Mother-Chucker!

Here's the thing, and I believe I've mentioned it before, but I'm a member of the clean plate club. A proud member, in fact. It's not that I eat everything on my plate because I'm ravenous. I simply like food, and I like it organized. Why miss out on a single delicious morsel?

That being said, I am baffled as to why the people in my family feel so compelled to disrupt the order in my perfect little world. The status of my plate doesn't affect them whatsoever, and yet they are, without fail, intent on noticing and destroying my inner plate peace. 

So today, when my mom called to invite me to lunch with Gem and my two brothers, I happily (and perhaps naively) accepted. They wanted to go to the India Palace for the lunch buffet. I didn't argue, because coconut korma is delicious, and I'm easy to please.

Okay, okay. So it's Monday.
But the servers were wearing some pretty sweet turbans.

There was also an awesome TV channel playing ridiculous Indian sitcoms and hilarious Bollywood music videos in the background. So an overall win.

That is, until we were ready to leave and my brother, Air-bear, informed the group that, once again, my plate was too clean and instructed my mother to do something about that.

I wasn't worried. She's my mom. She'd never do anything to..

PLOP.

And that was when I died from surprise. My sweet, little, peacemaker mother slopped a fork full of leftover chicken tikka masala onto my dish. She didn't even hesitate. I was dumbfounded.

So I sat reeling while everyone around me chuckled.
This is the woman who believes sarcasm is only thinly veiled rudeness. This is the woman who gave me so many motherly compliments growing up, I found it hard to believe they could all be true. This is the woman who was supposed to be on my side. Always.

And yet there she was, laughing. Not with me. AT ME.

That was when I realized that everything I'd ever believed in was a lie. A sentiment that was reinforced two minutes later when I stood to leave and realized that my wallet was no longer resting safely on the table. I immediately accused my siblings, who had suspiciously turned their backs to me. But no. You guessed it. It was Mom. AGAIN.

So I ask: Who is this woman and what has she done with my mother!??

In One Ear, Out the Other.

I don't know what my deal is, but my right arm and hand have been numb and tingly all morning. Not the kind of numb and tingly my hands get after clapping or applauding. Itchy too.

The husband says that's never happened to him before. Yet another thing I just assumed was commonplace then come to find out I'm a weirdo for.

I started noticing my arm/hand spazing out last night and chalked it up to sleeping on it funny the night before or something.

Well.. that is what I told myself in my head.
The story the husband was privileged enough to hear was quite dramatic and had to do with almost choking on a kernel of corn when I was all alone at our apartment during lunch which caused me to hyperventilate and almost die. And on top of that, I had the worst case of carpel tunnel the world has ever seen.

His reaction to my diva-tude was to suggest I blend the corn into a sort of corn smoothie in the future. I pointed out a person could still die from aspirating liquid corn.

Not the direction I imagined the conversation would go, but I'll still take it.

I think, instead, I'll just avoid corn in the future.
For several reasons not limited to 1) it gets stuck in your teeth when you try to gnaw it off the cob, 2) when you then resort to cutting it off to avoid #1, small kernel get lodged in your airways and you almost go to the light and 3) some people were simply not made to digest the stuff. (TMI?.. Sorry.)

 

Only problem is, it's pretty hard to completely avoid.

 

But I will endeavor to do my best.
It's a matter of life and death you know.

My family thinks I'm ridiculous when I make such declarations. They say that the sweet corn my pops grows is practically vegetable gold.

And in the past, I'd have to agree. But now I've learned it may look all innocent and delicious, but it's really trying to kill me.

Which is ironic, because we have a lot in common, corn and I.

One time, my sister, Katerina Cupcake, made up a clever little ditty for an 'all about me' poster she helped me create in the third grade. It stated, "Corin is corn with an 'i' not an ear."

Clever, no? Get it? Get it? Because my name has the letter 'i' in it and they're called 'ears' of corn?.. Eye ---> ear. Yes?..

No?... Well never mind.
My arm still feels weird.

Nothing to Sneeze At.

