Tough economic times have led to many people still filing for unemployment, searching for their "true passion" in life, holding out for management positions, and generally wasting time. I, too, have spent time unemployed. One might say I might be characterised as unemployed right now, except that in the art world we call it "working remotely".
You might be surprised to learn that I have become a student of humanity. I liken myself to Darwin, both in importance and the belief that my theories should be the foundation of important scientific studies. I am one who truly enjoys the differences between each of us, revels in heterogeneity, and finds joy in the uniqueness in all of us. This applies to burritos as well. These are my field notes of the library-dwelling species most common in the northern hemisphere.
1. The Tapper (Tappus Annoyass Humanus)
SNIFF SNORT RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP SNIFF GRUNT SNORT SNORT TAP TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TAP SNIFF SNIFF RUSTLE TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TIPPETY TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP RUSTLE GRUNT SNIFF SNORT RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP COUGH TAP TAP TAP TAP SNIFF GRUNT SNORT SNORT TAP TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TAP SNIFF SNIFF RUSTLE TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TIPPETY TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP RUSTLE GRUNT SNIFF SNORT RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP SNIFF GRUNT SNORT SNORT TAP TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TAP SNIFF COUGH COUGH SNIFF RUSTLE TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TIPPETY TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP RUSTLE GRUNT SNIFF SNORT RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP SNIFF GRUNT SNORT SNORT TAP TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TAP SNIFF SNIFF RUSTLE TAP RUSTLE RUSTLE TAP TAP TIPPETY TIPPETY TAP TIPPETY TAP TAP TAP TAP RUSTLE GRUNT
2. The Picker/flicker (Ickus Boogaris Humanus)
I can see you, you know. When you sit down across from me, even though I’m looking at my computer and typing doesn’t mean I can’t see your hands move up to your face, your short little fingers indelicately foraging for the lost treasure your nose hides, your arm reaching back to flick said treasure away from your seat onto the floor behind you. You’re nasty, and yes, I’m staring at you with a bitchy look because I saw you do that, and you should know.
3. The Spreader (Lotsastuffus Humanus)
These people suffer from an affliction known as P.S.S. (paper spreading syndrome), commonly referred to as Carol Morgan Disease. This is,
perhaps, the most irritating to me because I tend to be overly sensitive
about the equal division of shared public space (fatty on the southwest
airlines taking up 1.5 seats, I’m also talking about you, but not
directly in this post). Let’s lay it out for you: you have exactly the
space that the arms of your chair dictates, and halfway across the
table. Not ALL the way across the table, not two chairs worth of width,
but exactly what any rational person would assume they can use. As a
note, you don’t need to bring your mini laptop, normal laptop, notebook,
and two different pens to the library. I know you just came here to
check facebook and/or get away from your roommates.
4. The Tortured "Artist" (Unemploydus Humanus)
for reals. I’m just wasting the day away, too, so you don’t have to pretend like you’re doing anything other than looking at people.com or comparing molasses types online. Don’t act like you’re struggling with your novel, invariably the next piece of great American literature. I know you’re typing asjkdnfaphiwenjklasnc;awef over and over and sighing as an act.
5. The Headphone Jackass (Unawarus Assholus Humanus)
Yup. I have earbuds, too, and the whole point of having them is that you can listen to whatever you want without everyone else around you also hearing it. Whichever companies make those shitty headphones where you can hear the sweet beats of your neighbor should be shut down with the designers locked inside the factory while it is set on fire. The point is that if I wanted to listen to music, I wouldn’t have come to a library and sat down sans my own earphones, planning to listen to yours.
6. The Raging Homeless (Vagrantus Crazus Humanus)
Dude.
You’re homeless, not enlightened. You smell like piss, you look awful,
and you are mumbling something incoherent. We all know your homeless. Oh
look! The cross eyed-mentally retarded woman is your friend, that’s
sweet…and oh! My goodness! There’s another ragamuffin you’ve met in the
stacks! No no, don’t worry about us, those here to sit in relative quiet
and have a space to work. This is YOUR personal space, you talk about
the injustices of the world just as much and as loudly as you like.
7. The Lovebirds (Getaroomus Youngus Humanus)
NO ONE CARES THAT YOU ARE YOUNG AND "IN LOVE". I
don’t want to see your physical expressions of love, so take it some
place more private, like the subway. Trust me, I understand that you
have limited space in your home, but you may as well get your rent
money’s worth and take it on inside. Giggling is particularly annoying
as well.
Thursday, 10 January 2013
Monday, 29 October 2012
Katelin
Ahhhhh...back in the ol' apartment. Things are looking up and the apartment is certainly looking better than it has for a long while. So many things have changed over the past year or so (new friends, new relationship, new cities, new skin-care regime, the baby), and yet some things have stayed delightfully the same (squirrel boots, pooping three times a day, old friends, lasagna, my parents' rapid slide into senility). Of all of the things that are wonderfully consistent, the most wonderful is Katelin.
Have I ever told you about Kaitlin? This is her.
Kaitlin is our neighbor. She lives in unit D, which is a pretty sub-par apartment compared to ours, but I guess it's better because she lives in it. It doesn't have a great room with giant windows facing three directions to let the sun stream in all day. It doesn't have a bedroom overlooking a perfectly manicured lawn kept up by a delightfully quiet old man. Most importantly, Katelin's apartment doesn't have a kitchen window that looks directly into her bedroom. That's my favorite part.
I have honestly never seen anything, nor have I often looked because even for me, that's pretty fucking creepy. We're not talking about "creepin'" creepy, just plain fucking creepy. However, I just like knowing that I could probably see her in her apartment if I waited long enough. She must be aware of this, because even though her room would have lots of nice light from the south (sadly, the morning light is blocked because of our living room, which we don't even use in the morning!) she has to keep curtains closed all the time.
Ben and I have many jokes about how creepy I am. Actually, my nickname from his family is Creepy, which is kind of annoying (you'll understand more if you read a rant on this post) but still somewhat ok because they are nice people and apparently think I'm funny. Anyway, a few years ago I had been feeling pretty creepy due to a couple of awkward exchanges in the hallway with Kaitlin, including an ignored post-it note about going for a run together (What. I'm outgoing and I like to do sweaty stuff). All attempts to hang out were thwarted or avoided, so I guess I started to make fun of the situation in order to make myself feel better. It became funny to discuss with Ben the different run-ins we would have with her and how awkward it was that her awkwardness made our awkwardness shine even more than usual...and I guess the joke just got out of hand.
One night, in the wake of domestic troubles and big life decisions, we got "real stoned". I had my favorite blue sparkly recorder and as so often it happens, Ben and I started a jam session.We played together like Dave Matthews band on acid and it was great, until I noticed Ben wasn't playing anymore and I had been jamming alone with my eyes closed ala Kenny G. for god knows how long.
"That was great!" he said,
"Do you think Katelin heard us? Oh god. She must think we are so crazy."
"I dunno. Do you think she's in her room right now? The light's on!"
"No, Courtney, do not go over there."
"But Bennnnnnnnn! I WANNA PLAY HER A SONG!!!"
"I'm not going to be a part of this. I'm going into the bedroom. You're so fucking creepy."
"I'm turning the kitchen light off! She'll never even know!"
What, oh, what song would be good enough for Katelin? I have three from which to choose in my repertoire: Yankee Doodle, Brian Adams' - Everything I Do (I Do For You), and, of course, Celine Dion's number one hit from the blockbuster movie Titanic -
My Heart Will Go On.
(If you have forgotten the song or need to get the full experience of this, please watch this video. It's a pretty good representation of the type of person who would play My Heart Will Go On on the recorder, though no, that isn't me.)
There I stood in the kitchen not a full foot from the open window - the window that was open to Katelin's open bedroom window - and I began to play. The notes sounded great! It was one of my best renditions and I played it with loads of heart. I allowed my eyes to close, feeling the deep emotions of the song that stupid Canadian assaulted our minds with for years. So enchanted with my own playing that I forgot where I was, or at least wasn't thinking about it. A relatively bright flash of light flooded through my eyelids.
Fuck. I dropped to the floor like someone had kicked the backs of my knees but it was too late. Katelin had definitely heard me. Katelin had also definitely seen me, not just in the kitchen doing the dishes, or even looking out the window. Katelin had seen me serenading her with a recorder standing in my dark kitchen. Yup.
