Promise Not to Tell?

This morning, as I sat at the kitchen table enjoying a fresh-from-the-oven glazed cinnamon roll and Mom handed me an iced very-berry smoothie, I bemoaned the struggles of living at home.

"It's a hard knock life.", I thought as I lapped up some more frothy beverage.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was 'da twinneh'.

"I had the craziest dream last night.", she text.

Before long, we had exchanged quite the conversation of one-liners, all of which I proceeded to relate to Mom n' Gem: my ever attentive audience.

Thinking nothing of it, I was out the door and on my way to work. Unexpectedly, I received a straggler message.

"Don't tell anyone. I tell you this in twin confidence.", it read.

"Crap.", I paused, debating whether or not I could risk the chances of playing innocent. Years of first-hand experience had taught me otherwise.

But I must preface.

Understand this: once you are a Haymore, you are no longer allowed any secrets. Nada. None. No matter the distance, time of day or confidante. Just forget about it.

Somehow, we share a strange and un-earthly bond wherein, out of sheer idiocy, I relate something to Mom who miraculously transmits it via 'blabber-mouth' to all of my sisters, simultaneously as it were, who then Facebook/text/email it around the world and throughout the galaxy until word of it returns back to me within moments.

I fall for it every time.

"For heavens sakes Mom!" I echo in disbelief, "Is 'Pick a Little, Talk a Little' on a constant loop in your brain?"

Needless to say, as I sat staring at the text and pondering my fate, I decided that the truth must be told.

"Umm..." my fingers quivered, "I may or may not have already let it slip..."

As soon as I dared hit send, I speed dialed home.

"Under threat of death, you are not to relate one ounce of the conversation we had this morning to one single living soul so help you God!", I demanded before realizing I had no idea who had actually picked up.

"Okay...?" Mom questioned, solidifying my fear that such a threat was useless.

"I hate you.", my phone simultaneously dinged. "It's only been like ten minutes and you've already told two people!"

"No worries!" I shot back, "The problem is (semi) solved. They talk, they die."

I waited, anxiously, for what seemed like hours as beads of sweat rolled down my neck. I jolted when the phone finally buzzed. Ever so slowly, I flipped its purple lid open.

"I still hate you.", it said.

"I guess I deserve that.", I admitted audibly.

But good news everyone! My nieces and nephew still love me. Some claim this is due to my endless spoiling/teasing/party throwing. But of course everyone knows it's because I'm just too darn likeable for my own good. They can't help it. It's in my very nature.

However, making them candy leis with dollar bill decorations for their homeschool graduation may have tipped the scale in my favor, just a tad.

But for goodness sakes, keep it quiet.
Because, if word gets out...

I keel you.

Hate, hate, hate. Double Hate. Loathe Entirely!

Why are there so many 'Utah-haters'?
I hate 'Utah-haters'.

What's that? You hate that I hate 'Utah-haters'?
Oh yah?! Well I hate that you hate that I hate 'Utah-haters'!
So there.

Hey buddy! No one's forcing you to live here.
So quit blabbing about when you'll 'finally be able to get out of this place'. Cuz' guess what? When you do, I can't wait until you're 'finally able to get out of this place'.

But I'm getting all heated up. Better move on to a pleasant-er subject. And when I think of pleasant, one thing comes to mind.

Dessert.
Pumpkin Dessert to be exact.

The yummy-deliciousness of 'all-things-pumpkin' brings a tear to me eye. Especially because I forgot to take a picture of the fan-freaking-tastic pumpkin rolls I made yesterday.

They were gorgeous.
And quite similar to those pictured above actually.

But, alas. I searched the yard high and low for a sprig of renegade mint, but there was no garnish to be found.

GAH. (I give up. Enough with the pleasantries.)

Know what else gets me? When people claim that Utah drivers are THE worst drivers out there.
This is completely illogical for two reasons:

#1- 99.9% of people who say this are either A) Utah drivers themselves -or- B) Provo drivers. Which leads me to point #2.

#2- A good majority of Provo drivers AREN'T FROM UTAH. Anyone else seeing a hole in this 'bad Utah driver' theory? How are we all such bad drivers if we have such a diverse population of drivers from an assortment of different states!?!

To back up this musing, I present THIS.

Apparently, Utah ranks mid-list when compared to the other forty-nine states. (Fifty counting the District of Columbia.) Hmmm. Who woulda' thunk?

Apparently, we're not such bad drivers after all?...

