Tater-tot Syndrome

As you can see (but I'm sure probably didn't notice), I have been updating my blog design.

In case you have never participated in such an undertaking, I'll give you a brief update on what that entails: painful, agonizing, death otherwise known as HTML code.

It's a completely different language, I tell ya.
All I wanted to do was adjust a few margins and fill some empty space, but it took two hours worth of fiddling to get anywhere and I'm still not perfectly happy with it.

Ah well. Good enough for who it's for.
Burn!...

I learned some useful tips and tricks at one point, but I appear to be experiencing some memory loss because I can't seem to recall a thing?...

It's probably because I suffer from a rare disease: tater-tot syndrome. I mentioned it once before quite some time back but I didn't expand on the details.

To do so adequately, I should probably just tell you the whole story.
So just sit back, pop some popcorn and relax because it's one of my favorites.

*ah hem*

Once upon a time, Corinner-Elly and 'da twinneh' were in high school and loved to visit their local Sonic drive-in every time they possibly could. They delighted in an assortment of various menu items including corndogs, toaster sandwiches, popcorn chicken and mozzarella sticks. But perhaps the most universal of choices was a side of tater-tots to perfectly compliment any meal.

So off they went, steaming bag of goodness set lovingly between them. 'Da twinneh' happened to be driving on this occasion (as she did almost 100% percent of the time due to her insistence and her sidekick's natural submissive nature) so Corinner-Elly began to distribute the goods.

Due to either a lack of funds or an error on a Sonic worker's part, she found there was only one order of tater-tots to share between the pair. They decided this shouldn't be a problem due to the fact that they loved each other and they really didn't have any other choice.

To ensure personal safety while driving and a 2:1 tot ratio, Corinner-Elly maintained guardianship of the meal, offering her driver companion a bite every so often. Before long, the carton contained a single lonely, remaining tot.

"Do you want this?", Corinner-Elly benevolently offered her sister.

"Sure.", 'da twinneh' replied, reaching deep into the container.

For several seconds, she rummaged around, searching with her fingers for the promised reward. But there was none to be found.

Puzzled, she turned to Corinner-Elly,
who began to chew, slowly...

"DID YOU EAT MY TATER-TOT!??", she demanded.

Confused, and slightly frightened, Corinner-Elly realized that she was indeed swallowing a piece of salty, crunchy goodness. This phenomenon could be explained in no other way than as an affirmation of her sister's inquiry.

"Yes..." she gulped, "I don't know what happened!"

Actually, Corinner-Elly knew exactly what had happened. Secretly coveting the last tot for herself, she had offered it to 'da twinneh' simply out of politeness, fully expecting her to decline.

However, by the time 'da twinneh' actually responded, she had already completed the transaction by popping the little beauty inside her mouth. Leaving 'da twinneh' feeling tricked an jilted.

"I'm sorry..." Corinner-Elly conceeded, "It all happened so fast."

There was no response from 'da twinneh', who stared angrily ahead muttering incoherent cursings under her breath.

The End.

So there it is. A story that will go down in twinneh history.
I don't think she's fully forgiven me yet...

But haven't you ever answered a question in your head before you actually got a response? I find myself doing it all of the time. Especially to all of the new people who have moved into my ward recently. I'll ask their name and before they can even answer me, I'll already have assigned them one.

It's a problem, really.

Especially when it's a question that I really do need to know the correct answer. I'm sure my family must think I'm daft after asking them the same thing for the bajillionth time.

"Okay. This time, FOCUS.", I'll tell myself.

But to be honest,
it hardly ever happens.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.

So... whoopsie.
Last post was only my 97th post.

I'm heading back to kindergarten so that I can learn to count and hop on one foot.

I was also pleasantly informed that my supposed celebratory '100th post' was a Debbie-downer. I thought I was just being my slightly pessimistic normal self but apparently not.

So, sorry for that, I'll try to keep this post full of sunshine, rainbows and unicorn poop.

I thought of titling it 'White Trash', considering I plan to write about garbage and I can't count worth a flying pitchfork, but that didn't exude quite the amount of sugar and fairy dust that I am going for.

Katerina Cupcake needs to see my happy blog face, gosh dang it.

So just pretend I'm dancing around, patting small children on the head and blowing bubbles while you're reading this; then we should be good to go.

Something I've noticed of late is that I'm rather OCD when it comes to picking up garbage. (Me?... OCD?... Crazy, right?)

