Category Archives: People Who Rock

And now the part where I punch IBS in the face

My friend Jen Worick just published her book, “Things I Want to Punch in the Face” – a collection of posts from her popular and totally hi-larious blog of the same name. This past Friday, I attended one of her book signings/readings/”Punch Parties” where she read a bit from the book, engaged us all in a rousing game of “Punch in the Face or Make Out With” (players had to guess which she’d do – like with lima beans or Katy Perry), and invited a few of her writerly friends to read their own punches. I had the great honor of being invited to do so and – in true Nicole fashion – I stood in front of a room of people and talked about….

Shitting my pants. Because I feel the inherently human is the thread of continuity that connects us all. Therefore I have no shame. No scruples. And so my punch of Irritable Bowel Syndrome – herein referred to as IBS – went like this:

I don’t care that everyone has a medical cross to bear. I will delightedly trade my IBS for your eczema, sinusitis, or wonky ACL just to never again hear the words, “Did you just SHIT on my new sofa?!” come out of my boyfriend’s mouth.

Ever. Again.

What’s most annoying about this is that I spent the first few decades of my life all GI-Jammed-Up, and as soon as I hit 35, it’s been a non-stop porcelain bus ride, often preceded by a sprint previously only achieved by FloJo. And, clearly, it’s not always a successful run.

Then there’s the arduous keeping of a diary in effort to figure out what triggers this all-hallowed mess. Is it gluten? Sugar? Soy? Thai food? Dairy, chocolate, stress, too much hormones, too little hormones, gamma rays, kryptonite, the empathetic emotional distress for that guy who just swan-dived from space? It’s a mystery so puzzling even Columbo, Miss Marple, and that weird Hodges guy from CSI couldn’t figure it out if they were locked in a padded cell with nothing but food diaries and stool samples.

I do declare that without IBS, we would live in a world of equality. One where IBS sufferers will not sneer at, but instead stand beside those who suck down deep-dish pizza, cheesecake, and ooey gooey brownies without so much as a pit stop at the commode. One where we can all enjoy food – and life – as it’s offered to us. Without a Gas-X chaser. Without Prilosec. And where sofa slipcovers are always pristine.

JF + buttermilk = T-giving dinner disaster

Duuuuude! Apparently Sandra Lee was not informed by JF’s producers of his vile hatred for mayonnaise. Buttermilk is like mayo’s evil liquid twin, no?! I watched this, like, five times in a row and nearly hyperventilated laughing at his reaction – and he strung out the torture right until the very last second of this clip.

Oh dear God hilarity.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Happiness & joy from me to you

In no particular order:

That photo to the right? That’s a magnet on my fridge and it rocks. I got it in Maui and no, I don’t know where you can find it in any other locale. But search for it online if it tickles your fancy.

My amazing former-ballerina Pilates instructor in NYC, who kicked my ass into the best shape it’s ever been, has a YouTube channel! People, this woman gave me the long, lean muscles that cause massage therapists to ask, “Are you a dancer?” Oh yeah, that shit’s real, though we won’t talk about the flab layer over said muscles that proves I enjoy eating. I’ve missed Gina’s workouts like they’ve gone off to war or something – and BTW, if you don’t feel breathless and in pain after you do these, you’re fucking them up. Form’s key, y’all. “Scoop” your abs (as Gina says – i.e., pull your belly button away from your shirt) and squeeze the muscles you’re working on as you do these exercises. You’ll die for sure, but you’ll have an ass that can grate Parmesan.

This candle in my living room smells like a pumpkin shit 40 homemade pies and I think everything about that is completely delicious.

Kale and delicata. It’s what’s for dinner.

There’s nothing like a very hipster holiday. I’ve been listening to this like a lunatic. Also, a bit o’ trivia: every time I close my eyes while listening to Zooey Deschanel speak, I hear the identical voice of my NYC biz partner, Demetra. I miss her crazily, but it makes me happy.

My clients are getting these this year. Yes, each and every individual person I work with gets their own box of loot. Aren’t they lucky ducks?! I ordered them all today because I have OCD and problems with anal retentiveness.

