Miss Independent

Although it may seem that I have just spent the last week wallowing in self-pity (which, admittedly, I have. Self Pity? You are a true friend), I have also been doing some thinking. Hard thinking, you know? The kind that gives you a lump in your throat, a knot in your stomach and makes you tear into a bag of chocolate chips with that rare kind of fervour, such as what Leizel reserved only for water-skiing.

So where has my heavy thinking got me? Not too far, I believe. I still phone Charkins in a whiny voice each night, I still accuse Adders of not loving me enough ("Why, little Adders, why don't you love me? Is it because of the crazy? It's the crazy, isn't it? Well, fine then. You want crazy, oh, I'll show you crazy, bee-atch!") and I still have as much fury directed towards my parents as poor Ariel had when her father destroyed her cave of "human" things (Jerk. I mean, why not at least let her keep some things, such as the eye glasses. Or the phonograph). Point made? I think so. My thinking hasn't gotten me anywhere...

Except to this revelation: I have only made three (count 'em - 3!!!!!) independent choices of my own. Ever. In my entire life. Like in 24 years. I'm like the Jessica Simpson of Calgary (except minus the big boobs. Oh, and I'm not quite THAT ditzy. Oh, fine - or that hot. Plus, it's my mom who's the crazy one, not my dad. And I've never been married. Nor would I ever marry a man who has such a "clever" and "unique" tattoo, that of barbed wire wrapped around his bicep. And when I sing I don't sound like I'm mid-orgasm. And I would never, ever prostitute myself like she did in "Dukes of Hazzard" unless, of course, they paid me enough. In that case, I'd be anyone's bitch. But I digress...). WTF? What did this have to do with Jessica Simpson? Oh, right. See, she just admitted to W magazine that her divorce is the first time she's ever made an independent decision, one that disappointed other people but made her happy (or at least, will make her happy in the future). People, that's what I'm talking about, choices that I've made that I knew would make ME happy, and where I even went AGAINST parental suggestion (aaaaahhhh, I'm meeeelting!).

So what are they? Oooooh, goody! That means another list! I love lists. Lists remind me of office supplies, and if you've read my previous post, you clearly know how those make me feel! Tee hee hee. But anyways, back to my list.

#1: McGill University
McGill seemed like a strange choice for me when I was deciding where I wanted to go for my post-secondary education. For one, it was soooooo far away. Secondly, it was in Quebec (aaaaugh! Not the east! And certainly not Quebec! She'll marry a separatist and then the world will officially end. END, I tell you!). Plus, I had already been accepted to the University of Calgary and I had received a big scholarship. U of C, in fact seemed like the natural choice, what with it being cheaper (no plane tickets, a scholarship, etc) and closer to home. Furthermore, my father was downright against me going to McGill (to be fair, my mom supported my attending there, but me thinks it had more to do with her wanting to visit Montreal rather than Calgary). In the end, though, I knew that McGill was where I wanted to be. And that Calgary just wasn't. So there you have it, I went out on a limb, made a choice and fuck, am I ever glad I did!

#2: Europe
Okay, this decision obviously involved Charkins, because she was my travelling companion. However, the jury should note that not one single person was for us making this trip at the time that we did. I think even Charkins thought it was a bit foolhardy. She was still in school and had limited funds, even though the poor thing was working like 10 jobs. And I only managed to save a miniscule amount that would have hardly covered me alone for 3 months, let alone the two of us for 6. But persevered we did, and although we eventually ran out of money (oh, Visa, our gratitude for prolonging our adventure), and although my father was less than impressed when I called asking for more cash (and no, he did not give it to me. And yes, I'm still bitter. Even though for his part, it was probably the wise thing to do, and perhaps if it had been done more often, we all wouldn't be in the mess we're now in. But then again, maybe we would. Who's to say?), I am still glad that Charkins and I went when we did. Otherwise, maybe we wouldn't have made it there at all. And that would be truly regretful.

#3: Sleeping with the Enemy (I mean, Adders!)
Ok, without getting into any icky details or embarrassing the fucking hell out of my dear, dear boyfriend, it should be noted that deciding to give up my V card with a certain "Mags" was an enormously consequential decision for me. It was also one that I knew would have catacalysmic effects on both my future and the relationships with all those close to me, were they to find out. And now they have. And boy was I right. Bloody hell, I really couldn't have been more dead on in respect to this.

