Monday, April 26, 2010

Bye bye blog

Current blog that is.

We're moving!

You can now find my ramblings and drunken adventures at

Just click here.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The, not the margarita

Last night was probably one of my more embarrassing sober moments as of late. 

I had a really busy day at work yesterday, which is nothing out of the ordinary, except that I was so tired that my eyes were burning and I should have just asked to go home and take a little nappy-poo, and then tried again today.
But no, I am Courtney, hear me roar, can't stop, won't stop Rockefella Records cuuuzzzzz we get down baby, we get down baby.
I still had shiz to do for what we will call a little "side project" at work, but I *really* needed to put on sweat pants, relax with a glass of wine, and rip into my bag of skittles that had miraculously survived over 24 hours in my apartment.
So I sat down, got the computer all situated, got the iphone charging, got the channel timer set to FOX so I wouldn't accidentally miss the start of Glee (Kurt, I love you! come live with me! I have boas and sequins and we can daaaaaaance! .....Finn is a douchelord, fact not opinion....) and then went to pour my Red Truck.
Right when I was getting all cozy on the couch, my Firefox completely shut down.
A pop up from windows: NOTICE! YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN INFECTED! 29 VIRUSES FOUND <insert list of files including but not limited to: worm, trojan horse, AIDS, Rosie O'Donnell, end of the world, etc>
I would liken my computer being under attack to a mama bear protecting her cub. It was a stage of intense panic and anger followed by the only rational decision: Call Dad!
"Dad, I have Norton Anti-virus, but my computer closed out all my programs and is saying it's under attack. HELP MEEEEE!!!!!!!"
"Court, disable your wireless, do a full Norton scan, it's probably a fake program trying to access and hack your computer. Norton will catch it. I'm on the other line with a client, I'll call you back."
[Click Norton full scan}
2 seconds later....
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: Hi
I'm not sure what I expected here. My mom is no more tech savvy than I am. I just felt so ALONE without my computer and needed some comfort.
Mom: I'm on the other line with your sister, let me call you back.
Me: Ugh, fine, bye.
The world revolves around meeeeeeeee!!! WAAAAA!! I'm 5 and am going to throw a tantrum now!!!
Mom: What's wrong?
Oh no, the two most dreaded words in the English language, sure to unleash the most intense of emotions. I'm not sure if it was the thought of forking over $69.95 to this "XP Virus Scan," the utterly painful potential loss of my laptop, or the anger of knowing someone was fucking with me while I was trying to do WORK, but I am quite positive that it was triggered by pure exhaustion in which my world was turned upside down and this hacker was all, Imma go Eyjafjallajokull on your ass and make your internet a "no-fly" zone.

What's wrong?
My logical response: "MY COMPUTER IS, LIKE......ATTACKING ITSELF!"
Mom kind of chuckles here.
It's not funny! 
<cue tears> 
Mom: I'm sure it will be fine. I'll have Dad call you when he gets home.
re: duh, mom, I wouldn't call you FIRST.
apparently she got that.
Mom: We'll call you back. Bye.

I think my parents were trying to tell me I was overreacting just a tad.
My Dad called back.
Told me the same thing he did the first time.
My mom got on the phone, totally changed the subject to tell me a funny story about my college beast, Vinny, who now lives with them.....
The conversation took a turn and ended up somewhere around gay adoption, then the little boy in Russia, and ended with her spying on the Indian neighbors.
In the mean time, my heartwarming Twitter community has offered helpful advice about my computer and offered to help!
Well, it turns out my Dad was right the entire time. 2 hours of scanning and a reboot later, my laptop was whirring away.
I called the hearse I had ordered and told the company it was a flase alarm.
Completely physically and emotionally drained, I decided it was time for both my computer and I to go to bed.
So I did.
At 9:30.
And slept until 7:30 this morning.
I'm feeling much more "normal" now.
Just another day in the life of an obsessive control freak whose computer basically allows my heart and lungs to continue to function in a manner deemed appropriate for a little thing we like to call "staying alive."

And that, my friends, is why I should not function on less than 8 hours of sleep.
Or be separated from the interwebs.
I cringe to think what may have happened had my iPhone not held my hand through this horrendous process. I love you, internet, never leave me again!

Friday, April 16, 2010

Corn field....semi....meh?

I've decided that my recent lack of creative juices is due to less than normal alcohol consumption, resulting in less still-drunk mornings at work in which I abandon all duties and blog.
Well wait no more kiddos!
After ingesting too many $2 vodka waters, some ice cold beer, and some luke warm tequila and whiskey shots, I am in full blogging mode.
The highlight of my night was actually eating oatmeal in my kitchen, having a conversation with my roommate, which i remember zero details of, who was eating corn out of the can.
We keep it classy.

