Noteworthy Banter, Volume II

Dad: Courtney, you should ride the Frontrunner home.
Amy: Yeah. Train riding is very 'in' right now.
Courtney: It has been since The Golden Spike happened, really.

"Oh, look at this one!
     'Amy: thanks for kickin' it with me. You are so fine. Seriously.
                  --Richard Neeve, #32'
I wonder whether he knew that it was customary to leave phone numbers in yearbooks, rather than the one on the back of his football jersey... by definition, a winner."

Mama: Coming out of Seattle, it was so bumpy that I was singing to myself the entire time...
Courtney: I am a Child of God, and he has sent me here?
Mama: Nope.
Courtney: Lady Madonna, children at your feet...
Mama: Not likely.
Courtney: Okay, your turn, Amy. I'm striking out.
Amy: Gaga, oooo la-la... want your bad romance?
Courtney: Really, Amy?

"Are candy corn M&Ms your favorite treats ever?"
"Close. I really like blueberry muffins."

(While watching the Santa Clause)
Courtney: That's what Heaven is like. Just a ton of kids with pointy ears.
Mels: That actually sounds a lot more like Hell to me...

Mels: His eyebrows have gotten progressively... loftier...
Courtney: Okay, well, maybe that just happens when you go through major life changes... LIKE BECOMING SANTA CLAUS, for instance. You wouldn't understand. You have great eyebrows.
Mels: None of what you just said even made sense.

"Why are you staring at me so creepishly?"
"Just so I could hear you say the word, 'creepishly'."

Courtney: What's that saying? My mouth is too big for my eyes?
Mels: Uh... your eyes are too big for your stomach?
Courtney: Oh. Yeah. That just happened to me.

"We are going to have so much fun with Snapchat!"
"Yeah! Especially when I send you naughties!"

Mels: Misha can bring you up.
Stetler: Who's Misha?
Mels: The Russian that goes to BYU.
Stetler: Oh! Your Russian guy!
Madison: I had a Russian guy once. His name was Azat.
Amy: Ah, I remember Azat.

"That guy looks like a chubby Joaquin Phoenix."

I wish I wasn't coughing up a lung right now. That would be a good time.

I dream of a day in which the tickle of my throat becomes submissive.

P.S., since you're probably wondering about the fever dreams I keep having, I'll tell you one. They're freaky, getting freakier. In the middle of my afternoon nap today, I was married to a tacky red head boy who took me to the circus and refused to sit on the same row as me. WTF?

Also, December 13th could not come fast enough, and I own both editions of Miracle on 34th street. What can I say? Big fan of Susan Walker.

This is a story about plans, and how they usually don't work out.

 

This is the blueprint of a plan that never worked out. 
R.I.P., Dourtney.

 My friend, Haley, sent me this picture the other day. 

In high school, I half-loved a boy who half-loved me back. I remember thinking that our two halves made a whole, which, logically, should have been true. So, imagine my surprise when after ten months of angsty, pretend-to-see-the-future, miss-every-red-flag "love" stuff, we broke. Quickly, loudly, and realistically, in half.

This little number was the fatal juxtaposition of romantic ideals, teenage hormones, and the honey lipgloss song; it was the ridiculous scribble of a plot that blew up in my face. 

And, my word! How could I have not seen it coming?

I mean, please. 

Such an Exposition proves pathetic time, and time again. This one, no exception. A weak protagonist: the first downfall to any outline... non-existent rising action, and a conflict that begs the question: how many "I love you" phrases may be spoken before theirs meanings become obsolete? When does what we say not matter, and where do those words go?

I don't know the answer to that. Maybe because the meat of my story, my resolve, has yet to be found. Maybe the words for the way it all feels ran away with the plot, or maybe I've learned that it's braver to keep them holed up inside of me.

Or, could it be that the resolution isn't found in the story? Not in the plan, at all?

And so, after an entire year of trite pity parties consuming the majority of 2009, rehashing the story, searching for another step, I woke up. I put on a pair of pants, and I started a new day, sans plan.

After I realized that all we would be was unfinished, I began to finish myself, which was the only thing under my jurisdiction.

And I haven't made a plan, since.
 

(I hate to ruin the ending for you by revisiting the beginning, but plans: they don't usually work out.)

