Poetic Truth and Daisy

I'm wearing destiny on my fingertips.

Sounds pretty cool, right? All poetic-y and artsy. Actually, my little sister gave me pale pink nail polish for Christmas and it is called Destiny. And I love it, not only for its color but because I was able to wear nail polish for the first time in six months because I didn't botch it all up.

Daisy has been acting odd lately. And by odd, I mean kitten-y. And by lately, I mean ever since Perry was gone/put in a cage. As I said earlier, we brought Perry home on Christmas Eve to much delight and a couple hours of driving. To keep him from jumping or running or licking his ugly stitches, we have contained him in an old dog crate--it is black wire and made for big dogs, so he has plenty of room. But what does this have to do with Daisy? With Perry indisposed, Daisy is The Only Cat. She has reverted to kitten-ness: ripping open food bags and my special annual Chex Mix, letting me pet her for five whole minutes and playing around rather than sleeping. Is this good or bad? Hmm....

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!

The Christmas miracle kitty is home! And I got a camera! With its own cord! I love the holidays.

Solstice and Perry

Every winter Solstice, my family gathers in the living room by the lit fireplace and eats cookies, receives an ornament, and writes poetry about the year gone by. It's nice, rather quaint tradition, and according to my mother it originated when I was little, because right before Christmas is when toddlers start to go a little bonkers. Solstice is a nice quiet holiday to calm down. My little brother wrote short three-lined poems with the last lines as questions, my little sister did an acrostic and writing couplets, my mother wrote an eerie winter poem, I wrote poems about the Amnesty Inc. pen that I kept breaking and our tree angel, and my dad wrote a narrative poem about how he gave $20 dollars to a needy man with the requirement that he spend it on his infant son, and then later saw him buying diapers. We each received an ornament and enjoyed s'mores.

Then, Wednesday morning, I called the cats for breakfast and Perry didn't come. I finally found him in his hut by the window, but he showed no interest in eating. He vomited several times and meowed whenever anyone tried to pick him up, so my parents took him to the vet. The vets thought he had swallowed thread or floss, so my dad drove him to a specialty vet an hour or so away. Then we went through our usual business, watching the telly, trying to write this blog post (it's been three days), and cleaning. (My room currently leaves much to be desired.) So they went into surgery, opened up his stomach, and lo and behold. . . PERRY HAS A HOLE IN HIS INTESTINAL WALL! It was something he was born with, but that did nothing to prevent my mother from removing all the tinsel and obsessively picking up fragments. All in good reason, of course. Perry is recuperating and is expected home today--we hope. If not, we go visit him with chicken baby food.

Happy Holidays!

The Great Telly et al

As you all may have heard, I have a new television. I find this very exciting (free cable for a month!). I have not watched television at my home in three whole years.

Us watching television on the first day:
Me, Laura, and Peter: *watch television*
Laura: Ah! This is different!!!
Me: (calmly) No, Laura, it's not.
Laura: But it's all weird!
Me: Laura, when was the last time you saw this show?
Laura: Uhhh....
Me: Precisely.
Laura: Hmph.
Me: Just watch it, Laura.
Laura: *watches silently*
Laura: Ha! Aha! Look! It's different!
Me: Psh! No it's . . . *looks closely* not...no! I mean, yes! It is different! Aw, it's all 3-Dy.
Laura: *nods smugly*

The story of how this came to be is rather funny. Laura and I were banished to the dining room to play Sims. Laura likes to make dysfunctional families. She started off with a mother, a father, and a baby named Virgina. Then they had another baby, a boy, named Maine for the state--but she forgot the e, so his name is Main. Bored with the game, Laura divorced the parents but then made them remain friends. The mother then married a ready-made character: Christopher. The mother's name is Christina. No confusion there, of course. The dad, a misspelled Ghram, continued to sleep in the master bedroom with his ex-wife and her new husband, who soon had a baby girl named "Saraphina". Laura then put the toddler Main and the infant Sophronia in the same room as the teenage Virgina so that she could wake up every hour or two to change diapers/feed/snuggle/play with them. Laura also wanted Virginia to have a boyfriend, but the highest person with whom she was very close was her old babysitter, the kleptomanic non-aging gold digger Davie. However, right after Ghram's marriage to Jamie (now all the adults sleep in the same room), a vain snobby doctor who required us to add another bathroom for her, I made Virginia break up with Davie. Directly afterward Laura aged up Saraphina and Main, so that they were now, respectably, toddler and child. Unfortunately, since one of Christopher's dreams had been to "ask the newspaper boy to hang out", he came to our party, too, which was at 9am, and stayed, playing with our dollhouse, until 12am. Such as it is.

