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Dear Courtney,
My mom got this kitchen remodel started and now we can't get upstairs or eat real food or even hardly get to the bathroom. The person who is doing the work seems to be invading our house. He wraps more and more rooms up in saran wrap every day. I can't remember when I ate something that didn't come from the microwave. I'm afraid that he'll take over the whole place soon, and we'll be living on the street. What should I do? Should I put myself up for adoption?

Signed,
Victim of Invasion

P.S. On top of all of this, my mom is busy with a stupid advice column all the time.

Dear Victim,
Poor you. Life sounds pretty rough where you come from. Maybe you should put your mother up for adoption. Some nice couple who want to adopt an older person could take her off your hands -- some rich adults who just aren't up for all the PTA meetings, diapers, driver's ed, and so on. If your mother were adopted, she wouldn't have so many stinkin' bills -- she could quit the advice column racket and hang out with you and play cards all day.

Yours Always,
Cort-knee

P.S. f you decide to put yourself up for adoption, let me know Right Away. I'd adopt you in a minute. You sound like a fine young man.

Hi Courtney-
For the first time in 19 years, I am actually thinking about quitting my job and trying something new. The morale at my workplace has hit an all-time low. It's the old summer vacation who's-going-to-cover-the-shifts problem. There's not enough staff, so after 19 years (I think I've already said that) I didn't get any of my measly 4 requested days off for the summer. I am not alone, as there are others who didn't get any time off, or only part of their requested days off. We all have kids and want to be off with them this summer.

It's a demanding job but management feels their hands are tied and are leaving it up to the staff to cover each other's shifts. I am finding myself picking up extra shifts so hopefully others will pick up mine. I hate the bullshit. Why are we do tied to the whim of those who run our workplaces? Do we have to put up with it? I'm going to look around and see if there is something else out there. Unfortunately I can't knit fast enough to earn enough cash to support myself without crippling my hands and gaining 1000 pounds from just sitting. Please advise me!

Signed,
Burned out.

Dear Burned Out,

Damn those people already. They can't do without you for four stinkin' days? Besides being aghast, Khortnee is a tiny bit jealous, because she could be gone for four years before anyone noticed or cared. So, the good news is that you must be doing something Really Important.

On the other hand, since you're the only person on the planet to have Cortn3ee as your home page, I'd like to offer you a get-rich-quick idea.

Now, everyone has heard of the International Star Registry, in which people (presumably men, because they often feel guilty about something) pay $54 to name a star after their loved one, (or at least someone they wish to continue sleeping with). This is what people do when they have not an ounce of originality, but a bunch of money. Luckily (in a way), there are tons of people like this on the planet. My point is this: you could earn lots of money by having people pay you to name something that wasn't yours to begin with. Stars are taken, of course, but there are other things.

Clouds, for example. Imagine naming a cloud after some of those downer people in your life. In a tiny lame inside jokeish kind of way, you could name a cloud after your mother-in-law, or some annoying person in the workplace. (This might be most lucrative if you advertised at bars and stuff, where people maybe didn't have the best judgement and are a little freer with their money.)

Or water. "I've paid big money to name a pint of water Sally, after you, my true love, because water takes many forms, is everywhere, essential to life, just like you, blah blah blah. Unlike the star, way out of reach, this water touches me every day blah blah blah."

But the real chutzpah comes with this one: planets. Some of those planets, they need a name change anyway (Uranus? Who named that, anyway?) If someone were to send you, say, half a million dollars, we could all start calling it "Martha". Or, for $2 million, wouldn't we all be willing to call the sun "Julie"?

Yours,
Courtney

P.S. When you make a bunch of money, remember Cortknee and the issues with popcorn packers lung, will ya?

Dear Courtney,

What should I do to prepare for a 90 meeting with my section supervisor? And just how do you think I should unwind after this event? Complicating this task is that now he is late for the 2:30 start time. Do you think I should wait or just blow the whole thing off and say hey...you missed the opportunity so tough luck? If I do him the favor and wait, do think he will be in a foul mood having been stuck in traffic or some other irritating situation that I care nothing about? Please help.

Signed, Employee losing interest

Dear Employee,
That incident on the one-way street? It was totally my fault.

Signed,
N'3lvra

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Dear Quartnay,
I've been reading through some back issues of Ask you-know-who and while very amusing, it is a little like reading Alice in Wonderland, which is a story I never liked because everyone seemed like they were on drugs or having a nightmares due to a really high fever. But it's just a LITTLE like Alice so I guess I can stand it and also get some chuckles and of course some wisdom out of the deal.

