Time Can Suck It

Have you ever seen something called shower art? Yes, it’s purpose is to decorate your shower.

It’s essentially pieces of thick plastic with glittery stuff on the inside and suction cups on the back so you can stick them to your shower’s wall.  (You can see a bunch of it here.)

My sister gave me some shower art for Christmas one year: gold glitter, a tiny plastic sand timer, and those little alphabet beads you see on baby bracelets.

shower art

Yep, my shower art is all, “TIME CAN SUCK IT.”

I’m pretty sure this gift was intended to amuse me while I cleanse my lady parts (whatever, I’m not being gross…all my parts are lady parts). However, I believe it has far surpassed its original intent and given me some pretty deep thoughts about my adulthood. SLOW DOWN, SHOWER ART.

As I’ve talked about (in this post), I made a series of choices in my 20s that meant I would come a-knockin’ on the door of my 30s without a degree or a career.  Thus (that’s all the school papers talking), I would end up being a college student with gray hair, stretch marks and absolutely no desire to do Jell-O shots with Todd at the kegger.

Maybe my lack of education doesn’t seem like such a big deal. After all, there are lots of people without a piece of paper that says, “Honey Boo-Boo paid $46,000 to sit through many unpleasant algebra classes and is now a highly qualified individual”, and they’re straight up getting it done. But for me, this has created a life scenario that goes something like this:

a) Get a job. Okay, easy! I am qualified to: make delicious lattes, work cash registers (like a boss), and assess the utility of the 417th video Scott recorded of himself playing Battlefield 3.

b) Receive paycheck. Wonder where the money at.

c) Sit down to pay bills. Notice big scary discrepancy between paycheck amount and using water to shower (as opposed to just sort of rubbing down with hand sanitizer).

d) Get very, very sweaty (grab me that hand sanitizer).

Yeah. So I am definitely not getting it done.

I suppose when I was in my carefree-ish 20s, I thought by the time I got to this advanced point in my life, bill-paying wouldn’t be so stressful. But that’s not how things are going and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running really late for my own adulthood.

This is where the shower art comes in. I was in the shower one night and it just hit me (but not literally – the suction cups are really strong). TIME CAN SUCK IT.

Wait. Might it be okay that I’m doing life a tiny bit out of order? Is it really fine that I won’t buy my first house until I’m like…45? Am I still an okay person if I’ve never purchased a rug bigger than a bath mat? And is it really so bad that most of my fellow students are so young they don’t even know about the Hot Sundaes?


Then guess what I realized next! EVEN JESUS SAYS TIME CAN SUCK IT. Check it:

“The righteous will grow like a palm tree,

they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon.”

Yeah, you guys. That’s straight up in the Bible (Psalm 92:12). Can I get a what what?

snuggie raise the roof

(I don’t know who those people are, or what MySnuggieStore.com is, but I’m pretty sure they totally get how I felt when I realized that my shower art loves Jesus, too.)

When I read that “cedar of Lebanon” bit, it got me thinking.  It’s fairly common knowledge that trees aren’t exactly growing at warp speed. Cedars of Lebanon, specifically, grow 11 inches a year.

So I guess, at some point in my life, I figured I’d be a fully grown tree by now – like a Redwood maybe, so people would drive through my big tunnel and take artsy pictures to post on Instagram.

Except here I am, supposed to be an “adult” and all, and I don’t feel anything like a fully grown tree. Instead I feel like a little baby tree that someone has tied to a wooden pole so I won’t grow parallel to the lawn. (This is not a stripper allusion. Strippers don’t use wooden poles. I assume because of the splinters.)

Sometimes I play a game I call “Take a Chunk Out of My Life and Replace it With College.” Besides the obvious fun factor, I play it because it forces me to be reminded that, with the exception of some mistakes and missteps, I spent the 2000s exactly as they should’ve been spent.

I mean, who says, “Man, I really wish I hadn’t gone to Fiji?”  Or, “Dude, it was so dumb when I went to TOKYO instead of enrolling in that awesome algebra class?”  If you pick algebra over Tokyo you either really love algebra or really hate to do awesome things. Or both. Either way, I probably don’t want to hang out with you.

So in a few years, when I walk across the OSU stage to receive my diploma, I’m not going to be worried about how I’m 15 years older than everyone else. And I promise that I’m not going to let the fact that I’ve never been in escrow or shopped for large rugs give me the sad faces.

Because both my shower art and Jesus agree: time, you can straight up suck it.

I’m setting my life-watch to JESUS TIME.

Sorry, what was that again?

snuggie raise the roof

Oh, yeah. Sweet Snuggie affirmation. Sweet snuggiefirmation.


