You've been Drugged, sucka

Well, I got to see the shell of my parents house... and so did about thirty other people who stopped by when we were there. Completion by July 15th? No fucking way. It's so not close to being done that while I was there, I made some architectural design changes (always adhering to the credo "what's theirs is mine.") It’s true that when my parents bought the house they only cared about one thing – location. So, there was never a doubt that the house needed some updating, but I don’t think anyone expected what lay ahead. It’s like when I say, “I’m hungry for a burrito,” but it really means, “a #6, two rancho chicken tacos, and a nachos locos.” But, it’s all worth it; it’s the house they’ll live in until they die… or until the “vitamins” I’ve been sending them finally allow me to check them into some low grade assisted living center and give me the freedom to sell their possessions off to feed my personal addictions.

Casa de Nada

The long weekend is totally welcomed!! Last minute, I decided to hop a plane home. I have not been home since September. In addition to the outstanding warrant for my arrest (which has been cleared, thank you legal team), I haven’t been home because I don’t really have a home to go back to. In October, my parents began some serious renovation and have been living in a rental house and since March, in a hotel. Needless to say, the allure of going home to a pair of adjoining hotel rooms (a hotel in a mid size town) is hardly alluring... the Ritz, sure - the Local Inn and Suites, not so much. My parents are six or so weeks out of completion and I am actually pretty stoked to see the progress thus far, although I would never tell my parents this. If I told them I was excited about them actually doing something just for them (and not me), they may begin to think I've been broken and have cast aside my selfish ways. Shit, they may assume I actually like them and do not constantly sit in judgment of their choices and if they think that, the outcome could be catastrophic - I mean, what if they fealt they no longer needed to make efforts to buy my love?!!?! Then what would I do - live on a budget?! Please, that is sooo uncool.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

Man, I really want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm pretty sick to my stomach with work stuff, but boy oh boy, could I go for PB & J. I could also go for some great sex... but the sandwich is much cheaper.

Indifference

I don’t know what kind of jobs y’all have, but… wait a sec, there are like four readers - I rescind that last statement. I do know what kind of job y’all have and as a result, I can say with almost certainty that you have never been the most hated person in your facility by sheer job alone. Sure people hate you once they get to know you, but job title – not likely. With that in mind, let’s just say May has not been Nicole’s month here at the plant. I have had the sole responsibility of squeezing every last ounce of productivity out of the operators here. For example, and forgive me for nerding out for a moment, let’s say an operator can physically assemble 10 dildos per hour, but we’ve only been supplying them the parts at a rate to assemble 9 per hour. Now, "we’ve" increased the parts supply to 10 per hour.. Naturally, it’s much more complicated than that but it comes down to the same basic principle of making them work more productively. Of course, I am not actually the one driving this change, but for those of you who don’t already know, engineers are the little bitches who do the master’s biding. Oh and to make matters worse, they had previously been given “set-up” time, which amounted to nothing more than bullshit with your friends time. I also had the pleasure of informing them that those days are over, my compadres. People hate me but it’s why I get paid… well, and I’m giving my boss bathroom hand jobs on the side, but more for the engineering thing, I’m sure. Anyway, the hammer has been lowered on these slackers and it appears to the operators that my hand has administered the blow. Administered the blow… at my job – ha, blowjob, ha.

"Fry"day

You know you’re a fast food junkie when you can tell where a person picked up lunch simply by the smell of his or her fries.

You know you’re a beer junkie when you can tell a domestic beer simply by the color.

You know you’re a plain 'ol junkie when you can tell the quality of the weed simply by the seed count.

All true observations from the day... and why the fuck am I still working past 3:30 on a Friday. Fuck, man, fuck.

Not Just Any Elektric Band

Alright, the reason I am behind at work is because I left work early on Monday… officially, to go to a concert; unofficially, to go drink. I had bought four tickets to Fall Out Boy / All American Rejects and everyone bailed, leaving me to ask one of the work people to go with me. Luckily, she didn’t have other plans and agreed. We started drinking and after a few (read: 4) beers and a (read: two) shot, we hit the road, er, train.

We hit the venue and yikes, we felt old… with the exception of the parents there chaperoning their kids. To make matters worse, the concert was being held on the UIC campus – so, no booze, a total Nazi rule but whatever. But in an unexpected turn, I went from feeling like a total NoFriends McLoser to being a resourceful chick with two extra tickets to be used to get back into the concert. Needless to say, we hoofed it to the nearest bar and started pounding liquor by the liter… nice.

A smart and responsible employee probably would’ve stopped drinking once she got home from the concert and not have gone out for a couple more… but then again, a responsible employee wouldn’t have allowed herself to get caught peeing in the janitor’s closet while coming down from an amazing high… and we all know how that ended up.

All in all, a good Monday . And DJ, you're right - I probably don't use enough pictures

Is that chest hair?!

