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Shakoolie: The Ultimate Shower Beer Experience

Some of you may remember when I shared the glorious secret to the perfect shower a while back. Apparently the shower (and beer) gods were listening, because just a few weeks ago a shower beer entrepreneur contacted me. If you haven’t heard of the universe shattering invention that is the Shakoolie, you are about to flip your shower caddie upside down and hump your shower curtain in sheer bliss.

The Shakoolie is a beer holder on steroids that sticks to the wall of your shower out of the soap and water while keeping it cool.

Shower beer

Holding your beer in the shower is for amateurs.

shower beer

I wish there was a solution!

When the experts of sipping and shampooing (inventors of the almighty Shakoolie) found me, an obvious shower beer advocate, and offered to send me my very own Shakoolie, my faith in serendipity was immediately restored. I knew I had to share my gift with the world. It was a crisp 8:00 am when I opened my mail box to hear angels singing and an entrancing halo emanating from inside. My Shakoolie had arrived.

After ripping open the concise packaging like a pathetic strong-woman competition, I was surprised at just how easy the set up appeared.

shower beer

Two steps. Two seconds. Too fucking cool.

Naturally, I have been keeping a reserve of canned Coors and some bottles of Heineken freshly stocked in the fridge like a kid hoarding cookies for the arrival of Santa ever since the news came of my impending shipment. I wanted to have options for testing. After all, this is technically a review rave.

I’ll be honest, upon sliding my full heiny into the shower, pun intended, I was slightly nervous about the give of the Velcro holding my nectar. But just as the brotastic Shakoolie logo didn’t disappoint me, neither did the Velcro. I took a good, solid fifteen minute shower. Temperature: boiling (the shower not the beer, dumb ass). Not as much as a single fiber gave way on the genius shower wall mount.

I haven’t even mention yet how the eradication of watered down shower beer has changed my life.

Before the Shakoolie, I looked like this trying to enjoy my shower beer:

shower beer

For every watery beer, an angel loses its wings

Now when I shower with my beer, I look like this:

shower beer

Thanks to Shakoolie, I no longer have to shower with an umbrella! Thanks Shakoolie!

Let’s face it, this product steals the lunch money of stocking stuffers everywhere. Not only did the creators put a genius twist on your average coozie and actually make it with quality materials good enough to withstand the slip and slide of your bathroom waterfall, but they even offer 007 shit like the Hidden Shot Flask and the Flask Tie. I’ve never wanted to wear a tie so badly in my life.

Thanks to Shakoolie for the free gift. I will cheers my bathroom wall every time I enjoy my brew there. The guys behind this thing are just the type of entrepreneurs I will always support, and not just because alcohol. I seriously think that this is a blast of a product. In fact, I know exactly what I am buying for everyone for every holiday and every birthday for the next year. For now, I am off to have my third shower of the day. Happy Monday Flysters!

Click here to share the showery beery goodness.

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Definitely Cry Over Expired Milk

My impulse purchasing has become a real problem as of late. I am not even paying attention anymore. Last night I was picking up a few beers and for some reason felt compelled to buy some milk too. I don’t even know why. I never buy milk. So, this morning I wake up and realize that I have milk, which is a rare commodity in my fridge. I open the little bottle and take a big swig.

It took me about half a second after I already swallowed my sip to realize that something was not right. I looked at the expiration date immediately.

expired milk

Thanks for leaving me with no option but to chug a beer at 11 am, because I had no other beverages with which to chase my rancid milk.

 

So that means that this milk has been sitting in some gas station cooler for over two weeks, and I picked it up, bought  it, and drank it. How does this happen? Maybe I should just stop buying things all together. I am not very good at purchasing.

Before you watch my new vlog below, I have a secret to tell you! Read the rest of this entry

New Toy

I haven’t been writing.

This time I am not going to blame writer’s block. I am not even going to blame my blog for taking over and bashing the hell out of me. Actually, I don’t even feel guilty for not writing at this point…

This time, the writing is being vetoed by a much powerful force. I have purchased a new toy. I spent hours in bed with it this weekend to the point of exhaustion. There will certainly be a significant amount of embarrassment upon my next encounter with my neighbors, for they surely overheard my shrieks of  excitement and enjoyment. Even Jack subtly exited the room on several occasions as if  even he was embarrassed for me. I practically needed a “do not disturb” sign.

Whoa. I know you all have your minds on peen today (thanks Clown man), but what kind of gal do you take me for? I am talking about my new HD Webcam and accompanying movie editing software. I have many ideas swarming in my mind right now that it is hard for me to wrangle them all and put them into manageable cubbyholes in my mind. So for now, you can just watch me play with my new toy for about fifteen seconds. After all, that’s about how long it takes to get anyone off, right?

Please note: I am no longer just a pixel of your imagination. There will be much more to come once I master this thing.

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We Love Each Other

bad wrapping

I wrap good.

Don’t you love a good conversation with your family on the Holidays? My family sure does…

Brother (from a room on the other side of the house): “Come help me, I don’t know how to wrap.”

Me: “No.”

Brother: “Come help me.”

Mom: “She said no.”

Brother: “Okay.”

On shopping last minute…

Brother: “What can I get for Dad?”

Me: “He likes to be outdoors. You should get him a tent so he can camp out in the back yard.”

Brother: “He would probably love that.”

Me: “Or, a pillow for when he sleeps on the floor. I was joking about the tent.”

Brother: “I am going to get him slippers. If he doesn’t like them I will take them.”

Me: “I don’t think that is how it is supposed to work.”

Brother: “Do you have any money?”

Merry Christmas everyone. May all of your conversations be this deep.

