I LOVE EXFOLIATING

I exfoliate everything. (nearly) I love baths and showers and bubbles and lotions and girly bath products, but the part of my routine that I love so much that without it I start to rock back and forth and frantically chew at my skin  (Billy Bob-Thorton Voice: Some calls it obsession. I calls it love.) is exfoliation.

"I reckon Nikol loves exfoliation, mmmhmmm."

I went to Vegas recently with Gram Ponante (NSFW) to do all sorts of fun interviewing and generally have a good ol’ Vegas time. This meant mostly going to Ellis Island to eat chicken fried steaks and gravy on everything. When we got to the hotel room and I began to unpack my usual array of bath products, I let out a low wail and dropped to the floor (which was filthy. I oughtn’t of dropped down there), punching at the stained carpeting and crying out “Why? Whyyyy? What ever will I do? We have to go back right now!”

I had forgotten to pack exfoliate! Gram sat there, befuddled, reminding me that there were drug and sundry stores throughout the city. Why, there was a CVS within a stone’s throw.

It was kind of like this. I'm a horrible bitch about exfoliation.

“Well why aren’t we there?” I cried, much in the manner of Parker Posey when she learned that there was a pet store in the lobby of the hotel in Best In Show. (I didn’t call him a stupid hotel manager. That would come later, after too many drinks.)

But once we were at the CVS, my horrible suspicions were confirmed. They didn’t have sugar scrub. They had salt scrub or apricot scrub. Well, anyone who knows anything about actual exfoliation can tell you, these options are horseshit. Salt “scrub” just melts softly, turning into salt rub in the hot shower. And apricot? What am I, a metero-sexual  college student who doesn’t know any better?

Huffily, I purchased the apricot scrub, and we headed back to the hotel so I could attempt to use it to get rid of my quickly amassing dead skin cells. I mean, shit, we were in Vegas, the extra-skin-cell-iest capitol of the Americas. I had some heavy work to do.

The apricot barely dealt with the issue, forcing me to walk around the AEE completely foliated. Normally, I exfoliate my arms, legs, belly, neck, and my face, including my lips. I told a chick about this once and she was all “Doesn’t that tear your lips?” No, dummy, it obviously doesn’t, or I would be walking around with torn up lips. My lips are soft and free of dead lip-skin.

The only saving grace was that on Friday, in a suite dedicated to the lovely Hollie Stevens, I was given a swag bag including, miraculously, a little jar of sugar scrub. (And then I nicked a few more swag bags, because I was taking no chances.) The scrub seemed homemade, and was a simple recipe I recreated once home.

Brown Sugar

Grapeseed Oil

Essential Oil

The secret is, don’t use too much oil. Use just enough oil to saturate the sugar. You can use any kind of essential oil you’d like, but I would warn against the stuff that will sting, like peppermint or eucalyptus.

If you’re not already into exfoliation, give it a try. It probably doesn’t really do all that much. I mean, moisturizer is really the ticket to keeping your skin in great shape. But, it feels good, and it makes me feel like I’m doing something to make myself less old.

Exfoliation, you’re the best. You make me happy. I love you.

Some exfoliants I recommend:

Tree Hut Body Scrub This one is my favorite!

Neutrogena Sugar Scrub This one really is energizing. A bit more expensive.

Alba Sugar Cane Scrub Alba is a great cruelty free company for you hippies.

Stay tuned for Gram’s input on the whole situation.

Once, on the subway in New York, I started my period.

See, I was super duper having a terrible time. This guy I was in loooooove with convinced me to move to the city with him from Wisconsin. And then he broke up with me. So, I knew about two people in the city. I knew nothing about public transportation. And I’d just been dumped.

I was on a train, going the wrong way, very lost, and it was one of those super long rides where you’re pretty sure there will never be another stop, making you more and more lost and further away from being able to fix it.

The train was absolutely packed. I had to hold onto the bars. This placed my crotch at eye level with the man in front of me. Suddenly, I felt this giant fucking gush of sticky liquid running down my inner thighs. I was wearing yellow skinny jeans. I looked down at the front of me, seeing the rapidly speading red pool that this poor guy was forced to have his face next to. But I couldn’t do anything about it. I just had to stand there and bleed to death.

So, of course, I started to cry. Not little sad tears. Nope. Big swallowing sobs that shook my body. And the louder I cried, mouth open with spit line for emphasis, the more people looked away. And that made me cry harder.

Subways are gross.

Being stuck in bed, I have an awful lot of time between naps and watching entire series in one sitting to look at Groupon. Luckily, I don’t have the cash to buy anything, or this would get expensive.

What I have decided, however, is that once I am done with all of this cancery nonsense, I want to finally do something that I’ve been wanting to do my whole life. And every single day, Groupon, you temptress, you send me more emails about the sorts of things I could be doing.

Look at this beautiful promise of interracial familial bowling fun!

No, I’m not just talking about laser hair removal, which, I gotta say, if I had laser hair, why would I have it removed? That sounds cool as hell. And while 70% off memory foam pillows is a great deal, I don’t think I should have memory foam anywhere near my bed. Let’s face it. I’d give memory foam PTSD. In a few weeks it would be repressed memory foam.

What I’m talking about is the crazy shit like sky diving and parasailing in a weird car-shaped thing. Or jumping off of shit, or climbing up things, or going to Cabo San Lucas. I have never, in my whole 33 years of life, been on a vacation. It’s about time that I do that, isn’t it?

And I know these are all daydreams that seem pretty far-fetched once I realize I don’t have two nickels to rub together. I mean, who dreams of Cabo when they’re buying discount meat at Fresh & Easy? Well, I do. And I want to thank you, Groupon, for giving me things to daydream about. Keep it up. Show me all the four night stays in Montego Bay that you can muster, because when I close my eyes when the drugs kick in, I can picture myself jumping out of a plane for $125, falling through the air toward my ocean-side Jamaica beach hotel, fully relaxed from my day at the spa.

I sat next to a farting monk on the airplane. That was awesome. He also told me I am “very beautiful”. The combination of gasses and compliments make the monk one of my favorite people.

United lost my luggage.

It’s more humid than a swamp creature’s armpit.

Everyone calls everyone else baby, darlin’, and a guy last night called me mama (in a non-sexual way).

I ate grits at Waffle House. I don’t like grits, but it had to be done.

I saw a smushed turtle. That made me sad. I yelled at the flies for swarming him, further influencing the slightly amused looks I’m getting from the locals.

My computer freaked the hell out and I lost three recorded interviews I did recently.

People are really damn friendly.

I’ve got a big, bad case of nerves over giving a speech.