tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81424030625672483162024-03-13T11:23:33.296-07:00Court Holding CourtIdiots are fun, no wonder every village wants one. -HouseCourtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-68070307060459160652012-01-31T12:44:00.000-08:002012-01-31T12:44:42.534-08:00No Doctor, No Bun in this Oven.So I haven't posted anything in a very long time, but I figured my encounter with my primary physician warranted a post. It was so incredibly uncomfortable that it was not exactly surprising that it happened to me.<br />
<br />
I should be used to this by now, because ever since I started going to my primary physician (we'll call him Dr. W,) no matter what ailment I seemed to present with, his initial diagnosis was always the same:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AqK3NIf9Sq0/Tyg-XoGI23I/AAAAAAAAATM/0maBLw4HmfU/s1600/Pregnant-Woman-Torso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AqK3NIf9Sq0/Tyg-XoGI23I/AAAAAAAAATM/0maBLw4HmfU/s320/Pregnant-Woman-Torso.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Courtney, are you pregnant?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My first visit was at age 16, and while the "Teen Mom" sensation is very much alive, no, I was not pregnant then. Not unless immaculate conception was on the table. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I wasn't pregnant when I came in with that sinus infection.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or when I had my gallbladder removed.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or when I had really bad back pain.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Still not pregnant now.</div><div style="text-align: left;">But no matter how many times I tell Dr. W that my eggo isn't preggo, he just doesn't seem to want to accept it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ulNSvYstGQ0/TyhATgf2mLI/AAAAAAAAATU/6lUOO2nYA_0/s1600/Negative-Pregnancy-Test.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ulNSvYstGQ0/TyhATgf2mLI/AAAAAAAAATU/6lUOO2nYA_0/s1600/Negative-Pregnancy-Test.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> How many times should I do this?!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My most recent visit was no different. I hadn't seen Dr. W in awhile, and my most recent job entailed working long hours in an unfavorable location. Basically, it was not a neighborhood where one would want to get out of their car by themselves to walk around in search of a nice, healthy salad. I also didn't have much time to eat, so I'd pack a healthy lunch, eat it, and then quickly high-tail it up to the drive-thru window, and shove one of these bad boys in my pie-hole at around 7 or 8 (or 9) pm <strike>every evening</strike> on occasion:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A89V_mcFnYA/TyhBKr-yC3I/AAAAAAAAATc/Y_HyeHU5uK0/s1600/Wendys_Spicy_Chicken_Fillet_Sandwich_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A89V_mcFnYA/TyhBKr-yC3I/AAAAAAAAATc/Y_HyeHU5uK0/s320/Wendys_Spicy_Chicken_Fillet_Sandwich_1.png" width="230" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wendy's homestyle chicken filet sandwich. Fast, easy, and chock-full of saturated fat.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">In addition to this new fast-food habit, I had unknowingly become the office garbage disposal. I only discovered this fun fact when my co-worker didn't want the rest of her doughnut, and someone else casually said, "Just give it to Courtney, she'll eat anything." I laughed and took this with a grain of salt (no pun intended), until the one day where I bent over to pick up a stack of files and BOOM!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qvj3numDmZw/TyhC2vXBC1I/AAAAAAAAATk/lnmB3tkwjgU/s1600/Lady+with+Ripped+Pants-resized-600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qvj3numDmZw/TyhC2vXBC1I/AAAAAAAAATk/lnmB3tkwjgU/s320/Lady+with+Ripped+Pants-resized-600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Right up the butt crack.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I tried to convince myself that clearly, it was a testament to my size that I was still able to fit into my high-school pants. (Denial can be funny.) I soon realized this actually just meant I had severely stretched my pants to their breaking point. After all the seams in my pants decided to throw in the towel, I accepted the fact that I had indeed, gained 5 pounds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I had successfully avoided a scale until my visit with Dr. W. So when he asked if I had any "present concerns," I told him I was concerned that I had turned into the human equivalent of Mrs. Pac Man, nom nom nomming my way through my latest pair of pants. Dr. W seemed to miss the part where I described my previous diet of fried chicken, french fries, frosties (really anything that starts with any given letter of the alphabet), and immediately told me to lay back on the examining table. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">With a determined look on his face, he started aggressively grabbing and poking my arms, hands, and wrists. Surely he must have had some brief delusion that he was falling and grabbed me with such vigor in order not to fall; the only reason he dug into my pudgy shoulder was to avoid the impending vertigo he was clearly experiencing. Unfortunately, I was not that lucky and that was not the case.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">After what felt like he had been trying to mold cookie dough into some artistic masterpiece, he grabbed both of my ankles like he was choking two small children. He furrowed his brow, and in some weird combination of honest inquiry and clear conviction he asked:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-veEsAouWHIQ/TyhIEmMgRUI/AAAAAAAAATs/xqo4h3v0OF8/s1600/Grip-AnkleRestraint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-veEsAouWHIQ/TyhIEmMgRUI/AAAAAAAAATs/xqo4h3v0OF8/s320/Grip-AnkleRestraint.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"ARE THESE SWOLLEN!?"</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Wow. Which one of us is the doctor here? Which one of us is HOLDING my ankles in a karate death grip? He had now moved from a look of conviction, to a crazed Dr. Jekyll and Hyde look in his eye, as if the many years of my preggers denial had just come back to bitch-slap me in the face and now <b>MUAAAHAHA! SHE HAS <u>CANKLES</u>! SHE <u>MUST</u> BE WITH CHILD! I KNEW IT! </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">The situation was so ridiculous I almost wanted to say "yes, yes they are most definitely swollen. It was definitely<i> not </i>the 4 fried chicken sandwiches I had last week that have my joints ballooning to the size of cantelopes, it's clearly because of the baby that we have already concluded is not in my stomach." Instead, I composed myself and simply said "Well, you're the doctor, you're holding them, do YOU think they're swollen?" Captain Obvious decided not to respond to this question, and quietly retreated from my now (more) swollen ankles.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Dr. W then left the room, and I took off the fashionable paper gown and got dressed. He came back in and continued to ask about birth control, (since we hadn't cleared this hurdle yet, obviously,) but then simultaneously stared at my other, ahem, swollen extremities:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1dqaOu6P0Qs/TyhMRZAp6LI/AAAAAAAAAT0/KwgKUCFgDSA/s1600/breasts-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1dqaOu6P0Qs/TyhMRZAp6LI/AAAAAAAAAT0/KwgKUCFgDSA/s320/breasts-02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Do you think you have you gained weight anywhere else?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I smiled politely and just said "probably." After what felt like 10 minutes of my doctor's eyes playing ping pong between my face and my possible other "swelling," he concluded that I am not, in fact, pregnant, and that he would run my blood tests and call me in a few days to give me an update.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And the icing on this cake of mortification was yet to come. As he left the room he smiled and said, "You should probably still make an appointment with your OBGYN." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b> TRANSLATION:</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NwlFgNXgKNM/TyhQbflQqvI/AAAAAAAAAT8/yYzdOpmVB0I/s1600/Doctor_Smiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NwlFgNXgKNM/TyhQbflQqvI/AAAAAAAAAT8/yYzdOpmVB0I/s320/Doctor_Smiling.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"I don't care how many times I have to grab your ankles; I still think you're pregnant. Now I just need a second opinion."</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Awesome.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-33252681727132950562011-08-30T13:31:00.000-07:002011-08-30T13:31:44.533-07:00Bar-flies Beware.So it's not breaking news that I've had my share of awkward encounters. I'm also not the daintiest, or most graceful girl--I dropped out of ballet after five days at the ripe age of 7. I tried my hand at gymnastics, only to discover that I was not only freakishly tall for a 9 year old, but apparently a little too heavy as well. I can tell you from experience; it was incredibly difficult to do a back-hand-spring when you fear not only that your jolly-green-giant stature is going to prematurely hit the ground, but that you'll also accidentally snap the instructor's petite frame in two. Then there was also that other move. <b>The Split</b>. Or what I like to call: "Satan's cruel joke for long-legged, pre-pubescent husky girls". Once my groin, legs, and undeveloped hips had twisted into some weird combination that resulted in getting my body down onto the floor, (in increments of multiple jarring, bungling movements,) the chances of me getting back <b>up</b> into what they called "ready-position" was basically next to impossible.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">"Courtney, do you want to try another round on the bars?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Xy9zkVhaic/Tl0cBUFd3tI/AAAAAAAAASM/Gnw4VylvvZg/s1600/chubbygirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Xy9zkVhaic/Tl0cBUFd3tI/AAAAAAAAASM/Gnw4VylvvZg/s320/chubbygirl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Uhhh nope. No thanks coach, I think I'm good just like this."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Needless to say, I never really made it back into "ready position." While I clearly never excelled in the realm of back-flips and the high-beam, at least over the years I learned I could run, skip, jump, and walk like a normal human being without crushing or maiming another person. Most of the time. Sure, I've had my moments where I've tripped, run into a sliding glass door (or two), but I would have liked to think I could generally walk in a straight line without physically hurting a fellow walker. Well, this assumption changed last week. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Around a year ago, Sean and I started going to Kahuna's in Deerfield Beach on Wednesdays. The fat kid inside me loves the insanely delicious wings, and the indebted-for-life-recently-graduated-student in me loves the insanely cheap drinks. The specials start at 4pm, and so like two hungry pit bulls who have just spotted a quadriplegic bunny rabbit, we usually descend on the beachfront bar & grill at around 3:58pm. There's a little surfboard table outside where we usually claim our territory and post up for the rest of the evening. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4PjiAjUMqZ8/Tl0r90D1X1I/AAAAAAAAASQ/ZyKvCu7dpYg/s1600/pitbull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4PjiAjUMqZ8/Tl0r90D1X1I/AAAAAAAAASQ/ZyKvCu7dpYg/s320/pitbull.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"We'll have 20 wings, 10 Kahuna flavored, 10 Teryaki. And an order of fries. And 7 PBR's. And everything behind the bar and in your kitchen. RARRRARRRAR!!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">At Kahuna's, the people-watching is phenomenal, and usually every week we get at least one memorable character who would be worthy of their own biography on A&E, or at least a cameo on The Jersey Shore. It never fails. (One fine fellow affectionately refers to Sean as "O Captain my Captain" and told me I would be better off as a stewardess on a boat, because of the big, pearly-white chiclets in my mouth.) We're usually the ones watching, not the ones who have somehow made a spectacle of themselves. However, on this fateful day, one little unsuspecting blonde patron had no idea that one of these two pit bulls was about to (unintentionally) be <b>ALL. UP.</b> in her grill.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">About half-way into a fun yet uneventful Wednesday evening, nature called, as it so often does once you start drinking, and so I figured I should probably answer. As soon as I began walking (a straight line, mind you), I realized nature wasn't just calling. It was more like nature had become that psycho ex-girlfriend that was calling, texting, and pressing *67 and then calling again. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Q0gU2AY3wQ/Tl02LjN9VTI/AAAAAAAAASU/qoj4LgWmSOo/s1600/girlonphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Q0gU2AY3wQ/Tl02LjN9VTI/AAAAAAAAASU/qoj4LgWmSOo/s1600/girlonphone.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">ring ring. RING RING RING. <b>RING RING RING!!!!</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was somehow tactfully (and very quickly) maneuvering my way through this crowd of people when I heard someone call my name from the bar. At this point, my<i> mind</i> understood that my whole body had to slightly pause in order for me to turn my head and acknowledge whoever had shouted my name. But apparently, my <i>legs</i> didn't get the memo--they kept moving since they had sensed the, ahem, impending urgency.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Here was where it all went downhill. so. very. fast. As my legs continued walking, my head caught up with the situation that I had to keep my eyes on the prize. I quickly turned my head so I could be looking where I was walking, so as not to run into my fellow bar-goers. Unfortunately, that is <b>EXACTLY </b>what I did. This poor, unassuming blonde girl had just moved directly into my line of fire. But not only did I nearly trample this girl, our foreheads collided in a swift, violent way that could only be described...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mmMbbGnTQAE/Tl1DVo8MD7I/AAAAAAAAASY/XxR5HZQW4Vs/s1600/headbutt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mmMbbGnTQAE/Tl1DVo8MD7I/AAAAAAAAASY/XxR5HZQW4Vs/s320/headbutt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">as a full-throttled <b>HEAD-BUTT.</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had quite literally just headbutted another girl. In the animal world, I'm pretty sure this is how fatal fights typically begin. Luckily, we were both too stunned to engage in any kind of battle. And even luckier for me, said girl was three-sheets to the wind, and just died laughing where she stood. I was still incredibly mortified, and had begun to apologize profusely...but then nature began to violently push the re-dial button. By the time I had gotten the words "OHMYGODI'MSOSORRY, I'MACLUMSYMORON" out of my mouth, she had stumbled her way out of the front door, and my legs had moved me toward the much-needed destination.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was pretty much traumatized for the rest of that evening, and was terrified to go back inside: I had the fear I would either A) accidentally assault someone else with my forehead B) run into (no pun intended) the same little blonde girl I had slammed with my big head earlier that evening. From now on, I will always look where I'm going, and make sure all body parts are accounted for when doing so.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-48020134647909726642011-07-08T08:54:00.000-07:002011-07-08T10:01:32.872-07:005 Most Common Phrases a (Recent) Graduate Student Does Not Want to HearLet me just preface this post with a) I haven't blogged in about a year (oops), and b) if you are one of my friends and/or family members who have used one of these following phrases, do not fear. I know you are asking in my best interest and you want to know how things are going. Plus, most of these questions are from acquaintances, friends of friends, etc. Either way, I will not come at you like a spider monkey--I have just simply noticed a common trend in the kinds of questions I have received in the last 2 months since I was released into the wild world of post-academic life.<br />
<br />
That having been said, here are the 5 most common phrases (or questions), in descending order, that I have encountered over and over again. <b>Most Importantly</b> I don't want this to be a post that makes you scared to ask me how things are going, it is supposed to be funny (I hope) and I've found that other graduates have experienced similar situations, and I promise I'm not actually getting upset! If anything I'm thankful to have friends and family who are checking up on me, so take this with a grain of salt :)<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">5. "Oh my gosh CONGRATULATIONS! So where are you living now?"</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
