It started out as two different trips that were to take place side by side. James Bond would fly to his hometown of Denver for 10 days to visit his family and friends, and I would fly to Denver for the last four days of his trip to visit my friends. We’d be in his city, but on our own terms, and we’d be able to fly back to San Francisco together.

That was phase one. But our relationship evolved and all of the sudden we were in phase two, where we’d be in his city and we’d be on our own terms but we’d also allow for overlap – he’d meet my friends, I’d meet his. And then came phase three, where in addition to the meeting of each other’s friends, there would also be the having dinner with his mother.

I reacted calmly. Which is to say that in a dictionary where “reacting calmly” translates to “freaking the fuck out,” I reacted very calmly, thinking rational things like, “What if she shakes my hand and senses that I write about my vagina on the internet?!”

And then there was the picking of the outfit. “It’s going to be too hot for long sleeves!” I yelled to Jamie. She asked why I needed to wear long sleeves. “The wrist tattoos! What if she hates the wrist tattoos!”

Two days before my flight: Reacting. Very. Calmly. Indeed.

But then the phone call came and all of the sudden we were in phase four, the phase where he was getting rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix and I was spending whatever I had to spend to get to Denver on the next available flight.

In the five hours that passed between that phone call and the one telling me that he was out of surgery and in recovery, I realized two things.

Thing one is that you really don’t know how deeply you’re in the hole of I’m-unlimited-crazy-about-him until you look up and see that ground level is thundering light-years above your head.

Thing two is that the tattoo crisis and the insecurities don’t matter. The wondering what to talk about over dinner doesn’t matter. Showing up at the hospital makeup-free and altitude-sick with tattooed wrist in full display – none of it matters.

What matters is spending more than 80 hours at the hospital and getting the chance to join an overwhelmingly wonderful group of people in taking care of the person you all can’t stop caring about. What matters is that he says yes to my wrist tattoos and yes to me writing about my vagina on the internet and yes to me as I am, even if it’s challenging.

What matters is that I found someone to give that card to, the one I bought in Arizona last August and promised myself I’d save until I meant the words on the front:

“I’m not sure,” she said, “at what point it is advisable to admit to liking you a great deal more than I planned.”

**
Update – James Bond, who’s still in Denver and just got out of the hospital, emailed and asked me to include his insanely lovely response to this post:

Cramped in my bed, graciously accepting another visitor, Nicole and I exchange looks. With a look I feel her unspoken sympathy, and I express thanks adding, I will add details later. At certain points I was done and Nicole filled in. She so sweetly and adeptly took over in ways not easily understood.

One of my best friends asked me, so what is the moral, what is the bigger picture. I actually, being known for a bit of verbosity, responded simply, “…. I could not prepare for what happened. Each day provides for different circumstances. It doesn’t help to worry about yet unknown factors. And it really helps to have a partner [looking to Nicole as my co-conspirator].”

As James Bond, I must maintain a certain amount of independence. Right? Well I would happily trade the golden gun, access to SPECTRE, all the Aston Martins, and other gadgets (even including the jet pack) for Nicole to continue taking me on.
**

::heart explodes::

When I found out that Jamie hadn’t seen the first two seasons of Grey’s Anatomy I was all, “Um, THE FUCK?? Those are the best seasons!” and she was like, “Uhhhh” and I was all, “Sit down right now, we’re watching them.”

And so we did. Four, five, six episodes in a row. We even stopped going out for a while, making our friends (HI DREA) come over and sit on the couch and watch it with us because we were too invested in the process to waste time with things like “outdoors” and “public” and “three dimensional people.”

But do you know what happens when a few women spend hours upon hours watching wildly dramatic television? They get just a little bit too into it, and one of them starts yelling at the characters on the screen and is all, “Don’t worry Meredith! No! Stop crying! You and Derek eventually do get married! On a post-it note. Also, you get pregnant with his baby. But also, you have a miscarriage before you can tell him you’re pregnant. And also, he gets shot and we’re pretty sure it turns out fine but we’re not entirely sure because season 7 hasn’t started yet.”

And then another person on the couch yells, “Don’t worry George, you marry Callie. And then you drunkenly cheat on her with Izzie. And then it doesn’t work out with Izzie because the sex is awful. Also, your dad dies. Also, you die.”

