A Brief Weekend Home

I’m flying home to see my parents this weekend. After an exhaustive 10-month renovation of their home, they have finally moved back in and are settling into “normal” life. (Normal is a relative term at my house.) I also have not seen either of them since Memorial Day and am due for some loving badgering. There will be very little to report next week, as I am home for a brief 36 hours. I mean, even I would find it difficult to somehow screw up 36 hours.

Right now, I am in the middle of some horrible programming applications. Each time I change one little piece, I have to upload and for some unknown reason, this step is taking an exacerbate amount of time. But hey, it’s Friday!!

And also... GO TWINS!! (In a tie for first and a tough weekend ahead, battling Chi Sox.) You can probably expect to read something about this next week.

The NFL - what's that?

Damn you, Vikings!! Why do you test me so?! Sure, I’ve seen the Viking lose countless times… and once in a while, even to the likes of the Chicago Bears. So why am I so upset? While this is not my first Viking loss, this is my first time having to endure a Vikings loss to the Bears while being a Vikings fan working at a Bears bar. Ugh.

Had the Vikes won, I would’ve taken the high road, been a class act and humbly relished in the sweet comfort of victory. Unfortunately, I bartend to a bunch of, for lack of a better word, assholes and knew they would be merciless. I planned my defense carefully, not unlike the 1985 Bears, ironically enough. My dialougue would go something like this, “Oh really? Did the Vikings play this weekend? I guess I hadn’t noticed. The Bears? Who are they?” Even with this stealthy and uncompromising defense, I was in no mood to deal. Coupled with my exhaustion from the weekend, I finally called another bartender to come in and take the shift.

The Vikings may have lost, but personally, I have to call this one a draw.

And by the way, I've been ragging on Canada a lot lately but really, it's not all bad... except for the French parts, those are still pretty bad.

Jesus cursed my putter for skipping church.

A coworker asked me what I did while in Phoenix. The answer was simple and yet, it rolled of the tongue as beautifully as any of Shakespeare’s soliloquies, “I drank… and I golfed.” I also flirted, stole, and gorged myself on anything fried but that information is only for a select group of individual. (yes, this means you.) And Blogger Pictures - still not working; those sons-a-bitches.

I was lucky enough to have a buffer seat on the flight out, which was good because we were grounded for some time by an approaching tornado… and also because I’m fat and need all the fat room I can get.

We hit up one of my favorite drinking holes and I mercilessly flirted with the bartender, a tall and scruffy gent by the name of Thomas, of whom I fantasized about later that night when I masturbated… and again the three times after that.

On Saturday, we golfed in Prescott, AZ. Why we would drive 100 miles to golf when there are literally hundreds within a 20-mile radius is beyond my realm of understanding, but I was a boarder and warranted no decision privileges.

The course was really quite good – challenging but not impossible… except for hole fucking 15. But maybe I was just unfocused and tired because at this point, I was physically pushing our partners’ cart up the hill with the aid of some bumper-to-bumper force from our cart, which was also slowly meeting its fate. Unfortunately, this was only the first of many unsuitable occurrences to follow. With the addition of an impending sunset, we decided to call it quits. After a solid hike, pushing both golf carts at one point, being led astray by course employees who offered no assistance, physically or intellectually, we found ourselves back at the clubhouse. Upon our arrival there, the “pro” bailed out and having no one present to attend to the needs (read: complaints) of the guest (read: me), I was forced to attend to my own needs (read: desires)… and after everything that had happened, the need was thirst and thirst means liquor. So, I went to the bar and made off with… correction, I ‘compensated’ myself with a bottle of Jack Daniels, another of Jim Beam, and a third of Seagram’s VO.

We were back in the valley (that's Phoenix talk) on Sunday and my golf game was really spot on. (“Spot on”?!? So I guess now I’m fucking sixty and British?!) I really did play a pretty smooth and consistent round of golf, aside from Jesus Christ himself cursing my putter. Unfortunately, my performance was not echoed by my friend, Rick.
- Number of clubs thrown: 3,
- Number of clubs thrown and not recovered: 1,
- Average number of hits off the tee (and at each shot from the fairway): 3,
- Number of balls lost, figuratively and literally: unknown.