Anyway, Laura and I were disposed of while Peter played on the computer. Which is. . . ? Right by the television. So, while my parents loudly removed our old television, received the new one, unpacked it, and hooked up the new one, Peter played games. He even once looked at my mom as asked her what she was doing. "Working on the television." "Oh." He then commenced to resume playing on the computer and did not look up again until Laura and I were dancing around gleefully. His only comment was, "Where's our old television?" Such is the magic of technology.

Off to buy gifts! (I haven't bought any yet. :-o)

Guilt: is not refreshing. Stupid nonexistent proverb.

Does anyone remember that time I accused you lot of going on vacation without a computer? And it was (widely) true? I now realize how annoying that is. (No, not me, the non-electric trip.)

In school I made a plush penguin. It's blue and pretty cute. Of course, since I had to go on my trip, all I did was drive home from school, "HeyPetetakethisandfamilymissyoulove
youwherearemybooksonfashionablefeminismandAgathaChristieohthereseeyabye--",
drove to my friend's, walked around, and then drove for a good long while. More on that later. (Very, very long posts this week.)

So I text home to catch up and find that Peter has named my neat cute penguin Senor Penguin (again, photo cord) and takes him everywhere, from breakfasts of sardines to forgetting him in bed/in the couch/at the mercy of Perry. I then came home at 5:12 to find the much loved Senor Penguin pilled and smudged, but he did accompany Peter everywhere, so.

How's that for the (grateful) Christmas Spirit?

I've been MIA....

Let's play multiple choice!

Why has Emma not posted in 12 days?
a)Because she forgot.
b)Projects and homework.
c)It MUST be a broken computer, because Emma Darling would never disappoint us.
d)Ooh, tomorrow is our 5th month anniversary!
e)All of the above.

If you chose answer E you are correct! I must explain, though, that really A through C are all marginally correct--I forgot once, and have finished projects and homework duly, and yes we've had some trouble, but really the only problem is that I cannot for the life of me find a camera cord. (I know, it's sad.)

But when I find the cord. . . .

Snow and Advent!

So, I was sick for two days, and then today stood in 29 degree weather for forty-five minutes, sat still for five hours, and. . . SNOW!!!

Photos tomorrow, hopefully, plus advent pictures!!!

Two Days of Flabbergastednessosity

The weird set-up for November has led to an odd advent, in which today is the first Sunday of Advent but not December yet. So I am rushing about, wondering when we should buy our tree (this Wednesday, hopefully), how on earth other people already have theirs (gasp), and basically being a bother. Anyway, I shall try to show you all some pictures of my doings once they are done.

But until then, we shall wait (and drink tea and eat cookies and read magazines!)

Laura's Room and Its Sign

By orders, Laura has been (gradually) cleaning her room. Innocently, I came into her room, just to find an odd sign on her billboard.

Me: What is that?
Laura: I don't know, I found it in my room.
Me: *reads it* *laughs* Can I put it on my blog?
Laura: No.
Me: Please?
Laura: Fine. *goes over to billboard and commences to read it out loud*
Me: May I please look at it?
Laura: NO.
Me: Please?
Laura: Fine.


THE SIGN:

Laura

children (check mark)
mice (check mark)
oxen (check mark)
wolves (check mark)
geese (check mark)
mysteries (check mark)

A grocery list for disaster? I think so.

Black Friday, Yellow Monday, Green Wednesday. . . .

I know why it's called "Black Friday," (blah blah blah, stock market crash, October 29, blah blah blah) but I think that we should take things a bit further and name other days with colors. I mean, ads for Black Friday are scary. Stores open at 4am!!! Woman with her face pressed against an automatic door! Woman wrapped in clocks hyperly singing Christmas carols! Sales end at 3pm!!! Or, you can Google 'Black Friday' and watch the counter go up as, whilst shopping, people tweet, Facebook, and Myspace their purchases. All I'm saying is, very scary.

Have a merry Black Friday and a happy advent!

Thanksgiving!

Yes, Emma, we do have a US Pizza team.

*watches Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade*

And I was like. . . blink. . . .

Happy Thanksgiving!

'Twas the day before Thanksgiving. . . .

