Black Coffee Two Sugars

Bye bye blog

2010-04-26T19:26:00.000-07:00

Current blog that is.

We're moving!

You can now find my ramblings and drunken adventures at www.blackcoffeetwosugars.com.

Just click here.

The Meltdown....no, not the margarita

2010-04-21T07:49:00.000-07:00

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.

THE MELTDOWN

What's wrong?

My logical response: "MY COMPUTER IS, LIKE......ATTACKING ITSELF!"

Mom kind of chuckles here.

It's not funny!

IthasallthesevirusesandIdon'tknowwhattodo

andit'stellingmetobuystuffandI'mgettinghackedandIwillhaveidentitytheft!

Mom: I'm sure it will be fine. I'll have Dad call you when he gets home.

Me: I ALREADY CALLED HIM! HE'S ON THE OTHER LINE WITH A CLIENT!!!

re: duh, mom, I wouldn't call you FIRST.

apparently she got that.

Mom: We'll call you back. Bye.

Click.

Buuuuuurn.

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!

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

2010-04-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

READ: TWENTY TWO!!

SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER!

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.

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

2010-04-12T21:04:00.000-07:00

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 then.....you get that WTF look.

*That* is embarrassing.

Example:

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:

"SORR BOUGHT THE MAR"

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

TMI Thursday: The Funeral Addition

2010-04-08T13:54:00.000-07:00

***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:

TMI is really never too much

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 bar...in 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.

Whatever.

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.

I'm Going to work for OPI

2010-04-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

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:

Reds:

Red-dy for some football

Redneck Rumble

I red a book....once

Red River Rivalry

Pink:

Papa's belt left a mark

Utter-ly pink

This little piggy

Orange:

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

Yellow:

Marry-gold

for Steph

The Yellow Rose

Sister-cousin's a yeller

Fried Butter

Green:

Greener Pastures

Irish I were Texan

Lime for my Tequila

Mmm Guacamole

Gruene Hall

Remember the Alam-okra

Blue:

Light Blue Wranglers

Hair meets sky

Don't pick the Bluebonnets

Denim on Denim

Rick Periwinkle

Purple:

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

NRGray

Brown:

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.

TMI Thursday: Kids Say the Darndest Things

2010-04-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

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....

Fingernails

2010-03-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

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

So.

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?!

NAIL POLICE, NAIL POLICE!

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?

Flaws.

We all have them.

Another of mine?

Snapping.

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.

mmmmkay?

Okaytahnksloveyameanithappyhumpdaybyeeeeeee!

I steal things when I'm drunk

2010-03-29T13:27:00.000-07:00

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.

whoopsies.

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.

Why?

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.

I don't CARE where the sun rises

2010-03-22T19:31:00.000-07:00

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: "Dad....it'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]

Right.

Okay. Turn around and go the other way.

It pisses me off that he is such a directional magician.

MUST BE NICE TO OPERATE LIKE AN AZTEC SUNDIAL!

(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.

Sorry Blog

2010-03-19T13:57:00.000-07:00

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.

"Stressed Out" College Kids

2010-03-09T13:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Okay.

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

Homework

You can read laying outside in the sun, so shut up.

Class

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.

Hangovers

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!

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

2010-03-08T13:58:00.000-08:00

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?
maybe.

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

2010-03-04T10:39:00.000-08:00

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 it...mom....

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?

Define Star

2010-03-01T08:52:00.000-08:00

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' ABC, I 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 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.

JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!

"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.

Austin

2010-02-26T13:52:00.000-08:00

I'm planning on rejuvenating myself in Austin this weekend.

Int he highly unlikely even that I do not come back with a renewed snarky attitude and some story about driving around with a large black man in an escalade until 4am (true story), I will, at the very least, stop by the snake farm on the way home.

And of course the Czech bakery.

Do we have a problem?

2010-02-25T15:35:00.000-08:00

I talk about drinking.

A lot.

It's one of my favorite hobbies, so naturally, this would occur.

HOWEVER.

I am beginning to wonder if people who don't *actually* know me know the difference between when I am kidding and when I'm not.

The difference is very subtle but important.

For instance, I have 3 very important rules that I see as my "I am not an alcoholic" bible:

1. Sober Mondays*: with exception of MLK day, memorial and labor day weekends

2. No blacking out on week nights**

3. Either of the above two rules must be honored except for special occasions***

*Sober means not drunk, not "zero drinks", I have to have something to get through the Bachelor

**Thursday is still the weekend

***$2 marg Tuesdays, Any sporting event, living through another day

My morning was spent gchatting with the one and only Steph Higgs about our divine dinner plans tomorrow.

Our decision? The restaurant below her apartment that serves cucumber martinis....

That we eat at every single time I am in town.....

Because it's relatively cheap and easy......

And after getting sauced by 9pm, so am I......

[insert long lunch]

This afternoon, I overhear co-workers talking about cup holders in their cars.

One of them mentions she has room for a water, coke, and a gatorade all in the front of the car.

Oooohhhhh. My ears perk. The hangover trifecta.

Co-worker catches on: your car is made for a really thirsty person...or an alcoholic.

Co-qorker 2: LOL just keep a handle of vodka in the side compartment.

Me (not actually part of the conversation, just eavesdropping): YEAH! and a cooler in the console for roadies!!

Errr for when I am a passenger...when my chauffer is driving...

Co-worker: "You would Courtney...."

Yeah, okay?

I effing would.

And you know what? Keeping beers in your car is good.

I even donated one to a homeless man one very cold night and he was very grateful.

So cut me a fucking break, I am doing good deeds around here.

I justified my constant drinking as a stress reliever for work and general life woes

(traffic, stubbing my toe, realizing there is no milk left for my cereal after I already poured the bowl)

Then I went on with my merry way, until about 30 minutes ago, when I realized I was having the following twitter exchange:

@cstanderfer: these PRETzels are MAKing me THIRSTY!

@Bread_Winners: Martini's are half-off after 5PM tonight!

@cstanderfer: @Bread_Winners what is your favorite martini?

@Bread_Winners:@cstanderfer Just plain-o "dirty"

@cstanderfer: Good choice. Dirty martinis are my go-to. Bleu cheese stuffed olives complement perfectly.

@Bread_Winners: @cstanderfer Ever stuffed w/ a jalapeño? or habanero?

@cstanderfer: @Bread_Winners jalapeno absolutely. very delish. never tried a habanero stuffed olive, but I love anything spicy. I'd probably be hooked.

@Bread_Winners: @cstanderfer One martini is all right. Two are too many, & three are not enough. ~James Thurber

@cstanderfer: @Bread_Winners "I like to drink martinis. Two at the most. Three I'm under the table, four I'm under the host." -Dorothy Parker

@Bread_Winners: @cstanderfer “If it wasn't for the olives in his martinis, he'd starve to death!”- Milton Berle

Yes, I wasted 30 minutes talking to a restaurant about Martinis.

I even googled that quote just so I could respond.

Although truer words have never been spoken.

But you know what the point is?

The point is that I do not drink too much.

Everyone else is just a little behind the curve.

I'm in the 99th percentile.

And last time I checked, that was a good thing.

Oh, and most importantly, I'm really fun.

So suck it.

Oh Sorry, I died......

2010-02-24T08:25:00.000-08:00

Or maybe I just wish I was dead instead of staring at my computer screen for 11 hours and slaving away.

Due to a busy work week which has drained my brain of any meager scraps or creative morsels, please watch the following video until I can get my shit together and once again mount my thrown of bitchy cynicism.

"I'm deeply Sorry" - The Tiger Remix

I'm deeply sorry I haven't blogged.

Deeply Sorry.

D-d-d-d-d-eeply sorry.

I'll get one up soon

(a post? or an enormous staff?)

hopefully both

Say Cheeeeese

2010-02-18T09:08:00.000-08:00

I'm slightly hungover this morning.

Shocker.

But actually it's not my fault.

You see, last Friday I lost my left contact in a drunken stupor and then realized I was out.

This may not seem like a big deal except that I am blind as a bat (with cataracts). I mean, I can't see the big E on the chart, it is really embarrassing, actually. Do you know what it's like for a doctor to laugh at you? And not a chortle either, a full out belly laugh. I'm glad my vision is so funny to you.

So anyway, my mom ran by the eye doctor for me and grabbed an extra contact for me until my new shipment comes in. Because I don't like to wear my glasses to the bar on Friday or Saturday. Not because I don't like them, just because I am truly afraid they will fall off in the crowd and I will have to grope my way home and will probably get hit by a bus or fall in a sewer or perhaps try to enter the wrong apartment.

