Shopping Around

I am currently in the middle of a game against myself to see how long I can make it before going grocery shopping. We are down to a few tortillas, an onion and a quarter gallon of milk, so it's an exciting challenge.

I'm also very excited about one home in particular which we toured last week in Springville that has everything we're looking for! Don't know if you were aware, but we've been shopping the housing market for over a month now with no success. We've seen a few prospects, but they've all turned out to be big disappointments.

The husband is determined to find a fixer-upper for a steal and transform it with his handy-man skills. I, on the other hand, would prefer to find something with good 'bones' that needs only a little work here and there. So naturally, this equates to him thinking that I am house high-maintenance and won't be happy with anything less than the nicest/newest and me terrified at the prospects of living in a sh**-hole (pardon my French) for the months on end that it would require to flip the dang thing. Combine that with limited funds/time, and pretty sure you've got a recipe for disaster.

That's why I'm so happy about this recent find. It has all of our 'must haves' but still leaves room for improvement. Not to mention the large back yard. I can just see the husband's eyes light up every time he imagines a vizsla puppy frolicking around out there. Which is fine with me, so long as he also imagines a baby swing hanging from the willow tree...

Unfortunately, it's stuck in probate court for the time being (whatever that means), so we've been forced to wait even longer and get our hopes up even more. All I know is that when I see a kitchen with pantry space, my brain goes crazy thinking of all of the ways I can fill it up with bargains.

Pretty sure I could turn Extreme Couponing crazy before long. I've held back seeing as we've had limited storage space, but now that a change is on the horizon, I plan on building a veritable stockpile. So sign me up for the Sunday paper and give me all your inserts people, because I'm ready! WOOOO!

In other news, did you know that a lot of manufacturer's coupons are online now?.. I print them through Swagbucks via Coupons.com and not only save the offered value but also get ten swagbucks (equivalent to $.10) per redeemed coupon. It's a happy little bonus that definitely adds up.

And to you doubters out there who thought this 'Swagbucks' craze of mine would never last, I'm happy to relate that the husband and I have earned over $175 in the three months or so we've been logging on during our spare time. Not too shabby, my friends. Not too shabby.

So when you get a birthday card with a strange little ecard print out inside, just know that it is indeed for reals and was kindly funded by my hard-earned swagging effort. I share, because I care. :)

If you want to start earning free gift cards in your spare time as well, click HERE to sign up for your free Swagbucks account. There really isn't a catch!

And now please excuse me while I run home for a quick lunch break. It looks like an onion burrito and a glass of milk are on the menu.

Well Blended, a Perfect Mix.

Late Saturday night, the husband and I took a quick trip to Wal-Mart to stock our fruit and vegetable drawers. They were shockingly bare. I mean 'not even an old piece of garlic in the corner' empty. Either due to my compulsive desire to see how long I can go without taking a trip to the grocery store (it's kind of a inner-challenge thing) or my refusal to acknowledge that making dinner for the husband from a hot dog, tortilla, lone pickle and some mustard then calling it a 'grilled polish wrap' isn't a good idea.

Regardless, we found ourselves in the produce section. After stocking up on Cutie's, baby carrots and the likes (apparently our food is adorable?..), I sent the husband over to the banana display to pick the perfect bunch: more green than yellow, not too big, only a few to the cluster, you know.. the essentials.

But when I circled around to join up with him, something caught my eye. Namely, a little packet of delight I like to call 'banana smoothie mix'. Probably because that's what it is called, but regardless. I used to make them frequently in high school, but had somehow forgotten about their existence. Which was a real tragedy, because those things are delicious.

Fast forward an hour, and we're unloading plastic bags when it dawns on me: a banana smoothie would be the perfect midnight snack. Plus, the husband's never had one so everybody wins. All it takes is a banana, some milk, exactly eight ice cubes and one little packet of magic.

So I whip out my blender. And to pass the time, start up a little conversation:
Me: "You know, you married into an excellent blender. Heavy glass container, multiple speed setting, professional grade. Not to mention dishwasher safe. You should be proud."
Husband: "Don't I know it. Too bad it doesn't have a corner spout though. Those are the best."
Me: "Corner spout?.. I've never heard of such a thing."
Husband: "Yeah, they work a lot better than the side spout. Haven't you ever noticed that??"
Me: *embarrassed pause* "I guess so... I just never thought about pouring it from the corner. Now I'm thinking back to all of the times I've poured frozen drinks from this thing and shloshed it all over the place because the side spout's so dang crappy. It drives me bananas!" (pun intended)
Husband: "Well, why don't you try it?"

*commence making a perfect pour into each glass from the corner of the container, not spilling so much as a single drop*

Me: "CURSES!! How have I not thought of this before!??"
Husband: "I guess it all goes to show, you may marry into an amazing, top-of-the-line, grade A blender, but it takes a little love n' common sense to make it worth a dime."