I’ll Probably Go Rob a Bank Now

This post has very little actual purpose. No, that’s not what I mean because if I really think about it, this post has a very strong sense of purpose.


I found this the other day on the Engrish.com blog (actually called a “brog”). In a stroke of genius, someone made a GIF of a bootlegged DVD that had been dubbed, then subtitled back into what may or may not qualify as English.



If I ever give in to my urges to living life of crime I’m going to wield a Glock 19 but instead of actually pulling the trigger I’m just going to point it at people and yell, “Go go the weapon go!” It will be confusingly intimidating.


Come to My Woods With Me

School is amazing and I have been devoting most of my writing energy to decent grades and a bachelor’s degree. I have no idea if you wish I blogged much more or, you know, never started a blog at all, but either way, Livin’ tha C-Life is all about writing the stuff that gets me a bachelor’s degree instead of the fun bloggy stuff.

So for now, you’ll have to settle for little snippets of Tha C-Life, ’cause I want you to know what’s happening in my woods. Will you please come to my woods with me?

livin tha c life

I’m so thug, but like in a positive, achieve-your-dreams type of way, as opposed to a negative, commit-lots-of-crimes type of way.

So here’s what’s been going on lately:

1. My Husband Stopped Helping Me With Everything

…but it was more or less legit because he got sick. THEN, even though he was already a little sick, he worked, then went to a fireman training, then worked more, then went to work again. So…he got sicker. Like – so sick he almost lost the will to play XBOX. Don’t panic! That’s why I said he almost lost the will…specifically so you wouldn’t panic.

I got sick shortly after this, partly due to germs and partly due to the fact that I ran myself ragged taking care of everyone, including someone who required many cans of chicken noodle soup with saltine crackers while he answered the call of duty (see what I did there?).

2. I Read an Entire Book on the Toilet

I took a pee break the other day and it suddenly struck me that one of my recreational books (I like to call them that because then it sounds like my potty breaks are like spring break in cancun) had spent the last 3 weeks on next to the potty, and that I had read nearly the entire thing in a whole bunch of 2 minute increments whilst taking pees.  B.T. might grow up thinking  that all the mommies read before they wipe.

3. I Just Crawled Out of a Mad Men Hole

We don’t bother paying for cable TV in this household, as I don’t want Fox News on for 36 hours a day and my husband probably doesn’t want to hear me constantly obsess over people’s curtains on HGTV. We rock both Hulu Plus and Netflix up in here – it’s much cheaper and it discourages  Time Warner from calling my phone every day asking if I’d like to pay $1,000 a month for cable or install 17 land lines (when what they’re really asking is, “Will you give this company money because I’m so obnoxious?”).

I watched the first four seasons of Mad Men on Netflix in like 6 minutes and I LOVE IT SO MUCH. The episode where they have a riding lawn mower in the office and someone’s foot gets run over and nearly cut off scared the crap out of B.T., which is the moment when I stopped watching it in front of him (he was still young enough then that he didn’t repeat everything or loudly notice ladies’ boobs).

When the 4 seasons ended, I quietly wept and spent a year longing for its return to Netflix. THEN I discovered I can buy the episodes on amazon.com, so buy them I did and mmmmmm boy did I watch the crap out of them.

And so that was like the longest I’ve ever taken to be like, “I watched Mad Men.”

4. I Am Obssesively Listening to Ellie Goulding/Skrillex’s “Bittersweet”

because apparently I’m a huge sucka for songs off the Twilight soundtracks, with the exception of Muse, a band that I feel like is the world’s most perfectly awful combination of rock, bad opera music, and whining.

Since we can say that “Bittersweet”  is on my mental “best of” list for this week, here are a few other things that I’m giving awards to in my brain:

#a. This hilarious article in the New Yorker is about how one of the candidates for the pope was disqualified for, among other things, “throwing gang signs at the camera and steadily drinking from two Old Milwaukees mounted on a beer hat.”  (Thanks to my friend Mary for posting this on Facebook.)

#b. Pretty much the most amazing explanation of St. Patrick’s Day I’ve ever heard, told by someone who does a spot-on impression of Kristen Stewart.

#c. David Sedaris’ essay “Naked,” from his book of the same title. It’s a story about spending a week in a trailer at a nudist campground. Aren’t you sick of never reading about nudists? The nudists get like no play in this country.

#d. In addition to music from motion pictures teenage girls love, I am also a sucka for those Bad Lip Reading videos (they’re hilariously ridiculous). This one was  made for the 2013 Independent Spirit awards, so it’s a compilation of bad lip readings of a couple of different movies (my favorite is the clip from Moonrise Kingdom).

Well! Thanks for coming to my woods! I’d love to know some random things you’ve been up to while living your B-Life or M-Life or what have you.