Needless to say, it's been a whole lot more awkward ever since that experience. I'm sure the day I moved out was one of the most relaxing days of her life, while the day I moved back in was one of the more stressful, especially because Ben is now on board with the Katelin creepin'. Sometimes we like to walk down the hall and sing quiet songs for Katelin about Katelin. Sometimes we like to just say Katelin's name a lot in places where she might hear us. Sometimes we think this is so funny that it turns into a blog post exclusively about Katelin, which is probably the creepiest thing to do.
Poor Katelin.
Have I ever told you about Kaitlin? This is her.
Kaitlin is our neighbor. She lives in unit D, which is a pretty sub-par apartment compared to ours, but I guess it's better because she lives in it. It doesn't have a great room with giant windows facing three directions to let the sun stream in all day. It doesn't have a bedroom overlooking a perfectly manicured lawn kept up by a delightfully quiet old man. Most importantly, Katelin's apartment doesn't have a kitchen window that looks directly into her bedroom. That's my favorite part.
I have honestly never seen anything, nor have I often looked because even for me, that's pretty fucking creepy. We're not talking about "creepin'" creepy, just plain fucking creepy. However, I just like knowing that I could probably see her in her apartment if I waited long enough. She must be aware of this, because even though her room would have lots of nice light from the south (sadly, the morning light is blocked because of our living room, which we don't even use in the morning!) she has to keep curtains closed all the time.
Ben and I have many jokes about how creepy I am. Actually, my nickname from his family is Creepy, which is kind of annoying (you'll understand more if you read a rant on this post) but still somewhat ok because they are nice people and apparently think I'm funny. Anyway, a few years ago I had been feeling pretty creepy due to a couple of awkward exchanges in the hallway with Kaitlin, including an ignored post-it note about going for a run together (What. I'm outgoing and I like to do sweaty stuff). All attempts to hang out were thwarted or avoided, so I guess I started to make fun of the situation in order to make myself feel better. It became funny to discuss with Ben the different run-ins we would have with her and how awkward it was that her awkwardness made our awkwardness shine even more than usual...and I guess the joke just got out of hand.
One night, in the wake of domestic troubles and big life decisions, we got "real stoned". I had my favorite blue sparkly recorder and as so often it happens, Ben and I started a jam session.We played together like Dave Matthews band on acid and it was great, until I noticed Ben wasn't playing anymore and I had been jamming alone with my eyes closed ala Kenny G. for god knows how long.
"That was great!" he said,
"Do you think Katelin heard us? Oh god. She must think we are so crazy."
"I dunno. Do you think she's in her room right now? The light's on!"
"No, Courtney, do not go over there."
"But Bennnnnnnnn! I WANNA PLAY HER A SONG!!!"
"I'm not going to be a part of this. I'm going into the bedroom. You're so fucking creepy."
"I'm turning the kitchen light off! She'll never even know!"
What, oh, what song would be good enough for Katelin? I have three from which to choose in my repertoire: Yankee Doodle, Brian Adams' - Everything I Do (I Do For You), and, of course, Celine Dion's number one hit from the blockbuster movie Titanic -
My Heart Will Go On.
(If you have forgotten the song or need to get the full experience of this, please watch this video. It's a pretty good representation of the type of person who would play My Heart Will Go On on the recorder, though no, that isn't me.)
There I stood in the kitchen not a full foot from the open window - the window that was open to Katelin's open bedroom window - and I began to play. The notes sounded great! It was one of my best renditions and I played it with loads of heart. I allowed my eyes to close, feeling the deep emotions of the song that stupid Canadian assaulted our minds with for years. So enchanted with my own playing that I forgot where I was, or at least wasn't thinking about it. A relatively bright flash of light flooded through my eyelids.
Fuck. I dropped to the floor like someone had kicked the backs of my knees but it was too late. Katelin had definitely heard me. Katelin had also definitely seen me, not just in the kitchen doing the dishes, or even looking out the window. Katelin had seen me serenading her with a recorder standing in my dark kitchen. Yup.
Needless to say, it's been a whole lot more awkward ever since that experience. I'm sure the day I moved out was one of the most relaxing days of her life, while the day I moved back in was one of the more stressful, especially because Ben is now on board with the Katelin creepin'. Sometimes we like to walk down the hall and sing quiet songs for Katelin about Katelin. Sometimes we like to just say Katelin's name a lot in places where she might hear us. Sometimes we think this is so funny that it turns into a blog post exclusively about Katelin, which is probably the creepiest thing to do.
Poor Katelin.
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
How to break up with dignity. (This post doesn't hold the answer)
I blame my mother.
Not directly, mind you, but Carol allowed me to watch far too many episodes of the Young and the Restless and the Bold and the Beautiful during my formative years. Though I knew I was already young, I aspired to being not only restless but also bold and beautiful in my later years. My Barbies had vicious cat fights over Ken, had torrid love affairs and kissed while they fell, as one giggling and girly entity, onto the bed (thank god my imagination could only stop where the filming stopped as well). Apparently those impressions as a chubby child also leave traces in the recesses of your mind; my reality of love is based on what those beautifully airbrushed and softly lit women of daytime TV showed me to be, and my breakup style, though never broaching on violent, has most certainly proven to show traces of psychotic, vindictive qualities.
The breakup is an art form, not something to be rushed through but to be cherished as a moment in your life when you have the choice to show your truly compassionate nature to the person from whom you are moving forward. I've always preferred a more, shall we say, direct approach. Instead, I looked to my idols Nikki Newman and Brooke Logan for a nice, dramatic breakup, the kind that you might be able to look back on one day and entertain others with a blog post (or hang your head in shame).
Courtney's Techniques: 12 Ways to Breakup w/ Someone You Only Marginally Like
1. Be able to say calmly and steadily, "it's not me, it's you". Seriously. Let's just be a little honest here. If it was me, would I have a problem?
I dated a guy who was all fun and games until it dawned on me that the binge drinking was nightly, the casual drug use was more along the lines of the "8 glasses of water a day" rule, and who was positively giddy about our spa nights where we would share anti-aging products and drink wine. The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence called, and they want their closeted gay poster boy back. He got all misty when I broke the news, but immediately shook it off for fear of ruining his subtle, yet perfectly placed eyeliner.
2. Stop answering your phone. I dated a foreign exchange student (ok, a couple) in high school, and one in particular just started to get on my nerves after about 10 days from the initial, forbidden makeout session. Here are the paraphrased messages:
Friday, 5:23p
"Hi Courtney, this is Santi. Just calling to say hello and see what you are up to tonight. Uhhh...call me."
Saturday, 1:55p
"Hi Courtney, this is Santi. What are you up to? I have tickets to go see a movie and I'm bored. Uhhhh...give me a call."
Saturday, 4:10p
"Courtney, where are you? I bet you're out with your mum. Call me! This is Santi."
Saturday, 6:12p
"Are you just going to ignore me? Haha! This is Santi."
Saturday, 7:01p
"I'm going to the movie. If you call me I won't be home."
Saturday, 9:42p
"Uhhh...so I guess you don't want to talk to me."
Saturday, 10:10p
"Courtney, if you don't want to see me anymore, just tell me."
Saturday, 10:12p
"Fine. *muffled sniff*"
See how the answering machine did all of the work? Silence, my friends, can be golden.
3. Tell him to go fuck himself via Facebook wall. Alright. This wasn't technically a breakup maneuver, but it pretty well sealed the deal. Those residual "should I? shouldn't I?" feelings? Once you publicly embarrass him, there's really no going back. Good for you, good for him, good for all of your mutual Facebook friends.
I once received a bouquet of flowers delivered to my door with a note that read, "I miss you and the cats...I miss the cats more". WHAT. THE. FUCK. How do you top that? To be honest, you can't, and I wish I had thought of it first. My response, via Facebook wall (and I remember it clearly though it was many years ago): "Dear Asshole, I cordially invite you to GO FUCK YOURSELF". Within ten minutes of that post, not only was my account blocked, but so were the accounts of all of my friends and all of my family. Boo hoo, dickhead.
