by nicoleantoinette on June 28, 2009
At my day camp, all of the staff members ditch their real names for the summer and adopt a chosen “camp name.” During the application and interview process, I always caution new employees to CHOOSE THEIR FUCKING NAME CAREFULLY, because they’re going to be stuck with it for the entirety of their camp lives.
My nickname, Bubbles, is one that I picked on a whim- I think because I was chewing an enormous wad of bubblegum at the time, and although I like that it’s cute and spunky, there’s also the small issue of it sounding like I’m a dirty, dirty stripper who molests lollipops while wearing pigtails and turquoise nipple tassels.
The problem here, in addition to the fact that I actually do love lollipops and wear pigtails all the damn time (no comment on the nipple tassels), is that I often see campers outside of camp- at the grocery store, at dinner, at the mall, and they think it’s incredibly fun to yell “HEEYYYYY BUBBLES!!!” from really, ridiculously far away. Which is when unsuspecting strangers turn around and look at me with eyes that are all “that’s not an appropriate nickname when you work with kids,” and I’m like, “your FACE isn’t appropriate for kids.”
And on top of the rampant public screaming, my nickname also gets me chatted up by strangers while running errands after camp. My first mistake, clearly, was printing “Bubbles” on the back of my staff shirt, because I’ll be at Costco, buying $400 worth of chocolate syrup and whipped cream for Messy Games Day and some guy in line is all, “Sooo, Bubbles, that’s quite a lot of whipped cream for one person.” And I’m like, “IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO?” And he’s all, “looks like it’ll be quite a party.” And I’m like, “get your mind out of the fucking gutter.” And he’s all, “you’re just missing the cherry on top.” And I’m like, “Okay, first of all? You’re in your mid-forties, STOP SHOPPING AT ABERCROMBIE. And secondly, don’t your kids go to my camp? So maybe you could stop being a sleazy mcdoucherson for like, six fucking seconds.”
by nicoleantoinette on June 22, 2009
When Frankie first bought a truck, I was all “Really? You? An F150?” Because I just didn’t see it. But he was like, “Do you have any idea how awesome this will be for camp? Like, when we’re doing the pre-BBQ Costco shop and can easily haul everything back in one trip?” And I was all, “Oh shit, true story.”
So we’re at Costco this afternoon, Frankie and I and one of our counselors, because today was the first day of camp and the Summer Kick-Off BBQ is tomorrow night. And we’re walking through Costco, grabbing hamburgers and chips and running our mouths off about how it was the “best first day of camp ever and oh my fuck we’re so awesome and the new kids are so little and cute and we’re fantastic and camp is going to be great and did we mention it’s the best first day ever?”
And then we pay for everything, load it all into his truck bed, continue with our raging egos, and head back toward camp. Once we get there, he pulls through the rear gate, we wave to one of our campers who’s riding his bike around the property, and Frankie goes to back up to the kitchen doors, just like we’ve done a thousand times, and as he’s backing up we’re still running our fucking mouths off about how AWESOME we are and how SMOOTH the first day was and he’s getting closer and closer to the kitchen doors and then all of a sudden the car jerks as he tries to break, slips, hits the gas, tries to break again, slams on the gas, and then I hear this loud noise and he throws the car into park and I look up and I’m thinking “holy shit we broke the glass on the doors” and I turn around and realize that yeah, we broke the glass on the doors, but only because WE BACKED THROUGH THEM INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING KITCHEN.
Um.. YEAH. Everyone’s fine. Although I’m pretty sure the camper riding his bike next to us full on shit his pants. And did I mention that I’m really looking forward to day 2 of camp, when I have to explain that, um, that part of the building that was there yesterday? Yeah, not so much anymore.
by nicoleantoinette on June 18, 2009
So my parents were in town last week. For five days. Which was wonderful because they’re my parents and I love them and it was my birthday, but there’s also the slight matter of them being MY PARENTS and the fact that they stayed in my tiny apartment for FIVE DAYS. Which is to say that I didn’t sleep for FIVE DAYS because of the three of us, I’m the insomniac, my father is the snorer, and my mother- well my mother fucking yells in her sleep.
