You look:

Like a moron.

Dear adult college woman of Saint Mary’s,

While loungewear is a common sight on this female dwelled establishment, please refrain from ever committing this crime against humanity ever again. Fleece onesie pajamas with rubber soled feet and an airplane pattern is beyond inappropriate attire for walking around campus in the evening. My two month old niece has more mature looking sleepwear than this. If you would be so kind as to find the 4 year old boy who you stole this hideous monstrosity from, your sisters of Saint Mary’s would be tickled. One less unfortunate embarrassment for us to explain to outsiders.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Dear Halloween,

I really hate you.

I think your color scheme is icky. You bring out the bad in Orange, which we all know can do no wrong outside of your satanic grips.

You give people an excuse to dress in ways that would otherwise be considered illegal, and I don’t care what day of the year it is, there should be no exceptions for some things.

You give young women, who should be learning to act classy, not trashy, the impression that ANYTHING can be sexy on Halloween.
“What are YOU going to be for Halloween?”
“Oh Em Gee, I am going to be a sexy fire hydrant!”
“Oh Em Effing GEE I am going to be a sexy high school administrator!!!!”
What does this mean, you ask? They buy the appropriate color bra and panties, maybe a skirt that doesn’t cover their ANYTHING and in the case of the administrator, maybe a pair of reading glasses. And she might throw her hair in a bun just to validate a good stereotype. The fire hydrant? Red, all the way. Maybe her boyfriend will dress as a dog and pee on her leg all night. I wouldn’t put it past certain people.

Back to YOU, Halloween. You make people decorate their homes with arachnids, which if I am not mistaken, most people AVOID AT ALL COSTS for the other 364 days of the year, so what changed, exactly!?! And what in the world do Spiders have to do with Halloween ANYWAY!!??

You make children forget about everything relevant for at least one month straight to think about only the rotting of their teeth and what they are going to wear for Halloween, because let’s face it, it will kill you to have a lame costume. Some customer of mine even went so far as to ask me to sew her child’s costume this year. And I said, Um, hello, do I know you or your child??? No. Do I CARE if your child hits the streets on October 31 dressed as a Notre Dame marching band member? Not really. Do you have $200 to spend on your child’s costume? Oh, no, you don’t??? Perfect…. I selected the appropriate rate to get you to BACK THE HECK OFF then. Good luck with the gold tassels

You are all about fear, fright, death, mummies, zombies, ghosts…. things I try to avoid, in general, in my daily life. I don’t think there should be any exception on Halloween.

I think middle school is DEFINITELY the cutoff for trick or treating, and yet, there always seems to be some 17 year old punks skateboarding around the neighborhood that comes up to me, sans costume, to steal candy.

This year, I plan on standing my ground: no costume, no candy. And children shall receive candy based on the creativity and appropriateness of their costumes. You threw on a ski mask to go trick or treating? You get a chewed piece of gum. You show up (and you are under the age of 12) in an adorable Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz costume, braids and all? Well, that deserves some milk duds.

The only thing I am looking forward to doing on October 31 this year, is calling Kate to wish her a Happy Birthday…. NOT a Happy Halloween.

When you think of a perfect weekend…

Mine is not what comes to mind. In fact, I would venture to say mine falls under the category of Someone is Trying to Sabotage My Life, I Just Know It, I am Henceforth a Hermit. That category has taken on a whole new role for me this weekend. Because bad things can’t happen to hermits; after all, they know better than to venture out into chuck hole infested world. Because you know what chuck holes do?? They leave you stranded at the side of the road on a Friday night with a dead cell phone, in the rain, with two flat tires. Not one. Two.

Let’s rewind, shall we? Scene: It’s Friday night, just had Carrabba’s salads with Kaley and Rob and spent some good time smooching on Avalon. 10:00 rolls around, and it’s time for me to leave the fun fest. Driving home, on this dark rainy night, I hit a chuck hole and BA-BAMM!!!! The first BA was my front right tire. The BAMM was my back right tire. BA and BAMM ruined the rest of my weekend. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. They really just ruined the rest of my night and the better part of Saturday. I have a pretty quick rebound rate, if you’ve ever met me. Mad one second and asking for high fives and telling jokes the next. Like a schizo, really.