Oh that boy.

He's the creme to my Oreo.
He's the fruit to my loop.
He's the epic to my fail.
He's tons of fun, and I'm no fun at all.

He... completes me.
Well, me and our blender.

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!??

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.

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.

Swallowing my Pride.

Facebook is a funny thing.
In one respect, it's like a journal. Logging pictures and thoughts and events for many people on a daily basis. And I think that's a good thing for the most part. It's turned personal history into something entertaining and easy to do.

On the other hand, it's very unlike a journal, in that others can read and comment on what would otherwise be very private. This can also be a good thing. But it can also very easily be a bad thing.

You can never really tell who to trust in real life, let alone a virtual reality. And you never really know who is going to read what you post or how they are going to respond.

Sometimes, after reading what others have said, I have the distinct urge to delete what I consider to be very rude comments. But over the years, I've decided it's a much better policy to simply ignore them and leave it be. Not only does this allow them to stew in their own mean juices for the world to read, it also prevents me from having to explain why their comment(s) is suddenly missing. I'm all about avoiding confrontation.

I'd like to think that when this happens that I'm simply misreading their words when they really didn't intend it to sound that way, but sometimes I really don't think there is another interpretation.

That's another funny thing about virtual communication. Audible inflections and tone of voice used in face-to-face interactions can go a long way.

In the same breath, I know things that I've written have been misinterpreted. I've gotten the impression that my words sometimes come across as prideful or conceited, and I really, truly don't mean them that way.

I think being 'proud' and being 'prideful' are really two different things.
I'm 'proud' of my talents, but I try not to be 'prideful' about them.

For instance, I'm proud of the fact that I recycle used ink cartridges at Office Max and use the rewards points to get 40 free postage stamps every month. Saves the planet and my wallet. But I don't use said stamps to mail out letters informing everyone else how much smarter than them I am.

Just like I'm proud of the mini cheesecakes I made for a Sunday family dinner. I think they looked nice, tasted good and were an excellent usage of a few ingredients I had lying around that would have otherwise gone stale/bad.

The husband had purchased a large bag of broken shortbread cookies from the Pepperidge Farm Thrift Store in Richmond, and turns out they were the perfect crumb crust when granulated and mixed with melted butter.

But I don't post this to demonstrate my superior baking skills. (Two words: wedding cake. Enough said.) And hopefully you don't think that when you read this.

Same thing goes with Facebook. Hopefully sharing the things I'm proud of doesn't come across as prideful.

I think it's perfectly understandable to feel pride in your work. I think the problem comes in when you change the motive behind what you say/do from a feeling of accomplishment to a desire to make yourself look better than others.

Just a little 'food for thought'. (ba dum dum.)

But if, by chance, you think this came across as a self-conceited spiel of why I'm more efficient than the average Corinner-Elly, I'll try and teach my blog self a bit more humility.

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.

Fortune Favors the Brave.

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

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

But the food, oh the food.

I would have been born there for the food. 

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

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

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

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

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

And those Chinese, man. They're tricky.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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?

Television Torment

Watching cable TV is torturous.
But I'm not talking 'The Bachelor' torture.

Because when Lacy-Hacy insists on watching a bunch of skanky bimbos pretend to fall in 'love' with a complete stranger, I am in my very own private hell.

No, no. I'm talking about a different kind of torture.
The kind of torture that takes place when you decide to watch 'Diners, Drive-ins and Dives' at 10 PM and suddenly have the urge to eat something wrapped in bacon and deep-fried.

That show is so deliciously addicting. I can't help but watch it every time it's on. And Guy Fieri? He's my hero. I want his job. So, so much.

If you're unfamiliar with the program, he pretty much travels around the US, visiting odd or unique little eateries that have been submitted as the best in the country and taste-tests all of their delicious food.

He's been to Utah several times: to the Red Iguana, Blue Plate Diner and, my favorite, Ruth's Diner up Immigration Canyon. It's the perfect place to eat after you visit the zoo. I highly recommend it.

As if that weren't torture enough! Every other commercial during the break is for Popeye's chicken & biscuits. Or at least, that's what it feels like.

And there's only ONE in Utah. At Hill Air Force Base, which is only accessible for those associated to military personnel.

This is cruel and inhumane treatment, I tell you.
Sure. Taunt viewers with delicious crispy goodness and then tell them that they can't have even if they wanted to.

Someone should put an end to this villainy.
That, or I could just stop watching cable...

*psh*

Let's not be ridonkulous.

Cutie Babies

So here's the thing: oranges are good, but Cuties are better.
I'm addicted to those little things.

They're perfect in every way.
And I may or may not eat several of them every day.

Please say you've had a Cutie before because they are the best invention since sliced bread.