The really unfortunate part of the round for me was not my putting... did I mention Jesus cursed my putter?, rather it was that alcohol can't be served until 10:00 (hole 12) on Sundays. A Nazi law if I ever heard one… correction: a Conservative Right law if I ever heard one (although, there's little difference between the two - kinda like the comparison of Wisconsin to Canada... Canada would definitely be the Nazis). We certainly made up for it, though – I was pretty wasted by the time the Bears scored the winning touchdown. Don't worry, I'm not going to go into that here - you've stuck this post out for so long already. More later.

The Cheq 40 - 2006

Because I recently returned from am amazing weekend up north and because I will be starting a three-day alcohologolf weekend in sunny Phoenix but mostly because I haven’t posted in forever - this is going to be long. Take your time. You can even read it over a number of days or you can just skim for the words sex, blowjobs, and drugs like you always do and just read those parts. And sorry, Blogger's picture feature is not working and I knows hows yous likes them pics.

Alas, I am back. Seriously, I think the clean air was getting to me… or the alcohol… but probably the marijuana. Upon my arrival mid-Friday evening, I was greeted with a variety “hot dishes” (of which, only a true Midwesterner can appreciate) and my friend's eager Mom who had been anxious for my arrival, as she did not want to be the only one drinking. And you guys thought my alcoholicness was a joke.

The eve of the Chequamegon 40 scene was as follows – 2 parents, 5 racers, 2 girlfriends, 3 strangers, and 4 people ready to drink. Guess which lunch table I sat at? The wine was corked and in true Nicole form, I allowed the alcohol to start talking for me. Halfway through the third bottle of wine, I ostentatiously declared that next year I would not arrive as a mere spectator, but as a competitor. Umm… let me clear up one thing, even after a few bottles of wine, I am not so foolish as to think I could do the 40-miler. I was refering to the the short-&-fat course, 15.6 miles. Nevertheless, another drinking gal (a wife of a 40-mile racer) piped up and volunteered to join me in the venture. Fuck – now I’m held to it.

And then I remembered why I wasn’t racing this year – oh yeah, because I’m fat and lazy and hate getting into shape. Granted, I haven’t gotten into shape in the better part of ten years, but the memories are as vivid as if it were yesterday. But then I thought about how motivated I have been lately to get my fucking shit together and strangely enough, racing next year seems totally plausible.

I know what you’re thinking, especially you marathon/ironman types, – 15.6 miles is nothing. While this is true on a road bike in Flattly mcBoring Illinois, it’s not so true on a mountain bike course through northwest Wisconsin. But I’ll talk about all this later… like later in 8 months.

Saturday. I was the only one who woke up early with the racers but I’m like a sappy [insert ethnicity] mother and like seeing the boys off. It also gave me a chance to meet the bearded latecomer who slipped in during the night; and we all know my thing for guys with beards. Since I know how to work the charm, within the hour, I was driving his truck and naming our children.
I’ll skip the detailed race montage, you get enough of that from the honorable trigeeks – everyone finished, two better than expected, one worse than expected; the casualties included one set of lost back brakes, two popped chains, one broken rim, and a tough spill.

With that out of the way, it was time to get down to business, the business of being fabulous and drinking as only Wisconsinites and Canadians know how (as if there were a difference between the two). Two years ago, I brought a bottle of liquor. Last year, I brought weed. This year, I brought both. Do I need to remind you all of how this story ends up? I didn’t think so… but I will, as I would want to disappoint my legions of fans (read: 4 people) or those of you actually still reading at this point.

After being fed countless Angry Minnow Honey Wheat beers from the keg by the bearded beauty, taking endless Jag shots, and inhaling a few pulls off the ol’ bowl, I had my game face on. And by game face, I mean "on the hunt for some making out" face. Believe it or not, I’m not typically the one who chases after a guy’s favor. If he’s feeling it, I may oblige, but I generally play it pretty low key. But it was Saturday and I was totally turned on by the testoterone and athleticism of the day and oh yeah, I was also drunk and little high.

Even though the old roommate of whom I have “history” with was up for the race, I just didn’t want to put the effort in. He tends to like the chase and with inconsistent rewards, I was just not that into him to put forth quality time... although he was kinda begging for it. Maybe things would have been different had I not had been in crush with bearded beauty since I first laid eyes on him. There was just one minor side issue – I was pretty sure my bearded beauty was gay.

