Brilliant Facebook satire. Dunka mucho much to Mel for posting it.

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I’m a grumpy bitch. But you already knew this.

I’ve long been out of the closet about this blog, which is good on one hand and not so good on others as I need to edit myself. The problem with being a grumpy bitch is that I don’t edit myself enough and people sometimes get hurt.

Bad Nicole.

I debated all week if I should write this post, but have decided that since I still want to- then I should.

So yeah. Because I’m a bitch, I recently had one of my GRRRRAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH moments and clicked PUBLISH rather editing myself.

While I stand by much of what I wrote, I painted a group of people with a wide brush who did not deserve such commentary and were probably not aware of what was specifically winding me up.

So I clicked publish and I forgot about it and got over my grumpiness- for the most part- but the blog liveth on and some folks that were painted by the wide brush read it and rightly so felt that I had broken their trust by so publically ranting.

So since I publically ranted, I am publically apologising.

I am very sorry.

I was wrong.

And I won’t do it again.

This is not to say that I will stop posting the funny things that Stuart says. That stuff is just too good to not share.

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I’m washing the dishes before the cleaner comes. Stuart comes up behind me and watches me for a moment.

“What are you doing?”

“My nails.”

“Back when my dad, before he got a sense of humour. I would wind him up. He’d be doing something and I would come in and talk to him then I would ask what he was doing. He’d be washing the car and he’d go all agggghhhh.” Stuart waves his hands in the air a la Kermit the Frog.

“It winds me up too.”

“Does it?” There is a glint of pleased in Stuart’s eye.

“It’s obnoxious.”

“You’re just fast approaching the age where you also don’t have a sense of humour.”

“I do have a sense of humour. You’re just not funny.”

“I’m being silly Thomas. You know silly. I know you can be silly. When we first met you were silly.” Stuart went into the bathroom. I heard the shower start.

A few minutes later, I finish the dishes. The shower stops and after a moment I go into the bathroom. Stuart is standing in front of the sink with a towel wrapped around himself holding a can of diet coke. He drinks a lot of diet coke.

We stare at each other. “What are you doing?” I say.

“You know, I’m glad you asked that because I was just standing here wondering the same thing.”

We smile at each other.

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I have an ingrown hair. This isn’t that unusual a thing- typically. . .

Mine is on my face.

Lucky me.

This evil hair that comes along every so often is the top point of the Bermuda triangle to the left of my lips. The other points of the triangle are a vein that people often think is blue ink and one of many moles.

I’m very attractive.

I’ve long had a love hate thing with my hair. I love the hair on my head and I love my eyebrow shape and colour. . . The problem is if go a few days without plucking my brows, I’d give Frida Kahlo a run for her money.

Sex-y.

It is something I have been horribly self-conscious of for years. It horrifies me to be honest. What I find interesting is most women, if they start talking about this topic will also confess their hersutisic tendencies. Given that most women are in constant battle with the hair, why is it such a huge taboo?

A year ago there was a documentary on the BBC that Shazia Mirza did called, “F**k Off, I’m A Hairy Woman” where she didn’t shave for six months and she encouraged other furry women to do the same. I gotta be honest- on one hand. . . yeah, happy! that so many other women have the fur ball gene. On the other, I just think it’s kind of gross. I don’t want to see furry chicks. I don’t what to be a monkey girl. . .

I remember once seeing a homeless woman in LA near my apartment in Los Feliz. She had a serious grey goatee going on and I just couldn’t look away. There is something seriously wrong with me that I was more horrified that she had a beard than that she was homeless.

I also find it a little troubling that if a genie gave me three wishes that two of them would be for thin thighs and no more body hair issues. What kind of feminist am I?

The third wish would be, of course, for world peace. (Wave Miss Hairy America! Wave!)

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that is all.