Today, it is very quiet in the office.
The work that I am usually able to spread out over the hours from nine to one I finished promptly at 10:15 this morning. Thus leaving me at odds with what to do until lunch?..

I have already completed my daily Facebook stalking, blog reading and email checking, so there's probably only one thing left to do: write a blog post.

But seeing as there hasn't been anything too eventful and/or hilarious happening in my life as of late, I figured I might as well post about two phenomenon that have been a continuous topic of conversation for many years.

The first one being, the sun makes me sneeze.

Formerly, I had always figured that everyone sneezed when they walked out into bright sunlight. But slowly came to the realization, through semi-heated debate with family and friends on the subject, that I was one of the relatively few who suffered from this problem. In fact, 'da twinneh' was practically the only one who seemed to relate.

But after researching the symptoms, I came across this Wikipedia article.
Apparently I have what is known as a 'photic sneeze reflex' which is also sometimes referred to as the backronym Autosomal Dominant Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst Syndrome (ACHOO Syndrome).
(Anyone else find this quite amusing?.. Anyone else have to look up what a 'backronym' is?..)

This "Sneeze Gene" is a hereditary trait which causes sneezing, possibly many times consecutively (due to naso-ocular reflex), when suddenly exposed to bright light. And it affects 18-35% of the human population.

So me and 'da twinneh' are not alone. Comforting.

Gem claims that minty gum is the culprit/cause of sneezes.
She says that she has friends who agree.

Whether or not these friends are real or imaginary is yet to be determined.

But apparently there is some truth to this claim as well.
Refer here to 11 surprising sneezing facts.

Which include 'why plucking your eyebrows may make you sneeze' and 'the longest sneezing spree'. (978 days apparently. I'd have never guessed.)

All I know is that it hurts to drink cold water after/while I'm chewing minty gum. And just in case you haven't reached your fun fact quota for the day, it's because the menthol in the chewing gum triggers the "cool sensors" in your mouth, causing a 'cooling feeling' when those nerves are activated.

Just thought I'd share my new found knowledge.
Because, yep, nothing new happened on Facebook during this entire post.

Is it lunchtime yet?..

Taken by Surprise.

The diagnosis has come in.
It's been determined that I suffer from extreme surprise anxiety.

Not only am I petrified with fright when people jump out at me from the darkness, I also find it difficult to successfully carry out a surprise for someone without becoming extremely jittery.

And let's not even mention my inability to maintain the smallest semblance of a poker face.

So this morning when I got it in my head to decorate my good buddy Hamm's Acura in celebration of her 22nd birthday, I knew the symptoms of my disease would flare up. For a split second, I contemplated taking a safer route. One that involved less sneakiness and therefore inner-turmoil.

But after remembering the 300 balloons she inflated for my 22nd birthday, I knew I had to 'woman up' and just get-r-done.

So I drove to our dealership, hoping she'd be safely seated in her new position at the cashier's desk and therefore out of sight, and crept across the parking lot with window markers in hand. I had scarcely written "Honk!! It's my birthday!" across the back windshield before I heard the familiar screech of the sales lot intercom from across the block.

"Ma'am.. Ma'am. Excuse me ma'am, is that your car?..", called a familiar but stern voice.

I knew full and well it was the service manager, trying to tease me, but that didn't stop my surprise anxiety from kicking in. Did he not recognize me from the distance?.. Was I doing something illegal without knowing it?? Had I started tagging the WRONG CAR!?? A part of me wanted to instantly drop to the ground and scurry for cover.

But somehow I managed to maintain my calm as I jokingly shook my fist at the service station window and laughed nervously.

Before long, I was finished. A lickety-split masterpiece had been created, parked alongside the curb just waiting for its owner to discover it. I was pleased with myself, but also (you guessed it) anxious about a myriad of things.

What if Hamm was irritated by my causing her extra window washing? What if the owner of my dealership saw the end result of my work and was offended by my usage of the word 'bangable'? What if the service manager really was angry??!.. (Something I had never before witnessed from the light-hearted man yet somehow instantly recognized as the only possibility.)

