Tag Archives: Humor

Nashville Clothing Crisis!

People of Nashville,

I wanted to make you aware of a clothing crisis going on in our area. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. From what I can tell it’s affecting women ages 16-29, roughly, but who knows how fast it could spread to our children.

I saw signs of it on social media when people were posting prom pictures, but it wasn’t until recently that I saw it with my own eyes. I went with my family to the Nashville Sounds game and couldn’t stop staring. It was like I had walked into a filming of National Geographic.

So. Much. Skin.

Women were walking around with their bums hanging out of their high-waisted cut off shorts. I can only assume they were hand-me-downs from their mothers because they looked like something from the 80s. Are women here really walking around with 30+ year old tattered, holey shorts? They can’t afford new shorts that cover their WHOLE behinds? Guys, we can do better than this.

Other women were in such dire need of clothing they were wearing shirts that were obviously made for toddlers. It was appalling. Grown women so destitute they had to wear children’s clothing because they couldn’t afford a full shirt in their own size. Their concave bellies must be showing all the time because they were very, very tan although it’s not quite summer yet. They’ll probably have skin cancer from all the exposure. Can you imagine? Being forced to buy from the children’s department because it’s more affordable than adult clothing! These poor girls.

Girls were also resurrecting the infamous bodysuit. You know, basically the onesie made for an adult that was popular back in the ‘90s? Yep, that’s the one. I guess these girls were raiding their mothers’ closets and thought those would be a good throwback because who on earth would buy that tragic piece of clothing now? It’s saying to the world, “Hey World, I know you can’t see it but I have a front wedgie!” It was hard enough to snap those silly onesies when I had babies, why on earth would I want to do that to myself? And, lesbihonest, I’d have to be some sort of contortionist to make sure they were snapped correctly on myself. “Limber” has never been a word used to describe me.

Women of Nashville, I implore you to help with this clothing crisis! Do we need to hold a clothing drive for these poor young ladies? They shouldn’t have to walk the streets with their fannies exposed to the world. And we should be able to provide them with shirts that actually cover their sunken bellies! Oh sweet ladies, we need to help these young girls and get them clothes that cover the necessary body parts. Maybe we could have a sponsorship program like they did with the millennials (see the promo video here). Hmmmm, it’s a thought. If you have any ideas on how to solve this clothing crisis, please email me. Together we can end high waisted shorts and body suits.

-Courtney

*If the sarcasm was lost on you in this post, my apologies, let me be direct: Girls, put some clothes on.

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A Letter To My Belly

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(cartoon courtesy of http://www.newyorker.com)

Dear Tummy-Tum-Tum-

I’m writing to you to apologize. I have been horrible to you these last few weeks. I’m reminded of how ugly I’ve been to you every night when I’m getting ready for bed. As I peel off my skinny jeans, that will seemingly never go out of style much to my thighs disappointment, I look down at you. Oh, honey. It looks as if you’ve been tied up in bondage all day. My jeans have basically left rope burns all over you. I could cry for you, you sweet bowl of jelly. My jeans have been taking advantage of your squishiness and I’m tired of it. Being embarrassed of the red marks my jeans bestow upon you is no way to live. You are better than that and it’s about time I started treating you as such. So in efforts to make taking off my skinny jeans NOT resemble opening a can of biscuits, I will be making a few changes.

For starters, I’ll try not to eat every single thing my eyes see. It seems I’ve been doing this for the past month or so but I’m willing to stop for you, dear tummy. It will be a lot easier to stop considering we don’t have Christmas treats in the house anymore…because we ate them all. It’s fine. We can’t live in the past. Let’s shake off the shame and move on.

Secondly, I will try to eat more nutritious foods that don’t cause you to get bigger. Now, this will be difficult considering these are the not the foods we gravitate toward naturally. You and I are a bit addicted to the sugar, not the beets, unfortunately. Don’t worry; I won’t make you eat beets, I promise. But we will have to sacrifice beloved desserts for something less satisfying, like flavored water. I’m as torn up about it as you are.

