www.reneecarol.com

…the most recent sex you’ve had is with yourself.

and just to make it seem like a real-life situation, i didn’t even call myself in the morning.

to celebrate yet another year of not getting pregnant, shot, joining a gang and the slight drooping of my breasts, i am going to vegas and everyone is invited.

February 18-21 i am driving to las vegas with some friends and shacking up in a decent hotel, where i shall be giving myself champagne showers and jumping on beds until i throw up all of my birthday fun.

if you know me and feel like meeting up, get a hold of me and i’ll give you the rest of the information.  if you don’t know me and still want to go, please don’t be offended when i greet you with my pepper spray.  if you know me and can’t make it, well, i will be sure to think about you while my face is buried in some stripper’s fake cleavage.

cheers to aging, getting closer to thirty, at which age i am pretty sure that my life will officially be over.  unless i produce children before then.  on accident.

i suppose i should always take it as a compliment when people visit me at my place of work and ask me to make a career change and work for whoever it is they are working for.  but more often than not, they are just trying to move me in to another shitty sales position that would make me want to take my own life five days out of the week and wear suits.  yuck.

so, when this douche bag came in yesterday and tried to recruit me to sell health supplements for this “new line of products”, i guess i came off as a little abrasive.

“i mean, without sounding like a jerk, there are supplements and then there are supplements.  what you guys sell here are just supplements,” he said.

“wow.  sounds pretty similar,” i answered with a hint of sarcasm.

“the products that we are producing, the astronauts are taking them in to space with them,” he threw in.

“really?  hmm.  they take monkeys in to space.  and that one time, lance bass was almost taken in to space.  i am sure they take a lot of things in to space with them, but we are not about to sell monkeys here,” i said with a shit-eating smile on my face.

he looked at me like he had no idea what i was talking about.  and frankly, i had no idea what i was talking about.  all i knew was that i didn’t want to work with/for this douche bag and i was ready for a margarita.  take those “new” supplements and launch them in to Uranus, Mr. NASA.

yep.  even if it’s tied down, they’ll take it.

on a lighter note, i fell in love today…with a bumper accessory.

i guess going on a date with miss reneecarol.com isn’t for everyone.  (okay, i guess i shouldn’t really call it a date, but for lack of a better word to describe drinking coffee while watching a movie and chatting, we’ll just call it a date.)

here’s proof:

i meet my “date” at one of the local coffee joints.  i am sure that what i am wearing has some remnants of dog hair somewhere, while he is clean cut and without signs of a pet lingering on his shirt.  (-2 pts for renee)

we start chatting about brian kelly, the notre dame football coach, and i throw out that he used to coach central michigan university’s team.  a nearby guy is impressed that i know such information. (+3 pts for renee)

we decide to watch a movie at his place.  while walking out to our vehicles, i mention something about how personalized license plates are kind of stupid.  he happens to have a personalized license plate.  (-2 pts for renee)

we talk while watching a movie and he mentions his favorite band of the moment.  i, without thinking, blurt out, “ugh, i hate them.” (-3 pts for renee)

he asks mature questions like, “where do you see yourself in five years?”  i bite my tongue and DON’T say, “probably knocked up, living in a double wide, smoking newports.” (+1 pt for renee)

what i do respond is, “hopefully i will have finished one of my writing pieces and have something published.  i would also love to be a comedy writer.”  great.  he is probably thinking that i have no ambitions other than that of writing down every asinine thought that comes in to my head. (-2 pts for renee)

he’s got a nice house with a ton of great places to hide for the game “hide-and-seek.”  i verbalize this thought.  i am twenty-five-years old.  (-2 pts for renee)

i tell him not to let me handle anything fragile, because i will most likely break it on accident…he doesn’t have a plastic cup for me to drink out of, so this glass of water is a little risky.  (-1 pt for renee)

i mention that my choice of music right now is pretty much anything by taylor swift.  yet again, i am twenty-five-years old.  (-1 pt for renee)

total: -9 points

i am sure that i am leaving out other dumb things that i did/said, but let’s be honest, sometimes i just do/say too many stupid things to keep track.

this happened quite a while ago, and i still haven’t heard from said date.  rather than be worried about it, i just have to chuckle and reflect on why i might not be for everyone.  i guess not every guy can handle a gal that can burp full sentences and make fun of the jonas brothers for hours on end.

…and i think i found the final nail in the coffin:  mr. date found me on facebook, which means he probably saw the link to my website.  there’s nothing quite like displaying yourself for everyone to see on your own shitty website.

maybe the next one will like playing hide-and-seek, so i’ll have nothing to worry about.

the world is coming to an end.

