Wednesday, March 31, 2010


For as long as I can remember, I have had a nail-biting habit.
Even when I was little.
There are two things I remember my mom always correcting me for
1. Biting my nails
"Courtney, you're biting your nails..."
2. Using the inside collar of my t shirt as a napkin at dinner.
"Courtney Suzanne! STOP wiping your mouth on the inside of your shirts!"
ok yeah, it was gross when I had orange stains on my collar from spaghetti dinners, but it was soooo convenient

It's been a problem for awhile.
I do it when I am bored, nervous, or a combination of the two.
When I am a sitting duck, as you will.
It's actually worse when I'm bored. I have no idea I'm even doing it until I taste blood, or accidentally rip off some skin instead of a nail tip.
It sounds more morbid than it is, really.
I can't seem to help it.
It's like I go into sleep walker mode, bite off all my nails, then wake up and am like
errrr, WTF happened to my finger nails? 
Who stole half of my thumb cuticle?! 
Why are there purple sparkly bits of nail polish on my lip?!

Some times, I can manage to let them grow out, and then they will stay that way for awhile, because they are hard and healthy and long and you don't want to bite them.
*that's what she said*
But inevitably, one gets chipped or snagged or breaks and I have to "even them all out" which is either my OCD taking over or my sneaky excuses to gnaw on some dead skin.

I've tried the fake nail route too.
I basically ended up ripping all of them off the first time around and had to re-grow a couple layers of nail before my hands looked normal again.
Plus the upkeep would cut into my boozey slush fund
(re: money I should save but I just wanna get cruuuuunk sooo-ho much, ya hurrd?).

But worse than not having long, pretty, girly nails is that everyone and their sister's boyfriend's childhood friend from elementary school and their mom PLUS the dog wants to comment.
"OMG! Courtney! Why do you *do* that?! It looks like it hurts!"
At this point, I have instinctively tucked my thumbs into the palm of my hands and have my knuckles resting up so no one else can get a glimpse of my bloodied nubs.
[insert awkward moment where some people try to UNCURL MY THUMBS to see my nails again]
"C'mon, just show me it wasn't thaaaat bad"
Okay, do I look retarded to you?
Stop talking to me in the same voice you use when speaking to children, let go of my fucking hands, which belong to ME by the way, and you are totally invading my privacy now considering how close to my crotch I was trying to hide my hands.

I mean, really people, get a clue.
I get really embarrassed when people see my nails, which is a rare occurrence.
Wanna talk about that time(s) I peed the bed? fine.
Remember when I ate that entire pizza by myself? ...out of a random apartment's fridge? okay.
I'll even reminisce about that time I slept in the doorway of my apartment (shoeless) for 3 hours because I drunkenly lost my keys and lived by myself and the management office isn't open at 2 am.

But leave my nails alone.

I think I am going to start responding with respective sweet spots in defense.
"OMG Courtney! Look at your nails! Doesn't that HURT?!"

"OMG Look at your FAT ARMS! Can you FEEL them jiggling while you walk or is that just an optical illusion?"

"OMG! Does my nail-biting look as painful as your loud conversations (about you and your husband's boring weekend gardening was sooooo fun until your mother-in-law came over cuz she is just WHACK and overbearing and shiz) sound!?"

"OMG! Are you wearing tennis shoes and a belt with light denim in 2010? Are your jeans really meant to be that high or are you hiding a fupa under there?!"

Oh, I'm sorry, did I strike a chord?

We all have them.
Another of mine?
Stop inspecting my cuticles or your ass might get a round of verbal assault right from the lips of moi.
And let me tell you something, this package is small, but it packs a punch.
And the combination of that plus my brain-without-a-filter-no-thinky-before-speaky quality makes for many regrettable moments, if not careful.

And I'd like to stay friends.
So let's just drop the fingernail subject.


Monday, March 29, 2010

I steal things when I'm drunk

For some reason unbeknownst to me, I turn into a complete klepto when I've been drinking. 
Which is actually quite strange:
A) I have a guilty conscience
To the point where I do things and then need to blurt them out for no reason. I TOOK ONE OF YOUR DIET DR PEPPERS BUT REPLACED IT BEFORE YOU EVEN NOTICED!
phew, had to get THAT off my chest.