Here is the exact moment where I fight to completely steal Nick Swardson's "well I live with my roommates" schtick from Grandma's Boy. Instead, I swallow a little bit of my pride, and say "Well, I've moved back home and I'm living with my mom for the time being." Hey, times are tough and I have graduate school loans coming back to me. Unfortunately, I'm starting to think that "moving back home" in this generation tends to connote ideas of Will Ferrell or John C. Reilly in "Stepbrothers," where these fine gentlemen, well, never really leave the nest.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZpyYY3mloi0/ThZ669hrLeI/AAAAAAAAAQk/HfqJ2MY2wnY/s1600/StepBrothers_9lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZpyYY3mloi0/ThZ669hrLeI/AAAAAAAAAQk/HfqJ2MY2wnY/s320/StepBrothers_9lg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Yes, I am living with my mom. But at least I don't have to share my fancy sauce.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Trust me, I've left the nest-- about three times since I was 14. Instead of the baby-turned-big-bird that never leaves the nest, I like to think I'm more like a full-sized falcon that just migrates for a couple of years at a time, and happens to fly back to home base.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uIRO12_pIXI/ThcR3QdcPlI/AAAAAAAAAQo/tNJxNvo6dCU/s1600/bigbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uIRO12_pIXI/ThcR3QdcPlI/AAAAAAAAAQo/tNJxNvo6dCU/s320/bigbird.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I'm just brushing up on my interview techniques"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">4. "So what's next? Are you going to be like that guy on CSI, or that little Asian guy on Law and Order: SVU that analyzes criminal behavior?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">In short: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UDhGL-60G4w/ThcTJq5GGqI/AAAAAAAAAQs/9uZ_Q5dtz5U/s1600/bdwong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UDhGL-60G4w/ThcTJq5GGqI/AAAAAAAAAQs/9uZ_Q5dtz5U/s1600/bdwong.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Nope.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FOknwftYN9A/ThcTRKeSIpI/AAAAAAAAAQw/avDonnL1EK4/s1600/csi_miami_w573_h_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FOknwftYN9A/ThcTRKeSIpI/AAAAAAAAAQw/avDonnL1EK4/s320/csi_miami_w573_h_m.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And nope. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Trust me, there's a reason they're TV shows. But after awhile, I've just stopped saying "nah B.D. Wong is a Forensic Psychiatrist who works for the FBI. I haven't gone to med school, and I only have my Bachelor's in Psychology." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wwLmJe9rTco/Thceis1dFyI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/V3mVOyJphsc/s1600/benson+stabler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wwLmJe9rTco/Thceis1dFyI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/V3mVOyJphsc/s1600/benson+stabler.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Now I just say, "Exactly, and I work with Benson and Stabler."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">*I only use that one if I don't think I'll ever see that person again, or at least within a time frame where I'll actually have a job and we can laugh about it in the future. That is, if they don't think it's an awful joke/think I'm living in a fantasy land where I report to Captain Cragen every morning and have coffee with Detective Munch. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>3. "Oh, well have you sent out any resume's?"</b></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nope, I'm just waiting for my awesome, dream job to fall into my lap. I go to career fairs and resume-builder workshops just to pass the time and enjoy the free punch and delicious pecan sandies. I don't know if anyone reading this is currently in the process of the job-search, but sending out resumes is kinda like throwing an old-school boomerang. I have yet to meet a person who can legitimately throw a boomerang and have it come back to them in a perfect U-shape the way it does in cartoons. My depth perception, (in combination with my awesome dexterity), would usually result in the boomerang just flying in some awkward direction, or getting caught in a tree, never to be seen again. If anyone has seen me attempt to throw a frisbee, it's kind of the same deal.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1ubkNZAAd_8/ThcW36T-q1I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/pu0acYI61z8/s1600/boomerang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1ubkNZAAd_8/ThcW36T-q1I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/pu0acYI61z8/s320/boomerang.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm pretty sure this is where my resume's go^</div><div style="text-align: center;">(The caption on google images was literally "the boomerang eating tree")</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Trust me, the resume's have gone out. Sometimes I am just curious if they are actually reaching the employer, or if they are just getting sucked into a black hole somewhere in the universe-- possibly to the same place where my missing socks that I thought the dryer ate seem to go.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>2. "Don't worry! The economy will turn around. If anything, there's probably MORE crime now since the economy is so bad."</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">This gem usually comes after the awkward back-and-forth where you explain you don't have a job yet. At this point the poor soul asking me about said job has probably noticed the beads of sweat rolling down the sides of my face, the fact that my mouth is as dry as a bowl full of cotton that's made out of hay, and they are trying to pacify me after they've realized that 5 previous people have asked me the exact same question in the last 20 minutes. I've heard this one so many times I think <strike>my mom</strike> my roommate is going to start following me with a poster-sized board that just simply says: "CHANGE THE SUBJECT!" Either that, or maybe she'll just start breaking into cars around the neighborhood with a crowbar to make me feel a little better. Sometimes you just need a little visible evidence that there is indeed crime.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jt7aM_zfqPM/ThclEjqe9kI/AAAAAAAAARA/mUFGw8z-d3I/s1600/car-break-in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jt7aM_zfqPM/ThclEjqe9kI/AAAAAAAAARA/mUFGw8z-d3I/s320/car-break-in.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Don't worry honey, there's a TON of crime in this neighborhood! just look out your window at your car!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>1. "How is the job-search going?"</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is usually the first question. This one is also the doozie. Chances are if you're talking to me on the phone on a Tuesday at around 2 pm, I'm still searching. Asking someone without a job how the job search is going is kind of like asking a guy in a sinking canoe without paddles if he has installed his twin 165 Evinrude motors yet.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6alXzoNV7xk/ThcmyzdbgQI/AAAAAAAAARE/ja26VKHZZrM/s1600/sinking+canoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6alXzoNV7xk/ThcmyzdbgQI/AAAAAAAAARE/ja26VKHZZrM/s320/sinking+canoe.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Where's that woman with the crowbar? we could use that as a paddle, right?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ok, so that's a little dramatic. I am not sinking. But I think anyone who has been in the job-market recently can tell you--this economy stinks a little right now. I scoffed when one of my graduate professors snickered at the idea that I didn't want to stay for a doctorate. He rolled his eyes, laughed, and simply said "Wow, well let's hope this economy turns around for you." Well, I'm staying optimistic and keeping my head up. The hard work will pay off. But if you happen to notice a woman in your driveway who resembles my mom, breaking into your car with a crowbar and knocking out your headlights--don't fret. She's just simply trying to keep her <strike>daughter's</strike> roommate's career full of promise.</div></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-14805628050441394352010-08-17T10:46:00.000-07:002010-08-17T10:46:10.516-07:00Orientation & Parking for Schmuck'sSo I've completely neglected this blog for an insane amount of time. I hadn't even really thought about it until last week when I was informed that I hadn't updated it in a long time, and then my good friend Katie called yesterday and said "I just wanted to make sure you're alive, I haven't talked to you in awhile and you haven't even updated your blog or anything!" And my first thought was....people really read this? That's exciting!!<br />
<br />
I'm now back up in Tallahassee getting ready to start my second year of grad school at FSU (holy. crap.) Some of the older and wiser students in my program asked that I be on the discussion panel for the new Criminology Grad Student Orientation. Ironically, Kristin, who is actually one of the few people who read my blog, approached me yesterday before the panel, because consequently she had read about my teensy-weensy fear of public speaking. But, I did my best, sucked it up and sat down in front of those new students ready to answer any and all questions and <s>tried my very hardest not to pee in my pants</s> sounded totally professional.<br />
<br />
I do not believe my voice hit the octaves of a small chipmunk like it normally would, but I didn't realize until halfway through the panel that I prefaced most of my answers with "When I first came here, I was terrified" or "I was intimidated" or "I was a big fat pansy" (that last one wasn't true but it might as well have been). By the end I wasn't quite sure if I came off as down-to-earth and empathetic to their circumstances, or just some nut who is apparently scared of any and ALL of her surroundings. Awesome. Maybe if anything I gave them a little ego boost, considering I was a 24 year old, second year grad student shaking in her chair.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGq9bsV8hlI/AAAAAAAAAPA/tcuRv6IRiYk/s1600/scared+little+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGq9bsV8hlI/AAAAAAAAAPA/tcuRv6IRiYk/s320/scared+little+girl.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"You have questions!?!? For ME!?"</div><br />
On a more positive note, while they were asking questions we came across the issue of parking on campus. My friend Alex had sent me a a funny <a href="http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/">text from last night</a> last year when I first got here that said "You have a better chance of catching an STD than finding parking at FSU." Luckily I cannot confirm this statement, but that gives you an idea of how difficult it is for me to shimmy my little Jetta into an open spot.<br />
<br />
This conversation gave me the opportunity to make <s>myself look like an even bigger asshole </s>some of the new students laugh (maybe they felt like they had to, but for the time being I'm just going to convince myself it was a funny story because it helps me sleep better at night). I gave them the abridged version of my parking horror story, but lucky you, because I will give you the full version here! So within my first week of school, I discovered that if I wanted to get a spot for my 11 AM class, I needed to get to campus at 830, or just aimlessly circle the same parking lot until some undergraduates began to get out of their classes. Well, one fine morning I had gotten out of my 830 class, and was trying to remember if I had parked on the 3rd or 4th floor, when this nice couple in a white sedan pulled up beside me and said:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGq-lpQ4QwI/AAAAAAAAAPI/S4-4D5vE790/s1600/teens-in-car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGq-lpQ4QwI/AAAAAAAAAPI/S4-4D5vE790/s320/teens-in-car.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Would you like us to drive you to your car, and then we'll just take your spot?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">FSU had a Chauffeur service!? How nice! What a polite, unassuming couple! After I hopped into the backseat I quickly remembered "You moron...you're now a criminology major, and you're jumping into a strange car" I felt like this is how bad Lifetime movies begin...an unsuspecting girl unknowingly getting into a Bonnie & Clyde-like situation. Oh well, too late now. So I cheerfully said, "I'm on the 4th floor" and they began their ascent to find *Tedarius.</div><div style="text-align: left;">*Tedarius is the name of my Jetta, in case you didn't know.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, imagine my surprise when we get to the 4th floor and....no Tedarius. I apologize sheepishly and say "it must be on the other ramp, or maybe on the 3rd floor." So we begin to head down to the next ramp and wouldn't ya know it....still no car. I am now frantically pushing my automatic car key, looking for any shimmer of a flashing light or a faint "beep beep", secretly wishing the key had an eject button and not a remote control trunk-opener. Who REALLY needs those anyway?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrI-R0C3oI/AAAAAAAAAPo/j6JGqxShY38/s1600/woman-car-keys-buying-3916692-200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrI-R0C3oI/AAAAAAAAAPo/j6JGqxShY38/s320/woman-car-keys-buying-3916692-200x300.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"I'm smiling but I'm about to have a nervous breakdown. SHOW YOURSELF, TEDARIUS!!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Before I knew it, we had literally circled the parking garage a whopping three times. We had now passed the appropriate conversation that one would have when put in the awkward situation of a strange couple driving you to your phantom vehicle. And then the unthinkable happened. The young woman looks over at the guy driving and "whispers" loud enough so I can hear:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrCRxd7A3I/AAAAAAAAAPQ/Xok-pdI-0sk/s1600/whisper+in+ear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrCRxd7A3I/AAAAAAAAAPQ/Xok-pdI-0sk/s320/whisper+in+ear.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Honey, I'm going to be late for class, I hope you find this girl's car but I actually have to get out soon."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>WHAT!?</b> So now I was going to be in the car, in the backseat, with <b>JUST</b> this strange boy? His girlfriend got out of the car, smiled at me, but then shot me this look that said "I pity you like a small child that is lost in a mall, but clearly you must be a moron."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We continued to circle the parking garage, while he asked me questions that were lined with a hint of skepticism, such as: "are you sure you parked in this garage?" "What kind of car do you have again?" "Are you a couple fries short of a Happy Meal?" First I felt panic, then embarrassment, then the "holy crap" fear that my car might be stolen. I must have crossed over into delirium because for a brief moment I thought to myself...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrDWlQjj8I/AAAAAAAAAPY/_SA5UKjOI7o/s1600/cash+cab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrDWlQjj8I/AAAAAAAAAPY/_SA5UKjOI7o/s320/cash+cab.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"OH. MY. GOD. I bet this is a joke and I'm ACTUALLY in the Cash Cab!!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As the sane part of my brain started to slip away and I waited for the disco lights to illuminate the ceiling, I quickly took notice of the scowl on the boy's face in the review mirror. Clearly he was not Ben Bailey and I was not in the cash cab. I also watched as OTHER multiple cars pulled out of spots...and his chances of finding a spot slipped away...and my chances of being a victim of parking lot road-rage dramatically increased. BUT THEN, just when I thought I was going to have to tuck-and-roll it out of there, I saw a glimmer of hope on the ramp between the 3rd and 4th floor. That faint "beep beep" in the distance!! I had found Tedarius!!! I didn't even wait for him to get within 50 ft of my car. I apologized profusely, thanked him immensely, grabbed my bag and what was left of sanity/dignity and high-tailed it over to my little elusive German car. I nearly fell over myself trying to get into it, and reversed out of my spot at probably 60 mph, and I sheepishly waved in my rearview mirror to the now 10-minutes-late-for-class Good Samaritan.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Moral of my story: If you are actually going to accept a ride from some poor soul just desperate for a parking spot, make sure you at least know where you've parked your car....don't get cocky. You may have been smart enough to get into one tough graduate program....doesn't mean you're brilliant enough to find your car in a small, 5 level parking garage.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrGz386zlI/AAAAAAAAAPg/xo8VXQFD4QI/s1600/dunce2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TGrGz386zlI/AAAAAAAAAPg/xo8VXQFD4QI/s320/dunce2.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">I is a graduate student.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-70632502177268436702010-07-03T12:32:00.000-07:002010-07-03T12:32:58.297-07:00FEAR.<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Soooooo I've pretty much failed the 28 day blog challenge, but who likes being restricted to one category per day anyway? Apparently, not me. I apologize to all of my dedicated followers, <strike>all 12 of you, (...also just realized one of my followers is actually myself...)</strike> all 11 of you, because I have completely neglected this blog. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">While I was in an elevator the other day, Lisa and I were reminiscing about the time she got stuck in an elevator by herself, and in a fit of hysteria, jumped out from the cart and nearly broke her ankles--apparently the claustrophobia was worse than the clearly safer 10 ft jump into the lobby. This got me thinking about fears. My mother was a daredevil when she was younger, and now we call her Chicken Little. This is no exaggeration. It has gotten to the point that when it starts merely drizzling, she thinks the sky is falling, or that the Apocalypse may be imminent.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC940TyG8II/AAAAAAAAAOQ/t3ZtdRbKgTg/s1600/chicken-little-sky-falling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC940TyG8II/AAAAAAAAAOQ/t3ZtdRbKgTg/s320/chicken-little-sky-falling.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center">"OH. MY. GOD. Court, have you looked outside!? It's POURING! Do we need the storm shutters? Did Hurricane season come early? Are we safe? Is it flooding? Do we need a lifeboat? Is the sky ACTUALLY falling on us!?"</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="left">While many of my mom's fears are completely irrational, it made me assess my own fears. In life, I can safely say that I have two, insanely paralyzing, intense, want-to-throw-up-whatever-is-in-my-stomach fears. This first lovely category is comprised of <strong>CLOWNS</strong>. Well, clowns, dolls, puppets...anything that has its face creepily painted or have eyes that look like they can follow you. </div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">I like to pride myself on the fact that I can handle most scary movies and not even flinch. I can watch every Saw movie and not bat an eyelash. I can watch the characters get their heads chopped off, limbs pulled apart, even the dismemberment scenes, unphased. However, the only scene I CAN'T watch is whenever that creepy little puppet comes out to tell the selfish protagonists their fate. I have to cover my eyes and lock my door. To this day I cannot figure out my irrational fear of the pint-size psychos. Maybe it's their sheer stature (or lack thereof) that scares me---you would apprehend a killer that would attack you at eye-level. But would you really anticipate a mini-assassin coming at you? Much like a rabid Oompa-Loompa? (For the record, the Wizard of Oz gave me nightmares).