Remember that time I tried to get on a plane with about 5 hours notice,but then I didn't?

Well, this time, I did.
And here is a tacky airport picture to prove it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I will never love a man, cause love and pain go hand in hand, and I can't do it again.

You know how sometimes you just feel numb?

Not happy, not sad, just... numb?

I think I'm the personification of the word, lately.

And if there were a song for the way I've felt, 

it would be this one.

P.S. 

Thanks, Caitlin. I sort of really love you a lot.

Guess who comes home in one little measly month from yesterday.

Well, Carter.

But then Austin does. Six days later.

29 days, people. 

Like, we're in the twenties. Not 166, not 79 or 54...

29.

Am I being unreasonably liberal with my italics button, here?

Conservative italic-ism... not a thing.

Merry Christmas to meeeeeee!!!!

On a more serious note, I have got to stop watching The Walking Dead. 

I hallucinated that zombies were in my room last night.

Everything was beautiful at the Ballet.

     Tonight, I saw this Downtown Logan.
The ticket cost an arm and a leg, but do you know something?
It was the first big ticket I have ever bought for myself. And now, I can put that in my story--the one I told you I'd write.

     I drove downtown, and into a back alley parking lot. I looked up, saw a million glowing lights through the fog (doesn't there always seem to be fog?) from what I can only assume was an entire wall of dressing room windows. There was a man dressed in a full black uniform guarding the stage door, cigarette in hand. Smoke stacks were breathing heavy on top of the building, and I noted two fire escapes. I was completely alone in an alley, lit by the fluorescence of a few street lights and the glow of my own doe-eyed-disposition, swearing I'd somehow been transported to dark, damp New York City. The man gave me a nod, wished me a well evening, and pointed toward the back door where I could show my ticket and find my seat. As I walked in, I smoothed the pleats on my skirt breathing the air around me. It smelled like heavy pockets full of money. Even more-so, it smelled fur coats... but aren't they one in the same? I was shown the mezzanine, row BB, seat 21. I peeled off my coat and sat down, waiting for the house lights to dim, the way they always do. The pit hummed as the company entered the stage from every corner. I watched in silence, as if it were my first time in a big theater.

     Since the age of six, I have been a seasoned connoisseur of culture. My parents have taken me to countless symphonies, shows on and off Broadway, The Radio City Rockettes, the Louvre, and aided me through about a thousand dollars worth of piano lessons, which I complained about for all 12 years. When I was seventeen, they took me to a Russian piano concerto held at St. Peter's Abbey in Salzburg, Austria, and walked with me through Mozart's childhood home-turned-modern-art-museum. These are all experiences that reach the deepest parts of my bones,
however,
tonight, I felt ecstasy. Real ecstasy. Something similar to that Bernini sculpture of St. Theresa, I'm sure. I've always wondered what that piece was all about, and, well, tonight, I get it. It was all richer, somehow. Maybe because I was excited to be alone. Maybe it was the fact that my menstrual cramps subsided to let me enjoy this, if only for two hours. Maybe it had everything to do with sacrificing half of November's groceries to do something just because I wanted to.
     As I sat, I noticed the coffers in the ceiling, outlined with gold trim and the gorgeous red-velvet seat beneath me, unarguably the most beautiful upholstery in town. In a small city just south of Preston Idaho, I felt another little piece of me fall into place.

     I guess I became a patron of the arts tonight--a patron! A title given to Pope Julius II and Catherine de Medici! And while that is all wonderful, I don't think it has much to do with why my high.

     This is my favorite number from A Chorus Line. Sung by Sheila, Bebe, and Maggie, it is heart breakingly beautiful. Life can be a crap shoot sometimes (like, for instance, bombing two tests two days in a row, or having to ride the shuttle around for the second time in one day), but everything is always beautiful at the ballet. My ballet was made manifest tonight, and oh, was it sensational. What's yours?

P.S. 

If you're wondering, YES, Sheila is being played by a (much younger version of ) Emily Gilmore which makes life even more fun.

Also, if you read this entire thing and getting to this point, congratulations. You're the most patient person in the whole entire world. 

Life Lessons from one, Liz Gilbert.

