The Walk of Shame. Is It Really That Shameful?

*The following piece of literature is an article I wrote for a possible writing gig but it wasn’t raunchy enough for their taste.  Fair enough.  But I still felt like it should be shared with the world of my readers:

The Walk of Shame.  Is It Really That Shameful? 

If you’re a halfway decent-looking human being, or appear to be so after six shots of Patron, you’re likely guilty of hooking up, passing out in a bed that isn’t yours and then performing your very own version of the Walk of Shame the next morning.

Walk Of Shame: the act of walking/stumbling/crawling home in the morning after spending the night getting down with someone at their place, likely where heavy amounts of liquor were consumed.  This legendary morning odyssey is more often than not performed by females, in twisted, crumpled versions of the tube dresses they were looking hot in the night before.  Sometimes, in the case of a more considerate or generous suitor, the female is given an over-sized t-shirt and pair of basketball shorts for her journey home.  Most prevalent on college campuses, these daybreak drifters can be identified further by teetering stilettos, smudged eye make-up, and disheveled heaps of uncombed hair. 

The Walk of Shame, as indicated by its clear and concise title, is apparently supposed to be a disgraceful, horrendous and appalling act of Slutism.  In actuality though, The Walk Of Shame is pretty fucking awesome.

What is so shameful about proclaiming to passer-buyers that you got laid last night?  Sure, you may reek of booze and sure you’re wearing your club clothes at 8:00 a.m.but you just had sex and the people driving by judging you did not.  You’re the winner.  And for this, you should be crossing the street triumphantly, working those mismatched heels and gym shorts like a Brazilian supermodel.

The Walk of Shame should be viewed more as an act of the independent, modern-day woman; you voluntarily slept with your lab partner and now you’re voluntarily walking home, emerging as an unscathed champion in the life quest for sex.  Perhaps if we were all just a little more supportive and a little less judgmental of other people getting action, we’d be getting a lot more action of our own.  And then we could all high-five each other in solidarity Sunday mornings on our Walks of Shame Game.

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My Own Line Of Baby Clothes

Update:

Mr. Paxton Chase McKnight finally fits into his Auntie Onesie and look at this sweet face!  Sell it, Paxton!

 

Original Post Date: 10/14/11:

I like to do funny things.  Shameless, self-promoting funny things. 

Three of my dearest life friends all had their first babies within weeks of each other.  I welcomed these tiny creatures into the world by gifting them onesies from my own personal clothing line for babies. 

Yes, I removed my full phone number for this post because I am an international blogging superstar and I have stalkers.

Baby one is my niece Calla Ann, daughter of Lesia and Aaron Stolpe.  Calla loves her Aunt Nichole and is quite the fashion icon.  Paired with rainbow leg warmers, she helps bring attention to the message.  What are you looking at over there, Miss Calla?  An over 6’0, tall, dark, handsome, rich, motivated, funny, sweet, gentleman caller who has an eye for fashion, is overly generous in the bedroom with the giving of shoes and gifts and enjoys sports, beer, pizza, and tropical vacations?  Have him call me!

Baby two is my niece Lia Ryan, daughter of Sara and John Jelercic.  Lia is sporting her onesie as she sleeps which is an interesting tactic because everyone ooooh’s and ahhh’s over a cute, sleeping baby.  This little girl is a smart cookie!

Baby three, my nephew Paxton Chase, son of Sarah and Casey McKnight has yet to be captured in a photograph wearing his Auntie Nichole’s billboard…I like to think it’s because he’s out there working it and he has no time for photo ops.  He is a cutie though so I imagine he’s getting a lot of attention.

My friend Denise has requested a t-shirt for her son, Brennan, who is now two and a handsome little devil.  Upon posting one of the above photos on Facebook, we had the following exchange:

Denise:  BRENNAN needs one of these shirts!!  Size 3T.  I’m serious.

Me:  OK!  Yessss!  I’m doing it and shipping it immediately!  Maybe I’ll make it a 4T…or a 5T…or a men’s large?  I should be single until he grows into a men’s large.

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Ho-Hos

Breakfast of Champion Third Graders

When I was an elementary school student, way back yonder, I remember that every morning for breakfast I would have one Hostess Ho-Ho.  I’m not sure why my Mother thought this was an adequate and healthy way to kick-off a day of cerebral exercise, but it was my breakfast norm.  Every day, no questions asked, I would have a pre-packaged, chocolate sponge cake rolled with white cream filling, dipped in a chocolate coating waiting for me on the kitchen table to down as my morning fuel.

I’ve recently been analyzing my addiction to sugar, mainly chocolate, and why I could never fully kick the habit.  I scoff at people who say they don’t eat sugar.  No sugar?  How do you live?  Why would you even want to?  I’ve decided that if you are what you eat, and I consumed Ho-Ho’s in mass breakfast quantities as a child, it’s a pretty miraculous feat that I didn’t emerge as a morbidly obese, diabetic hooker.