Which leads me into a tanget - Adders is fond of saying the following phrase: "If we only knew then what we know now." I have yet to actually call him on this and say, "What the fuck do you mean by that?" But being an insecure and suspicious female, I can only guesstimate that it means one thing, which is, "God, her parents are psycho. And fuck, this is a lot more than I bargained for. And wow, if I could do it all over again, I would probably drop her back off at home that first time she made me go through drive-thru just for a goddamned water. Because I knew then that she was crazy! I mean, seriously, who the fuck goes through McDonald's drive thru just for a water. That's it! Just water! It's nuts, I'm telling you. Like, at least order a small fry or a McFlurry, for God's sake. Water. Pfffsssshh." Who knows. But what I do know is this, that if I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. Seriously. Well, except maybe change doctors. Yeeeeeaaah, I'd totally do that. In fact, life would be pretty much peachy keen if I had at least made that switch back in April. But seriously, I wouldn't change the past, even though both Adders and I are living through an actual nightmare at this point, and it doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon. But I love him too much, I'm too grateful for all the time we've had together, and I can't imagine not having had this past year and a half with him by my side. So change it, I would not (and why, oh why, do I keep writing like Yoda on smack?).

The point is, I think that choosing to sleep with Adders was an important decision for me because while I knew that everyone else in my life would see it was a BAD, BAD choice, I also knew that it made me so very, very happy and brought me that much closer to a person I was already head over heels in love with (still am, for that matter). In fact, having sex (are ya'll cringing yet?) was probably the most independent, grown up choice I've ever made. And I'm proud of that. I also don't regret it, not even a smidge-it. But how the fuck could I? He's that good, girls! ;) Ha ha ha, ok, baby, I'm done talking about "it" and you. Now put down the shovel and stop digging the hole you were trying to bury yourself in!

Mini #4: The dress
I have to admit that I didn't make this choice all on my own, for like Europe, it was also subjected to the influence of Ms. Schnarky. But purchasing my dress for my bro's wedding, without my mother ever setting eyes on it, and without the option of returning it, was a very big step for this pathetic 24 year old who usually stands helpless in a clothing store without her mother there to guide her. And like the other three choices, I'm glad I made it. Furthermore, Charkins was right when she stood there in the boutique and said, "You've gotta buy this dress, Courty. For reasons other than because it's gorgeous. You need to make this step to full-fledged independence" (because independence for me can be defined as the ability to shop alone and actually keep whatever I purchase). But Charkins was right. And I realized she was even more right when I was called Barbie about fifty trillion times at the wedding (oh, c'mon. Who doesn't like being compared to Barbie? Well, besides feminists? And femininsts are oh so dull) (unless they look like Barbie) (that is, like me) (which must make me Feminist Barbie) (just so you know, that makes you Female Equality Ken, Adders).

So there you go, folks, a detailed account of the only choices I've ever made independent of my parents, friends (although not so much) and other assorted loved ones. Were they the right choices? I think so. Did they make me happy? Fuckin' rights. So really, what more could you ask for?

Whew, I'm weary! All of this drinking, I mean THINKING, has
gotten me so worn out. Must sleeeeeeeep now. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And Introducing...

So I've made it quite clear that I really only have 3 friends in this whole entire world. But they're great friends. In fact, they're the absolute best. They're also the only 3 people who read this blog.

To make them all feel extra special (but as if ya'll don't feel privileged enough, what with being up close and personal with Miss Courty), I thought I would explain my first meeting with each one. Some people aren't lucky enough to remember the first time they met various loved ones. But me? I remember my first encounter with each of my most precious pals.

Up first is Charkins, if only because, like a sister, it seems she's been with me since the very beginning. Although not quite my oldest friend, she's definitely my bestest. Probably no one in this world has seen me at my worst quite like her (and yes, Adders, that even includes you), and yet she still loves both me and the Colony. Oh, Char, how we have Rhett Butler to thank...

Charkins


Ok, to begin with, the jury should note that my first memory of a certain Ms. Schnarky is not her first memory of moi. Apparently our first meeting occured a year prior to when I recall it happening, whereby accompanied by a certain "Erie Airplane" (Oh, God. Wow. Just wowwww) and a pint-size Jesus Freak, I dazzled Charkins on the playground of Amy Woodland with my uncontained ratnest of a hair-do while speaking nonchantly about picking up some "public school" boys. Yeah, you heard it here first, people. I was a bad-ass as far 10 year olds went. However, it should be known that I went to a certain religious (read: FUCKED UP) private school at that time where drinking out of the same water fountain as the opposite sex was considered fornication, so it wasn't that hard to be considered a rebel.

