what is it like to be renee carol?

well, why don’t you ask the person who recently stole my identity?

i know it must be alluring to see me, walking down the street, in my thrift-store threads, box-dyed hair, 5-year-old dirty winter coat with my pants tucked in to my knock-off Uggs (not in the fashionable way.  i look like i just threw my boots on and ran out the door…mostly because i probably did.)  it really must provoke someone to do something so dishonest and disgusting, such as stealing renee carol’s identity.

i figured, if someone is dumb enough to want to try and be me, even if only for a day, i might as well spare them the effort and just describe what i’m really like.  here it goes.

if you really would like to get to know me, let’s start off by taking a peek in to my car.  one would find that it has a personalized edge (dog hair) followed by a hint of carelessness (minor stains, scratches and things that have yet to be identified on the floor mats.)  it’s littered with gum wrappers (i enjoy combating halitosis) and old fitness magazines (because i’m a meathead by trade.)  i have an assortment of different music cds, ranging from taylor swift to screamo rock, once recorded by my old roommate and his band.  one would also find a valentine that dates back to 2001 from a girlfriend of mine (ask me to keep an important receipt? no way.  make sure i keep a silly valentine?  no prob.)  there are bobby pins in the cup holders, loose change strewn about and missing pieces from the interior of my car that i’m sure are buried in the crevices of my seats.  there you have it, renee carol; unorganized, all-over-the-place and likes shitty music.

moving on, we will dissect renee carol’s room.  one phrase to describe it?  thrift store goods and bargain-guy orgy scene.  pay full price for something when i don’t have to?  no way.  if i bought it, i probably either used a coupon for it or got it on discount.  i bought my king-sized bed twenty percent off (just bought a mattress though, no box spring.  i figured why spend the money on one if i didn’t really need it?  throwing a mattress on the floor is wayyy more urban than having a nice bedroom set. psssh.)  almost every item of clothing i own was either worn by someone before i owned it or bought on clearance.  i don’t hang nice pictures up in the places that i live because i usually don’t plan on staying there for extended periods of time.  shoes…shoes reproduce like hamsters on ecstasy in my world.  but yet again, bought on clearance or at my favorite recycled clothing retailer.  i have no qualms about putting my feet in something that some stranger has worn before, probably sans socks.  it’s like playing footsie with a (presumably) hot stranger of the same sex.  it’s how i get my thrills.

let’s upgrade to the bathroom.  there are more gadgets and products in there than a porn star’s dressing room.  hair, makeup, perfume, lotions…all the essentials when it comes to being a woman.  that bathroom cupboard that i’m supposed to share with the boyfriend?  well, i guess it’s still considered “sharing” if i take up 95% of it and the other 5% is left for his “manly” items.  bottom line?  i buy far too many beauty essentials to share my bathroom with others.  i’m selfish, yet manicured (sometimes.)

i own a used computer, an old-school tv, and lots of vitamins.  you want to browse the internet at mediocre speeds, not receive HD channels and stay on top of your health?  swing on by, i might be able to help.  my bank account is sub-par, i recently started going to college again and i eat food off of the floor.  being me is certainly not fabulous.

word to the wise; the next time you want to be somebody, pick someone who doesn’t trek around town with a wallet-full of coupons for almond milk and holes in her socks.  choose someone who can afford to buy nice things and won’t eat food from the floor…

…and for those of you cringing at that, i’ll have you know it was fine.  i utilize the five-second rule.  it’s a concept to live by.  i’m keeping it classy, one fallen m&m at a time.

if the mayans are correct, then it’s going to be our last.  do i really believe that?  hell no, but it sure is a great excuse to do all kinds of stupid shit, anyway.

my year started off in nashville, tennessee with great friends and boat-loads of people who thought kicking off the new year on broadway street would be a great idea.  at the time, i didn’t exactly know when the new year had chimed in, due to the fact that the massive crowd wasn’t giving a countdown and the audio went out for the live talent.  so it’s safe to assume that this year might be the beginning of my intellectual descent.  i kicked it off not knowing what the hell was going on, and i am afraid that this might be a recurring trend throughout 2012.