And then another person on the couch chimes in with, “Seriously, relax Izzie. This thing you’re going through? It isn’t nearly as big of a deal as when you get fucking brain cancer and start seeing visions of your dead ex-fiance.”

God, can you imagine if we could do this to ourselves? If I could go back in time and be all, “Don’t worry 17 year old Nicole, you get into NYU. But then you’re in debt for like, ever. Also, that relationship you’re in? It doesn’t work out. Neither does the next one. Or the next one. Also, you drink too much vodka and make a series of unbelievably bad decisions. And then you have to leave in the middle of class one day to take a pregnancy test. And then you almost have a heart attack from drinking 13 cans of sugar free Red Bull in a 22 hour period. Also, despite your bizarre employment history wherein you spend five years as Director of a children’s summer day camp, four years as a nanny, three months on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange, two years at Williams Sonoma, and one year as manager and part owner of a create-your-own-cookie shop, you wind up managing business operations for Shatterboxx Media and writing a totally irreverent and inappropriate blog that gives people way too much information about your vagina.”

Which is to say, life is unpredictable. Stop freaking out. Things are either going to turn out the way you planned, or they’re not. And sometimes the “not” is the best thing that could ever happen.

Somewhere along the way I seem to have become the go-to person for all things related to vagina. The emails and blog comments I get are just, well, vulva-tastic. So, when I found out that Stript Wax Bar here in San Francisco offers a Vajacial service that’s basically a facial for your post-Brazilian waxed vagina, I knew I had to try it. You know, for the sake of my readers.

The lovely people at Stript let me come in for free (proving yet again that my vagina is so much more high maintenance and spoiled than I am), and the entire thing went something like this:

Discuss the procedure with Jamie before leaving the apartment. Debate whether the esthetician is actually going to massage my vagina the way they massage your face during a facial. Evaluate what to do if I accidentally get turned on. Question why in the hell I’m doing this. Falter. Go anyway. Arrive at Stript Wax Bar and wait for my appointment. Look around at how ridiculously adorable the place is. Read over the list of services and wonder about the particulars of a Boyzilian. Question what’s more painful, waxing a man’s sexy parts or a woman’s sexy parts. Struggle to think of a single guy I know who would let hot wax anywhere near his penis.

Meet Katherine, the owner, and get escorted back to the treatment room. Take off my skirt and underwear. Lay on the table. Feel sad that the table is more comfortable than my bed. Contemplate stealing the table. Chat with Katherine and get talked through the $60, 50-minute process: cleanse, exfoliate, ingrown hair removal, calming mask, lightening cream. Continue talking. Learn that for the 24 hours after getting a Brazilian wax, you shouldn’t work out or do anything with hot water, but you should apply Neosporin to minimize bacteria/ingrown hairs. Tell myself to remember these tips because fuck, ingrown hair removal hurts.

Get up and leave. Let my skin calm down. Stand naked in front of the mirror and investigate. Make James Bond investigate. Decide that in spite of the seemingly absurd and unnecessary nature of this treatment, my vagina actually does look the best it has ever looked. Find out that Katherine is offering my San Francisco readers 20% off a Vajacial of their own. Think that blogging comes with some very strange perks…

**

In other (and notably less glamorous) vagina related news, I have recently discovered that inserting a yogurt covered tampon into your hoo-ha can help with certain bacterial imbalances and infections. Yes, I learned this on the internet. Yes, of course I tried it. Yes, Jamie was with me at the grocery store asking my vagina which flavor it would like for feeding time. Yes, you’re only supposed to use the plain kind and she was kidding. Yes, we know we’re sick and weird. Yes, you’d think that removing the yogurt tampon after like 30 or so minutes would be messy, but it’s not. Because your vagina eats the yogurt. Or like, your vagina absorbs the yogurt. Or, I don’t know.

Ladies: You’re welcome.

Gentlemen: Until you’re willing to try out a Menstruation Machine (a suit for men that mimics what having your period is like by releasing blood from a reservoir and using abdominal electrodes to simulate cramps), you don’t get to have an opinion about vagina stuff.

Ladies: Would you seriously want your man to try this ridiculous machine?

Gentlemen: How far would you go to appease your girl?

Everyone: Are there any other bizarre things that my vagina and I should try?

