happy birthday, Rob!

Lago Atitlan, Guatemala
2005

Sydney, Australia
2006

Maui, Hawaii
2007

Sedona, Arizona
2008

Prague, Czech Republic
2009

Glentucky, Arizona
2010

he's my favorite!

Lindsay + Mike + Cabo = a newly minted Mister & Missus

Where do I possibly begin? Lindsay and Mike's wedding weekend in Cabo was easily one of the bestest and most funnest weekends in the history of all the world. The different groups in the bride and groom's lives blended seamlessly, the weather was fantastic, and the drinks were flowing...

Let's cut to the chase. Here are the pics:

"hey Rob, dare me to get in that random shelf on the wall?!?!"
(oh Rob did...)

casualties of the DJLeeJ vs. Free Tequila showdown

I loved that the boys kept poking fun at our smoosh-faced long-arm shots, and the next one appeared at some point...

the self-appointed Hoochie Coochie Man. he had a legit business card.

hey, it tasted that good, too.

...the nicest way to start a wedding day...

Now I need to share a story. It's a joke amongst Mike and his ol' buddies that he's the luckiest guy in the world. I mean, he won a trip to Whistler and a whole mess of snow gear after writing a 150-word essay on why he and Linds needed a vacation. He wins at poker. He talks his way out of tickets easily. He scores impossible-to-get tickets for sports and concerts. He got to marry Lindsay. He's a lucky guy. This, however, may take the cake.

The wedding was held on the public beach, so the public was milling around and watching the nuptials. No biggie, we expected that. What was unexpected, however, was that a real estate and agricultural gajillionaire would be so touched by the whole scene that he'd offer up his penthouse suite to the new mister and missus for the rest of their trip. To top it off, he had his pilot (gah - his pilot) buzz the resort when he left the next day.

the view from the neighboring hotel (with super zoom)

just act natural.

why yes, that is a rooftop pool overlooking the ocean. and it sits next to the jacuzzi and bar, just outside the suite and it's four bedrooms. for real.

who needs the resort's bar when you've got a resort to yourselves?!

Mr. and Mrs. B

Thank God for fantastic FOMO-free weekends with amazing friends!

just a taste...

...of what Rob gets to deal with on a daily basis (this time, via Skype chat):

[6:53:23 PM]
nicole: oh shit. i just made eye contact with the secret zebra/grama-cakes that i stash in the cupboard. i'm pms-ing hard core (youre welcome) and now i cant get them out of my mind.
Rob: did they look back at you ?
Rob: they aren't chocolate thogh?
nicole: yup. hence the eye contact. (our eyes made contact) WHAT DO I DO/!??!?!?!? HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
nicole: theyre full of good-for-you things, just like chocolate.
nicole: i'm scared.
Rob: are you saving them for a special occasaion?
nicole: no. just for being a fatty. tell me no.
Rob: haha
nicole: please.
Rob: no
Rob: don't eat those
nicole: what am i gonna eat instead, praytell?!!
Rob: save them for when you REALLY NEED THEM
nicole: i may decimate a 1/2 pound of goldfish crackers, then.
nicole: which is worse?!?!!
Rob: i am not sure
nicole: who do i save: the zebras or the fishes?!?!?!?!
nicole: HELP MEEEEEEEEEE!
Rob: would you only eat 1?
nicole: cake!?
Rob: yes
nicole: well, no. they do come in a convenient 2-pack (not tupac).
Rob: haha
nicole: i'd have to eat both. its like a law.
Rob: i did not know that
nicole: what would YOU do?!?!?!
Rob: it is 7pm. could you just eat dinner?
nicole: i havent started thinking of dinner yet.
nicole: which is a whole other danger.
Rob: why don't you make dinner
nicole: becuz i dont have to if i eat zebra cakes and goldfish!
Rob: you can have 1 cake with milk for desert
Rob: and by being good
nicole: oooooh oreos! now i want oreos. in ice cream.
Rob: put the other in ziplock and take it for lunch tomorrow
nicole: oh this isnt gonna end well.
nicole: this cant possibly end well.
nicole: ruuuuuuuuuun kali! runnnnn for your life!!!!!!!!!
Rob: ok. then eat dinner and reward yourself with one of the many frozo options nearby
nicole: oooooooooh froyo.
nicole: gummi worms. not bears. worms.
nicole: and caramel corn.
Rob: jeezus woman
Rob: when was the last time youate?!
nicole: like 3pm.
nicole: i'm not even hungry.
nicole: just craving the moon. and stars.
Rob: apparently you are...
nicole: fine. i'm gonna try to be a growed up and make an actual meal, rather than standing in the kitchen snarfing down things that come in cellophane...
nicole: ...but i'm not going to pretend to like it...
[7:01:18 PM]

floo-ers!

my farmer's market loot from Saturday included a giant $3 bouquet of cornflowers...three vases worth!

Mother Nature hater

Since Kali is a cat and has no opposable thumbs, its no surprise that she lacks any desire to conserve the earth on which she lives. The animal loves to drink out of the faucet. Or toilet. Or puddle. Or freshly watered plant. And as a little diva, she'll throw a hissy fit (hah - get it?! HISSy fit?!) if the bathroom faucet is turned off. Ever.

I, on the other hand, like this planet, and plan to inhabit it for many years to come. I've always felt horrible about leaving the water running 24/7, but no one sleeps peacefully if Kali isn't hydrated. I finally sucked it up and bought a Kitty Fountain. I know, right?! How LAME am I?! Soon enough, I'll have hundreds of cats and be morbidly obese, addicted to Cheetos and Maury Povich reruns. But I digress.

