Blame The Angst On *NSYNC

"It's tearing up my heart when I'm with you. But when we are apart, I feel it too."

Call me crazy, but I don't think at the age of 24 I should still be emotionally identifying with these lyrics. As of recently, I have come to a self-awareness that I'm still as angsty and compelled by irrational emotions as I was at 15. Can you imagine a grown, successful woman, sitting in an office cubical, sobbing and blaring "Quit Playing Games With My Heart" by the Backstreet Boys? Honestly, you shouldn't have to. That is an image that NO ONE should ever have to see. However, that woman, may or may not have been me at one point in recent history.

There are many immature habits which I have yet to outgrow. For instance, ordering chicken fingers and fries at any sit-down restaurant, simply by default... (I get nervous when I look at menus.) But this gut-wrenching heartbreak pattern might take the cake and it's undoubtedly my most difficult bad habit to break. 

Just so you have an idea of the self-inflicting pain I speak of, when I was 16 and a boy hurt me, I wanted the world to know what I was going through, so I would sit in my room, blast some cheesey pop music and post an away message on my AOL Instant Messenger that would look a little something like this...

Fortunately, no one uses AOL Instant Messenger anymore. Unfortunately, Facebook has completely replaced our hours spent chatting online with pals. With this new form of socializing readily available on our iMacs, iPhones, and iPads and over 700 "friends" to "share" my personal life with, it takes all of my mental strength not to post lyrics, music videos, and pictures of myself looking adorably lovable on my page, so the world can see how hot I still look after someone has done me wrong.

The problem is subliminal messaging. Yes! I sure do believe in that crap, as firmly as I believe that Miss Cleo was a phenomenal cosmic power in the psychic world!

As a young naive girl, I can guarantee that 90% of my time was spent with headphones on, engraining the wise words of Justin Timberlake, Hanson, Backstreet Boys, O-Town, 98 Degress, etc. into my hormonal, puberty-stricken mind. Have you ever paid attention to the lyrics of these artists? At the time, I swore that these words spoke to my soul. "Baby when you finally get to love somebody, guess what? It's gonna be me." and "Where's the love? It's not enough. It makes the world go 'round." and let's not forget! ... "Am I original? Am I the only one? Am I sexual?" 

I mean honestly, come on guys... "Show me the meaning of being lonely." ?? ... What the heck does that even mean?! I'm thinking it means the skills of song-writers hit rock bottom in the late 90's and all the while, the lyricists of "Stairway To Heaven" and "Hotel California" were rolling over in their graves.

Here's my theory, I struggle with starting relationships, discarding emotional baggage, and picking myself up after ties have supposedly been severed because these boy bands told me that's how it's supposed to be. In the majority of their songs, the message being sent to the listeners is that when you fall in love, it's going to be with someone that sucks. And that is going to suck for you. And you're never going to get over it. And you're going to cry yourself to sleep at night, wishing that you never met this person, while at the same time thanking the heavens above that you did, because there just isn't anyone out there that could possibly break your fragile heart quite like they do. Because of these boy bands' stupid advice, we do irrational, psychotic, bat-shit-crazy things for our lover's attention, go after unattainable people, and refuse to let go when there isn't a shred of hope left in a relationship.

Ladies and gentlemen, love doesn't have to be this way. When you decide that you are ready to be committed to someone, it should be with someone who is considerate of your stereotypical-pop-culture-emotional instability, who takes this in high regards, and because of this awareness, won't do things to hurt your feelings. Quit wasting your time on The Selfish and patiently await the arrival of The Selfless.

Love should be simple: "You like me, I like you, we like each other, and ALAS! We are happy." 

End. Of. Story. 

Forget the lyrics, forget the gut-wrenching drama. If it's keeping you up at night because you have knots, not butterflies, in your belly, it's time to let it go.

Here's one final a tip, if he sings "I'll never break your heart, I'll never make you cry.", has unnaturally colored, frosty platinum hair, and wears matching windbreaker pants with four of his buddies, run far, far away and never look back.

Dating Woes of The Modern Day Independent Woman

I just spent the last two hours of my life trying to unclog my toilet. 

No, the clog isn't a result of a massive dump taken. I have a very old apartment... cute, adorable, quirky and lovable... but very old. And it has a very old, very iffy toilet in it's very old, very outdated bathroom.

Needless to say, after two hours of tirelessly plunging... my toilet is still very old... and very clogged.

It is during times like these in my life that I wish I had a male companion the most. I wish I had a boyfriend now, more than ever, to unclog my godforsaken, rickety, teal-colored toilet... and then maybe he could hold me and we could just cuddle and lie there when he was through.

They say that when you are dating, you are attracted to features that your mother or father possessed while they were raising you. Although, this Freudian hypothesis is undoubtedly creepy as hell to me, I do find it to be universally correct.

Looking back on my childhood, I realize that my father was a literal "Jack of Trades". His nickname is Jack, that's why it's literal. Stick with me.

My dad cooked the food, cleaned the house, squished the bugs, fixed the leak, raked the leaves, worked the job, packed the lunch, nailed the drywall, talked the talk, and walked the walk.

Don't get me wrong, my mother is a very awesome lady. She is steadfast, moral, trustworthy, reliable, firm, hardworking, giving, and extremely intelligent. She just doesn't like to cook. Or clean. But, my father will be the first to tell you that he would be dead or in jail, if it wasn't for her.

Basically, my parents are the kind of people who did, and continue to do, whatever it takes to survive, without a grimace or complaint. And they do it together.

Growing up with such a powerful, ready-and-able couple, both of my parents felt it was very important that I learn life skills at an early age, so that I would never have to be dependent on anyone for anything. Anytime there was something wrong with my car, my dad made me come outside and watch him fix it... even in the blistering cold and pouring rain. Anytime, I fudged my finances, my mother made me sit down with her and look at where I went wrong and what I should do in the future to prevent it from happening again.