We were making cocktails a few weeks ago and I was trying to recreate the glory of the ginger vodka plus Sierra Mist drink that should unquestionably be illegal, but we didn’t have any Sierra Mist so I rode the elevator down to the basement with a handful of quarters and a mission to empty the vending machine of all of its Sierra Mist-ey goodness.

Except the vending machine didn’t have Sierra Mist either. Or Sprite. Or ginger ale. Or anything that’s clear and carbonated and mixes well with ginger vodka. So I looked at the selections, settled on Sunkist, put my quarters in, pushed the button, heard the thud of the can coming down, and grabbed it. Then I looked at it and realized that it wasn’t Sunkist, it was orange Fanta. And like, what? Who does that? Who puts the totally wrong beverage in a vending machine and doesn’t warn people??

Frustrated, I decided to pick a second choice. I put my quarters in, selected unsweetened Nestea, pushed the button, heard the thud, grabbed the can, and guess what? No unsweetened Nestea. You know what I got instead? Fucking diet lemon flavored Brisk tea. Not unsweetened. Not plain tea. Not even the same BRAND. And like, I stood there for a few minutes and looked at the vending machine and wondered why this type of thing *always* happens to me.

Also, why is it so absurdly impossible to get a real person on the phone when you call a customer service number?

Also, how the fuck am I going to Vegas again on Sunday and what do I do with the fact that it’s going to be 108 degrees??

Also, please remind me to tell you the story about my Vajacial (facial-esque procedure for the vagina) when I get back. And the story about the yogurt tampon. You definitely want to hear the story about the yogurt tampon. In fact, you should probably just prepare yourself for an entire post full of my new found vaginal wisdom.

Yes, I have a very wise vagina.

It’s not that I didn’t know where Alaska was. Okay okay, fine. FINE. I didn’t know where Alaska was.

I blame the placemat. Do you remember those placemats? The ones that had a map of the United States on one side and a blank map on the other side and the point was to study the first side and then flip it over, take a washable marker, and test yourself on which state was which? I grew up with a collection of these placemats – one of the US, one of the world, one of the planets, the world’s flags, the multiplication tables – my mom was all about mealtime education.

The map of the United States though, that one was my favorite. It just made the most sense. I mean, how is a seven-year-old brain supposed to wrap itself around there being countries named Uzbekistan and cities named Srednekolymsk? I found it much easier and more comforting to be all, “Florida! This one’s Florida!” and leave it at that.

I’ve recently learned, however, that the problem with my beloved US map placemat is that it fucking lied to me. It fucking lied by putting Alaska and Hawaii in the bottom left corner and making them both look like islands. They were just floating there, you know? Sectioned off by this white box that screamed “THESE STATES ARE NOT CONNECTED TO THE OTHER STATES AND ARE IN FACT ISLANDS OF THEIR OWN.”

Which is how I nonchalantly came to believe that Alaska was an island and that it was floating off to the left of the United States.

I guess I just never really looked at a map of the US after childhood, not carefully at least, and it wasn’t until Jamie and I bought one of those huge wall maps a few months ago that I realized my entire life has been a dirty web of geographic lies.

We were going over the map, listing out the places we most wanted to visit, and I’m all, “Woah, look at Alaska” and she’s like, “What about it?” and I’m all, “Since when the fuck is it connected to Canada??” and she’s like, “Shut up, no it’s not” and I’m all, “No seriously, look! Alaska is part of Canada!” and then we stood there for a few minutes, looking at each other, looking back at the map, looking back at each other, trying to figure out what it meant to live in a world where a) Alaska is not an island, b) Alaska is connected to Canada, and c) neither of us knew about it.

And I get it, okay? I get that you’re second guessing our status as grown women because the two people we told in person looked at us like we had horses growing out of our torsos. It’s just. I don’t understand how no one ever told me about this. And the real question here, the real question is what else don’t I know?! Is Michigan really in Saudi Arabia? Is Saudi Arabia next to Australia? Also, does Denmark seriously own Greenland?

Which is to say, happy 4th of July everyone. Jamie and I are belligerently idiotic.

Of course I’m still interning for The Bloggess. No way she’ll ever be able to get rid of me now.

From: Nicole The Intern
To: Jenny The Bloggess
Subject: new house. dead fetus. correlation between the two.