Well, I may have officially become a man this weekend… sans the whole testes/penis thing. I guess that just makes me a major dyke – eh, there could be worse things. After all, I do love pussy. I came to this grim realization shorty after I ordered a pizza on Saturday … as I was polishing off a sixer of Miller Lite … watching the NBA finals from the bathroom floor … because I was plumbing the new toilet … and making plans to go to Mission Impossible III later. Sure, I am an independent woman and all, but there is a limit, even for me. I’d go on (and on, and on, as I do), but I am super swamped with about 4 more hours of work to get done before tomorrow… and it’s already 5 o’fricken clock.

KJ and Some Chick

No, this is not the hot girl on girl action you think it is... but those pictures have surfaced before, so it's not an altogether outlandish appeal.

You know how it creeps you out when you see someone who really looks like someone you know or, weirder yet, you. Well, yesterday, I was superbly bewildered. Browsing some trashy internet gossip site, I was floored when I brushed across a cast still of the new Vaughniston movie (that’s the Anniston and Vaughn names combined, a recent trend which I absolutely LOATH, and write it here only mordantly). In the photo was an actress with a frightening resemblance to that of our favorite Worth The Time kitten, KJ.

Note: I would’ve written about this earlier but waited to get permission from KJ to reveal her photo because what good does it do showing just the actress if you can’t see KJ’s ugly mug to compare. And then, after everything we’ve meant to each other, the ungrateful bitch said I couldn’t publish her picture!! Well, fuck her, it’s my blog and I’ll do what I want. What are you going to do – sue me? Yeah, good luck with that; be sure to ask the other people how their suits against me turned out. I mean, it’s not like I’m throwing out detailed information about my friend, Kallie Joanne, or even the fact that she lives at 1735 Ordean Court in Cedar Rapids, IA. So what’s the big deal!?!?

Ok, Kallie... I mean KJ, goes so far as to have the same legs (albeit about 6 inches more of them) and skin tone as this actress. I cannot truly express in words the stark similarities, so I included the visual.

My Green Monster

It's no Fenway, it's my backyard and yet, it derives the same emotion for me as I can only assume a sharp left-fielder feels against The Wall - the intimidation, the unpredictability, the mystique. A few weeks back, I tackled the lawn. (Note: the lawn won, but I'll get to that.) I was becoming the bad neighbor (this time, with regards to lawn maintenance, not the "other stuff" which led to my summer '99 arrest, not to be confused with my arraignment in the winter of '99). I knew it was only moments before flaming sacks of poo littered my front stoop. As I have stated before, I hate mowing the lawn. (I have been meaning to hire the people who tend to my neighbor's lawn, but haven't gotten around to it.) Since my detest runs deep, midway through the task, I got bored and quit. I had intentions on completing the chore in a timely manner, but intentions are just that and produce no results. Needless to say, the next time the mowing was due - the part I had left unkempt was a total nightmare... and not the kind that wakes up to morning sex. After less than a pass, I had to empty the bag. After I filled all the lawn refuse bags I had on hand, and two oversized cardboard boxes, I still had not finished the mission. The lawn had won again. Monday night, I finally finished her off. The drudgery continued when I came home last night to find the lawn dues for another cut. I begrudgingly pared the entire lawn... and admitted defeat. The oconsolationtion is that today it's raining and the green pasture of my rout did not have the last laugh.

It's the shits. (Pun intended - read on)

In homeowner news… and isn’t it just my luck. The main floor toilet broke a couple weekends ago and since I have the best fortune ever, the $.08 part that broke may end up costing me the expense of a complete bowl replacement – no, this isn't a joke or a cheap ploy to get you into bed. (Although, the upside to this household predicament is that I have been able to say the word, "ballcock," multiple times and actually sound intelligent. Well, truth be told, no one really sounds intelligent when they say, “ballcock,” but it is acceptable plumbing vernacular, so go sit on it.)

See, the ballcock (awesome, isn't it) installed with my toilet is not standard and the broken piece cannot be purchased at your local home improvement store. No, it must be special ordered and of course, the tiny part cannot be bought individually, so the entire ballcock must be replaced. And, we (we = the plumbing guy) are not even sure if that will work, according to the manufacturer’s booklet, so we (we = me) are ordering two different sets with the hope that we (we = plumbing guy) can throw something workable together. If that doesn’t work… yeah, a new stool. (Although, the upside to is that for days, I can tell people I am going to look at stool samples.)


Update: Since I started this post, found out worse news. The toilet may be an export and not fixable so sure enough, the whole fucking thing may need replacing... well, shit (literally and figuratively).

I hate the Huskers

I had an alright weekend in the not-so-lovely state of Nebraska. One of my very good friends graduated from dental school and since I never turn down a party involving drunk, available doctors and free booze, I flew out for the “Look at me, I’m a fancy doctor” celebration. We drank, we laughed, we washed cum out of our hair. Good times.