So yeah, I made an impactful first impression upon Char. However, it wasn't until a full year later that our friendship was solidified in the basement of the aforementioned Erie Airplane. It was Airplane's 12th birthday, and as I was being homeschooled that year (an event in my life that surely deserves its own blog entry, if only to describe the non-existent tutoring skills of my distracted mother and those long winter afternoons I spent in an apple tree, contemplating how I was going to make my mark on the world with my sidekick Leizy), I was ready to bust it out and PAR-TAY.

Now, perhaps it was my love of poofy dresses or maybe it was because I was already developing an addiction to fantastical romances, but whatever the reason, over that past summer I had become obsessed (and by obsessed I mean, "I've seen Evita in the movie theatre nine times") with the movie "Gone With the Wind." In fact I was quite convinced of two things. One, that Rhett Butler was my soulmate, and two, surely to goodness I was born to be Scarlett O'Hara.

At any rate, as I stood around Airplane's basement with a bunch of strange girls as well as my constant companion, Pint-Size Jesus Freak (PSJF for short), I thought what better way to get the party started than by convincing everyone that we should play "Gone With the Wind." As in, you know, play house. And I'll be Scarlett. And one of ya'll can be that bitch Melanie. And all the rest of you can play my various suitors and admirers. Oh, and one of you will need to be Rhett and tell me how beautiful and yet conniving I am. My grand idea, however, was not well-liked. First of all, most of the girls had yet to hear of the movie, let alone sit through the 4 hour epic. Furthermore, PSJF was now in a corner crying and contemplating whether she should run home and tell her mother everything (poor thing, if only she knew what was to come that night, what with the trying on of menstrual pads and Airplane simulating sex noises under her sleeping bag. But Good Lord, if only Charkins and I knew what was to come in seven years when Airplane and her scum-bag boyfriend would actually make authentic, real-life sex noises in their sleeping bags two feet from our head).

However, one girl, who heretofor had been standing in a puddle of muteness off in the corner, staring at me with flushed cheeks (they were always red!), wide eyes and a general demeanor of awe, embarrassment and trepidation, suddenly came to my rescue and shrieked as only an 11 year old girl can, "I looooove Gone With the Wind. It's so good. I've watched it a bunch of times. Rhett is hot. Can I be your best friend forever and ever? Love me, please say you'll love me."

I stared at this girl, who had ever so shyly introduced herself as Charkins at the beginning of the evening, and felt that I had last met another person who understood me, who understood that the movie was worth being obssessed over, and who would likely submit to my being Scarlett and her having to fawn over me.

And so our friendship was forged. We gushed over the movie, excluded all the others (again, as only 11 year old girls can) and took our first tentative step at friendship. Although our relationship grew slowly over the next two years, it was Charkins who I suddenly found myself leaning on during the perils of junior high. And it is she who I have been leaning on ever since. She is a friend, a sister, a soulmate. And I love her to bits, all of her, including her penchant for older men, her memory like an elephant, the way she plays the air guitar (espeically to Keith Urban) and because if I recall my best memories over the past 13 years, she's in just about all of them! Charkins rocks because she gets it, all of it, without a word ever having to be said.

Tamara Lee


Her official title is that of the Roommate, but she is oh, so much more than that. In her I found my doppelganger and my co-star in what's sure to be the upcoming hit TV series "Better When You're Blonde." This is my second go at being TL's roomie and if it's anything like the first round, I can look forward to many a Saturday night's laying depressed on our living room floor, not speaking to people at parties and wondering why they all hate us, and generally laughing my ass off, especially whenever Yedward Edwards comes up.

But how did I meet this teeny-tiny blonde bombshell, and how did we not first scratch each other's eyes out? 3 letters: MCF. But let me explain. First, we must trackback 6 and a half years to Montreal, where at the age of 17 I had headed off to attend university. Living on my own, and not knowing a soul, I knew that I would have be the anti-Courtney to make any friends, and by that I mean outgoing, bubbly, a small-talker and waaaaay less timid. Bottom line - I would have to join clubs. And strangely enough, lo and behold on one of those first hot September days, I noticed a flyer in my neighbourhood that was advertising McGill Christian Fellowship (MCF) club's kick-off BBQ. I also read that the contact name was some girl named Tamara Lee and that if I had any questions or concerns, I should give her a shout.

