A Day with Clay

I’ve been on a long hiatus from this blog since, well…around last Valentine’s Day. Only ONE thing, or rather one PERSON could bring me back: Clay Aiken.

Let me explain.

When I was a little girl, I loved Clay Aiken. I’d sprint from the school bus to my front door every afternoon, get inside, plop myself in front of the computer, and open an email draft. *cracks knuckles, cracks neck* let’s begin.

To: Clay Aiken

CC: Clay Aiken

BCC: Clay Aiken?

(Keep in mind I had no clue how to even use email at the time.)

No worries, this will definitely get to him.

What should I tell Clay Aiken today? I wondered, thinking through my whole day down to every conversation had.

Should I tell him about my new gel pens?

Will he care about the new Beanie Baby my grandma got for me?

I should definitely tell him about what I learned in class today.

I typed, with one finger, a listicle of random things I thought Clay Aiken should probably know about my day, every day…before listicles were even cool (or a thing).

But no matter what specifics I wrote that day, I always ended it the same way:

Can we get ice cream?

No response.

One December 1st,  2000-something (one day after CLAY’S birthday),while listening to his album “Merry Christmas with Love,” I decided to draft my final email to Clay Aiken, with Clay Aiken both CC’d and BCC’d (for good measure):

Today is my birthday. Can we get ice cream?

From there on out I spent my time on the computer not emailing Clay Aiken, but playing Sims instead, or Googling pictures of “pretty flowers” when my brother asked to use the computer. GOD, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY JOEY?

It’s disappointing that he didn’t respond. But in fairness, it turns out you need to send emails to an email address and not just the person’s first and last name. Who knew? Not me.

The other day I decided to give it another shot. Why not? I’m a damn adult now so this time, I took to Twitter:

15288577_10211728452271132_3827799638379653983_o.jpg

Still, no response. But what if he did respond? What would we do? Oh my word, think of the possibilities!

How would I spend my day with Clay Aiken? American Idol’s Number 1 Number 2, the politician, TV personality, the activist, and voice of an angel we all know today.

Naturally, we’d get ice cream.

BUT FIRST:

Our day would start at 12pm, sharp. Just late enough to sleep in and be well-rested for the day ahead, while still giving us enough time to seize the afternoon and evening.

We lunch. We maybe go back and forth about where to eat, considering street trucks and cafes we walk by. We decide on salads, dressing on the side. #chic. Our orders come. They’re good, but I’m questioning my choice of protein. Was chicken a bad choice? Clay reassures me. We laugh.

We go window shopping, thinking about gifts for loved ones while gazing into the beautifully decorated shops. In Rockefeller Center, we stare up at the giant tree. We take a pic. I set it as my Twitter avatar.

Should we ice skate? I tell Clay I’m not very good, but he tells me “c’mon! I won’t let you fall.”

He lies. I fall. I chip a tooth on the back of his blade on my way down. I cry a little bit because it was awkward, obviously. I mean, I just chipped my tooth on Clay Aiken’s ice skate! HELLO!! EMBARRASSING!!! But we laugh. We take a new picture with big smiles, displaying my broken front tooth. You can kind of tell I was crying in the pic, but I set it as my new, NEW Twitter Avatar anyway. Again, LAUGHTER ENSUES.

We see the Rockette’s later that night. It’s Christmas time, dammit! Whenever I even HEAR the Radio City Christmas Spectacular jingle, I imagine Clay singing it! HOW CAN YOU NOT? Clay, can you please do a cover? The World needs to hear your rendition.

I’ve never even seen the Rockette’s before so I can’t even guess how that part would go. Would we love it? I bet it’s magical. Are there parts to sing along? I want to sing along with Clay Aiken.

After the show, we talk a little bit about his UNICEF ambassadorship, his run for Congress, North Carolina in general, whether or not he knows Kelly Clarkson, what size Simon Cowell’s t-shirts are, his album Measure of a Man, and our favorite animals.

Finally, we get ice cream. I get mint chocolate chip. He gets butter pecan or something like that; he seems like a butter pecan guy, doesn’t he?

After our long conversation about how I KNEW he would be a butter pecan guy, the night ends just how I always imagined: a high-five.

