the pTERRAdactyl

I drive a 2005 Xterra that I plan on motoring around town until she completely dies.

Which could easily be 15 years from now considering I drive her .5 miles to work (1 mile RT every day) and occasionally to the grocery store.

Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure the only miles on that bad bitch are from trips to Austin and a road trip to Florida that I like to call spreak break 2007.

Also known as the trip I flashed a 10 year old.....what?

Another time.....

p.s. I was wearing an elephant visor.

So anyway, I'm not really sure when I started calling her the pTERRAdactyl, but that has become her name and despite how annoying 99% of my friends think it is, it ain't gonna stop.

So get used to it, haters.

A recent twitter war of office callouts for bad parking jobs in the parking garage has caused me slight embarrassment over my lover  (jk red wine!) beloved patty wagon.

Not because I am bad at parking, because I never claimed that.

I kind of find parking annoying and wish spots were twice as big, and I will fairly admit that I have been the asshole who takes 2 spots on more than one occasion.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that's why I got keyed in my parking garage.

Although a simple "hey bitch, do it again and I'll knife your ass" would have done the trick.

Where is the fair warning?

But alas, my "parking" is not my concern.

No.

My concern is that my car is filthy. And I have let her get that way.
In fact, sunday february 14, we are celebrating our one year non-wash anniversary.
I DO HAVE PLANS!!!

At brunch the other weekend, the valet guy tried to make some ass backwards terrible F ing joke  witty comment about how I got towed.

I curtly sneered at him and told him that ACTUALLY that was last February but that pTERRAdactyls are hardcore and don't need showers.

[sped away murmuring sweet nothings to heal her bruised ego]

I mean, she's clean on the inside.

That makes it okay right?

Isn't that the rule for hookers?

I really hope so.

Because to get her washed would either entail 1 hour of my time or booze money for thursday and friday night.

Chances of either a none to negative, so she's going to continue her life as a dirty dirty girl.

Cuz that's how we roll.

No shower Sunday, Maybe shower Monday

I did feel kinda bad that I totally ditched her on Valentine's 2009.

I got towed from my current roommate's then-parking-lot, but there was no way in hell we were going to skip drinking to go get my car from little Mexico in the dark.

By the way, I was seriously in the lot for 45 minutes.

At first I thought I had drunkenly parked and forgotten where and then I realized I hadn't had anything to drink.

[sigh]

[almost cry]

[drink it off]

4 hours later.....

[blackout] 

So she got tattooed, I got drunk, and then I paid $160 to retrieve her in the morning.

Sounds about right.

I mean, it's kind of cruel not washing her.

It's like not letting your friend take a shower after a night in jail.

but now that dust has turned into a cute brown pea coat for winter.

And as an added bonus, it's hiding the fact that she's due for an inspection.

Because I'm cheap.

And I drive 1 mile a day.

And I think I'm invincible.

Plus not everyone who lives in my apartment building is a self-loathing-car-keying-douchebag.

Someone drew a peace sign on dusty old pTERRA the other night.

And it looks good on her, y'all.

So long live grungy chicks.

Make peace, not war.

Like Night and Day

I feel like my life is this whirlwind of polar opposites and I'm just a little old pinball being bounced back and forth. Pro: I love the loud noises and I am a shiny & silver. Con: It's exhausting. And expensive.

I spend half of my time going to visit college friends in far away places, 1/4 of my time holing up in my apartment with cheap booze so I can afford these trips (which I really can't), and the other 25 percent discussing weddings with my high school friends.

My 3 best friends from high school are all either engaged or married. Although I am *super super* excited for them, the monetary responsibility I feel to toward these people gives me anxiety. They are the kind of friends you WANT to spend money on...not the bitch who invites you to her shower for the gift and then doesn't even serve mimosas. But let me tell you what really is the hardest part: trying to discuss shoes, flowers, and hotel accommodations after playing slap the bag for 48 hours on a ranch with 30 of my college friends, of whom 4 are married or seriously dating. As in 2 couples...

