped my mind within the past week or so. If you're only interested in reading scientifically proven factual information, well... sucks to be you right now, because what you're about to read is strictly my not-so-humble opinion on matters in life.

• Women who try to impress men by pretending to be more knowledgeable than they actually are annoy me.
• Men who try to get out of things that women ask of them by pretending to be complete and total morons are equally as irritating.
• I love when people start to sing a song around an "audience", get a little too cocky, and forget the words. Hys-terical, I tell ya!
• People who cannot sing, should not sing. Seriously.
• I should learn to take my own advice. Seriously.
• For most of my life, I have stereotyped older males who make semi-inappropriate comments to teenage girls and young women as "creepers". Fortunately, I actually got a chance to prove my own theory incorrect. I won't go into any details, since I've already been mortified enough... but I will let you know that I discovered females can also be quite creepy. And for the remainder of my adult life, I vow to never again attempt hitting on a dude. Mortified may be an understatement.
• My sister and I recently started watching old episodes of "Friends". It may have taken her about  5 minutes into one episode to divulge how strongly she felt my personality mirrored Phoebe's. Awesome. And I thought I went through my life living like Rachel. But nooooo, I gotta be a big weirdo. Great.
• I need to figure out whether I'd rather portray myself as a mature woman or an immature girl. Not that I have a choice in the matter, but laughing uncontrollably when a lady in the next stall accidentally farts as she simultaneously sighs while taking a leak, and then going home to lecture my sister about leaving dirty socks on our bathroom floor is starting to feel like a serious conflict of interest.
• People who talk just to fill in silence get on my nerves about as much as phony intelligent women and lazy stupid men. So... there. Take that. If you don't have anything to say, don't say anything.
• I have absolutely no game when it comes to dating. Zero, zilch, nada, not happenin'. And I hate cats. So, I basically have nothing to look forward to in my future, since I'm destined to be a lonely, old, cat-less, hag.
• However, if Wendy's still makes Wild Berry Sweet Teas when I'm 78 years old, I think I'll be in pretty good shape.
• Also, I may have a chance with gentlemen, seeing as I know girls who are in their mid twenties, still pick their nose, and somehow maintain decently normal relationships. Listen up fella's! This girl's index finger hasn't come near a nostril in over 17 years! Sexy? ... I'm leaning towards yes.
• Men need to learn how to drive like normal people, not like Jeff Gordon.
• Women need to learn how to park like men, not 5 year old kids who can't reach the pedals or see over the steering wheel. 
• I need to start seeing a therapist on a regular basis.
• Actually, that's what you're here for... thanks for saving me the cash, peeps.

Look out fellas, this one's messy and hot.

Hey guys. It's summertime! Woo!

So... 

Ever since MTV shows like "The Jersey Shore" and "16 and Pregnant" have become all the rage among the youth of America (Wow, I sound old), I've taken note that the phrase "hot mess" has been thrown around a little more loosely in regards to females who don't quite have their life-shitake mushrooms together.

However, please refrain from being fooled by the fakes. For I, Nicole... Miss Goober Daisy, am here today to attest that I am a true and patented 

Hot. Little. Mess.

Alright so, for starters... I'm hot.

Literally. 

Most females out there would rather be warm than cold. I remember in high school, all the girls would complain in early spring when the boys would walk into a classroom and open up all the windows to get a cool breeze going. (You didn't know? The first day after the snow has completely melted off the ground calls for a pool party in the minds of teenage boys! Duh dudes.) 

Mind you, I attended a private catholic high school, where the school uniform for girls consisted of collared dress shirts, jumpers, and knee high socks.

 (for those of you who don't know what a jumper is... here's a visual aid)

(I got that picture from ModestApparelUSA.com

... Yea, yea, laugh it up. But you best believe I rocked that polyester.)

Anyways, the girls wouldn't be able to focus in class because the only thing they could think about was how to get the school nurse to write an early dismissal permission slip for frostbite. The boys however, would be loosening up their ties with their perspiring, hormone-driven heads hanging out the windows.

This differentiating temperature sensory characteristic only strengthens with age. To this very day, in the end of June during the midst of global warming, you can still walk into my parents living room and find my mother buried beneath 3 goose down blankets and my father with a turbo-charged fan blasting on it's highest setting, pointed directly towards his face.

