The internet tells me that my name is unique. There’s approximately five other people in the entire world that say and spell their name like I do (and zero pencils, mugs, or other gift shop paraphernalia that exists with my name on it). I’ve met other Corrin’s, but they’re always taking away an -r or adding a damn -e (or both – xoxo Complicated Mama), and generally making my life difficult.

Like when a sweet older lady working the register in Walmart tried to compliment me on my name.

“Corrine, such a pretty name.”
“Thank you, but it’s actually Corrin.”
“No, it’s right here on your license. It says Corrine.”
“There’s no -e. It’s pronounced Corrin.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”

I actually went by the nickname Corrie up until college – by then it wasn’t worth the effort of stating my preference in a lecture hall of 200 students. I even have two distinct group of friends – pre-college friends that call me Corrie and post-college friends that call me Corrin. They each think the other is weird.

Then there’s the issue of the actual pronunciation of my name. When I introduce myself, my name comes out of my own mouth sounding like Curren. Admittedly, I talk fast and I have a bit of a Chicago-ish accent, so introductions are usually followed by confused looks. Karen? Connie? When I’m asked to clarify the pronunciation of my name, I slow down and say CORrin and they usually get it.

Until the next email I receive is addressed to Corrine.

Edited: I made a little Corrin 101 video. I’m more confused than ever.

I’m flying home to Chicago today to celebrate my birthday with friends and family! What are you doing this weekend?

• I had lunch with the Elizabeth Street Cafe with coworkers this week and it’s another place you have to visit if you’re ever in Austin. Pork belly bánh mì – do I need to say more?
• I expect Orla Kiely for Bed, Bath & Beyond to be even more amazing than the Target line from a few years ago.
• I love these layered iphone cases. Like, love love.
• Fuck your Missoni hand towels. This Tumblr made me laugh.
• After hearing all the buzz, I downloaded Fifty Shades of Grey. Yeah for smutty fiction! Have you read it?
• 40 secret iPhone features because the iPhone continues to amaze me.
• Ryan Gosling as a young Walt Disney would be perfection. He was  a Mouseketeer.
• 22,000 Hot Wheels. Just in case you ever wondered what that would look like.
• A stamp that looks like my glasses. I’m going to go on a stamping spree!
• How comfy would this rug be to step out of bed onto every morning? Too bad the yarn is $125 a skein!
• I’ve been on the hunt for the perfect mac & cheese for pretty much my entire adult life. This goat cheese mac & cheese may come pretty close.
• Apparently Marilyn thinks more highly of the Olive Garden than she does bloggers.
• I had way too much fun earlier this week live streaming the JayZ SXSW concert and dancing in my kitchen. (More fun, it looks, than some of the people in the audience. Nerdie white guys weren’t appreciating Hova!)
• I want this clutch. Bad.

I was scanning Twitter the other day (but really, when am I not?) when someone shared a link to What Does Your Desk Look Like: A Sneak Peek at Your Favorite Bloggers’ Desks. I admit to being a bit of a voyeur, so I dove right in.

I know it’s en vogue to embrace your faults. From bad mom to terrible cook to fashion disaster; everyone seems to have a gimmick related to being a nonconformist. But everyone’s desk was so messy that my OCD started to make me twitch. I mean, most of the time my desk looks like this, so you can clearly see my cause for concern:

Sometimes I do get wild and crazy and sloppy and my desk looks like this for about 15 minutes: (Note the day planner and bottled water if you’re struggling with the differences.)

Is complete disarray a hallmark of the blogging community? I can’t be the only blogger with a tidy workplace, can I? Is compulsive tidiness my gimmicky fault to embrace? What does your desk look like? I’ll resist the urge to tidy. Promise.

PS–My mom is probably so proud of me right now. I mean, she is the female Danny Tanner.

PPS–I just organized a Spring Cleaning day at work. You really do turn into your mother.

Passion. We’re told we need it. To go out and find it. To discover your passion is to discover what will bring you happiness and joy and make it rain puppy dogs and lollipops. Hell, students are now encouraged to take a “gap year” between high school and college to find theirs (I’m sure you can guess that I think this is complete and utter bullshit. Go to school. Get a job.)

But what about when passion isn’t enough? Just because you’re passionate about something doesn’t mean you’re especially good at it. Bravo to those that put their whole selves into drawing or calligraphy or macrame because they believe it’s their calling, I truly believe there’s benefit to enjoying and finding value in whatever you’re doing, but there comes a time when you just have to come to terms with being awful.

Case in point? My photography.

I love taking photography classes; listening to the professor explain concepts, critiquing and being critiqued, discovering great photos and the meaning behind them. I adore fiddling with my camera (Maybe my problem is that I’m more of a techy than a photographer?) and making the connection between this setting and that and how my photos change.

But most the of the time, my photos look like these.

Oh, yeah. Dirt.

Shadows. Or something.

Perspective. And a dirty river.

Oh look, my car. (Is it just me, or are these getting progressively worse?)

A half-dead, blurry tree. Wonder of nature, right there.

I call this one “origami in a dark room with no flash.”

Yeah. I’m bad. And it’s an expensive hobby to be passionate about and bad at. Are you terrible at anything you love to do? Do you fake it until you make it or do you laugh and do it anyway?

birdAve Etsy Shop

Moving to Texas wasn’t my choice.

I mean. I had a choice but I agreed because it was where my ex-husband wanted to be. Things weren’t good between us as far back as three years ago and I thought moving to where he wanted to be would make him happier and help our marriage. It didn’t matter to me where we lived as long as things got better.

I’ve since learned that there was not a direct correlation between his geographic location and our happiness. And now I feel like I’m stuck. When I’m really angry, I feel like I was tricked into moving and now I’m stuck.

I love my job. I’ve made some good friends. Austin is lovely. My good hair days outnumber my bad.

But I still feel stuck.

(PS to my sister. This is not a cry for help.)