Yes, my life is just as wildly fun as it seems- I promise.
Also fun are the things I learned over the weekend. Like the fact that my father refuses to get a hearing aid because “really, everyone should just sit on his good side and talk at a higher volume.” And the small, not-at-all-life-shattering fact that my mother isn’t sure if she believes in evolution.
The topic came up out of nowhere. She and I were on the drive back from San Diego, having just spent the day celebrating my grandpa’s 87th birthday, and we were talking about potatoes of all things and she mentions, casually, that she’s rather on the fence about evolution and that I shouldn’t even get her started on the creation of the planet earth. To which I replied, “um, what the fuck did you just say?” And she was all, “watch your fucking mouth” and I was like “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN EVOLUTION?” And she was all, “I just like my version better.” And I dared to ask, “your version?” And she’s like, “you know, with God, and the Flintstones.”
Which, naturally, is when I started faking grand mal seizures, yelling that “YOU CAN’T COMPARE SCIENCE TO THE FLINTSTONES” and she’s all, “I’m trying to teach you about Adam and Eve!” And I’m like, “YOU’RE TRYING TO GET ME TO TEAR MY FACE OFF AND THROW MYSELF OUT OF THIS FUCKING CAR .” And she goes, “listen young lady, I’m just too pretty to have descended from an ape.”
by nicoleantoinette on June 12, 2009
I have a bright pink duffle bag that I use when I go on weekend trips. It’s the perfect bag really, big enough for all my shit, but small enough to still be considered a carry-on item and save me the fucking ridiculous minimum-$15-per-checked-bag fee.
So this bag? it’s a good thing I’m such a fan of it, seeing as how I’m going to be living out of it come September and all. Yeah, you heard me. LIVING OUT OF A SMALL PINK DUFFLE BAG.
Because here’s the thing: tomorrow is my 24th birthday and I’ve finally realized that life moves fucking quickly, and that it moves just as fucking quickly whether you’re doing what you want to do or not.
And what I want to do is travel. I want less stuff and more freedom. Freedom to move slowly across the country and live in the present, freedom to eat new foods, see new sights, drink new wines, hear new stories, touch new lives. I want to write. I want to check things off my Life List. I want to volunteer, to expand HandsIn and really make a huge nationwide push for 20-something activism. I want to sleep on couches, in tents, on buses, in hostels- maybe even out in an open field somewhere. I want to push my limits, leap the fuck outside my comfort zone, and meet as many people as I can.
Which brings me to the eleventy thousand dollar question: would you like to host one very spunky, very hug-able, very crazy-in-a-good-way Nicole Antoinette on your couch for a few nights this fall? I’m planning my entire route around the spare couches of the blogosphere and am going to be traveling from September until, well, until I run out of couches!
I guess you could say that this decision is spontaneous, but really? it’s been a long time coming. And there you have it, my birthday wish: to meet as many lovely bloggers as possible before I turn 25. So, if you and your couch (or floor!) are interested, let me know what city you’re in and what your schedule is like this fall!
Because as far as I’m concerned, more of all of you in my life is DEFINITELY better.
by nicoleantoinette on June 8, 2009
Because I’m an utterly fantastic daughter, I called my mom last Thursday to update her on my weekend travel details.
“Okay so I’m picking two of the girls up from the Burbank airport tonight, and then we’re leaving for Vegas really early tomorrow morning.”
“To meet the other blog people?”
“They’re real people mom.”
“That’s what she said.”
“What? Anyway, we’re staying at The Luxor, but I’ll have my phone all weekend in case you need me or anything.”
“I better not find any topless photos of you on the internet on Monday.”
“Um, excuse me?”
“You know, PHOTOS IN WHICH I CAN SEE YOUR NIPPLES.”
“What kind of meet-up do you think I’ve organized here??”
“One with people from the internet.”
“Mom, I’m a BLOGGER, not a PORN STAR.”
