unwoven.

for the loves of my life.

2012-01-17T23:04:00.000-08:00

As a society, we are more concerned and conscious of the heart than any other organ in the human body. "Speculation about the heart is at least as old as written history." Compared to any other organ, the heart is more vulnerable and susceptible to disease, trauma, and failure. Despite its extensive protective mechanisms and all that we do to prevent any misgivings, all it takes is one attack, one clot, one broken valve to break the heart. Stop the beating. End the precious life of its owner.

I absorb this harsh reality as I sit on my bed, my sheer curtains finding a way to obscure the final rays of the day’s sunlight, the warmth of the creaking baseboard heater drying my tears as they slowly trickle down my face. I close my eyes and feel my own heart beating. I find myself breathing to its methodical rhythm. Thump. Inhale. Thump. Exhale. I blink back more tears, hoping they don’t smudge the lens to my past as I try to bring it into focus. The tears blur my vision, but I try my best to zero in on what I’ve been looking for.

When there is so much that could possibly go wrong with the human heart, why would anyone in their right, logical, and practical mind, break it free from its protective barriers and leave it out in the open. Why does the phrase “I wear my heart on my sleeve” resonate so closely, well, with my own heart? What normal, rational person thinks its sane to say “Here! This is my heart! Take it and try to be nice to it.” As I peer into the blurred lens revealing the ups and downs of the past year, it becomes clear that I am that crazy lunatic of a girl doing just that (oh, and then blogging about it). Throwing my heart out there into the unknown and relying on a whole hell of a lot of faith that it returns back to me in one piece.

And then, to make it worse, I ice the cake by judging myself. When my heart comes back trampled on, barely pieced together, the blame is on me. My emotions go on a wild rollercoaster, leaving me stranded. Deserted. Alone. I can’t think straight or logically. I chide myself, harshly, and irrationally surrender to the belief that I did this to myself. I put my heart out there recklessly, so this is what I deserve. I do everything else under the sun to physically protect my heart. I limit my indulgence in red meat. I dance my butt off during zumba. I floss my pearly whites like it’s my part-time job. But when it comes to love, caution dances off with the wind and my heart is left unprotected. Unguarded. Alone.

I refocus the lens, bringing other chapters of my life into focus. I find myself looking at the dozens upon dozens of faces of friends and family members who are gentle and kind with my heart. Loved ones who understand and respect the fragility of the human heart. Not just any heart, but my heart. I put my heart on my sleeve for these people, too. And rather than receiving it back in shambles, these people have carefully taken a piece of it. Some have a small portion of my heart. Others have larger portions. But each tiny cell of my itty bitty heart that belongs to those near and dear to me is protected. Guarded. Loved.

The beating of my heart has slowed down, its rhythm more gentle and kinder. The tears have vanished and I find myself accepting the fact that, yes, maybe I am that crazy lunatic of a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve. And maybe I am just another fool in love half the time. And maybe, just maybe, I do take giant leaps of faith when it comes to finding love. But in doing this, in sharing my heart, I have found love in the most uncommon ways. With the most unsuspecting people. With countless friends who have become my family. With my own family members where love was lacking.

My heart may come back to me, broken from the almost lovers who walk in and out of my life, casting me with heartache, tears, and torn emotions. And I may judge myself a bit too harshly, but at least I know that when my heart is in pain or broken, I get it back. You see, the ones who tamper with our hearts don’t deserve to hold onto it. They don’t have the privilege or honor of keeping a piece of that vital organ that keeps us alive and breathing. Putting your heart out there is risky. A bruised heart hurts the soul unlike any other type of bruise. But a heart that is loved, cared for, and respected touches and warms the soul unlike anything else. And the only way this can happen is if I put my heart out there. By wearing my heart on my sleeve, I not only share my love with so many friends and family, but I gain the love of so many. And it is this love that protects and guards my heart, keeping it strong. Beating. Alive.

Thank you to the loves of my life who have protected my heart when I thought all was lost.

a sigh full of life.

2011-12-20T22:00:00.000-08:00

I pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, yanked up the the e-brake and sighed. A former boss once told me quite matter of factly that I must drive potential boyfriends crazy with all my sighing. Is all that sighing really necessary Courtney, he half asked, half stated. It was none of his business, of course, a fact he clearly overlooked. Nonetheless, I politely explained to him that my sighs are not typically out of frustration or restlessness. I sigh to fulfill that very innate craving for a simple little thing called air. A craving that extends beyond my lungs, through my abdomen, all the way down to my toes. But tonight's sigh was different. Tonight's was of the exasperated kind, that kind that was unnecessarily loud and dramatic, yet completely warranted in my mind. I was, as I'm often told I do, catastrophizing. It's December 20th, I haven't purchased a single Christmas present, penned a single Christmas card, or baked a single Christmas cookie. If it weren't for my roommate, our cozy, little two bedroom apartment wouldn't have a single Christmas decoration. So I sighed for my complete and utter disrespect for my absolute favorite holiday. In my defense, November was hands down a pretty shitty month if I may be so blunt, so I did have a rather difficult time finding any semblance of my normal over the top festive spirit. So, I thought, I'll all but skip Christmas this year. But my sigh didn't stop there. I peered out the window into the darkness that crept up so quickly around me and saw that the rain had no intention of tapering off anytime soon. Clearly I was not aware of Mother Nature's agenda this morning when I selectively picked out my "sunny day" only boots that are not meant for any type of precipitation unless I have some irrational desire to ruin them. Get over it Courtney, my mind was quick to pipe up, as I harshly reminded myself that they're nothing more than a pair of completely replaceable shoes.

Pathetically, my sigh was far from over though, as I reflected on the past few weeks. A co-worker recently told me in passing, "you know Courtney, you don't really make small life decisions. When you have your heart set on something, you go after it, and your passion couldn't be more obvious." I joked back that my motto has apparently become "go big, or go home." I recently decided to turn in my CPA license. It won't expire, it just won't remain active, which essentially means I am handing over the keys for a career that I once felt I was supposed to have. Technically I've already done this, when I quit my job two years ago. But this time, I feel like there's no turning back. And what an indescribable feeling that is. I've submitted my resignation at the hospital and am now running full speed into the vast unknown that is my future. So I sighed for the unanswered questions that lay before me. The truth is, I feel liberated, overwhelmed, and nervous all at the same time. Hello, emotion overload! Words cannot express the excitement that is practically radiating from me with the
thought of finally obtaining a second degree in nursing. I'm ecstatic to go back to school, if for no other reason than I actually like to learn. I get bored easily; my mind needs constant TLC, so I gravitate toward learning new things. But holy moly, talk about doing a 180. I've gone from studying tax laws to genetic code. And it seems that's all.I.ever.do. Work. Study. Sleep. Repeat. No wonder I've all but forgotten about Christmas. So I sighed for the huge leap of faith I am about to take once again. Actually, who am I kidding. This isn't some prissy little leap. This is a holy sh*t, jump off the cliff and hope that my parachute wants to work leap of faith. As my overly dramatic sigh drowned out the melody of the radio blaring from my speakers, I only continued with my woe is me catastrophizing. I thought about all of the college applications I need to start, finish, and submit ASA-freaking-P; the hassle of dealing with FAFSA once again; the fact that it looks like I dropped a bomb in the middle of my bedroom and literally woke up with with a cut on the bottom of my toe yesterday because of a dangly earring that somehow landed in my bed rather than in my jewelry box; that I'll soon need to find a new roommate that hopefully isn't a craigslist killer, and that another one of my beloved elderly volunteers recently passed away and I have to face another depressing funeral service. With too much on my mind and too much to do, I figured it would be in my best interest to start making moves.

I calmly opened the car door and stepped out into the rain, my anxiety slowly beginning to fade as I inhaled a breath of fresh air underneath the midnight sky. As I trudged up the steps leading to my apartment, I saw a small package laying on the doormat. A spark of hope ran through my veins as I wondered who it was for. I bent down to pick up the fedex, closing my eyes and selfishly praying that it was for me and not my roommate (I love you Kait, but let's face it, I rarely get mail!). Bringing it closer to my face in the darkness, I peered at the address label and saw my name scrawled in a handwriting so familiar that I didn't even need to look at the return label to see who it was from. I practically paraded up the stairwell, tossed aside my purse and sunk into the armchair. Trying my best to not act like a child on Christmas morning, I patiently attempted to not tear the card in half as I pulled it from its envelope. Casting aside the little patience I had left, I tore open the carefully wrapped gift to unveil a book entitled "The Describer's Dictionary." A book chock full of literary quotations and descriptions to have at my fingertips whenever I write. As I paged through my newly acquired treasure, I sunk back further into the cushioned chair and sighed a sigh of sheer
delight and relief. Little did he know, my dear friend Aaron had sent me something so meaningful and heartfelt, I could practically watch my worries and fears dissipate into thin air. How ironic that something as simple as a book from a best friend could bring me back to reality and replace my sighs of frustration with sighs of comfort...happiness...air.

Christmas, whether I am ready or not, will come along on December 25, just like it does every year. I will navigate through the tangled maze of prerequisite courses, college apps, and student loan apps one way or another. I have made huge leaps of faith before, and with the support of friends and family I have continued to find my way in this crazy little thing called life.

And when I find myself sighing for anything but a deep breath of air or intoxicating gulps of happiness, I'll think of my friend Aaron, whose genuine kindness and selfless friendship brings me back to reality time and time again.

PS. Happy Birthday, Aaron :)

lessons of love.

2011-11-24T00:50:00.000-08:00

A year (and one day) ago I reached out to the wonders of the world wide web to explore some of my innermost thoughts and feelings, ponder at the intricacies and complexities of life, and share some of the "that would only happen with courtney" stories that define my life. I have always been an incredibly expressive person, so as daunting as it is to expose myself in such an open and public, nevermind vulnerable manner, it was very natural for me to do just that. As much as I enjoy being surrounded by the energy of people, I can be fiercely independent, which is why I am so drawn to writing. My mind never.shuts.off. So being able to pour my tiny little heart out to the unassuming, nonjudgmental keys on my laptop in complete solitude is undeniably therapeutic. There's something intimate and wildly refreshing about decompressing through words by candlelight with the company of no one else, but me, myself, and I.

As I sit here tonight, with the soft glow of burning candle flickering beside my computer, my mind is in a million different places. So I turn to my computer and let my fingers type away and quiet my brain.

For the first 18 years of my life, I shared every major milestone with my cousin. Our mothers are sisters and gave birth to us less than two months apart. We lived less than a mile away from each other. It would have been nearly impossible to not go through every chapter of life side by side. So we did just that. And despite our drastic differences - he was private, I am full disclosure; he tested the boundaries, I often times stayed within them; he preferred the attention of few, I love the attention of many; he was tough, I am sensitive - we remained close for the first 18 years of our lives. When we graduated high school, we went our separate ways, reuniting only every now and then at weddings, family picnics, holidays, and the like. I do wish we had remained closer, but I refuse to regret the path I have taken.

Two days ago, my 27 year old cousin vanished from the world, leaving a seemingly empty void in hundreds of broken hearts.

Death, no matter how familiar we are with it, or how much we can anticipate it, prepare for it, and even accept it, is irrational and cruel. It makes even the most faithful of us question and doubt life as we know it. We fight and deny its very occurrence, refusing to believe there is any truth to it. We surrender ourselves to regret and the all too familiar would of, could of, should of's. It's a vicious cycle that someone maliciously put on repeat everytime we lose a loved one to the universe, God, heaven, whatever it is you believe in.

I have been trapped on an emotional rollercoaster that doesn't seem to want to stop any time soon. My heart aches not just for myself, but for the dozens upon dozens of loved ones my cousin is survived by. I could write until the sun starts to peek out from the horizon on this Thanksgiving dawn about the powerful impact my cousin had on each and every one of the lives he touched. But I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want that. Just a little bit of speculation, but I'm listening to my heart and it's telling me not to make this blog about him anymore than it already is.

So I won't. I'd rather take the time to reflect on how such a devastating and untimely death has pushed me to focus on what's positive in life. My heart runneth over in sheer gratitude and happiness (coincidence that I'm writing this as the early morning hours of Thanksgiving roll in? Maybe. Maybe not), yet I don't often pay enough attention to its presence.

My family - immediate and extended - will never cease to amaze me. They truly bring to life the meaning of the phrase "when the going gets tough, the tough get going." The bonds between and across my family members are intense and unbreakable; it truly is a blessing and a half to know that my family will always be there for each other. The past few days have been a huge testament to this fact, a fact that I will always be grateful for.

My gratitude extends beyond this though. For the past year I have felt a sense of contentment that I haven't quite felt before, yet I don't think I have fully expressed it to the people I need to. For the first time, I feel that I am exactly where I need to be, which is unbelievably satisfying for someone who is constantly trying to figure out this crazy little thing called life. I owe a large part of this to my friends, the ones who have taught and guided me until I was on the right path. The love, patience, and honesty my friends have shown me is unparalleled to anything else I've ever experienced. I have needed my best friends so much over the past few days, and their kindness, love, and support have brought me to tears in the privacy of my own bedroom. I am so humbled and honored for their presence in my life and pray that I am there for them they way they are for me. When I stumble, they pick me up; when I overreact, they gently put me in my place; when I cry, they don't try to stop me; when I call at 2 in the morning, they answer. Their love is just as great as the love of my family. It's so easy for me to say "I love you" to my parents, sister, and brother, yet I hardly find myself sharing my love with friends. This week has served as a harsh reminder of how precious life is, a reminder that I am thankful for. We often overlook and take for granted what it means to love and to be loved. And more importantly, to express this love.

So while I can sit here and feel as though there is an empty void in my heart that will never be filled by the passing of my cousin, I feel as though I'd be lying to myself. I want my heart to be overflowing with love for my family and friends, yet this can't happen with a void. So, yes, I will cry my tears and process the irrationality of death, but I will not let there be a void. Filling the void created by death with love is not replacing my cousin or any of the other loved ones who have passed away. It is my way of honoring them.

To all of my friends and family. I love you.

in gratitude.

2011-11-13T00:11:00.000-08:00

I slipped into an oversized, threadbare t-shirt, softened over the years from being worn and washed so many times; flipped the light switch on my wall, allowing darkness to drown out the warm glow of light peering underneath my lampshade; and sunk into my inviting bed, my down comforter and plush pillows embracing my body. My body was craving sleep, but my mind had other ideas. Still not adjusted to the darkness, I blindly felt around for my iPhone, bringing it close to my face. After checking facebook and both e-mail accounts, I typed in the letters of my favorite website, wimp.com, hoping that after watching a few of this week's top videos, my mind would oblige to my body’s request to surrender to sleep.

The first video I watched was extraordinary, a surfer riding a 90 foot wave. I have a deep admiration for surfers who can face the enormous depths of the ocean without an ounce of fear. Although I am very much a lover of all things beach related, the magnificent power of the ocean will always overwhelm me. So for 24 seconds my eyes widened in fascination as I watched a surfer defeating a rapidly crumbling 90 foot wall of water. Breathtakingly amazing.

I clicked back to the homepage and scanned the titles, waiting for another video to speak to me. Because that’s what I’ve come to do in life, go after the things that speak straight to my heart and mind. Probably a silly notion to some, but it’s a way of life that I have adopted and truly thrive on. One of my favorite aspects of this site is how understated the titles are. When my eyes glazed over the link entitled “Simple Gratitude,” my heart may have skipped a beat. My cousin, Tricia, writes a blog about living a life of gratitude, and I just knew that this video would speak to me the way her blogs speak to me. When I realized that it was a link for a TED talk (please, please, please google TED talks if you have no idea what the heck I’m talking about. You’ll do your brain a huge favor. Trust me. Go on, google it!), my heart sank a bit. As much as I love TED talks, this particular one was ten minutes, short for a TED talk, but I honestly didn’t know if I wanted to devote that much time to it. I really did need to get some shut eye! But, alas, I did...

