I'm generally very happy with life right now.

Oh muh guh, this girl isn't bitter and skeptical at all times?

No, no, it's just a silly little ploy to get you to read my blog.

Today was one of those creepy mornings where I woke up with a shit eating grin on my face for no particular reason. Especially considering that today is Monday, the day of the week that sprouted directly from the Satan's soul, this whole girl scout mood is highly unusual. I didn't even mind dropping off rent and watching my bank account fall into the "red zone." I classify the red zone as living at or below the poverty level.

Who needs food, clothing, or shampoo when you have a (small) roof over your head overlooking uptown Dallas?Really hope we have client catered lunches this week so I can go pick at the leftovers like a monkey on lice. No crumb too small, no cookie unfinished.

So this smiling in my sleep thing.

Creeps me out. I think of it like a clown: good concept, seems innocent enough, but in person it is actually really scary. 

I started thinking of even worse combinations, too.

What if someone managed to smile and snore at the same time??

First of all, I hate snoring. I do believe we have already had the snoring/mouth breathing conversation, but just to reiterate--get off your back, prop your head up, and breathe through your nose--or get the hell out of the same room as me. Now, imagine that person smiling. It's as if they are saying, "Nanny nanny boo boo! I'm peacefully sleeping while I wake you with my freight train of a nose and you can't do nothin' about it, sucka."

Snoring face, meet my fist.

Or what about the blanket thieves?

I wake up shivering, shaking like a poor little leaf, or, depending on the temperature, like a Japanese earthquake, teeth chattering, goosebumps adorning my pipe-cleaner arms. And the culprit is....smiling.

I might just have a meltdown right there.

After several (unsuccessful) attempts to unwrap the blanket and steal a small sliver for myself, I will probably resort to towels as blankets. If the culprit is a guy, he will probably sleep the whole night in his blanket-stealing, snoring, smiling slumber, and then wake up and complain about how hot he was all night.

The worst part is, blanket thieves always unravel themselves before they wake. So then I just end up looking like a bitch when I let out all my built up rage. [innocent puppy dog face] "Sorry, you should have just woken me up!"

Steam comes out my ears.

Oh, silly me, why didn't I think of that?

You must have not been able to hear me yelling at you or feel me punching you through the foot of goose feathers serving as a warm little cocoon for you.

Adding to my list of "reasons it's necessary to drink at brunch."

These things bother me because I don't do them and they negatively impact my sleeping experience. My bad habits, however, are quite fun.

Sleeping alone 99.9% of the time really allows you to get creative with your sleep positions.

"The X Factor"

It is indeed possible for me to take up an entire bed. My arms and legs are longer then they appear and stretch quite nicely to the four corners of my mattress.

Having someone in my bed does not particularly discourage this behavior. I tend to just whack people in the face and force them to the edge of the bed. Oh, sorry. Was your leg numb? probably because it got in the way of my X. I'm thinking I could piggy back off of "Leggo my Eggo" and go with "Don't Hex my X." Me: the new star of Mattress commercials, I can see it now.....

"The Egg"

It's like sleeping in a fetal position, but right smack dab in the center of the bed. Sometimes I like to pile pillows around me just for fun. Like a fort. The Egg Fort. 2 points for me if I don't knock any pillows off the bed in my sleep.

Obviously if there are 2 people, I can't build a fort. Not because I don't want to, but because there isn't room. However, I can manage to weasel my way right to the center of the bed, really leaving no room for the other person besides a weird "S" position where their ass is hanging off the edge. Sorry, shouldn't have snored. You are being egg-xiled.

Man I really "crack" myself up. Such a "yolk"-ster. 

"Pretty Pretty Princess"

Stacking ever pillow I own up behind me, comfortably propped. This is most likely the most attractive sleep position, and it is usually done by accident. Such as if I fall asleep reading, or watching late night episodes of Roseanne. By morning, I am usually hanging half off the bed, drooling, with 7 pillows on the floor. Pretty, pretty...gross.

I will steal your pillows. Then I will pretend to be fast fast asleep when you try to get them back. But fast asleep in the sense that my head is bearing down on the pillow with brute-like force to prevent you from quietly slipping it out from underneath my head.

"The Hanger"

I met a guy my freshman year of college who slept with his feet hanging off the bed because the mattresses in the dorms were made for wee little men. But it's actually really comfortable. I like to tuck my feet in between the mattress and the footboard, wrapped in the comforter.

Seems normal enough. Until someone else is in the bed and your head is 2 feet south of the headboard, possibly hidden under the covers. Is it a person or a pillow? Should I poke it? Oh wait, I see feet at the end of the bed...hmm...that's weird. 

Well, if you'd like we could re-enact Clueless and I could rub my feet all over you saying they are cold. Or I could wear footy pajamas. Both are pretty sexy, take your pick.

For the avid reader, I also encourage bedtime poetry to really relax the mind before a good night's sleep. Here is a fascinating excerpt from  Bedtime Poems for Big Kids:

 Jack and Jill went up the hill
To have a little fun
Stupid Jill forgot the pill
And now they have a son. 

Sweet Dreams!

Gym Etiquette

I've always been somewhat of a clutz. You know how it's really fun to laugh at the person who just randomly trips over the crack in the sidewalk, almost falls, manages to catch themself but over-corrects and then almost falls again? Yeah, that's me.

In fact, I was taking a short lunch-time break to run an errand at walmart the other day.

Okay, so they have these really good sundae cups that are only $1 and I may or may not fantasize about them at my desk all day. And I may or may not have decided that if I didn't get one immediately I would shrivel up and die. DIE!

