Nikki Yeager

I've discovered my new favorite place in NYC - the Chelsea Piers driving range. I know, a weird choice for me, but it's absolutely amazing! Just look at it:

A few weeks ago I dragged my friend Carolina to the driving range so we could finish part #1 of my two part golfing adventure: learning how to hit a golf ball.

We wandered all the way out to Chelsea and found the cutest little Golfer's Club down by the water. You walk in and for $25 dollars can buy 90 balls and for another $5 we got 2 golf clubs. Probably the cheapest of all my 21 things so far!

Granted, we had to spend about 1/2 an hour sitting on a cozy leather couch in what appeared to be Businessman central while waiting for a tee to open up... but there are far worse fates to suffer in the world.

At last, we got our chance to have a go at it. We stepped out onto the fake grass and made our way to the 2nd little area. With a quick swipe of our golf card, a ball popped up on a little remotely controlled tee (no bending over or anything. Offically short skit approved!) and we were ready to go.

Mind you, I've never swung a golf club in my life. BUT I did watch a 10 minute video before leaving my apartment that day. So, clearly, I was an expert golfer right off the bat.

I lined up my golf club, held it just like I saw in the video, kept my eyes on the ball, carefully arranged my stance just one more time and... Swung.

...Nothing but air.

In fact, I wasn't even close. I'm pretty sure I missed the ball by at least four inches during my first three attempts. So I took a breathe, wound up again and instead of paying any attention to what I was doing I flailed my arms, sloppily plopped my legs in a random position and swung with all my might.

Somehow I hit the ball that time. Go figure.

Sure, it may not have been graceful but it certainly wasn't anywhere near as odd as Charles Barkley's swing.

And I'll tell you this much, I may have looked like a bufoon, but I loved every minute of hitting balls towards the Hudson and watching ships go by as the sexy rich guys next to me spent an afternoon smacking balls around and having a grand 'ole time. Certainly not a bad way to spend 25 bucks.

Not bad at all.

And..... score!!!

As everyone knows, I'm only about 1/2 way through my 21 things. I've knocked off a ton of the big things (5 course meal, sky diving, flying a plane, etc.) but still have a bunch of the small things left (getting a Chinese Massage, skinny dipping, etc.).

One of the seemingly insignificant things finally happened the other day - trying Kombucha and Aloe teas. 

Let's talk about the Kombucha first. 

I know it seems silly and a little stupid, but fermented tea terrifies me. All my friends swoon over the magical healing properties in this particular Chinese remedy but I've always stayed comfortably perched on the fence.

It cures hangovers! It tastes delicious! It energizes you! It clears your skin! It's better than yogurt for your insides!

All that being said, when I look into a bottle of Kombucha I see nothing past the appearance - a weird brownish blend of vinegary smelling tea with mold floaties swirling around the bottom. 

Icky. 

So I decided to face my tea fear head on and brew my own Kombucha. All it took was a SCOBY (kombucha culture) that looks something like a pancake mixed with a slug, some hot tea, sugar and a glass container to brew it all in. 5-9 days later and *voila* kombucha is made. 

It's sort of stinky and pretty gorss... but definitely drinkable. I'll post my reviews of Aloe teas and other ones that scare my tastebuds senseless in the next few days. But for now, here's my Home Brewed Kombucha Video.

Let me know how you feel about this particular beverage. As always, I'm super curious!

As everyone knows, I'm only about 1/2 way through my 21 things. I've knocked off a ton of the big things (5 course meal, sky diving, flying a plane, etc.) but still have a bunch of the small things left (getting a Chinese Massage, skinny dipping, etc.).

One of the seemingly insignificant things finally happened the other day - trying Kombucha and Aloe teas.

Let's talk about the Kombucha first.

I know it seems silly and a little stupid, but fermented tea terrifies me. All my friends swoon over the magical healing properties in this particular Chinese remedy but I've always stayed comfortably perched on the fence.

It cures hangovers! It tastes delicious! It energizes you! It clears your skin! It's better than yogurt for your insides!