'Twas the day before Thanksgiving, and all through the house
Every creature was stirring, may nary a mouse;
A decorated mantle designed with care,
In hopes that many eyes would rest upon there;
The children were rushing upstairs to make beds,
As visions of whipped cream circled their heads;
Everything must be put away--even that cap!
But do not touch the kitties, asleep where they nap,
Do not run in front of me or there will be a clatter,
As I drop all my dishes and ask what's the matter.
Clean them up now, quick as a flash,
And do put away that old doll sash.
Malls and fake trees adorned with snow
And sparkling fake presents laying below,
It's not Christmas yet, yet these things do appear,
Like the blow-up Santa and electric reindeer,
But back to the chores, quick quick quick,
There are still six days until those of St. Nick.
But in twenty-nine hours the guests shall have came,
From where, we care not; let's just hope we remember their name;
Not Dasher, not Dancer, not Prancer nor Vixen
Not Comet, not Cupid, not Donner nor Blitzen.
Pay no attention to the reindeer names on the wall
Not sensible names for such sensible people--all
Have names like Bernard, now let a few more fly,
Auntie Gertrude, Cousin Wilbur (the one obsessed with the sky)
Every time he comes over he tells us how he flew,
And we smile and nod, like we think it's true too.
Now take this broom and go up on the roof
There shall not be a single marking, by my hoof.
To check what you've done, I shall be coming around,
Now leap up there--no ladder, just bound!
No, I am not crazy, and I could care less about your foot,
Just elevate it and stay away from the chimney soot;
If you track it in--well, just watch your back,
We're going to need guest rooms for guests to unpack.
And lots of hors d'oeuvres to keep them all merry!
If you are hungry, you may eat the last molding cherry.
Now hang up the cornhusk wreath and tighten the bow,
And please do something about all that fake snow.
When you're done with that, you may brush your teeth,
Wait! Come back! You're not done with the wreath!
And again I do not care about your big empty belly,
I gave you a cherry--you may not have a peanut butter and jelly!
Do put away that inflatable elf,
I've hardly the time do do anything myself;
With all of these jobs and my poor aching head--
If you said what I think you said you'd better be full of dread.
Why are we still talking? Now, get back to work!
How dare you not take off your shoes inside! Jerk!
And while I'm on the subject, the next time you blow your nose
Please stop using my favorite box (the one with the rose)
When you're up on the roof and you hear this whistle,
Come down quick or I'll poke you with a thistle.
Now everything's perfect--everything in my sight,
Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all a good night!

PRETTY PICTURE

I makes them.

Teletubbies' Salvation

What show have we been watching in our spare time? Hmm, I have no ide-TELETUBBIES, due to Peter's recent reminiscences. When Laura was little, Teletubbies was literally her salvation. Laura was small and pliable, and the overlord sun-infant was always there to help her. Not that she was obsessed--thank goodness no--but an hour or so of Teletubbies always helps, yes? Unfortunately, we can only find A Teletubbie Christmas I & II and "Blue Sky" where they explore colors. ('And that's important, it's like their race,' says my mother. MOTHER, says me.)

Of course, I am the one searching for our Disney Princess computer games. Cinderella castle design and find-the-object-that-links-to-clothes-princess-game are TOTALLY FUN.

I have become weirdly fascinated with my blister. It irks me, but I don't want to do anything to it. Ugh.

Ta-ta and teletubbies! (BEST GAMES EVER!!!)

Injuries, (law)suits, and reviews

If I've said this once, I've said it a million times--this blog is one part cats, one part my brother, and one part pain.

Due to a school project, I decided to look at all of the nauseating reviews for some of my favorite books. Then I noticed that whilst the reviewers were significantly different, their reviews were significantly SIMILAR. Does one read a review to write a review?

I have injured myself. I have a large, gross, and didn't-stop-bleeding-for-a-long-time gash on my left index finger. On my right hand, I have a blister on my thumb and a blister on my index finger--from, sigh, sharpening crayons. It's embarrassing. I have greatly decreased the number of band-aids in my house, but not as much as the time I covered all of my mosquito bites last summer.

SKIRTS ARE STILL IN AND THEY ARE GETTING LONGER!!! YAY!!! Since right now the 50's are in style, I figure it's only a matter of time until we reach the 1900's!!!

~Happy Veteran's Day! Thanks to everyone who has ever served.~

Horror, among other emotions

Dutifully and STUPIDLY, I signed up for snack duty for my church class. This has caused me SO MUCH PAIN. Now we have lemon poppyseed muffins, chocolate chip pumpkin bread and a jug of juice (to which I was like, COME ON, we're much too old for juice).

And of course, I do not want to be there when the snack is eaten.

Me: I have a temperature.
My mother: Emma. . . .
Me: I'm going to faint.
My mother: *walks away*
Me: *yells* I CAN'T GO!!!
My mother: *folds laundry*

Yes, I am scared of food and its eaters. Sue me.

Why I Haven't Been Posting; Also, Peter's Talisman

As you know, my posts have been far and few these last few weeks. Why, you may ask?