as for resolutions, well, i suppose i hadn’t really thought of any before the new year got here.  last year i decided to watch more educational programming, so i stayed tuned to the history channel for two straight months and gave up on the jersey shore.  i learned how the states got their shapes, educated myself about ancient aliens and even decided that if i were to live in any era, i would have chosen to live in detroit during the 1920s, all thanks to the history channel.  as for what was going on in new jersey, well, i had no idea.

but, just like most things, resolutions come and go.  that’s why this year i have decided to not make any at all.  i need to constantly improve on myself rather than make silly little temporary changes.  (i started watching crap on TV around march of last year.  i could only learn so many things about history…i needed a break.)  so, my improvements that need to be constantly worked on include;

1.  being an asshole. i find at times that i am too nice to people, and too forgiving in certain situations.  i need to hike up my skirt, grab my (invisible) balls and just start speaking my mind.  now, i don’t intend to hurt feelings, but i might piss some people off.  when you’re sick of being walked on for so long you do one of two things: become as asshole, or sew the word “welcome” on to all of the items in your wardrobe.  nobody wants to be a door mat…and if you put the word “welcome” on all of your clothes, (especially your undies), then you’re just going to look like a total skank.

2.  educate myself, the old-fashioned way. i’m headed back to school in a week, but this time my class schedule does not include watching the history channel.  i figure that if i am ever going to get anywhere in life, i need to keep learning new things (AKA wasting more tuition money.)  blow jobs can only get you so far…the rest you can leave up to education.

3.  stop spending money on crap that doesn’t matter. now, i was never one to waste money on getting my nails manicured, getting my hair done every 12 weeks or draping myself in lavish jewels.  if you ask me, all of the aforementioned sounds pretty gay.  what i DO like to spend money on includes: booze, gym clothes, makeup, hair products and booze.  typically in that order.  i need to stop spending like i am trying to dress an entire soccer team in workout gear, like i am yearning to be a drag queen with all of the makeup, as if i am trying to style my hair like i am going to be starring in a beauty pageant and like i am drinking for two. (insert off-color-fetal-alcohol-syndrome-joke here.)  i only have one body, one face, one head full of hair and one liver to worry about.  dropping (presumably) thousands of dollars a year on this stuff just doesn’t make sense.  i can look like a drag queen without all of the makeup.

resolutions are for pussies.  (see!  i am already improving on my asshole abilities right now!)

happy new year, fuckers.

that’s me on the right.

it’s the holidays.  as small children and and people who resemble jesus are having the time of their lives, renee carol sits back and reminds herself of why this christmas is better than the last; she didn’t wake up by herself in a vegas hotel room, hungover as shit, dry-heaving in the shower.

true story.

last year my family and i spent the week leading up to christmas in las vegas, creating more reasons for us to remain on santa’s “naughty list.”  as tradition would have it, my brother and i ventured out the night before we were flying home (christmas eve) and proceeded to get hammered on the vegas strip.  one casino after another, one drink after the next, one fuzzy memory followed by another we’d soon forget.  before i knew it, i was drunk-dialing someone who actually resembled jesus while eating a can of pringles with hot sauce sprinkled on top.  after putting myself in to a chip and alcohol-induced coma, i passed out on the living room floor in our condo and called it a night.  sorry i didn’t leave cookies for you santa, but my drunk ass ate everything in sight.

when morning came, i got out of bed (up off the floor) and looked around.  everyone was gone, there was pringles and hot sauce covering everything and my mouth tasted like the scene of a high-fructose corn syrup gang-bang.  great.  now i know how macauley caulkin felt in home alone.  just. like. that.

i dragged myself in to the shower, held on to the marbled wall and leaned forward to only half-way regurgitate my souvenirs from the night before.  santa brought me a wicked hangover and i didn’t appreciate his cruel gesture.

but the painful christmas didn’t stop there.  rather than fly home with my family to michigan, i was flying solo back to arizona, because that’s where i lived at the time.  the second-half of my christmas 2010 was spent trying to catch my connecting flight at the san diego airport, surrounded by holiday cheer.  it was at that moment that i vowed to myself to never be alone on christmas again.