And lastly, I will commit to exercising more. I know it hurts when we do this but just think about the bigger picture. Do you really want it to feel like a blunt object is impaling you every time you sit down with jeans on? That button on my jeans is like a dull knife cutting into you every time we are sitting. Is this what you want? No, what you really want is to wear elastic waistbands 24/7 but this is not always socially acceptable. But I take care of you don’t I? I give you your elastic waistband every night by 7:00, sometimes earlier. I care for you, little tummy, just not enough to go up a pant size.

So this is what we must do, Tummy-Tum-Tum. We must not eat everything in sight, eat healthier foods, and exercise more. This is not going to be easy but I’m tired of the skinny jeans abusing you. It’s not fair and it’s time for it to stop. We’ll make it through this together, one lean protein and vegetable at a time. Hopefully I won’t be writing you any more letters because, frankly, it’s a little weird but I wanted you to know, in the words of Zeke Braverman: “I see you and I hear you.”

-Courtney

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If a waterbed wasn’t ridiculous enough, Caitlin wants a…

After 3 years, I finally caved. She’s been asking for 3 blessed years and because she doesn’t have much else on her list, she’s going to get that thing she’s been wanting. It is against my better judgment to let Santa bring this thing into our home but what am I to do? I’m already nixing the waterbed off Blake’s list, shouldn’t at least one of my kids get what they want? Paxton’s easy, his list can be bought in the electronic department of Target in a day. But my girl, sigh, she’s pining for this one thing and this is the year she’s gonna get it. She’s gonna be STOKED!

What’s the “thing”, you ask?

Oh. That.

Well, see, it’s the enormous stuffed bear from Costco. It’s the size of a Yeti (the monster not the cup) and I’m not even kidding. I have held it off for 3 years but she won’t stop asking for this silly bear. What can I say? The heart wants what it wants.

So I go yesterday to Costco to purchase said Yeti bear and OH. MY. WORD. It’s a monstrosity. It is bigger than ME and pound for pound we’ve got to be close to the same weight. I sort of wish I could see the store video footage of my trying to get this bear into my cart. It was basically a comedy sketch and by the end I’m in a full-blown sweat. I imagine it is like trying to get a 7 ft unconscious person into a car. And never mind the passersby that gawked at me like I was some sort of sideshow entertainment.

I finally manage to get the stupid thing into my cart but I have to hold the side of the cart to drive because it’s hanging out of both ends.

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Then come the people with all their commentary…

“Is that for you? Heh heh.”

“You should take the stuffing out and it could be a costume!”

“That’s bigger than you!!”

It was really precious, all those non funny comments.

Ya’ll would have been so proud of me. I didn’t say one ugly thing out loud to any of those people. I kept all my nasty, cutting comments to myself. I wore my invisible “SUCKER” sign on my forehead and walked to the checkout like a schmuck. I tried to avoid eye contact and looked at the ground but it was obvious people were staring as if to say, “What kind of idiot would by that?” Yep. That’s me. Idiot, Party of 1. I wish Kyle had been with me. He would have laughed along and had something funny to say to all their little jabs, but no, I wore my SUCKER sticker all by myself that day. I mean, people were literally pointing their fingers and laughing at me. Are we even allowed to point and laugh at people anymore? I feel like that should be a new rule. “No pointing and laughing at people unless they are a comedian or a clown.” I’m starting a petition.

Anyway, I check out and get to my car and just stand there, looking at my trunk. Like a statue.

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I have no idea how I’m going to get this beast of a bear into my car. Luckily, I didn’t wait long because a sweet couple offered to help me. They told me they had bought that same bear 3 years ago for their 10 year old granddaughter. Hallelujah and praise hands for compassion! We stuffed that bear into my car and I headed home, my faith in humanity restored. Look at this picture. I can’t even handle it.

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Big Foot Bear is residing in my garage at present, covered with a sheet and massive amounts of junk. See, there ARE perks to being unorganized and having piles of crap in your garage– no one notices when you add to the pile. Hopefully she won’t notice. Fingers crossed.

-Courtney

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The weirdest thing my kid wants for Christmas

Blake is always my most vocal child when it comes to what he wants for Christmas. He’s quick to make a list but I can’t shop too early because chances are he’s going to change his mind. There’s one thing on his list this year that has stayed the same. I keep waiting for him to decide he doesn’t want it anymore and cross it off the list. Unfortunately for me, this hasn’t happened yet. As a matter of fact, it’s the #1 thing he wants this year.