</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC98dGuaZ_I/AAAAAAAAAOY/a7S5Aokh69I/s1600/scary+midget+clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC98dGuaZ_I/AAAAAAAAAOY/a7S5Aokh69I/s320/scary+midget+clown.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center">Can you honestly tell me that a man with a stocking over his face is scarier than this little monster? Both small <strong>AND</strong> a clown. A double threat in my book.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="left">Maybe this fear stemmed from when I was 2 and my mom dressed me up as the wicked witch of the west. I already looked like a little boy until I was at least 5, so making me look "scary" was not a far stretch. I had green paint all over my face, a black dress and a little witch hat. After my mom had applied all the makeup, I looked in the mirror to take a look at my very first Halloween costume.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC9-reqEHtI/AAAAAAAAAOg/SSchdshlQ70/s1600/wicked-witch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC9-reqEHtI/AAAAAAAAAOg/SSchdshlQ70/s320/wicked-witch.jpg" /></a></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">...and immediately began hysterically crying. I had actually scared MYSELF. However, there is one similarity (hopefully just one) between me and the terrifying tiny circus performer: we were both <strong>VERY SCARY</strong> and <strong>VERY SMALL</strong>. I've tried to put my psychology degree to some kind of use and psychoanalyze that fear, and that's all I came up with. Unless I've repressed a memory where I was assaulted at the Barnum & Bailey circus, that's all I've got.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Enough about the clowns, on to my second fear: <strong>public speaking</strong>. I cannot think of anything more terrifying than giving a presentation in front of a group of people. (Unless this group of people happened to be clowns, or puppets. I can't even imagine.)</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC9_uBKnPkI/AAAAAAAAAOo/xKjbw4cHTaY/s1600/group+of+clowns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC9_uBKnPkI/AAAAAAAAAOo/xKjbw4cHTaY/s320/group+of+clowns.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Welcome to my own, personal hell.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Along with the initial fear of speaking in front of a group of people, I also become afflicted with a disease I have coined "The Helium Race Car Effect." When this affliction descends upon me, my heart races, my mouth dries up, and not only do I speak faster than an Auctioneer, I sound as though I could be a close relative of Alvin and the Chipmunks. I try to speak slowly and with purpose, but I end up only thinking of getting to the end of my shpeel, and so I ramble quickly and also at a pitch that could come close to breaking glass.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Much to my dismay, it has come to my attention that the helium race car effect is not limited to speeches, announcements, or presentations alone. No no, this disease has invaded my every day diction. My cousin Ashley will almost pee her pants when I open my mouth and order food in a restaurant or bar, because she catches it every time. While my audience is only the (now confused) waitress and Ash, my voice <strong>still</strong> gets exponentially higher.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC-BYKjHXFI/AAAAAAAAAOw/48yXvfi6i4w/s1600/Alvin%2Band%2BThe%2BChipmunks%2B8bnwu2p.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC-BYKjHXFI/AAAAAAAAAOw/48yXvfi6i4w/s320/Alvin%2Band%2BThe%2BChipmunks%2B8bnwu2p.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"I'll start with the crabcakes and a diet coke please"</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Do I subconsciously think I sound nicer or sweeter if my voice is higher? Is there a lesser chance that something will happen to my food if I sound like small woodland creature trapped inside a 24 year old's body? I still have no idea. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">In November I'll be attending a conference in San Francisco where I'll be presenting a Criminology paper/poster with 3 other members of my Criminology program. It's a Biosocial Criminology paper, and this area is still a hot topic in the Criminology discipline, and so my Professor informed us that we may be subject to "hecklers." These hecklers are not akin to Celtics fans holding up mangled Khloe Kardashian posters to distract Lamar Odom at a playoff game. No no, they are numerous leaders and pioneers in the discipline of Criminology, who will be coming up to the poster and demanding detailed explanations of the research we'll be presenting.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC-KE2TPd0I/AAAAAAAAAO4/a7AFJGLjNvE/s1600/scared_woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TC-KE2TPd0I/AAAAAAAAAO4/a7AFJGLjNvE/s320/scared_woman.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">HO. LY. SH*T.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Not only will I be speaking in front of other Criminology professors (that's terrifying enough), but I have to also ARGUE and DEFEND the research?? My stomach is starting to do back-flips just thinking about it. My inner monologue that is thinking about this situation has even become quick and high pitched too. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I know one of the old remedies for this problem is to just "imagine your audience in their underwear." I'm no doctor, but if I haven't gotten physically ill from the fear of speaking in front of many distinguished criminologists, the thought of picturing them in their underwear just might be the kicker to make it happen. Let's just hope they're not also dressed as clowns. </div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-41730334074205406432010-06-21T09:52:00.000-07:002010-06-21T09:52:27.246-07:00The Suburban Incident<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Oops...so I've already neglected my 28 day challenge and haven't blogged for the last two days. Well, I was fishing all day Saturday (I caught my first fish EVER!!!) and Father's Day is kind of a bummer, so I'm just going to skip those two days and pick up where I should have been: Day 6: "A moment you wish you could relive." BUT...I'm also going to combine it with Day 9: "A photo that you took" (I can do that, right?)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Anyhow, this particular moment takes me wayyyyy back, a whole 4 years to my junior year of college. One of my bff's, Ms. Emily Jackson (or how you've seen her referred thusfar, Emj), had just returned from an entire semester at sea, and was going through what she coined a "semester at sea hangover"--which was clearly a euphamism for "I've been all around the world on a boat, and now I don't want to do schoolwork, I just want to get drunk every night with my friends and cherish my college years."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-O4wIqveI/AAAAAAAAANw/2t5-ZGw1NPA/s1600/Emo+em.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-O4wIqveI/AAAAAAAAANw/2t5-ZGw1NPA/s320/Emo+em.bmp" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Did I also mention that this was when Emj went through her emo phase?</div><br />
So, being the good friend that I am, I decided to indulge in her wishes for awhile, assuming that she would run out of steam after one or two nights. Clearly, I was mistaken. It became a <strike>weekly,</strike> nightly ritual that we would go over to our friends' house (the good sports: Blake Martin, Rob Purple, and Chris Chugden), consume wild amounts of alcohol and then play guitar hero. I was usually ready to go at a decent hour since this was typically on a weeknight, but the Emj's "abroad hangover" had exacerbated to the point to which Chugden would have to blast Semisonic's "Closing Time" <strike>right before he had to physically push Emj out the front door like it was last call</strike> just to politely remove Emj from his home.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-OeYmzc-I/AAAAAAAAANo/D8NTvwu5TvA/s1600/Kicked+out.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-OeYmzc-I/AAAAAAAAANo/D8NTvwu5TvA/s320/Kicked+out.bmp" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">But, as you can see, Emj was not ready to leave the party yet.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Yes, I did take that picture, but that is not the infamous picture, nor does it capture the infamous incident that occurred about an hour after this one was taken. For some reason, on this occasion Emj had been even a bit more "overserved" than usual. She insisted that she be allowed to play guitar hero, even though she was swaying back and forth like a palm tree during hurricane season. After much persuasion, Emj was allowed to play a little "Carry on My Wayward Son." However, moments after the song started, we all realized that Emj was not actually playing the song, just blindly banging on the buttons like Ray Charles on a piano (minus the skill and harmony). As a result, Purple and Chugden decided to "help her out." And here, my friends, is the picture I took:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-QuIysrWI/AAAAAAAAAN4/JFuka3PsoGg/s1600/Emj+guitar+hero.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-QuIysrWI/AAAAAAAAAN4/JFuka3PsoGg/s320/Emj+guitar+hero.bmp" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">And by "help her out" I actually meant PLAY THE GAME FOR HER, whilst Emj jammed out like she was at a death metal concert.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I wish I could tell you the story ended there, but then this awesome anecdote would not include the moment I wish I could relive. About 20 minutes after "Closing Time," it was customary for me to walk Ms. Drunky McGee safely back to her dorm room across campus. However, tonight Emj was feeling extra saucy, and decided she wanted to play "catch blackout Emj" instead. And here's where it happened...</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Emj did run track in high school, and I can safely say she would beat me in any kind of race. Sober. I can also say that from experience, I will give her credit that she can smack-talk with the best of them (which is always fun when she's on your beer pong team). However, this girl cannot combine both of these skills simultaneously. And when she tries, the situation takes a turn for the worse. Or, for the better if you were me that night and got to witness this rare event.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">So as Drunky McGee is running down the street and jibber jabbering some incoherent smack talk, she didn't realize that she was now running in a perfect, diagonal line. When I say jibber jabber, she sounded like a cross between The Muppet's Swedish Chef and someone who was playing Chubby Bunny for the first time. I literally had no idea what she was screaming at me. Well, I'll give her credit, she made it a good 40-45 feet ahead of me before I heard a sickening <strong>THUD</strong>. Did she fall down? Did she hit that elusive curb that somehow seemed to pop out of nowhere for her every once and awhile? Oh no, that would have been too simple. In fact, she ran into this:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-ThToPvaI/AAAAAAAAAOA/_jeFfS7UE9g/s1600/Green+Suburban.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-ThToPvaI/AAAAAAAAAOA/_jeFfS7UE9g/s320/Green+Suburban.bmp" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Yep, smack into the back of a suburban. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">She hit it with such force that every light in the vehicle came on. She also hit it with such force that I watched her sink like a wet noodle out of a boiling pot onto the street. I have <strong>never</strong> seen anything like it. Since I'm so incredibly mature, the first thing I did was fall to the ground and almost pee my pants. And luckily, Emj did the same thing. So there we were, on the street, both peeing in our pants simultaneously. After <strike>rolling around and laughing until I couldn't breathe</strike> I diagnostically assessed the situation and realized there was no permanent damage, I walked her back to her dorm room.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Incidentally, I did not remember this last detail until recently when I retold this story to someone else. On our "walk" (if you want to call Emj's post-collision-elegant-two-step "walking",) back to her dorm room, Emj looked up at me with all sincerity and states with (somehow) coherent conviction:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-V79WnztI/AAAAAAAAAOI/M07HlRahfLc/s1600/Pink+Vest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TB-V79WnztI/AAAAAAAAAOI/M07HlRahfLc/s320/Pink+Vest.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"Thank God I have this puffy vest on. Whew."</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">To this day I still cannot tell this story without dying laughing, and my only regret is that I was the ONLY one who saw this happen, and that I didn't catch it on video. So yes, minus the (pain?) that Emj (may?) have experienced whilst slamming into the back of an SUV like a wrecking ball, I do honestly wish I could relive this moment in college. And since all of us are now adults, none of us drink like THAT anymore...right?</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-61445895466970662062010-06-18T09:54:00.000-07:002010-06-18T10:01:28.721-07:00Funny how? Funny Like a Clown?<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 2 of Blogging Rehab: <br />
Okay so I didn't realize it until this morning, but figuring out what my favorite movie was was even harder than my favorite song! After a long debate with myself (that sounds incredibly odd, but yes, it was me vs. me), I had to go with my all-time favorite: <strong>Goodfellas</strong>.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBuR_qGc87I/AAAAAAAAANA/lDgYPseS7w0/s1600/goodfellas-f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBuR_qGc87I/AAAAAAAAANA/lDgYPseS7w0/s320/goodfellas-f.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I even have this poster in my bedroom. (Yes...I still have movie posters, lay off). It would be an understatement to say that it clashes with my Kappa Delta frames and nautical pieces--quite frankly if people walked into my room they might think I had multiple personality disorder. Or that I was a sorority girl who maybe sails and then moonlights as a hit-woman. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Either way, Martin Scorcese is easily my most favorite director of all time. And I think he captured the original non-fiction craft of Nicholas Pileggi into nothing short of a masterpiece. I read his original book, "Wiseguys," and there were a couple of tweaks but overall it was pretty true to form. I think I'm also a little biased because most of the movie took place in Bensonhurst (as do most Scorcese movies), which is where most of my family grew up. And really, I'll be honest, I'm just fascinated by any and all mob movies.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What's so intriguing about Goodfellas though, is that Pileggi never paints these men as actually good OR bad, just born into a life that seems not only normal, but very respectable to many in the neighborhood. That's not to say the life of a gangster is completely glamorized, I mean they do show the scene where Ray Liotta, Joe Pesci and Robert DeNiro have to dig a hole themselves to bury their recent hit, and Liotta repeatedly pukes. (As many times as I've seen this movie, I don't handle vom well, so to this day I still fast-forward through him heaving up his capicola and prosciutto).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I can't tell you exactly why, but my favorite dialogue in the movie is where all three of them come home to Tommy's mother's house in the middle of the night, and she cooks for them and they enjoying their post-whacking feast:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBuV-htMFPI/AAAAAAAAANI/UmLdlEIEsOI/s1600/goodfellas+dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBuV-htMFPI/AAAAAAAAANI/UmLdlEIEsOI/s320/goodfellas+dinner.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the middle of dinner, his mother whips out an oil painting she just finished (Tidbit of trivia: Pileggi's mother actually painted it!), and she and Tommy go back and forth concerning this obvious masterpiece:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBuWoVitkwI/AAAAAAAAANQ/p0DV2KG_2P8/s1600/goodfellas_painting-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBuWoVitkwI/AAAAAAAAANQ/p0DV2KG_2P8/s320/goodfellas_painting-small.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>MOTHER</strong>: Have some more. You hardly touched anything. Did Tommy tell you about my painting? Look at this. </div><strong>JIMMY</strong>: It's beautiful.<br />
<strong>TOMMY</strong>: I like this one. One dog goes one way and the other goes the other.<br />
<strong>MOTHER</strong>: One's going east, the other’s going west. So what?<br />
<strong>TOMMY</strong>: And this guy's saying, "Whaddya want from me?" The guy's got a nice head of white hair. Beautiful. The dog it looks the same.<br />
<strong>JIMMY</strong>: Looks like somebody we know.<br />
<strong>TOMMY</strong>: Without the beard! Oh no, it's him! It's him. (They hear a loud thumping through the open window from the trunk of the car parked outside--the last guy they "whacked" isn't actually dead.)<br />
<strong>TOMMY</strong>: What's that?<br />
<br />
Just listening to their back-and-forth makes me die laughing every time. Not to mention the fact that they're enjoying their pasta while their latest hit is still half-alive in the truck of the car parked in the driveway.<br />
<br />