“I don’t care that you’re almost 24 years old! I’ll never take my mom hat off! Ever! You can’t stop this!”
“What are you SAYING?”
“People won’t respect you if you aren’t a lady.”
“Okay, we’re not even having the same conversation anymore.”
“And remember that time you were so hungover you wanted to peel your face off with a seafood fork!”
“I’m hanging up on you.”
“Don’t make me say I told you-”
Click.
Anyway, now that I’m on the other side of the (best ever) Vegas trip, I have happily assured my mother that I wasn’t at all hungover the entire weekend (win!) and that I’m 86% sure that there aren’t any topless photos of me on the internet.
Eh, 84%.
So while we’re waiting for those to surface (Just kidding mom! Or am I…? No really mom, get off the floor, I’m just kidding), I thought I’d share that while in Vegas, I:
1. Jumped in a freezing cold fountain
2. Somehow managed to then convince four other people to jump in an even BIGGER fountain with me while I tried to stick my hand up my dress.
and 3. Realized my life long dream of being a two-person-sideways airplane.
by nicoleantoinette on June 2, 2009
I’d like to preface this post with the following statement: GETTING PULLED OVER BY A COP IN REAL LIFE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING LIKE IT IS IN THE FUCKING MOVIES.
Initially, I didn’t even know that I was being pulled over, since it was my first time, but when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the cop on his motorcycle, lights all flashy flashy in my eyes, I screamed, cursed, and decided that pulling over was better than potentially ending up on the 5:00 news.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t mean to be on my cell phone. I mean I did, obviously, because I called her, but the phone was literally only in my hand for a fucking SECOND before I pressed the speakerphone button and put it down on the passenger seat.
And yet apparently, in California, one second of touching your phone equals a $120 ticket. A HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLAR TICKET.
The cop who pulled me over was nice enough- well, as nice as you can possibly be when you’re a big douchy asshole who gives someone a HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLAR TICKET for something that isn’t nearly as dangerous as eating a sandwich while driving. And yet that’s perfectly legal and I see people basically eating five course dinners in their car while simultaneously masturbating and putting on mascara all the fucking time.
So I saw the flashy lights, pulled over, rolled down my window, and we chatted for a bit, the cop and I. And by “chatted,” I mean I desperately tried to bat my eyelashes at him and make him feel bad that it’s almost my birthday and I’ve “never ever been pulled over before in my whole life ever I promise amen,” but that shit got me NOWHERE. I even gave him the “if-you-ask-nicely-for-a-peek-at-my-nipples-in-exchange-for-a-warning-I’ll-totally-do-it-and-by-the-way-I-have-great-nipples” face, but… nothing.
Which brings us back to the fact that getting pulled over by a cop in real life is absolutely nothing like it is in the movies (porno or otherwise) and I’m now completely convinced that either I’m not as cute as I think I am, or the cop was gayer than a box of Elton John shaped rainbows.
I’m hoping for the latter.
by nicoleantoinette on May 31, 2009
So last week, my 106 year old male gynecologist put me on a new kind of birth control pill. Because the kind I was on before was costing me $62 a month. Which, granted, is cheaper than having a fucking baby- but STILL. $62 a month? That’s over 50 packs of gum. Or 10 shots of tequila. Or a tiny fraction of the ambulance bill I’d need after 10 shots of said tequila.
Anyway, this new kind of pill is only $24 a month, which is thrilling, but here’s the thing: actually taking the pills is SO CONFUSING. I’ve spent the past nine years or so on the kind of pill that comes in a round pack and I’m used to the three different color pills that you just go around the circle taking one every day. That shit is pretty much impossible to mess up.
But these new pills? I opened them the other night and saw that 1. they’re arranged in a fucking rectangle, and 2. they’re ALL THE SAME COLOR. Which is when I totally freaked out because, um, WHERE THE HELL DO I START? Where’s the first pill? They’re all white! WHAT’S GOING ON??
