Fortune Favors the Brave.

I think, perhaps, I should have been born in China.

You probably wouldn't have placed me there having brown hair, blue eyes, being 5'9" and all.

But the food, oh the food.

I would have been born there for the food. 

Lately I've been craving Chinese food like a hormone filled pregnant woman.

Panda Express, Rice Garden in Smith's, Little Tokyo, @12, China Wok and if you're really loaded, P.F. Chang's. So many tasty possibilities.

Granted, these are all Americanized versions of the real thing, but the flavor palate remains. I think my love for soy, garlic and ginger is only rivaled by my love for basil, tomatoes and fresh mozzarella.

I'm telling you, everything tastes better when it comes from a wok. Pretty sure I could live on a steady diet of tempura chicken and rice noodles. And cream cheese wontons are heaven in a little fried wrapper.

There's such a variety of choices. Egg drop soup, honey walnut shrimp, potstickers, a plethora of vegetables, orange chicken, spring rolls, egg rolls and so many, many sauces. And don't even get me started about chicken-on-a-stick. I think I've already expounded on my affinity for all things skewered.

And those Chinese, man. They're tricky.

What other ethnicity leaves your fortune inside a cookie? I knew the moment that Gem read "Thinking is highly encouraged." after one night's feasting that they were truly magical.

Personally, I'm waiting for one that says "That wasn't chicken." or "Help! I'm trapped in the fortune cookie factory!" But it hasn't happened yet.

But I may be neglecting the most important feature of the Chinese food experience. Namely, the buffet. They've pretty much perfected the concept, I'd say.

I can't count the number of times I've vowed to never again return to a Chinese buffet the night after gorging and yet I always do. I think they must put a narcotic in the rice. One that forces you to sleep it off and then come back and tempt the intestinal gods again.

All I'm saying is that sometimes the things you love most give you the most trouble. Don't read into that.

Stretching the Rules.

I've been giving the BF lessons.
Lessons of things he must know if he wants to live amicably with Corinner-Elly.

Lesson #1 was how to wind plastic bags into tiny, space-saving balls that are stored and later recycled at the nearest Walmart. I demonstrated how such a feat was to be completed and then had him take a try.

He passed with flying colors.

A few days later, it was time for lesson #2: titled, 'Dishwashers Can't Do Everything.' For some reason, none of my former/present roommates grasp this concept.

How they expect to simply throw a plate covered in spaghetti sauce that's been drying in their car for three weeks in the dishwasher and hope that it will come out sparkly clean never ceases to amaze me.

Lesson #3, however, required simple observance, nothing more.
As I passed the kitchen table to find all its chairs sprawled haphazardly, I knew it must be said.

Push. In. Your. Chair.

How simple is that?
And yet surprisingly difficult for people.

By the time lesson #4 came around, I had begun to realize that this may very well be quite an extensive education. But it couldn't be avoided.

The moment I saw him toss the newspaper ads he'd just retrieved from his mailbox on a large pile of similarly abandoned garbage in the stairwell, I knew something must be said.

Is it really so hard to throw away or, heaven forbid, recycle unwanted mailers?..

Unfortunately, that lesson is still in the works.
Let's just say I have an unruly and opinionated student.

At least when it comes to his junk mail.

And then, last night, after coming home from an unexpectedly long Relief Society presidency trip to the bishop's house, I returned to find all of the evening's dinner group leftovers still sitting out on the counter.

Granted they were all stored in Tupperware and piled neatly.
But sitting out growing spores none-the-less.

Don't get me wrong. He gets major points for boxing all of the food for me. But I couldn't help but shake my head and smile when I noticed he'd forgotten the last (and probably most important) step.

Thus, lesson #5 was born: always put leftovers in the fridge even if you're waiting to ask Corinner-Elly what she wants to do with the remaining Hollandaise sauce.

I bet you're wondering why/how the BF puts up with this.
Truth is, so do I.

All I know is that he doesn't mind the anality so long as I give excellent back-rubs. I'm not saying the system is evenly weighted. But it work for us.

Beyond Words.

For my good buddy Hamm's bachelorette party, Lacy-Hacy and I videoed her fiance answering several questions we had prepared about her.

