I'll Never Grow Up!

        If there's one thing I've learned about drinking vodka sodas on a Saturday from approximately 1pm - 10pm, it's this:  it will ruin your diet and your Sunday.  I don't think there is any need to elaborate.


        Just kidding! Why would I have a blog if I didn't want to elaborate on completely useless, self-deprecating topics?

It started with class- business class.

        Let me tell you, my friends.  If you take a train from Seattle to Portland- which you should- you must take business class. (Confession: as I was editing this post, I realized I had written 'you must take the business class' which is not classy at all.  It's akin to announcing you're going to the Wal-Mart.) The obvious reasons being that you don't have to mingle with the commoners prior to boarding (or at all,) and they give you a voucher for the dining car.  I guess all the reasons to take business class are obvious, unless you don't mind being surrounded by people who fail to see the necessity of extending a pinky while drinking beverages.  Then we probably shouldn't be friends anymore, and you can go ahead and get yourself a coach ticket.  *gasp*

What did I tell you?  If it's printed on a clock tower, it can't be wrong.

        I feel as though taking a train is much safer than flying or driving.  I have absolutely no scientific evidence to support this speculation, of course.  But as we all know, science is for losers.  First of all, you're not, you know, flying, so if you fall out of a train, it's less distance before you splat than if you fall out of the SKY.  Eek. Imagine falling out of the sky- wait...don't.  I just did it, and it's absolutely terrifying.  Then, if you figure there are fewer trains on a track than there are cars on the road, you've just eliminated a whole class of fools who might murder you with their vehicles.  How's that for evidence? Boom.

       Needless to say, I made it to Oregon totally alive.  It was a beautiful weekend to be in Portland...

Oh mini palm trees randomly found in the PNW- so embarrassing.

        And then we had some lunch with our Prosecco...

If only I had known then...

        It's like this was a fortune cookie, except that it was printed at the bottom of a drink menu at some hip Portland eatery rather than pulled from a crispy delicious chinese dessert.  Maybe my problem was that I was drinking Prosecco - which is Italian champagne, for those of you unrefined non-pinky out drinkers.  It did make me feel like it was Sunday and better days were just around the corner.  But better days were not around the corner.  Worse days were around the corner.  

        And that's what you get for not reading the fine print- damn Italian bubbles will lull you into a false sense of security every time.  Now, had I started with French bubbles, like a good Christian girl should, Sunday would have been filled with cotton candy and elephant rides.  Alas.  Italian bubbles! Curses!

        You may be asking yourself, "Did Nicole just join a sorority?  Isn't she too old for this?"  No, and yes.  But guess what?  You cannot be too old to get together with one of your oldest friends, channel your inner (if not slightly intoxicated) Peter Pan, and act like you'll never grow up.  It's really fun. You should try it some time.

Thanks for the bubbles and the laughs, my friends.  

        (P.S. I figure we can behave like ladies when we're grandmas, but for now, it's too much fun to be rowdy, and chug stranger's beers after accidentally drinking a bowl of spicy clam juice to drown out the horrible taste of a leaf wrap that was most likely filled with poison.  I mean, I've heard that's fun.  I wouldn't know from my own personal experience.)

And on the Seventh Day- I Cheated on the Skinny Rules

        I wish I had a good reason for not writing knee slapping blog posts, but the truth is... I've been cooking.  The worst part is, it's all freaking healthy food.  I mean, who's even heard of farro besides blasted Julius Caesar and other old Roman dudes.  FYI peeps, farro is an ancient grain.  I probably shouldn't be eating it.  I bought some super duper ancient kind by accident, I think, and you have to soak for eight hours before cooking. BLERG.

This is some kind of Giada De Laurentiis farro recipe- and she is a skinny freak!

        Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be as skinny as a freak, but I felt like a bit of a blob after not being able to run for about six weeks.  Combine that with buying a condo, moving, and eating a lot [more] Chinese food than usual, and a person starts to feel kind of blobby.  Right?  If this, or something similar, has never happened to you, or if you are Giada De Laurentiis- we're fighting.

The phrase, "Never trust a skinny cook" comes to mind

        I'm going to level with you.  I'm following this book like it's the Bible...

I'm ignoring the awkward comb over here

        Actually, I follow it much better than I follow the Bible.  The Bible is super long and boring- have you ever read it?  I have.  Seriously, I read the whole Bible in nine months once.  That's a topic for a different, blog, though.  Let's be honest, that entry probably won't get written, since a blog about an incredibly tedious book written a gazillion years ago can't be that funny.  I don't want to lose one of my- I mean, I don't want to lose my reader due to boredom.