For all of this and more, I am so grateful. I am not a girl who is scared to kill spiders. I know how to unjam a garbage disposal. I can replace most fluids in my car. I know the proper way to paint a wall. I can bake a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies. I rarely need a knight in shining armor to come to my rescue.

HOWEVER...

For one reason or another, I suck at unclogging toilets. This is EXTREMELY frustrating to me. I am the kind of person that figures out ways to get the job done, even if it isn't necessarily the same way that everyone else does it.

But, unlike eating reese cups, I really think there is only one way to unclog a toilet. And it is a mythical mystery, in a far away distant fantasy land, one that I fear I will never travel to and discover.

This admission troubles me on multiple counts.

First: What kind of nancy sissy baby of a female can't unclog a toilet? It seems as though it's pretty self explanatory... just keep plunging until the flush flushes freely.

Second: I hate asking for help. I hate admitting that I need someone. My generation of females has been taught to behave as though we can do anything and everything that a man can do, and sometimes we can do it better. I know more girls that can change a tire than I do guys. It used to be that women were looked down upon if they didn't behave like a lady and now the most respected women curse like sailors while smoking Marlboro Reds. We no longer have to wait for a man to call and ask us on a date, if we want him, we have no other option but to be assertive and go get him.

Third: I want a man who knows how to work his plunger! (Please giggle at the potential dirtiness of that last sentence.) A man who doesn't scream if he sees a mouse in the house. A man who will let me squeeze the living willies out of his hand when I have to get a shot during a doctor's visit. Does such a man exist anymore?! I know how to do MANY difficult and distasteful tasks in life that are necessary for my survival, but that doesn't mean that when I am with someone, I want to be the man of the house. Of course, I enjoy being a handy woman, but I also enjoy curling my hair, painting my nails, listening to Mariah Carey, and crying throughout the entire ending scene of "An Affair To Remember" and I won't have time for any of those things if I'm always taking out the garbage and hooking up the cable box.

This is all well and good, but I just wonder what happens when we regress back to history's past ways of girlishness and want to be taken care of for a change. Will we begin wearing unbearable petticoats and take to fainting on chaise lounge chairs? Does needing a male companion make us any less of a strong female? Do we lose all sense of independence once we let someone into our lives? Is it okay for us to believe that we cannot do it all? Or is it at that very moment, that we lose the sacred womanly strength we once possessed?

I cannot answer any of those questions at this point in my life. One day in the very distant future, I may have that ability. All I'm saying is, after today, I'm adding "Knows how to unclog a toilet" to my list of dating qualifications and there isn't an ounce of energy left in my ever-loving plunging body that will admit to being ashamed of that.

Before You Speak

"Think before you speak."

Who truly believes this anymore? Anyone? Anyone at all? 

... *... crickets... * ...

With the upcoming election being beaten through our tiny pea brains by the media and advertising industry, it's no wonder that people don't know how to filter their speech, thoughts, opinions, and/or ideas anymore. When an obnoxious fly won't stop buzzing in your ear and won't land somewhere long enough for you to smash it to smithereens, what do you do? You call it an annoying bastard and curse the day it was ever brought into existence. This is a perfect metaphor for my feelings towards the 2012 presidential election.

In fact, just the other day I caught myself holding back the urge to call total strangers imbeciles as they stood in front of me discussing which political candidate they thought would be more beneficial to the future of our country. It could have been Albert Einstein and Sir Isaac Newton waiting in line before me. I didn't care. Because they were in heated debate about the election, they were both nincompoops to me.

Honestly, I find it very difficult to take any interest at all in politics, for the sheer reason that I can't stand listening to people argue, bitch, and bicker, and never come to an agreement on the subject at hand. I realize it's extremely important to educate myself on the election and candidates, take a stance, and finally to vote for the person who I believe will make their best effort to help me, my future, and the future of my children and this country. However, rarely is there a time when I can sit through the name-calling, mud-slinging, and slanderous statements for long enough to decipher through the muck and discover the real facts. It's literally a physical impossibility for me. In the end, I want to punch both parties square in the nose, before finding a more eloquent manner to ask if they could just shut the hell up.

I should not be surprised by any of this, I realize, because we live in a world where the freedom of speech is being abused more and more every hour of every day. When I say that the freedom of speech is being abused, please understand that I love the fact that we live in a country where it is permissible to speak your mind without the fear being stoned to death or imprisoned. What I mean by my statement is that very few people think about what they want to say, before they say it. All they know is that they are completely right, and the person they are arguing is 100% wrong... and they will figure out how to back this up, in due time.

It SHOULD NOT be this way. Granted, some of the most important thoughts are spur-of-the-moment, passionate spontaneities, which unfold in front of us before we ourselves even have a chance to comprehend their true meanings. But truthfully, a well planned, thoughtfully composed opinion is one that I'd much rather listen to, as opposed to one from a person who has no idea what they are talking about until the moment that they part their lips to speak and concoct their support as the word vomit falls from their mouth into my ears.

As important as it is to have well-constructed, organized thoughts, I understand that it is equally important to be emotionally connected with the words you preach. Otherwise, there is no way in hell you are going to convince any one that you know what you are talking about, or that your ideas have any type of validity to them at all. For pete's sake, when my own father tells me I'm overly dramatic and ardent, I correct him by stating that my feelings are passionate and heartfelt, otherwise, they would not be surfacing and would not hold a drop of importance to anyone listening. Something inside each of us pushes our scruples to the exterior and, to me, these convictions are worth weighing out.

HOWEVER...