I’m totally bewildered by the holiday spirit I’m bursting with this year. It’s been many years since I gave a rat’s nut about the holly-days. I don’t know what the fuck is up, but seize the day and whatnot. I might even buy this because you know I can’t even decorate like a “normal” (*retch* traditional *retch*) person – shock! awe! madness!

Ari’s update from the road in the great southwest made me piss and snort: “In Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Thinking about karma and chimichangas.”

Here’s wishing all of you good karma this Chrismukkahwanzaa season!

Thanks for a great run, Andy Rooney

You made us laugh, think, and you inspired lots of funny thinker types – especially all of us writer-commentators who will forever look up to you.

Me and JF in particular will miss you.


I’m having yet another approaching-birthday crisis. But this year, much enlightenment has ensued as a result. Intentions are being set, first steps (and big risks) have already been taken, and let me tell you – come this time next year, this life o’ mine will look a lot different.

More to come in a fuckass-long post very soon. Meanwhile….a palate cleanser:

And the best Steve Jobs tribute goes to…The Onion

No surprise. Fucking fantastic. Ridiculously true.

RIP, Steve. Thank you for this. This. This. And, perhaps most of all, this.

The Anti-Book Club

He’s not against books. Just these books.

This is one of my favorite recurring bits – and last night’s rendition tops the list. The queer ghost impression nearly killed me. Every time this bit comes on, I set down whatever I’m eating and drinking so I don’t asphyxiate in my own living room.

Meanwhile, for now I’m jonesing to get me a copy o’ this. Wow. This shit’s for real. Check out that cover. It’s like Stephen Hawking talks boners. I don’t think it’s coincidence that the author has the same initials.

Wiigs & Maya talk homeless farts

If reincarnation is for realz, there’s no doubt I’m coming back as a 15-year-old boy. In the meantime, this “Bridesmaids” interview will have to suffice. It kicks off at 1:20, gets really funny at 2:20, and hits the shit-yourself-funny (apropos) crescendo at 4:50.

In other news, the batteries in my fart machine (which makes an appearance at 5:20!) corroded and I’m mucho heartbroken. And no, I don’t think it was at all weird that I kept it in a kitchen drawer.

Also, I want to party with this French dude.

Live from New York…

…Bayport, NY, that is. This past Friday. Ari’s show at the awesome Grey Horse Tavern way, way, way out on Long Island. I could go on and on about how spectacular he is live, but I’ll let you see for yourself – in this clip courtesy of my iPhone:

The journey of getting to Bayport from the city in the POURING, HUMID-ASS rain is worthy of its own blog post. Suffice it to say that as soon as we arrived at the Grey Horse, we were informed that the plumbing was not working. Toilets not flushing, water not running – and P.S. after that long drive, I had to piss something fierce. Yes, the show would go on. No, they couldn’t serve us anything to eat because it’s a health violation to do so when the plumbing is in the shitter (I’m sorry. I had to.).

The good news is they fixed the plumbing prob, they are amazing and kind people at the GHT, and I can’t say enough about what a wonderful venue it is. Ari (and his super-talented friend, Eva, who opened for him) played to a room of about 25 people – which, in my opinion, is the very best kind of show. But my favorite part was not the intimate nature of the evening or their incredible performances, but Ari’s opening line as he took his place at the mic, tuned his guitar, and immediately addressed the elephant of the evening:

“So. Did anyone poop their pants?”

Great, dirty, in-the-shitter minds.

Bob is making me reaaallllly happy

For the past few days, I simply cannot get enough Bob Marley. Many thanks to this lovely gent for reintroducing me to the “Legend” album – it was a staple in my high school rotation o’ tunes and somehow I’d completely lost touch with it.

Tip: The remastered version (which I had to buy since my “Legend” album is on – wait for it – *cassette*) contains some wank-ass iteration of “Buffalo Soldier” that blows major wang. So if you want the rockin’ remix from 1984, it’s on the “Legend Rarities Edition.” Trust me – it’s a must. Listen to a sample here.

Soldier on, beloved ganja mon.