On November 15th, Kyle and I celebrated the completion of our 3rd year of marriage. Most years we can barely manage to squeeze a celebratory dinner in between work; in face, last year we spend our anniversary working 16 hours of a Shinedown show. I don’t know about you, but hauling 50′ of feeder cable is not exactly the romantic commemoration that every bride has in mind. I’m just saying, sweat and tour gunk don’t make you feel particularly sexy, and pushing road cases isn’t particularly romantic. So when we looked at our work calender for the month and saw that 3 of our 5 days off this month were an anniversary sandwich, we HAD to jump on it. Which is how we found ourselves on November 14th driving west towards Niagara Falls for a long, (hopefully) romantic weekend.

We stayed at the Stirling Inn & Spa, which is situated about a block or so off the main drag, and I was definitely apprehensive at first sight. The surrounding neighborhood didn’t inspire much confidence in anything but the certainty that our car would get jacked. The hotel itself used to be an old milk bottling plant, which explains the weird milk bottle-shaped tower in the middle, but it wasn’t very well lit and that gave it an ominous feel. So the picture of our room that my imagination was painting was not a pretty one.

I assure you, it looked much sketchier at night.

Luckily, I was dead wrong on that one. Holy luxurious monkey balls, you guys, this room was gorgeous! It was nicer than the room we stayed in on our honeymoon! it was a single large room, with a gian four-poster bed and a lovely sitting area with a fireplace. (The fireplace turned out to be fake, which, incidentally, was a good thing when we accidentally left it on all night.)

The bathroom area featured a glassed-in shower the size of our bathroom at home, a gorgeous glass vanity and sink that has to be fucking impossible to keep clean, and a monstrous Jacuzzi tub that could easily accommodate a crowd.

The thing that was awkward awesome is that when I say “bathroom area” I do so because the bathroom had no walls separating it from the room. I mean, obviously the toilet was a separate room with a door. (Though the door was frosted glass, so even if you couldn’t see the details you could definitely tell what the person inside was doing. Which is why we had to impose a, “Don’t look at this side of the room while I’m pooing,” rule.) But the bathtub was pretty much in the middle of the room and the glassed-in shower gave anyone watching tv on the couch a fantastic view. Pretty much the entire room screamed, “BOW-CHICKA-WOW-WOW! IT’S SEXY TIME” So it was perfect for us. (Though I can see how it could be pretty fucking traumatizing for a family of four.) The best part? (That I’m willing to talk about on the internet, that is.) We could soak in the tub and watch Canadian Adult Swim. You guys, until you’ve sat in the tub and watched Robot Chicken you have not lived.

SEXY TIME!

We walked down to the falls numerous times during our trip, since they seem to think that the privilege of parking within a mile of the falls is worth $14, and our walk took us right down the main tourist strip. I don’t know exactly what I expected the Niagara Falls tourist area to be like, but it was definitely not this.

Called Clifton Hills, it looked like it was trying to follow the 1950’s resort town formula: tons of arcades, haunted houses, head shops, and wax museums. It was like Coney Island on crack. Walking down the strip, e-ver-y-thing was covered in neon lights, and each place had either music or fake screams accompanied by a ghoulish voice blaring in an attempt to grab your attention. It was totally bizarre. There were few restaurants, no clubs or bars to be seen, and even souvenir shops of any variety were few and far between. It was just  haunted house after wax museum after head shop. I guess they expect you to be so bored by the running water after a day that you’ll spend the rest of the week looking at bad Justin Bieber replicas. It’s like the city had tacky business tourettes. My favorite?

A haunted house called Screamers that boasted live hangings every-other-Friday night. Fucking crazy.

So, yeah, that was pretty much our whole anniversary: sexy hotel rooms and trashy haunted houses.

KIDDING!

(Well, not about the first one. The sexy hotel room was definitely a big part of our weekend of anniversary, ifyaknowwhatImean…)

Stay tuned to find out if we ever actually left our hotel room long enough to look at the water!

I submit: to follow are 5 things that have made the world a more beautiful place simply by coming into existence. I have heavily considered sending their creators muffin baskets to thank them for making my life a more hilarious, beautiful or delicious place. Simply put, they are fucking awesome.