Lindsay Lohan was spotted partying with the crew from Jersey Shore.

stock up on your bottled water and canned goods.

if you ever get the chance to hang out with me, please be advised:  i might make you pretend you don’t know me.

scenario 1:

while shopping at victoria’s secret during the semi-annual sale, i tried to look through all of the bins as best as i could.  i turned to my friend and said, “i need a ladder so i can get balls deep in this bra bin.”

scenario 2:

after the shopping extravaganza at VS, my friend and i stopped by the Brookstone store to see some of the gadgets.  there was an apparatus that was somewhat flexible, but it basically looked like a bike handlebar with foam padding covering it.  “what is this?” i asked the employee.

“it’s used for working out, toning up.  it allows for a good grip while you move it around and work it up and down or side to side,” he said.

“oh, so, it’s similar to the hand job, then?” i retorted.

my friend couldn’t even speak.  i evoke that response often.

okay, so what if i only had two scenarios (that i am aware of) for today?  how many more do i need?

an author by the name of Sloane Crosley did.  and it’s so true.

“weddings are like the triathlon of female friendship: the shower, the bachelorette party, and the main event.  it’s the Iron Woman and most people never make it through.  they fall off their bikes or choke on ocean water.  i figured if i valued my life, i’d stay away from weddings and they’d stay away from me.”

did i mention that i have to stand up in my friend’s wedding come june 2010?  let’s hope i can cross the finish line sans sea-salt-water-gagging.

some people just feel the need to tell me things are going to be okay, even when i wasn’t worried about them in the first place.

“you seem like a very nice lady,” one customer told me.

okay, first off, lately when people call me “lady” i cringe.  it just solidifies the fact that i am getting older and there’s not a damn thing that i can do about it.  when did i transition from “girl” or “young woman” to “lady?”  when someone calls me “lady,” i have this picture of a woman with rollers in her hair and a Capri cigarette in hand, petting a cat that flashes in to my mind.  i don’t exactly fit this criteria…yet.  give me a few more years and we’ll see.

anyway, the customer was very nice and continued talking.

“you seem like a very nice lady.  do you have someone special in your life?”

“nope,” i replied.  i wanted to respond “jose cuervo,” but i didn’t want to come across as a dick.

“oh, well, don’t you worry,”  the customer said.  “i am sure everything will work out just fine for you.”

“oh, i am not worried about it.  i wasn’t even thinking about anything serious with guys right now.  i am okay with the way things are.”

“something great will come along.  i am sure you will find someone special soon.  it was nice chatting with you,” he said as he walked out.

sure, buddy.  it was nice chatting with you too.  how did the conversation shift from pre-workout supplements to renee’s mid-life crisis?  i mean, it didn’t really “shift” that way until you brought it up out of nowhere.  i guess you gave the subject a forceful verbal push and that’s how we got here.

the question to myself is: why do people sometimes feel the need to tell me things are going to be okay when it comes to men?

i am twenty-five years old.  to some people, it seems crazy that i am not married and with child right now, but to me, that sounds like i am a genius.  do i look pathetic and lonely?  do i have tattooed must love dogs on my forehead?  do i look too uptight and in need of a good tongue bath?  who knows.  whenever i get dressed in the morning for work, i don’t top off my outfit with a spritz of eau de single loser perfume.  so what prompts these positive lifestyle reinforcements?  next time someone verbally intends something, it better be a positive reinforcement about my drinking habits: “don’t worry, you’re still classy when your dress is over your head.  keep it up!”

the next time i need something fixed/assembled/etc., i am going to call a male escort service.  i can only imagine how that conversation would go:

receptionist:  hello, and thank you for calling rent-a-man-whore.

me:  hi.  yeah.  i would like to use your services for tonight.

receptionist:  okay, you have a couple of options to choose from.  we have ricky, the bow-tie-clad stud muffin, javier, the lifeguard on duty…

me:  actually, do you have one that owns a tool belt?

receptionist:  sure!  that would be mason.  so, you crave men that are crafty and good with their hands?

me:  of course.  you see, i just went to IKEA and don’t have a boyfriend or my own tools and i need someone to assemble all of this cheap, swedish furniture.

receptionist:  oh.

me:  and i don’t plan on paying extra for any splinters.  just so you know.

nope, i don’t know where i get this stuff from, either.  but i have a feeling i can attribute this post to the lethal concoction of the red wine, nyquil and birth control i just ingested.  let’s party.