I didn't feel like looking for a parking spot, so I just pulled up and abandoned ship in an area that looked okay to park in. There was a BMW there as well as a Range Rover, so at the very least, I figured if it was illegal to park there, the cop would probably have a chip on his shoulder and give the rich folk shopping at Walmart a ticket before preying on the Pterradactyl. So anyway, I hop out of my car to conveniently find that I have parked in a pothole.....filled with some sort of watery substance, most likely sewage, that was now collecting at the bottom of my jeans. I jumped over the rest of the puddle, muttering to myself, and completely forgetting to watch where I was going. I walked smack into a tree branch. To make matters worse, there were 2 Walmart employees eating lunch outside and an obnoxious middle-aged man who had the audacity to laugh out loud. It's really a confidence booster to be laughed at by the masses of Walmart during your lunch break. And then I had to change my pants since they had gunk on them. And people noticed! "Hey, did you change at lunch?"  

Mother F-er. I can't believe people notice the difference when I change my jeans. This probably means they notice when I wear the same two pairs for weeks at a time. You also know you are letting yourself go when co-workers you barely know ask you if you have a date after work when you wear presentable clothing. yeah i have a date....with my Walmart sundae cup and the latest episode of The Biggest Loser. My life's a real hoot.

So anyway, I have an issue with hand-eye coordination. I tried to play volleyball, but got cut in 8th grade. We had an "A" team and 2 "B" teams. I couldn't even make the 2nd B team. That same year, my best friend and I also tried out for the basketball team. In our defense, I will note that this was only a plot to force our cruel mothers to come pick us up in a CAR from school. Should 14 year old girls really still be forced to ride the school bus? Our plan worked for one day. We were not asked to come back for the next round of try outs. I did manage to play softball my freshman and sophomore year, but I figured out I wasn't any good when the red-headed stepchild of the team took my spot in right field. Literally, she has this bright red hair, looked similar to Pepper Ann, and brought her trombone to softball practice. But she started while I sat the bench.

I also tried shotput. Although I was a bit chunkier in those days, my arms were about the same size. I swear to God I could weigh 300 pounds and I would still have arms the size of pipecleaners, with muscle mass to match. My sister has them, too. She is affectionately called "Noodles" by her friends.

So obviously shotput was a joke.

Shunned by high school athletics, I decided to give a big fat middle finger to recreational sports and go for solo activities. Running really takes no coordination at all. Well I take that back, some people manage to make running look like a massacre of the arms and legs, limbs flailing about as if they were being flogged, but for the most part, running is pretty self explanatory.

What not to do:

The One Where Phoebe Runs

If I had it my way, the weather would be perfect every day and the sun would stay up long enough to get in a few miles after work. But alas, winter ruins this dream. As well as hangovers. When I feel like complete ass but feel the need to burn off the large pizza I inhaled at 3am, I prefer the elliptical. No need to increase the pounding in my head by beating my feet into rock hard pavement.

THE GYM

First of all, I need to quit the gym. I pay $37 a month and go maybe once every 3 months. It's just easier to use the little fitness room in my apartment. You know, so when I feel like I am going to puke up my egg sandwich, I can casually haul ass to the elevator and stand over my own porcelain thrown instead of the one at 24 hour fitness. I also like to run by the convenient store by the apartment fitness center. My specialties include bananas, tropical skittles, and occasionally, sour cream & onion pringles. Oh, or goldfish or lucky charms. This is clearly my true motivation for going downstairs, the gym just happens to be a positive side note.

I'm a little ADD today due to the fact that I took numerous shots last night and then couldn't sleep. So I'm pretty sure I am delirious and possibly (definitely) still slightly (majorly) intoxicated. But I promise I'm to the point now.

People in the gym just plain old suck.

Especially on the treadmill.

First of all, there are the "waiters"

They linger about, waiting for a treadmill, craning their necks to the point of painful obviousness. I usually dealer with these lingering fools by adding time to the stopwatch. Sometimes, I like to walk an extra 5 minutes after my run just to make a point. First come, first serve, buddy. And back up out my personal space. Fo Rill.

Then there are the people who omit possibly the most noxious odors on the face of the planet when they work out. We can either refer to them as smellows (smelly fellows) or the ever popular "funky monkeys."

Either way, what is it about older men getting on the treadmill?

It's like they have a fart tank fully filled and they leak gas with each pounding step.

And then everyone ignores it!!

I'm gagging, coughing, generally dying a slow death in the newly formed gas chamber, and everyone else is just pretending like there isn't a green cloud floating 6 feet in the air.

And don't even give me that "smelt it dealt it" bullshit. 1) girls do not pass gas 2) If I did happen to feel the need to let one fly, I would politely excuse myself from the close quarters of the apartment fitness center.

On another smelly note: I'm pretty sure we live in America and that deodorant is encouraged.

Perhaps this is a cultural thing and people of certain ethnic backgrounds do not choose to participate in mainstream America's general lifestyle choices, but for God's sake please keep your arms as close to your body as possible. There is no need to excessively pump your arms as you run and you absolutely do not have the right to use the bench press. It's like the armpit died and released all body odor in one explosive burst. Except it's not one explosive burst. It just keeps coming in waves. Unexpectedly. Over and over and over again.....

WOULD YOU RATHER

Would you rather run next to rotting arm pit man or flingy sweat man?

Yeah you know what I'm talkin about. The guy who conveniently wipes his brow with a flick of the wrist so that his sweaty man juice flies across his treadmill and yours and lands on your cheek. This is not only unsanitary, since something like 80 percent of men do not wash their hands in the bathroom and now the sweat, which is gross enough on its own, has traveled across not one, but FIVE fingertips, collecting germs and bacteria before the sweat beads embark on their suicide mission to land on my face and burn holes in my rosy temples with an acid-like erosion.

Excuse me while I die of swine flu.

And, finally, as if my body has not been punished enough on the physical front. Gym-goers decide to ear-rape me with their grunting.

There are two types of grunting.

The loud, ARRGHHHAAAAA, most commonly used by guido men trying to lift far more than they are capable of. This is not a show put on for the women. We don't care. They need to impress the other beef cakes. This rebel yell is inevitably followed by the sound of crashing iron as Popeye drops the weights instead of lowering them appropriately. This grunt in annoying, but not particularly intrusive.