So I am now hyperventilating as my car starts to drift to the right side of the road because, well, there was no air in my tire and that tends to throw off the equilibrium of the car, as you may know if you know anything about balance, physics, cars, or have an iota of common sense. My heart is in my throat and I reach for my phone because what is a cell phone if not an adult’s safety blanket? It’s like Avalon’s Wooby… makes me feel like everything’s going to be OK because, well, I am cellularly connected and that can solve any problem.

But HARK! What’s this? My phone is DEAD, you say?! (Enter MAJOR water works)

I am now hyperventilating, heart in throat, crying, and trying desperately to find that car plug that Stockton left in my car accidentally and then offered to let me keep. Thank you, by the way. I owe you something that will, like, save your life. After plugging in the phone, I am trying to turn it on. But I get nothing. I am still fighting to keep my car on the road, driving at about 20 miles per hour… yes, still driving. Like a total moron. HELLO DUMMY!!!! Stop the car!!!! You have one, two TWO flat tires and you are still driving. Who thought it was a good idea to give me a vehicle and a valid driver’s license?! I make stupid decisions!!!

Finally, after about a mile, I get service and call home. Nothing. Surprise of the century, no one at the Helman residence is answer the phone. Then I call Maddie. Because my 16 year old sister will surely have the answer to this problem. Crying like a complete psychopath, I try to relay my situation and thoroughly freaked her the heck out, I’m sure. Bless her little do-gooder heart, she offered to come meet me somewhere. Because two clueless girls are way better than one in a situation like this. But at that moment, my knight was calling me. Dad. GOTTA GO MADDIE DAD TO THE RESCUE!!! First words out of my mouth:

“WAAAAAAAHHH BAHAHHHHHAHAHHHHHHH DAAAAADDDDDDDD!” and my dad is all, “Ummmmm, get a grip you freak” and I’m all “I’M GONNNAAA DIIIEEEEEEE”. He’s so nice. He totally tolerated me. Then threw on some grubby clothes and hauled his total Bat Mobile, MacGyver’d car to my rescue and changed my tire in the dark, on the ground, in the rain, while I droned in the background about my miserable luck and how lousy it is to be a car owner because “WAAAAA I CAN’T AFFORDDDD TIRRESSSSSS (hiccup) WAAAAAAA”.

Let’s just say that after learning a valuable life lesson of stashing some freakin’ weird stuff in every nook and cranny of your car, I am now equipped to build a house, fight off ninjas, paint my nails, and self-medicate all by popping my trunk. Thanks, Dad. You are the original MacGyver.

Saturday morning, I woke up early, seriously hoping I would walk out to my car and there wouldn’t be a small, stupid looking, yellow spare tire where my front right tire was supposed to be and that the back wheel wouldn’t have a goose egg protruding out of it the size of a soft ball. Certainly this was all just a dumb dream. What do they put in that Carrabba’s house dressing anyway??? But no. It was real. The spare was laughing at me as I walked out to reassess the damage. And cry some more. After making a few phone calls to some of my dad’s greasy-fingernail friends, we arranged for me to go to Tire Rack to purchase one, two TWO new tires. Ugh, makes me ill to think about. And then they were going to do the installation for me. Notre Dame game just hours away, I thought the toll road would be the best way to go with the South Bend traffic situation. And then, once I was on the toll road, I realized I had a spare tire and a tire that was threatening to explode at any given moment, so I drove 10 miles on the toll road at 40 miles per hour with my hazards on. Oh. My. Gosh. It was like plucking your leg hairs. Everyone else is shaving, but you are the freak who does it the slow, painful way. I had semis threatening to hit me because, well, their braking time isn’t anything to brag about and when barreling down the highway at 80 mph only to encounter the IDIOT who is on the toll road with a ticking time bomb of a vehicle, there are some major threats of rear-endage. Luckily I made it out without any love taps from behind, but I bet if I had bothered to take my eyes off the road, I would’ve seen some middle finger salutes aimed straight at me.