Dear (Former) Facebook Friend

This letter is in response to a real event, as opposed to something I fabricated so I could have an awesome blog idea.

I originally wrote it for a writing class, but adapted it to make it more blog-friendly.

My husband doesn’t think I should post it, just in case my former Facebook friend reads it and I make an awkward situation…uh…more awkward. I mean, worst case scenario…

kill the beast gif

…but probably not.

And anyway, my reasoning is: if she didn’t like  spoonfuls of Corinne, why would she eat a whole bowl? So here we go.

Dear (former) Facebook friend,

I have to say, I was a little shocked at what you did. My status update was supposed to be funny!

My husband and I were having a conversation about the “Bible math” he performed at the private Christian school you both attended. Rejecting conventional teaching methods, you were taught arithmetic by converting cubits, the measurements used to build Noah’s ark, into feet and inches. I, with my traditional public education, thought this was hilarious. You, however, did not. And by the end of the day, I had been silently, brutally un-friended.

It’s true that we don’t have much in common here on the internet. You post pictures of  cuddly, wide-eyed kitties saying adorable things like, “What? It’s MONDAY?!”

I post questions wondering how I might get away with poisoning the kitties who use my front lawn to do their business (don’t worry, I remembered it’s illegal).

You like this. I don't.

You like this. I don’t. (Source)

You post the type of jokes that sound appropriate with a laugh track. My sense of humor is sarcastic and dry  to the point where sometimes I have to explain that I’m kidding.

So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t find me charming and hilarious. It probably wasn’t the first time you were offended by my snarky attitude towards small town living. Perhaps shooting my comedy bullets at the hollowed institution where you spent so many hours of your childhood “learning” Spanish (without an actual Spanish teacher, of course) or memorizing the names of all the sons Japheth begot (Magog is my favorite) was the final push you needed to get rid of me forever.

Okay, it’s not like you gave up a potential BFF when you finally deleted me. But I really think you should consider re-friending me.

Hear me out. When I first moved to Eastern Oregon, I was wary to reveal my origins. Baker City and Southern California might as well be different countries for all their cultural differences.  I rarely hear the word “Californian” spoken without an overtone of disdain.

I realize some of my fellow countrymen came here and failed to use their blinker to signal a turn. They bought houses, remodeled the kitchens, and raised property values. Some of them even wore skirts on top of their jeans.

And while I may not have done those things specifically, I am the girl who used to think people who hunted animals were, from a psychological standpoint, one or two steps away from murdering humans. When I first moved here, I thought Bi-Mart was some type of warehouse-sized sex shop. And I would never, ever be caught wearing one of those camouflage rain coats with graphics of leaves and sticks all over them.

hunting jacket

It’s just the worst. jacket. EVER. (Source)

When I try to look at myself from your perspective, I can see that my disdain of small town living might come across as classic Californian snobbery. For that, I am truly sorry.

See, I often feel lost here, living day to day without any hint of the comforting things of home. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the desire to go shopping, take my children to the beach, hang out with my best friend, or spend the holidays with my side of the family.

It’s not that Baker City isn’t as good or as worthy as Southern California. It’s just that it’s not Southern California. So perhaps you have misunderstood my heart behind the sarcasm. Dry-as-a-bone humor is one of my coping skills, helping me deal with the perpetual disorientation of living such an unfamiliar life.

If I haven’t convinced you yet, consider this: we share 7.16 square miles of geographic space on this earth. “Seeing” me on Facebook is one thing; seeing me in person is quite another. My face, my eyes, my expressions and reactions – none of those things can be properly replicated over the internet.

Perhaps if the offending post had been spoken during a conversation instead of typed and on your News Feed, you may not have taken it so personally. But since what’s done is done, let’s consider the fact that neither one of us will be able to hide behind our computer screens when we inevitably run into each other at Safeway, Bi-Mart, or even (gasp!) the House of the Lord.

If these reasons haven’t convinced you then at least do it for my husband. It was him, after all, who introduced me to the joys of Bible-based math.  And it was him who brought me here in the first place: a snobby, sarcastic girl with a skirt on over her jeans, who just wants to be your online buddy.

Why Going to School in My 30s Rocks the Party

It’s commonly known that I like to rock the party, but one way you know that for sure is that I waited until the BEST POSSIBLE TIME to go back to school.

And by “best possible time” I mean that magical time of life when I have the most things to keep up with on the least amount of sleep . Mmmmm yeah, girl, these are the sweet, sweet years when “me time” is getting 5 minutes to take a pee without a small child there, demanding to sit on my lap, hug me, or see my penis.

So maybe choosing to finally get a college degree at the same time as procreating makes me seem mentally ill, but guess what? It turns out that going to school in my 30s is actually kind-of incredible….and I’m about to tell you why. (Who likes to rock the party? I like to rock the party.)