And so should you.

Because, oh.my.God, my inspiration levels skyrocketed through the roof as I absorbed every.single.word and every.single.picture in the video.

I really wish I could find the right words to describe the instantaneous effect this video had on me, but I just know that my words will not do it justice. For anyone reading my blog, I implore you to watch this video www.wimp.com/simplegratitude.

Louis Schwartzberg, a name I admittedly had never heard of before viewing this TED talk, is an award winning cinematographer, specializing in time lapse photography. His footage alone was enough to take my breath away. What followed after his introduction was a narrative so empowering I knew I had to capture it in my blog.

Today is a gift, be thankful for it. Yes, I get it. We’ve all been told this a million times before and I guarantee we’ll probably be reminded of this a million more times. But what does this phrase really mean. What if we each take this already simple concept and break it down even further.

How much would my life be different - for the better - if I actually took a step back to be fully present in my life, rather than just going through the motions. Each day isn’t just another day. It’s the one day that’s been given to each of us and it’s the one gift we’ve all been given to celebrate life. I want my life to be BIG and beautiful. But, in order for this to happen I must be an active participant in my own life. I need to realize all that I already have.

Louis quotes that 80% of the information we receive comes through our eyes. How often do I overlook the beauty of what is right in front of me and focus my energy on silly, negative things. How often do I overlook the ridiculously awesome fact that I am blessed with eyes that allow me to see the unparalleled beauty of life. If I just opened them and looked beyond what is right in front of me I could tap into so much more. The faces of the people I interact with each and every day hide thousands of stories just waiting to be shared. How often do these stories go overlooked because I am “too busy” to look at what my eyes are actually trying to show me. I have the ability to choose what I want to look at and internalize, a blessing that is so often taken for granted.

Life is worthy of gratitude. What if I began cultivating a grateful response to all that life provides me with. After all, isn’t gratefulness the most appropriate response for the gift of each present moment I am given. A heart can never be too full to be thankful. It can never have too much love or kindness. But how often do we dismiss the very essence of our hearts and the blessings that manifest from within them. I want my heart to overflow with gratitude for the things I have and the life I’ve been blessed with. I may not have all of the material things someone wealthier than me may have. But I have so much to be grateful for this very second in time. I have access to water. I can drink healthy water whenever I want to and take an exceedingly hot shower just because I feel like it. Such an incredibly simple thing, but something that not everyone has. I have the ability to process the wonder of the human touch and how it warms my soul. I can pick up my phone and be in touch with the dozens of people I love and cherish within seconds. I can sit in the warmth of my own home and type my innermost thoughts and feelings and share them with anyone I want to. I can enjoy a lazy Saturday evening by myself doing absolutely nothing and love every second of it. I can love and be loved. I can have my own hopes and dreams and explore all that life has to offer.

The sense of wonder we each have for life is extraordinary, but we’ll never realize it until we learn to be grateful for it. Once we’re present in our lives, we’ll be able to understand the very present of life.

...With so much to think about - to be grateful for - my mind was finally tired enough for sleep. I clicked off my phone, sunk further into my bed and drifted off into a dream of gratitude.

listening is making a comeback.

2011-10-08T00:19:00.000-07:00

"How is your husband feeling?" I asked my colleague, feigning sincerity as I was asking more out of sheer politeness than of genuine concern. A pang of guilt still rings through me for my insincerity, especially since it's my co-worker who I don't care for, rather than her innocent ailing husband. She offered little detail in her reply, being careful to match my somewhat obvious disinterest in the conversation. I was gracious of her valiant effort to at least fast forward through as many awkward pauses as possible. As she droned on and on, my mind was left to wonder. I was just beginning to space out when that ever so slight part of my brain that was still engaged in the conversation picked up on something she was saying. Her voice had turned bitter, as if there was an unpleasant taste in her mouth. What rolled off her pretentious tongue next really shouldn't have come as surprise to me, but it did. Apparently this woman, in all of her prestige and power, didn't have a regard for other people's problems given her own situation at home. After all, how could anyone else's problems added up together even remotely compare to what she was going through at home?

Maybe I should have given her a high-five for saying what a lot of us tend to think, but would never dream of admitting to our loved ones...family...friends. It's incredibly easy for us - me, you - to get so wrapped up into our own problems that we tend to lose sight of reality. We become so absorbed in the things that are troubling us - however big or small they may be - that we often forget about the one thing that ties together all of humanity. We are not alone. Instead of embracing the reality of this, we crawl deeper into our holes, creating barriers amongst us. We start to compare our woes to those of our friends and enemies. The deeper we crawl, the thicker the walls become, until we no longer even reach out to the loved ones we once so desperately needed. Of course, I realize, it's okay to bottle our emotions at times. To internalize our thoughts and feelings. To simply not want to reach out to a friend. I get this. I've been there before. And sometimes it's nice to throw a pity party for no one else but y-o-u, complete with a bottle of wine, a pint (or two) of ice cream, a sappy chic flick, hell even a goody bag filled with candy to get you through the next day...you get the point. And sometimes, it's even okay to feel as though everyone else but you can live a carefree life without a worry in the world. The danger occurs when you don't resurface and you tread in the waters of comparison, which is exactly what my co-worker was doing.

I have been on both sides of this spectrum. I have been the one to compare (Oh you're going to a funeral? Try going to 20 by the time you're 20. Oh you know someone with cancer? So do I. She passed away when I was 15). It's easy to be this person. To be the one who thinks everyone else has it easier. To think you're the only one with the fabulous luck of the Irish. To latch onto the "of course this would only happen to me" attitude. Being the other person, however, often comes as a slap in the face. It sneaks up on you and bam!, out of no where someones asking you "Who do you think you are?! You think you have problems!?" This happened to me recently. Someone very near and dear to me said very matter of factly that her problems were of way more importance than anything I could possibly have going on in my life right now.

Is that so?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But what's the benefit of letting ourselves sink so low as to compare our problems to those of others. You don't win if you have more troubles than your best friend. Your life isn't of more value or importance based on how many problems you have. Perhaps when we stop comparing and start listening, we (myself included) will realize we're not alone and that we can lean on each other to get through the tough times. Sadly, this world is in such short supply of this invaluable resource. Quality listening skills. Not hearing. But actually engaging our minds to listen to one another without having to talk over one another.

In the past few weeks I've had the opportunity (yes, the opportunity, not the obligation) to listen to several teenagers who came into my office to express some very personal fears and anxiety provoking issues. At one point one of the girls dismissively said, "I'm sorry. My problems must seem so small and stupid. You're so much older, your problems are probably much more important. I shouldn't be wasting your time." I quietly let her words sink in. At such a young and innocent age, this girl was already belittling her own personal woes. What, I wondered, is she going to do when she's experienced more that life has to offer? Sit in silence and never "bother" anyone with her feelings? I wanted to grab her and shake the absurdity out of her. Were her issues ones of life or death? No. Did they seem as significant as the constant battle my friend's brave two year old daughter is going through right now? No. But the fact that this teenager chose to open up to me meant that she needed someone to listen to her. She needed to know that she wasn't alone.

And so I put my own worries aside and listened. I didn't compare, I just listened. When she left my office later on, I knew she wasn't alone. Neither was I.

And maybe, just maybe, my co-worker needs someone to sincerely listen to her, as well.

the soundtrack to my life.

2011-09-25T22:10:00.000-07:00

"Wouldn't it be nice if we had a soundtrack to our lives?" Kaitlin hopefully asked as she watched a Jane Austen movie this past Saturday. Even though I was immersed in yet another book and was tuning out the dialogue, I was still absorbing and enjoying the melody that transpired softly in the background. I sighed and agreed, taking a second to reflect on how intriguing it would be if we each had our own personalized soundtrack identifying with our every move throughout life. The truth is, while we don't have a unique playlist that accompanies the rhythm of our life, despite Pandora's attempt with its Music Genome Project, we can choose to identify with certain melodies, harmonies, lyrics, and vocals.

As I made my hundredth effort to lighten my life and organize the catch all storage closet that barely closes this weekend, I came across a box overflowing with old pictures, journals, and cards permeated with nostalgia. Delicately, I picked up a journal I had not written in, nevermind even picked up since I tied the fraying string that sealed its cover over three years ago. I flipped through the dusty old thing, eventually stumbling upon a passage in which I wrote "I feel our society does its best to remind you of your heartbreak...constant 24/7 overly repetitive reminders that break you down and suffocate you from all angles. Where do these reminders come from? Music. After all, 'music is what feelings sound like (anon).' For the past month I've been hearing my feelings constantly." I was at an admittedly low point in my life, where a series of events had evoked more emotions than I knew I was capable of owning, let alone expressing. I was consumed with frustration, guilt, disappointment, and anxiety. While I had the support of some truly amazing friends, I still found myself turning to music, at times as a crutch to feel sorry for myself; other times as a ray of hope to pick myself up from the mess I had created. Certain lyrics spoke straight to my heart, as if the words existed solely for me. Looking back on this time, it's no wonder that it was so easy to identify with the songs that overflowed my playlist. I was the one selecting the songs. After a few months of wallowing in a ominous blue pool of depression, I grew tired of the burden that was weighing me down. So I made the choice to create a new path for myself without looking back. And with this, the soundtrack of my life changed for the better. As I surrounded myself with friends who brought out the best in me, the music that I gravitated toward lifted my spirits and renewed my soul. I was finding peace from within and learned to love myself again.

I recently made the choice to open that heavy door I so vehemently slammed shut three years ago. It opened with ease, as I found that time had healed my broken heart. I was finally ready to let go of the past, while able to relish in the beauty of the memories that resulted. The past had pushed me to find myself and in doing so, I embarked on so many adventures; some solo, some with newfound friends, and many with the fabulous friends and family I've already been blessed with. I didn't just step out of my comfort zone, I ran out of it with open arms, ready to explore all that life has to offer. I tapped into new interests; became more open minded, not only to myself, but to others, and in doing so, found an absolutely mesmerizing side of life I had been missing out on.

Quickly ascending to the top of my soundtrack for the past few weeks is Adele's increasingly popular Someone Like You. During times of solitude, the song is often on repeat, her words speaking volumes about my life experiences. "Regrets and mistakes are memories made." Surely these words can be interepreted more than one way -- to each their own -- but for me, the mistakes I've made, the regrets I've held onto and learned to let go of, created lasting memories and, more importantly, paved the path for more memories to fill my soul with. Because, isn't that the best part of life? Having memories to hold close to your heart, knowing that you've fully lived and soaked up all that life has to offer. How nice of music to remind me of this.

So as my mind drifts back to Kaitlin's wishful thinking, I know that music will never simply take a natural presence in the background of my life. But I also know that a life without music would be terrifyingly dull. Fortunately, I have the power to create my own soundtrack as I navigate through this crazy life. One that helps me through a heartbreak, provides serenity when sadness sets in, complements my happiness, or simply combines the perfect melody and vocals to feed my soul. And for this I am forever thankful.

the little green book.

2011-09-07T22:55:00.000-07:00

"Everything is going to be OK," the cover of my recently acquired book whispered to me as tears trickled down my cheek. "Everything is going to be OK."

I first stumbled upon this book at a teensy tiny boutique tucked away in the Marina District of San Francisco a few months ago. I immediately fell in love with the concept of the book; the use of art and simple words to serve as reminder of the power - and beauty - of optimism. Tight on money (as the bank of Courtney always is), I only purchased one copy, and bestowed it upon a darling cousin of mine, who I was absolutely certain would appreciate the celebration of inspiration and happiness offered by this book.

A few months later, I found myself idly perusing the shops of Detroit International Airport, hoping to make the time between my flights go by just a tad quicker. Nestled amidst a Starbucks, McDonalds, and your standard airport convenience store was a humble little shop that couldn't be more out of place than if it were in the middle of a football stadium. Its whimsical knick knacks and sundries apparated me from the hustle and bustle of the airport to a place more befitting to a scene in Alice in Wonderland. It was just what I needed to lighten my mood and brighten the gloomy day that taunted me from the vast windows lining the terminals. Longing for more inspiration to shake me out of my funk, I saw a familiar little green book staring at me. Its bold white letters practically screamed to me, "Everything is going to be OK." Without hesitation, I plucked the book off the shelf, made my purchase and tucked it securely away in my carryon.

I keep the book by my bedside, propped up like a picture frame, its simple presence a gentle reminder to embrace all that is positive in my life. I often find myself flipping through its pages, absorbing the powerfully candid words that break the cycle of my hectic days, allowing me to come up for a breath of fresh air. I am reminded to "be present everyday" and that "things are looking up." I read that "it is okay for me to have everything I want." There are days when I thumb through every page and then there are the days when I flip directly to my favorite quotes. Some words are more empowering than others, some more humorous, some more sentimental; but all of them speak to straight to my heart.

So as I sit here tonight, with tears trickling down my cheek, I once again turn to my book. The little go-to bible for a 20 something year old girl, lost in a little place called life. I read through the book once, then a second time for good measure. And deep down in my soul to the farthest depths of my heart, I can just feel that everything will be OK.

the stranger on the plane.

2011-08-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

What is it that you're doing over there, the intrigued passenger next to me questioned. Listlessly, I replied that I was writing and continued to punch away at my keyboard. This didn't seem to satisfy him and he tried again. Impatiently, I glanced up to see why this complete stranger was so interested in me when, quite frankly, the interest was clearly not mutual. My eyes shifted from the glare of my computer screen to a tanned face framing a pair of deep, mysterious eyes. Immediately, my eyes drifted down to his left hand, and I quickly thanked God that he was wearing a wedding band. I wasn't in the mood to be hit on by a 50 year old. I politely explained that I had recently joined the bandwagon of blogging. Puzzled, he said "blogging?" Doing my best to avoid the automatic roll of my eyes response that is triggered when I'm agitated by someone, I explained what blogging was. Then, in a hasty attempt to adhere to social etiquette, while keeping the conversation snappy, I went through the obligatory introduction process, hoping that my computer could have my undivided attention, sooner rather than later.

After five minutes of chatting, I succumbed to the fact that there was no hope of returning to my blog. My newest companion couldn't seem to stop talking and I simply didn't have the heart to cut him off. The more he talked, the more I realized there was something different about this complete stranger, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. There was something about him that seemed so...lost, yet so hopeful all at the same time. There was a certain urgency in his voice, a compelling need to continue conversing with me. Before I knew it, he was unravelling a tangled story of sadness, anger, frustration, and guilt. His perfectly healthy brother-in-law was killed two days prior in a freak accident a mere two hours after he had spoken to him on the phone. I didn't know what to say. I barely knew this person. He barely knew me. What could I possibly say to help this helpless stranger. Finally, I understood the sadness in his eyes, the pain in his face, the confusion in his mind. Despite my most valiant efforts to dig deep into my soul to find the perfect words to soothe him, I couldn't formulate a
sentence. So I listened. And amidst my interjections of "I'm so sorry" and "oh my goodness, how terrible," he continued to pour his heart out to me. Slowly, the urgency in his voice dissipated, replaced by a wave of calmness. With less desperation in his voice, he acknowledged that he wasn't much of a writer himself, but was still curious if I received any benefit from writing. Ahhh, so this is why he was so intrigued when he saw me furiously typing away. Making up for my prior loss of words, my whole face lit up as I explained how incredibly therapeutic writing can be for the mind, body, and soul. The act of writing transports me light years away from reality, allowing me to open up my mind and channel my deepest, innermost thoughts and feelings out of my body onto a piece of paper (...or computer screen) in a brilliantly constructive conglomeration of words. When I write, I'm able to examine all of the things that plague my mind, allowing me to think more clearly and understand life as I know it just a little bit more. As I talked away, it dawned on me that the therapeutic benefits I reap from writing are perhaps the same benefits this man was gaining from simply talking to me. This man needed someone. Right then and there. He needed the warmth of a human voice to subdue the pain and anguish that was torturing him inside. He just needed a person who would listen to him as he questioned the meaning of life and the complexities of death. He needed to be able to talk freely to someone who wouldn't judge his complaints about the unfairness of this crazy ride we call life. He needed to put his vulnerabilities on the line and let his guard down. He didn't specifically need me. I just happened to be the person Orbitz.com placed next to him on a flight from Atlanta to Philadelphia.