And then we have the moaners.

Usually, I notice the moaners when they are doing crunches. And of course, it usually happens when there are very few people around, making an already uncomfortable situation feel more and more like a porno with every passing second. It's like bow-chicka-wow-wow is going to come on, softly building up as the moaner gets frisky with a barbell.

I realize that working out can be painful for some. Personally, I like to quit before I have to exert too much energy or really push my muscles to the brink. However, if you choose to engage in intense workouts, please check your sexual hullabaloo at the door. I'm having enough trouble keeping my tequila infused burps at bay, and Hulk-like groans are not on my "just make it through 30 minutes and then you get a cookie" playlist.

Don't even get me started on [straight] men who only use ellipticals and stairmasters. It's a whole other topic that I just don't have the energy to address this morning. Perhaps there will come a time when I feel the need to blog about it. Maybe I will also include the dreaded New Year's exercisers. 

This post has really put a damper on my work out plans for later today. At least I know I can completely disgust people with the stale alcohol smell I am wearing as perfume. Eau de MichelobUltraTequilaSocoLimeVodkawater. Sold in a bar near you.

And don't judge me. It's okay when I reek. The rules don't apply to me. 

I walk on the wild side.

Grossi Pelosi

Brace yourselves. I've been good lately, but the time has come for a political post. Liberals, just click your back browser button, now. In the rare event that you will understand the metaphorical story to come, you will certainly not find it funny.

Shall we get started?

Before I launch into my magical tale. I have to give a shout out to my Dad. He is very involved with the blog. I'm pretty sure it's because my mom reads it aloud to him, but either way. Thanks for making sure that at least someone is reading the crap I write.

I see you out there, with that horrified look on your face. You let your parents read this? I won't even friend my mom on facebook! News flash: I am what I am. I act like this at home. This is just like old times, when I woke up bitching about something and went to bed still bitching about something else. It's like having a little Courtney clone that never left the nest.....
 

Here's a plug about the wild, thirsty, camels, just for you Dad.

I couldn't think of a witty plot line for it.

Besides mentioning that camels get more "hump" the "more they drink" but it was a stretch. So in true Courtney fashion, I quit something I was not succeeding at. Why waste time?

Yes, why waste time? The wick is burning! Hang on to your taxes, people, we are in for a bumpy ride.

The land was barren, times were hard, the future seemed bleak. In fact, life was looking a little black and white on the farm. But the Republican party was confident that with conservative finance and steps toward long-term reform, we could begin to rebuild our nation.....

But then, in January 2008, Tornado Obama came to town.

More Specifically, Cyclone Obama.....

[Obama, shirtless to expose his skinny "6 pack," enters with microphone, "she move her body like a cyclooooooone, she keep it movin' all night loooooong" Michelle dances in with her award winning biceps and green Godzilla dress & gloves] 

The GOP house spins in circles and is knocked on it's ass.

When the GOP (Dorothy) awakes, she and her little dog Toto (capitalism) are in a strange new colorful world. Things seem all hunky dory. In fact, the little munchkins sing "we represent the idiotic people of America who wanted 'CHANGE' but figured out that change was no good, and now we're screwed."

But not to Fear! Dorothy's house has actually landed on the Wicked Witch of the East!

I realize that the tornado was actually what caused the house to land on the WWE and that in my metaphor it wouldn't work, but it was just too fun to imagine Cyclone Obama.

"Ding, dong, the with is dead! Which old witch? The Pelosi witch! Ding, dong, the wicked witch is dead!"

My mother really inspired this all when she said, and I quote, "I'd really just like to see her feet curl up as she withers away."

Me too mom, me too. Her and her ugly blue striped socks.

But wait! We still have her sister, the Wicked Witch of the West!

O.M.G. It's Nancy Pelosi again, because the bitch will never die! And now she is on a mission to take Toto and kill Dorothy! 

So down the yellow brick road Dorothy goes, toward Emerald City where money has no value and the Wizard of sOcialiZm is makin it rain all in the name of "stimulus"

Dear Mr. President, this ain't a strip club, and throwin dolla bills around ain't gonna get you no "stimulus," if ya know what I mean....

Besides, your people want FREE money. They're too lazy to rail the pole for it.

Hmm so what else happens?

Dorothy meets the scarecrow, who needs a brain. We will make these the democrats. Poor little libs without a brain. They are so disadvantaged.

Then she meets the Tin Man. He needs a heart. Liberals would like to say that this is the GOP because we are cold, heartless, monsters who don't want to give away our money. However, Dorothy is representing the GOP, so we are going to change the story. The Tin Man doesn't need a heart. He needs oil for his creaky joints. But unfortunately, he can't get any oil because we import it from terrorists. It's okay to support terrorism, but God forbid we drill oil from our own turf in Alaska because PETA is petitioning on part of the caribou. Who don't even live in that part of Alaska for months out of the year due to the fact that it is an untouchable, frozen tundra.

MUCH LIKE NANCY PELOSI.

Watch Bachmann get really riled up over the "Coffee Klatch" fiasco. I mean, If I was a caribou, I would want to frolic by the warm pipeline. And I support all coffee analogies.

Coffee Klatch, get your Coffee Klatch

Now for the Lion. He needs courage.

Joseph Cao, anyone?

Grow a pair and support the principals of your party.

If not, run under the Democratic party, of course, I doubt those ragin cajuns would elect you then. In fact, we might find you down in the bayou or chopped up in some jumbalaya, but who am I to say?

Put em up, Put em up!

Hmm, now where do those flying monkeys show up?

Malia, Sasha, where are you?

Here you go liberals, here is your chance to accuse me of being racist. Too bad they only get to be the monkeys because they are pesky, distracting, and scream quite often in high shrill voices.