All that being said, when I look into a bottle of Kombucha I see nothing past the appearance - a weird brownish blend of vinegary smelling tea with mold floaties swirling around the bottom.

Icky.

So I decided to face my tea fear head on and brew my own Kombucha. All it took was a SCOBY (kombucha culture) that looks something like a pancake mixed with a slug, some hot tea, sugar and a glass container to brew it all in. 5-9 days later and *voila* kombucha is made.

It's sort of stinky and pretty gorss... but definitely drinkable. I'll post my reviews of Aloe teas and other ones that scare my tastebuds senseless in the next few days. But for now, here's my HomeBrewed Kombucha Video.

Let me know how you feel about this particular beverage. As always, I'm super curious!

NOT APPROPRIATE FOR PEOPLE UNDER 18!!!
.... As if that every stopped anyone.

Here are all my pictures from my MoSex visit.

Boobies!


Fascinating exhibit of Michael Sullivan's "Sex Life of Robots". Even more interesting than the actual sculpture pieces was the video interview playing on the screen next to the display. He's certainly a character.


One of the only items in the entire museum that wasn't centered on pornography alone. Unfortunately there was no placard with S&M information, history and intracacies. Instead, there was one mannequin in this uncomfortable looking getup:


Funny naked men. Feel free to giggle.


Marge Simpson makes her Playboy debut!


Screw Magazine covers... some of my favorite in the museum because they're funny. And just plain odd.


Annnnnddddd that'sall folks!

Despite the mixed reviews I, like many other curious minds, just had to see the Museum of Sex. Which is why it's been on my 21 things list FOREVER!

The temptation spiked about 1000% after reading The Pervert's Grand Tour by Tony Perrottet which included a detailed account of Marquis de Sade's life (ever heard of Sadism? This guy was kinky enough to inspire the creation of that word) and a fascinating history of Casa Nova (a connioussuer in much more than matters of the flesh). Anyways, I was ready to fill in all the holes of my recently-read history of sex.

So I grabbed my friend Andrea and purchased a Groupon (5 dollar admission!! Woo!!) before dragging her off to the little Museum of all things dirty.

We managed to swing past the gift shop filled with penis pencils and pheromone sprays- things better suited for a sex store... but not a real sex store, a prudish sex store that caters mostly to blushing bachelorette's during their last party night - and made our way past an intimidating bouncer to a freakishly dark room without windows.

All over the walls were lit with videos of porn ranging from the first upskirt videos to the last man-on-man shots. Unfortunately the accompanying text did little but outline the bare minimum when it came to porn industry details. Simple details about when things were outlawed and when they were finally legalized. For example, the law about 18-and-over started in 1988, the same year porn was ruled legal under the freedom of speech clause. Fancy that.

Both Andrea and I skimmed the text and then headed upstairs where we guessed the good stuff would be.

But alas - only more porn periphenalia and a few pieces of art could be found in the dingy black rooms. That and a suspicious lady-parts smell.

It was strange.

That being said, the entire museum seemed to be more of a photo opp than a.. well... a museum. So we ditched any notion of learning and started snapping pics like everyone else. And boy, were there some interesting pics....
which will be attachedin the next post.

These are all real pictures from today when I was surfing my little booty off on Rockaway Beach.

Here's me and a random guy who was surfing with us (I'm only including this picture because it's the only one I don't look completely disheveled in.. surfing is not for pretty girls.)

Me and my friend Andrea, who is farrrr better in the water than I am. And far braver for not considering bailing out at the last minute. Swimming in the freezing cold scared my pants right off.

From left to right: Andrea, me, random surfer guy and our Surfing Guru.

I swear to God I'm not lying about this next picture. THIS is what I was surfing in. Honest to Goodness....
Of course I was hopping on my board only a sad 10 feet or so from the shore. Not where that monster wave is looking to wreak havoc.

And this is a depiction of how I actually looked surfing:

 This morning I woke up bright and early for my first surfing lesson ever. It was 7am, raining and 40 degrees outside. 

I rolled out of bed and managed to text the surf instructor with my eyes half closed with sleep.

Me: Are we still on for today?