so here i am in 2011.  one full year later and it seems as though everything has changed.  i didn’t wake up hungover and alone on christmas in a vegas hotel room, i instead woke up at my parent’s house in my old bed.  i set my alarm to get up early to go see my god son open up gifts from santa and then i came back to my parent’s house and had a nutritious meal of chocolate chip cookies and banana bread.  no hangover in sight…and yet, this still doesn’t feel right.  i guess it’s really not a holiday unless i am feeling miserable.  the more and more i thought about it, all of the holidays in my adult life have been spent feeling miserable due to one thing or another.  some people have certain moments during the holidays that stick out and symbolize why that moment is so memorable.  somewhere along the lines of, “well it’s not christmas until aunt ann gets all liquored up on butterscotch schnapps and starts saying mean things to people.”

where was that moment for me this year?  where was my drunken aunt ann calling me out for being a failure at everything in life?  where was that one moment that makes me miserable and truly makes this holiday season MY holiday season?!?

then there it was.

“i am never going to get grandchildren, am i?” my mother asked.

well, shit.  NOW it’s the mother fucking holidays.

as a family we have already collectively decided that next year’s celebrations will be spent in las vegas again.  me and my empty womb will be stumbling down the strip, scoping out the street dogs that most resemble a baby, that way i have something to take back to my mother for next year’s christmas present.

happy holidays…from my dysfunctional family to yours.

the boy and i were having a conversation the other day about crazy things that we did when we were younger.  clearly, we grew up in two totally different worlds.

the boy: “when i was about 15, i tried all kinds of things with my girlfriend at the time.”

me: (in utter disbelief) “WHAT?!?  when i was 15, if someone asked me if i wanted to ‘experiment,’ i would have gone in my parent’s fridge and grabbed a Zima.  Eww, you’re slutty.”

i’d still rather experiment with a Zima now-a-days than do some of the crazy shit i’ve seen on youporn.com.  i’d take getting fucked up on lightly carbonated fake-beer drink than a bukkake facial any day.

my negotiation skills are magnificent.  case in point:

me: “my boobs will be better after i get a boob job.”

kasey: “you don’t need a boob—”

me: “shut up.”

end of conversation.  i win.  i think.

Drunk Female Wanted (warren)

i walked in to work one day and had one of my coworkers relay some information to me.

“hey, renee, one of the members was asking if you were single,” he said.

“really,” i responded, “which one?”

as he pulled up the member picture from our check in system, the others in the room chimed in their two cents.

“oh my god!  that’s mister so-and-so…i thought he was married?!?” one said.

“wait, i thought he was gay?” another mentioned.

“dude!  that’s the choir teacher!” the last onlooker said.

“hold up!  he’s a choir teacher?!?  i’m out,” i said.

married?  meh.

gay?  nothing new.

choir teacher?  NO FUCKING WAY.  LAME.

even renee carol has boundaries.

sure, sports can be fun to watch.  but they’re even more entertaining when you have a female sports commentator that knows absolutely nothing about the game and yells random broken sentences while the clock is ticking.

my brother’s girlfriend is that female.

while watching the most recent U of M game in my brother’s basement, his girlfriend coined a few phrases that were blog-worthy.  it all started with this innocent misunderstanding;

girlfriend: “what’s BTN stand for?”

everyone else: “the Big Ten Network.”

girlfriend: “oohhhh, the big time!”

everyone else: “no, the Big Ten.”

girlfriend: “oh…i thought you guys said ‘big time.’  like, you’re a big deal because you’re on the Big Time Network.”

sure, she was close, but not close enough.

as if jumbling up the name of the network wasn’t cluing anyone in, she also couldn’t recall what the name of the team was, so they were appropriately titled, “yellow pants.”