Any guesses as to what it is?

“OBJ jersey?” No. He’s already got one of those.

“Video games?” Nope.

“Football cards?” Please, baby Jesus, no. We’ve got enough.

The item topping his list this year, the thing he has not waffled on once, the thing that may or may not end his belief in Santa is…

Wait for it…

A WATERBED.

I’ll give you a minute. It’s ok, I about took a knee when he told me that’s what he wanted. What in the heavens? Is this some sort of joke? A waterbed?! Do the 1970s somehow come with it? Do I need to buy him a lava lamp and shag carpet as well?

I’m sure you’re wondering his reasoning behind wanting a waterbed as was I when he told me. After he told me why he wanted it, I COMPLETELY understood.

Me: “Blake, why on earth do you want a waterbed?”

Blake: “I just do.”

That’s it, folks. He just does. As compelling as his “I just do” argument is, I can’t. Right? I can’t get my 8 year old a waterbed. Like really?! I’ve tried explaining that there’s no way Santa could fit a waterbed down the chimney. He says he can just come through the front door. I half think that Blake knows the goods about Santa so he’s doing some sort of Christmas test on Kyle and me. He’s heard rumblings about old St. Nick at school and Paxton has almost blown Santa’s cover several times. I think in Blake’s mind it goes:

Waterbed= Yes, Blake, there is a Santa Claus!

No waterbed= My parents are lying liars and they deserve to have their pants catch on fire.

Well, it was fun while it lasted, Santa, but I can’t get my kid a waterbed. I’m sure some of you are thinking, “Do they even MAKE waterbeds anymore?” Why yes, yes they do. I only know because I just looked it up on Google for the purposes of this post, NOT for the purposes of purchasing one. (And in case you are in the market for one, they now make them to look like regular mattresses. So you can have the feel of the ‘70s without the look of the ‘70s. However, if you want that bed-encased-in-wood look (i.e. 1976), they still offer those.)

A waterbed for Blake would be like most other Christmas gifts he receives: it’ll be awesome for a hot minute then he won’t care about it anymore. Or worse, he’ll pop a hole in the thing and we’ll really be up a creek. Literally.

I know Blake, and I know he’ll be disappointed when he comes downstairs to find no waterbed but seriously, I just can’t. He’ll get over it, right? If he grows up and wants to buy his own waterbed, more power to him. Then maybe his wife can be the bad guy and tell him there’s no way she’s sleeping on a waterbed. Good girl.

Anyone have any suggestions on a good substitute for a waterbed? Is there another substitute other than, well…a regular bed? Maybe I’ll just give him a lava lamp and call it a day. He’ll think a lava lamp is totally groovy.

-Courtney

**Since writing this post, he has changed his #1 spot to a new bike! Glory be! A bike I can do! And look a little further down on the list…

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A lava lamp. Large. I didn’t even know there were different sizes.

What in the world.

It’s like he was born in the wrong decade.

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You’re FIRED, October.

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(Oh, flip flops, when will I be able to quit you?? #longestsummerever)

Dear October,

You are fired, effective tomorrow. You have performed poorly in the 31 days you’ve been with us. Your job was to bring us cooler temperatures to our scalding summer but no, you chose to go your own way. You teased us with one week of cooler weather then you took it back like a greedy beast. That was hurtful.

We’re tired of your shenanigans, October. Our hope is that your replacement, November, will be more fruitful. We don’t care for April fool’s jokes in the fall. We want to drink pumpkin-y hot drinks in crisp, cool weather. We want to accessorize with cardis and scarves and boots. We want to wear furry slippers and wrap up in blankets at our kids’ football games.

Wanna know what we DON’T want? We DON’T want sweat trickling down our tank tops and into our cut-offs while we sip iced coffee at our kids’ football games. We (the women) want a reprieve from shaving our legs. We want to let our toenail polish chip. We want to wear LAYERS, FOR PETE’S SAKE! So get over yourself, October, you’re never going to be July. People don’t want you to be July. Maybe you’re having some sort of identity crisis, but you better get yourself together by next year. There will be riots in the streets if you pull this crap next year. The people are not amused so it’s time for you to go. Goodbye, October, you have been a complete let down and failed miserably at your job.

