This is a little different than the usual post on this blog. Lest you worry that this is suddenly going to be all serious or, even worse, heartfelt, I have been working on a piece involving a piece of medicinal marijuana chocolate, a corduroy couch, and a playboy playmate. What can I say? This is my life.
I have at least three notebooks going at any one time. They are supposed to be for different things, but it all gets messed up when I have only one and I'm working on project A which is supposed to go in a different notebook but I need to write stuff down even though it's in notebook B...you get the idea. I was foraging through one of my older notebooks that I mostly used during my brief stint as a New York resident and chanced upon something that someone might find useful. Actually useful (though if anyone has taken anything from this blog thus far, I hope that it is to never try and wax your own asshole). The pages before this are filled with appointments, companies to which I should submit applications/resumes, grocery lists, and lots of other Things I Should Do. Bah! You know how I feel about those things. If a list on your hand isn't good enough, then you have too much stuff going on.
Everyone says that your mid-twenties are a time of great personal growth and blah blah blah. As if I would listen to that crap. Turns out that most of the time, the older people in our lives are wiser (don't tell Carol I admitted to that). The past two years of life have taught me a lot about, well, life. And isn't that what life is really all about? Here is the little blurb that I found. Maybe you'll find it inspiring or useful or take away something, but if not, then call me an idiot and move on with your day.
September 29, 2011
Your cheesecake cannot seduce me, New York.
Let's discuss expectations. I have pretty big expectations for my life, my family, my friends, and myself. I have never thought they were unrealistic until I realized that I have been consistently disappointed in something for most of the past ten years. Ten years! That's more than a third of my life that I have spent feeling shitty about things I can't control. Relationships haven't been perfect, people run late, I fuck something big or small up, and something constantly needs improvement. Get better, get faster, get stronger, get healthier, get more. Get get get. Take take take.
Did I mention that for the better part of a decade I have been exhausted? Really, truly, exhausted and annoyed with just about everything. We aren't talking about exhaustion in the "I just spent all day outside in the sun, working the garden, or feeling the breeze on my back as I zoom around on my bike all day" kind of exhaustion. I'm talking about the bad kind that leads to ulcers and dissatisfaction and acne. Or bacne. High blood pressure and just pressure in general. This is the stuff that leads people to kill themselves.
In moving from Washington to New York, I claimed - and somehow believed - that I had no expectations of the experience. I even told that to my therapist (oh what a fool's paradise we live in in the mind). In retrospect, I see how delusional I have been. I thought I was running to a life I had always wanted and away from one I was scared of. Truthfully, staying in my prior circumstance would have led to a long road of unhappiness. No matter how much you love something you have to be free in your mind, otherwise you will constantly look for freedom outside of yourself. I honestly forgot to look at life (LIFE! How can you forget about life?) and instead focused on this fantasy that I have somehow outgrown before I even touched down at Newark.
When do we become the people we thought we would be? When do we become the people we really are?
I have values that I never thought I would and I've lost touch with so many along the way. My disillusionment with life has been in code purple, or red, or sunshine yellow, or whatever the TSA has deemed as the worst. The more people I meet, books I read, discussions I have and ultimately, find a way to lead with my heart, the less I want the life I have spent so long trying to cultivate. You know that time I told so-and-so I was adopted from New York? I must have been seven or eight. We were sitting on the porch of the Walla Walla Country Club and I was already consumed with "making something of myself". It's really fucking exhausting to worry about how you're going to prove your worth to the world.
New York is awful and I can't stand to be around this many blind, aimless people chasing goals and careers and love. New York is wonderful because without being here, I would have never understood just what a shitty path I've been on. The world we see is the reflection of our souls.
I guess the most important thing I have learned along the way is that life is a choice. Be who you are instead of who you think you should be. Live how you actually need to live. Be honest with yourself. Stop pushing and fighting so much. Give up control, get lost, wander, cry, talk to strangers, and soak it up. Give up expectations and just let it happen.