Here's a question for you: The other day I was hosting a family birthday party which I guess was pretty fun for everyone but me because I knew it was my role to be a martyr and do all the work so they could eat the food and then go home. So anyway we were sitting around afterward in my comfortable living room when my mother-in-law (who is pretty much blind) calls my sister to come over. Grandma says, "My, you've lost weight!" Which my sister had not, and in fact her butt was as big as I'd ever seen it. Grandma continues, "Yes, you really have! You've lost a lot of weight!" To which my sister uncomfortably but firmly replied, "No, I REALLY haven't! Then my sister walked away, and Grandma sat there looking pleased about the compliment she had made up.

My question is... If I observe too much of this shit, will I go crazy? Thanks,
Coutnix--from new reader Barb


Dear Barb,

Does she make up complements about you too? Would she make up nice things about Kortnee? Because, not to make this like I'm on drugs or all about me or anything, but I think this puts a new spin on the idea of "blind dating." Too bad this blind old woman only meets one out of three of KortNee's very strict dating criteria, because there's nothing wrong with a nice lie about your butt once in a while.

Thanks for Writing,
N'3lvra

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Dear Kortnee,

I have a colleague for whom I serve as a mentor. This means it's her first year of employ and I am supposed to bestow vast amounts of my overwhelming knowledge upon her. Now normally this is not a problem because not that many people ask me for advice (sound familiar?) and I love to give my opinion.

The problem is that this young lady is just plain lame. Instead of walking to my "cubicle" and asking me a simple question, she emails me a very formal note like "Dear Mrs. Asdfjkalsdkfjlsdfjkdk, I was wondering if we could get together to schedule a time to discuss aldkfjaldfkj. COuld you get back to me with a few possible times? Sincerely, Little Miss Dipshit"

Am I being too mean? All she had to do is stick her head in my cubicle and ask. Also she still wants me to accompany her to every meeting she holds and I'm getting sick of it. When I tell her she's ready to fly on her own, she looks like she's going to cry. No other young "mentee" that I've had has had this problem and frankly the sight of her is starting to make me wince which is not a good quality in a "mentor". Advice please.

Signed,
Mentor

Dear Mentor,

Of course you aren't being too mean. You never are. I think wincing is involuntary, anyway.
If you were too mean, you would say:

Dear Little Ms. Dipshit,

Unfortunately, I can't attend any more effin' meetings. I am laid up with a repetitive motion injury from all of this on-the-job wincing.

Your Former Mentor

P.S. And, I think I have to get my bangs cut, which could take the rest of the school year, so buck up and fly.

At least you didn't say that.

Very Fondly Yours,
Corthnee

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Dearest Courtney,

Well, you know who is sending this I guess, cuz it's not too secret. I have trouble accessing the top secret email address and to be honest I just don't understand this concept very well. Why do we need it to be secret again? I know you explained this before... Sometimes do you, dear advisor, forget that some of our IQ's border 100 on our best day?

Signed,
Can't Figure This Out

My Dear Friend,

I don't exactly know why I've got the secret advice e-mail account. I truly don't. I pay all this money for a secret advice e-mail account, and no one uses it. Is that because they don't understand how to use it, or why they should? Or, they have no problems?

Here's the why: some people (not you, though, thankfully) find it embarrassing to tell their problems to someone. These are the same people who travel to a different town if they need to purchase lice shampoo, condoms, or adult diapers. Think of the secret e-mail account as the different town you go to for those embarrassing purchases.

Here's how it works. Log into this website as if it were your very own (Which it is, except that potentially, you share it with my other reader.) Okay, here's the website: www.hotmail.com (you may have heard of it.) In the blank for your e-mail address, type, "askcourtney@hotmail.com". The password is "courtney". Or, of course, you can click on the purple word above and you will go directly there. When you write to me from that account, I won't know who's writing! I might think it's my other writer (although I'm getting familiar with each of your styles by now).

Of course, feel free to continue writing to me the normal way. It's always lovely to hear from you.

Yours,
Cort-h3nee (the three is still silent)

Does it seem like, for an advice column, there aren't many people asking for advice? Now, some columnists would feel bad about that. They would think, huh, no one's reading this, or no one wants to write, even with the anonymous e-mail address (password: Courtney).