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Luckily all the treadmills were being used in the gym and I went for a long walk through Belltown, up Queen Anne North and back down to Alaskan Way (don’t recommend sections of that unless you like walking through gaggles of vagrants, drunks and crack heads) down First and up Madison to Ninth then back down Spring along 6th to home at the Westin.

Was late enough that people were out getting their coffee and walking their dogs, but early enough that there wasn’t a queue at Mecca and The Market wasn’t (yet) soul destroying.

Walking down the Counterbalance- picture postcard moment. Standing (panting) under a leafy tree and down below me to the left is the city squinting her eyes in the sun, glittery-shimmery and in the distance, floating in the air, The Mountain was out.

Life is good.

Once I have some coffee, it will be even better.

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I get to go home today and I am happy, happy, happy about it.

There are benefits to business travel certainly. Get to hang out with colleagues you usually communicate with over phone, e-mail or Facebook poking. Get to see friends that live in that city. Nice to go to restaurants and expense your meal rather than calculating what that meal will do to your bottom line to the rest of the month. Lovely to be able to take showers. . . our shower at home is such crap, I refuse to use it. While you might think it is wasteful of me to take a bath rather than suffer through the trickle of water that they call a shower at our house. . . I just don’t care.

The best part of business travel is the bed. Nice big King size just right level of firmness and softness mattress with a fluffy comforter and a million and one pillows. I like to stay at The Westin and they call it The Heavenly Bed. It is heavenly. This has been my view from my Heavenly Bed for the last week.

And this is the view from my Heavenly Bed at night. . .

I would love to actually sleep in a Heavenly Bed when I’m not dealing with some level of jet lag. I often will wake up in the early morning and discover that I have been on a little trip while I have been sleeping and instead of laying head to foot, I’ve managed to flip around so I am lying sideways along the bed. One of the benefits of being in a big king sized bed (and only being 5’ 3’’).

But I am going home to our poxy shower and our tiny double sized bed that I share in a tiny little room with a view of other people’s gardens.

Stuart is meeting me at Paddington.

I can’t wait.

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In our recent article regarding Nicole Thomas’ freakish lack of bowling skill, Bob Pogue was misquoted. In response to her statement that she was going to beat her last score, Pogue actually said, “Good luck!” with a hint of a smirk.

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Co-Workers are amazed at how bad she actually is.

BELLEVUE- When Nicole Thomas told her colleagues that she was a terrible bowler, they didn’t quite grasp the entirety of her statement.

“She said she was bad, but I thought she meant she did an 80 or 92. She’s so much worse than that. I don’t think you can be that bad even if you were trying to be bad.” Mike Wheels told us.

“After the first set, she said she was going to try and beat that score. I just told her that she could try.” Bob Pogue said.

Thomas bowled a 52 for her first set in an uneven game marked by gutter balls and occasional cursing. There was some improvement with the second game with a score of 64. She did seem to find her stride as the game went on, bowling a spare in the final frame.

“I’m just glad she didn’t kill anyone.” An anonymous source reported.

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Little Red Boat posted a fun meme that I snagged. I however did not just use the G-word. . . I also used live.com. Sue me. It made a better story.

Meme away if you so desire. Do a search on your name and the phrase, ‘likes to’ and comedy will ensue. I would like to thank Ms. Richie for making my name what it is today.

Here’s mine. Nicole likes to:

Nicole likes to party. Anyone that reads this knows that I am one martini away from cirrhosis.
Nicole likes men. Yep.
Nicole likes guys who look like they have no blood in em. I don’t know about you, but this seems to be counterintuitive?
Nicole likes this boy named Brandon Chavez. Is it just me or do I sound like a complete slut?
Nicole likes men. Yeah. I am a big slut.
Nicole likes her men circumcised. I sound like a dumb slut.
Nicole likes to chow down. I’m recusing myself.
Nicole really likes cocaine. You know. . . never been interested. I’ve always been more of an oxycontin girl.
Nicole likes to take risks. Well obviously. I like to party and do coke with Brandon Chavez while sucking all of the blood out of his circumcised penis.

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