The fact of the matter is, there are certain thoughts that each one of our brains contains, which we should just keep to ourselves. Before we speak at all, we should quickly ask ourselves, "How is what I'm about to say going to affect my listener, positively or negatively?". The answer to this may lean more closely towards the negative end of the spectrum, which is fine, as long as we are aware that this is the action we are about to take and accept the consequences which will follow thereafter.

I am not saying that we should not speak if we believe what we say will cause controversy, argument, or disagreement. This is by far one of the best ways for mankind to learn and grow. The point I am trying to make is that we should be certain that our hearts and our minds are in agreement when displacing thoughts through our mouths. We should be sure that what we are preaching is an idea which truly belongs in the minds of others for them to ponder, refute, or concede with.

Now, if CNN and FOXNews could just grab this concept by the reigns, I think you might be voting for Miss Goober Daisy as the next Commander in Chief. 

My slogan? 

"THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK."

Dating and The "Happy" Medium

We have all heard the story of "Goldilocks and The Three Bears".  I will honestly admit that I never really understood what this fable was trying to teach us. As a child, I guess it taught me that breaking and entering would more often than not result in three carnivores trying to make me their lean cuisine.

Looking back, I'm beginning to think that whomever first began telling this story was trying to teach their children the beauty of moderation. However, kids usually want a thriller so the adult eventually decided to add in some scary bears that would bust the naive young trespasser, therein derailing children from the original moral of the story.

Now, stick with me here.

In theory, could we apply Goldilocks' attempts to find perfection to say, our lives or even... dating? I think so.

The media and marketers tell us that we either want things to be bigger, better, faster, stronger... or... smaller, slimmer, shinier, smarter. But is this false advertising? When applied to the dating world, how many of us have no idea what we are looking for because of the conflicting advice we receive from friends, family, and society? Do we want someone who is mysterious, sexy, and bold? Or do we go for someone who is kind, caring, and low key? Do we play the damsel in distress? Or do we actively become the heroine of the story?

Let's go with the females perspective, since... SURPRISE! I am not a man and have no freaking idea what men want or think, as much as I may put on otherwise.

So, as women, many of us grow up thinking that some prince charming will come into our lives, looking all Brawny Man-esque, sweep us off our feet, and then provide for us and our family for the rest of our life. Then we get a little bit older, and our elders tell us to "Be smart.", "Forget men.", "Find a career and make a living of our own.", then worry about romance once we have all of our ducks in a row. We take this advice, but struggle to come to terms with the life we choose, because we are still hanging on to the idea that we could have had a man slaving in the work force for us and all we would have had to do was pop out a few babies, whip up a few batches of Kraft Mac N Cheese, and after that we'd be smooth sailing; eating Bon-Bon's and watching "All My Children" on our velvet pink chaise lounge, coming down from a Shiraz buzz.

The fact of the matter is, we all want that happy medium. That porridge, that chair, that bed, that man, that life, that is just right. As much as we are told we need to hold out for the best... the best is boring. A man without flaws is not a man that I want, nor a man that could provide me with eternal bliss. So how do we snag this "not-so-perfect" perfect guy?

Here's the part where I, personally, lose sleep at night.

Recently (Who am I kidding?) My entire adult life, I have been traveling first class on The Dating Struggle Bus. I'd like to think this is mostly because everyone has a soulmate and I just haven't stumbled upon mine yet, but I'm pretty sure there is no scientific research supporting that there is a "soulmate" out there for everyone. 

Behavioral Decision Making is my dating road block. I can't decide whether it's better to throw my crazy, koo-koo side completely out there for all the men to see, or just to give them small samplings over an extended period of time. Because let's face it, the man I end up with is either going to be the most kind and patient man alive, or a complete and total lunatic. Cross your fingers, I'm hoping he's a little bit of both.

Actually, in the dating scene, I never really know what I'm doing, how I should properly go about doing it, or how to behave afterwards. And I've tried tackling it from every angle. I have played the "shy girl", I have been outgoing and loud, I've been a lady, I've belched, I've been nonchalant, I've been the guys gal (my personal favorite), I've been the unattainable bitch, I've been a bookworm, I've been a matronly mommy babysitter figure. It all ends the same... me in much confusion and a loose pair of sweatpants with a full package of Oreos, a tall glass of milk, and Sleepless in Seattle in my DVD player. Wow, that sounds just plain old pathetic. But hell, the only reason I'm ok with disclosing that information is because I know for a fact (Hey there single friends!) that I am not the only one who does this.

The truth is, I enjoy being alone. ALOT. Probably more often than most people. I really enjoy my own company because HELL, I'm a catch! I'm fun, witty, outgoing, free-spirited, optimistic, and light hearted.  And I bet you'd never guess that my vice is my lack of modesty. I mean, seriously, who wouldn't want to hang out with me?! Everyone should want that! Right? Right! But as confident and independent as I am, and as often as I make jokes about it, I would love to be able to meet someone that I like a little more than myself, so that I don't end up an old crazy hag who cracks jokes that no one, but herself, understands. And honestly, I'm starting to think my life is leaning towards that scenario becoming a reality.

Being that I'd like to have a companion that I can, at the bare minimum, tolerate... and who in-turn tolerates me, I often make attempts to be proactive in the dating scene, asking friends and family for dating tidbits. 

*NOTE*

- I AM CONVINCED THAT THIS IS A DATING BOOBY TRAP/LABYRINTH/RIGGED MIND MAZE. And this is why...

Friend A's advice = "If it's meant to be, it will happen. Don't push too hard for anything from him. Play hard to get. Act like you don't care. Never make the first move."

Friend B's advice = "If you want someone to be in your life, then make it happen. You'll never know until you try. Never be afraid to share how you feel. Go for it."

Friend C's advice = "Be mean to him."

Friend D's advice = "Be nice to him."

