Corinner-elly Creations

It's me again, Corinner-elly.

You know, sometimes I feel bad for letting this blog die off, but then I have to remind myself that every person goes through phases in their life, whether they realize it or not. And just because my priorities and interests have changed doesn't mean that the ol' blog and I didn't have a good run together.

And it's not like it's really dead, right? I mean, here I am, still posting.

Hopefully its content has drifted away from my snarky & sarcastic teenage years to something with a bit more substance. Where I can memorialize thoughts and events in my life without forgetting to always find the humor. Because I think if I didn't laugh, I might cry. And I much prefer to laugh.

I'm sure you may have noticed that I recently began a small business via Etsy as a designer specializing in artistic services and graphic design. And based on responses (such as 'what's that Corinner-elly thing I keep seeing') received, I've come to determine that there is some confusion surrounding the matter.

But to begin, I need to go further back. Much further back. To a time when I wasn't Corinner-elly. I was just Rin. (Rinner. Rinnerroo. Rinnerroo-roo. Crin. Crinner. Corinner. Take your pick.)

I've always been proud of being talented. (Is that bad to say?..) Not in a 'I'm better than you' sort of way. Just in an 'everyone likes to be noticed' sort of way. And being able to do many things and do them well gave me the attention that every person seeks.

And so it was that one afternoon, I was home with my family and found myself bombarded with requests to help multiple people with multiple projects all within a manner of minutes. Teasingly, a family member (I can't for the life of me remember who?) burst into song "Corinner-elly, Corinner-elly. Night and day it's 'Corinner-elly'... She goes around in circles 'til she's very, very dizzy. Still they holler 'Keep a-busy Corinner-elly!'" (A variation of the Work Song from the Disney animated classic Cinderella.)

Thus, Corinner-elly came to be. (Funny I've never explained that before. Years down the road and many, MANY blog posts later.) I subsequently started a blog, because I love to write, and I loved the reaction it got. And presently carried the name over to my business: Corinner-elly Creations. I thought it only fitting, considering I am Corinner-elly (or at least, my talented side is), and I love to create!

A little over a year later, and I still can't believe how excited I am every time an order comes in! I have always known that I wanted to be home with my children, but I also knew that I wanted to have a means of bringing in additional income and keeping my creative mind busy. I dabbled with industries such as interior design and professional organizing, but they didn't seem to fit. And I certainly never loved my work.

Which is why it is so relieving to finally have found my professional calling. For those of you who are still scratching your heads as to what it is I actually DO, let me explain.

My shop (www.etsy.com/shop/Corinnerelly) is divided into various sections such as Announcement/Invitation, Artwork, Wall Art, Clipart, Stationery, etc. A large portion of my listings are announcements and invitations that can be customized to include a customer's desired information. They are given the opportunity to request unlimited edits until they are 100% happy with the finished product. I then send them the high-resolution JPEG file via an Etsy conversation where they may save it to their computer and print as many copies as they'd like from the print location of their choice.

However, a large majority of my orders come in the form of custom orders where a customer requests an entirely new design based off examples they send -OR- of my own creation from the direction they give. I have had orders come in from all over the world, sourced from an Etsy search or from my listings in Facebook groups.

I also feature some of my past artwork and will feature many future pieces (if my husband has his way) in the form of digital files that can be printed and displayed at the purchaser's discretion. In addition to printable wall art.

I also list the design elements I've created in the form of clipart PNG files that can be downloaded and used instantly. This comes in handy for other graphic designers as well as digital scrapbookers, etc.

Additionally, I offer my design services in the form of logo/wordmark and business card creation. Basically, if you need something designed, whether it be a paper good or digital file, I'm your girl.

You'll find that my shop is constantly evolving. I add listings and sections periodically as my portfolio grows. I am always up for a challenge and have confidence that I can create whatever it is that you are needing, in a timely manner with unlimited patience should my customer be undecided or especially detail oriented.