The thing about Bolivia is that you can buy dried llama fetuses at something called the Witches’ Market in La Paz because apparently burying a dried llama fetus (or “sullus”) under a new house brings good luck. So much good luck that an estimated 99 percent of all families in Bolivia have one under the foundation of their home and construction workers will often refuse to work in a building that doesn’t have one. And I’m thinking it probably works, because when was the last time you heard of something really bad happening to people in their homes in the greater Bolivia area?

Exactly.

Which is why I tried to go online and order you a dead llama fetus, since I know you’re moving soon, but unfortunately it’s not something that’s sold online. Because the internet is prejudice against Bolivia. I even tried to order one on Amazon because Amazon sells basically everything ever, but all they suggested instead was a book about a sacred mountain and a portable ultrasound machine and I don’t know what’s worse: those suggestions, or the fact that they both make sense to me in a strange and totally fucked up way.

So, in lieu of an actual fetus I’ve attached a photo depicting a pile of dead llama fetuses from said Witches’ Market. Please print it out and bury it under your new house. Because you’re very lovely and I’d be quite distressed if bad things happened to you in the night due to a rampant neglect for Bolivian superstition.

Cool. Thanks.

From: Jenny The Bloggess
To: Nicole The Intern

That’s it.  You’ve just been promoted to Sr. Intern.

From: Nicole The Intern
To: Jenny The Bloggess

Promotion accepted.

I should probably get a “Nicole The Senior Intern” shirt to eliminate any confusion, huh? And to intimidate zombies. Although I might have to tattoo it on my face to intimidate zombies, since they’re pretty hard to intimidate. But wait, maybe zombies are allergic to dead llama fetuses. Like vampires and garlic. And Superman and kryptonite.

It just occurred to me that one of my first duties as Nicole The Senior Intern should be to create a detailed guide on the products necessary to ward off all terrifying creatures. A sort of “how to survive attacks of the other realm” guide for the regular American. I’m thinking eBook, with all sale profits dedicated toward a trip to the Witches’ Market.

This book will probably also require an addendum about which preserved animal carcasses you can take through airport security and which ones you can’t.

See? Resourceful from cover to cover.

From: Jenny The Bloggess
To: Nicole The Intern

I think that book would be extremely relevant.  Also, maybe put something in there about how you can’t mail dogs. Because apparently you can’t, according to the post office.  It doesn’t matter how small the dog is. True story.

From: Nicole The Intern
To: Jenny The Bloggess

In no particular order, I’m thinking that the following chapters should definitely be included in our upcoming book:

- how to tell if your neighbor is a zombie
- what to do once you find out for sure that your neighbor is a zombie
- how to house train a phoenix and bottle it’s wound-healing tears for profit
- how to do battle with a minotaur
- things you can’t mail at the post office because the post office hates animals and meth users
- how to have sex with a mermaid
- how to convince a cyclops to tango dance with a gorgon for your viewing pleasure
- how to ride a dragon (also, why dragons would be a much more environmentally friendly mode of transportation than cars. also, a petition to the white house asking for dragons to be allowed in the carpool lane.)

From: Jenny The Bloggess
To: Nicole The Intern

You just confused “it’s” with “its”.  This is exactly the kind of inattention that will lose us an arm during the zombie battle, Nicole. Wake up!

PS.  Nice touch with the gorgon.

From: Nicole The Intern
To: Jenny The Bloggess

1. That email was sent pre-caffeine. THE HORROR. BIG NO NO. WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN. CAPS LOCK.

II. If we really want to throw the mythical creatures off their game though, I think we should create a new word: its’

c. Additional chapters:

- how to smuggle 16 dead llama fetuses onto an airplane without winding up in jail
- how to capture a fairy
- how to turn a regular horse into a unicorn

One of my favorite scenarios is when I’m having a conversation with someone and a ridiculous thing comes up and the other person is all, “You couldn’t pay me to do that,” because that’s my cue to call their over-exaggerating bluff and begin the cash-in-a-duffel-bag game.

I’m all, “Oh really? What if someone seriously gave you a duffle bag full of cash, on the spot, tax free, to do said thing right now? You’d so do it.” And the other person hesitates and is like, “Well…” and I’m all, “I fucking told you.”

And so the game begins.

