What a DRAG (ba doom chhhhh)

I am willing to admit I live in a bit of a Frat house. An expensive, high rise, falsely advertised frat house, but a frat house none-the-less. Our pool is littered with beer cans on Sunday mornings, we have frequent shackers, and you can usually find a group of boys moving the trash cans and benches into the elevator around 3am on Saturday.

But some people are a little tired of the same old shenanigans. Like the girl who wrote the note below.

I found this little diddy taped to my neighbor’s door this morning.  I really thought it was effing fantastic. My favorite line is “You have burned a hole in 2 of my chairs! REALLY?! (you actually fucking owe me for that!)”

Classic.

Now, I am not a fan of nicotine flavored fun sticks either, and if it was my balcony, I might be singing a different tune. But I have 3 things to say to this girl.

1. Cigarettes does not have an apostrophe.

2. Ridiculous is not spelled with an “E,” you “E”mbecile!!
It’s cut off, just use your imagination.

3. Maybe if you didn’t pay a rEdiculous amount of rent for that gigantic balcony that you DON’T EVEN USE, then the cigarettes could just fall to the street instead of landing on your chairs…. or your friends’ heads.
see how I used that apostrophe there…. you know, where it was needed?

Happy Hump Day everyone!

** This note has been submitted to www.passiveaggressivenotes.com

p.s. Okay, our friend Rachel submitted a pic of her balcony… perhaps I am being insensitive to the above-mentioned ranter:

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Learning about my parents explains so much…..

I really need to get back into blogging. Like really. Thursday is technically my 1 year blogiversary, except that I don’t know if you can really count it with my on again-off again behavior. Being chronically single, I have to ask, I mean, if you broke up with your boyfriend here and there for a few weeks and then took a couple month hiatus, would you still celebrate an anniversary? I don’t know the answer. But if I get chocolates, dinner, and some nice wine for a blogiversary, then by God we are going to celebrate it.

That being said, I guess I need to pull out all the stops for Thursday. Maybe I’ll dig out some really embarrassing stories and bring back TMI Thursday. Or maybe not.

Anyway, in the spirit of Monday morning unproductiveness, I am going to spend some QT with the old Black Coffee Two Sugars. I would feel more guilty about that whole “working” thing if I hadn;t just hung up with my boss, who was going through the starbucks drive thru picking up a venti mocha–no whip cream, and then off to run errands.
So what if she’s taking 2 red eyes and working 60 hours this week? Right NOW, she is running a few errands.
While I sit here with my measly black coffee staring into a blinking computer screen in a halo of fluorescent  lighting.

I promise I have a story somewhere underneath all this mumbo jumbo, so here we go:
I’ve had a pretty good month. And by good, I mean highly intensive in all aspects of partying, spending too much money, and generally not giving a damn about anything other than my social life and the ass groove in leave in my couch on Sunday afternoons.
Between My Dallas birthday, Austin birthday (not a typo–I got both), TX/OU weekend, and the recreational drugged filled zero-sleep fest that was ACL, it’s been a long time coming that I would eventually need a weekend off.
Realizing I have no self control, I gladly retreated to my parents’ house Friday night after work for some good old-fashioned R&R.
But unless R&R stands for Reisling and Refills, my plan did not exactly work out. I personally requested Coal Vines. A nice glass of red, some pizza, bada boom, bada bing, back home for an early night.
We ordered a bottle that was on special when we got there.  My mom and I were the only ones really drinking so that would be plenty. Well that was wrong, too. We ended up with another bottle on the premise that we could “take the extra home with us.” Which I think amounted to about 2 oz left in the bottom of the bottle, and yes, we did take it home. We are not wasteful people when it comes to booze.

My dad ordered a diet coke. I figured he was just preparing himself for the typical drunkfest that is my mom and me.