This is Kittles after our evening reading of the Pentateuch- I almost bored her to death

        Here's why I love it:  you get to eat a lot of food, and you get SNACKS twice a day.  You guys know how much I love snacks.  Also- and you're going to think I'm a crazy hippy naturopath for this one, but it's true- I am sleeping like a rock every single night.  I haven't even needed my fake root sleeping pill!

       Here's why I hate it a little: lots of the food is non-fat, unsweetened Greek Yogurt.  In case you haven't tried it, non-fat, unsweetened Greek Yogurt is SICK.  One person I know said, "It tastes like gastric juices."  I can not deny that it might, although,  I don't consider myself to be a connesiour of gastric juices.

Feed this to your nemesis.

        Just put some agave in it, you say?  Gladly, except for that Bob Harper is masterfully helping me reset my palate, and he doesn't want me to have any extra sugar- even agave.  No artificial sweeteners either (Rule 10.)  Worse than gastric juice flavored yogurt?  Consider this: No. Diet. Coke. So, yeah... it's worse.

Ivy Jane knows exactly how I feel.

        I am eating ancient grains,  abstaining from sugar,  and I haven't had a cheeseburger in... at least three weeks.  Next thing you know, I'll be selling my birth right for a bowl of stew- as long as there are potatoes in it, and I can have a beer to wash it down.  Which I can't because one of the skinny rules is, "Get Rid of Those White Potatoes," and another is, "Don't Drink Your Calories." Bob Harper is the worst (for those of you who don't know, and couldn't read the copy of his book cover, he is actually "a weight loss expert, and star of NBC's 'The Biggest Loser.'")  So, he's not really the worst.  Except for when you want a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and you remember "Rule 7: No Carbs After Lunch."  That bastard.

        Now you know if I order "the farro" when we're out for lunch, I am not summoning an ancient Egyptian king.  If you should happen to order a cheeseburger and a beer at that same lunch outing, however, you might want to hold your butter knife in a defensive position.  There's no skinny rule that reads, "Thou shalt not get stabby when coveting thy neighbors' food."  

        

Again, I will cut you.

 

Just a Spoonful of Sugar...

         I was reading about cat behavior the other night- because I'm that person now- and I was all thrilled because it said if your cat grooms you, it is basically the highest compliment.  I thought, "Oh, Lola licks my arm sometimes! She loves me."  Then I saw her licking a pole today.  She is either more mentally challenged than originally projected, or she's a stripper.  Great.  I have no idea where that mouth has been.

disgusting.

        Speaking of which, one of our residents told me yesterday that "another" resident said I look like Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriend, Holly Madison. Rude.

Other than our penchant for nautically themed outfits and small animals- we pretty much have nothing in common.

She was not nearly as excited about her tiny puppy as I was about mine... Then again, that may be all the farther her face can move.

     

        Now, I actually like Holly Madison, and had a terrible habit of watching "The Girls Next Door" when she was on that show.   I just remember the first time I saw her on TV, I thought she looked like an alien deer. I know that sounds mean, but you have to remember, I'm from Wisconsin, where there happen to be a lot of deer and almost ZERO humans who look like this.  Since leaving Wisconsin, I have lived in Colorado and Washington State.  None of these places are riddled with women under 40 who have had multiple plastic surgery *ahem* enhancements.  Let's be real for a minute (no pun intended,) unless you live in Bellevue, you are surrounded by dirty hippies in this city.  If you come across a broad who's wearing a bra, it's your lucky day.  People in Seattle don't look like Holly Madison- especially not me.

This is me in Hollywood.  And why wouldn't I be wearing a grandma cardigan?

        We had a school- age patient today who told the Nurse Practitioner on our team, "Your name is 'Spaghetti'!"  Which, because I am also ,mentally, a school age child, I thought was absolutely hilarious.  He also told us this short gem of a story (mind you, his parents and grandparents were also in the room...)

        Oh! And sometimes, I go into the kitchen and I SNEAK sugar.  Yeah, I get a spoon, and I get a chair, and I bring it over to the sugar jar.  I climb up on the chair and I sneak a whole spoonful of sugar!  Then I put the cover back on the sugar jar and put the spoon and the chair back so my parents won't notice.