A few seconds later I felt the reassuring vibration from my phone - there was no way we'd be able to go out today. 

Him: The wind died down last night and there's no rain. See you soon! 

Let's just ignore the fact I need a coat to go outside.

Still unbelieving I managed to haul my exhausted but to the train for my wintertime surf lesson. The guy had calmly assured me that with today's wetsuit technology a little cold weather doesn't need to stop a surfer. I never really bought it. 

It took me two hours but I made it to the Rockaway beach with about 10 seconds of walking between the train and the beach to ponder just how stupid my decision to book surf lessons in NYC was. Just enough time to regret it but not enough time to really talk myself back to the train. 

The wind blew and I pulled my coat closer to keep myself warm while hustling along the tiny beach road I was on. A few minutes later and I was peeling layers off down to my bathing suit. 

And into the wetsuit I went. 

Without wasting any time our two instructors marched us down to the waves where the dark cloudy water broke in angry splashes of white. The ocean did not look happy today. Someone really pissed that ocean off. 

Two other surfers (the only other people in the world crazy enough to brave the choppy water and freezing temperatures) ran sat in the water about 100 feet away. I adjusted my leash and then looked out again to the ocean. 

Still angry. 

And without warning our instructors ran off to the side.... one of the other surfers had smashed into the rocks along the edge of the beach. Everyone experienced in the ways of the mighty New York water rushed off to save the poor little surfer. 

He struggled. My instructors ran out to the waves. The second surfer flung his board aside and dove in. Before I could even comprehend what was happening, the half drowned man was brought ashore where he stood up, took off his leash and walked away. 

My instructor nonchalantly jogged back over: "Ready to go?" 

Ummm... sure. Let's jump into the same ocean that just tried to kill that man. Good idea. 

Despite my reservations, I'd paid for this lesson and I was getting in that water if it killed me. Without thinking I followed the surfer-teacher out to sea. And by the time I felt the least bit wet I was up to my shoulders in water. Cold water. 

But he was right - the wet suit was a little cocoon of warmth and happiness protecting me from all the lay below. 

And off we went. I had about 10 seconds of instruction and then the man holding my board gave me a shove.

"PADDLE!" 

Instead of paddling I flailed my arms like I had Tourette's and hoped for the best as waves attempted to yank me off my little board and pull me under. 

"UP!" 

Jumping up shouldn't be hard. But let me tell you this, I'm pretty confident in my ability to make it look impossible. 

I slammed my hands down on the deck of the board and pushed my little chicken legs out in front of me. One knee immediately smashed the board and the other leg flew randomly to the side. I stumbled, fell and then rolled around in the 40 degree water for a few seconds. 

Classy.

For another hour or so I made a mockery of the sport and rather than doing anything similar to surfing, I let the ocean beat me up for fun. 

By the end of an hour or two, I'd spent about 10 minutes standing on my board and the rest wrestling with an opponent about a hundred thousand tons larger then me... unsuccessfully of course. And after that I can only tell you one thing:

Surfing if probably the best and most challenging thing I've done out of all the others I've tried this year.

I'm counting down the days to go again. Anyone want to come next time??

I did another one of my 21 Things over two weeks ago. One of the more personal, sort of strange, TMI things: Getting a Brazilian. The plan was to record my facial reactions while it was happening so everyone could pretend they were in just as much excruciated pain as I was!... And so I could look back and laugh at the way my face has a habit of contorting when I don’t pay attention to it.

 Unfortunately I had the appointment scheduled the same day my Uncle died and it threw me for a bit of a loop and it just didn't seem right to record myself getting waxed while thinking about a funeral. I don’t know, call me crazy, but that just seems unsavory.

So, I went without a camera. Instead, I drew some pictures below to illustrate the whole event and you can still pretend you were right there with me (although I’d rather you didn’t)!

First I walked into Shobha, the place I’d read all sorts of miraculous reviews about. Apparently, they have Sugaring options instead of waxing so the pain is supposed to be about half as intense. I liked half-intensity pain ratings.