Now, people have always told me that I favor my fathers characteristics, and this stands true for the temperature factor as well. I think that shadey trees are one of the greatest ideas that God ever came up with. And don't tell my girl friends, but when the boys would crack the windows in early March, I would think to myself, "God bless their hearts." 

Hey! Don't judge me! Have you ever worn a polyester jumper? Yea, I didn't think so. 

Try it out sometime, see how cool you stay.

Alright, so we've established that I'm hot. Moving on...

Secondly, I'm little. 

I'm 5 foot and 3 quarters of an inch tall.

Ok, point numero dos was almost too easy to make.

Now, my avid readers (Hi Mom!) have all probably gotten a strong sense that I'm somewhat messy and my mind is a bit chaotic. This is a characteristic that I fully accept, although I prefer the word "scatterbrained", which I sometimes stretch out a little further and lump together with "eclectic"... but hey, it's all to-may-toes, to-mah-toes, really.

Yes, I am messy. But, let's get one thing straight. It's not that I don't know how to clean, I never cried over spilt milk, I got busy and cleaned it up. I just prefer mess. Ok, maybe "prefer" is the wrong word, because if my mom marched up to my room and cleaned it as I blissfully napped in bed whilst she made my said bed, I would the last person to complain about it.

I can live in clutter. Yessss, that's what I'm trying to say! Whew.

Because I do gag whenever I see mold growing on old bread... so you know you won't find that under my bed. I'm not that disgusting. Geez, give me some credit people.

But, if I have three dirty bras laying on my bedroom floor and my bed is left unmade for multiple days, I'm not gonna throw myself in a state of panic. More than likely, what I will do, is fling another bra across the room at the end of the day and continue sleeping in wrinkly covers. Stuff like that is not worth putting my precious nerves and peaceful mindset in a tizzy over.

For all you neurotic neat freaks who are now imagining me looking like this...

I'm gonna tell you what I tell all my guy friends who still say "That's what she said." after every statement anyone ever makes and follow it with incessant and unnecessary laughter. I'm gonna tell you to get your mind out of the gutter! Because I don't live in one!

It's just that I am a normal girl. 

My personal space gets cluttered every once in awhile (Well, more like every few days, but who's keeping track, really?). I am forgetful. I can't cook to save my life.  I'm impulsive. Sometimes I don't have a speech filter. (And by some, I mean, all times, naturally.) I occasionally eat ice cream for breakfast. I have procrastinated on nearly, if not every important assignment I have ever had in school.

Moral of the story is, I don't do things the way I should. 

I do try, but my own dad will be the first person to tell you, I hate listening to good advice. I'm unconventional. I just do things my own way, I always have and I always will. It's a huge part of me as a person.

And that's ok with me, because when things get "messed" up in my life, I just learn to clean them up, just like I clean my messy room, and prepare for the next pig sty that I will surely end up making in the near future.

On Originality...

Ever since I was a wee baby tot,

I've felt like a square peg trying to squeeze myself into a round hole. Although conformity drives me absolutely bonkers, I feel myself succumbing to it daily. 

The thing is, we all do.

How many times do you first hear a new song and absolutely hate it, but then it gets played a few thousand times on the radio and the next thing you know, it's blaring from your phone anytime your best friend gives you a ring?

Take Vera Bradley handbags for instance... when I first noticed them becoming popular for girls to carry, I laughed and poked fun, because they reminded me of old ladies who hold each other up as they walk into church on Sunday mornings. I knew girls who brought them to frat parties to carry their beer in.

5 years later, I now own 5 Vera Bradley bags.

I think it's human nature to be drawn to things that other people are drawn to, no matter how ridiculous those things may be. Unfortunately, we live in a society that throws paper bags on famous people's bodies, then plasters pictures of it on the front of Vogue Magazine, and the next week, sure enough, brown paper bags are selling at your local grocery store for 20 bucks a pop.

This is the kind of thing that keeps me from getting sleep at night. Obviously, I have my priorities straight.

I suppose the underlying issue I have has more to do with people who live life un-originally. By this I mean, those people who only do things or act a certain way only because it's "in-style" to do so. Some of these people may be having an identity crisis, which is ok because for goodness sake, I have photographic proof that I've been there too...

However, at some point, you have to snap out of it and figure your life out.