But while I am pissing liberals off, I forgot to mention that Sarah Palin gets to be the Good Witch of the North! How fitting that we have a female senator of Alaska to fit the description. I'd really  prefer ole Mitt Romney if we are recycling Presidential and VP candidates, but I don't think Romney would like that fluffy white dress.
 

Are we there yet?

Yeah, I think we are.

Hello, Emerald City.

Funny, it's looking a little more green than it used to. Even with that evil evil George W. gone. Must be the man behind the curtain. Or in this case, the man behind the Iron Curtain. Controlling the land of sOcialiZm with the quickness and ease of a master puppeteer. He gives everyone what they want, even though they don't deserve it, and even admits to the Lion that his "courage juice" is only temporary and will not be a long-term solution.

 (said to possibly be wine in some of the original synopses--liquid courage has always worked for me!)

By the way, that was free healthcare, right there folks. Your hard earned money paid for the brain, heart, and courage.

So now it's time to go home.

We didn't really create any long term solutions, but we'll take the compromise.

Click your little red shoes three times.

I wish I was home, I wish I was home, I wish I was home.

But it's not Kansas, it's Texas.

The GOP made it back, Freedom in tact.

And we still have our guns.

Nice hair, Rick Perry.

God Bless Texas.

Foot note: I am well aware that the metamorphical components of this blog contradicted each other, were not concise, and may or may not have been 100% factual. I was taking the liberal approach of picking my points and supporting them with evidence that I keep in my head, which I think is true, but I didn't want to google it to make sure.

I don't make my own decisions

Much to my dismay, I have discovered that I am the epitome of a walking oxymoron.

I am amazed that as such a stubborn pain in the ass, I can be as easily influenced as I am.

I think I am so use to throwing a fit and getting my own way that when someone tells me to do something, I just shut my mouth and do it. Of course, the person telling me what to do has to be someone I like, Otherwise you will be getting a foot up your ass.

Let's use the following examples:

When I was 3 years old, we went to Sea World.

This was back in the glory days when I was still an only child and even more of a brat than I am now. Thank God my parents had two more "surprises" to bring me down just a little.

We went to watch the "Wonderful World of Shamu" or whatever it was called. Now, back before Shamu killed two of his trainers, kids were allowed to sit on the famous whale and get their picture taken. Well, not just any kid, a special kid chosen from the audience. I announced to my parents that I wanted to sit on Shamu and then proceeded to throw an obnoxiously loud temper tantrum when another (pre-chosen) child skipped down the stairs to climb onto Shamu's back.

This would have been a great time to teach me that we have to take turns in life and that you can't always get what you want. However, before my parents could even consider this lesson, an abnormally happy attendant came to find out why the poor little blonde headed toddler was crying. My dad grudgingly explained that I wanted to sit on Shamu and that it really wasn't a big deal. I looked up at the man with big teary, blue eyes and was invited back to the evening show. My grandmother had a picture of me, in pink and yellow overalls, all smiles, sitting on Shamu and waving to the crowd, on her refridgerator for 22 years. It may still be there.

Surprisingly, my little brother's best friend has also sat on Shamu. He pulled the exact same gig. And I quote, "I really don't understand why people can't figure out that throwing a fit gets you everything you want in life."

Please do understand that this only works if you have the sort of charm where people constantly question why they should hate you but don't. Probably because I liquor them up nice and good.

On the other hand, I really do tend to back down pretty easily.

Episode 1: the cranberry sauce.

I'm not particularly fond of cranberry sauce. I don't know why. I don't even really know if I like it or not, but the texture is weird and I have an issue with food touching and I don't like tangy red fruit running into my stuffing. In fact, I told my family I am going to invent "the Thanksgiving divided plate." I know they make the 3 portion plates but I really have a problem with those. On thanksgiving, it is a given that you will probably eat at least 6 different foods or casseroles at a minimum, and since I want my gravy in a separate compartment so I can "dip" my food in it instead of smothering all of it in brown liquid, I need 7+ compartments. I was thinking I could just divide the plate into a pie-like set up but have since changed that idea to make it more of a center piece in the middle for the turkey or ham, surrounded by compartments arranged similarly to a clock. Then I could even arrange the foods as I plan to eat them and work in a clockwise motion.

I am aware that I have put far too much thought into this and sound completely neurotic. I just like organization, okay? Just nod and give me a pat on the back for finally discovering that corn and mashed potatoes can mix, and that the combination is, in fact, genius.

I do believe I was supposed to be talking about cranberry sauce.

At some point, I told my family I didn't like real cranberry sauce and that I preferred the kind out of the can. I'm guessing I did this as a ploy to avoid the cranberry sauce altogether, but the next year, and for every consecutive year, we have bought the ocean spray canned cran-jelly and sliced it up.

And every year, I eat it.

I was somehow brainwashed that I just looove that straight-out-of-the-can-still-has-ridges jiggly mold of cranberry sauce. It's not even "sauce" it's gelatin. So now, I eat a big ole slab of it every year. Because my family buys it for me, and "i like it", and who am I to argue with my mother and grandmother.

Episode 2:

High School Football

So my high school is big into football. We have several national championship titles and the small town stigma that there's nothing else to do on a Friday night.

Tonight is a playoff game at SMU.

I politely declined the option to go to this game, citing that "I do not give a shit."

I graduated 6 years ago, it's going to be cold, and I could think of better things to do with my Friday night, such as picking my toenails and watching Charlie Brown Thanksgiving or Home Alone for the second night in a row eating cold mac n cheese out of the gladware tub.  

Unfortunately for me, I don't have a spine and have been told that "I am going, I will like it, and I will cheer on my alama mater....loudly and with pride..."

I was also bribed with tailgating, which I find to be the equivalent of using sex as a weapon against men. Do you really have to resort to tempting me with booze and hot dogs?

I find this to be a cruel way to manipulate me.

It's like running up and hitting someone in the knees when they are locked.

Even if you see it coming, you can't act quick enough to defend yourself.