1. 30s Corinne is Crazy Focused

I don’t mean to be a bitch to late teens/early 20s Corinne (she has my props for getting over her Pocahontas phase), but her brain was a jumbled mess of bad choices and mocha frappuccino residue. I think the only things that girl knew for sure was that she loved Jesus and wanted to spend the rest of her life talking to Australians.

Hugh! Come over here and talk to me...shirt on or off, it's your choice. (Source: hark.com)

Hugh! Come over here and talk to me…shirt on or off, it’s your choice. (Source: hark.com)

Now that I’ve had the chance to indulge my Australian accents fantasies, things seem much clearer upstairs and I can get to the important stuff, like what I want to be when I grow up.

2. 30s Corinne is Overwhelmingly Grateful for the Chance to Go to School

School happens to be a part of my dream life (along with riding a unicorn and learning to Riverdance), but thanks to being about 10-13 years older than the average college student, plus all the jobs and the kids, finding time for school is quite the challenge.

Which means six out of seven nights a week I put the kids to bed, then hit the laptop . (On the seventh night, my brain takes a bath in Hulu.)

A shooting, a plane crash, the death of a fiance...is it realistic? It doesn't matter cause IT'S NOT HOMEWORK.

A hospital shooting, the death of a fiance-slash-patient, a plane crash…how can it all happen to one hospital? It doesn’t matter cause IT’S NOT HOMEWORK.

But what makes me willing to give up immediately zoning out after the kids go to bed is that college was never part of the future I expected for myself. It’s one of those things in life that you’re not sure about but turns out to be super amazing – like before you have kids and you see parents in the supermarket yelling at their offspring about how they CANNOT HAVE A COOKIE SO STOP ASKING and you think daaaaang I’m glad I don’t have kids. But then you do and you’re like – oh. This is WAY better than it looks in the supermarket.

Yeah. Going to school is kind-of like that. Surprisingly amazing.

3. 30s Corinne Harnesses the Power of School to Work Household Appliances

When I got married, my sister generously bought Ryan and I a totally kick-ass espresso machine. I tried to use it several times, but just couldn’t manage it – and the machine has like TWO BUTTONS. This is exactly what it looks like:

"You are not smart enough to understand me."

I became the owner of this complicated piece of machinery in 2007, and over the next few years I periodically tried to work it, but something always seemed terribly wrong.  Every time I gave it another go, it would make all sorts of spooky noises and I’d get scared. At which point I’d lose my dignity and put it back in the cupboard.

So one night, I was pounding out some seriously terrible algebraic equations while holding a teeny tiny Baby Ham. It was around 9pm and I was tired cause Baby Ham liked to eat a lot during the night.  And even though most of my brain cells had tucked themselves in for the night I was totally making point-slope form my bitch and suddenly I thought –


Then, the next day, I pulled it out of the cupboard again, gave it a rinse, and BEHOLD.  Two delicious shots of espresso, poured over ice. And I’ve saved like a million dollars since then. BAM.

YEAH, Corinne. DO THIS.

And also, I finally figured out what algebra is good for. Y = mx+b is basically just the algebraic equation for “drink this delicious espresso beverage, Corinne.”

So there you have it. Why going to school at this age is awesome, and also why I cry while watching TV shows in which fictional characters achieve their fictional dreams.

So Long, Suckas

I am sitting here, trying to block out the sounds of the XBOX (a machine that is living up to its full potential only when streaming episodes of Say Yes to the Dress) while I bask in my last night of freedom before the next chapter in The Book of Corinne (very similar to the book of Mormon, but with a lot less Joseph Smith and waaaaaay more levels of heaven).

Tomorrow is my first day of class at Oregon State University. I’m crazy excited, but honestly I’m a little nervous, too. I’ve spent the last 3 years rocking community college. I even gave birth to two children without taking time off and managed to do pretty well – and I’m not even a genius! (See the end of this post for evidence.)

But I’m shaking a little in my snowboots at the prospect of going to big girl school while also being a wife, the mother of two busy boy children, and a dedicated rater of webpages. I’m expecting OSU to be much harder than good ole Blue Mountain Community College and I’m nervous I may fail, weep while trying to write papers, or finally discover that I am supremely stupid.

I'm worried homework might interfere with my see-saw time.

Also, I’m worried homework might interfere with my see-saw-ing time.

Maybe something that will make me feel a little more confident is to take a moment to marinate in a few very special memories, while also saying goodbye to some cherished co-students. Won’t you sit with me in a freezer bag filled with the barbeque sauce of my experiences?

1. Goodbye, T-Rex Man

In case you don’t frequent Blue Mountain Community College, T-Rex Man is an adult male with the social skills of a really annoying 6 year old, who also happens to be missing most of his arms.