There's also the famous scene where Joe Pesci grills Ray Liotta for telling him "he's funny." I would type out the whole dialogue but just reading it without Pesci's inflection and voice would not do it justice.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBubSeXjC2I/AAAAAAAAANY/ikijGsww-6Q/s1600/goodfellas-tommy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBubSeXjC2I/AAAAAAAAANY/ikijGsww-6Q/s320/goodfellas-tommy.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The whole movie is based on this "world" of organized crime, and although there are some dark parts, there are so many quick one-liners sprinkled in that you can't help but laugh. Pesci adds to the levity, and this was the movie that made me fall in love with both Ray Liotta and Robert DeNiro as actors. Again, I think I just love Robert DeNiro because some of his facial expressions mimic my grandfather to a T. And yeah, Ray Liotta has that AWFUL acne scarring and it looks like someone took meat-mallet to his face, but, I'm still a sucker for blue eyes so I can't help it.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBufEQkTAHI/AAAAAAAAANg/QS9mEvyxsC8/s1600/LiottaRay155055320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBufEQkTAHI/AAAAAAAAANg/QS9mEvyxsC8/s320/LiottaRay155055320.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I think this is just one of the few movies I own that I can watch over, and over and over again and never get sick of it. It has just all of these simple aspects that I love: Scorcese, Brooklyn, Italians, organized crime, and a lot of thinly sliced garlic. After typing this post, I might just now have to run to Publix, get myself a big Italian sub, and pop in this classic.</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-56816167670349023902010-06-17T08:43:00.000-07:002010-06-17T08:47:19.952-07:0030 Day Blog Challenge aka Blog Rehab<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So after I posted my rant about Drake's new album (I re-read it this morning and I sound like a jerk on a soapbox!), I decided I would lighten things up a bit and try this challenge that I found over at <a href="http://preppyperfection.blogspot.com/">Preppy Perfection</a>. Maybe this will force me to post a blog everyday! So here's how it works:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 1 — A favorite song</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 2 — A favorite movie</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 3 — A favorite book</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 4 — A favorite television program</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 5 — A favorite quote</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 6 — A moment you wish you could relive</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 7 — 5 things you could not possibly live without</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 8 — A thank you letter to someone who has changed your life</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 9 — A photo you took</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 10 — A photo of you taken over ten years ago</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Day 11 — A photo of you taken recently</div>Day 12 — A song that you want played at your wedding (or was played)<br />
Day 13 — A guilty pleasure<br />
Day 14 — A vacation you would like to take<br />
Day 15 — A person you admire<br />
Day 16 — A song that makes you cry<br />
Day 17 — An art piece<br />
Day 18 — A time when you felt passionate and alive<br />
Day 19 — A talent of yours<br />
Day 20 — A hobby of yours<br />
Day 21 — Something you know you do differently than most people<br />
Day 22 — A website<br />
Day 23 — A way in which you want to be remembered<br />
Day 24 — A movie no one would expect you to love<br />
Day 25 — A recipe<br />
Day 26 — A childhood memory<br />
Day 27 — A physical feature you love<br />
Day 28 — A scar you have, and its story<br />
<strike>Day 29 — Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days</strike><br />
<strike>Day 30 — A motto or philosophy</strike><br />
<br />
This 30 days of blogging kind of reminds me of Sandra Bullock's movie: 28 days, where she enters a rehab facility (for, SURPRISE! 28 days) to work on her little problem with knockin' back the sauce. <br />
<br />
<div align="center"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBpDVxJXM2I/AAAAAAAAAM4/C0Vw6Qh9xpI/s1600/sandra_bullock_28_days_005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBpDVxJXM2I/AAAAAAAAAM4/C0Vw6Qh9xpI/s320/sandra_bullock_28_days_005.jpg" /></a></div>She just needs some blogging rehab. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Lately, I've had a problem with some of my "creative juices" flowing (when you renovate a house you can only talk about rearranging papers, frames, moving things, and painting so many times before you bore even yourself.) Or you just get irrationally angry at harmless Canadian rappers. And so, in an homage to Sandra, I'm going to consider this my "Blog Rehab," so I'm actually only going to do 28 posts. Alright so without further adieu (ado? adeu? I have no idea), here is my first day of blog in-patient treatment: <strong>My Favorite Song</strong>. <br />
<br />
This was a tricky one, because off the top of my head I can think of at least 20. I will tell you the two runner-ups: <strong>"You Got Me" by The Roots featuring Erykah Badu</strong>, and <strong>"Everything" by Mary J. Blige</strong>--my cousin Ashley got me HOOKED on that song, and no matter how many times I hear it, I think of her. (strange association since it's supposed to be about Mary's love of her life, but let's face it Ash, you're stuck with me for the long haul anyway) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo1fveQFdI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/UkOWYg_PcWo/s1600/Ashs+21st.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo1fveQFdI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/UkOWYg_PcWo/s320/Ashs+21st.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo1d4duSfI/AAAAAAAAAMI/mdnR8shlzB4/s1600/Ash+and+court+in+disney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo1d4duSfI/AAAAAAAAAMI/mdnR8shlzB4/s320/Ash+and+court+in+disney.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ash looks confused and I look like I need the restroom. Clearly, nothing has changed.</div> <br />
But there is one song that I can think of that puts me in an incredible mood whenever I hear it. I don't even think it's the lyrics that do it for me, because they're so simple. If you watch the vintage "Old Spice" commercials they state that "Scent is the strongest sense tied to memory" (which I completely agree with,) until I hear <strong>Tony Bennett's "Stepping out with my Baby"</strong> <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">If I seem to scintillate </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">It's because I've got a date </div><div style="text-align: center;">A date with a package of </div><div style="text-align: center;">The good things that come with love </div><div style="text-align: center;">You don't have to ask me </div><div style="text-align: center;">I won't waste your time </div><div style="text-align: center;">But if you should ask me </div><div style="text-align: center;">Why I feel sublime </div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Steppin' out with my baby </div><div style="text-align: center;">Can't go wrong 'cause I'm in right </div><div style="text-align: center;">It's for sure, not for maybe </div><div style="text-align: center;">That I'm all dressed up tonight </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Steppin' out with my honey </div><div style="text-align: center;">Can't be bad to feel so good </div><div style="text-align: center;">Never felt quite so sunny </div><div style="text-align: center;">And I keep on knockin' wood </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">There'll be smooth sailin' 'cause I'm trimmin' my sails </div><div style="text-align: center;">In my top hat and my white tie and my tails</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Steppin' out with my baby </div><div style="text-align: center;">Can't go wrong 'cause I'm in right </div><div style="text-align: center;">Ask me when will the day be </div><div style="text-align: center;">The big day may be tonight.</div> <br />
For some reason, this song was on heavy rotation one summer we spent in the Hamptons; I think I might have been around 10 or 11 years old. Literally every time we got in the car to go ANYWHERE, we had to put this song on. The light piano in the background, Tony's snapping, his voice; the whole song just puts you in a good mood. Even though my grandpa got utterly sick of this song after hearing it about 15 times a day, I always associate Tony Bennett with him. (If my grandpa could have been a hybrid of any three celebs, I believe anyone who knew him would agree that he would have the abbrasiveness and delivery of Jack Nicholson, the laugh, wit and facial expressions of Robert DeNiro, and the moments of charisma that Tony Bennett seems to exude constantly) <br />
<div align="center"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo8u2G_z_I/AAAAAAAAAMY/2C-MoibzEY4/s1600/jack+nicholson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo8u2G_z_I/AAAAAAAAAMY/2C-MoibzEY4/s320/jack+nicholson.jpg" /></a>+</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo8xr8C-WI/AAAAAAAAAMg/bOBeSn03FnE/s1600/robertdeniro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo8xr8C-WI/AAAAAAAAAMg/bOBeSn03FnE/s320/robertdeniro.jpg" width="216" /></a>+</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo8z1lYCcI/AAAAAAAAAMo/3eBs-tmQEG8/s1600/tony-bennett3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo8z1lYCcI/AAAAAAAAAMo/3eBs-tmQEG8/s320/tony-bennett3.jpg" /></a>=</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo_9ibyBFI/AAAAAAAAAMw/X0tJEybG6bU/s1600/Grandpa+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBo_9ibyBFI/AAAAAAAAAMw/X0tJEybG6bU/s320/Grandpa+car.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">This son of a gun. (For the record he's wearing my hat. I was like 9).</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Not to get all Mr. Rogers on you, but this song will always be tied to my grandpa, so that's why it's my favorite, and I think that's why I'm so emotionally attached to it. He really was an amazing man and one of the most important people in my life, so he'll probably pop up again and make another cameo in my 28 days of Rehab Blogging. I'll have to be thinking of my favorite movie for tomorrow...and THAT, my friends, will be an even bigger challenge.</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-19480638865738835482010-06-10T07:31:00.000-07:002010-06-10T07:31:48.372-07:00My First Cooking Post!<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Okay, so I know I said in my first post that this was not going to be a baking blog. But after breakfast this morning I figured, this is such a simple delicacy that everyone can enjoy--why be selfish and keep it to myself? Do not be daunted by the intricacies of this recipe, it's quite easy, I assure you.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This is my recipe for my <strong>FAMOUS</strong> C<span style="color: black;">roissant Breakfast Sandwiches.</span> Just follow these easy steps, I've also included pictures to aid in your cooking adventure.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">1. Remove the tasty morsel from the box shown here:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDuVGLQZdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/mwzIz-IItO4/s1600/100_0815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDuVGLQZdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/mwzIz-IItO4/s320/100_0815.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Only 290 calories per serving!</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">2. Carefully remove the sandwich from its protective plastic lining. Much like a condom, it keeps all of the important contents within its walls.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDvSPZppgI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/T6fIZ8HsHb0/s1600/100_0816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDvSPZppgI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/T6fIZ8HsHb0/s320/100_0816.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">3. Place the frozen sandwich within the very center of a paper towel. Make sure it is directly in the middle, or the consequences of an unevenly-thawed breakfast sandwich could be dire.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDwauwQpOI/AAAAAAAAAKY/0PgruF-Z83A/s1600/100_0817.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDwauwQpOI/AAAAAAAAAKY/0PgruF-Z83A/s320/100_0817.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">4. Wrap up the sandwich, place it in the middle of the microwave, and hit "defrost" for a total of 1 minute and 40 seconds. Do not exceed this time limit, or your sandwich will taste like bark.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDxPfKZinI/AAAAAAAAAKg/ONvXunwjgjs/s1600/100_0818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDxPfKZinI/AAAAAAAAAKg/ONvXunwjgjs/s320/100_0818.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Placed perfectly in the middle. (I know, I make it look so easy).</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDxmAldakI/AAAAAAAAAKo/JGSEVkB7-Qc/s1600/100_0819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDxmAldakI/AAAAAAAAAKo/JGSEVkB7-Qc/s320/100_0819.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">On my microwave, it's a little tricky: you must hit "Time Cook" <strong>TWICE</strong> before it allows you to find the hidden "Defrost" option. Don't let this fool you, nor let it intimidate you. I assure you, the button is there.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">5. This step is crucial--you must next FLIP the sandwich over once it has finished defrosting. The sandwich may be hot, so much like ripping off a band-aid, the quicker the better. I've mastered the art of the sandwich flip. In time, you will too.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDyrwtEoSI/AAAAAAAAAKw/4Fn1cOXX36I/s1600/100_0820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDyrwtEoSI/AAAAAAAAAKw/4Fn1cOXX36I/s320/100_0820.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">6. Next, you must COOK the sandwich (<strong>not</strong> defrost) for 50 seconds. (Maybe I shouldn't be so presumptuous with such a difficult recipe, but I'm assuming most of you know how to hit "time cook" and type "5-0") so I do not have a manual picture of this step.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">7. CAREFULLY remove the steaming sandwich from the microwave and unwrap your decadent breakfast. Smell the sausage, revel in the scent of the melted cheese (much of which may be still stuck to the napkin).</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDz3DUwEqI/AAAAAAAAAK4/jxJS82RqO_I/s1600/100_0823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBDz3DUwEqI/AAAAAAAAAK4/jxJS82RqO_I/s320/100_0823.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">8. Enjoy your meat-egg-and-cheese masterpiece between a croissant! But wait a good two minutes before biting in, or you'll be stuck doing that awkward wide-open-mouth, reverse breathing motion when you place something in there that's too hot.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBD0tmwLZKI/AAAAAAAAALA/EEwWP6r8sbs/s1600/100_0824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TBD0tmwLZKI/AAAAAAAAALA/EEwWP6r8sbs/s320/100_0824.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">So as my Italian grandfather would say before every one of his savory meals: "Mangia!"</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="color: red;">Disclaimer:</span></strong> Now clearly, I cannot cook to save my life. But, if you want some actual, cooking recipes, check out my friends' blogs who actually CAN bake! Take a little gander at <a href="http://jstansbakery.blogspot.com/">J-Stan's Bakery</a> or at <a href="http://emjphoto.blogspot.com/">Emj's Blog</a>. Both have some recipes that are absolutely delicious. Enjoy!</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-3348787193205965922010-06-08T20:41:00.000-07:002010-06-08T20:55:53.731-07:00Tortuous Tuesdays<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Since I've failed miserably on delivering new and exciting movie reviews every Monday evening, I've decided to instill "Tortuous Tuesdays" (because it's my blog, and I'll do as I wish.)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I've so fondly named it "tortuous" because there are few words that begin with the letter "T" that could describe this fine creature below me:</div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8Dic2fEiI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Zf-FQ4pQJgc/s1600/bradcooper+face.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8Dic2fEiI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Zf-FQ4pQJgc/s320/bradcooper+face.bmp" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Because <em>just looking at him</em> is <strong>torture</strong>. I could have used "titillating," but that word just makes me uncomfortable.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I know many of my friends who have celebrity crushes, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. And any girl (or guy!) who is reading this, I know you have one too, so please refrain from raising your nose up in distaste. For me, it's Bradley Cooper. Even with his God-awful frosted tips and frat-tastic behavior (these two attributes should never go together) in Wedding Crashers, not to mention that awkward baby seal impression...I still just cannot resist this All-American boy.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8Ensm4CGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/6_NiyZyOlsU/s1600/wedding-crashers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8Ensm4CGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/6_NiyZyOlsU/s320/wedding-crashers.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"And I was holding this tiny baby seal and it looked up at me and went 'arr, arr arr! and then I wiped its little nose and it went 'arr, arr arr arrr arr"'</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">FYI: Sean's celebrity crush is Rachel McAdams. Ironic, no?</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">We are officially <strong>not</strong> allowed to watch Wedding Crashers together.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">...Or any other movie for that matter where her gorgeous smile, bright blue eyes and bee-stung, red lips make me feel increasingly inferior with every perfectly contrived giggle that escapes them.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">It's sad because I really do love her as an actress, but both of us drooling over the television screen in perfect harmony is not a sight I'd like to see. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8OrbtpNmI/AAAAAAAAAKA/ymWfM6kQkO0/s1600/man+and+woman+at+tv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8OrbtpNmI/AAAAAAAAAKA/ymWfM6kQkO0/s320/man+and+woman+at+tv.