So now I will put on my gloves and green scarf to support the Dragons, I will toast to high school football, I will bear the cold and cheer them on, and to tell the truth, I'm even a little bit excited about it.

Will power is for suckers.

So here's the secret if you haven't figure it out. I'm like a dog. I'll bark and snarl and bear my fangs, but if you walk toward me, look me in the eye, and tell me to do something in an authoritative manner, I will be whimpering in the corner in no time. If you throw something, and tell me to fetch, I might just do that too.

Let's address the fact that this can be taken too far.

After dinner last night, we were celebrating a Cowboys win and waiting for the horns game to come on. Conveniently enough, Home Alone ended at exactly 7pm. The movie literally was fading into black for the credits to roll, my hand is reaching for the remote, my fingers already hovering above the correct buttons to take us directly to ESPN HD.

In the split second between 6:59 and 7:00, my grandfather finds it necessary to yell out "THE HORNS GAME IS ON!!!" 

1. Look old man, I'm on it. I wanted to watch the bandits get carted off to jail and my hand can only move so quickly.

2. You can just sit tight and not get your panties in a wad because I am the one who had to remind everyone that THE University of Texas was playing tonight.

"Is there any football worth watching today?"

"Uhhh...MY TEAM!!!"

Traitor Sooner converts.

I liken this to Dallas Mercedes drivers. I'm at a red light. I'm watching traffic going the other way, my eye on the crosswalk as the hand counts down...3...2...1....

My foot is hovering over the gas and I ease forward as I wait for the light to "officially" turn green. It turns green. Before I can lower my foot I hear Slick Hair McGee lay on the horn behind me. If I'm in a hurry, I like to hit the gas, then throw my hands up in a "What, buddy?! I'm goin' I'm goin' SHEESH" motion. If he's the only person behind me and I have time to kill, I like to sit and wait until the light turns yellow, then clear the intersection leaving old grumpy pants waiting at another red light.

Childish? sure.

But it fills my heart will laughter as I cruise away in my basic little car without mirrors on the visor.

Money doesn't hold all the power now, does it home skillet?

I don't remember what I was even talking about now.

But let me tell you, giving others road rage is really a delight, sometimes.

And you know what they say, Tis better to give than receive.

Happy Holidays everybody.

A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

I have a bone to pick, and it's not a wishbone.

Listen up guys and gals, this is a BONE-afide problem.

yup, I did it again. I'm such a PUNk.

ziiing! 2 points.

No but really, due to my complete lack of motivation to do anything productive with my life, I decided to plop my ass in it's nice little groove in my couch with my grilled cheese (I make fantastic grilled cheese) and chocolate covered raisins and do some much needed facebook stalking. It's not that I don't stalk at work, it's just that in the privacy of my own home, there is no one to judge me for looking at photos of high school acquaintances, or friends of friends, or complete strangers with cool names that i like to "search" for hours on end.

I know you are thinking of my michael "ex-hubby" miller post right now but this is totally different. These people don't KNOW I am stalking them. It's like picking your nose or liking the smell of your own farts...it's okay as long as the nasty little habit stays a secret.

So there I was...searching, stalking, wondering if I am borderline psychotic....

And I start to notice that people are completely falsifying their appearances.

This is ludicrous! It's bad enough that people "de-tag" every picture posted of them because "it's a terrible picture, why would you post that!!"

Actually, that's what you look like!

I understand one or two bad pictures, or if you don't want your boss to see you hitting the bong and then gorging on cheetos while your friends set up a legit photo shoot, but if you have 3 heads in every picture, it's not the camera creating an optical illusion.

Let's take a friendly trip down the FRIENDS memory lane.

some girl ate Monica! 

Shut up, the camera adds 10 lbs....

so how many cameras were ON you?

That is a fantastic question, Chandler.

I'm guessing about 8.

Now here's the thing. No one cares if you are fat, short, spotted, or have fur.

But I do care if I can't even freakin' recognize you!

This explains so many of my college encounters.

On top of being drunk as a skunk during most of my social adventures, these jackasses are posting pictures of themselves that look NOTHING like them.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

Whose the biggest culprit of all?

It reminds me of that witch/princess photo....

"which one do you see?"

 I mean, maybe my eyes are deceiving me.

I do have terribly horrible vision that causes me to bump into walls in the middle of the night, resulting in bruises on hips, knees, elbows and stubbed big toes 90 percent of the time.

I'll even admit I have had some pretty bad eye infections and have popped a blood vessel or two in my day. 

But I bore my shotty eyes with pride. 

 I mean, I had three options:

1. hide like a totally ninny

2. stumble around wearing one contact and make up on one eye and not care

3. cover the evil eye with a patch, get a pet parrot, and send my gentlemen callers on a hunt for booty. X marks the spot.

Clearly, I chose option three.

ARRRRRRR.

I'm so far off on my pirate hooker tangent I don't even really feel like talking about facebook anymore. change your profile picture to reflect yo face, nukka.

srsly. nuff said.

Back to pirates.

Does anyone else have a slight (major) obsession with Peter Pan?

I love it. pee-tah paaahhhnn.

I would give anything for pixie dust and an my own personal Smee to canoe me around.

Don't even get me started on that ticking croc.  

Oh! and Nana, sweet Nana.

That's it. I'm officially going to become a Lost Boy.

I think I'll go with Tootles.

 Now the question is, do you know which one is Tootles?

I'll be sure to post a vague facebook photo.

Guess you'll never know!

xoxo....Lost Boy

Is it Wednesday yet?

I met my co-worker Alisa at the coffee maker yesterday to do our usual "hey how was your weekend i hate mondays" exchange, and she really hit the nail on the head with this one:

"Is it Wednesday yet? I don't think I have ever been more ready for 3:30 on a Wednesday in my entire life. Well except maybe last Thanksgiving...."

My sentiments exactly.

