Dad: How’s Robert Redford doing?

Me: He’s great. On call at the station tonight, actually..

Dad: Huh. So, is he, what do you guys call it again? Getting it in?

Me: Excuse me?

Dad: You know, is he giving you the ol hose yet?

Me: First of all, please don’t ever say the phrase “getting it in” ever again. Ever. Second, it’s none of your damn business what is happening with my vagina.

Dad: Hey, I’m just lookin out for you! Everybody needs to get laid. Keeps people happy. Maybe that’s the solution to the problems in the Middle East.

Me: Everyone just needs to get laid?

Dad: Yeah. Fuck sending over our military services, let’s just get a bunch of prostitutes and send em over. A good blow job can fix anything.

Me: ….

Dad: What?!

Me: And people wonder why I’m batshit crazy….

My dad is reaching new levels of inappropriateness.

I’ve been spending a pretty considerable amount of time with him and I think I’ve come to the conclusion that he is in real life what I would imagine Robert Redford to be like. Handsome, romantic, sweet, but manly and slightly mysterious. Robert Redford makes me want to hump a wall. And now you don’t know which one I’m actually talking about! It might be both. Okay, it is. Wait, what?

So, “Hoseman” will henceforth be known as Robert Redford here on the interwebs. That is until I decide to write something while under the influence and accidentally refer to him by his real name. The likelihood of that happening is staggeringly high.

It’s funny really, because I know 24 isn’t actually old at all. But I feel old. I mean, I was watching ‘I Used To Be Fat’ the news the other day and they did an interview with an 18 year old and all I could think is, “Awe, hunny. You’re SO young.”

The truth is, I feel like I’ve done more “growing up” in the last year than I have in, well, ever. But I look back and can’t really pin point what I’ve done to get to this point. I mean, I’ve switched jobs. I did my taxes like a big girl. I started dating. I went on a vacation for some ‘self-exploration‘ (whatever that means). I got a subscription for Bon Apetite. I started listening to NPR.

Big things, people. Big things. But honestly? It’s not like any of that was really life changing. I wasn’t given a high-five or pat on the back and welcomed into adulthood. I just feel older and perhaps a little wiser. I’ve learned a lot in the last year about myself, friendships, relationships, and life. Just in general. For once I’m not dreading getting older. I’m actually kind of excited to “grow up.” I’m excited for the remaining years in my 20′s where I get to royally fuck up a few more times, make a few more terrible life decisions, make some major life decisions, and most of all, learn to live life like a real grown up. Whatever that looks like.

So, in honor of my 24th year, and the final year of being a “young” 20-something- before I begin the desent towards 30, I’ve decided to make a list of 24 (plus 1 for good measure) things I’d like to do in my 24th year. Some of which are slightly more “adult” than others. But hey, I’m still a “kid” right?

1. Eat a brussel sprout (They just sound like an “adult” food)
2. Correctly use the term apropos
3. Go to a wine tasting
4. Put money in my savings account
5. Check my mail on a “regular person” basis
6. Send flowers to someone
7. Learn how to NOT drool on myself while on a date
8. Make the effort to maintain friendships (near and far)
9. Be less selfish (in every respect)
10. Successfully take a trip with friends and not want to kill each other by the end
11. Stay awake to see the sunrise (I figure I only have a few more years to do this on a whim)
12. Run a half marathon
13. Actually attend Portlands Old Port Festival
14. Go winter camping
15. Go on a roadtrip
16. Take a cooking class
17. Make a career choice (do this! do this!)
18. Visit Erica and not be so hungover you’re rendered completely useless
19. Drink more wine (I feel like this is a bad life decision but I’m still not a real adult so it’s okay!)
20. Bake bread (I know. Who puts that on a list of goals? Oh wait, I do.)
21. Ride a mini horse (I’m serious. I guess a normal one would suffice but a mini would be amazing)
22. Learn to waterski again (and not rip my leg open while doing so)
23. Go to more shows, and dance without abandon
24. Set a new jump roping record

And one more for good measure. Kind of like the birthday spanking, right? Except less spank-y and more goal-y.

25. Make a list of goals and actually complete the goals on said list. Seriously, Courtney.

I promise I will make a somewhat conscious effort to stay on top of this list. Seeing as my last goal was to stick to my list of goals, I should probably attempt to complete that one and not feel like a total failure when 25 rolls around and I realize I’ve accomplished nothing on this list except drinking more wine.