Dad's advice = "Don't put all your eggs in one basket. Have fun."

Mom's advice = "Focus on one relationship. Don't be a floozy."

Dr. Phil's advice = "Communication is crucial."

Maury's advice = "You are not the father."

In the end, I mostly rely on my heart, or my gut, or whatever the hell it is that tells me how or what to make my next move in my relationships. Granted, I know that part of the reason for my unluckiness in love can be chalked up to the fact that I am attracted to complete buttholes (pardon my french), but even as I am learning to broaden my horizons (aka steer clear of guys who know they are tall, dark, and handsome), the fact remains that men (even the nice ones) and dating are an utter mystery to me. I just can't figure them, or it, out.

So, I pose these questions to my readers... Is there a happy dating medium? How do we know where to draw the lines in order to create a steady, normal, healthy relationship? How much is too much? Do you actively seek out relationships, knowing the majority of them will fail due to incompatibility? Or do you sit back, live your life, and wait patiently for Mr. Right?

I realize much of this is circumstantial, but I think it would be a GRAND idea for all of you to congregate, ask yourselves these questions, formulate some solid, concrete answers and then get back to me. These conflicting words of wisdom are really starting to make me feel like a schizophrenic.

Nikki Z's Ultimate Top 40

Since I started this whole blogging ordeal, I've had multiple friends request that I write a post dedicated to music. I don't like to toot my own horn (toot toot) but I consider myself something of a musical guru. 

Like, you know that game you play in the car where the Car DJ plays a few seconds of a song and  you try to guess the title and artist as quickly as possible? What?! No one else plays that?!?! Well, I'm a 3 time gold medalist in that game.

Now, most people don't have an absolute favorite song, but I do, because I'm a freak. It's "Crash Into Me", the single most overplayed Dave Matthews song of all time. I get chills every time I hear it. It makes no sense whatsoever but I can firmly say that there is no better song than that, in my opinion.

So, here... I'm disclosing my top 40 songs aka the soundtrack of my life. How did I select them, you ask? Well, I went through my iPod and wrote down all the songs that were physically impossible to skip over without listening to them in their entirety. I also asked my closest friends what song came to mind when they thought of me. These are the people who know me the best. Some of their responses scared me, because I could totally understand why they associated each particular song with my persona, no matter how ridiculous that song may be... Ehhhemmm... ("Milkshake" by Kelis). 

You might think I'm crazy. You might think I'm a genius. 

Frankly, I don't give a damn.

It's my list. And I stick my tongue out towards the haters.

• "Closer" by NeYo - If this song is slick, then the video is Slick Rick.

• "Night Moves" by Bob Seger
• "Gettin' Jiggy With It" by Will Smith
• "Midnight Train To Georgia" by Gladys Knight and The Pips
• "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" by The Darkness
• "Shower The People" by James Taylor
• "She Talks To Angels" by The Black Crowes
• "PYT" by Michael Jackson
• "Yellow" by Coldplay
• "What If I Came Knocking" by John Mellencamp - It has a rough, sexy, edgy-ness that I love.

• "Best I Ever Had" by Drake
• "Dancing In The Dark" by Bruce Springsteen
• "I Try" by Macy Gray
• "Summertime" by Kenny Chesney
• "Dream On" by Aerosmith
• "You Send Me" by Aretha Franklin
• "Sweet Lady" by Tyrese
• "I Want You Back" by NSYNC
• "Sure Thing" by Miguel
• "Valerie" by Amy Winehouse
• "Soon I'll Be Loving You" by Marvin Gaye - You can't not like this man.

• "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen
• "Never Can Say Goodbye" by The Jackson 5
• "I Have Nothing" by Whitney Houston
• "Mr. Jones" by The Counting Crows
• "Slow Jamz" by Kanye West
• "Hear Me" by Kelly Clarkson
• "Milkshake" by Kelis
• "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman
• "Rearview Mirror" by Pearl Jam - Pissed off? Bad break-up? Give this a listen.

• "Ordinary People" by John Legend
• "Getting In The Way" by Jill Scott
• "Untitled (How Does It Feel) by D'Angelo
• "All By Myself" by Celine Dion
• "That's All" by Genesis
• "Nothing Even Matters" by Lauryn Hill
• "One Headlight" by The Wallflowers
• "Ain't Nobody" by Chaka Khan
• "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews
• "You Gotta Be" by Desiree - I dare you to listen to this song when you're in a bad mood.

Dear "Now That's What I Call Music" people,

Go ahead, give my people a ring. I look forward to working with you.

Sincerely,

Nicole

Twitter meet #The Worst.

I know some of you are Twitterless Twits and that's ok, don't you fret, because I'll give you a brief rundown about the subject which I'm about to address.

"Twhat?", you say?

Precisely.

There is currently a trend on Twitter, which consists of posts relating to awkward or awfully embarrassing moments in people's lives. These Tweets begin with "That moment when" and then describe the painful moment, which other people may or may not be able to relate to on a personal level. Obviously, I'm a huge fan of this, considering I could write a series of novels on the stupid crap I do on a minute to minute basis. So, for example, someone might post "That moment when you run into your ex during the exact moment that a juicy green booger is dangling from a rogue nose hair and you are completely unaware."

For the record, that has not happened to me... as far as I know. So actually, it might have happened to me.

Oh crap, that totally happened to me.

In fact, just the other day, I posted about how I hopped over a mound of clothes piled on my floor, which made me trip over a godforsaken shoe, landing directly on an earring which was lost in my carpet, coincidentally piercing my left palm. Oh, and this moment was during the wee small hours of the evening, around 2 am, so I couldn't scream because everyone in my house was blissfully slumbering, and heaven forbid I should wake them up to the bloodbath which I just created for myself. I think my face turned purple, then red, then blue all in a matter of 7 seconds.