4. Pick a fight and throw everything he has ever wronged you with back in his face. After reminding him of what a bad person he was and exactly why he would probably spend the rest of his miserable life alone, I relished in grabbing my chunky peanut butter (the lone object of mine at his house) out of the fridge, slamming the door, and riding away with a big chip on my shoulder and my 60L duffel on my back, Adams in the side basket. I hope the PB gap in his refrigerator reminded him daily of the black hole in his heart.
5. Leave in the middle of the night. Don't forget to steal any pot he has.
6. Show up at a party and make out with his frat bro (preferably he is there to witness). Done and done! This is an oldy but a goody, and it's not like those Sigma Chi guys have more than the brain capacity of a goldfish as it is. Sorry, creep, but you've been making out with a 17 year old high schooler. That what you get!
7. Let his friends do the work for you. Tell his pals (3 to 4 should suffice) that you are planning to ditch, then sit back and wait for 2 weeks until he gets wind and dumps you first. This works best if you are in high school or have an incestuously close group of friends in college. In fact, it pretty much only works when you are young because by the time you hit your mid-twenties no one cares what you do anymore. Good ol' Sean was the unfortunate test dummy for this technique, and for no reason other than his good attitude. The real problem was that he was so nice, and who can let someone down when they are so nice? I can.
8. Disappear. It's not that hard to do, honestly. Remove your voicemail message so it's generic, go private on Facebook, avoid bars and restaurants for awhile, and maybe consider that this would be a good time to go on vacation. Once he figures it out you'll be long gone.
9. Have a freak out. Come to a realization about yourself that you have to "take time" to figure out. You could be changing sexual orientation, finding or losing religion, faking the imminent loss of a family member...you decide. Sadly, the neurosis you fake will likely become the neurosis you have (commitment issues, anyone?).
10. Tell him "good luck" and don't look back as you walk away. DON'T. LOOK. BACK.
11. Get drunk and make a complete ass out of yourself. This is unattractive and no one wants to deal with it. We're talking smeared mascara, hysterical tears, exposing your bits, puking, and getting kicked out of the bar. I ended up in Mill Creek stumbling through the reservoir and trying to walk this path back to my parent's house, blackout drunk at 1am (I made it home by 4:30am after a short nap in a front yard and a pathetic phone call to my bestie, Elliot). Meanwhile, my "date" ended up in his bed with his phone turned off by 1:15a. Warning: hangover-induced loneliness will be about 10 times worse than usual, because you'll feel like you made a complete ass of yourself (because, well, you did).
12. Throw things. When in doubt, destroy property. It's a crazy bitch thing to do but you'll be out of there in no time (and never invited back). When feeling dramatic, finding the family heirloom, precious gift, or treasured item that you two brought back from your beach vacation to the Oregon coast and hurling it at the wall or out of the window onto the hood of his car is the ideal way to finally end it. Pros: You maintain no sense of dignity or poise and he has to pay for something to be fixed. Cons: You will forever wish you destroyed more.
_______________________
The inspiration for this post comes from a heartfelt place...hopefully I will not be going through another breakup. Ben and I have decided to cohabitate in peace and love, so we'll see how that goes (if anything I'm sure I will have more material-sorry, dear). If you would like to send a congratulatory cake (no submissions but carrot will be accepted), please mail it to:
C Morgan
Cardboard Box #409
Moses Lake, Wa.
I like cream cheese frosting. Don't try to get fancy with it, either.
Not directly, mind you, but Carol allowed me to watch far too many episodes of the Young and the Restless and the Bold and the Beautiful during my formative years. Though I knew I was already young, I aspired to being not only restless but also bold and beautiful in my later years. My Barbies had vicious cat fights over Ken, had torrid love affairs and kissed while they fell, as one giggling and girly entity, onto the bed (thank god my imagination could only stop where the filming stopped as well). Apparently those impressions as a chubby child also leave traces in the recesses of your mind; my reality of love is based on what those beautifully airbrushed and softly lit women of daytime TV showed me to be, and my breakup style, though never broaching on violent, has most certainly proven to show traces of psychotic, vindictive qualities.
The breakup is an art form, not something to be rushed through but to be cherished as a moment in your life when you have the choice to show your truly compassionate nature to the person from whom you are moving forward. I've always preferred a more, shall we say, direct approach. Instead, I looked to my idols Nikki Newman and Brooke Logan for a nice, dramatic breakup, the kind that you might be able to look back on one day and entertain others with a blog post (or hang your head in shame).
Courtney's Techniques: 12 Ways to Breakup w/ Someone You Only Marginally Like
1. Be able to say calmly and steadily, "it's not me, it's you". Seriously. Let's just be a little honest here. If it was me, would I have a problem?
I dated a guy who was all fun and games until it dawned on me that the binge drinking was nightly, the casual drug use was more along the lines of the "8 glasses of water a day" rule, and who was positively giddy about our spa nights where we would share anti-aging products and drink wine. The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence called, and they want their closeted gay poster boy back. He got all misty when I broke the news, but immediately shook it off for fear of ruining his subtle, yet perfectly placed eyeliner.
2. Stop answering your phone. I dated a foreign exchange student (ok, a couple) in high school, and one in particular just started to get on my nerves after about 10 days from the initial, forbidden makeout session. Here are the paraphrased messages:
Friday, 5:23p
"Hi Courtney, this is Santi. Just calling to say hello and see what you are up to tonight. Uhhh...call me."
Saturday, 1:55p
"Hi Courtney, this is Santi. What are you up to? I have tickets to go see a movie and I'm bored. Uhhhh...give me a call."
Saturday, 4:10p
"Courtney, where are you? I bet you're out with your mum. Call me! This is Santi."
Saturday, 6:12p
"Are you just going to ignore me? Haha! This is Santi."
Saturday, 7:01p
"I'm going to the movie. If you call me I won't be home."
Saturday, 9:42p
"Uhhh...so I guess you don't want to talk to me."
Saturday, 10:10p
"Courtney, if you don't want to see me anymore, just tell me."
Saturday, 10:12p
"Fine. *muffled sniff*"
See how the answering machine did all of the work? Silence, my friends, can be golden.
3. Tell him to go fuck himself via Facebook wall. Alright. This wasn't technically a breakup maneuver, but it pretty well sealed the deal. Those residual "should I? shouldn't I?" feelings? Once you publicly embarrass him, there's really no going back. Good for you, good for him, good for all of your mutual Facebook friends.
I once received a bouquet of flowers delivered to my door with a note that read, "I miss you and the cats...I miss the cats more". WHAT. THE. FUCK. How do you top that? To be honest, you can't, and I wish I had thought of it first. My response, via Facebook wall (and I remember it clearly though it was many years ago): "Dear Asshole, I cordially invite you to GO FUCK YOURSELF". Within ten minutes of that post, not only was my account blocked, but so were the accounts of all of my friends and all of my family. Boo hoo, dickhead.
4. Pick a fight and throw everything he has ever wronged you with back in his face. After reminding him of what a bad person he was and exactly why he would probably spend the rest of his miserable life alone, I relished in grabbing my chunky peanut butter (the lone object of mine at his house) out of the fridge, slamming the door, and riding away with a big chip on my shoulder and my 60L duffel on my back, Adams in the side basket. I hope the PB gap in his refrigerator reminded him daily of the black hole in his heart.
5. Leave in the middle of the night. Don't forget to steal any pot he has.
6. Show up at a party and make out with his frat bro (preferably he is there to witness). Done and done! This is an oldy but a goody, and it's not like those Sigma Chi guys have more than the brain capacity of a goldfish as it is. Sorry, creep, but you've been making out with a 17 year old high schooler. That what you get!
7. Let his friends do the work for you. Tell his pals (3 to 4 should suffice) that you are planning to ditch, then sit back and wait for 2 weeks until he gets wind and dumps you first. This works best if you are in high school or have an incestuously close group of friends in college. In fact, it pretty much only works when you are young because by the time you hit your mid-twenties no one cares what you do anymore. Good ol' Sean was the unfortunate test dummy for this technique, and for no reason other than his good attitude. The real problem was that he was so nice, and who can let someone down when they are so nice? I can.