And so this person turned to me. As much as I tried to remain strong and not let the sadness of this man and his story permeate into my heart, I could feel the tears forming. It doesn't take long for the floodgates of my seemingly never ending supply of tears to open, and I was quickly reaching my breaking point. One by one, the tears slowly slid down my cheeks, meeting the edges of my mouth, their saltiness tantalizing my lips. Collecting my thoughts, I turned to him and slowly offered him my insight. The truth is there is no reason for freak accidents. These types of things can happen to anyone at anytime, anywhere. We are all vulnerable to life and death. And as much as we yearn for a reason as to why certain things happen and certain things don't, we'll never know for sure. The only thing we can do is accept life when these unfortunate and tragic events are bestowed upon us. It is up to us to find the courage to move upward and onward. I then reminded him that it's even possible to extract something positive from this untimely, tragic accident. The death of his brother-in-law served as an unexpected reminder to me and, now to you, my "audience" of how fragile life truly is. How lucky was I to be on a flight home to the happiness of my family, when this man was flying home to the sadness of his. How fortunate was I to be the person this man chose to open up to. I wouldn't have known this person from the next random guy in the airport, but for whatever reason, we were seated next to each other on an airplane packed with dozens upon dozens of people. And for that I am truly thankful.

As the plane taxied down the runway, the man graciously thanked me for listening. I assured him that I was incredibly grateful to be his airplane companion and that my thoughts and prayers would be with him and his family.

Later on that day, I still couldn't stop thinking about my flight home. A flight that was supposed to be dedicated to blogging turned into a story that I will forever hold near and dear to my heart. A complete stranger was able to provoke my emotions in their rawest form. The horrific death of someone I never knew had not only affected his family, friends, and loved ones, but me - a complete stranger.

for my dad.

2011-06-19T15:03:00.000-07:00

First things first: Much like my sister, my dad does not exactly do "full house moments." But, being that it is Father's Day, I thought it only appropriate to express my gratitude for him the best way I know how to: by dedicating a blogpost to him.

I could sit here and write pages upon pages of how awesome my dad is, resurrecting stories from the past that could have anyone doubled over in fits of laughter. Quite frankly, it would probably be easier to do just that, rather than keep this short and sweet, which is precisely what my dad would prefer.

Let's be honest. My dad and I may not always see eye to eye on everything, we certainly have had our fair share of arguments, and there have definitely been a couple of times when I've been so frustrated with him that you could almost see the steam coming out of my ears. Isn't that how it goes with someone you love? You take the good with the bad and the bad with the good. It's the people you love the most that are capable of evoking your innermost emotions.'

In many ways, my dad resembles the fathers Hollywood creates in its wholesome family movies and tv series (remember Tim Allen from Home Improvement?!), but in many more ways, my dad is far superior. In my younger years, he was the head softball coach for both my sister and I for years on end. He never once missed a game - even if it meant an IV machine came in tow when he was released from the hospital (true story!). As I grew up and older and entered the dating scene - most father's worst nightmares - my dad played it cool. He trusted my judgment in boys and was never overbearing or intimidating. (Thanks, Dad!). My dad rarely raised his voice -probably because most of the time he couldn't keep a straight face when disciplining my younger sister (which to this day still bemuses my mom). Despite this, we always knew when my dad meant business.

My absolute favorite example of this was when my sister and I were still living at home. It was your typical January in Jersey - frigid and snowy. It was six or seven am and a pretty severe ice storm had just made its way through town, so undoubtedly my sister and I were still fast asleep, only to be woken up by my dad bellowing from the back door, "Courtney! Ashley! Wake up! This isn't college! Get up and help your mother shovel!!!!" This was pretty routine in a household where sleeping in translates to wasting your day away. However, this wasn't a typical shovel snow request (read: demand) my dad was making, it was a request (again, read: demand) to shovel ice. Begrudgingly, Ashley and I got out bed, cursing a blue streak as we bundled up and wondered if other parents made their twenty something year old daughters get up at ungodly hours to shovel *ICE*. To make matters worse, our dad was abandoning us to help the post office put snow chains on their mail truck tires. So while my dad was out being a good Samaritan, Ashley and I chipped and cursed our way through the 2 inch layer of ice that had glazed our driveway. After several hours of extreme physical labor (think I'm exaggerating? You go "shovel" ice), our dad finally rolls up to the driveway. I'm pretty sure an intense screaming match was about to go down, until we saw my dad waltz around the front of the car carrying two piping hot cocoas and a bag of donuts for us. Needless to say, Ashley and I bit our tongues and graciously accepted the hot drinks and my dad's gratitude for us helping out. Even though I chose not to understand it back then, I am now mature enough to admit to the lessons my dad instilled on us that day and dozens of times over again:

Take responsibility and don't expect other people to do your work for you. Lend a helping hand without being asked to. Work hard and play hard.

The unspoken lessons didn't start or stop there. Over the years, especially the more recent ones, my dad and I have grown closer on a more emotional level. Maybe it's because of all of our bonding over Monday Night Football, Dancing with the Stars (that's right, my dad is the one who got me hooked -- a fact that I gushed to Maxim upon meeting him in LA), or NatGeo Wild. Maybe it's because of the times when my mom puts my dad on babysitting duty during family vacays and he's stuck indoors with me, because I'm so sunburned. Whatever the reason, I am so grateful for our present day bond and our ability to have a heart to heart. Whether he knows it or not, my dad is the person who has taught me to make the best of every situation, to be patient and kind, and most importantly make the most of the cards you've been handed and let go of the things that won't matter in the long run.

Happy Father's Day, Tookus (a term coined by the one and only Miriam T. Khan).

Love, Court

PS. Molly and Mia are so thankful that you're their pack leader ;)

only me.

2011-05-17T20:55:00.000-07:00

200 miles. 28 hours. 24 Bouncing Boobs. And I had the time.of.my.life once again. Our team raised over $2,500 in an effort to raise awareness about organ donation. So here is a huge, heartfelt thank you to each and everyone of you who donated money, shared Brent's story with family and friends, signed up to be an organ donor, wished me good luck, or simply read my blog.

Now for the fun stuff. AKA how I went from falling flat on my face to losing the time to getting stuck in a sports bra to burning my ovaries to finishing 16.5 miles.

Simply put, winter in Jersey sucks. So when mother nature blessed us with a 60 degree day in February I *had* to go for a run. Nevermind the fact that I didn't get home from work until 8pm and it was dark out. Nevermind the fact that my parentals were still my roommates and my mom insisted on giving me her two cents. Two very smart cents, that went something like this:

Mom: "Courtney!! it's dark out, you are not going for a run."
Me: (in a very defiant manner): "Mom!! I'm 26 and I will go for a run if I want." And then just for good measure, I added "plus, it's Hopewell, nothings going to happen."
Mom: "Well that's just stupid. Do you even have your ID with you?"
Me: (rolling my eyes): "Really Mom!? Don't be ridic. Nothing's going to happen. I'm just going for a quick jog through town."

Fast forward ten minutes later and I'm running through town thinking about what a gorgeous night it is even if it is a little dark. Two seconds later and I am flat on my face. Literally.flat.on.my.face. I have no idea what happened. I couldn't even blame it on icy sidewalks (remember it was 60 degrees out)! I just remember flying through the air, doing everything I could to avoid falling, and landing on the ground. Picture a horrific slide into home plate and that was basically me. Dazed and very confused, I looked up and three EMTs had already swarmed around me. How convenient of me to take a little track snack right outside of Hopewell's Fire Department. As I fought back tears (mostly of the embarrassment variety), I insisted that I was fine (yea, okay Court) and would be okay to run home. The EMTs were not having it and maintained that I wasn't running anywhere except right into their car so they could escort me home. I practically begged them to let me continue, but being that I was outnumbered three to one, I had no choice. So, 26 year old me was scooped into the car (thank GOD it was not an ambulance) and an EMT drove me home. And, just because the situation couldn't get any worse, the EMT politely asks, "So,was this your first time ever going for a run?" I almost died, because let's not forget that I played sports my entire childhood (including track) and this was my very first day of training for The Relay. It was as though the EMT sucked all of the motivation from my very soul. Oh, and the best part, as we drove home, who do I pass, but my mom taking the pups for a walk. Talk about the luck of the Irish! So, in my best Jersey Shore effort, I did the dip. I ducked and crossed my fingers hoping my mom wouldn't see me. But let's be honest, based on how my knees looked, it was only a matter of minutes before my mom heard the whole story (no help from my dad thank you very much!).

Two months later and my training for The Relay is going remarkably well. No more falls, no more escorts home by an EMT, no more lectures from Mom. I'm at the point where I'm running six miles and I'm trying to focus on my time. The thing is, when you focus on time, you obviously need a watch. So there I am at work, changing into my workout clothes, getting pumped by my usual pitbull fix, when I realize that my trusty, hot pink watch that has been my faithful running companion for years is dead. Panic sets in. I cannot run without a watch. I simply cannot do it. I frantically tear my office apart searching for a battery, because we all know that I need to run while the sun's still shining after my running in the dark incident. (The fact that you actually need to go to a store to get your watch battery swapped out was completely lost to me at this time). I then start dialing everyone I know in the hospital, hoping I can find a watch so I can still get my run in. Sometimes, my stubbornness really gets the best of me, because, quite honestly, I really could have gone for a run without a damn watch.

Finally, there's a light at the end of the tunnel. My cousin Brent was still working his shift in the ER and said I could borrow his watch. Woohoo! I knew I could do it! Forget the fact that my wrists are so incredibly tiny and Brent was not lending me a sports watch. It was one of those super nice looking watches meant to fit a guy. As I watched the watch dangle pathetically from my very skinny wrist, wondering what good this watch was going to do me (with my luck, the watch would have flung off and shattered two seconds into my run), Brent was at my side strapping the watch to me with some good ole coban just like I was a patient of his. The end result: priceless. Can I just say WINNING!

If anyone has ever been shopping with me, you know that I require an assistant when trying on clothes. My very being defies gracefulness and eloquence. So leave it to me to get stuck in a sports bra by myself in a dressing room at Dick's Sporting Goods. It was a week before The Relay and I decided my workout wardrobe was long overdue for an update. Any excuse to go shopping. So off I went for some solo retail therapy. As I perused the store, I grabbed anything and everything in sight. New running tights? Definitely, just in case it's cold when I'm running in the middle of the night. New tank top just because? Absolutely! Reebok EasyTone Long Bra Top designed to create resistance as you move and help maintain proper posture? Yes, please! I'm not shy about my small boobs, so I grabbed a small and headed to the dressing room. Not more than 30 seconds alone in the dressing room and I'm already having problems. I should have known that if I had to struggle to get into the Reebok EasyTone sports bra, there was no way I was getting it off alone. And believe me, I put up a very valiant effort to get that freaking top off. I was able to shimmy the the top up to my neck, but then I was stuck. And could barely breathe. I couldn't have ripped the fabric if I tried. I was able to shimmy it back down around my chest, but that was it. So there I was, stuck in a dressing room half dressed, half naked, pondering my options....search the store for a sales associate and ask someone to remove it...or...purchase it while it's still stuck on me. Courtney: 0. Sports Bra: 1. As a competitive person, losing to a sports bra is an epic failure.

Sooo when kdubs decides to give my phone a little ring a ling, I realize there's still hope! Lucky for me, my mom happened to be pulling into the same shopping center I was in and came to my rescue. But before she did, while I was stuck in the dressing room, I decided to have a little photo shoot with me, myself, and I. Oh and just so you know, I did not purchase anything that day. But here's a huge shout out to my mamacita!

Finally, the day of the Relay is upon us. And, I know that for some this may be considered TMI, but for purposes of this story, I have to disclose that I had my period. Translation? I had the worst cramps in.the.entire.world. Killer cramps and I had to run 16.5 miles. Can a girl catch a break!? After almost collapsing after my first leg (although, I must say I ran hella fast because I was in so much pain I just had to be done), I took my mom's advice and purchased a heat pack. So right before I embarked on my second leg of 6.5 miles I stuck the heat pack right over my lower tummy. Not over my running tights, but smack down on my actual skin. Homegirl was in pain and desperate times call for desperate measures. Who cares that the instructions come with a gigantic warning stating that the heat pack should not be placed directly on skin. So, of course, after a couple of miles into my run, I realize I could not take the heat any longer. I swear it felt like my ovaries were burning. My hopes of having babies one day were going down the drain. A bit dramatic, yes, but you let me know how it goes if you ever run with a heating pack placed directly on your skin. Needless to say, I was able to rearrange the heating pack, but not without looking like a complete fool while trying to run under the pitch black sky at 10pm (because Heaven forbid I stop running for two seconds).

There may or may not have been a few more typical Courtney moments during The Relay, but I can't disclose all of my stories :)

for my mom.

2011-05-08T13:32:00.000-07:00

Why I thought it was a fabulous idea to take a red eye back to the east coast is beyond me. Throw a three hour layover in Hotlanta into the mix and now we're really talking.

But, alas, I did just spend 10 days on my favorite coast with several amazing friends, so I suppose I shouldn't be complaining. Plus now I have all the time in the world to throw myself into one of my most beloved hobbies - writing. So here I am with my one suitcase, plus one personal item, my laptop, my purse, an extra bag thatI accumulated somewhere along the way, tuning out the chaos that has embraced the airport food court in the early morning rush, losing myself to my new favorite CD (thanks, Trish!), and sprawled out at a table in typical Courtney fashion as though I'm in the comfort of own very humble abode.

My brain is on overload. They say you only use a fraction of your brain, but after the past ten days I feel as though my brain is chock full of *stuff*. I'm operating at 100% capacity. I have so much I want to write about; I feel as though I could take another week off of work to just write. Collect the thoughts, the stories, the experiences that are taking over my brain, and ship them off on that channel that travels through my fingertips finding themselves transformed into words on my blog. And I will do just that - well not take another week off as much as I'd like to - but I will be writing. Alot. So keep your eyes peeled.

But this morning I want to write about something different. I want to take a few minutes to celebrate my Mom in honor of Mother's Day (even if she did cram in her birthday, anniversary with my Dad, and Mother's Day in the span of less than a week! Really, Mom!!?).

The short version: My mom is a remarkable person.
.
If you want the "Full House" version that would make my sister cringe due to its unabashed honesty, read on.

My Mom and I have always shared a very special relationship. She is without a doubt one of my best friends. That go-to person you seek for her words of wisdom, unparalleled guidance, and unconditional love. Make no mistake, our relationship has been far from perfect. We have had our fair share of ups and downs. We certainly do not see eye to eye on everything. There have been many times when we have driven each other to the point of insanity and on the surface I have questioned our relationship with each other. But, through it all, she has remained by my side; my beacon of hope, my avid supporter, my friend, my Mom.