But this Courtney, she's a "cup half full" kind of person. The way I figure it, we've solved all of your problems. Because surely, if you do have any problems, you'll write. Of course you will. Of course people are reading this.

I'll keep the blog open for a while, just in case something comes up. In the way that fire-fighters hang around after the fire is out, watching for sparks. Because sometimes, you think everything is going swimmingly, then POW, life crops up again.

Here's something. That asteroid, it came very close the other day. I've been crouching under the desk since I first heard about it, wearing my bike helmet and big hearing defenders. I just peeked out a few minutes ago, looks like we're okay. Phew.

Are you worried about this: Bronchiolitis obliterans? You don't really need to be a latin scholar to know, with a name like that, It's Not Good. Aka "popcorn packers' lung". Jesus. Here in the popcorn factory, we're pretty shook up about it. That's why I'm trying so hard to get the advice column off the ground, and truly, it's not easy.

Please write.

Yours,
N'3lvra

Point of Clarification

That nasty business with the assault charges? That was the other Courtney, the slutty druggy Courtney. I didn't take my shirt off on the Letterman show either. In fact, if I were on the Letterman show, I would wear a bag over my head, or one of those veils from Afghanastan that even covers my feet, 'cause that's the kind of girl I am.

In case you were wondering.

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Dear Court-/nea2@#,
I'm looking for more sage wisdom for the practical response to the following situation...I hope your dear readers don't find themselves in this precarious situation.

Picture me (a truly luscious babe) in a seaside restaurant with my mother (age 68, grandmother (age 92) and grandmother's hellaciously decadent and wild friend (age 69) at 5:30 PM, ready for a fine meal. To start with and maybe this provides the backdrop for the entire drama, drinks are 2 for 1 until 7. Well I was the driver so let's just say I sipped my wine very slowly and watched the ugly picture show (as my grandmother calls it) unfold. My senior friends shall we say didn't. These women can put them away and are even more motivated when it's half priced. Someone should have seen us coming.

We order a fine meal and continue to sip (or gulp) our cocktails. Time passes. More time passes. More drinks are ordered. More drinks are consumed. My grandmother starts to get hungry. Complaints are waged to the beginning waitress. Her trainer comes over and offers more drinks. Maybe not the smartest move. The wait continues. My grandmother's fist starts to be raised at anyone passing by who resembles an employee. Other tables are served (way) before ours and I do not mention this to my already visablly intoxicated dinner partners. The manager comes over (after some lewd gestures from my grandmother's wild friend). He apologizes and AGAIN offers drinks and a hint that something will be take off the bill.

The food does arrive. My dinner (grilled grouper and garlic broccoli) was excellent, for anyone who is interested. I also had only consumed one cocktail so my tastebuds were still active. My mother ordered Shrimp scampi and was not (to put it lightly ) pleased. "Thhis izz nott lik annny scampi I ever tasssted" (perhaps a bit too much gin avec le scampi??) and as I'm sure you can imagine, a very loud complaint was raised to the owner. At least this time he did not offer more cocktails.

Cut to the chase. The waitress comes to give us our bill and to put it mildly, I am impressed that the old girls are all still upright. My grandmother refuses the bill and states, "The owner told us that our meal was on the house. I refuse to pay." Now this bill if you had added it up was over $125, what with all the liquor you know. The waitress (her first night) said "oh" and walked away. With that, the senior girls got up and walked (well that is a kind description for their gait) out.

What would you my dear advisor do in this situation?????

I had only about $50 in cash and I gave a 20 to the waitress with the sorriest look on my face and told her we would never come back to bother her again and that I was very sorry.

I happen to know you have some experience in the waitress business. Maybe not the elderly alchoholic business, but since Martha Stewart is no longer around to advise, what is the right thing to do in this situation?

sadly not in the sun,
Sue

Dear Sue,

Courtney thinks you handled this in the loveliest possible manner, given the circumstances. And that waitress, she needs material for her book anyway.

Bottoms Up,
Cort-hneee

P.S. I'm actually more interested in that other matter, if you have time to write.

Well, it's time for a few random thoughts. Last night, I woke up from a weird dream and had this amazing idea, which, as usual, seemed really stupid in the morning. The dream was like this: I was sitting in a bar by myself, it seemed like I had just gotten off work; I think I worked at a racetrack and the bar was part of it. I could have been a maid or maybe even a jockey. Anyway, I was waiting for someone, it could have been either a great date or maybe it was a bitter angry insurance adjuster. (Courtney can totally imagine why this would pop into her dream. Dammit.)