We need a society with more people who are genuine. Being genuine doesn't mean that you're a modern day Mother Theresa, never have bad days, never wish life was easier, never think a negative thought about another person. Being genuine means that you know exactly the kind of person you are and you know what you stand for. And the people around you are aware of these things as well. Under whatever circumstances you are going through, your life's truths should remain constant. When you are genuine, you deny the temptations that make you stray for the morals that you live by. You know what's important in your life, and you steer clear from the things that pull you away from that. 

Now, if you plan on attempting to make a change in your life, to become more genuine, some of the people in your life are going to look at you like you're crazy. And there's no need to wonder because I'm telling you right now,  they'll be thinking it too. They also might begin to hate you. But hey, let 'em hate. In my opinion, if that happens... you're doing something right.

I know that I can be phony sometimes, so one of my main goals for this summer is to become a more genuine person. I'm going to smile at people and mean it, be happy for the people around me when they find happiness, cry when I empathetically feel someone else's pain, laugh when something is seriously beyond funny, and let other people know what's on my mind when they piss me off. I'm going to do all of these things, even if there is not another person around me who is doing so.

Because the thing is, when you live a genuine lifestyle, you live without regrets. And there's nobody who's living on this Earth that doesn't want that.

Why Crazy Women Exist.

First, please watch this youtube video:

Alright, so clearly Miranda Lambert is a little bit hotter to guys than most crazy girls out there, but if you're looking for reasoning behind the multitudes of insane females across the globe, her music video illustrates my theory perfectly.

Men. Make. Women. Crazy.

Now, logically speaking, men aren't always to blame. Not every man out there is a cheating, filthy, piece of you know what, and women aren't innocent either. However, coming from a woman's standpoint, I can tell you that one bad apple always ruins the bunch. Get screwed over by a guy once in your life, and that's all it takes to make a cynical lunatic out of you for the rest of it. Now, you may be able to maintain a relationship with a dude and things will be puppies and butterflies for a while, but you'll have crazy tendencies that will lead to him either, leaving you for the psycho you've masked so well up to this point, or your paranoia will drive him to yet another act of unsportsmanlike conduct that will leave you one more scar on your already tainted heart. Sad, huh?!

Nevertheless, I believe the main reason why women go crazy over guys is because they don't know when it's not crazy to be crazy; they don't know which male behaviors are ok to get in a tizzy over and which ones make you look like a looney, if you get upset about them.

So, I've decided to compile a list of hypothetical scenarios that call for acts of insanity and ones that most certainly do not. I'll even color coordinate it for you!

• If you have a man, who is notorious for cheating, pushing limits, taking risks, or blowing entire paychecks at strip-clubs- I say it's ok for you to go through his phone.
• If you have a man who volunteers at an animal shelter, helps elderly women cross the street, gives his McDonald's to the homeless bum who sits outside in December- it's not ok to call his most recently dialed number which is labeled "Grandma" on a mission to cuss out whoever picks up because you have an inkling that he's cheating.
• If you've been dating a guy for 7 years, and he doesn't respond to your texts or call you at the end of the night, when he's out with the boys- you have reason to give him the silent treatment.
• If you've been dating a guy for 7 hours and he doesn't respond to your text which read "Hey Baby Boo Bear!!!! :) :) :) :)" after 20 minutes- you might have more than just a problem with texting. But then again if you're texting a guy phrases like that then you probably aren't very good at giving the silent treatment either. So, I guess we don't really need to worry about that.
• If your guy spends more time at work than at home and tells you he had to stay late at the office until 3 am because of a meeting...  and he works at Starbucks- it's ok for you to follow him in your car during his next shift.
• If you are dating this guy

and you suspect he's "at work" and up to no good- get over it. Because if you're dating Justin Timberlake, I don't really think you should be taking relationship advice from a girl like me... you seem to be doing alright on your own.

Now boys, don't think you're getting off the hook that easy.

If you wish for more normal girls to exist, be a good guy. Don't cheat, don't lie, don't be shady. Otherwise, you'll wind up in an awful situation with an ugly crazy stalker chick, who as a good friend once told me, has pancake boobs. And nobody likes pancake boobs. 

See Exhibit B(About the girl, not the boobs.):

Care for some rabbit stew, gentlemen?

I like old people.

Wrinkles, funny smells, war stories, shameless opinions... what's not to like?!

I find that when you discuss the subject of elderly folks with people my age, you come across two differing standpoints. Those who are lovers and those who are haters.