If you've found this post intriguing and would like to follow my business, please 'like' my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/CorinnerellyCreations. I so love sharing my talents with the world and find immense satisfaction in my work.

Even if I end up "[going] around in circles 'til [I'm] very, very dizzy. [Hope you'll] holler 'Keep a-busy Corinner-elly!'"

BEEP, BEEP. WAH, WAH.

Growing up, kids my age went through a variety of 'must-have' crazes. There was the year of the Skip-It, Pokemon trading cards, gel pens, pogs and trick yo-yos to name a few.

But perhaps the most memorable/favorite toy peer-pressured purchase of adolescence was my yellow kitty Giga Pet. After jealously watching my BFs with their adorable little pixelated monkeys and puppies, I couldn't wait to play mommy to my own little digital baby.

I'm sure I spent that entire first day with my eyes glued to the screen. Feeding her little fish heads, playing with the yarn ball, giving her medicine, putting her to sleep, etc., etc., etc. By that first night, I was convinced that I was the best virtual pet parent the world had ever seen.

Lovingly, I placed her on the shelf above my bed, already excited to get her out again in the morning and show her off to my friends. Smiling, I nestled in and started to drift when..

"BEEP."

My eyes popped open. "Huh, she must not be sleepy yet. Better check on her." Apparently kitty still wanted to play. "Go to sleep", I told her.

Convinced that was the end of that, I settled down again, ready for an un-interrupted 8-hours of dreamy bliss before school the next day.

"BEEP." I pretended it hadn't happened. You know, cry-it-out method. "BEEP. BEEP."

A hint of concern crept into the corner of my mind. Why was she still beeping at me?? Once again, I patiently activated her screen to find that she was dancing around a steaming Hershey kiss. So as any good parent would, I begrudgingly cleaned up her mess, determined that this HAD to be the end of it.

I once again laid back down, with the covers wrapped a little more tightly around my ears perhaps, and made it a full five minutes before.. "BEEEEEP."

Frantically, I sat-up. And did what any other loving mother would do: started bawling.

It didn't take long for my own mother to arrive on the scene (quite confusedly, I'm sure) and eventually deduce my hysterics stemmed from a new toy that 'WOULD NOT LEAVE ME ALONE AND WOULDN'T STOP BEEPING ALREADY!'

"For goodness sakes!" she responded, "Don't leave it by your bed at night then!"

"Oh.." I instantly calmed. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Fast-forward 15 years, and I'm a new mom to a brand-spanking-new little 7 lb. 15 oz. ball of adorableness. I had loved being pregnant, feeling all of her little kicks and wiggles and constantly carrying around my little best friend with me.

And my delivery had been wonderful, with the nurses insisting that I 'had to be at least a 1 or a 2 on a pain scale of 10' when I insisted that I was really a 0.

So there I sat in our little hospital room, once the visitors had subsided and the day had become night. I knew exactly what to do. I had been labeled the baby whisperer repeatedly over the preceding decade or so. I couldn't count the number of times I had played 'mom' to my 20+ nieces and nephews, and there wasn't a one of them that I couldn't calm to sleep within minutes.

I cradled my sweet baby (still so surreal to say), nursed her to sleep and lovingly placed her in her plastic, inclined nursery bassinet, already excited to get her out again in the morning and show her off to my friends. Smiling, I nestled in and started to drift when..

"WAH."

My eyes popped open. "Huh, she must not be sleepy yet. Better check on her." Apparently Tiny still wanted to play. "Go to sleep", I told her.

Convinced that was the end of that, I settled down again, ready for an un-interrupted 4-5 hours of dreamy bliss before she needed to eat again.

"WAH. WAH-WAH"

A hint of concern crept into the corner of my mind. Why was she still crying at me?? Once again, I patiently re-swaddled, bounced and carefully deposited her in her cradle, determined that this HAD to be the end of it. I didn't even make it back to my hospital bed before she once again protested. My mind immediately scanned for possible solutions.

The husband was presently snoring, wedged in his little chair pull-out bed, dead to the world. I could sense he would not be a viable option.