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Beauty and The Becca

See what I did there? Did you see? Did you?

matted hair baby

I saved this picture as “matted baby”. I feel uneasy about that.

Let me preface this by saying I was inspired to write this post after reading Melanie Crutchfield’s How to Be Beautiful. If girls pooped I probably would have shat myself laughing when I read it. I’d award her with free underwear if that wasn’t a weird thing to do. If I hadn’t given up Photoshop so quickly because I sucked at it  my free Photoshop trial hadn’t expired, I too would use it to make my own funny image additions here on my blog.

My mother is and always was into fashion, beauty products, make-up, and stuff of similar categories. This is why I do not understand how I was so beauticiously challenged growing up. I don’t remember her ever teaching me how to do things like put on my make-up, shave my legs, or pluck my eyebrows. I don’t think this is because she didn’t want to or try to, I was just too stubborn to wait for her to decide that I was old enough. I can’t blame her. I know she just wanted to see me as young and innocent forever, but come on, I was walking around with so much blonde hair on my middle school gams that it looked like Cousin It was humping my leg.

Because of my impatience, and therefore, lack of instruction and proper guidance, I had one too many beauty fails as an awkward 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16-year-old girl.

For starters, I was initially too afraid to shave using an actual razor, so I resorted to Nair. If you like to bathe in acid you should try it. Nair should be illegal.

Once I conquered my fear of the razor, I became adversely razor-happy and went on a razor binge. It started out innocently enough. You see, my hair is naturally curly (had you fooled didn’t I?). This means I had what I call whispies (also known as fly-aways) framing my face. I had a ton of them, and I wanted them gone. So, what did I do? I shaved my fucking hair-line. When that worked out dreadfully, of course I didn’t hesitate to moved on to my eyebrows. I am still trying to grow them back to their full volume to this day. Read the rest of this entry

I’ll See Your Air And Raise You a Jetty

Jetty

[Hampton Beach sure did rock my world. That pun was just embarrassing. Can I get my groove back already?]

Northeast air seduced me from the moment I stepped out of Logan Airport. There was a blunt and intense sensation hitting me almost immediately that I could not ignore. I… I could breathe. The air was positively intoxicating as opposed to the suffocating sauna-like air that radiates the South. Instead of dragging around choking on the heat, I was frolicking about in a humidity-free trance. I couldn’t help but wonder how I might bottle it up and bring it home with me.

Rarely have I experienced a place with days warm enough to sport a tank top and shorts and nights that require a sweater (fleece jacket in my case). I always watched films in which this phenomenon occurred. The actress runs wildly in a bikini during the day scenes, and come nightfall, is cozied up in a big long-sleeved poncho on a porch somewhere. It always confused me. Now, I had full understanding of the different weather outside of Louisiana’s inferno. It is safe to say I fell in love with this aspect of the North, and I also must say my hair was looking mighty lustrous minus all the frizz action.

The beach in New Hampshire, where we spent a day before storming the city of Boston, was unlike any beach I’d ever seen. Read the rest of this entry

Paperback Pause

The merit badge handbook grown up girls

[Look! I have a really cheesy cover, and I am cheap, but it's what's on the inside that counts, right? Click my obnoxious cover to buy me on Amazon. Yay!

[Also, the title says "for grown-up girls", but that shouldn't stop the fellas from checking it out. Would I steer you wrong? Well, not intentionally at least.]

I returned to reality and a Sunday of cooking stuffed bell peppers with a new addition to slide onto my make-shift bookshelf. In her normal fashion, Booger handed down a book to me as an early Birthday present. Its title is The Merit Badge Handbook for Grown-up Girls by Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas. Her name makes my jaw hurt a bit, and I didn’t even attempt saying it out loud. Filled with activities, projects, goal ideas, and new learning/experience opportunities, you could think of this book as a sort of generalized bucket list and guide. My initial appreciative reaction was quickly followed with eagerness to start flipping pages. Upon doing so, something unexpected happened.

The beginning of this year had me sulking in the realization of all the things I have yet to do in/with my life. I have a hard time being patient when on a quest. Nothing was helping, especially not seeing all the cool stuff other people around me were doing. Then, I began writing again and went from sulking to basking in the new-found determination I had to start doing things. New or different or scary or silly or constructive or whatever kind of things, it didn’t matter. No more ruts. Read the rest of this entry

She Made Me an Offer I Can’t Refuse

the gosmother

[Let's pretend that this is an appropriate photo for this post, and you can just call me whatever the female Vito would be called. Or, just let me pretend I look this cool. Alright, I am a horrible phony. I haven't even seen The Godfather. ]

You know what I have seen though? A bunch of ultra-sounds and baby bump pictures. Yes, the infamous Booger is growing a tiny human these days. While I never expected we’d planning her reveal party for the sex of the baby this weekend, I also never expected to get so amped about baby stuff in general. And probably the least expected, but most incredibly exciting part of it all… she offered me the position of godmother.

Here in the south, godmothers are generally called the nanny and the godfather is the paran (I don’t think I can give an accurate phonetic spelling, so just pronounce that with your best French accent). When Booger called me to ask what I would prefer to be called (Godmother, Nanny, Aunt Becca), the whole life changing event became more real in my eyes. I can only imagine how she feels.

All of my friends know me as the one who was never overly concerned with settling down or marriage and definitely not procreating. The slightest thought of child-birth always triggers the “NOPE!” section of my brain. Even as a child, I never fantasized about my wedding or was much for playing with baby dolls that were promised to realistically defecate on me. I was more in to putting Ballet Barbie in her convertible and playing make-believe as a restaurant owner. No lie, I had boxes of faux meal receipts that I organized to keep tabs on my imaginary diner’s success. We had the best hot dogs. All the regulars said so. Read the rest of this entry

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