storytime, part 2.

for the first part of this two-part post scroll down. then come back up to read this one. :)

tyler’s birthday party story…(or one of them)

d, greg and i hit the ground running from the moment tyler woke up yesterday (and by running, i mean, hobbling, my poor foot is still swollen enough for two feet.) packing stuff up, getting food in the oven, checking things off the to-do list. everything was going great. we piled in the car, with so much that i couldn’t see tyler in his carseat a foot away from me. it.was.awesome. there were gift bags to my left, balloons at my feet, and the bbq that my sister had cooked in a warming tray on my lap. it was claustrophobia at its finest. i just kept staring out the window, telling myself we were almost there. we had to make 3 stops before we arrived at the party location, we had to get ice at the gas station, meet a friend of greg’s to drop something off, and stop by party city to get some mylar balloons. we were doing great. we had made it to all three locations on time and everything was going smoothly. and then…d got out so i could hand her the bbq, when a major catastrophe was upon us. i handed her the bbq, stepped out of the suv, and then suddenly felt wet all over. and by all over, i mean ALL OVER. apparently, the bbq leaked all over me and the heat from holding it masked the wetness i wasn’t feeling. ggrrrrrreaaatt. my blouse (which was new and i had saved specifically for this event) was covered from my belly button down, and it literally covered my pants front to back. i looked like i has sporadically peed all over myself. d started crying. she felt awful. i laughed, and without really knowing what to do proceeded to walk into party city. yes, people stared. yes, i was sticky. and yes, i cared. but i didn’t have a lot of time to think about that, because we had to hurry and get the balloons and get going. after walking to the back of the store in the goth/halloween department and truly assessing the situation i was in, i knew i would have to hobble up to the target (which was a real hike when you have a brace on your ankle) and buy myself a new outfit. humph, i thought to myself. i didn’t want to spend money on new clothes right now.

in a panic and hurry, my sister and i walked the mile (a slight exaggeration) to target, walked straight in, grabbed a pair of jeans and looked for two seconds, literally, before d found a black t-shirt for me to try on. i ran (or walked) to the dressing room and struggled to take off my current jeans and try on the new ones. in the midst of trying on jeans, i realized my legs were sticky. very, very sticky. so sticky that the blue dye in the jeans was sticking to my leg. sick, i know. what could a girl do at this point?? i frantically tried the shirt on, it worked. and walked out of the dressing room and straight to the cashier. once i bought the items, i walked into bathroom, grabbed some paper towels, wet them and walked into the handicap bathroom stall. after bathing myself, i quickly got dressed and left.

it wasn’t until i was in the car, on the interstate, that i realized, i just spent $12.oo on a shirt that i didn’t even like. it was so blah. i was in such a hurry that i just put it on long enough to make sure it fit, not realizing how un-nicole it was. it was a shirt my sister would typically wear. simple. plain-jane. t-shirt like. so, i went from wearing a shimmering, caribbean blue, awesomely-springy shirt to a black, square-shaped shirt. again though, what could a girl do? i relinquished that at least my purple toe-nail polish felt like me, and that it would add some much needed pizazz to the otherwise boring outfit.

all in all…moral of the story: don’t let someone you love carry the bbq. just wrap it in a towel and put it in the back, or in the floor, just NEVER and i mean NEVER let someone you love carry it.

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