-Courtney

**Have you had a chance to order my new book The Forgotten Ornament yet? I know you’re kids will love it this Christmas season so make sure you check it out! Just go to the Purchase tab at the top of the page.

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Are you an early person or a late person?

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Anyone else ever feel either too late or too early to fall? I feel like this tree—awkwardly moving into fall. I’m either like the yellow leaves that are fully committed to the weather change, or I’m the green leaves—hanging on to every last bit of summer.

I wouldn’t consider myself a chronically late person, but when it comes to the season of fall, I’m usually late to the party. It never fails that when I show up to an event in late September, my footwear is always lacking. I’m that girl in flip-flops when all the other girls are in knee high boots. (And we all know how I feel about tall boots. #struggle) I’m bee-bopping into my kids’ open house at school in a sleeveless top and sandals and the other moms are in cardigans and skinny jeans. Ugh. My summer wardrobe has overstayed its welcome yet again. (And I use the term “wardrobe” VERY loosely. Can we even consider shorts, V-necks, and flip-flops a wardrobe when it’s rotated in with workout clothes?) Then I get embarrassed that my feet are showing when, clearly, it’s time to cover them up. I’ve somehow missed the memo that there’s an expiration date on shorts and I continue wearing them. It’s all very shameful. Or there’s the alternative…

…where I barge into fall a bit too early. I come in HOT, figuratively and literally. I’m the girl in cords, booties, and a cardi when everyone else is donning tousled hair and maxi dresses. In these situations, I’ve typically overestimated the cool weather and imagined that 87 degrees “feels like fall.” I’m sweating in all my crevices and praying that the moisture doesn’t make it all the way through to my cardigan pits. Guys, I’m a sweater. Like I can’t even hide it when I’m the least bit hot. The sweat-stache forms above my upper lip almost immediately and it’s the point of no return. Then, I spend most of my time trying to daintily wipe the sweat off and discreetly smear it on my pants that are no doubt sticking to my legs. All the while looking around to make sure no one is paying attention. I am usually rationing my fluid intake because the idea of trying to peel my skinny jeans off of my damp legs to pee is enough to make me want leave an event altogether. (If you’ve never encountered this problem, either the heat doesn’t activate your sweat glands or your jeans aren’t tight enough. I’m jealous of you either way.) For the women who feel me on this, you know it’s going to be about a 15-minute trip to the bathroom to get it done. It’s right up there with taking off a wet one-piece bathing suit and putting it back on. The trick is to make yourself look like you did before you even went into the bathroom. This is basically impossible because your jeans are now sticking in places they weren’t before, or you can’t get the crotch of your pants back up to your actual crotch. It’s times like these that I miss the ‘90s. Everything was baggy in the ‘90s. In pleated jeans, no one even knew you had a crotch because they were so distracted by the pleats. Ah, the simpler times.

Since I live in Tennessee, fall can be a bit elusive. One week it’s 90 degrees, the next it’s 72. But just when you think you’re good to rid yourself of shorts until next year, the temperature goes back up to 89. I’ve decided Tennessee weather has bipolar disorder. So until Tennessee commits to fall, I refuse to put the flip-flops in the back of the closet. People will just have to deal with my legs and feet as they get paler and paler into October. I’ll trade my sweat-stache for white feet any day.

-Courtney

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What is infecting the kids in our community?

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WilCo-itis.

It’s infecting children everywhere in my community, Williamson County. It may be genetic, but it is highly contagious from kid to kid. I felt like it was my duty to inform you as I’ve seen signs of it in my own children from time to time. Here are 7 signs your child might be suffering from WilCo-itis:

  1. The idea that any “break” from school demands an amazing vacation.
  2. If you didn’t beach it at 30A, your child may not even consider it “the beach.”
  3. A little man on a horse is no longer a good enough shirt emblem. It has to be a whale or you can just forget it.
  4. Sonic happy hour? No. Frappes from Starbies.
  5. Duckface with a peace sign is the only selfie worth posting on social media.
  6. Expecting a car before their sixteenth birthday.
  7. Nike is so old school, Under Armour and Lulu are the only athletic clothes to be seen in. Even if you’re not being particularly “athletic.”