Oh, also, thanks for hanging around for the past year! Happy anniversary, you crazy fucks. I love you all dearly.

xo hearts hugs & sparkley tits

P.s. It’s also the blogiversary for my best blog friend Sara. Go to there. She’s hilarious and awesome and sent me a Gator Tooth keychain thats oddly shaped like a penis. You can’t go wrong with this girl!

P.p.s. An obligatory baby picture for you all to make fun of!

I clearly  haven’t changed much over these last 24 years…

Let me rewind…

I am a total nut case when it comes to manners. You know, saying please and thank you, holding doors for people, chewing with your mouth closed etc. I’m also batshit crazy about sending thank you cards or at the very least, making the effort to thank someone for whatever reason. I blame my mother for this. Actually, I should thank her for this. So, thank you, Mom, for instilling good manners when you raised me.

But here’s my problem: I get all kinds of crazy irritated when people don’t make the effort to say thank. To me, that’s like a big fat slap across the face. Like, ‘Hey, that gift was SO awesome. It’s probably the coolest thing I’ve ever gotten, ever. But I don’t appreciate that you thought of me enough to take 5 seconds of my very busy day to say thank you for it. You’re just not that important to me. Also, I’m going to slap you across your face in about 3 seconds, so brace yourself.’

Okay, so, it’s a bit of a hyperbole. Sue me. Actually, don’t. I won’t be able to pay you with anything but cookies and rainbow stickers. Unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case, be my guest! But seriously, why can’t people ever say thank you anymore? Are you really that busy? If you are, you should probably hire an assistant to take care of your dirty work so people don’t think you’re a total asshole. Just a suggestion.

So I was writing thank you notes to my friends for the party they threw for me recently (spoiler alert: Salem gals, you’re getting mail!) and I started to think about how funny it would be if there were snarky cards I could send to people that essentially said, ‘No worries, I know you’re too busy to thank me, so I’ll just go ahead and say You’re Welcome  and make you feel like a dick for, well, being a dick with no manners.’ But, you know, in fewer words.

I thought this was the most brilliant idea ever conjured up in the history of the universe until I found this website where you can actually buy these exact cards and all you have to do is click on this excessively long link to get them!

First I was angry. And then I was sad. And then I was all, ‘wait a second. I should be thanking them for being as brilliant as I am and making such a thing as “You’re Welcome cards.”‘ So, Thank you, you brilliant person.

This turned into way more of an angry rant than I intended. Whoops?

P.s. YOU’RE WELCOME.

So, I’ve decided to join the rest of society and partake in a relationship of sorts. No, it’s not with a fictional character on television. For once. I know, it’s shocking for me too when I talk to him and he actually talks back. For his sake, and privacy, he will now be refered to as Hoseman. Because, well, he’s a firefighter, and he is now fondly refered to as Hoseman amongst my family. They’re assholes sometimes but they mean well.

Yes, the girl who is in a chronic state of disarray and self-inflicted pain from injuring herself is dating someone who rescues people for a living. It’s fitting, really. Or it’s going to lead him to hate his career. Or me. I suppose we’ll just have to see.

In the month and a half that we’ve been seeing each other I have done just about everything a girl could do to completely mortify and send a prospect sprinting for his life. But for some reason he finds my embarrassing moments endearing. Let’s just recap the highlights from the embarrassment olympics, where I’m currently the gold medalist in…every category.

I fell asleep on our first date. Seriously? Who does that? I went over to hang out for a few hours, in which time we decided we HAD to watch Nightmare Before Christmas because he had never seen it and ohmygodthat’spracticallyblasphmyinmyworld so I was all, ‘I don’t care that it’s almost midnight! We’re watching this!’ And then I promptly fell asleep 5 minutes into the movie. On his lap. Snoring. Way to lay it all out there the first night, Courtney.

I did a faceplant. A few weeks ago I decided to go outside and keep him company while he played the responsible one and shoveled off  my roof. (That sounds oddly sexual. Just me? Just me) So, in my attempt to be cute and somehow maintaining what little “attractive” factor I had left, I put on my snow attire and ventured outside, climbed over an unnaturally large snow bank next to my house, began my trek down the other side, gave him the most adorable “aren’t I soooo cute?” smile and wave as I lost my footing and did a ‘straight out of a tragic romcom’ faceplant in the snow. Snow bank 1, Courtney 0.