So as any good parent would, I swallowed my pride and called for help. Before giving birth, I had so naively assumed that I would keep her by my side at all times during our stay. It surprised me how quickly I was ready to send her off for a bunch of strangers to take care of in the nursery.

Two-days later, we are home. The endorphin high has worn off, leaving in its place exhaustion. Our little Tiny's nursery is no where near completion, and she's decided she hates sleeping alone in the pack-n-play in our room. Time loses all meaning as I groggily try to find a solution that will get her to sleep for, please-o-please, at least a few hours.

I eventually give in and put her in the bed between us. It only takes a few hours of this before I drive myself crazy with worry that one of us will smother her or that she will roll over and smother herself in our plush pillow top. I stumble around upstairs, trying to find the bouncy seat that I pray will be the solution to this problem and fall down the stairs in my stupor.

This has to be one of the 2nd or 3rd worst nights of my life.

By the time dawn is cresting over the mountains, the husband is awoken to our baby's pitiful cries and my own inconsolable sobs as I repeat, "I can't keep doing this! I'm going crazy!!"

And then, as if through time and space, I remembered.. this had happened to me once before. And I had received some very sage advice at the time, advice that I need to once again employ.

"For goodness sakes!" I could hear my mother saying, "Don't leave her by your bed at night then!"

"Oh.." I abashedly remembered. "Why didn't I think of that?"

And so it was that Tiny's nursery was completed in a whirlwind, and I learned the hard (very, very hard) honest truth about motherhood. Not only did she wake up every 3-4 hours, at best, it took at least an hour to keep her awake for a full feeding, change her, rock her and get her back to sleep (sometimes easier said than done) before it would all start again 1-2 hours later.

I had thought I knew everything about being a mother. I'm embarrassed to look back and remember it. In the past, I had felt jealously upon hearing of a new mother and her precious bundle, but my experience has wisened me.

Now when I hear of a new baby, I instantly pray for their mother. I have to bite my tongue at baby showers, debating between laying the whole horrible truth on them and letting them be innocently optimistic for a little while longer. And when I do share a few hard to swallow details, I remind them that I do so 'not to scare them.. to prepare them'.

And finish with the best news of all: in a few short- (hah!) hellishly long weeks, their baby will start to sleep through the night. Then they will see that first newborn smile, hear that first baby laugh, feel that first toddler hug and have the best (very, VERY best!) feeling in the whole entire world.

It's now been a little over a year, and I can hardly remember those tear-filled days and endless nights. They are but a post on my Timehop app and twinkle in my eye.

Now, every morning after a solid 12-hour nighttime slumber (woop!), I can't wait to burst in her room and scoop my not-so-Tiny-any-more up and thank God that I am so blessed to be her mom.

And someday, when she begs to have the latest digital pet (in HD, I'm sure), I'll knowingly smile and remember.

Cold Fries on the Driveway

The Saturday after I arrived in Oklahoma, the chillens and I decided it would be fun to have a picnic lunch in the park. But seeing as I had forgotten to defrost a loaf of bread for sandwiches, we opted to pick up lunch from McDonald's after much fervent pleading from the Lilly-popper.

I rationalized that it only made sense, due to the fact that we needed to return a Redbox as well. It was a win-win solution.

My sister had left a hand-drawn map of the neighborhood. Not to scale and roughly rudimentary, mind you, but still helpful for the most part. We made it to the golden arches after only a few detours due to road construction that she hadn't taken in to account which meant none of the streets were presently marked, making her artwork null and void.

After a trip through the drive through and sending the oldest back inside to retrieve our missing fries, we were on our way back through the winding streets to find the local park my sister had told me about. We had passed one on our scenic trip to Mickey D's, but it was sadly fenced off in a gated community, so we were forced to find their all too familiar neighborhood playground.

I tried to remember the instructions my sister had given. She had simply stated to follow the streets through the clustered cul-de-sacs until you came out on the other side, and there it would be.