These are also possibilities if I have my glasses, but drink rumplemintz.

So anyway, the parentals pick up the roomie and me and we bump the escalade down the street to Sangria, a lovely little tapas bar.

I hadn't had anything alcohol related in 22 hours so of course I went for the dirty martini. I do have a complaint that when you say your tini comes with "feta stuffed olives" it should not be 2 tiny kalamatas with some feta cheese floating in my vodka. but whatever, it took the edge off.

And it gave me something to put in my system until those tasty little bacon wrapped dates arrived.

I think Red Wine and I are going to have a threesome with bacon wrapped dates this weekend. And then go Big Love style and share a house and backyard, because let me tell you something, there is no better combo in this world than bacon, date, feta, and almonds. Nada. Capiche?

I started this post with some idea about cheese but it's totally gone now.

I want to talk about this little restaurant.

I had been once before but last night was fun.

First of all, I prefer going out with my parents over most of my friends these days, so that's an added bonus.

Then, we get seated next to the band.

And for some reason, the owner seemed to really like us. He sent the belly dancer outside to the patio so we could see her. Thank GOD my dad found a couple of dollars so we could pretend like we were at a strip club and shove bills in her jingling pants.

Quote of the night: "Aren't belly dancers supposed to...NOT....have a belly? Kinda flabby" -Dad

I don't really remember where I was going with this.

It's probably a really boring post for anyone reading it.

To sum it up, I got to eat rabbit, shrimp, lobster, and mousaka which I think had beef in it, all in one sitting. And we all know how much I love to gobble up little animals. Carnivore Courtney rarrrr.

Then the waiter popped out of nowhere and gave us a free bottle of wine after the bill had been paid. Okay? Thanks, brah. Because it's wednesday and I needed a stiff martini and 2 bottles o' red. So then I got trashed and there's a third of the bottle left sitting on our kitchen counter.

And I think I might still be slightly intoxicated which would explain why I can;t get my shit together this morning, spilled coffee all over myself, and haven;t been bothered the slightest by either. It also explains why I just used two semi-colons for apostrophes and would rather write a new sentence to acknowledge it rather than just change it.

And I have also been wondering....are there people in the world who poop without peeing first?

It's really bothering me.

Just had to get that off my chest.

(The thought not the poop)

Sorry for being random and boring.

loveyameanitbyeeeeee

god, I need to go home.

Lent

2010-02-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

I'm not Catholic.

Which I am very thankful for because I don't see how people look their priest in the eye after confessional. He would so know my voice and then I would be all embarassed and probably never go to church again.

For the record, I'm Methodist, but we still practice Lent every year.

I like Lent.

A lot of people say things like, "well shouldn't we be focused on sacrificing throughout the entire year?"

Well, sure. If knowing we should or shouldn't do something ever had an impact.

Man, I realllly know I don't need this beer...I shouldn't....ARE YOU GUYS TAKING JAGER BOMBS?!

But we are human.

It is the same reason we have New Year's resolutions.

And spring cleaning.

And why I promise myself every year in September on my birthday that *this* will be my year.

We like people telling us what to do.

Plus I am giving up sweets (as usual) and it's hard enough to last 40 days, much less 365.

I'm just glad I don't have to give up meat. Because I love every kind of animal you could possibly raise domestically and send to the slaughter house. Including but not limited to: chicken, cows, pigs, bacon (this is an entirely different element than regular ole pig and gets its own 'animal'), deer, duck, goose, turkey, and whatever else they put in hot dogs.

Let's be honest here, I thought about giving up booze.

Hell, I even thought about giving up one category of booze.

But it just felt like setting myself up for failure.

Which may or may not be my ultimate worst fear.

So I just pretended the thought never crossed my mind and decided that with my physical sacrifice, I will also improve my spiritual side by doing at least one good deed per day.

It sounds small.

And it is.

But I've realized that stress, the news, constantly being broke, and whatever other petty bullshit I complain about has started to make me bitter.

[serious sidenote: most satiric commentary on this blog is purely for comedic effect]

Actually, bitter isn't the right word; I feel entitled.

And entitlement is one of my most sacred pet peeves, which really isn't good since I'm kind of stuck with me.

I was driving to work last Thursday, already seething that my company didn't cancel work due to the snow.

Which I won't put it quotes because it was legit snow, but it was 35 degrees and the roads were just fine, plus I live less than a mile from the office, so even if they weren't fine I could bobsled my way over there pretty easily.

I wasn't late. In fact, I was early due to lack of showering and showing up in a long sleeve t shirt, sports bra, and glasses, which, ironically, I am also wearing today.

I should probably change at lunch. But then I would be that weird girl that changed.

Lose-lose.

So anyway, I get stuck behind this ~~super annoying douchebag who can't drive worth shit~~ poor little old man who can barely see over the steering wheel.

Stupid old man! Can't drive! Get off the road during rush hour!! (I live in uptown....there is no rush hour on side streets...nothing even opens until 11am when the lunch crowd comes around...)

When he finally switched lanes I revved past him and sped down my lane, only to be stopped by a pesky red light.

Typical.

What the hell is wrong with me?

he's old!! and it is snowing!!

So I am going to do small nice deeds to remind myself that somewhere in there is a heart not made of hard, black stone surrounded in barbed wire.

We will see how that goes when I can't have sweets.

Which I wasn;t even going to do but then I told me dear friend Nadia "Gonads" Tognocchi about my little good deed stint and she said "me too! and also giving up sweets like every year!"

Damn.

Can't be shown up for Lent!

So yet again, I turned something that should be for JESUS into a competition.

Because I just really like self-gratification.

This really will be a testament.

It's girl scout season.

Don't worry I already devised a plan to buy a few boxes for the boys overseas if I am accosted by small evil Lent-sabotagers in the grocery store or if they come a-knockin'.

2 for 2.

I'm really trying to do this for the right reasons.

But I'm already thinking about how this is going to benefit me now that swimsuit season is coming up.

Oh well.

At least I'm trying.

Having Gas is Good

2010-02-15T09:59:00.000-08:00

My parents recently moved to a house that I absolutely adore, despite the fact that they left my childhood home. HOWEVER. This new home does not pass 18 gas stations on the way and yesterday I conveniently missed the exit for the last gas station before arriving at their lovely abode.

What's the big deal?

Um, many, many things are a big F-ing deal.

Let's start with the basics:

1. When I am going somewhere, I just want to get there. And if I miss my stop, I don't way to pull a U turn for something as petty as gas.

Especially after volunteering 12-5 for a great organization called Family Gateway, which I L.O.V.E, but love is conditional when you are with 30 inner city kids who are being treated to a performance of hard core rap, and you have a hangover, and then some idiot gives them inflatable beach balls, which the older kids threw at my head while the younger kids cried because the older kids stole their beach balls to throw at my head.

2. I'm lazy when it's warm, so I really didn't want to stop and get gas in the first place and it was dreary and cold.

Maybe if I had needed wine, but mom & dad had that.

3. The main big deal: Due to said laziness and dyer need to arrive in a warm, safe place, I had already driven from Dallas with my fuel light on. Which is 22.8 miles. Which gives me approx 2 miles until I REALLY run out of gas.

Which has happened before......

Back in the day when I first moved to Dallas, I was having some work done on my car. Not being 25 yet, my mom rented one, and I took hers. Now, she has one of those fancy cars with the technology that tells you exactly how far you have to go.

I don't even have mirrors on the flip side of my visors.

Apparently, I decided that the little guage was full of shit.

I don't exactly remember why I slept at their house that night, but I did, and then I tried to drive to work 30 miles away when the fuel light had already been on because I was running late, because I had a shitty staffing/sales job that required me to be there at 7:15 every.fucking.morning. which is earlier than I even wake up now.

Insert sidenote about how I love my job, and how close it is to my house, and how I get to dress super casual, and everyone here not only tolerates but encourages and supports happy hour, and I could just DIE here and be just fine.

So there I am, driving along the tollway, enjoying the melodic ding of the car.

Melodic ding (noun): the sound created when a car is trying to warn you that gas is completely out because you are too stupid to believe it for the first 35 miles.

Due to never-ending Dallas construction, I have conveniently driven onto a bridge, with no shoulders. As I hit the gas to drive up a small hill, I realized that my mom's car was not speeding up. In fact, the RPM gauge had deflated to 0 and I was rapidly slowing down.