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Plus, I think it would end in both of us feeling severely insecure by the end of the movie.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">But enough about Rachel. This is about Bradley. And all of his glory:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8FsDtEknI/AAAAAAAAAJI/ETpLap-vW9Y/s1600/bradley_cooper2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8FsDtEknI/AAAAAAAAAJI/ETpLap-vW9Y/s320/bradley_cooper2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">There's nothing lazy about <strong>this</strong> river I TELL YOU WHAT!</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I was informed the other day that for some reason he was in Pompano Beach, FL. We were in the process of painting all of the baseboards in my house, so when I was relayed this information, <strike>I had to suppress every urge to jump into my car and troll every inch of Pompano for this Adonis-like specimen</strike>, I picked up my brush like a responsible and controlled adult, and kept slathering on that white paint onto the bottoms of my walls. Because I am an awesome daughter helping my mother with her house. And because I can't find my way out of a paper bag...leaving me about a 1 in 1,000,000 chance of finding him anyway.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">So friends, I will leave you with these "tortuous" photos:</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8H7Y2q5FI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/eXLuyxy_iZo/s1600/BradleyCooper+shirtless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8H7Y2q5FI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/eXLuyxy_iZo/s320/BradleyCooper+shirtless.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8IQF5-xUI/AAAAAAAAAJY/L3gTVS58bw8/s1600/2009_the_hangover_009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8IQF5-xUI/AAAAAAAAAJY/L3gTVS58bw8/s320/2009_the_hangover_009.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">And yes...I know he played a homosexual camp counselor in the cult comedy "Wet Hot American Summer"</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8IpkmaQxI/AAAAAAAAAJg/tEZpcwRpDEw/s1600/brad+cooper+summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8IpkmaQxI/AAAAAAAAAJg/tEZpcwRpDEw/s320/brad+cooper+summer.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">..and an embarassing role in "The Midnight Meat Train" (<strike>Believe it or not, it's actually a suspenseful thriller despite the suggestive title.)</strike> It was awful. Everybody gets <em>one:</em> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8JnmgBZeI/AAAAAAAAAJo/F3bRJbMzygE/s1600/midnight+meat+train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8JnmgBZeI/AAAAAAAAAJo/F3bRJbMzygE/s320/midnight+meat+train.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">OK, maybe <em>two</em>. Enter "All About Steve" (for which he received a Razzie):</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8Js8EtCeI/AAAAAAAAAJw/d8EMHohrP8U/s1600/Brad+coop+all+about+steve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8Js8EtCeI/AAAAAAAAAJw/d8EMHohrP8U/s320/Brad+coop+all+about+steve.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Poor Brad, he just can't stay away from the frosted tips.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh well. I'm a sucker for a guy with blue eyes. Maybe that's how I got so lucky and landed my Knight in Shining Guy Harvey :) </div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8MwRQu0TI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/QlU3rmKwSCc/s1600/Blue+Eyes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TA8MwRQu0TI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/QlU3rmKwSCc/s320/Blue+Eyes.JPG" /></a></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-5387304672744407082010-06-03T21:03:00.000-07:002010-06-03T21:03:33.729-07:00Unnecessary Luxuries<strike>Totally within my price range</strike> My newest obsession from Anthropologie:<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAh5xNWjipI/AAAAAAAAAIw/Apkk5rHpfxo/s1600/Anthro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAh5xNWjipI/AAAAAAAAAIw/Apkk5rHpfxo/s320/Anthro.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You can't really see the details, but if you want a better look, click <a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?subCategoryId=CLOTHES-DRESSES-PRINTED&id=033069&catId=CLOTHES-DRESSES&pushId=CLOTHES-DRESSES&popId=CLOTHES&sortProperties=&navCount=45&navAction=top&fromCategoryPage=true&selectedProductSize=&selectedProductSize1=&color=046&colorName=TURQUOISE&isSubcategory=true&isProduct=true&isBigImage=&templateType=">here.</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The <strong>perfect</strong> summer dress. If you happen to catch me in a bathing suit with scars on my back, and possibly limping, you'll know where I got the money to purchase said dress. And no, I won't be limping because of my personal lack of skills in walking in heels--I will just simply be down one kidney. Hey, that's why they gave us two, right?</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-43561969271531945772010-06-02T10:11:00.000-07:002010-06-02T20:30:01.577-07:00Paranoid Ice<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So this past weekend Sean and I ventured to Memphis for Memorial Day weekend! We stayed at my friends Katie & Rob's beautiful house on Mud Island with <a href="http://jstansbakery.blogspot.com/">J-Stan</a> & Ben, who graciously relinquished the guest room to stay in Rob's Man-Cave upstairs. We had some lunch at Fino's when we landed, and then headed over to Rhodes to give Sean a tour, hang out at the Kappa Sig house, and basically pretend we were still in college.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaGFYF4u8I/AAAAAAAAAIA/AOo6xf3xRNU/s1600/Ladies+at+kappa+sig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaGFYF4u8I/AAAAAAAAAIA/AOo6xf3xRNU/s320/Ladies+at+kappa+sig.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Me, Katie & J-Stan</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I mentioned last week that Sean had a target on his back for a little game of <a href="http://www.brosicingbros.com/">BrosIcingBros</a>. Well, he got iced for the first time just an hour after landing. Thanks to a little game of Bocce ball and some clever planting, when Sean was asked to go over to the bushes and move a ball, he found something else...</div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaBNqIJDPI/AAAAAAAAAHo/sM9bDf7ZY-g/s1600/Sean+ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaBNqIJDPI/AAAAAAAAAHo/sM9bDf7ZY-g/s320/Sean+ice.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">SURPRISE! That's no Bocce Ball!</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Once Sean was no longer an Ice-virgin, he quickly turned into a deadly Ice <em>assassin</em>. As did everyone else. By Sunday, "BrosIcingBros" turned into "How paranoid can I make my fellow brethren?" Did you try to use the restroom? Hope not, because there was a lovely Smirnoff Ice in there, the bowl protected by saran wrap. Want another beer? Don't stick your hand in that case! I have to give them credit though, as the weekend continued, the Icings became more and more creative, naturally making every male a little more paranoid.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaCrtsqVnI/AAAAAAAAAHw/994wIhuS2K0/s1600/How-paranoid-are-you-002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaCrtsqVnI/AAAAAAAAAHw/994wIhuS2K0/s320/How-paranoid-are-you-002.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"Can I open that door? Can I open the fridge? Is there one right behind me!? Am I actually holding one?!"</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Was their paranoia warranted? Absolutely. On Sunday we had a yummy crawfish boil. I learned you have to first purge the crawfish of all of their impurities (gross) before you can actually boil them. In order to do this, you have to pour copious amounts of salt into the water where the little critters are being held. As a result, the water turns this ugly, brackish brown color. Rob went into the cooler to start the first round of boiling. Instead, this poor soul got not only a batch of live, purged, crawfish, but another surprise as well:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaDymlz3FI/AAAAAAAAAH4/hKEb_YE772s/s1600/Crawfish+Ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaDymlz3FI/AAAAAAAAAH4/hKEb_YE772s/s320/Crawfish+Ice.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Crawfish Iced!!! Ew.</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">That morning, Sean woke up with an Ice and a note that said "Pillow Iced!" Ironically, it was for Ben from the night before, and I actually slept on the Ice the entire night and didn't even feel it. Oops. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, the game is called "BrosIcingBros," so after witnessing all of this testosterone-only paranoid fun, I felt left out. The very well-hidden feminist part of me wanted to shout "Why can't I play!!?" (after actually having to chug an Ice, my feminist side said to me "shut the hell up, this isn't the women's suffrage and that drink is disgusting, you moron.") However, until I was thinking rationally, and not like a feminazis, I really wanted to ice someone. Sean had successfully silent-assassin-iced quite a few people on Sunday, so someone had to get him. And that someone was going to be ME. But how could I do it? What advantage did I have over Sean that he just did not possess? One word:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaHfCBXXSI/AAAAAAAAAII/AvYK1YVV1NY/s1600/cleavage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaHfCBXXSI/AAAAAAAAAII/AvYK1YVV1NY/s320/cleavage.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">That's right. Cleavage.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I wish I could take credit for this idea, but it was the combined effort of Alex, Katie, & J-Stan. I simply had to take the Ice, my pride, and my apparent spurt of irrational feminism, and shove it right down there in my bosom. All he had to do was casually look down at my plunging neckline and BAM...<strong>Boob iced.</strong></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">However...in this little game, you can "ice block" if you get iced. If you're carrying an Ice with you when you get iced, you can give them your ice and you <strong>both</strong> have to take a knee and chug. Clearly I did not plan this very well, because just as I yanked the condensated Ice out from between my sweater puppets in a victorious glee....I also remembered that I had <strong>JUST TOLD</strong> Sean about 5 minutes earlier that there was <em>one more</em> <em>Ice</em> from our six pack, hidden in my purse. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaRYSEnbTI/AAAAAAAAAIg/m3kKAi4fweU/s1600/crap.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaRYSEnbTI/AAAAAAAAAIg/m3kKAi4fweU/s200/crap.bmp" width="173" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Crap!</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Once I pulled my weapon out from my arsenal airbags, he looked me square in the eye....and pulled one right out of his back pocket. It was like a duel, and I had clearly lost to this malt beverage bandit. Damn it. Foiled again. But at least he had to drink with me.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAcg36kJycI/AAAAAAAAAIo/HBibLLoKC6U/s1600/couple+chug.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAcg36kJycI/AAAAAAAAAIo/HBibLLoKC6U/s320/couple+chug.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">This is probably the most unflattering angle of me possible, but I'll suck it up for the game's sake. Plus, I chugged like a champ. And I've realized that no matter what picture I'm taking, my hand has become a permanent fixture on my hip. Do I think that looks good or something? Interesting.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The rest of the day we played some drinking games, ate some crawfish, as well as some other amazing appetizers--I'm pretty sure I ate my weight in Katie's sausage pinwheels. This awesome weekend flew by, and we flew out on Monday evening, only to miss our connecting flight from Memphis and get stuck in Houston (not so awesome). Then I was terrified we were going to have to spend the night in the Houston airport.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaMNM_mJnI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/eh5yDEfFN5M/s1600/terminal-tom-hanks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaMNM_mJnI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/eh5yDEfFN5M/s320/terminal-tom-hanks.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Maybe Tom Hanks can pull it off. But just a shot in the dark here, I doubt Ambien and Airports mix very well. I would probably get arrested for trying to break into the barred Starbucks and eat the muffins.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Luckily, because my boyfriend is fantastic and is actively serving our country in the US Coast Guard, on this fateful Memorial Day the ladies behind the ticket counter gave us a free voucher for a one-night stay at the Holiday Inn near the airport. (pretty awesome). The next day we were both exhausted and ready to leave the Lonestar State ASAP.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaNO6vmdxI/AAAAAAAAAIY/eHrSaiGEt_0/s1600/Holiday+Inn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/TAaNO6vmdxI/AAAAAAAAAIY/eHrSaiGEt_0/s320/Holiday+Inn.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Someone looks a little sleepy. Handsome, but sleepy.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">All in all it was a great weekend! By the time sanitation visited Katie & Rob's, I'm assuming they must have thought that over Memorial Day weekend, there must have been a lot of fun, a lot of crawfish, and possibly statuatory rape of 16 year old girls...since they are usually the only demographic who actually drinks Smirnoff Ice by choice.</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-24284669205939417492010-05-27T06:59:00.000-07:002010-05-27T06:59:26.509-07:001 Year Ago Today<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So, it's May 27th, and a lot of fabulous things happened on this day. My Aunt Barbara was born today (it really should be a national holiday), as was my Freshman & Junior year college roommate, Frances. In addition, one of my best friends, <a href="http://jstansbakery.blogspot.com/">J-Stan</a>, celebrates her two-year work anniversary today! (you go, J-Stan!). And last but not least, it's been one whole year since I've started dating this studly son-of-a-gun:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_53c-FfRtI/AAAAAAAAAHY/H-bHrOeF-tI/s1600/Sunglasses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_53c-FfRtI/AAAAAAAAAHY/H-bHrOeF-tI/s320/Sunglasses.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">A future so bright, he needs shades.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Happy 1-year Anniversary, Sean!</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">We're celebrating this mini-milestone with a trip to Memphis for Memorial Day weekend!! He's pumped since he's never been, and he'll get to meet some (but not all) of my BFF's from Rhodes. He also has a little target on his back thanks to this little game of <a href="http://www.brosicingbros.com/">Bros Icing Bros</a>. I'm assuming he'll return on Monday night with a strong sense of Memphis culture, as well as Type II Diabetes. Stay tuned.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_56qtsxSJI/AAAAAAAAAHg/2tfVXeJT5xo/s1600/hat+new+years.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_56qtsxSJI/AAAAAAAAAHg/2tfVXeJT5xo/s320/hat+new+years.JPG" /></a></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-73618966802768238962010-05-26T12:07:00.000-07:002010-05-26T12:17:37.270-07:00The Happy BookSo I tweeted about a week ago that I was going to make a book devoted entirely to things that: make me happy/I like/<strike>are way out of my price range at the given moment</strike>/you get the idea. So basically I created my "Happy Book." Here is just a little peek:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1nkDTwEaI/AAAAAAAAAGw/RU9VPDuu-vc/s1600/happy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1nkDTwEaI/AAAAAAAAAGw/RU9VPDuu-vc/s320/happy1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1nuA2giwI/AAAAAAAAAG4/sHDTFl7g_2o/s1600/happy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1nuA2giwI/AAAAAAAAAG4/sHDTFl7g_2o/s320/happy2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Before you roll your eyes and accuse me of being a material girl, living in a material world, I have to say that the book is not entirely "things." (Don't get me wrong; there's enough <a href="http://www.potterybarn.com/">Pottery Barn</a> in here to supply its own warehouse, but there is some substance as well, I swear). Any news articles, interesting editorials, etc. have also made their way in here. I would put pictures of family and friends in here, but c'mon...we all know where all of <strong>THOSE</strong> go! (But in case you didn't know, in one of my 9,387 <a href="http://courtholdingcourt.blogspot.com/2010/05/frameworthy.html">frames.</a>) But anywho, there's an amazing article that was in this month's GQ:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1nQS82qfI/AAAAAAAAAGo/La-x-nWBX1g/s1600/jakeGQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1nQS82qfI/AAAAAAAAAGo/La-x-nWBX1g/s320/jakeGQ.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Yes, GQ. They have interesting articles, and 9 times out of 10 there's a hunk on the cover. I suggest you invest.</div><br />
This issue featured a man in China who actually stands on the bridge over the Yangtze River and pulls those who are trying to fling themselves off of it back from the brink of death. I am probably the only jackass who has cried whilst reading GQ, but it was such a moving story that if you get the chance to read it, <strong>do it</strong>. I tried to find a copy online to put on the blog, but unfortunately, it was not available. sad.<br />