But as I passed the canned corn, still on the counter, on my way out this morning, I was reminded of a cherished childhood memory.
But before we waltz down the road of remembrance, let me enlighten you with a tasty little morsel:   
I have a very active imagination.
So much so, that I have vivid memories of things that I thought happened, but didn't really happen, and I wonder how much of my childhood is reality vs fantasy.
Bringing us to the case in point:
When I was around 5 years old, we took a little road trip to Lake Murray, Oklahoma to spend a weekend of fun in the sun with the fam.
I'm sure like most things in my childhood, I would go back and realize that this place is a dump and much smaller than I remember, but in my mind, Lake Murray was a vast lake of sparkling blue diamonds, glittering under the glowing sun that stretched out over the plush green fields of the camp ground.
Obviously, this can't be correct since Oklahoma is the armpit of America and is good for nothing other then gambling and turquoise jewelry.

I digress, any-hoozle.
I of course insisted on riding with my grandparents, because, duh, they were the coolest people ever and took me to Luby's every Friday night to get a chicken leg, mac n cheese, and fried okra, with jiggly blue jello or chocolate pie, or both, and a delicious yeasty roll.
That's not why I love them, but it made me love them more, and at a young age I decided to latch on to them every chance I got, PLUS it meant I didn't have to ride inthe car with that annoying, screeching baby that my mother would not "send back."
In reality, I'm pretty sure my little sister was one of the best babies ever, but that's really neither here nor there because this story is all about ME*.
*standard childhood belief.

While either going there or coming back, I can't quite remember, my grandfather fell asleep at the wheel.
We crossed over the median and ended up with the rear end of the car in a corn field.
I thought this was delightful and remember the story fondly!
I told it all through my youth: my silly grandad falling asleep and we drove into a CORNFIELD!! teeheee
When I was 22.
I was reminiscing about this and my parents and grandparents were laughing hysterically.
I know, I know, I am a fantastic storyteller, always yuckin it up. 
Au contraire.
Turns out I had it all wrong.

What ACTUALLY happened, was that my grandpa fell asleep, crossed over the median, and we were almost sideswiped by an 18 wheeler, all while my parents watched their eldest child almost go up in smoke from a couple of car lengths back.
Not so cute.

For the visual learners:
I confused this:

With this:

So I was all:

When I shoulda been all:

Guess I thought that giant draw of the horn was just a tractor comin to plow the crops.
Yanno, cuz death knocking on my door was not near as exciting as yellow vegetables growing out of the ground.

So much for being a "gifted" child.

Effing corn fields.

Monday, April 12, 2010

And then there wasn't that time I wasn't awkward....

I finally decided to catch up on Google Reader tonight.
2 Birds 1 Blog popped up first, and if you've read it, I don't even need to tell you why it's as far as I got.
If you haven't read it, you go HERE right now and be a red-blooded citizen of mother earth.
I've been laughing hysterically to myself for a good 20 minutes.
Just repeating "Sorr about the bag" over and over as I crumple into fits of laughter.
I posted 2 tweets and a facebook status regarding this post within 5 minutes.
Then I re-read "Sorr about the bag" and continued my giggles.

I'm still laughing.
Even though I realize how creepy I am.
I totally made someone else's inside joke my own....again.
I'm not sure why I do this but it is not the first time.
I just think things are really funny and I want to be in on the fun, so I just make the joke my own and it's oh so fun and get that WTF look. 
*That* is embarrassing.

My friend Chelsea has a really fat cat.
Like really fat.
And her name is Marcia.
I saw on her facebook that someone had made a joke about Marcia, that I was NOT involved in, and ran with it.
I coined the term "Getting Marcia'd"
Cuz when you hang with the fat catz you gotta get crunk.
I may or may not have spent my morning making T shirts.

And then I may or may not have sent the design to all of our friends who I could find in gmail.
And by "all of our friends" I mean "all of her friends"....who she chain emailed about a birthday party.
Let me further explain that Chelsea goes to law school out in California, and I don't know 90 percent of these people.
But who wouldn't appreciate Marcia in all of her glory?
Especially with the caption More cushion for the Pushin Bitches.

Maybe people who don't know you in the slightest?
Or understand your humor?
Well eff those people.
They probably don't like fun or sunshine either.
And they certainly don't like getting Marcia'd.

And getting Marcia'd is awesome.
Let's just call her Mar.
And when I get too drunk.
I will shout from the bar:

Because I steal things when I'm drunk, including inside jokes.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

TMI Thursday: The Funeral Addition

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

When you're done reading mine, mosey on over to LiLu's to check out other TMIs, because:

Well, right when I really started to enjoy this little tradition, TMI Thursday will be no more.
No worries, I still plan on telling my embarrassing stories.
But let's dive right in!