The movie turned out entirely adorable (in case you were wondering) most likely due to the fact that he was holding a pink ice-cream scoop as a microphone and we asked him questions such as: "What kind of deodorant does she wear?".

After a moment of confused pondering, his answer was 'Dove?..', fyi.
I asked the BF what he would have said, and he answered the exact same thing.

Apparently that is the only female brand known to the masculine world.

The whole point of this story being, as we were conducting the question & answer session, we couldn't help but comment here and there in response to his.. responses.

And the real point of the point of this story is that, at one point, I was heard in the background mumbling, "Pinch of sugar? Spoonful of salt? Take it with a pinch... er... grain of sugar?.."

You see, I have a problem.
Namely, the inexplicable ability to ruin any phrase.

I try to talk and words come out, but they're usually a jumble of several different phrases. People generally seem to understand what I'm trying to say, but I have a feeling it's just a polite gesture to pretend I'm making sense.

For instance, bet you never knew that to become 'dirt-tired' somehow means to be 'dog-tired' and 'dirt-poor' combined.

Used that one the other day. It was great.

Or, perhaps, 'count your stars'. I think that's when 'count your blessings' and 'thank your lucky stars' have a word baby.

I was especially aware of this ability, I mean, curse when I was playing a word game with my peers where each player was asked to write down an action phrase and put it in a bucket. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I chose 'take a tub'.

*face palm*

Take a tub?.. Take a TUB!??..
Um.. how about 'take a bath' or 'get in the tub'?

Oh no-no. Not me.
I was quickly singled out for my poor verbiage and ridiculed for its nonsense.

But perhaps the most infamous instance of late was when I tried to correct my roommate Lacy-Hacy's version of the Baby Bottle Pop jingle.

"That's not how it goes..." I insisted, turning around to face her, "It's lip it, dick it, then li..."

*cue Corinner-Elly's horrified face and burst of laughter from all involved*

I meant to say 'lick it, dip it, then lick it again' but true to form, it came out all wrong. Oh so very wrong.

It's certifiable. I'm never going to live that one down. Someone mentions it at least once a week, if not more. And apparently, it never gets old.

I can't help it. I really am cursed.
I try to be normal and use my big girl words.

But it's no use. Someday I'm going to inevitably tell my children to 'comb their bum and wipe their hair'.

I'm consigned to that fact.

'Mark' my Words.

First things first, I am really glad that I am past the teenage acne years.

That being said, today I woke up with the blemish to rue all blemishes.
(Remember how we like that word bestest? It's the least disturbing.)

To avoid being overly graphic, it was not the kind that is easily 'pop-able'.
It is, however, the kind that will hang around for at least five days, causing people to stop looking into your eyes and instead stare trance-like at one specific spot on your face.

Lovely.

My one consolation is that this time it wasn't of the 'third-eye' variety. Meaning, the kind that is perfectly situated between both eyes, like an Indian jewel.

Except way grosser and less exotic.

Mine is more like a beauty mark, located just above the lip and to the side of the nose. (Beauty used here loosely, because the thing's a beast.)

But did you know that beauty marks were particularly highly regarded during the eighteenth century and creating false ones became common, often in fanciful shapes such as hearts or stars?

Interesting concept. Yet somehow I don't think a shamrock sticker on my face will solve any problems...

Why shamrock, you ask?
Because tonight is Corinner-Elly's Annual St. Patty's Day sleepover. The chill'ens are practically 'bursting' with excitement.
(Bad pun?? Sorry.)

So if you see me today, pretend that I'm emulating Marilyn Monroe.
And stop imaging a sparkly green clover on my face.

Cantankerous

A while back, I compiled a very long list of pet peeves. At the time I thought I was being objective, but now I realize that it comes across as extremely whiny.
Sorry 'bout that.

One of the aforementioned peeves was canker sores.
Granted, I haven't had one in a very long while, but I think that can be attributed to the fact that I avoid their causes like the plague.

I say that like I'm positive I know what causes them when the truth is, I can't really prove it, per say.

All I know is that when I eat any amount of fresh pineapple or brush with Crest toothpaste, I will most likely regret it later.

(Apparently Natalie Dee agrees with me.)

Anyone else have such a theory?

I don't think people believe me when I tell them it's true.

It wouldn't be home if, after carving a fresh pineapple, my dad didn't offer me some and then roll his eyes when I politely refused.