I've got a lot of friends who can't stand old people; they get depressed by just looking at them. And I can see why. Aches and pains, added dietary fiber, walkers, wheelchairs, cataracts, Depends, bi-focals- none of those words have very appealing connotations.

However, for some unbeknownst reason... old people make me laugh. Like to the point that I need to take anti-inflammatory meds from the ab-workout their jokes give me. It's like they've absorbed the humor of all the comedians from the beginning of time, and with one little wink, after an under-their-breath side remark, they have me rolling on the floor, cracking up for hours on end.

Old people are funny, because they know they are funny. Just listen to an old person tell a joke. They never laugh at themselves, even though they are very obviously kidding. It's all about the punch-line, followed by the serious, un-effected, "Hey, what's-so-funny?" face.

Hell, I visited an older gentlemen in a nursing home once, and he flat out asked me if he could give me a kiss... said that I was just his type of woman. He was about 90 years old and I was probably 20. It made me laugh so hard, I almost had to excuse myself to use the restroom. And he got a kick out of the fact that I got a kick out of him. But, I could tell that he still wanted to kiss me, because when he looked in the mirror at himself, the fella he saw was a strapping, young guy who looked like this...

But from my perspective, he looked like this...

So, although, I didn't let his denture-less smacking gums come anywhere near my lips, that old guy actually made me blush. I mean, at one point or another in his life, he resembled James Dean (hot.), and he was probably the biggest ladies man around during his heyday, so I had to respect him for that.

Ya see, in his day, he didn't tell girls they were fine or hot; he told them they were stunning. And women didn't dress like sleaze-balls to attract men; they allured guys by the sexy way in which they carried themselves. Hence, fewer divorces back then. Because relationships were built on personable compatibility, not on lust. Crazy concept, I know.

The amount of knowledge that people accumulate over a lifetime, is also the main reason why I can't get enough of elderly people. They are so smart and cultured, yet most of them have never stepped foot inside a college. I think I could sit and listen to old people tell stories for days upon days without getting bored.  It's almost like you're in the middle of the best book you've ever read when they recall their memories; remembering everything in such vivid detail, as if it happened to them the previous week, not 57 years prior. 

And they never sugar coat ANYTHING. The raw bluntness that elderly people use in conversation is a trait that I both desire and envy. I can't wait to tell it like it is. You think my blog's good now? Wait until I'm 70.

Yes, sometimes they are senile. Literally whacked-out-of-their-minds crazy. But that's ok. I don't pity people who are insane from  old age. Because if you talk to them for long enough, you sense that they still got it... even if "it" is just a memory. The day their son hit a home-run for the first time in little league, or the moment they first knew they wanted to marry their spouse, or the night they snuck out and drank their first beer with their best friend. Most of the time, old people still have something they hold dear to them, which is, to me, what makes them human... relatable... just like me. When you stop to think about it, the ability to keep a memory so fresh in their mind, palpable enough that they can laugh or cry when they recall it, is such a wonderfully beautiful thing. Even if everything else sitting in their brain is complete mush.

So, don't feel bad for old people. They've lived, loved, made mistakes, and experienced the world in more ways than you can imagine. Ask them about it. And if you're one of those people who feels uncomfortable talking to elderly folks, close your eyes and picture them as James Dean... in his underwear. That may or may not help you.

To Bleach or Not To Bleach...

I recently colored my hair a very light brown with very, very light blonde highlights. For those of you who don't know me, I was born with deep, rich brunette hair, so this was a very drastic change.

The reasoning behind the change? Well, mostly boredom I suppose, however... I've always been secretly jealous of the attention that blondes receive from both men and women, alike. So as I was debating on what I wanted to do with my hair before my hair appointment, I thought, hell... why not? I mean, if you're gonna do something, do it all the way... right?

Before I go any further, please note that I am also using this as a scientific experiment. I want to know if I really will have more fun as a blonde. For those of you who do know me, you know I am no stranger to a good time... so we'll see if this increases or decreases the intensity of potential amusement.

Alright, now... I have bigger fish to fry.

I used to date a guy who adamantly defended his theory that women who wear make-up, or take their time getting ready, or actually brush their hair in the morning, are vain, unconfident people and that women possessing this personality characteristic are irreversibly unattractive. He thought that women should be confident enough in their natural beauty to just shower and go... no matter where their destination was, no matter who they were going to see, no matter what their circumstance at the time was. If a woman could do that, then she would be completely flawless in his eyes, no matter what her physical appearance looked like.

