Courtney Shrine

One nice thing about Blondie is that he
doesn’t need material things.
He is spiritually happy all the time.
But this means that, when I give him gifts, he treats them like collectibles (even if they’re not meant to be). I mean, sure, maybe he couldn’t really have used the Love Bug, a micro robotic creature that ambles towards whomever in the room is talking. But I’m looking through this pile right now, and I know he could have used the puppy stickers and the Principia Chapel bookmark. In his parent’s house, he had a big room, and in the corner, there was a tiny shelf, which became the “Courtney shrine.” He kept all my gifts there. It’s almost like the minute he received something from me (right after thanking me with tears and an ovation), he’d dump it right on top of the pile and forget about it.

This didn’t bother me. It never bothered me because I liked how non-materialistic he was, how he didn’t put much stake in gifts. They were always the most special thing in the world in the moment he received them. Each gift would set him off on a speech about how I am the perfect gift-giver. Sometimes, as I mentioned, he would actually cry because the gift was so perfect–so perfect for that time. And then, inevitably, it would wind up on the shelf with the others.

If I ever try to toss any of these things, he protests, “You gave that to me!” I gave him an alarm egg from Sharper Image. When we moved all the stuff over to my house, somehow the alarm wound up on the round cherry table in the living room near where my mom does her studies. The alarm beeps every other minute. Last week, I suggested to my mom that we throw it in the trash bag, so it can beep all the way to the dump. Mom whooped and hollered with agreement, but Alex was at work, and I said we should wait for him to get home so he could be part of the decision. I asked him, and sure enough, he was like, “You gave it to me!” I was like, “You have never used it.” He said, “It’s too quiet. I will use it when I get used to waking up to something that soft.” I said, “Well, if you can figure out how to get it to stop beeping...,” and Blondie was like, “I like it,” referring to the sound.

When Blondie moved to my house, he packed up all the things he wanted to take with him. He used a New York & Company shopping bag to carry the Courtney stuff, and we just stuck it in the basement. I recently brought it up to my room, so I could go through it and maybe put all the old high school notes in a scrapbook–it’s funny that I’m doing that to the stuff I gave him–and maybe get Blondie to use some of the stuff that can actually be used, like the Pearl Oral Care toothbrush or the dachshund picture holder that his mom thought was a bong.

The Courtney shrine pile.

"I don't know what he does to make you cry
But I'll be there to make you smile
I don't have a fancy car
To get to you I'd walk a thousand miles
I don't care if he buys you nice things
Does his gifts come from the heart?
I don't know
But if you were my girl
I'd make it so we'd never be apart"

Junk in my Trunk

I can’t go to bed tonight without writing something.
For months, I have been hankering to get rid of my belongings.
I have clothes that could be fun to goof around in, but I won’t need them for a job or any social function.
There’s that whole deal with wanting to keep something because it will come to use. Everyone knows about that. Like the fuchsia exercise shorts I gave to Good Will last summer. I saw a picture of them and thought, “I’d love to run in those right now.” But who cares? I have other shorts I can run in, and I can find mental variety rather than variety in the clothes I wear.
At some point, I’ll move to an apartment, and I won’t want it to be filled “from the crown to the toe top-full” (Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act I, Scene V).
I’ll write more on this later! I just needed to write something.

"Ain't nobody dope as me. I'm just so fresh so clean."

The fuchsia shorts–last seen on June 14, 2010.

AppleMoods

Kosh. March 16, 2011.

Kosh. March 16, 2011.

Pleeze call, I lvlvlv uuu

You know how we went to the Haley Toyota dealership last Thursday and that crazy salesman wouldn't give it a rest? He is still acting like an overdependent ex-boyfriend. Blondie receives a cornucopia of calls and texts. Ah, Rick. We never were really attracted to the 2009 Cobalt.

And I still receive calls from the Mary Kay rep, who did my makeup for the wedding. She is a lovely gal, and I would very much like to be pals with her IF SHE WEREN'T A CRAZY MARY KAY REP TRYING TO CONVINCE ME TO BECOME A CRAZY MARY KAY REP. I won't have it. I ignore her calls (besides when my mom accidentally picks up the home phone). Would the mature thing be to let her know I'm not interested? Maybe, but I'd rather just delete a voice message every week and eight emails a day.

MK rep, fixing me up. October 23, 2010.

"They say that breaking up is hard to do
Now I know, I know that it's true
Don't say that this is the end
Instead of breaking up I wish that we were making up again

Remember when you held me tight
And you kissed me all through the night
Think of all that we've been through
Breaking up is hard to do"

Keep Trying

"I don't care about anything
Dou demo ii tte kao shinagara
Zutto zutto inotteita
Naimono nedari
Chotto ya sotto de manzoku dekinai
Dakara
Keep trying."

Today, maybe I’ll sink your boat.

I need to hang my dirty laundry outside.

What is it I hate, and how can I get rid of it?

I hate the feeling I have had–an arid one. I feel dry because I’m doing stuff I don’t love all day–small talk, monetary transactions. So, I should process all this through writing. Write in the blog more. Writing is my joy and power. Write about the everyday bull, so you stay in contact with yourself (clear thoughts, power) even in the midst of it.

I don’t know. It’s hard! I am so resistant to small talk! Oooo, I hate it!

Well, I feel as though honesty is still there, even in mediocre conversations. And maybe honesty shouldn't be measured so scrutinizingly.

May 17, 2010.

"I don’t care about anything
Putting on a face like, whatever
I was praying the whole time
Asking for too much
I can’t be satisfied easily or gently
That’s why I
Keep Trying."

Feliz Cumpleaños

Today, Blondie, birthday boy, was king, and he got to decide what we did.
We had burritos at Q’doba.
We had his Park Avenue appraised at a Haley Toyota dealership. The car sales man showed us a gold Cobalt that Blondie didn’t really like. The man was relentless. I felt like I was breaking up with him. “I thought I found the right fit for you. I thought I did everything you asked for. C’mon. What are you saying? Let’s give it another test drive.”
Grocery shopping.
We went to Mexico for dinner.
Now, we are lying on our stomachs, resuscitating.
I hate being this full.

Blondie asked me out when he was sixteen, and I was seventeen.
The first birthday I spent with him was his seventeenth, and that’s the day it occurred to him that we should get married. He was staring at the cake, coming up with a wish, and he was like, “Oh yeah–I want to marry Courtney.”
Then, I missed his next four birthdays because I was in college in Illinois.
Finally, in 2011, we are together again for his birthday! It really hasn’t been that big of a deal. As I said, we ate Mexican food and talked with a pushy car salesman. But it is a trip to think of what’s happened between the two days–first, a wish, and then, the actual thing.

"You got a fast car. I want a ticket to
Anywhere. Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together
We can get somewhere. Maybe we'll make something.
But me myself I got nothing to prove."

They sang to us at Mexico Restaurant. March 3, 2011.