Tonight, I was part of a conversation. One that involved the breaking point of a relationship. Why it broke. How it broke. Who broke it? When was it going to get fixed? It was a quick conversation, one that didn't exceed five minutes. The speaker made a comment that I couldn't put in the back of my mind. She said, "It sucks. Being alone sucks. But I'm okay." My heart went and goes out to her. The breaking point is rough... however, I immediately wandered to Liz Gilbert, one of my favorite writers. She knows about loneliness... understatement of the century! And though I think often times it was self-inflicted, it all made her who she wanted to be.

“When I get lonely these days, I think: So BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience."

I've been thinking about that, too--who I want to be.
What is my coming-of-age story? Do I even have one? When am I going to be brave enough to write it? Who'll want to read it?

I remembered this piece from Eat. Pray. Love. and then I remembered that I'm okay. We all are. It is a noble thing to navigate around lonely. It helps us find ourselves. Finding yourself... a cliche we all need to invest in.

We need to be lonely, and we need to be lost.
How can we expect another person to find us when we can't tell them what they're looking for? Better yet, how can someone else find a person who's not alive yet?
And isn't that the point? Doesn't finding ourselves make us feel alive?

Did I take this idea too far, or are you understanding?
Maybe we'll revisit this topic at a later date.

I've had to hold my tongue a hand full of times tonight, what with the facebook boom as it is election night and all. I'm not exactly one of those people who gets too involved in internet bashing. I believe there is a time and a place to make one feel so foolish they can hardly breathe, but the FB world just doesn't do my words justice. So, for the most part I refrain. (I totally got in a tiff with Greg Holden once. I just could not resist... but let's not open that can of worms.) This is why I have a blog. So I can write passionately the words I wish to say without creating [too much] conflict... though, I must admit... the arguments are rather entertaining, and I do read them. Yahtzee! 

And I know, I know.
I'm annoyingly political. Raised to be, even.
We used to watch Hannity and Colmes while we ate dinner on wicker trays, and at the ripe old age of nine, I wrote Bill O'Reilley an email, letting him know that I appreciated his contribution to politics, and the world at large. On my 18th birthday, I raced home from school, excited to watch a Glenn Beck Christmas Special. Undoubtedly a conservative Republican. Undoubtedly outspoken about it.
Whatever, I get it.
It's annoying, and it's me.
But I'd rather care about it all like a maniac than sit on the fence while the rest of the country makes my decisions for me.
My parents taught me to be an active participant in changing the things I don't like.
Though I do side with them on most of the issues, and our ballots today were rather similar, I am proud of the fact that I'm an avid news watcher. I am fond of Brett Baier, Anderson Cooper, and Mila Kunis. (She doesn't really have anything to do with this. I just love her SO much.)
I think for myself, and that's something of weight.
Not only do I think for myself, but I try really hard, even as a twenty year old, to think of those around me, and ultimately, think of the sacrifices that have been made on my behalf, giving me the right to cast my ballot just across the street from where I live. 

And that is why statements like this irk me to my very core:

"Last I checked, America was a free country... and I have the right to not care about this election. I will exercise my right by not voting." 

Not doing what is expected in an election will never be a hipster revolution. Contrary to popular believe, it does not reward its participants with People Water and vegan friendly foot wear. This is bigger than social media and an I'm-too-good-for-politics election mindset. Undeniably, America is a free country. As wholesome as apple pie, and with a star spangled banner on top. Our country is as free as they come. And if you'd like to keep it that way, then dammit, you'd better exercise your right to vote.

Someone also said this:
"Politics brings out the worst in people." 

I, for one, think it brings out some of the best in people.
And let's be honest... it brings out the wit in them, too.
For instance, my good friend, Jared, commented, saying:
"To everyone complaining about the election and politics: just remember to be quiet while the grown ups are talking." 

Priceless. 

For the record, I voted for Mitt.
Don't be one of those people who say they're leaving the country for the next four years.
Put on your big kid pants, saddle up, and take your country back.

A guide to why I am the way that I am.

I was thinking about something tonight that I really could not stop thinking about.
It was something that made me be like, why are you still thinking about this? But... here I am... almost two in the morning, still thinking about it.
Let me say think a few more times: think, think, think, think.

Remember that scene in Mean Girls where Cady is at the Mathlete's competition and she says this?