Well, we tried that strategy to no avail. There seemed to be a dead end at every turn. Realizing my limited experience driving these foreign Oklahoma streets, I asked if anyone knew how to get there. "I do!", at least three children exclaimed.

I gave the oldest, Livie-Lou, a shot first. Her age and experience was obviously the logical choice. She carefully led me back out of the community, onto the highway and headed back towards where we had just come from. "I only know how to get there from my school!", she explained.

All the while, the delicious smell of fried goodness taunted us from the colorful paper sacks. Two-year-old Lancer-Prancer must have noticed, because he immediately started crying pathetically. I handed out a few french fries and a couple of McNuggets to the more ravenous ones in our troop.
Which meant everyone.

And so we took a right, then another right. And then.. a right?.. "Olivia!!" I exclaimed, "You know the only mathematical solution to these directions is to take us right back to where we started!??"

"I'm sorry!" she bemoaned, "This all looks familiar though.." I can't say it was a comforting thought.

All the while Cam-Cam wailed in the front seat. "HAM-BUR-GER!..."

 

Realizing following this navigator any further would prove futile, I bestowed the privilege on seven-year-old Buddy-boy. Who had been countering every direction his older sister had given. I now see why.

"Thanks a lot Olivia.." Lilly accused, "Now my tummy is grumbling!"

Unfortunately, Buddy-boy also failed to offer any useful pointers. Apparently their entire neighborhood looks very similar from one block to the next.

As our quick five minute trip slowly ticked over twenty, I couldn't help but laugh at the scenario. Here I was, following instructions from five starving children who all supposedly remembered 'exactly' how to get there. For all I knew, they could have been thinking of five different playgrounds. It was amusing. And saddening. An experience worth documenting.

I eventually came the the conclusion that visiting the park that day was not in our fates. So we traversed the same five-block radius that we had been circling right back to their house.

Where we sat on the driveway and ate our now cold lunch.

 

So I guess the moral of this story is, when it all comes down to it, family memories are more important than warm food and a play date in the park.

That, and when your sister gives you directions, opt for GPS instead.

'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.

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.

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.

Death & Taxes.

The only two things in life that are certain, right?

Well, that and my mom's unexplainable desire to force feed me every food I hate the minute I walk through her door.

I don't know how many times I've told the woman I detest squash, lentil soup and chili, but they seem to be her only offering the minute she sees my face.

"What did you make yourself for dinner?", she'll ask.

"Some broccoli cheddar soup."

"WHAT!!? There was perfectly good lentil soup and chili in the fridge and you made that!??.."

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, mom. I hate lentil soup AND chili."

"Why!?? They're delicious!"

"Mom! I don't have to think they're delicious. Not everyone has to like what you like!"

"They would if they loved me..."

And so, I repeat.
Only three things in life are certain: death, taxes and matronly guilt trips.

Thus, I had the inexpressible joy of filing my taxes last night.
First year I've done it entirely on my own.

I mean, I've always been present to show emotional support to my dad when he's helped me these past four years. ('Emotional support' here meaning looking on with a blank stare when he asks me questions that I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about then cowering in fear when he uses his 'stern' voice.)

Either way, it's not an experience I look forward to.

My one consolation is that I usually get a good chunk back, seeing as I've been a full-time student during the fall and winter and therefore only able to work full-time in the summers. This equated to big buck tax returns.

But this year, I was sadly disappointed. Because I earned a full-tuition scholarship my last two semesters, I was sucker-punched in the tax gut.

Why am I being punished for being successful?..

So I guess the old adage is true: life sucks and then you die.
Or more aptly, mothers guilt trip, taxes suck and then you die.

Inspiring, eh?

Craysee Speshal.

On a pretty frequent basis, I encounter moments that just scream to be memorialized on my blog. It's almost as if fate sends all of the crazies my way just so I'll have something to write about.

I encountered one such 'crazy' earlier this week during a quick Macey's trip. I stopped to grab a few groceries and very quickly realized that I had been holding it all day at work and needed to find a bathroom ASAP.