My heart fluttered nervously during the last few steps of my journey to the safety of my upstairs office desk, before jovial taunts from the service advisers returned my mind to ease. They had recognized me after all.

And better yet, the owner hadn't noticed and obviously wouldn't have cared if he did. Hamm was certainly going to be happily surprised and the world was right again.

I just hope she realizes what I put myself through.
I risked death from 'surprise anxiety' on her behalf.

And that is a very real concern.

Waiting in the Wings.

On the honeymoon, the husband and I ordered wings every chance we could get. Some were fantastically awesome, such as the piping hot buffalo wings at The Iron Horse Bar and Grill, while others were all-together lack-luster, such as those from the Wild West Pizzeria & Saloon in West Yellowstone.
(To be fair, the pizza was delicious.)

I teasingly joked that we should start a blog, documenting our chicken wing exploits. "We could call it.. 'Corinnay & Dannay: Just Wingin' It'.", I suggested. He smiled back at me with sticky lips.

What you should know is that I consider chicken wings to be the most delicious things on the whole dang planet. Given the choice, I could survive on chicken wings for the rest of my life. I mean, the possibilities are endless.
Saucy, crunchy, spicy, sweet, you name it.

I never met a chicken wing I didn't like.
Expect for the drumsticks restaurants are continually trying to pass off as 'wings'. And it's not that I don't like them, I just consider it plain ole' dishonest.

Chicken wings are more dignified than that. When cooked properly, they come apart in neat little pieces, no bone gnawing necessary.

So you can imagine, when, last night at a family get-together I was shocked and appalled to see Gem dig under a pile of Nicoitalia's hot chicken wings (meaning drumsticks) to steal that last actual juicy wing.
I was appalled at her wing etiquette.

Everyone knows that you take whatever's at the top of the food pile.
Or at least they should.

I will compile a list of chicken wing rules, just to be safe.
*ah hem*
1) Always take the piece on top of the pile. No one likes a picky wing eater.
2) Demand ranch for dipping at all costs. Blue cheese will not do.
3) Eat every tasty morsel off the bone. A chicken gave it's life for you.
Don't demean that sacrifice.
4) Always choose a crispy wing over a soggy wing. It's just common sense.
5) Do not lick your sister's last wing. You will immediately become dead to her.
6) Filling up her water bottle will not restore your sisterhood. It will simply promote you from 'spawn of Satan' to 'person' status.
7) Never leave a wing un-eaten. It's just plain wasteful. African children would be very upset.
8) Don't discriminate against un-sauced wings. In Corinner-Elly's eyes, all wings are created equal.
9) Do not remove the skin. It's the best part and.. are you crazy??
10) Partake of wings every chance you get. And I mean EVERY chance.

I wasn't going to name the 'wing licker', but for the safety of wing eaters everywhere, I shall. It was Gem. Also known as G-ster.

And no amount of flailing/swatting/holding the precious piece as far away from her as I possibly could with one arm while fending her off with the opposite foot could keep the dastardly deed from taking place.

Her status in relation to me is still pending.

Makes Me Sick.

Have you ever been eating a bowl of grapes while simultaneously reading, The Bloggess, Jenny Lawson's hilarious memoir 'Let's Pretend This Never Happened' and suddenly realize you just ate something that tasted like a mixture of fresh cut grass and goat cheese?..

Me either. Except for that one time.
More specifically, this morning.

Have you ever convinced yourself that you had instantly contracted food poisoning while vowing to never eat another grape again?..

Okay. Maybe that's just me as well.

The point is, it was nasty and I almost died.
Hopefully, I'm not alone in this, but whenever I eat something that is either semi-questionable in regards to freshness beforehand or obviously rotten after the fact, I somehow feel instantly ill.

I'll spend five minutes debating whether or not that chicken pasta is really growing spores or not, after all it's only been four days.. then realize I'm being ridiculous and throw the dang tupperware in the microwave, because pioneers didn't have refrigeration and they survived, right? Well, for the most part.

But once I pull it out and bring the first fork-full towards my mouth, I start to second-guess myself. "Did I leave it out too long before boxing it up last week? The microwave probably killed anything that might have been growing.. probably. I nuked that bad boy for like five minutes, just in case. Oh, for the love of pete, just eat it!!"

