www.reneecarol.com

…and this girl?  certified badass.  get it, homegirl.

i don’t think this is what beyonce had in mind when she wrote “single ladies.”

1. this is why i don’t invite you over for dinner.

2.  this is why i am not obese.

3.  i have decided that buying alcohol is more important than buying nutritional items.

4.  it looks like my condiments mated like hamsters, because those are the only things that live in my fridge.

…and yes, i was one of those drunkasses. 

this weekend was the ASU vs. U of A football game at the sun devil stadium in phoenix.  it was also the first time i have tailgated since CMU’s homecoming game in 2006.  i’m old.  shut it.

against all assumptions, no, i did not get completely tanked during the tailgating/game…i waited to get crunk until after.  (in case you missed it, yes, it was an amazing game.  and i’m not even that in to sports.)

the trip started at 6:15 AM for me.  i woke up, got ready, and waited for my wingman, daniel, to get to my house.  upon his arrival, we left for erin and ryan’s place where we would pick them up and be on our way.  after the (somewhat) short journey north on the I-10, we were in phoenix and ready to find our way to our hotel.  sure, check in was scheduled for 3pm, but it was just before 11 in the morning and we wanted our room.  erin called the hotel, and the man on the other end of the line said nothing would be available before noon.

“just tell the hotel you’re pregnant,” daniel said to erin.  “maybe we’ll get a room sooner.”

while the rest of us were parking our car and using the hotel bathroom, ryan proceeded to check in.  minutes later, we had the keys to a hotel room.

“wow, i thought they didn’t have anything ready yet,” i asked.

“yeah, well, i told them that erin was pregnant and she needed a spot to lay down for a minute,” he replied.

“oh, well, maybe she shouldn’t be carrying that heavey cooler with all of the booze,” i mentioned.

it is amazing what “being pregnant” can get you…well, almost anything besides alcohol.

this spawned the running joke about erin being pregnant all night, yet somehow, i was branded with “having crabs.”  i mean, if you’re going to joke, might as well make it crude.  i went along with it, like a good sport would, and i think i ended up creating one of the worst comparisons in the history of man;

“can you see crabs?” daniel asked.

“no, but you can sure feel them.  you can’t see them, but you know it’s there,” erin answered.

“yeah, it’s kind of like jesus,” i added in.

“renee, you are so going to hell for that one,” ryan informed me.

yep.

i thought about applying to be on “the bachelorette.”  sure, this is the funniest thing i have ever heard, too.  i would terrorize the shit outta those poor, unsuspecting men.

i was reading the application questions and was surprised that one has to answer a 17-page questionnaire to be on MTV’s “real world,” yet only has to fill out two measly pages to find love on tv.

some of my favorite questions were:

1.  do you have, or have you ever had a restraining order against you?  if so, explain.  yeah, like this needs explanation.  that bitch was craaaazzzy.

2.  do you want to get married?  oooh.  ewww.   no, probably not.  sorry to burst ABC’s love bubble.

3.  have you ever been arrested or convicted of a crime?  like have a restraining order filed against me?  nope.  not yet.

4.  have you ever appeared on radio, tv or film?  yep.  cops.  for violating a restraining order.

after i was done browsing through the puny two page app, i sat back and thought for a second.  do i really wanna do this?  could i sign myself up for marriage/engagement/love made in reality tv hell?  no, probably not.  oooh!  look!  they are taking contestants for ABC’s wipeout.  that sounds like more my style.

…this bitch is sittin’ on twenty-twos.  just in case you couldn’t mentally size that up, the douche that drives this put the chrome deuce deuces in the corner.  oh, tucson.

once upon a time, tuesday symbolized a night of drinking tequila, hence the nickname, “tequila tuesday.”  after waking up too many times on wednesday feeling like a pile of horse shit, tequila tuesdays faded out and responsibility trickled in.

but drinking or not, your mornings can still suck.

let’s take this morning, for example.  i woke up at 5am, freezing my ass off on the couch.  not hungover, i was determined to go to the gym like i usually do at the butt crack of dawn.  i prep myself, grab my keys, license and water and bend over to put on my gym shoes.

what the eff.

that four-legged-mammal that eats and shits (and apparently vomits every now and then) has puked in my gym shoe during the course of the night.  great.  it’s not enough that when he was a puppy he ingested two pairs of my brand new eyeglasses, or has eaten at least three pairs of high heels (sorry, megan), or killed a comforter.  he had to go and puke in my size 7.

