It was my 13th birthday party.

My mom got two connecting hotel rooms at my hometown’s five star equivalent, The Sheraton. One for me and my friends to have a slumber party, the other for her to act as chaperone. A chaperone who went to bed right after cake and ice cream. So we put on our PJs and pretended that the slumber portion of the party was commencing.

I just officially became a teenager, so naturally my friends and I snuck out of the hotel room and went running around the hotel, chasing each other through the halls and up and down the elevator and into the closed indoor pool to get into the hot tub in our training bras.

We heard something outside the giant sunroom the pool was in. We assumed it was a hotel employee who would catch us and rat us out to my mom. So we jumped out, got dressed, and ran into the first floor hallway. When we got into the hallway we slowed down, so we could tiptoe back into our room.

That’s when we heard someone knock on the door at the end of the hallway located in the back corner side of the hotel. That back door of a hotel that remains locked and requires a room key to enter.

Said door was no more than 15 feet from the door to our room.

As we inched closer to our room, we got a better view of the door, and noticed a guy standing there without his shirt on. Note, my birthday is in January, and I grew up in the mountains, where there’s a ski resort. It was below freezing outside and the door was even steamed over from the freezing winter air.

My first thought was that he must be homeless and freezing, which made me want to let him in. As I inched closer to the door my friends grabbed me, knowing my tendency to pick up stray animals, including humans.

“Don’t let him in, Britt. Pretty sure we’re still not allowed to talk to strangers,” my friend Jillian advised me.

Last weekend when I went out on Lake Norman, I garnered a new nickname: Captain Safety.

That's because I spent the entire day with a dolphin-shaped floatation device around my waist, a Steeplechase sized hat, and enough SPF to keep an Albino white — and then proceeded to go around and tell everyone to wear protection.

You can never be too careful in the sun ... or in the bedroom. Going into both unprotected can leave you with a burning sensation.

When I was at Whisky River the other night, the bartender, Marky Mark, noticed my Sponge Bob Square Pants band-aid covering my pinky when I reached out to grab my "Slutty Shirley Temple " from him.

So, being the good bartender he is, he reached into his pocket and handed me this ...

A finger condom.

Apparently these are used to cover small wounds on the hands to keep the band-aid in place and protect the wound, keeping it sanitary. And to prevent you from contaminating everything you touch. You can get them at drug stores. What's a better look — wearing a mini condom on your pinky or a little kids band-aid?

I got really excited about these finger condoms. Now my ex can get condoms that fit him .... kidding.

Happy Hump Day. Your present for such an occasion is a literal behind-the-scenes picture from last night's Boots and Bikinis contest at Whisky River. The monthly bikini contest is sponsored by About Face Models, for which I judged ... on personality.

You can view more photos, and even hotter contestants, on QC After Dark.

Whisky River is giving Hooters a run for their money — perhaps because their contestants wear boots as opposed to tube socks with tennis shoes.

As a judge for the contest, I couldn't help but vote for the girls with cellulite ... because I can relate. Cottage cheese is sexy, right? Or maybe only Sir Mix A Lot can appreciate it ... Baby Got Back!

Recently, I walked into Smoothie King and found this displayed among the vitamins, fish oil and diet drugs: Arousal and Pleasure Libido-Boost for Women.

Can you imagine a soccer mom bringing her second grader into Smoothie King, and the little boy pointing at the box and asking, "Hey mommy, what's a libido?"

No wonder the birds and bees conversation (and actions) seem to be happening earlier these days.

I can't go anywhere without seeing a product advertising to enhance my mojo. I was handed Extenze for Women samples at a NASCAR event, and got this libigirl sexual enhancement and energy shot at a gas station cashier counter because they were out of 5-Hour Energy.

As seen here on my desk. Don't judge.

But funny thing is, they all have different ingredients. Horny Goat Weed extract, Maca root powder, Black pepper and ginger root seem to be the key magic ingredients for "stimulating arousal" and "optimizing sexual pleasure and enjoyment." The Smoothie King brand even has L-Tyrosine, which is a precursor to dopamine. Why not just drink Ginger Beer and put lots of pepper on your food? That oughta spice things up.

I thought a woman hit her sexual peak at 40. So why are these sexual enhancement over-the-counter-drugs on just about every counter? Has America's sex drive gone down? Curious, I called the contact number provided by the website listed on the bottle. But they didn't speak very good English and didn't know of any health advisers I could talk to. So I called Smoothie King and was put through to a voice mail to someone in marketing. So I researched the Extenze website...

Are there any side effects to Women ExtenZe?

Possible side effects include acne, hair loss, facial hair growth, oily skin, clitoral and vulvar enlargement, excessively heightened sex drive, irritability, and increased levels of female estrogen or testosterone.