        If you could have seen the looks on his family members faces, you would have died.  This was clearly news to all of them.  P.S. Did I mention I actually love my job?  (Mostly, anyway, but let's not quibble about the minutiae.)

        Obviously I can't go into details about this person, but if you saw him, you would notice he is different than most of us.  Still, as good old "Spaghetti" the Nurse Practitioner would say, "That's just the way he was put together."  This kid was hilarious, and had zero qualms about his appearance not being the same as everyone else (as was evidenced by him running down the halls in his underwear- obvi.) 

          Don't get me wrong, the moral of this story is not to judge people for altering their appearances.  If you want fake boobs, fine, but don't do it for your grandpa/boyfriend who is just going to trade you in for a new model once you're over 27 years old anyway.   At the end of the day, do what it is you need to do in order to feel good, confident, peaceful, happy, etc.  I am personally quite glad to sneak a little sugar and stay the way I was put together.

Right?

     

     

     
     

     

Waaah Waaaah- Somebody Call the Waaaambulence!

        Finally, I have a clean balcony with a bar table and chairs.  I am sitting here right now looking down at my kingdom and all my minions.  This is amaze-balls.

No commoners allowed.

       Life isn't all tiled tables and fancy bar stools, though.  I just started running last week after having taken a three week hiatus (Eric and I both agreed I needed to start up again so no one would get murdered.) I went on three, appropriately spaced out, teeny tiny, baby runs.  The spot that I was worried about on my shin feels fine, but now there's a new spot.  It hurts to walk, and I did a poor man's bone scan (ie: jumping up and landing as hard as you can on the ground) because I find the doctor's office highly inconvenient. Bad news: if I were a radiologist reading my poor man's bone scan, the report would say, "Painful. Epic fail." BLERG.

These x rays belong to some random fool I found on the Internet with the help of Google- diagnosis and plan of care is found below.

Above a 24-year old runner with pain in his lower leg since four months.
Initially the pain was only present during running, but finally it was present even in rest.

The x-ray was initially reported as normal.
A bone-scan (not shown) showed a focal increase of activity.
A CT-scan was performed for further differentiation and revealed a vertically oriented fissure at the insertion of the flexor digitorum longus muscle.

The patient was treated with six weeks of rest, followed by a gradual increase in training-activity.

        Do you see?! That fool went to a doctor, and all the advice he got was to take six weeks off.  I could have told him that.  I would also like to point out that plain x-rays, a bone-scan, and a CT scan seems a little excessive - I bet the bill was excessive too.  That's what you get for going to a doctor.

        Besides, this could just be some kind of "-itis" (ie: tendonitis,) in which case, all I need to do is ice my leg. Would I tell a parent reporting similar symptoms in their child to, "Have Sally jump up and down really hard.  Does it hurt?  How bad?  Could be some kind of an '-itis.'  Have her ice it and cross your fingers."  I would never give someone the advice I am currently following from myself.  I'm pretty sure I've heard somewhere that nurses are the worst patients.

These guys are awful

         I know what you're thinking, "Oh you poor fancy balcony owner.  If I couldn't go for a run, I would be thrilled."  You're right.  At least I have my balcony, so I can wave at all my subjects.  What you may not understand is that if I can't run, the amount of times the phrase, "I want to stab somebody right now," comes out of my mouth becomes less and less infrequent.  As you might imagine, Eric gets a little jumpy.

        If you have ever been slightly or incredibly obsessed with an activity, you know how I feel.  I am quite certain if there was some kind inexplicable cable drought, and there was no NFL RedZone during football season, Eric would start feeling a little murderous too.  Imagine you missed a whole season of USC, Husky, or Green Bay Packer football.  Imagine you couldn't watch movies or go to concerts or sail your fabulous yacht.  Whatever your favorite hobby, or activity is that brings you great joy and mental stability, if you suddenly couldn't partake- wouldn't you feel... Am I the only one that gets stabby?

Don't let the google eye fool you- I see what's going on here ... as a side note, this is me tan. Sad,  isn't it.

        What is your "must-do" activity that keeps you from wanting to punch something or someone?

        How do you cope when you can't do said activity?

If a doctor ever tells you not to do this favorite activity- fire that fool.

        

What [Not] to Watch

        If you are an individual whose fear of being murdered is disproportionate to the actual likelihood that you may or may not be murdered, then I have to warn you...

        Do NOT watch "I Murdered My BFF" on the Bio Channel.

One minute it's sandwiches and Diet Cokes, and the next minute some one's BFF is dead in a field.
Also, I am NEVER going anywhere with my friends again.  NEVER.