And somehow, what was supposed to be a pleasant experience eating tasty leftovers turns into a worry fest over whether I'm going to regret this later.

I usually do.
Not because I actually get sick, but because I convince myself that it's probably coming. If you know me, I consider throwing up one of the worst feelings in the world. Right up there with heat stroke and gunshot wounds.

Not that I've ever been shot, but I can imagine.
And it's that same imagination that always gets me in trouble. I avoid being wasteful and ultimately spend a day trying to diffuse an argument with my brain over whether I'm actually feeling sick or not.

I blame this on my mother. I always do, she claims.
Growing up, if leftovers sat in the fridge for, at most, five days, they were thrown out promptly.

Not only did I see this as extremely negligent but extremely ironic, seeing as she was notorious for forgetting to clean out the vegetable drawer or random container, resulting in frequent discoveries of mold covered mystery foods and the sad remnants of what used to be asparagus in a former life.

So I, adamant on saving money and being resourceful, insist on finishing off whatever needs to be eaten, regardless of the consequences.

To be fair, I have gotten sick yet. But today might be the exception.
Because I've already convinced myself that one rotten grape might be the death of me. And ingesting that was a very unhappy accident.

The moral of the story is, food lasts longer than most people think.
Oh, and it's probably a good idea to look at what you're eating before you shove it in your mouth.

Heavy Purse = Light Heart?

Let it be known, I have a magical Mary Poppin's purse full of everything.

Also let it be known that my left shoulder is permanently crippled from carrying that bad boy around all day.

This was evidenced when, at my bachelorette party, we played the 'guess what's in the bachelorette's purse' game. Twenty minutes later, I was still pulling out first aid kits and road trip games from my bag. I think the final tally was over 50 items, but some were combined for time/sanity's sake.

I guess what I'm saying is that this propensity to carry everything I could possibly need over the course of a day can be considered both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because I am able to maintain my 'favorite aunt status' with a fresh supply of Ice Breakers Sours and a curse because it requires a forklift to be transported.

The good news is, I've recently developed a system that allows me access to all of my essentials while at the same time sparing my poor arms. It called the 'take the blasted thing with you but leave it in the car' theorem.

It works rather remarkably actually.
I just stash the emergency items under the glove box and take only my wallet, keys and cell phone on my person. I'm calling it a big success. Probably the greatest success of 2012.

I've heard it said that a heavy purse makes a light heart. And I tend to agree if the heaviness in question is caused by large amounts of cash.

But in the same breath, wouldn't a debit card make just as light a heart?..
In which case, I proffer the idiom be changed to 'an unlimited debit card makes a light heart and a heavy purse should be left in the car'.

Catchy, isn't it.

WTH, OCD?..

I just don't understand people.

One minute they're praising my detail oriented manner when it comes to wedding planning, the next they're teasing me for handing out aesthetically designed color swatches.

They come home to enjoy a newly cleaned kitchen then promptly mock my desire to rearrange the fridge and straighten the towels.

On occasion, they observe my pristinely folded drawers with admiration then criticize my innate desire to hang up the shirts they seemingly abandoned on the floor.

Even at work, the office manager introduces me as 'the clean one' then eyes me suspiciously as I pick up the tiny white circles that have escaped from the 3-hole punch by hand.

And to top it all off, I am frequently complimented on my perfectionist talents then unabashedly teased for using them.

I can't tell you how many times the topic of 'Corinner-Elly's idiosyncrasies' has come up at Sunday dinner. It is rivaled only by chicken horror stories and infamous acronymical nicknames given to axe wielding perpetrators.

No one complains when I pull 'whatever they are in desperate need of at the moment' from my Mary Poppins purse, but they are oh-so-quick to intentionally skew my neat stack of textbooks or plop a heaping mound of refried beans on my nicely cleaned plate.

Sorry bus-boy, I tried.

All I'm saying is that 'people' should be grateful that they don't have to pull nasty black hairs out of gobs of toothpaste that were formerly stuck to the bathroom counter.