This "theory" used to really piss me off. And just so you know,  I no longer speak to that moron. (Imagine my face smirking.)


Ok, now hold your breath...

I'm proud to say that I love wearing make-up. I use a curling iron on my hair almost every morning. And I've been known to try on multiple outfits before I go out at night with my friends. Let the gasping commence.

I am one of the most outgoing people around town. I can say I have a good amount of confidence and there are days that I roll out of bed, throw my hair in a pony tail and stroll into work with no make up on my face. However, if I decide to take my time getting ready, it's just because I happen to feel like doing so. To me, this is an expression of my creativity. I rarely do my make-up or hair exactly the same way twice and I enjoy experimenting with new looks, styles and colors.

No matter what look I'm going for, whether it be sweats and Chuck Taylor's or a little black dress with stilettos,  I take it and I run with it.

And of course, I want to look nice. I don't want to go out and get completely ignored by guys because I look like a huge slob and my friends are dressed for prom. Trust me, if guys went off personality alone when it came to dating, there would be a lot less crazy, psychotic ex-girlfriends out there, because guys would date normal, average looking girls, instead of beautiful raging lunatics.

But hey, ya can't win 'em all.

So... to all the men out there who long for a woman who rolls out of bed resembling Heidi Klum on one her good days, please start working on losing that beer belly before you set your standards any higher. And heaven forbid that doesn't work out for you, well... enjoy living in your partially furnished bachelor pad when you're 67 years old.

Oh yeah, and not to throw Heidi under the bus or anything, but guess what boys?!... she's a natural brunette.


And last but certainly not least... Happy Birthday Mom! :)

If You Like Piña Coladas...

I'm the kind of person that goes into the room, first figuring out the perfect escape route as I simultaneously make small talk with my mom's best friend's friend's cousin's dog walker, and then I settle in and make myself comfortable. I have a few theories that I use to explain this.

1. Fight or flight. Biological instincts. I'm preparing myself for the worst. Which, in many cases, is having to make small talk with my mom's best friend's cousin's dog walker.
2. Something I did in a past life brings me bad karma and I get stuck in awkward situations that force me to immediately remove myself from.
3. You're reading the blog of the prodigal daughter of James Bond and I'm secretly honing skills for a future career in secret agentry. This is the theory that I find most plausible.

So yea, I'm a gal who chickens out and feels the urge to escape certain situations, rather than dealing with them like an adult. But hey, don't we all get that way sometimes? Life's rough. Gas is almost 5 bucks a galloon. The economy is quickly making it's way down the tubes. Global warming is frying our skin. We have every reason to dream of taking a vacation away from reality.

For me, it all started when I was about 6 years old. My older brother and his friend decided they didn't want me tagging along with them one summer day. Which caused me to burst into tears, feeling unwanted and alone. I ran inside, swinging the front door open, sobbing to my mother that I was running away from home because no one here wanted me around. I was going to pack up my belongings as quickly as possible, walk out the front door and never turn back. In laughter, she tried to tell me as kindly as she could (fighting through chuckling) that I was being irrational (Me? Irrational? Nooooo... not me.) and that she loved me and wanted to keep me around, least for a few more good years. But being the drama queen that I was destined to be, I wouldn't hear a word of it, stuffed as many barbies as I could in a handkercheif, tied it in a knot, and tried to find a stick that I could attach my makeshift luggage to. I envisioned how this entire scene would look to my mean brother and his friend, the one's who drove me to such extremes. I wanted to look as depressing as this...

But they didn't even notice I was gone, they just kept playing cowboys and indians. And since at 6, I knew it was pointless to live a life of poverty if no one would even miss me in the process, I got to the end of the street, turned around, went back inside and said "Ma, I'm back. I'll take a PB&J Sandwich. Lightly toasted."

The next time I can remember myself wanting to relocate was when I was a freshman in high school, and all my best friends made the volleyball team, and I got cut. I still think the team could have benefited from having a 5th setter on their roster, but hey... what do I know?

Then, we have the time that I was going through dramatics with boys in college and started googling schools in South Carolina. I've never been to South Carolina, but I thought that it would be a cool enough place to put on my invitation to my going-away party, the event that I planned on asking every boy who's ever broken my heart to attend. Again, I accept the fact that I was born a drama queen.

