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.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.

So... whoopsie.
Last post was only my 97th post.

I'm heading back to kindergarten so that I can learn to count and hop on one foot.

I was also pleasantly informed that my supposed celebratory '100th post' was a Debbie-downer. I thought I was just being my slightly pessimistic normal self but apparently not.

So, sorry for that, I'll try to keep this post full of sunshine, rainbows and unicorn poop.

I thought of titling it 'White Trash', considering I plan to write about garbage and I can't count worth a flying pitchfork, but that didn't exude quite the amount of sugar and fairy dust that I am going for.

Katerina Cupcake needs to see my happy blog face, gosh dang it.

So just pretend I'm dancing around, patting small children on the head and blowing bubbles while you're reading this; then we should be good to go.

Something I've noticed of late is that I'm rather OCD when it comes to picking up garbage. (Me?... OCD?... Crazy, right?)

Regardless of what bathroom I'm in, if (by the time I leave) there are still small pieces of paper towel left on the floor, well... let's put it this way. I don't leave until there is nothing left on the floor.

Same goes with spilled soap on the counter or black hairs in the sink. They're gone when I'm gone, baby.

I don't know what it is, but something deep down inside me can't handle the thought of leaving garbage untouched two-feet from the trashcan. My shoulder devil wants to murder whoever so carelessly, and lazily I might add, dropped it there in the first place while my shoulder angel wants crawl around on all fours to make sure everything is tidy for the next bathroom customer.

I'm sure several of you (*cough* mom) are writhing in agony at the thought of all those germs I'm exposing myself to, but may I point out that all of the germ-a-phobes I am in acquaintance with are mothers to at least 5 children. Children are bio-hazards waiting to happen. Point proven.

But I'm sorry to say that the fetish doesn't end there.
I'm starting to find myself picking up old receipts stuck in the fence on my way to work, stale Cheerios on the chapel floor and, dare I say it, used tissues on a park bench.

I need serious help.

So, combining that and my apparent lack of counting skills,
looks like I'm becoming a janitor.

100th Post!

Can you all believe I've bothered you for the 100th time now!??
It seems like only yesterday that I wrote my first post. *sniffle*

Maybe I should do a giveaway to celebrate?...
That seems like a popular way to reach a new level of annoying-ness, right?

Oooh! Oooh! I know!
I could offer my free services to anyone who needs help with anything!

Wait... I already do that...

Shucks. And I was all excited and all.

I guess your just gonna have to live knowing that I will fix your daughter's dress, babysit your kids, sew your ill-fitting swimsuit, edit your newly drafted resume, sing at your son's baptism, take care of the party arrangements, make dinner, clean the kitchen, give you directions, make the Relief Society announcement, decorate the living room, rub your back, dust your house, design a brochure, change that poopy diaper, etc., etc., etc.

All for free and without any need for celebration.

Did I ever mention why my blog is named Corinner-Elly?...
Never mind.

You wouldn't understand.

What I'm confused about is why my parents keep telling me that 'I've changed' and that 'I'm not the same sweet Corin I used to be'.

WTFrick?...

Last time I checked, I was?

Does this have to do with the fact that I only come home on Sundays now instead of jumping at every possible chance to run home to mommy that I possibly can?

But probably my favorite chiding came during a Sunday dinner when one of my siblings voiced, "Serving yourself before the children?? What's happened to you?..."

This was the point when I turned around, visually scanned the room to verify that all of the children were either old enough to serve themselves or had, indeed, already been served before giving my response.

"Yup. It's a crime."

Is it just me, or is telling a person they're in a bad mood a great way to put them in a bad mood?...

So there you have it.
I went from loving Corinner-Elly to a person who never smiles, never laughs and goes out of her way to kick puppies.

So shoot me.

Speak Up Man!

Is it just me or are guys notoriously bad texters?

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a generalization.
And I hate generalizing.

But when every text response contains an average 1-3 words, I begin to wonder...

The way I figure it, either they are getting tired of the conversation and don't want to text anymore, they are upset about something or they're just plain stupid.

I most often assume that they just don't want to talk to me anymore. But then I see them in person two seconds later and they're a regular chatty-Kathy! Explain this to me!?

Girl's never have this problem. In fact, I think girls tend to be on the opposite end of the spectrum. Meaning, they often write four-page-long sagas documenting every feeling they've experienced in the past five minutes.

Nothin' wrong with that, my friend. Nothin' wrong with that.

Has anyone else noticed this disturbing trend?
Is it really too much to ask that they at least form a full sentence? I don't think that is unreasonable. They could practice their spelling and grammar while they're at it.

Until then, I am going on strike. From now on, any one word answers that are completely unjustified will not be responded to.

That's right. I'm gonna give 'em the textical cold shoulder.
(How do you like that word? Textical. My roomie Lacy-Hacy made it up. Figures, eh?)

In other news, are you way impressed by how many posts I've written this week Katerina Cupcake??

I do it all for you.