I have a habit of sexting.
Around 1am, you can find me in the corner of the bar with one eye open, furiously typing away on my phone.
This isn't a rare problem.
But coupled with my amazing escape and pass out skills, it turns into quite the situation, in which I usually wake up with 10 missed calls and some angry WTF texts from my current gentleman caller.
It really is kind of amazing how quickly I can go from horny coherent to beelining for my bed with some string cheese and no memory of what I was doing 10 minutes ago.

There was one particular fellow who really got the brunt of this.
It may or may not be the same fellow who I decided I was going to make out with in a front of his little sister....who may or may not have been in my sorority.
I think I also asked her once if she would care if I dated her brother.
But all of this is really here nor there since I don't remember and therefore, it never happened.
Words to live by.

Once skankily clad evening, I do believe I texted him something like "Over this. Meet me at my place?" around 1:45.
I would give this 2 points more than the "Wanna hang out later?" text.
I've often wondered about this.
No one "hangs out" in the middle of the night.
Clearly this should just say: Wanna bang? I'll b the big spoon after.

Soo in the 15 minutes after this happened, I half blacked out, only to remember the rest of my night because of the trauma that ensued.
Obviously, I dopped all of the contents of my purse on the walk home, which was also a bad idea since I had to go through a few dark alleys all by my lonesome.
When I got to my one bedroom apartment, I didn't have my keys.
Instead of calling a friend and going to their place, or maybe waiting for the boy on his way and telling him we were spending the night at his place, I decided taking off my shoes and sprinting back to the bar was the appropriate thing to do.
Because CLEARLY I must have left them there instead of dropping them in a bush that buffered a tumble I surely took.

The bar was locked up. Shocker.
It's 3 am.
I walk back home, shoeless.
My skin says bagpipes, but my feet say hip hop.
I never did find my shoes from that night.
Guess someone found something they liked.
I decide it's a good idea to call my mom crying that I can't get in to my apartment and then sleep in my doorway until my friend Megan came to get me at 4 in the morning so I could sleep on her couch.
Not only am I super classy, but a pain in the ass.

I'm pretty sure the boy gave up after that.
I probably wouldn't be very happy either if someone chose running around barefoot in a dark city hopelessly looking for keys instead of hopping in the sack with me.
I'm just glad I made it to the parking garage to pop a squat instead of deeming the hallway a necessary place to pee.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

I'm Going to work for OPI

This morning, I had a realistic discussion with myself about things I am good at: running, plays on words, drinking, being judgmental, making grilled cheese, starting but not finishing after-parties, story-telling, knowing every reality tv show to ever exist, having photographic memory, brunching.

Things I am not good at: being told what to do, relationships, sleeping in, not drinking to excess, saving money, being patient and non-obsessive, understanding how every friend I have can be so chronically late for everything we ever plan.

So, if you put two and two together, I clearly have 3 career paths, which I have evaluated in order of least to most likely:

3. Owning my grilled cheese and alcoholic snowcone truck.
If you follow me on twitter (@cstanderfer, duh), you may remember some inklings of a food truck conversation.
What started as a joke quickly enolved into a 5 hour conversation, a serious follow up about legality and business investment with my dad, and then an utter fail at any sort of follow through.
The gist was that I would drive a party truck around, serving alcoholic snow cones (under the table of course), grilled cheese sandwiches, and have a party deck on top--complete with party playlists and a water balloon launcher.
I really don't care if you fin this unrealistic, because it's my blog and I can pretend that anything is possible.
Heard of Reading Rainbow much?

2. Charging my friends a flat fee to plan events and parties.
College-roommate Stephanie has already agreed to gold dig make a mutual investment for us both.
She will find a rich doctor and I will move into their pool house and plan parties for them all while pursuing my career as an author.
This is a win, win.
Steph enjoys the finer things in life, while I really couldn't care less as long as I have a pool, booze, and nice running terrain.
And a stove.
To make my grilled cheese.
And maybe a hammock where I can lie while her cabana boy brings us drinks.
Okay, maybe I like some fine things.
I will probably have a long-term non committed relationship with him, resulting in him getting fired 8 months later when it becomes awkward.
Sounds about right.

1. The most realistic of the three:
I am going to apply at OPI and suggest a Texas line of nail polish colors.
I will come to work still-drunk, rattle off a bunch of plays on words, and be home by 2pm.
I made my own guidelines.
I can't imagine they would turn down my application considering I would settle for the same ungodly amount I make now.
 *I do not support the following stereotypes.
**White and black were left off due to my lack of filter from brain to mouth. 