No. Big. Deal.

And then I made a discovery. Here's the thing about the Twitter generation, we believe we are so clever with our witty hashtags and brutally honest anonymous tweets, however, this whole "That moment when" trend is not an original concept.

Have you ever heard a person tell you a semi-painful story and follow it with, "Yea I hate when that happens... That's the worst."

Ellen Degeneres... one person who I would pay ungodly amounts of money to have lunch with, did a bit about this during one of her stand-ups. I definitely suggest you watch the entire show (You might want to be wearing a diaper while you do). Hey, if you ask nicely, I'll even let you borrow mine, but for the purposes of this post please skip to 6:20 of the video below.

ANYWAYS! I've decided to start the #TheWorst trend on Twitter for two reasons... 

1.) When people think horrible things happen to them, they normally need someone to either tell them, "Oh yea, that's the worst!" or  "Hey, why don't you gain some perspective and go shove your silver spoon up your..."

And 2.) I want to be famous for something.

I actually can't sit here and act like I've never said, "Man, that's the worst!" In fact, here are a list of things that I find are #TheWorst that life has to offer...

1.) When you really gotta go. I mean REALLY gotta go. And you are nowhere near a bathroom. Like NOWHERE NEAR a bathroom. Suddenly you see a glimpse of light in the far off distance! You read the letters and form a connection "REST AREA 1 MILE". You hear angels sing Hallelujah as if they were floating beside you in the passenger seat. You race out out of your car like a bat out of hell (whatever that means) and you squat over the first toilet you see. You relieve yourself, and grab for some toilet tissue. And what do you find. A cylinder of cardboard.  #THEWORST

2.) When you have a cold, the flu, allergies, and every time you start to talk to someone, they ask you who died. #THEWORST

3.) A sunburn. And then a cold shower. #THEWORST

4.) Spilling hot coffee all over yourself while in the car trying to merge onto a major freeway, as you are running late for your first day at your new job. #THEWORST

5.) Sneeze-farting in mid-conversation with your new co-workers during your first week at your new job #THEWORST

6.) Having to come up with something clever to tell your guy friends as to why you don't want to party when you are PMSing or having any kind of menstrual issues. I.E. Boobs that ache too much to move, so I'm not really concerned with raging tonight. #THEWORST

7.) Having an itch somewhere you can't (or shouldn't) scratch. #THEWORST

8.) Eating something crunchy, that by definition should not be crunchy. #THEWORST

... you get the picture.

So, for all you tweeters out there, get this trend going and don't forget to hashtag #GooberDaisy right after it. I want everyone to know I came up with this great idea!

Wait a minute...

Mother May I?

My mother wouldn't let me get my belly button pierced.

My mother forced me to play softball when I asked to cheerlead. I was literally bawling my eyes out, watching out the window as she pulled out of the driveway to sign me up.

My mother didn't buy me a car for my 16th birthday. I don't know why I expected this, but regardless of my idiocy, I did.

My mother promised to never give me another one of her hard-earned dimes if I ever even thought about getting a tattoo anywhere on my body.

My mother made me come straight home after school dances, I wasn't allowed to "stay the night at a friends house".

 My mother cut up my first credit card and made me pay off the entire balance the day she found out I had one.

My mother wouldn't let me watch R-rated movies. She still won't watch one with me. I'm going to be 24 this year.

My mother wouldn't buy or let me wear anything from Abercrombie and Fitch.

My mother made me get up and go to church every Sunday. If I was sick, I had to show her my puke in the toilet in order to get out of it. If I accidentally flushed before she got there, well... I was out of luck.

My mother lectured me about wearing clothes that were too tight, too short, too revealing... and still does to this day.

My mother made me get a job, gave me chores, and made me do my homework. Buzz. Kill.

My mother wouldn't be my friend.

So, if you're wondering how I feel about growing up with the meanest mother that ever lived, my fear of her will not keep me from disclosing the truth to my readers... 

I am eternally grateful for all the things she never let me do.

Happy Birthday Mom, thanks for loving me enough to be mean to me! I love you!

And Happy Mother's Day to all the other mean mothers out there... keep on keepin' on.

Big Girl Panties

Today, I start my very first 40 hour a week, Monday through Friday, big girl job.

I should probably be preparing myself, i.e. packing a lunch, gathering paperwork, finding a work appropriate outfit (since I've been wearing jeans and a t-shirt to my place of employment since I was 17) etc. but instead, here I am... blabbering on for your mid-day literary pleasure needs.

In fact, you are probably sitting in your very own big girl (or boy) cubicle, at your very own big girl (or boy) desk, peering into your very own big girl (or boy) computer screen, skimming over this post to avoid doing your very own big girl (or boy) work.

Ah yes, it is time for Miss Goober Daisy to throw on her very first pair of big girl panties and jump into the real world. And let me tell you, although this is a life event that most people see as inevitable, I've been avoiding it at all costs. Don't get me wrong, I'm pumped to not be working my ass off, only to get paid $4.36 an hour, however I am not a person who is big on the two things I'm about to embark upon: 1.) Responsibility... and 2.) Change.

My entire life, my parents, friends, and family have been trying to extract me from my very own La-La-Land; a place where everyone gets along, arguments are pointless, people work because they enjoy every moment spent at their work place, hot guys aren't complete a-holes, girls don't have to wear a push-up bra to get someone to pay them attention, the most difficult decision you'll have to make is which brand of beer you'd like to drink as you play Cornhole in the summer sun, a smile makes everything better, and daisies grow like dandelions through gravel.

So here I am, growing up, becoming an adult, taking on the world. Am I scared? Out of my mind. But you have to do what you have do. And that might mean I lose my sense of humor, lust for adventure, peace of mind. But hey, we all have to become adults eventually, right?