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Usually with magazines like Glamour or Cosmo, I just kind of glaze over most of the articles, but every once and awhile, they'll have a little blurb on some random page that will catch my eye, I'll read it, and little lightbulb will go off in my head.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1tvLYjuRI/AAAAAAAAAHA/YWeO6I7WS8s/s1600/eureka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1tvLYjuRI/AAAAAAAAAHA/YWeO6I7WS8s/s200/eureka.jpg" width="127" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That's not me, but it looks like she just had an "aha" moment too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hiding on the side of one of these magazines was a little blurb simply titled "Missing You." I could describe it, but I'll just let you read it for yourself:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1u-4Tl3mI/AAAAAAAAAHI/_IJA3w2PLrA/s1600/Missing+you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1u-4Tl3mI/AAAAAAAAAHI/_IJA3w2PLrA/s400/Missing+you.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sorry it's a little ghetto, but I had to scan it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Kind of makes you think, doesn't it? Hopefully I can find some more little nuggets like this. I know this little trick to improve my mood really worked...hence why it was placed in my Happy Book. On days if/when I'm feeling down, I'm hoping I'll be able to just peruse this book and it will help lift my spirits, and I'll feel a little more like this, sans Prozac:</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1wxfh-83I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/28mEWCih-JQ/s1600/prozac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_1wxfh-83I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/28mEWCih-JQ/s320/prozac.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-24870298151506633092010-05-22T09:35:00.000-07:002010-05-22T10:27:10.380-07:00Publix: Where Shopping is a Pleasure. right?<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">You would think you'd find the more bizarre people in local dive bars, tourist traps, maybe even loitering outside of liquor stores. But, you'd be wrong. At least if you live in south Florida. In that case, all you have to do is go grocery shopping.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_f4q_hSkYI/AAAAAAAAAFw/8RvjkKcej6Q/s1600/publix1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_f4q_hSkYI/AAAAAAAAAFw/8RvjkKcej6Q/s320/publix1.gif" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">I call BS.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Don't get me wrong, the people who work at Publix are always really friendly and helpful; it's the creepy people you find there on random Wednesday afternoons that you have to look out for. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_f536oxGsI/AAAAAAAAAF4/YVdMtr3qy5Y/s1600/ASL-Creepy_Guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_f536oxGsI/AAAAAAAAAF4/YVdMtr3qy5Y/s320/ASL-Creepy_Guy.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Ew.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I could probably describe numerous awkward encounters I've had at Publix, I feel like it's a daily occurrence. If you go to the Tallahassee Publix right near our apartment, it's ALL college students, and so Christina and I lovingly call it Club Pub. If you go to the one right around the corner from my house, however, you get the buses from the retirement community, Century Village. The name of the community says it all: I'm convinced that that's how long the people who exit said bus have been on this planet. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_gJrSkfR0I/AAAAAAAAAGg/hbRQIhXyCj4/s1600/old+woman+shopping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_gJrSkfR0I/AAAAAAAAAGg/hbRQIhXyCj4/s320/old+woman+shopping.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"Why yes Milton, I DID find the laxatives!"</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">They're fine to shop with...it's really only a problem when this same group of ancient Magellans are trying to navigate their way around the Publix parking lot, when the same bus that brought them there is (still) waiting for them <strong>RIGHT OUTSIDE THE STORE.</strong> Again, funny to watch, but not an issue until I'm trying to drive out of the shopping center and I have to dodge them like pot holes. But, I digress.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Two days ago, I was pushing an abnormally hefty cart, and it was one of those carts where one of the wheels blatantly just doesn't move. So I was ineptly trying to lift the cart around a turn into the coffee aisle, actually sweating at this point, when this 30-something man in a preppy-looking outfit stopped and looked at me for what felt like 10 minutes. Then, he dropped this incredible nugget of knowledge and, might I say, informative wisdom from his lips:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_f_d9tsZBI/AAAAAAAAAGA/p17nJGbmvA8/s1600/smiling_man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_f_d9tsZBI/AAAAAAAAAGA/p17nJGbmvA8/s200/smiling_man.jpg" width="185" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong>"Heavy cart there, eh?"</strong></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Heavy cart? Noooo silly, it's not <em>HEAVY!</em> I just like to lift my shopping carts around the corners like a spaz to confuse my fellow shoppers! </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I would have just considered this your run-of-the-mill-thank-you-Captain-Obvious comment if he hadn't creepily, full-on <strong>winked</strong> after he said it. Was there a sexual innuendo that I was missing here? Was "cart" a euphamism for something else? More importantly, was he going to help me with my cart since I was clearly struggling? Either way, I felt awkward, so I quickly pushed/lifted/carried/ran into small children with/ my heavy cart to the check-out line like Sisyphus pushing his rock up the mountain.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Unfortunately, my new friend was RIGHT behind me in this check-out line.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">And I don't mean figuratively, I mean literally, <em>RIGHT</em> behind me. Breathing down my neck and at least 3 inches within my personal space bubble.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_gDszHwAnI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/cu8262cdMx4/s1600/Seinfeld+Personal+space.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_gDszHwAnI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/cu8262cdMx4/s320/Seinfeld+Personal+space.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"Shopping really is a pleasure, eh?"</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, (or maybe it was just his awful hot breath that was just simply making them move). But it took the woman in front of me (clearly one of the Century Village candidates) about 4 hours to give the cashier exact change, and finally move her cart forward. While the lyrics to "Don't Stand So Close to Me" reverberated in my head, I had to keep shifting my weight, pretend to look at magazines, check my watch, look for any and all EXIT signs in case of emergency, etc. And still, <strong>the close-breather did. not. move.</strong> If anything, I'm convinced he got closer, until the woman in front of me finally moved. I purchased my items and BOLTED out of Publix. Well, not really bolted, but methodically lifted and pushed my cart as fast as I could until I got to my car.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">This is just a cautionary tale: if you think your personal space is invaded in a bar, or even a club, you haven't seen anything until you've shopped at Club Pub.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_gFf2xNI2I/AAAAAAAAAGY/dLCb18UECnU/s1600/elk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_gFf2xNI2I/AAAAAAAAAGY/dLCb18UECnU/s320/elk.jpg" /></a></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-48669042328624320662010-05-18T10:39:00.000-07:002010-05-18T21:15:25.032-07:00Spring cleaning....eating? Nope, let's stick with cleaning.<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Sorry for the lack of posts, but we're still in the process of trying to renovate the house! Part of this process is <strike>tearing every drawing and/or doodle my mom has saved since I was 4 years old from her hands, and forcing it into the garbage</strike> getting rid of all of the clutter. I don't know if any of you have ever seen the show "Absolutely Fabulous" (it might still be on BBC in syndication), but it was absolutely hysterical, and I have almost every episode (on VHS). </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_K3kpFbvEI/AAAAAAAAAFI/YBKRmbSZCDU/s1600/edina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_K3kpFbvEI/AAAAAAAAAFI/YBKRmbSZCDU/s320/edina.jpg" width="289" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Edina & Patsy</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's basically about two middle-aged British women who do nothing but drink their way through their 40's; (their <strong>years</strong> in their 40's...not to be confused with actual 40 oz malt beverages). Anyways, there's an episode where Edina - one of the two drunken protagonists, wants to clean the house, and she keeps squawking that she needs <strong>"clean surfaces! cleeeeeeeeeean surfaces!!"</strong> For some reason I still think it's one of the funniest episodes in all of the seasons of the show, and still find it challenging not to pee in my pants whenever I watch it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I guess this was a bit of a tangent, but the take-home messages here are a) you need to watch the show if you haven't, and b) this phrase has also been a running joke for a long time between Lisa and I, namely whenever we need to clean the house. (We say it with full-on, <em>awful</em>, British accents, usually multiple times...the whole nine yards. Yes, we're THAT cool in the Bellocchio household.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">With the whole "clean surfaces" mantra in mind, after my little sleep-aid kicked in last night, I felt it necessary to <strike>eat everything non-perishable inside of</strike> clean out our fridge and organize it. There was no resin to step in this time, so I was free to prance around the kitchen without consequence. I did actually <em>clean</em> out the fridge, but that was not not until I did some snacking. (duh). Much to the dismay of my poor mother, its turns out that the fruit of her loins has become some strange hybrid of a daughter, with the cleaning tendencies of an OCD maid and the appetite of a truck driver.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_LB-UgKFWI/AAAAAAAAAFg/IKU8kts14jk/s1600/fatman+at+fridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_LB-UgKFWI/AAAAAAAAAFg/IKU8kts14jk/s320/fatman+at+fridge.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I wish there was a before and after picture of my handiwork, but I guess there was a significant difference. Lisa was so impressed with my work on the fridge that she left another one of her infamous notes for me this morning! I really should start saving these.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_K-e8PTmVI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/XeqsGcLjsDk/s1600/fridge1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_K-e8PTmVI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/XeqsGcLjsDk/s320/fridge1.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">oh I don't know, Lisa! Whose refrigerator is it!? Hopefully not ours, because <strong><em>there's no longer any food in it!!</em></strong> (excluding the delicious Ensure on the right ::gag:: and excessively large vat of yogurt on the left).</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_K_Kbi5kPI/AAAAAAAAAFY/YnyTIJ4hKXQ/s1600/fridge2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_K_Kbi5kPI/AAAAAAAAAFY/YnyTIJ4hKXQ/s320/fridge2.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">...and massive amounts of condiments...and I know for a fact that that lonely hummus container with the red lid hiding next to the pudding is definitely empty. oops.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Unfortunately, I can't account for what was actually eaten, and what was thrown away because of expiration dates. However, if my next post is written by way of hospital room bed, you'll know that I got some wires crossed last night and probably ate some canned artichoke hearts, circa 2006.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">In the coming weeks I've been informed that we're going to be pressure cleaning the back patio and doing some touch-up painting. The last time I painted was during the summer of 2008, when I helped Emj paint her brother's room in Cape Cod a nice, clean, white color. I also neglected to wear a hat--(apparently one of the first rules of painting, who knew?) and for the rest of the summer I looked like Rogue's mentally challenged relative, and I don't have enough fingers or toes to count the number of people who asked me if I was "going gray a little early."</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_LNXhgOZNI/AAAAAAAAAFo/dZFjucwzn6c/s1600/anna-paquin-xmen3-rogue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S_LNXhgOZNI/AAAAAAAAAFo/dZFjucwzn6c/s200/anna-paquin-xmen3-rogue1.jpg" width="144" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Clearly I am nowhere as attractive as Anna Paquin, nor did my "streak of white" look as purposefully placed as hers. But the amount that plopped onto my head wasn't far off. Either way, what I am trying to convey here is that these coming weeks of renovating should be interesting. I'll keep you posted.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-59683376204046816172010-05-14T08:12:00.000-07:002010-05-18T21:16:35.217-07:00Driving Miss Daisy<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">I like to think that I am an evenly-tempered individual, and you really have to do something heinous for me to hold a grudge. However, all of this rationality is completely tossed aside once I get behind the wheel. Yes, I have the absolute WORST case of road rage I have yet seen surpassed.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">However, in an ironic twist of fate, I have been told (multiple times) that I really don't possess the superior driving skills to warrant such road rage. Actually, the words used typically are: "Wow, Court, you're a pretty bad driver" or "Umm...you could have gone like 7 cars ago, what are you waiting for?" or "You have another 4 miles before the exit, why are you getting over NOW?" or my personal favorite: "How have you not gotten a ticket yet? this isn't f*cking NASCAR!"</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-wzyDE-RkI/AAAAAAAAAEg/lu_AGCAqXvQ/s1600/RickyBobby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-wzyDE-RkI/AAAAAAAAAEg/lu_AGCAqXvQ/s320/RickyBobby.jpg" width="320" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Yes, yes it is.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Either way, I like to consider myself a polite and poised individual, but God help you if you're over 80, turn out of your retirement development and cut me off while I'm doing 60, only to creep around your turn at 10 mph. And really, that's all south Florida is. Don't even get me started on Tallahassee, where they don't understand what that little stick poking out of their driving wheel is for. It's a turning signal, you half-wits. I digress.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I worked at 50+ community for a little while after I graduated college, so there were some over 60's who were pretty cool, but I'm pretty sure many of them wanted to nail me with their golf balls when I drove in thumping Lil' Wayne at 7 AM, just when they were about to tee off.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1hBVvDUxI/AAAAAAAAAEo/IuJW7tN1IAI/s1600/cranky_old_man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1hBVvDUxI/AAAAAAAAAEo/IuJW7tN1IAI/s200/cranky_old_man.jpg" width="200" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">"If I double-bogey this hole I'm blaming that damn Jetta, and not the interference of my awesome hat."</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">It's just so happens that whenever Nichole calls to check on me in my travels from Tally to West Palm Beach (such a good friend), she ALWAYS catches me right when I'm screaming obscenities at the driver in front of me. Usually it's some college chick, talking on her cell phone/eating a sandwich/doing her nails/performing surgery all at the same time, with some incredibly witty vanity plate that says something to the effect of "2cute4U", going 55 in the left lane in front of me. She more than likely has a Beamer or an Audi with Greek sorority letters on the back, (not that I stereotype or anything....) </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyways, every conversation begins "Coco, (that's what she's called me as long as I can remember), we've talked about this. Stop screaming and relax. Don't give them the finger. no, No, <strong>NO NO NO don't call her that!</strong>" </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I had come to terms with my road rage, until the other day when I hit an all-time low. I was cruising down one of the streets in my neighborhood, when I came up behind a Buick LeSabre that clearly was driving itself. The little old woman driving it was either utilizing a periscope to see over the wheel, or this was some government project gone horribly awry. Either way, I was trying to make it to I-95 before rush hour traffic, and Driving Miss Daisy was not helping the situation. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">So I give her two polite beeps...</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Nothing. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I give another beep... </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Not even phased! She actually <strong>speeds up</strong> (imagine that) so I can't pass her.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally I just lay on my horn...and little Miss Dale Earnhardt lays on hers right back!! </div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1kRzMuRhI/AAAAAAAAAEw/RTuO6R1piUk/s1600/oldwoman+driving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1kRzMuRhI/AAAAAAAAAEw/RTuO6R1piUk/s320/oldwoman+driving.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">So she wants a duel, huh? Two can play this game. I roll down my window and give her the finger (classy), and swerve around her, passing her on the right.</div><div align="center" class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1q-1DSmUI/AAAAAAAAAFA/X_u5EleuRrU/s1600/Youngboybird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1q-1DSmUI/AAAAAAAAAFA/X_u5EleuRrU/s320/Youngboybird.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">VICTORY! TAKE THAT GRANDMA!!</div><div align="center" class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">...only then I look over to the passenger seat. Sitting there is her poor husband, looking at me. frowning. sadly. with an oxygen tank he is breathing from attached to his face.</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Morality/common decency/SANITY: 1</strong></div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Courtney: 0</strong></div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Ever since I've reflected on my "duel" with this little old lady I've been trying to curb my road rage. So far, the only thing that's worked is listening to my Glee soundtrack in my car when I'm driving in my neighborhood. Only Finn's "I'll Stand By You" and Mercedes' Dreamgirls renditions seem to mellow me out. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1nmJx33OI/AAAAAAAAAE4/wI4i-afxUsY/s1600/300_ad_Glee_Colfer_Riley_Michele_Ushkowitz_Monteith_McHale_051209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-1nmJx33OI/AAAAAAAAAE4/wI4i-afxUsY/s320/300_ad_Glee_Colfer_Riley_Michele_Ushkowitz_Monteith_McHale_051209.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">I am clearly Rachel in this scene, after morally hitting rock-bottom, flipping the bird to a little old man on oxygen support. Thank goodness for Finn's vocals.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">So, if anyone else has some "remedies" for road rage....please send them my way before I drag-race another AARP candidate. </div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-71221630969136754782010-05-10T20:43:00.000-07:002010-05-11T08:36:01.350-07:00Don't Step on this Roche...an ode to NicholeShe's my best friend: and she asked for it, so she got it. This is a long one, so if you're bored at work, get ready. This post will be entirely dedicated to Nichole Roche (and it's not pronounced like you'd think from the title, it's a soft "C")<br />
