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HI MOM
Somewhere over the past three and a half years since I graduated from NYU, I stopped playing drinking games.
And by drinking games, I clearly just mean Kings Cup because that’s really the only drinking game I ever knew how to play except actually, I don’t think I knew how to play at all and I don’t think anyone else knew how to play either because every time we sat down to get a game started someone was always like, “Wait, what the fuck are the rules to this game again?” and we’d have to write out all the different types of cards and assign rules to each one and the rules were never exactly the same as the time before or the time after because we were all too drunk and stupid to, you know, SAVE the list of rules.
I loved that damn game though, because once the rules were written out, you didn’t have to think anymore. Someone picked a four and the girls drank, someone picked a queen and you did that weird question asking thing, someone picked an ace and started the drinking waterfall where you couldn’t stop drinking until the person next to you stopped drinking and this was my least favorite one because I didn’t drink beer in college so everyone would play with PBR and I’d be playing with vodka cranberry and halfway through the game when other people were getting tipsy I was getting naked and oh man it’s just now becoming clear to me why I made so many bad decisions in college and why even the thought of vodka cranberry makes me want to stab a baby panda.
ANYWAY, revisiting the glory of this game has me thinking of making a set of arbitrary Kings Cup style rules for my day to day life, only instead of them being rules that I have to abide by, they’ll be rules other people have to abide by because I’m tired of people doing weird shit around me all the time. Like, okay, a few months ago when I was doing the nomadic lifestyle thing I was in a public restroom in DC and this girl crawled under the door and into my stall while I was peeing and I know you’re thinking that she was like 3 years old and she was in the next stall over with her mother but she was actually more like 12 years old and she was in the bathroom alone and she just crawled under and I was like, “Um, the fuck?” and she’s all, “Hi!” and I’m like, “No no no no no no.”
So not doing this is going to be my first rule. My other rules, from unfortunate personal experience, are that you’re not allowed to bring raw chicken on the bus. And that you’re not allowed to run your fingers through my hair if you don’t know me. And that you’re not allowed to continuously resend Facebook fan page invitations to me for the same shit over and over again because if I ignored your first request to become a fan of your garage or whatever the whatever you’re trying to get me to promote for you, chances are I’m not going to see the second or the tenth invitation to become a fan of your garage and be all, “THANK GOD YOU INVITED ME AGAIN YES PLEASE ACCEPT ACCEPT.”
Wait, WAIT. Speaking of rules and deciding other people’s actions: remember back in November when I was drunk in the JFK airport and I had that wondrous idea to let my Twitter followers plan my life for a day? I just realized that I never did it and that it really is the best worst idea ever and if my vodka cranberry baby panda stabbing days mean anything, I love best worst ideas so hell yeah let’s get started on this with you commenting and telling me what you want me to do on this day and then I’ll take all of the suggestions that are awesome and put together the most ridiculous day ever and you’ll get credit and photo evidence of the thing you picked and maybe even video evidence if I can figure out how to record a video and are you ready to start suggesting things? Make sure you’re following me on Twitter if you’re making a suggestion because that’s how this entire thing is going to be documented and planned. And make sure your suggestion doesn’t interfere with my being totally broke and totally scared of jail, herpes, clowns, and bicycles. Yes, bicycles. Don’t ask. Or do. Or use that as your suggestion, me telling you the story of why I’m scared of bicycles on camera while wearing a bumble bee costume and drinking tequila and gargling the ABCs.
I’m so good at gargling the ABCs.
Fuck, shut up Nicole, stop giving away all your secret talents.
And stop talking in third person.
And stop wearing leggings as pants because it totally violates your about page.
(Except don’t stop that because OH MY GOD THE ACTUAL ACTUAL ACTUAL COMFORT.)
Wait, is your suggestion going to be for me to get rid of my leggings? God, I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I’m basically going to be Twitter’s bitch. Or your bitch. Or someone’s bitch.
DON’T DROP THE SOAP.
–
Also? I’m over at Toy With Me today, discussing what Google has taught me about my vagina.
Let’s talk about that moment, the one where you’re all, “Ah ha! So that’s what being an adult looks like.”
It happened to me about halfway through third grade. We were living in London at the time (another story for another Wednesday), and my parents and I spent weekend afternoons exploring our new city and going on “family walks.” (Wait, mom, I’m only now realizing that it’s totally fucking weird how everything we used to do was preceded by the word family. Out for the day? A family outing! Trouble? Time to call a family meeting!) God, when I get pregnant can you all please remind me not to do that?
NO MOM I’M NOT PREGNANT, SIT BACK DOWN.