Now back to reality.

It’s got to be over 12 years since I sent my last email to Clay Aiken on that December 1st.

So today, I write this blog post (Merry Christmas with Love playing in the background) and I ask one FINAL time, hoping the internet is on my side:

Dear Clay,

It’s my birthday. Can we get ice cream?

Victoria, Blog On Fleek

 

 

 

A Valentine’s Hey

February 14th. A day to spend with your significant other, eating overpriced heart shaped ravioli and basking in the glow of a tealight candle in an overcrowded restaurant.

But who says Valentine’s Day can’t be spent rekindling an old, drunken flame?

For those of you who don’t know, I’ve spent the past few summers in Dublin, Ireland. During this time, I went out to countless bars and clubs and met interesting characters along the way. We’ve all been there…it’s a tale as old as time: we go out, we have fun, we meet someone who is engaging, funny, flirty, and…totally drunk. We dance and maybe kiss at one point but we both know it’s not going anywhere, so we exchange numbers as a formality and leave with our respective friends, never to speak to that person again.

Like I’m sure a ton of us do, I now have a contact list FILLED with first names or code names of random guys I’ve met out.

So with a little encouragement from my friend Clare (HEY CLARE!!!) I decided to wish those guys HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY! The results were absolutely hilarious.

I sent out 17  happy Valentine’s Day wishes. The first to respond? Someone saved in my phone as “Niall”

Niall

 

I was incredibly surprised he remembered me. It’s been 7 months! He was actually a nice guy and his responses were tame enough so I left the conversation there because moments later I got a text from a contact saved in my phone as “Penguin Erector”

The name behind Penguin Erector is a story itself. But basically, this guy told me he worked the penguin exhibit at the Dublin Zoo. He claimed his job title was Penguin Erector which, according to him, meant he had the duty of picking up the penguins and placing them upright if they fell over.

Was that a lie? Probably.

PE

 

PE2

“Add me on LinkedIn? Xx”

ADD. ME. ON. LINKEDIN? XX????????

First of all, wasn’t aware we were making a professional connection! Second of all, why does a “Penguin Erector” need a LinkedIn?Third of all, someone PLEASE find his “new lady” and send him this post because the Penguin Erector needs to be STOPPED, now. 

Needless to say, I left the conversation here…and didn’t add him on LinkedIn.

Up next: Ryan.

RY1RY2RY3

Amazing. Amazing stuff.

So not only did Ryan get right back into it and try to woo me back, but he confused me for some other Victoria with “yellow hair and big tits” (FYI Ryan it’s called blonde hair), and THEN he wanted to dive right into the most embarrassing political question an American could receive right now.

Ryan, you’ve outdone  yourself. And for that, we salute you.

Up next: Isaac.

IBIB2

Isaac is a goddamn doctor! Quick, someone get this man a goddamn Nobel Prize! He’s just discovered a cure for loneliness! We’re all just one small bum compliment away from never being lonely again. 2016, what a year for science!

______________

Out of the 17 Valentine’s Day messages I sent out, I only got these four conversations in return. But these four conversations exceeded my expectations in every way possible. Man, I miss Ireland.

As for the ones who didn’t reply… Stephen, Jeremy, Cian, Eoin, Connor, and Cormac to name a few… I hope you’re eating heart shaped ravioli, basking in the glow of a tealight in an overcrowded restaurant, and sitting across from a girl you met in Copper’s. Happy Valentine’s Day.

 

Blog On Fleek

 

Let Me Kiss Your Baby

Big, bright eyes with long eyelashes. Those giggles. The funny faces they make when you give them a lemon slice? Classic.

Guys, it’s official: I have baby fever.

I JUST LOVE BABIES!! I am the self-proclaimed baby whisperer. Give me a baby and that baby will love me, or your money back. Granted no one is paying me, but still.

I wave to babies in line at the store. I play peek-a-boo with babies on the bus. I smile at babies when they’re eating in restaurants, chocolate all over their little chubby cheeks. I should just run for president so I can kiss babies on the campaign trail. I know, it’s weird. I’M WEIRD! But I can’t stop!

