More Lists=My Desperate Attempt to Keep Posting

I realized recently I have forgotten how to:

-Take a compliment
-French braid my own hair
-Write in cursive
-Spell without the assistance of a spellchecker
-Find the circumference of a circle
-Sing the French National Anthem
-Do the splits
-Beat Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega Genesis
-Do 10 rounds of cat's cradle
-Recite the multiplication tables

But I have NOT forgotten how to:

-Do a cartwheel
-Read a whole book in one sitting
-Make a paper fortune-teller
-Recite fun French swear words
-Sing my first solo (I was a rockin' Fairy Godmother)
-Avogadro's number

Should have been a BS Degree

My thoughts, as of late:

I've been tutoring high school kids for over a year now and I've developed a problem. I can't stop seeing myself in their habits, specifically their bad habits. While I prepare myself, at least mentally, for graduate school, I have had to come to terms with how I embarked upon my former schooling. My curse, I know realize, was a slightly above-average intelligence coupled with a canny ability to memorize copious amounts of information in a snitch. My entire cognizant educational career was spent keeping myself securely "above average." As the eldest I never had someone to live up to or be better than. So with illimitable options, I chose the path of least resistance. It's sad, really.

As much as I preached about the power of literature and stories, I was woefully inept at finishing them. I only read one, yes one, assigned book in high school. I got so caught up in The Scarlet Letter that I stayed up late and finished it, as if that excitement makes my pity perusing habits any better. In college I wish I could say my habits improved, but most of my research papers revolved around books I had already read several times (Fahrenheit 451, 2 papers; Waiting for Godot, 5 papers). I read Silence and Blindness and House Behind the Cedars and yes folks, that is it for the books I read cover to cover when I was supposed to. Many I read 3/4 of but most were just skimmed over quickly (I also have a great talent for skimming.). I have only recently turned back to my neglected bookshelves to assiduously plow onward. I've had several delayed "Aha!" moments while reading. After reading, really reading this time, Life of Pi, I thought "Oh! So that's why Dr. Rankin wanted us to read it." I'll say it again, it's sad, really. At least these revelations are coming later rather than not at all.
It's embarrassing to say that I graduated with an BA in English, and I think I should feel ashamed. Instead of learning the satisfaction of hard work and dedication, I learned to be an excellent guesser. I learned to be shrewd and conniving. I learned to read into the questions and the answers choices on a test and discover patterns within classes and teachers. I learned to listen to other student's comments not with an open mind, but one that was sifting and calculating a response that could cast me in an advantageous "I've read this book and understand it" light. My degree feels falsified.

I know I can't be alone. I saw other students with the same hurried look, flipping pages as quickly as humanely possible without ripping them from the spine. I saw the look of anguish turned relief when a professor asked a question that was actually about the part you read. I remember the boasting, "I didn't open this until last night," "I only read 'til the 4th chapter," and "Wikipeida had a great summary." I should start a support group, just so we know we are not alone. We can all feel ashamed together. We can tend to our bruised egos and promise that next time, we'll be different. I'll bring muffins and french-pressed Colombian coffee and start the meeting by saying, "My name is Courtney, and I'm a mediocre student."

Most of my blog entries are dripping with solipsism, aren't they? I need to correct that.

Casserole of Courtney Thought

So when I have neither the motivation nor the energy to create a cohesive blog post, I resort to lists.

-I have a story to tell, a story to write. It's not ready to spew but I can feel it bubbling under my breast and I'm impatient. One day.

-Six months from today I will be referred to thereafter as Mrs. Hernandez.

-Gift registry is not as excited as I always thought it would be. Who knew Bed Bath and Beyond had a Registry Specialist that would drag us around the store recited lines like "Where are you voyaging for your honeymoon? Have you considered new luggage," as he conveniently gestured to the section behind him. I also don't enjoy being admonished for my lack of "color coordination" and my instance that we really don't need or want hand towels.

-I'll admit it. I've watched the new Harry Potter trailer six times in the last two days. I have to divine some inspiration for my opening night costume, duh.