8. Disappear. It's not that hard to do, honestly. Remove your voicemail message so it's generic, go private on Facebook, avoid bars and restaurants for awhile, and maybe consider that this would be a good time to go on vacation. Once he figures it out you'll be long gone.
9. Have a freak out. Come to a realization about yourself that you have to "take time" to figure out. You could be changing sexual orientation, finding or losing religion, faking the imminent loss of a family member...you decide. Sadly, the neurosis you fake will likely become the neurosis you have (commitment issues, anyone?).
10. Tell him "good luck" and don't look back as you walk away. DON'T. LOOK. BACK.
11. Get drunk and make a complete ass out of yourself. This is unattractive and no one wants to deal with it. We're talking smeared mascara, hysterical tears, exposing your bits, puking, and getting kicked out of the bar. I ended up in Mill Creek stumbling through the reservoir and trying to walk this path back to my parent's house, blackout drunk at 1am (I made it home by 4:30am after a short nap in a front yard and a pathetic phone call to my bestie, Elliot). Meanwhile, my "date" ended up in his bed with his phone turned off by 1:15a. Warning: hangover-induced loneliness will be about 10 times worse than usual, because you'll feel like you made a complete ass of yourself (because, well, you did).
12. Throw things. When in doubt, destroy property. It's a crazy bitch thing to do but you'll be out of there in no time (and never invited back). When feeling dramatic, finding the family heirloom, precious gift, or treasured item that you two brought back from your beach vacation to the Oregon coast and hurling it at the wall or out of the window onto the hood of his car is the ideal way to finally end it. Pros: You maintain no sense of dignity or poise and he has to pay for something to be fixed. Cons: You will forever wish you destroyed more.
_______________________
The inspiration for this post comes from a heartfelt place...hopefully I will not be going through another breakup. Ben and I have decided to cohabitate in peace and love, so we'll see how that goes (if anything I'm sure I will have more material-sorry, dear). If you would like to send a congratulatory cake (no submissions but carrot will be accepted), please mail it to:
C Morgan
Cardboard Box #409
Moses Lake, Wa.
I like cream cheese frosting. Don't try to get fancy with it, either.
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
Capturing Genius...the Autobiography of Me.
There comes a time in everyone's life that they think "I should really write an autobiography". I've recently been inspired by a fellow Walla Wallan who has decided to write an autobiography of someone else's biography. Incredible! My life, full of important stories and intriguing insights (or should it be intriguing stories and important insights? your call), is bursting at the seams to be told. Without giving too much away, here are some possible book titles from the autobiography of Courtney M.V. Morgan, Master of Design and more importantly, Human Being.
Life is a Big Bowl of Spaghetti
Not only the best meal on the planet, but a metaphor for the meaty richness your my life has achieved through gastronomic misadventures. A steamy scene profiling my love affair with butter puts this book on par with Fifty Shades of Grey.
The Furthest Hole South : Tales from the Porcelain Throne
In case you haven't heard enough stories about my shit, here is an entire book dedicated to the quest for the perfect dump. Diagrams, illustrations, and full-page color pictures included.
The Grass is Always Greener : Moving Stories
Having moved several times for seemingly no reason at all, I felt this an appropriate title to relate to those who, like me, are not easily satisfied with their current (past or future included) housing situation.
One Foul Swoop
Also brought to light: "wary" vs "weary", "pedestrian" vs "pedantic", and "wHip" vs "whip".
I Never Knew That Before : a Lifetime of Amazement
If you never bother to learn it the first, second, or third times, you'll never feel like you already know it.
Sticky Face, the Story of a "Muscular" Child
Reaching 104 pounds as a 10 year old made me feel at once invincible and proud; realizing that many adults are not 104 pounds made me feel sad and fat. My lifelong dreams of becoming a ballerina, a size 0, or shopping in the petite section were all dashed in onefoul fell swoop. The denial of my mother about my impending obesity is also discussed.
So Much Promise, So Little Drive
What Masters degree? When the economy turns sour there are people who keep fighting and those who resign themselves to a life of indentured servitude (retail).
Ingrown : An Anthology of Sticky Situations
Having a smooth, hair-free box is one of life's greatest joys. This chronicles the many triumphs, disappointments, and hair-raising times involved in Brazillian waxing. Whether on the road or in the comfort of someone's home, there always seems to be a story when you approach your cunt with molten hot wax. Also, the many reasons you should never, EVER shave your anus.
Canada is Its Own Country & Other Life Lessons
Much like when Galileo discovered that Earth was not the center of the universe, I determined that Canada is not just an extension of America. The discovery of other geographic wonders is discussed, including the revelation that Afghanistan is not anywhere near Cuba.
I have not started any of these books. I haven't even thought about them. However, I know that I need money to even begin to think about them, so if you could please rally a group of friends to raise 5k for me, that would be awesome. I also accept submissions of carrot cake (cream cheese frosting only, and none of those shitty little cupcake things that people are fucking nuts for right now). Unfortunately, I am only able to accept cash and carrot cake at this time.
Life is a Big Bowl of Spaghetti
Not only the best meal on the planet, but a metaphor for the meaty richness your my life has achieved through gastronomic misadventures. A steamy scene profiling my love affair with butter puts this book on par with Fifty Shades of Grey.
The Furthest Hole South : Tales from the Porcelain Throne
In case you haven't heard enough stories about my shit, here is an entire book dedicated to the quest for the perfect dump. Diagrams, illustrations, and full-page color pictures included.
The Grass is Always Greener : Moving Stories
Having moved several times for seemingly no reason at all, I felt this an appropriate title to relate to those who, like me, are not easily satisfied with their current (past or future included) housing situation.
One Foul Swoop
Also brought to light: "wary" vs "weary", "pedestrian" vs "pedantic", and "wHip" vs "whip".
I Never Knew That Before : a Lifetime of Amazement
If you never bother to learn it the first, second, or third times, you'll never feel like you already know it.
Sticky Face, the Story of a "Muscular" Child
Reaching 104 pounds as a 10 year old made me feel at once invincible and proud; realizing that many adults are not 104 pounds made me feel sad and fat. My lifelong dreams of becoming a ballerina, a size 0, or shopping in the petite section were all dashed in one
So Much Promise, So Little Drive
What Masters degree? When the economy turns sour there are people who keep fighting and those who resign themselves to a life of indentured servitude (retail).
Ingrown : An Anthology of Sticky Situations
Having a smooth, hair-free box is one of life's greatest joys. This chronicles the many triumphs, disappointments, and hair-raising times involved in Brazillian waxing. Whether on the road or in the comfort of someone's home, there always seems to be a story when you approach your cunt with molten hot wax. Also, the many reasons you should never, EVER shave your anus.
Canada is Its Own Country & Other Life Lessons
Much like when Galileo discovered that Earth was not the center of the universe, I determined that Canada is not just an extension of America. The discovery of other geographic wonders is discussed, including the revelation that Afghanistan is not anywhere near Cuba.
I have not started any of these books. I haven't even thought about them. However, I know that I need money to even begin to think about them, so if you could please rally a group of friends to raise 5k for me, that would be awesome. I also accept submissions of carrot cake (cream cheese frosting only, and none of those shitty little cupcake things that people are fucking nuts for right now). Unfortunately, I am only able to accept cash and carrot cake at this time.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
the sweetest tears
Golly.
Remember high school? That amazing time when you are constantly surrounded by the ONLY PEOPLE WHO MATTER IN THE WORLD, doing fun things, making great memories, playing your little heart out at whatever JV sport you barely qualified for...ah, the memories. Most of us have a hard time making it through high school without having a nickname or two bestowed on us. Good ol' golden child lindsay had a few endearing ones, "morgs" and "L-dawg" being the two most often scribbled in her yearbook, though the general look of awe and slacked jaws when she walked down the hallway after a golf tournament is a better way to sum up how people felt about her. i myself had some great moments in high school, i'm sure, though none come to mind (except the big wheel in the creek incident, but that is another story). i, too, played golf, though grudgingly for the varsity team, as well as running for cross country (heck yes co-ed!) and was (co)captain of the swim team.
i tried to give myself a super sweet nickname, which combined both my love of controlling people and any alcohol that was available in a handle. that name was "captain morgan". get it? i cleverly used the fact that i was (co)captain of the swim team and tossed my last name on the end, recalling a delicious and hangover-inducing rum! how great it would be in future (the yet to be invented) facebook posts, bar fights at the green, and the 10 year class reunion! i imagined our dank high school auditorium filled to the brim with all of my old classmates chanting "CAP-tain MOR-gan! CAP-tain MOR-gan!" as i strutted, a miraculous 20 pounds lighter then on graduation day and on the arm of a hunky yet sensitive anything tycoon.
it didn't stick. no matter how hard i tried, captain morgan was not the name to be scrawled across pages of my senior yearbook. no no. here's one of the many salutations, all with the same cringe-worthy nickname:
"hives girl-
it's been so great to be in spanish this year!!! i'll never forget that time you threw a pencil at mr. ojcius during class one day. thanks for teaching me how to cheat my way through that class. good luck at uw next year!!! keep in touch!!!