B) I hate "stuff." 
I clean out my closet regularly, do not just cram random things in drawers, and get anxious when there are 5 bottles of the same condiment in the fridge. Um, why do we need 3 soy sauces, 2 ketchups, and 5 mustard bottles again? This is probably just because I do not like mass amounts of condiments and really wish they wouldn't party in my fridge.

C) It's never, ever, something I actually use. It always sits around for a few weeks and then gets thrown out with the old milk.

Prime example:
First trip to Vegas, taken on my friend Kathleen's 21st birthday since she was the last one.
Stupidly book an ungodly early flight Sunday morning.
The last thing I remember is ordering everything on the menu in a diner around 7:30am with our new weekend friends, hardly touching any of it because i was still double fisting a red bull vodka and a mimosa, making it rain $20 and $100 bills from their winnings at the casino, and then stumbling upstairs and trying to shove everything in my bag before passing out for 2 hours.
I do not remember taking the taxi to the airport, checking our bags, or going through security.
But I DO remember seeing a burger king. 
I remembered in line that I'm not a fan of The King, but stayed there with my dear party friend Megan. 
While Megan was paying, I stole a Ms. Fields cookie.
I was giggling to myself.
There is actually a very good chance that the cashier saw all of this and put the cookie on Meg's tab.
I wouldn't know because shortly after, I re-blacked out and woke up to a guy shaking me violently and telling me we were in Austin.
I was face down on my tray table in the middle seat and the plane was almost empty.
He said he was impressed. He had never seen someone "pass out like that."
Umm thanks? [Your friends suck at partying].
I slurred something, somehow found my friends, and then slept for 15 hours straight.
I never did savor those chocolate chips....
I found the crushed cookie in my carry on a week later...

Recurring Incidents:
Summer time activities often involve drinking too much, deciding we nee to make jello shots for the pool the next day, going to taco cabana for queso, and while there, stealing bags full of those little condiment cups they leave just sitting there in the middle of the restaurant.
ok I suppose having a salsa buffet there justifies them just "lying around," but really this isn't stealing. It's like a give away, and I won!
Kind of like that time I found a box of fraternity formal shirts and decided I needed 6 of them.
If taco C had a bowl of peppermints at the exit, I might just grab the entire thing and run.
If I ever have bad breath, I just check random purses until I hit my hidden stash of left over dinner mints. Why buy altoids when you can get tasty little wrapped treats FO FREE?

Anyway, the point to all of this is that on girls night Friday, we were paying to get into the gay bar
(if only we had known the password "grinder" would get us free admission! *sigh*) 
and they had a bowl of flavored condoms sitting there.
I instinctively grabbed a handful.
No clue.
But I chose strawberry, banana, and apple.
I really don't get the point of flavored condoms.
Well, unless you wrap it up for BJs because your partner acquired a souvenir from that spring break trip to Cancun.
But that's some kool-aid I'm not drinkin, so it's neither here nor there.

So now there are 3 flavored condoms sitting on my tv stand next to a gingerbread candle and a flask of vodka.
Well, that's not entirely true, I moved the vodka this morning because it was a little much to take in on a Monday morning.

I kind of want to taste one.
Or blow them up like balloons 40 year old virgin style.
or fill them with hair mousse and then plant them in the apartment elevators.

The possibilities are endless.

Monday, March 22, 2010

I don't CARE where the sun rises

I have a habit of going to my parents' house for at least a portion of the weekend.

This weekend it happened to be Saturday. Partly because my brother and sister were home for spring break and mainly because what started as a low key "I'm not drinking" weekend was transformed Friday afternoon by a happy hour in the office, continued happy hour at the bar, polishing off a bottle of wine in my apartment, and blacking out after a shot of jager to the point of not remembering a damn thing. 
Not when I discovered I left my debit card at the bar (still there), not when my boss pointed out the out-of-my-mind email I sent her (thank Gah-hod I didn't hit reply all), not even when I was told I made out with someone in a bar (soooorrrry mooooom).

