But It's My Burf-Day!

Well. What's done is done.
I have now reached the ripe old age of twenty-one.

But don't cry for me Argentina. I had the bestest b-day eva! (Aside from being asked 50 billion times if I was headed to Vegas and warned a similar amount regarding drunk driving.)

Cool it people. I can't even chew gum & walk at the same time.

Upon being asked what I wanted to do this year, my original thoughts included Lagoon, inevitable motion sickness and foot-long corn dogs. (In that order, preferably.)

But, sadly, due to a poor sibling population and a lack of available friends (what the heck, friends whatsoever), I was forced to research an alternate course of action.

It's not right for a woman to read.
Soon she starts getting ideas and thinking...

And thus, a PLAN was hatched!
Being the big nerd that I am, I compiled a list of local museums in the Salt Lake area with the help of my very good friend, Google Maps. He and I plotted a course and scheduled the itinerary for my big adventure.

Yes. You read that right.
For my 21st birthday, I went on a Museum-Trip-O-Awesomeness.

I never said that I was normal.

I blame this propensity towards the preservation of history on my mom. Who, unsurprisingly, has noticed that she provides an exceedingly large amount of content for my blog fodder.
Lucky duck.

Growing up, we never had cable and therefore, I was forced to watch unhealthy amounts of Antiques Roadshow, Nova, National Geographic, Nature and other such wholesome programming on the standard antenna channels. When I did move out and finally basked for the first time in the glory of cable, to my chagrin, I was drawn to the same types of shows. *curse you mother!*

 So now, I must admit, when I think of the world's greatest road trip, I picture traveling to the country's tastiest hot dog/corn dog shacks while visiting all of the ghost towns of the old west and stopping at every museum/gala/expose along the way.

Doesn't that sound wonderful? ... Never mind.
Only a select few share my vision.

And they have yet to be found.

The first birthday stop (other than McDonald's) was the Museum of Nat-ural History. *wink* Mom, Gem n' I meandered through the bug, geology, anthropology, etc. exhibits until we stumbled upon THIS.

Isn't he *beautiful*? Look at his cute little face. So full of character.
I told Gem I wanted him for a pet.
She asked if I liked my arms attached to my body.

And then, as if the very world were to explode from cuteness, I saw this adorable little fella'. Don't you just want to pet him all over? *sigh*

What I wouldn't give to have lived during the Mesozoic Age.
(Which includes my arms, apparently.)

Hehe. This guy just makes me laugh.
He needs a word bubble that says "Whaaa??..."

This one's pretty cute too. :) My partner in 'mocking' crime.
Cuz', let's face it. Making fun of people/things is fun ta do.

Next, was the Art Museum on U of U's campus.
I knew I was in enemy territory as soon at the front desk attendant announced he'd have to charge me double (on a free day none-the-less) after finding out I was a BYU student.

Pfft. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, ya know.

This is my best impression of the oh-so-classic art museum head 'tilt'. (Ah... NOW I see it.)

Is it safe to assume that this may very well be the literal translation of 'butthead'?...

Our touring time was limited, so we finished off the field-trip at the Tracy Aviary and headed back to happy valley for some shoppin' and dinin' with 'da twinneh'. (Leavin' off the 'g' never gets old...) I made off with quite the haul.

I'm still not sure what to think of these. 'Da twinneh' and Gem tricked me into purchasing them even though I'm fairly certain they make my feet look like gleaming-metallic snake skin duck flippers. What the heck. I'd pay (and have paid) $3.00 to see that.

And I can't forget the perfect ending to a perfect day.
Chicken Wings.

I could write sonnets to their glory. (Despite the 'so-called' horror stories surrounding Sizzler's salad bar. I simply couldn't resist.)

So now you know.
In case you haven't purchased my gift yet. I would like:

• A man-eating relative of the pre-historic crocodile.
• A cable subscription.
• A 'world-greatest-roadtrip' fund.
• A life.

Yup. That about sums it up.

By All Accounts, It Doesn't Make Sense...

Ever seen those girls?
You know. They're all over the place.
Oh, come on. You've seen the type.
Know what I mean? No?

Those girls.
The one's who have a waist circumference of, like, 2 inches.
The ones who may just snap given the smallest wind.

Uh huh. Them.

Here's my question: How in the world do they fit all their organs in there? I mean, really. There's just no way.

Quite frequently, I see one of 'them' walk by and think to myself, "She's gotta be missing a liver or something."

Riddle me this: there are 22 internal organs in the human body, the majority of which (I'm guessing), are located somewhere in the torso. So it's only reasonable to assume that they all have to fit in there somewhere, right?

Apparently not. Because there seems to be an entire female sub-population that has clearly been jipped, in some form or another, out of vital appendages.

Of course, I speak as an outsider.
I'm sure you've noticed, I'm no Pixie Stick.
I have room enough for my insides plus some.

But still a sissy girl, right?

HaHA! There's where you are WRONG!
Looky here. Yah, that's right.

I added oil to my car. WOOT.

Oh, but ick. Look at the grossness.

Alright, alright. Maybe I am a teensy bit sissy. But I mean really. No ten minute job should require so much grime.

Seriously.
I'm just trying to be a responsible car-driver-person here. In the past, all I had to do was bat my eyes at Daddy. But now that I'm on the eve of the big 2-1, I figured I could broaden my horizons. Look on the wild side. Be a rebel without a cause.