"Miss Caroline Krafft seriously needed to pluck her eyebrows. Her outfit looked like it was picked out by a blind Sunday school teacher. And she had some 50 cent lip gloss on her snaggletooth. And that's when I realized, making fun of Caroline Krafft wouldn't stop her from beating me in this contest. Calling somebody else fat won't make you any skinner. Calling someone stupid doesn't make you any smarter. And ruining Regina George's life definitely didn't make me any happier. All you can do in life is try to solve the problem in front of you."

Well, that's all true. 

But it's not exactly the point of this blog post. 

What I can't stop thinking about is the fact that I still hate people. No matter what life changes I go through, I'm always going to be a little bitter about that soccer ball Jordan Stadig nailed me with (on purpose) in the sixth grade. It's always going to bug me that Haley Needs made my high school boyfriend want her more than he wanted me. I'll always harbor some hatred for that T.A. last semester who told me to rewrite a paper because she didn't like the way I said the things on my mind.

And do you know what I think? It all doesn't make me the worst person in the world, and all of them probably hate me right back.

One time, I had a conversation with my sister about how I think it's okay that sometimes we skip church to hang out with each other. Because we're pretty sure there are terrorists in the world who are most likely worse off than we are. Also, I've never punched anyone in the face. So, Bonus. And gotcha.

But my friend, Haley (Not the one who stole my boyfriend. Another Haley. I know. My life is so confusing.) never hates anyone. Like, she just doesn't.

And I admire that, I do. 

But she's probably the only one on Earth like that. 

Well, besides maybe Kelsey Gwen Conover, who is fully incapable of hating people, too. She's my other friend.

Both cases are exceptions, and extremely impressive.

So here is my theory about this whole thing:

People who are nice to everyone and don't have malicious feelings, like Haley and Kelsey, most likely have special reserved tickets to Heaven in the official Heaven box office (a real place), which is nice, but not the end of the world for those of us who've been a little choosy in our relationships, right?

It just means that maybe we, as haters, will just have to wait in line for our own tickets... which is annoying, but sort of worth it... right??

Because sometimes you just need to hate on people... RIGHT?!

And if you're concerned about Heaven selling out tickets, don't be.

Because I don't believe in a god who would ever be like, "Oooo... sorry. Fresh out of salvation."

I'm just going to be honest right now. 

I hate a girl that I don't even know. 

And the worst part about it all is that I'm pretty sure we'd be really great friends if circumstances were different and I wanted to be around whenever she was. 

Maybe we'd be friends if I hadn't been in the place I was a few months ago, and she had been there, too.

Maybe we'd be friends if I wanted to like her.

Maybe we'd be friends if I believed in a god who was like, "Oooo... sorry. Fresh out of salvation."

This is the part where I tell you that I had this thought today: 

"He has really poor taste in girls. Except for when he picked me. Because look at me.

I am fantastic."

Still trying to decide whether I'll be line buddies with the annoying vain people, or the angry, bitter haters.

I am unsure. Only limbo will tell. 

The purgatory kind... not the horizontal-broom-sing-songing-back-bending weird game kind. 

Unless they have that there. And in that case, I guess maybe then, the game will tell.

I am still unsure. Only limbo-in-limbo will tell... if it exists.

Anyway...

Thank you, Mean Girls.

Okay, rant over.

My life is dumb; I have a dumb life.

 I have been blogging a lot lately... I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I've got a lot to say? It's never important stuff, so I'm not really sure why I feel the need to put it out into the cosmos. But maybe you find it interesting. And I like to hear about interesting things, so I guess I just figure that you do, too.

I was sitting at school today, listening to the lecture, when I tuned out and stared at the ground. This is the way class usually goes for me. I noticed a small shard of glass, pointy side sticking straight up out of the carpet, and thought What?! How can this be? No. THERE ARE PEOPLE WALKING AROUND THIS SCHOOL WITHOUT SHOES! And then, I had a minor panic attack for them. Because they deserve to know. Not that I condone shoeless people walking around campus, because really, I don't, but I do think they have a right to know what they're stepping on. Like, a guy who used to be my neighbor. He doesn't wear shoes, and he rides around on a big unicycle. It may sound comical, but he is a talented creature of this campus, I tell you. And I just think it would be such a shame to waste all that talent on behalf of an unwarranted piece of glass which he got caught up with. Get it together, janitorial staff. I mean, honestly. Thus, I give you the reason that I don't take many notes in Archaeology.