Because our stupid computers got amnesia.

1. My mom's laptop. Her story, her Sims games, gone. Very sad for all parties involved. Now it is fixed, though, and she has new Sims families.
   
2. Upstairs computer. We did get it fixed, but I have no bookmarks or favorites or ANYTHING. It. Was. Appalling. Also, Sims 3 only works for half an hour. Since Laura and I made a family with a musical teenager, three British-schoolgirl-esque triplet daughters, and crazy Cousin Arnold, who owns two cars and a motorcycle and has a huge mohawk, this SIMPLY DOES NOT SUFFICE. I mean, one can spend half an hour making Cousin Arnold live underground in a garage, and it WILL NOT SAVE.
3. This computer--downstairs. Last night, after lots of restarting, we clicked on my mom's name only to find that Everything was Lost. It is VERY maddening.

When I woke up this morning, figuring that I should explain this, I walked into the hallway to see Peter holding his "talisman"--a plastic squirt bottle to shoot Perry. In his other hand, he clutched a Playmobil Roman soldier-prince. The talisman in question was to protect him and make him feel safe from Jason, a hockey-mask-wearing, chainsaw-carrying character on a Halloween special for Roblox.

I have a coupon for Sims 3 Late Night--but we need to fix the computer first.

Periwinkle is an adult! On October the 19th, he finally switched to adult cat food.

Party. . . :-/. . . or not.

My neighbors are having their reception for their daughter's wedding in their yard. We are invited. Unfortunately, we have lost the invitation. Thus, we must resort to peering out the window to determine the formalness of the outfits and the time people are arriving. At least we don't have to worry about parking, because that might be a bit much.

Due to our ineptitude for finding and keeping things, we debated about the possibility of recycling the invitation. Of course, since everyone slept until eight, the recyclables were not recycled. Unfortunately, no one wanted to look through the recycling, and fourteen hours did not hail any significant help.

I'm off to look through the window, the wonderful window by the door.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Step one: Copy and paste the blog address. (http://onsconesandstardust.blogspot.com/)
Step two: Open a new tab: http://www.wordle.net/create
Step 3: Paste blog address into "blog feed" spot.
Step 4: Enjoy my apparently random big words.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Wednesdays

I know that today isn't a Wednesday, but this was a while ago. A long, long, while ago. I was getting my braces tightened, which is not the most entertaining activity in the world. Even if your dental hygienist is talking about math and how irritating she found geometry, cleansing your bones isn't exactly a fun-park ride. That is something I would like to see.

After losing to a machine while playing 20 Questions (very embarrassing), I decided to analyze my dear companions. To my left was a tall blond side-parted girl reading Seventeen and looking at pictures of Taylor Laughtner and wearing a pink shirt, minishorts (the horror), and glitter gladiator sandals who also had perfectly straight white teeth. To my right was an Asian girl wearing a blouse, tie, a plaid skirt, and loafers with a hovering mother, who would periodically exclaim about how her daughter was going to become a doctor/lawyer/president/Olympic swimmer and how important white teeth would be.

I felt so good about myself. :-o

The answer was duck-billed platypus.

Blog-o-sphere and French R's

Bored, I began clicking "Next, blog", hoping that I would find something amusing. (I accidentally made a typo. . . abusing. . . oops. . . .) I was very discouraged and had vowed never again to click said button, because all I found was twenty blogs about motherhood, twelve marketing art, and five posting random articles of writing.

I was appalled. I know that each child is individually special and unique, etc., but twenty whole blogs out of thirty-seven? I feel that, if your child really is special, you will not NEED to have a blog with 15,000 followers (seriously, not kidding) proclaiming his uniqueness. What they NEED is a superblog! on which they can all post about how darling little Susie is excited for the new baby/dear little Todd drew a picture/charming little Dahlia broke all her toys. I suppose being famous for motherhood is better than being famous for other things, but I personally would rather be viewed as a good mother and not a good blogger--but if that makes you happy, I shall send Susie a photo album, Todd a paint set, and Dahlia a toy store.

As the title proclaims, Peter has been saying all his R's Frenchily. I have had serious trouble comprehending him, because he has a small lisp, but once I realized that he was imitating a Japanese Nutty Ninja! I, um, went to brush my teeth.

DUN DUN DUN DUN! *trumpets*

As you can see, I am in a regal mood. La! La! Laaaaaaa!

(Warning:Sideeffectsmayincluderandomtypingofmusicalsounds.
ThankyouandrememberEmmaisnotresponsible
inanywayshapeorformfordamagedonetoyourearsandoreyes.)