Live like you are living.
Tuesday, 30 April 2013
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
Vegan-ish
It's no secret that I eat a lot of weird shit. Friends at work in Seattle and New York commented daily about the concoctions I would pull out of the microwave, usually involving some mixture of kale/spinach, TJ's masala burger patty, 5 tomatoes, and beans. Throughout the year, that menu changed to just eating 10 tomatoes on a plate or just a bowl of beans. My eating habits have evolved as I've become more compulsive in my advancing age. As a kid, I used to adore school lunches, even the ones that every rational child thought were disgusting. Cheese Zombies? Check. Zippy Dog? Of course. "Soft Tacos" made of horse meat? Give me seconds. For after school snacks I used to beg my mom to take me to Dairy Queen and get me a chili dog or the #2 meal from McDonalds. Eating well, a term that has changed from quantity to quality throughout the years, has always been valued in the Morgan household.
All throughout college and for some time after, I was a fish-eating vegetarian. You can still eat a whole lot of disgusting stuff as a vegetarian, dairy being the main culprit of an unhealthy vegetarian lifestyle. Look at the menu at the next standard restaurant you go to. If you don't eat meat, I can guarantee that there will only be two choices: some kind of salad with cheese and nuts, and either butternut squash ravioli OR some kind of cheese and cream covered pasta. Dairy is the crutch of the vegetarian world. Once I moved for grad school and started living with Shawnz, a Chinese dude from Singapore, and Soraya, a Thai girl, I decided this whole "vegetarian" thing would have to go. As they led me through the underbelly of the London East Asian food scene, I found that pretty much all of the food I had been ever been exposed to was bland by comparison. Bland and disappointingly inauthentic. This is where I developed a true love for offal, odd cuts of meat, and shellfish in varying stages of rotted, pickled, or dried. Clearly, I've had a real love affair with food my entire life.
Recently, though, because of my yoga practice and escalating compulsions regarding food, health, and politics, I have become vegan-ish. Vegan-ish essentially means that I'm incredibly picky and annoying to eat with or prepare food for, as almost everything delicious that my family knows how to make and nearly all of the best authentic Thai, Singaporean, Indian, and French food is meat or dairy laden. That's disappointing to me, but not unworkable. Listen, I can't help that my family has a history of high cholesterol. Why waste your time on boneless-skiness chicken breasts when you can eat something with some real flavor? This is my philosophy, and I'm sticking to it. Let me show you my food pyramid, and you'll see where I make the exception between vegan and vegan-ish.
I think it seems perfectly reasonable. You?
Also, if anyone is in the market for a true gift that will keep on giving...this Paté of the Month Club is perfect for me.
All throughout college and for some time after, I was a fish-eating vegetarian. You can still eat a whole lot of disgusting stuff as a vegetarian, dairy being the main culprit of an unhealthy vegetarian lifestyle. Look at the menu at the next standard restaurant you go to. If you don't eat meat, I can guarantee that there will only be two choices: some kind of salad with cheese and nuts, and either butternut squash ravioli OR some kind of cheese and cream covered pasta. Dairy is the crutch of the vegetarian world. Once I moved for grad school and started living with Shawnz, a Chinese dude from Singapore, and Soraya, a Thai girl, I decided this whole "vegetarian" thing would have to go. As they led me through the underbelly of the London East Asian food scene, I found that pretty much all of the food I had been ever been exposed to was bland by comparison. Bland and disappointingly inauthentic. This is where I developed a true love for offal, odd cuts of meat, and shellfish in varying stages of rotted, pickled, or dried. Clearly, I've had a real love affair with food my entire life.