Wrong. As far as behaving childish goes, you can consider me a "Lifer".

In fact, my future coworkers got lucky that April 1st fell on a Sunday, "The Day of Rest". Lord knows, had today been April Fools, well... I might have ended up back at square one (The Classifieds) tomorrow.

Wish me luck!

The Little Spy That Could

I remember being about 6 or 7 years old, and waking up with an unusual amount of enthusiasm for the upcoming school day. The reason for my ardency? The fire department was coming to school and they were bringing a fire engine with them... So. Cool. Duh! And I knew that if I got lucky, they'd let me try on their gear. I was such a girly girl back in the day, I promise.

I'm sure there were 29 sets of parents that were extremely peeved that evening. Why you ask? Well, all of us 6 or 7 year olds were instructed by the cool firemen to go home and ask our parents to plan, practice, and execute multiple escape plans in case of a fire or other household-life-threatening emergency. I'm pretty sure my parents told me that if there was a fire to just open my bedroom window, jump out of it, and hope not to land on a rock.

That story does correlate with what I'm about to tell you, I'm just not exactly sure how so.

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You know those movies about spies on top secret missions, or bank robbers who are trying to steal the world's largest diamond? Of course you do. 

Alright, you know the part where they suddenly develop professional gymnast skills and can maneuver through a laser-beam-security maze like Nastia Liukin performing a floor routine?

Ok, confession. I may or may not have a teensy weensy fantasy about doing this. I'm talking about being a spy, not being a gymnast.

I actually didn't realize that I'd been subconsciously visiting this fantasy in my head until a few days ago while I was at work. In the basement of our building, there are double doors which have a sensor that allows the doors to open automatically if someone is walking towards them. The sensor is only on one side of the doors though, which perplexes me. If you are on the other side of the door, you have to physically push the doors open. I'm not perplexed by the fact that I have to exert energy, I just don't understand why there isn't a sensor on both sides.

Anyways, as you push open the doors and pass through them, your movement is caught by the sensor on the other side. At that point, they finish the job for you and automatically open the rest of the way.

Well, I've apparently convinced myself that there is a flaw or a break in the sensor and if I move through the doors in just the right way, probably with a few backhand springs and round-off's... I will breach the system and bypass the sensor, and thus pride myself in stumping what I believe to be Big Brother.

I didn't ever realize I was doing this. I've worked at my job for over 3 years. And I'm pretty sure I go down to the basement a few times a week. And it just occurred to me that I literally make this an utmost important goal of mine every single time I go down there. Like, the day I pass through those doors without them opening automatically, I will probably shout "YIPPEE!" at socially unacceptable volume levels, immediately leave work, and head straight to the Pentagon to attend to more pressing matters.

God, help me. I need to solve this mystery.

Bluetooth: The Not So Silent Killer of Conversation

I love my iPod. And I'm not using that term of endearment loosely. I literally treat it as if it were a newborn baby, with a head full of soft spots. I think it's the greatest invention since the wheel and sliced bread.

However, my father's opinion of the iPod is a bit different. It began when I received my first Walkman. What the honkey doody is a Walkman, you ask? 

You remember having to wind the cassette gears with your pinky finger and sweat collecting in the foam earpieces? Ah yes, the original iPod.

I got tired of my parents telling me to turn my music down, so once I owned a Walkman, I would just throw on my headphones, crank my music up and tune out the world. This became a major frustration for my parents when they wanted to get my attention to do daily chores, come eat dinner, stop giving them a headache from attempting the hit Mariah Carey's falsetto, etc.

According to my father, these bad boys ruined society. Alright, maybe he's not that pessimistic and maybe he owns an iPod himself, but he does have a valid point. As kids walk around campus to their next class (a perfect opportunity to meet complete strangers or start up a great conversation), everyone has white cords dangling from their ears, music blasting so loud that if a Jet Airliner landed directly behind them, they wouldn't have a clue. No eye contact is made, and it's as if people develop mute tongues until their personal mp3 device is powered down.

Hey man, we all need some time of reflection in my opinion. I can listen to music and get completely lost in the lyrics and it's the most fantastic euphoria.  But would it hurt to listen to the birds chirping, or the cars blaring on their horns to warn you that you're about to be transformed into a human pancake? 

Hmmmm...

My issue is with people who use their Bluetooth in public settings. It's one thing to be hands-free in a traffic jam. But when you're in a place where you could and should be having a conversation with the person that you're standing directly in front of, eyes fixed on their eyes, smiling, asking questions that the person could very well have an answer to, well... that's just cruel, unusual, and not to mention, extremely rude, in my opinion.

It's also very sneaky and awkward. Why does it seem like the person has every interest in how you're doing, but then they shake their head when you respond?

How am I doing? I'm very well today, how about you? Why are you shaking your head and looking confused that I'm doing well? Oh, you didn't want to know how my day was going? That's odd. Do you have Schizophrenia? Oh, your mom stopped by and did all 3 loads of your laundry? Well, I didn't really need to know that but thanks for sharing. My mom never does my laundry. Yea, I shake my head when I think about that too. I don't know your friend Cindy but I'm glad to hear her rash cleared up.

And then the person you were having an in-depth heart to heart with pulls back their hair, points to their ear, smiles, and continues on their merry way... leaving you feeling like a complete and total imbecile.

Jerks.

Get Crafty With It.

Call me what you will, you can even call me the next Martha Stewart and I wouldn't be offended. I've always been up for a good craft. It's a challenge, it gives you a sense of pride and accomplishment once you've finished, and you can put your own unique spin on the whatchamacallit you are choosing to create.

Unfortunately, I personally hate starting projects when I really don't have time to finish them, and therefore don't "craft and create" as much as I would like to.