It's like a little angel/devil arrangement.

"Come visit me! Help me plan my wedding and catch up since we don't see each other as much anymore!"

"No! Come with me! We will drink boxed wine and jim beam straight out of the bottle and then burn shit in the bon fire!"

It's like some weird warped world.

And I only understand one of them.

Because I can't even find a date to take to the wedding, much less think about spending 60 years with that person, which is really probably more like 70 because my family lives to be old as dust. 

Dust that existed when dinosaurs roamed the earth and cavemen dragged their wives by their hair, like every good man should.

In my humble opinion.

So let's just rewind to the actual lifestyle I get.

This actual slapping of the bag and bonfire extravaganza actually happened this past weekend in a little place I like to call San Saba.

It is the pecan capital of the world, and let me tell you, we checked out peCAN'T attitudes at the door and went balls (or nuts) out for the next 48 hours.

In a nutshell (hehe see how I did it again? see? see?), I've had a 2 day hangover and spent the 3 hour drive to Dallas holding back chunks of my sonic breakfast toaster.

To be honest, I tried to throw up in the gas station bathroom during a pit stop.

But I have a terrible gag reflex, and don't "do vomit," and I generally just find puking embarassing. Plus some bitch was standing outside the bathroom door and I got stage fright and then I realized there wasn't any soap and my wallet was in the car, so I would either a) have puke hands, or b) have to go out to the car, and that kind of physical movement was NOT kosher at the time.

 

The thought of the superbowl was a little much to handle, so I just ate every weird food morsel I could find in my apartment, because clearly ordering food, THE LOGICAL DECISION, never even occurred to me.

I turned on Teen Mom and was quite enjoying myself, pretending that my little post-drinking bloat and food baby was in fact a real live fetus.

Note: this was only funny to me because I was still a little drunk and I have participated in zero activities that could possibly impregnate me, including but not limited to:

a) offering my secret garden to some lucky seedsman

b) knife fights with my ex-bf while giving my new bf a bj. 

c) exploring Dallas sperm banks

d) channeling the Virgin Mary

Not to mention my extra-curriculars involve activities that would certainly not allow a child to survive inside of me.

Then my phone rang....for the 8th time that day.....from some 214 number I had never heard of and they WOULD NOT LEAVE A MESSAGE.

So finally I decide I am going to answer it.

[annoyed voice]: Hellooooo?

Hold Please.

the FUCK? you have called me 8 times and then tell me to hold?

I should add to my faux pregnancy that I was quite irritable and not in the mood for telemarketers.

Um, hello. Is this Courtney [insert mumbling that starts with an S but sounds nothing like my last name].

Uh, yes. Who is this?

At this point bitch tells me I signed up to receive freebies for my baby at some website.

Is God laughing at me? 

In a half choke/sputter/cough I tell her that I do NOT have children.

Then she says this:

Well are you sure this is Courtney?

Yeah I am pretty damn sure.

In fact, I am quite positive.

So kindly take me off your phone list, go hang yourself, and let me go back to my misery on the couch because you totally just ruined my Teen Mom experience.

There has got to be a hidden camera somewhere. 

You can get pregnant through your belly button

**The following story may or may not be true**

But it's one hell of a tale

This just in, Kenyan Olympic marathon runners not only are the fastest men on earth, but have trained their sperm to travel the length of the universe. 

You can just ask the 15 year old girl with no vagina.

You heard me. A 15 year old girl with no vagina was impregnated by African sperm....through her belly button.

Sidenote: getting pregnant out of wedlock may be the single most scary thought on the face of the planet.

a) I would have to pay for that fucker for 18 years, b) I can't seem to find a guy I can stand for more than a few months, so I am sure to be a single mother, c) I don't do barf, d) YOU CAN'T DRINK WHILE PREGNANT. 