Once I got to tire rack, I was told that I was tenth in line. TENTH. And that once my car got in, it would still be 2 hours. Which means I would be there until my wedding. Waiting and crying. The lady sitting next to me in the waiting room with the pink hair who kept talking to herself wasn’t making me any more stoked about this whole process, so I chose to buy the tires and leave, thinking somewhere else might have a shorter wait time. Which means I got to drive back across town in the ticking time bomb. This time, I chose not to go the Toll Road route. After all, I had just bought one, two TWO new tires and I could afford no tolls.

Long story, eh? If you made it this far, we really are friends, I think. Oh, mylanta. Moral of the story: my dad’s the best rescuer ever. Amen.

Randomness 10.1.09 edition

Happy October 1st! This is my favorite month. The weather is a wonderful mix of sunny and crisp (when things go right), my birthday is within sight, and the new chill in the air means this is the first opportunity you get to wear all those new Fall clothes you splurged on, even if it was just at Target on Tuesday night a mere 5 minutes before they closed just because you needed a daggum MOMENT TO YOURSELF WITHOUT SCHOOL AND WORK AND PIANO AND SEWING AND OH MY GOSH SOMEONE GIVE ME OXYGEN AND A MOSSIMO T-SHIRT!!!! Oh wait, that was just me??

::crickets::

Moving on then!!! I do have a few feelings recently, which should come as no surprise to you because, well, something is always causing me to be a tad disgruntled in this fragile state of limbo where I’m not a real member of society yet, but really close, but still a student, but really hating school, etc. And with the aforementioned weather change, one of those things is footwear. Trivial, you say? NAY!!! This is one of my greater annoyances with college women! Saint Mary’s college women in particular. My argument is this, ladies: Yes, this morning it was 31 degrees. Brr, ok, I get it. But NOW it is in the 60’s. And despite popular belief, UGGS and flip flops are not your only two footwear options. THERE I SAID IT! Go buy a frickin’ pair of tennis shoes, closed toe flats, loafers, hell, I don’t care if you wear scuba flippers because at least then you are being original!! I am so. sick. of seeing UGGS and flip flops everywhere I look. If there is any debate as to whether you should wear your flops or your UGGS when you are getting dressed in the morning, it means that neither are appropriate because those shoes should not be worn in or around the same season under any circumstances. Also, if UGGS are the best option, you better have a coat and pants on, as well, because it better be so frigid that your feet will cease to exist without the sheep’s wool goodness of those boots. In other words: It is never OK to wear UGGS with shorts! Or a short skirt! Or a skort, for that matter!!!!!

Next issue: lately my sales professor has found it amusing to punish me and single me out for my participation, saying that basically, I need to shut up and let my classmates talk. In fact, she said exactly this when she requested I stay after class the other day to “talk to her” but really, do NO TALKING BECAUSE YOU JUST TOLD ME TO SHUT UP. Um, ok I get it, I have some opinions (hence courtneyhelman.wordpress.com, amen?) but isn’t the point of higher education to learn to ask questions and make meaningful contributions to class meetings?? And if she slams me one more time for using Orange Tree as an example, I quit school, because HELLO, WOMAN I am actually going into sales and have at least an iota more experience than the rest of my classmates who all interned with some company that delegated them to Chief Donut Fetcher and Summer Receptionist duties. Also, I happen to have, again, just an iota of experience as a buyer for a company, so if you try to squelch my enthusiasm for this, I will report you since you are clearly missing the point of being an educator. Then today, because apparently I was contributing to class too much again (shame on me), she used me as an example for “speech issues” and said that even though I am a good speaker and should be proud of how I present myself (ahem, thank you very much), she said I end every sentence with a question mark and that it makes me sound like I have no confidence in what I’m saying and that I will not be a good salesperson because of that. Well, dear educator, I would like to tell you that I think you are an utter piece of crap professor that would really be better off as a paper salesperson (hello, Dunder Mifflin!!) like you were in your earlier days? And if that gives you any inclination as to the type of professor she is, just picture yourself sitting in class with a professor that has the dynamic personality of Stanley or Phyllis? This is me speaking with question marks at the end of my sentences? Ugh, I can’t wait until professors are a thing of the past for me. Notice that I did not put a question mark after that sentence because there isn’t a doubt in my mind regarding that statement.

