Oh, grow up.

I'll be the first person to admit that I have the maturity level of a red-headed, freckle-faced, pre-teen boy.

I laugh when people fart. Actually, if I were being completely honest, I'd tell you that I laugh when I fart. I enjoy hiding around corners and screaming "Boo!" at innocent bystanders. If I'm in a bad mood on a rainy day, I just go for a drive in my car and splash people walking on sidewalks to make myself feel better. I feel uncomfortable looking at nude statues, and often catch myself thinking, "Real people don't look like that. Or do they? I'm pretty sure I don't look anything like that naked.", and then I rush home to observe and take mental note of every inch of my oddly-shaped, butt-naked bod, so that the next time I'm at an art museum (or Rome, for that matter), I'll be able to answer my own questions.

The older I get, the more I realize that growing up blows. I don't cry on birthdays yet, but when I think about how every year that I get older, I lose a little bit of that leeway I once had to act childish... well, let's just say the thought doesn't exactly spark up the warmest or the fuzziest feelings in my heart.

I just don't understand the big hoopla that people make over becoming an adult. Because, let's face it, kids just grow up to be less fun and less energetic versions of themselves. Why would anyone want that?!

Look back at the times when you had the most fun... I'll go out on a limb and say that most of them happened when you were a kid or a young adult. The reason for this is that when you're younger, simple things make you happy. Be it a sprinkler that's going off in a neighbors yard that you can't resist running through, or bubbles that you play with until the bottle dries out, or building a massive fortress with blankets that adults only use to keep their old bodies from freezing... children appreciate the miniscule components of life, and that makes them remarkable in my eyes.

I hate when adults believe that children should be seen and not heard. Today, I saw a mother and her son walking around my work. The boy was about 2 or 3 years old, toddling around, talking quite loudly. His mom was preoccupied with whatever she had on her mind, not paying the kid much attention, although you could tell she would pay someone to take him off her hands for 5 minutes so that she could have some peace and quiet. I couldn't help but smirk and giggle as I listened to the little boy, noticing and commentating on the details of everything within his sight. He was ecstatic as he discovered the colors, smells, and textures of things that most adults wouldn't even take a second look at. And all the while, his mom was annoyed that he wouldn't shut up and be quiet. I guess I don't have kids, and I'm sure that 24 hours of constant babbling would get on my nerves as well, but I'm telling you... listening to him made me want to go out and discover new things in this world that I've never seen.

The older you get, the more mature you become. I understand this. But why is maturity our goal? Why do we all seek the one thing that sucks the fun out of everything?

No. I refuse. Yes, I will accept responsibility. I will pay my bills on time and I will go to work everyday until I retire.

But, I'm sorry... I will not stop laughing when people fart.

That's Amore

I have a confession. 

I secretly I wish I was of Italian descent.

And not so that I could behave like this chick and get paid millions of dollars for it...

(Although, that does have a disgusting amount of abnormal appeal to me.)

I want to be Italian so that I can make mistakes like this woman and have everything turn out just fine and dandy by the end of the day...

Yes, this is a picture of Cher. It's from the movie Moonstruck, and to any of my friends who are reading this right now... stop laughing and stop making fun of me. It actually is a good movie, once you get past the part where she tells Nicholas Cage to "leave nothing but the skin over her bones" when they are about to... well... you know.

Basically, Cher's character has the ultimate fail story, and still comes out a winner by the end of the film. Whenever I watch it, I feel so good about myself and where I'm at in my life. And here's why...