I waved hello to my friend, Luke, on campus today. One time, I told him (IN CONFIDENCE) about how I do this embarrassing thing where if someone doesn't see me waving to them, I nudge them on the shoulder in passing, without saying a word. It's sort of just a weird reflex. And I told him about how it is particularly embarrassing when I don't really know the person and it just sort of happens, anyway.
So, today, when I waved, because he thinks he's funny, he pretended to be me, doing that arm nudge thing, really dramatically. But it wasn't just a nudge. Oh, no. It was like a full force human interactive hurricane, and it almost knocked me over. And it really wasn't funny even at all, Luke. It wasn't.
Well, okay. Sort of, it was.

In class, whenever Dean doesn't hear something, or he misses a concept, he always just blurts out, "What did he say?" and looking back on my previous point, number one, I'm usually staring at insignificant (or are they?) shards of glass. Liiiiiiiike I can even explain what just went on. So most of the time, I just make stuff up and he writes it down. I figure it's better than people looking at him as no one responds, right? Right. That's what I would want people to do for me, you know, have my back and all. And I may not get all of the concepts, but one thing I've always got is Dean's back.

I can't spell the word conscience without using autocorrect. Even now, when I just tried to type it into google, google didn't even know what I was getting at! And I'm a good speller. In the twelfth grade, I won Mrs. Williams' Spelling Bee against Blake Ziser (my first through ninth grade crush--that one felt good... cosmic bitch slap, blake ziser!) with the word porcelain. So really, this misspelling thing is hard for me to admit. Be gentle with me.



Have a quirky weekend, okay?

Pretend, and go to bed before midnight.

Yes, that's what you should do. And live our your life like you're Jane Austen. And not really care about what people think of you. Or what you write. And "miss your mother so much you almost can't breathe". And wear yellow tights. And have a picnic in the park by yourself with a double cheeseburger and a large french fry from McDonald's because you weren't white-trash enough before. And talk to one of your friends on the way to class and across campus. And realize that the two of you have nothing really to talk about and question why you're even friends at all. And get so homesick for your best friends that it almost brings you to tears. And remember that you've only got 43 more days--you can do it. And stalk the guy who works at Apple Spice bakery even though he seriously needs a new pair of jeans. And admit to yourself that you're a little bit OCD when it comes to a bedtime routine because it takes at least twenty five minutes. And promise yourself that you'll find a boy good enough to lean into, one that wants to lean right back. And then, he'd call you up and say, hey, how 'bout coffee, or drinks, or dinner, or a movie... for as long as we both shall live. And don't cry, shopgirl. Don't cry.

I may or may not have been in my bed before midnight, and I may or may not be watching Valentine's Day right now... Okay, actually, both of those things are true.

I put blood paint all over my teeth. It felt an awful lot like that new fluoride shiz they have at the dentist that's really sticky and terrible--do you know that stuff? I wouldn't recommend it. The tooth blood, nor the fluoride. Both suck. Tonight, we went out to eat because it was a holiday. We always feel better about spending money on holidays. A couple weeks ago, we decided we'd only go out if it was in celebration of a birthday, even though there wasn't a birthday in sight. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that I went out in public looking like this. It was pretty neat. I'm pretty neat. I tried to watch It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! but it was not on Netflix. Which made me straight pissed. IT IS ALWAYS ON NETFLIX ON HALLOWEEN. I don't know what this world is coming to, but I do know that I do not want to live in a world without Charlie Brown holidays. Also, Melodey got that pumpkin to fit on her head. And she didn't even get stuck in it! She is so talented. It's Halloween, but I am terribly sick of it. October is probably like... my least favorite month. Maybe right next to August or March. I'm all Halloween'd out. Good thing that tomorrow is November first, AM I RIGHT?! Bring on the holly berries, homemade pumpkin pie, and the Macy's Day Parade, you know? Either way, Halloweener or not, I hope your holiday was, like, crazy. And I hope your November is full of less scary stuff. And are you so overwhelmed with pictures? Good.

P.S. 

"WOAH!"

"That's a scary mask, bro." 

--Mean Girls. Best line.