Figure out how to pop the hood?...

Needless to say, I only stood studying the engine, eyes glazed over, for a few minor moments. Then, being the adult that I am, I ran inside and asked Daddy, "Okay. Tell me one more time?... You take the thingy out of where and then do WHAT?"

By the way, do you know how hard it is to get that wobbly little dipstick back into its hole, especially when you're trying to hold onto it with two fingers, max? One-and-a-half, if that's even possible?

Hard. Times a bazillion.

But never fear.
Good news is: I have all my organs.

And a little grease never hurt anyone. Yet. 

Alive! It's Alive! It's ALIVE!

Ya know. I've seen a lot of crazy stuff in my time.

Sad thing is, due to corruption as a child, I have only recently started to notice that many of the things which I considered completely normal are now, in fact, labeled 'faux pas'.

For instance, in true 'You Might Be a Redneck' fashion, I have compiled a list of my most recent conclusions.

*ahem*

You might be from Lake Shore if:

• You wear cowboy boots to church each Sunday. (If you're really slick, they match your 2,000 lb. belt buckle.)
• You lick the spoon before sticking it back into the Nesquik so that it will be 'clean' for the next person. (We're just thoughtful like that.)
• You say things such as "I seen you do it!", "Howdy ya'll." and "That thar' horse."
• You serve old hot dog buns for dinner as a side. Which would normally be considered tacky except this time round they are toasted brown with Parmesan cheese and butter. Which of course = instant delicacy.
• You encounter more roadkill on the way to work than fellow automobilers.
• Instead of running to the grocery store when you're out of eggs, you check under a hen in the backyard.
• Your five-year-old neighbor not only knows how to drive before you do, he handles heavy machinery/farm equipment on a daily basis.
• You're (knowingly) married to your second cousin.
• There are announcements in Relief Society regarding 'free zuchinni' practically every Sunday throughout the summer.
• Your farmer's tan is so bad that people wonder why you're still wearing a t-shirt in the pool.
• Each morning, you wake up to an honest-to-goodness rooster crow.
• You read this list and relate.

But returning back to my original thought... (hence the title)

They LIVE!!!
(*victory dance*)

You bet against me bringing them back to life, didn't ya?
(No. *frightened nod*)
Aw. Tell your Corinner-Elly the truth. Aww, say it. Say it.
(I did.)
Yes. You made a boo-boo.
(*sobs* I did. I did!)
The Boo Box.
(Not the Boo Box. NOO!!!)

Yah. That's right.

Fear me and my mad skillz.

And yes.
I am from Lake Shore.

And I blog about gardening.

A 'Whale' of a Tale

So, sneezing.

There is some debate on the subject.

My 'baby sneeze' was recently compared to the common accidental 'snort', produced occasionally while laughing.

Tell me about it. I didn't get the connection either.

The musky office in the which I spend the majority of my time these days, contains an obscenely large proportion of dust. Thus, while hardly working *ah hem* I mean, working hard, I naturally have my fair share of 'gesundheits'.

Anywho. In my opinion, if, when you sneeze, the house shakes, babies cry and grandpa runs from the breakfast table yelling 'earthquake!', something cannot be right.

If a sneeze can be contained in such a way  that it produces the smallest amount of noise, and therefore disturbance, as possible, you should be congratulated. Nobody wants their eardrums burst while being simultaneously spewed because 'repressing a sneeze' is considered harmful.

I don't care what you say.
Holding it in will not cause brain damage.

Plus, word has it that the 'baby sneeze' epidemic is spreading. I can recall at least three people who have admired such a quality lovingly, claiming that 'they too' wish such a sneeze were to be their own.

So there. Point proven.

Yesterday, Wymount welcomed back summer by inviting children, one and all, to 'Come and Play in the Water'. It was a hit, biggest activity turnout thus far.

We made sure that the sprinklers were all up n' running and provided them young-un's with squirt guns, water toys and a large container of water balloons which, as I should have guessed, were all popped by a horde of rambunctious boys before the younger ones even had time to bat an eye.

It wasn't long before they were all running around like crazy people, dousing anyone and everyone within arm's reach. One little boy loved the kiddie pool so much, he just couldn't let his clothes stand between himself and the grassy water.

Thus, several minutes later, a frazzled mother fished one squirmy bare bottom from the pool, diaper and trunks in one hand, screaming naked boy in the other.

Em n' I, observed the battlefront from a distance while passing out Otter-Pops by the dozens. I'm fairly positive most of the kids made off with quite the stash. They'd file up, one by one, and just stand there, gazing up at me, begging for more.

Oh, with the face... and the EYES!
"Alright, alright!", I'd give in.

Then, across the way, something caught my eye.

"Poor girl." I noticed, "She just got 'whaled' in the face!"

I gaped comically at Em, mouth ajar. "Eh, eh?", I grinned while teasingly prodding her in the ribs with my elbow.

"What?", her face questioned quizzically.

"Oh come on!" I challenged disbelievingly, "Whaled-Wailed. Get it?"

The light bulb was not coming on.

"He was whacking her with a whale water toy.", I pronounced slowly.

"Oh..." Em laughed nervously, "That's funny."

Baby sneezes or no.
I think it's safe to say that my love of puns is not contagious.