I took a deep breath. Clearly, the only sensible thing was to read the directions, but when I pulled out the pamphlet I saw that it was like eleventy thousand pages long and basically superglued together. It seriously look me approximately six minutes to open the damn thing and when I finally started scanning through it, I was all, “where the fuck is the English section??” HELLO- I’M NOT HAVING SEX IN JAPANESE.
It was at about this point that I started seriously questioning the need to be on birth control at all, because really? having a kid would be a lot less stressful than figuring out how to take these damn pills in the first place.
Finally, I found the section I was looking for, the section that was like, “here’s a diagram on how to just fucking start your pills already.” And I was all, “THANK YOU.” And it was like, “so here’s when you start the pill if it’s your first time taking birth control, but here’s what you do if it’s Sunday, and here’s what you do if you miss a day, and if you’re blonde, and if it’s the twelfth Monday of January and you’re doing a naked tribal dance in the rain.” And I was all, “I JUST WANT TO HAVE SEX WITHOUT GETTING PREGNANT.” And it was like, “oh okay, but here’s what you do if you start vomiting, or if you get blood clots, or if you think you’re having a stroke.”
Which is when I screamed, gave up, and just took what I hope was the first pill in the pack. Making this the post to come back to about a year from now when you’re watching one of those “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I had a baby on the side of the freeway” shows and you think, “wow, that looks a lot like that one chick who’s always blogging about tequila and her vagina.”
by nicoleantoinette on May 26, 2009
Sometimes, I wonder why I’m such a fucking asshat. Why I think it’s a perfectly great idea to book flights at absurd times. Flights that leave at 6am are NOT OKAY, especially for an insomniac, because a 6am flight means getting up at 4am, and 4am is basically my BED TIME. Flights that get in after midnight are also not okay. And yet that’s how I got to and from Denver this weekend. See? Asshat.
But! On a less rant-ey note, DENVER-WAS-AMAZING-AND-OH-MY-FUCK-SO-MUCH-FUN.
There was white wine and shopping and hysterical laughter and red wine and movies and cheese plates and beer and video blogging and music and tequila and thunderous rain storms that had me convinced that we’d be those people on the news who get stuck on top of their cars on a flooding freeway.
In addition to the flooding, there was also the night that Mr.5280 and I tried to convince Chelsea to enter an amateur strip competition. We made some solid arguments:
“You’re so bendy!”
“We promise we won’t blog about it!”
“We’ll consider paying you $100!!”
But in the end she didn’t do it. Her reason? “But guys, my underwear isn’t cute enough!” Naturally, because I’m such a lovely friend, I offered to switch underwear with her in the bathroom. Turns out my underwear wasn’t cute enough either. So instead, we both stayed in our seats, fully clothed, watching the two-man bachelor party going on next to us and discussing the pressing need to purchase sexier undergarments.
The best part of it all is that we didn’t just go to the strip club- we closed down the damn strip club and pretty much had to be asked to leave. Which on one hand makes me sound like both a whore and an alcoholic, and on the other hand makes me think that I should probably bring a video camera with me to the Bloggers in Sin City Meet-Up in Las Vegas next weekend.
Speaking of: I’ve decided that I’m going to do one super ridiculous thing in Vegas. And I’m taking votes on what that thing should be. You can suggest as many ridiculous things as you want, up until I leave on the morning of June 5, and the suggestion I pick will earn an equally ridiculous prize.
Keep in mind that last time I went to Vegas, Chelsea received a penis shaped ice tray in the mail for absolutely no reason.
Yeah, it’s that kind of thing. Now go get your suggesting on.
by nicoleantoinette on May 19, 2009
Remember how I don’t own a bed? And therefore sleep on an air mattress on the floor? Yeah, about that.
I went to inflate the damn thing the other day and apparently, the motor is broken. Is it even called a motor? Fuck, I don’t know, the thing that puts the air in the air mattress, that thing. Yeah, it’s fucking broken. So, in a matter of seconds, I went from sleeping on an air mattress on the floor to just flat out sleeping directly on the damn floor. Which makes me feel both adventurous and trashy- kind of like having sex outdoors.