But such is life.

You win some, you lose some.

I mean, pineapple is delicious and all, but I think I'll settle for watermelon and Colgate. If you don't mind.

By the Skin of My Teeth.

For as long as I can remember, I've never understood the aversion people have towards the dentist. Granted, I've never had more than a few 'soft spots' that needed tiny fillings. And I didn't need shots or laughing gas or anything.

I never got braces. I still have all of my wisdom teeth (for now...).
Three of them are grown in actually.
And no needle has ever approached my mouth.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I have a pretty stellar dental history.

That could be attributed to the awesome dentist I've seen every six months for as long as I can remember. Or to the prize drawer he let me raid after every appointment.

It most likely stems from the gleaming pack of Trident gum he handed each of us on our way out to have for our very own.
Because to a six year old, that's gold.

Granted, Mom did lecture the entire ride home on the evils of aspartame.
But even the fear of death couldn't have pried it out of my little hands.

But yesterday, all of this changed. Instead of being greeted by my usual friendly, male hygienist, Steve, a pleasantly plump woman called out my name.

I mean, she was friendly too, but it only took me an instant to realize that she was going to be quite the chatty Kathy. She wouldn't stop talking about my 'perfect teeth' or 'beautiful eyelashes'. It never ceases to amaze me how they think I'll be able to respond when they have both hands shoved in my mouth.

And why do dentists tell you to never poke at your teeth with a sharp object then go crazy stabbing your gums with pointy metal tools?..

As if that weren't bad enough, the entire time my head was nestled between her giant bosoms. There was no escaping them. All I could do was look at the little 'smile' sticker stuck to the ceiling and go to my happy place.

It was then I noticed what appeared to be blood on her gloves. The woman was murdering me and there was nothing I could do about it!

Then to add insult to injury, she went crazy with the water-squirter-thingy. My face was sprayed multiple times. I had to close my eyes it got so bad. No lies.

In an effort to be what I can only assume was helpful, she swabbed my cheeks several times with her little stacks of gauze, but when I started feeling drops on my forehead, she broke out the big guns and decided to just mop my whole face with a paper towel.

Thanks a whole heap, lady.

And I can't be sure, but I am fairly certain that she let out a little burp behind that mask while working two inches from my face. My first clue being I heard it and my second that I'd seen her come out of the break room literally two seconds before summoning me back to her torture chamber.

Thus ends my wonderful experiences at the dentist's office.
I mean, it was lovely an all, but next time,

I'm reserving Steve.

Can't Believe His Eyes

There's a mechanic at my dealership who is in a class above the rest.
I don't say this in reference to his ability to fix cars, heavens knows I know nothing about that. I mean simply that his work ethic is top-notch and his people skills are quality.

Often times, he is the only one busy in the shop. He never stops moving.
There was a power outage some months back and he refused to take a break even then, finding ways to keep working even in the dark.

And the guy must be in his late fifties, early sixties. You don't have to see his pure white hair to know that he's no spring chicken.

Yet he goes about his business pleasantly and quietly.
Always on top of his tasks, sometimes literally when perched atop his station's desk while taking a quick lunch break.

So when someone began up the stairs to my little office a few days ago, I was relieved to see it was him.

After asking my office manager a few questions, he smiled politely at me then went on his merry way.

Trouble was, that quick smile had caught me off guard.
Something was... different about him.

"Was there something wrong with his eyes today?", I mentioned.

"His real eye?", she responded?

"Real.. eye?..." I was confused.

"You know he has a glass eye, right?", she responded, with a look that seriously doubted my sincerity.

*mouth agape*

 I wanted to reply with an "Are you SH**ING ME!??" but an "Are you serious!?" had to suffice.

Sure enough, I had been working, oftentimes within close proximity with said technician for six months now and had yet to notice that one of his eyes is entirely made of glass.

Call me Captain Oblivious, but that's the honest truth.

I can't decide whether I'm horribly unobservant or just don't look people in the eyes, er..., eye. But either way, my blatant disregard of very obvious and strange phenomenon astounds me.

What's next?
A prosthetic arm in the body shop? The cashier wears a wig? Our used car salesman has no eyebrows?...

Mark my words, if I find out the owner has a peg leg, I'm going to dig a hole and die.