After we finish the first round and this person has named their price, I start listing one absurd activity after another to see what else this person would do in exchange for a duffel bag full of cash. Although actually, money in really large quantities is often too abstract so I usually choose to play the game with a dream-come-true prize instead of a cash prize. Like, I really want to go to the Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia. I want to go there more than I want to go to any other place that exists amongst all the places ever. Yes, I’ve researched all the places ever. Yes, the world’s largest salt flats > whatever place you’re going to suggest. At least for me. Because it’s my one place. So, when playing the cash/dream-in a-duffel-bag game, I find that it’s much more exciting to offer people the chance to achieve their dream because if you play for cash-in-a-bag, people say boring shit like, “I could invest it!” which makes the whole thing remarkably less fun for me, and isn’t the entirely selfish point of this game to make myself laugh?

A few weeks ago, I made Jamie play with me. We quickly got deep into it and the prize was a trip for two to Antarctica, which is the place we most want to go together. “Okay,” I said. “In exchange for our trip to Antarctica, you have to go down on Oprah” and Jamie doesn’t miss a beat before being all, “Done” and I’m like, “But what if it’s on live TV? And you have to be naked?” and she’s all, “Um…” and I’m like, “And she has to be naked” and Jamie’s all, “….” and I’m like, “And! And! She has to finish by squirting all over your face!” which is when Jamie went all unintelligible noises on me that I think translated loosely to “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” and I’m like, “But it’s for Antarctica!” and Jamie’s all, “Are you disgusted with yourself yet? Ew, you’re not. You’re like, self-satisfied” and I couldn’t even respond after that because I was laughing so hard that I almost puked and I couldn’t even manage to say what I wanted to say, which was that I’m obviously a far better friend because I’d *totally* let Oprah squirt on my face for her.

Also, a few hours after the game ended Jamie sent me this photo via text message of what she thought Oprah’s squirting face would look like, which I think eliminates all questions as to whether or not Jamie and I are made for each other.

**

Update: I completely forgot to ask what your dream prize is and what the ridiculous things are that you’d do to win it. Clearly I suck at playing my own game. But you know what I don’t suck at? Taking one for the team and blowing Oprah so we can all go on a blogosphere field trip to Antarctica to smuggle home some adorable fucking penguins.

In case we somehow wind up living together one day, there are a few things you should know about me. Number one is that I bake excellent brownies. Number two is that I’ll likely make your bed whenever you’re not home, whether you want me to or not. And number three is that there isn’t a circumstance in the history of circumstances under which I’ll be the one to deal with a bug/rodent. In fact, I’ll move out before I deal with a bug/rodent. And from the time of bug/rodent discovery until I move out, I’ll stand on the barstool and curse both you and the bug/rodent, which I’m thinking is one of those qualifications that will make me an incredible mother, no?

My future four-year-old child: Help! Mommy! There’s a spider in my room!
Me: Well. That sucks.
My hysterically crying child: But I’m so scared!
Me: Well of course you are, the spider is probably going to crawl into your mouth and lay eggs while you’re sleeping.

(Do spiders even lay eggs? They can’t possibly have live births, right? But if they did, they’d have to have vaginas. Maybe spiders have vaginas? Oh my god, I wonder what a spider vagina looks like. Actually, wait. Wait! I’ve finally found something so horrifying that even I won’t Google it.)

Anyway, if we ever live together, you are the one on critter patrol. You. Not me. Not ever me.

This particular scenario (the “which one of us deals with critters” dilemma) hadn’t occurred in the six months of mine and Jamie’s cohabitation. Until last week. Until last week when a wasp arrived in our apartment.

I was the one who first noticed this wasp, and of course I immediately assumed my permanent role in these situations: shrieking and hiding next to the couch. But, Jamie was shrieking too. After we shrieked together for a little bit, I calmly told her that if she’d like to return to our wasp-free existence, she’d better fucking do something. She indicated that I had better fucking help. I agreed, on the condition that “helping” meant “throwing things at the wasp from afar in hopes of stunning it into submission.”

And so it began.

I started with two small Jaegermeister basketballs we were given at our local bar. But I have terrible aim, and I missed, and the wasp stayed put. I then threw a Sky Mall catalog at it. But I missed again, and the wasp stayed put. I then decided to throw my two deflated sex dolls at it, one after the other, and even though my aim was bullseye-like this time around, the wasp stayed put.