Thank God I am dating my sweet BF Red Wine, because our wine babies will be able to tolerate the booze. It's like extra placenta to them.

So anyway, African bitch is all cray-cray and gets in a knife fight in which she is stabbed in the belly button.

The hoodlums prob would have gone for the neck but they have those neck stretchers on, ya dig?

I tell you what. Those neck rings are not worth it, ladies. Are you listening?

You are basically telling men you are training for the 'deep throater of the year' award.

And let's really take a look at all the disadvantages of this situation. 

First of all, home girl didn't even have a vagina.

[insert above comment again]

So you would think she couldn't even get pregnant. 

wrong.

But that's not even the weird part. 

Then she went and got stabbed and it punctured something inside, and then when she just couldn't resist from giving BJs to all the tribal men in the village, one of their pools of swimmers actually traveled through her stomach and made it all the way to the ovaries where they settled into a cushy egg and turned into a fetus.

I mean, you have the worst luck EVER. Did you get AIDS too?

Christ.

AND I just have to ask: If you don't have a vagina, why the fuck are you giving blow jobs? I completely disagree with the whole "better to give than receive" BS.

I would agree that it is better to give, then to receive.

See how grammar changes everything?!

You know a man made that up.

Most likely a man who should be on "To catch a predator: Africa style" where Chris Hanson is waiting in the hut when little old man comes in to get a blow job from a 15 year old who wears neck rings. 

But at least she got a matching C section scar to accessorize her stab wounds.

Scars were all the rage in Africa at the time.

So kids, the moral of the story is that you shouldn't be a whore.

And if you are a whore, don't let your old boyfriend catch you sucking off your new boyfriend, because you will get stabbed and you will get pregnant.

God Bless America, eh?

Automatic Flushing Toilets

I have a routine at work each morning.

Come in, sit down, turn on computer.

While my computer gears up, I put my purse bag-o-fun (not to be confused with fun bags) away, and organize my water/gum/chapstick exactly how I want it.

Cuz who wants to be wondering, "Where's the chapstick?" 

Then I get my coffee and settle in for 30 minutes of twitter, facebook, and generally perusing the internet.

I don't feel guilty about this for 2 reasons:

1. If I didn't do it, I couldn't be productive.

I would be sitting in agony, wondering what the hell was going on in that big vast world as the social media realm silently passed me by.

2. They say we need to be here at "8:30" but that is apparently a loose term for 8:45-9:30.

I get it. These "fashionably late" assholes can't get here on time, so you tell EVERYONE to be here at 8:30. Well, thanks, I'm OCD which means I waltz in most mornings at 8:28 and feel guilty when I get here 10 minutes late even though NO ONE IS HERE TO NOTICE.

[Exit angry, bitter Courtney]

So of course I am scrolling through my live feed, determining who is worthy of my comments and I see this:

Katie: I worry that I am getting to used to the automatic flushing toilets at work. I almost didn't flush at home! What if that happened at a restaurant!! I had better to pay more attention! Does this happen to you?

Now, ahem, I am a tad bit embarrassed to admit how absolutely angry I got when I saw this post.
I know what you are thinking: Gah, she gets so ANGRY about everything.
WRONG.

I get angry about things that make my life inconvenient and dirty.

Excluding booty calls.

I'm chuckling pretty hard to myself right now.

Not because that was particularly clever, but because those haven't existed in my life in quite some time an eternity of seven hells.

And clearly, the chuckling was a moment of insanity that turned into heaving silent sobs.

Well. That's depressing. Now I just want jelly beans and vodka at 9 am.

To prevent further judgment and eating my feelings, I'm going to just pretend that didn't happen and keep moving forward.

I. loathe. automatic flushing toilets. 

I mean, really, what is the point?

Is it so that people who "forget to flush" don't cause issues where people start to walk into a stall and then immediately turn around and run to the next stall, thus resulting in bathroom traffic issues?