Regardless of what bathroom I'm in, if (by the time I leave) there are still small pieces of paper towel left on the floor, well... let's put it this way. I don't leave until there is nothing left on the floor.

Same goes with spilled soap on the counter or black hairs in the sink. They're gone when I'm gone, baby.

I don't know what it is, but something deep down inside me can't handle the thought of leaving garbage untouched two-feet from the trashcan. My shoulder devil wants to murder whoever so carelessly, and lazily I might add, dropped it there in the first place while my shoulder angel wants crawl around on all fours to make sure everything is tidy for the next bathroom customer.

I'm sure several of you (*cough* mom) are writhing in agony at the thought of all those germs I'm exposing myself to, but may I point out that all of the germ-a-phobes I am in acquaintance with are mothers to at least 5 children. Children are bio-hazards waiting to happen. Point proven.

But I'm sorry to say that the fetish doesn't end there.
I'm starting to find myself picking up old receipts stuck in the fence on my way to work, stale Cheerios on the chapel floor and, dare I say it, used tissues on a park bench.

I need serious help.

So, combining that and my apparent lack of counting skills,
looks like I'm becoming a janitor.

100th Post!

Can you all believe I've bothered you for the 100th time now!??
It seems like only yesterday that I wrote my first post. *sniffle*

Maybe I should do a giveaway to celebrate?...
That seems like a popular way to reach a new level of annoying-ness, right?

Oooh! Oooh! I know!
I could offer my free services to anyone who needs help with anything!

Wait... I already do that...

Shucks. And I was all excited and all.

I guess your just gonna have to live knowing that I will fix your daughter's dress, babysit your kids, sew your ill-fitting swimsuit, edit your newly drafted resume, sing at your son's baptism, take care of the party arrangements, make dinner, clean the kitchen, give you directions, make the Relief Society announcement, decorate the living room, rub your back, dust your house, design a brochure, change that poopy diaper, etc., etc., etc.

All for free and without any need for celebration.

Did I ever mention why my blog is named Corinner-Elly?...
Never mind.

You wouldn't understand.

What I'm confused about is why my parents keep telling me that 'I've changed' and that 'I'm not the same sweet Corin I used to be'.

WTFrick?...

Last time I checked, I was?

Does this have to do with the fact that I only come home on Sundays now instead of jumping at every possible chance to run home to mommy that I possibly can?

But probably my favorite chiding came during a Sunday dinner when one of my siblings voiced, "Serving yourself before the children?? What's happened to you?..."

This was the point when I turned around, visually scanned the room to verify that all of the children were either old enough to serve themselves or had, indeed, already been served before giving my response.

"Yup. It's a crime."

Is it just me, or is telling a person they're in a bad mood a great way to put them in a bad mood?...

So there you have it.
I went from loving Corinner-Elly to a person who never smiles, never laughs and goes out of her way to kick puppies.

So shoot me.

Speak Up Man!

Is it just me or are guys notoriously bad texters?

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a generalization.
And I hate generalizing.

But when every text response contains an average 1-3 words, I begin to wonder...

The way I figure it, either they are getting tired of the conversation and don't want to text anymore, they are upset about something or they're just plain stupid.

I most often assume that they just don't want to talk to me anymore. But then I see them in person two seconds later and they're a regular chatty-Kathy! Explain this to me!?

Girl's never have this problem. In fact, I think girls tend to be on the opposite end of the spectrum. Meaning, they often write four-page-long sagas documenting every feeling they've experienced in the past five minutes.

Nothin' wrong with that, my friend. Nothin' wrong with that.

Has anyone else noticed this disturbing trend?
Is it really too much to ask that they at least form a full sentence? I don't think that is unreasonable. They could practice their spelling and grammar while they're at it.

Until then, I am going on strike. From now on, any one word answers that are completely unjustified will not be responded to.

That's right. I'm gonna give 'em the textical cold shoulder.
(How do you like that word? Textical. My roomie Lacy-Hacy made it up. Figures, eh?)

In other news, are you way impressed by how many posts I've written this week Katerina Cupcake??

I do it all for you.

You Know You're a Haymore If...

As of late, I've been getting certain crap from a certain friend (who shall remain unnamed for the time being) regarding whether or not Lake Shore is a legit town.

I hold that if a community is large enough and organized enough to hold a 'community days' each year, then they are definitely fo realz.

He claims that because you don't technically put 'Lake Shore' on the envelope, it's really more of a pretend area of Spanish Fork.