And finally, we come to the time when I had enough of winter in Ohio. I self diagnosed myself with Seasonal Depression Disorder and started looking at houses on the internet in Tennessee for me to move into. I even came close to making appointments with realtors. Mind you, I had about 250 bucks in my bank account at the time and maybe 14 bucks in savings. And I thought I was ready to purchase a home.

I never claimed to be the brightest crayon in the box.

Honestly, I'm the kind of person who fantasizes about dropping everything, starting from scratch, giving myself a clean slate. I see myself wearing big sunglasses with a silk scarf wrapped around my head, cruising top down, (I'd have a convertible just for this purpose), blasting "If You Like Piña Coladas" through my speakers and driving until I feel like I'm in a place that I could call home. Living out of my Nissan, with no money, no job lined up... just risking it all and letting destiny do it's job.

Actually, doing this would scare the living crap out of me, and of course I would never do it, without some kind of stability and structure to my plan, but it's nice to have a dream like this to take my mind off of the fact that I am putting $50 into my car, just to get half a tank of gas.

So, here is my dream, here is where I would live, here is the place that I escape to when things are getting hard to handle, and I feel the need to runaway from home...

This brings me to my fourth and final theory for why I always try to escape things. I just want to be able to say that I live in a "bungalow". That word makes me giggle.

Want vs. Need

I'd like to give a great big shout out to Eve right now!  You know her.  Forbidden fruit? Garden of Eden? Satan as a snake? Any of that ringing a bell? No? Well... go to church if that's your thing and if it's not, use the idiot proof website known as Google.

Anyways, I'm shouting out to Eve because she is the dumbest girl to ever live, successfully made women look bad for all eternity, plus she added an annoying relative to our family that we all know as Aunt Flow. Thanks girl, really appreciate your lapse in judgement.

Free will is a funny thing when you sit down and think about it. Because, not only do we get to make every tiny decision in our own lives, but I think it makes a lot of people, myself included, get the definitions of the words "want" and "need" completely mixed up.

So, this blog is really just going to be me, reinforcing elementary school vocabulary into my 22 year old brain, because at this point in my life... the meaning of those two words somehow always finds a way to blur itself in my mind. And if I can help out my fellow readers while attempting this, well hey... GO ME!

Let's begin with the wants. Ahhhh... the things that I want in life. You know how much I love lists...

• I want to be able to eat a car made out chocolate and still maintain Jennifer Aniston's body without lifting a finger.
• I want to have the brain power of Einstein, and never touch another boring textbook. At this rate, it's not lookin' purty people.
• I want to wake up in the morning and feel the urge to burn the piles of large unmarked bills that I want to have just laying around my bedroom.
• I want to be dating Justin Timberlake. And I want to tell people that we're waiting to get engaged until I feel that I've accomplished all the goals I want to achieve in this life, as far as being a single lady goes. All of my independent ladies, you know what I'm talking about!
• I want to open up a magazine, and freak out after seeing a photo of me at the Grammy's that makes my butt look as big as JLo's.

Now, for my Debbie Downer list.

• I need to work out. Like really, I've got the capability to be Fun-Sized, but I'm well on my way to King-Sized if I keep this crap up. Sorry chocolate car of my dreams, but I hope you never become a reality for me... unless you bring me a TLC special about my fast track to obesity, in which case, you're more than welcome to come around and stay awhile.
• I need to be writing two papers. Not blogging. If I were better at realizing the difference between this want and need, then it probably wouldn't take me a decade and a half to graduate. But ehhh, I love you guys too much... I'm gonna give myself this one. I like my 10 year plan anyways, it gives me character.
• I need to start saving my money so that I have some fingernails left by payday. Seriously, if I had a nickel for every nail biting Thursday I've put myself through... well... I wouldn't be biting my nails over money anymore.
• I need to stop going for the dudes who I feel are the closest thing to Justin Timberlake that I'll ever get... aka guys who look nice, but are not. They are very, very, very not nice. But man, are they nice to look at?!
• I need to stop searching for pictures of myself in People Magazine... because that's just weird.