I’m at a point in my life where I can’t afford to go to a 3D movie, let alone pay for the expenses and time needed to care for a small human. So having a baby of my own is completely out of the question.

But then I got to thinking: what if I never have a baby? Would that be the worst thing? What if I’m just Crazy Aunt Vicky all my life? I think I would be okay with that!

Think about it: all the fun of a parent with none of the responsibility! I can play with the baby and kiss the baby but when said baby makes a boom boom in the pants, I can pass that stinky little guy to its rightful owner.

Let me set the scene. It’s Christmas Eve. Crazy Aunt Vicky rolls into the party wearing a floor length red silk slip, meant to go under a dress but I’m wearing it on its own, and with no bra on. Let’s assume my nips are hard too, for the sake of the story. I say my hellos by giving everyone some big ole no-bra, squishy titty hugs before heading to the bar cart. I see a beautiful green bottle peeking behind two other bottles. The light shines reflects off the green glass and into my soul. Tanqueray, we meet again. What trouble will we find ourselves in this time?

I pour a gin and tonic. Mostly gin, very little tonic. A lemon slice to garnish—classy shit for a classy lady. I down it—takes me 5 seconds, tops. I pour another to hold as I walk around. I’m going room to room, drink in hand, saying inappropriate things, nips still hard (let’s assume). Two drinks down, three, four, then five. I’m on my sixth gin and tonic and things are getting reckless. I find myself dancing on a table singing Don’t Stop Believing but eventually get pulled down. I set down my glass next to me. I hear someone across the room say something about hating dogs so I get a little defensive. I stand up quickly to say something like “dogsss’re greeat okey?” I move my arm and it knocks my own drink onto my slip. I blame the person sitting next to me, asking why they’d throw their drink on me. This eventually starts a fight and I get thrown out of the party, maybe even get arrested. Hell, I can do whatever the heck I want! I only have myself to worry about.

Could I do this if I had a kid? HECK NO! Kids keep you accountable for your irresponsible actions, with their judgmental looks and their constant demand for attention, financial stability, and food!

On second thought, maybe I will consider having children of my own. Maybe I’ll need to be accountable! If I keep it going at this rate, this scary scenario might actually become reality. And I can’t have that! I’ve seen Orange Is the New Black! I don’t think I could handle prison!

Alright so maybe I’ll have children, but I’ll stand by what I said before—definitely not any time soon.

So until then….

 

Blog On Fleek

Were You Raised in A Barn(es & Noble)?

Let me set the scene for you. It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon. I’m sitting at home in a sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, cup of tea in hand. It’s one of those rare days where I actually got done everything I needed to do, so I’m just lounging. Enjoying life. Taking it all in.

Well “enjoying life” and “taking it all in” gets boring after, like, three hours, so I want to do something—I want to go somewhere! But I want to go somewhere that will keep me in my relaxed mood. Like, I’m not about to go skydiving or bungee jumping, it’s just not the day for something like that. Not sure if I’ll ever have a day for something like that, if I’m honest.

Anyway, I decide to go to the book store, my local Barnes & Noble. Honestly, it’s a great option! I can get a coffee or a tea, there’s plenty of lounge chairs, and I can finally pick out a new book! As if I don’t already have a stack I’ve been meaning to read…

To Barnes & Noble I go. I pull into the parking lot and there is not a single space in sight. What the heck is going on? Did everyone have the same idea? Is everyone having a lazy Sunday?

I see someone with their reverse lights on so I put on my blinker on in the parking lot while I wait for them to leave. Now, I don’t know if this guy decided to read his whole fucking novel he just bought right then and there, but the fuckin’ guy is taking his sweet ass time to leave. Two minutes go by, three, four—buddy, get a move on! But I’m staying cool, I have nowhere to go, so I just sit and wait. Finally, he leaves. Nice. Done. Parked.

I head inside and the place is POPPIN’. No surprise after taking a look at that parking lot, but it’s still a bit weird for a book store to be so busy on a random Sunday afternoon.

First thing’s first, I head to the café to get a nice, hot beverage. I’ve already had tea today, so maybe I’ll get coffee? Eh, but what if it keeps me up at night? Maybe hot chocolate? Haven’t had a hot chocolate since I was little, sounds pretty great actually. I order a hot chocolate.

