Red, red wine...

Here's a funny image. No, it's not CSI: Atlanta. No, there's no body.

What is that? You say. It's my carpet. My light neutral, cookie cutter subdivision carpet covered in red wine. A LOT of red wine. Like about 15 feet of red wine.

What you're viewing is our first attempt to save the carpet - covering the stains in salt. You know that $10 buys a SHITLOAD of salt?

Needless to say, it didn't work. Neither did professional cleaning. In fact, the carpet guys laughed when I showed them the room. Ha. Yeah, real funny. I'm pissing myself.

Just what I needed only a couple of weeks after the infamous tree incident. Oh, and did I mention I still don't have a job? Awesome.

How did this happen, you ask? Well, Alan was trying to "save money" by purchasing wine in a box. There's a family debate here at the Buglers about who left the box on the counter. We arrive home to this. And dogs who look oddly guilty. But not drunk. No, they spilled more of the wine than they drank.

Remember how I was trying to be zen about the whole "no job" thing? Well, this is a challenge, even for me. I spent the day looking at new carpet. Oh, well. Freaking great.

On the flip side, you know the Friends episode where Rachel freaks out about spilling spaghetti on Joey's carpet? "Don't worry, we're at Joey's!"

I'm having spaghetti tonight.

Professor Bugler

When I was in college, I had a group of friends from home. We had all met doing "West Side Story" in some ridiculous community theater production. As we went through school and found careers, etc., I was struck by one thing. Somehow, we all ended up on jobs that put us center stage. One is actually a real working actor. I worked on cruise ships and had my own shopping channel. And one friend was a teacher. We all secretly agreed that this friend became a teacher because he reveled in being the cool teacher. The one you could talk to. The one who said the occasional off color joke. Essentially, this person became a teacher because he loved the idea of being adored by a group of people. He didn't just teach, he performed.


Me, I never wanted to teach. I don't have the patience. Oh, grading papers. That just sounds horrific to me. I come from a family of college professors... in fact, my parents were both college teachers before they gave up the world of academia for the "real world." In fact, I don't have the discipline to deal with kids. Of any age. However, if teaching meant just hanging out and shooting the shit with students, then maybe.


That's what I've done the past couple of weeks. In my effort to do my part for the WGA and spread union propaganda, I've gone to a few local universities and talked to classes about writing and the strike. It's been pretty fun, actually. They're so young and into it. Looking out into the classroom - as a visiting "artist" no less - reminds me just how far I've come. For better or worse.


Then again, it's all the same. Someone's falling asleep, a couple look hung over, someone's taking WAY too many notes, some dork is asking too many questions... college doesn't change. But they asked some pretty good questions. And I felt good when I left. Like I had done something for the cause. Or maybe it's just being in front of a group of people. Or maybe it was doing something that didn't have to do with cancer. Whatever.


Although here's the funny thing. One professor asked me if I'd ever thought about teaching. I just laughed. He told me he'd contact me about possibly teaching a seminar class for a semester. Now that's funny. What? Lesson plans, syllabi, papers... oh, I don't think so. Then there's the whole mentoring, shaping young minds bullshit. Maybe. Can I have classes at the bar? How can you be in the "business" without booze?


Considering I once attended a midterm for a class I had not even once attended, maybe I'm not the best role model. Really. I didn't even have the book.


The class - human sexuality. I got a B. Real world training, I suppose.


Professor Bugler. Seriously, I'm still laughing.

Still on strike

Here I go... week 8 or 8 or 10 of this strike. Still no job. Collecting unemployment. Yep, on the dole. Blowing through savings, racking up debt. And you know what? I'm not that unhappy. Stressed and worried, but not unhappy.

I've been doing tons and tons of cancer stuff. Lots of volunteer work. Traveling. Who knew this cancer thing would turn into my greatest social outlet?

God, I would make a freaking great trophy wife. Hear that, Alan? Trophy wife. We are in the south, after all. Unfortunately, that's not in my future anytime soon.

The thing is... this being off from work has made me realize I'm not sure I love my work. What my work gives me, sure... work from home, autonomy, a creative outlet - and a good paycheck. Ooh, and don't forget insurance. But I don't exactly change the world, you know. Writing for television - especially daytime TV is a good gig. But it's a gig. It's like when I started spending time with professional actors out of college. And I was sad that they seemed to have lost the fire for the "art" they once had when they did it for free. Maybe I'm that girl? Or maybe it's just been so long since I've worked I'm getting bitter.

So maybe the strike will end soon. A girl can dream. Cuz you can only eat Kraft mac and cheese so much.

Seriously.... trophy wife. Think about it.

Young Survival Coalition

The spring of my junior year in college, all hell broke loose in my life. I had recently broken up with my college boyfriend of 3 years... "beret boy" as my brothers called him. (It wasn't a beret, per sae, but an unfortunate late nineties, boy band-esque fashion choice) Anyway, my grandmother died, I had just taken on a very large student project. A very intense acting partner tried to sleep with me after 2 bottles of wine. Then never called when I didn't. In other words, I was overtaxed and overstressed.

So what do you do when you're spread thin? Shit, grab a knife and keep spreading!

Back to my junior year... it was the last sorority chapter meeting of the year. I was enjoying my new found non exec position and a bit of a breather. I had recently finished a successful rush season. Yep, I wore my cutey petutie scarves and jackets and judged women in about .4 seconds.