Omg!! There is pee in the toilet! AND toilet paper!! I can't use that one! Eeeeeew!

Um, hello? You are about to do the exact same thing. Just flush, wait, then squat.

Not hard.

I've also been glared at many a time for walking to the front of the line, asking why someone isn't using the stall, flushing the "out of commission" toilet and cutting 10 lovely (lazy) ladies.

What?

You weren't using it.

This is completely different from when a giant log gets wedged in the toilet and is polluting the toilet water to a mississippi-river like consistency.

Somebody please tell me how a woman can clog an industrial toilet?

Do you know how much horsepower those things have?

Which brings me to my main point.

The automatic toilets never seem to "sense" me when I am done.

I'm lingering there, buttoning my jeans and waiting for the toilet to start flushing, but it never does.

So I wait, and I wait, and I wait.....

Then I flush it myself and wonder why we even have these things.

By the way, for you ruhtards, if you press that little black button, the auto toilet will flush non-automatically, and then you won't have a "used" toilet and cause scenario #1 stated above.

Then I walk out to wash my hands and apparently those automatic soap and water dispensers hate me too, so it takes 5 minutes to wash my hands.

Luckily, the paper towel sensors can always see me.

I think they like me because I am not particularly green and know I could be their saving grace in a world of air dryers.

those really fast hand dryers are so cool though. But at the same time I am kind of scared. It's like my hands are in a stage 10 tornado....or a kid on a roller coaster.

 

But then every once in awhile, the automatic flushing toilets (to be known as AFTs from here on out) realize that they have been neglecting me and go all gung-ho on my ass....literally.

There is nothing worse than walking into a stall, squatting over the toilet, and relieving your bladder only to find that the AFT wants to anally violate you.

All of the sudden, that bastard flushes and water/urine mix comes shooting upward.

At that point you have two options, you can "go with the flow" or scoot away from the toilet and pee your pants.

Merry Christmas, take your pick!

Thank you, AFT.

And by thank you I mean eff you.

If I wanted a damn bidet, or anal penetration for that matter, I would move to France.

So kindly take your water spraying pipes and suck it.

Of course, to add insult to injury, the toilet won't flush a second time when I am actually done peeing. I have to reach over once again and push that stupid little black button while the red cursor just blinks at me.

It sounds silent, but I know what it's thinking.

"Haha, gotcha good bitch. You like that?" 

Oh yeah, baby, I love being butt-raped in the airport bathroom by an sensor-activated toilet.

Do you call that a sneak attack or pre-ejaculation?

Just my idea of a typical Sunday afternoon.  

This can only lead to 2 conclusions:

1) I will not be advocating any AFTs in the near future.

2) I guess I've been getting more action than I thought.

T.G.I.F.

Why I think Red Wine and I should get married

I jokingly drunkenly tweeted the other night:

@cstanderfer: I think red wine is becoming my serious boyfriend. I long for it's warm embrace & can easily see myself spending the rest of my life with it.

I meant this as a simple witticism, which I found quite clever after my typical "instant mashed potatoes taste better when buzzed" pre-dinner glass of cab.

But then I started thinking....I really should look into a relationship with red wine.

My top 10 reasons:

10. I could marry Shiraz, Cabernet Sauvignon, or Sangiovese and keep my initials CSS.

This is imperative so I can keep my middle school AIM name of CS974.

9. Technically, if I get sick of one flavor, I can switch to another and still remain "monogamous," as long as it is still within the red wine category.

Wait, that doesn't sound right does it?

I'll just become wine-morman

Then I can get a planet if I'm good. A wine planet.

Anyway.

Moving on..... 

8. I personally feel that wine goes well with chocolate and whipped cream, which will be good for the bedroom.

I'll leave the cheese out of it.

7.  Red wine is friends with white wine. And lucky me, none of my friends are too fond of red, but they LOVE white!

So, yay! my friends will never try to steal my boyfriend, but they love his friends. Especially those cute little *spritzers* in the summa time!