We stopped to evaluate. We discussed strategy. We debated how one battles such a freak fearless ninja wasp. We settled on the decision that our only real option here was to continue throwing random items at it. Next went a Trader Joe’s bag. Followed by a rubbery plastic penis (the one that came with the male blowup doll), and even though I was positive I had hit the wasp in its tiny fearless freak face with this penis, it didn’t move. At all. Nothing. Just the stationary buzzing of vehement threats to our lives. Which is when Jamie stepped in, took one shot at the wasp with her purple shoe, knocked it down onto the windowsill, walked over, and beat it to death with the matching shoe. Like Rocky – if Rocky would have done less pointless running of the stairs and more pummeling of unwanted insects on my behalf.

Jamie – 1, Freak Fearless Ninja Wasp – 0, Rocky- 0, Nicole- N/A

Which brings me to my next point, that my roommate > all other roommates and that if faced with a wasp invasion, you’ll probably die because you don’t live with her. And that would make me sad, sure, but not so sad that I’m willing to give up Jamie so she can come save you. I will compromise though. I’ll compromise by giving away one Wasp Fighter Care Package, containing the following weaponry:

- 1 female blowup doll
- 1 patch for said female blowup doll in case you pop a hole in her
- 1 set of instructions for how to open the hygienic seal on said female blowup doll’s vagina and anus, which is now only relevant to her anus since I impatiently cut her vagina open with a knife
- 1 male blowup doll
- 1 penis that fits said male blowup doll
- 2 small Jaegermeister basketballs
- 1 Sky Mall catalog
- anything else that Jamie and I decide is relevant between today and next Wednesday

Now, please raise your little commenting hand if you’d like to be the winner of this package.

[Update: I couldn’t resist. I Google image searched spider vagina. On one hand, I’m afraid to report that a few of the photos may have blinded me. One the other hand, I’m happy to report that one of the photos is of a spider performing cunnilingus on a human woman. Fair tradesies, I'd say.]

[Update 2: Sara wins!]

I take my phone with me to the bathroom. Do you do that? Is it just me? Am I the only one who’s self important enough to think that the world will explode if I miss a call during the minute and a half that I’m going to the bathroom? I honestly don’t know why I think I’m that important. That people simply cannot wait a minute and a half to have their vagina related questions answered via email.

(Yes, I get a lot of vagina related questions via email.)

The phone on the toilet thing though, it can go one of two ways. It can either make for the best thing ever when you’re at the airport and you see on Twitter that a favorite blogger of yours is at the exact same airport at the exact same time and you meet up and realize that you’re flying to the same city and you’re able to change your flight and get on her flight and you’re even able to get seated next to each other and it’s a Twitterific love story.

But then there’s the opposite of that, like when you’re sitting on the toilet in a public restroom in Vegas and you’re so drunk that you forget you’re on the toilet and you start scrolling through Twitter and you read a ridiculously funny tweet that’s probably only funny to you but you’re laughing so hard that you fall into the toilet because the seat is up and you were too busy being drunk and paying attention to your phone to realize that the seat was up when you sat down and so you’re stuck in the toilet and you drop your phone and it slides into the stall next to you and you can’t even text anyone to come help you get out of the toilet even though it’s the phone’s fault you’re in there in the first place. Or maybe it’s your own fault. Or maybe it’s Twitter’s fault. Yeah, let’s blame social media for the fact that I spent the entire rest of the night wearing a wet dress.

But do you know when social media is amazing? Like actually amazing? When you’re buying lunch at Trader Joe’s at 1pm on a Thursday and you see a girl that looks exactly like your best friend from second grade and you whisper to your roommate that you’re totally positive that that girl over there is Carrie from St. Luke’s and your roommate is all, “You can’t possibly recognize a girl from second grade” and you’re like, “Fuck you I totally can” except you don’t say “fuck you” because you love your roommate and “fuck you” is a not nice thing to say but maybe you think it just a little bit because you know yourself and your wildly ninja-ish memory skills. And then you get home and then you eat lunch and then you check your email and then you see that she messaged you on Facebook because she recognized you too and then and then and then you think “THIS IS WHY JESUS CREATED THE INTERNET.”

You know why else Jesus created the internet? So I could learn about products like Camelflage, a special type of panty with an insert sewn into the crotch area to hide cameltoe. Except I think the real reason that the internet exists is so I can make the following public service announcement:

Instead of spending $19.99 on a single pair of underwear to hide your grossly visible vagina lips, how about you just wear pants that aren’t so fucking tight?!?