At my age my Mom already had two children, miscarried a third, and was planning for my sister. While my dad worked to financially support our family, my mom sacrificed her career goals to be a stay at home mom. Times were not always easy. In fact they were far from easy most of the time. But my parents made it work. Instead of having the material things that most of my friends had, I had a Mom (and Dad) at almost every one of my softball games. My dance lessons. My races. My track meets. My field hockey games. My lacrosse games. Instead of having one house to call a home, I grew up in multiple houses in one town, and was taught that a house is not what makes a home - it's the people in your life that do. I learned that life is what you make of it, rather than what you have. Experiences outweigh possessions. Compassion, respect, and forgiveness are traits that will take you far in life.

I look at where I am in my life today - my success, my happiness, my well-being - and know that I would not be here without my Mom's presence. I am at the age where I fully understand what my Mom gave up for me. I recognize the fact that this came at a cost to her. The values she instilled in my life - in my brother's and sister's lives - are values that will be with me forever. I can only hope that I impart a fraction of this wisdom onto my children one day.

I often joke that my mind is like that of an elephant's. I have a superb memory (if I do say so myself), and everyone knows that an elephant never forgets! With that being said, I have tucked away hundreds of memories involving my Mom - good, bad, funny, sad. Some of the memories are old, dusty and ridden with cobwebs; others are fresh, lingering with ripeness. As I sit here on the plane (I've relocated from the hustle and bustle of the food court to actually board my plane) I plucked two memories from my brain.

The first was about 10 years ago. Maybe 15. I was walking along the beach with my Mom in, where else, but South Carolina (our home away from home in the summer), and I distinctly remember saying to my Mom how much I couldn't wait to be older. Immediately my Mom replied, "Courtney, never wish your life away." A simple statement. One that my Mom has probably long since forgotten. I, however, have never forgotten that moment or those words of wisdom that rolled off of my Mom's tongue so effortlessly. Don't get me wrong. I find myself constantly saying I can't wait for "xyz." It's the underlying meaning of that statement that has given my life so much meaning. In essence they helped mold my philosophy on life. You never know what tomorrow will bring. Live each day to the fullest. Know the difference between living a carefree life and a careless life, as the disparity is paramount.

The second, equally as casual moment occurred right before I headed off to sunny California to confirm my aspirations of moving west. Before I slipped out the door into the early morning twilight I gave my Mom a quick hug and she whispered "I am so proud of you." I will never forget this moment for as long as I live. Moving to California was a dream of mine and to know how proud my Mom was that I was able to fulfill my own dream - to pick up and leave with no regrets - will forever bring a smile to my face.

So thank you, Mom. For everything.

Happy Mother's Day!

<3 Court

Courtneyisms on Running.

2011-04-19T21:54:00.000-07:00

After my last post, I figured I'd share something a bit...lighter. Something carefree and refreshing, for me, at least. So, without further ado, I'd like to present you with what I proudly call the Courtneyisms on Running:

1) Run in circles.

Most people cringe at the thought of running around in circles. I, however, cherish my time on the track. Running is already incredibly therapeautic, but when you throw circles into the mix....ahh, it's a tiny slice of heaven sent down from the gods of psychotherapy. My mind comesthisclose to shutting off, which is a miracle in and of itself. When I'm on the track, I don't have to think. After a few laps , my legs fall into this beautiful rhythm that requires virtually no concentration. I let go and I run.

2) Want to get noticed? Go for a run.

Think about the last time you were driving and saw someone running. Admit it, you totally checked that person out. So if you're feeling down, need some attention, grab your sneakers and hit the streets. Want to get noticed even more? See Courtneyism Number 5.

3) Forget the orgasm, give me a downhill.

I'm not talking about a 90 degree descent, because quite honestly that's just as difficult as running uphill, especially when you lack any type of core strength (ahem, such as yours truly). But, when you're running uphill, there is nothing your body wants more than a downhill stretch. Just the sheer thought of a slight decline after I've been running uphill is enough to put me over the edge, and then when you finally take that first step downhill...ah...pure bliss. So the next time you're running up Mt. Everest (let's face it, any type of hill seems like a mountain when you're hot, tired, and sweaty), just think of delayed gratification. And hey, a downhill stretch does last longer ;).

And one more thing, don't be fooled by surfaces that seem "flat." You'd be surprised how much of an incline a seemingly level road actually has.

4) H 2 Oh my.

I don't know how people run without a water bottle. If I'm going to be running for more than two seconds, I need to have water at my beck and call. I suppose it's like a security blanket of some sort. And a regular water bottle or Nalgene simply will not do. I actually took the time and energy to find a water bottle that minimizes any extra effort on my part while running. Because Heaven forbid I actually have to use any additional strength to carry a bottle. Please, that's for amateurs. And so I invested a whopping 10 bucks for a handheld water bottle that loops right over my hand. Hydration at my fingertips? Yes, please. Hands down one of my best purchases ever (no pun intended).

5) Workout clothes can be sexy.

This is one of my more recent revelations. Back in the day when I used to actually make money, I insisted on shopping at lululemon for yoga apparel (thank you, Tricia!). Oh and for people who know me, homegirl does not do yoga. Been there, done that, no thanks. But of course I still purchased yoga pants galore for all of my other work out festivities. Simply put, it was love at first sight. I loved everything about lululemon, right down to the very aroma of their store. So don't ask why I decided for the longest time to skimp out on cute athletic apparel for when I run. I was reminded of my lackadaisical attitude toward my running attire when I recently perused a Sports Authority. All of my self discipline dissolves when I'm shopping for just about anything else, but I never thought about marrying up fashion with running, until I saw all that Nike, Adidas and Reebok have to offer! Hot pink sports bra? Yes, please. Sexy black running shorts? Check. The age old saying "if you look good, you'll feel good," totally applies when you're working out. Running is 10% skill and 90% attitude, so yes, if it takes a flashy tank that hugs you in all the right places to make you feel good on your run, I say go for it.

6) Underpromise, Overdeliver.

I'm serious! If you want to run 6 miles, tell yourself you're only going to run 4. This is a complete mind game that you can win! The entire time you're running, you will be thinking - and repeating to yourself - that you only have to run 4 miles. A drop in the bucket. Just as you're finishing up your fourth mile, tell yourself to run one more. At that point, your mind will think one more mile isn't so bad. Repeat this at the end of mile 5, and voila! Six miles will be here and gone before you know it.

7) Suck it up and do it.

This doesn't come easy all the time. As a matter of fact, there are many times when I actually dread going for a run. And then, once I'm on my run, there are times when I kinda sorta hope that maybe I'll fall or twist my ankle just so I don't have to finish the run. Anything to get out of it. As if running is some sort of self inflicted punishment. Dramatic? Yes, but would you expect anything less from me? But once I let go of that negativity and channel my energy in a more positive manner, running becomes...enjoyable. Especially if you're trail running. How many other opportunities do you have to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors without anyone else interrupting you? I can't think of very many.

8) Screw the treadmill.

Honestly. The treadmill sucks. Enough said.

And with that, I'm off to bed. It's late and I have to get six or seven miles in tomorrow.

G'nite :)

Faith, hope, love. And an organ.

2011-04-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

My mom's sister has three children who are approximately the same age as my siblings and me. Scott and Kyle are 28. Brent and I are 26. Andrea is 24. Ashley is 23. We grew up less than a mile apart, attended the same school district, waited at the same bus stop, played sports together, practically lived at each other's houses, built forts together in our grandparent's backyard summer after summer, vacationed together, fought together, laughed together, and cried together. In a word, we were inseparable.

As we grew older, the elasticity of our close knit friendship was tested, and often times strain was placed on each of our relationships. But through it all, we have always been there for each other - when our grandmother passed away from lung cancer, when our grandfather passed away five months later from a broken heart amidst an array of medical complications, when we each graduated from high school, when Scott married Christine, when Kyle married Lauren. Happy or sad, good or bad, we have been there for each other...

So when Brent was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease (an inflammatory disease of the intestines that may affect any part of the gastrointestinal tract) *and* Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC, a chronic liver disease caused by progressive inflammation and scarring of the bile ducts of the liver) at the innocent age of 12, we were there for him. Being diagnosed with two diseases - one which has no cure - didn't stop Brent. So for the next few years, Brent was a "normal" teenager, doing all of the things the average teenager does. What most people didn't know was that Brent was not a "normal" teenager. Brent had to wear a spleen guard around his stomach to protect his spleen. Which meant that Brent couldn't play sports like most teens can. Instead of sleeping over at his buddies, he sometimes slept over at CHOP (Children's Hospital of Philadelphia). Instead of carrying a cell phone, Brent had to tuck away a pager in his backpack - a pager that would beep if a liver became available. So while most of us were dying for a text message from the person we're crushing on, Brent was waiting for a page. Imagine that. You're 15. Your liver is essentially broken. You're trying to maintain a "normal" teenage life. Oh and you're kinda, sorta hoping that today is the day you're given the gift of life. Only that call never happened for Brent.

At the age of 16, doctors attempted to place a stent in Brent's body, to hold his bile ducts open. Unfortunately, the ducts were clogged and he almost died from the procedure. Being the fighter he is, Brent fought back and survived. Eventually, through some miraculous combination of time and a new, yet risky experimental medication, Brent's MELD (Model for End Stage Liver Disease) scores stabilized. This stabilization, coupled with Brent's improved condition were grounds for taking Brent off of the transplant list. Finally, some resemblance of a "normal" life was bestowed upon Brent. A gift most of us don't even realize we've been given. A gift we take for granted day after day, month after month, year after year. A gift that often slips my mind when I find myself carrying on unnecessarily about the trials and tribulations of my single life.

And through all of this, the friendship between the six of us carried on. Crohn's Disease was put on the backburner and life went on...

But as they say (and don't ask me who "they" is), all good things come to an end. It was the day of my brother's wedding. I had just corralled the troops, making sure to get a picture of the six of us - Scott, Kyle, Brent, Andrea, Ashley, and yours truly. No family event is ever complete until someone snaps a pic of the original six (as I secretly call us). I was talking to Brent, probably trying to drag him onto the dance floor, when he told me in confidence that him and his incredibly supportive girlfriend had to leave the reception. I was very perturbed, no one can leave a wedding early! Much to my dismay, Brent was not simply leaving the reception. Brent and his girlfriend were going to the hospital. He had been fighting a pain in his lower back for a few weeks, but never said a word about it, so that everyone could enjoy the wedding and not worry about him. I can't imagine the last time I was that selfless. Discreetly, Brent checked himself into the ER, while the rest of evening carried on. And as amazing as the reception was, I couldn't erase the conversation I had with Brent, and then with Andrea about his condition. The uncertainty of the unknown was lingering in the back of our minds. But there was nothing any of us could do except wait...

Less than 24 hours later, the doctors delivered the news that no one - not even your worst enemy - wants to hear. Brent most likely had cancer. That devastating and painstakingly overwhelming disease that has the innate ability to bring even the toughest person to tears instantly. As if Crohn's and PSC weren't enough, cancer had to be thrown on top. The icing on top of an incredibly poisonous cake.

Within a week, it was confirmed that Brent had cholangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the bile ducts leading to the liver. A cancer with no cure. A cancer with no promising future. Teams of healthcare professionals rushed to the scene of a mother's worst nightmare come true. There was constant debate about the best course of action for Brent. Only there wasn't one. Countless clinical trials exist, but Brent's tumors were so large that he was denied without consideration. And while a liver transplant wouldn't guarantee a cure, it could have been an option if only there were enough livers available. The Mayo Clinic couldn't risk "wasting a liver" on a patient like Brent, whose body may reject it, when it could be used for someone else. Basically, if Brent's body accepted a liver transplant, the chance of the cancer finding its way back to Brent was too high. So for the second time Brent was removed from the transplant list.

Fast forward 9 months later and Brent is doing remarkably well. He is undergoing chemotherapy in a two weeks on, one week off cycle and is back at work. In a word, he is a trooper. He is defying the odds and moving forward with his life. And let me tell you, his life is far from easy. But he's doing it in the typical Brent fashion we all know and love.

Despite this, I can't help but wonder if things would be different if a liver had been available for Brent. There's also the possibility that if Brent can fight off the cancer, he could be placed back on the transplant list. Which brings me to the reason for this post. In one month I will be participating in "The Relay" - California's longest party, stretching from Calistoga to Santa Cruz. Hundreds of teams will run to support "Organs 'R' Us" - a nonprofit organization promoting organ donation through walking and running. Each team has 12 participants, running 3 legs each (36 total), totaling 199 miles. My kickass team is the 24 Bouncing Boobs, and yes, my ta ta's may be small, but they still bounce ;). We will begin the race on a Saturday morning and continue running, through the night, until the following afternoon. We will sleep for only an hour or two. We will eat nothing but granola bars and Gatorade. We will climb the Santa Cruz mountains, run along the Pacific Coast, and cross the Golden Gate Bridge at midnight. And we will do all of this as our small part to raise awareness for organ donations in the hopes that the 100,000 people in America on the transplant list will receive the organ they so desperately need. We will run for the gift of life.

And that's where you come into play. Yes - you - my loyal audience. As a member of the 24 Bouncing Boobs, we are collecting money to raise awareness for organ donations (please see the link below for our website). I fully understand that America is *still* in a recession (I am reminded of this on a daily basis when I look at my bank account), so if you cannot donate, I *completely* understand. But just because you cannot donate, doesn't mean you can't help! Read on! Think about your position on organ donation. I know this can be a touchy subject for varied reasons - cultural beliefs, religious backgrounds, personal convictions, etc. But please, understand this: Regardless of what you believe in, when it is your time to leave this precious world, your organs can give another person a chance at life. Your organs - your liver, your kidney, your eyes, your heart - have the potential to give someone a life that they may not otherwise have. Or they can be buried. Left in ground to rot and taunt the 20,000 plus people who die each year because there simply aren't enough organs available. Your organs are not part of your soul or your spirit. When you die, your organs don't have to. Your organs have a choice. They can die with you or they can provide life. But only you can dictate that choice. It is my hope and my wish, that my story - Brent's story - is the inspiration you need to become an organ donor. The best part is that it is so unbelievably easy to do! You just need to make a trip to your DMV, check off a box that you want to be an organ donor, ask them to reprint your driver's license and Voila! You are now an organ donor.

You never know whose life you may save.

Oh and as for the original six. We still have each other's backs. Always have and always will. But we need your help. I want Brent to be in my wedding party one day. I want to be able to snap a pic of the Original Six when we're all grandparents. I want the story of our close knit childhood to be passed down from generation to generation. And I want Brent to be part of that story until the very end.

I know this was an incredibly long post, but Brent's story is important not only to me, but to Brent, our family, Brent's friends, and the thousands of people waiting for their gift. Please take a look at any of the below links for more info. And, from the very bottom of my heart, thank you *so* much for taking the time to read this.

For Info about Cali's longest party, please visit: http://www.therelay.com/re_new.htm

For info about "Organs 'R' Us," please visit: http://www.therelay.com/organs/indexmain.html

To see the "24 Bouncing Boobs" homepage, please visit: https://sites.google.com/site/team24bb/
Please e-mail/call/text me if you have *any* questions about donating.

For info about where Brent is being treated, please visit: http://www.pennmedicine.org/hup/ ; http://www.pennmedicine.org/perelman/ ; http://www.penncancer.org/ ; http://www.chop.edu/

the perks of life without a prudent insurance policy.

2011-03-20T21:48:00.001-07:00

"There's a reason we refer to "leaps of faith" - a mighty jump from the rational over to the unknowable, and I don't care how diligently scholars will try to sit you down with their stacks of books and prove to you that faith is indeed rational; it isn't. If faith were rational, it wouldn't be - by definition - faith. Faith is belief in what you cannot see or prove or touch. Faith is walking face-first and full-speed into the dark. If we truly knew all the answers in advance as to the meaning of life and the nature of God and the destiny of our souls, our belief would not be a leap of faith and it would not be a courageous act of humanity; it would just be... a prudent insurance policy." -liz gilbert.