I didn't. But I thought that she must be the person to introduce myself to if I was to attend the BBQ. Which I did, accompanied by my new totally NOT Christian and therefore "why the fuck are we here" neighbour Ba-shelley. Together, her and I lasted all of 10 minutes at the BBQ, enough time for us to be interrogated on whether we loved Jesus and allow me to tentatively sign up for a small group (and I signed up for one only because a hot boy did too). But just as we were leaving, I found myself standing face to face with a girl about half my size, with a wide smile and a voice so high that it made my ears bleed (ironic, I know, considering my own voice has been rising by an octave every year since). I introduced myself quickly, and she smiled back but her attention was scattered and so we parted ways.

Our next encounter occurred a week later when I found myself in the same small group as her. But again, our exchange was brief as I was more concerned with various other situations, such as getting a certain blonde named Ms Melly to shut the fuck up, get as far away as possible from a monster-headed Asian freak and secure the attention of the only boy in the group who was worth looking at, a young British guy who I thought would do quite well as my first boyfriend, a sort of substitute Hugh Grant.

In the weeks that followed, Tamara Lee and I only had one more exchange worth noting and that was when she encouraged me to get more involved in MCF and, you know, perhaps attend a weekend retreat. I looked at her with a mixture of both horror and amazement, incredulous that somebody would actually suggest such a thing to me (gaaaah!), and she returned the look with her own expression of bewilderment as she backed away slowly.

However, it was around this time that I began to notice something. Something... odd. Even though I was living in the fashion capital of Canada, a city on the cutting edge of trendy, the people I hung around with didn't seem to know that clothing could be found at places other than the Gap. And my new female friends had certainly never been to a makeup counter in their lives. Thus, I began to sorely miss the companionship of a girly-girl. I missed having a friend who not only owned mascara, but knew how to apply it. And I missed having a pal who would watch the Oscars with me, if only to trash every celebrity in sight.

And in Tamara Lee, I found all of those qualities. It suddenly occurred to me that she was the only other female in MCF who looked, well, girly! And so I thought to myself, "Well, Miss Courty, a shopping spree will either make or break a friendship with her so you might as well ask her to accompany you to The Bay." And indeed, I was right - over foundation and bum modelling, we became friends. But not just friends like those you go shopping with, or friends that you might just live with. Tamara Lee became the friend who mimics me in a way that is often brutal, dead-on and downright hilarious. She's the friend who posed for pictures at 2am before a final exam when our toilet exploded throughout the basement. She's the friend who calmly informed me that perhaps I'd rather use a sideplate for my bread rather than the ashtray when I was too drunk to notice the difference. And she's the friend who petted my hair and offered me juice (!!!!) as I lay on the floor, crumpled half under my bed, sobbing as my world crashed down around me and my heart broke in two. Tamara Lee is that kind of friend, the friend you have for life and the roommate you want to live with always.

Adders


What to say about the boy who changed everything, and who taught me all I now know (or don't know!) about love and life. What to say about the person who has travelled to hell and back with me and can still be found by my side, slugging it out, despite all the odds against us. What to say about the man who somehow fulfilled my preposterously high expectations on what falling in love should be like. What to say about Adders, who holds my heart in his hands and who takes care of it ever so gently.

Unlike my first meetings with Charkins and Tamara Lee, the first encounter I had with Adders was one where neither of us breathed a word to the other and yet much was communicated. He literally walked into my life, when I least expected someone would and yet when I most needed him to show up.

Flashback 17 months ago, to the tiny newspaper where I worked. I had just celebrated my 23rd birthday, and while I was happy with my job, life was not working out the way I wanted. I had no friends in my hometown of Crannie, and there were certainly no boys begging for a chance to ask me out. Stuck with only my mother for companionship (and we all know how well that turned out), it seemed almost Providential when Adders came in to place an ad in the paper. He sat down to meet with one of our sales reps just outside of my office and while she flitted off to grab some paper work, our eyes briefly locked as he sat there facing me. At this glance, I burned with embarrassment and quickly gathered my hair around my face so that I might conceal my blatant stares. Upon her return, they became engrossed in business, providing me with the opportunity to study him with a more critical gaze.

And I was alarmed. To be sure, he was hot. And hot guys are not all that common in my hometown of Crannie. But he looked young, oh so young! I pegged him at 20, but it could have gone a few years in either direction. However, the fact that he was in there placing a business ad led me to believe that maybe he was worth continuing to stare at. I mean, obviously he wasn't just some 18 year old punk putting his snowmobile up for sale!

I needed to make a move, I needed him to notice me. It was critical that I get his attention, and what better way than a walk-by, which would allow me a few key hair tosses and allow him to get a glimpse of my hot bod (good thing I had worn my biggest life jacket, I mean bra!!!!). So without another purpose other than to get him drooling, I sauntered by him, while making sure that I seemed completely unaware of his presence (or the effect that it was having on me).