I got the box, and opened it up. I let it sit (dry) for a bit so she could scope it out.
Kal: Meh. Not interested.
FINE. I set the thing up, filled it with water and plugged it in.
Kal: Uh-uh.
I (duhn-duhn-duuuuhhhn) turned off the bathroom faucet.
Kal: WHAT.-THE.-HELL?-face

WTF IS THAT?!

methinks not.

THREE FULL DAYS passed, and despite my best efforts to show her how great it is and how its her special toy, no dice. I started to panic - what if she gets dehydrated and dies and its my fault?!?! I shared my marginally irrational fear with a few folks, who suggested I be patient (uhyahrite!). Tried it. And tonight, my friends, I'm proud to report that I can out-wait my damn animal...

Nicole 1, KLSM 0

I say potato, you say tomato

For my birthday, my Aunt and Uncle "surprised" (read: sent me an email saying HEY - whaddaya want?!) me with a Topsy Turvy Hanging Tomato upside down grow-y basket. And dirt. And a 'mater plant. And all the other fixin's for tomato-taming.

Its common knowledge that I can't grow bamboo. Imagine my trepidation at taking on an actual edible plant. Yes, I know I asked for the thing, but I saw it along the lines of asking for a pony or a puppy - nobody's actually gonna get you a living thing unless they think you can handle it. Soooo, Mimi and Glenn must see me as capable, right? RIGHT?!! Come on, tell me I'm right. And funny. On we go...

I followed the directions in the box (and even managed to do it all by my lonesome - even the instructions said you need a helper to hold the plant upside down. Pssshh. I scoff at you, directions!) and have watered it (semi-)regularly. Not so tough...however, no matter how little or how much I water the damn thing, it all immediately gushes out the bottom. I'm sure I've doomed the future of this creature, but I keep on awaterin', and it keeps on adrippin' on my downstairs neighbor's patio - whoopies.

When I went to water it this morning, THERE WERE TOMATOES! Little green gems of high-five-aliciousness. They're surely super bitter and unripe, but I was tempted to snatch one off the vine and pop it in my mouth. Now I just need to tackle basil and learn to make my own mozzarella and I'll be all set...

hello pretty little flowers...

yaaaaaaay!

and she walked away unscathed.

Anyone who knows me - and I mean really really knows me - knows that my feet are pretty much off limits. Like the Mona Lisa. Small. Cute. Protected by sixteen inches of bulletproof glass. I buy them (lots of) pretty things (shoes) and you keep your grubby mitts off 'em. You then get to look at my awesome shoes and we both don't get maimed. It's a win-win.

Until yesterday, in line with the don't-touch-approach, I'd never had a legit pedicure. I do all my own stunts, folks. I'm crazy ticklish, complete with violent and expletive-laced reactions (seriously, I'll gouge your eyes out), and one wrong clip of a toenail and I'm down for days. Literally. Hence the lack of pedis in my past.

When my Mom mentioned that we should/could/would go get manicures and pedicures together for a belated-Mother's Day-and-birthday-celebration, I guffawed. Aloud. Yes, I'm an ass. We went anyways, so you see what being an ass gets me: pampered. ; ] While I may have blacked out for portions of the experience, this is my rendition of the 56-minute appointment:

Petrified of being cut, tickled, contracting a staph infection, I reluctantly climbed into the pedi-chair. Naturally, of the FOUR Spa-Ladies appointed to our little group, I got the one who spoke shattered English, and did so well below a whisper:

Spa-Lady: Houw ah ewe toodai?
NicB: Ummmm, super ticklish.
S-L: (uncomprehending smile)
NB: Seriously. I apologize preemptively if I nail you in the teeth while donkey-kicking to get you away from my feet. ((by the way: immediately after uttering the word "preemptively", I threw up my hands because I knew I'd lost her...though I'm no quitter, so I finished my sentence))
S-L: whaa culla you wahn fo yow toess?
NB: (thrusts bottle of own polish in her small, unmanicured hands) This one! I want this color! Please!

((annnnnd all talking ceases))

Terrific.

Everyone else's Spa-Lady started with their feet/toes. Mine: hands. Awesome...can't wait to delay the inevitable here. I'm not scared of blood, by the way. I'm scared of pain. Lots and lots of pain.

While my Mom, Kellie and Aunt Amy settled back into their massage chairs, I plotted an escape route. Okay, once she puts the topcoat on my fingernails, I'll claim the swine flu and run for the door. I can totally walk back to Mom's from here. Reaaaddddyyyyy... 'Cept that sneaky devil woman didn't give me time (or eye contact) to tell her of my hellacious (non-)disease and got right to work on my footsies. At this point, I swear I was close to hyperventilating. Cold, sharp, pokey tools are within inches of my little piggies. Are those gem-appraising glasses?!?! Did she just scrub up like a surgeon?! I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie!

A damn interview with Lauren Conrad in a water-warped issue of Glamour magazine was the only thing to divert my eyes from the horror I imagined would soon follow. Thanks to some hardcore yogic breathing and severely concentrated focus to drown out a fellow salon patron directly across from me yellllllllling into her cellphone, I only jerked/winced/yelped twice (that I recall). Spa-Lady walked away with all the teeth she'd brought to the appointment, and I walked away with all my toes.

Overall, I didn't die, I didn't hate it, and the results are remarkably similar to those of my own handiwork. Huh. Suppose I could go again, sometime...and, oh yeah: THANKS, MOM!