Never keep score, but Never forget.

Words well spoken. This concept recently emerged when recalling a certain friend. I think this "mantra" is a great little motto. Let me explain. Think of that person that you never have to remind about pasft-due favors. They always remember, they always hook you back up, and never make you feel like you owe them. These "G's" are the gangstas' of giving. When you think of these people, I'll bet you also notice that they seem to get away with a lot too. Like, they never get caught, stand without, or lack. Everything works out for them. Huh? How do they do it? I think the secret forumla is quite simple. Too simple..almost. These people never keep score or tabs on people, they don't need to. Nope. But, they damn-sure remember the good that's been done for them and seek to make above-and-beyond reparations. Therefore, people like them. They survive and thrive in a vortex of good-coming, because of their abundant outlook. They give like, they've got, therefore...They get. And continue to get. It's really awesome. Seems totally doable...right? On paper and in theory this seems basic and shockingly-uncomplicated. But in action, the plan is WORK. It's not easy to fight the egoic state that can cloud the mind and result total being-selfsihness. But I'm going to try. I get it, I do. (And I hope I didn't too-badly butcher the message, here)...but I want to live it. So I am. I'm living in an abundant state of happiness, with the intention to love and spread it. Join my little experiment and try my mini-mantra: Never keep score, but never forget. You don't stand anything to lose, that you wouldn't have lost anyways.

How Do They Know?

How do mother's always seem to know when you've gone out and been irresponsible? "Ah," you might argue, "my mother doesn't always know when I've been acting naughty, surely there are times when I've gotten away with it." And true, you might have gotten away with it a time or two. But, I'll bet your mother has at least an 8 for 10 record when it comes to calling you FIRST thing in the morning when you're deathly hungover. My mom. She's good. I am not sure I've ever gotten one past her. She's onto me. Good Luck, Cori.

Really though. In case the throbbing headache and vodka-vommit smell plaguing the carpet weren't punishment enough, the pre-10 am cell phone call really seems to sock it to me. It is at precisely this moment, when the iPhone induced-self-made-ringtone, really just makes my ears want to bleed. Not only is it obnoxiously loud, but it is also the karmic-kick-in-the-ass for the poor choices from the prior evening. Alas, today I found myself in this very cozy predicament. Inevitably, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to relish the idea of having no work on Friday...by using Thursday night responsibly, to say...um, I don't know. Pack and collect the necessary items for my trip (which is in like less than 48 hours away)? Aw,Shucks! HELL NO. Instead I opted to pull my economic weight and go spend other people's money....in the form of adult beverages. several. Great, idea....Not so much. Especially when you wake up to: no food in your refrigerator, a sore throat, and shorts that are on backwards. Needless to say this winning combo of a day all before the wee hours of noon, really makes me feel accomplished. My inner-Winner needs some glitter.

Field Trips....and other fun things that make my want to poke needles through my eyelids.

As children, we saw field trips as fun days to get out of class. It was a day that meant no desks, no assignments, and freedom to be loud with our friends. Ah, yes, how it changes when your on the chaperoning end of the deal. Ok, So today I went on a field trip as a chaperone for the third grade. What was I thinking? All of a sudden I switched teams. And let me tell you..TEAM STUDENT, is TOTALLY better. Having to be responsible for holding lunches, buddy-system bathroom trips, and keeping everyone in eyesight. Totally sucks. Especially when your group, is, say, composed of pre-pubescent boys who think its cool to make fart noises and ask elderly aquarium volunteers about the mating habits of sea slugs (They lay eggs, in case you're wondering). Yea, super cool. After arriving at the school-infested site of said field trip, I was curtly informed that I would have to lug around these kids lunches. Coincidently, they all opted to bring 32 oz gatorades along with a sack lunch that could easily be mistaken for a full-fledged buffet. Lucky me. So, after we meandered around all the fish tanks and I corralled them to the picnic tables I was forced to "enjoy" lunch alongside them. Somewhere after I choked down my skimpy lunch, I was called to the attention of a crinkling red bag that's eminnated a scent that could unmistakenly be identified as Nacho Cheese Dorritos. It is precisely at this moment when I self-diagnosed my condition: Accute Dorritos Deprivation. Yup, I had it. I had it baaaaaaaaaad. Only upon catching myself mid-reverie, squashing little Jacob like a pancake and snatching his Dorritos to the point of licking the "cheese" off my fingers did I realize, I indeed had a problem. Maybe it was the smell that did it? Or maybe it is the fact that I haven't had Dorritos in YEARS that did it? Whatever it was, the outcome wasnt pretty. In my Dorrito fantasy, I pictured myself like the kids in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"--carby goodness abounded. I danced on corn chip hills, crunched on processed gluten, and swan in synthesized Dorrito cheese. MMMmmmmmmm. Oh, and did I mention I was skinny? That too. After I came to my caloric senses, I realized that lunch was over and there was still an hour left of the field trip. How many ways can I find to kill time? The touch tank! It's interactive, exciting, and hands-on! Surely this will entertain my group of Bart Simpson-esque comrades. And entertain it did. It was especially entertaining when we got asked (and when I say "asked" I really mean told/ordered) to leave the vacinity as a result of our inability to follow the 'two-finger' touch rule. Real shocker there. Telling 10 year old boys, they can reach their arms in the tide pool tank, but please--use gentle caution and delicately place only two fingers on the critters, would by like taking Kirspy Kreme doughnuts to a Weight Watchers meeting and then telling the dieters to take one whiff, because consumption is out of the question. So, after our lovely reprimand from senior citizen Mr. Bo, we enacted a hands-at-your-side policy to try and boost our behavior points. Didn't work. Judging by the dirty looks from surrounding private school kids in uniform, I could tell we were out of our league. These boys didn't need an aquarium. They needed a zoo. Maybe there, their behavior would be more socially acceptable. Who knows, maybe by comparison, the Monkey's flinging poo would have up'd our status? Tough call, hard to say. Thankfully, the field trip was over by 1 and we survived the bus ride home, but certainly not without a round of everyone's favorite "I don't want to sit by him" game. Ugh. Moral of the story: I need Dorritos, tazers must be legalized, and responsibility sucks.