In Emmaland, where everyone wears Victorian frocks and opens doors for Emmas and holds her parasol while she cleanses her gloves, her entrance to school is regarded as a national holiday. Mind you, that is not to imply that she seldom graces her educational building with her lovely presence, but that her very being there is special.

Holders-of-doors: *open double doors*
Trumpeters: *trumpet*
Roller-outers-of-red-carpet: *roll out red carpet*
Announcer: *announces Emma*
Me: *enters hallway complete in Victorian garb*
Random people in hallway: *laugh*
Me: *walks down carpet to grace them with the presence of my lovely and pointy parasol*
Random people in hallway: *bow/curtsy* *back away looking scared*
Me: *smiles*
Other and now wiser people in hallway: *throw flowers*
Me: *wakes up and sighs*
Random people in hallway: *gasp and run away from me*
Me: *looks appalled*

And yes, I switched narrative styles. My deepest condolences.

(***Thanks to Madeleine for the new sites!***)

3!

Ah, the number three. I recall a PE class in which, after surviving torture, you had to write something that fit into a subject--the subject being "multiples of 3". I was very pleased. While the other team stubbornly put "3, 9, 12, 15, 18, etc.", I put "0.03, 0.003, 0.0003, etc." It was almost as fun as the logical hula-hoop game.

Or 3 as in: "3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993. . . ", that is to say, pi. March 14, 2015, 9:26:53!

3 as in the amount of murders in my most recent novel--the passengers being, respectively, a jewel thief, an alcoholic, an illegal weapons smuggler, and the murderers and murderees.

3 as in "The Sims 3", which I got the newest addition of and appalled the dude at the counter by knowing which day the next add-on comes out. (October 26!)

3 as in the number of muffins Perry has stalked, perhaps because he finds them "easy prey". He will pick one up in his teeth and carry it to the living room to devour and play with.

3 as in the amount of tall onions that Daisy has munched the leaves/stems/whatevers of. She has SO much better breath than Perry.

3 as in the amount of Trident Fruit Stripe Gum pieces that I have given to my siblings. It is 6 months old. (Ssh!)

Most importantly, though, it is the number of months I have posted on my blog! Yay! *throws confetti into air*

Not everyone is lovely like me.

I went to the library again. After selecting my allotted five Agatha Christie novels, I headed over to my favorite section of the library. What is it, you ask? Well, as luck would have it, Melville Louis Kossuth Dewey decided to put Fashion next to Fairy Tales and Etiquette, next to which are Recipes, The English Language, and French. Thus I resulted it bringing home five whole books about words. c:

Ooh, I absolutely love Mondays with a large vocabulary.

Je t'aime, l'été.

Because, in summer you rarely get a cold. A fever, mayhap. A cold, no.

Guess what I have? Yes. And I got it from Rebecca. Mrpphles, says me. When you have a cold, there are only three things you can do: read, edit your blog, and do crosswords. And sleep. That's four. However, it is a well-known fact that one cannot sleep when one's little sister's Sleeping Beauty alarm clock sings for forty-five minutes, starting at 6:30. I suppose the logic is that if you don't wake up after practically an hour of squeakiness, there's no hope and the mice might as well go back to doing whatever mice do. Laura's really too old for it, but it's the only thing that can wake her up. Of course, when an hour passes and you go ask your mom to make you hot chocolate, she will ask you why you didn't turn it off. Why? Because you forgot your little sister was at a sleepover and expected her to turn it off.

So, after having a mug of warm hot chocolate, I shall retire to listen to the mice interlude, read the amusing comments, and ask said mice to make my bed so I can lie in it and do crosswords.

Auter. . . Wintumn. . . Wall. . . . Finter. . . . .

It seems to me that we have skipped a superficial stage of this season. Hmm, I wonder what it could be. . . autumn. . . hmm. . . .

WHY ON EARTH DOES IT NOT LOOK LIKE AUTUMN?

The grass is growing. Why? Because it's time for it to die. The ground is sprinkled in leaves, yet everything on the trees are green. SPRING GREEN. Some of the trees are bare, some of them are lush. I know that in our climate, there's a give-and-take two weeks of pretty trees before it rains and they're all plastered onto your car, but seriously. . . I'm still waiting. Perhaps the week-long rain plastered them early? So now what?

Also the clothes issue. I do not have any autumn clothes. My room is filled with a cacophony of clothes strewn across every surface. . . a desk. . . a bed. . . a cat. The only plus side is that my father refuses to shut my windows. Instead of going downstairs and outside and then inside and upstairs, I just walk into my room, freeze, melt, and get dressed. So simple. . . if I had the right clothes. Sigh. Shopping soon.