Editor’s note: My dad has a high tolerance for the ladies of the family. We really must get so annoying. One of my favorite stories involves him bringing all of my things down to Austin when I moved from a dorm to my apartment after freshman year. My mom came down early, so naturally we headed to baby A’s for some purple margaritas. If you’ve never been, you are missing out. They’re made with everclear with a limit of 2 per person. Of course, Baby A’s doesn’t actually abide by that rule, so when the kareoke started, we ordered a 3rd marg and waited on my dad, who was driving in after work on a Friday.
When my dad called to tell us he was pulling into the restaurant we went outside to meet him. He whipped into the parking lot on two wheels with my box springs and mattress strapped to the roof, surrounded by pieces of shriveled tarp that had barely survived the trip. Guess I’m lucky it didn’t rain.
Not that it was hard to spot, but my dad’s keen eye picked up on the fact that we may or may not be three sheets to the wind by this point. I then proceeded to convince him that the storage unit I had rented was open 24 hours and that we should go get some things before heading back to my new home. He seemed skeptical but I was convinced that we could be productive!! So he drove the 15 miles north to Public Storage.
Apparently, the storage unit is NOT open 24 hours and was definitely closed. My mom and I were crouching by the elevator hysterically laughing when he came around the corner and found us. His “you’ve got to be kidding me” face did nothing to help our attempts to stop laughing. We drove home. I believe his last words were “you could have at least warned me and stayed at the restaurant long enough fro ME to have a margarita…”

Back to the present: Dad orders a diet coke. I’m busy blabbing about something when I notice him fidgeting in my mom’s purse and then reaching under the table.
Me: “Dad, what are you doing?”
Mom: (eye roll) “Well you know he’s back on that low-carb diet….”
Dad: (Sneakily raises a flask-sized whiskey  bottle and jiggles it over the table…. then laughs).
Me: You did NOT.
Dad: “Whaaat? It’s low carb!”

A normal person would probably be embarrassed by their 53 year old father sneaking alcohol into an establishment. Especially when the waitress catches you. But not me. I was proud. Apparently the waitress was too: “Oh yeah, he had that when they came in on Wednesday too.” Yeah, we are regulars, and my dad has apparently taken to drinking hard liquor on Wednesdays as well.

It’s safe to say I woke up with a headache Saturday morning.
Empty nesters…. you can’t take ’em anywhere.

Little Girl, Big City

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my day. Like, a lot.
It’s kind of just become part of who I am instead of lessons learned.

Oh, there’s that Courtney again, doing Courtney things and such.

Usually, I blame it on the alcohol, gather up my puddle of a life, pretend I have a bit of dignity left, and move on.
This time no alcohol was involved.
I have come to learn I really am just plain stupid…. or maybe just so desperate to get home after a week in New York that I would have jumped onto a moving bus just to hitch a ride.

Let’s start from the beginning.
A week ago, I left to go visit two of my soror sisters in NYC.
After much planning, we decided I would take a bus from JFK to Grand Central Station and then cab it over to the financial district where they live.
We calculated I would pay $15 for the bus and $10 for the cab, saving my cheap ass approximately $30 in cab+tip fees.
Got off the plane with my carry on and immediately found the bus. Win.
Bus takes an hour and a half to get to GC. Fail.
Wait for cab for another 30 minutes putting me smack dab in the middle of rush hour. Fail.
Cab sits in traffic and racks up $25 before I finally get there. Fail.
Still saves about $20, but took about an hour and a half longer. Half win. Half lose. Are you glass empty, or glass full?

My, what a boring way to start off the post. You must have faith I will bring a tasty little morsel to the table as soon as I get done blabbing about the woes of my bank account and how I can HARDLY afford to jetset to NYC for  a week. I mean, I had to take a BUS. #whitegirlproblems

So anyway, I finally arrive and we drink wine and eat cheese and all is right with the world.

We decided I would take the subway to the air tram on the way back because “It’s totally easy.”
After I lug my bag through the mist and arrive at the subway station, we have determined I need to take the A train toward Rockaway.
What luck! The train conveniently pulled up right as I was dragging my suitcase down the nasty stairs and across the platform with my strapping guns made of pipecleaners.

I half hugged my friend as I ran through the half closing doors. “STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS PLEASE!”
Suck it, announcer man, I have a plane to catch!

The train ride was supposed to last about 40 minutes.
I took this time to dive into my turkey and provolone on wheat and begin The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest.
30 minutes later, I closed my book and checked my Maps App, aka my savior and sole survival tool.