Speaking of sex, part one of the American Idol finale was tonight. What? You don’t find that overwhelmingly sexual? Fine, you know what, you’re not invited to my threesome with Adam and Kris.
So suck on that.
Although, just a thought, maybe I shouldn’t be having a threesome in which one guy is married and the other is clearly gay? Particularly after the interrogation I went through at my new gynecologist yesterday. My new gynecologist who’s also male, 106 years old, overwhelmingly efficient, and very into quick fire questioning.
“How long since your last pap smear?”
“Um, about two years.”
“Do you know you’re supposed to get one at least every 12 months?”
“Yes, I-”
“Have you gotten the HPV vaccine?”
“No, not quite ye-”
“Are you currently sexually active? Are your partners men, women, or both? Do you feel pain during intercourse? Have you ever had a bladder or kidney infection? How many sexual partners have you had? When was your first period? Do you use condoms every single time? Do you perform self breast exams?”
“AHHHHH.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh my GOD. FINE! I WANT TO HAVE A THREESOME WITH ADAM LAMBERT AND KRIS ALLEN.”
“What?”
“And Chuck Bass!! You heard me: I WANT A CONDOM-LESS FOURSOME WITH A MARRIED GUY, A GAY GUY, AND A FICTIONAL TV CHARACTER.”
by nicoleantoinette on May 16, 2009
I woke up on Thursday morning with raging strep throat. When you get strep approximately four times per year, you get pretty great at recognizing it and immediately dragging yourself to Urgent Care.
I arrived and went through the all-too-familiar process: sign in, wait, attempt to not pass out, get called back, step on the scale, tell the nurse that I have strep, listen to her speech about how I shouldn’t be so quick to self-diagnose because I might have mono or tonsillitis, raise my eyebrows at my very large, very strep-ey medical file in her hands, say nothing, go through my symptoms, do the blood pressure thing, the thermometer under the tongue thing, and finally, the strep test thing.
Lay down, attempt to not pass out, meet with the doctor, hear that oh, by the by, I have strep, hold back from yelling “I fucking told you so” at the nurse, listen to the doctor discuss how I should consider getting my tonsils out, tell her that omg! she’s the first to ever suggest that! and ask her if she’s going to pay for it, watch her start to write out a prescription, until she stops, saying, “you know, antibiotics interfere with your birth control pills.” I tell her that I’ve been through this drill many, many times (why aren’t they reading my file??), and that yes, I know all about it. She hands me the prescription. I get up. She reminds me about back up birth control. I stare at her. I walk to the reception counter, I pay, I open the door to leave, she yells after me, “use condoms!!”
Which is when I stop and think, “what the fuck?” I mean, what have I done to make this doctor think I’m such an uncontrollable slut that she has to remind me THREE TIMES about alternative birth control methods? There’s nothing in my file about STDs, it’s not like I come in for repeat chlamydia treatment or anything. So yeah, what the fuck?
I walked out confused and left for the pharmacy. Drugs in hand, I walked back to my car and saw that in the 20 minutes I had spent waiting for my prescription to be filled, some asshat had come along and put ridiculously bright pink real estate development fliers on all the cars in the parking lot. I fucking hate when people do that and got to my car ready to pull the bright pink paper off and tear it up in defiant protest. Except there wasn’t a bright pink flier on my car. No, slid into the windshield wipers on my car was a newsletter from the Tony Alamo Christian Ministry.
Um, WHAT THE FUCK? Obviously, I proceeded to FREAK THE HELL OUT. I mean, where was my real estate flier? Why did the Jesus people only newsletter ME? Maybe they didn’t, I thought. I took a deep breath, temporarily calmed down, and walked up and down the entire parking lot aisle in search of other newsletters. Nothing. It was just me. JUST ME.
Maybe the doctor called them? Maybe she’s FOLLOWING ME? At which point I gave up and thought, “thank heavenly testicles I’m already in therapy.”