During an intimate setting, my approach for landing a guy is telling an elaborate story about recently being diagnosed with a rare disease and that I just want to fool around with a random guy before I get too sick. Add some waterworks – they’re putty in my hands. However, by the time I'm actually horny and ready to make the moves on a guy, I’m far too into the night to string enough logical sentences together to tell a story so, “Yes, I’ll make out with you,” usually does the trick. (Did I really just say, "make the moves on a guy"? What am I like sixty years old? Fuck.) On this particular night, I found myself alone in the hallway the bearded beauty and went for it and of course, my advance was met with little resistance. Later, we found ourselves hidden between the trucks and after that, in the kitchen and then finally, in the tent. I guess you can say he "finished" twice that day. The next morning was super fucking weird and you know what else - I still think he’s gay.

I think his name was Josh?

Hey Hey Hey. This past weekend was a fantastic one with KJ. I managed to keep my spending under a grand, I jumped on the Ohio State bandwagon, made out with some guy, and I slept in the “Heavenly Bed”. There was the whole thing about KJ trying to get me killed to the style of Blair Witch Project. In truth, we were both guilty for our folly, but since it’s my blog – I can put all the blame on her, that crazy bitch.

KJ is with child, there’s no denying it… and we’re both trying to come to grips with it. It wasn’t until I was sucking a bouncer’s dick did I realize just how soon the due date it (St Patrick’s Day ‘07). I was talking about the wedding in Cabo like it’s tomorrow and speaking of her due date like it’s light years away, when in fact it’s 5 weeks before the trip to Cabo!! (And yeah, you can say I got a little out of control at the bar… I don’t really remember what the guy looked like, only that I kept repeating, “He is soooo hot.”)

This weekend – Chequamegon. That’s right, Clyde – f’n Wisconsin, here I come. This is an annual event involving friends, bonfires, robbing the dead, tents, and in the spirit of Alex and beer drinkers alike, a keg of Linie. Oh yeah, there is also something about a 40 mile bike race that a bunch of us do. (And by “us,” I mean “them”.)

Palm Friday

Wow, Friday already. I worked my fortieth hour of the week sometime yesterday afternoon… and it’s only a 4-day workweek!! Total bullshit. Even so, I was back at 6am this morning (slept in!) for another long day. I had wanted all week to write about last weekend and then I wanted to write about a Primetime story I watched on asexuals – because, it’s so weirdly interesting. It goes without saying that I did not get a chance to write about either. Maybe next week… but probably never.

KJ is heading out here this weekend and I’m stoked!! She has been having “pregnancy issues” and wasn’t able to make it down until now. Personally, I think she just likes to be a tease. She did give me a super kick-ass birthday present, though:

Achy Breaky Everything

Well, it got me. I'm not sure what it is, yet - a virus, a bug, a vengeful wrath? I feel like total shit today and I should not be at work. I should be home on my couch, catching up on neglected hours of Tivo. Yesterday, I worked all day at being an amazing engineer and then at the bar showing tits for tips, and then came back into work to speak with the night crew. I was planning on getting 3 hours of sleep, which is no big deal because it’s leading into the weekend – a long weekend, no less. YEA!! Well, two hours into my slumber, I woke up with the worst nauseating feeling ever. It paralyzed me. And more than seven hours later, I don’t feel too much better.

I’m stiff and achy, nauseous, exhausted, and have a pounding headache. I just want to go the flock home, but duty calls and although I’m no lover of my job – I am a lover of income. Since I was fine 24 hours ago, and 12 hours ago, for that matter - I have a theory. Maybe God was on vacation last weekend and was just briefed about my goings-on and this is the punishment. Fine, be that way - I ain't too proud to beg (for forgiveness).

Dear F,S, & HS (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit),
I’ve learned a good lesson; many good lessons, in fact. Drugs are bad, as is gossiping and lying, drinking enough to drown a pigmy, and robbing homeless people of their flannel shirt. As always, I promise not to do it again… or at least die trying. Well, maybe we better not throw the word, “die” around, but you know what I mean.. Please, Lord – let your light shine on me and send me home by 3:00! (Especially since I am on the schedule to close the bar tonight.) Oh, could you also try to do something about the rash, I have a date this weekend. Thanks.

Love,
Nicole