Apparently, bad drivers can be found across the nation.

Apparently, I'm rather opinionated on the subject.

Apparently, I need some dessert.

It Looks Questionable to Me.

Last week, Em had an idea that bordered on genius.

She decided, post searching all over the Provo/Orem area for someone who would be willing to donate to our cause, to forgo the 'Build Your Own Birdhouse' idea.

Instead, we had an 'Art Day' to rue all art days.
It looked a little (okay exactly) like this:

We had the kids lie down on the butcher paper, then we'd trace their outline and have them color the inside. And when I say 'we' I mean 'the moms' because, apparently, Em n' me are pretty darn scary. Look at these cuspids. Rrrr!

 

These little fellers' were too cute. One (pictured at the bottom left) wanted another Otter-Pop but was too shy to ask us. He just kept givin' us that little grin and hiding behind his mom while the other (pictured at the bottom right) was fearless. Neon foam sword and all.

And of course, I couldn't help but join in myself. Hence, the surprisingly accurate replica of none other but 'yours truly'.
The likeness is uncanny, eh?

As to why I broke my posting streak of late:
I recently returned home from a river rafting trip extravaganza. The young single adults in my area headed down to Green River for three days in order to get their fill of sunburn, bug bites and filthy outhouse stench. Boy, was it fu-UHN.

Upon arriving home, I proceeded to drag myself up the steps and across the threshold. As I lay on the kitchen floor like a lifeless slug, Mom wasted no time in assaulting me, begging for details.

"How was the river?", she prodded.

"Wet.", I responded.

"Was the food any good?"

"Yup.", I snipped.

"Did you sleep well?", she worried.

"So, so.", I mumbled.

"Oh come on." she interjected determinedly, "Were any of the boys cute, at least?"

"Well..." I began to say, "They were until I got a good look at their toenails."

Suddenly, before I could fully come to terms with what was happening, Mom and my oldest sister (who had conveniently phoned the house moments earlier) were holding their sides in fits of laughter, feeding off each other's delight in regards to my response.

"What!?" I demanded intently, "I'm not saying that they should invest in weekly pedicures but is it too much to ask that they at least CLIP every so often??"

Granted their response was mostly unintelligible, I did catch a few snippets between the *snorts* and *guffaws*: something in regards to why 'marriage isn't in my future' and concern as to 'where I came from'.

Needless to say, I wasn't pleased.

I find it perfectly reasonable to demand the same podiatric health standard from those around me as to that I have set for myself. So, call me crazy, but I fully expect the man who slips a ring on my finger to submit to a rigorous foot inspection.

Mind you. It will be extensive.

She's Said it a Million Times

A while back, I tried to make a deal with my mom.
To those unfamiliar with this process, it's quite similar to making a deal with the devil.

I wagered she could find it within herself to cease and desist in telling me the same cliche 'mommy rules' that I have been hearing for the past 20 years. Such as:

• "Shut the freezer door TIGHT!"
• "Wash your hands when we get home."
• "Take some squash, please."
• "Never leave water in my cast iron pans. They will rust!"
• "You need to be drinking lots of fluids."
• "Look in the mirror when changing lanes."
• "Eat more fiber if you want to regulate your digestion."

... as well as numerous other reminders in regards to things that I have been doing (and doing well I might add) for a good long while.

 I bargained that, if she were to accept, she would receive a prize beyond measure. Something she has dreamed of constantly each and everyday for as long as I can remember:

Life without sarcasm. (Well... in my case... a 24-hour period. Tops.)

I was flabbergasted when she refused.

"Why!?", I begged as the hopes and dreams of a 'nag-less' existence faded from my glistening eyes.

"You and I both know that it can't be done.", she explained "We wouldn't last a minute."

"I guess so..." I conceded dejectedly, "But a girl can dream."

And thus, I continue to endure my mother's endless suggestions. *Bless her heart.* Granted she is the best mom in the whole wide world. I'm thinkin' that's her problem. She just too darn good at the occupation and all that it entails.
Pfff. Over achiever.

But don't worry about me. I've adopted a new philosophy.
Just smile n' wave. Smile n' wave.
Works every time.

In other news, I recently remembered that I never posted pictures of the UH-mazing bolero jackets I made for 'da-twinnehs' wedding. Aren't they perfect? Well... semi-perfect. I told a certain someone that it would be difficult to adjust a certain pleat in a certain sleeve if I were to shorten the length of said sleeve!
But would they listen?

nooOOOooo.