Actually, who says that 'sliced bread' is the epitome of invention awesomeness?.. Personally, I'd vote for tampons or toilet paper.

I mean sliced bread is great and all, but there is no way in heck I could have survived back in the olden days without feminine hygiene products.

But I seem to have gone off topic.
And probably not in an appetizing way...

Sorry.

My point being, Cuties are the best invention since tampons.
Take it or leave it.

Don't know what a Cutie is?
Basically, a baby orange.

Except much easier to peel, usually perfectly sweet and bite-sized.

And as if that weren't 'cute' enough, sometimes Cuties have Cutie BABIES.
I know... mind blown.

You know.
Like when you're eating an orange and discover an orange section that's smaller than the rest? Nestled in all cute and adorable like a little baby?

That, my friends, is a baby orange.
But a baby Cutie? Oh a baby cutie...

They're in a category all their own.

You can't help but smile when you find a baby Cutie.
Or at least I can't.

Kind of like how I can't help but smile knowing there are tampons in the world. *sigh* Yes, yes. Life is good.

Taco 'Bells & Whistles'

I've heard that some people can't handle retirement.
They've spent their entire lives filling their days with specifics tasks. And when all of that goes away, they don't know what to do with themselves.

I guess I can say the same about my 'semi-retirement'.
I really did have full intention of letting my blogging phase die out.

But I just can't do it apparently, because today I had another "I should blog this" moment again. It's a bit ridiculous how they're starting to pop up at such a rapid pace.

I guess that's what happens when you become so adept at your job that you finish eight hours of work in five and you have to find a way to fill that spare time somehow. (And NO Gem, I don't take a nap.)

Anyways... the blog moment for today revolves around Taco Bell and my addiction to the newly returned Beefy Crunch Burrito.

That thing is freakin' delicious and only $.99 my friends.
I'm generally not a spicy fan, but it has the perfect cheese to beef to sour cream to Flamin' Hot Fritos proportion.

And don't forget the Crispy Potato Soft Taco.

No one seems to know about this little guy and it's an absolute travesty because it is just so gosh darn good.

And as if I could forget my newest obsession, the plain ole' Chicken Burrito.

'Plain ole'' used loosely here to mean 'absolutely fantastic'.

I used to take Taco Bell for granted. Sad but true.

I thought it was entirely inferior to Taco Time and their crispy burritos.

But, oh, I've changed my ways.

Lesson learned. Course corrected.

I won't make that mistake again.

Because everyday, I find myself craving some more deliciousness wrapped in a warm flour tortilla.

Speaking of which, it is most definitely lunchtime.

And I'm making' a bee-line for the Bell.

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.

'Peas' Don't Make me Eat Them.

Due to a lack of inspiration for an entertaining post today, I shall document my favorite and least favorite fruits and vegetables and my love/aversion to them.

Thrilling, I know.
Here's the gist: peas and squash are nasty.
Watermelon, peaches and cherries are delicious.

Peas, or 'little green abominations' as I like to call them, should be banished from off the face of the Earth. Nothing good has ever come from eating a pea, cooked or raw.

They are simply little squishy balls of death.
Determined to ruin my fried rice.

The same with squash. Anything with a stringy consistency should not be eaten. Except for mango. Mangoes are delicious. I guess that the difference is mangoes taste good behind all that stringy-ness. And squash does not.

I have been told that I am crazy for this viewpoint. Hundreds of times, in fact. *cough, mom* That squash, with a little pad of butter and salt/pepper, is delicious and nutritious.

I still hold that anything, given enough butter, can be edible.
But what, pray tell, happens when you don't have enough butter to douse it in?...

No, no. Peas and squash. Do not eat them.
Stick with versatile vegetables like potatoes and green beans.

Watermelon, on the other hand, I could eat everyday for every meal. Especially when it's nice and cold. Every year, I'm sad to see summer come and go for this reason especially.

Why-oh-why can't you last all year watermelon season?

Same with peaches.
Someday, I'm going to have an orchard of peach trees. And I'm going to eat peaches with sugar and milk every morning for breakfast. I am.

Scratch that. I'm going to have an orchard of peach and cherry trees. Don't want to leave my very favoritest fruit out.

Cherry is, by far, my favorite flavor. Everything is better with it.

Cherry pie, Sonic cherry CreamSlush, cherry chapstick, Jergen's cherry-almond lotion. Maraschino cherries, cherry cordials, pretty-please with a cherry on top. You get the idea.

There is nothing that cannot be improved by a cherry. Or two. Or seven.
Actually, I take that back. Peas can not be improved by a cherry on top. Squash either.

Some things are just beyond the magical powers of the cherry.

Minty Shrimp Cupcakes.

I seem to be experiencing an overwhelming need for several things, as of late. It's creating an alarming trend.

I think my mom must've programmed it into me.