You know those three things you would take to a desert island? I would pick the Maps App.  I swear, you could type in “coconuts and firewood” and it would be all “Walk 50 feet and take a right at the palm tree, continue on palm tree path until you see some tall grass. Take a left at the tall grass and stay right at the fork in the road. There, you will find a lovely hut. Steal the firewood and RUN!” Maps is the smartest little tool I know.

I digress. I checked the little blue dot but it didn’t look like I was on track for my route. As I begin to slightly panick, the conductor stops the train, calls last stop, and tells us to vamoose.
Well, fuck me twice and hang me out to dry.

Of course, I didn’t want to SHOW any weakness so I confidently grimace along with the rest of the crowd and head towards the only exit, stairs toward the street.
I saw my saving grace, the Q10 bus toward JFK!
Oh thank you, thank you, big city gods.

……Is what I would have said had I ever found the damn bus stop.
And THIS is where I began to panick.
I am in effing Queens, bus-less, train-less, lost, and with a flight to catch in an hour and fifteen minutes.

“Taxi, miss?  Taxi?”

It took me a minute to realize it was indeed a real live ethnic man and not an oasis in the desert.
The desert of pavement that is…. in the rain.

“How much to JFK?”
“$20”

I still don’t know why I even asked. What the hell did I think I was going to do?

I’ll take it. The cabbie grabs my bag and begins walking, talking some mumbo jumbo about how the bus would take me a long time anyway and trying to sell me on a cab ride I had already agreed to. We stopped as he popped the trunk of his “taxi”……

His ’97 Altima. THIS IS NOT A CAB!

Apparently sensing my unease, he tells me Queens is pretty residential and a lot of them do this.
Knowing I will miss my flight if I don’t get to the airport soon, I jump in.
I casually shoot the breeze with said cabbie with 911 dialed and ready on my phone.

After a quick moment of panic in which I think I left my wallet on the subway seat, yes, I am quite panicked by this point, I realize I have no cash.
Shit.

“Um, I should probably tell you now I will have to run into the ATM once we get to the airport”
“Oh, I can stop. Do you want to just stop at this gas station?”
The fuck I don’t, sir! No way in hell I am leaving my bag in a car while I get out to get cash in a deserted neighborhood. You will take me where I demand first!

Turns out the guy was totally legit and did wait, while I trusted him with my bag, as I ripped through the terminal like a mad woman in search of an ATM. I threw $24 at him and ran inside. I had arrived.

Hello, JFK.

After getting my bag searched at security, I made it to my gate where I bought a light snack of popcorn and bottled water. We boarded at promptly 4:10 pm for our 4:30 flight and I was chit chatting about my book with the lovliest couple from Palm Springs.

And that’s when they made the announcement. We had a maintenance delay and would be leaving 15 minutes late.

At 7:23 EST we finally left. That’s 2 hrs and 53 minutes sitting on a plane that we could not get off of, for the mathematically challeneged. Plus a 3 hours flight.

I rode the wrong bus across town to transfer to a semi-taxi with a strange man only to sit on a plane for 6 hours.

And this, folks, is just another day in the life of Courtney S Standerfer.

I’m a Republican, and I don’t care what your opinion of that is.

I was going to write a post today but just got this email from my beloved roommate.

If you are Liberal, err “Progressive,” you probably want to check back at another time when I’m ranting about the confines of pants or the sheer amazingness of bacon and processed cheese (both separately or together).

I’ll be posting soon.

In the mean time, all hail John J. Wall:

DIVORCE AGREEMENT

THIS IS SO INCREDIBLY WELL PUT AND I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE IT’S BY A YOUNG PERSON, A STUDENT!!!    WHATEVER HE RUNS FOR, I’LL VOTE FOR HIM.

Dear American liberals, leftists, social progressives, socialists, Marxists and Obama supporters, et al:

We have stuck together since the late 1950’s for the sake of the kids, but the whole of this latest election process has made me realize that I want a divorce.   I know we tolerated each other for many years for the sake of future generations, but sadly, this relationship has clearly run its course.

Our two ideological sides of America cannot and will not ever agree on what is right for us all, so let’s just end it on friendly terms.   We can smile and chalk it up to irreconcilable differences and go our own way.

Here is a model separation agreement:

Our two groups can equitably divide up the country by landmass each taking a similar portion.   That will be the difficult part, but I am sure  our two sides can come to a friendly agreement.   After that, it should be relatively easy! Our respective representatives can effortlessly divide other assets since both sides have such distinct and disparate tastes.