I wait awkwardly for the barista to call my order. My name is called so I fiddle with the lid on my drink. Out of nowhere, a lady with a rather large caboose bumps me from behind and makes me spill my piping hot chocolate down my crotch. Have you ever had a first-degree burn on your vagina? Because I DON’T RECOMMEND.

I turn around and the woman whose caboose just knocked me into a Vagisil commercial is giving me a dirty look. Out of habit I apologize (FOR SOMETHING I DIDN’T DO, mind you) and she scoffs and walks off. Why did I apologize? What the hell did I just apologize for? Sorry for existing. Sorry for being in your way. Sorry for making you spill hot chocolate down my labia, really, really sorry about that…MY BAD!

Right, so here I am patting my crotch with napkins when I look up and make eye contact with cutie. Brown hair, blue eyes, glasses, probably way smarter than I could ever dream. Perfect. Don’t mind me, just feeling myself up in Starbucks! Just touching all up in my nether region, my naughty bits.

I collect myself and go look for some books to read. I head over to the fiction section. I pick out a few classics and some newer ones that I’ve heard are pretty good. I’m cradling six books like a baby with one arm, my hot chocolate is in my other hand, I’m walking in a noticeably funny way due to my raw crotch.

I head over to the couches where I usually sit back and enjoy thumbing through some books. There’s a tiny spot on the couch next to a big hairy man who appears to be sweating, so I decide to look elsewhere for a seat instead of cozying up next to him. I spot an empty chair at the tables. When I walk closer, I see there are tons of books piled up on the table around the empty chair. I push the books out of my way and make a little spot for myself. I notice one book out of the corner of my eye because it has a green flower on it. I take a closer look and it’s called, “Read My Lips: A Complete Guide to Vaginal and Vulvar Health, Culture, and Pleasure.” HAH, ironic. Anything on burns in there?

I don’t want anyone to see that book sitting around me and think it’s mine, so I cover it with the first book I’m done looking at, and there starts my pile. Eventually I thumb through all 6 books, bouncing around from chapter to chapter, reading the forewords, the bits in the back about the author. None of them really grabbed my interest, so I decide against getting one after thinking about the pile of books I have at home I still have to read.

I never know if I should put my books away at Barnes & Noble. Clearly the person who sat at this spot before me didn’t, but I think that’s kind of rude. Especially on a busy day like today, the workers must be particularly frazzled.

I decide to put the books back myself. So I slide the whole pile off the table and take it with me to return to their respective shelves. The bundle of books feels slightly heavier than before. Here I am walking with these books in hand, looking down at the title to see if I can remember which shelf I grabbed it from, when suddenly I’m once again bumped by a familiar LARGE CABOOSE.

This same fucking woman’s ass bumps me just enough for me to drop all of my books. You’re absolutely kidding me, right?

So I get on my knees and start picking them up. Someone bends down to help me. Maybe not everyone in this store right now is a rude piece of shit.

I look up to see that the person helping me is the same fucking CUTIE in the café who saw me patting my lady parts dry with a paper napkin. He smiles and extends his hand. And there it is. The fucking book. He’s handing me the vagina book. The book that was on the bottom of my pile, the pile I just dropped. The book that was NOT MINE.

Read My Lips: A Complete Guide to Vaginal and Vulvar Health, Culture, and FUCKING Pleasure. The title will haunt me.

“heh, thanks but that’s not mine.”

“I just saw you drop it…”

Well fuck me, right?

I don’t get embarrassed easily but for some reason this is gets me good. “Right, sorry. Thanks for that.” And I walk away with my tail between my legs. I leave Barnes & Noble with a sore crotch, a bruised ego, and no book.

That’s it. That’s my story. I’m sure there’s something you can take away from all this, sooooo…Do that.