 

I know it sounds bad but don’t worry, it can be remedied. Sometimes it stays in the system for a while so it’s hard to kick, but hang in there. The treatment for this is going to be hard, parents. You will have to be vigilant. So here’s the cure:

WORK.

That’s it. Make your kids do work. Then make them use the money they WORKED TO EARN to pay for their own Starbies and whale shirts. Some other treatments are: phone deprivation, staying home during school breaks, and keeping your money in your own wallet. These are also effective.

Now, I have to warn you, the side effects of the treatment can be brutal. Here are 7 side effects that come with the cure for WilCo-itis.

  1. HEAVY eye-rolling
  2. Huffing
  3. Puffing
  4. Complaining
  5. The phrase “But ___________’s parents don’t make him/her work!”
  6. Overall tiredness
  7. Grouchiness

I know, the side effects look grim especially if you have to live with them every day. Not the kids, you. You will have to live with them every day. It will be hard but I think you can do it. YOU have the ability to raise children that aren’t entitled little jerks running around with their parents’ credit card. YOU are the parent, not the fun/entertainment director. YOUR KIDS ARE NOT THE BOSS OF YOU. You are the boss, and occasionally, you let them make choices and you don’t have to feel bad about it. Even the tweens need (GASP) guidance even though they know everything already. You are equipped to do this. You can cure your kids of this nasty disease and they will be better humans for it. Together we can beat Wilco-itis.

-Courtney

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Spa Day

I had such a unique spa experience when I went to Mexico a couple of weeks ago I thought I would share it with you. I know it seems cruel since you won’t physically BE at the spa but I feel like you will be rejuvenated in mind, body, and spirit after reading this.

Ok, go to your quiet place and free your mind of all your stress. Moms of toddlers, this just means turn on Sesame Street for your kids, give them a snack, and lock yourself in the bathroom. I know how it works.

When I walk into the spa and give the man my name, he says, “So you’re here for the Radiance Restore Rejuvenation Refresh Relaxation Redeemer Ricola massage?” Those may not have been his exact words but whatever he said had a lot of r’s in the title. Not knowing which massage I paid for I just said yes. I mean, a massage is a massage…or so I thought.

 

I meet my massage therapist, Ilda, and she tells me to disrobe and get under the sheet and lie face down. And like the few other times I’ve had a massage, I get down to my undies and get under the sheet. Ilda comes in and she begins to do a little all over pat down, then she takes one of my legs out from under the sheet and begins lightly rubbing a Brillo pad over it.

Are you shocked I said Brillo pad? Yes, that was my initial reaction too. See, I’ve never had a Brillo pad massage before so you can imagine my surprise when she begins to systematically do this over the entire backside of my body sans booty.

After she had scrubbed me down with the pan brush, she took coarse sand and began sanding down all the parts that had just been scrubbed. I couldn’t tell if this was a massage or if she was preparing to stain me like a wooden coffee table. All I knew was I was thanking my sweet Jesus in heaven that I wasn’t sunburned or I would’ve been in tears at this point.

After the sanding, she rubbed me down with some sort of jelly. I don’t even know. My face is in the doughnut. I’m completely helpless. Then, with the jelly on, she has me flip over onto my back.

Now this is when things start going to a weird place that I can’t unremember.

If you’ve had a massage before, you know that what they do on one part, they do on all the parts. So I was bracing myself as Ilda began to Brillo pad my arms. Now, something that came as a surprise was when sweet, little Ilda raised my arm and took the Brillo pad to my armpit.

I’ll give you a minute.

She is literally scrubbing my armpit. (Oh, I forgot to mention, when I turned over, Ilda placed a towel over my eyes so I couldn’t see what she was doing. Now I know why.) Guys, I couldn’t even. I started laughing. Like giggle laughing because OH MY GOSH IT TICKLED AND I WAS EMBARASSED AND IT WAS TOTALLY AWKWARD!! Then ILDA started laughing and I was done. I kept thinking, “This is what I do to my children before they go to bed! What is even happening?!”