On a bridge.

With no shoulder.

At 7:30am.

Did I mention this is a tollroad? So people have now PAID to sit behind a car that ran out of gas?

FML does not even begin to cover this.

It's more like life just raped me up the ass then shat on my chest.

[hoooooooonk. hoooooooonk.]

[various passerbys giving me the finger and yelling obscenities into their driver side window.]

sir, I have no idea what you just yelled, but your unheard words are just twisting the knife.

I. am. so. stupid.

So of course I call my dad.

Because he can snap his fingers from 30 miles away and fix it all.

"Have you called AAA?"

No.

"What about the North Texas Tollroad Association?"

Er, no.

"Court, I think you better get off the phone with me and call them."

So I call AAA and the NTTA.

Oh by the way, I am crying.

I see that an escalade has stopped in front of me.

Either a large black man or a housewife from the burbs is about to pop out.

But no!

It's a good looking man.

And he is knocking on my window.

"Did your car break down, miss? I work at cadillac and they will come tow you! All you have to do is call. I can call them for you right now. [dialing]"

Um....well, this is kinda embarrasssing (teeeeee heeeee awk nervous laughter) but I kind of just ran out of gas."

"Oh. Did the car tell you it was running out of gas? Is that feature not working? You should still be under warranty if it broke...."

Insert the brightest red you have ever seen..........

Annnnnnnd that's my face.

Finally the man picks up on the fact that I am just an idiot and tells Caddy to bring me some gas.

As I'm sitting there, my dad calls back to check on me.

awww, thanks Dad.

Oh wait, too bad he really only called to laugh at me and deliver the fun tidbit that the story is being featured on the news and the radio.

I hang up on him and call my work to tell them I ran out of gas and am going to be late.

About 3 minutes later I see a reflection in the rearview mirror.

My knight in shining armor!!

And by shining armor I do mean a neon yellow jumpsuit.

He siphons gas into my tank, which is on the passengers side, and since I am in the left lane, everyone can see that I am, in fact, the dumbass that just ran out of gas, and then he tells me that it's just enough to get me to the nearest gas station.

Okay, thanks!

tires screech as I get the HELL out of there.

As you may remember, I called AAA, NTTA, and Cadillac.

Still not sure which delivered the gas.

I spent 2 hours after the incident ignoring phone calls from the other two out of sheer embarrassment.

*ignore it and it will go away, ignore it and it will go away*

To recap, I do not stop at a gas station, drive to work, park in the "1 hour visitor" parking for the bank, run upstairs, and am basically told not to F up again OR ELSE.

My boss and I never really saw eye-to-eye at that job.

I lasted longer than most of the other poor saps but I'm not really sure if I won in that situation or if they did.

Anywho, I quit/got fired about a month later anyway.

So clearly, I don't learn lessons the first time around.

And I get terrible anxiety every time my gas light comes on, but I still won't just pull off the damn highway and get gas.

And that almost happened this morning because I could feel the pTERRAdactyl losing juice.
Fortunately, we made it this time.
But I'm sure I will push just a little too far again in the future.

At least it makes for a great story!

my motto for life.

Imma get rich, bitch!

2010-02-11T08:42:00.000-08:00

I recently had a flashback of a conversation I had with two of my friends and decided I really need to revisit the topic.

My friend Katherine is really smart. She's an actuary. If you just want a short recap: It's someone who assesses the financial impact on risk (ex: your company might work for insurance companies to determine how much someone pays for their policy due to risk). I hope that's right because it's really all over my head. I like advertising, and twitter, and wine, and dance parties, and none of those things involve heavy math skills.

So I started thinking of other ways I could get rich, but we just kept circling back around to investment banking.

Ugh, I cannot do that. I need to be home with my liquid relaxer by 6:30 at the latest, even if I have to work from home. And I cannot miss American Idol. So that's out.

But then it hit me. I could open my very own investment banging firm.

What?

Are ya deaf?

Ya hurd.

I've never quite been the relationship type.

I'm a lone wolf.

re: selfish commitment-phobe

But alas, I also cannot have that big scarlet letter stamped on my chest, so I started a little side business that became known as investment banging.

The rules:

1. Candidates must be fully single

2. Before sleeping with said person, you must be certain you will sleep with this person at least 3 times (preferably much longer).

3. Inspect for warning signs of stage 5 clingers

4. Good looking, likes beer, no braided belts

(optional) 5. Friends are easy targets.

Sometimes things are right under your nose....

or you.

disclaimer: If you are overly-sensitive, jealous, or generally do not bring anything to the table, investment banging is not for you.

Thanks for playing.

If you play your cards right, investment banging can be an extremely smart decision, increasing your stocks tenfold.

The top three benefits include:

1. Keeping your numbers low

You only have so many fingers and toes for a reason

2. It's good practice for a relationship, but you can quit when you want.

like playing house, without the in-laws

3. Go green

Because we are definitely into recycling around here

So before you go out on the prowl, I urge you to consider my new company.

I will be glad to assist you in criticizing and judging others until we conclude if they are worth it.

In a kindly manner, of course.

Make love, not war.

Because in the words of my mother, via text:

"Saw a buffalo and camel grazing side by side yesterday. Can't we all just get along?"

the pTERRAdactyl

2010-02-09T13:37:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Another time.....

p.s. I was wearing an elephant visor.

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

So get used to it, haters.

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

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

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

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

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

Where is the fair warning?

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

No.

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

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

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

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

I mean, she's clean on the inside.

That makes it okay right?

Isn't that the rule for hookers?

I really hope so.

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

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

Cuz that's how we roll.

No shower Sunday, Maybe shower Monday

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

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

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

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

[sigh]

[almost cry]

[drink it off]

4 hours later.....

[blackout]

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

Sounds about right.

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

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

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

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

Because I'm cheap.

And I drive 1 mile a day.

And I think I'm invincible.

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

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

And it looks good on her, y'all.

So long live grungy chicks.

Make peace, not war.

Like Night and Day

2010-02-08T08:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

It's like a little angel/devil arrangement.

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

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

It's like some weird warped world.

And I only understand one of them.

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

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

In my humble opinion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a) offering my secret garden to some lucky seedsman

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

c) exploring Dallas sperm banks

d) channeling the Virgin Mary

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

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

So finally I decide I am going to answer it.

[annoyed voice]: Hellooooo?

Hold Please.

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

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

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

Uh, yes. Who is this?

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

Is God laughing at me?

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

Then she says this:

Well are you sure this is Courtney?

Yeah I am pretty damn sure.

In fact, I am quite positive.

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

There has got to be a hidden camera somewhere.

You can get pregnant through your belly button

2010-02-03T14:19:00.000-08:00

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

But it's one hell of a tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[insert above comment again]

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

wrong.

But that's not even the weird part.

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

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

Christ.

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

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

See how grammar changes everything?!

You know a man made that up.

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

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

Scars were all the rage in Africa at the time.

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

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

God Bless America, eh?

Automatic Flushing Toilets

2010-01-29T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have a routine at work each morning.

Come in, sit down, turn on computer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Exit angry, bitter Courtney]

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

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

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

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

Excluding booty calls.

I'm chuckling pretty hard to myself right now.

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

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

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

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

I. loathe. automatic flushing toilets.

I mean, really, what is the point?

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

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

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

Not hard.

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

What?

You weren't using it.

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

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

Do you know how much horsepower those things have?

Which brings me to my main point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luckily, the paper towel sensors can always see me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, take your pick!

Thank you, AFT.

And by thank you I mean eff you.

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

So kindly take your water spraying pipes and suck it.

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

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

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

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

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

Just my idea of a typical Sunday afternoon.

This can only lead to 2 conclusions:

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

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

T.G.I.F.

Why I think Red Wine and I should get married

2010-01-28T08:49:00.000-08:00

I ~~jokingly~~ drunkenly tweeted the other night:

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

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

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

My top 10 reasons:

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

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

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

Wait, that doesn't sound right does it?

I'll just become wine-morman

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

Anyway.

Moving on.....

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

I'll leave the cheese out of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Dad is a fan.

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

3. I don't get sick of Red.

red::night as coffee::morning

The answer:

Needed for survival.

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

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

And the #1 reason:

He comes in bag form.

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

CONS:

a. one sided sexual encounters

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

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

So F me.

I guess I'm getting cats.

