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.

Stretching the Rules.

I've been giving the BF lessons.
Lessons of things he must know if he wants to live amicably with Corinner-Elly.

Lesson #1 was how to wind plastic bags into tiny, space-saving balls that are stored and later recycled at the nearest Walmart. I demonstrated how such a feat was to be completed and then had him take a try.

He passed with flying colors.

A few days later, it was time for lesson #2: titled, 'Dishwashers Can't Do Everything.' For some reason, none of my former/present roommates grasp this concept.

How they expect to simply throw a plate covered in spaghetti sauce that's been drying in their car for three weeks in the dishwasher and hope that it will come out sparkly clean never ceases to amaze me.

Lesson #3, however, required simple observance, nothing more.
As I passed the kitchen table to find all its chairs sprawled haphazardly, I knew it must be said.

Push. In. Your. Chair.

How simple is that?
And yet surprisingly difficult for people.

By the time lesson #4 came around, I had begun to realize that this may very well be quite an extensive education. But it couldn't be avoided.

The moment I saw him toss the newspaper ads he'd just retrieved from his mailbox on a large pile of similarly abandoned garbage in the stairwell, I knew something must be said.

Is it really so hard to throw away or, heaven forbid, recycle unwanted mailers?..

Unfortunately, that lesson is still in the works.
Let's just say I have an unruly and opinionated student.

At least when it comes to his junk mail.

And then, last night, after coming home from an unexpectedly long Relief Society presidency trip to the bishop's house, I returned to find all of the evening's dinner group leftovers still sitting out on the counter.

Granted they were all stored in Tupperware and piled neatly.
But sitting out growing spores none-the-less.

Don't get me wrong. He gets major points for boxing all of the food for me. But I couldn't help but shake my head and smile when I noticed he'd forgotten the last (and probably most important) step.

Thus, lesson #5 was born: always put leftovers in the fridge even if you're waiting to ask Corinner-Elly what she wants to do with the remaining Hollandaise sauce.

I bet you're wondering why/how the BF puts up with this.
Truth is, so do I.

All I know is that he doesn't mind the anality so long as I give excellent back-rubs. I'm not saying the system is evenly weighted. But it work for us.

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.

'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.