So I sped-walked to the little ladies room, quick as a jiffy, to take care of business (if you know what I mean...). After choosing the second stall (always the best choice) and settling in, I noticed the entrance of another bathroom occupant.

"Brr. Cold. It's Cold." she mumbled, "Cold. Cold. Cold."

Pretending not to have noticed, I listened as she proceeded to fiddle with the door to the adjoining stall, sliding the lock back and forth and making a general ruckus. Apparently there was a problem, because she relocated to my other side and tried her luck there.

It's wasn't long before there was a knock at my door.
Which I found extremely unsettling considering our location and the purpose for being there.

"Occupied.", I sputtered nervously.

"Oh. Right. Of course." she voiced loudly, "There seems to be a problem with the locks around here. So I'll just wait 'til you're done."

No pressure, right?
It was then I noticed her feet protruding under my door. The woman's nose must have literally been touching the outside of my stall. She may have also had an eye pressed against the crack, I was too stunned to check.

"Okay..." I hesitated, "but I might be a minute."

Now, maybe it's just me, but I usually avoid conversations with strangers from within public restroom stalls. It borders on extremely awkward, and I try to avoid that at all costs.

But apparently, she was fine with it. Because two seconds later she started jabbering again.

"No problem. No problem. Maybe I can get this dang thing to work.", she decided as she tried the locks again. Much to my relief, one miraculously worked.

By this time, I was ready to wash my hands and get the heck out of there, but decided to avoid a face-to-face confrontation at all costs and stay within the safety of my stall. Where I remained during the next five minutes during her continuous stream of brain vomit. (You know, the thoughts most of us keep in our head, but in her case, voiced without filter or reserve.)

It went a little something like this:

"Come on, come on. Let's go!" (I'm scared to think what this was in reference to...)
"Yuck. Gah, Idiot." (Also, ew.)
*sighing impatiently*
"Good thing I got that darn door to lock, huh?" (No response.)
*laughing nervously*
"They should really check on those sorts of things." (I think it was a user error, personally.)
"Geez. It's stuck."
*grunts*
"Phew." (Why me?...)

Pretty sure there was some humming somewhere in there as well, but I could never be sure.

Before long she had made her way to the sinks (after hearing no flush, to my terror) where she proceeded to wash her hands. Well try, at least. Apparently the technology of the world was working against her because nothing seemed to be functioning correctly.

I went to my happy place and pretended I was invisible, seriously considering pulling my legs up to hide my shoes on the off chance that she might recognize them and strike up a potentially disastrous conversation, should I encounter her in the store again.

Naturally, there was additional commentary as she tried to figure out the paper towel dispenser, eventually giving up and exiting wet-handed.

Just to be safe, I waited an additional few minutes before making my escape. She could have come back, you can never be too careful.

Out of curiosity, I checked the offending stall locks.
As I expected, they were fully functioning and quite easy to maneuver. The toilet (which was actually an automatic flush) was also in perfect working condition. And when I washed my hands, guess what? The soap dispensed beautifully and the automatic towel machines easily detected my motion.

Which left me particularly puzzled.
How could one woman be so completely confounded by a multitude of simple machines? Most of them requiring only her motion to produce the desired result.

My only conclusion was that she must have fallen out of the 'special' tree and hit every special branch.

Regardless, it was an experience that I do not hope to repeat.
Friendly bathroom banter included.

Exactly Different.

I hate recipes that claim you can make something exactly like a famous restaurant. It's never true.

Granted, my mom did make some pretty amazing Winger's sauce from scratch. Good? Yes. A perfect reproduction. No.

Because no matter how much you try and convince me, it is impossible to make baked chicken that tastes 'exactly like KFC!'. Fried is fried people.

My mom is especially guilty of this.
She hates spending money so much that she insists on making everything from scratch. 'Just like the real thing'.

Except it never is.
And I am always disappointed.