*Bitchin’ Kitchen

Bitchin’ Kitchen is a cooking show that airs on The Cooking Channel, hosted by Canadian-born Nadia G. Now, like most cooking shows, (Alton Brown’s Good Eats notwithstanding,) Bitchin’ Kitchen does not really make me want to cook; they all tend to use ingredients that are beyond the average pantry and cook recipes that sit just beyond the comfort zone of the average pallet. There are two things, however, that make Bitchin’ Kitchen unlike most cooking shows: a hilariously wicked sense of humor and a collection of stilettos that would make a grown woman (or man) come to orgasm. With cherry red lips and an accent that sounds like a Jewish/Italian/Russian/Generally Old World hybrid, Nadia G spits sass and fire with lines like, “Pizza night is sure to bring your family, and thighs, closer together,” “I’m gonna sucker punch this dough in the spleen,” and my personal favorite, “Now we’ll use one of my patented life techniques and put out liquor-induced fires with more liquor.” Honest to god, I don’t watch Bitchin’ Kitchen so much for the cooking as I do just to watch Nadia G do her thing. And just in case her sense of humor and wardrobe aren’t enough to lure you in, there’s the mysterious Spice Agent to educate us on spices, the suave Panos to tell us all about fish and meat, and the delectable cut of beef known as Hans to talk about health. No matter your taste there’s a flavor of delicious for everyone! (Mmmm…Hans…mmmm…Nadia’s shoes…)

*Evan Williams Eggnog

Let me preface this by saying that I love eggnog, of both the alcoholic and non-alcoholic pursuations. Rich and thick and sweet, the good stuff tastes like a melted milkshake and hugs all in one glass. Someday I will fulfill my ultimate fantasy of making french toast with eggnog instead of milk. But Evan Williams Eggnog is no ordinary eggnog. No, this shit has the addition of balls. None of that “eggnog with a splash of bourbon” bullshit, no, you take a swig of this eggnog and I’ll bet you $10 and a Frosty that your next words will be, “Damn! That shit is STRONG!” But not disgustingly so, more in the way that makes your lips tingly and your belly warm while still enjoying the sweet, rich eggnoggy goodness. It’s…it’s just…just delightful. It’s like the liquid inside that mug just wrapped its arms around your soul and hugged you until you pass out. It’s just…you guys, it’s so delicious. So, so delicious.

*Sally Hansen Complete Salon Manicure nail polish

This color is my latest obsession. It's called (*snort*) Commander in Chic.

Nail polish and I have a somewhat complicated relationship. I love having painted nails; it’s fun and sassy, but most importantly, it’s a subtle and easy way to retain my femininity in a masculine workplace full of dudes. I may have to dress like a bull-dyke and I may be hauling cable and talking about what I did to you mom last night, but goddamn it, I will have pretty nails! The problem is that my masculine workplace full of dudes is hell on manicures. Just the pure physical nature of the gig is hard on them, but all it takes is having to pull the tape up from one dance floor and my nails are toast. No matter how many base and top coats I layer on, it always ends up starting to chip after a day or two. And when you consider my obsession with so-dark-it’s-almost-black nail polish, it seems like I always end up running around with the severely chipped nails of a 13 year old emo chick.

So when I saw a commercial for this all-in-one nail polish, I was intrigued.  The thought of cutting the manicure process by 2/3 definitely appealed to me, so the next time I was at CVS I picked up a bottle in a so-blue-it’s-almost-black color called “Navy Baby.” (PS, aren’t the names they come up with for nail polish colors the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?) It went on super easy, but it did NOT last like a fully manicured nail polish. Even without the abuse of work, it was starting to go two days later. HOWEVER. If you use this shit like normal nail polish, with a base and top coat, this shit is the SHIT! It’s like house paint! Even with an abusive week of work behind it, it look damn-near perfect. Sure, there’s a chip or two, and if you looked really close there’s some white on the edges, but unless you’re closely examining my nails they look great. (And if you are, get the hell away from my fingers, you creepazoid.) For someone who’s as hard on my nails as I am, this shit is fantastic!