6. When I get sick of Red, I just put a cork in him (preferable the one my granny got me "Alcohol=fun!") and POOF! he is gone!

con: I just "corked" my new bf with something my grandma gave me? errrr. awk.

5.  Red always makes me so much nicer. They always say you should go for someone who makes you a better person.

Unless of course I get a little overzealous. Then I turn into a slurring, nonsense talking, moody mess. Moderation, people, moderation.

4. Dad is a fan.

And I don't like that Gin character, so he is OUT. Except for those delish little cucumber gin martinis that tend to get me in trouble in Austin....

3.  I don't get sick of Red.

red::night as coffee::morning

 The answer:

Needed for survival.

2. But in case I DO get sick of him: his lingering self is always gone by morning.

Unless we get in a really big fight. Then he gets abusive and leaves me writhing in pain the next morning.

And the #1 reason:

He comes in bag form.

And we all know how much I love slapping the bag.

CONS:

a. one sided sexual encounters

b. I don't think "drinking your bf" is appropriate....or do I?

c. I would have to have vodka as a cabana boy and then I would feel guilty for cheating and then I would have to get a therapist which really counteracts the purpose of having a relationship with cheap red wine.

So F me.

I guess I'm getting cats.

Lifetime Saves my Sundays

My name is Courtney, and I guilty of spending long Sundays on the couch watching Lifetime.

The movies are addicting. And not in a "I just flipped it on and couldn't stop watching" kind of way.

I go to on demand and turn that shit on.

Tory Spelling in white wash jeans? YES.

Evil wife kills husband mistress for cheating? YES.

And now.....PREGNANCY PACT.

I have been anticipating the debut for weeks now.

And last night, I giddily hopped into bed at 8pm to settle down for some good old-fashioned lifetime lovin.

The movie started with multiple make out scenes.

loves it.

Apparently these kiddos are quite slutty.

I mean, I wasn't having sex at 14, neither were my friends, and we certainly were not making pacts to have behbehs.

I was busy puking up smirnoff ice for the first time and wearing rubber bands in my braces to fix my cross bite.

But what really bothered me was that no one would really want to have sex with the main character Sarah.

I'm pretty sure when your hair is that red, it is inevitable for the carpet not to match the drapes.

And if someone did sleep with Slutty Sarah, it would most certainly not be Jesse, this handsome young rascal:

Yes, I do realize I am creepy for thinking someone who plays a high school boyfriend is hot.

And I am even creepier for googling him and finding out he was born in 1991, which is the same year as my little brother.

That's a different decade.

He probably doesn't even remember fraggle rock or squeeze its.

I would give him a nice haircut if I could get my hands on him to prevent a full blown douche look like Million Dollar Listing's Chad Rogers:

I think I have been thinking a little too much into this.

But my friend alissa seems to feel the same way (thank God for facebook).

Alissa 

I was disappointed in how unattractive Sara was... cuz her bf is f'n hot.

Yesterday at 8:44pm ·

So anywho, in comes super reporter Thora Birch.

I. LOVE. THORA BIRCH.

Hocus Pocus, good movie.

Now and Then, great movie.

And now, Pregnancy Pact.

My favorite quote of the whole movie is when one girl tells her mom she is pregnant and then gets all melodramatic because her mom is not happy:

"Happy! No, I am not happy! No one wants to be a grandmother at 31!"

Time out. She is 15. You are 31. This means you had her at 16.

Well well well, teenage pregnancy at its finest.

Also good:

Thora: Didn't your mom's talk to all of you about the dangers of teenage pregnancy?

Girl 1: My mom, um, like, isn't really, um, my mom's not around much

Girl 2: YOU MEAN SHE'S WASTED ALL THE TIME!! (cackle)

Due to lack of sensitivity I too cackled busted a gut for a good 5 minutes....by myself, in bed, watching lifetime.