Excuse me. My mother has just informed me that grass is a spring AND autumn crop. Whatever. It's still weird. . . although I guess it dies in summer too. . . .

The clock tower had its own symphony last night. . . ten o'clock. . . how lovely.

Sun-day

Today I woke up at the lovely late time of oh-seven hundred hours. And nineteen minutes. This means only one thing. . . .

Kitty feeding time!

Perry was delighted, Daisy was mildly pleased, and I was disgusted.

Then, seeing that there was absolutely no one else up, I went back to my bed and read my murder mystery. Every character was a criminal, I think. Except for two. There were many triple-negatives. But what truly made my reading experience lovely was that my neighbors a football field or so away were playing their eight-a.m. concerto. The rest of my family slept until nine.

Peter went to his friend's birthday party yesterday.

Peter: *walks up steps*
(One of many of) Peter's friend(s): PETER!!! *giant hug*
Peter: Ack! *goes inside*
(From inside)Peter! Peter! I love you, Peter! It's Peter! I haven't seen you in forever, Peter! PETER!!!!

Yeah. . . .

GENIUS, PURE GENIUS

IMPROV EVERYWHERE

Push-Ups and Gladiators

Before gladiators go into battle, adorned with $50 pink sandals bearing their names, they say to the emperor: "We, who are about to die, salute you." This pretty much sums up my feelings for PE, which I have dubbed "Public Embarrassment".

Me: *does push-up*
Person next to me, whom shall hereby be referred to as "Ick": 90 degrees!
Me: What? *makes an effort to execute another push-up*
Ick: That's still 45 degrees.
Me: I don't get it.
Ick (exasperated): Your arms!
Me, who already knew that: *sighs and does push-up with effort*
Ick: Oh, never mind. *goes back to bragging about athletic prowess*
Me: *sighs and does last push-up*
Teacher: Good job, Emma! You're really working up a sweat!
Me: *smiles tightly, because I assume that no matter how dreadful and primitive PE is, that was meant as a compliment, and is equally sure that the teacher had been listening to the whole conversation, and may take points off of Ick's score for not showing me how to do a push-up and just insulting me instead*

I WAS NOT BORN WITH THE GIFT OF PUSH-UP-NESS. SORRY.

A (not-so) lovely walk in the neighborhood

The little brother is occupied with the occupying task of selling popcorn for Scouts. This causes me much amusement. He's really quite adorable in his Scout suit. I'm sure he'll have made a killing by the time he gets back.

Which brings me to my topic: I was hungry. I wanted a sandwich. I was too lazy to make it for myself. I wrote in unfluent sentences with made-up words like "unfluent". So, I did what any normal person would do: I went to my mom. Except that she was with Peter, accompanying him as ordered by Ye Old Boy Scout Manual.

So, I trekked into the neighborhood to look for them. Unfortunately, my neighborhood is not a straight line. It has trees and swerves and cul-de-sacs. Finding people you are looking for is not easy. Finding people you are not looking for IS easy.

Evidently, all my neighbors had made a decision to go out and stand in their yards. This appalled me, because I felt that they were staring at me. I wasn't doing anything queer. . . except, maybe, ya know, twisting my head around rapidly, walking in circles, muttering to myself, and glaring at everything. Yeah. . .

. . . then I fast-walked home. . .

. . . only to find that my friend with whom I have been trying to get in touch with for a month had called. When I frantically called her back, she reported that she was trying to cut a nickel with a pair of scissors. Needless to say, I gently and regretfully ended the conversation.

Then my dad came home, but when I asked him to please please please make me a sandwich, he replied "I'm off to see where Peter has gotten to."

I shall make my own sandwich.

I cannot spell "asthma".

I think our dog is asthmatic. Not in a hypersensitive, oh-my-goodness-he's-breathing way, but because he WHEEZES. I have taken on the now-loud burden of taking Scout on a walk every afternoon, and the steep hill by our house provides a lovely rhythm that perfectly complements our-neighbors-who-play-classical-music-at-all-hours-of-the-day, I-think-even-when-they're-sleeping's current selection, whilst everyone else makes darling flower arrangements. . . oops. Got off-topic. As I was saying before, Scout may be asthmatic. And I am definitely not buying him an inhaler. I love you, Scout, but I think you'll be fine.

When mentioning this to my mother, I asked why it seems nowadays that EVERYONE has asthma. My friends, the weird people who play sports, random people in the hallway. . . yup. My mother then suggests that some people think that it is because children are not exposed to enough dirt. To which I answer, at least Peter will never get asthma.

