I’m So Smooth Sometimes I Think I Should Just Date Myself

There is a boy I sit next to in one of my classes whose name I don’t know. You’re probably thinking he’s noteworthy because I find him attractive, and you would be right. Sometimes he wears a suit to class just for the hell of it, and his face is very agreeable, and amazing things are happening with his hair. Our entire relationship consists of him glancing up when I come bursting through the door at full sprint with just seconds to spare. Sometimes I ask him for today’s date, but mostly I just appreciate that we occupy the same physical space three times a week.

Anyway, my professor the other day was lecturing about two lovers in our text who had been reading a book about sexy times, looked up, made eye contact, and gone at it like a couple of rabbits. But our listless, apathy-riddled group of Monday morning zombies was just not getting this. The professor was agitated. He was practically jumping up and down. “This is important stuff!” he cried. “All they did was LOOK AT EACH OTHER and then they wordlessly embarked on a passionate love affair! You’re college students! You know what that’s about! Okay, everybody–RIGHT NOW, turn to the person next to you and communicate to them with your eyes the phrase ‘I WANT TO HAVE A LOVE AFFAIR WITH YOU.’ DO IT.”

So long story short, the cute guy in question and I shared a sideways glance and then we both just kind of snorted. The romantic potential is off the charts.


I’m in Love with My Microwave (and I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT)

Buckle up, everyone, because this is going to be one of those posts where I claim to be romantically involved with appliances.

I’m a senior in college this year, and it occurred to me today (while I was heating up some leftovers and pretending there weren’t any dishes in the sink literally six inches away from me) that my microwave is a keeper. My microwave has stuck with me through good times and bad. It’s presided over late-night pasta binges and early morning hot chocolate heat-ups because I don’t drink coffee or tea and winter in Michigan is frickin’ cold. My microwave doesn’t judge me on my inability to actually cook anything. It doesn’t care that I use it more than I should. It just lets it happen.

I won it in a raffle at the Senior All-Night Party when I was in high school. That was four years ago. It’s outlasted most of the crap I bought when I first came to college. It’s outlasted most of my freshman year friendships. Is that pathetic? Am I bad at making friends? Let’s move past that. I just wanted to take this opportunity to reflect, and publicly proclaim my love, and bask in its eternal glory.

I Don’t Know What Color My Eyes Are: A Tragedy

Do you ever stop to think, “At what point in my life did I become aware of this?” Like, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t born knowing who Britney Spears is, but I can’t for the life of me pinpoint the time and place where I actually acquired that knowledge.

I do, however, know exactly when I learned about eye color–not only what mine was, but that eyes even had the capacity to be colorful. I was in preschool. The teacher was dismissing everyone for recess. To stagger the release of twenty-five hyper four-year-olds who’d been hitting the Mango Capri Sun pretty hard, she would usually say something like, “If you have blond hair, you can go outside,” and then, “If you have red hair, you can go outside,” and she’d make her way through the line. I guess it was inevitable that she’d eventually go for eye color.

And it’s not like I was shocked by this development. I didn’t think to myself, “Wait… eyes? Have color? What?” I simply accepted this, reached into the recesses of my four-year-old mind in search of that information for myself, and discovered it wasn’t there. I had no idea what to do. Everyone else knew theirs. I was the lone wolf. The logical thing would’ve been to pretend I knew and leave with a group at random, then check my eyes in the bathroom mirror. That’s what I should’ve done. What I did instead was hide under a table and cry so much they had to call my mom.

My Handy Little Guide to October

IT’S OCTOBER! (Also known as Halloween Starts Now, also known as thirty-one days until all the candy goes on sale.) Now, if you’re going to do October (and do it right), there are a couple things you’re going to need.

First and foremost, you need to watch these immediately:
Hocus Pocus
All the Halloween episodes of The Office

You need to make these cookies, STAT:

Pumpkin Sugar Cookies with Cinnamon Cheese Frosting (from Cooking Classy)

If you lack the kitchen know-how, just chuck these in the oven instead because they’re absolutely wonderful, easy to make, and totally good for you:

You also need to listen to this bad boy:

And then this:

That’s it. You’re all set. You’re ready for October. Enjoy it, Christmas starts November first.

How to Have a Life-Ruining Obsession

Is there anything better in life than cultivating an obsession and then dragging your friends down with you?

I’ll answer that. No. No, there isn’t. There is nothing as gloriously satisfying as introducing someone to something and watching it slowly consume them. Soon they know all the actors, and they’ve watched all the behind-the-scenes footage, and then they’re knee-deep in fanfiction at 3 AM on a Tuesday and they’re sending you messages like this:


In this particular case, I sat back, stunned, and realized… yes. It was all my fault. As with most things, I hadn’t meant to do it. But I wasn’t sorry.

Why “ironic lady”?

The term “iron lady,” though famously attributed to Margaret Thatcher, has actually come to refer to any woman in a position of power with a take-no-shit kind of attitude (like Hillary Clinton, Golda Meir, or Park Geun-hye). I aspire to be a take-no-shit type of person but I’m afraid I’ll only ever be a “whoops I just shot myself in the foot with this airsoft gun while explaining to my mother how safe it is” type of person.


Those of you who actually check back here (accidentally, sometimes) may have noticed one or two STRIKING DIFFERENCES. You see, I’ve begun accumulating something of an online presence (read: my tumblr is really taking off) and decided it probably be a good idea to be a Serious Person with a Serious Website. I’m told freelancers do this. I’m told I should’ve done this a long time ago. I’ve been contributing to a few places other than SparkLife lately (I’m still there, don’t worry!), and it just seems like it’s about time I start compiling all that stuff in one place to show people WHAT I’M ABOUT. (Ignore the forthcoming pictures of dogs wearing hats and my overuse of the word “poop.”)

That being said, it’s probably time I ‘fess up. My name… isn’t actually Elodie. I know! I’m sorry! My name is actually… can I get a drumroll? Can I get a less lackluster drumroll? Put a little oomph in it, for God’s sake. I’m trying to build to something here. My name…

…is Courtney. I know. It’s not quite so exotic. If you want the truth, “Élodie” was the name I wanted in French class, but somebody else got it first. I exacted my revenge by creating a secret persona so that boys I liked wouldn’t know I was sometimes writing about them on the Internet. The plan was perfect. What I didn’t realize at the time was that it would all mushroom into something bigger. And here I am, four years later, slapping a website together and getting paid to write about the time I kissed a boy because he offered me pie.

You can still call me Elodie, though! That pen name got me through high school and much of college. I would never just discard it. I’m still Elodie on SparkLife, and I’ll always be Elodie to all those who stuck with me for so long. (Everyone else… tough shit. It’s Courtney or nothing.) So, to conclude… THANKS. You’ll be hearing from me. (SERIOUSLY.)