And... NOTHING! He was too engrossed in the absurd laughter of the sales rep, who despite being quadruple his age, seemed determined to flirt her ass of with him. At last he left, and I made a bee-line for a co-worker's office, where all of the other ladies met in order to discuss the exchange with the hottie. The sales rep gushed and gushed, and informed us of his profession, which at least relieved me from the fear that I would be charged with statutory rape for ogling him. Sheepishly, she admitted that she had totally been flirty and that it was too bad that he was way too young for her. And with that, everyone turned to me. "Oh, Miss Courty, you should go out with him. Oh, you should date him! Oh, you two would be so cute together! Can we come to the wedding? Awww, just think of how precious your kids' will be!" I laughed it off and dismissed him, saying that he was probably too young for me anyhow, and besides I only attract freaks so what's the point? But secretly I was pleased, and secretly I plotted.

A few days went by and I casually mentioned his name to the sales rep. She had actually given his file to another rep, this one male, who knew Adders' boss. "Oh. No," I thought. "This will get messy." And sure enough, all it took was one passing, flippant comment about Adders to this rep named Mikka and the deal was sealed. I was taunted, I was teased but I was also mentioned to Adders the next time Mikka met up with him.

Soon enough, Mikka came smirking into the building, holding a telephone number in his hand. "Oh, Miss Courty, I have something for you here," he said as he presented me with Adders' number. But all I could utter were shrieks of horror and mortification. Soon the other ladies joined in, all equally appalled by the thought of me, darling little ME, having to make the first move and call the boy (and a boy, he certainly was. The age? 21. Mine? 23. Embarrassed to be robbing the cradle? EVER SO MUCH). Mikka protested, but finally gave in. A call was made, Adders was informed, and a few hours later I sat at a stop light on my cellphone, listening to him fumble his way through his first ever phone message to me. And if the grin on my face and the thumping of my heart at that moment was any indication, you'd know that I was already listening to the voice of someone I was very, very interested in.

That night we spoke for the first time, an agonizing 15 minutes of conversation, in which we both paced around and nonchantly spoke of our mutual love of wake-boarding and summertime. We bull-shitted our way through until suggestions were made, and a date set.

And then suddenly I was opening our front door, staring into the blue-green eyes that I would come to know so well, relieved that he was just as cute as I had originally thought, and relieved also that his was a nice, new silver truck and not the monstrosity with enormous tires that I had been fearing.

He took me for drinks and a movie and sealed our fate by doing the following three things: sharing girly drinks with me (straws too!); showing off his sensitive, attentive side by suppressing his macho side and instead speaking to me earnestly about his family and asking me such questions in return; and lastly going out on a whim of spontaneity by taking me through a haunted house.

Immediately, I was smitten. But my delight quickly turned to mortification and then fury when he neglected to call me on the requisite third day after. Nor did he call me for a week after that. Bitch! Whore! Prick! The nerve of him!

And yet, when he called me again, 10 days later, asking me to a hockey game, I melted and immediately acquiesed. As the weeks passed, I fell hopelessly and utterly in love with Adders. He made me laugh. He turned me on. He got me thinking. And so he danced away with my heart, just as easily as we danced together at my Christmas party, that beautiful night when I finally had to admit to myself, "By gosh, Miss Courty, you're actually in love."

And here we are, with me telling him that:

"All I know is I'm lost without you,
I'm not gonna lie
How am I gonna be strong without you
I need you by my side
If we ever say we'd never be together
And in the end you wave goodbye
Dunno what I'd do
I'm lost without you" (Lost Without You)

And him reassuring me that:

"If love is a labour, I'll slave till the end
I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand" (Swing Life Away).


So there you have it. Despite all my woes right now, I can't help but acknowledge just how blessed I am to have these three in my life.

Stay tuned 'till next time when maybe, just maybe, I'll provide in exquisite techni-coloured detail how I met my cat. Now THAT makes for some interesting literature...

What I Do Know Is This

So far we've established that I don't know much about myself. Just like everybody else, I am the product of both my environment and genetics. But see, where I differ from the majority of the universe's population is that I have somehow missed out on differentiating myself from either.

Ok, that makes no sense whatsoever. Wow. You know you're in trouble when you can't even bull shit yourself anymore. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've somehow reached the ripe old age of 24 and I don't have the foggiest clue as to who I am. I mean, I know who I am as a general person. But not as an individual.