Well anyway, it seemed sort of like Alaska with a bit of New Mexico thrown in because it was dusty and the sun was high and harsh, and I was drinking a beer called "White Horse Lager". It was, claimed the man who served it, the only albino beer in the world. I woke up about then, before the insurance adjustor or the great date showed up, and didn't get to see which direction this was headed. But my point is this: when I woke up, I thought, "Now that is brilliant, albino beer, someone ought to make that." As I said, it seemed brilliant at the time, in the morning it seems like, "who would want to drink beer that looks like milk?"

So, my other point is this: I woke up totally thinking about this housecleaning necklace that I used to own, which makes me assume I probably wasn't a jockey, but was a maid. Dammit. So the housecleaning necklace, it was like this: In college, I shared a house with a Dear Old Friend and a Really Old Man. The Really Old Man lived upstairs and mostly kept to himself, and we lived downstairs and did things we didn't tell him about. He went to Hawaii on vacation and brought us each a shell necklace, the sort of big honkin' shell necklace that I suppose you find everywhere in tourist shacks in Hawaii. Not the kind of thing that anyone, especially a 20ish year old college student, would actually wear. But still, it was so nice to be remembered, we were very touched. And also sort of sad, that he brought us these necklaces. It made him seem lonely, that he treated us like granddaughters, and we treated him, well, we just didn't, we were sort of busy with our lives. And after we started thinking of him as lonely, we started doing more stuff with him, which was good, but also a little bit phony if you see my point.

We invited him for dinner (grilled cheese, because that's what he always had for dinner; lunch was at the Royal Fork), and we wore our necklaces and he wore one of those bolero ties, also with a shell, and a good time was had by all. Later, he invited me horseback riding, but that's a whole 'nother story that I won't go into here.

At any rate, we started this habit of wearing the necklaces every time we cleaned the house. We thought it would be nice to be wearing them if he dropped by. But I continued the habit, even after I moved, because it kept me on task. ("Why am I wearing this big godawful necklace around, anyway? Oh that's right, I'm supposed to be cleaning the house.") I wore the housecleaning necklace for years after this (this is a baldfaced lie, because I don't really even clean the house, it's getting so dirty here it's like those people with 11 cats. But in theory, I wore it regularly.) So I woke up from this dream about white beer thinking about how I might apply the housecleaning necklace concept to the rest of my life. Like, perhaps there's some tattoo I could get on my hand or something that would keep me on task. What would it say? As I said, these ideas that seem so great in the middle of the night are completely lame in the morning. Lucky for me that I have a vast and insomniac readership, it's the middle of the night for at least someone, who is probably, right now saying, "white beer! That is BRILLIANT!"

Dear Courtney,

I am going to a friend's wedding this weekend. Instead of gifts, we are supposed to bring a fancy appetizer and a limerick about or for the couple. I've got the appetizer covered. I am wondering about the limerick. I know these people because I have gone hiking with them. This summer we were going to hike to Camp Muir but didn't make it because of the foggy conditions/weather. Any ideas? Thanks for your help.

Sincerely,
Limerickless

Dear Limerickless,

There once was a woman named Vicky
Who was kind but not very tricky
She went on a hike
With her dear friend Mike
And now they're in it quite thickly.

Thanks for writing,
Courtney

P.S. Bring me a fancy appetizer too!

Dear Courtney….or, I should say, Courtneys,

Recently, I have noted that the web is getting flooded with Courtney advice columns (although the name Courtney is not always spelled the same). Anyway, to get to the point, I have problems and have needed advice from a Courtney ('cause Courtneys know problems!), but, since there are so many Courtneys out there, I get confused and really don’t know where to turn….really, which Courtney to trust. So, I propose a contest of knowledge, perception, truth, and intuition between the Courneys. In an effort to define the true Courtney, I am writing to all the Courtney columnists with the same question ….to see which one is better, wiser- the most Courtneyist!

My question, you see, involves a recurring dream I have been having. It has really plagued me...left me wasted in its wake, staring at my bedroom ceiling looking for answers. It’s not that it is scary, gory, or even creepy, but it’s implications seem heavy. Anyway, my dream goes like this…..