 

Blog On Fleek

First, Kiss My Ass

 

Let’s just get right into it, shall we? So, as some of you may already know, I was a bit of a late bloomer. I’ve spent most of my life looking a lot like this:CPJx_Q0WwAEQnCT

Needless to say, I kind of missed out on having high school boyfriends and things like that. I was always just doing my own thing! It was great! In my time not having any boyfriends I learned a ton of life skills! Like being able to recite the 50 states in alphabetical order in under 17 seconds! (For the record, I did it in 15 seconds once in college when I was drunk off gin but I haven’t been able to touch that time since.) I also learned how to wiggle my ears and flare my nostrils. I can make a muscle with my tongue. And I can rap all of It Was A Good Day by Ice Cube. Really all the quality things you need to succeed in life! No regrets.

Today I’m writing about kisses. My first kiss to be exact. See, it’s funny—I watched a TON of Disney Channel growing up. 80bf16273dc97199274fe8de782a6828I learned what a first kiss should be like from Lizzie McGuire and Mia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, PrinCESS of Genovia. Your foot should “pop,” there should be fireworks, or maybe someone would even tell me, “you shine like the light from the sun.”

I was brainwashed by all the sappy shit. I was ready. Sadly, high school came and went with still no kisses. You are reading this correctly—I had my first kiss in college. *Insert angel emoji here.*

So yeah, there I was in college without a first kiss. I used to think about that movie Never Been Kissed and I just thought to myself as long as I didn’t get as old as Drew Barrymore’s character without being kissed, I would be all good.

The night of my first kiss was a weird one. I was out with friends having a grand ole time, drinking some gin, smiling, dancing—it was great. When all of a sudden, an equally drunk friend comes over and attempts to kiss me while I had a full on smile on my face. It was a second or two of lip to teeth action. Granted my teeth are pretty nice, I’d kiss them too. But in my intoxicated mind, this counted as my first kiss. But my foot didn’t pop, there were no fireworks, and no one told me I shine like the light from the sun!

I’m not going to lie to you, I cried. BUT I BLAME THE GIN! WAY TOO MUCH GIN! Funny thing, gin, isn’t it? Something so beautiful and pure as gin can give you wonderful things like a personal record for reciting the 50 states in alphabetical order, but it can also give you tears when your foot doesn’t “pop.”

Rest assured folks, I’ve been making up for lost time. Don’t feel bad for me, I’ve gotten plenty of kisses and popping in since then. (AAAYYYYEEEE!) But that’s a story for another time.

 

I’m sorry mom,

Blog On Fleek

I’m back! And American!

Guys, I’m back! And by “guys” I mean my friend Nick, because he’s the only soul who has looked at this poor blog, probably ever.

Let me explain my, like, 8 month hiatus.

Do you ever feel so uninspired that you can’t even bare to finish that teeny, tiny 1,000 word summary of Chapter 16 that the weird professor who once tried to show you his chest tattoo assigned two weeks ago? And now it’s suddenly 4:30am, the paper is due in four hours, your brain is mush, you have a load of whites in the wash, your roommate is sleeping, you have three midterms tomorrow, and your eyes feel like they’re bleeding?

Well, this is nothing like that! I’ve graduated, bitches! I’m out here in the real world! It’s basically exactly the same but I have less fun things to do and more things to pay for! I’m out here trying to adult, to get my adult on, to adult the fuck out of adulthood. You get it, I’ll stop.

So basically, I’ve been doing stuff, traveling places, still getting yelled at by my mom on the daily though (apparently that doesn’t stop). But during my time away from my unimportant fleeky blog, I’ve learned some shit. One shit in particular I’d like to share today:

You never truly consider yourself American unless 1.) it’s Fourth of July 2.) it’s the Olympic Games and 3.) you’re traveling/ working/ living abroad. 

Think about it: You live in, OH I DON’T KNOW, Upstate New York…your friend sets you up with a friend of a friend of a friend who she met on Tinder a while back, because this is Upstate New York, the asscrack of nowhere, and that’s how you meet people here. So you go out on this date, breadsticks come and go and suddenly you run out of things to talk about. You start really scrapping the barrel with questions like, “what’s your favorite color?” or, “have you ever killed someone?” well, maybe that last one is just me… (you can never be too sure these days). But one thing is for certain, this question will eventually surface: “so, like, what are you?”