*Note:  I just called my Mother to ask her why she would let me eat a processed baked good for breakfast every morning as a growing child and she couldn’t remember I did that.  Then she said I didn’t want to eat anything else she offered me so she wanted to make sure I ate something, in this case, a mountain of refined sugar.  I don’t believe this.  She also said I was bossy as a kid and it was my way or no way.  This, I do believe.

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Just Follow The Smell Of The Fries

A conversation I had with my co-worker, Measles, today:

Me: My bank is on the corner of Topanga and Ventura, can you tell me how to get there? I’m dumb.

Measles: Go to Topanga, take it up to Ventura.

Me: How do I get to Topanga?

Measles: Take the street McDonalds is on to Topanga, turn left.

Me: Got it.  Just use fast food points of reference and I can get anywhere.

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I DID IT!

I DID IT!!!!!!!! Not only have I managed to survive a full 29 years on this planet, navigating my way through life’s boobie traps and shit storms, but I have successfully blogged one entry per day for the last year! I set a goal on my 29th birthday that I would blog daily until I turned 30 and I did it! I DID IT!

Sure there were times when I was feeling uninspired, down, or extremely intoxicated after an impromptu weeknight happy hour, leaving my blog a little desolate until I could get my fingers to tap out some coherent and worthwhile words, but I’ve logged 365 blog entries. I DID IT!!!!!! I propelled myself into a year-long commitment and stuck with it. Maybe this means I CAN commit myself to a Sunday Star Wars marathon……ok, probably not.

I’m excited to know my blog will exist on the world wide web for my future-but-not-going-to-happen grandchildren. I picture a day when they are grown enough for me to tell them this blog exists. And then they will tell all their friends about it. And then I will be the cool grandma. I can’t wait to read my blog myself, in another ten years or so. And I certainly can’t wait until my blog is made into a book and a movie!

My blog will remain alive, it just won’t be getting action everyday…kinda like after a break-up when you realize there’s a sudden drop-off of sexual activity. But because neither of you can just go cold turkey on the festivities, there are still random evenings when you call each other at 2 am and hook up. My blog will be of the same classy mentality. To all of my readers, be sure to check back for new entries every now and then. And always, always use protection.

My one-year project has ended now. Go in peace…because I’m blogging from Vegas and I’d like to get down to the pool and suck down a Miami Vice immediately.

Happy Birthday to me!!!!

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Nail Fail

Tonight I rushed home from work and over to my nail salon to find that they were all booked up until closing time. Birthday ruiners. So I head over to this nearby salon I’ve never been to before. This was my first mistake. The woman talks me into getting the long-lasting, chip-resistant gel polish which I initially was going to get but didn’t feel like spending $35 for it because I’m poor and heading to Vegas. They only charge $25 so I went for it. Second mistake. I pick a nice, neutral peachy pink. Third mistake. After three coats, the gel dried lumpy and uneven on half my nails. It looked like I had painted my fingernails with a tree branch using my foot. No good. She asked what time I was leaving for Vegas tomorrow. Noon. Can you come back in the morning and I’ll fix it? Seriously? Even though this disaster cost me an hour and a half in birthday eve time, she thinks she will be done in 30 minutes tomorrow. Riiiight. So tomorrow, I will spend the morning of the 30th anniversary of my birth in a crappy strip mall nail salon hoping for a nail miracle. The day can only go up from there, right?

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What Am I Doing?

Today I made an appointment with a new Dermatologist closer to my job in central shit hell Wooodland Hills. After making the appointment, I realized the doctor went to The Univeristy of Dayton just like yours truly so I was pretty excited. I showed up for my appointment today and told her I needed a cortisone injection into the zit I had because I’m leaving for Vegas in two days, I’m about to be 30 and I’m not walking around Sin City with this mass on my face because I’m so vain you probably think this blog is about you. She laughed and left to get the lethal zit stopper needle. When she returned, I told her that I was Dayton Flyer too and she said, “No way! What year did you graduate?” “’03.” Then she said two words I was not expecting to hear, “ME TOO!”

My first thought: “I have never seen you before in my life.”
My second thought: “You’re a Doctor. A frickin’ Doctor. What the hell have I been doing with my life?”

This was pretty depressing. In the past nine years since we apparently graduated on the same stage on the same day, she’s been becoming a doctor…and I’ve been what? Drinking beer?

She then recommended an $80 skin cream that I obviously can’t afford because I’m not a doctor. It’s good for moisturizing as well as fighting against wrinkles as she reminded me with a wincey face that I’m about to be 30. Fuck.

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