For you see, back in the days of toddlerhood, Peter would take a shovel, tighten his spit-bandana, and go down to bang on the "smokedirt". Also known as "whacking your shovel into dry clay by our basement". As a wee lad of two, he prevented the house from being remodeled by wailing "Nooooo! My smokedirt!"

This befuddles me, of course, because Scout goes outside for many hours. Every day. For his entire life. He shouldn't have asthma.

We turn two! (kinda)

In the frenzy of the the weekend (post tomorrow), I forgot to post on the second-month anniversary! Oops! So sorry! But I did add the rating-thingy, so please go back and rate!

Short and sweet post because I need to dry my hair. And stop Perry from consuming my scrapbook stickers.

My oddly awesome skirt

So, yesterday I go to school. La la la la la. Happy day. Schooly school school.

I got three skirts over the summer, and I was wearing one of them. I walk down the hallway (La la la la la. Happy day. Schooly school school.) and people keep complimenting my skirt. I don't even know some of these people. But still. COMPLIMENTS!!!

BEST DAY EVER.

Oh yeah. . . new sites on the sidebar! Check it out!

I have an addiction. . . .

To what? Chocolate? Club soda? Murder mysteries?

No, but good guesses. My addiction is to. . . reading the next books in series that I despise. I can't help it. And whenever I don't read the book, I feel really guilty. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGG. . . why does there have to be such annoying literature?!?!?!?!?!

I mean, seriously. I'll read the worst book EVER and read its sequel because I just can't help it. IT IS SOOOOOOO annoying.

In other news, only my little brother would receive two cards with hearts and flowers on them and "Dear Peter, I love you"s. Sigh, how we slightly envy the famous.

Perry has just lapped up a tablespoon or more of syrup. Shame, piddums.

We dressed out THREE times in three minutes on Monday. Please don't get confuzzled again, teacher dahling.

Apologies and Volleyball

Whilst attempting to play a sport with my peers (why is there no solitaire of the sport world?) I found myself in the lovely situation of apologizing over and over again. As reflex. Confound you, etiquette. I don't mean to be annoying.

I've left my athletic shoes on in order to inspire me to exercise. Good luck, shoes. Ah well.

The other fifty percent of my time is spent running after the volleyball. Why does it have to be round?

I fail to see how it differs whether I fail while participating or when I fail without participating.

Roses and Thorns

Today was the first day of my church group. We had to give a good thing--rose--and a bad thing--thorn--about our day/week. Pretty self explanatory, yes?

Leader: "Emma?"
Me: "My rose is that my siblings have been having a good school year so far and last year they didn't, so that's really happy and they leave me alone when I do my homework."

*pause*

Me, cont: And my thorn is that I've had to speak today.

*awkward pause*

Yeah, I'm such a good contributor.

Vampire Teeth

I have noticed an abundance of fake vampire teeth on our school grounds. Thus said, I asked my dear teacher to explain this odd phenomenon.

To which she replies: "Those are mouthguards, Emma."

Oh, how I loathe you, sports. You foil me every time.

Some of us have to chase after stupidity; others just sit and stupidity comes to then. And then, to quote my dear friend Selina, "Some of us make stupidity look fabulous."

Labor Day-- last day of summer or first day of autumn?

Let's take the moment to look outside and say. . .

ZOMG THAT IS FREEZING OW OW OW OWWWWWWWWWWW HYPOTHERMIA WHY ON EARTH WERE OUR WINDOWS OPEN LAST NIGHT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Please don't look so perplexed. 'Tis true. It's September. A bit too early for hot chocolate. But I made it anyway. Why? Because it's freezing! Technically, nothing has actually frozen. But still!!! Cold! A whole sixty degrees!

Remember when that was warm to us? This has led me to believe that, in fact, Labor Day is not the last day of summer but the first day of autumn. So we should celebrate in a fit manner. However, because my dear mother has just pointed out that we do not yet have any autumn food, we should have a big USING UP SUMMER FOOD! party.

I'm off and about. Aloha.

L'heure de le chatton impoli!!!

A post of updates.

This morning, Periwinkle. . . :

a)Chewed on my basket.
b)Climbed up my curtains, and. . .
c). . . thus fell from the curtains onto my bin of sentimental stuff. . .
d). . . which promptly toppled over and sent Perry under my bed.
e)He then clawed up my bed-skirt.
f)Knocked down a ribbon from my tall bookshelf.
g)Knocked down a hairclip.
h)Messed up my scrapbooking shelf.
i)Was yelled at, by me.

Hair status: Duck-y.

Just finished The Murder of Rodger Ackroyd and actually got the murderer correct. Joy. I can get a job now. Hooray.

The Sims 3 Fast Lane comes out September seventh and the new Poptropica island is set to come out September ninth. I'm so excited!