...however, when asked in the 4th grade how to say her last name correctly, she would quickly reply with a response that would prompt you to believe she was the descendent of some pastry, or famous chocolate: "for your information, it's pronounced roh-SHAY." She would even insert an accent above the "e" when she wrote her name. (She has since now ceased this habit).<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-iltFLvjNI/AAAAAAAAADI/2Vix5R-zKEA/s1600/Nichole+and+court.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-iltFLvjNI/AAAAAAAAADI/2Vix5R-zKEA/s320/Nichole+and+court.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Clearly, our parents both decided we should go through the dreaded "straight-across-the-forehead bang stage" simultaneously, maybe to soften the ridicule. I still don't know why they did this to us. And I still don't know why she's squinting so forcefully.</div><br />
Anyways, if you don't personally know Nichole (a) it's your loss, but (b) there are some pretty funny memories I have of this girl. So let me start with a disclaimer here: Although many of the little anecdotes will ensue laughter at the expense of Nichole, she is my oldest friend (BFF for 20 years...sandbox love doesn't die, people.) And I can say with all honesty that she is the most genuine, honest, loyal, down to earth person/friend/human being that I have ever known in my entire 24 years on this planet. If you were stranded on a highway in the middle of nowhere, Nichole would be the one that would willingingly drag her ass out of bed at any hour to come get you, and probably swing by Wendy's on the way home to get you food. With that having been said, meet Nichole:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-imUpzovHI/AAAAAAAAADQ/cfe-DWTTvjU/s1600/100_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-imUpzovHI/AAAAAAAAADQ/cfe-DWTTvjU/s320/100_0004.JPG" tt="true" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Nichole...thugging it out with Bogey</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As far back as I can remember, besides golf, soccer, basketball, basically every single sport she has ever tried (and excelled in), Nichole's other main hobby in life was to find different ways to slowly torture and/or annoy me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Exhibit A:</strong> She would play the "not touching game," where she would position herself on the arm of my chair, with her fingers waving in front of my face like tiny chinese torture devices...but I could do nothing because, as mentioned before, she was "not touching me." This would go on for what seemed like hours.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Exhibit B:</strong> When this did not sufficiently annoy me, she would physically slap me upside the head with the force of an Andy Roddick tennis serve, wait for a reaction (ANY reaction), smile the widest, most angelic grin you've ever seen, and with a hint of demonic playfulness in her high-pitched voice, claim: "What? I didn't do anything. WHAT?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As you can see from this next photo, this "game" permeated into other aspects of our childhood, and unfortunately the "slaps" were not restricted to the use of hands alone:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-ipgsA_f0I/AAAAAAAAADY/Ft5ws-ppYgo/s1600/nichole+1+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-ipgsA_f0I/AAAAAAAAADY/Ft5ws-ppYgo/s320/nichole+1+001.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here she is, literally caught in the act, winding up to smack me with her racquet. (and no, it's not a coincidence, she did hit me; I remember because I cried like a pansy for the better part of an hour--and it wasn't because I was dressed like that).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>I'll tell you later (maybe) about how she's developed into an amazing woman (as I was writing this she called to tell me she finished her last exam and her first year of law school! WOO!) But first, my favorite memory of Nichole in childhood was this:<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">One fateful day we both frolicked in the ocean at the Breakers, only to soon realize that we were plagued with the WORST case of sea lice known to man. Our family's remedy was to just douse ourselves in calamine lotion and not scratch. However, Nichole had other remedies...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Nichole used to live down the street from me, so I decided that as a rational 8 year old, we should suffer together in an environment with tons of Disney movies. Well, imagine my surprise when I entered the Roche household, and all I could hear was Nichole's SCREAMING. I couldn't understand where it came from, then all of a sudden, the image before me was much like Christian Bale, flying through the air as Batman at the speed of light with that winged cape; </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;"> </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jUmuoM8PI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/9FoFYDQ9nsU/s1600/batman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jUmuoM8PI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/9FoFYDQ9nsU/s200/batman.jpg" tt="true" width="162" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">....Only this batman was ass-naked, covered in bug bites and calamine lotion, and was running through the hall with a towel behind her screaming at the top of her lungs. My remedy was calamine lotion (and to remain fully clothed); my best friend found that "cool air whooshing over her body" worked best for her. To each his own. That image will forever be burned in my head.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But those were the days when we were young and stupid...right? That was then, this is now:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jGjQmGFOI/AAAAAAAAADg/ngoVORbmWyI/s1600/P1010102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jGjQmGFOI/AAAAAAAAADg/ngoVORbmWyI/s320/P1010102.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This was at Halloween Horror Nights in 2008. It ended up being very chilly at night, and we knew when we entered Islands of Adventure at around 3 that we probably shouldn't go on any "wet" rides. At least, that's what the normal theme parkers did---even the stereotypical Asian tourists with the huge cameras and Disney ponchos didn't go on the flume/wet rides. But wait! who is that poor soul on the Popeye Barge ride....?</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jHgB2GHII/AAAAAAAAADo/lJIr6XlH7fg/s1600/Popeye+ride.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jHgB2GHII/AAAAAAAAADo/lJIr6XlH7fg/s320/Popeye+ride.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yes. That is Nichole. all by herself. on the water ride. Call her silly, but we'll just call it a testament to her dedication to riding EVERY ride in Islands of Adventure since there were no lines.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-ldqkgOKvI/AAAAAAAAAEY/Vj7_jNA_1Ck/s1600/Nichole+wet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-ldqkgOKvI/AAAAAAAAAEY/Vj7_jNA_1Ck/s320/Nichole+wet.JPG" tt="true" width="240" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I guess what you can say about Nichole is that she's a gal who sticks to her guns. Even against adversity. And even when you are, in fact, agreeing with her, and YOU, even, are actually sticking to HER guns, as well. Enter New Years 2008:</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jIu1GTFjI/AAAAAAAAADw/7afE1w5AJ-M/s1600/new+years.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jIu1GTFjI/AAAAAAAAADw/7afE1w5AJ-M/s320/new+years.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At Slainte, the pub she worked at/frequented while we were both in between college and grad school/law school.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let me set the stage for you: It's New Years, Nichole, Lizzy and Jimmy (Nichole's parents) and I have set up shop at <em><span style="color: #38761d;">Slainte</span></em> "Slahn-chuh" (which is "Cheers!" in Gaelic, for those who are uncultured) ...For the record, whenever Nichole pronounced the name of this pub I thought she was saying "Cilantro," so up until we actually entered the pub I assumed it was some kind of Spanish restaurant that specialized in dishes that featured cilantro.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anywho, Nichole knows all of the bartenders so we continue to receive free drinks/shots/jagerbombs...etc. Somehow, at some point, Lizzy tells Nichole that she's leaving, I'm assuming it's around 1:30 (Lizzy can party). This brief conversation gets taken WAY out of proportion, which leaves Nichole bawling in my arms outside of Slainte at 2 AM repeating:</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">"I'm not f*cking going home, Court! I'm not, I'm just not!"</span></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Concerned, I try to calm her down <span style="color: #274e13;">"It's cool Nik, we'll just go to another bar"</span></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Rationally, her response was: <span style="color: #cc0000;">"NO! ffff*ck you Court, I'mm NOT goingg home"</span>Again, I try to reason with Mrs. Captain Morgan: <span style="color: #274e13;">"I know, we're not going home, let's go to a different bar, really its going to be okay"</span></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">This conversation repeats itself for a good five minutes, with a couple 4-letter words I decided best to leave out.</span></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At this point, there has been a creepy older man who has been trying to strike my fancy for the better part of the evening, and in an even creepier turn of events, this <strike>pervy middle-aged school teacher</strike> "shining white knight" decides to pull up in his Jetta and offer us a ride to the bar. Nichole, instantly taking him up on his offer, (since this is not creepy AT ALL), literally swan dives into his backseat and demands he take us to Cucina in Palm Beach. (Slainte is in Lake Worth, Cucina is about 20 min away on the highway...do the creepy math here, people). I can't let her get in alone, so I hop into the peterass wagon and we head to Cucina.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jL0XoKcDI/AAAAAAAAAD4/KkDMAPpf6fk/s1600/free-candy-van.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jL0XoKcDI/AAAAAAAAAD4/KkDMAPpf6fk/s320/free-candy-van.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know this wasn't the smartest thing either of us have ever done, but we're both still here so let's not dwell on my poor judgment. Luckily I was a little inebriated, because I have no idea what we talked about for 20 minutes in transit, but apparently he deemed Nichole "a real pain in the ass." (how rude.)</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...In the end, we made it to Cucina, and then to Bradley's. and then back to Nichole's at around 6 AM. An eventful and successful New Years'.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It has become a common habit of my buddy for life to weep when she gets a little saucy, and I've come to embrace the messages left on my voicemail at 3 am, usually <strike>from the floor of bar bathroom</strike> from the bottom of her heart. Maybe she needs advice, or just a distraction from vomiting. Either way it makes me happy I'm on her mind.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I could go on for pages and pages about this girl. But if you take one look in my house, you will notice that Lisa actually loves Nichole more than she loves me. No really, there are more pictures of Nichole in some rooms than myself (which is hard to believe if you know my mother). Nichole has always had my back, and to prove this statement she has literally threatened every boyfriend I've had in one way or another (even the 225 wide receiver from Kent). For all intents and purposes, she is more like my sistah from another mistah than a best friend, because I think it's more meaningful that way.</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jQuBFZqpI/AAAAAAAAAEA/4H0yEHpd470/s1600/zoolander11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jQuBFZqpI/AAAAAAAAAEA/4H0yEHpd470/s320/zoolander11.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Rufus, Brint, and Meekus were like brothers to me. And when I say brother, I don't mean, like, an actual brother, but I mean it like the way black people use it. Which is more meaningful I think." Zoolander anyone? (Movie Mondays for you...oops. there it is.)</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Nik, you know I could go on for hours about you, but unfortunately, I think after page 10 people might stop reading. but here is your dedication, and I love you. And here is the final picture to prove it:</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jSIcQ2f2I/AAAAAAAAAEI/wcmMckRY5OU/s1600/100_0251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-jSIcQ2f2I/AAAAAAAAAEI/wcmMckRY5OU/s320/100_0251.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Nichole = EPIC, in so many ways. I'm proud to be your friend.</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-7473628729042081102010-05-05T09:28:00.000-07:002010-05-05T09:59:10.063-07:00Frameworthy?First off, Happy Cinco de Mayo everyone! Unfortunately, this post will have absolutely nothing to do with Cinco de Mayo, I probably won't address the holiday until tomorrow after I've celebrated properly. After massive amounts of tequila the last thing I'll want to do tonight is blog....well actually, maybe I will, but for your sake, I won't. BUT, if you want a killer margarita for tonight, check out my friend <a href="http://jstansbakery.blogspot.com/">J-Stan's Blog</a> for a really good recipe. Ben makes amazing margs.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GN4LnoLbI/AAAAAAAAACQ/mjx1URlo4wA/s1600/sombrero.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GN4LnoLbI/AAAAAAAAACQ/mjx1URlo4wA/s320/sombrero.gif" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center">^This feisty brunette is obviously me, in my sombrero.....just kidding, Teletubbies don't wear sombreros. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="left">Secondly, my BFF 4 Life, Nichole, <strike>verbally accosted me via blackberry for not addressing her in my blog</strike> kindly asked that I include her in my blog. She was <strike>spouting smoke from her ears and gritting her teeth</strike> a little upset that she hadn't been mentioned yet. I told her today's post was going to be about her, but unfortunately, I lied. Nik, if you're reading this, you know great masterpieces take time. And quite frankly, you have your law finals this week so you shouldn't be reading this!!! SO GO STUDY! You will have an entire post that will basically be a dedication to your existence, I swear. love you. mean it.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Ok, so now on to what I'm actually going to talk about. If you know me, then you know that I have a <em>SICK </em>obsession with frames. Whenever I go to Target, Homegoods, BB&B, both Nichole and Christina have physically had to remove me from the frame section. Afterwards, I go through a moment of withdrawal, and I find myself lost and wandering aimlessly in the bedding or diningware section, sad and strung out like a crackhead waiting for a hit. It's an addiction, it really is.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GTd1XPcqI/AAAAAAAAACY/VaG7TAQ6KC8/s1600/crackhead_whitney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GTd1XPcqI/AAAAAAAAACY/VaG7TAQ6KC8/s200/crackhead_whitney.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I NEED PICTURE FRAMES!</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">I can say that I'm about 95% positive that if you're my friend, and you've received a gift from me in the last 4 years, I'm sorry to say that it was probably some kind of picture frame. With some kind of black and white picture in it. With a quote (probably written in white) that has some reference to the deeper meanings of life, examples:</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">1. "If we get a little crazy, just blame it on the alcohol"</div><div align="left">2. “Get up and dance, get up and smile, get up and drink to the days that are gone in the shortest while.”</div><div align="left">3. "you are not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on" -Joe Lewis</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">....see a recurring theme here?</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">THEN...there are the two most deadly combinations for any frame addict. it's like the Oxycontin of capturing photos. First: <strong>the collage</strong>. A way for an ADD person like myself to include not one, but possibly THIRTY pictures into one, fabulous frame. If I'm feeling feisty I might even throw a quote around the border. If you receive one of these from me, (a) be happy that I have so many pictures of us together, but (b) also understand it's because I couldn't rationally, (although I'd probably love to) give you thirty separate frames. My cousin Ashley made me one of the two of us, I tweaked it a little bit but now it's hanging next to my bed:</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GV3vkEkfI/AAAAAAAAACg/EsBGXBT-DnM/s1600/ash+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GV3vkEkfI/AAAAAAAAACg/EsBGXBT-DnM/s320/ash+and+me.jpg" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For the record, Ash is just as bad as me...we have so many collages it's disgusting.