(sourced here)

I know I sound like an enormous a-hole for making fun of someone who was born with so little by way of arms, but this dude is rumored to be a sex offender (although the logistics of it puzzle me) and is pretty much always trying to force me to have a conversation with him while I’m quite obviously taking exams. (Chatting = cheating = YOU DO NOT PASS).

So goodbye, T-Rex Man. I’m sorry about your arms and your social skills. Please stop talking to me or I may be forced to pull out my conversational weapons of destruction, which are basically furrowed eyebrows and asking you to stop talking to me, followed by the acceptance of your  lengthy and awkward apologies.

2. Goodbye, Girl Who Snores When She’s Awake

I took a Spanish class the summer before B.T. was born but I didn’t learn much because the loud snoring of one of my classmates drowned out most of the words coming out of my instructor’s mouth. When this girl was awake, her breathing sounded like snoring. When she was asleep, which happened frequently and spontaneously, the snoring was kicked up a couple of volumes (like, all the way to 11). The instructor’s frustration told me she probably didn’t have narcolepsy or some other pre-approved disease that made it okay for her to drown out every other sound in the universe. Maybe she had an awful illness and was keeping it a secret. OMG.  Secret narcolepsy.

In this picture, I'm the fed up Chinese kid in back.

In this picture, I’m the miserable-looking Chinese kid in the background.

Goodbye, Snoring Senorita. I give you my props for trying to get a college education even though it’s probably really hard to concentrate over all that noise.

3. Goodbye, Class Full of Humans Too Young to Attend College

I have nothing against the next generation, but referring to a college class as “this period” and heckling over whether or not you did the homework is so 15 years ago, which incidentally is the last time I heckled about homework. I, too, was kind-of a huge jerk in high school, but now I’m in my 30s and pretty well over the heckling stage. Really the only things I heckle about these days are stories about poop (I know it’s not classy, but I really can’t help it), “that’s what she said,” or most things posted on Engrish.com.


I’ve often been like, “Who’s shouting black music these days?” and now I know. EVERYONE is.

I should also mention that during the class o’  Beliebers, I heard the following gems:

a. Small town delusions: “There’s so much traffic on the freeways in Boise, I couldn’t go faster than sixty miles an hour.

b.  Agism: “Hey, elderly one, join our group.” (SPOKEN  TO ME)

c. Big-city scare stories: “Yeah, and my cousin? She moved to Salem [the capital of Oregon] and someone got shot.

DON'T MOVE TO THE BIG CITY, GUYS. Things will explode, and sleazy guys in wife beaters with big guns will run. IT WILL BE VERY DANGEROUS. (Sourced here.)

DON’T MOVE TO THE BIG CITY, GUYS. You will be eating at a diner, and it will suddenly explode and an unshowered Nicolas Cage will come running out in a wife beater. IT WILL BE VERY DANGEROUS. (Image sourced here)

And d. “I hate Asians.”

And now, as promised, here’s just one piece of solid evidence that I can’t possibly have a genius-level IQ.

B.T. once brought a pile of tiny rocks into the house, stuffed in his little boy pockets. I confiscated them, then had a small window of time to get rid of them before he noticed and became upset that they were gone. When the opportunity was upon me, I panicked, bypassed the front door (where I could’ve thrown the little rocks outside into the dirt) and sprinted the significantly further distance to the bathroom, where I DUMPED THEM INTO THE SINK.

Later, I spent a decent chunk of B.T.’s nap time picking tiny rocks out of the bathroom drain.

I did not happen to mention this story in my college application.

Or TIDKAMUIWWTO, for short.

I just caught myself internally mommy-talking to the onion rings I pulled out of the oven. I left them in a bit too long and, as I peeled them off the pan, I realized that my thoughts were saying things like, “It’s okay, onion rings, mommy’s here, I won’t let you burn…” It’s possible I need to grab an hour of kid-free time tomorrow. Or maybe a month would be more sufficient.

This is actually not a post about my totally out of control onion rings habit.

A couple of weeks ago I complained to Ryan about something meaningless and he responded, “Go cry me a Pocahontas river.” For those of you who haven’t known me since I was 15, this is a VERY UNLOVING reference to the fact that as a teenager, I watched Disney’s Pocahontas and cried at the end. Or it’s possible I wept.

Whatever, Ryan. You have no idea how emotional it is to paint with all the colors of the wind.

Whatever, Ryan. You have no idea how emotional it is to paint with all the colors of the wind.

Not to shock you, but I am actually no longer a fan of Pocahontas. This incident, however, got me thinking about things that I spent my younger days loving but that now seem wildly un-Corinne.