• She still lives with her parents. And she's like, I don't know...  at least over the hill. Which is a big fat fail, within itself.
• She is a widow. She got married at City Hall. And shortly after, her husband got hit by a bus and died, before they could have kids. (Insert Charlie Brown teacher saying, "Wah, Wah.")
• She's dating the world's largest mama's boy, who has the exact amount of sex appeal as a porcupine. She doesn't love him, at all... she just likes him. Oh, and she basically has to walk him through how to propose to a woman, and she accepted a pinky ring as her engagement ring from him. Girl, what are you doing?! What are you thinking?!
• So then, he has to fly to Sicily to be with his dying 400 year old, big mouthed mother, and the only thing he asks of her is to go invite his brother to their wedding, since they were not on speaking terms. (Are you still with me? Of course you aren't! Continue reading.)
• She didn't even know the brother existed at this point. 
• So, she goes to the bakery where the brother works to invite him, only to find out he is Nicholas Cage. With a wooden hand. I'm not lying. He has a wooden hand.
• Somehow, she ends up cooking for him, he flips the kitchen table (for no apparent reason at all), and he picks her up, takes her "TO THE BED!!" (that's what he tells her when she asks where he's taking her. He screams it. They are in a room that cannot be larger than the inside of a Volkswagon. There is no need for screaming in a room that small.)
• So, she cheats on her boring fiance with his brother Nicholas Cage who has a wooden hand and I'm pretty sure Tourette's, as well.
• Oh, then she catches her dad cheating on her mom, while she is at the Opera with her now, secret-lover-brother-of-her-fiance-man.
• And the movie basically ends with her fiance and lover coming over and having a meal with her family, where all of their dirty secrets are thrown out onto the kitchen table. And everyone is comfortably ok with all the cheating, scandalous, Italian madness.
• And then they take a family photo together.

So, that's the movie Moonstruck in a nutshell. Actually in a bulleted-form. Like I said, the main appeal of this movie is that it's just a big long series of failures, (Symbolic of, but not resembling, my life.) and yes, it probably does suck, but I like it and this is MY blog and MY life, not your's... so, DEAL WITH IT!

Ok, I did have a point and was planning on going somewhere with this...

I wish I was Italian. Right.

It seems to me that a lot of Italian girls are rash, hot-tempered, outspoken, and just plain outlandish. And then when people judge them for that... they quickly refute people's judgmental responses by saying, "Uh, hello... I'm Italian... that's what we do." Alright, so maybe I've been watching too much Jersey Shore... but it's "reality" TV so, it must be the reality of all Italian girls, right?

And well, from what I've gathered from my Italian friends, being Italian comes with a lot of food, a lot of family, and a lot of yelling. And my life consists of a lot of all three of those things. And at times it can be embarrassing, annoying, and down right unbearable... but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ok, I guess I would have it one other way... I would have it Italian.

Oh, Lent... how you cause my head such ache-age.

Although I know you all will have a very difficult time wrapping your head around this concept... I will now take the time to address said rumors about myself.

Yes, the accusations are true, I do have weaknesses.

And with tomorrow being Fat Tuesday, I've been examining a few of them quite closely, so as to decide what my Lenten promise should be this year.

I have also chosen to humble myself, by sharing these flaws with you and thus undoubtedly causing myself public humiliation until the end of time. Because as you know, I can be rather shy when it comes to disclosing personal and embarrassing information about myself to complete and total strangers. So, I beg of you... please be gentle with your judgements.

I'll begin with
Weakness Numero Uno:

I hold Barney and Ally Hartman accountable for this life-altering addiction of mine, since they were the geniuses who invented the substance that I refer to as "liquid crack".  I've been known to drink as many as 4 cans in one day, and if I don't get a fix before about 1 p.m., you can observe a slight tremor in my right hand and a cranky attitude that completely takes over my usually pleasant demeanor. I am considering giving this product up for Lent, mainly due to the fact that I've heard my family conspiring about some sort of intervention and telling people that my parents disowned me because I couldn't kick citrus soda pop to the curb, really doesn't do much for my "bad-ass" reputation.

Okay.

Exhibit B:

Merriam-Webster defines the word "Chocoholic" as, "A person who craves and compulsively consumes chocolate."... To me, this is an understatement when it is used to describe my lifestyle.

You see, when I see anything chocolate, my face goes from this...

to this...

And in case you are suffering from severe cataracts... this happens to be a very legitimate issue, on more levels than one.


My last vice could quite possibly be the most difficult habit for me to break...
And that's because I'm about 90% sure that I have a tattoo on my back that says, "If you're a jerk, please come flirt with me."

Yes, that's right... for some odd reason, if a guy is a total butt-hole, nature attaches a weird gravitational pull between us and I find it next to impossible to stay away.

Which is why I decided to turn off 20/20 when I saw this guy come on the screen...