On a final promotional note, new loot here.

Have a good weekend and talk at you soon? Don’t wear UGGS yet? Wait, scratch that. Don’t wear UGGS yet. That, I am confident of.

It’s official!

I am now a real, live, Etsy shop owner!!! After a lot of encouragement from my roommate and a few others, I decided to take the plunge and put my stuff out there. I only have two things up for now, but you gotta start somewhere, yeah!?! Even though I do make random things for display in the store, I have found (in my brief experience of selling stuff) that I am most happy to do special orders for people. Someone came into Orange Tree yesterday and wanted an apron for a new mom, as well as some onesies with applique shapes/letters for the baby to match his momma. So cute. I am really excited about this one, but the best part for me is seeing how excited the customer was about ordering this “custom” apron for her god daughter. She was ecstatic, and who doesn’t love to tell their gift recipient that the gift was especially made for them?? Seriously, people, my family can tell you that I am a borderline obnoxious gift giver because I can never wait until the actual DAY (i.e. Christmas) to give people their gifts. It’s just that I love to see people’s reactions, and I love knowing that my gift was a success. That is what making custom aprons/whatevers is like for me. Such a feeling of accomplishment.

Thanks for indulging my little hobby and if you want, you can check out my shop (although you’ve already seen the aprons here and here) at http://www.courtneybock.etsy.com.

Thanks to everyone who has been so encouraging of my new venture. And for dealing with photos of me wearing dog collars. It’s all for the cause.

Woof woof

For your viewing pleasure, allow me to introduce my latest project, for the stylish mutt in your life.

A lovely, handmade collar for your favorite little houndie. I made this because this week in the store, someone asked if we have cute dog collars. I wanted to say “No, but give me 24 hours and we will!!” but I resisted the urge to shamelessly self-promote, and instead, I’m doing it on my blog!!! Because, really, what else are blogs for?!?! I have fondly named this style, The Corby-Doo and will henceforth be referring to any collars in this print as such.

The fabric I used is by Amy Butler, which is a HOT designer in the textiles industry, and she has some of the coolest designs I have seen. I am making two new aprons with her fabrics (one in blues and one in greens/pinks) in that tiered style, so those will be posted soon. I think they will be yet again, better than any before. I love learning new things because you only get better each time you do something. It really makes you cocky and think that “By gosh, I am destined for a life of apron making!!!!”. And yes, I am still thinking about that, so please don’t squelch my enthusiasm.

*Note: The Corby-Doo is going to be available at Orange Tree (as long as my boss lets me ).

**Note #2: This product was not tested on animals. Just me.

***This just in: The Yo Quiero Sophie style. Pink with orange and yellow polka dots on the outside, orange ribbon on the inside.

Chipotle O.D.

Ohhhhh my gosh I am still walking like an 8-month pregnant woman after eating Chipotle last night. Since we HAD to get as much free stuff out of them as possible, Anna (my date) and I each got a bowl with OUR OWN bags of chips and guac. ANNNND we ate every. last. bite. How sick are we!? It was like, the last supper south of the border-style. And now I have 23 days to slough off the excess tire around my midsection before I go (Dun dun DUUUNNNN) wedding dress shopping.