B
509-301-2239"
hives girl. fucking HIVES GIRL. wasn't i destined for greatness at some point in my life? how does the most charming (asshole), fashionable (A&F), non-awkward (TOTALLY awkward), loveable (bitch), beautiful (uhhh...) girl in school end up with a nickname like "hives girl"? it's infuriating! where were the lovably cute nicknames my friends walked away with? not to mention that nickname has only been updated once since then, to the suitably descriptive and way less endearing "creepy" or "creepster". thanks a lot, turners.
this is all an incredibly long lead up to the present day situation...with which i will now grace your (and my) bleeding eyes.
i work with a lot of people all day. i'm also a little bit gross and unconcerned about germs which can be somewhat problematic when you are in contact with people on their way in from nepal with clothes that haven't been washed in months or a sweet couple from magnolia checking out the merchandise with their grubby toms of maine-style children. after cleaning legos and helping idiots figure out just how much of their hard-earned cash they are going to leave at our store, i have contracted pink eye. again. damn you all.
this time, i'm not going to let my new friends come up with a nickname for me. no way. i WILL NOT be "pinky" or "poop eye" or "stink eye" or "greasy". not this time. my solution? browse the internet for at home remedies. here is a compilation of great ideas i found:
-Grate a potato and place on the affected eye for 15 minutes
-Replace the water of your eyewash or compress with warm milk
-For itchy eyes, try cooled tea bags on the eyes
-A solution of 1 pt honey and 10 pts water as eye drops
-Combine tender coconut water and astringent herbs for cooling eye drops
-For the eye with yellow discharge, distilled water in which jasmine flowers have been soaked overnight used as eye drops
-Cotton balls soaked in boiled saltwater
-Boric acid
yikes. boric acid? isn't that a bit medieval? sometimes i miss walla walla...usually mom and dad have some kind of expired medicine that works like a charm (or makes you break out in hives. eh hem.) but here in seattle it's just harder. call me lazy, but driving down the block to brew up some shit to put in my eye sounds like a lot of work...not to mention at least $5 in supplies. what, oh what, is the solution?
straight up honey. i've got honey. why dilute it with water when you can just put honey in your eyes? sure, it might be sticky...it might even sting a little, but i'll be damned if i show up to work and get a new fucking nickname that sticks like hives girl. what kind of honey do you recommend? manuka? oh i had some of that at one point, but a squeezy bear is probably just a good plus it's already in kind of a convenient package for this application. great, i think, let's do this.
ITS A FUCKING WONDER I'M NOT FUCKING BLIND!
DO NOT put straight honey in your eyes. this is similar to the time i tried to cure a yeast infection with garlic and a string and ended up having a crotch that smelled like garlic for a week. if you're into that, good for you, but i'm not. so yes, at this point in the adventure i now had honey all over my eye, lashes, and slowly dribbling down my face as my eye attempted to cleanse itself of the sticky, tar-like substance now coating the orb. why? oh WHY have i done this to myself? let's make the best of this. if the internet says it's going to work, it will definitely work. i have faith in you, non-science-based wives tales and opinions! i grab a hand towel to drape on my pillow and close my remaining good eye for the night.
daylight. my eye is nearly glued shut. when i try to open it there is a thick glassy film over my eyeball that makes it look like i have some kind of corneal transplant involving cellophane for which the only remedy is to melt it off with hot water. hey guess what? i know you'll be surprised that my eye is still pink and swollen, so that's really freaking exciting. fortunately it is allergy season, so i blame it on those damned cherry blossoms when i get to work and look like i've been up all night on a bender (still a better excuse than pink eye).
listen...for all of you dirtbags out there who like to try and take matters into your own hands, just don't. modern science is nice. it's convenient. heck it's not even that expensive. lesson learned for today. now please excuse me while i go wash my eyes with milk thistle and burn a bit of tree bark.
Remember high school? That amazing time when you are constantly surrounded by the ONLY PEOPLE WHO MATTER IN THE WORLD, doing fun things, making great memories, playing your little heart out at whatever JV sport you barely qualified for...ah, the memories. Most of us have a hard time making it through high school without having a nickname or two bestowed on us. Good ol' golden child lindsay had a few endearing ones, "morgs" and "L-dawg" being the two most often scribbled in her yearbook, though the general look of awe and slacked jaws when she walked down the hallway after a golf tournament is a better way to sum up how people felt about her. i myself had some great moments in high school, i'm sure, though none come to mind (except the big wheel in the creek incident, but that is another story). i, too, played golf, though grudgingly for the varsity team, as well as running for cross country (heck yes co-ed!) and was (co)captain of the swim team.
i tried to give myself a super sweet nickname, which combined both my love of controlling people and any alcohol that was available in a handle. that name was "captain morgan". get it? i cleverly used the fact that i was (co)captain of the swim team and tossed my last name on the end, recalling a delicious and hangover-inducing rum! how great it would be in future (the yet to be invented) facebook posts, bar fights at the green, and the 10 year class reunion! i imagined our dank high school auditorium filled to the brim with all of my old classmates chanting "CAP-tain MOR-gan! CAP-tain MOR-gan!" as i strutted, a miraculous 20 pounds lighter then on graduation day and on the arm of a hunky yet sensitive anything tycoon.
it didn't stick. no matter how hard i tried, captain morgan was not the name to be scrawled across pages of my senior yearbook. no no. here's one of the many salutations, all with the same cringe-worthy nickname:
"hives girl-
it's been so great to be in spanish this year!!! i'll never forget that time you threw a pencil at mr. ojcius during class one day. thanks for teaching me how to cheat my way through that class. good luck at uw next year!!! keep in touch!!!
B
509-301-2239"
hives girl. fucking HIVES GIRL. wasn't i destined for greatness at some point in my life? how does the most charming (asshole), fashionable (A&F), non-awkward (TOTALLY awkward), loveable (bitch), beautiful (uhhh...) girl in school end up with a nickname like "hives girl"? it's infuriating! where were the lovably cute nicknames my friends walked away with? not to mention that nickname has only been updated once since then, to the suitably descriptive and way less endearing "creepy" or "creepster". thanks a lot, turners.
this is all an incredibly long lead up to the present day situation...with which i will now grace your (and my) bleeding eyes.
i work with a lot of people all day. i'm also a little bit gross and unconcerned about germs which can be somewhat problematic when you are in contact with people on their way in from nepal with clothes that haven't been washed in months or a sweet couple from magnolia checking out the merchandise with their grubby toms of maine-style children. after cleaning legos and helping idiots figure out just how much of their hard-earned cash they are going to leave at our store, i have contracted pink eye. again. damn you all.
this time, i'm not going to let my new friends come up with a nickname for me. no way. i WILL NOT be "pinky" or "poop eye" or "stink eye" or "greasy". not this time. my solution? browse the internet for at home remedies. here is a compilation of great ideas i found:
-Grate a potato and place on the affected eye for 15 minutes
-Replace the water of your eyewash or compress with warm milk
-For itchy eyes, try cooled tea bags on the eyes
-A solution of 1 pt honey and 10 pts water as eye drops
-Combine tender coconut water and astringent herbs for cooling eye drops
-For the eye with yellow discharge, distilled water in which jasmine flowers have been soaked overnight used as eye drops
-Cotton balls soaked in boiled saltwater
-Boric acid
yikes. boric acid? isn't that a bit medieval? sometimes i miss walla walla...usually mom and dad have some kind of expired medicine that works like a charm (or makes you break out in hives. eh hem.) but here in seattle it's just harder. call me lazy, but driving down the block to brew up some shit to put in my eye sounds like a lot of work...not to mention at least $5 in supplies. what, oh what, is the solution?
straight up honey. i've got honey. why dilute it with water when you can just put honey in your eyes? sure, it might be sticky...it might even sting a little, but i'll be damned if i show up to work and get a new fucking nickname that sticks like hives girl. what kind of honey do you recommend? manuka? oh i had some of that at one point, but a squeezy bear is probably just a good plus it's already in kind of a convenient package for this application. great, i think, let's do this.