As you can probably tell, I have been going through a bit of an existential crisis (I know, glamourous isn't it? You should try it! It's so Kabbalah except without the tacky red string!). Some might say that I'm a bit, well, young to be having one. And to this I reply, oh you poor naive fools, for once you understand where I'm coming from, I'm sure ya'll will make an exception for me. Because, adoring public, I am the exception. How come? Easy - I'm an unique recipe!

See, to concoct me (and by me, I mean an indecisive, anxious, overly-analytical, hyper-sensitive, uber-dependent, self-deceiving adult) you need to throw in 1 part small town upbringing, 2 parts conservative/evangelical Christian influence, an enormous amount of controlling/domineering parenting (and really I can't stress this ingredient enough. In fact, I won't even put down an exact measurement for this component since you just can't add enough of it to the mix) and a heaping tablespoon of the crazy, to taste. And voila! You've got me on your hands!

See the crazy?! I'm crazy! So crazy that I still make snow angels
(quite well, I might add)!

Anyhow, the point is that I've decided to compile a list of the things that, despite all the questions I have about who I am, what I like and what I want out of life, are nevertheless pertinent to who Iam. This list is made up of all the things that I actually do know about myself. For example,

1. I know that the colour pink makes me very happy.

2. That just about every Celine Dion song makes my heart swell.

3. That one of my biggest pet peeves is when people borrow your clothes, get a compliment on them but don't give you the credit. ALWAYS GIVE THE CREDIT, PEOPLE.

4. Another pet peeve is spoiled dogs, children, or just about anything else that is annoying when spoiled (I know, ironic coming from me, eh?).

5. That there is no better feeling than being snuggled in Adders' arms, lying on the couch, watching Blind Date.

6. That every time I water ski and/or wake board, I get nervous.

7. That school stresses me out. But I love it. And hate it. But love it. Also, hate it.

8. That for me, sometimes nothing beats a Diet Coke, including chocolate, sex and a free shopping spree combined.

9. That having a serious, romantic relationship is a billion times harder than I thought it would be, and about a trillion times better.

10. That nothing in the universe can make me laugh harder on command than the thought of Charkins yelling, "Cooooooouuuuurrrrrrtttttssssss, ssssaaaaavvve meeee from the monkeeeeeeeeys!" Oh, the tears. That's how hard it makes me laugh!

11. That I love handbags. Probably more than I love shoes, clothes or make-up (although I do love those too). Purses make me happy. Pink purses make me the happiest.

12. When I'm drunk, I say way too much, and get way too silly. And very loud. Like wake the whole trailer park loud.

13. That I really only exercise to stay thin. Ultimately, I hate working out. But I am always glad after I've done it. Cliche, I know. But it's true.

14. I have an extremely low boredom threshold. Boredom gets me depressed - FAST.

15. As a result, I don't like most movies or TV programs. I'm very picky. And it takes a lot to entertain me or get me to laugh out loud.

16. Despite enjoying a variety of foods, my absolute favourite is pasta (raviolis ROCK). It's pure deliciousness.

17. That if I could change anything about myself, it would be to have bigger boobs.

18. And if I weren't such a hypochondriac, I'd totally get a boob job someday (but at this point I'm too afraid to get my wisdom teeth pulled, so a new chest is out of the question).

19. That more than anything else in this world, I want to be a mother.

20. That I don't have many friends, but the ones I do have (boyfriend included) are worth more than a hundred regular pals.

21. That I can't read or watch TV for an extended period of time without rubbing my feet ('tis true! Ask Tamara Lee).

22. That hearing "I love you" from a certain someone can suddenly make everything better.

23. That by the time I've made dinner, I'm usually not very hungry.

24. That I come across as strong-willed and aggressive but am actually quite the opposite, except in a few close relationships. And yes, those are snorts of laughter you hear from two people in particular at the back of the room.

25. That happiness for me can be found on a boat, sunbathing with a book on a hot summer day.

26. That sarcasm can still be entertaining, even when suffering from a breaking heart.

27. That glamour enthralls me, and beauty humbles me.

28. That I am a total and complete hypocrite about tanning beds.

29. That I still miss my cat Riley, who has been dead for over 4 years.

30. That I drive too fast and recklessly most of the time.

31. That I have more self-doubt than what I think is a healthy level. But that I also have more self-esteem than is probably healthy too. Go figure.