Lifetime Saves my Sundays

2010-01-25T10:28:00.000-08:00

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

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

I go to on demand and turn that shit on.

Tory Spelling in white wash jeans? YES.

Evil wife kills husband mistress for cheating? YES.

And now.....PREGNANCY PACT.

I have been anticipating the debut for weeks now.

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

The movie started with multiple make out scenes.

loves it.

Apparently these kiddos are quite slutty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's a different decade.

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

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

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

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

Alissa

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

Yesterday at 8:44pm ·

So anywho, in comes super reporter Thora Birch.

I. LOVE. THORA BIRCH.

Hocus Pocus, good movie.

Now and Then, great movie.

And now, Pregnancy Pact.

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

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

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

Well well well, teenage pregnancy at its finest.

Also good:

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

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

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

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

And gchatting about it with my friends all the while.

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

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

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

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

I'm not all judgmental about one night stands.

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

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

A PREGNANCY PACT.

I love you Lifetime.

Liver Shmiver

2010-01-22T07:52:00.000-08:00

It's one of those mornings.

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

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

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

Nevermind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then I had a realization.

My pounding cephalalgia was not what caused my untimely wake.

It was the jackass across the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

He just wouldn't give up.

Personally, I was terrified.

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

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

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

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

And that is when I began to loathe Dave.

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

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

It is really fucking necessary to slam the door?

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

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

So I derived a new plan to kill him.

Plain and simple.

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

No more door slamming for Dave.

Of course there is another solution, too.

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

And that's not going to happen.

So F you, Dave.

And your braided belt too.

Tool.

I'm not really going to kill Dave.

But not because I don't want to.

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

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

Somebody hold me.

Here is a haiku to remember me by:

beer, wine, vodka lime

my liver shudders in fear

it was fun. fist pump.

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

I never claimed to be a good person.....

2010-01-20T07:36:00.000-08:00

At least I don't think I ever claimed to be a good person.

I warn people.

I regularly describe myself as a bitch or an asshole.

A charming one at that.

But I don't have a "filter" as some may say.

As soon as my brain develops a thought it's like a lit piece of dynamite just waiting to escape my mouth. No time to think! I will explode if I do not get rid of this juicy morsel of wittiness.

Or at least that's my excuse.

But this, kids, is a little reminder of why you *just might* want to think before you leap.....

I left work last night in one of those teetering moods.

I could either be a good little healthy person and go for a run, or I could curl up with a fat glass of wine on the couch and eat the giant bag of chex mix my brother's girlfriend made him, which he conveniently forgot when he went back to college.

My loving mother donated this bag to me with a loving "I don't want it, I'll just eat it."

Well no shit! Give me that bag!

Free food is a privilege these days!

Anyway, I decided to go for a run.

Now here is how I operate.

Running in the morning - good.

Running at lunch - better.

Running at night - I will find any excuse to abandon the workout.

I won't even go up to my apartment. Seriously. I have to go straight to the gym and change there because if my couch intercepts I will never leave.

My ass groove in the couch actually cries out in agony if I try to leave it all by its lonesome between 6 and 10 pm.

Sign #1: I couldn't find a hair tye in my car.

Should have quit right then.

But no.

I found a hideous stretchy headband which I wrapped around my ponytail several times until it would serve as an appropriate hold for my hair.

It looked like a scrunchie.

Sick.

Fine, whatever. I'm not husband hunting at the gym.

Sign #2 I forgot a towel.

I'm not a pretty work out-er.

I do not wear yoga pants.

I do not look like a fitness ad out of SELF when I'm done.

I sweat.

Like a 500 pound man climbing 100 flights of stairs.

But I decided I would just let the sweat burn my eyes and splatter the treadmill and then clean it with those annoyingly small little sanitary towels they keep around.

Sign #3:

Get to gym.

Every machine is taken.

Even the bike.

Welp, that's it, I tried, okay SEE YA!

I wish.

For some reason I was just pissed off now.

Some beeyotch was walking at 2.0 on the end just plodding along.

Are you serious lady?

I burn more calories per hour lifting my right arm to bring sweet sweet wine to my lips.

SO KINDLY REMOVE YOUR ASS FROM THE MACHINE SO I CAN GET THIS F-ING WORKOUT OVER WITH!!!

Immediately, I decide to tweet about it:

because clearly, I feel the need to alert everyone of my thoughts and activities at all times.

thank you, constant social media connection.

@cstanderfer I wonder if people who walk on the treadmill at an ungodly slow pace hate themselves as much as I hate them?

Another girl gets off the treadmill next to Pokey McTortoise-son shortly after that and I hop on.

About 20 minutes later she is finally done.

When she stopped she stood there for a minute and then turned for her walking stick.

Yes, her walking stick.

I am SUCH an ASSHOLE.

I mean seriously, I made fun of a blind person for working out.

Of course, she doesn't know, so I can't apologize to make myself feel better.

"Oh, hi. I was giving you evil glares while you were walking. I know you don't know, but I just wanted to tell you so I could apologize to make myself feel better. Okay see ya around, errr I mean, have a g'night KBYE!"

The even worse part is, I feel bad because I know it's wrong to make fun of a blind person.

I do.

But even after I self proclaimed myself an asshole on the blog and on twitter, I couldn't help but think:

She really could have prevented this. I ran inside because it was already dark. She could at least be considerate and walk outside. I mean...It doesn't make a difference right?

And even now, I know I should just highlight and *delete* but I can't.

Because she isn't going to read it.

I know what all of you are thinking.

If I get reincarnated I should come back as a blind person.

But that's not how it works.

It's not really an eye for an eye

(pun not originally intended but upon realizing it, it stays)

It's an eye for irony.

Therefore, my hellish punishment will be to come back with super sight and hearing.

And then I will be strapped to a chair and forced to watch a naked Rosie O'Donnell chatter on and on and on and on.....

All I can really say about all of this is that at least I'm not one of those passive aggressive people who pretend to be nice.

What you ~~see~~ find in front of you is what you get.

That's redeeming, right?

Maybe a little bit?

No? How bout this.

I am a big Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles fan.

And they are blind and black.

2 points.

Foxy Roxxxy

2010-01-19T09:03:00.000-08:00

Meet Roxxxy

A $7,000-9,000 sexbot.

You heard me. She's made of rubber and is waiting to be doll raped.

Apparently some of the cons are:

She is not a he

But there is a male version named Rocky coming out for the desperate women and homo fellas (although I doubt any gay man would ever dream of resorting to this).

She sounds like a child.

I'm not really seeing the problem here.

I assume pedophiles and games who live in mama's basement are the only ones who would buy this and therefore it is quite appropriate for this bot to sound like a 12 year old girl.

Well, okay. I see the problem, but is it a con for the buyer?

me-thinks-not.

Quote:

She’ll talk as much as your real girlfriend or wife.

If you think that lifelike movements are all you’ll be getting, you’re wrong. Peace and quiet are not perks to be had in this relationship. Roxxxy was designed to have a conversation with you. And she likes it mushy: "I love holding hands with you." Even worse, she snores.

Who would design it to snore? WTF?

Roxxxy also says things like

"I'm rubber and you're glue, your sperm bounces off of me and sticks to you!"

Clearly

She's Easy.

Again, I think that's the point for ~~these losers~~ potential buyers.

Pretty sure peewee herman isn't a fan of "the chase"

Let's talk about the actual cons:

1. You are having sex with a rubber doll.

2. You have to clean her.

Well maybe not. Were you one of those kids who had mold growing in their retainer? Yes or no?

3. She has a bra and panties on, and you most likely cannot unhook a bra.

4. Your 75 year old mother probably doesn;t have the disposable income for Roxxxy.

5. Santa will not bring naughty boys toys.

7. She's a little too mainstream for Dungeons and Dragons lovers.

8. You are having sex with a rubber doll.

So, keep playing with your own joystick, gamers.

Foxy Roxxxy is outta your league.

However, for free rides, I recommend visiting the House of Wax.

Public Indecency?

More like Pubic Indulgency!

This is really adding new texture to "wearing a rubber."

Wonder if those wax dolls are ribbed for your pleasure?

Only time will tell!

And then I threw up a little in my mouth

2010-01-18T17:04:00.000-08:00

I'm not particularly fond of the golden globes.

I like finding out who wins, but personally, I would say the speeches you have to endure to make it through the awards are comparable to being handcuffed to a chair after drinking 6 cups of coffee. You want to get up, in fact, it is physically painful to sit there, but you just can't move.