I will admit it, I may be mildly obsessed with Eat Pray Love, as this is the second time I am making a reference to a Liz Gilbert quote. There is just something so completely genuine and empowering about her words and how beautifully she writes that I often feel as though her words exist to feed my soul. A ludicrous perspective, but her writing truly speaks volumes to me. As does the above quote, which is precisely what the priest spoke about during the homily at mass this morning. Coincidence? I think not. You see, I tuck away a collection of quotes in my heart, so that when I'm going through a particularly sad or stressful time, I can be confident that the appropriate quote will surface and restore my sense of balance. Yesterday this quote flashed before my mind after a particularly frustrating conversation with a person I thought I knew better than I suppose I really did. Since my mind rarely shuts off, a fact that I've simply come to accept, I couldn't stop toying with this notion about faith with everyday life (not to be confused with faith and its relationship to religion). The more I thought about it the more I realized that I really needed a good ole fashion dose of church to really gather my thoughts and engage in some serious one on one prayer time with God (disclaimer - my writing is not meant to be construed in way, shape, or form as religious). And then for whatever reason, as I fell asleep last night, snuggled under a heaping pile of blankets, with one leg peeking out, in typical Courtney fashion, I convinced myself that it would be in my best interest to wake up to my alarm clock this morning and get myself to church. Believe it or not, today's theme (I like to assign a theme to the homily - aka the speech - the priest gives during mass) was about "taking a leap of faith." I think my jaw dropped a little when the priest started talking. As I surveyed the ceiling, as I often do during church, my mind began to register what was happening. Was the priest really talking about taking chances...taking risks...putting all of your eggs in one basket...because you have the faith that that intangible reward will not only be satisfying, but so incredibly gratifying? Um hello, isn't this *exactly* what I was mulling over yesterday? Quite honestly, I think Liz Gilbert and the Big Guy double teamed me, so I could really tap into this crazy idea of leaping blindly into the unknown.

So for the rest of the day, I've been contemplating what it actually means to "take a leap of faith" with no one other than me, myself, and I. When I look at my life, I realize that I would certainly not be where I am today if I didn't say screw it and blindly jump into that dark unknown feet first as I often as I have. This of course is not to say that I don't calculate the pro's and con's, the costs and benefits, etc. I am a CPA, which makes me somewhat analytical by default. But, despite weighing out the positives and negatives, I've always leaned toward what Robert Frost so poignantly coined the "road less travelled." Let's face it, I left behind family and friends to seek out a new life in California, only to have the faith to move back to the East coast for a relationship I wholeheartedly wished could have worked out (but was not meant to be, as I fully realize now); quit a promising career in the hopes that I could find a job that I truly loved (something that I'm still seeking); and walked away from a relationship that was seemingly perfect (remember, things are not always what they seem). When I lay it out like that, I think I'm quite the pro at taking leaps of faith. So why then do I let tiny hurdles set me back and question life. Case in point: I had an entirely elementary conversation with a friend yesterday and walked away kind of shocked. I'm a pretty open person (the fact that I share my thoughts and feelings with the wonder that is the world wide web is evidence enough), but I walked away yesterday wondering if I am maybe too open? Perhaps it would behoove me to not let my guard down and let people into my life so easily. Maybe I should be more careful about taking risks and chances in life and play it safe. I mean isn't that what most people do? Take the road more travelled, hide behind their insecurities, flounder for excuses...just to play it safe? Do I really want to be on that road congested with people driving on autopilot for the sheer reassurance that I arrive to my final destination safely? Isn't life about the journey, not the destination? Wouldn't I rather go through life, relishing in all that it has to offer, testing the limits of fate and crossing the borders of uncharted territory? This isn't to say I should travel through life recklessly by any means, but to simply check faith by the door and not take chances is unimaginable. I know I may be ridiculous at times (okay, most of the time), but to think that I let one conversation throw my mindset off track to the point that I was questioning my ability to take a leap of faith is absolutely absurd.

I'm only 26, but I've already figured out that while I don't know all the answers to life (who am I kidding, I barely know any of the answers), I'd rather take that leap of faith and go full force into unknown, knowing that my journey is going to be one hell of a lot more exciting than those people who live to simply play it safe. So yes, maybe I'll get hurt and have more than my fair share of tears (I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, which results in me crying...a lot). Maybe it will take me 10 more years to figure out what is that I want to do, or several more relationships to find that one guy who will compliment my happiness in life. Maybe I'll end up moving six more times before I settle into some state of permanency. But, my God, I know that with a little bit of faith, those leaps really aren't so terrifying after all.

up in the air. flapping away.

2011-03-16T20:40:00.000-07:00

In approximately 60 minutes I will be snapping back to reality. My plane will hopefully descend into a peaceful landing and I'll be reintroduced to the chilly weather that the Northeast has embraced for quite a few months now. I am by no means ready to walk off a plane (in flip flops mind you) into 40 degree weather with a long day of work ahead of me tomorrow, but I suppose life must go on. Since I'm tired of reading and simply cannot fall asleep (because not even my severe iron deficiency can tire me out after all of the sleeping in I've done the past five days), I challenged myself to detail a few random tid bits from Spring Break 2011.

My super awesome parents dropped me off at the airport six days ago and my desperately needed escape from reality began. Let me be the first to say that the airport is not a relaxing experience. As a matter of fact, I find that from the time you step foot into the airport until you are buckled safely in your seat, the whole experience is one legit, anxiety provoking, hot mess. Fortunately, I checked in online and printed out my boarding pass ahead of time. There's one saved headache. But then there's the whole security checkpoint process. Allow me to clarify my frustrations with the checkpoint "system." I have no qualms with the Department of Homeland Security patting me down, making me and my luggage go through an x-ray machine, or even having a security guard sift through the contents of my luggage (one time, I actually had a security guy recommend one bikini over another to ensure that I looked my best on the beach...how nice). I know a lot of people's frustrations lay within this whole system, but hey, it's a privilege to fly. You were not born with that natural right to hop on a plane, sit in a chair, rise above the clouds, and fly away. So if the DHS wants to search me and every other person out there who is boarding a plane to ensure that I land safely and in one piece at my final destination, search away! If you don't want to be searched, then quite frankly, I hope you're not flying with me. My frustration stems from my own self. For starters, I pack too much. TLC could do an entire series on "luggage hoarders," because of people like me. I pack enough to last me quadruple the time I will be vacationing. Jeans for 90 degree weather? Check (it may get chilly!). 3289459345 pairs of underwear. Check (what if I'm stuck without access to a laundramat?). 14 shades of eyeshadow when I know I may only splash on a bit of makeup for my entire spring break rendevouz. Check (what if I meet someone famous and need to get all glammed up?!). So, not only do I overpack, I also insist on carrying all of my sh*t with me. I refuse to check my luggage, unless absolutely necessary, which often times leads me to engaging in a full on argument with the security checkpoint personnel that my carry on luggage will indeed fit in the overhead. Yes, I am that girl - the one who thinks that "one carry on plus one personal item" doesn't necessarily apply to her. I know I can easily check a bag, but for a girl on a budget, that's a last resort, and then there's always that possibility of lost luggage. Who wants to deal with that.

It shouldn't be too hard to imagine me, trooping through the airport, with my six plus bags in tow, fiddling around for my boarding pass and ID badge, trying to maintain some sense of sanity as I approach the first Security point. The lady screens my driver's license, gives me a nod of approval, and hurries me along. Next stop...the x-ray machine. I've had several x-rays of my actual body - broken bones and whatnot - and it's never been nerve wrecking. But the security x-ray really does a number on me. As if it's not bad enough that I'm already the girl who carries way too much with her, I'm also that girl who holds up the security line. I frantically throw my suitcase and other bags onto the security belt, but feel like I'm racing against time, as I see the passenger behind me put his stuff up on the belt in one swift motion. I try to tuck away my ID/boarding pass in an accessible component of my purse, which I'll hopefully remember, heave out my laptop, remove my jewelry, untie my sneakers in a frenzy, all while "Mr. I'm so suave" unknowingly taps his fingers behind me signifying his utter lack of patience with me. I smile and apologize one too many times for taking so long, even asking if he wants to go ahead of me. When he politely declines, I feel a rush of adrenaline go through me and pray to God that I can get my act together and move it along. I swear, when did I become so slow!? Then I remember the infamous liquid rule and all of toiletries I always insist on packing (as if my best friend didn't have a full stock of shampoo, lotions, etc. at her apartment). I rummage for my zip lock bag of liquids, toss them on the belt, and cross my fingers with the hopes that security won't detect that the zip lock bag was nothing but a mere decoy and the rest of my full size liquids are strewn about the rest of my suitcases. Finally, I'm across the border into the promising gates of relaxation. But of course the madness doesn't end there. By the time I've been screened, my belongings have crash landed at the other end of belt and I'm yet again left to scramble them up in the most haphazard fashion before they become co-mingled with Mr. Suave's belongings. Looking like a complete fool, I pile on my stuff as if they're my latest can't live without accessories, sink down into an empty bench, and take in a sigh of relief. The hardest part is over. The next part isn't so bad. After I've situated me and my belongings, I confirm my gate number and head to the nearest news stand to buy some snacks and copious amounts of water. On a typical day, I struggle to drink that all so important 64 ounces of water, but send me to the airport, and I act as though I may never see water again in my entire life. Keep in mind that I cannot possibly carry one more item, but still I try to stuff two large bottles of water into my overflowing purse. Because, hey, I just may get a bit parched in the clouds....

Thank God the rest of my trip was far more...peaceful. That's not to say that it wasn't uneventful. To give some of my readers just how ridiculous I am - or can be - I'll explain a very typical "Courtney has had one too many drinks" story. On Friday night, Natalie; her boyfriend, Joe; and I went out into downtown Ft. Lauderdale. A few drinks and a couple hours into the night, a few of Joe's friends who were in town for a bachelor party decided to meet up with us. Please note right here that I have no game. I may be single, but I don't try and pretend to be someone I'm not. I don't try to be smooth, or funny, or anything else on purpose. What you see is exactly what you get. Translation - you don't know what's going to come out of my mouth, especially when I've had a few drinks, but chances are it will end up being quirky, somewhat humorous and above all else, totally ridiculous. After talking for a few minutes, my new friend, Andrew, asks why I wasn't out the previous night. Instead of saying what any *normal* person would say, I said in my most animated voice, "I was still on a plane," and proceeded to raise my arm in the air and flap. Yes, that's right. I flapped like a bird in a bar so that my new found friend could fully envision that I was in flight to Florida rather than drinking at the Elbow Room in Ft. Lauderdale. When he didn't realize my absurd hand motions right away, I thought I was in the clear. But of course, even though it took a few minutes, he realized what I had just done and completely called me out on it..."Did you really just flap at me!?" Well, yes, I think I did. Sigh. Only me. The good news was that the flap became the signature dance move for the rest of my spring break and for their bachelor party.

Okay, my flight is about to land and knowing how long it will take me to gather my luggage, I need to log off...Until next time :)

miss independent.

2011-03-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

A fairly independent person, I like to rely on myself as much as possible. This does not mean I do not ask for help, because that would just be ridiculous (Mikey, this is your shout out...I hope you're reading this). But I do try to do things on my own *when* and if possible. However, being fresh out of a relationship has really been a wake up call for how much I relied on a boyfriend to do things for me. While I did recruit a few guy friends to help me with my recent move across town, I was left by myself to do the things that I normally would simply ask a boyfriend to do....for example...

I was in dire need of a few things for our apartment...a shoe rack, a bookcase, lamps (because why would there be a single ceiling light in our entire apartment!?), curtain rods, etc. Given all of my needs, I decided that Lowes would be my best bet. The most bang for my buck. The quick and easy fix. Don't get me wrong, I love, love, love to shop. Just not for this type of "stuff." I have never gone into Lowes alone, and I must admit, I was a little intimidated when I walked through the entrance. There I was, practically prancing through the doors with my high heels, black tights, and pencil skirt only to come face to face with aisles upon aisles of....manly man stuff! Stuff that I don't normally just go out and purchase, or even have a desire to shop for. Confidently, I grabbed and a cart and whisked away...a serious woman on a very serious mission. First stop...the "home storage" section to find a shoe rack...Mistake number one.

What I'm about to say may sound a bit presumptuous, but I'm speaking based on pure observation. The way I see it, if you're a single girl, and you want to meet a guy, go to Lowes, Home Depot, or any other "guy" store. And wear a skirt. Because I swear, as soon as I walked down the aisle, I was practically double teamed. I was not asking for it. I tried to be confident. I tried to be that girl...you know what I'm talking about...that girl who doesn't need a man to do things for her and can do everything herself. Unfortunately, I was not faking anyone out as I walked aimlessly up and down the aisle trying to find a damn shoe rack. Instantly, an employee came up to me and asked if I needed help. Yes, this is something that employees are required to do. I get that. But, my God, give a girl a break! I explained to one of the guys what I was looking for and he starts asking me all these questions about what type of shoe rack I need. And then just for kicks, he decides to flirt. So of course I start to babble on and on, wondering the whole time how many types of shoe racks exist and whether this guy really thinks I'm just going to give him my number?! My God, we're not talking about actual shoes here! I just need that thing that stores all of my shoes! After a few minutes, it was decided that they didn't have the particular over the door shoe rack I was looking for. Whatever, I had other things on my list. I ditched the guy before he could ask me another question and off I went. Next stop - curtain rods. Holy sh*t, I'm going to be in for it whenever I have an entire house to furnish. I had *no* idea that there were so many curtain rods to choose from! And could they be any more expensive!?! Desperate to not walk out of the store empty handed, I saw what I thought may be the light at the end of my failing shopping attempt....the aisle of lamps! I should have known the game was over by that point. Three aisles of lamps!? Is that really necessary?! So much for the light at the end of the tunnel. Frustrated and tired, I decided I had had enough. I pushed my cart to the side and tried to make a quick exit out of the building. But, no I couldn't even leave incognito! As I'm hurrying out of the store, who do I bump into but "Mr. Allow me to find you a shoe rack and anything and everything else you may need." Of course he noticed that I no longer had my cart and asked if I needed more help. Blushing, I quickly smiled and told him I was just way too overwhelmed to buy anything. Really, Court? Overwhelmed?! As I walked away, I could hear the guy getting a good chuckle out of my ridiculousness and I desperately wished that I had brought a guy with me to help me navigate through the store without being preyed on. When I finally exited the building, I took a deep breath of fresh air and made a dash for the store right next door. A store where I didn't feel like a complete idiot. A store where I didn't need a guy to help me buy what I needed. Hello, Pier 1 Imports.

My euphoric feeling of triumph lingered as I moved on from Pier 1, to Marshalls, and then to Wal-Mart (I'm on a budget, and as much as I prefer Target, Wal-Mart's just a tad less expensive). By the end of night I had successfully purchased everything on my list! Sans the help of a boyfriend!