I am on an ice float in the bluest of bluest seas drifting about. Most days, the sun shines and I am planted squarely in the center of my ice float. My direction is straight, with purpose, and it seems the sea is just carrying me in the right direction. As day turns to night and night into day, I pass a variety of islands, each unique in its own way -- some green and lush, with fresh scents and ripe fruit, others dry and crisp with the aroma of sweet sage. They all seem compelling in their own way, and I am often tempted to dive off my float and swim to one of them (this is especially true on occasions when the weather turns rough and I worry I may slip off my ice float into the sea). Anyway, just before I jump, I look down at my float and realize that if I jump off my platform and go to an island, my float will go on without me…I will be left on that island, to watch my ice float travel on…perhaps to greater islands in the distance…so, I stay on my float, drifting deeper out to sea. Now, in my dream, I continue on…drifting and drifting, watching these beautiful islands pass, constantly debating getting off, but I don’t, because I am always looking on to the next island. Time ticks on, and so do I; days, months, years pass by, until one day, a great storm occurs and I am tossed viciously about. After all this time drifting, I have grown somewhat weak, and, consequently, I have trouble hanging onto my slippery float….in the gray distance, I notice a form: a small island lies in the distance. I note apprehensively that with the fierce currents and winds, I will quickly pass this island, perhaps, slipping off my float to be left in the open sea. Just as the island is fading from my vision, I decide to take a chance and jump from my float and swim for it. I battle the elements, struggling to the island. Finally, a large wave pushes me up and hurls me towards the beach. To my dismay, I crash onto the shores of this island, which consist of slick gray slates of stone…it is all stone, no green, no lushness, no dryness or sweet sage, just hard, dark, and cold stone. My float is nowhere in sight, and I know that I shall never see it again, never leave this desolate island, which appears to be constantly hit with the onslaught of storms…..furthermore, in my weakened state, I know that death is not far before me…bleakness washes over me.

Anyway, that is my dream. It does not really leave me feeling happy. So, I ask you. What does my dream mean? More importantly, in life, how does one know when to jump to the many islands that lay before them? In addition, how does one deal with the knowledge that in jumping to an island, they may be giving up a different future?

Sincerely,

Left on island of stone

Dear Left,

Well, that was surely a long letter. But Khort-n3ee is okay with that this time, given the important nature of this contest. Kort-nee versus Courtney, in a good way, I hope. (In the future, though, keep in mind my tiny and ADD-inclined readership; most of them did not make it through paragraph 3. And don't be surprised if those other phony Courtney's don't have time for this. This Kortnee will always find time for you, though.

Here's your answer:

Your dream could be titled, "Commitment Phobia Meets Jello Anxiety." Jello anxiety, of course, is when men of a certain age begin to fear that no one will be around in their dotage to change their diapers or spoon feed them; they fear sucking jello through a straw alone, or worse, being spoon fed by a cheerful, bitter, underpaid nurse who not-so-secretly can't stand them. In fact, their toothless gums end up bleeding, she's so forceful with the spoon at times. The island, of course, represents commitment, and the storm is what triggers the jello fears.

You fear stopping at an island because in the past, you've behaved like an alien maurader, trampling the tender vegetation and snarfing all of the fruit too quickly. As a result, you've been treated poorly on the islands. It doesn't have to be that way. You could behave as if what happens to the island in some way happens to you too, which, of course, is true.

All around you, in your real waking life, are great opportunities that you're too chicken to take advantage of. Go for it, Silly Boy. You aren't getting any younger. My point is, you can build a raft, or swim, or god forbid, flag down someone to help if you get stuck on a Really Bad Island (RBI). You don't have to just stay there forever, hating it. Courage is a bit like a muscle, the more you use it the easier it gets.

You ask, "how does one deal with the knowledge that in jumping to an island, they may be giving up a different future?". Wrong question, Silly Boy. The question you should be asking is, "How do you live with the knowledge that by not jumping to an island, you are watching you life pass by?"

Cort-Knee
(the true Courtney)

P.S. If any of the other phony Court-Knees write to you, I hope you will share their answers with N'3lvra and her other reader.

VERY VERY FREAKY.

Courtney just discovered this: (Courtney's E-love corner). That Courtney, I'd say, is a bit mundane. She's serious and boring and all about romance (gag).