I'll come home, describing my immediate need for a McDouble and she'll happily pipe in, "Why don't you just make one?"
"Because you don't have the ingredients.", I'll respond.
"Oh sure we do." she'll counter, "Everything you could possibly need."
"Buns?", I'll question.
"Well... no." she'll interject, "But you could make some!"
"Hamburger patties?"
"Hamburger that you can form into a patty."
"Cheese?"
"Swiss is just as good, right?"
"Pickles?"
"Bread and butter flavor."
"Onions?"
"Oh wait. I just ran out of those."
"MUSTARD??"
"Dijon..."

Yep. Exact replica, Mom.

What you should know about my mom is that she is an amazing cook. Without fail, every time I visit the house, she's in the process of whipping up some new concoction that she found in one of her beloved Home and Garden cookbooks.

And everyone knows that her homemade bread is to die for.
Especially the artisan bread. Mmm...

But the woman substitutes ingredients like there's no tomorrow.
This habit usually results in success but sometimes, oh sometimes, DISASTER.

I only need utter the word 'Chutnagna' in the Haymore household and it sends an immediate chill down every spine. Long story short, chutney can not be used instead of spaghetti sauce when making lasagna.

Even our trusty dog, Rowdy, wouldn't eat it.

And so today I make a desperate plea.
Do not try and convince me that your creation is 'exactly like the real thing'. It's not.

It may be tasty. It may be delicious. I may eat it.
A lot of it.

But, by golly, when I want a McDouble,
digging for change in the sofa becomes incredibly worth it.

My Fingers Hurt...

In case you haven't heard, I am now a seamstress for the masses.
A certain aforementioned brother-in-law, known for his zealous teasing tendencies, stopped by my office to drop off a bag of pants that needed hemming.

"Take off a couple inches or so.", he instructed.
"Uh... How much exactly then?...", I questioned concernedly.
"Well, they're 36 and need to be 32. So, four.", he responded.
"Is that how men's pant measurements work?", I replied.
"I dunno.", he shrugged and then proceeded to loudly embarrass me in front of my coworkers.

So this should be interesting. Apparently, he trusts me wholeheartedly. Let's hope that doesn't come back to bite him.

But the real kicker is when he announced that I had 'volunteered' for the job. Not quite how I remember it... In fact, I don't think I've ever volunteered to be anyone's personal slave in my life.

It's just... happened. Over and over again.

Perhaps my favorite stories, involving sewing and servitude, are as follows.

Story #1: My eldest sister, Jenny, frequently requisitions my services for sewing projects. From bedroom drapes to ill-fitting swimwear to baptismal dresses. But the project that most stands out in my mind was when she commissioned I 'help her' create a shower curtain for her father-in-law's new camping trailer.

She provided me the material & dimensions and set me to work. Before long, I delivered the (perfectly, I might add) finished product. Jokingly, she mentioned that her in-law would love her forever for helping him with this small task.

Thinking no more of it, I went on my way. It wasn't until several weeks later that I discovered the truth. Naturally, her father-in-law was grateful. Grateful to HER. The little turkey had taken all of the credit. I'm sure my name hadn't even come up over the course of their pleasantries. Throw me under the bus why don't cha...

Story #2: 'Someone' (who prefers to remain unnamed) apparently learned from story #1 that dishonesty pays off. Because for a subsequent English project, they pawned off two princess dresses and cloaks, made for my nieces, that I had lovingly paid for and slaved over for hours on end as her own work.

And they got an A. AN A.
From my blood, sweat and tears!

Ah... the humanity!

So it all goes to show, Corinner-Elly has been used ill. Very ill.
But I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment in that way. I just can't say 'no'.

Let alone HAIL no.

I Swear on My Life.