Human? Nah, this is the part where you ramble off your lineage back to the 1400s. “Well I come from, like, a HUGE Italian family. But mostly I’m, like, 50% Italian, 23% Russian, 16% Lithuanian, and probably, like, 11% Mongolian. Ha ha, I’m a mutt! I know! What about you?”

You sit across from you date wondering how those percentages even worked out that way, but it’s the first date so you just go with it.

The point is, unless you’re goddamn Pocahontas or Donald Trump, it’s very unlikely you’ll ever just say, “I’m American!”

Unless:

1.) It’s the Fourth of July

Screen Shot 2015-10-13 at 7.22.16 PMB2xO-VzIAAA2AY5

Fuck yeah! Freedom! Fireworks! Hot dogs! Joey Chestnut! Country music! Tacky American flag bathing suits! This is the ONE DAY we get to be unapologetically American.


2.) It’s the Olympic Games

DID YOU GET CHILLS?! I GOT CHILLS!

and what about:

Screen Shot 2015-10-13 at 7.59.49 PM

moments like these?

bbe71d1c914eb98218485b649250a34bheres-video-of-a-giddy-gabby-douglas-receiving-her-gold-medal-for-the-womens-all-around

and most importantly, this:

Bob-Costas

Case closed.


3.) You’re abroad

Think about it. You’re on a night out in, OH I DONT KNOW, say…Dublin, Ireland in, OH I DONT KNOW, say… a place called Dicey’s. A potential drunken love interest comes towards you, a love interest with an irish accent, mind you. He whispers something in your ear. You giggle and he continues. It’s not until he asks you a question that you lean closer and whisper the answer in his ear, with your American accent, mind you. He leans back and gives you a puzzled look. “Where are you from?”

you answer, “New York”

“AN AMERICAN?!”

DAMN RIGHT I AM! *Kisses ensue*

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At the end of the day, being an American is a novelty, but sometimes it’s nice to reflect on being American. Sure we have tons of guns, mullets, Donald Trump, The Jersey Shore- we’re not perfect! But some of the smartest people in the world were American! Take Albert Einstein! Oh, he was German? Hmmm… what about… William Shakespeare? …no? Oh, I got it! Isaac Newton! Not American either?

Fuck it, we have Neil Degrasse Tyson, and he’s cool as shit. Now pass me that Bud Light, son.

neil-degrasse-tyson-rates-the-matrix-movies-and-more

I’m so sorry,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek

Mother Nature, You Frigid Bitch

Winter, this winter in particular, is absolutely unbearable. The older I get and the more I have to drive, the more I fucking despise snow. It used to be all fun, games, talking snowmen, and hot chocolate. Well guess what? A talking snowman killed my whole family, and hot chocolate will rot your teeth out of your head.

I fucking hate winter and everything about it.

I hate that you can almost always see my nipples through my shirt.

I hate bringing a guy home and in the heat of the moment having to explain, “oh, that? I swear that’s just dry skin.”

I hate waking up in the morning and looking outside to see my world covered in 3 inches of Satan’s dandruff– just enough to make a morning commute miserable, but not enough for your boss to let you take the day.

I hate having to shovel out my car. How is it that shoveling always leaves you sore in places you didn’t even think could be sore?

I hate that today was 25° and someone described the weather to me as being “balmy”

That’s another thing: there’s nothing I find more unpleasant than small talk about the weather. It makes me want to act out Caravaggio’s “Judith Beheading Holofernes” on the poor soul who tries to tell me how cold and windy it is.

But, no, nothing compares to this next part: the fact that this snow will one day melt, seemingly overnight, and transform the world into one big toilet full of next-morning beer shits. The more snow, the more mud I have to walk through to get to my car, and have you seen how much snow is out there?! I haven’t seen this much white stuff since my buddy Dave’s 23rd birthday party! Dave, you crazy fuck!!

But anyway, after all that mud comes spring. Ah, spring. My eyes will itch, my nose will run, and I will misplace my umbrella at least twice a week.

But everyone knows that spring is just a gateway drug to summer.

Ah, summer, my ass will sweat, my skin will burn, and I’ll spend my nights attempting to get the water out of my ears. Oh, how I hate summer.

What we’ve learned: I fucking hate everything.
Unrelated side note: I may never find love.