Last Friday night I was getting ready to go out, nursing a beer (I swear I don't normally drink alone!), and continuing the seemingly neverending unpacking process. In an effort to make my room less of a dorm room and more of a professional 26 year old's, I desperately wanted the clutter to disappear so I could start to enjoy the benefits of a peaceful living environment. So as I sat there in the center of my room, as I often do, I had this brilliant idea to put up my curtains. I had purchased two curtain rods during my shopping adventures earlier in the week. I dug out Kaitlin's toolbox, found a hammer and a screw driver and peered up at my window, almost a bit curiously, wondering what I should do first. In the pre-single Courtney days, a boyfriend would have done this for me. No questions asked. Why would I waste time putting them up, when a boy could do it for me? But I was alone, nevermind the fact that I may or may not have been a little tipsy, and I was determined to put up the curtain rods. I climbed up on my super shaky, for looks only, vanity stool and attempted to screw in the first screw. Mega fail. I know the whole lefty lucy, righty tight bit, but the screw simply was not screwing. So I switched to the other side of the window. I got lucky with this side and was able to get one of the screws in. Kind of. I latched on the curtain rod to that side and wondered what I was going to do with the other side. In comes the hammer. God bless my neighbor with all of the racket I was creating. I climbed back up on the vanity stool and started hammering the hell out of the screw, forcing it to go into the window. Easy enough, right? False. Now I couldn't get the rod to latch onto that little metal thing that goes over the screws. Back to the drawing board. A huge part of me wanted to just say "screw it" - no pun intended - and wait till my Dad could come over and fix it for me. But as I sat there, drinking my beer, watching the curtain rod dangle back and forth, I decided that this was my project and I had to finish it. So I got back onto my dainty little vanity stool again and didn't get down until I basically forced the curtain rod to stay in place. I swear I was so close to taping the damn thing in place, but I got it. Mission accomplished. No boys necessary.

Oh and my bookshelf....well my Mom ended up helping with that...but I've done everything else I ordinarily would have relied on a guy to do for me. And I must admit, it feels fabulous to know I can do these things on my own :)

let it go.

2011-02-21T21:11:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I moved into my apartment and I just have to share a few of the funnier moments with my audience (yes, I like to think I do have an audience as I write, as I often find myself wondering if you - yes, you, the reader - will enjoy what I have to say).

While I was able to move most of my "stuff" on Saturday, I am not exactly living in my apartment yet. I made a very last minute decision to upgrade from my twin size bed, that I've been sleeping in since, let's see, I moved out of my crib 26 years ago, to a full size bed the night before the big move. So spontaneous, I know. And for those of you questioning, "why not a queen size, bed," my answer to you is "baby steps, people!" Well needless to say, I can't pick up my bed until tomorrow evening, so here I am, still at home with the parentals for another "one last night at home."

Moving on...

One of the biggest challenges of this whole move was going from a decent size closet to an incredibly tiny, hole in the wall space (literally) that would cause Carrie Bradshaw heartbreak. But, fear not, my "closet" comes equipped with a light! Something my old closet did not have. I'm attempting to see the bright side in every circumstance (no pun intended). Obviously I had to engage in some serious downsizing. In comes Saadia - not only my best friend from college, but an incredibly talented fashionista who belongs working the runway. First, we tackled my purses (to a guy, a purse may not seem like an article of clothing, but to a woman, a purse is something you actually match to an outfit and wear!). As Saadia went through each of my purses, I kind of felt a bit like a hoarder (not as bad as the people you see on TLC, but a hoarder nonetheless). Some of the bags I was holding on to left Saadia downright speechless. Being the queen of excuses didn't even help my case, and one by one, my purses went from my wardrobe into a gigantic Salvation Army box.

Just to make sure we're all on the same page, I want to insert a little disclaimer here. I am not fashion illiterate. I have a strong sense of style and I completely own it. The only problem is that sometimes I hold onto things for a bit too long. I don't suffer from separation anxiety. I suffer from what I like to call "what if" syndrome. Symptoms include the all too familiar, "what if this comes back in style in a couple years!?" or "what if I just absolutely need this one day!?"

So when Saadia and I moved from purses and accessories to my actual wardrobe, I was a bit nervous. And rightly so. The next hour went something like this:

Saadia (holding up a very tiny tank top I've probably had since high school): "Court! Really!??! Mehreen (Saadia's 10 month old niece) could fit into this!"

Me: "Well, it's a tank I use for layering!"

Saadia (presenting me with a button down): "umm...I'm not even going to ask."

Me:...silence...

Saadia (holding up a tube top circa 2006): "What is this!?!?"

Me: "umm...a tube top?"

Saadia: "Court, it barely covers your chest! this is a belly shirt! Why would you own such a thing!?"

Me: "umm...(silence)...i don't know?"

Saadia (picking up a black, bedazzled tank top Ashley bestowed upon me after she claimed it was a bad luck shirt): "Court...I could understand if you were a rocker chic, but you're not!"

Me: "Saad! I could totally be bad ass rocker chic! Blow out my hair, pair it was skinny jeans, it'd be hot!!" (clearly I was floundering for an excuse to hold onto a stupid tank top)

Saadia: "Yes, you could...but why?!?"

Me:...silence...

Saadia (picking up a pair of black dress pants that were clearly several sizes too big): "ummm....these are about a million times too big for you!"

Me: "What if I'm having a 'fat day'!?'"

Saadia: "Court!!!! You have an excuse for EVERYTHING" (told you - queen of excuses!!)

Much to my initial chagrin, many of those items (and more) went straight into the Salvation Army box. Every once in awhile Saadia would surprise me when she picked up an item and told me how fabulous it was! To give you a visual, picture me sitting on my bedroom floor for a majority of this downsizing session and sheepishly begging Saadia to understand my reasoning or cringing as she picked up an item and rightfully so gave me a look of disgust. Little did she know, there were a few cardis and tops that I snuck into the "keep" box, only because I couldn't bare to part with them. But in the end, I probably eliminated 50 articles of clothing and felt so.much.lighter!

And, while, no my teensy tiny "closet" still can't fully handle my wardrobe, I must say it's very nice to actually own less. I suppose sometimes less really is more. Letting go can be *so* refreshing. I can only begin to imagine how it would feel to tap into the notion of "letting it go" and channeling it through to other areas of my life...

PS. Thank you so much, Saadia! I can't think of another person I would have rather spent my "letting it go" process with than you! You truly are a remarkable person with an amazing, vogue sense of fashion that many should be envious of. I know I've said this before, but you truly are my Christina and I don't know what I'd do without you!

the days of the shared wall.

2011-02-15T21:05:00.000-08:00

In four days I will be moving out of my parent's house for the third time. First was for college. Second was for California. Now is for...well...good. (Mom, if you're reading this. I love you, but we both know you are just as excited for me to move out as I am).

So you can probably imagine my excitement for the big move. It may not be quite as big as my move to California was, as it is only right down the road (less than a mile, by pure coincidence), but it's still a move. A move toward regaining the independence that's very difficult to maintain while living with parentals. While living with the parentals has been great - most of the time, okay, some of the time - it's just not the same as living out on your own. I'm so appreciative of the fact that I could move back in with my parents when I returned from college and from Cali, but it's time to move on. To move forward.

Sadly, I only have four more days of sharing a wall with one of my best friends - my sister. For my entire life - minus college and my short lived time in Cali - I shared either a room or a wall with my sister. For some, this may not seem like a big deal, but for me, it's enough to bring a tear or two to my eye and create what Ashley calls a "Full House Moment" (By definition, a "Full House Moment" represents any scenario that is reminiscent of a time when Danny Tanner would sit down with DJ, Steph, and/or Michelle and engage in an incredibly awkward conversation about some altruistic life lesson resulting in a TV moment that Ashley can't bare to watch due to its extreme level of wholesome corniness).

Living in such close proximity to my sister - we shared a room until I was 18 - has been a roller coaster. She is, without a doubt, one of my absolute best friends, and always will be, but my God, we really know how to get on each other's nerves. We tend to have a love-hate relationship, even at the ages of 26 and 22. One second, we'll be having the time of our lives together, and the next moment, bam! everything is out of control and we hate each other. And yes, I do mean hate each other. We are both such passionate people that we get to that point where we simply cannot be around each other. The beauty of it is that it lasts for a few minutes, an hour, maybe a day, and then we're back to being best friends.

When I think of our sisterhood, my mind is flooded with memories - both good and bad, funny and serious, happy and sad - and I'm a bit overwhelmed with sheer gratitude that I am lucky enough to have so many memories with such an amazing person. And to make sure that in the event my sister is actually reading this - she's already confessed that my blog is "way too Full House" for her to read - I'll share one of our rather ridiculous, over the top stories:

We were six days into our road trip across country. It was just the two of us and we were tired not only of driving, but of sharing the already way too cramped space with my one too many boxes. So there we were in South Dakota. Tired. Hungry. Irritable. and Lost. (For the love of God, please do not ask how you get lost on a straight shot across country). Things went from bad to plain ugly within minutes. I remember I was on the phone and probably not using my inside voice as Ashley likes to call it, while she was trying to nap. I woke her up, rather abruptly, and expected her to help me with directions. Cranky from being woken up from her nap, she snapped at me. That's when it got ugly. First the yelling began. Then the classic, entirely immature name calling began. Before I knew it I pulled over and we were full on fighting. Physically fighting. A 20 year old and 24 year old pulling each other's hair and attempting to hit each other. My God. Talk about embarrassing. But no, does it stop there? Of course not. After five minutes of a full on girl fight (the kind that you'd see in the girl's locker room in high school), Ash was out of the car and walking around a pretty desolate neighborhood in the middle of nowhere South Dakota, crying on her cell phone to my Mom, while I sat in the car, crying on my cell phone to my Dad, insisting that he buy her the first ticket possible to ship her back home. Oh, and then, as if that wasn't bad or embarrassing enough, I looked up to see a cop knocking at my window. I slowly rolled down the window and weakly whispered "Hi, Officer." He proceeded to tell me that a neighbor had reported us to the cops. (Seriously people?! You have nothing better to do!??!). I desperately tried to stop the tears as I peered up at him innocently and babbled away about how my sister and I had simply had a little tiff (Really, Court? Hair pulling counts as a tiff?!?). Clearly, Mr. Officer did not buy my story. However, rather than making the situation worse, he gently explained to me that he had two daughters of his own and empathized with me, offering kind words of advice on how to make amends. Eventually the kind officer drove away and my sister returned to the car. For the next six hours, we drove in silence. We even sat at different tables at a hole in the wall diner we stopped at for lunch. Pathetic? Yes. Embarrassing? Completely. Sad? Absofreakinglutely. We had made complete fools of ourselves. It wasn't the first time. And, sadly, it wasn't (isn't) the last time. But, by the time the sun had set that evening, and we had secured a decent hotel for the night, we were back to being...us. Sisters and best friends.

So, while that story had nothing directly to do with this unexpected sadness I'm experiencing about moving away from my sister, it just goes to show that, despite a fight like that, my sister is still the one person that I simply cannot live without. She is the one who loyally called me almost every morning for 14 months while I lived in California to serve as my wake up call. She is the only one who can convince me to not only watch and love the Jersey Shore, but then get choked up with me when Ronnie breaks up with Sammi Sweetheart for the twentieth time. She is the only one who can make me laugh over the most *ridiculous* things that any normal person would not find even remotely funny. She is the one who will knock on our shared wall and whisper "Good night Court, love you" even after we've had a bad fight.

In four days, I will be packing up my things and moving out of my parent's house for good. I won't be far from my family...just a mile down the road. It's something I've needed to do for some time now - quite frankly since I moved back from the West Coast. But now I realize that maybe there was a reason I spent the last year and a half back at home. Not to pull a Dr. Phil, but maybe I was here to share the wall with my sister one last time.

I'm sure I'll see Ash every week once I move, if not every day. And I'm absolutely positive that our friendship will continue to grow and strengthen over the years. But the days of the shared wall are over. But cherished forever.

Love you, Ash.

be happy.

2011-02-07T21:11:00.000-08:00

"Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it." -Elizabeth Gilbert.

If you're wondering who Elizabeth Gilbert is, do yourself a favor and read Eat, Pray, Love. This book is a necessity for any girl trying to figure out life and love. And that's all I'll say about the book for now.

The quote is what I just *have* to talk about. Over the past few weeks I feel like a weight has been lifted and I have an extra bounce in my step. I am.so.excited to simply live and be happy. However, despite what you may think, happiness is not just handed to you. It doesn't fall out of the sky and land on your doorstep. You actually have to pursue it and then maintain it so that it doesn't slip between your fingers like the sands of time. Talk about an oxymoron. But that end result - that ability to relish in all that is positive in your life - is so worth all of the effort it takes to get there.

A little over a month ago, I was having a bad day and summed up my life to one of my friends, maybe a bit too dramatically. Basically, it went down like this, "I'll be 27 this year (why I couldn't simply say I'm 26 is beyond me), I live in a 10x10 bedroom that is directly across from my parents' bedroom, I live paycheck to paycheck, I'm newly single and so overdue for a good make out session, and I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Woe is me." A bit dramatic? Of course. Would you expect anything less from me? Ha, of course not.

Really, Court? Woe is you? Please, save the drama for Bravo.

Fortunately, I'm a fairly positive person, so I didn't let my over the top sob story hold me back for too long. We all need a good venting session every now and then, just as long as we snap back to reality and realize that Robert Pattinson isn't going to sweep you off your feet or Samantha Brown isn't going to back down and offer you her job. So, I did what any girl would do. I got on the phone with my best friends, one after another, indulged in way too much chocolate, drank some fabulous wine, and cried it out. And that was that.

The next day I vowed to get over myself. I needed to let go of the negativity holding me back in order to find peace and happiness with myself. I knew I could either sit and sulk some more about all of my pretty minute "problems" or do something about it. And so I did. I didn't find happiness overnight. But one day at a time, I became more positive and, as a result, happier. I searched on craigslist until carpal tunnel nearly set in to find myself a roommate (so *thankful* for Kaitlin!). I started to get my act together and worked on my master plan (which just so happens to include a little move back to California next summer). I forced myself to go the gym even when we were enduring the 23895357th snow storm of the winter (my arms are toning up quite nicely if I do say so myself). I'm meeting up with friends who I haven't seen in what feels like forever. I'm making sure I take time - make the time - for the people I love and care about. In doing all of this, I have found happiness. Did this happiness simply fall out of the sky? Absolutely not. But the effort I made was worth every minute of my time.

Oh, and just in case you're wondering how I'd sum up my life now...

I'm 26. I have an awesome job and will be going back to school for pediatric nursing or a MPH. I found an awesome roommate and signed the lease for our apartment yesterday. I am single and ready to mingle (cliche? yes, but *so* true!). And more than anything, I am happy.

wear red lipstick.

2011-01-31T21:39:00.000-08:00

This one goes out to all of my girl friends...

My day started out like usual. The four alarms I set - two on my cell and two on my super old school, 1980's alarm clock (both semi-strategically placed in opposite corners of my room so as to force myself to get out of bed) - went off at 7:30, 7:31, 7:32, and 7:33 (yes, you read correctly. I tend to get a little sassy and play hard to get with my alarm clock in the morning). Once I finally forced myself to get out from under my ridiculously comfortable down comforter and slipped on my fuzzy bathrobe and fleece booties, I began to get ready for work.

Typically my "getting ready process" is one chaotic whirlwind. I basically leave myself with *no* time to get ready (as I need all the sleep I can get), which leaves me to run around like a crazy person so I can get to work on time (my version of "on-time" is anywhere in the 9am hour thanks to my awesome boss). With that being said, I normally skip the make up and hair (no really, there are days when I literally do not brush it, but somehow, people really think I actually do), allowing just enough time to brush my teeth, wash my face, throw on an incredibly haphazard outfit (think shirt that I could wear to a club, covered by a cardi, over some leggings, paired with shoes that I grab as I'm rushing out the door).

Maybe because I actually went to sleep at a decent time (translation: before midnight), I woke up feeling refreshed and energetic this morning. Instead of rushing around my house (I really do get a nice mini work out with all of my running around), I took some time for myself. I checked my mail, scoped out some more apartments for me and Kaitlin, checked facebook and then started to get ready. When it came time to get dressed, I found myself carefully selecting my outfit, choosing a trendy black suit I purchased five years ago. I took the time to find my favorite pair of nude snakeskin pumps and decided to blow out my hair for once. I then rummaged around my vanity for my newly acquired tube of red lipstick (thanks, Saadia!) that I've been dying to try, but admittedly too nervous to wear to work.