what a way to start the day after monday.

tuesday will be concluded by watching “are you smarter than a fifth grader?”  it turns out i’m not.  but it’s fun to see grown adults jump around like a monkey on coke when they get the answers right.  it’s fun to be brilliant…and have the same mental capacity as a 12-year-old.

this time, it was at victoria’s secret.  (and no, i didn’t buy anything…my “secrets” are too pathetic for victoria.)
i walked in to the store, where i was greeted by one of the employees who filled me in on the holiday specials.  she asked if she could help me find anything.
“yeah, i saw the commercial for that bombshell bra. i want to see how big my boobs can get with that.”
she led me over to the table that housed the “boost your boobs to be two cup sizes larger” bras.
“what color would you like to try on?” she asked.
“hmm.  i think i like the leopard print, but that’s a little skanky,” i said.
“i have one in leopard.  it can be classy,” she snapped back.
sure.  pleather stripper boots and gag balls can be classy, too, i guess.
so, after offending employee number one, i grabbed the bra and was off to the fitting room.  i was then greeted by employee number two.
“are you ready to try that on?” she asked.
“yep.  my boobs are ready for some miracles.”
she put me in a fitting room and told me that if i needed another size to let her know.  after she shut the door, i examined the bra.

leopard print.  cute, but slutty.  and who’s going to see this if i get it?  it’s not like i walk around without a shirt on in public.  sober.  wow.  feel all that padding.  i could never wear this in front of a guy i liked.  one second i have boobies, the next, i am two cups sizes smaller.  i am sure people have divorced over less.

i undress halfway and start to put the bra on.  okay, maybe leopard print doesn’t have to be sleazy, it kind of looks cute.  i guess blondie up front was right.

after i had strapped the apparatus to my chest i looked in the mirror.  whoa.  seriously?  sure, my boobs look bigger, but it feels like i sprouted a boob on top of a boob.  this just isn’t right.

i turned to the side to see what the profile looked like.  ugh.  not-so-natural.  this reminds me of a low budget porno.

there was a knock at the fitting room door.
“is everything fitting okay?” the voice asked.
“sure, i just wish i had a different pair of boobs.”
after i had traumatized myself long enough with my abnormally perky reflection, i decided to get dressed and return to my “normal” cup size.  when i exited the fitting room, employee number two was waiting for me.
“so, how did this one work out?”
“eh.  i’m not ready for the porn clevage just yet,” i answered.
the girl looked at me digusted.  “i am wearing that same one right now.”
…and there was strike two at pissing off the victoria’s secret employees.  i couldn’t even strive for a strike three.  so, i let out a sigh, shrugged my shoulders, and walked out with my less than average sized breasts.

monday morning couldn’t have started off any better.  my first customer came in and was looking around for a second before i went over to her.  i asked her if there was anything that i could help her out with.  during the initial interaction, i noticed that she had moved away from me and looked at me with a disgusted look.  sure, i knew that i probably smelled like a leftover sunday night of hard drinking, but i showered that day and i doused myself with perfume.  what was this lady’s deal?

i continued to help her out with what she needed, and eventually we approached the check out counter.

“did you get your flu shot yet?” the woman asked me.
“um, no.  i don’t think that i need one,” i replied.
“oh, well you breathed on me.  i get nervous when i am out in public and people who haven’t gotten their flu shot breathe on me.”
“oh, well…umm…i am sorry for breathing?” i said.

i apologize, lady, for even sharing the same atmosphere as you sans flu shot.  when i start to cough up bloody mucous, i’ll tilt my head in the other direction.

partying on sunday nights leads to lack of sleep before work on mondays.  but this isn’t always a bad thing.  during my zombie-like coma that i was in on monday morning, i figured out that it takes about five hours of sleep for me to reach my optimal level of ingenuity.  true story.  here’s why:

i was thinking about mexicans.  they sell fresh tortillas door-to-door, clean your windows for cheap, and can even construct operational meth labs.  well, they don’t call them “mexi-cant’s,” now do they?

while texting a friend, i had mentioned that i think about certain things “25/7.” yep, i throw an extra hour in to my day just to think up amazing things such as this new phrase.

the word penalty makes me chuckle.  the root word, being “penal,” really makes my mind wander.  sorry, but i can’t help it.