“catch him, yellowpants!  catch him!” she’d yell.  for someone who clearly isn’t that in to watching sports, she sure got in to the game.

girlfriend: “who is that player?”  she asked.

sports fan #1: “denard robinson.”

girlfriend: “way to go venard.”

sports fan #1: “denard.”

girlfriend: “who names these people?!?”

that was the second time that she mis-heard what was said.  i was starting to wonder if she was just zoning out on what was being said to her , or she was suffering from some sort of hearing impairment.

nothing was safe from being commented on.

girlfriend: “that is one massive chin strap.”  hmm.  glad you noticed.

girlfriend: (while pointing to the refs’ shirts with capital letters on them) what does the F and the R stand for?  First and Rast?!?”  maybe in north korea.

as it was coming down to the wire at the end of the game, she was biting her nails in suspense.  she watched anxiously as denard robinson failed at throwing the ball to his teammates down the field.  after a play where he passed the ball off to someone else, she famously said this;

girlfriend: “he gave the ball away?  probably because he didn’t trust himself with it.”

always a possibility.

sporting events will never be the same unless my brother’s girlfriend attends.  and in case you were wondering, yes, “yellow pants” won.

my favorite season is upon us, as is my anxiety attack over what i am going to be for halloween.  forget the fact that after last year’s shenanigans i wanted to plot out my threads for the following year, because, well, that just didn’t happen.  procrastination at its finest, i suppose.

so, the hunt is on again for a good costume.  and when i say “good,” i just mean something that not every whore in america is going to be sporting on the same evening as me.

this year’s halloween boils down to the same two questions:  do i dress up as something slutty, or do i wear something comfortable and warm, because late october in michigan is always a tricky time of year to dress for?

slutty has its ups and downs.  it can be cute, and a straight-forward way to say “hey, i’m the girl to come and find when it’s time to bust out the body shots.“  sure, i might think that i look okay when i leave the house, but after a few celebratory drinks, i’ll be thinking i’m the belle of the ball, ass hanging out everywhere.  of course everyone already knows, drunken ass and titties hanging out of a spandex costume is rarely ever a fantastic idea.  how would people take me seriously if i’m dressed up as a slutty sailor, looking like  i’ll be giving out complimentary drunken hand-jobbies in the parking lot?  nothing screams class like stripper heels and mass quantities of glitter dumped all over ones body in the spirit of halloween.   oh, did my areola just peek out of my skin-tight top?  you’re welcome mr. monopoly man…now where’s my $200?

then on the other hand, you have the practical halloween costume.  something that is not tight fitting at all, comfortable and allows you to successfully complete a somersault without any sight of your vaginal cavern.  this costume allows the wearer to drink lethal amounts of booze because it hides the beer belly and might be a good line of defense against the somewhat chilly october weather.  the downfall to this costume is: who in the hell would want to bang a girl wearing a gorilla costume?  comfortable and practical takes the sex appeal out of everything.  rather than looking like you’re passing out VD as a treat for halloween, you look like the girl who might questionably still be a virgin, hence the inability to flaunt an ass-cheek or two.

so my personal dilemma lies between to extreme opposites;  dress slutty and possibly expose parts of myself that will later be broadcast in a trashy youtube video, or dress respectably and covered-up and hinder any chance of men thinking that i actually own a vagina?  whatever it is i choose, i just hope a fake mustache fits the bill.  you can never go wrong with one of those.

i need an entourage.  it seems like all of the cool kids have one…and even the not-so-cool kids.  paris hilton usually rolls with whichever friends aren’t having an oral herpes outbreak, kate gosselin has eight midgets with her constantly and of course, hugh hefner strolls around with a bunch of cosmetically enhanced females.

so, if i were to recruit some people to be in my entourage, i think it would go a little something like this:

carrot top

…for all of those times that i am going to want to arm-wrestle a ginger, or have a pickle jar that’ll be too hard to open.

antoine dodson

…because i am going to need a token black dude, so it might as well be this guy.  he might be gay?  double whammy.

victoria silvstedt

…for all of those times that i am going to need a hot blonde to get me out of parking tickets and supply me with free drinks at the bar.  she may or may not speak english?  perfect.

bob saget

…he’s a comedian, he’s quick-witted and he can probably hook me up with the olsen twins.  if not, i’ll settle for uncle jesse.

hamburglar

…because hey, i get hungry every now and then.  who wouldn’t want someone to steal them hamburgers at will?