Let me put it to you another way: I am going WEDDING DRESS SHOPPING in 23 days and I just ate enough to feed all of Guadalajara last night. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! So in spinning this morning, I chanted “Wedding dress, wedding dress, wedding dress” about 10 million times while my legs turned into limp noodles and sweat pooled underneath my bike.

I wouldn’t be freaking out about this so much, as this is only the shopping, not the actual wedding or anything, but when I went bridesmaid dress shopping for Kaley’s wedding, they were putting me in dresses that were a size “No thanks, not for me” as well as MATERNITY dresses (ok, not because I am as big as a pregnant woman, but because she had a pregnant bridesmaid and SOMEONE had to do it, so let’s give that responsibility to the pudgy sister!). I don’t know, I just don’t want a joyous experience, such as dress shopping, to be dampened by my own self-loathing and pity party about Wanny-Wanny-Poo-Poo I feel faaat. Because chances are, at the point I admit to feeling dumpy about my spare tire and flappy underarms, the BEANTH girl will jump into the dressing room from out of nowhere and say “Eeth all yo fault, theethta” (Read: It’s all your fault, sister). “Too many chipth fo yoouuuu!!!!” (Read: LAY OFF THE FREAKING TOSTITOS ALREADY).

I will from here on out be grounding myself from Chipotle heaven as well as my Tuesday and Thursday bagged Cheez-it snacks, as well as 6 desserts in one night (it was a birthday party, EVERYONE WAS DOING IT!), as well as, well, anything delicious. Help me. Encourage me. Insult me (it’s motivating).

But most of all, don’t give me free Chipotle coupons.

BEANTH!!!

Stockton lives in Arizona, which is like, really close to Mexico. As a general rule, the Hispanic people in Phoenix are way more authentic than the ones in Granger, mm-k? Just goes with the territory. Well, at the much-loved Mexican restaurant, Chipotle (in Phoenix), there is this Mexican lady who assembles the burritos. Girl knows how to fold a burrito like nobody’s business and she has a fantastic little lisp that makes a Chipotle experience double the awesome. I’ve never met her, of course, this is all just what I’ve heard through the grapevine, ahem, Stockton. If you have ever been to Chipotle, you know the drill:

Step 1: You place your order.
Step 2: “For here or to go?” asks the Chief Burrito.
Step 3: Enter your response.
Step 4: “Black or Pinto beans?”

It is here at Step 4 that we get some major lisp action because BEANS becomes BEANTH with extra emphasis so that the word sounds more like BAYNTH. And it is awesome. Especially when Stockton says it.

Then you move along the Burrito assembly line where you get a “You wan’ Ryyyeeeeethe?” (Read: Do you want rice?).

Lastly, we get “Mye, mee oh hot?” (Read: Mild, Medium or hot?).

SO GREAT!!!! I LOVE CHIPOTLE!!!!!!

To satisfy this love of the lisp (in my head only as I haven’t experienced the authenticity that is Miss Burrito, Phoenix) and my love of some lime flavored chips and guaca-holy, Jenny (my roomie) and I have been taking Chipotle dates every Thursday night. This week, however, we have a curve ball and it is going to rock. my. world. and make. you. SO JEALOUS!

Two words: FREE CHIPOTLE.

BOOM BABY!!!!

Eddy Street commons is opening a new Chipotle on Friday and tomorrow they are inviting anyone to get free burritos from 11am-7pm. But tonight, my friends, there are invitations. And I have two of them. Not because I was invited, but because Jenny has plans and I don’t (which should be no surprise) so she gave me hers. AND I AM SO STOKED I AM SINGING HALLELUJAHS TO THE HOLY BEANTH!

BEANTH BEANTH BEANTH BEANTH BEANTH!