I swear. For a couple years there, every time we ate out, it was at Burger King, because she couldn't get enough of their Rodeo Burger.

But ask me now when was the last time I ate at Burger King?

Go ahead.

So long ago, I can't even remember.

In fact, Burger King's gross.

Since then, we've had intermittent bouts of food obsession ranging from Oreo shakes at Hogi Yogi to Mickey D's Mcdouble and fries.

But lately, oh lately, the winds of delicious change have been blowing.

Corinner-Elly's Latest Fetishes:

1) Shrimp: Why are those little fellas so tasty-licious??

Garlic creme sauce, coconut, fried, on-a-stick, honey walnut, fettuccine Alfredo, cocktail, you name it. If it has little crustacean legs and no head, I am going to eat it.



I mean, come on. That speech was pitiful and all...

but not pitiful enough to make me stop visiting Red Lobster!

mmmm....

2) Mints & gum: There's just something about fresh breath that fills me with joy.

My favorites? Icebreakers Spearmint mints...

and Eclipse Spearmint Big-E-Pak gum.

And somehow, 60 pieces doesn't seem nearly enough...

My adoration can be summed up by the following story:

"Gem and I were driving home one Sunday when she nonchalantly asked to have a mint from my purse. Realizing that I was almost out, I quickly reserved one for myself and graciously allowed her to partake of one herself should any remain. Luckily, there were exactly two left. Jauntily popping one into her mouth, she quickly dropped the other into what she thought was my open palm. It was not. It was instantly gone, lost in the abyss that is my car floor. Knowing that I was driving mint-less and slowing seeping into a state of panic, Gem offered to retrieve it for me. Long story short: she ended up diving head first under my seat to retrieve my beloved mint, legs flailing and wheels swerving. At some point, I'm not sure what, she pulled out a flashlight to further the hunt. There eventually came a moment where we almost gave up until finally... she found it! And I ate it. The End."

What?...

To the general population:
Yes, I did allow my sister to risk her life to retrieve an insignificant piece of breath refreshing sugar from under my seat while barreling down the highway at fifty miles per hour in an act of selfish desperation.

To my mother:
Of course I kept my sister safely buckled in the passenger seat while going well under the speed limit as I suffered from a severe case of halitosis all because I've built my life around being responsible and safe.

3) Cupcakes: Would you say that I enjoy a plethora of cupcakes? I would.

I made these little beauties for my last day of internship at the Orem Osmond Designs. They were banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, otherwise referred to as little pieces of heaven in a paper wrapper.

I'm sure you're wondering why I brought treats to my own farewell party? So am I.

Somehow it made sense in my mind...

They were a way to say 'thank you' for all of the help my coworkers had given me while I had worked... for them... for free... five hours a day... for four months...

Like I said. So am I.

But nevertheless, cupcakes are scrumptious. I especially enjoy the delightful, new-and-trendy gourmet cupcake shops.

Any one else notice how there's one on every corner now?
Right next the gajillion frozen yogurt places?

Not a complaint, just an observation.

That about sums it up.

Who knows what it'll be next week.

I hope it's chicken wings...

Seventy Times Seven.

I love the number seven. It is the perfect number.

How do I know?
Well, first off, I was born on July 7th.

That's 7/7, to dispel any confusion.

And then, if that weren't fan-freaking-tastic enough, just think of this. I... had a birthday... in 200... 7.

07/07/07. Hoo-SHA!

In case you were wondering, Wikipedia informs us that '7 is the natural number following 6 and proceeding 8'.

We are an edjukated nation, people.

Know what else?

There are seven girls in my family. (Mom included.)
Snow White had seven dwarfs.
There are seven days of the week.
Seven wonders of the ancient world.
Seven brides for seven brothers.
Sailors sail the seven seas. (Say that ten times fast.)
Seven deadly sins.
Seven days of creation.
7-Eleven.
7UP.

Freak. I even stop the microwave at seven seconds.

Don't judge.

More?

The number of servings I had of my smothered burritos with Mexican rice. Or at least wish I had.

The number of times a day I admire my new shoes.

The number of times Davey-baby and Candy laughed when they saw their handmade wedding present from yours truly.

 

The number of times 'Da Twinneh' complained that I didn't have enough pictures of her in my room. -AND- The number of times a day 'Da Twinneh' proclaims how much she hates the pictures I chose.

How many times I doubted whether the ratty DI decoration 'Da Twinneh' scavenged would amount to anything adorable. It did.

The  number of years it took to convince my roommate that SPAM is second only to bacon.

And lastly, the number of milliseconds it took to realize Gem would absolutely capital L-O-V-E this pillow.

So when my nieces woke up at 7:00AM by screaming loudly seventy times, demanding seven different breakfast cereals and asking to swim AGAIN 7,000 times, did I forgive them?

Of course. Seventy times seven.