-Why do people feel it's necessary to clarify what they are ordering to drink and what they are ordering to eat? Tonight, a gent said, "Well, to eat I am having...and to drink..." I'm perfectly capable of discerning that you do not want to drink your bacon cheeseburger.

Life is a game and true love is a trophy.

I try to convince myself that I am not a delicate female. I'm a feminist. A liberated woman. There are decades, nay, even centuries, between my kerchief-waving, corset-wearing, side-saddle riding, prone to faint and get the vapors ancestors. Right? I do own three aprons. And I like to knit. When I cook a meal for Ben and myself, there is a part of me that flutters when he says, "Mmm, this is good, Courtney." These feminine bits of me I have come to terms with. Perhaps I'm predisposed to like/be good at cooking but I genuinely enjoy it and being able to CHOOSE what I enjoy IS feminism. But it's the things I can't change, or at least have thus far been unable to quell that I can't get past. I'm a blusher. It would be acceptable if I only turned fire engine red when I was embarrassed but it happens all the time. If I am put on the spot by a teacher or have to argue a point in class I can feel the heat pulse from my cheeks. I don't mind answering; I like class discussion, but I hate that the class can see my fuchsia face and might assume that I'm embarrassed. This, triggers only more rushing blood. If I am being reprimanded for anything, my face flushes and, as an added bonus, my eyes start to well up with tears. Usually, if I have always been on good terms with my boss/superior the teary situation is exacerbated. (i.e. Shmunington Shmearning Shmenter) This isn't always on my mind, just when I have a particular bad case of the "girls."

A repairman from TimeWarner cable came to our apartment today to fix our cable box. I drove out to Mesquite yesterday to get a replacement box because the alternative was to wait two weeks for a repairman to come to our door. Well, we plugged it in and the signal was not going through so we call customer service. Whatever "guidance" they offered on the phone was insufficient so we made an appointment for today. Frustration #1: Why the hell would they say it takes two weeks and when we call to have it checked, a next day slot is suddenly available? Frustration #2: Although we SPECIFICALLY told the technician to call my number, he calls Jeff (who is at work, thus not at home) and says because there is no available parking he is leaving and will see if he has time later to come back. Frustration #4: Obviously annoyed, his response to my friendly "Hi, thanks so much for coming out!" when I let him in the front door is "Yeah, I hope you got it plugged in right or this is fifty bucks." Frustration #5: Upon his discovery of the cable box he says, "Oh, well lookie here. This is plugged in wrong. Surprise. Surprise." Frustration #6: When I tried to ask him why customer service would not ask if we had it plugged in correctly (because they ask if it is plugged in and obviously assume, correctly, that we know very little about cable boxes) he cut me off and spat, "You pick up the box and you assume all liability." Frustration #7: I snapped a favorite rubber hair band in half I was so angry. Frustration #8: His parting words were, "Next time, let us do this so we don't have to deal with all this."

Jack. Ass.

But the most frustrating part about my encounter with the cableman was that I actually got my feelings hurt and cried. Yes, I cried. I couldn't help it. Big, salty globs all over my red cheeks. I have always been resentful for being made this way. Why couldn't I have thicker skin? Writing this now, I feel puerile for being so upset, but this is who I am and I'm stuck with me. Getting ready to embark into my marriage, I am learning to appreciate the differences between Ben and me. He's teaching me to be more thoughtful and aware of my surroundings, to be more productive and timely, and to refuse to let anyone else take responsibility for my choices/life course. He molds me by simply being Ben. His inherent qualities mimic my numerous deficiencies and visa versa. I'm glad that he is different than I. Reluctantly, I am learning to accept who I am.

I am a girl. A girl that cries.

Easy as AB_

One of the keys on my laptop is refusing to work. Let's see if I am able write this entire entry without using it, AND if you are able to figure out which key it is...

Things I've thought about this week:

-I would make a horrendous DJ. When I hear a song that I like, I listen to it over, and over, and over again. It's a borderline obsession. My iPod says "My Girls" has been played 36 times in the last four days. I may need professional help.