Yes, I know what you're thinking... "Nicole!! You're only young once!". I too have had this satanic thought, and it is thoughts like these which have been my slow demise for the majority of adulthood thus far. Alright, it's not that serious, but it is something that we should all give some serious thought to. I mean, it's ok to give in to a "want" every now and then, but you need to consciously be aware that you may not be making the smartest decision and also be fully prepared for the consequences that are sure to follow and will more than likely come back to bite you in the ass. And when I say you, I of course mean I.

I was going to post this to complain about people who say things like, "Ohmygawd! I need this new Coach bag." or "I have to get the new iPhone!" because we all know folks who do that (if you are one of them, I apologize for complaining about your annoying-ness). When I listen to people speak like that, I get pestered, knowing that their heart won't fall out of their chest if they don't get the things they've convinced themselves they will die without.

However, as I was writing my complaint, I realized I was being quite hypocritical, because I know I say the same exact thing, just not when wishing for material things.

If any of you would like to join me, I've decided to post the definitions of the words "want" and "need" on my bathroom mirror, so that I quit sounding like a complete and total bimbo to the people who actually take the time to listen to the words that spew out of my big fat mouth. 

And I will take them down, once I convince Honda that chocolate is the future of the automobile industry.

Gripes

When I was in the 8th grade, my class went camping for a field trip. Before we departed, one of our teachers who was chaperoning laid down some ground rules for this event. One of her biggest points of emphasis was that there was to be no "griping". I had no idea what this word meant at the time. She elaborated by saying that we needed to make sure we were properly prepared for this trip with bug spray, sunscreen, and warm clothing... because if we weren't and then felt somehow inconvenienced by the great outdoors, her response to our complaints would be, "Sucks to be you.".

The great thing about blogging is that you can write about almost anything your little heart desires. Therefore, her rule doesn't apply here, and I raise her request for no gripes with my own ground rule...  

"You've got to give bitching where bitching is due."

As I got off work the other day, I was shocked to find that the usual cheery blue skies of Ohio, were painted a lovely shade of gray. Speaking of complaining, bad weather is something that Ohioan's can never seem to get used to, (Although every year we encounter this unpredictable weather pattern and vow to relocate to San Francisco as fast as we can pack our things and never look back. Which is also something that never happens.)

Anyway...

As I approached the door to exit, I thought to myself, "Self, why didn't you watch the news this morning? Why don't you watch the news any morning? Why are you always so unprepared and umbrella-less?" and then realizing that there was literally nothing I could do to avoid a sopping wet disaster, I trudged onward, persuading myself that a little rain never hurt anyone.

Enter Gripe, stage left.

Socially, whether you realize it or not, there is a polite way to walk in America. It's the same way we drive. Stay to the right, unless you are making a turn left, in which case, you move to the center lane and wait for the oncoming traffic to pass, thus allowing you a comfortable distance to maneuver and be on your merry way. In a multi-lane scenario, all slower moving vehicles should remain to the right, so that passing traffic may use the "fast-lane" for its intended purpose... which is, passing slow-pokes.

So... why then, do people who are walking with a group of friends, feel the need to take up the entire sidewalk, even though they know there are other pedestrians, either walking towards them, or approaching them from the rear? If you were driving, and saw two friends in two other cars, would you drive together side by side, taking your time so that all other traffic has to wait in annoyance? No. You wouldn't. So why do people walk like that? I would say this statement is directed mostly to females, the species that cannot urinate without a partner(s), but as I was walking on this particular rainy day, 3 guys without umbrellas decided to mosey along in front of me, side by side, as if they were Siamese triplets with magical, water repellent skin... and honestly, I'm pretty sure those don't exist in real life. One of them even turned around as he heard my flip flops sloshing through the puddles behind them, but still kept on walking slowly with the others, like they were purposely trying to lose a 4 legged race. (I don't think those exist either, but you catch my drift.)

Surrrrrre, I could have said, "Eh hemm... excuse me, little girl with no shelter/hooded apparatus trying to pass.", but their discussion on whether it was Taco Bell's Cheesey Gordita Crunch or Chalupa Supreme which had more protein per serving was so intense that I dared not interrupt for fear of losing a limb on account of their starvation. Which, if I might add, was even more reason for them to pick up the pace. Helloooo! If you're so hungry, quit attempting the impossble task of metamorphasizing into a human sloth. In the pouring rain.

Stupid boys. Learn how to walk politely, before I attack you with this frizzy, Medusa-like mane that your un-sexy saunter is creating.

Exit Gripe, stage right.