It really is THAT simple...until I complicate it.

Lately I've been doing some (very) mild soul searching. I kind of hit a low point and in sheer desperation began seeking, something, ANYTHING to pick me, dust me off, and kiss my boo-boos. Would i like some cheese with my ginormous wine?!? No, thanks. I'll pass. Instead, I did what I do best: turned to books. I dabbled in the self-helpy section, and floated around in spiritual limbo before realizing, that all I've got to do is: SHOW UP. Here I sat, throwing my pitty party, totally convinced that I was never going to get back up. My problems seemed of enormous proportion, certainly too big for me to tackle. My problems here in the natural world, could only be resolved with supernatural hep. So what to do? Well, after reading, meditating, and talking to friends, I have ultimately come to the conclusion that I can and must do only 1 single thing: SHOW UP. That's right. Just SHOW UP. Here's the thing--I have come to believe that if I do my part, everything within my capacity to improve my condition, God will do the rest. For some reason my twisted (read: lazy) mind mistook God for a shoe salesmen at Nordstrom who I could beckon my size and style to, and he would go to the "back" and magically reappear holding the answer to all my problems while I sat on a plush leather chair. Nope. Not even close. See, so far, I'm learning that God helps those that help themselves. When we behave in self-destructive manners there's this little voice inside that quietly says, "yea, whoo-hoo. This feels goooooooood." Then the next day you wake up and another voice (usually of reason) looks back upon the previous day and extracts punishment. All. Day. Long. Thus this vicious cycle of good/bad repeats and progress hesitates to be made. So, in recognizing this, I made a deal with myself. If I screw up, so be it. I don't need to go and make it worse. Accept my mistakes. Roll with the punches. Even if they suck. But DON'T STOP SHOWING UP. See mistakes as just that. Mistakes. They are going to happen, but we make the choice to use them as a learning tool to our benefit or a weapon for our own defeat. When you decide to show up, you take your mistakes and flaws with the grace of a woman and not the grief of a child. You dust YOURSELF off, pick YOURSELF up, and promise YOURSELF that the pangs of this mistake will not be felt again. That's showing up. Once you make that decision, the rest is up to God. But God can't do his part, if you don't do yours. God isn't wearing a suit at Nordstrom waiting with a pair of stilettos, perfectly in your size, to slip on your cinderella'd foot. God is the grace that comes when we do our best. When we make the commitment to do our best, we can count on two things: #1) There's nothing more we can do. let the chips fall where they may. and #2) God doesn't operate in our natural world. He's in the big leagues. He is capable of far more than our miniscule minds can even comprehend. So, try it. Just show up. Find whatever "brown sauce" is lurking in your life and attack!! I know, that if you sincerely (and only you will know how hard you try), make a "go" at it--you will be utterly amazed at how mighty you are. Show up. And wear comfy shoes, you might have to do some walking.

The Gym..and other minutia of my Life

Warning: MAJOR rant ahead!