Then conversations like this happen, and I start to lose faith in humanity.

False accusations, I tell you. 
I can guarantee that if the TP had indeed been gone, I would have replaced the roll. Come hell or high water, it would've been done.

Plus, she should be thanking me that I've taught her such valuable lessons such as 'shutting the shower curtain'! Not everyone has a sister that loves them that much.

Even the fiance acknowledged that it only took forgetting once to reform him. I'm that good of a teacher.

Now.. this all may come across as very condescending and/or hoity-toity, but I do it out of love, people. LOVE.

Here's the thing, I don't think my way is the ONLY way.
I just think their way is usually wrong.

I am more than happy to concede that there are other perfectly logically ways to do things. I just don't encounter very many people who are capable of  actually doing them well.

I repeat. Love.

Oh Yes I Did.

April 13th was 'National Scrabble Day'.
It's a sacrilege how few people know that.

I had planned to spend the evening playing a rigorous game of Scrabble Diamond Edition with the fiance (formerly referred to as the 'BF') and eating Scrabble Cheez-Its in celebration.

He, however, was subsequently invited to a Salt Lake Bee's game where he volunteered to dress up as a giant ice-cream cone and race a hot dog and a slice of pizza around the field.

Why?.. You might ask?
Beats me if I can think of a valid reason.

Let's just say he almost won. 'Almost' meaning he tripped during the final stretch, fell fantastically and lost to a hot dog. (He claims, in defense, that the hot dog had an unfair advantage, being more aerodynamic and all. And it's hard to see when you're a giant ice-cream cone. Apparently.)

It's a story that's best heard in person.
Ask him about it.

The point being, when I got back to an empty apartment that day, feeling a little sad that I was going to be all alone for the evening, I found a little surprise waiting for me on the kitchen table.

The fiance (BF at the time) had taken his enormous stash of miscellaneous Scrabble tiles, purchased for my Valentine's Day surprise, and left me a little message.

Let's just say he was immediately forgiven for deserting me on perhaps the greatest of unofficial holidays. And for causing me more mending work by ripping his pants in the 'Great Ice-Cream Cone Fiasco of 2012'.

Remember that. It's goin' down in history.

You might also remember the greatest thing I was ever given, FOR FREE. Namely, the world's comfiest couch.

So when I mentioned that I wanted to re-cover three of the pillows to look like Scrabble tiles but wasn't sure what letters to choose, the fiance exposed his genius and suggested his (and soon to be MY) last name.

And thus, the NAY Scrabble pillows were born.

Don't they look gorge!?
I know someone who uses this as a slang abbreviation for 'gorgeous'. Decided I'd try it out. See how it feels. (Update: I don't like it. Tastes like word vomit. 'Delete' from brain.)

Oh, and P.S. The Scrabble fridge tiles are still in good use.
And have expanded to include a :), :(, :P, ..., " and :D. Among other things.

Now spelling out happy little messages is a breeze!
Not to mention more grammatically correct.

So there you have it.
I'm obsessed with everything Scrabble.

Someone please buy me this.

'Dog'-gone It.

Last night, I dreamt I had a dog in my bedroom and he lived in a kennel under my bed. Every once and a while I'd peek down at him and he'd look back unaffected. He was a good a little dream doggy.

This little exchange went on for quite some time. Months, I'd wager, in dreamland. Until one day I realized something..

My dog had been living under my bed for a very long time now and not once had I taken him out. Not to play, not to eat, nothing. Then I came to another terrible realization.

I had never taken him out to go potty.

Terrified, I slowly pulled his box away from the wall and opened the door, fully expecting to find six month's worth of turds piled in the corner. In preparation, I had somehow fashioned gloves out of old Macey's plastic bags in an effort to shield myself from the impending nastiness.

Tilting my head away so as to avoid the smell, time slowed as my pooch stepped from the cage to reveal...

a stack of old books.

Confused, I made a closer inspection.
Sure enough, there were no feces to be found. Only a random assortment of antique looking novels. And that is where the dream ended.