... if excessively heightened sex drive is the side effect, then what's the main course? Hmmm ... facial hair or larger clitoris ... tough choice.

What will Women ExtenZe do for me?

Funny, the Smoothie King brand said they have the best nutrients for sexual enhancement. Potatoe, Potata. Libido, Libado. Guess it depends which nutritional label you're reading.

I guess these drugs are just to help the women keep up with all the men on Viagra.

But none of these statements have been evaluated by the FDA. And I personally like them to approve my drugs, and my men, before I take them. Because men are like a drug after all: they can get you so high, but just as quickly, they can also bring you way down.

Last week I had a little incident with some debris on the track — or the unpaved Lake Norman roads rather.

You don't need that line of plastic under the fender do you?

I took my car to my mechanic friend, whom I barter baked goods with in exchange for helping me take care of my car emergencies, since I don't have a boyfriend to. I had him look at it to make sure I didn't damage more than the fender part I still have yet to determine the usefulness of. He suggested I get new studs for the rear axle, and if I went and got some, he'd replace them for me.

So I went door to door from Auto Zone to Advance Auto Parts to NAPA, but no one seemed to have the right parts for my foreign vehicle. Or, they got confused when I strolled in stating, "I need some studs for my rear."

I need to take my dirty mind through the car wash apparently. But if you think about it, a lot of innocent expressions sound dirty.

"I prefer hard wood to carpet."

"I'm coming!" (Whether it's spelled with an o or u, it sounds the same.)

"Bangkok."

"I won a math debate" ... when it say it five times really fast.

So watch and/or wash your mouth!

As mentioned in a previous blog post, I recently went to Jamaica for a documentary on Bob Marley's family and Marley Coffee.

Being a frequent flyer, I have my packing down to a science. To avoid extra fees and the loss of control over my belongings, I only take two carry-ons: a rollerbag and an expandable book bag. I guess I just don't like to carry a lot of baggage in any aspect of life.

I had to fly to Jamiaca by way of Indianapolis, following a fundraising event for Shane Hmiel. So I fit two weeks of luggage, for dramatically different climates, into a carry-on. I always knew that playing Tetris for hours on end as a child would pay off.

However, somewhere on my layover in Miami, in the time that I handed my rollerbag to the flight attendant in the breezeway of the airplane to the time we landed in Kingston, my bag went MIA. American Airlines lost my carry-on bag. My CARRY-ON, that was already on the plane! That takes effort — they had to physically take it off the plane and misplace it in order to lose it.

"Soon come," everyone told me in Jamaica. "No worries, your bag soon come."

Day 2 of not having my bags, I'm still wearing the clothes I'd worn in Indy where it was snowing (it was 100 degrees in Jamaica), a sweat-soaked bra, and hand-washed thongs. I had to go to the Catch-A-Fire boutique at the Marley Museum and buy a dress ... a dress with a picture of Bob Marley smoking a joint on the front of it. As I was changing, I noticed that while my bags never came, my period still did. And all my tampons were stashed away in my missing carry-on bag.

I had to get a native to take me through Kingston in search of tampons. We went to a little local store and all they had were foreign brand tampons.

With only two other options: shoving TP into my dirty panties, or ruining the only clothes I had to wear, I bought the Jamaican brand of tampons that were one size fits all ... super.

I screamed when I inserted it. A loud scream of physical pain, worse than losing my virginity. That thing made the American super tampon look like a drinking straw. It was massive, and I'm pretty sure I ripped something. Let's just say that when my bags did finally came, three days after I got to Jamaica, I was the happiest to get the normal sized tampons.

I of all people in particular enjoy sampling cultures; I think I get off on culture shock even. But ladies, tampons are an exception to this rule. Always pack some when traveling internationally. Always. Take my word for it, I feel like I got raped by cotton. I mean, how big are the guys in Jamaica that the women need tampons that big?

In the meantime check out my girl Christina with Wealth TV.

Last week I joined Wealth TV to Jamaica to shoot a documentary on Bob Marley. While at the Bob Marley Museum in Kingston, we visited "The Juice Man." He was Bob's personal holistic healer (or Jamaican witch doctor, if you will) that has some sort of magical potion to cure just about every ailment.

His most popular medicinal concoction: Sperminata.

"It make you have baby!" he exclaimed.

"I'm good thanks, think I'll stick to this Kambucha drink you made for my kidneys," I replied.

"Men shouldn't drink this without a lady queen around," he added.

It's like the holistic form of Viagra. The juice man's concoction of aloe, ginger, roots and spices I can't pronounce, and a secret ingredient will literally increase your sperm count and libido. No wonder Bob had so many children!