*sigh* oh well. Nothing a few safety pins couldn't fix.

Doompadee Doo.

A wise man once said, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself."
I beg to differ. We have plenty to fear.

For instance:
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia- Fear of long words.
(My irony radar is going off...)
Alektorophobia- Fear of chickens.
(Well that's just silly. They're practically the most loving creatures on earth.)
Coprastasophobia- Fear of constipation.
(Hello fiber!)
Bolshephobia- Fear of Bolsheviks.
(Been there.)
Zemmiphobia- Fear of the great mole rat.
(They have teeth. Like this!)

See? All valid concerns.

Coincidentally, the radio talkshow host I was listening to this morning introduced a new topic: strange phobias. Several callers phoned in, one who claimed that his wife suffered from linonophobia (fear of string) and that socks practically rendered her catatonic.

I wondered how she handles string cheese?

But I've gone off topic. Here's what I have to say:
Many a good person is afraid of one thing or another.

Take, for instance, my sister-in-law. She suffers from acute arachnaphobia. Not only do spiders give her the heebie-jeebies, she attests to their continual plotting; forevermore in league to unite and destroy her while she sleeps.

So naturally, when I saw this latest Savage Chickens comic, I couldn't help but think of her. And wonder if I have now caused her paranoia to shift, perhaps?...

Mine certainly has.

Actually, I have bigger issues.
(I know. You never would have guessed.)

Namely, nanosophobia: fear of dwarfs, midgets and little people.

Well... in a manner of speaking.

You want me to expound upon this? Are you sure you want to witness the horror? Do ya, do ya, do ya? Fine.

Wanna know what's really fiendishly freakish?

Something that makes my stomach churn?

The stuff of nightmares as a child?

Heck. The stuff of nightmares as an adult?

Okay. I'll tell/show you.

Oompa-Loompas.
(Doesn't the name strike fear in your heart?)

Come on now.
Anything with green hair and a red-orange face is un-natural.

Yet another strange and un-earthly example can be found in Mr. Tumnus from the animated version of 'The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe'. Be warned. Mental scarring may occur.

Are you freaked out yet!?

It took a good amount of courage to search these videos out for you on YouTube. You should thank me for facing my fears.

Then again... you may also want to hunt me down and gut me like a fish for passing on the nightmares of green-haired, red-faced dwarfs who sing satanically as frightening little words bounce around the room.

Or of a demonish half-goat man who plays evil music to 'Sons of Adam' & 'Daughters of Eve' in hopes of lulling them into a false sense of security before shipping them off to the villainous White Witch.

You're not thinking that, right? *nervous laugh*

I'm scared.

Space. The Final 'Pun'tier.

I love corny puns.
Doug from Savage Chickens understands this obsession.

Did I ever mention that he is the master of hilarious chicken antics, among other things? Well... now I have.

I also have a confession to make.
I'm kind of a Trekkie. So this comic speaks to me.
Not to mention that it combines three of my favorite things:
puns, Star Trek and sewing. Moving on...

This weekend was more fun than I deserve.

Of course... I felt sick & gross the whole time, none of my family showed up and we were forgotten in the church parking lot, but hey. I'm trying to forget such minor details.

It started off with celebrating Gem's graduation by going on a small road trip where we swam in the hotel pool, went to the aquarium and ate too much of everything.
Then, joy of joys, it was Homecoming: a sort of 'community days' in Lake Shore. It was excellent. I'd say better than most years.

I was bestowed (term used loosely) the honored position of creating the backdrop for the pavilion stage. Namely, a giant tree. Lying out on my living room floor, it looked ginormous! Nine feet by nine feet to be exact. Sadly, it was less than impressive taped up.

That's right. Call me Corinner-Elly.

I cook. I clean. I accept random charity projects from frazzled activities committee members.

And then, as if that weren't enough, I went to the Mormon Miracle Pageant in Manti. That's a story in and of itself though I'm not sure I'm up to telling it again. Suffice it to say that there were entirely too many mis-communications, melodramatic lines and overly zealous hand gestures. But surprisingly, upbeat.

Oh! The activity this past Wednesday was a Bubble Blast. The pictures speak for themselves.

The wind that day was quite serendipitous.

This little fella had the time of his life trying to attack me with the bubbly solution. Luckily, I made tracks before the trend caught on and I was completely covered in suds.

We were surprised by how many actually showed up. There were only a few to start out but then the number practically 'bubbled'.