For starters... I have a very obsessive and impulsive personality, to go along with bad judgment in men, so if I tuned into this program for longer than about 45 seconds, there was a substantial chance that I would decide to stalk Mr. Sheen. And well, I just can't afford to be charmed by a man who has "Tiger Blood" and refers to me as a goddess, if at one point or another he's going to threaten to chop my head off. Although, at the rate I'm going with guys, I wouldn't be surprised if the thought took me more than a minute to completely dismiss.

So, if you all could please keep me and all of my "weaknesses" in mind while I venture off tonight, to meet a creep at Dairy Queen for a Brownie Earthquake Date, I would truly appreciate it. And don't worry, I'll be sure to wash down my remorse with an ice cold Dewski on the ride home.

Am I really that stupid?

Let me begin by telling you that I have never been a "thin" girl. Yes, I stand at a towering 5 foot and 3/4 inches, but I have to use both my fingers and my toes when I count the amount of guys who have told me that I'm a thick girl, as if they were paying me a compliment. I am small though... I will own up to that, only because my entire life my dad has pounded the saying "Dynamite comes in small packages." into my head. Which is probably the reason behind my urge to completely explode when people walk up to me and say "Wow, you are short."

... Oh really? That's weird, because when I woke up this morning I could have swore I was at least normal people size.

So last weekend, when I took a road trip with a girl friend to support her as she auditioned for "The Biggest Loser" competition, you would think that I was anxiously anticipating that "fish out of water" feeling. 

But, I honestly didn't know what to expect, I never really thought too much about it because I am not the kind of person who only enjoys the company of others if they fit into the popular mold of how a beautiful person should look. I was raised to get to know people and judge them by their character, not their looks. So, going into this situation, I didn't ever consciously think about feeling uncomfortable or out of place.

But my friend had been curiously wondering how the scene of the auditions would look. I felt absolutely awful when I couldn't help but laugh as she revealed that she had only asked me to come and be her moral support because I was small and she envisioned that upon our arrival, we would encounter thousands of overweight people vigorously sprinting, as best they could, to the front of the line. And she figured that I would have a greater advantage, since I'm a little person. She didn't realize that I get winded when I walk up the stairs too quickly.

She was also completely shocked when I began packing us a brown paper bag, full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Cheez-its, and other various goodies before we embarked on our journey. To me, this action of preparation is routine, because in my family, we eat every 2 hours on road trips, or we don't arrive to our destination in whole people pieces.

So as we sat, waiting for her to get called in, it took me no time at all to begin stuffing my face with food from my magical Mary Poppins lunch bag. Suddenly, I began to sweat. And it wasn't because of the rate at which I was devouring the Cheez-its. It was because I could feel thousands of eyes glued to me as I ate. But I ignored this, and the scarfing kept on.

We had been sitting for a good 3 hours when people came around and assigned everyone numbers, telling them the spot in which they would be called in to audition. So we decided to go walk around and explore the casino that the auditions were held in. As we rose from our seats, we looked at each other, knowing that we were thinking the same thought. We had multiple bags, coats, and other crap that we didn't even need and we didn't want to load up and carry it with us as we walked around. However for fear that it would get stolen by the strangers sitting around us, we decided to take everything with us, as we set out on our adventure.

... everything except the bag of food I packed.

Now... need I remind you that we were waiting in line for auditions for "The Biggest Loser" competition?

Hello?! The food should have been the first thing on my mind as I considered whether or not the people surrounding me were trustworthy...

If only I knew how to genetically engineer humans.

I'm bored.
Let's create Nicole's perfect man, shall we?


He must be a skilled craftsman, like this guy...

However, I wouldn't turn him down if he looked like this guy... (I'm talking about the man.)

He would have to have this guy's sense of humor (I guess I'll take his abs too.)...

He would be able to play guitar like this dude...

And his voice would sound like this kid's...

 He'd of course have some dance moves like this fella...

His undying love would match that of this character's...

And his heart would look like this...

Not like this...

But let's get one thing straight... it's me that we're talking about here. If I were to try and build the perfect man, it would be every science geeks worst nightmare gone wrong to the power of 25.

And he would most definitely come out no more beautiful than this...

Because... that's just how skilled I am with Chemistry.