And gchatting about it with my friends all the while.

My life is really turning out just the way I expected.

I kind of lost track of what happened at the end, but I think they all ended up alone, poor, and continuing in some vicious teenage pregnancy blackhole.

I got busy stalking a real, live girl skank i know who just had a baby.

I dug around for awhile before concluding the exact time she got pregnant and know she was not dating anyone.

I'm not all judgmental about one night stands.

But I don't think I'd be collecting a souvenir for that little adventure.

Then again, maybe it was all part of a PACT.

A PREGNANCY PACT.

I love you Lifetime.

Liver Shmiver

It's one of those mornings.

By "one of those" I do mean Friday, which means I feel like death.

It's always nice to start the weekend off by swearing I will 'never drink again' which usually lasts a whopping 24 hours before I'm tempted to start up again at brunch Saturday morning.

Even now, a bloody Mary doesn't sound too bad.

Nevermind.

One little burp is all it takes for my body to remind me that it is teetering on the edge of vomit.

So anyway, I awoke at the miserable time of 7:17 which sounds normal, but I didn't have to throw on a pair of jeans and move out to the living room until 10.

At first, I thought it was the immense amount of pain I was in that woke me up.

You know those throbbing headaches where you can feel your heart beat in your brain?

Yeah, take that, and then multiply by ten and throw me in front of a truck and that is how I feel.

Lucky for me, I am used to this sort of self-induced torturous behavior.

So I know that watching Jersey Shore, avoiding vegetables and dairy, and rekindling my love with G2 is the recipe for success.

But then I had a realization.

My pounding cephalalgia was not what caused my untimely wake.

It was the jackass across the hall.

Let me take you on a time traveling journey 2 months ago.

Dick and Harry across the hall had apparently had a super Sunday Funday.

I am usually too hungover to participate in this activity so I was licking my wounds on the couch when Harry came home.

From what I observed, Dave had drunkenly deadbolted the door and passed out in a death-like coma.

Harry decided the solution was to kick the door......as hard as he could......for. an. hour.

He just wouldn't give up.

Personally, I was terrified.

I silently deadbolted my own door and then watched him through the peephole for the first 15 minutes. Then it became less amusing. then not amusing at all. then annoying. then I wanted to kill him.

I don't know what happened to Dave that night. I didn't care enough to figure out if he got in, and there was no way in hell that crazy mofo was going to be invited in to sit on my couch.

If he had acknowledged his little tantrum, I might even like Dave, in fact I have almost kicked in my own door due to deadbolting many a time in college.

But instead, Dave acted like it never happened as we bumped into each other outside our doors the next day.

And that is when I began to loathe Dave.

By the way, his name isn't Dave, and it's not Dick either. Clearly I made that up and then forgot what I named Thing 1 and Thing 2 across the hall.

The whole point of this was that the Door Slammer was back this morning.

It is really fucking necessary to slam the door?

And then forget your pants or phone or annoying juice or whatever the hell you forgot to make you re-enter and exit your apartment by SLAMMING DOORS.

You have neighbors, asshole. hungover neighbors who are trying to sleep.

So I derived a new plan to kill him.

Plain and simple.

I got the idea after I found heels and bleach in the trash chute when I was taking out the garbge earlier this week.

No more door slamming for Dave.

Of course there is another solution, too.

I could just avoid drinking a potent concoction of liquors and wine, thus avoiding the headache and being a generally more pleasant person, but that would involve giving up my liquid fun.

And that's not going to happen.

So F you, Dave.

And your braided belt too.

Tool.

I'm not really going to kill Dave.

But not because I don't want to.

Because I think I am going to die before he gets home.

It's true. I am dying a slow death.

Somebody hold me.

Here is a haiku to remember me by:

beer, wine, vodka lime

my liver shudders in fear

it was fun. fist pump.

on second thought maybe I won't die so I can do it all over again tonight.....