My mom and I switched to Desperate Housewives once we could escape the GGs, but that left the 6-8 time slot in which there was nothing else to watch.

At least we could watch the red carpet and admire the dresses, no?

Um, apparently not.

WTF Mo'nique?

Mo'nique needs to get some Mo'Nair

Although the thought of Mo'nique wearing short shorts is not a pretty picture either.

Hate to diss a sista on MLK, Jr. day but good lord.

This is not one of those "sexy European armpit" looks.

These are full blown linebacker legs.

Hey Monique, Brazil called to thank you for regrowing the Amazon rain forest via your appendages.

Excuse my french, but if her legs look like this I can only assume she has a fucking full blown afro bush sprouting from between her hair thighs.

Please note the following comments belong to Monique as proven right hurr.

In a 2006 appearance on US talk show The View she told Barbara Walters "I really think hair on a woman's legs is a black woman's thing".

Ummm. No, Monique I think that's YOUR thing. I wouldn't call myself an African American afficianado or anything, but I know a handful and all of them shave their legs.

 "I must show America what a real leg looks like … because it's too much in the morning, every morning, to shave, to cut, you got Band-aids baby."

Yes, God forbid we spend 10 extra minutes in the shower. 

That is, if you shower. 

She said she does, however, shave her armpits to avoid "stink".

Phew. Rest easy boys.

So that's it y'all.

Mo'nique is woman, hear her roar.

How "precious."

Now, in order to highlight someone with a real dream.

I just have to tell you that General Larry Platt was on the view today and did "Pantz on da ground" complete with break dancing and splits.

WHO NEEDS PANTZ WHEN YOU GOT THA DANCE

And the recap?

Baba Wawa tried to steal the spotlight by being the first reporter to do a television feature of Larry Platt.

Whoopi Goldberg and Sherri Shepherd were pissed because they claimed LP as "theirs."

Elisabeth Hasselbeck was excited to see a real live "colored person."

And Joy Behar cackled at her own jokes about Larry making an appearance in her "Vagina Monologue."

I really wish Ellen would have snatched him up first so I could see their dance off.

Ellen rocks.

In other news, I am currently typing this post alone in my parents house because I opted out of a nice dinner to drink wine, blog, and watch the bachelor.

Apparently some floozy is pregnant.

Who is the father?

Another "staffer"?

Who are these hoes?

Hey Jake, can't turn a hoe into a housewife, bro.

Tell them bitches to listen to Larry Platt.

Lookin like fools wit their pantz on da ground.

Hat Turned Sidewayz

2010-01-14T08:52:00.000-08:00

I usually try to stay away from American Idol in the beginning.

But since nothing else, and I mean NOTHING (besides Home Alone 2: Lost in NY, that I have watched 5 times since Christmas), I decided to turn it on.

And who did I see?

GENERAL LARRY PLATT

reporting to duty.

1. You knew from the minute he opened those big ole lips and softly said "I...I am want to sang my song about pants on da ground..." That this was going to be GOOD!

2.I don't care if he is over the age limit or not, LPlatt is the best 62 year old break dancer I have ever seen!

3. In the words of @RebeccaHenken, "Who doesn't love a man with buttons?"

Listen Larry, you can loosen up my buttons any day. I'd love me one of those cute little black and white babies with a little fro (hey, they said it one Real World, so it must be PC).

Click Here to Relive the Gloriousness

And it goes:

Pants on da ground! Pants on da ground!

Lookin like a FOOL witcha pants on the ground.

Wit da gold in ya mouth, hat turned sideways

Pants hit da ground

Call yoself a Cool Cat, lookin like a fool

Walkin down the sidewalk wit yo pants on da ground!

According to Randy, he is going to "go buy some belts after this so my pants aren't on the ground!"

Well Randy, you probably should buy some belts. Yo-yoing between 30 pounds of weight can make pants buying very difficult.

Personally, I just prefer to wear no pants.

I quite like them on the ground.

Later this year, I will be touring with Larry, opening with my new single "Mom Jeans"

Pants atcha boobs, pants atcha boobs!

Lookin like a MOM witcha pants atcha boobs!

Braided belt in the loops! Pockets on yo back!

Pants hit ya boobs!

Call yoself a Cougar, Lookin like a Crougar!

Whitewashin denim wit ya pants atcha boobs.

I encourage all of you to visit his website http://GeneralLarryPlatt.com where you can email the general!

Hells Yeah!

And I SAAAAID.....I LIIIKKKEEE THATTT!!!

My name is Courtney, and I am a fruit fondler

2010-01-13T14:12:00.000-08:00

That's right, kiddos. I'm on the prowl, and I want me some nanners.

It all started today at lunch. Since I was ~~driving to and from the gym and drinking wine~~ really busy last night, I didn't ~~want~~ get a chance to go to the grocery store. So I moseyed on down to the Swan Cafe to holler at my girl and get a turkey sandwich. While I was waiting for my bird on bread, I saw them.....basking in the fluorescent light next to the older than dust cinnamon rolls....the bananas.

I really like bananas. But I'm OCD. I only like the big bananas that grow on the front of the bunch. I like them to have that angle on them. You know what I'm talking about? I also like them just the slightest bit of green, not the bitter green where you can't even peel the damn thing and then the bitter burn of mush puckers your whole face. Just a little green. Or at least bright yellow. None of those little brown dots. I like my nanners sans acne.

sidenote: co-worker Matt just caught me drawing bananas.

boy is my face red.

LIKE AN APPLE.

Lemme tell ya bought them apples.

I loathe mushy apples.

LOATHE.

I like em crispy and crunchy.

Pink Lady apples are good, but the texture is usually all lumpy and weird, which freaks me out, so I go with the best I can find.

Bruises? No siree.

So I fondle the fruit.

I could spend 30 minutes in the fruit section.

Sometimes I even test out the grapes.

Gross, right?

You know how many hands have been on those grapes?

Too bad squishy grapes are grosser.

Are you sensing a pattern here?

I like em firm and big.

Or even small and firm if it's dried fruit.

I love raisins.

And craisins.

And Raisin Bran Crunch.

And ants on a log.

And California Raisins.

I Love the 90s.

And raisin' hell.

Cuz that's fun too.

Is it 5:30 yet?

This post is terrible.

I'm going to go drink some wine, made out of hydrated raisins (grapes) but not the kind I fondle in Kroger.

K love ya, mean it, byeeeeee.

What new year's resolution

2010-01-11T17:42:00.001-08:00

Today was a hellishly long day. Not in that "I hate my job and want to kill myself" kind of way, because I actually quite like my job, but rather in the sense that my eyes were burning so bad that I thought they were going to just swell shut and never open again.

I imagine my waking this morning was much like being born. There I was tucked in my warm little cocoon of a comforter happy as a chestnut roasting on an open fire. And then the sun rose.....

We will skip past the part where I slept at my parents' house because I was too lazy to drive home, and how I blew up the air mattress by mouth because I couldn't figure out the pump, and the fact that I even sleep on an air matress on a bare floor with no blinds....oh here we go. Yes, so I don't have blinds. At the exact moment that I roll over I am simultaneously blinded by the wrath of a thousands suns and deafened by the roar of "samba" on my alarm. F U MONDAY! Snooze.....

Then it all happened again 10 minutes later. It actually probably would have been a better experience if someone ha hung me upside down by one leg and slapped my ass until I cried.

I may not have survived without my savior of a mother waking up earlier than necessarry and making coffee. There is a special place in heaven for moms.

And equally a special place in hell for the person who invented the 9-5, which really seems to be more of an 8:30-6:30, which is not pleasant after my intense caffeine crash.

So this brings us to 6:30 when I left. I decided working out was what I should do. I grudgingly drove to the 24 hour downtown, missing two turns in my stupor and making a 5 minute trip closer to 20. I went into the parking garage, wound up 4 floors and maneuvered myself between a BMW and Mercedes who each took up far too much room, and turned of the engine. I sat there long enough to make eye contact with the two guys at the elevator an decided I hated everyone at the gym tonight. I turned the car back on and left.

It ddnt occur to me that 0-30 minutes in the garage still costs $3 until I got to the exit without parking validation. So I lied to the parking attendant. I looked him straight in the eye and sadly told him I forgot my tennis shoes, hoping my sad panda face was distracting him enough to fling those suckers from the passenger seat to the floorboard.

He mumbled something about validating both tickets when I came back but I had no time for that. I escaped the gym FO FREE!!