We don’t like redistributive taxes so you can keep them.   You are welcome to the liberal judges and the ACLU.   Since you hate guns and war, we’ll take our firearms, the cops, the NRA and the military.  We’ll take the nasty, smelly oil industry and you can go with wind, solar and biodiesel.  You can keep Oprah, Michael Moore and Rosie O’Donnell.   You are, however, responsible for finding a bio-diesel vehicle big enough to move all three of them.

We’ll keep capitalism, greedy corporations, pharmaceutical companies, Wal-Mart and Wall Street.   You can have your beloved lifelong welfare dwellers, food stamps, homeless, homeboys, hippies, druggies and illegal aliens.   We’ll keep the hot Alaskan hockey moms, greedy CEO’s and rednecks.   We’ll keep the Bibles and give you NBC and  Hollywood .

You can make nice with  Iran  and Palestine and we’ll retain the right to invade and hammer places that threaten us.   You can have the peaceniks and war protesters.   When our allies or our way of life are under assault, we’ll help provide them security.

We’ll keep our Judeo-Christian values.   You are welcome to Islam, Scientology, Humanism, political correctness and Shirley McClain. You can also have the U.N. but we will no longer be paying the bill.

We’ll keep the SUV’s, pickup trucks and oversized luxury cars.   You can take every Subaru station wagon you can find.

You can give everyone healthcare if you can find any practicing doctors. We’ll continue to believe healthcare is a luxury and not a right.  We’ll keep “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and “The National Anthem.”   I’m sure you’ll be happy to substitute “Imagine”, “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing”, “Kum Ba Ya” or “We Are the World”.

We’ll practice trickle down economics and you can continue to give trickle up poverty your best shot.

Since it often so offends you, we’ll keep our history, our name and our flag. 

Would you agree to this?    If so, please pass it along to other like-minded liberal and conservative patriots and if you do not agree, just hit delete.   In the spirit of friendly parting, I’ll bet you answer which one of us will need whose help in 15 years.

Sincerely,

John J. Wall

Law Student and an American

P. S.   Also, please take Ted Turner, Sean Penn, Martin Sheen, Barbara Streisand & Jane Fonda with you.

P. S. S.  And you won’t have to press 1 for English when you call our country.

Forward This Email – MAYBE SOME OF IT WILL START SINKING IN!

The time my father robbed me and such

My father.
A childhood hero.
The man that can give directions no matter what city I am in even if he has never been there.
The guy I can thank for my terrible eyes and large ears but fairly poor hearing.
The man who considers a two barreled margarita machine a staple for any home.
That guy?
Is causing me some grief today.

He accidentally shut off my bank account.
And took my measely $79 that I had left.
To be fair, he did keep my savings account open, so I got to keep my $.03 that’s in there.

Shut up. I keep my savings in my 401k where I can’t get to it. I have a discretionary spending problem… so sue me.
Or don’t. Because it’s probably not worth the three pennies I have to my name.

Let me start from the beginning.
I left my debit card at a bar in Austin in June.
I knew I was going back the next weekend, so I didn’t close it.
Unfortunately for me, when I went back the next Saturday, the RUDE bartender told me he was too busy to waste his time getting my card right then and to “come back at a decent hour.”

Ummm, I’m SORRY. You are open Thurs-Sun from 10pm-2am.
YOU are being the inconvenient bastard here. Not me.
So I huffed and puffed and threw a fit and got nowhere and left the bar.  

 

I finally got around to cancelling the card when I realized I wasn’t getting my AA miles without it. And I am sooooo close to a free flight.
So I called Citibank Monday night and they expedited me a shiny new piece of plastic.
With an expiration date of 2013. Is there a better feeling? Me thinks not.

I got the card today and called to get my online banking turned back on.
I was told my checking account did not exist.
I immediately got all pissy and started blaming the man who I had to talk to when I replaced my debit, accusing him of turning off my account due to language barrier.
I was wrong. I will apologize for jumping the gun.
I will not apologize for being angry that customer service is completely useless between automated services and the pimping-outage of foreigners who are being paid next to nothing to “solve” issues.
Requirements for employment are apparently, but not included to: an accent thicker than Rosie O’Donnell’s bush.