        I am telling you, people.  That is some scary shit.  Also, don't be friends with fools who rob tire stores for fun because that's how it starts, apparently.  Luckily, Eric is home so I don't have to sleep with a Gerber knife under my pillow tonight.

She has obviously never felt the need to sleep with a weapon under her pillow.

        Now I am starting to get suspicious of "accidentally" crossing paths with my friend, Jenny, at Target today.  Is she the type of BFF that would murder a ho?

No, she's not.  However,  I certainly am trying to murder her with my mind in this picture.

        If you like hot guys that are also sensitive and want to help people, then I have another warning for you...

        DO watch "Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition" on ABC.

This anonymous person is not featured in that show

        I will tell you a secret.  I cry approximately 3.7 times during each episode, and if you know me at all, you know I don't cry.  However, I also laugh during each episode.  There are moments that are supposed to be serious in the show, that just get a little too melodramatic for my taste.  My favorite quote of tonight's episode was when the trainer said to his client,

        "I hope you don't mind, but I hired a private investigator, and, welp...  I found your father."

        Now, people who have been abandoned by a parent is not a laughing matter.  Obviously, it is a very sad painful thing.  Which is why if some bro with a six pack and piercing blue eyes turns to you and says, "I hope you don't mind...  I found your father," you do, in fact, mind.  You start bawling your eyes out.  This is, of course, precisely what happened on the show.  It's riveting, though, isn't it?  Also, it doesn't make a person feel like they need to sleep with one eye open.

        Some people say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.  I say, keep your friends closer and your plate two thirds full of vegetables; you might end up okay.

Am I worried about calories or a killer here? Hard to say.

     

How to Defend Your Condo and Cat Against a Killer

        This morning I woke up to Kittles snorting, and then licking my ear.  Next, she sneezed all over my face, licked my ear some more, and curled up with her butt right next to my head.  Funny, if a human had done this to me, they never would have lived to tell the tale.  Since it was Lola, I just thought it was cute.

She is a disgusting person, but I love her.

        Speaking of disgusting people, I am becoming one, myself.  I haven't run since the Seattle Rock n' Roll Half Marathon on June 23rd.  I have a sneaking suspicion that I have a stress fracture in my left distal tibia, which is a fancy way of saying I have a crack in my shin bone.  One thing I have learned after spending some time as an orthopedic nurse is that if you can point to one spot that hurts (as opposed to a generalized area) it's not a good sign.

This doesn't look like a good sign either

        Not running wouldn't be the worst if the weather hadn't finally turned a corner for the better in Seattle...

Every tourist riding the Ducks is ready to move here today.

        It also wouldn't be such a big deal if I had just been eating regular food.  Bad news: since we just moved I have been eating out.  A lot.

I know, Eric, but what are you going to eat?

        Bottom line is, I am kind of a heinous B when I can't run.  Hahaha.  More so than usual, okay? Rude, you guys.

I am the one in the pink socks having the time of my life.

        So, it has been a challenging couple of weeks with the move and no running.  

        Oh, and Eric went to Kansas City for the All Star Game, so I had to sleep with a big ass Gerber knife under my pillow (obvi) just in case someone climbed onto our third floor balcony and tried to murder me in my sleep.  I couldn't sleep very well even with the knife under my pillow (it was locked shut, so I couldn't cut myself or Kittles inadvertently) because I kept thinking that if someone did break in, I was more likely to be killed by my own knife than to save myself with it.  My next logical solution was to calculate how fast I could grab the cat and my phone, then slide into, and lock the bathroom door "Panic Room" style.  On the other hand, if the killer broke in through our front door, it might make more sense to just jump off the balcony for a quick escape.  But then I would really be in a pickle with the old stress fracture situation.  In fact, it might turn into more of a bone- through- the- skin- fracture situation.  It's hard work evading killers, let me tell you, but I've kept myself alive thus far, so I suppose it's worth the effort.

        I guess the moral of this blog is that unless you are a smoosh faced cat that I rescued approximately 2 years ago and/or your name is Eric E. Engel, do not cross me this week.  I am low on sleep, I haven't run for an eon, and I have a big ass Gerber knife under my pillow.  I will cut. you.  Just kidding.  (Not really.)

I wanted to cut Bob Prill when he told the DJ at my wedding he had changed their table name to "Da Bears."  This was my face when the DJ told "Da Bears" they were dismissed to the buffet.