ITS A FUCKING WONDER I'M NOT FUCKING BLIND!
DO NOT put straight honey in your eyes. this is similar to the time i tried to cure a yeast infection with garlic and a string and ended up having a crotch that smelled like garlic for a week. if you're into that, good for you, but i'm not. so yes, at this point in the adventure i now had honey all over my eye, lashes, and slowly dribbling down my face as my eye attempted to cleanse itself of the sticky, tar-like substance now coating the orb. why? oh WHY have i done this to myself? let's make the best of this. if the internet says it's going to work, it will definitely work. i have faith in you, non-science-based wives tales and opinions! i grab a hand towel to drape on my pillow and close my remaining good eye for the night.
daylight. my eye is nearly glued shut. when i try to open it there is a thick glassy film over my eyeball that makes it look like i have some kind of corneal transplant involving cellophane for which the only remedy is to melt it off with hot water. hey guess what? i know you'll be surprised that my eye is still pink and swollen, so that's really freaking exciting. fortunately it is allergy season, so i blame it on those damned cherry blossoms when i get to work and look like i've been up all night on a bender (still a better excuse than pink eye).
listen...for all of you dirtbags out there who like to try and take matters into your own hands, just don't. modern science is nice. it's convenient. heck it's not even that expensive. lesson learned for today. now please excuse me while i go wash my eyes with milk thistle and burn a bit of tree bark.
Friday, 23 December 2011
Holiday Thank You Letters: A Sampling
christmas, it would seem, is the perfect time to whip out ye olde stationary and write a few heartfelt sentiments discussing your year, accomplishments (beefing them up wherever possible and leaving out that week you spent in deep psychological dismay festering in your own filth on the couch), major events, and tucking a picture of the family/dog/new baby/something else people don't care about into a glittery envelope. i don't send that kind of letter because i have no life and, however self-centered i may be (according to some, anyway), i will never assume that people will care about what i'm doing. i do, though, strongly believe in the art of the thank you note and the craft of letting people know how incredibly thoughtlessfull their contribution to your donation pile everyday life was.
ahh yes. nothing makes the holidays feel more complete than dusting off the cranes stationary box and knowing how your letter, written in your most beautiful, scrawling handwriting, will make the recipient feel really appreciated. it's a gift to yourself, really, just knowing how you will brighten someone's lackluster day with your words of thanks. here are a few examples from my own thank you notes this christmas...take inspiration where you can.
From the Desk of Ms. Courtney Morgan
Dear Mom & Dad,
I know a thank you card isn't really necessary, as my presence in your house is enough thanks this holiday season, but you deserve it. Thank you for the soap, deoderant, razors, and haircut certificate. That soap is my favorite even though Lindsay says it smells like "straight up hippie"! I feel like I've been looking a bit ragged after not bathing or taking care of my personal appearance in any way over the past four months, but your gifts will really help (how did you know?). I suspect you guys think I'm depressed about all of the life decisions I have ahead of me, but don't worry...I'll start getting out of bed before noon as soon as I adjust to the time change. It's great to have parents who will love you no matter what, even if I use your Restoration Hardware bath towels for hot yoga and then leave them to mildew with my sweat in the car. You guys are the best.
I hope that my gift of macaroni wall art for your house brings you as much joy every day for the rest of your lives as it brought me when I created it for you last Sunday afternoon. I love you both!
Love,
Court
P.s. Please say "hi" to Frederick for me and make sure Milo gets a treat every now and then...he really deserves it.
___________________________________________________
Dear Distant Relative,
Merry Christmas/Happy Festivus! I hope that your holiday is going very well, indeed, though I'm really sorry to hear about that whole thing with Uncle Bob and the Festivus Pole...ouch! Did the doctors say his scrotum would heal ok?.
It is a veritable winter wonderland here-a thick veil of fog has settled in nicely and I hear there is an ice storm on the way! Yippee! Thank you so much for the new down duvet. I know that you gave me a Polo Ralph Lauren argyle sweater vest in my favorite color combination of orange and green, but when I went to exchange it at Macy's forsomething better a smaller size they were completely sold out company wide in all colors. Imagine that! Don't feel badly about just throwing a gift card in the mail next year if it's too stressful to shop. The duvet will prove almost as useful as long as this cold weather keeps up, though my work wardrobe will surely be lacking from your annual contribution this year.
I hope your holidays are merry and bright, and that the airing of the grievances goes well for all. I know if we talked about that stuff on my side of the family, we would have nothing but complimentary things to say about each of you.
Love,
Court
___________________________________________________
Dear Seester,
Wow. Hasn't it been great living together in your house for the past few weeks? I've really loved it. Endless thanks for the cash deposit for a house of my own. What an unexpected Christmas surprise! If I didn't know any better, I would think that you were trying to get me to move out!
Sorry about the chili con carne incident in the microwave. Hopefully Nate cleaned that up to your standards while I was gone last weekend. I've been working on a new art project involving fecal waste and dinosaurs. You might have been the one to trip over it in the living room in the middle of the night last night, but that's ok, it didn't ruin a thing! I feel like this bonding experience has been so great for both of us...it's just too bad that there are those oppressive societal expectations for me to get a "real" job, otherwise I could live with you and Nate forever. I hope that some day the world will be more understanding of feelings.
I hope you and Nate are really enjoying the pan of cinnamon rolls that I made for you as a Christmas gift. I ate a few yesterday and think they turned out pretty well! Happy Christmas!
Love,
L. Seester
___________________________________________________
Dear New Boyfriend,
I can't thank you enough for the duck hunting musket rifle thing. We are going to have so much fun killing innocent creatures together! I really cannot think of a more thoughtful gift than a way for us to spend more time together, doing what you do every weekend without me (up to this point!).
Though I'm not much of a hunter type, I think I will really be able to get into that whole "look". I've already bought an eyeshadow palette in greens and browns from Sephora for our first weekend trip into the wild. J.Crew also has this awesome silk safari shirt that I think will look great with my new over the knee boots and keep me hidden from those scary ducks! As for après hunting, I dug up an old Jaques Pepin recipe for duck à l'orange which should be fabulous as we curl up next to a roaring fire in the cabin after a hearty day of shooting stuff. I'm so excited! Can you believe all of our friends say we have nothing in common?
Love you forever,
Court
___________________________________________________
Dearest Relatives,
Happy Holidays! Though this year's Christmas celebration was sorely lacking of your esteemed presence, your gifts have helped to fill the void. Not only will I be thoroughly greased (much like the strippers your cousin took me to see in New York) with those lotions but also warm in the ear-lobeal region due to the earmuffs. Thank you for that!
I hope that you have a wonderful holiday, even though the true spark of our family will be absent from your celebration (me). I love each of you with the fiery warmth of a million nuclear waste plants.
Love,
Court
P.s. Did you forget about my birthday? It was November 15. I don't remember receiving a present for that occasion. It's ok if you forgot...you can make up for it next year.
___________________________________________________
Dear Santa,
Thank you for the very thoughtful stocking! Please pardon my glum mood as my Christmas spirit is a little down this year-I seem to be surrounded by so many cynics and Negative Nancys these days. The chapstick is great, as always, and I know people make fun of me for looking like I'm in the final stages of hypothermia but I just really really love it.
Though I'm not one to criticize, I feel like I need to point out that there was a 23% decrease in items in my stocking this year, and as a long time believer (you must admit that we are a rare breed during this economic downfall!) I feel like my haul should continue to grow year after year. Consider it a long-term investment in your career.
I look forward to talking to you next year and I hope that your evening went well. Did you notice that I used the glitter unicorn stationary you gave me when I was 15? Some things will never go out of style.