He brought me soup, I decided it looked better ON me. Not in a ‘sexy  seduction food wearing’ scenario, either. I’ve been fighting what can only be described as “the plague” for the last few weeks. Being the good guy that he is, Hoseman stopped by to bring me soup one night. So, we were standing in the kitchen, I grabbed the bowl of soup which swiftly slipped from my hands and onto my torso. And my floor. And my counter. And his feet. And then I cried.

Kind of amazing, right? But here’s my favorite moment:

I drooled. On myself. And also a little bit on him. While I was, wait for it…..awake. Okay, this might need further explanation. So, we were deep in conversation and I was totally getting into the topic of discussion when all of a sudden a gargantuan amount of saliva came pouring out of my mouthhole, dripping down my chin, and sending a light spray of spit onto his face. It’s a beautiful image, isn’t it? Luckily for me we both started cracking up, wiped ourselves off and went on with the conversation like it was perfectly normal to spew saliva like a volcano.

I mean, I guess if I haven’t scared him away yet, I need to get creative and start doing things on purpose. You know, just to see how much he’ll put up with.

I offered my balls to a foreigner. Yes, you read that correctly. No, I don’t actually have balls, but I did have some schweddy ones. Let me back track. I got on my 9pm flight headed for the east coast and immediately made friends with this adorable foreign guy sitting across the aisle from me. So we start chatting about nothing, and he was all, ‘would you like some fries?’ (in his adorable foreign accent. what is it about accents that make me all hot and bothered?) as he shoves a container of McFat’s fries in my face. I kindly declined because, duh, I can’t eat that crap without vomiting but a few minutes later I felt I should return the favor by offering him something. See? I’m a nice girl. So I was all, ‘Hey! You wanna have one of my Schweddy Balls?’ as I smiled sweetly. Rather than get a, ‘no thanks’ or ‘oh, what are those, exactly?’ I received a look of utter shock and disgust, promptly followed by 8 hours of silence. I guess SNL skits and American humor don’t translate? If only he’d had a chance to taste my delicious Schweddy Balls, perhaps he would’ve fallen in love. Good times, good times.

I don’t DO a zero personal space policy. Apparently my Global Communications professor was totally right about the lack of personal boundaries with Asians. I know, total blanket statement about an entire race but, I’m pulling the ‘that’s what my professor taught me’ card, so, there’s that. Have a problem? Take it up with Guillermo.

Now, I’m a logical person. I understand that a gigantic metal bird that transports hundreds of people from coast to coast doesn’t actually provide a great deal of space for each patron. I get that. But the thing is, I paid for my seat. I paid this airline lots of my money to sit in a seat all to myself and fly 40,000 miles up in the air to get from one coast to the other, so you know what? I’d really like my seat, to be my seat. Unfortunately for me, I was not only assigned an aisle seat on an overbooked flight, but I was also placed next to the ‘I have no concept of personal space’ guy. For 8 hours. You know what that means? That means for 8 hours, I had to sit half in the aisle and perpetually get smacked with the drink carts and people’s asses because I couldn’t stand to sit properly in my own seat for fear of being drooled on or somehow tricked into spooning with this Asian invasion. I realize this makes me sound racist. I’m not. I promise. But the thing is, there are so many damn people over there, that they have no choice but to be packed like sardines every where they go. So I understand where it comes from, but you know, sir, you’re in America. And this American likes her space. Mmm’kay pumpkin?

My ex “let’s make out and share music and stare into each others eyes on the school bus” buddy was my pilot. Seriously. I boarded the flight of my last leg home the next morning and obviously, as I’m looking about as fresh as a goddamn pile of trash, I notice that my pilot is the guy I used to make out with on the school bus. Oh, awesome. And just to clear this up right now, no, I was not a total hussy back in the day. Following that little adventure I was essentially with the same guy for 5 years.

