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.