Mrs. L

I received some very sad new yesterday. My dear friend from many years gone by, the one who fueled my love of Barbie dolls with her exquisite and exotic collection, the one whose little sister I convinced that “Chilled Water” on the refrigerator actually said “Child Water” because it was non-alcoholic, the one who I watched Power Rangers with for hours and hours, lost her mother over the weekend. I haven’t heard from or seen Samantha in easily ten years, but upon hearing of her enormous loss last night, I was overcome with sadness for her, her siblings, and her dad. Mrs. L lost her life to a very quick battle, one lasting less than a year. My mom called me with the news, and I thought, What if it were me in Sam’s shoes right now? Could I handle the loss of my mother? Or my father? Or one of my sisters? What about the loss of my fiance? What would I do if I were faced with such a tragedy? I honestly can say that I do not know the answer to that.

My life has been so blessed. I have both of my parents, five grandparents (one of whom is “great”, and I think that is pretty darn amazing) and yet there are girls my age, like Sam, who are already without a mother. My heart breaks for her.

One thing that was really brought into light in my thoughts of Sam is that I have this fatal flaw where I fly off the handle with people I am the closest with. I am quick to anger with Stockton when I’ve had a hard day, I am defensive to the point of insubordination with my parents, and I hurt the people who are closest to me. I think if we are all being honest, we all possess this fatal flaw to a certain extent. Sam’s story makes me want to reevaluate how I treat the people who are the most important in my life. She will never be scolded or receive advise that is hard to hear from her mom. And I am willing to bet everything I have that Sam would rather be “mothered” at the risk of hearing what she doesn’t want to hear, than never have another conversation with her mom again. I think of my upcoming wedding, and how my mom will be there to talk me through the day, be there to help pick out my wedding gown… I can’t think about it without crying that Sam won’t have that.

Love one another; you never know how much time you have left. And don’t be quick to anger with your loved ones. Love them better and don’t take a single moment for granted. If, of all the people in your life, you love them most, let them know.

So I put my HAAAAANDS up!!!

If any of you are Miley Cyrus followers, or just have any awareness of Pop Culture in America, WHATSOEVER, you may recognize the title of this post as one of ol’ Miley’s latest hits among the Disney watching 6 to 12 year old girls of America. If not, watch this (but really listen more than anything because the “video” is completely stupid and makes no sense) and be educated as to what I am inevitably jamming out to as I put on mascara on a Thursday night before hitting the big town of South Bend with my Smick Chicks. MMMM-K????

Completely beside the fact that I hate Miley Cyrus, but love that song, I was at Wal-Mart, with all the Wal-billies as Papa has so lovingly named them, and I was shopping for basically $75 worth of microwave dinners, Cheez-It’s and other miscellaneous CRAP when I stumbled upon the personal hygiene aisle. Wanting to not smell like a grizzly armpit during the weekend that my Fiance comes to visit me (countdown: 42.5 hours ’til Airport Smooch-Fest ‘09), I decided it was time to buy some deodorant, which I have been putting off for about 5 days please don’t judge me I have been very fragile this week. INSERT BREATH HERE. I run-on when I’m sleep deprived and excited over antiperspirant. As I am looking for the Asian Pear scent that Maddie got me turned on to a couple months ago, I stumbled upon this little concoction of heavenly delight.

Omigosh, I am so gay. I bought the Hannah Montana deodorant. But guys, seriously, I’m not even sorry, because it smells BOMBBB!!!! Like, move over Ambre Blends, there’s a new sheriff in town and her name is Miley and THE DJ IS PLAYING HER SONNGGGGG.

I am so tired.

I wear deodorant by Hannah Montana that is called Rock Star Rose, and despite what you may assume, it is not put out by Teen Spirit! But, I did smell check the Teen Spirit selections and they were disappointing compared to this nasal sensation. So basically, the question at this point is, how does one conclude a blog post about Hannah Montana underarm fragrance? There is no Google response to that question so I’m just going to say goodnight and hope that if I ever run into you in the personal hygiene aisle, you won’t look the other way and pretend that you totally didn’t read my blog about Rock Star Rose deodorant.

xoxox