Did I say I love puns? Well I do.

It's All in Me 'Ed.

"GEM!", Dad bellowed to my youngest sister as the back door crashed open, "Get on some shoes and get out here quick!"

Within an instant, Mom tensed, her paranoia meter cresting dangerous levels. Quicker than crap through a goose she jumped to her feet and sprinted towards the back door.

"Is everything all right, Robert?!", she hollered after him, voice strained. In an whoosh of activity, they vanished, leaving the dust to settle slowly back to earth.

I hadn't moved.

The way I figured it, the tone in Dad's voice could only have meant one of three things:

A) someone (or something) was hurt,

B) Gem was in for a swift kick in the pants

-or-

C) the world was coming to an end,

all of which couldn't have convinced me to vacate the couch.

As I lay there, dying from stuffy-nosed-ness, I contemplated the options.

First off, I had recently run out of beloved pets which meant that the 'run over/intentionally decapitate' chances were slim and the 'dying pet' option was out.
Second, Gem needed a good whippin' every twice and a while.
And lastly, though the apocalypse may have been upon us, I wouldn't have minded so long as I could be assured bacon in heaven.

"Plus, if it was the end of the world," I mused, "why would he have demanded she grab shoes?"

It wasn't long before Mom puffed back into the room.

"What happened?", I questioned, offering a few quick suggestions before she could reply.

"Did the sick calf die?"

"No.", she responded, curtly.

"Is Gem in trouble?"

"No.", she nodded.

"THERE ISN'T ANY BACON IN HEAVEN?", I gasped.

Unfazed she responded, "One of the cows is gone. He's running down the street right about now."

*I blinked.*

"BAH!", I exploded in a fit of laughter.
Finally, a break in an otherwise uneventful day. 

"You think this is FUNNY?", Mom shot back as I gave her the 'are you kiddin' me?' face. "You think it's funny that 1,000 dollars worth of hamburger is running wild and free down the highway?", she demanded.

I stared at her, contemplating the chances that this might be a trick question.

"Um... YES!", I emphatically responded. "Them cows is up teh somethin', Mrs. Tweedy, er, Mom." I couldn't help adding, "Ther' plottin' alright!"

Unamused, she headed back outside, determined to be some sort of helpful. Feeling sadly unappreciated and yet at the same time overly amused with myself, I watched the light fade as Pops n' Gem corralled the escapee steer back into its enclosure while successfully keeping his three comrades from also stampeding away mooing '...freedom!'.

It wasn't long before my very own cattle herdin' team was moseyin' back on up to the homestead, pooped from all the hustle and bustle. I decided to corner Mom first.

"Did your 'bang the feeding trough' theory pan out?", I wondered bemusedly.

"Well," she answered, "I can't quite tell. It was probably a mixture of things that did the trick. Dad chased him away from the road after I distracted him with the noise but then he ran right up to my garden and started eating the flowers."

Thinking of the new blooms Mom had just finished nestling into their new home being torn from their beds and maliciously shredded in that filthy bovine's green teeth brought an edge of horror to my voice.

"Did you yell at him!!?", I pressured, staring with eyes wide.

"No.", Mom said flatly.

"Did you wave your arms, jump up and down and motion wildly for Dad?"

"No.", she practically yawned.

"Did you grab him by the horns, threaten to move up his pending slaughter date and maliciously squirt A1 sauce into his eyes!!?!", I practically screamed.

"No.", Mom said. "I thought, 'oh crap', the cow is eating my flowers."

...

I breathed in, fully expecting to counter this obvious lack of originality with some sort of retort but decided against it by the time I had fully opened my mouth.

"You're hopeless.", I sighed and moved on to my next victim.

"Had enough excitement for one day?", I smiled as Dad slowly scrubbed the muck from his hands and upper arms all over my newly rinsed dishes in the kitchen sink.

"Yup.", he responded in his so completely characteristic succinctness.

"I give up.", I moaned and headed off to bed.

Wonder If?

Wonder if you died tomorrow?

Notice how I put 'wonder if' instead of 'what if'.
This discrepancy is the source of much serious debate in my family. Us cool people think it should be 'wonder' while the bozos on the opposing side favor 'what'.

Here's my question: Why would you want to succumb to mere custom when you can live in a world of wonder and amazement? Who cares about formality anyways? Grammar-shmammar.
(I can't believe I just said that...)

But back to the issue at hand. Obituaries.