32. That there is nothing worse than changing or restructuring relationships. It sucks, plain and simple.

33. That going out for dinner makes me insanely happy.

34. That going to an Ice hockey game makes me deliriously happy.

35. That I am fiercely competitive. Mostly in sports, but other things as well (except for crib. I am not competitive in the least at crib. But be warned, play with me only if you have some pink wax on hand). So be warned, if your favourite team beats my favourite team, I will take it personally and most likely will hate you for the rest of the day.

36. That I loathe it when couples fight in front of me. Makes me absurdly uncomfortable.

37. That I really do want those bigger boobs.

38. That I'll be really sad when the elastic waist on my red jogging pants finally goes. They are like a second skin to me. And they somehow make having my period easier.

39. That I can be very snobby.

40. And that I look down on people who don't read "literature" (and yes, The Babysitter's Club TOTALLY counts as literature) (So does Harry Potter) (and truck magazines!).

41. That I get nervous not having (a) my water bottle close at hand and (b) easy access to a washroom.

42. That despite it being redundant, I am freakishly terrified of spiders.

43. That I hate confrontation.

44. That I'm extremely high strung and nervous.

45. That buying office supplies is orgasmic to me.

46. And that nothing cures the blues like a trip to Wal-Mart or buying new thongs at Winners.

47. That window shopping does not work for me. Instead, it makes me more depressed. So does reading Vogue. Wow, apparently a lot of shit makes me depressed. Interesting...

48. That I don't have a preference between salty and sweet. You need both, and a bag of dill pickle chips can be just as tasty as a sour soother.

49. That one of God's greatest gifts to me was giving me a best friend who gets me, and I mean, every single aspect of me, and "gets it" without me having to say a word.

50. That no song makes me more heart sick in the world than "Song for a Winter's Night" by Sarah McLachlan.

51. That my whole day can be cheered by the thought of Tamara Lee in a purple fur toque, doing the "Elvis" dance.

52. And that if I could have written a more perfect song for Adders, it would have to be Push, which has the following lyrics:

Every time I look at you the world just melts away
All my troubles, all my fears dissolve in your affections
You've seen me at my weakest but you take me as I am
And when I fall you offer me a softer place to land

You stay the course, you hold the line, you keep it all together
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in
You're all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me
You're the one true thing I know I can believe

I get mad so easy but you give me room to breathe
No matter what I say or do 'cause you're to good to fight about it
Even when I have to push just to see how far you'll go
You won't stoop down to battle but you never turn to go

Your love is just the antidote when nothing else will cure me
There are times I can't decide, when I can't tell up from down
You make me feel less crazy when otherwise I'd drown
But you pick me up and brush me off and tell me I'm OK
Sometimes that's just what we need to get us through the day

So there's my list - fuck, all I know about myself seems to fit into an awkward list of 52 not-so-interesting-items. And Good Lord, there are only about a trillion and 52 other things that I don't know or understand about me. But hell, I guess 52 ain't bad and at the rate I'm going, I'll be done with my version of AA (Assholes Anonymous) by next Christmas. Sweet!

'Till next time, kids.

Does this look like the face of a crazy person?! Of COURSE not!

But then again, this clearly does. And yet, apparently he's the sane one in our relationship!

Where I reveal I am not well

Ok.

So where do I even begin? Well, what's ironic about me writing a blog is that the only people who will read it (and even then, there's a good chance they won't!) are the ones who are forced to hear about my life in minute detail every single night. Being forced to not only listen to all my problems but now read about them as well is the ultimate in friendship, which is probably why I've only got like a grand total of three close friends.

But back to me.

I think I should begin by explaining that one year ago, blogging is something I would have sneered at. In fact, it was something I did sneer at. That was before I became frighteningly bored at work and had nothing to entertain myself with, nothing save the internet. And also, my original opinion on blogging was formed long before I knew jack-shit about myself (I still don't know much, but more on that later).

As I said previously, I thought blogs were the ultimate in narcissism and self-indulgence. But since that pretty much sums me up, I guess it's not surprising that here we are.

However, there are many reasons why I've decided to start up my very own blog. First of all, I am bored at work. Oh, so very, very bored. And I need something else to entertain me during the long hours that I spend here, besides simply watching dust float through the air and chipping polish off my fingernails. And while I do enjoy surfing the internet, there is only so much to read and/or look at. I mean, the gossip sites get pretty repetitive after a while and I'm at work, people. Porn isn't an option (JOKING!).