     

Flaming Fur Balls and Other Moving Day Hazards

        Are you like me? Do you have a tendency to fall simply while standing still?  If so, then you will not find it at all odd that I fell off the very top of my couch this evening.  (If you have a good grip on your surroundings and a fair amount of balance for a human, you will just think I am a crazy person, but that's par for the course at this point.)  It wasn't like I sat, and then lost my balance.  That's practically an every day occurrence in my world.  I mean, I completely air-balled the couch.  All I could muster was some kind of a muffled "Aaarg!" as I plummeted ass over tea kettle into a sea of moving boxes.  (I think I might have a concussion because I just typed "wright" instead of "write" for a minute in that last sentence.)  Also, Eric asked me if I am having a stroke.  It could be worse, but I think it's safe to say that these are all bad signs.  Of what, I'm not sure.  Then again, if these are just the signs, I don't want to know what they are trying to tell me.

Now who looks like they're having a stroke?  (No offense to stroke victims.)

       By the way, sorry I haven't posted any hilarious blogs for a while.  I have been busy packing up all our junk and directing laborers on where to plop it down at our brand. new. CONDO.  

For those fools who haven't seen this already, this is the view from our balcony

        We've all moved before, and we all know it blows.  This move was no exception.  First, you have your packing.  In this instance, we had all our crap to pack up while my little sister was living in our second bedroom taking up valuable space.  This resulted in boxes piled almost to the ceiling in the living room, which wouldn't have been a big deal except for I have a facially challenged cat who kept climbing the boxes and either trapping herself in them or knocking them over.

        One night we had soup for dinner from Met Market (kitchen packed up- obvi.) Eric set a steaming bowl of soup to cool on a box dangerously close to where Kittles was Indiana Jonesing her way across the living room.  

        Me: You better move that soup.

        Eric: It's fine.

        Me: It's not fine! The cat's going to knock it over!

        Eric: The cat is not going to knock it over.  She's not even near the soup.

        Me: She will knock it over! If she knocks that soup over and burns herself, we are divorced.

        Eric: Nicole, she is not going to spill the soup.

        Me: Fine.  Do you want to deal with a burnt cat!?

        Imagine, of course, that my voice is getting screechier and screechier by the millisecond.  I would also like the reader to note that I often argue with mute points.  Of course Eric doesn't want to deal with a burnt cat (and yes, it should be burned cat, but burnt sounds so much more severe.)  Nobody wants a burnt cat.  He did, however, move the soup; though I would like to point out it was only after my mute point was made- not after the threat of divorce.

Et tu, Eric?

        If any of you ever move in the near future, I would highly recommend a Gerber knife.  My dear friend Joe has given me more than one, actually, but the one that has come in most handy this week is...

This bad boy

        If you are an individual that thinks that pocket knives are for hicks and boy scouts, then you, Sir, are sadly mistaken.  As you can see by my delicate hands, I am neither a hick nor a scout of any kind; thus, rendering the Gerber Dime a renaissance knife for a man or woman of equal caliber.  (Shouldn't Gerber be paying me right now?)  It's true, though! With this one tool, I have opened many a box, filed my nails, and trimmed a hang nail.  Anyway, I highly recommend it as it also includes many other valuable features, not the least of which is a tool that can help one effortlessly open the hard plastic on packaging of, say, a new Gerber knife.

        My sister recently had some advice for me as I was bemoaning the fact that I am not one of those likable people that everyone wants to be friends with.  I just don't have that magnetic personality.  I more have the "f- you- if- you're-an-idiot- personality." (You know the one?)  In fact, many people tell me, "I thought you were an asshole when I first met you."  Usually, when a conversation gets to that point with another individual, they have peeled my onion layers to discover that I am not really an asshole; I just make a lot of faces, and if I don't like something or someone I will make it clear.  Some people think that makes me an asshole, but others find it endearing.  My sister's words of wisdom were as follows:

        "Yes, but Nicole, if you were one of those really really overly nice people, you wouldn't be you."

        Right.

        I feel like in some strange way it applies to the whole difficult/wonderful experience of purchasing our first home and moving into it.  Yes, there has been drama.  Yes there have been near death experiences for both myself and poor Kittles.  Yes, we have packed, moved, and unpacked until  we can't stands no more.  But if this had magically happened without a hitch overnight, with no meltdowns to be had, it just wouldn't be ours.

In case you haven't seen me lately, I am not actually bald.  I only play a bald person in this photo.