Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

Hey, you.. with the fonty, multicolored work email signature. What are you going for, here? Because when I see your signature under your message marked "Very Important" or "Urgent!," my thought process goes a little something like this:

CrazyCakes McCrayCray

I Luckily Stumbled Into This Associate-Level Position

My Company is not thrilled with this off-brand conglomeration I call my contact information.

1 LaLa Land Lane

867-5309 It'll take me a LONG time to call you back, or I may erase your VM and pretend you didn't call.

If my super sweet email signature didn't do the trick, I'm going to throw in one or more italicized quotes by Gandhi or Aristotle to demonstrate my trustworthiness, intellect and worldliness. 

Mission accomplished.

Against the Wind

Elementary School: Upon completion of the dreaded 1 Mile Run, a teacher looked me square in the face and said, "I can walk it faster than that."

Middle School: Made sports teams. Had no choice but to run every. single. weekday. Oh, the horror.


High School: Same thing. Then, quit because I sucked in a furious rebellion. Then, accidentally made the bowling team my senior year, spent the winter eating cheese fries at Lafayette Lanes, turned into a Chris Farley-esque version of myself, realized the error of my ways and ran every morning until college to undo the damage.

College: I regularly ran - usually outside, by myself. My theory on how I alluded kidnappers: I tend to flail a little lot and make scary, jerky faces, so any potential axe murderer/rapist probably wouldn't have wanted me. After flirting with long distance running (ok. totally not long distance to an actual runner. . .) but with more than a few 14, 15, 16 mile runs under my belt, I could have probably hopped a 5K on one leg with no shoes. Or toenails.. because most of them fell off from the running. Eww.


Milwaukee & Maryland: Gone were the days of hours on a treadmill because I had to do this thing called.. work for money. Weather permitting, I did manage to make it to the gym or run around our super cute neighborhood(s).

18 months ago: Someone chewed me up and spit me out . . . and that very small person was Harper. After 9 months of toting around her little watermelon self, then bringing her into the world, I was spent. Those of you who "bounce right back," bless your hearts. That was not me. Everything hurt and I was so sleep deprived that I got winded and sore walking around the grocery store. I never thought I would ever be the same until..

Yesterday: My name is Courtney, and I have started a Couch to 5K training program. Because like every other 40 year old, I need to take it slowly. Ever the planner, I chose to begin in mid-January (what the..?) and got the weeks confused on my mp3 player . . .so I started on Week 2, instead of Week 1. ((flops on couch, dies))

Aww, shucks.

Usually, I don't bother to make new year's resolutions. If I'm really serious about something, I save it for Lent. ..There's more riding on that and I'm good with pressure.

A couple nights ago when we were out to dinner, it hit me: I am horrible with compliments. I don't give them often enough and I have to remind myself to take them gracefully.

I believe my lack lies somewhere amid ingrained Southern humility, shaky self-confidence and my knack for self-deprecating humor.  It's the compliment Bermuda Triangle. Nothing goes in, and nothing comes out.

It's really not the train wreck I make it sound like, but when someone says something complimentary, I look down (because sometimes my cheeks turn pink) and fight like crazy the urge to say, "Ugh, my hair is tangled and my pants are too short!" After lots of practice, I can usually squeak out an "Aww, thank you." But it's a battle. It really is.

Especially after Harper. . . even if I look together, I'm a bit of a hot mess.  It's not like I don't like compliments.  It always makes me feel great, I just react poorly.

..and because I don't take them well, I don't give them well.  Much more than not, I swear, I'm thinking something positive about someone I see. Oh, and by the way.. the adage that you shouldn't be so self-conscious because people are rarely paying attention to anything but themselves? Can I just call BS on that? Pre-Harper, and when she's behaving herself, I definitely notice other people.

So, this year, I resolve to give more compliments.  Not fake crap. . . just verbalize what I'm thinking. Because it makes people feel good. And life is hard sometimes. And people need to hear it. And if me saying, "Wow, I like that nail polish" might give someone a little pep, I'm in to that.

An open letter.

Dear Elevator Mom,

Yes, I'm talking to you.  Remember me? You probably don't, but I bet you might remember my darling child.  She was the 18 month old screaming in the elevator because, less than two minutes prior, she had gotten three shots in her sweet little legs.