So any-hoodles, when it's rainy and you can't just wake up and celebrate in some good old fashioned hair of the dog on a patio somewhere, what do you do? Escape to suburbia to detox!
Except that at 4:30 my Dad taunted me.
Dad: "you know there's 3 bottles of  red over there, Court"
Me: "'s not even five...."
Dad: "Since when does that stop you?! Besides, it's Saturday and it's 5:30 on the east coast!"
And then I found myself drinking red wine and eating laughing cow cheese completely UNnecessarily.
Note: Dad was not drinking, just encouraging me

So the lesson here is that I do not have a spine, will drink wine when told, and if you take me to get a steak dinner, I'll sleep at your house, ask if we can watch precious, and then you can buy me lunch the next day.

So anyway, I'm lazy, it was cold, and when my mom said "Are you sleeping here tonight?" I replied with "Yes, but I'll probably regret it in the morning."
All slutty jokes aside, I should have known that very phrase was enough reason to drive home.
But noooooo.

I don't remember falling asleep Sunday night but I woke up to a terrible blaring noise that was sure to be a fire alarm. I had that terrible ripping feeling as my swollen eyes tried to decipher what ungodly hour of the morn it was.
As I stubbed my toe on the dresser fumbling for my glasses, I realized that the sound wasn't as loud as I originally thought.
Maybe because it's 7-effing-15.
To make a long story short, I finally dragged my ass out of bed, made a jumbo cup of hazlenut coffee, and realized it was 8:10 and I should have left 20 minutes ago.
Take the back roads! It'll save you time!
No Dad, you know how I am off the beaten path.
[dad prints map out and draws on it with a pen as if I can decipher his hieroglyphics]

I went for it anyway.
It was going great until I had to find "Texas Trail"
Well that road only goes one way.
To be honest it wasn't Dad's fault.
I could SEE the mother effing highway.
It was right there.
But that can't be right, I'm looking for Texas Trail.
I swear.
Sometimes I really wonder about myself.

I start to panic when I realize I am definitely going the wrong way.
*light bulb*
The traffic I have to encounter when I pull a U turn is horrendous.
I look at the clock.
It's 8:47.
I'm supposed to be there at 8:30.

Now granted, no one actually abides by the 8:30 rule.
But I hate being late.
It makes me feel anxious, and I had a shit ton to do today, and it felt like a fat man was sitting on my chest. And not in a good way.
Not that said situation is ever good, per se.
But that sexual encounter would be less uncomfortable than my punctuality issue.

Of course I call my dad, expecting him to tell me he can magically transport me to my office instead of suggesting I just turn around and go find my exit.
The following conversation ensued:
Where are you?
I don't knooooowwwww!! I missed my exit and now I don't know where I ammmmm.
What direction are you going??
DAD! you know i don't know directions!! This is why I told you I shouldn't go this way.
Well is the sun on your left or right.
[pause to hold up the Ls and remember which is left and right]
Okay. Turn around and go the other way.
It pisses me off that he is such a directional magician.
(whatever that even means)
Thanks for passing on bad eyesight instead of that lovely directional mechanism.
A few minutes later, I am waiting in traffic backtracking to my missed exit.

It's now 8:54.
By this point my throat is closing up. I cannot possibly make it before 9:15.
I do what any neurotic, high strung girl would do and start to cry.
The last time I cried was watching Fried Green Tomatoes on TV about 2 months ago.
But I was really frustrated.
Then the guy next to me in his volvo saw me and started looking at m sympathetically.
Damnit. Why didn't I wear contacts so I could put on sunglasses??
The better question: WHY AM I CRYING OVER THIS?

I finally found the exit 2 more tries down the line.
Of course once I wasn't frustrated, I just got mad. 

But then "Hey Soul Sister" came on.
I had a bi-polar moment and started belting it out while driving along.
I was pretending to play drums on my steering wheel having a complete *moment* when I realized I was pulling up to my office. 

By this point, I had expended 5x the energy a normal person uses by 9:22.

And to be honest, I'm really not even sure if anyone noticed I was late.
I got more coffee, because CLEARLY, I needed to be more hopped up on something.
Then I got to work.
The rest of my day was pretty uneventful besides my co-worker Daniel bringing me a pack of jalapeno kettle chips from Subway.