Inside, I waited for about 10 minutes with all the older women getting their eyebrows threaded, Little did they know, I was about to drop trow for one of their usually-eyebrow estheticians.

Finally, a tiny little woman named Neetsu came out and introduced herself. With the minimum amount of conversation possible she walked me back to a private room. Inside she efficiently pulled out a paper cover for what looked like a doctor’s bed and then demanded “Everything off from the waist down.” Thankfully I was wearing a dress so the situation was a bit less awkward.

Then the tiny little woman had me put my legs in a lotus position while laying back on the bed. She asked me a few questions, “is this your first time?”. Which it was.

Neetsu then informed me that I’d have to go with waxing instead of sugaring because newbies don’t have the right hair for sugar (need I remind you.. sugaring is the sole reason I chose Shobha). For a split second I panicked.

Before I had a chance to launch into a full blown anxiety attack, she slapped some hot, sticky, uncomfortable wax on, covered it with a white cloth and –without warning- RIPPPPPPED it right off.

This is how it felt:

Then she did the other side. And this is how that felt:

And then she did the middle and for the first time my legs shook, my hand flew out to the side and my mouth let out a piercing “ah!”

Still, not as painful as I’d imagined. Sure, I felt a fiery rage bubbling inside me (yes, I realize I spelled fiery wrong in the pic) but it was still less than the hell-on-my-crotch searing pain I'd imagined. So she finished up with me “ah-ing” along the way.

Finally, everything was done. I threw my tip in an envelope and waddled out to the street. The wax may not have been as bad as I’d imagined but the burning afterwards certainly was. Go figure.

Anyways, it’s been two weeks now and would I go back again? You betcha.

This year, my Christmas present to myself was knocking off one of the biggest items on my 21 Things list - Flying. 

Yes. I, Nikki Yeager, flew a little baby plane. I can't tell you much about the plane and I won't be allowed to ever fly one alone unless I spend around 10k on classes. BUT, I did it once and I can tell you this - one day I will have that license and I'll gladly fly any of my friends around for fun  In fact, I may just move into a plane and forget about ever being grounded again. 

Here's how it went down: 

I woke up on Tuesday ready to go at 7am. I took a shower, hopped on the train and made my way to the LIRR. Right before I swiped my credit card to purchase the 20 dollar ticket to Ronkonkoma and back (funny name, real place.), I got a phone call. Apparently, no matter how nice you are to the flying instructor, it's still against the rules to fly baby planes with winds above 30 knots. 

So the next day I woke up again ready to fly. I rolled over to turn off my alarm and instead of just an obnoxious beeping, I was greeted with a gasp from the boy next to me. 

Boyfriend: With a look of horror, "What's wrong with your face?" 

Me: Confused, "Ummm.....?" 

Boyfriend: "Seriously. Your eye..." 

At which point I ran to the bathroom and discovered that somehow in the middle of the night, my eyelid decided to protest flying lessons by swelling up to the size of a Clementine. Which not only made me slightly blind in my right eye by puffing up the skin to cover my actual eyeball, but it also made me look a bit physically deformed. 

But then again, a little deformity never stopped anyone from going out and flying a plane. 

At least I don't think so. 

So I took off for the train yet again. This time, without cancellation but with the unwelcome addition of a bizarre face defect. 

Anyways, I finally made my way to the miniature little airport with all the tiny planes. My teacher met me there with a smile on his face and did his best to ignore my strange appearance. He walked me around the plane, let me check the gas for impurities by holding it up to the light, showed me all the different parts of the plane (rudder, wings, flaps, etc.) and then after what seemed like forever, he opened the door and told me to get in. 

So I did. 

I hopped in, strapped myself down and took hold of the little half-circle steering wheel. Then he climbed aboard, grabbed his steering wheel and told me to put my feet on the pedals. 

He started the plane and then we started to move. The little pedals under my feet went back and forth, turning us right and left. Once we were on the runway my teacher moved his feet from his set of pedals : "Your turn." 

And then the plane veered sharply to the right, swung back to the left, jiggled somewhere along the middle of the runway, took a sharp turn to the right again and then stayed somewhere left of the line I was supposed to be right of. 