After I quasi recovered (because let’s face it, after the Tickle Monster, there was really no going back to a peaceful state), Ilda did something even more surprising. You need to remember I’m blindfolded so I can’t see what she’s doing. She ever so stealthily places some sort of washcloth to cover my chest and pulls the sheet down below my belly button but above my lady parts.

YOU GUYS, SERIOUSLY, WHAT IS HAPPENING?! First of all, she may as well have put one square of toilet paper over my chest for what the washcloth was covering. When I lie down, so do the girls. To say it was a nip slip would be a gross understatement. (Sorry Dad.)

Then she did something even my husband is forbidden to do.

She rubbed my stomach. With the Brillo pad.

It happened.

I’m so ashamed.

She continued by rubbing sand on my soft belly WITH HER HANDS, then after wiping that off, she slathered jelly all over my tummy tum. Like a biscuit. And that is where I died. Part of me will never be the same after that. I didn’t even know what to do. Ilda had put her hands on my stomach pooch and our relationship would never be the same. At that point, I was just grateful I had a washcloth over my eyes because there would be no eye contact with Ilda after the tummy rub.

After she made my stomach a glazed doughnut, she pulled the sheet up and wrapped me in it, then put some heavier electric blanket on me. The only thing showing was my face. I felt like a caterpillar in a sticky cocoon. I half wondered if I would have wings when I came out. She left me there for several minutes to “relax.” Thanks, Ilda, you know just how I like to relax.

When she returned, she asked me to get up so she could walk me over to the relaxation tub. One would assume she would wrap me in a towel. One would be wrong. Why would she wrap me in a towel when she could just hold one up while I try to awkwardly cover myself with my hands as I walk over to the tub? I don’t even know why I bothered trying to be modest. It really wasn’t necessary after all she’d seen my nips and rubbed my belly. So I get in the warm, soaker tub and Ilda left for probably 10 minutes or so. It actually was quite tranquil until my bladder remembered what warm water makes me do. Guys, I tried to hold it. I really did but I’m getting older, and I’ve had 3 babies, and the water was really, really warm, and there were jets, and water sounds, and I just let a little bitty bit out. After that I just sat in my diluted teetee water, waiting for Ilda to come in so we could finish whatever this was. She came back and had me lay back down on the table and, thankfully, did what seemed like a normal massage. Of course all of the restfulness was moot after everything that had happened. When she had finished, I thanked her, without eye contact, got dressed, packed up what was left of my dignity, and walked out.

Then I ran back to my hotel room to make bullet points of what had just happened so I could write about it later. This is later. Sorry it was a long read but, my gosh, there was so much I couldn’t leave out! I hope you are a little more rested and light-hearted after reading this. Now go on with your day feeling blessed that a grown woman has never massaged your belly as a relaxation technique.

Anyone else had an out of ordinary spa experience?

-Courtney

P.S. I’ve still got copies of Rooster’s Balloon if you want to order one! Go up to the Purchase tab and order one today!

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To ALL my valentines…

IMG_4677I was reminded the other day that Valentine’s Day is a special day for everyone. If you have yourself a valentine, it’s a special day to celebrate your love for one another. If you don’t have a valentine, it’s a special day that makes you feel like crap. Why can’t we just celebrate that we have people in our life that we love and they love us back? This year, I’m writing a little note to ALL my valentines.

To my parents/siblings’ valentines,

Thank you for never letting me ever forget all the embarrassing stories about myself. Rolling down the window during the car wash is always a favorite; second only to busting my face on the concrete on our trip to Atlanta. Remembering these stories from my childhood keep me humble and remind me that you guys have always been there. Ya’ll didn’t even take vows to love me in sickness and in health but you’ve done it anyway. I’m a better and stronger person because of each of you. I can slay a one-liner and I feel like that’s some sort of spiritual gift, no? We may tease one another but if anybody outside the circle of trust tries to do the same we will cut their throat. I mean that in the most Christian way. We’re not mushy or sappy but I like our gruff love. We act out our love more than we say it, but since it’s Valentine’s Day and I can say whatever I want on my blog I’m just gonna say it: I LOVE YOU GUYS!