So, it was halfway through third grade and it was a weekend afternoon and we were on a family walk, which means I was complaining because I’m a brat and my mom pointed to an ice cream truck and was all, “If I get you an ice cream sandwich, will you shut the fuck up?” and I was like, “ICE CREAM IN MY MOUTH HOLE” so she pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to me and I realized that ah ha! the secret to being an adult means always, always having cash in your wallet. No matter what. Dollar bills and five dollar bills and twenty dollar bills. All the time.
How true is this though? Don’t your parents always have cash? Mine do and real adults do and yet I never have cash and therefore by this definition I’m an absolutely horrible adult. I just can’t carry cash around. I’m a meticulous budget balancer and once I’ve gotten cash out of the ATM and mentally deducted it from my budget, what I spend it on somehow doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I walk around and I’m all, “I have cash! Dollar dollar bills ya’ll! Gimme twelve Blow Pops and three copies of US Weekly and twelve more Blow Pops and stop judging me because I’m paying in CASH and I love Blow Pops and how do they get the gum inside there and when can I visit the Blow Pop factory and find out??”
Oh man, speaking of, a few months ago I was watching Unwrapped on the Food Network, that show where they do behind the scenes tours of all different food production facilities, and it was an episode all about candy and they actually did go to the Blow Pop factory and I was maddeningly jealous because everyone who worked there looked so goddamn happy and maybe it was just for the TV cameras but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because how in the how could watching those genius machines magically get gum inside a lollipop all day not make you completely fucking ecstatic? Those machines make my mind explode. It’s like, have you SEEN the equipment responsible for mass food production? It’s crazycakes. Like, who came up with that? How does someone just wake up one Thursday morning and go, “This is how to make there be gum inside a lollipop!” or “This is how to fill eleventy thousand Twinkies with weird fake cream in under an hour!”or “This is how to make planes fly!” and I know, I know, planes aren’t the same as Blow Pops and Twinkies and I don’t even like Twinkies but I don’t care how many times my engineering major ex boyfriend explained it to me, I SIMPLY CAN’T COMPREHEND HOW 147,000 POUNDS OF ALUMINUM CAN JUST FLOAT THROUGH THE AIR LIKE THAT AND YES THAT’S THE ACTUAL ACTUAL WEIGHT OF A BOEING 747 AND I KNOW BECAUSE I LOOKED IT UP AND IN CASE YOU WANT ANOTHER FUN FACT THESE SAME PLANES HAVE SIX MILLION PARTS.
Six! Million! Parts! FLYING THROUGH THE AIR!
Thinking about this makes my brain do the Helen Keller thing. Maybe I should just stop trying to figure out how planes fly and how the internet works and how to do laundry before I entirely run out of underwear and stick instead to being in the business of overdosing on iced tea and researching heinous sexual terms and stalking my name through Google Alerts except maybe NOT because the Google Alerts keep telling me about a woman named Antoinette Nicole Davis who was recently accused of selling her 5 year old daughter into SEXUAL SLAVERY before the girl was MURDERED and news about it comes to my inbox like everyday and I have the pleasure of learning things like how this same woman is pregnant AGAIN and my question for you is shouldn’t the people who make planes fly figure out a way to stop shit like this from happening and and and WHY ARE PEOPLE RUINING MY NICOLE ANTOINETTE-NESS?
At some point over the last, like, forever, I got added onto an absurd amount of email lists. So many email lists that I’m pretty sure there’s someone out there who hates me and gets off to repeatedly submitting and resubmitting my email address to all the possible newsletters in the history of newsletters and laughing maniacally about how I’m getting daily updates from the Republican Party and Monster.com and oh my god could I possibly be any LESS Republican or any less on the job hunt??
Initially, my technique was to just delete the newsletters as they came in, unopened, until I finally realized that um, if I want the horror to stop I have to actually unsubscribe to each newsletter individually. So I did. I diligently opened each one, scrolled to the bottom, clicked unsubscribe, got taken to a ridiculous webpage asking me questions about why I was unsubscribing that were always multiple choice when really they should have been fill in the blank so I could be all, “BECAUSE I’M AN EMPLOYED DEMOCRAT AND BESIDES WHICH I NEVER SIGNED UP FOR THIS OBNOXIOUS ASS EMAIL IN THE FIRST PLACE THANK YOU GO AWAY THE END.”
And then? Well, and then a sigh of relief. EXCEPT NOT. Because apparently clicking unsubscribe and telling the website why I’m unsubscribing isn’t enough. And so the emails keep coming and coming and coming. And not in the good “that’s what she said” way. In the bad way where it’s like, “oh my actual actual GOD, enough already with the never ending newsletters about frozen yogurt and shoes and why aren’t all customer service issues dealt with by the wonder that is OnStar where you simply push one single button and you’re connected to a REAL LIVE PERSON who tells you their name and asks what you need and then does that EXACT THING in a timely manner while being overwhelmingly pleasant and sometimes even asking about the weather??”