It doesn't matter how short the week is I just can't stop waiting for that moment of release when I know I'm off the hook for a few days (in this case 4.5 yessiree).

Personally, I'm more excited to watch UT rip A&M a new one than the actual Thanksgiving holiday, but either way, I have pretty much mentally checked out and decided to fill my time with some paintbrush creations.

First a montage of Thanksgiving festivities as I see them.

1. Indian and Pilgrim bobble heads. I think I would find these hilarious after a couple bottles of wine. I imagine myself using objects from the table to try to "bobble" them. Forks, pieces of turkey, napkin rings, etc. Really whatever fancies me at the moment.

2. The cornucopia. Why is this so popular? As you can see, mine contains some squash, a pumpkin, and some little dots that we can pretend are cranberries. All I really know about the cornucopia is it reminds me of a viking horn and it was always on Thanksgiving-time spelling tests. WTF is it for? Whoever invented this should go back in time and get dysentery and die before the invention was made.

3. Running turkeys! I really wish turkeys were smart enough to run away. It would be like a big ole game of hide n seek. Or freeze tag. With hatchets.

Which (totally doesn't) bring me to my next point:

Is anyone else surprised at the lack of Chick-fil-A Thanksgiving promotion?

Figured they would be all over that one. I'd rather eat those tasty little nuggets and waffle fries than dry turkey but whatever. I'm really going more for the space on my parents' couch right in front of the DVRed Macy's Day Parade and those $4.99 movies that I could afford but don't want to waste my own money on. I hope Charlie Brown specials are playing too. Okay, maybe Thanksgiving isn't so bad.

Plus I can run my 2nd annual Turkey Trot.

Any chance to be competitive.

Of course, it would be easier to be competitive if people could read and would abide by the rules. But no. Now these people are going to force me to snarl and bear my teeth on Thanksgiving morning.

This is the enjoyable part of the race.

It's a good 4-6 miles into it.

It takes about 3.5 to get past all of the cheaters with their dogs and strollers who insist on bombarding the starting line that is obviously marked for people running a "6 minute mile"

Oh really?

You smoke cigarettes before you run 8 miles, but can go at a 6 minute pace?

You are wearing flip flops!! WHAT?

your 3 deep stroller with babies in it doesn't slow you down?

Your 4 pugs on leashes can run 6 miles?

wow. I'm impressed.Our pugs can't even breathe on a normal basis. Actually it doesn't sound like yours can either, so kindly get out of my way or you will not be thankful for anything for long.

By the way, please note I am saying this back by the 8/8:30 mark. I'm not pretending I run 6 minute miles. I would even be willing to scoot back to 9 minutes if these people would just COMPLY WITH THE DIRECTIONS.

Last year I almost busted ass trying to be a rebel and run on the sides to pass people. Thinking I could hurdle a 2 foot bush, catch my footing on a pothole, and manage to squeeze in between a stoller pusher and a family with a WAGON was obviously a lapse of judgment.

However, I'm still excited, because this year I plan on inventing my own starting line.

The 3 minute mile.

I'll just push my way to the front and gobble at anyone who dares cross me.

It's totally worth $30 and a free banana.

I haven't decided how I will go about going to my parents house.

I could either shower first and make myself look presentable, or I could get to their house all sweaty, take a quick shower, and lay around in my pajamas all day. I feel like since I'm 24, I should probably take option A and wear real pants to holiday dinners, but the truth is that even if I get ready, I'll have to put on something elastic after the meal is served anyway.

This is how Thanksgiving goes at my house:

Snack on stuff until we aren;t even hungry anymore

Eat Thanksgiving dinner around 3

Pick at leftovers for an hour

Dessert at 4

Eat something salty because 4 pieces of pie/cake/holiday goodies did us in

Eat more dessert because it's out

Take naps while watching football

Eat more left overs despite constant eating since that morning because "it's about dinner time"

[insert wine guzzling between every previously stated line]

Complain about how full we are while eating pie out of the pan with a fork.

And I don't even like pie!!

At least we aren't one of those "Black Friday" families.

I have no desire to wake up and the crack of dawn and wade through the masses looking for things that are on sale.

Inevitably, large women always seem to be the worst BF shoppers.

It's like they know they can use their ass as a weapon, pinning me between racks of clothing with no escape as I desperately search for my mother. Usually, she too is trying to escape the dreader "shopper butt."

No thanks. I'll sleep in, enjoying my morning coffee, and explore my new food baby in peace.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving everyone. What am I thankful for?

I am thankful that people can finally put up Christmas decorations without being judged.

Because I'm gonna drink some hot toddies and mount some reindeer.

It's going to be a whole party, so let me know if you want to RSVP.

Rudolph Rape 2009.

Separation Anxiety

Austin, Texas is a crook.

It has stolen multiple credit and debit cards, entire purses, approximately 6 digital cameras, and what amounts to 1 phone per year of residence.

And now, Austin takes my iPhone. On a visit, no less! Is this how you treat your 'guests'?

To avoid intense feelings of rage, I am imagining my poor little iPhone alone, shivering in the cold streets as the frigid rain beats down on the black screen, slowly sucking the life out of my prized connection to the world. Or maybe it is hiding under the seat of a cab, inching it's way further and further into the shadows so no one can see it. Wishing....hoping....that I will come back for it. At night it cries for me in the darkness,

"courtneeeeyyy, why have you forsaken me? Will I ever feel the tap tap tap of your fingers again? How will you survive? How will I survive? Oh, whoa is me! Come back to find me!"

Yes, that is how I choose to imagine my phone. In reality, I'm sure some lovely scum of the earth is now enjoying their new phone and my sim card has been tossed in some dumpster outside of 6th street. So long, 1st love. It was nice while it lasted. At least I managed to salvage the shitty rubber case I keep you in. Apparently that was what I really found important. Now I can put it on my new (crappier version) and have static-ky (sp?) hair just like old times!