The second I was done carefully applying my bright red lipstick and black eyeliner, I knew that my day was going to be different than most. I surveyed myself in the mirror and dashed out to my car noting an extra bounce in my step. Quite simply, I felt fabulous. And that feeling remained with me the entire day. I realized the truth in what any fashion magazine is always trying to convey: If you look great, you will feel great. This doesn't mean that you need to be a supermodel or a fashion icon to look great. It just means that if you take two seconds to take time for yourself in the morning, it can do wonders for your day. Today, I dressed up for me. Not for my job. Not for a meeting. And not for the residents who pass by my office hourly (although they make for some nice eye candy). In doing so, I was more confident, I commanded more respect, and I was more in control of my day. I felt like I was making a statement, not only with my red lipstick, but my newly acquired, ultra positive attitude.

So, go ahead, and make a statement. Wear the red lipstick, funky patent leather shoes, or black tights you've been dying to wear but too afraid to. Trust me, not only will you look fabulous, you'll feel fabulous.

the beauty of prayer.

2011-01-24T21:29:00.000-08:00

As part of my CASA training, I was recently assigned the task of visiting a place of worship other than my own. Growing up in a predominately Caucasian, Christian community, it wasn't until college that I was fully exposed to the diversity of our world. Living in Hopewell is akin to living in a little bubble where "diversity" was only something you heard on TV or read in the newspaper. But alas, I finally left the bubble, moved to college (even if only a few miles down the road), went on to work for a firm employing more than 100,000 people, and even moved across the country to the densely populated, yet incredibly charming city of San Jose. In those few years I was exposed to people of more backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, and cultures, than an entire childhood provided me.

But still, despite all of my fabulous friends and co-workers - many of whom are not Caucasian and/or Christian - I never really dove into the multi-faceted depths of other religions/cultures (aside from 3 credits worth of World Religion during my first year of college). I suppose the reasoning behind this was quite simple. Quite frankly, there was no reason for me to go to another place of worship. Sure I asked my friends questions about their beliefs and customs, but my knowledge didn't extend much more beyond that. I was raised Catholic, so I grew up going to Sunday morning mass (at the crack of dawn, mind you) and that was that. It wasn't until this past Wednesday that I was actually "assigned" to go to another place of worship. Immediately I logged onto Facebook (please, it's 2011, what else are you supposed to do when you need to reach out to all of your friends) and basically requested that one of my friends take me to their place of worship (outside of Christianity).

In comes Ravi, not only an awesome friend, but a stellar former co-worker (the kind who would listen to me throw a temper tantrum when it was 11pm and I was still at work during busy season and the copy machine decided to jam a 50 page tax return). An Indian follower of Hinduism, Ravi graciously invited me to visit a temple with him last Friday. Knowing next to nothing about Hinduism, I asked Ravi a few basic questions and did a quick Google search so I wasn't *completely* clueless during my visit. Unfortunately, due to bad timing, we weren't able to attend a service, but we were still able to visit and explore the temple.

I have to admit, I was a little excited when Friday evening rolled around. For some ridiculous reason, I envisioned the temple to be this huge, pristine, marble building, accessorized in ivory and gold. Clearly I pay too much attention to Hollywood movies. Admittedly, I actually took time to make myself look presentable, wearing a somewhat sophisticated outfit and splashing on some make up (for those of you who know me, sleep is a very precious commodity, so I do as little as possible when it comes to getting ready for work in the morning).

Clearly the temple was not made of marble or plated in gold. Thanks, Hollywood. If anything, the temple looked like a church or a very large, oddly configured house. Ravi took me inside and the revelation began. We had to travel through several rooms before we arrived at the room right before the actual "main room" (Ravi, what is that room called?!). That's when Ravi reminded me that I had to take my boots off. Even though Ravi warned me about this part, I still had a mini panic attack at the sheer thought of removing my boots. I am so sorry if what I'm about to say is "TMI," but this is my blog and I'll write accordingly. In short, my feet have one too many sweat glands. So when their freedom is taken away from them and they're stuck in shoes all day long they tend to sweat. And then, well maybe, smell. There, I said it. I'm a girl and I have stinky feet. So, imagine my horror as I removed my boots! Luckily, I remembered to bring an extra pair of socks...You can't have stinky feet and pray! As Ravi rolled his eyes and informed me how unattractive I was, I prepared myself to enter *the room* of prayer.

Ravi led me into the room and the ultimate tour/tutorial began. In Hinduism, you do not pray to just one god. In fact there are many gods you pray to. So, in the front of the room, there was what appeared to be a stage or one very elongated pedestal where all of the gods were situated. Since we weren't attending a service, Ravi took me to the front so we could pray before each of the gods. At first, I simply observed Ravi close his eyes, bring his hands together to his face and pray. Mimicking his gestures, I attempted to pray. Only I couldn't! Keep in mind that I never have a hard time praying at my church (I pray and give thanks for anything and everything). So I sat there, eyes closed, while my mind chattered away - "I wonder what Ravi's praying for, I wonder if it's an actual memorized prayer...hmm...maybe I'll sneak a peek and see if he's done...I wonder what I should pray for...Shit, I should probably start praying, he's probably done by now. Damn, I probably shouldn't curse in church!, okay, fine the "Our Father" will have to suffice for now").

We ended the visit by sitting down (picture the sukasana pose in yoga) near the center of the room and made one last prayer to all of the gods. Ravi then handed me what is called "prasad," which is quite literally a gracious gift, blessed by the gods. My prasad consisted of almonds, raisins, and rock sugar. Ravi explained that you must accept prasad when offered - I suppose much like receiving Communion in the Catholic church. The difference with prasad is that it's food offered by worshippers (ie. Ravi), then blessed by the gods, and offered back to the worshippers. A concept that I had previously never heard of, but was completely amazed by.

During our visit, several other people came in to pray. They removed their shoes and assumed the easy pose position, prayed for a few minutes, made an offering (as customary in my church) and went on their way.

I found the entire experience to be rather peaceful and uplifting. As we left the temple, I remember thinking that I would love to attend an actual service. Contrary to many people's preconceived notions, many of the religions of the worlds really do parallel one another. Sure, the temple was totally different than a Catholic Church as far as appearance goes. But the perceptions people have about the actual differences are totally askew. Maybe Ravi was right in the fact that people may have looked at me oddly, wondering what a super pale, blue eyed girl was doing at the temple, but really weren't we all doing the same thing? Don't we all, in essence, do the same thing when we go to worship? People, especially in today's world, need something to believe in. Most of us have that innate desire to come together as a community and remove ourselves from the hardships of our lives, if only temporarily. So yes, someone could argue that Hinduism is a complete 180 from Catholicism, but before you make that conclusion, go ahead and try it out yourself. You just might find that the basic concept of prayer and faith outweighs all of the differences that separate religions. And people.

And one final thought for the evening. Throughout my life, I have found that the people I am most attracted to and form the strongest relationships and friendships with are the people who believe in something. Faith is a very powerful instrument in life and when played appropriately is very appealing.

one more game.

2011-01-16T09:24:00.000-08:00

For the past year I have been volunteering on the general pediatrics unit at a nearby children's hospital. I recently requested to transfer to the Hematology/Oncology unit after an afternoon of playing video games with two oncology patients. Fortunately, I was given the opportunity to make the transition and it has already been quite the humbling experience.

I will be the first to admit that after commuting to NYC for almost two years I strongly dislike being stuck in a car (How I drove across country twice is beyond me). If I had my choice, I'd live in a city (hello, San Francisco...oh hey, Austin!), where I didn't have to drive anywhere. Don't get me wrong, I've learned to optimize my time while behind the wheel. I often use that time to catch up with friends, unwind by driving in complete silence, or exercise my horrendous vocal chords and pretend I'm the next "it" girl in the music industry, while people in the cars next to me wonder if I've gone looney tunes. Friday was one of those days where, quite frankly, I just didn't feel like driving 45 minutes to the children's hospital (despite the fact that my heart was gently prodding me, saying "Courtney, you know you will be so happy once you're in your element at the hospital."). My pathetic saving grace was the fact that I was meeting up with some former EY co-workers who I hadn't seen in what seemed like eons, in the same vicinity as the hospital.

Of course, I shouldn't forget to mention that I was running late. again. Although it is one of my NYR to cease this "being late all the time" nonsense, I am failing miserably. After I parked my car, I quickly navigated through the maze of a hospital and finally landed in the playroom on the Hemat/Oncology unit for my volunteer shift. Breathlessly, I threw my stuff in the corner and saw that one of the patients who previously stole my heart a few weeks ago was still here. As if it were routine, I gave him a high five and he passed me a Wii controller so I could join right in on the game he was already playing. He, of course, had to reteach me how to use the controller, because the chances of me ever being able to remember how to play a video game are slim to none. A fact that had not slipped his mind.

For the next hour or so, we played super mario brothers. And by that, I mean he totally kicked my butt, while I tried my best not to "die" every two seconds. Unabashedly, he made fun of me every two seconds when I pressed "a" instead of "b" or shook the remote in a desperate attempt to make it over a jump - something that he made look so damn easy! I swear I put my whole body into playing the video game, so that by the time I was done my hands were sweaty and sore from gripping the controller so intensely. Over the course of that hour, we joked around as if he was the little brother I never had. Through it all, we never discussed the fact that he's been in and out of the hospital for months, battling a brave fight against cancer. We didn't discuss the fact that he had to wear a hat to keep him warm indoors, or the fact that he was hooked up to an IV and a random assortment of monitors around the clock. Those facts were lost to him. For the hour that I was there, all that mattered was that he was rocking me in Nintendo Wii and having the time of his life doing so. This fact is not lost on me and is something that I will carry near to my heart for a long time.

After losing all of my "lives," I told my newest pal that I had to visit a couple more patients before I headed out for the evening. Rolling his big brown eyes, and not missing a second of the game (this kid has ridiculous multi-tasking abilities!), he told me to hurry back so we could play some more. When I came back to the playroom half an hour later, sure enough, the patient was still there, looking as happy as can be, lost in the video game. As I grabbed my stuff and told him "I have to, but I better not see you here next week!" (guiltily knowing that more likely than not he'd still be there), he looked up at me with those innocent eyes and wistfully said, "c'mon courtney! one more game!" I let out an exaggerated sigh of exasperation and said "why?! so you can beat me again!!!?!," to which he replied, "of course!!!"

And so he tossed me the controller and we played one more game. And then another.

I finally found the heart to tell him I had to be going. And as I found my way back to my car and hurried off to happy hour, all I could think about was how happy that little boy was despite everything he was going through. His positive outlook on life was breathtaking and reminded me to relish in the simple things life has to offer, even if it's just a silly video game.

When I arrived at happy hour I found myself refreshed and revived, happy to see the familiar faces of old friends. And as I walked to my car much later that evening, I didn't think twice about the fact that I had forty five minutes of driving ahead of me. Instead I thought of my little angel back at the hospital, full of laughter and happiness and thought how we could all benefit from a dose of his outlook on life.

here's to hope.

2011-01-10T15:37:00.000-08:00

There's nothing quite like a broken heart. Whether self inflicted or unwarranted, a broken heart hurts. Not in the painful way that a broken nose or arm hurt (I've broken both. Trust me. They both hurt like hell). A broken heart hurts in an indescribable way - only those who've experienced one can truly understand. There's nothing really tangible about it. No cuts, no scrapes, no cast to prove you're in pain. There's only tears. Tears of fear, of hurt, of sadness, of anger. Tears that well in your eyes and pour down your face out of the blue, when you least expect it, despite your desperate attempt to hold them back. Your body becomes numb with anguish and hopelessness. You feel as though everything is crashing down on you and the world is anxiously trying to swallow you up. Part of you wants to just disappear and blend into your surroundings so you can ignore the relentless pain.

Despite all of this, your body perseveres. Your mind perseveres. And, one day at a time, you get through it. Not only because you have to, but because you want to. You recognize that underneath all of the pain and hurt you're feeling, there's hope. And your heart clings onto that hope, knowing that it will eventually overcome the pain and bring happiness and joy back to the heart. And hey, fabulous friends, a nice glass of wine, and some great music certainly help :)

So for anyone who has had a broken heart, here's a little hope for you. It's there and you'll find it. It may take time, but trust me, it will be there waiting for you when you're ready for it.

you say you want a resolution.

2011-01-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

Oh new year's resolutions. Where do I begin. First and foremost, I must admit that I have never been 100% successful with any prior NYR (new year's resolutions). I always try really hard in the beginning and then...well, the inevitable happens. And it's not that I forget about them. When I was eleven or twelve I insisted on writing everything in calligraphy. Cards, school projects, you name it, it was in calligraphy. So it was only natural that when the new year rolled around, I carefully wrote out all of my resolutions on a fancy piece of parchment paper and tacked it right above my bed. Sadly, I was probably more dedicated to my penmanship than any resolution I made that year.

I honestly believe that the reason why my NYR are always mega failures is twofold. First, I create lofty goals with no plan of attack. What's the point of an NYR if there's no action plan? How am I supposed to make a change in my life if I have no idea how to do it? Second, I tend to lose motivation rather quickly. Probably as a result of my lack of planning. I am hoping that this *realization* will allow me to follow through with my 2011 resolutions...

Without further ado, I present my NYR (in no particular order):

1) Create a peaceful living environment. For anyone who *really* knows me, you are aware of the fact that I am, in short, one hot mess when it comes to my living space. This is probably due to the fact that I am always in a rush (see below). Case in point - my sister couldn't even sit down in my room last night given its state of disaster. I have a horrible habit of getting undressed and leaving my clothes wherever they land. I also tend to change purses twenty times a week, so the contents are strewn throughout my room in the most haphazard fashion. I am terrible at going through my mail (thank goodness for e-mail), so it tends to pile up wherever space is available. However, the most ironic thing about this is that I am *ridiculously* organized when it comes to my work. If I'm not organized at my job, I simply cannot operate effectively or efficiently. Which brings me to the conclusion that if I have organization in my own personal space then perhaps I wouldn't always be running around like a crazy person, blaming the entire world for misplacing my keys for the millionth time or trying to find my favorite lip gloss when I was supposed to be out the door twenty minutes ago (and maybe, if I ever - and hopefully I don't - get pulled over again, the cop won't have to lecture me about taking time to get my life organized). I also think that this idea of a peaceful living environment will help me find better peace of mind. And who doesn't need that? Taking the advice of two very important people in my life - my mom and Saadia - I am going to start setting aside 15 minutes a day to just get organized. I am also well on my way to finding an apartment - something I've needed and have been looking for, for quite some time now. So there you go, a plan and motivation. NYR #1. Check.

2) Stop being in a rush. all.the.time. The following quote basically defines my chaotic lifestyle, "I was going to be late. Again....Suddenly, an image of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland appeared in my mind. He was clutching a large golden pocket watch while huffing and puffing, 'I'm late, I'm late!' My own version of the frantic refrain started playing on a loop: 'cmon, come on, come f*cking on. I'm late! I'm late! I'm late! I'm laaate!" (-Lorna Martin). This constant state of rushing around is, by no means, healthy. And, it by no means, can lead to a peaceful lifestyle. I know that I juggle probably one too many things. And, I know that I probably will always be like that. However, if I learn to prioritize, learn to say "no," and have self discipline when it comes to the tempting distractions littering my life (hello facebook!), then perhaps, I won't always be envisioning the infamous white rabbit.