But there's even a whole 'nother Courtney; this one's edgy and psycho in an interesting way (N'3lvra believes that if you're gonna be psycho, it's best to be clever about it and not just go on a random shooting spree). This other Courtney, she's the queen of the non-sequitor, there's not even the slimmest relationship between the question and the advice. (Do I sound jealous? I am, dammit. Why do I try so hard to stick to the point?) I hope all 2 of my readers (do I sound possessive? I am.) don't switch over to that Courtney, who spells her name the same way every single time, and even has a sexy little picture showing cleavage and a good haircut. Dammit. Competition. I hate that. But don't say I didn't give you the choice. As soon as I heard there were other Courtneys, I told you, because that's the kind of girl I am.

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Dear Courtney,

I'm writing from your new e-mail anonymous address (thanks, by the way, that was a brilliant idea, but I've come to expect brilliance from Courtney). But back to my point, I'm writing about that person who wants to know what his problem is. I think I know. He needs a ton of attention. Is he an only child or something? Maybe if Courtney gave him a little more attention he'd settle down.

Signed,
I Think I Know His Problem

Dear You Think You Know,

Well, of course he needs a ton of attention. But then again, don't we all?

Sincerely,
N'3lvra

P.S. Court-knee already gives him plenty of attention, but he may be like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors (you feed it blood and it just grows and needs more and more blood.)

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Dearest Khortni,

I live in dreadful suburbia and have a neighbor who is a) retired, b) seems friendly enough when spoken to but has never initiated more than an occasional conversation out of necessity in the 3 years we’ve lived there, and c) spends a large percentage of his waking hours (which sometimes coincide with our sleeping hours) running various gas and electric-powered equipment in his yard such as a leaf blower, power washer, lawnmower, edger, etc.,etc. In “painting the Golden Gate Bridge” fashion, whenever he gets “finished” with his yard he starts all over again. I am reminded of the movie “Waiting for Guffman” and wonder if he is waiting for that photographer from Better Homes and Gardens to come visit—but I digress.

About 2 weeks ago we noticed the house is for sale. Then, last evening, my wife received a disturbing call from the neighbor, whom I’ll refer to as “Dave” (his real name is Dave). He said he had some “really bad news”, whereupon my wife thought perhaps his wife had died or something. Turns out that Dave said, “A deal on our house fell through because of your yard. When will you be working on it?” A few facts on “our yard”: 1) it is admittedly unkempt, and there are some things stored in the driveway, and in the yard which could be classified as typical yard clutter. One can see similar houses driving through any neighborhood; we obviously won’t be in the running when that photographer finally happens by. 2) There are mature trees and an 8 foot high by 4 foot thick hedge between us, so one would have to look pretty hard to even SEE our yard from his (note: the hedge used to be 12 feet tall until about 6 months ago when a swarm of hired men with ladders showed up unannounced in my yard to trim it.)

My wife told him we might be doing some yardwork in the spring but then again, maybe not, and that right now (given some circumstances Khortni is already familiar with) our priorities are what is going on inside the house rather than the effin yard. What does Khortni advise in this sort of sitation? The mind reels with possibilities. I think there is a good possibility there was no serious “deal” (especially given the inflated asking price) and this is an excuse to try and influence our side of the hedge. I’m tempted to call the realtor but probably won’t. I’m also tempted to tell “Dave” that if he promises to take every single piece of his power gardening arsenal with him when he moves I will immediately whip my yard into shape and even help carry a second loan if a prospective purchaser needs it.

Opinions?

Signed,
Between a rock and a yard place

Dear Between,

Oh, dammit. More people with problems.

When you're a kid, you're taught that song, "let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me." Then you grow up and have neighbors and so on, and it turns out to be a huge pain in the ass.

I think your wife handled this situation in a lovely manner -- "we might get to it this spring, then again, we might not," as if it's truly anyone's guess. But I might add a distraction element to dealing with this fellow who we'll call Dave because that's his name. For example, every time Dave brings up your yard, you could say, in a most interested way, "Now what ever happened to the Kalakala? Did that actually move?"

One time Courtney lived for a month in a strange group house with a bunch of Bruce Springsteen fans, which is not exactly Courtni's taste. These people had it in mind to do a little fashion makeover on Courtney, but every single time they brought it up ("Hey, could we just put makeup on you?"), Courtni would just say, "Now, who is this on the stereo? Is this that Bruce Springsteen again, and is he famous?" This would completely get them off the trail of Courtney's style, or lack thereof. [Now that I think back on it, we were all strangely persistent in our roles, which I hope isn't the case for your neighbor who we'll refer to as Dave because that's his name.]

It is NOT C, but instead bad cell reception,
Courtney

P.S. I think medication could help your neighbor, but then again, I'm not a real doctor.