Remember, now? Yeah. There you were. . . smacking and relentlessly popping your chewing gum with your bad dye job. Your pre-teen boy had his head stuck in a video game so, lucky for him, he wasn't the target of your roaming stink eye. I think if I were your child, I'd probably play a video game instead of talk to you, too.

Lucky for me and Harp, you were so void of thought that the only thing on your to-do list was to stare at a crying toddler with a disapproving look on your face. And when she dropped her paci at your feet because she was crying so hard and you wouldn't pick it up? Well, that's just special. Bless your heart.  It's not like I had my hands full or anything.

Lucky for you, if I hadn't been carrying the 3ft. screaming toddler, her coat, her hat, my coat, her blanket, my diaper bag and pushing a stroller with a purse and medical records in it, I would have punched you square in your unpowdered, shiny, red nose.

Until we meet again.

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

If you ceaselessly carry around a Nalgene water bottle, you look like a toddler with a sippy cup.

I think I can, I think I can.

Day 5 of veganism, three slip-ups. None intentional, even though I've been eyeballing the chocolate cherries on our kitchen counter so hard that I'm positive they can't continue to withstand the pressure. I keep waiting for one to spontaneously combust.  When it happens, I just hope its near my mouth. 

Bring on the indiscretion:

1. Day 2. Brandon has announced, quite dramatically, on several occasions that his life is only worth living after a coffee flavored frappuccino on Saturday mornings. Well, the baristas flubbed his order and presented him with a caramel frap, which aside from the squirt or two of caramel, is topped with an obscenely tall tower of whipped cream. Just to get out of the claustrophobia-inducing nightmare that is our Starbucks on Saturday morning, we accepted the tower amid a Brandon side-eye and grumble about its girlyness. In a weakened, decaffeinated state, he deemed it acceptable and thrust the straw my way for corroboration. Whoops.

2. Last night. I licked the lid of Harper's yogurt.  Old habits die hard.

3. Today. I cooked an amazingly delicious Gardenburger brand veggie burger (seriously, I yelled from the kitchen, to no one in particular, that it was the best thing I've ever eaten and that my taste buds are clearly responding to this whole veganism shtick) . While contemplating another putting another on my plate, I saw a little oily residue from the bygone burger, and because my BFFs, the veggies, wouldn't do me like this, I checked the ingredients list: cheese. Burger fail. Apparently I bought the one variety in their product line that contains cheese. Vegan fail.

Pressing on.. one tofu square and crockpotted lentil soup at a time.

Harper hates Christmas.

As only children and first grandchildren at Christmas usually roll, Harper is living large.  Basking in the glow of 9 million new toys that she loves, there were ..and I guess always will be.. a few fails. 

Santa did the worst job. He brought Harper two things she totally hates:

Meet Harper's Arch Enemy: Original Tickle-Me-Elmo.  The mere sight of him sends her running to the other end of the house.

 

 

 

Farm Animal Sounds Puzzle straight from Hell.  Even after I took the batteries out and disabled the terror, the wounds are too deep. ..Maybe in a few months.

Although it was touch-and-go for the first few days, she finally warmed to:

Violet the Dog (since Violet knows Harper's name, she's tentatively in the circle of trust)

 

 

 

 

Our great friends gave Harper the most popular and sought-after toy of the Christmas season:  

The Singamajig, which I find unbelievably cute.  Unfortunately, Harper thinks it cries instead of sings, soo... just one syllable of his festive rendition of "This Little Light of Mine" will collapse Harper into a puddle of tears.

And because she absolutely loved the majority of her spoils, I would be remiss in not mentioning the top three most-loved. The grandparents (the aged Santas) came strong, delivering all three of her very favorites:

It's a REAL grocery cart, just smaller. She loves it beyond measure. She puts her baby in the front, browses the cabinets for groceries and strolls yells and runs all over the house.

Although latch #2 causes a sad little breakdown every now and then, this Melissa & Doug latch board will keep us busy for more than 15 minutes, which equals hours in baby time.

Meet Harper's new BFF - Dancing Mickey. Just like H, he has boundless energy and his mouth opens frequently in realistic song, which, when she can catch him, Harper rewards with cheese crackers.