And that, my friends, is why I am vowing to never sleep at my parents' house on a week night again.
At least until next Sunday.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Sorry Blog

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry that I have neglected you.

I'm sorry that I've let you down.

I'm sorry that I haven't partaken in the tap tappity tap of my keyboard as I watch the words appear on your glorious white canvas.

But mostly, I'm sorry that I haven't had time to post.

Not sorry for you, but sorry for me.
There are so many things I wanted to share with you.
For example,
last night I had a dream that my mom wanted egg drop soup.
we took her to a chinese restaurant so she could have some.
The waitress wanted to add hot peppers but she wasn't supposed to.
So she tried to sneak them in but got caught and the emperor got mad.
we ran out and I accidently left my shoes inside.
This is a big deal because i lost all of my flats except one pair (in real life not in my dream), but i woke up in a panic that i was shoe-less.
Anyway, after the emperor chased us out we ran to our minivan, only to be held up at gun point by a masked man.
I screamed and he ran away.
My mom jumped in the minivan and pulled me through the window and sped off.
We were safe.
My grandmother was also present for all of these chinese adventures.
The point is....
I enjoy you. I miss you. and I will be back.

If it helps, I neglected showers, breathing, lunches, and morning coffee runs (trips to the coffee shop, not coffee diarrhea) before you got axed.

For revenge, please contact boss lady and those needy clients.

Actually, don't do that.

Next week is a new week, and I plan on refocusing my attention so I can spend the majority of my time blogging, tweeting, and drinking dirty martinis. I would say wine, but we all know I haven't been skipping that part of my routine.

I love you, Blog, and I'll see you next week so I can bitch about how fat men really need to wear undershirts. Because everybody loves a nice pair of titties, but no one appreciates triangular saggy man boobs.

Come Monday, I'm lighting a blogging fire under my ass. 
Until then, keep on keepin on.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

"Stressed Out" College Kids

Alright, you little whippersnappers, listen up.
Lately, the surge in college student complaints has gone through the roof.
Maybe it's the nice weather, maybe it's because a round of exams just ended, or maybe you kiddos are just becoming more entitled.
But whatever way you spin it, you best appreciate your life now.
I can't even tell you how good you've got it*

*Does not apply to said guilty party if you are: working your way through college (re: not the same as 'working part time job in college'), working full time but earning a grad degree, have kids and have gone back to college,  law school, any other scenarios I forgot but is actually legit.

Not we got that little disclaimer out of the way. 

Things that are not stressful:
Date Parties
"OMG! what do I wear, who do I ask, when should we start drinking?!"
A dress, whoever is best friends with your roommates' date, noon
You can read laying outside in the sun, so shut up.
Half of your classes repeat the same thing. 
Some don't take attendance. 
The ones that do, you can sign in and leave.
Packing for Spring Break
Fuck you. Seriously. Do you know how badly I need a break? And I don't want to party, I just want to sleep and work out, and go eat normal food at my parents house.
Okay fine, I want to party a little. 
Maybe a lot.
Waking up "early"
Sorry you had to go meet with your study group at 10am, got a bagel and some OJ, and were safely back in bed by 11am.

Things you have to look forward to!

40 hour work weeks
Bye bye tan. Hello florescent lighting.
Remember that 12 hour internship you did for free for "experience"?
Yeah, this is just a longer version of that.
And it's rarely only 40 hours.

A Salary
You will make enough to have a combination of 3 of the following: 
an apartment in a cool part of town, decent food, happy hour money, new clothing, toilet paper/toothpaste
Luckily, all of your friends will start to get married, providing open bars each weekend April-September.

A fresh new look
That 2am pizza is going straight to your ass.

and the ensuing inability to nap.
....even though you left the bar at 12:30 because you were 'exhausted' 

You will complain to your parents.
They will laugh and tell you, "wait until you start having kids!....By the way...when are you having kids?"
And then you will want to kill yourself.

Happy Spring!

Monday, March 8, 2010

Hi there, I can see your feet.....

When I was little, we lived in a cute little 1 1/2 story house over in Grand Prarie, TX.
Thank God we moved from there, because if we hadn't I would either be on drugs (like, hardcore ones), in a gang, or shot for crossing racial/political/generally inappropriate lines. Or maybe even all three.
But when I was 4, it was perfect.
Oh, and don't think just because I cross racial lines that I'm racist. My next door neighbors, Jonah and Jessie, were Korean and I shared my little ponies and GI joes with them all the time.
So anyway, before the sibs were born, I ruled the roost upstairs. It was all mine. Uncharted territory for my princess tent, stuffed animals, and a battleground for fighting incoming pirates. No really, I pretended I was a lost boy from Peeeetah Pannnn
My parents' bedroom was downstairs and I used to go try to sneak into their bed while they watched tv in the evening.
You know, because kicking them for 5 hours and then peeing the bed is what four year olds do best.
In some cases, usually involving a fifth of whiskey, this is also what 24 year olds do best.
I would sneak down the stairs with my invisibility cloak, which conveniently amounted to my hand covering the side of my face.
I can't see you, you can't see me.
I still abide heavily by this philosophy, but tweaked it a little: "If I don't remember, it didn't happen."

It's kind of a cute story, right?
For a small child?
But lately I have been noticing grown adults using this nifty little trick in the bathroom.
Do you think I can't see you in there?
Your feet are showing.
Are you waiting to pull a Larry Craig??

Look, I get it.
You have your morning coffee.....
But sitting real still in the bathroom isn't going to do much.
Especially when 2 or 3 people are just 'squatting it out.'
One of you is going to have to give up and come back later.
And kindly do it soon.
Because I have to pee, bad, and that's a lot harder to hold.

 I wait entirely too long to pee and that it going to be really embarrassing for me to explain why I need to go home because I peed my pants at work.

So I have 3 suggestions for you (in the order of most recommended):
1. Drink that first cup of coffee at home, as soon as you wake up
2. Go to a floor you know will be less 'occupied'
3. Embrace it?
Maybe that one is just for the men....
Perhaps you should go to the local library and check out a copy of Everyone Poops.

Not only would this assist you in NOT WASTING MY TIME
But it creates a hilarious game in which you name awkward people from high school, work, the local liquor store, etc.

My roommate and I have a few favorites we like to bring up but I won't mention them here out of shear fear (poet!) that they know about this blog.
I'm not scurred, I just like to play nice unless I'm threatened.

But to give you a taste:

The Queen Mum poops

Susan Boyle poops

Christian Siriano Poops


Even Jesus pooped.

 Don't be offended,
Perfect humans poop too.

It probably just smelled good.

Has this gone too far?

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Is it here? Is it really....HERE?

Yes, boys and girls, the Ides of March are upon us and includes 4 very important holidays:
1. My dog Vinny's birthday
You didn't know about Vinny?
hmmm probably because the little hound was just too much responsibility and now lives with my parents. 

2. My mom's birthday (today)
Editor's note: My mom, the Stacenator, is the coolest Florence Henderson lookalike you will EVER meet and just so happens to be my favorite person in the world. Not in the lame "my mom is my best friend because we drink tea and beeeest friends." No. My mom is actually my best friend. I
a) she loves wine
b) reads this blog and still claims me as her daughter
c) sends me texts like "So John Mayer made an ass of himself again. I like his music but I just don't see how people find him attractive." or (responding to my twitter post at 7pm on a Friday) "You're at chicken express? You must already be drunk! Sounds really good though!"

3. St. Patty's day
I'm Irish
I own an "Irish I were drunk" t shirt
I love that bars serve green beer all month
I like the idea of making out with strangers just because I'm wearing a "Kiss me I'm Irish!" pin.
Like the idea...not act on

4. Most Importantly, Daylights Savings Time and the official start of Patio Season
I lurv me some patio season.
Winter is really not my season.
Sitting in my dark apartment drinking wine by myself really gets in touch with my emo, "woe is me, I work so hard" side, but spring is where it's at.
It is time to gather with fellow 20 somethings and happy hour 2-3 times per week.
It is time to search for whatever bar is offering $2 you call its so we can afford all of our happy hours.
More importantly, it is time to start drinking my dinner and giving up all solid foods so I can look good while getting a tan on Saturday at the pool.
Or at least eating someone else's cheese fries, because that doesn't count.

My mood really increases exponentially during this time of year.
I am glowing.

And since it's been awhile since I did a little diddy 
(say that 10x fast)

We shall have an ode to Patio Season
The infinite Saturday:
Brunch at noon, come one come all, it's time for eggs & bacon
$1 bellinis, mimosas, and more, martinis, stirred, not shaken
We sit outside and bask in the sun, in the lovely Texas spring
we drink and drink and drink some more, not caring about a thing
our voices rise, our jokes grow crude, our sunglasses come out
we laugh, we drink, we drink, we laugh, and then we begin to shout
Somebody get us a round of SHOTS! We're far too sober, here!
It's patio season, and that's enough reason, to raise your glass in cheer!
When fellow brunchers look on in disgust, it's time to get the bill.
Our breakfast tacos are long gone, and we have had our fill.
We discuss which patio will be so lucky, to inherit us then?
we bring high spirits, open wallets, and the mouths of sailor men.
Where ever we go, will have to meet our requirement of 3:
spacious patio room, a rowdy waiter, and free flowing tequila, for me.
Onward soldiers, we rendezvous, until the sun goes down
And then it's home, time for a nap, before we hit the town
Our banks will hate us, we might lose a phone, but the bottom line is clear
Patio season is back in town, and it's time for a frosty beer.
So raise your glasses to the sky and join me when I say:
Here's to the season we love the most, let's get fucked up today!

My jovial spirit and I must get back to work now.
There is far too much to do for me to be dilly dallying around if I want to get out of here by 5:30.
I have a happy hour to go to.
With live bands and $2 drafts.
Did I mention it's Patio Season?

Monday, March 1, 2010

Define Star

Sooo I was driving sitting in bumper to bumper traffic this morning on the way to work and turned on KISS FM.
Big Al Mac is the tits.
They were discussing the rumored Dancing with the Stars contestants, and lemme tell you somethin' ABCI have a bone to pick with you.
Stars is not a synonym for choreographer.
If I actually wanted to watch people who *could* dance, I would tune into So You Think You Can Dance or America's Best Dance Crew.

But I don't.
I want to watch generally uncoordinated celebrities waltz their way across that stage shakin what they got.
Throw in a bottle of wine and you got yourself a regular old hootenanny.

Let's discuss:
Paula Abdul: Rumored to have turned down a $1 million endorsement for the show.
I say good for you Paula!
Not only is it unfair that your JOB was as a choreographer for the majority of your life, but more importantly, whatever crack you are smokin would surely log you undeserved votes each week. I would tune in just to watch you slur your way through your post-rumba comments.   
Then I found the real reason she turned it down: so she can latch on to Simon Cowell and do something on X factor.
Christ. I really hope they only show this in the UK. I do not find Paula's (un)witty banter with Simon amusing. It makes me want to show her what it feels like to actually need pain pills.

K-Fed: There might not be anything in the world that I would like to see less than a flubbery man in tight sequined pants.  
Except for a flubbery man boasting a statuesque 5'4 build.

Kate Gosselin:
Should be replaced by her sextuplets.
Especially that cute little Aiden.
The twins can stay at home.
Not a fan of that Mady character. 
Exception: John Gosselin also joins the cast and has an affair with his star counterpart.
Reality TV at its finest.

Pam Andersen:
yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
[baywatch moment]
I’ll be ready (I’ll be ready)
Never you fear (no don’t you fear)
I’ll be ready
Forever and always
I’m always here.
Personal favorites in picture form:
when your black shorts match your socks, you win.
my idol is an 83 year old woman.
Cloris, meet me for manhattans at 2pm?
lurv you.

"Until next time take care of yourselves and each other."
Does. not. get. much. better.

Master P doin the do with his doo.
holla atcha boy.

My recommendations:
Betty White
Flava Flav
Geraldo Rivera
John Goodman and/or Roseanne Bar
Joe Joe from Super Nanny
Samantha Ronson
No, you cannot DJ your own song.
Howie Mandell
for his sheer phobia of touching others, this could be epic.

And Ryan Reynolds, just because I love him.
So, to sum it up, I am going to start my own dance show:
Awkward dancers with personality.
Audience tickets $50, includes open bar.

And mini corn dogs.