P.P.S. I wouldn't tell Dave about the transient who sleeps in your front yard unless all else fails.

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Dearest Courtney,

Let me be bold. It seems as if you may know some of your writers personally. I am no advice guru, but truly, is this professional?? I do believe that you are giving advice to some of your troubled patrons based upon personal knowledge of their woes or celebrations. I find the discussion of the number of walls a person has in their occupational sphere baffling perhaps because it is not my personal experience which begs the question--Are all of your readers employed by a mediocere governmental body??? Is there any listener out there who may not live in the Puget Sound Area? Am I alone in my East Coast Time Zone status and availability of 4 walls? I feel so alone and I truly wonder if Courtney only caters to those in Seattle. Please, please advise.

Rhonda in Richmond


Dear Rhonda,

Let me be bold. I'm trying to run a fuckin' advice column here, and nobody seems to write with any problems. And then, you have the nerve to suggest I'm unprofessional. Courtny is feeling the tiniest bit testy.

But, since we're all for constructive criticism, and your point is a good one, I've done this: I've opened up a hotmail account for all of you to use, so that your anonymity is protected. Your new account: Askcourtney@hotmail.com. Password: courtney. Use that to write to me.

And, a word about trust. You, my fine readers, could totally abuse that e-mail address and get Courtny into big trouble. Don't. Courtney believes that our lives are better if we trust those around us; please don't mess with this belief. It would be more than N'3lvra could bear.

Yours,
Courtney

P.S. I may only be mediocre, but at least I know how to spell it.

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Dear CornPOny3,
I'm feeling very disillusioned...you see, a colleague of mine usually prepares a humorous (leg bone?) and insightful analysis of our staff meetings, which we all rely on to validate our deep suspicion that we are the stage adaptation of "Dilbert". Now it appears this colleague is a willing participant in these Kafka-esque goings-on (or are they Heller-esque?). She's gone so far as to collude with senior management on improving our morals, which explains the obsession with counseling. Should I and my other colleagues organize an intervention?
Sincerely,
TFWANLMCOTTKMS
(Two-full-walls-and-natural-light-in-my-cube-is-the-only-thing-that-keeps-me-sane)

Dear TFWANLMCOTTKMS,

Well, the quick answer, YES. This situation definitely requires intervention. Do you think this colleague of yours is losing it? Maybe because SHNWONL? (She has no walls of natural light?) It seems a pity.

But, I might have been at the same meeting, or one like it, and could offer this summary, to confirm that you indeed are in a major syndicated cartoon. These are actual notes that I took from a recent meeting.

1) Our new time punching policies, that don't require punching a time clock, but instead involve being secretly monitored by a confidential secretary who hides out in the parking lot, reminded people of old jobs: The Pea Factory, and The Corn Factory. This, of course, is the Permit Factory, so it's not surprising that we have the same Important Employee Guidelines. I apologize for all of these vegetables in this answer. I know you only are interested in hot pockets.

2) We will be pruning the Cornus stolonifera back soon to improve visibility in the parking lot. There are, of course, 2 reasons for improved visibility (see item #1).

3) There will be a surprise fire drill during the morning of 3/17, and during this time, we are to report to our supervisor before going out for coffee. Bring your own hearing defenders. (Lucky for you I've already given you some big earmuff type hearing defenders.) If you are in a meeting with an applicant, it is considered poor form to leave them in a burning building, but you are not required to take them with you to Starbucks.

Hurry up with the intervention already. Sounds like she needs it, especially if she's colluding with Senor Management.

Court-Nee

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Dear Courtney,
Hmmm, yes, I would like some book suggestions for my trip....I am thinking of the new Steven King Book (the new one that is out in the movies.....mirrors or something like that with Johnny Depp, although I hate that dude). Also, I must read when Nietzsche wept....anyway, that is the plan...might just pick them up tonight.

No, since you know me, there is no need for a psychic....I was looking for a little deeper examination....something on the verge of rudeness....ya know, I know you have an opinion.

Signed,
No Problems That I Know Of

Dear No Problem,
Hmm. I'm so sorry to disappoint you. Cort-Nee, now that she's all old and wise, has decided brutal honesty isn't always so great. She's trying to be gentle and kind with you.

Cheers,
Courtney

P.S. Readers? What do you think this person's problem is? (See a number of posts below . . . look for the "...." type of punctuation. Please reply. I'll post any insightful or snarky responses.)