The fact that my road trip companion had also lost her phone made me feel strangely better about myself, although I'm not sure why. I suppose I was merely trying to regain a slight bit of dignity and just didn't think about the fact that if we blew out a tire or were conveniently kidnapped at a truck stop that we would be shit out of luck.

Anywho, I annoyingly had to log in to facebook via computer, ugh, to reconnect with the world. What did I find? One of my best friends got engaged and I missed it!! I suspected this was coming around the holidays despite her objections, and I picked the one weekend that it happened on to be a completely irresponsible mess. Okay well, I'm kind of always a mess, but I picked this weekend to lose my lifeline to the world!

Side note: If her fiance would have told me he was doing this, I might have been a little more careful. Or maybe I would have been in Chicago, not Austin. Details, details. He's probably a smart man. I would have been way too excited and possibly given it away. Plus I like him, so I'll let it slide.

This is going to be a wedding for the record books. It's the Irish v. the Italians. I will have to prepare my stomach and my liver for months. Amaaaze.

After finding this out, there were no second thoughts about whether I should order a cheap phone online, wait to get a sim card the next day and use my flip phone, or to just go get my soul back right then.

Off to the AT&T store I went.

Thank God my mom didn't deposit the check I wrote her last week. When I say I'm broke, I actually mean it. Unlike some of my friends who think "broke" means they wish they had $5,000 in their account instead of $2,000. To me, "broke" is when I have $21 to last me 9 days, not including the $125 I have left on my credit card before it maxes out.

I eat a lot of peanut butter and noodles.

So anyway, I scrounge up enough to go get a stupid 8GB that costs me as much as the original 16GB I bought. I was slightly embarrassed that I had to see the girl I spoke with on the phone because a) I was shocked that these stupid phones still cost this much so I may or may not have acted like she was the crazy one, and b) I was in my classic hangover gear--glasses, greasy hair, smelly t shirt, and nike shorts--in 50 degree weather. If only I had my Uggs.

The store closes at 6pm Sundays. It's 5:30. Good thing I feel the need to revert to child mode and hang out at my parents' house when I feel sick (yes, hangovers are legit illness, judgmental judies).

Why?

Because even though I have a separate online account, pay my own bills, and have a different billing address than my Dad, he is the only "authorized user" on the account. 

REALLY? Because I am pretty sure the NICE little gay man on Oak Lawn gave me an iphone and let ME sign my OWN 2 year contract without any glitches.

After explaining (snarkily bragging) about this to him, he wouldn't budge. Good thing I'm not even responsible enough to drive up to the store on my own and my mom was waiting in the car. You know, so I could use her cell phone to call my dad. Since I don't have one. Because I like jagerbombs and tequila too much. And then I like to get on my phone and tell people how much I love J&T and then leave my phone sitting in the car seat. 

Anyway, my dad being the nice man that he is drives up to the store and helps me. 

And it's a good thing he did. Because at this point I was beginning to experience severe pangs of separation anxiety. I was like on of those dogs they capture on hidden camera when the owners leave. Scratching at the door, whining, barking, ripping the carpet from the floor and clawing at the siding on the door.

I was foaming from the mouth, making small whimpering noises, and allowing the rage to bubble up inside of me until I SNAP!

That AT&T clerk would have been lying in a fetal position in tattered clothing if I hadn't gotten my phone. I would have been sitting next to him on the floor, smiling with his jacket sleeve hanging from my mouth.

Luckily for that man, these things did not have to happen.

Super Greg to the rescue! (again....)

Is there an age limit for running to your parents every time something goes wrong?

I hope not. 

Besides, parents like to help their children, right?

I wonder if it hurt him to see his child in such excruciating pain as I swiped my debit card and entered my pin. He might not have seen it since the card went through and a wave of relief came over me. Causing me to momentarily look less pissed than I was.

In other news, AT&T allowed me to put on my big girl pants. I'm now an authorized user.

My mom still isn't.

I'd like to see it when she needs a new phone and they tell her that her husband has to be present. Talk about a pitbull disguised as a  [insert nice dog here because I don't feel like picking my brain at the moment].

So my phone is back, my money is gone, and I'm saying a little prayer of thanks that the holidays are here so I can go hide in a cave and have free meals and relax.

Of course there is still that small matter of Big XII and Rose Bowl tickets that I had begun to save a (laughable) amount for.  

 I'm now accepting donations.

You know you want me there so I can do something stupid that will "make for a good story."

We all really know that means you either

1) don't know what else to say

2) are just glad I did something more shameful than you and now you feel better about yourself and are going to spread the word of the stupid thing I did. If it happened to you, it might not be so "good"

But then again, I'm a trooper. And I like free stuff. So if I need to sell myself short to get so free tickets to these games, then by golly I will.

You can watch for me on the big screen.

I thought I told ya, Imma staaar... 

Kindygarten!

I have confirmed a lingering inkling in the past 24 hours and surprisingly, I find it amusing and embarrassing at the same time. My boss works on the west coast, so 90% of our communication is over the phone. Her five year old daughter is a little fireball and managed to help mommy hang up on me 3 or 4 different times yesterday because ::quote:: "I want to do [insert current idea] nooooow!" I love this kid.

1. She's is enabling me to continue tweeting, blogging, facebooking, etc. 2 points! you get a lolly next time I see you.

2. Reminds me of willy wonka and the chocolate factory.

Veruca Salt flashback, fo sho.

3. She has confirmed that I, Courtney, am in fact a 5 year old stuck in a 24 year old's body.

Now, this has been a long standing joke in my family.

I tend to turn into a real pain in the ass when I am tired or hungry.

I pout, get irritated by nearly everything, and then annoyingly shoot down every idea everyone proposes. The following could be a real-life synopsis:

[Courtney sits in chair pouting as Mom blows candles out]

Mooooom, stop blowing out candles and let's just GO. I'm staaaarving.

Courtney, it takes 2 seconds. Do you want the house to burn down?