The rep today told me I needed to “lkjdha suiptowhe rmnzsbd, vhasdipfvuay hpdvjabdg dj gh;ajhdgk; ahg a;jkhgahg;ahdgkj h;gha a;jh gd;ah d;gjha;j gh;kahgi ld jghk ljhg ” to get my card turned back on.

It took me 10 minutes to understand that I needed to go to a branch in person.
Because what  had ACTUALLY happened, is that the day after I reported my debit card “lost,” my dad had waltzed in to their local branch and formally cancelled their account that was still open but hadn’t been used for 2 years.

You see, my dad likes to bank with wherever his buddies are working. Kid about to withdraw? He gets a call. Need business deposits to go through faster? Done. More interest, less fees? Sure, why not!

Well, his buddy is no longer with ‘da bank, so he switched. And then he didn’t like the new bank so he switched again. And then he decided he should probably close the old accounts instead of leave them open.
It never occurred to him that he was a co-signer on my account and that he should leave that open.
It didn’t even raise a red flag when the teller gave him $80 cash and told him he was all set.

 

Did you think they were giving you a lovely parting gift, father?
I’m pretty sure that law degree required a small amoutn of common sense, perhaps you should use it?

So I booked it over to the branch down the street, and the lovely Tamara helped me get my account turned back on. Pro.
Unfortunately, it will take 24 hours. Con.
I’m supposed to get paid at midnight. Pro.
It isn’t going to go through because my bank account is lost in outer space. Con.

    Seriously fucking my weekend over, parents.
I hope you have fun in Oklahoma, you can probably buy about 40 drinks with my $80.

Seriously, this is my life.

#whitegirlproblems

Methadone Rose and Wheelin’ Wendy

As usual, the annual Ghostland trip did not disappoint.
Yes, the concert was rave-tastic and floating the river is always a pleasure, but the true highlight of the trip was hanging out with the lovely new braunfel locals at “Daisy Duke’s” on Friday night.

I decided to look up reviews on this place this morning… and this was the first sentence of one: “I have been in bars with gun boxes and peanut shells on the floor that had more class then Daisy Dukes.”

Yup. Sounds about right and, personally, I enjoyed every single redneck, classless second of it.
Upon entering the establishment, we did what any group of normal 20somethings would do… post up by the bar, order shots, and make our enjoyment of imbibing known.

But then… What did I spy with my little eye?
Something meth-a-licious.
A bean-pole of a woman was walking around selling roses.
And these were not pretty roses laying in a basket like the mariachi men at Tex Mex places sell.
These were short, stumpy roses that probably came from some unsuspecting (and untalented) gardener’s backyard, that were bunched together inside her bony hand’s iron clad grip.
They were $5.
The only way I was giving that woman $5 was to make her go away.
Actually that’s not even true. I wanted her to stick around.
I was determined to find out how many teeth she had left before she disappeared into the night.
I failed. 

We quickly decided that Meth MUST be the drug of choice for this cracked out Cruela Deville. She couldn’t have been older than 35-40 but looked about 60 and I would guess she probably lives in a trailer down by the river with some other river rats where they run a meth lab.
If you would like a visual, I would say the bottom left, with a little less hollowed out cheek, is probably a good depiction.

Clearly, this woman needed a nickname.
And thus, Methadone Rose, would forever be in our hearts.

sidenote: before anyone starts questioning the name by alerting me that methadone is actually used to ween people off of heroin, let me stop you. I know this. I watch plenty of Intervention, hoookkaaayyy??
But methamphetamine Rose, crack cocaine Rose, and Crank Rose just didn’t have the same ring to it.

I should also add that with the level of intoxication people were experiencing, Methadone Rose created *quite* the stir. At some point, someone started a rumor that her roses actually contained meth.  Not sure exactly how that would work, but flower power just got a whole new meaning.

I was particularly enjoying Methodone Rose try to convince the guys with girlfriends to buy their ladies flowers.  
It was almost as enjoyable as her slitted jean skirt matched with a pair of strappy black high heels.
My obsession with Rose probably would have kept me busy the rest of the night, had I not found another colorful new braunsfelian.
As I watched Methadone Rose approach another poor gent, licking her slimy discolored gums/teeth combo, I saw a streak of color in the background.