The best laid plans...

See, my protege, the woman I had groomed to take over my rush legacy -- shut up, that shit seemed VERY important when you're 21. Anyway, she decided to carry on my legacy by quitting not only the position, but the whole organization at the very last meeting. Perhaps she was pissed we had disciplined her best friend for giving a blow job in the front room of the sorority house in front of the big window for everyone to see. And they did. I digress...

Mon dieu! 100 college women with no rush leader?! What's a girl to do? With a room full of people freaking out, I decided to suck it up and take one for the team.

"Me. Sign me up. I'll be rush chair again."

Never mind I had already done it. Or that it was a fucking recockulous amount of work. Or that sorority rush happens three weeks before the huge show I was producing opened. Whatever. I'll do it. Some of my closer friends were worried I was taking on too much. Too much? That's fucking silly. It's rush, not rocket science. I saw the look in people's faces when I said I'd do it. Relief. Crisis averted. Courtney knows what the fuck she's doing. Hey, school's out for summer.

And you know what? I don't think I slept for 6 months. I didn't attend winter classes until the midterm. It was nuts, crazy and fucked up.

And I loved every minute of it.

So what does this have to do with my life now? Well, you know, the more things change, the more they stay the same. So... I told you I went to the YSC affiliate conference, right? Well, you're looking at the new president of the YSC Atlanta chapter. Our previous leader was tired and had given so much of herself... it was time for her to have a life. And me? A life is overrated. And I'm super excited to help the organization grow. And help more woman. Different time, same expectant faces. But hell, this sorority needs a leader. So put me in coach, I'm ready to play!

To ooph or not to ooph...

Ooph? Aren't those the little orange guys in Willie Wonka's chocolate factory?

It's short for oophorectomy. And no, that's not some STD i caught working on cruise ships.

Oophorectomy - the surgical removal of the ovaries.

Huh? Ovaries? Aren't those, like "necessary" to the usual workings of a premenopausal woman? Don't you need them for those babies you were just talking about?

Funny, enough... no and no.

Here's the deal. You wouldn't think these go together, but with all this talk about babies, I've also started thinking about taking out my ovaries.

Let's talk cancer for a second, shall we? My breast cancer was highly estrogen positive. Cancer eats it up like stove top stuffing after a night at the bar. (Funny how I keep using alcohol analogies for cancer) The current clinical trial I'm in is looking at how depriving your body of this estrogen would help prevent recurrence. It's looking like it might. We don't know. I do know however, that many people have already had this procedure. Seems a little extreme, you think. Fuck, maybe it is. But I've already been in menopause for a year and a half... what's the difference?

Wait, wait... Courtney, how can you get knocked up, then? Ah hah, Danielson... remember what I taught you. You recall the harvest? The frozen kidcicles? Those 18 snow babies waiting on ice? We'd use those. Hell, when I spoke to my fertility doctor, his response was "you'd still have a uterus, right? That's all I need."

So, I'm thinking about taking out my ovaries to put me in menopause, then using my frozen embryos to get me pregnant, post cancer. No ovaries. Like some fucked up science project.

What's the point? Why not do it "the old fashioned way" and then yank them? Well, as some of you might remember, Alan and I were "trying" very hard before I got diagnosed. No love. The longer it takes to try, the longer I am off my anti-cancer drugs. Then I'm off them for another 9 months, time to breast feed (there's a post for another day.) If it takes us 6 months just to get pregnant, that's 6 more months I'm not on tamoxifen.

Also, I guess yanking the estrogen factories from my body makes me feel like I'm doing SOMETHING to fight recurrence while I try to get pregnant. Sure, while I'm baking that bun I'll be hopped up hormones, but that will happen no matter what. I guess it's the pre-knocked up-post baby phase I'm concerned with. And if I'm using the frozen variety, then why the hell do I need the other ones? Doesn't frozen from concentrate taste almost as good as fresh squeezed?

So anyway, with this in mind, Alan and I made a visit to our friendly local reproductive endocrinologist over Christmas. Well, not local really. My kidcicles are parked in Chicago. He seemed to be all for it. I've scheduled an appointment with a gynecologic oncologist to talk more about an oophorectomy... yay! another doctor!

So.... decisions, decisions... Stay tuned!

Happy Effin Birthday!

So last night, as Alan and I were winding down our New Year's Day, we heard this tremendous noise. Like a bomb went off, or a jet engine flew by. The house rattled. Our very sleepy dogs all looked up. Alan and I opened the bedroom window and looked outside.



Nothing.


We looked at each other, shrugged and went to bed.

So this morning, I woke up - bright eyed and bushy tailed - it is, after all, my 31st birthday. Downstairs I went.


Man, it's fucking cold. Even for Atlanta. I go into my office to check my email, cuz, after all, I'm still not working - and


BAM!


That's the noise we heard last night. That's why the house was cold. Oh, wait... because a tree fell into my it. Apparently, trees are heavy and put holes in roofs, windows and air conditioning units.








Yes, that's my 2 a/c units. looking much like cups of coffee with cinnamon sticks coming out. Only it's $6000 of coffee.





Did I mention I'm still not working? Or that my dog Lucy has to have a $3000 knee surgery? Or than I'm not working? Or that unemployment SO DOES NOT cover these types of things?

Trying to be zen here. Trying to be zen.

When it rains, it pours. In this case, it rains branches and sticks. Happy Fucking Birthday.