But the other reason I've started this up is because I'm a writer. Or at least I fancy myself one. Put it this way, you know how every 1st year science student at university thinks that he or she is going to be a doctor someday? Yeah, well, I was an English major which means that, yep, you guessed it. I'm obviously destined to be a novelist! But I'm just too lazy to actually sit down and write a whole book. So maybe this will discipline me or something. I don't know. It's a bull shit excuse I know, especially when we all know the truth is that I was just desperate for a new venue in which to draw attention to myself! ;)

But on a more truthful note, I do like writing stuff down. It helps me think. And yet writing by hand in a diary takes too long and is way too tedious. Hence, the joy in having a keyboard. The point is, I am going through a lot of shit right now and maybe writing it down will enlighten me and give me a chance to sort out my life. Who knows! It will at the very least provide my darling little Charkins with some very amateurish entertainment at work.

So about me a bit. Hmmm, not quite sure what to share, espeically since I haven't decided who I'm going to tell about this blog. So far only the boyfriend, who from here on in shall be referred to as "Adders", knows that I've made my first tentative step into the world of blogging. I actually like the idea of remaining anonymous so I can trash those people who I know in my everyday life online. But we shall see.

The basics about me are this, however: I am 24. And apparently I have no clue who I am. To help me clarify this point, let me explain. I have never owned anything of my own - a car, a house, anything. My vehicle was given to my when I turned 16 and at this point I am simply too broke to buy a house (besides, for most of my existence I have held the much misguided belief that my future husband would just show up to buy me my 1st home. Still hoping? Yes. Pathetic? Very). See, I am spoiled and I am not joking when I say this. I have been known to throw tantrums, I can be quite haughty and I have a ridiculous sense of self-entitlement (the moral of the story? Never let your 15 year old daughter wear Chanel makeup. It ruins her. Possibly for life). To stress to you just how spoiled I am, up until 6 months ago, the most excruciating experience I had been through was back-packing in Europe (easy now, Char! Down girl!). And nothing even bad happened there besides 2 horrific days in Barcelona (and by horrific I mean that it involved some rain and a few cockroaches).

People, this isn't a good thing. It has resulted in me, at 24, having the independence of a 14 year old. And lately, this has become a MAJOR ISSUE, one that has affected my relationships with every single person that is close with me.

But as they say, acknowledging that you have a problem is the first step to recovery. So here we go. No more spoiledness. But just to clarify, all that means is that I can't expect anyone else to bail me out or help me get through life. I must be independent! But it does not mean that I have to stop wearing Chanel foundation, because then life really might end for Courtney, and that would be tragic.

Right. Am going now. Until I publish again in, oh I don't know, about 4 minutes when I am bored to fucking tears. Tears. Fuck, as if I don't have enough to cry about already... Right. OK, as I'm fond of saying to everyone else but myself, Suck it up! Enough with the self-indulgence, CK!


Also? Just thought I would add a pic of me and Adders, if only because it makes me smile and I just think he is the cutest thing in the universe. This picture, btw, was taken on his 23rd BD last week. It was also taken with a $20 U.S. bill for reasons that are still unclear. It may be because at that point we were in a fit of depression since Adders was leaving to go home (we do long-distance) or it may be because we were high. Both options at this point are highly likely. Oh, how I jest.

P.S. Char? Would LOOOOOVE to have posted a pic of you too. Unfortunately, just realized? I have ZERO digital pics of us. None. And for reasons that are best left untold to the general internet public at this point (yeah, because already EVERYBODY on the internet is reading me!), I forgot my camera for the wedding on Saturday. Sigh. Just so everybody knows, Charkins is my best friend. And she's hott. Oh yeah, double T hot. As in Paris Hilton hott.

P.P.S. My blog's name? Only a certain roommate can fully understand the continuing hilarity of this title. And even she is probably scratching her head with confusion at this point, thinking, "God, I never thought it was THAT funny."

Live and Learn

Ok, so I'm doing what I never, ever thought I would do: write a blog. It always seemed like the ultimate in self-indulgence. And it is, oh is it ever. But the thing is, why pretend I'm not obsessed with myself? And why not acknowledge that there could be millions out there who would also be fascinated by me if, well, if they only knew me!

The thing is, I'm at a point where I am so bored for 8 hours of the day (and guess where I'm at during those eight hours?! Yeah. The job? Not so exciting as of yet). So I need to entertain myself. And a certain Charkins, who is also suffering the drudgery of 9 to 5. So here we go. Let's begin with the funny.

Right. That'll come tomorrow (you know what's coming - so there was this ventriloquist performing in a night club...). For now, I'll just ta-ta and maybe, oh, I don't know, WORK.

Are we on?

Ummmm, hello. Working or not? We shall see...