My parents were also invited to the fete and, being the drunken socialites they are (the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree), joined in the fun. I had not seen my parents since Christmas, and by “not seen”, I mean, “not gotten spoiled by.” It was great to “see” them, but stressful, too. They are in the throws of remodeling and like idiots, value my opinion. The bedevilment is that trying to please me is a very difficult task and instead of just going with it, because it is their house after all, I debase them for their choices. It’s a symptom of the, “what’s mine is mine and what’s your is mine” syndrome of which I occasionally suffer… but I’m working on it. In the meantime, however, I took $50 from my Mom’s purse when I was giving her a hug goodbye. Happy Mother’s Day.

Smarty mcAlchoholic

When you are ordering beer by the tray, you’re in for a good night… unless, of course, it’s a Tuesday night. Correction: you’re still in for a good Tuesday night, but you’re also in for a lousy Wednesday. Seriously, getting plastered on a Tuesday – what was I thinking?!? (Actually, I was thinking that men drinking on a Tuesday are far more desperate and easier to take advantage of… and I may not have to waste a perfectly good roofie.) Unfortunately, when you have a 5:00AM wake up time looming, you’re an idiot. To make matters worse, the wake-up time was pushed up to 4 AM because you were too keen on drinking to realize your friend had left everything of his in your vehicle and you had to drive them to him the next morning. Two hours sleep on a “school night” – great move on my part… like the time I thought Jesus would appear if I did just one more line… white powder – white light, it totally seemed plausible at the time.

Anyway, I made my morning commitments but hit the wall around 2 o’clock and headed home for a nap, which I do weekly but usually only because I’m bored. This time, though, I left my work unfinished. But you know, no one really gave a shit that I hadn’t sent out the e-mail detailing the system and live test data on a project I’m leading. (See how I gave you all those unnecessary details to try to impress you.)

Speaking of sex (no? well, whatever), drunk calling also makes you reveal innermost thoughts and secrets you normal wouldn’t… and shouldn’t, for that matter. Like, “I think I want to have sex with you,” “my parents still pay my cell phone bill,” and “oh that - it’s just a silly little std.”

One from the Weekend

Oh, I guess I forgot to mention last week that my homegirl, KJ, was coming up for the weekend. Occasionally, also forget to tell my men friends of the "sores". I just love surprises. Anyway, KJ came in this weekend after I scored us some Saturday night tickets to Spamalot. The musical was hilarious and brilliantly adapted but hardly the highlight of the weekend. Kelsey arrived and quickly started mixing up the drinks because after all, what better way to start a weekend than with a fresh fruit pina colada?... starting the weekend with 3 fresh fruit pina coladas. After firing up the grill, the beer flowed freely and we started getting a bit frisky. The night was young and the air crisp. With the golf course bordering my backyard, it was time to hit the links and play a little night golf... and take multiple shots of Jaggermeister. It briefly reminded me of the last time I shot Jaggermeister... although, maybe I am using the word "reminded" to liberally because I don't remember shit from that night... but I do have a couple scars.

But back to the night at hand, or should I say, the night that got a bit out of hand. It started with, "I know, lets take our shirts off and make sand angels!!" Followed by, "that's fun, but these bras are so stifling, let's ditch them, too." And in another brilliant move towards my NOT gaining a Senate seat someday, "we should be sure to digitally document these events and send the photos off to a buddy!" KJ and I figured since we would not be taking home a random guy from the bar, the least we could do was get a random guy off. With the quality pictures passed flawlessly through cyberspace, it's a good thing the guy knows me just well enough to understand the strength of the legal team I employ on a regular basis (and why after three arrests, two criminal charges, and countless misdemeanors I have a squeaky clean record). Not to mention... I know people; this is Chicago after all.

KJ and I picked ourselves up off the bathroom floor in time to get some quality shopping taken care of. In a classic Nicole move, only after checking into the hotel did I realize I'd forgotten my attire for the evening and althoughut because althought, I love shopping, the additional time needed would be seriously cutting into my poor binge drinking habits. The bonus to shopping is not only does it build up an appetite for food, finding the perhungryhoes makes me hurgry for cum. Wanting to take care of two birds with one stone, I knew taking KJ trestaurantite Greek restaraunt was a sure-fire way to get her panties off. She is so whorish, but then again, I know how to please my ladies.

After the stellar Spamalot, we felt like slutting it up for drinks and hit up our favorite little pub restaurant for a non-meat market environment. As expected, were hit-on almost immediately... not that we were complaining too much. Well I wasn't anyway - KJ, in her awesomeness, threw her ugly friend and bone and played wingman to me with the no-so-smart guy, while I enjoyed the merriment of some Purdue boys. It reminded of the last time I drank with some Purdue boys ("drank"= slamming one Irish Car Bomb after another" ... hmm... I don't really remember much from that evening, either. Although, waking up on the deck next to three empty cans of cream corn and a porno mag, clutching a spoon and a screwdriver can't be a good thing. All in all, I held it togethmodicumaintained a modicome of dignity (relatively speaking, of course). And while you're thinking it and before you ask, the answer is "yes."

Hammers

"Nicole, did we really get drunk and play around in the nude on the golf course... and then send the pics to a strange man?"

"Yes, KJ, I'm afraid so."

Sorry folks, no time for details; I will post later.