*Sabra Roasted Garlic Hummus

I first tried hummus in our college cafeteria. It was bland and grainy and tasted like butt. Thusly, for the longest time I held the belief that I did not like hummus. But then fate entered. An artist at work had Sabra Roasted Garlic Hummus on their rider and didn’t eat it, and, as with all uneaten catering, it went home with a member of the crew. In this case, that member was me. I didn’t really want it, but it was handed to me and I never turn down free food. I went home and dipped a cracker in it, and holy fucking tap dancing jesus christ on a cracker! It was smooth, garlicky, deliciousness in my mouth! I went to TOWN on that shit! Really, the cracker was a formality; I would have eaten that shit with a spoon if I wasn’t positive Kyle would judge me. Savory and rich, with a depth of flavor I never would have imagined from something that visually resembles tan wallpaper paste. Look guys, I feel as if we’ve known each other a while now, and I hope that there is a certain level of trust between us. So believe me when I say that the best life decision you can make is to go to the store, buy some of this shit, bring it home, and spread it on fucking everything. Hell, I would introduce it into our sex life if Kyle hadn’t placed a ban on all savory food play.

*Leatherman Juice

I got my Juice for Christmas my senior year of college from Kyle. It was supposed to be a motherfucking engagement ring, but regardless, I was super psyched to get my own Leatherman. A multi-tool is a must for any tech; the knife and pliers alone have saved my ass on numerous occasions. And the great thing about the Juice is that it’s the perfect size for me. It has everything I need (knife, scissors, bottle opener,) and nothing I don’t (toothpick, file, corkscrew,) and it fits in the pocket of even my skinniest jeans.

But even if I weren’t a tech, I’m pretty sure I would still carry my Juice with me everywhere. It’s just so fucking useful! Need to put a screw back in your glasses? Use the tiny blade. Find yourself holding a beer that’s not screw-off? Bottle opener. Husband eat the last piece of turtle cheesecake? Knife that motherfucker! You’d be surprised how many uses there are for a Leatherman in real life. And Juice is surprisingly lady-like for such a badass little multi-tool.  Think of it as Scott Evil in a Dolce & Gabbana. Now, wouldn’t you like to carry that around in your pocket?

*It should be noted that I don’t receive money or free shit from any of the above companies. But I’ll take some if they’d like to start!

I submit: to follow are 6 things that I believe made the world a worse place the moment they came into creation. If I was their inventor, I would lie and tell people at my high school reunion that I sold bedpans because it would be less embarrassing than being responsible for any of these things.  Simply put, they never should have happened.

*The Forever Lazy

I kept my mouth shut about the Snuggie. Yes, I would rather be caught passed out in a ditch wearing a vomit-covered gorilla suit than on my couch wearing a Snuggie. But to each their own. If you can wear a Snuggie and maintain your dignity, hooray for you.

But the Forever Lazy takes one gigantic, fleece-covered step into the land of wrongness. For one, it’s a one-piece pajama, which introduces the possibility of going commando. I don’t need to tell you how creepy that is. But then they introduce the ass flap.

So that if you have to take a shit, you don’t even have to take your Forever Lazy off, you can keep it on while you shit! Except that I can’t even begin to figure out the logistics of that one. Unless you’re wearing your Forever Lazy without any clothes underneath, (creepazoid!) you have to somehow open your ass flap, reach inside the flap, undo your pants and…pull your pants down into your Forever Lazy legs? And then what? Honest to god, I can’t figure out how that one works, only that it’s guaranteed to be the most awkward thing you’ve done in the bathroom since jr high.

*Philidelphia Cooking Creme

Honest to god, I have no clue what this shit is. It’s not cream cheese, it’s not yogurt, it’s not heavy cream. It’s this…seasoned goo that you’re supposed to plop into a cooked starch and smother with cheese. Because apparently making dinner is on par with climbing fucking Everest when it comes to challenges. Look, maybe the fault is mine. I love to cook, I truly do. Cooking dinner for Kyle and myself is something that I truly enjoy doing, especially since so many of our evening meals are spent eating reheated leftovers backstage. So maybe others don’t enjoy the task of chopping vegetables for homemade vegetable soup like I do. But this shit. This…coagulation of chemicals. This goes beyond laziness. The only reason you would feed this shit to your family is if you truly hate them and truly want them to suffer. And even then, I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Geneva Convention that prohibits it.

*The new Footloose remake

I would like to begin by saying that I have not seen the movie yet. And truth be told, I probably won’t. (Kyle says that working in a theatre fills his gay quota.) But I saw the trailer, and those 2 minutes and 32 seconds were plenty of time to know that this is a bad fucking idea.

Not that I’m a crazy huge fan of the original. That movies so damn cheesy that it should be sold in a spray can and served on a Ritz. But it’s got a decent story and John Lithgow turns everything he touches to acting gold. Plus, it offers enough karaoke fodder for an entire drunk bridal party. I’ll probably never watch it a second time, but its existence doesn’t offend me.