Who died (no pun intended) and made it mandatory that obituaries must be sappy and boring? I mean come on. For example:

"On Tuesday, our sweet little angel flew back to her heavenly home after many years of struggling valiantly in a little body that just couldn't take anymore..."

*gag me*

Why can't we just hear HOW the person died? They're dead. Dead, dead, dead. Am I right my friend? Tell it how it is and if 'it's' lame, make up something totally wicked! See HERE.

Then, if you REALLY want to be the coolest person ever, include a random photo that has absolutely nothing to do with your life.
I will love you forever.

So get a pen & paper and start the first draft of your obituary today. Right now. Promise me. PROMISE!

In further news.
I 'worked' again at work today.

I know. I'm on a roll.

The 'ice-cream in a bag' activity had an excellent turn out, thanks for asking. The office is also now beautifully decorated once more.

Aren't they beautiful?...

Call me the 'super-awesome-amazingly-talented, not to mention strikingly-gorgeous' bulletin board decorator! Oh, and feel free to use said title in my obituary someday.

Seriously.

I Won't Say It.

Okay. Maybe I will say it.
I'm in love.

His name is Mr. Maraschino.
Cherry, that is.

Me n' him. We go way back. See, we both love virgin Pina Coladas. That's where the attraction started.

Of course, he loves sitting in the deliciousness and I love drinking the deliciousness.

All minor details.

Know what else I love? Scrabble. The game of the Gods.
Know what I love even more? Earning back the Scrabble glory/bragging rights from my brother-in-law after that unfortunate incident in December.

If anyone asks, I let him win.

Either way, Scrabble marathon contestants are becoming increasingly sparse. I must be a formidable opponent. Heh, heh.

Thus, when my coworker Em suggested we have a tourney during down time at the office, I couldn't believe my ears! I can still hear the Hallelujah chorus.

Needless to say, I successfully dominated round one (though, technically, we are both considered 'experts' for passing 200 pts. each). Round two will commence following lunch. Better be on your game, Em, cuz' I am on FI-YAH. *that says 'fire', mom*

May I just say that this brings joy to my heart? Especially when Em spelled 'urethra'. Impressive. (Too bad she didn't see my '40 pt.' wonder word comin'. Namely. 'Quack'. Bow down before me.) Yup. We spell body parts. Some more savory than others... *you know what I'm talkin' bout'*

What can I say? We're a club. We're a group.
We can be a secret society.
And no one else can join, unless they wear funny hats.

Of course, as President of said secret society, I can wear whatever I want. Such as the ear warmer headband I made with 'help' from my sisters. (I may very well be murdered for the quotation marks around that word. Look for my obituary in the Sunday paper. It won't be all sappy and lame like the rest of them. But that's a musing for a different day.)

And for a close up on the exquisite flower design...

*Shut up, Gem. There are plenty of petals.*

Can we spell 'S-N-A-Z-Z-Y'?
Why yes we can.
We Scrabble.

Don't Cha' Think?

I love finding life's subtle ironies.

Here are some of my personal favorites:
* Why do parent's spank their children for hitting their siblings?
* Do fish get cramps after eating?
* Why do brain cells come and go, but fat cells live forever?
* If con is the opposite of pro, what's the opposite of progress?
* Why does your nose run and your feet smell?
* If Americans throw rice at weddings, do Asians throw hamburgers?
* Why is there Braille on drive-through ATMs?
* What do little birdies see when they get knocked unconscious?
* Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets?
* If a cow laughed, would milk come out of her nose?
* Whose cruel idea was it for 'lisp' to have an 's' in it?

and lastly, but not least...ly

*Is it true that cannibals don't eat clowns because they taste funny?

Sorry.
I couldn't help myself.

My daddy-o recently taught me a valuable lesson about irony.
It's called 'don't knock someone's job when you yourself do the same work, just in a glorified position'. *amen.*

The way I figure it, putting in the least amount of time and the least amount of effort for the maximum profit = genius. Hence, why I love my job. I get free bread. I spin in my swivel chair. I do my homework. I check my Facebook. I blog.

And as if that weren't enough, I make awesome fliers!

So... irony.

It's like ten-thousand spoons when all you need is a knife.
It's meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife.

But mostly.
It's like starting a blog when you think bloggers are weird.
*Touche.*

Who would've thought? It figures.