This, people, is why I prefer not to dream.

Apparently my subconscious is bat-sh**-crazy and has no business being given free rein to create such atrocities.

The BF insists that dreaming is the greatest thing ever. Almost every night, his fantastical brain sends him on adventures of epic proportions.
And he always emerges victorious.

I, on the other hand, very rarely dream as I've mentioned before.
But when I do, it always leaves me slightly disturbed and utterly confused.

When I told the BF about my dream doggy and the imaginary poop pile, he offered this interpretation: "Well, you see me as something to take care of and you are worried that I will be messy. But really you are going to gain a lot of knowledge from the experience."

Would anyone else like to join me in a round of applause for this brilliantly succinct explanation?? I laughed for ten minutes straight after reading it. Only the BF could take such nonsense and create a fairly logical explanation.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I think of the BF as a dog (which I loved despite his supposed filthiness in the dream, mind you) who will inevitably make a mess that I will be forced to clean up. Nor am I saying turds can magically change into books of wisdom. It would be ridiculous to believe any of that.

But oh. My subconscious does.

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.

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.

Ravin' at my Writing Desk

I've finally done it! Life goal accomplished!

Remember how my only professional ambition is to get a desk where no one can see my computer screen other than me? Well mission accomplished, because I am now sitting behind a desk in my own little corner at the top of the stairs. Have been for several months now.

You may think that sounds dreary, but there's a window...
Plus, I'm sort of a vampire when it comes to my preference of dark and cave-like surroundings.

You can also thank my recent re-emergence in the blog world for this advancement. If I had remained downstairs as a lowly cashier, my efforts to write entirely meaningless posts about random thoughts/happenings in my life would have been thwarted.

Now I'm free to type away.
I know you're real happy about that.

Granted, I do have a small heart attack every time someone pages my phone.
Why I think they can somehow see what I'm doing continues to confuse me?...

Regardless, I must have an incredibly guilty conscience. Why? I do not know.

It's not like I'm doing anything illegal.
Blogger is a safe site, right? I hardly think my computer's integrity will be compromised.

And the owner can't expect me to sit here and do nothing once I've completed my daily tasks, can he? Well... he probably can. But the point being: I'd rather pretend to be incredibly busy all day long by dividing my workload into littler pieces that are separated with small bouts of Facebook browsing and Blogger updates.

Genius, no?

And, I hate to brag, but I've pretty much perfected the 'pretend messy desk'.

(This duality is the source of all my problems.)

Granted, the 'piles' of paperwork are already completed and lie in neat little stacks that I try to place haphazardly. Not exactly the easiest scam for me to pull off successfully, but it seems to be working beautifully.

So there you have it. I'm calling my professional endeavors a huge success.
One, because I am able to fool everyone else into thinking I'm busy and two, because I just wrote this entire post at work.

Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am.

Phantom Vibrations.

Have you ever heard of amputees who are able to feel their limb even after it has been removed?

ABC News discussed the matter back in 2007.

"It's like wearing a tight sock all day," they explain. "When you take it off, you still feel it there on your foot."

Interesting analogy...

Apparently having your arm chopped off feels like you're not wearing socks. Who'd've known?

Likewise, have you ever felt your cellphone buzz in your pocket only to pull it out and realize that it actually never had?..

These two problems may seem entirely different almost to the point of no comparison, right? But at the same time, phantom limbs and phantom cell phone sensations are both very real problems.

"It's an interesting technological statement about society that our machines are becoming part of us.", it states.

I, for one, freely admit I suffer from 'Phantom Cell Phone Syndrome'.
Quite frequently I feel my smartphone vibrate in my pocket when in all actuality, it isn't even in my pocket.

Spooky...

Apparently I've trained my brain to respond to external stimuli through repeated over-usage of electronics devices. They know this because rats do the same thing. (Anyone else just imagine rodents carrying around small cellphones?...)

Their solution?
Stop carrying your cell phone around in your pocket.

BRILLIANT.

Except for, now that I'm so attached to it and all, I don't know if I can.
Easier said than done, ABC News. Easier said than done.