To my friend valentines,

Oh friends. Where would I be without you? Without you, I would still be walking around in tapered, pleated jeans. Bless. Without you, I would have no one to be anti-social with at parties. Without you, I wouldn’t belly laugh. Without you, I would have no one to tell me the truth about myself. Thank you, dear friends. If a person is judged by the company she keeps, then I have far outkicked my coverage. You all love me so well and have encouraged me to grow into the uncomfortable places. I don’t know if there will be a corner for us in heaven to share inappropriate jokes but I kinda hope so.

To my Valentine babies,

You 3 little ducklings gave me a whole new definition of love. I never knew that kind of love until I met each of you. You all can make me madder than a hornet and turn me into a pile of mush with a bat of your lashes. You own me. You own my thoughts and my activities. I don’t do anything without thinking of you guys. I can’t imagine a time years from now when I won’t know your daily whereabouts. Ya’ll are like a drug I can’t quit. I love you and I need you but if you ask me one more time what we’re having for dinner I might lose my mind.

And to my til death do us part Valentine,

You had me at hello….

Actually that’s totally untrue. You had me about 3 years after hello but whatever. The point is you have me. You are my biggest fan and I can’t say enough about how important that is to me. I’ve said before that when someone believes in you it gives you wings to fly. Thanks for the wings, Love. They mean more than you know. Thank you for embracing all my new “feelings” that weren’t there when we got married. Thanks for growing with me and always believing the best about me even when I’m not sure it’s true. Because of all these things I will put up with your shenanigans and tomfoolery. Without you my life would be utterly boring. Love you.

 

Love to all my valentines,

Courtney

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Am I OCD?

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Does this picture bother anyone else?

I was told recently that I may or may not have OCD because I like my socks to match. Can this be right? I would never consider myself one to be obsessive or compulsive about anything. Well, anything but food that is. I can become very obsessed with the thought of food and extremely compulsive trying to get it in my belly. But that’s everyone, right?

I chewed on this OCD idea a couple of days and tried to think of other things in my life that I like to be a certain way.

1. I rearrange the dishwasher when other people put things in the “wrong” way. (I like to maximize my space; doesn’t everyone do this?)

2. I don’t like other people in my family to fold clothes because I like the way I fold  them.

3. I hide food. (Wait, I think that might be a different disorder.)

4. It stresses me out to look in my kids’ drawers because now that they put away their own clothes, they’re basically crumpled up and thrown in a drawer. (How hard is it just to lay them in there? They’re already folded! Wouldn’t it be more work to crumple them up?!)

5. When traveling, I don’t ever want to share a suitcase with my husband. We could be going somewhere for one night and I still want my own bag.

6. I’m pretty neat when I cook/bake. I put ingredients away as I go because I don’t like to have a huge mess when I’m finished. (Oddly enough, I’m not OCD about my kitchen being spotless. I think I just don’t like food being out. You’d think by the looks of my kitchen that I love paper. Sooo many papers. I’m so afraid I’m going to throw away an important one that I keep them all, but really, I hate papers.)

7. When I shower, I wash everything in same order every time. (But that’s more like habit, right? I guess I could try starting with my feet and not my face but that would be so weird.)

8. I kind of freak out if my kids eat fruit that hasn’t been washed. (But I don’t freak out if they haven’t washed their hands before they eat. Hmmm, something’s wrong here.)

9. I can’t go to bed with make up on my face. Even if I’m not wearing eye make up, I still have to wash my face.

10. If candy has a cream/gooey filled center, I can’t eat it in one bite. I have to bite just enough to suck out the goo/cream. (I’m a psycho.)

 

After reading this list, I’m aware of 3 things:

  1. I’m neurotic about doing laundry my way.
  2. I’m only OCD about certain aspects of cleanliness, not all aspects.
  3. I really like food.

 

I’m not a psych/neuro person so I don’t know what classifies someone as OCD, but I feel like maybe we’re all a little bit this way about certain things. Maybe I’m trying to rationalize my own quirks. Whatever. All I know is don’t touch my laundry, don’t eat dirty fruit, and give me all the candy. This pretty much sums it up.

 

Anyone else have any OCD tendencies they’re willing to share?

-Courtney

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