Now I'm sitting at home watching the bachelor with a fat glass of wine. You're probably thinking, "so what? We've all done it." this would be true. Except that I just got back from an 11 day trip that can only be described as bingefest.

Anywho. I'm just thankful I had wine, because the bachelor is currently reminding me why I pop open a bottle before I watch.

IT'S SO ELECTRIC!! LOVE CONNECTION!!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Hey, hey, I'm technical!

Hello ma'am...hand towel?

2010-01-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

Well day 6 of my vacation is over and we are finally headed to LA. We had a lovely dinner by the bay last night and decided to top it off by heading to Whiskey Girl.

It was a Monday night ad not much was going on, so we found a nice, trashy bar where people partaaay. It was really a breath of fresh air to find $3 wells...even if it did taste like the bartender had gathered a cup of saliva and topped it off with a lime. We proceeded to order multiple rounds of shots, because a) gotta get your money's worth b) that's clearly the cool thing to do on Mondays and c) there had to be some sort of beverage while we watched the delightful *ahem* escort dance in front of the sweaty bald man spread eagle on the couch in the corner.

Surprise surprise I eventually had to pee, so I waded through the fog, oh yes there was indeed a fog machine!, and finally found the bedroom. Much to my dismay a woman opened the door for me. Hold up, what is this loud, grungy, strip club of a bar doing with a bathroom bitch?

First of all, these people freak me out even in nice clubs. They listen to you pee, linger while you wash your hands, then swoop in for the kill, shoving a towel into your hands and causing me to uncomfortably dodge tipping them by explaining I don't have my wallet while tucking my purse under my armpit to hide the goods.

So in true Whiskey Girl fashion, the stall slave hands me a paper towel, smiles with lipstick staine teeth, and then nods towards her treasures and asks if I need anything. Mints? Ok. Hand sanitizer? Sure. Now stop. Shut up. That is not a snickers. WTF am I supposed to do with that? Hungry? Why wait? Head to the bathroom. Gotta keep that energy up before I go cut a rug on the semen soaked dance floor. Those carmely nougat covered peanuts gave me enough energy for a foam party. Somebody call mr bubble cuz we got a sudsy slip in slide to attend to.

I'm sure the escort enjoyed a blow pop with her hennesy when she was done shakin that ass for sweaty mcbeeferson. He might as well have pulled out a stick of butter. Or a snickers.

I had to go to the bathroom 3 more times before we left. It was awkward everytime. So here's to you, toilet paper Tammy, for unexpectedly making me nervous in the bathroom. Sorry, no tip, gotta reserve those $1 for drinks. Or the escort. But none for you.

Get some skittles up in that hoe and we will talk. But until then, keep your nougat to yourself.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Hey, hey, I'm technical!

You look like a monkey and you smell like one too

2010-01-04T14:43:00.001-08:00

After a long weekend sans blog, it's time to get my nose back to the grindstone. I'm talking about the blog.... Work will not resume until NEXT Monday when my baller vacation is over.

So far we've been to San Francisco and Vegas and arrived in Saaaaaan Dieeeggooo last night. Due tithe fact we all have jobs we want and need to keep, I'll just skip any sort of re cap and fast forward to now.

Today we are headed to the Zoo. We decided on some sort of scavenger hunt at dinner last night. I'm not sure exactly how it is going to work but it involved drinking and animal poses, two of my favorite pasttimes.

After a zoo fueled conversation of Furries and costumes fetishes, I really did begin to wonder what animal I would want to be if I had to be displayed in the zoo.

Personally, I think the zoo hater "don't lock up the animal" groups can suck it. If half of those animals are as narcissistic as I am then they are lovin it. L-O-V-I-N. I would kill for someone to let me bask in the sun of southern California, bring me meals at required intervals, and let people pay to oohh and aahh and take pictures of me. Where is the Con?

SO. I narrowed it down to the top 5.

5. Anaconda. Strong, powerful, gets what it wants, does not have to chew food since it can unhinge it's jaw--also useful in other areas *wink wink*. Plus that ssssssss noise is perfect for my Jim Carrey impersonations. Sssssssmokin!

4. Lion. Female of course. I hunt for the pack. For delicious meat. I am queen. My mate gets one serious mane. Sexy. Rarrrrr.

3. Flamingo. Apparently in captivity they receive supplements to maintain the pink color. I'd like to do it the old fashioned way and eat shrimp, because they are plump little nuggets of pink goodness, but either way I want to stretch my neck, flap my wings, and stand on one leg. Bonus: flamingos pee on their legs to keep warm. This would save me so much time when drinking. I didn't pee my pants, I'm just staying nice and toasty. Niiice.

2. Elephant. I love peanuts. I want a trunk. I could join the circus. I would remember everything....or so I've heard. My big ears would be a status symbol. I could make smiley faces out of my knee fat wrinkles. So amaaaaze. Yes, I would very much like to trumpet my horn as an elephant.

1. Monkey. Small monkey, not gorilla. Long tail to whip around, curling it around ropes, jumping to my tire swing and frolicking to my hammock. Oh yeah, no showering, just getting my buddies to pick me clean. Hells yeah. Life would be bananas! (chah-ching)! And if not, I'd just fling dung around in a fit of rage. Problem solved.

Ooh ooh ooh Ahhhhh!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Hey, hey, I'm technical!

Food Stamps

2009-12-30T10:45:00.000-08:00

Well it's 12:23 and I came in to wrap up any loose ends before my delicious vacay I'm taking starting this afternoon.

And I do mean delicious. I salivate just thinking about it. 10 blissful days free from the ball and chain as I bask in the sunny hills of California.

Actually, my days will most likely be spent with vitamin water, in the fetal position, with a morphine drip connected to my arm. But the nights? Oh, those nights will be some to (never) remember. Glory, glory, hallelujah, I'm free at last, fee at last.

Anyway, my point was that I just ate oatmeal. I did it for 2 reasons:

Numero uno: No matter what time I get around to eating, I feel the need to eat breakfast first. I didn't want my first meal of the day to be a deli sandwich and pickle, because well, i don't tend to eat those for breakfast.

Unless I'm hungover. Then a grilled cheese is pretty standard. Who am I kidding? I would eat grilled cheese for any meal. It could just be classified as salty breakfast.

No. 2: It prevented me from having to shell out my hard earned cash on something silly like a hot meal.

This brought me to my latest realization.

In my past 5, probably more, trips to the grocery store I have bought the following (and only the following) items:

Bread

Turkey/Ham combo pack

Cheese (pepper jack or provolone, i switch it up)

pickles

but only every other trip because they cost $3.19 pssshhh, cmon, it's a drunk cucumber, gimme a break.

Moo pal cheese sticks

Pasta

Spaghetti Sauce

Cereal

I don't mind Grocery-Os or "Marshmallow cereal" if it's cheaper than name brand. My only rule is it has to come in a box. Cuz bagged cereal gives me the heebie jeebies. No seriously, I don't know why, it just does. They should put that shit in a box.

Apples

Bananas

gotta feel healthy

Peanut butter

Oatmeal

Popcorn

All of this costs approximately $40. And if I stretch it right, it can last me about 2 weeks.

Of course I leave about $10 spending cash for "specialty items" including but not limited to: frozen pizzas, goldfish, those marshmallow santas, boxed hair dye, and skittles.

Sometimes, I wonder when I turned into such a Frugal Frannie.

Probably when I decided I could live way about my means on a (lower end) 5 digit salary.

OMG, hey payday! Yes, I have money!!

Rent.....

Cell phone......

Insurance.....

Gym membership I never use....

Drinking habits.....

Damn, I need a money tree.

But it's okay because everyone is going hungry!

It delighted me to come home and find Keystone Light in the fridge the other day.

We can't afford groceries, but we can drown our sorrows in frat beer.

And dip baby carrots in either yogurt or mustard, because that's what we're working with in our apartment.

I'm sure someday I will look back on all of this with fond memories.

But for now, I'm actively pursuing a winning lottery ticket.

Which is cool because I get an excuse to eat chinese food and ask for extra fortune cookies with lotto numbers on the back.

orange chicken, egg drop soup, fortune cookie

LONG DUCK DONG

Look prick, my name is NOT Tracy

2009-12-29T06:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, first of all. I have to complain about my mouse once again. The thing is fucking crazy. It highlights stuff, clicks around, sends things without my permission, etc. IT gives me the same solution everytime. Look guys, unplugging it, turning of the computer and rebooting doesn't work. Assholes. They probably watch me on some hidden camera and just sit back there laughing.

as I just keep doing it over and over hoping it will work. Like a little IT puppet with Alzheimer's.