On an semi-related topic, my cell phone sounds like a goose when it vibrates. And when I receive a call, the person on the other end can hear the final 'honk' when I pick up.

So when my mom called yesterday and all I heard was quacking on the other end, I wasn't especially amused. She was.

The point being: I don't mind living with imaginary honking.

The real question is:
Would you still love me if I had a smartphone as a hand?..

Potty-mouthed.

I've noticed that I sometimes get strange looks. Crazy, I know, but most often, these looks occur after I've called someone a name.

I never knew it before, but I apparently choose strange words when taunting people. All throughout high school, I got flack from a friend who maintained that calling someone a 'silly goose' was highly unorthodox.

I don't know about you, but to me, using your own special language when mocking others leads to some highly entertaining name calling.

My favorites of late are:
1) turd
2) lard
3) skank
4) hoe
5) butt-head

I know, I know. You probably haven't been called a butt-head since fifth grade, but that's what makes it fun. :D

Lacy-Hacy also has some creative nicknames. For some reason, hearing her call her nieces and nephews 'shit-lits' brings immense joy to my heart.

I'm sure you're all aware of my recent obsession with swearing. At least, my mom is. She informs me daily that she is concerned for my immortal soul.

Okay. Maybe not daily but on a regular basis.

What you don't know is that I rarely actually SAY any of the commonly accepted obscenities. I'll go down to check my laundry and, for a split second, think I've forgotten to push start on the dryer, leaving me to believe that I will not -- in fact -- have any clean underwear tomorrow. Which leads me to loudly exclaim 'SON-OF-A' before realizing I actually did push start and the dryer was just speedy and finished its cycle before I expected it would.

Commence happy laundry folding. Suspect nothing.

So, naturally, I was confused when I came upstairs and Mom asked me what was wrong. "Uhh... nothing. That I know of?", I stammered.
"I just heard some pretty choice words a few minutes ago.", she responded with her well-known and frequently used disapproving look.
"Choice words?..." I chuckled, "Was it 'son' that offended you? Or are you easily insulted by prepositions?"

See what I mean? I have been unduly judged. Because saying 'frick' and 'son of a biscuit eating bulldog' shouldn't make me a bad person.

Other fun phraseologies:
"What's the word, hummingbird?", "What's up, buttercup?" and, my personal favorite, "What's the gist, physicist?".

Granted, they're not particularly accusatory, but I still like 'em.

So if I happen to call you a 'meanie-head' during one of our future exchanges, don't take it to heart. I say it with love. Always.

Because, according to my mother, you'd know if it wasn't.

My Lips Hurt Real Bad...

I'm having a crisis at the moment. Read my lips. (wah, wah, wah...)
The gloss Lacy-Hacy gave me a few weeks ago is practically gone.

Do you know what this means??...
Soon, very soon, I may go into a dry lips coma.

Which can only end with a new tube of lip-smackin' Bonne Bell VitaGloss O2.

Some of you claim that I am addicted to the stuff.
But I just keep a stiff upper lip and say, "Don't give me any of yo lip!"
Ba Dum Dum.

I can't help it if my lips are drier than the Sahara Desert.
Like two pieces of shriveled jerky, they are.

The way I see it, lips shouldn't stick together when they're momentarily united. (I'm talking top lip and bottom lip, you sicko.)

And don't be fooled into thinking licking your lips will do the job. That only exacerbates the problem. I know this from experience.

Instead, show 'em a little love and use some product.
Balm, gloss, stick. It don't matter!

In fact, should you choose to use all three simultaneously, no one needs know. I promise. My lips are sealed.

Normally, Crazy-Interesting.

There are about five-million times each day when I'm reading some witty quote on Pinterest and think to myself, "That is so totally me!"

So after thinking that the five-millionth time, I decided it was about time I compiled a list. Don't cha think?

