P.S.

Can you believe I actually wrote a post about Jessica Simpson?

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Winning the Work-Life Game

I've spent a week practicing work-life. That is, work and life intertwined with no clear lines of delineation. It all just runs, and if you're lucky, works together.

I spent Tuesday morning at the park with my kids, and the afternoon on conference calls. Yesterday I did (much needed) lady maintenance in the afternoon and spent the evening writing a proposal and devising staffing plans. And today, I worked first thing, took a trip to the grocery store, worked some more, and now I'm going to take a nap. As soon as I stop writing.

And, surprise, it's been an awesome week. I gave myself the ok to decline meetings to which I wasn't essential, and I felt no guilt about taking some time for me when I could have been spending it with my kids. I was super productive at work AND home, and I'm a much happier non-conflicted human being for it. Dare I say I felt...balanced?

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Mount Everest

Do you remember when I said parenting with a full time job was like walking up Everest with one leg, in a bikini, while stopping to smoke a pack of Marlboro's every 10ft? What I didn't tell you is that it actually feels like that. Because my name is Courtney Saunders and I'm a walking heart attack.

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Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy to be specific.

Let's back up.I was born with a congenital heart defect and then found to have an aortic bicuspid valve during my first pregnancy. Lately, and by lately I mean it started 9 months ago (because I am really good at taking care of myself) I've been having chest pain and difficulty walking up steps or to my car from airplanes.

It's stress. It's the alcohol. I'm exhausted. That's what we tell ourselves.

Because of these symptoms, a few weeks ago I finally went to the doctor and had a stress test and echo of my heart and I failed both with flying colors. Ok, no biggie. Logic says stenosis (narrowing of my a…
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Good Times

I am done. Roasted marshmallow, crispy pig on spit, turkey timer popped D-O-N-E.

This year. This god-damned year. By far the toughest personally, professionally all the mother-fucking way around. I'd say emotionally, but I am numb. Legit. I feel nothing.

Case in point, my dog died. My first baby. I was sad. But not as sad as I should have been. Pretty sure I'm going to have a nervous break down come April when I somehow find my way out of this dark hole and realize he's gone. That is if I'm not having open heart surgery and recovering, blissfully unaware on a 30-day supply of Vicodin. Almost makes that possibility appealing.

And yet I still give fucks. WHY, WHY OH WHY (insert illustration a la Mo Willems and the Pigeon series...parents, you feel me)?

I want to kill everyone. Except the people I like. And that list has grown significantly shorter in 2018. Maybe it's me. The older I get, the less and less I like people. Clarification - ignorant, soul-sucking unwoke, …
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