-I HATE the Sunshine State's tourism ad with Arnold. Really? You really had him say "I'll be back?" Really? Ugh.

-I have a new least favorite word. Slurry. Ew. I have several theories for my aversion. One: The first syllable reminds me of "slug." Two: The word is always said while a gummy, loosely gelatinous liquid sloshes around on in a bowl or vat. Three: The liquid is usually an unnatural shade and/or has small globules floating in it. Four: The more disgusting the slurry, the more likely it will turn into something I eat on a regular basis.

Okay, I give up. Writing and maintaining my normal onlineness with a 25 letter alphabet is harder than I thought. Markedly, when the key is a letter that is in EVERY SINGLE ONE of my usernames or passwords. My new keyboard is in the mail and hopefully will be in my mailbox soon. Then ourtney's omputer an finally be ompletely normal again.

My dear friend, Martha Stewart, taught me that when making crepes, no matter how skillful the cook, that first ladle into the skillet will yield a sub-par product: either the pan will be too hot or too cold, the ladle-full too much or too little, or the batter too wet or too dry. But, it is only after that first failed crepe that the cook can make the proper adjustments that ensure the rest of the batch will be great.

So that's my allegory. Yes, it has been a long time. But after this brief entry, hopefully I'll be able to be more prodigious.

The past few days have confirmed my suspicions that I am, indeed, an adult. Ben bought a washer and dryer and I find myself bragging about it. I like to watch HGTV's "Property Virgins" and mock the couples with Ben believing that we wouldn't make good candidates because we were too knowledgeable. I now own five wedding magazines. Ugh, I'm a grown up. Sorta.

There IS such a thing as a stupid question.

I don't know what it has been about the month of February, but I have been repeatedly asked some of the dumbest questions by guests in my restaurant. This Sunday, a dude rushes in the restaurant in a tizzy, grabs my arm to get my attention WHILE I'm taking an order from a table and asks, "Is this Dallas?" A few nights earlier, after a cursory examination of our menu, a gentleman looked up and earnestly asked, "How big is the Snookies' 1/2 lb Cheeseburger?" I paused, hoping that he would think about what he just said before I was obliged to reply, "Half a pound." The same night, another table asked me what MKT stood for on our menus. This isn't a stupid question, and I didn't mind answering. "It stands for 'market price.' Our cakes are 3.75 a slice." He asked another non-stupid question. "What kind do you have." "Chocolate or Coconut." But then, he proceeded to ask, "What kind of Chocolate Cake?" "Well," I said, "it's chocolate." "Yeah but what kind of Chocolate Cake?" "Chocolate cake with chocolate icing." After this explanation, he became frustrated and shooed me away with a flick of his wrist. Was I being a bit of a smartass? Yes. But isn't the definition of insanity to repeat the same question/act and expect a different result? I still don't know what he expected me to say. Our restaurant is obviously a hole-in-the-wall sort of joint; chocolate cake with chocolate icing is about as fancy as we get.
I am also boggled when people are offended when I offer certain menu items. In A-town, the God-fearing population would be aghast with each casual offer of wine. "Oh, we don't drink," was the common response. The bar shift on Sunday mornings, which in any other city is a huge money maker, was the punishment shift if any bartender pissed off a manger. No matter how hard the hostess tried, table after church-going table would refuse to sit in our bar just because it was Sunday morning. Oh people.

On a somewhat unrelated note, the newspaper dispenser outside Snookies is my new arch-enemy. It ate two dollars worth of my quarters this morning and then proceeded to eat the twelve additional quarters my manger tried. Now, I have always been this dispenser defender. I shame my co-workers into paying for each and every paper they take out and refuse to be a party to the 2 for 1 paper discount. IN FACT, I will usually walk outside and pay the difference because I feel guilty. I get made fun of a lot for that. So that dispenser needs to watch its back because the next time I can get in, I am taking every single Dallas-Morning News that is there.