For example, as a teenager, I thought I loved musicals. As an adult, I now know that I enjoy going to see live musicals but that’s about all I can handle because I find breaking into song for the purpose of narration (“I’m putting the dishes! In the dishwasher! Because they need to be cleeeeaaaaaannnneeeeeeedddd!!!!”) supremely obnoxious. I actually watched Glee for awhile, but stopped when I realized that I hated all the parts where people sang. Which is like 85% of the show.

Sing it, girls! Just nowhere near me.

Sing it, girls! Just nowhere near me.

Sometimes I feel embarrassed when I think of things like this because I fee like maybe I should’ve known that feeling so many emotions about John Smith’s departure would embarrass me later. Which is like embarrassment on top of embarrassment, like that story “The Princess and the Pea.” But instead of piles of mattresses there are piles of cinematic shame. And instead of a pea there’s a tiny kernel of what’s left of my dignity. THIS IS DEFINITELY THAT DRAMATIC.

So all the musicals and the Pocahontas started a thought avalanche that ended with thinking about things I used to think were true about myself  that seem totally ridiculous now.  Put together, these things are called “TIDKAMUIWWTO,” which obviously stands for “Things I Didn’t Know About Myself Until I Was Way Too Old.”


Some of you will straight up “lol” at the thought of me being super chill about life, and really, I have no idea why I thought I was laid back. Perhaps it was a complete lack of understanding of what being an adult would be like. I had some vague idea that as soon as I turned 18, or maybe 21, one of my inner gnomes would  flip some sort of switch labeled “adult” and I’d suddenly be as confident and self-assured as the adults I saw on commercials, prancing around in their business suits while their armpits stayed fresh or their maxi pads weren’t leaking.

I definitely expected I would eventually achieve sort of a  “Santa’s coming!!!” type feeling about life – childlike excitement coupled with some type of incredible talent (like building rocking horses out of furniture or eating syrup on my spaghetti noodles) that would ensure I would maintain a blissfully happy, I-can-buy-all-the-My-Little-Ponies-I-want state.



At the time I was, in fact, aware that I was not the most relaxed child or adolescent. But I assumed that would all change when I finally made it to the Magic Land of Adulthood – a place where I could stay up super late, drive my very own car, and eat peanut M&Ms whenever I wanted to. Because everyone knows that people with unlimited access to peanut M&Ms cannot possibly have anything to worry about.

When I finally reached this blessed destination, I’m pleased to report that the Magic Land of Adulthood offered me many peanut M&Ms – but then it was like, “Pay these bills! Spend exorbitant sums of money on car repairs! You want to stay up late? Don’t worry – your baby is about to wake up and scream in your face for hours, then poop himself 30 seconds after you last changed his diaper!” Dang, Adulthood. You are kind-of a big a-hole.

Now while I have most certainly taken advantage of the incredible accessibility of  peanut M&Ms, as it happens I am more or less the same anxious, inflexible, must-do-everything-right-so-as-not-to-be-overcome-by-guilt Corinne I always was. Except the adult version has fairly healthy gums, stretch marks, and now gets to actually say things like, “No, sweetie, I don’t think Optimus Prime has a penis” on a pretty regular basis.

Yes, B.T., there's SOMETHING at the crotch, but I am positive it's NOT A PENIS.

Yes, B.T., there’s SOMETHING there, but I am positive it’s NOT A PENIS.


Maybe it’s because I compared myself to door-to-door Mormon missionaries or kids I knew who were homeschooled, but I thought my social skills were unmatched. I was pretty sure that if there was a conversation to be had, I would grab my sword and slay it,  like how He-Man slayed things with the power of Greyskull.



This terrible fallacy hit home one morning at church. I approached a girl I know-ish, standing in line for coffee. After two minutes or so of some pretty painful small talk, she turned her body ever so slightly toward the coffee line and ever so slightly away from me. Totally failing to notice this common social cue, I plunged ahead, saying something stimulating like, “So…work is good?” When she turned back to look at me, her face was like, “Oh – are we still talking?”

That was when I realized I might not be the He-Man of social skills. I might be more like the Skeletor, who was probably only evil because he was socially awkward and couldn’t figure out when to stop having conversations with people.

"Can we start a conversation? No?!! Well, then how about a taste of my HAVOC STAFF?!"

“Can we start a conversation? No?!! Well, then how about a taste of my HAVOC STAFF?!”


Growing up, people were always telling me how “mature” I was for my age. I am pretty sure I gave people this impression because I wasn’t much of a miscreant. I was real chatty, but besides that I pretty much always got good grades and did what I was told.

A few times, kids at school asked me if I was going to be a nun when I grew up. I don't think they knew about the Catholicism part.