Creations of Late

To begin, I would like to re-enact a small conversation that went something like this:

Ahem. *cough*

Sister #1: "Corinner, wanna go check if Moose is still sleeping?"
Sister #2: "And change Lil's diaper while you're at it?"
Me: "Um, sure."
Sister #2: "We should really stop pushing our children off on her."
Sister #1: "I'm visiting! I've got to squeeze in all the time I can!"
Sister #2: "Yah. I don't see myself stopping anytime in the near future either..."

Now, don't get me wrong, I love conversations like this.
They make me feel all appreciated n' stuff. :)

But still amusing, none-the-less.

I love my sisters. We're all so different yet freakishly similar.
Uncanny, idn' it?

Moving on to my creations as of late.
After finally whittling down my sister's resolve to ban any and all hair accessories from her wedding procession, I triumphed and made these little gems. The headband I picked up at Wally-World for a couple buck-a-roos and the blossoms were constructed from fabric scraps and beads/pearls stolen from my sister's jewelry making stash. (You know you love me.)

Kudos goes to Ellen of Poor Man's Wife for the inspiration. I actually co-owned her business for a short time and loved every moment of it. She's a real genius when it comes to couture.

As evidenced by one of my favorite headbands of all time:

And last but certainly not least, this weekend everyone and their dog was married. Seriously.

Thus, master gift-wrapping skills were required. You can't really see it too well in the photo but the tag has a little glitter heart.
*aw. sweet*

This concludes today's post.

Tune in next time.

Everyday's a Holiday!

Yup. That's right.
You're allowed to lounge around in your jammies, eat whatever you want and take a ridiculously long nap.

EVERY DAY.

Okay... so not exactly.
But you can celebrate each new day 'as if' it were a holiday.

In fact, someone has even gone so far as to compile a list of 'US National Holidays' just for your viewing and celebrating pleasure.
HERE.

As you may have well realized by now, today is 'National Festival of Popular Delusions Day'.

Can I hear a collective "Huhn?..."

Let me spell it out for ya.

'National' meaning 'of or relating to a nation'.

*Sidenote: If, in the near future, you should be in need of a definition, never fear! Simply add 'of or relating to' in front of a shorter variation of the word and wah-LAH. Instant success.*

'Festival' meaning 'of, relating to, appropriate to, or set apart as a festival.

Hold on. Is it just me or is including the word itself in its own definition considered a big 'no-no'?

Oh Merriam and Webster.

You tricky devils.

'Of' meaning... um... okay. If I have to define 'of' for you, you are out of the herd FUR SHUR.

'Popular' meaning 'of or relating to the general public'.

Or that extremely annoying song from Wicked.

And last but not least, 'delusions'. Meaning 'the act or state of being deluded'.

Now are we clear? Or are you seriously questioning my sanity? Either way, I think I'll continue.

To commemorate such a blessed day, I thought I'd compile my top ten list of Corinner-Elly's popular delusions. Enjoy.

#1- I suffer from Tater-Tot Syndrome.

If you aren't familiar with said disease, I shall try to explain.

First off, tater-tots are debatedly one of the most delicious things on the whole darn planet.

Secondly, sometimes my hands work more quickly and efficiently than my brain.

And third, don't believe a word 'da twinneh' says. She's a compulsive liar. (see #2)

#2- 'Da twinneh' is a compulsive liar.

Okay. Maybe I was exaggerating a tad but my version of the story is always better.

#3- Incessantly correcting bad grammar will make a difference.

But, by golly, I'm still gonna do it.

#4- A clean plate is a happy plate.

Okay. No matter what anyone says, this statement is TRUE. And to all you wasters out there who leave three lonely grains of rice on your Mi Rancherito platter I say "for shame!" and proceed to slap your hand.

#5- Drowned worms need saving.

How can words express my horror after viewing the carcass covered sidewalk each rainy day?

#6- Wearing heels is always practical.

I attribute my 'man calves' to this falsehood.

#7- Chicken is delicious.

True that, right? Except in certain cases where a person had a certain pet chicken who was their pride and joy then a certain someone, appropriately nicknamed 'CK', pronounced a death sentence upon its head for harmless early morning crowing.

All hypothetical, of course.

#8- No hairstyle is complete without some sort of adornment.

Apparently, some people think feathers should stay on birds and not in my hair.

#9- Baby oil is made from babies.

Come on folks.

Corn oil is made from corn. Olive oil is made from olives.

How else are we to explain things?

#10- Someday, I may be considered 'normal'.

*pfft.* Like that's ever gonna happen.