Anyhussywho, I looked up just as he was walking by me headed to the back of the plane and realized it was him. So, what do I do? Well clearly this hot mess was not about to go all chatty Cathy on his ass and take a trip down memory lane. Instead, I instantly threw my head down as if I were searching for something extremely important in my non-existent bag I had stored beneath the seat in front of me. And obviously in doing so, I whacked my forehead off of the tray table and caused more commotion than a sneeze in a Catholic church. Cool. Way to be discreet, Me. Luckily for me, when he noticed who had caused the ruckus, he also felt no need to stroll through days gone by and instead gave me an awkward smile and continued on down to the back of the plane.

I put on my hood and walked my happy ass off of that plane as quickly as possible when we landed so as not to have another awkward ‘let’s pretend we don’t see each other’ moment.

Overall I’d say it was a pretty great trip. Oregon, you were a good time. So were you, sister. I know you’re reading this.

Also, hope you’re slightly more inclined to forgive me for my shortcomings and be continue our love affairs. But if not, I promise not to find out where you live and egg your homes. I’ll use toilet paper instead.

Coming soon: My belated list of entirely irrational and unachievable New Years resolutions!

Bold  and shocking statement, I know. GOD I’m so original I surprise even myself sometimes. But really, I love the holidays and not just for the presents although, I will never turn down a beautifully wrapped gift. But really I love the smells, and the time with family, and also, the traditions. Take for instance the ever popular and hilarious Schweddy Balls!

I was emailing Alice this morning because even when I’m hanging out on the west coast (because apparently it’s the best coast?) we still need to be in constant communication. Clearly we have some serious separation issues. Maybe we should work on that? Anywschweddyballs, I was telling her what seestor and I were up to today and I was all, ‘We’re sewing pj pants! And then we’re making Schweddy Balls!’ And she was all, ‘Do I totally suck because I don’t know what Schweddy Balls are?’

I cried of course and then I was all, ‘Here, I’ll send you the link! Be prepared to have your mind blown (ALL OVER THE ROAD).’ Because I thoroughly enjoy blowing things. Like your mind. If at this point you’re all scratching your heads like, ‘what the fuck are you talking about? Clearly I suck too because I have NO idea what schweddy balls are.’ First, go grab some baby powder, pour some into your hand, and slap yourself across your face. THEN get ready to get blown. Ready? READY? CLICK THIS BECAUSE I’M TOO DRUNK LAZY TO INSERT A VIDEO!

So seestor and I were in the kitchen last night constructing the beginnings of what will surely be the bests balls we will ever put in our mouthholes and I was all, ‘How big do you like your balls? Because Annie likes them real big but I’m more partial to ones I can pop right in my mouth.’ And she was all, ‘I totes agree. That ball in your hand right there is the perfect size!’ And thus commenced a hilariously inappropriate conversation about balls but not about balls attached to other things…You know, the ones you eat. Wait. Fuck it, you know what I mean. And this my friends, is exactly why I get excited about these little peanut buttery, chocolate covered balls of perfection. Because I can stand in a kitchen discussing size and shape of balls and giggle incessantly. I’m 12, apparently.

I think my favorite part was hearing my 4 1/2-year-old nephew talk to us about the schweddy balls, and his uncontrollable excitement to dip and roll them in the chocolate. The fact that I also giggled without abandon about this worries me. My future children are doomed.

While we’re on the topic of awesomeness and total perversion, let’s discuss this fucking fantastical place in Portland called VooDoo Doughnuts. Their slogan: The magic is in the hole. Any established selling doughy baked deliciousness with a slogan like that is my kind of place. And the fact that they have a doughnut called, “Cock and Balls” makes me all kinds of irrationally happy. The fact that I chose to purchase and devour a doughnut called, “Old Dirty Bastard” is, well, awkward. Hysterical, but awkward.

Portland, you’re my new best friend. Let’s have slumber parties every night, get half naked and throw pillows while chasing each other around the house before curling up in the fetal position from too much laughter. Because that’s exactly how girl’s slumber parties go down, right guys?

Christ on crutches. Why can’t I ever end a post in a normal fashion? WHY?

I guess in the past I had just relied on my parents to deal with the “traveling” part of travel and just sat back on my happy ass to enjoy the ride. This is my first trip across the country alone and although I am staying with my sister, the whole “booking my flights and keeping track of my expenses” is tiring. But you know, it’s so entirely worth it. Despite the jet lag I’m only now recovering from, this trip has thus far been one of the best things I’ve done for myself. Ever. I know, that’s a bold statement, but it’s the truth.