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My second deadliest combination is the surprisingly popular Nautically-themed frame. I will have to get to my nautically-themed ANYTHING addiction at a later date. But for some reason, if I find a nautically-themed picture frame, it's comparable to that scene in Tropic Thunder where Jeff Portnoy, (Jack Black) the recovering heroin addict, stumbles upon a mountain of the purest form of heroin in an opium den. It's like hitting the motherload!! While in the store, I'll find myself getting anxious if I think someone might swoop in and grab it before I do.</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-Geqde4IsI/AAAAAAAAADA/3yVzfS_A9Qw/s1600/tropic_thunder_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-Geqde4IsI/AAAAAAAAADA/3yVzfS_A9Qw/s320/tropic_thunder_5.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So if there's one left, I'll be DAMNED if anyone is going to take it from me. </div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">On a not so drug-themed tangent, they really are just the cutest frames. Observe:</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GaFYHooTI/AAAAAAAAACw/OyGjTOWDYck/s1600/nautical+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-GaFYHooTI/AAAAAAAAACw/OyGjTOWDYck/s320/nautical+frame.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">See? poor Sean has a long road ahead of him, he's already gotten two frames from me. It took every inch of self-restraint that I had NOT to give him a Nautically-themed one, since he already has a bunch. So this one's sitting next to my bed.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">So I will leave you, friends, with this. I found this website that has the most adorable picture frames, and you can purchase them straight from the site: <a href="http://elizabethlynndesigns.com/preppy.html">Elizabeth Lynn Designs</a> has preppy styled frames that I may have to invest in. Especially since almost every frame I own is black. (I like to match).</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">If you ever stumble upon a poor soul, scratching her neck wildly in the stemware section of your local Bed Bath & Beyond or Homegoods, it's probably me. Be kind to her, because some b*tch has probably just taken the last picture frame with the lighthouse on it.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-Gcpm7mNKI/AAAAAAAAAC4/sInP4S90mow/s1600/jackblack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S-Gcpm7mNKI/AAAAAAAAAC4/sInP4S90mow/s320/jackblack.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-58134706341857878172010-05-03T09:43:00.000-07:002010-05-04T11:18:14.027-07:00Movie Mondays: Freddy no longer has a "killer" good time.Last night, Sean and I went and saw the remake of "A Nightmare on Elm Street." While I was watching it, all I could think of was how much better the original was...and then how sad it was that I had actually seen each and every sequel in the Freddy franchise that started in 1984 BC (Before Courtney). As I watched as the teens were repeatedly slashed on the screen and pondered how I <strike>spend most of my time in grad school watching movies in my living room on Friday nights like a common hermit</strike> am a movie buff, I had the epiphany that maybe I should devote my Monday posts to movies I've seen; hence, "Movie Mondays" (really innovative, I know.)<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S97wExCmCbI/AAAAAAAAABw/bLgPpg-3Zh0/s1600/freddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S97wExCmCbI/AAAAAAAAABw/bLgPpg-3Zh0/s320/freddy.jpg" tt="true" width="216" /></a></div><br />
So I know the really creepy premise of the movie is supposed to be Freddy's scarred face and razor sharp hands...but seriously, the eeriest part of the movie is the fact that Freddy is a bonified Peterass. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9-Z9gQAqeI/AAAAAAAAACI/QF_zhw6WApI/s1600/the+dude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9-Z9gQAqeI/AAAAAAAAACI/QF_zhw6WApI/s200/the+dude.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> "He had to go door to door telling everyone that he was a peterass."<br />
"What's a peterass??" "Shut the F* up Donnie."</div><br />
The Big Lebowski? anyone? Bueller? Everyone has to see this movie....and every time I hear that someone hasn't, I die a little inside. <br />
<br />
But anyways, Freddy was a pedophile, and that's why he was chased out of town and cooked like a chicken. What's even more creepy is the actor who plays Freddy in this remake, Jackie Earle Haley, won an Oscar for his uuber-creeper portrayal as a sex offender in 2006's "Little Children."<br />
<br />
...I'm no actor, but it must really suck when you've been typecast in the role as the "go-to, obviously creepy, child molester guy." <br />
<br />
When they get down to the original story, Freddy used to work at a preschool as the maintenance man where he also lived in the basement. Because clearly, all accredited preschools let weird guys who maintain the yard AND suspiciously play with 4-year-old's all day long live in their secluded basement. <br />
<br />
Soon enough, the teens start dying in their sleep. <strong>Two</strong> things about the death of the first girl, Kris: First off, Kris lives in this <em>gorgeous,</em> suburban, 2-story, English Colonial, that could easily be placed on the market for at least $1.2 million, and her single mom (Marge) is...<em>a flight attendant?</em> I have nothing against flight attendants, Lisa was a flight attendant for American Airlines way back when, but honestly...how does she afford <strong>that</strong> house? Hmm?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S978-bWYgII/AAAAAAAAACA/435BH8p4JMw/s1600/flight_attendant_outfit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S978-bWYgII/AAAAAAAAACA/435BH8p4JMw/s320/flight_attendant_outfit.jpg" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Obviously, our friendly skies are not the only things Marge is flying on top of, if you catch my drift.</div><br />
It's the little details like this that really bug me; it sounds really shallow, I know...but the rest of the movie was so cliche as a remake, that it was almost too cliche in itself to focus this post on the painfully evident inconsistencies of the original. Remakes are supposed to be bad, it's a given. Anyways, as Kris climbs the stairs to her bedroom after her boyfriend's funeral, she enters her room, and...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S97ytwTKQVI/AAAAAAAAAB4/zyxn6CoBT-M/s1600/bedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S97ytwTKQVI/AAAAAAAAAB4/zyxn6CoBT-M/s320/bedding.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><strong>SHE HAS THE SAME DUVET COVER AS I DO!!!</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Honestly, this part made me jump the highest. Until I saw that she had matching window treatments. *Notice I said "window treatments" and not "curtains"...oh the things you learn from living with an Interior Design major (Christina: +1 point) Either way, that's a lot of pattern for one room. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But clearly, since both Marge and I share the same taste in what is considered her daughter's Pottery-Barn-inspired deathbed, (literally), this just simply means that Freddy's going to get me when I get back to my apartment in Tallahassee.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the upside, there were some terrible, tasteless jokes thrown in there that were true to form of the Freddy franchise. As Nancy (played by catatonic, emotionless, Rooney Mara) is chased down her hallway by Freddy, he morphs her floor into a puddle of blood, and as she tries to swim through it he cackles: "How's THAT for a wet dream!?" Of course Giggles McGee sitting next to me got a kick out of that one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All in all it was a typical remake. What I missed was the sense of humor that Robert Englund had about his character when he played Freddy. Yeah he was the killer, but at least he was witty. But in the end, if the film itself didn't scare the moviegoers in Boca, Sean was armed with his trusty laser pen throughout the whole thing... so if they didn't think Freddy was going to get them, the psycho-sniper who was obviously hiding somewhere in the theater would instead.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-67990926634811023902010-04-30T07:48:00.000-07:002010-04-30T11:26:59.264-07:00Fourth meal...or Fifth meal...maybe sixth meal?So right now my house in West Palm is being turned upside down while it's renovated and prepared to be put on the market. This basically means that every morning at 8 AM my buddy Juan, (my new BFF from Home Depot), comes in and starts hacking away at the floorboards in my kitchen like a crazed Britney Spears with an umbrella (we all remember when she went nuts and hit that car with a shaved head, right?). Anyways, Juan finished pulling up the boards last night and put this crazy resin on the floor that we were not allowed to step on until this morning.<br />
<br />
...Now here's my issue. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to live with me senior year in college (my amazing and tolerant roommates <a href="http://emjphoto.blogspot.com/"><span style="background-color: white; color: #674ea7;">Emj</span></a>, Ann, Katie, even <a href="http://jstansbakery.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #674ea7;">J-Stan</span></a> (might as well have been our roommate)) knows that I have some sleeping problems. So to remedy this little issue I take Ambien. Now they claim their side effects are: "engaging in activity such as driving, eating, or making phone calls and later having no memory of the activity" (thank you, <a href="http://www.webmd.com/">WebMD</a>)...I'm sad to say this is incredibly accurate. So around 12:30 at night I go from being a restless Courtney, to something a little more reminiscent of this guy:<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9roUC_KGLI/AAAAAAAAABQ/kxlxongFF3E/s1600/cookiemonster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9roUC_KGLI/AAAAAAAAABQ/kxlxongFF3E/s200/cookiemonster.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">om nom nom nom nom!!! Cookies!?!?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I will eat the most random combination of food in the fridge. Got some hot dogs in there? got some frozen corn? That sounds like a normal combination of a meal, right? I've eaten ravioli with no recollection and nachos without knowledge. Emj's poor frozen burritos served as collateral damage probably more than once.</div><br />
Well, Lisa (my mom) is privy to my "eating habits" and so she warned me that I was <strong>NOT</strong> allowed in the kitchen because the resin was drying. Apparently, her verbal warning was not enough, she had to make physical obstructions as well to take further precaution. What nerve!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9rqWgq80YI/AAAAAAAAABY/AHdDB9wD8b4/s1600/obstruction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9rqWgq80YI/AAAAAAAAABY/AHdDB9wD8b4/s320/obstruction.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Clearly, my mom has no faith in my self-restraint. And clearly, she shouldn't:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9rqqtAW8TI/AAAAAAAAABg/SB7cITc4Y3g/s1600/footprint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9rqqtAW8TI/AAAAAAAAABg/SB7cITc4Y3g/s320/footprint.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From that footprint it looks like I slid into the kitchen. But, somehow, in my graceful dexterity of a cat, i was able to "leap" into the kitchen, <strong>pivot</strong> on one foot while opening the fridge, and pull out the leftover chicken from two nights ago. Kind of creates a paradigm of being both incredibly impressive and utterly pathetic, no?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><strong><span style="color: red;">*sidenote</span></strong>: </span><span style="color: black;">"<strong>pivot</strong>" was a nod to my </span><a href="http://www.kent-school.edu/"><span style="color: #351c75;">Kent</span></a><span style="color: #38761d;"> <span style="color: black;">roommate of 4 years,</span> </span><a href="http://www.peppermintbliss.com/"><span style="color: #351c75;">Ms. Bailey Daniel</span></a><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: black;">;</span> </span><span style="color: black;">I'm almost positive we watched the "Friends" episode where Ross moves the couch up the stairs whilst yelling "PIV-OT...PIV-OT...PIV-AT" at least 200 times*</span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>I took this photo this morning...after Lisa politely asked "Court, did you try to get into the kitchen last night?" Where obviously, my quick response was a cool: "No, don't be silly, the resin was still drying, I would have gotten stuck."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should have taken a picture of my socks that were worn at the scene of the crime. But give me a little credit here, I'm a Criminology major, and I've seen enough episodes of Law & Order to know that you should always dispose of the evidence!</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8142403062567248316.post-4317952097614763402010-04-29T09:03:00.000-07:002010-04-29T20:03:39.413-07:00What did you call me?Hello all! So I'm new to this blogging world, but all of my friends have these nifty blogs about baking, crafts, and all kinds of other fun things. It would be put very nicely to say that I am "not very good" at crafts or cooking, so really this blog will just be things that happen in my day-to-day life, funny things people send me, funny things that happen to me...you get the picture.<br />
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So anywho, Tuesday I finished my first year in grad school! Woo! I turned in my two research papers and booked it home in a record 5 hours and 15 minutes. My boyfriend, Sean, is in the US Coast Guard and (unfortunately for me) has to frequently go on 3-5 day excursions, the nautical term is "going underway" (For some reason, my friends have laughed at this terminology because their minds are in the gutter ::cough cough:: Alex ::cough cough::) but nonetheless, I was lucky enough to get home the day before he had to leave! <br />
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So, let me just preface this story that Sean has an incredibly high threshold of pain (unlike myself), so it's rare that he'll even pop an Advil for a headache. Well, needless to say he had a root canal yesterday and so they gave him a heavy dose of narcotics for the pain. So once he took one, the poor thing was looped beyond recognition: giggling, his eyes were glazed over, he basically looked like he had just eaten a couple of special brownies. For the record, Sean doesn't "giggle," He has this awesome hearty laugh that I've tried to imitate with little success.<br />
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I was delighted when he arrived on my doorstep with these, (it's our 11-month anniversary. Yeah, it's cheesy, but I loved them, so lay off.):<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9mpogEXwII/AAAAAAAAAAw/oBw0PDZ2fd0/s1600/roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9mpogEXwII/AAAAAAAAAAw/oBw0PDZ2fd0/s320/roses.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Later, Charlie (mom's BF) grilled us some delicious steaks and some chicken, as Sean continued to giggle through dinner. <br />
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When we were watching TV in my room, he suddenly looked over at me and (once again) giggled like a school girl. <br />
I said, "What are you laughing at?" <br />
Giggles McGee just simply replies: "hahaha...I don't know...I was just thinking about guacamole." ::smiles really big:: ...oh the wonders of narcotics.<br />
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....Fast forward about 2 hours later, he had to drive back to Boca. So we did our normal, sad goodbyes on my doorstep, and here's where it happened. Normally, my knight in shining Guy Harvey has a couple of choice nicknames, which I'm not going to lie, I actually do enjoy. I've never been much for nicknames or pet names, but the ones he's picked are pretty good. So imagine my surprise when he whipped out this gem:<br />
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He hugged me tightly, looked me in my eyes and goes: <strong><span style="color: magenta;">"my wittle teletubby"</span></strong><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9mrA1zaXGI/AAAAAAAAAA4/FkS97F9NqH4/s1600/teletubby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_s4Op3J27Yo8/S9mrA1zaXGI/AAAAAAAAAA4/FkS97F9NqH4/s320/teletubby.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">^Courtney, obviously ^</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red;"><strong>WHAT!?</strong></span> Was he calling me fat? Short? TUBBY? He saw the look of horror on my face as I slowly backed away in disgust. And he says "what? aren't they cute little <span style="color: red;">creatures</span> or something?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...Wait...for....it...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...so now I'm a <strong><span style="color: red;">FAT CREATURE!?</span></strong> He was digging himself his own grave and he was digging it fast. I was about to put the head stone in place when he apologized; he's never seen the show and he continuously reassured me that I am not tubby nor am I a creature. I couldn't be mad at those <strike>glassy, glazed over</strike> apologetic, deep blue eyes of his. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So we said good night, and he giggled as he walked away. Hopefully tomorrow when we go jet-skiing, he will not have taken said medication before he sees me in a bathingsuit. My pride was hurting, but at least his root canal wasn't.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">PS Keep in mind he'll probably be mortified if/when he reads this--he is amazing, I've just never seen him hopped up on narcotics (and probably never will again) so I figured it should be documented for posterity.</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01491705582892675729noreply@blogger.com2