What the hell was that.
Oh. My. Geebus.
A woman in a wheel chair was outside on the multi-level deck making her way down to the band… one step at a time.
Seeing a woman in a wheel chair in a bar isn’t really that strange I suppose. It’s not like a baby,
which I am slightly surprised we didn’t see, come to think of it.

But the fact that she was hopping down the steps alarmed me.
If she was going to do that, shouldn’t she have one of these wheelchairs?
I mean, going down is one thing, but how do you get back up?

Apparently this was a valid concern. I pointed out the Wheelin’ Wendy stair concern to the group. 
“Oh yeah, she tried to do that earlier and fell to the side. She was holding on to the railing while people ran over to prop her back up.”
Clearly Wheelin’ Wendy wasn’t too concerned with falling. The next time I looked over, she was poppin wheelies and being spun in circles by a short black man who had decided to wear a beanie in 95 degree Texas heat.
For all of you who think Texas is filled with cowboys and armadillos, this is proof we do have other attractions.

And in case you are wondering what happened to Methodone Rose, she was later seen at the outside bar taking shots with the bartender.

Daisy Dukes closed at midnight.
We were invited to after party with our new “friends” — the people who were staying below us in our house/duplex:
Larry, Larry, and Rodney, who made the mistake of calling himself hot rod.
One of our party informed him he was “more like a Coupe deVille.”
I assume this was meant to be a snarky comment but I am quite fond of CDVs and don’t really get it.
I probably would have called him a Honda Element or PT cruiser.

Also, Larry and Larry were actually named Eric and Jerry.
But it took 3 introductions for me to understand that and by that point I was calling them Tom and Jerry.
They didn’t really get my humor, I guess.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the night.
It involved jumping a 4 foot fence and an ensuing game of night tag as we ran from the owner of some nearby cabins.
Apparently visiting hours were over.
But I’ve never been big on rules.

Besides, the cops had better things to take care of than dance parties and beer pong.
There is a woman selling meth roses on the loose.

I’m sorry, you wanted me to WORK for the money?

Here’s the problem, folks. I get overly excited. Like you know when you are little and you lose a tooth and the tooth fairy is coming and you are all excited and can’t wait to “catch” her and your parents are like STFU AND GO TO BED OR SHE WON’T COME! And then you wake up and there’s 2 shiny quarters under your pillow and you are all “OMG I’m RICH! I CAN BUY 2 TOOTSIE ROLLS WITH THIS!”
Okay, that’s how I feel about summer. Because it’s full of half days, and lake trips, and river adventures, and music festivals, and basically just gives me butterflies in my happy little heart.
But I’m pretty sure my company would hate summer if they knew how little I get done.
It’s Tuesday, and I already can’t concentrate because I am so excited about GLO this weekend. What can I say? Neon makes my soul dance.

So unfortunately for my boss, I get all distracted with facebook, and gchat, and twitter, and basically anything else where I can post annoying messages about how THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST WEEKEND EVER!!!! even better than last weekend which was TOTALLY EPIC AND BASICALLY THE BEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN!!!

So this morning I saw @mcranch4, my #1 interweb friend, post this:

She told me she could elaborate, but hello? This is much more fun when I can make up the story and exercise my paint skills, so here we go:

Once upon a time, there was a girl. A girl who channeled MLK Jr.
She had a dream…..

The girl dreamed that she was getting married.
But her hair had a mind of its own.
Twas a very hairy situation.

AND THEN….
She did not have a dress!
SHE WAS NEKKED!
Just kidding, she was wearing her awesome party barge costume.
Because, what else would you wear in the summa time?
AMERICA.

But her mother had different ideas!!
TURKISH ideas.
Turkish Circus Reception ideas!

Not knowing what the hell that meant, I let google take care of the images for this one.
Welcome to the after party, y’all!
We actin a fool, in Istanbul!

After the reception, we threw rice and blew bubbles, like all good people do, and then flew back to America to send the bride and groom off properly with some good old fashioned kareoke on the White House lawn.


And then, unlike half the married U.S. population, they lived happily ever after.
The End!

Happy Tuesday, wish it was Friday!