A few times, kids at school asked me if I was going to be a nun when I grew up. I don’t think they knew about the Catholicism part.

Unfortunately, this was more a comment on my personality type rather than any mark of some form of advanced maturity. Doing the “wrong” things made me feel guilty and didn’t give me nearly as much satisfaction as doing the “right” things…so most of the time, I did what felt better, and in the process I guess I made it look like I was miles ahead of my peers.

But mistaking my do-gooder-ness for maturity is what my writing textbooks call a “post hoc fallacy,” which is basically where you make totally crap connections, such as: “At 12:30pm, I watched Golden Girls. At 12:45pm, I began to feel nauseated. Therefore, watching Golden Girls nauseates me,” which might be true, but you also left out loads of relevant facts, like you had Taco Time for lunch or heard Justin Bieber sing.

(Using “post hoc fallacy” in my blog makes me look like the smartest girl EVER. Plus, it increases my chance of actually remembering what that means by a solid 1%.)

A lack of grown-up skillz might strike you as the stupidest problem ever, but thinking I was so mature all those years was stifling. You can’t fix a problem you don’t know you have, right? Like, if Vanilla Ice was all like, “Hey Corinne, if you got a problem, yo, I’ll solve it,” I would’ve been like, “Go get your fades re-shaved, Vanilla Ice, ’cause I don’t need your help.” You see what I’m saying? Vanilla Ice was totally going to help me achieve greater maturity, which by the way I desperately needed, and I would’ve refused Vanilla Ice. It doesn’t get much lower than that.

Is is just me, or does Jesse Pinkman talking sound almost exactly like Vanilla Ice rapping?

If Jesse Pinkman fictionally existed in the early 90s instead of now, he would have been a lot like Vanilla Ice. Except with more meth.

Oh man, I could make this lost much longer, and if you want me to I’d be willing to consider it…but maybe you could tell me something embarrassing about yourself that you figured out after you entered the Magic Land of Adulthood.

You know what was a good surprise about this magical land, though? ESPRESSO.

The Most Demanding Board Book EVER

Baby Ham is turning 1 very soon!  One of his presents is this “sweet” little board book I found on amazon.com. It’s a touch-and-feel book, which is totally Baby Ham’s jam right now.

Because I didn’t see it in a store, I judged it’s fitness for our collection o’ books by the limited preview on the website. It didn’t strike me as particularly aggressive.

(Oh, and if you’re not familiar with the board book scene, touch-and-feel books have little sections on each page with different textures for babies to feel up. They’re much less creepy than they sound. Feeling = learning.)

When the book arrived the other day, I flipped through it and was pleased. It’s cute and it rhymes, which means I can read it in a sing-songy voice to my little Hammers, which will be wildly soothing.

He is, isn’t he? Good for you, pig! You’re going to be some exceptionally delicious bacon someday.

Like paper, right? But most wheels aren’t made of paper. Isn’t learning fun?!

See? It’s cute and simple. And little Baby Ham is totally going to feel this book and learn things about the textures of the world.

The last page, though…that’s where things start to get ugly.


Touch this cow right now, Baby Ham.

Wait, no, stop drinking your milk. Touch this cow instead.


I hope it doesn’t hurt his feelings when I read it to him.

Livin’ Tha C-Life

I am hungry like the wolf to blog, but if I do a long post that requires research (even if “research” actually means “watch the same Nicki Minaj video 27 times”) my head might explode. And also, if you were wondering if Nicki Minaj videos are less funny after 27 times the answer is H NO and NOT POSSIBLE.

I’m also trying to get away from the idea that all my posts have to be epic and get hip to write some shorter ones that offer just a little taste of tha C-life. That’s what I call my life sometimes when my domestic chores get me down.  For example:

“Corinne, it is unbelievable that you still have to two more loads of laundry to fold.”

“Yeah, okay, but you know what?  It’s totally fine! You’re not even mad about it ’cause you’re  livin’ tha C-life.”

See? It totally works.

So here’s a quick list of what I’ve been doing/discovering/awkwardly embracing lately. The list is kind-of all over the place, but tha C-Life likes it’s variety.

…cause sometimes tha C-Life is so bright I gotta wear shades.


  • Someone un-friended (de-friended?) me on Facebook this week. Person-who-shall-remain-nameless (not her real name) got offended by one of my snarky, how-dumb-is-this-small-town posts and straight up deleted me. Oops. At least I apologized this time. Last time something like this happened, my brain was awash in angry pregnancy hormones and I deleted her. Even though it was my fault first. So my point is, I became about 3% more mature this week. Someone give me a cookie.
  • Family psychological problems: my 3 year old son consistently displays a lack of ability to accept that I do not have male genitalia. Yesterday, for example, he told me I had five penises. Since I actually have zero penises, I can’t tell if having five would be awesome or terrible. Any penis authorities out there can feel free to enlighten me.
  • I heard  Ellie Goulding for the first time, leading me to finally form the question that’s been inside me for decades: why don’t I own more sheer shirts with sparkly hearts on the boobies?