That is, I didn't... until (DUN DUN DUN)... drum roll please...

The launch of PINTEREST!

If you haven't heard of Pinterest.com , it's a new website that kids are using these days and the idea behind it is to have an area for people to share ideas. These ideas can be on anything from crafts, recipes, and decor, to fasion, music, and hair and make-up. If you enjoy any of those things but really don't have a whole lot of spare time on your hands, I advise you to click out of this post, and immediately block Pinterest from your browser. Just looking at the stuff other people post on there is addicting, but once you take it a step further and begin actually taking action (i.e. creating the crafts, cooking the recipes, braiding the impossible waterfall braids)... well, it's a done deal. In that very moment, your social life and free time will become unsalvageable. 

Here's my suggestion to you if you decide to give Pinterest a go... Thoroughly read and understand the directions, prep time, estimated project time, and any possible warning labels or side-effects that you may be in risk of inheriting via said project.

I saw a cute idea for old t-shirts one day and decided I would give it whirl. I had the weekend off from work and I figured I could get the entire project started and finished on a Saturday evening before dinner was ready. The only text that I read regarding the project was the materials needed and I skimmed over the directions. The project at hand was a shag rug, made from old t-shirt scraps. Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

Just cutting the scraps... all 3,000 of them... took me 4.5 days to do. And I literally spent every spare second I had doing it. Then I cut 3,000 holes into the base of the rug for the scraps to loop through. After those two tasks were completed, my thumb was so bruised and blistered that I thought I might have to get a doctor's excuse for work so that I could heal and lay around sobbing from the pain. I even considered what medication I might ask my doctor to prescribe me. Demorel? Percocet? Vicodin? None seemed to be strong enough. 

I then returned from my trip to crackhead fantasy land and realized I now had to loop 3,000 scraps of t-shirt material through tiny holes. 

My heart sunk. But I promised myself I would finish. It was a project that I wanted to complete and I knew I would feel like a million bucks the moment I looked at the finished product.

I began weaving the pieces into the base of the rug, letting out a small shriek from the pain with every scrap I looped. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel when the rug was close to 70% completed.

And that's when my mother intervened and said "Nicole, just cut the end off and call it a day."

I scoffed at her suggestion. "Mom, if you and Dad have taught me anything, you've at least taught me that once you set your mind to doing something, you finish it!"

She shrugged her shoulders and walked upstairs. 

And you better believe that the moment her bedroom door shut, I cut the end off of that bad boy, smirked, and therein completed the FIRST EVER "mini" t-shirt shag rug.

Sometimes, in the world of crafting, innovation trumps endurance.

What's Yo' Fantasy?

I recline slowly into a velvet upholstered chaise lounge that coordinates with the bohemian theme of my dressing room. I am surrounded by bouquets of yellow roses and orange lilies. The bubbles from the most rare champagne in the midwest gently make their way to the top of my fluted glass, as I ponder sipping. Miles Davis plays softly in the background and I brush coral rouge across my cheekbones as I begin mentally preparing myself for the night which awaits me.

Abruptly, 3 consecutive knocks bark at my door.

"We need you out here pronto!", an unfamiliar, yet still quite routine voice beckons.

Showtime.

I zip up my thigh-high black leather stiletto boots and slide a final coat of sheen across my lips, pout, and blow a kiss into my mirror.

As I make my way through the corridors which are packed full of foreign faces, a man tugs at, brushes through, then finally pins up the extensions which make my hair seem never ending. "Go get 'em sweet thang!", he shouts as I continue on my way. A random young boy, who has 4 large spools of electrical cords wrapped up both arms, holds out his fist for a universal good-luck "knucks" pound. I still feel that I need good luck, although I have most of this down to a fine science.

"Huddle up!", a female calls out, with a voice resembling a combination of Melissa Etheridge and a 60 year old suffering from severe emphysema.

The people who have become my greatest of friends overwhelm me with their arms linked around one another, a cyclical formation with me at the center of attention. I rattle off a few song lyrics from greats like Dylan, Joel, and Springsteen... ones that I easily repeat because their meanings are embroidered onto my mind. A few members bounce up and down, even throw imaginary punches into the air. A woman wearing what appears to be a be-dazzled bra and a shredded pair of Levi's carries a platter with 8 tequila shots to my crew and myself.

"Let's go!" I shout. 

We cheers, take the shot straight, and sprint onstage.

This is my fantasy. 

I am Nicole, Goober Daisy.

Writer by day, rock star extraordinaire by night.

My Real Life Kramer

Have you ever met a person and literally questioned if their existence stemmed from planet earth? Yes, I accept that I may be that person to some people. But I am nothing in comparison to a girl who I truly believe is going to be my real life Kramer.

You see, I categorize weirdly weird people as "Kramer's".

You know, the kind of people who will say the unexpected, do the unexpected, and leave you feeling completely and utterly confused about absolutely every action they take. They might have a few screws loose or be just one sandwich short of a picnic, but the awful thing is, most of us don't care to know why they are the way they are. Because, most of the time, there just isn't a logical explanation for their lack of... how shall I say this... social normality's? We simply come to accept their offbeat ways, so as to protect our Ambien filled evenings from any more psychological disturbances.

Kramer, who's real first name is fittingly "Cosmo"... is Jerry Seinfeld's peculiar neighbor who lives across the hall in his apartment building. Kramer wears his hair... well... however it wants to wear itself on any given day. Kramer's wardrobe is that of a 90 year old retired Harvard professor. Kramer loves smoking cuban cigars. Kramer's subsistence thrives on making bizarre outbursts about insignificant annoyances. If you need someone to say something that may be inappropriate, uncalled for, or downright jaw-dropping, Kramer is your guy. He's completely disconnected from reality, to put it nicely.