Ruuuuuude.

In addition, when I was in London, whenever we'd take the train out of Chelmsford into the city, we'd have to walk through a small hobbit tunnel, as I liked to call it.

It was probably only six feet in diameter (at most) which made it a good topic of conversation as to who would fit and who wouldn't. Naturally, my sister's six-foot-six husband was vetoed.

Both of these scenarios lead me to begin contemplating the strange facets of human experience that make my family my family. And thus, my You Know You're a Haymore If... list was born.

Prepare yourself. This one's a doozy.

1. You know where Lake Shore, Utah is.
2. You measure everything by asking, "Would Drew fit?"
3. You think you're always right.
4. You think everyone else should always think you're right.
5. The first thing you mention when you introduce someone new is the word 'Kyle'.
6. Your favorite past time is judging/mocking others.
7. You are mildly insulted by #6.
8. You shiver at the very mention of 'chutnanya'.
9. You've had poop thrown at you while riding a miniature train.
10. You know what a 'chester drawers' is.
11. Your mom makes the best homemade bread in the world.
12. You have more brothers and sisters than you do close friends.
13. Your brother is commonly mistaken for Brad Pitt.
14. You think the difference between an ostrich and an emu is the way their knees bend.
15. You believe everything your dad has ever said. (See #14.)
16. You ever asked if it was 'porch time' as a child.
17. You are extremely talented.
18. You are amazingly good looking.
19. You are the humblest person you know.
20. You agree with everything on this list.

I can only think of 20 presently, but I'm sure the list will grow.
After all, I am a Haymore. Which is awesome.

If you have any doubts, please refer to the above list.
#18 especially.

Oh the Wisdom of Me.

Today, I would like to brag a little.
I am so, so wise. And I can foresee the future.

Example #1: On Saturday, I helped 'da twinneh' rearrange her bedroom. Perhaps my favorite part was pulling away the end table from the wall and finding a partially eaten ice-cream sandwich that 'someone' (*cough* her husband) had somehow plastered to the wall. It had then slowly dried as it slid down the surface.

Pleasant as that was, when we pulled the bed away from the wall, we found around 3,000 empty Otter Pop wrappers he had lazily dropped behind the mattress in an effort to avoid standing up, walking three steps and throwing them away.

That boy needs a swift kick in the pants, I tell ya.

And yet we somehow prevailed. Because after several hours, everything was freshly dusted, more logically arranged and the bed was made! (If you only knew... This a big deal.)

But I'm veering away from my point.
The important part of my story is when 'da twinneh' stumbled upon her old high school journal. It was full of teenage angst and drama and heartbreak.

She flipped it open and read part of one page, relating her extreme anguish over a supposed 'betrayal' of trust to a former fling which now, of course, seemed rather silly.

But the best part of the whole page, maybe even book, was a line that read, "Corin says I'm going to laugh about all this later, but I don't see how."

BRILLIANT.

Was I right or was I right?
Called it. Fo sho.

Example #2: Earlier in the week, 'da twinneh' text me regarding her extreme delight in buying a little black bear figurine that she had been eyeing for ages. The attached picture featured a doe-eyed cub jauntily clinging to her bathroom towel rack.

"Haha! Cute! :D", I responded.

"Isn't it adorable?" she replied, "I waited for it to go on sale at C-A-L Ranch and it finally did."

"I remember you telling me about it." I inserted, "It's not breakable, is it? :P"

"I don't think so. He's pretty sturdy. Why?", came the response.

"Your husband doesn't have a good track record...", I concluded.

Because he really doesn't. 'Da twinneh' loves black bears with a fiery passion that cannot be quenched. And with the same fervent zeal, her husband seems to damage them.

If that weren't bad enough, whenever he has a clumsy moment, instead of admitting it to his wife what he's done, he props the smashed pieces back into place as though nothing had ever happened.

Pfft. Typical man.

But, no joke, one week later I got another text.
"He broke my bear!", it lamented.

"Called it!", I quickly text back. No remorse.

"He decapitated it.", she mourned.

I later witnessed firsthand that, surely enough, the bear's head and the bear's body had been quickly parted. Along with the towels from the towel rack and the towel rack from the wall.

I questioned 'da twinneh' as to what he could have possibly been doing to have caused such a ruckus, but she seemed just as confused as I was. Scratch that, am.

I mean, was he doing pull ups on the towel rack?
The world may never know.

So, there you have it. I am full of useless information, random puns and wisdom beyond my years.