My colors:
Red-dy for some football
Redneck Rumble
I red a book....once 
Red River Rivalry

Papa's belt left a mark 
Utter-ly pink
This little piggy

Texas Longh-orange
Ain't red, Ain't yelluh 
Marlboro Man-darin
I spend my pesos on Queso
Mustard meets Ketchup: the state fair corndog saga
San Tangelo

for Steph
Sister-cousin's a yeller
Fried Butter

Greener Pastures
Irish I were Texan
Lime for my Tequila
Mmm Guacamole
Remember the Alam-okra

Light Blue Wranglers 
Hair meets sky
Don't pick the Bluebonnets
Denim on Denim
Rick Periwinkle

Steers and Queers
My favorite eyeshadow
Prom Dress Plum
Gray, or is it Grey?
I love my Gun...metal gray
Goodness Graycious Great Balls of Fire
Grayn Whiskey
W meets Barack

Chicken Fried Steak
I love leather
Dead Grass
Wild Horses
40 in a brown paper bag

So that's my line.
Don't steal it.
It's patented.

And now I'm off to ride my horse to lunch, which is cornbread and beans.

Jk Jk, I'm totally eating a grilled cheese on my truck, obvi. And drinking tequila and dancing to hey soul sister. 

Thursday, April 1, 2010

TMI Thursday: Kids Say the Darndest Things

So I have jumped on the TMI Thursday bandwagon.
I even left LiLu's call out on there because a) she is great and b) she spills tea on her V in an epic TMI Thurs.

So, today's particular post will probably make you highly uncomfortable.
I hope it does.
Because I had to suffer and you should too.

So I help out at a center for families downtown.
On Sunday, they had a meeting for the parents and needed some adult volunteers to help in the kids room.
I like kids, I had nothing better to do on a Sunday from 7-9pm because Pretty Wild isn't on until 9:30, and I like to pretend like being a good person for 2 hours makes up for all the bad karma i accumulate throughout the week.

I walked in and discovered that we had 1 volunteer for every 2 kids, which is really unnecessary considering some of them are 14-15, but whatevs. I plopped my ass on the couch next to a cute little girl and started watching Dr. DoLittle.
Oh, Eddie Murphy, you and your talkin hamster soo funnyyyyyy.

I discovered not 30 seconds later that little miss chatty cathy was going to be my new bff for the next 2 hours.
I will literally just go through our entire dialogue complete with commentary.
"Hi! My name is Arianna, want me to spell it? Look!" 
[draws out letters on her leg]
Hey, that's pretty good, what a smart little girl!
oh, I had no idea the things this child knows...
Hi, I'm Courtney, how old are you Arianna? Are you 5?
Yes. I'm five. But I'm not a baby anymore, I'm a big girl.
Yes you are! Do you go to school?
When I WAS a baby, I made my mama's stomach fat, and now it's still fat. I came out her nana. Do you know what a nana is?
errrmmm, oh God....
Yes, I do know what that is.
I don't think this part is particularly weird. I used to babysit a little boy who was potty training and had recently discovered his very own little weiner. He would run around in public yelling at everyone "I HAVE A PENIS!" and it was actually kind of funny.
"Why yes, yes you do! Good for you!" was my favorite response EVER--by a grandmother type. 

Guys, you might want to skip the next part.

All girls have nanas. And you get a period out of a nana. That's blood. 
Uh, yes, that's true. Um, what do you like to do at school?
I like lunch because we get to eat and recess because we get to play.
What kind of games do you like to play?
[scratching herself]
My nana itches. Sometimes I like to dig in my nana, but my mom says that's nasty.

By this point I am highly uncomfortable. 

Uh, yeah, that's not something you should do in.... public....?
Do you know what S-E-X is?

O. M. G! Who is this child? WTF? 
Do YOU know what that is?
Shouldn't we be talking about the Easter bunny or something??

Um, yes i do, but, um, so anwa--
Then tell me what it is.
Um, it's something for um

[insert collar loosening and a throat clear]
A) This is totally inappropriate for me to be discussing this with a 5 year old
B) I can't say it's for mommies and daddies because what if she doesn't have a daddy, but I don't want to advocate sleeping around either, arghhhh why can't this child be from the burbs?!
C) DO I remember what S-E-X is?
It's something for um, grown ups who love each other.....
it's how they make babies
I'm not old enough for S-E-X. I have to wait until I get titties
Did this little girl just say titties?!
[awkward silence]
That's my sister. She has titties.
[points to 13 year old who is probably wearing a bra but most definitely does not have 'titties']
But they don't shake yet.
When I get big, mine will shake.

By this point I have moved away from her in hopes she will just disappear and also out of fear that she is going to touch me with her hands that have been "digging in her nana."
I have no idea HOW I got myself into this predicament, but I want out.
And fast.

As if God answered my awkward prayer, a girl named Precious walked into the room and little Arianna got very excited and ran to her.
I also ran. Far, far away to the coloring table near the safety of two elderly women who could surely handle any more awkward situations with a better sense of decency than I.

And that was how I got a lesson in sex ed from a 5 year old.
When I got home, I took a shower.
Even though it was "No Shower Sunday."

Cute little girls are not always what they appear to be....