Turns out I'm not a very good plane driver. But whatever, most flying takes place in the air. Right?

Then came the takeoff. 

Now I've been in small planes before but this particular one was microscopic compared to any of the propeller planes I've seen. It had less space than a two-seater race car and the  whole thing weighed little enough to actually push the plane on the ground. Needless to say, when we got up in the air, Mother Nature had a bit of fun pushing us around. 

Yet somehow I wasn't afraid when it was my turn to steer. First, I practiced flying straight at the horizon. Surprisingly hard when you don't know what all the gauges mean and are going on straight sight alone. 

Then came the turns. He let me do a little left turn, then a little right turn. And despite the man on my headset telling me when planes were coming into and out of the airport, we still had to look over our shoulders (like in a car) before turning. Then came the sharp turns. He spun us right on our sides and did a cirlce. First one way, then the other. Then we dropped down to see all the fancy LI homes. 

Very fancy LI homes. 

And then he relinquished the controls again, "Do a sharp turn." So I did. In fact, I did a 360 in a plane. WOOOO!

After just half an hour in the air it was time to come back to the ground. 

But I'm pretty sure I left my heart in the sky. I'll have to go back and get it soon .. without the weird eye infection.  

I know it's a bit late, but I thought I'd post pics of my shooting experience in DC in case anyone doubted my amazing weapons ability. 

And for those of you who would like an easy to understand image, I've gone to great lengths to provide the one below.  

Maybe I'll buy some guns of my own. What do you think?

*conversation from memory, not exact* 

Me: "Can't wait to come to DC!" 

Sam: "me either! So i was thinking we'd go to this Chinese restaurant that presidents eat at and then on Sunday how about  we...: 

Me: *smiling* 

Sam: "we can go shoot guns" 

And at that point I smiled and said a little *yay*. Shooting was on my 21 things list and SURPRISE it just happened - guns just happened. 

So I hopped a 15 dollar bus by myself and slept through a 4 hour ride before stumbling onto the street bleery eyed and ready to enjoy my DC visit. We ended up getting sandwiches in chinatown rather than Chinese but the next day we resumed as planned. With four guns and a crapload of bullets in the car we headed out to the shooting range. 

At the range we got to choose between five paper targets - zombie terrorist, mean mugger, five circles, a blue faceless man or a tiny black figure. 

We went with the tiny black figure, put on some big airplane-grade headphones and protective eyegear. Then two marines (my friend and her boyfriend) escorted me and the guns behind a door and into a little cubicle-like shooting area. 

Usually not a situation to be enjoyed, but I made an exception.

Safely in our cubicle we attached the black figure paper to a cardboard thing and pressed the button to put it 5 meters away. And then the boyfriend showed me how to load a .22 Walther - the baby gun. 

After which he stepped back and left me with nothing but my finger and a trigger. 

So I took a breathe, held the black handgun up and... BOOM. Shot the figure in the belly. 

Next came a 9mm Glock 19. The gun I was warned about . It had much more kick and it could possibly recoil and make my hand waver, sending the bullet off target.

Or it could just scare the freaking pants off me. 

So I took a deep breathe, exhaled and lined the sight dots up. My finger on the trigger I applied some pressure, closed my eyes (yes, I'm smart) and shot. 

BAM! 

I hit the man again! And I didn't pee my pants from fear! Two point for Nikki.

Fueled by confidence I went on a shooting rampage. Bam. Bam. Bam. 

When I pulled the paper back I saw it. I killed him. 

Shot him dead. 

I rock. 

Drinking with old friends. It was simple. Go to OH, meet up with everyone I've always loved and get blurry eyed intoxicated. Why? 

Not because I have a penchant for binge drinking but because I've never done it before. I never took a sip of anything harder than Sprite with my OH friends around. Call me a goody-goody but I always saw it as obvious. You don't drink when you live and home and you're underage. There's no good that can ever come of that. Especially when your parents have the eyes of a hawk and the memory of an elephant when applied to the lies you told and the punishment they promised. Especially when you live in Wickliffe and the only way to get home is behind the wheel of a car. 