Or like a lazy 24 year old piece of shit who can't muster up the energy to type a 3 digit extension into the tele and say "um, yeah, that pluggy-unpluggy-rebooty thing? not so much."

You can't tell, but I just stopped typing for a good 3 minutes to just watch my paragraphs highlight and un-highlight and blink reaaaalllly fast a couple of times, and then erase everything.

NOOOOOOO oh wait, oh yeah, uppp control Z...oh yeah, that's good shit right there.

[I am using my Peter Griffin voice]

Anyway, on top of finding little things like this *slightly* (re: infuriatingly) annoying,

I'm petrified.

What if my gchat switches over to my outlook, opens an email, and I type something like

"OMG remember the time I fell down the stairs after we smoked pot for 3 hours and when you tried to help me up I accused you of trying to steal the cheetoh cheese off my fingers? tee hee hee"

...send.

Oh, shit.

I just sent that to [insert big wig company or client name].

THAT would happen to me.

Why?

Oh I dunno, either because God believes in Karma and wants to get me back for the sins I have racked up over the years, OR he has big plans for me. Such as unemployment and a resulting change of blog names: whitehobo1bridge.blogspot.com.

Anyway, for the time being I AM employed. Have I told you how much I missed client service?

Most days, I don't even mind bending over backwards and letting clients gang bang me until I can crawl into bed at night.

But here's where I draw the line assholes: MY NAME IS COURTNEY.

you talk to me 2-3 times a week. my voicemail says courtney. my email signature says courtney. I even sign my own name because I like to be "personable" so it's there TWO TIMES.

I have been called everything starting with a C or ending in a Y. Names that have both are less annoying. Christy, Kelly, Callie, Cammy....fine, whatever, you are deaf and can't read, but you are close.

Crystal, Kathy, Cameron, Amy, Chelsea, Brittany.....Not so much.

I mean seriously, maybe you should learn my name.

Please?

inferiority complex.

sad face emoticon.

This name game is cute in one and ONLY one situation.

Our housekeeper Maria is from Honduras and speaks English very well but her writing skills are another story.

My name is forever and always will be Corni. Almost as cool as Estece, which is my mom's Honduran alter ego.

Honestly, Maria is the shit, so she could call me "Jefferey" if she wanted and I would respond.

But this is not so for you passive-aggressive Americans!

My favorite was "Tracy"

I was called Tracy twice in an email and once by phone, before he switched to calling me Jessica, which is whose position I took over. I mean, I know they both have 2 syllables and kind of sound alike...but come on!

Oh wait? you caught that? Yes, Jessica has 3 syllables and neither looks nor sounds like Courtney.

I had 2 thoughts: I could ignore the email and then tell him I "thought Tracy was getting back to you on this" or......I considered responding to his email with a name that resembled his or adding a little something special on the end.

Ex. Name: Ted

Alias: Tom

Nickname: Teddy Bear

Of course I inevitably chickened out (re: wanted to keep my j-o-b) on both options and sent a sappy sweet email back fixing his problemthatwasnotevenreallyaproblembutapparentlytheworldwasending.

This is why I drink.

Okay, it's totally not. I drink because I like to and it makes things so much more fun.

Not that I don't know how to have fun when I'm not drinking.

(totes don't shhh)

Don't judge me.

Tracy started it.

2009-12-27T19:06:00.000-08:00

Well I had an entire post typed up but my stupid iPhone just closed out and deleted the whole fucking thing. Do you know how long it takes to type on this tiny keyboard with fat finger syndrome? I'm so annoyed.

So now I'm not going to wish you the "Merry Christmakkuhwanza" I originally did. Bah humbug. Also not apologizing for neglecting the blog lately. I've been busy drinking wine, eating copious amounts of sugar, and collecting dog hair on my imma-wear-these-forever-andyoucantstopme sweatpants.

Don't judge, I do this in the privacy of my own home. When I go out in public, I at least make it look like I've showered in the past three days. And people must buy it. Because apparently I'm one of those people "with a friendly face." now, don't get me wrong, I talk to people in the grocery store line, bars, airplanes, etc, but why must people ruin polite chatter by crossing that invisible line and cozying up to my "YOU ARE INVADING MY PERSONAL SPACE" area?

Example no. 1: simply trying to pee before going to see "it's complicated" with my parents. I'm not good with soft drinks. I turn into a five year old and have to pee every five minutes but then I want to see the movie so I squirm in my seat. So now I just go before. Anyway, the granny behind me is very nice and I like old people, so I humor her and do a little chit chat waltz. Well, granny had to go and turn the waltz into a bump n grind. She informs me that they saw Alvin and the Chimpmunks: the Squeakuel and then proceeds to start singing the songs and dancing. Even though i told her thats not the movie i saw, she kept trying to make me her little kareoke sing alog project. I didnt want to be a total scrooge but my bladder hurt and there were crying grandchildren crying and flinging water everywhere. I had a slight panic attack when she danced inti the stall and kept the door open. I thought she might be into peep shows, but thankfully I was not introduced to Mrs. Wrinkled Bum. I peed in lightening speed and wiped my still soapy hands on my jeans as I ran to find my family. I'm really into 18-60 y/o these days. Or just people who can read social cues. Others need not apply.

3 hours later: out of the movie, we go to coal vines. I like pizza, I like wine, sounds like a good idea. Well, you know what is apparently not a good idea? Peeing in public. Once again in line for the bathroom...don't "aagaaain?" me....it's been three hours. This woman likes my bag. [insert casual purse convo]. blah blah blah... Is your hand in my purse?! OMG...you are reaching into my bag and caressing the cloth!! Side note: I buy things at target. It's not like there was fur or silk lining in there. It's cotton! The fabric of your life? You know what it feels like so kindly remove your hand from the protective bubble where I keep my wallet! At this point I really wish she had been a guy and accidentally grabbed a tampon.
Amazingy, tampons are made of acid that will literally eat through male hands if they do not scream and release the tampon in 3 seconds or less. Who needs mace?

Example no. 3: my lasting example. When I was 17, my dad got sick of my unemployed ass and applied at Walgreens FOR ME. He literally walked in the door at 10 pm, said walgreens would be open 30 more minutes and that the manager was waiting for me. I started that weekend. Yes, I said weekend. Evil, father, pure evil. I worked in the cosmetics department which is SO embarassinh at 17 because stocking included itch and rash creams, feminine proucts, and....depends. Clearly 17 year olds are experts on adult diapers. At least some women think so. You would think that a grumbling "I don't know" would have been a good enough answer for a middle aged woman wanting a recommendation for her elderly father. If that wasn't good enough, you'd think reading her the descriptions of sizes, absorption, and thickness would have been enough. But no. God had decided I needed a good old fashioned character building exercise. The following conversation involved "bladder control" "bowel movements" and "seapage." O.M.Scarredforlife. WTF lady?! Did he have seapage in his moist panties? Neck. Skin. Crawling. I lasted 3 weeks.

Which was probably a mutually beneficial parting since my favorite part of the job was lining up the singing dancig hamsters, pushig their buttons all at once, then watching them knock each other over.

I'm sure "Mr. Larson" was glad to see me go. Doesn't a 40 year old walgreens manager deserve first name basis? Guess he didn't find me so friendly. Although he knew me. This only applies to utter strangers.....

So remember, cute mugs ain't all they're cracked up to be.

SEAPAGE.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Hey, hey, I'm technical!

Old...wrinkly...balls

2009-12-24T07:11:00.001-08:00

Well Christmas Eve is finally here and now that I can finally escape work, I'm enjoying my morning by......getting up at 7am to go visit the great grandparents for Christmas Eve breakfast....an hour away.

Yes, we have great grandparents still. Due to previous generations of women in our family popping out gremlins at 17 and our affinity to live to be 100 years old, we get together with a lot of deaf, crotchety relatives for the holidays.

I'm bitter for two reasons: I had to miss my friend Mia's tacky sweater party last night (complete with heated pool) and I was forced to get out of my pajamas before 4pm. Oh, and I'm not big on breakfast. I eat cereal because I'm hungry, but a mouthful of sausage in the morning isn't my favorite wake up call. Ba doom chhh. But really, I'm fine with toast and coffee.

If not for my dad, I assure you my brother and sister would not be in the car this morning, despite mom's guilt trip that "this might be their last Christmas." The GGPs, not the sibs. The good news is, it's actually my great grandpa and his second wife, who's grand daughter M is going through a nasty divorce with soon to be ex-husband A that involves affairs, hidden Arabian horses, and approximately $140 million of net worth. I'm hoping maybe she'll blow her nose with a Ben Franklin that I can dig out of the trash. My Papa also has a tendency to fart with every step he takes but bot acknowledge it. We still aren't sure if he thinks they are silent or just simply feels it appropriate to blow a gasket wherever and whenever he pleases.

The fam is actually engaging is conversation this morning. Although I just pointed out that someone farted and everyone dodged it and quit talking. To make matters worse, I was child locked and couldn't get the window down. Mom saved us by rolling down hers, and brother was blamed because he was sleeping. And before you go all "smelt it dealt it" on me, you should know I only fart in public when i'm outside and the wind can carry it away. Just a little something to remember me by....

In other news, I had a dream last night that my family went to a football game, I got wasted, we went to a buffet where my grandpa got chicken fried steak, I got left for being "too drunk" and was kidnapped by a gang in the train station and had to return a stroller for their baby to the stroller station before I could board my train, which I then missed, so I ran home and then went to the bar with my friends.

I woke up in a panic because of how real this seemed until I came to my senses and realized I would have never taken the time to return a stroller. (bingo. I'm the asshole that leaves shopping carts in the parking lot when the little corral isn't close enough.)
Oh, and my family wouldn't leave me. They would take me home and tell me to sleep it off, then we would discuss how I "need to find my off button when I've had enough" over a couple bottles of wine. Cuz they'd rather ne do it in the house.

In other, other news, I made 6 gingerbread men out of a box that suggested 1-2 1/2 dozen depending on size, Little brudder built a new (and quite snazzy) beer pong table, Sister and boyfriend went to best buy solely to play rockband, and mom made 2 trips to the grocery store and bought food for the small army in our basement. Dad did as he was told and made fajitas.

Tonight's agenda: wine and church, in that order. AND opening 1 present. Which is exciting because if it's not booze or peanut butter, I ain't been buyin it.

So Happy Birthday Jesus, thanks for the 2 days off work and that eternal salvation thing--love ya, mean it!

Merry Christmas Eve, y'all!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Hey, hey, I'm technical!

On this episode of CHEATERS......

2009-12-22T12:56:00.000-08:00

Although yesterday was the shortest day of the year, today feels like the longest.

I just can't wait for that big fat jolly man to come tumbling down my chimney.

So I'm sitting here being paid to be a completely worthless lump of flesh.

And I'm reading the 10 most shocking stories of 2009.

Everybody likes weird shit.

And by everyone, I primarily mean me.

Weird is even better when there is a scandal involved.

Especially a scandal involving Slootface McGee.

Story no. 1:

Woman and her husband notice their twins have different facial features, so they get them tested and find out they have different fathers! Woman admits she was having an affair and then cries about it...

"This could happen to anyone in the world but it had to happen to me...."

Uh, actually this could only happen to a two-timin hoe, and if you read story no. 2 you will find that twins have to be conceived on the same day.

WHAT a SLUT!

shoulda done it in the butt....

or not let your husband request a DNA test.....

SO the moral of the story is that you went penis pickin on the farm and came back with 2 souvenirs.

That's called Karma.

Condoms can prevent Karma.

Knockers, Knockers. Who's there?

Holy shiznit.

38KKKs?

9 breast enlargements, 1 gallon of silicon, and trip to Brazil later, she officially is the woman most likely to fall flat on her face.

Do you think they made her nipples bigger or is this going to be like trying to hit the bulleye on the dat board for her boyfriend?

Oh wait, nevermind.

You don't have a boyfriend....because "you loved him very much but let him go to follow your dream."

When I was little, I had real American dreams, like becoming a garbage man or the mail delivery guy.

I guess we'll call you the milkman, cuz you got JUGS.

Can't turn a hoe into a housewife!

Hoe Muh Gawd

2009-12-21T13:12:00.000-08:00

One Tequila....Two Tequila?

That's right, Tila Tequila is carrying her brother's child!

Okay, slow your roll.

Although it would be believable that Tila Tequila had some drunken incestuous relationship and created a little souvenir to remind her of the whole ordeal, I won't drag her brother into it.

Plenty to work with here with good ole Tila by herself.

It's her "Christmas present to them!"

Well ho, ho, hoe Santa Claus.

I'm sure your brother would appreciate it if you didn't drink, do drugs, or generally join a black or cholo gang during your pregnancies.

Hope you didn't get Hepatitis C from your 10 tattoos, either.

Click Here to "Get to Know" Tila (No Herpes version)

Forget having her own baby! She can just give this one away once it's born so she can fight the nasty battle to reclaim little Ava, her lesbian lover's adopted child from Kazakhstan.

Apparently g-ma took the babe when she quote, 'feared for the safety of the child.'

We all know she is lying because Casey clearly is up for the mother of the year award.....

I predict that this was a picture of Casey after she masturbated in a Reality Star's bed, but before she stole her underwear and clothing.

I'd throw that vibrator away if I were you.....

I'd put on rubber gloved beforehand, too.....

That really happened.

I think Perez summed it up pretty well in this lovely photo....

Looks like Tila finally got her shot at love this Christmas.

She must have left some amazing "goodies" for Santa last year.

Although, Tila and Casey might get a little chilly in Vermont, Connecticut, Iowa, or Massachusettes.

Is same-sex marriage legal in Kazakhstan?

Cuz that would be kool.

HIGH FIVE!

Hamster Dance

2009-12-17T14:25:00.000-08:00

My old roommate Stephanie keeps me entertained on most days via gchat.

I got so busy eating puppy chow this afternoon that I almost forgot to blog today.

But she fixed that.

Tonight, Stephanie is going to a party for her friend Jonny's hamster.

Indeed, you did hear that right.

Apparently, a bet was made last year when Jonny and friends fed "Ribs" redbull in order to win a hamster race.

The bet was that Jonny couldn't keep Ribs alive for a year. Today marks that day, and Jonny's friend will now be paying for all of his friends to drink in Ribs' honor.

Not only am I extremely jealous, I also want to meet Ribs.

I have a soft spot for hamsters since my Cairn Terrier "Rags" destroyed my hamster "Freckles" in an unfortunate escape move on Freckles' part circa 1995.

Whatever, I never did like cleaning out that disgusting piss pot full of wood chips.

My kids are getting goldfish....

The Rainbow Parade

2009-12-16T11:58:00.000-08:00

To avoid any participation in the Tiger Woods extravaganza, I decided to go in the opposite direction and focus on that cute little queer Adam Lambert.

Lions, and Adams, and Bears, oh my!

Actually I really just enjoyed this article.

There are so many little details that I chuckled over.

First of all, Adam was a ginger?

O.M.G. you could totally go have babies with Clay Aiken and start an American Idol collection of kids who swear they aren't gay but we all know they are gay and then they all come out and we have a big gay party with cupcakes and good music. And then Adam busts out whips and chains and strippers.

Any excuse for a party, right?

I'll bring the vodka.

Adam actually got his wild side from his first girlfriend. Ironically, her name was BJ.

Okay, now I know I still laugh at the word penis, but is anyone else giggling about this? BJ!

To make it even better, BJ was an 18 year old sista from Compton.

Here's where I got suspicious.

Go go Google search!

Excuuuuse me, Adam. You grew up in San Diego and I do believe Wikipedia puts you in Mesa Verde Middle School circa 1996, so where did you find little miss Thicky Thick?

Also noted, Adam never said he LIKED kissing girls. He merely said he did it.

Just sayin....

His words of advice, "Get out from behind the mirror!"

What does that even mean?

Did you mean out from underneath the microscope?

I'm so confused.

You know he sings Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" while he spikes that shiny black hair every morning.

Right before he lays on the bed and zips his pants with a pair of tweezers.

So I guess you do need a mirror, eh Adam?

Because apparently, Adam is also trying to slip him bum into an even skinnier pair of skinny jeans.

So he turned down Wonka Candy for a stick of gum.

Great, we have suddenly been transported to Biggest Loser Tip land where Bob and Jillian tell us to ignore those hunger pains and go for a stick of Extra 5 calorie gum instead!

Unless it's bacon flavored I will pass....

I bet he is just chewing that gum so that he can go make out with BJ later.

BJ...he...hee...heee....