Thanks, again!
Court
___________________________________________________
well, friends, i hope you have a really wonderful Christmas weekend and that it is "the hap hap happiest christmas since bing crosby tap-danced with danny fucking kaye."
happy holidays, my legion of (four) devoted followers!
-court
ahh yes. nothing makes the holidays feel more complete than dusting off the cranes stationary box and knowing how your letter, written in your most beautiful, scrawling handwriting, will make the recipient feel really appreciated. it's a gift to yourself, really, just knowing how you will brighten someone's lackluster day with your words of thanks. here are a few examples from my own thank you notes this christmas...take inspiration where you can.
From the Desk of Ms. Courtney Morgan
Dear Mom & Dad,
I know a thank you card isn't really necessary, as my presence in your house is enough thanks this holiday season, but you deserve it. Thank you for the soap, deoderant, razors, and haircut certificate. That soap is my favorite even though Lindsay says it smells like "straight up hippie"! I feel like I've been looking a bit ragged after not bathing or taking care of my personal appearance in any way over the past four months, but your gifts will really help (how did you know?). I suspect you guys think I'm depressed about all of the life decisions I have ahead of me, but don't worry...I'll start getting out of bed before noon as soon as I adjust to the time change. It's great to have parents who will love you no matter what, even if I use your Restoration Hardware bath towels for hot yoga and then leave them to mildew with my sweat in the car. You guys are the best.
I hope that my gift of macaroni wall art for your house brings you as much joy every day for the rest of your lives as it brought me when I created it for you last Sunday afternoon. I love you both!
Love,
Court
P.s. Please say "hi" to Frederick for me and make sure Milo gets a treat every now and then...he really deserves it.
___________________________________________________
Dear Distant Relative,
Merry Christmas/Happy Festivus! I hope that your holiday is going very well, indeed, though I'm really sorry to hear about that whole thing with Uncle Bob and the Festivus Pole...ouch! Did the doctors say his scrotum would heal ok?.
It is a veritable winter wonderland here-a thick veil of fog has settled in nicely and I hear there is an ice storm on the way! Yippee! Thank you so much for the new down duvet. I know that you gave me a Polo Ralph Lauren argyle sweater vest in my favorite color combination of orange and green, but when I went to exchange it at Macy's for
I hope your holidays are merry and bright, and that the airing of the grievances goes well for all. I know if we talked about that stuff on my side of the family, we would have nothing but complimentary things to say about each of you.
Love,
Court
___________________________________________________
Dear Seester,
Wow. Hasn't it been great living together in your house for the past few weeks? I've really loved it. Endless thanks for the cash deposit for a house of my own. What an unexpected Christmas surprise! If I didn't know any better, I would think that you were trying to get me to move out!
Sorry about the chili con carne incident in the microwave. Hopefully Nate cleaned that up to your standards while I was gone last weekend. I've been working on a new art project involving fecal waste and dinosaurs. You might have been the one to trip over it in the living room in the middle of the night last night, but that's ok, it didn't ruin a thing! I feel like this bonding experience has been so great for both of us...it's just too bad that there are those oppressive societal expectations for me to get a "real" job, otherwise I could live with you and Nate forever. I hope that some day the world will be more understanding of feelings.
I hope you and Nate are really enjoying the pan of cinnamon rolls that I made for you as a Christmas gift. I ate a few yesterday and think they turned out pretty well! Happy Christmas!
Love,
L. Seester
___________________________________________________
Dear New Boyfriend,
I can't thank you enough for the duck hunting musket rifle thing. We are going to have so much fun killing innocent creatures together! I really cannot think of a more thoughtful gift than a way for us to spend more time together, doing what you do every weekend without me (up to this point!).
Though I'm not much of a hunter type, I think I will really be able to get into that whole "look". I've already bought an eyeshadow palette in greens and browns from Sephora for our first weekend trip into the wild. J.Crew also has this awesome silk safari shirt that I think will look great with my new over the knee boots and keep me hidden from those scary ducks! As for après hunting, I dug up an old Jaques Pepin recipe for duck à l'orange which should be fabulous as we curl up next to a roaring fire in the cabin after a hearty day of shooting stuff. I'm so excited! Can you believe all of our friends say we have nothing in common?
Love you forever,
Court
___________________________________________________
Dearest Relatives,
Happy Holidays! Though this year's Christmas celebration was sorely lacking of your esteemed presence, your gifts have helped to fill the void. Not only will I be thoroughly greased (much like the strippers your cousin took me to see in New York) with those lotions but also warm in the ear-lobeal region due to the earmuffs. Thank you for that!
I hope that you have a wonderful holiday, even though the true spark of our family will be absent from your celebration (me). I love each of you with the fiery warmth of a million nuclear waste plants.
Love,
Court
P.s. Did you forget about my birthday? It was November 15. I don't remember receiving a present for that occasion. It's ok if you forgot...you can make up for it next year.
___________________________________________________
Dear Santa,
Thank you for the very thoughtful stocking! Please pardon my glum mood as my Christmas spirit is a little down this year-I seem to be surrounded by so many cynics and Negative Nancys these days. The chapstick is great, as always, and I know people make fun of me for looking like I'm in the final stages of hypothermia but I just really really love it.
Though I'm not one to criticize, I feel like I need to point out that there was a 23% decrease in items in my stocking this year, and as a long time believer (you must admit that we are a rare breed during this economic downfall!) I feel like my haul should continue to grow year after year. Consider it a long-term investment in your career.
I look forward to talking to you next year and I hope that your evening went well. Did you notice that I used the glitter unicorn stationary you gave me when I was 15? Some things will never go out of style.
Thanks, again!
Court
___________________________________________________
well, friends, i hope you have a really wonderful Christmas weekend and that it is "the hap hap happiest christmas since bing crosby tap-danced with danny fucking kaye."
happy holidays, my legion of (four) devoted followers!
-court
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
42 Wrinkles
i'm pretty well known for over sharing a lot of personal information. i warn you now that if that bothers you about me, stop reading this post immediately.
if i ever open up a salon devoted entirely to brazilian bikini waxes, i'm going to name it 42 wrinkles. and if that happens, i'm going to have lindsay rent the retail space next to me and open a cupcake shopPE named 42 sprinkles, just to be kind of a jerk (what goes better together than pubic waxing and massive amounts of frosting?).
anyway. you might be wondering why i would call a wax boutique 42 wrinkles. benjamin once told me that the average human butthole has 42 wrinkles (fun facts like these are one of the many reasons i love him so dearly) and i'm happy to say that i can confirm this fact after my intimate wax session today, held in lindsay's guest bathroom, where i managed to accidentally glue my ass cheeks together. when i managed to pull the wax away, a feat that felt pretty similar to ripping my own asshole skin off, i noted that the indentations in the wax really WERE wrinkly! a quick count of 90 degrees around the wax and a bit of multiplication led me to an estimation of 40 butthole wrinkles. fantastic! i assume because i'm only 27 AND my dad administers a lot of restalyn that i probably have fewer than average butthole wrinkles. maybe a 60 year old has more. i don't know. for the record, i was not trying to wax my butthole. i have experience with that involving a chubby pakistani woman at a spa in the whitechapel borough of london, but that's a story for another day. this was merely a mishap involving various factors, including too much time between waxes, being out of practice with application, and oh, MOLTEN HOT WAX BEING APPLIED TO MY CROTCH.
let's back up. i like a clean pubis area, especially now that we are entering the holiday season. nothing says "holiday" to me like having a freshly waxed box in honor of all of the other boxes that are being spiffed up for the occasion. the strippers didn't help, i'll admit. those girls are like fucking hairless cats. hairless cats covered in spray tan, glitter, a smidge of cocaine dust. i could have gone to my sister's preferred waxer, and for $50 she would have cleaned up the region and sent me on my way in about 20 minutes. sadly, i didn't feel like figuring out how to get to this girl without a car OR spending $50, so i decided a little at home number couldn't be that bad...after all, it never has been in the past.
sadly, it had been 4 months since my last wax.
