'Mark' my Words.

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

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

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

Lovely.

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

Except way grosser and less exotic.

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

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

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

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

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

By the Skin of My Teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks a whole heap, lady.

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

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

I'm reserving Steve.

Crack-a-'Shellac'in...

I'm in love, I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!
With whom, you might ask?

A little product I like to call Shellac.
Probably because that's what it is called, but no matter.

I was never one to religiously paint my nails until rather recently.
Granted, I did go through an acrylic nail phase in high school, but it eventually broke the bank and I quickly reverted back to plain ole' man hands.

You think I jest, but no.
My nail beds suck, I am prone to continual hangnails and I can't grow any semblance of a nail without it immediately tearing off for the life of me.

But in an attempt to hide the problem (and inspired by Lacy-Hacy's shiny black polish) I resorted to painting my nails every five to seven days, with touch-ups in between.

It was painful, agonizing torture, I tell you.
No sooner than I applied a perfectly gleaming coat, I would be enlisted to wash dishes or file paperwork and all of the majesty would be destroyed.

But then my genius sister, Jenny, made a discovery that would change our lives forever. Enter... Shellac.

A product that you paint on like polish, set in place with a black light and then stop to wonder how you ever lived without it.

There are a plethora of colors to choose from and the price is reasonable, granted more expensive than cheap-o polish, but well worth the end result.
No chips, cracks or dullness.

I can get my nails shellaced and not need another set until an entire two weeks later. It's a wonder of science, I say!

"Where can I get this magical-ness??!", you might ask, and my response to you is: I'm not sure.

You see, my beloved sister Jenny gives me these manicures free of charge in exchange for, well... I dunno. Being the goddess that she is.

And if I didn't love her before, I certainly do now.
Uhh... that came out wrong.

Just know that I'm full of appreciation.

And that I very well may die Sunday (my usual appointment day) because she is currently vacationing in Cancun and won't be back until Tuesday.

*deep breaths*

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.

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.

Brush it Off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yup.
I was shinin' them pearly whites.

So Quotably Quotable.

So... haven't posted much lately.
Can't decide whether it's because school started and I actually have a life (debatable) or because I've run out of oddities to document. Probably the latter, right?

Please stop laughing.

Okay! Fine! FINE!
If you're so intent on making me spill, I guess I'll just have to appease the masses.

Here is a random sampling of 'Life at Corinner-Elly's Apartment'. Part I. (Because I am sure this is just the beginning of what will turn out to be a very, very long documentary.)

I'd like to name this segment, 'The Nose Hair Removal Fiasco'. Please excuse the accidental few seconds at the end of the clip. I'm still trying to figure out my phone's video capabilities. It's a tricky little bugger...

Are you confused? Disgusted? Disturbed? Still reading?

I know I sound like a broken record, but we are buddies.
They're my best friends, that's it.

But, know what?
You guys really need to start acknowledging all of my movie quoting efforts. I'm feeling cinematically under-appreciated.

I bet you a million dollars that I've quoted at least one movie, if not more, in every post I've ever written. And so, I'm feeling bold, here's what I'm going to do!

If you can tell me not only what movie the above quote is from, but also list one movie from all of my other posts (there are only like fifty, don't be a baby), I will give you something.
Something amazing.

You can submit your guesses however you'd like.
Feel free to be creative. I will accept one ginormous comment on this post, comments on each of the individual postings specifically, answers spelled out in alphabet soup...
it's really up to you.

Kapeesh?
So ready, set... GO!