I know how much you all love 'storytime', so I thought I'd oblige you today. This excerpt came from a recent conversation I had with my mother and it went a little something like this:

Me: *ring*
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Hi."
Mom: "Hi!"
Me: "Hi... How's your day been going?"
Mom: "Pretty good."
Me: "What did you do?"
Mom: "Gardened. Yoga. Made bread. The usual. You?"
Me: "Went to work. Took a nap. The usual."
Mom: "Huh."
Me: "Yah... so... just calling so that you feel all loved and everything and know I'm still alive."
Mom: "Well that's good. Thank you." (Notice refusal to acknowledge sarcasm.)
Me: "Okay... well... love you."
Mom: "Love you too. Wait, wait, wait. I have something to talk to you about." (insert concern) "I was looking over your Facebook wall recently and there seems to be a whole lot of profanity going on there. I want to you know, I do not approve."
Me: *laughing incredulously* "Please define 'a whole lot' of profanity. I need examples."
Mom: "Well there was that word spelled out by blocks in your room..."
Me: "That was compliments of Lacy-Hacy."
Mom: "And what about that sign on the back of your door?"
Me: "Oh, right. That was definitely me."
Mom: "I don't think it's very fitting for a young lady to be using such language. I'm sure boys find it very inappropriate."
Me: "I'm sure boys find it hilarious."
Mom: *disapproving silence*

Which leads me to my topic of 'blog'scussion for the day.
(I just made that word up. It just popped right out of my head.)

Swearing vs. profanity.
I, for one, believe there is a distinct difference between the two.

For instance, I find it extremely entertaining when someone who you would never have guessed to be a potty-mouth, spouts out a curse word as if they're some bad A.

The perfect example being Sheldon from TBBT.
Declarations of "Damn you wallet nook dot com." and "Oh, gravity. Thou art a heartless bitch." bring me immense amounts of joy. Because to me, jovial cursings aren't vulgar.

It's when someone uses these words in an angry or confrontational manner that I become uncomfortable. And I've been hearing quite a bit of that lately.

Namely, I'm pretty sure my boss suffers from Tourettes Syndrome.

I'll be sitting at my desk, looking all pretty and pleasant when I hear a stream of obscenities a mile long filter past my desk. The first time it happened, I looked around nervously, trying to verify that everyone else had heard what I just heard.

There was no reaction. Not even a blink of an eye.
Thinking it rather strange but not wanting to seem impertinent, I falteringly went on with my duties.

But alas. It happened again. And again.
I am beginning to think that I'm going a bit craysee-craysee.

Because, apparently, I am supposed to refer to customers as 'guests', be as welcoming as possible and always, ALWAYS assume that they are right.

Whereas, management is allowed to pawn off visitors to various departments, stomp around melodramatically and delight all surrounding ears with the melodious mixings of venom filled expletives.

So, swearing isn't always profanity.
Is it just me, or would you agree?

I mean, swear words are just words. Their connotation comes from the method and the intent with which you use them.

It's like how my group of girl friends lovingly refer to each other as 'hoes' and 'skanks'. (But never sl**. That's unnecessary...) It means absolutely nothing to us, because of course we don't mean it in the literal sense of the words.

The amusement comes from the irony in calling a bunch of Molly-Mormons harlots.

But accidentally yell "You hoe!" when your mother intentionally sprays you, your freshly baked banana bars and all of your clean clothes with the hose upon immediately stepping out of your vehicle , and all hell's going to break loose.

Sorry Mom.
"Heck."

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.

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.

Whaur's the Cludgie?

*Translation: "Where's the toilet?"*
As promised, I am here to document my no good, terrible, very bad day in Scotland. 'Twas a wee bit o' Hell, that one.

My first clue should have been having to wake up at 5 AM to catch a plane at an airport that was an hour away.

Did I mention that there were 2,000 round abouts between point A and point B? How about that I am especially prone to motion sickness?

Needless to say, being in the front seat with the air on full blast drinking small sips of cool water couldn't have saved me from the impending dizziness.

After riding a transport bus (my first of what would be MANY unhappy methods of public transportation for the day) from the parking lot to the hangar, we spent the usual exorbitant amount of time wading through security and the likes.

Gem was strip searched. My one consolation.
(I shouldn't have laughed... Karma sucks.)