This is why I should be queen.

HI CARRIE

Update: Carrie and I are having a breakfast date in a few days. Chest bumps for the magic of the internet.

Today is my 25th birthday.

And do you know what I’ve realized? I’ve realized that life is made up of three things: memories, plans, and deep breaths.

Memories are our past. Memories are moments that have ended, but that are ours to keep forever and ever. Memories are what connect us with who we were, even if who we were was just a few moments ago.

Plans are our future, they’re what keep us moving forward. A plan for the afternoon, a plan for the month, for the year, for a lifetime. Plans are what connect us with who we want to be.

And deep breaths. Deep breaths connect us with ourselves, with our now. Deep breaths are the only form of living in the present that I can truly understand.

We, all of us, are the sum of our parts. We’re the sum of our memories, our plans, and our deepest breaths. And, more than anything, we’re the sum of the people in our lives. We are who we are because of the tiny drops that other people have given us of themselves. I am who I am because of the delicious beauty of the people around me.

And now, at 25, in acknowledgment of that delicious beauty, here are 25 well overdue thank yous.

My mom, for making me laugh until I cry with her unbearable taste in hats, for her unwavering capacity to love, and for her mind-blowing ability to put other people’s needs before her own. My dad, for being the calm in the hurricane that is me and my mother, the solid rock in my soul, and the jaw-on-the-ground example of optimism in spite of reality. My grandpa, for being unapologetic in his pursuit of himself and for embodying the belief that your life is in your stories. My cousin Beth, for being the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister. My nieces Allison & Julianna, for being the reason I try to leave each day better than I found it. My brother Mat, for destroying the cliche that asks us to step all over each other in order to achieve greatness. Noreen, for unlimited margaritas, unlimited loyalty, and unlimited proof that family isn’t only biological.

Stephanie Klein and Chelsea Handler, for writing the memoirs that prompted me to start this blog and for giving me something I can point to and say, “Yes, that, right there, that’s what I want.” Every single one of my blog readers, for absorbing my crazy and making me feel that community isn’t tied to geography and that we have the unimaginable power to make a difference in each other’s lives. All of the 2009 & 2010 BiSC attendees, for taking a chance on a neurotic girl with a bright pink blog and traveling to Vegas with nothing more than a belief in the magic of shared experiences.

Mr. Wasley, for telling my 4th grade self that I had no choice but to write, and for only slightly raising his eyebrow when my short fiction became as bizarre as my decision to wear knee socks every single day. Professor Berg, for letting me take every single class she taught at NYU, and for helping me start my explosive love affair with food.

My former employers, for unknowingly forcing me to stand up for myself and for showing me the meaning of “enough is enough.” Frankie, for picking me up off the floor when I was six inches from hell and for being my foundation when I wasn’t strong enough to stand on my own. Dr. Jerri, for destroying everything I ever believed about the stigma of therapy and empowering me to save my own life.

Everyone I’ve ever slept with, for letting me fall in love with them in a hundred different ways, for holding the mirror I needed to see myself more honestly, and for being the barreling train that got me from point A to point B.

Jonathan, for being the only consistent tie to my high school self, and for making me realize the value of quiet strength and timeless friendship. Jada, for forcing me to examine my boundaries and discover what it means to be there for someone no matter what. Jess, for not judging me as I set my life on fire over and over again, and for being the kind of friend who, when the fire is over, helps clear the smoke while hitting on the firemen. Doni, for open-heartedly agreeing to the 20 minute rule in which we can call each other without explanation, set the timer, and have 20 minutes of unconditional, uninterrupted word vomit. Drea, for understanding the overwhelming humor in bad decisions, and for encouraging me to define what being an adult means on my own. Derek, for sitting across from me on that couch when I was so lost that I needed a road map to find my road map, and for continuing to make me believe that what I want is not just lovely, but possible. Chelsea, for being the clearest possible example of what it looks like to follow your dreams with limitless abandon. James Bond, for drinking me as I am, and for challenging everything I thought I knew about letting someone in.

And finally, Jamie, for literally everything. But, most of all, for showing me what the absolute best version of myself looks like and for giving me the safe space I need to reach it.

I am who I am because of the delicious beauty of the people around me, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been having all of you to share this birthday with.

Squishy hugs & uncontrollable love,

Nicole