With that preface aside, I can guilt-free launch into the ridiculousness which engulfed my mind for at least a solid hour. As I reached the gym and plodded up the stairs to the torturemill, err..I mean TREADmill, I propped up my magazine and put on my headphones. I began my run to the melodic hum of Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" (The kick-off jam is croosh to a good run! It totally sets the mood) no sooner did a portly gentleman hop of the treadmill right next to me. Nevermind the fact that it's like 10 am and there's, um I don't know..like EVERY other treadmill open, going completely unused, but whatever. I politely look over and smile before I silently curse him for being an IDIOT and opting to workout RIGHT next to me, when I notice his T-shirt. And want to kick him in the groin. Before I go further, let me first say that my gym attire is no couture collection. In no way am I decked out in Under Armor or Nike workout wear. I am certainly not saying that I flaunt falls latests runway trends to the treadmill, no, I wear your average running shorts and a tank top (usually a cheap one!). Ok, back to my treadmill BFF, he is wearing an "I (heart) Oreos" T-shirt. What?!?! He is wearing an OREOs shirt...to the GYM!?! WTF??? I mean, thats like wearing a Marlboro shirt to a caner ward. Oreo's are what got my fat ass in this gym-mandating predicament in the first place!! And then to have to push through a grueling 6 miles next to a man blatently professing his love for sugary, carby, goodness? Douche bag! And to make matter worse? He's skinny. I officially hate him. Bastard, bragger! I could look past the fact that he insists on working out RIGHT next to me...WALKING. I could look past his annoying flipping of the newspaper that inevitably resulted in running-mode interference. but I CANNOT, cannot-with-a-capital "C" look past his open proclimation, at the gym no less, that he has a love affair with the ultimate diet-vixen: Oreo-friggin-cookies. May fatness strike his thighs!

Whew, ok, back to me. Another gym-fueled rant boils down to the inordinant amount of sweat I produce on the daily. Let me be blunt here. I am not one of those girls who goes to the gym fully-clad in eyeliner and lipstick. No, sir-ree-bob. It's just me, my New Balances and a sports bra (the cheap kind, thank you very much). My hair rests in a "bun-like" rats nest atop my head, and flat-ironing my bangs? OUT OF THE QUESTION. Let's face it, I'm a beast. Thats how I roll. To those of you familiar with high school biology, there is a term used to describe the process the human body goes through in order to regulate itself and maintain constant internal conditions: homeostasis. Put simply, your body is a well-oiled machine that gets hot when you work out and produces small droplets of water on your skin (aka Sweat) to cool you down. Now, back to me being a beast. I can run a mile in six minutes flat. I haul ass. When I go to the gym I run about 6.5 miles. 6.5 miles of vigorous intervals, 6.5 miles of internally telling myself to shut-up and not punk out. Needless to say, my haul-ass regime isn't pretty. Nor sexy, nor cute. I run hard and it shows. Primarily in the form of a sweat drenched tank top. Pretty standard right? Apparently not. Never fails, some nit-wit just HAS to open his/her mouth and comment on "what a sweaty girl I am". Ok, #1) "Girl" I'm 23 thank-you-very-little. I'm not some teeny bopper selling magazine subscriptions for a school fundraiser. Please try and refrain from talking to me as such. Unless you plan on placing me on Santa's Lap and asking what I want for Christmas (everything, in case your wondering) #2) Um, HELLO! It's a gym, you know, a fitness facility, whose sole purpose of existence lies in getting people to sweat! It's not like I'm a hooker in fish-net stalkings walking up to the Holy Alter about to receive the Body of Christ. I'm a runner, AT THE GYM, who sweats. I really don't think its that inconceivable, astonishing, or magical to warrant so much attention. Its perfectly commonplace to work your ass off and sweat like you have to fit into your prom dress. And that's what I do. Minus the prom dress. So, next time I'm at the gym and I get the critical "Wow, you're sweaty" comment, I will resist the urge to thank Captain Obvious and instead reach for a towel and picture my skinny jeans.

I'm not that good, but I know people who are

Some people are incredibly brilliant, insightful, and resilient. They can feel the pangs of disappointment or defeat and pop right back up and keep on truckin. Others, pour themselves a cocktail and turn on E!. Using trashy entertainment television to minimize your sorrows as you compare hollywood trivialities (read: bullshit) to your own life dilemas can only get you so far. One can only handle the ridiculousness of a Jake Gyllenhall sighting at Fred Segal or the latest Heidi Montag (of MTV Hills fame) drama for so long. It's then that you actually realize the emptiness of your wasted fame-whoring, hour. So, as my financial downsizing (um, can you tell I cancelled cable TV?) rages on, I have been forced to seek out more intellectual and responsible outlets. Hence my latest foray into Joel Osteen's new book: "It Is Your Time." I came across a really powerful and inspiring passage this afternoon that was just to good to go unshared. Now, I am probably breaking all sorts of copyright laws, when I straightup COPY (paraphrasing just wouldnt do this justice)--so I'm resting on the good-natured benevolence of one of my readers to front my bail money while I jet-set to Mexico and hideout. No, just kidding. But anyways, I am sharing this bit in hopes to inspire and breathe faith into others the way it was breathed into me. Please enjoy and feel inspired:

"The fact is that any time God is about to take you to a new level, you will face opposition. There will be new battles to fight, new obstacles to overcome, maybe people who doubt you, or speak poorly of you. I once heard someone say, ' New level, new devil'. It's easy to let negative voices discourage you. It's tempting to think, 'Why is this happening? Why did they doubt me? Or, Why did I get laid off.? Or Why am I hit with one thing or another?' But right beyond today's challenges are tomorrow's victories. New level of success are just on the other side. Whenever God is about to take you to a higher level, you will face stronger opposition. There will be new battles to fight, new obstacles to overcome. The adversity can actually be the tool God uses to promote you. Many times our enemies will do more to catapult us to success than our friends. I know in my life there have been times when I was down. i didn't see a way out. It looked impossible. But I thought, I can't give up now. It would make my enemies too happy. Sometimes we can smile, but not becuase we want to, not becuase we feel like it, but becuase we will not give our enemies the pleasure of seeing us down. On the inside, you may be hurting. But on the outside you should wear a smile. Do not let them see you defeated. Not out of pride. Not out of spite. But out of a quiet confidence, knowing that you are a child of the Most High God, and He would not have allowed it if He did not have a purpose for it."

So there you have it. Spoken like a messenger. Receive it like a listener.

Me?

Today while anxiously driving home, trying to avoid the temptation to text-while-driving, I got to thinking about why ANYONE would ever want to date me for longer than an hour. Hmmm, I thought to myself. I can totally understand why guys in a bar would buy me a drink and throw casual conversation my way in an effort to bed me, but date me? Well, now that's a mystery. If i were of the opposite sex I would expect a girlfriend who, say, cooks awesome dinners, and shaves her legs daily, while always remaining quite the lady. But no. Not I. So, to get to the bottom of this mystery, I made a pro/con list. And here's what I got:

1) Con: I don't cook, clean, or do laundry. Domesticity is just not my bag.

It's true I'm afraid. I HATE the thought of operating any devices in my kitchen other than my microwave and my coffee maker. If it were socially acceptable, I would live in a house that doesnt even have a kitchen. Truth be told, I think it'd be a better use of space if it were converted into a closet. But that's me.

2) Pro: I can party and handle my shit. I'm not one of those girls you'll find slumped over a toilet in a bar come last call. No, sir. I've got class. I can go round for round with the best of 'em. And better yet, I'll still manage to get to work on time the next day. Maybe even the gym too. I am all about raging my little face off, but i know how to balance it. Work hard, play hard.

3) Con: I'm moody, neurotic, and a little overwhelming---all rolled into one. I have days when I'm up, down, left, right, and everywhere in between. Boring, I am not. I love to be spontaneous and my big-ass mouth has a penchant for getting me into trouble. I call 'em like I see 'em. Even if it lands me in deep shit (which, more often than not, does). Don't like your boob job? I'll let ya know. Perhaps its a good thing: With me, you'll never have to wonder. I have no fear of speaking me mind.

4) Pro: I've got spunk. Yup, opinions flow through my veins like oxygenated blood. I am pretty sure that I'm genetically encoded to be outspoken. I'm confident that someday scientists will discover a gene on the 21st chromosome for: outrageous, and if I'm lucky, they'll name it after me. I drink vodka and spit fire.

5) Con: I can be very self-centered. Anyone who has shared a meal with me knows...that last bite on our plate--consider it MINE! Don't get me wrong, I love to share and I'm all about the koom-by-yah, but in the words of my idol: "Sometimes I'm a superbitch." And if you're fucking with something that's near and dear to me (like say, shrimp) I'm gunning for the last morsel.

6) Pro: When I love ya, I'll give you my left arm. I can be loyal to a fault. I will lie, cheat, and throw blows for those I love. Unless I'm fighting with someone I love, in which case I'm still probably too stubborn to back down, but give me an hour---I'll cool down and come around. I always do.

6) Con: I'm obsessive. I know it sounds crazy, but I love to kick my own ass. Yup, self-torture (the gym) is right up my alley. The more it hurts, the harder I go. Could it be? Am I a...sadist?

7) Pro: I dont quit. I'm not a quitter. I don't care what it is, determination is like my crack. I will try, and try, and try until I freakin get it. Learning to ride a two-wheel bike? I've got the scarred knees to prove it. Running a half marathon? Victory T-shirt is in my (dirty) laundry. When I set my mind to it, I'm stubborn as shit. And if seeing you happy is my goal, rest assured I won't stop until I get it.

8) pro?/con? I'm an artist. I think deep, dream big, and color outside the lines. I give good love and I demand it. I party like a man and fuck like a woman (sorry mom).

Ok, so what do you think? Want to date me? It ain't easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is... right?