  • And… I finally applied to the University of Oregon at Corvallis, but haven’t heard anything yet. I am trying not to obsessively check my application three times a day, but…it’s tough. Mama wants to get a degree real bad. Maybe I should have attached a picture of me in a sheer shirt with sparkly hearts on the boobies to my application. Nothing says “I’m serious about my education” like sparkly heart boobies. Am I right or am I right?

Anyone else been doing/discovering/awkwardly embracing things lately? Sometimes I feel like awkwardly embracing the teenage girls who make my iced coffees. But I don’t. At least…not physically.

Once is Never Enough (With a Song Like You)

Nobody is smooth anymore. You know? Like – when was the last time some dude (or lady) lured you into his/her love nest with nothing but a mustache, sunglasses, and a recorder? Never, right? So you see what I mean.

Warning: The first 90 seconds of this video are pretty mundane. But hang on (or fast forward) to 1:30 and things are going to start happening.

This is one of my favorite videos of all time. Why? Wow. Thank you so much for asking. It will pleasure me to break it on down for you.

First of all, the Captain and Tennille have some serious balls when it comes to performing terrible songs. These are the same people who had the nerve to publicly sing the lyrics  “Nibblin’ on bacon/chewin’ on cheese/Sam says to Susie/honey would you please be my missus.” These lyrics are from a song called “Muskrat Love”, one of the worst songs ever written or performed or basically that ever existed in the history of the entire world. I found a video of the Captain and Tennille performing this song in front of a willing audience. At several points throughout the video, the Captain creates what I assume are electronic muskrat sounds with the help of a heaping pile of keyboards.

It’s pretty painful to watch. If you made it through even 15 seconds I’m feeling quite proud of you. I watched it in its entirely two times, which is what is known as “suffering for my art.”

Now I need to let you in on a bit of crucial trivia. “The Captain’s” real name is Daryl Dragon. That’s right. I said DARYL DRAGON. And all I’m saying, all I’m ever officially saying, is that if you’re lucky enough to be born with the name Dragon, YOU DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, allow yourself to be nicknamed something as embarrassingly lame as “The Captain.” It’s pretty much the same as cutting off your balls and replacing them with cotton candy.

Back to the video in question! Maybe this song is called “Do That To Me One More Time,” but the video should be called “How To Seduce A Lady, Captain and Tennille Style.”  I’ve studied this video extensively so you don’t have to! Just think of how much time I’ve saved you!

I’ve taken the liberty of creating a quick rundown of what you need to do to get a ticket to ride this sexy bandwagon. (Ummm BTW, The words “sexy” and “bandwagon” put together like that make me think of those ladies who pose in bikinis in front of muscle cars, but instead of muscle cars they’re all sprawled out on a covered wagon.)


#1. Trust your instincts. Like the majority of the video for “Do That To Me One More Time,” seduction can be mundane. It’s a waiting game, homies. So grab your tiny brown cup of coffee and settle in to watch your lady walk along the beach. Listen to your heart, and you’ll know exactly when to grab that recorder.

#2. LADIES: No bras allowed! – You might get a couple of passing glances walking along the beach with your boobies all shut up tight in cell #36B, but you cannot expect anyone to seduce you via wind instrument if you don’t let those girls breathe.

#3. MEN: Ignore the top 3 buttons on your shirts. Really, if it’s not summer, what are they even doing there anyway? Hiding your gold necklaces? Disheartening your chest hair? Keeping all that polyester in the open position sends a psychological message that you’re open, too: to a commitment! It makes sense. And it’s pretty much the same message she’s sending you – “By choosing not to imprison my boobies I choose not to imprison our love.”

#4. MEN: Buy a recorder and let it emote seduction. This is a particularly crucial lesson. She’s all the way down on the beach, bro. How do you thinks she’s going to know you want her in your pleasure dome?  The same breeze that tosses her feathered hair will carry the sweet sounds of your recorder to her ears and she will have to investigate.

#5. How do you know she isn’t just some floozy who came to nibble your bacon? Or that he’s not just some asshole who invited you up so he could chew on your cheese? Because when he stops playing his recorder-slash-instrument of pleasure, it keeps playing itself. Have you ever experienced the kind of love that makes instruments play themselves? No? Well, maybe it’s because you insist upon wearing bras or hiding your mane of chest hair. Think about it!

I hope you’ve learned something here today. I know I have: Spend less time thinking about YouTube videos and more time doing videos on YouTube. What? Yeow!