I was reluctant to document this entire trip on here but upon further reflection, I feel that not doing so would be kind of ridiculous and I feel like I’d be cheating you all. Okay, mostly just myself. But I like to think other people appreciate it when I share, and in many cases, over-share what’s happening in my life. Which makes me wonder, don’t you guys have anything better to do? (Don’t answer that. Or ponder it at all, for that matter.) Granted anyone who actually reads this has every god given right to skip over the next couple of posts as I delve into my trip of ‘self exploration’ and romping about the PNW (that’s the pacific northwest. I’m learning the lingo already, guys.)

I spent the first day romping about the eastern side of the city where my sister and her family live. It’s funny, I used to wonder how one could raise a child in a big city without the fear of them losing out on something. I guess I have a bit of a biased perspective on things because I grew up in such a rural area. Portland has changed my perspective entirely. The East Side is a perfect blend of urban and rural. It still has the “city” feel without all of the craziness and if you feel so inclined to be in the heart of the city, you walk a few blocks, hop on the MAX and bam, you’re  in the center of the city in a matter of minutes. To say I’ve fallen in love is a vast understatement.

Today I’ve been wandering about the city. Based on recommendations given by my sister, her husband, and of course my nearest and dearest friend, Google, I made my way to the Pearl District. It sounds fancy, right? I know. I thought so too. The real gem for me? (NERD ALERT) Powell’s Books. If you don’t know about this place, you clearly aren’t a reader. And if you’ve called yourself a reader up until now, and didn’t know what this place was, stop calling yourself a goddamn literary fan. Just stop it. Book a flight, come to Powell’s, and we’ll all have a giant nerd orgy amidst floors and floors, and row after row of books. I think I just came.

I walked into book heaven and I never wanted to leave. I’m sure I’ve mentioned my love of books before but ohmygod let me just reiterate this for you. I l.o.v.e. books. Like, rainbow love them. I love the way they smell. I love the way the pages feel between my thumb and forefinger when I flip a page. I love the sound as a stiff page crinkles just so and gives way to the next. The sound often sends a happy chill up my spine. These are all reasons why I will never own a Kindle. I just won’t. I’ve given up my love of newspapers, but I will never cross over to the dark side and be a Kindle owner.

Despite my dire need to never leave the store, I decided I should probably go before I start staking out my makeshift bedroom. I walked away with a few cards and a book of poems by John Keats. From 1926. 19!26! It’s okay, I know you’re sitting there with a finger on your nose and the other pointing at me with a mocking expression. I know I’m a nerd and I’m totally okay with it. I like sex, too. And drinking and sports. Oh my god! She’s so multi-faceted!

I sat at the bar area of Pearl Bakery down the street and crammed a Pear and Gorgonzola sandwich down my throat as I wrote a letter. This is something I can now cross off of my life list (I’ve always wanted to go somewhere new and write someone a letter). Writing letters is a lost art. In the age of social media and e-mailing, the concept of physically writing something out seems repulsive, inconvenient and time-consuming to most. For me, it’s a gesture I love doing and have sworn to do more often. My high school boyfriend used to write me letters all the time and I cherished every one of them. This was one of the few redeeming qualities about him I will always appreciate.  There’s just something so personal, so heartfelt about taking the time to write your thoughts out touching pen to paper, licking an envelope to seal it up, placing a stamp on the item and sending it out. Take notes, future husband; I like receiving letters and/or cards.

Oddly enough, I left the Bakery and made my way over to the Museum of Contemporary Craft where the current  exhibit is “Artists’ Books” and there was an entire section about the lost art of writing a letter. If I were one of those people who read into things too much I probably would’ve have had an aneurism or something. Okay, I do. So what? I found this entire thing kind of ironic and I laughed inside the entire hour I wandered the exhibit. This was yet another place I feel like I could spend forever in. I’m always humbled when I step foot into a museum. Man, the amount of nerd I’m revealing today is out of control. Sorry, guys.

It’s raining here now, the one thing that would probably require some getting used to. I came into to the city slightly unprepared for this although I did see the glaring “RAIN” warning all over the weather reports when I checked this morning. Call me an optimist. Or an idiot. I guess sometimes those can be one in the same, right? In any case, I had no umbrella and no real rain coat so I’ve taken cover in a little coffee shop for now.