I'm so cool, you could store a side of beef in me for a week.
I'm so hip, I can barely see over my own pelvis.

Slam Dunked

I'm sure many of you, if not all of you, know that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as Mormons.

I believe that mankind receives revelation today through a modern-day prophet and that families can be sealed together forever through ordinances performed in temples.

If you'd like to learn more, please visit http://www.mormon.org/.

Baptisms for the dead is one of the said ordinances that are performed. Those unfamiliar with the term I'm sure find it a confusing concept to comprehend. To set the record straight, NO, we do not baptize dead people.

By saying baptisms for the dead, we mean that baptisms are performed by living members of the church vicariously for those who have passed on without receiving or accepting a knowledge of the gospel while here on Earth.

It is a wonderful and sacred ordinance.

That being said, Satan must really hate it when I try to attend the temple because every time I go, I have the worst possible luck.

Because, without fail, I:

1) am baptized by the shortest man in the building
2) feel like a whale that is causing the font to overflow every time I'm dunked
3) shiver for 10 minutes while waiting in line for the shower
4) rub my face with a white towel before realizing I have wet mascara on
5) have to stand clutching a tiny towel while waiting for my locker stall to be vacated

Please don't misunderstand me. I in no way mean this in a sacrilegious manner.

You have to admit, in all of life there is irony. And no good deed, even one performed for the dead, goes unpunished. (Aka. I'm cursed.)

It's just that, how is it possible that as soon as I am ready to enter the water, they decide to change the brother who is doing the baptizing from a six-foot giant to a four-foot midget?...

And why does he insist on plunging me into the water at 400 m.p.h.? As if chlorine in my eyes wasn't bad enough... Bloodshot isn't even a good enough description.

And how is it that the women baptized before me believe that they must take an extensive shower when A. there is no soap, B. the water it frigid and C. it's less than a trickle?

And why is it that mascara never comes completely off with hand soap, no matter how hard you rub? In fact, rubbing makes it a gajillion times worse.

But most importantly, how do I ALWAYS choose the one locker that is ALWAYS occupied as soon as I need it?

So there I stand, barely decent, hair in a knot, mascara running down my face, with demon eyes, shivering in the locker room.

Happy I've helped someone do something they couldn't do for themself, but in constant wonder at the strange puzzlement that is my life.

Are You a Rotten Banana?...

Do you remember when I mentioned the game Bananagrams in my last birthday post?

I'm sure you probably don't, considering that post was a small novel (novella?...) which, for all intents and purposes, was most likely put in the blog vomit category by the majority of you.

Regardless, Banangrams is my new favorite. I carry it around in my purse everyday just waiting for the opportunity to break it out and whoop some unsuspecting relative, friend or stranger.

The object of the game is to create your own personal Scrabble board of sorts, continually adding letter tiles as the round commences until they run out. At this point, the first person to use their final tile in connecting a variety of words in crossword fashion, wins the game.

However, if the players scan the supposed winner's tiles and find an incomplete or incorrect word, that player is deemed the 'rotten banana' and must return all their tiles to the center of the table while the remaining players continue the game until someone else can produce an acceptable arrangement.

I love games that allow you to banish players...

During play, several punny 'banana' terms are used such as 'split' to start the game, 'peel' to alert the group to their obligation to draw another tile and 'dump' to allow a player to swap one of his bad tiles for three potential good ones.

Actually, how does the word 'dump' apply to the word 'banana'?...
I'm not sure I want you to answer that.

Word to the wise: if you are inherently talented with the ability to form words quickly and effectively, allowing you to yell 'peel' 40 consecutive times, you will be tarred and feathered.

In any event, it is an addicting good time.

Perhaps my favorite element is the little banana pouch that the letters come packaged in. It's just so cute... I'm gonna die!

But the best news of all is that the company who created Bananagrams has come out with other letter games revolving around fruit! I have yet to play Appleletters or Pairs in Pears, but oh I plan to. Very soon.

My only concerns are: will I be still able to tote my already massive purse once it contains all of these fruit pouches? Are they worth their weight? Am I a crazy person?

I'm here to answer: probably, most definitely and yes.

Excusez-Moi?...

I've been home from England for a good chunk now but only recently realized that I hadn't posted the list of things I noticed/learned while abroad that I had been saving in my phone's notes.

I've also been given a stern rebuke by a distant sister who wants more blog posts. Now. Dang it.