And so, without further ado,

25 things you should know about Corinner-Elly:

1) I adore spontaneity, providing it is carefully planned.
2) I'm a recovering people pleaser. (Is that okay?...)
3) My fear is that PMS doesn't exist and this is my real personality.
4) When I say I won't tell anyone, my best friend doesn't count.
5) I eat my feelings and they taste delicious.
6) Sometimes, the best part of my job is that my chair swivels.
7) I may look calm, but in my head I've killed you three times.
8) If eye-rolling burned calories, I'd be anorexic.
9) I have an irrational fear of wasting a good outfit on an insignificant day.
10) When I'm feeling sick, I Google my symptoms and usually find out I have cancer.
11) My only professional ambition is to get a desk where no one can see my computer screen other than me.
12) When I die, I want my last words to be, "I left a million dollars under the..."
13) I hate it when I'm drinking and the ice just attacks my face.
14) I'm the type of girl who will burst out laughing in dead silence because of something that happened yesterday.
15) I do many things well, none of which generate income.
16) If I ever had to run for my life, I'd probably die.
17) I hate it when I don't forward a chain letter, and I die the next day.
18) I don't have pet peeves, I have whole kennels of irritation.
19) I hate it when crumbs fall in my cleavage. Sometimes, my boobs eat more than I do.
20) If you tickle me, I'm not responsible for your injuries.
21) I'm sarcastic and have a smart a** attitude. It's a natural defense against drama, bull crap and stupidity.
22) I have CDO. It's like OCD but all of the letters are in alphabetical order, like they should be.
23) I don't need to flirt. I seduce people with my awkwardness.
24) I try not to laugh at my own jokes, but we all know I'm hilarious.
25) I'm still haunted by the things I did for a Klondike Bar.

So there it is. Me in a nutshell.
Don't judge.

According to my niece, Allie, people fall into one of three categories: normal, interesting or crazy. And the way I see it, there is only one possible choice when describing me.

And we all know what that is, right?...

Brush it Off.

In high school, I remember hearing someone rant about how they absolutely hated it when people brushed their teeth anywhere other than the bathroom.

I sat there thinking, "That's the lamest thing I've ever heard."
Dental hygiene is the most monotonous and mindless activity that we are forced to repeat, at least twice a day. Why not multi-task and kill two birds with one stone.

I, for example, as part of my morning routine, make my bed while brushing my teeth. It sounds intensive when really it's not. Brush in front, throw the pillows in a pile. Brush in back, tuck in the corners. See? Easy peasy.

Doing something while brushing your teeth is both fun and productive.
I can think of nothing that you can't do while brushing.

Granted, there are things that you probably wouldn't want to do while brushing, eating being at the forefront of my mind, but that's beside the point.

I solidly reserve the right to brush whenever and where ever I please. Be it in front of the TV or while checking the mail.

So it's no surprise that after having an entire conversation with my mother this morning she finally commented, "Why does it sound like you have mush in your mouth?"

Yup.
I was shinin' them pearly whites.

There's No 'There', There.

Is it possible to have a semi-photographic memory?...
Because if it is, then I think I have one.

Or maybe I just have a normal memory like everyone else.
When people remember things, don't they see them in their mind almost exactly as they saw them in real life? Like the arrangement of words on a paper or the placement of things in a drawer?

And if that's true, don't we all have (at least to some degree) a photographic memory?

Most of the time, I can picture exactly what I'm trying to remember. I mean, I can't recite back word-for-word everything I've ever read but, take for instance, yesterday I wrote an entire blog post which, to my horror, didn't save properly.

I went through the stages of grief rather quickly. Shock, pain, anger, depression and finally acceptance.

At first, my 'acceptance' equated to giving up and cursing life.
But then I decided to cry me a river, build a boat, get over it and just write the dang thing again.

Thank you Natalie Dee.

To my amazement, I quickly re-wrote the whole post almost word for word.
In fact, I think my second draft was even a bit better.

I was rather shocked at my ability to remember the order of topics I had discussed and even the same phraseology that I had used.

But I suppose not everyone can do that.
Because, apparently, even using a turn signal throws some people for a loop.

And I find myself quoting Scar from The Lion King in his declaration, "I'm surrounded by idiots..." far too often these days.

It's settled. I've come to the conclusion that everyone has a photographic memory. Some people just don't have any film.