3) Do not give in to the temptation of sugar. Some people have a sweet tooth. Not me. I have a full set. All thirty flipping two crave and delight in the taste of sugary foods. Before I go any further, I have to address the fact that, minus the sugar, I am pretty healthy. I don't eat fatty foods. I love fruits and vegetables. I'm ecstatic to start using my newly acquired Quinoa 365 cookbook. Sugar, however, is my downfall. It sabotages every last effort I have to eat healthy. I simply cannot resist the temptation of chocolate. However, with the encouragement of my best friend, I am slowly eliminating sugar from my life, so that it becomes an indulgence, rather than an everyday necessity. I completely understand the utter lack of nutritional value offered by sugar and the detrimental impact sugar has on one's mental and physical well-being. I also want my pearly whites to remain intact when I'm old and gray.

4) Create my master plan. Thanks to OWN and Saadia, I am (and have been) creating my master plan. This is not a plan designed to define every aspect of my life. I already figured out that those plans don't exist, no matter how much you want them to. I'll save my master plan for it's own separate post, but in the meantime, take a look at this video to give you some insight....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gm73PfeQrkM

5) Be patient. Not only with others, but with myself as well. Take a deep breath when I find myself losing patience. Close my eyes, reach inside of me and find the patience I know I have...and use it.

6) Continue to set goals, dream, and live my life to the fullest. Everyday. No matter what sets me back.

7) Finally, go to sleep early. Find the time - make the time - to get nine hours of sleep every night, so that I can wake up, refreshed and ready to take on the day.

G'nite.

the zumba sisterhood.

2011-01-03T20:13:00.000-08:00

On my drive home tonight from a pretty fabulous mini session of solo retail therapy, I found myself totally rocking out to The Anthem by Pit Bull, which is quite the 180 from T-Swift's Speak Now CD I've been listening to 24-7. As I drove home, wishing I had my new glasses on me, pretending that I knew all the lyrics (please, I may know Taylor's lyrics, but Pit Bull?! ha, hardly), I found myself becoming ridiculously excited for my first day back at Zumba tomorrow night. I began taking Zumba a year ago, after my sister insisted I join her one night. Keep in mind that Ashley practically forced me to first try Groove with her. I *vividly* remember hating my sister for a full 60 minutes, as my two left feet made a very sad attempt to keep up with the rest of the class. To make it worse, I was surrounded my mirrors - front, left, right, back - to remind me of my complete inability to move my body (unless a cocktail is in hand). Refusing to walk out, and completely resenting my sister, who moves her little booty like she's the next Britney Spears, I sucked it up and finished the class.

So, you can probably imagine my horror when Ashley insisted that I put my Groove experience (or lack thereof...ha ha) in the past, and give Zumba a whirl.

And my oh my. Zumba was a totally different story. Zumba was love at first sight. Zumba had everything that Groove didn't. In Zumba, I could *move* my body, sans embarrassment - even with four mirrors surrounding me. The natural rhythm of the music - latin meets hip-hop - combined with the superfluous energy of the instructor was surreal. I could dance. And burn a gazillion calories. Simultaneously. Sigh. What's not to love!?

Flash forward twelve months later and my passion for Zumba is higher than ever. Only now I realize it's much more than getting a great workout in. Two days a week I meet my mom (an avid participant thanks to my sister and me), my co-worker - who I now consider to be a fabulous friend, and sister at the gym to get our "groove" on. Oh yes, that's right...homegirl now has groove. And so does my own mamacita. For a full 60 minutes, the four of us lose ourselves to the music and let our bodies dance in ways we ('cept for Miss Spears) never thought possible. We dance. We laugh. We sweat. And most importantly, we bond. It's amazing how such a simple thing has cultivated such a fantastic friendship between four women.

So thank you, Pit Bull, for reminding me of this ;)

everything happens for a reason. or does it.

2011-01-02T17:54:00.000-08:00

It's funny the way life works. You think you have it all figured out, and then bam!, out of nowhere, everything is turned upside down. It's been said by many, that "everything happens for a reason." But does it? Do we ever know? Is it just a positive spin people label past experiences? Is it a religious phenomenon? Don't things happen because of the choices we make? Don't our choices, rather than our abilities, dictate who we meet in life, where we travel in life, and why things do and don't happen? I've always wholeheartedly believed that things do happen for reason, but I can't help but be cynical about this mysterious concept.

As I begin the new year, I find myself very intrigued by this concept. A few years ago, I dropped everything and moved to California to start a new life. To figure out who I am in this chaotic, whirlwind journey called life. The people I met, the places I traveled to, and the opportunities I made for myself could provide for a fascinating autobiography. (And if I ever find the time, I'd love to write an Elizabeth Gilbert-esq book on my self discoveries and experiences, if for no other person, than myself).

On the surface, I was able to reaffirm certain things I already knew about myself. Before I moved, I knew that I never had this undying passion for accounting and knew that I could never be fulfilled and happy as an accountant. But, as with everything in my life, I just had to be sure. I had to be absolutely, 110% positive that I could not love my life as a CPA. Over time, I found it more and more difficult to find happiness. Most mornings, I'd have a hard time finding the energy to drive to work. Not in the sense of, "oh man, I have to go to work today!," but, in the "Oh my dear Lord, I honestly don't think I can handle one more second of staring hopelessly at a never ending excel spreadsheet, while dialing into yet another conference call about how my client is going to apply some ridiculously overcomplicated tax law" sense. Needless to say, after 2 years and 10 months of pretending to be happy, I left not only my job, but my profession, as well. I gave my two weeks notice and quit. I didn't have a job lined up. I didn't even have a permanent home. What I did have was the confidence that I would eventually find something that made me happy. Something that inspired me. Although I am not there yet, I am definitely on the right path. So, this brings me to the question, did I devote almost three years of my post college life to a career I have no interest in, for a reason? Honestly, that's a tough call. Yes, my experiences in my former career taught me a lot. It also exposed me to what I don't like. But didn't I already know what I didn't like? Why then, did I go down that path? Should I even be questioning it? I suppose my concern dwells within the notion that either everything happens for a reason, or nothing happens for a reason. I don't think there's segregation in this "concept." So, this brings me to my next question. If I was meant to be a CPA (even for a short lived time), am I meant to cross paths with certain people? I'm not talking about the random person I exchange a smile with in the grocery store. I'm talking about the people who have had an impact on my life. The people I have chosen to open up to, to get to know, and to and share my life with. Does every relationship and/or friendship happen for a reason? Is it fate that I am meant to share my life with x amount of people before I find that one person who is right for me? Furthermore, how do we know when we find that "right" person...Can you ever be sure? Is *anyone* ever sure? How do you know if certain people are planted in your life for good or for just a short period of time?

I'm not even sure why I burden myself with these questions, especially since I know that I'll never know most of the answers.

I know this is an abrupt halt to a seemingly complex issue, but given the therapeutic benefits writing has on me, this won't be the last time I write about this...With that being said, there will be plenty more to come....

the wonders of the human brain.

2010-12-26T23:16:00.000-08:00

It's after one in the morning and I'm still wide awake. Wondering. Wondering about anything and everything. About my future, about what it is that I'm meant to do in life, about what I'm supposed to be, about when the next chapter of my life will begin. Wondering if life should just be one continuous journey not meant to be broken down into chapters. Wondering if it's normal to even wonder as much as I do. I mean, honestly, why is it that my mind never shuts off? Isn't there a pause button somewhere in there? There has to be!

The truth is, I've tried to quiet my brain. I've tried yoga. Many times! And when I'm there - in the moment - all I think about is how much I absolutely cannot stand it. My mind actually races uncontrollably about the thought of being in a downward dog position. It's painful! My body was not meant to maintain that position and so that's what my mind focuses on. Instead of finding peace and tranquility, my mind is freaking out! Before I know it, I'm wondering where the rest of the day will take me and how I'm going to strategically attack my never ending to-do list. And then I start thinking about how hungry I am and what I'm going to indulge in after I'm done torturing myself. It really is quite ridiculous.

I've tried meditation - a proven, tested method for the ultimate sense of relaxation! Mega fail. Meditation has the completely opposite affect on me.

Taking a hot shower? Going for a long run? Going to church? Drinking a glass of wine? Forget it. All supreme mega failures. I love all of these things (except for yoga, I really, truly do not like it, as much as I tried to convince myself that I would have this incredible innate passion for it).

So, as I sit here and type, hoping that my eyes will start to tire so I can crawl into my bed and drift into a deep state of slumber, I realize that maybe it's okay for my mind to wonder. Maybe it's not meant to just shut off. Maybe that's what keeps people thriving. What keeps people curious...motivated...inspired. Maybe it's the driving force behind my seemingly never ending quest of self-discovery and passion for life. Who knows, maybe I'm completely wrong and there is a way for me to turn off that switch in my brain that keeps me up at night, but I'll let you wonder about that.

good night.

dear diary.

2010-12-17T21:44:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's true...my ability to be loyal to a blog is looking pretty dismal. I had high hopes that blogging would force me to be loyal in an over the top kind of way, where I'd share all of my stories, thoughts, and ideas with the world. However, given my track record with the million and one diaries I kept as a child, I knew I'd be writing my famous "dear diary, I am SO sorry for not writing sooner...I have so much to tell you!" line sooner rather than later.

Without further ado..."Dear unwoven.blogspot, I am SO sorry for not writing sooner...I have so much to tell you."...

As you read this (*if* you read this), please keep in mind that the purpose of my blogging is to force me to write. So if you aren't interested in the luna lovegood type of stories and thoughts my brain produces, please move on. Trust me, you won't hurt my feelings.

Tis the season of giving...With all the giving going on, someone must be receiving...and that's where I come in. I mean this in the most unselfish way possible. I received my first gift a couple of weeks ago while at work. I was at my desk, listening to a volunteer, checking my work e-mail and writing down an important message for my boss, when the phone rang for the hundredth time. Seeing that no one was interested in answering, I impatiently grabbed the phone, plastered a smile on my face and answered the phone...only to hear a nurse on the other end. Before I go any farther, I'd like to express that I am incredibly grateful for all of the nurses in this world; however, and it's a big however, there are some people who just don't belong in that profession. I know that may sound harsh, but it's true. And if you've worked as non-nurse in a hospital, you'd agree. So Miss "I'm a nurse and I'm too busy to do anything" starts barking orders to me (I'm sorry, when did you become my superior??) and demands that I send a volunteer to her floor because she needs a favor (last time I checked, if I needed a favor, I asked nicely). Before I go any further, I'd like to point out that I do not have a room full of volunteers, despite what some nurses may think. With that being said, I didn't have a volunteer "on call" to tend to the charming nurses request, so I figured I'd help her out myself (nevermind all of the things I had to do). I arrived at the nurses station, slightly agitated, and the nurse says "oh you don't have a wheelchair??! I need you to bring down a patient's husband!" Who knew I could read people's minds?! I bit my tongue, smiled, and said very sweetly, "i'm sorry, let me go get one." At this point, I am completely annoyed at Miss Thing for thinking I have nothing else in the world to do, but cater to her every need. Flippantly, I walk away and retrieve a wheelchair and wait for further instructions. The nurse then points me to a room across the hall and asks me to escort a patient's husband to the main lobby where his assisted living car service will pick him up (I'm normally not a negative person, but seriously, don't we employ a whole transport department?!). As I push the wheelchair over to the patient's room, my fake smile quickly dissolves and a completely genuine, straight from my toes, smile takes over my face, as I witness a modern day wonder. In the patient room, I watch a seemingly frail little old lady, dressed in a faded hospital gown reach over to kiss her husband goodbye...this wasn't a peck on the cheek, nor was it a full on makeout session. Instead it was a kiss that embodied *so* much more. It was a kiss that represented a type of passion, hardship, faith, and trust that can only be shared by two people in love. After they kissed, they squeezed each other tight and the equally frail husband whispered, "I love you, sweetheart. I'll see you, soon." As I wheeled him away from the love of his life, I cheerfully asked him how long they have been married. He gently replied, "72 years." I'm hardly ever at a loss of words, but I can honestly say I was then. I quickly recovered and went on to ask what their secret was...As he happily chatted away, I closed my eyes and silently thanked the nurse who asked me to help this gentleman. Call me a hopeless romantic, but a love like that doesn't come around every day.

give thanks.

2010-11-24T13:18:00.000-08:00

While washing my face this morning, my soapy fingers ran over two tiny bumps on my chin - undoubtedly the beginning of two zits. Without hesitating, I looked up into the mirror, splashing soap and water all over the place - making my typical bird bath situation a million times worse - and examined my chin. Instant panic set in - my one second nightmare became reality as I realized that two zits were about to take over my chin. Really?! Right before Thanksgiving!? (I know I can be dramatic, but it literally went down like that).

Thirty minutes later, I'm driving to work, and find myself checking to see how the "situation" on my face was doing. (as if my face was going to explode any second). Again, I find myself saying, "damn! why me!?"

Sixty minutes later, I'm being sent home from work for the third day in a row, because my horrible cold is contagious and my boss doesn't want any of our volunteers to get my germs (rightfully so, I suppose).

On my way out of the hospital, I stopped by to talk to a friend of mine, who is going through a particularly tough time. While we were casually chatting, she started to tear up. Without going into details, I think it's suffice to say that I'd never wish the cards she has been to dealt to anyone - not even my worst enemy, if I had one. As we changed the mood of the conversation to something more positive, I realized how ridiculous I was being this morning. Did I seriously have the nerve to get agitated about my barely there acne? Unfortunately, this isn't the first time I've had this self-realization. I am constantly being reminded that my complaints are pretty pathetic. Does this mean that I'm not going to complain? Let's be real...probably not. However, I think I need to start giving thanks for what I do have, rather than bitch and moan about things that aren't going my way. I have SO much to be thankful for - a sister, who is one of my best friends; loving, supportive parents, who would do anything for me; an awesome brother and two pseudo brothers; a brand new sister-in-law; a best friend, who has been here for me for over 12 years; a pseudo paki sister (and her fam) who I love to death; an amazing boyfriend that I am extremely blessed to have; a cousin, who has been like my sister since I was two; a fun and secure job with awesome co-workers; two adorable pups; and SO much more (including some things of the materialistic variety!). So this Thanksgiving, rather than dwell on ridiculous things, I'm giving thanks.

PS. Thank you to a very special friend, who has had a tremendous impact on my family's life - whether she knows it or not.

hello.

2010-11-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

How I expect to write a blog when I'm already having writer's block is beyond me...but that's beside the point. It's the year 2010 and I'm only joining the blogging bandwagon now. I've always written in journals, but never had an inclination to air my laundry - clean or dirty - in public via the internet. I'm a very outgoing person, who admittedly loves attention and seldom cares about what other people think, but do I really want my "dear diary" entries to be seen by anyone and everyone who has access to the infamous world wide web? Hardly.

Ironically, I love reading other people's blogs - even if I'm not friends with the "blogger." There are many times while I'm reading a blog and I think to myself, "why the hell am I reading this blog?! I don't even like this person! Not to mention the fact that I have about ten million other things I could, or more likely, need to be doing!" The truth is, regardless of whether I like the person or not, I love reading. I often find blogs to be quite interesting and entertaining, and maybe, just maybe, educational. Moreover, I love to write. So of course, being the obsessive analytical person that I am, I ask myself, if other people are so quick to "air their laundry in public," why have I shied away from it for so long? Especially when blogging will actually force me to be a better writer.

So here I am, sitting on my couch, watching Monday Night Football (after Dancing with the Stars, of course), with my box of Puffs Plus with Lotion next to me ready to nurse my swollen nose upon my next sneeze (I've been blessed with a horrendous cold), talking to one of my best friends via gchat, and attempting to start a blog that I will hopefully be loyal to.

This is my life. unwoven.

ps. Happy Birthday, Mikey!