WHAT. don't judge me.
if things with hot rob and the maybe date had gone better maybe i would have felt the need to wax before the ol' christmas lights came out and my belly panis (formed over thanksgiving) obscured the vision of my vajayjay. ugh. but no. hence, today when i went to take care of this little problem, i was faced with a dense bush not unlike an amazonian woman. of course, the outer edges were easy. sure, the hairs were roughly 6 inches long and i had to remove the braids and tibetan beads i had put in during my spare time over the past third of a year, but it was still sparse enough to be pretty painless. i tried to avoid the apex of my mane until absolutely necessary. women who wax know what i'm talking about. it's similar to summiting mt. kilimanjaro (haha. as if i would know what that's like) to rip out those deeply rooted hairs at the point just north of your clit with molten hot wax. i don't care if you have waxed for 80 years...those bitches are in there DEEP and no amount of pain tolerance makes it a comfortable moment.
at the summit of kilimanjaro i choked. i got the wax stuck, which is funny because that's what wax is supposed to do. one tug, two tugs, three tugs...i just couldn't do it. i was left with a lime green hitler mustache while i considered my options. "well, i'll just clean up a bit around the area," i thought, "no harm in going back over a few of the harder to reach places". yup. once again i misjudged the best option. a little too much wax and a little too far of a reach left it smeared on my wrinkly hole. ok i'll be honest. the warm wax felt nice for about 1 second, until i straightened up and my cheeks clashed together like those toy monkeys with cymbals. oh. i realised my mistake immediately. hitler 'stache in the front, glued together ass cheeks in the back.
i had two choices: rip out the mustache first, or rip it out second. after spending a good 2 minutes psyching myself up, i did it. i would have clenched my cheeks to make it a little easier to handle but they were already glued together. feeling victorious and ignoring the fact that this experience had drawn blood, i went for the reach around.
imagine that. maybe even try it if you're alone right now.
it's awkward to wax your asshole because you can't get a good grip on things (and i have long arms). alright. it's just awkward to wax your asshole. so here i was, left with a slightly bloody hitler mustache where my bush once was and holding what looks like a green silly putty impression of my asshole. 42 wrinkles, indeed. of course, instead of this taking only 20 minutes like it should have, it took about 90. an hour and a half of hot wax, strange yogic positions to reach certain hidden regions, and, alright, a couple episodes of frasier to help with the mounting tension of the situation. i would post a picture of the wastebasket filled with lime green wax covered in pubes, but even i think that's going too far. probably mentioning that and letting you form a mental picture was too far, but whatever.
so because i love lists, here are a few tips for your next wax experience:
1) buy hard wax. you're already dealing with a lot of variables down there. just make it easier on yourself and get hard wax.
2) shower first. the warmth helps open the pores.
3) bring a bottle of bourbon into the bathroom with you. and your laptop.
4) don't give up. commit to the moment and just do it. you got yourself into this mess, you have to get yourself out of it.
5) think about how much worse it would be if you had to wax balls. that's a lot of loose skin. i tried that once (obvi not on me...tranny much?) and it didn't go well. that's another story.
6) if "jungle lady" passes through your mind when you look down, please just pay the $50.
but i don't know what to do with those tossed salads and scrambled eggs.
court
if i ever open up a salon devoted entirely to brazilian bikini waxes, i'm going to name it 42 wrinkles. and if that happens, i'm going to have lindsay rent the retail space next to me and open a cupcake shopPE named 42 sprinkles, just to be kind of a jerk (what goes better together than pubic waxing and massive amounts of frosting?).
anyway. you might be wondering why i would call a wax boutique 42 wrinkles. benjamin once told me that the average human butthole has 42 wrinkles (fun facts like these are one of the many reasons i love him so dearly) and i'm happy to say that i can confirm this fact after my intimate wax session today, held in lindsay's guest bathroom, where i managed to accidentally glue my ass cheeks together. when i managed to pull the wax away, a feat that felt pretty similar to ripping my own asshole skin off, i noted that the indentations in the wax really WERE wrinkly! a quick count of 90 degrees around the wax and a bit of multiplication led me to an estimation of 40 butthole wrinkles. fantastic! i assume because i'm only 27 AND my dad administers a lot of restalyn that i probably have fewer than average butthole wrinkles. maybe a 60 year old has more. i don't know. for the record, i was not trying to wax my butthole. i have experience with that involving a chubby pakistani woman at a spa in the whitechapel borough of london, but that's a story for another day. this was merely a mishap involving various factors, including too much time between waxes, being out of practice with application, and oh, MOLTEN HOT WAX BEING APPLIED TO MY CROTCH.
let's back up. i like a clean pubis area, especially now that we are entering the holiday season. nothing says "holiday" to me like having a freshly waxed box in honor of all of the other boxes that are being spiffed up for the occasion. the strippers didn't help, i'll admit. those girls are like fucking hairless cats. hairless cats covered in spray tan, glitter, a smidge of cocaine dust. i could have gone to my sister's preferred waxer, and for $50 she would have cleaned up the region and sent me on my way in about 20 minutes. sadly, i didn't feel like figuring out how to get to this girl without a car OR spending $50, so i decided a little at home number couldn't be that bad...after all, it never has been in the past.
sadly, it had been 4 months since my last wax.
WHAT. don't judge me.
if things with hot rob and the maybe date had gone better maybe i would have felt the need to wax before the ol' christmas lights came out and my belly panis (formed over thanksgiving) obscured the vision of my vajayjay. ugh. but no. hence, today when i went to take care of this little problem, i was faced with a dense bush not unlike an amazonian woman. of course, the outer edges were easy. sure, the hairs were roughly 6 inches long and i had to remove the braids and tibetan beads i had put in during my spare time over the past third of a year, but it was still sparse enough to be pretty painless. i tried to avoid the apex of my mane until absolutely necessary. women who wax know what i'm talking about. it's similar to summiting mt. kilimanjaro (haha. as if i would know what that's like) to rip out those deeply rooted hairs at the point just north of your clit with molten hot wax. i don't care if you have waxed for 80 years...those bitches are in there DEEP and no amount of pain tolerance makes it a comfortable moment.
at the summit of kilimanjaro i choked. i got the wax stuck, which is funny because that's what wax is supposed to do. one tug, two tugs, three tugs...i just couldn't do it. i was left with a lime green hitler mustache while i considered my options. "well, i'll just clean up a bit around the area," i thought, "no harm in going back over a few of the harder to reach places". yup. once again i misjudged the best option. a little too much wax and a little too far of a reach left it smeared on my wrinkly hole. ok i'll be honest. the warm wax felt nice for about 1 second, until i straightened up and my cheeks clashed together like those toy monkeys with cymbals. oh. i realised my mistake immediately. hitler 'stache in the front, glued together ass cheeks in the back.
i had two choices: rip out the mustache first, or rip it out second. after spending a good 2 minutes psyching myself up, i did it. i would have clenched my cheeks to make it a little easier to handle but they were already glued together. feeling victorious and ignoring the fact that this experience had drawn blood, i went for the reach around.
imagine that. maybe even try it if you're alone right now.
it's awkward to wax your asshole because you can't get a good grip on things (and i have long arms). alright. it's just awkward to wax your asshole. so here i was, left with a slightly bloody hitler mustache where my bush once was and holding what looks like a green silly putty impression of my asshole. 42 wrinkles, indeed. of course, instead of this taking only 20 minutes like it should have, it took about 90. an hour and a half of hot wax, strange yogic positions to reach certain hidden regions, and, alright, a couple episodes of frasier to help with the mounting tension of the situation. i would post a picture of the wastebasket filled with lime green wax covered in pubes, but even i think that's going too far. probably mentioning that and letting you form a mental picture was too far, but whatever.
so because i love lists, here are a few tips for your next wax experience:
1) buy hard wax. you're already dealing with a lot of variables down there. just make it easier on yourself and get hard wax.
2) shower first. the warmth helps open the pores.
3) bring a bottle of bourbon into the bathroom with you. and your laptop.
4) don't give up. commit to the moment and just do it. you got yourself into this mess, you have to get yourself out of it.
5) think about how much worse it would be if you had to wax balls. that's a lot of loose skin. i tried that once (obvi not on me...tranny much?) and it didn't go well. that's another story.
6) if "jungle lady" passes through your mind when you look down, please just pay the $50.
but i don't know what to do with those tossed salads and scrambled eggs.
court
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