But I digress. 

I decided to drink and do it heavily because it's the safest place I could've spent my 21st birthday - with friends I've known since kindergarten and a house that's been my second home since second grade. 

Despite the fact it's been 2-3 years since I've seen anyone from my old school, 30+ people filtered in and out throughout the night....for me. Which made me warm on the inside in a way I could never describe in words. 

Mel graciously welcomed everyone with grape vodka and ghetto-ade... You know, the dollar juice at convenience stores. It was the only thing I could find when I ran in after 3 hours in her car, coming all the way from Pittsburgh and starving for non-fried food. 

Let me just mention, Ohio, how I enjoy your cheap beverages and flavored vodka. 

Throughout the night it was hug after hug, friend after friend. Dominik, my favorite friend-boy from forever ago. Melissa, who I spent an entire year hanging out with, getting coffee, dressing in outrageous outfits to go to Rocky Horror Picture Show. Carly who I ran with for years. Who pushed me harder than anyone ever did.. if only because she was better than me. Faster, smarter, a step above. And that motivation was lovely.

My old party friends, the ones I drove home on multiple occasions. The ones I drove cars for. The ones I locked in rooms and stole keys from. The ones who spent long nights with their faces in a toilet while I held their hair. 

And then Mel's friends who once were mine as well.

Blasts from my past. Boys I spent many a night with (figuratively speaking) and friends I made for the boys' benefit. 

People I haven't seen in years. Plus some people I hardly saw years ago. 

More people than I ever imagined inspiring for a drive to Mentor showed up with bottles and bathing suits in hand. 

Flashback to high school -Chicken fights in my back yard on slippery shoulders, no light but the light in my pool. There'd be shirts and pants discarded around the deck, tanned bodies in small bathing suits flailing in the water. Cups of soda, pieces of pizza half eaten and left to the mosquitos. A few friends lounging in deck chairs. Just an average July night.

This time it was a different setting, different year. Same people. Same activities. Eating, talking, pushing people into the chilly water and enjoying the night air. 

Same state. Same county. 

And for some reason my purpose for showing up dissapeared. I was so distracted on greeting everyone, catching up, playing host, that I never stopped to accomplish my goal. I had two shots to start and sipped on two grape vodka + lemonade cocktails. But with the cold air on my face and chips shoved down my throat, the last thing that happened was drunkeness. 

And I'm glad because the haze of past mixed with present would've been a deadly combination with too much alcohol. I would've ended up hugging too hard or reminiscing too much. 

Instead I made the rounds and enjoyed. 

And then the question would come up. Well, not so much a question as an undying statement, "I heard you went all over the world." I'd nod, rattle off my countries, cities and states. And then it would die.

A mild curiosity so far removed from OH life. 

And then *poof*. It was back to high school stories and idle banter. Funny how we always revert back to the roles we've played forever.

In my imagination I'd imagined it as a point of interest... maybe even respect. I'd be the girl who didn't just leave for Willoughby South junior year. I wasn't just the girl who left for New York and dropped out of college. I was - I am - the girl who went around the entire globe and lived without flush-toilets for months. I left the nest and never looked back. I don't know why I thought anyone from my hometown would care. But in my head they did. 

I guess we're all a little bit arrogant and a little more self-absorbed than we ever realize. 

In the end it didn't matter. It also didn't matter that Melissa has become a first rate designer and Johnny became a first class father. It didn't matter that Carly is drop dead beautiful and Billy bought a house. It didn't matter because in that night, together, we were all the same as we'd always been. Wickliffe kids swimming in a pool just as we have since we were old enough to unleash from our parent's direct care. Nothing else mattered. I was still Nikki and everyone else was still themselves, no matter where we've been or were we're headed.

I wouldn't trade that night for the world. But I can tell you this - I felt no sadness when I landed in NYC again. Those were the days that made me who I am. Those are the people I will love for the rest of my life. 

But that world will never be mine. And I knew long ago it never was. 

*This is an update from July. I was actually there for my birthday itself. July 18th, 2010*

It all started about three weeks ago: