Ode to Hostess

16 Nov

Today, 82-year-old Hostess will be laid to rest. And I am sad. That chapter 11 bankruptcy filing was like breaking a hip. The old girl only went downhill from there. 


Have I eaten Hostess in years? Actually, yes. Texas likes to fry shit, and I typically eat a fried Twinkie at the Texas State Fair. I’ve also had a random ding dong here and there over the past years. That said, it’s not like I was contributing to their success, say, like certain drinking establishments. But that’s not the point. This is the end of an era.

Part of my childhood has died. Despite the small detail that I loathe white bread (exception: Texas Toast) and the gummy, sugary, residue it leaves stuck to the roof of your mouth, I have a strong sense of nostalgia for Wonder Bread. I probably haven’t had it since I was 8 years old, but I remember my paternal grandmother serving us peanut butter sandwiches on white bread, with a side of crunchy cheetos, or maybe those puffy ones that came in x’s and o’s, extra cheesy. Hell, it was probably Mrs. Bairds anyway. But who’s really keeping track? Those white bread sandwiches were fantastic fuel for going to dig up fake dinosaur bones at the Fort Worth Museum of Science. I mean, why can’t it be 1992 again?!

So clearly the issue here is that along with dunkaroos, skip its, and VHS tapes of Homeward Bound, the late 80s and early 90s are slowly dying. Gone are the days of Pete and Pete, squeeze its and Hi-C orange, and the beloved sting of slap bracelets. 

I’m praying that Little Debbie has some apocalypse-surviving technique. Secretly I’m team Little Debbie anyway. HELLO? NUTTY BARS! Also, I still buy those greasy, neon confetti-ed Cosmic Brownies sometimes, and the Christmas cakes are genius – so much better than the regular Zebra Cakes. And also also, idiots, Oatmeal Creme Pies are Little Debbie, so if you are moaning about them, get with your processed confection pastries. If only Honey Buns were a Hostess Product so they could get the fuck out of here. Can we honorably discharge them? Great, okay.

So if you need me, I’ll be burning candles and binge eating Snowballs under my desk.

If only she could have been the Hostess with the mostest….



On why being a girl is so unfair sometimes

27 Aug

Don’t worry. This isn’t a post regarding anything worldly or political or uterusy. I have my opinions on that but I think everyone else has thoroughly ear raped everyone on that already. Sorry. I really am. But puns are my weakness.

Anyway, it seems my genetic inclination was really out for me today. I mean, really it’s my own fault, I have gone 18 months and only gotten my hair cut once, but I like long hair. A) I like to have a few drinks and yell politely express things like “long hair don’t caaaaaare!” B) it’s a hell of a lot easier than short hair with that required blow drying with a round brush and pomeade and everything else terrible. But alas, I do reach a point when I need a hair cut. Usually in the form of slamming my hair in the car door more often than not (this really is an issue seeing as I don’t have one of those fancy clickers so I have to lock my door before I get out of the car and then manually unlock the door to get my caught hair out, only after twisting into a position that can only be described as “frightened curly fry”), OR this weekend’s happenings, which involve me going to the grocery with popcorn in my hair.

Right. You would think a normal female would look in the mirror before venturing out in public. And you’re right. But this grunge queen thought yoga pants and a white tee were damn good enough. Only after I got home from buying wine and toilet paper did I discover I had not one, but two, pieces of popcorn hanging in my hair. Last time I shove this mop behind my shoulders and saunter down the road to farm fresh. And thanks for telling me, no one in the store. Or at least silently picking it out before running away. Come on!

I also noticed upon my arrival home that I had a light brown and green stain on my left boob that I can only decipher must be hummus and spinach juice from my wrap at lunch. Clearly boobs were meant to serve as a food-saving shelf. A shelf that my hair can use as a vacuum to suck up any extra crumbs to wear like a barrette. Or one of those feather extensions that was popular for a day.

So in short, we have a simple solution here. I can wear a bib and shave my head, or I can become one of those popular street characters we all come to know and love. I can see it now, walking through Carytown, posting up on the corner and displaying my hair gems for all the world to see. Crumbled chips here, a piece of gum there, perhaps a smattering of bird poo if the world is really on my side.

Of course, the real problem here isn’t really my hair, it’s that I can’t keep food in my mouth. And we’ll blame that on the drinking along with my bad decisions and taxi receipt collection.

Adult Summer Camp

12 Aug

Over the course of the summer, I’ve seen lots of parents posting tweets, statuses, and the like about sending their kids off to summer camp. Beside making me feel old, these updates got me thinking. Why the hell did summer camp seem to come to a halt when I turned 13? I know the obvious answer to this. Even with my chubby stature, braces, and transition phase from glasses to contacts, I was clearly too cool for summer camp. I had friends to hang out with, morning volleyball camps to attend, and I certainly wasn’t going to be shipped off to the woods for a week without weekend access to the mall.

Well let me tell you something, thirteen year old Courtney, you are stupid. You are a stupid, stupid girl. After gaining an additional 13 years of wisdom, I would sell my soul to go back to summer camp. In fact, I’m really not sure why adult summer camp isn’t “a thing.”

Let’s all remember the drill. Your parents drive you out to whatever “wilderness” location the camp is in, probably somewhere slightly outside the city, far enough away to still allow tree growth and a natural body of water, but close enough to have a jail or correctional facility nearby, so the counselors can still tell good ghost stories. They drop you off for the first time, and you may be a little concerned. Nothing an ice pop can’t handle. By the second year, you are leaping from the car and joining other campers while your dad carries a suitcase to your designated cabin, returning only to force you into an obligatory half-hug that is just SO embarrassing.

Really only two things have changed: I’d give my parents full-out real hugs (if I wasn’t 1500 miles away), because they deserve them, and I’d be paying for my own summer camp. But otherwise, let’s do this shit. First off, adult summer camp would only garner the cream of the crop. It’d be Funville, USA. Honestly I think there should be an application process. Douches and high maintenance peoples not apply. I’m thinking charging an extra $300 per week would be a fair “open bar clause.”  I can get my money’s worth on that.

Next up, picking activities. I can’t remember how many we got to choose, I just remember I used to choose the gun range, archery, crafts, and swimming. Nothing would change there either.  There’s nothing like spending your day shotgunning beers, shooting guns, and jumping off a platform onto THE BLOB. Do you guys remember the talent shows? I say we freeze them in the 90s. Dance routines to I saw the sign really never get old. And I still believe in the old school dances too. I want a boy to awkwardly ask me to a camp dance and booty dance to tootsie roll. I want to sing songs to the strumming of guitars around a bonfire and jump in the lake under the moonlight. I want to play capture the flag with eyeblack under my eyes and win some stupid trophy. Because camp was fun. Not head to the bar and drink away the woes of work kind of fun, but the kind of fun that it’s hard to remember as an adult. Don’t get me wrong, we’re going to hit the booze at adult summer camp. You bet your ass we will. But we’re gonna go back. Back to the time when icee pops and rice krispies were all we needed, and friendship bracelets flowed freely. When hot dogs and frito pie ruled the world. And when singing songs and making s’mores were the highlight of the day.

Of course it will probably turn into a giant orgy, and we’ll be finding people passed out in the middle of fields, and we’ll probably never be invited back. But hey, we’re adults, and we do what we want. So who’s with me? I call top bunk.

Sunday Funday, Awkward Monday

23 Jul

So I had a super calm weekend until yesterday. Not really by choice. Of the handful of friends I have so far in RVA, all of them were either chilling out, out of town, or occupied with plans that I couldn’t (appropriately) demand an invite to. I blame the weather for my distaste for this weekend. If Mother Nature weren’t such a bitch and could spare a little SUN, I could have happily basked in the warm rays of glory like one of those cute little turtles. Anyway, in retrospect, as always, getting a solid 9 hours of sober(ish) sleep both Friday and Saturday was a good thing. Plus Saturday didn’t completely suck because drinks at Comfort make even a bland day not-so-bland. 

But Sunday, by God, I was determined to fit enough weekend to make up for it all in one day. Sidenote: don’t go to On The Rox for brunch. Great for happy hour, not so much for brunch. Unless you want a breakfast burrito or waffle. Because that’s about all they got. Back to the point, I was on a mission. Until my partner in crime decided 2:30 was an appropriate time to call it a day. Excuse? You’re leaving? Wha..? 

All hail the magical power of the internet. Within minutes I was on my way to Lady Nawlins. And what a damn fine Lady she is. You know what is NOT fine? Rumplemintz shots. Yes, that is an “s” on the end of shot. No one ever wakes up and thinks, “Damn! Those rumple shots were a great idea!” No. Instead, you wake up trying to piece together your evening. Which I may have not been able to do had I not found a McDonald’s bag with an empty spicy McBites container – I did have the good sense to not use the ranch dipping sauce even in my stupor. Ranch is for the birds. Really dirty birds who probably also eat sticks of butter.

So where’s this going you may ask? Right. Seeing as hitting the drive thru usually isn’t my go-to move (eating an entire box of cereal while apparently throwing it around my apartment like confetti would fit the bill), I clearly do not have my car. This is a good thing considering I was in no shape to drive it, but it created QUITE the dilemma. I feel like death and my car is in Carytown. Ugh. Maybe my co-worker can take me to get it? Let me text her. Wait. Where is my phone?

 Discover my sun-staches and mascara are missing as well. I can see it now.. RAAAAAAAAWWRRR! Where is my credit card?! Let me just dump my purse upside down and get all this shit out of here to help me find it!!! Who needs stuff anyway?

ImageLost Awesomeness. So Sad.

So let’s recap the situation. I’m dehydrated and slightly nauseous. I have no phone or car. I have to be at work in an hour. So I ran to Carytown.

Yes, ran.

It was so painful, you guys. That must be what running feels like for most people. I was breathing fire and sweating bullets and I’m fairly certain I died and just barely came back to life. And of course the hills were bigger than usual. They probably went back to normal size as soon as I was done. And then on top of that, I was half panicking that my car wouldn’t be there. Because then what the fuck was I going to do? To hell with running the 3 1/2 miles back home. But she was, she was there! My beautiful pTERRAdactyl on the corner of Main and Stafford.

Don’t mind me, morning commuters. Just pickin up my car. Totes normal.

Didn’t exactly have time to shower for work, so I kind of smell. Did iCloud my phone. According to the app it looks like it’s at the bar. Also confirmed on twitter that I did in fact leave it there. So I got that going for me.

I would like to end by stating that I am super classy. I do this type of thing often enough that my parents knew I lost the phone because I wasn’t over-sharing my life on social media for more than 12 hours. So my dad called my office. Thanks for relaying the message, co-worker. And thanks for caring, Dad. Just another day in the life of a responsible 27 year old. I’m still trying to figure out how I can possibly be the same age as people with babies.

The good news is, one of my friends was kind enough to make my day look like a walk in the park, since she went home with a 23 year old who still has frat memorabilia on his wall. You know what they say, one person’s shame is another person’s reassurance of their life.

Happy Monday, everyone.



An update

7 Jul

Oh let’s see, what all has happened in the past 5 months?

I’ve gone to multiple weddings, some friends had baby showers, celebrated a few birthdays, and, oh yeah, I moved 2,000 miles away from everything I’ve ever known. Because I have no ties. And I needed a change.

To be honest, it’s gone fairly well. I’ve been in Richmond for 5 weeks now and had to schedule myself a recovery weekend because I’ve been very “social” lately. Don’t get the wrong idea with the quotations – By social, I mean I’ve been out 4-6 nights a week for dinner and/or drinks. RVA has been great to me, I just needed a break from the world.

With that said, a weekend “in” means a little down time. You know, when the brain kicks in? I remembered that I miss my family & friends incredibly. The thing about a new place is that no one really knows you. People can be so nice, and so accommodating, and welcome you into their life, but they don’t really know you yet. This is the first time it really sunk in that I’m 2,000 miles away from a good hug, a random heart-to-heart, and a strong margarita.

I don’t regret coming to
Virginia. When it came down to it, I had become complacent in Dallas. I didn’t see myself going anywhere. I was so stuck in routine it was disgusting, and I wasn’t growing, personally or professionally.

My biggest fear in Richmond Is not being able to make legitimate girl friends. The kind you can tell anything to. can make guy friends in a second, they’re easy – we drink beer. But girls? I feel Creepy. It’s like I’m clawing their arm asking to be best friends or trying to wedge my way into an existing group. I’ll hope the paranoia is in my head. I think it is.

WHO WANTS TO BE BFF???? I promise bloody Mary’s, mimosas, and bacon.

To my future boyfriend, on Valentine’s day

14 Feb

Valentine’s day. When every non-single (what is that called? Taken?) girl I know posts pictures of flowers, and chocolate, and breakfast with their honeys, and the single gals post bi-polar statuses evenly divided between their love for pink jeans and purple sweaters and how couples needy to die a bloody (red! yay!) death or choke on chocolates or something of the sort.

I’m apathetic toward Valentine’s day. I don’t really like flowers. I’m not saying that in an attempt to discount the fact I never receive them (I don’t – so there’s that). But they get all crumbly and die and shed all over my counter and I think roses smell like old people and I’m just not really a fan… Indoors. Outside they are really pretty. I especially like sunflowers and daffodils. I DO love chocolate. And wine. And rom coms. So I’ve got that going for me. In fact, I wish I had some awesome knit sweater with a giant heart on it, because I love me some holiday cheer and it would be really cute with red jeans.

So really, I’m not apathetic toward Valentine’s Day at all. I like it. Despite the fact that I have never celebrated it with anyone. Some people think this is sad. Well, I think people who are in relationships for the sake of being in a relationship are sad. And I don’t want to be one of those people. Honestly, I don’t think I could be one of those people. My former dog lives with my parents. I actually loved him, and I still sent him to live with them. I don’t think they would take a boyfriend…

BUT future boyfriend, wherever you are, I have 5 golden nuggets for you. They are both promises and threats, and I suggest you abide by them:

1. You will not woo me. I will decide in the first 2 minutes of meeting you if I ever want to pursue a romantic relationship with you and if I tell you no, I mean it. You will not win me over, especially by doing nice things for me. You will annoy me, smother me, and make me resent you. If you get me drunk, I will probably make out with you. Unfortunately for you, I would probably make out with a lamp post if I thought it was coming on to me. I’m Courtney, and I am a drunken make out slut.

2. I revert into a 5 year old child when I am hungry. Do not make fun of me for carrying trail mix in my purse. There will come a time where you will thank me for doing this for you. I’m not kidding when I say I turn into a raging bitch. That snickers commercial “you’re not you when you’re hungry”? That’s me. If I get hungry enough, I will just revert into a silent state due to inability to function, but until then, I will be a real pain in the ass. You should probably carry a granola bar in your pocket just in case. Do NOT ask me what I want to eat. I will fly into a rage. But also don’t make the mistake of recommending the wrong thing. “I don’t fucking care! Anything!” really means “pick right or die.” Once fed, I will be all sunshine and roses and act like my behavior was completely acceptable. I’m such a gem.

3. I expect you to know what kind of wine I drink. It’s actually the only thing I really expect of you besides always volunteering to drive. For the record, tempranillos, chiantis, cabernets, or red blends should be your go-tos. If you offer me white wine, I will be annoyed. If you offer me a rose? It’s over. Wine will solve so many problems for you. You’re welcome.
Editor’s note: IPAs and martinis are also acceptable offerings. I enjoy popcorn and mixed nuts as snacks. Give me a good cheese tray and you might get laid. Give me tequila and you’re definitely getting laid.

4. I promise to never, EVER rub or tuck my bare feet under your leg because my feet are cold. Feet are vile. I’ll put on a pair of socks, thank you. You will also be eternally grateful for this. Did I mention I run a lot? I have elephant feet and my pinky toes rarely have toenails. Like I said, real gem. Real gem. But I’m guessing you probably have long hairs sprouting from your big toe, so we’re even.

5. My last request. You must love music. And you must love to dance. Please note this doesn’t mean you need to actually look good while dancing. I’d actually prefer you look quite ridiculous as to take away from my painful white girl finger snaps and flailing arms. If you happen to tackle me in a fit of dancing passion, I’ll probably just lay on the floor and laugh.

6. I added one. You have to be good looking. Call it vanity if you want. One good looking person deserves another. I need our offspring to have a fighting chance.

Happy valentine’s day future boyfriend. Until you come along, I’ll continue to get wine drunk on my own accord and enjoy my life as a single white female. It’s working out so far.

The Grocer’s Tale

6 Jan

2012. A new year. New opportunities. Resolutions. Sunshine and rainbows. Unless of course, you are still a drunken mess.

Let me propose something, world. We should celebrate the END of the current year on December 30. Lie in bed all day on December 31 eating string cheese and Ms. Vickie’s jalapeno chips dipped in hummus or whatever else is still lurking in the pantry after the holidays, and THEN start afresh on January 1.

But no. Instead, we start the new year off with what can only be a set up for failure. Unless of course your group of friends doesn’t insist on day drinking turned night drinking turned 48 hour binge for New Year’s Eve weekend. Then I suppose you are okay. And boring.

Anyway, the point is that on New Year’s day I was teetering on the edge of what surely must have been death. But, since it was a new year and a fresh start and all that bullshitty jazz, I slapped on some yoga pants and uggs and dragged my ass to the grocery store instead of walking to John’s cafe. Thinking I should be out in public was mistake #1. Not getting those fluffy biscuits from John’s was mistake #2. I think they have magical powers.

So anyway, I get to the grocery store and grab one of those small baskets. I’m not sure why I thought I could fit all of the things I needed in there. Hungover/still drunk shopping COMMENCE! Let’s go to the produce section and be HEALTHY! Apples! tomatoes! avocados! bananas! rhubarb! eggplant! I’m so colorful and healthy!

I then decided coconut water was absolutely the next step to curing this horrid hangover. So there I was, trying to drink the supposed nectar of the gods from a cardboard box with that stupid silver flap as the only opening, when I realized I loathe  coconut water. We’re talking that weird burp sensation followed by the waterfall of gushing mouth saliva that leads to projectile vomiting.

Since I was NOT about to start my new year with a clean up on aisle 3 call, i did what any normal hungover 26 year old homeless looking person would do. I opened a carton of animal cookies, started eating those, and kept shopping. If you think I didn’t finish the coconut water you are also wrong. It was $1.99. Bastards. I had become the person I hate. The wandering, aloof shopper, squinting her way through the aisles, drinking a beverage and muching cookies out of that little circus purse the animal crackers come in. That’s class people. Pure class.

I made it through the chips/popcorn and breakfast items aisle before I ran out of room in that stupid little handheld basket. Frozen foods was pretty much all I had left. Easy right? No.

Do you know how delicious bagel bites look when you are still heavily under the influence? Almost as good as taquitos and bertolli.

By the time I was teetering to the cash register I realized I needed toilet paper. This was actually probably the best thing that happened all morning. In the paper goods section. I had an epiphany. As the rays of sunlight broke through the haze, I realized I had no idea what the fuck i was buying.

Leaving random vegetables and frozen products there seemed totally logical at the time. I’m pretty sure they keep security cameras in Kroger, so I hope they got a good laugh out of the paranoid girl with a ratty pony tail stealthily looking around before shoving RHUBARB into some paper towels and running.

At this point it was becoming apparently clear that I needed to go home. Like right then. So I high tailed it to the self check out. Of course, I forgot to mention I had to buy a new razor because I left mine at my parents’ house 3 days before and my underarms were becoming quite French. You’re welcome for the details. Well that little gem on plastic and metal blades had a device in the packaging that sets off the alarms. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have realized the giant box outside of the smaller packaging would have said device, but I didn’t. So yeah. I got one final moment in the spotlight as the awkward bagger boy shuffled through my bags and gagged on my scent of after morning booze and hangover sweats.

On the way home, I became increasingly paranoid as I realized i should definitely not be driving. I was not okay. I was beyond not okay. I was like a wounded gazelle who somehow escaped the lion (It’s okay, I don’t really understand the analogy either).

I went home, unloaded the groceries, and collapsed onto the couch only getting up to use the bathroom or get more pita bread. Thank you universe for twitter and Toddlers and Tiaras.

Around 5:30 I started to feel human again, so I jumped on the bandwagon for a new year and went to the gym! GO ME!

No. I tried to run, did a dramatic flailing move where I nearly fell off the treadmill, which is truly terrifying after watching my sister’s hair get caught in one when we were little, and resorted to walking for 45 minutes – the minimum amount of time I feel appropriate before leaving – because, you know, I was obviously really concerned about being embarrassed on Sunday.

You’ll all be happy to know that I swore off drinking after that. It lasted 3 1/2 days. Happy new year.