So here's the gist. I'll keep it short and sweet.
Or long and exhaustive. I can't quite decide which.

Regardless, I'm at work and I have nothing else to do.
Ah hem.

What Corinner-Elly Noticed/Learned in Europe:

1. An airplane is like a cocoon.

It really is. Think about it. You climb inside, all nestled and safe and you're not allowed out until the proper time.

And when you emerge, you're a beautifully radiant butterfly...

Okay, that may be a bit of an overstatement... Considering I look like I've been hibernating for the winter/been run over by a truck when I step off a plane.

Actually, aren't cocoons made out of caterpillar spit and/or vomit?... This could also be applicable because, during plane rides, I tend to think a lot about the two and whole-heartily pray that I might be spared from both.

Now that I think about it, planes really aren't like cocoons.
They're more like death traps. (Never, ever watch Final Destination...)

2. Drivers are bad everywhere.

I've ranted before about how people are biased against Utah drivers, but I'm here to tell you (as a seasoned world traveler) that, regardless of where you are, there will be insanity on the highway.

Throw in a plethora of round-abouts and you're up for a veritable smorgasbord of 'close-calls'.

I've driven with lead foots, road ragers, grannies, tailgaters, speed demons and brake slammers. All, unpleasant in-and-of themselves.

But put them on an narrow, winding road in the English countryside and you've got a recipe for disaster. I'm not even joking when I say that I almost died and my nephew very nearly got run over by a bus...

So just remember:
life isn't fair, bacon is delicious and drivers are bad.

3. I hate border checks.

I'm sure you all remember my trip to Scotland?... It's a repressed memory that I hesitate to bring up. But when I related my unhappy encounter with the airport security officials who were determined to send me over the edge on an already horrible day, I was only scraping the surface of the issue.

Namely, airports suck. Bad.

I think I spent more time waiting in line at customs than I actually did in Britain! (Okay, this is an exaggeration, but I feel strongly on the topic, alright?)

All I'm saying is that little stamp in my passport is NOT worth my sanity. End of story.

4. Warm water impossible?...

So I get to England, go to wash my hands and notice something peculiar... There are two faucets, one on each side of the sink. One is red, one is blue.

I go for blue, thinking it to be a good choice right?
Blue is nice. I like blue.

Freezing. Cold.

How 'bout red? Can't hurt to try.

Scalding, burning, painfully hot.

So how, may you ask, did I get warm water?
I didn't.

Because, no matter how hard I tried, I could not combine the polar opposites in my hands and splash them onto my face quickly enough.

So I decided to call a truce and never wash at all.
Still on strike as we speak...

5. You never miss a drinking fountain until you don't have one.

I spent approximately $1,000,000.00 on water bottles in London alone. And when I say 'I', I mean my parents.

I sincerely believe this is how the city survives.
And how they funded the crown jewels.

Because, heaven's knows, I only saw one drinking fountain during the entire trip. And it wasn't even functional.

Also, on a side note, French maitre d's are rather rude after finding out that all you intend to drink during dinner is 'water with lemon'.

Which leads me to believe that the United Kingdom has now replaced water with alcohol as the most acceptable form of hydration.

So, there it is. My list.
Random? Yes. Rambling? Yes. Redundant? Possibly.

Containing at least one reference to bacon?
Always.

Dream On.

I don't know what it is lately, but I have been having a lot of strange dreams...

What's equally strange is that I've been dreaming at all. I can't remember dreaming for the longest time, at least since I moved out after high school.

Somehow, a mixture of spending a lot of time sleeping at home to be with visiting siblings/their families and getting more than six hours of sleep per night has equated to some curious curiousness.

But one thing always stays the same.
Without fail, my mom is always the villain in my dreams.

Don't ask me why this happens? And believe me, she has. Adamantly.
I have no idea.

I mean, she didn't beat me as a child, she always made sure I ate my vegetables and I've only seen her angry on two occasions.

FYI. If you would like to avoid the 'wrath of Mom', never EVER miss the bus and never EVER become a mosquito.

All I know is that when I wake up crying, it's because mother dearest is making me move to Japan.

Maybe there is some sort of subconscious reason why this keeps happening?... I think I shall consult the 'source of all knowledge' for an answer: Google.

According to online dream dictionaries, when a woman dreams of her mother it signifies pleasant duties and connubial bliss.

So am I to take from this when I dream of an evil mother, it signifies unpleasant duties and un-wedded misery?...

I don't like this interpretation.
No I don't.