Recently, though, because of my yoga practice and escalating compulsions regarding food, health, and politics, I have become vegan-ish. Vegan-ish essentially means that I'm incredibly picky and annoying to eat with or prepare food for, as almost everything delicious that my family knows how to make and nearly all of the best authentic Thai, Singaporean, Indian, and French food is meat or dairy laden. That's disappointing to me, but not unworkable. Listen, I can't help that my family has a history of high cholesterol. Why waste your time on boneless-skiness chicken breasts when you can eat something with some real flavor? This is my philosophy, and I'm sticking to it. Let me show you my food pyramid, and you'll see where I make the exception between vegan and vegan-ish.
I think it seems perfectly reasonable. You?
Also, if anyone is in the market for a true gift that will keep on giving...this Paté of the Month Club is perfect for me.
Friday, 8 February 2013
15 More Signs He's a Douchebag (With Visuals!)
One source of continual amazement to me is how people end up reading my blog. I don't have facebook or twitter, so the fact that I have had a pretty good amount of hits on my blog is pretty surprising. The traffic, it seems, comes mostly from one of life's biggest questions:
How to tell if he is a douchbag.
I stand by my original theory (found on this post) that if you have resorted to a google search to determine if someone has a pretty major character flaw, you are in a really desperate place in your life. Or you're not very good at listening to your gut, friends, parents, bodega owner, or therapist. Look at these stats, taken directly from this blog's statistics page.
Traffic Sources : Key Search
signs he's a douchebag 5306
signs of a douchebag 2953
signs he is a douchebag 893
how to know he's a douche 421
he is a douche 399
signs he's a douche 237
unfit to advise 224
douchebag signs 202
signs he is a douche 116
signs of a douche 97
A whopping 97% of top traffic on this site has something to do with people searching for answers about their douchebag boyfriend. Over ten thousand people have searched about douchebags and have ended up on this page in the last 15 months. You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I am going to make this as clear as I possibly can for you, so let's work with some visuals.
If he takes FB pictures of himself like this:
If he wears anything remotely like this:
Pays someone for this more than once every five years:
Styles his hair like this:
Or possibly this:
Enjoys beverages anywhere in this realm:
Ever, EVER poses like this for a picture:
Continues to wear this:
and this:
thinks this combo is great:
thinks this guy is "the shit":
makes you feel like you have to look like this:
has ever done this:
confuses having this with having done something good in life:
And finally, addresses anyone as "bro" or "boss" and/or uses the word "gnar", which means he is probably wearing something like this:
and this:
He is a douchebag.
I hope this helps.
How to tell if he is a douchbag.
I stand by my original theory (found on this post) that if you have resorted to a google search to determine if someone has a pretty major character flaw, you are in a really desperate place in your life. Or you're not very good at listening to your gut, friends, parents, bodega owner, or therapist. Look at these stats, taken directly from this blog's statistics page.
Traffic Sources : Key Search
signs he's a douchebag 5306
signs of a douchebag 2953
signs he is a douchebag 893
how to know he's a douche 421
he is a douche 399
signs he's a douche 237
unfit to advise 224
douchebag signs 202
signs he is a douche 116
signs of a douche 97
A whopping 97% of top traffic on this site has something to do with people searching for answers about their douchebag boyfriend. Over ten thousand people have searched about douchebags and have ended up on this page in the last 15 months. You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I am going to make this as clear as I possibly can for you, so let's work with some visuals.
If he takes FB pictures of himself like this:
If he wears anything remotely like this:
Pays someone for this more than once every five years:
Styles his hair like this:
Or possibly this:
Enjoys beverages anywhere in this realm:
Ever, EVER poses like this for a picture:
Continues to wear this:
and this:
thinks this combo is great:
thinks this guy is "the shit":
makes you feel like you have to look like this:
has ever done this:
confuses having this with having done something good in life:
And finally, addresses anyone as "bro" or "boss" and/or uses the word "gnar", which means he is probably wearing something like this:
and this:
He is a douchebag.
I hope this helps.
Thursday, 10 January 2013
Adventures from the Public Library
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.
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.
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.
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