But this monstrosity.  I just have to ask, what the fuck was the point of remaking Footloose?  Is it to make sure that Julianne Hough has more than Burlesque and Proactive Commercials on her resume?  Or did Kevin Bacon and John fucking Lithgow not do a good enough job the first time around? Especially since from what I’ve heard, this one is damn-near a copy-and-paste of the original. Only with more skanky booty-dancing. Because that’s what the world needs. More skanky booty-dancing.

*Those no-bake lasagna noodles

I get it, I really do. On paper, this sounds like a great idea. Take the arduous task of boiling water and dropping in pasta noodles completely out of the picture! And I guess this sounds great, if you’re one of those people who thinks that lasagna is alternating layers of noodles, cottage cheese, and Ragu with browned hamburger. But I’m not one of those people. My lasagna is made with ricotta cheese and fresh herbs. A sauce that starts with fresh tomatoes and eventually joins a mixture of ground turkey and spicy Italian sausage before simmering for almost an hour. My lasagna is made with time, love, and a metric ass-ton of garlic. And the thought of laying those beautiful sauces and mixtures with those gummy-at-best-crunchy-at-worse noodles makes me want to cry. I mean, can you imagine how heart-wrenching that would be? You’ve been smelling the delicious, homey smells coming from the kitchen, you’re finally sitting down in front of a heaping plate of yummy goodness, you take your first bite and…it’s crunchy. Why would you do that to someone? And why would you do that to a beautiful lasagna? Yes, lasagna takes a long time to make. But that’s what makes it delicious. If you don’t want to spend the time, go make Hamburger Helper. At least then people are emotionally prepared for the crap they’re about to eat.

*Top Chef Texas

I love Top Chef. I love pretty much any show that involves food and competition. Add in a sexy host who’s topless photos can be found with a simple Google search and I’m sold. I’ve been with the show since damn-near the beginning, and I’ve followed it through it’s various spin-offs: masters, deserts, all-stars. I was there when Cliff tried to shave Marcel’s head. I was there for each and every one of Carla’s “Hootie-hoo!”s.  And I was there when Blais choked. Bet your ass I enjoyed every minute of it.

But Top Chef Texas? What the fuck is that? Texas isn’t even a type of cuisine, it’s a state. Do we really need to do an entire season about chef’s doing the same thing they do in regular Top Chef, only in Texas? How is this any fucking different from regular Top Chef? Funny story, no one on the internet seems to be able to tell me, except that “EVERYTHING’S BIGGER IN TEXAS!” No, let’s call it what it really is: Bravo’s attempt to ensure that there is a new season of Top Chef on the air at all times. They did the same damn thing with the Real Housewives franchise, and I think we can all agree that it started becoming unwatchable somewhere around New Jersey. No, Top Chef Texas is just another lazy-ass attempt to milk this show and Padma’s rack for every cent they can. Fit Top Chef for their water skis, there’s a shark waiting.

*55 calorie beer

I totally understand that as women, we are under immense pressure to watch our weight. Believe me when I say that I and a sack full of body image issues are right there with you. But come on guys. 55 calorie beer? What the hell is the point of that? First off, the way they get the calories down to 55 is by reducing the amount of sugar. When you reduce the sugar, there is less for the yeast to eat, and thus, less alcohol. That’s right ladies and gents, that 55 calorie beer is not really beer. The alcohol content of a Budweiser Select 55 is 2.4%, which is less than the fake beer some southern states sells in grocery stores. And I am telling you from experience that you cannot drink that beer fast enough to get even remotely buzzed. So if you’re drinking to get drunk, you’ll end up drinking three times as much just trying to get enough alcohol in your bloodstream Not exactly a calorie saver. And if you’re drinking it for the taste you’re lying to yourself, because that shit tastes like watered down piss. So if you’re not drinking it to get drunk and you’re not drinking it for the taste…why are you drinking it? Save the 55 calories and have a water; it’ll taste better and you’ll have to pee less.

There are so many better options for drinking smart. Gin and tonic. Vodka and cranberry. Even drinking regular beer doesn’t have to destroy your figure; a Stella has a 5% ABV, and it only adds 135 calories to your day. Or, even better, here’s my favorite option: if you want to have a drink, have a motherfucking drink. Don’t let the guilt destroy your enjoyment in life by forcing you to drink watered-down beer that they charge full-price for just because you’re afraid a Blue Moon after work will make you fat.