Another thing I absolutely love about this city: the people. Just in general. People here are absurdly friendly and so ridiculously attractive it makes me want to cry with happiness. I know, stop being so dramatic, Me. But seriously, coming from the east coast where residents of major cities like New York and Boston are relatively asshole-y, meeting friendly people every where I turn is a miracle. I realize that was an enormous blanket statement back there but try to disagree with that. TRY. See? You can’t. I win. And so does Portland.

We’re going out to a bar tonight. No, it will absolutely not be a repeat of last friday. My liver is still giving me the big old ‘fuck you’ for that one but I’m sure I’ll have some sort of shenanigans to report back on. It would be an injustice to you all if I did otherwise, right? Right.

Following a week of emotional hell in which I found myself sitting by my mom’s side in a hospital, I needed a getaway like a diabetic needs insulin-jesus, where I do I come up with this crap?

I spent my first leg of this little adventure in the great city of Philadelphia visiting my best friend. To say that we tend to cause a little trouble when we get together is a grave understatement. In fact, because time spent together is few and far between, we feel it necessary to make up for lost time when we actually do spend any amount of time in each other’s presence. Take for instance the last time she came home - boxed wine at the wedding ring any bells?

I’m not sure if I can really go into great detail about my time spent in Philadelphia. Mostly because I was either all kinds of “this is not acceptable” amounts of drunk, or sleeping. BUT here is a quick recap of things I do remember:

-6 am flight into Philadelphia. Worst decision ever. Who books a flight at the ass crack of dawn? Oh, wait. I do. Luckily I slept most of the way. I was also in that sleep state where I was consistently twitching. So, that was kind of awkward.

- Erica was all, ‘We should totally go see the rocky stairs!’ And I was all, ‘What the shit are the rocky stairs?’ Yeah, and I used to pride myself on being super knowledgable. This is embarrassing.

-Happy Hour? OHMYGOD I GET TO GO TO HAPPY HOUR!? Wait, it’s from 4-7?  And beers are $1.50?

-I had a lengthy conversation with a guy named Jimmy. We discussed ways in which one could capture a midget. Seriously.

-Following happy hour, we went out to dinner. We drank a bottle of wine. I may have talked in an inappropriate volume about blow jobs and vibrators. Maybe. Okay, yes. I did that.

- We went to a bar. The bar my best friend works at. We didn’t pay the cover. We drank too many shots, met “the stripped shirt twins,” oh and also? We made the worst decision ever and drove home. I don’t recall this happening and honestly, I’m kind of glad I don’t. EB: let’s never do that again, m’kay?

- I woke up feeling like a million dollars. No, seriously. Hangover? PLEASE. Hangovers are for babies, and I kicked ass at not getting a hangover. Oh wait, no. No that’s right. My body played a mean dirty whore trick and she was all, ‘HA! You thought you could go out and drink unfathomable amounts of alcohol and NOT get a hangover? Girl, please.’ I spent the remainder of that day  with my face planted in a toilet bowl. Not my proudest moment.

- Also? I was bit by an adorable demon dog. I mean, only I could go on vacation and end up getting bit by a dog.

-Also, also? I booked another flight from Philadelphia to Portland, OR at the ass crack of dawn. And yes, I was still sick as a dog.

-Oh, and I drooled on the guy sitting next to me on the flight to Phoenix. Not a little drop either, I’m talking I actually had to wipe my mouth off. Sorry, guy. My bad? At least I’m kind of adorable? No?

Philadelphia, you were kind of an asshole. But you know what? So am I. Let’s hang out again soon. One condition though, because I always have conditions: you may not encourage me to consume unhealthy and ridiculous amounts of alcohol, you may not let us drive, and you abso-fucking-lutely may not allow any animals of any kind to take a bite out of my sweet and succulent flesh. I know I smell intoxicating and all but I would like my flesh to remain intact for my inevitable love affair with a vampire.

I’m now spending the remainder of my time in Portland, OR, which is a lot like my Portland but here they have a night scene, amaze-balls breweries, and a much larger population of attractive people.

I’m probably not coming home. What day is my return flight? Oh, you lost my reservation? That’s okay, sir. That’s totes okay.