Knowing that I was fresh out of my new best friend, Dramamine, I planned on purchasing some at the airport. After searching through the nearest convenience booth, the closet thing I could find was Travella. The 'all-natural' solution to motion sickness.

Ya know, I've decided to avoid 'all-natural' products.
Considering people die from 'natural' causes.

Regardless, the stuff was worthless because, for the first time in my life, I felt like I was going to put that little white barf bag stowed in the seat in front of me to good use.

An hour later, I was in Scotland.
And wished I was dead.

I spent the next 45 minutes in and out of the nearest restroom. My stomach never did decide to rid it's contents but, boy howdy, it sure toyed with the idea.

By this time, it was mid-morning and time was a wastin'. So we hopped in the nearest 'people carrier' (what we would call a van) and made our way up the windy roads of Edinburgh to the castle.

You read that right. Windy roads.

I sat, staring forward blankly, with a Dr. Pepper (Dad thought it would 'help settle my stomach')  in hand listening to the larger-than-life taxi driver chatter on about anything and everything in a heavy Scottish accent.

He kept glancing at me warily, no doubt wondering why I looked like death and hoping that I wouldn't ornament his dashboard with sick.

It was a close call. I'm not gonna lie.

Lucky me. The main entrance to the castle was barricaded in preparation for a weekend celebration. This equated in having to use my legs to trek up the steep cobblestone the remainder of the way. Which I did not appreciate.

Just past the main portcullis entrance of the almost 600 year old fortification was a public 'toilet' which we decided to utilize before exploring the many grand structures.

To make a long story short, my day became oh-so-much better upon realizing that not only would I be making good friends with mister nausea, but I would also be graced with T.O.M.'s weekly presence (for which I was not prepared).

Trudging back outside, I asked if anyone had 20 pence to spare.
"What for??", my mom practically yelled.

This interrogation was exactly NOT what I needed.

My nerves were shot.

"To buy a TAMPON." I snapped, "Shall I announce it to the world??!" I've never seen pocket change appear so quickly.

But oh. I've neglected to mention is the lovely weather Scotland afforded me. Namely, penetrating rain and overcast chilliness. To combat the elements I naturally wore fabric ballet flats and a light jacket.

Perfect.

Being the gentleman that he is, my older brother offered me his fleece lined hoodie which made matters considerably warmer, if nothing else. But nothing could have saved my feet from soggily sloshing with each step.

And so, there I was. Sick. Tired. Ornery. Wet. PMSing. Drugged.

and surviving on a few bites of birdseed bagel I had stomached hours earlier.

On a happier note: I did like the castle's architecture and impressive history. I just wish that I had been lucid enough to enjoy it properly.

Once we had finished our tour and listened to the 1-o'clock gun, we started down the royal mile, stopping at shops here and there to look at the plethora of kilts, umbrellas and Celtic jewelry. Things were starting to look up because aside from being hit by a bus, that was really the only way left to go.

We ate dinner at a yummy little Italian place and then made our way back down to the airport. Even our stoic taxi driver couldn't have upset new perspective.

Hooray! I was almost home. I had Dramamine and hope.
Wait. What? The boarding passes are incorrect?

The flight home isn't from Edinburgh to Stansted? From Stansted to Edinburgh? But we're in Edinburgh. How does that even work?

Is there another flight?
We have to wait two hours?
It's to another airport?
Is this the lowest circle of Hell?

Okay. Whatever. Just get us home at all costs.

The cherry on top of this blessed day was being groped by airport security after setting off the metal detector wearing the EXACT same clothing, electronics removed, that I had earlier. Gem was smart enough not to laugh, though she deserved the revenge.

Thus, I spent the next six hours on a plane, then a tram, then the subway, then a transfer, then a bus, having a breakdown, then another bus, then a train, then a transport, then a car.

I stepped over the threshold at 4 AM.
It had been nearly 24 hours since I had left that fateful morning.

I had almost pulled my first all-nighter.
And I had almost died in the process.

Yet my life had been spared leaving only one thing certain:

You were NOT good to me Scotland.
No you weren't.