So yeah, I basically want an OnStar-like entity to follow me around and run my entire life and yes that’s exactly as Big Brother-ey as it sounds but I mean can you imagine? “Oh hello there Nicole, you’re looking exceptionally gorgeous this morning. Love the pigtails. Would you care for an orgasm and some French toast? And the most recent US Weekly? And a massage by John Mayer? And the ability to exercise while drinking tequila? And some new shoes? And an explanation as to which lips that Vegan Vulva Lip Balm should be used on? And to never be on another unwanted email newsletter list ever ever ever? Excellent, I’ll get right on it and in the meantime here’s $100.”
TELL ME THAT WOULDN’T BE THE ABSOLUTE GLORY HOLE LIFE
HOW CAN WE MAKE THIS HAPPEN
NO SERIOUSLY
HUGS AND KISSES AND LEPRECHAUNS FOR EVERYONE
I’M PROBABLY JUST GOING TO KEEP YELLING UNTIL I GET WHAT I WANT
OR UNTIL I LOSE MY VOICE
OR UNTIL SOMEONE BRINGS ME A BIG HOT SOURDOUGH PRETZEL BECAUSE THAT SOUNDS SO DAMN DELICIOUS RIGHT NOW
HI MOM
When I first got the email, I thought it was maybe some kind of joke. So I read it again and apparently no, it wasn’t a joke and the crazy people at Intel actually were inviting me to attend their Youth Rock Stars Summit at the Intel Headquarters and I was going to get put up in a hotel and by the by I would also be getting a FREE NETBOOK FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON and was I maybe interested in coming?
I mean, what? No seriously, tell me who is too busy or in possession of too many computers to be all, “You know, actually, I’m all set on a really nice hotel room and a delicious dinner and a behind the scenes tour of Intel and a tiny little computer that’s so cute you can basically put it in your pocket and pet it because it’s so little and oh yeah also it’s TOTALLY FREE??”
No one I know, that’s who.
Which is to say, of course I went to the Youth Rock Stars Summit last month and of course the entire time I was all darting around with my eyes, checking out the social media bloggers and the tech bloggers and the PR people and I was like, “Do they know that I’m wildly inappropriate and that I blog mostly about my vagina?” and I kept waiting for someone to kick me out but it never happened and apparently they really *did* know that I’m wildly inappropriate and that I blog mostly about my vagina and therefore no one was surprised when we went around the room and shared the things we knew about Intel prior to coming to the event and everyone was like, “processors and chips and blah blah computer stuff” and all I heard was “blah blah shit that I don’t understand but if you’d like to talk about wine and sex toys I promise I’ll have something much more coherent to say” and yet I somehow managed to put together a sentence that was more or less, “Intel = computers?” and everyone laughed and I’m thinking no seriously, give me some fucking techie CliffsNotes and then I didn’t know what else to do because the speaker, Mario Paniccia, went back to his presentation and he was off on some tangent about copper and conductivity or maybe it wasn’t about copper or conductivity at all but who the hell knows because everyone was live tweeting smart shit and all I could think to do was tweet about how hot Mario is and tag it #IntelYouth like they told us to do all day and I know I know, but WHAT THE HELL KIND OF SHENANIGANS DID THEY EXPECT WHEN THEY SENT ME THE DAMN EMAIL INVITATION IN THE FIRST PLACE.
And here’s the fucking craziest thing, IT HAPPENED AGAIN. The email invitation thing I mean, except this time it was less about computers and more about cars and food because Best of Tours was asking if I would maybe like to spend the entire day being driven around San Francisco in brand new Chevy vehicles, eating delicious street food for free and also there’s a gift bag at the end that has truffles and jam except they didn’t mention the gift bag up front but I went anyway and that was just a glorious surprise when it happened.
So that’s what I did yesterday. I drove around in a Camaro and ate hot dogs and creme brulee and all kinds of other street food and the moral of this story is that I’m pretty stoked that people seem to want me and my vagina at events that have nothing to do with me or my vagina but please keep it coming because I love free shit and I love being the person that everyone who is actually supposed to be at the event raises an eyebrow at as they’re all, “I checked out your blog” in a way that really means, “What the fucking fuck fuck are you doing here?” and I smile and say, “Oh yeah?” in a way that actually means, “DUDE I KNOW RIGHT??”
In conclusion, please keep inviting me to your really cool shit at which I don’t belong and I’ll keep coming and hitting on the presenters and eating the free food and enjoying the swag. Or, alternatively, if you don’t have a cool event to invite me to you should probably just invite me over to your house instead and we’ll bake coffee cake and drink tea unless of course you don’t like coffee cake or tea in which case we probably shouldn’t be friends in the first place.