Well, it won't really matter if my stomach eats my small intestine and I DIE, now will it? Are you trying to kill your oldest child? My body is EATING itself. Is Dad ready yet?

I don't know, why don't you have a snack.

I don't WANT a fucking snack. I want REAL FOOD. It's 7:30!!! 

(as if this is far past an acceptable dinner time)

[Dad enters, jolly as ever]

Well, I'm ready where do you want to go? How about Mexican?

Ugh, NO! I had Mexican the past two nights.

Okay, well what do you want?

Anything but Mexican, I don't caaaaare let's just GO! Gahhhh;lskdjdjfdkjf!!

Coal Vines?

Whatever. Fine. I don't even care.

(I love pizza. I could eat it for weeks straight. But I will not let on that I am keen on the idea. No, siree. I'm in 'torture everyone that actually loves me' mode).

Do you want to go somewhere else?

NO! Drive!

Enter restaurant. 

Dad politely asks what wine Mom & I would like and heads to the bar.

I'm a lightweight. 5 minutes later I have done a 180 and am buzzed and happily chatting with them and smiling at the waitress as I ask for my caesar salad.

Later, my mom will probably recap to my grandmother.

Her response, "Oh, you know courty, she was probably just hungry or tired."

Mom: "SHE'S 24!!!"

When I was little, my mom would just let me continue to throw a fit on the floor, I believe my record was an hour and 45 minutes or something like that.

Now I guess it's embarrassing to have a child in her mid twenties throwing a tantrum, so in a reversed role, I now am rewarded for my fits. Positive reinforcement at its finest.

Five year old attribute no. 2: I seem to have a problem going to the bathroom like a normal adult. I drink a lot of water. and coffee. I drink a lot of whatever I drink. You know how when there's a plate of cookies in front of you, you just can't stop, even though you are painfully full? Yeah I have that problem with liquids. 

I'm not thirsty, I have a water baby, but I just can't stop!

The coffee is burning a dangerous amount of skin off my tongue, roof of my mouth, and esophagus, but I just can't stop!

Oooh, look! A shot of rumplemintz in front of me. Totes going to black out, but I just can't stop! 

  So, naturally, I pee a lot. But peeing is one of those things I find highly annoying in the office. First of all, my office is consistently frigid, and I am usually wrapped in my snuggie mustering up as much body heat as I can. To unwrap myself from a tight cocoon seems like such a chore. Especially when I could probably just pee my pants and no one would notice.

It would probably freeze anyway. Easy clean up: I could just throw the block of piss in the basura.

Don't worry, I haven't actually tried this.

To make matters worse, if I go to the bathroom, I will need to wash my hands.

Washing your hands 5,000 times a day can get them pretty chapped.

So I have to put lotion on them.

Then my keyboard gets all greasy and I'm slippin' and slidin' all over the place, messing up emails, dropping my phone, spilling water and coffee all over myself, getting lotion in my hair (or is that from last night?), the list goes on and on.....

So, I tend to sit at my desk and do the potty dance.

Squirming, switching positions, attempting to will my bladder into emptying itself.

The whole process buys me 5 minutes on a good day, and I may as well stand up, grab my crotch and yell "I NEED TO GO TEE TEE!!"

The whole charade will start in another hour or so.

The office probably thinks I have overactive bladder syndrome.

Nope, just a "drinking" problem.

I'm thinking a depends investment my benefit my time efficiency.

By the way, I'm doing it right now. I took the day off work before I leave for Austin later this afternoon. So I am sitting in bed, and it's warm and I'm comfy, and it's raining outside, and now I have to fucking urinate. Damnit! So I am going to try to finish the blog before I have to pee. Would it matter? No. But now I have decided to have a contest with myself, so be it.

5 year old similarity tres: I really like "kid food." There may or may not be a direct correlation between the fact that this food is cheap, but currently, my pantry is filled with easy mac, peanut butter, and gushers. Oh, and honey nut cheerios, but no milk. I like to spread this variety of food onto my adult high chair tray and go to town.

Sometimes I ask my roommate to cut up grapes and bananas for me.

Then I throw them at her.

Yeah, that doesn't happen.

But I would like for it to become a reality.

Oh, don't forget my sleep.

If I don't get enough sleep, I am worthless.

I like to completely overreact and droop my eyes, look miserable, and make everyone believe that I really cannot stay awake another second.

Could I? probably.

Do I want to? no.

And therefore, you will be better off sending me to bed than trying to get me to "rally" or "act my age." When I get tired, I'm done. I'm a morning person in general, so staying up late isn't really on my agenda. In fact, if I'm not going out, I tend to take of my makeup, put on sweats and glasses, and but out wine, ice cream, or both. If you call me after 8pm with no prior warning, I will immediately inform you that I am not going out and that you are an idiot for not calling earlier. Call me "unspontaneous."

Or bitchy. That works, too.

Day parties are really my forte, capiche? Why do you think I love football season? Drunken daytime debauchery, sports, and cookouts? I've died and gone to heaven.

Wrapping things up here, please note that sharing is not really on my list of things "to do" either. Of course, if I want something you have, it's a different story. But don't try to touch my shit. That includes but is not limited to: alcohol, fries that you did not order but somehow think I won't want even though I am eating them in between every bite of my sandwich, any sort of attention from any on-looker, and my chair.

Yeah you heard me, my chair.

Just because I'm not that big doesn't mean we can "share" and you can eventually slide your ass over so far that I am falling off. Small butts need room too. And contrary to popular belief, I DO have a tailbone, and shoving me in every middle seat, tight space, or cranny possible does not mean I am not in pain. I'm just a trooper. Because no one likes whiners.

Unless of course the whiner has an excuse: such as hunger, thirst, exhaustion, or general disdain for his or her surroundings.

Does that cover me for everything?

Oh, intoxication.

If I don't remember, or even if I do, it doesn't count.

Happy Friday!