Well folks... I seem to have acquired myself a Kramer.

Naturally, I realized the friendship was blooming on Friday the 13th. I was on my way to see "The Beauty and The Beast" in 3D, and heard Will Smith's song "Men in Black" as I was driving up the interstate. Let me tell you, that in itself gave me goosebumps and I thought, "Holy evening of throwbacks! Self, tonight just might be a night to remember."

If I only knew at that moment how very aligned with the stars my thought process was.

So, as any poor mid-twenties female does before she goes to the movies, I parked my car at Target and made a Bee line for the candy aisle. Once the necessities (Trail Mix, Junior Mints, Hot Tamales, and Cookie Dough Bites) were all accounted for, I felt myself slip into a mind-numbing daze, forgetting the worries and woes of the past work week and approached the check-out line. And that's when it... or actually, she... hit me. Metaphorically speaking, of course... though, I wouldn't be surprised if that in fact happened.

I knew it when our eyes met. I recalled her from my memory a few months back. Let the record show that I rarely shop at this particular Target, and I had not been back since the first time we'd been acquainted. She had stringy, dirty blonde hair, one of those nose piercings that makes people look like a bull, or a future steak dinner, and her left eye was somewhat of a drifter. I remember feeling that my personal-bubble-space had been invaded when she asked me why I kept pink Mace dangling from my keychain for the the world to see and if I felt that I would scream or sprint if a rapist tried to attack me in a dark alley. What kind of person asks strangers such personal questions? She spoke to me as if we had been close buddies for years. She had a line of about 8 impatient people behind me, but she felt the need to badger the crap out of me until she was satisfied with my answers to her inquiries. My skin, which was now covered in a film of creepiness, crawled the entire drive home.

You'd think I would have learned my lesson and make attempts to scope out the cashiers before entering into their professional domain. But here I was, once again, face to face with my real life Kramer. On this particular day, she was wearing a Hello Kitty headband. I don't what it is about adults sporting Hello Kitty gear, but they seriously erk me.

Here's how our conversation went...

Her - "Smuggling all this into the movie theater, eh?"

Me - "Yea."

Her - "Wow, that sure is a lot of candy."

Me - (Embarrassed and more than likely blushing) "Oh, it's not all for me."

Her - "Well that's good, at first I thought you were alone... which would be really depressing. People that go to movies alone depress me. But it would make sense, because you have so much candy."

Me - "Yea, well, I'm meeting someone. I'm not alone."

(The people behind me were burning holes through my body with their eyes and the people behind them were pouring salt into my wounds via snickering.)

Her - "Hey! That's so weird!"

Me - "What's that?"

Her - "Your total is $6.66."

Me - (Under my breath) "Perrrrrrfect."

Her - "Gosh, I have a really awful feeling about tonight! Do you ever have that? You know, like something terrible is about to happen!"

Me - "Not really? But good luck with that."

She ruined my movie. And potentially the rest of my life. Because now, I'm stuck with that "awful feeling" that I'm going to continue having run-in's like this with her until I'm 6 feet deep, pushing daisies.

High-Ay-Tuss

Not sure if y'all remember me... 

But my name is Nicole and I'm an aspiring writer and my life is in shambles most of the time. Which often makes for good reading but because of the shambles, I tend to focus my energy towards more important things, like surviving life. Hence, this whole blog thing being neglected.

Guilty as charged, I feel it necessary to fill you in on my life as of recent...

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........ Hmmm, well... not much to report, actually. Apparently I'm just lazy. Let's see...

• Thanksgiving came and went. And made me fatter. Christmas also came and went. And made me fatter... but richer... with presents... so I didn't hold as much resentment towards it as I did with Thanksgiving.

• I decided to stop tanning. For about 4 good (or bad, depending on who you're speaking with) years of my life, I looked like this...

Yes, this picture is from Halloween 2 years ago. I was the best damn Snooki this side of Albuquerque, ask anyone.  Sadly, I really didn't have to bronze myself up very much in order to achieve this wonderful shade of Oompa Loompa. As much as I've enjoyed resembling a pumpkin for the majority of my adult life, I decided I didn't want to look like a shriveled up and over cooked 60 year old by age 30. So, here's a photo I took of myself yesterday. I've been tanning-bed-free for about 3 months now, and in my opinion I look healthier, illuminant, and not to mention much more lively...

What do you guys think? I hear pale is the new tan.

What else?

• Oh, I've realized that I'm at the point in life where people my age (myself included) truly believe we want our (I'll use the word "mate" for lack of better terminology...) "mate" to possess certain characteristics, however, we're all really living in a fantasy land, and subliminally want someone who is the polar opposite of what we think we want. Keeping up? No? Good.

Like I said, I'm actually a culprit of this disgusting and perturbing mind ailment. I blame libido.

Here's my (and many others) dilemma...

I tell myself, and actually preach to my peers, that I want to end up with a down-home country boy, who opens doors for women, uses words like please and thank you in every conversation, knows how to repair houses and cars and everything for that matter, and says his prayers, thanking God for his life every night before he lays down in bed.

Keeping all that in mind, please examine an example of the specimen that instinctually makes me double take, giggle, and blush due to the PG-13 thoughts that automatically come to mind while I'm in his hypothetical presence...

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and bet 20 bucks that he doesn't say please and thank you too often. 

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• I recently learned that "SMH" doesn't mean someone is making the noise that those letters would make...  as in "Oh, smhhhhhhh, be quiet!" but it stands for "Shaking My Head" ... 

Now that I know it's proper usage in pop culture, I've found myself doing quite a bit of "SMH" lately... and it's all because of these damn random realizations about life. It's a vicious cycle, I tell you.

Alright, I promise I will get better at this. I might be 78 when that happens, but it WILL happen... you have my word.