***I also need to update my links bar in the sidebar. I know y'all have access to lots of interesting sites, so if you could comment below or email me them, I shall put them up!!!***

7:36 and I burned my finger.

I wake up on a Saturday morning. Cue birds, violins, etc. Rays of sunshine. Ya know.

Well, someone cued my cat. Remember this post? I should hope you do. Go reread it now. This will make more sense.

I have a pretty wicker basket in my room that I use to put books in when I finish them before bed, as opposed to slamming them on the floor. Perry thinks it tastes positively scrumptious, and it has teeny bite-marks all over it. Picture coming soon. He also likes to chew plastic to pieces, as showcased by our lovely ex-lid.

Anyway, I'd hoped Perry had grown out of his issues, but he hadn't, and came into my room at 6:15. So I messed up my artistically neat bed and, against my wishes, was forced to get up at seven. . . as I would have if my cat wasn't a psychopathic maniac.

I am very mad at my cat now, so I stumble downstairs to warm up a cinnamon roll for breakfast. However, I burn the cream cheese icing and, in my starvation and thus requirement of food, I burn myself as well. Just a little spot on the finger, but it's like a constant pain. I am not a hypochondriac/an exaggerator/dramatic.

Not bad for a morning of pain and hummingbirds.

[Like my new poll?]

I washed my mouth with soap.

Really truly, I did.

I was brushing my teeth and not really paying attention. Why worry about dental hygiene? Sure, it's expensive, but you could be thinking about the murder mystery you finished last night (The Patriotic Murders) which was about a dentist who was murdered. . . actually, never mind what I just said.

I accidentally squirted the hand soap onto my toothbrush. Then, realizing what I had done, I rinsed it under water for approximately half a minute or so. Evidently, that did next to nothing, and I brushed my teeth for hardly two seconds. I was counting.

I fail to see how this would prevent me from cursing.

Je n'aime pas vendredi.

Un-Luck O' the Irish

Meaning well, I was about to bid my dear friend a bit of luck over the interwebs, but then something struck me:

THE IRISH ARE NOT LUCKY!!!

They were conquered by the British. Conquering isn't usually a fancy word for a tea party with all the trippings. It is, though, sometimes. I've been to one. You'll understand someday. But anyway, NOT LUCKY.

Then they lived on potatoes. POTATOES. I mean, I like potatoes. But potatoes every day? Way too much starch.

Then the potatoes rotted and the Irish died.

Then they moved to America, where they were forced to work in factories that could maim them and got sunburns.

Luck of the British to you too, chap.

I've been busy, apology accepted?

MY DEEPEST APOLOGIES for not posting for FIVE WHOLE DAYS. The first day of school put me out of whack, and I don't know what my new posting schedule will be. We'll see. c:

Please follow & invite!!!

I just made a trip to the library. Here is my list of current books. After this post, you can find them in a linky-box-thing in the sidebar.

List being:
-Victorian Fairytales, Michael Patrick Hearn: Hello. Victorian Era = AWESOME.
-The Murder of Rodger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie: BLOODY MURDER!!!
-Miss Manners' Guide to a Surprisingly Dignified Wedding, Judith Martin: It's manners. And rules. And polite ways to tell people you aitch-aye-tee-eee them.
-Miss Manners A Citizen's Guide to Civility, Judith Martin: I need not say anything, yes?
-The Big Book of Beastly Mispronunciations, Charles Harrington Elster: I don't think I have to explain, but will anyway. There, I just did.
-20,000 Years of Fashion The History of Costume and Personal Adornment, Francois Boucher: Victorian Era!
-The Patriotic Murders, Agatha Christie: MURDER.
-Remembered Death, Agatha Christie: DEATH.
-The Body in the Library, Agatha Christie: CORPSE.
-Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, Agatha Christie: Do I ever scare you?

Homework calls. World Peace Recipe to follow!

Why.

My neighbors have a pebble-lined perfect sand rectangle in their front yard with a statue in it.

One day, I was walking by with my friend and commented on how peculiar it was that they had a statue in the middle of their parking space. She looked at me, laughed, and said "Emma, that's a zen garden!"


Evidently, a zen garden looks just like a parking spot.

SUMMER!!!

If you're on the computer, please at least go here.

My Cats and the Deathly Compost

Well, I think it'd be a best seller. And make movies. And be annoyingly popular.

There's nothing much to hodgepodge, but here are my rules for church dressing:

-No shoulders. We do not care that you are giving yourself skin cancer by tanning. I mean, we do care, but we're focusing on the Lord, not your shoulders. And some of us (me) are thinking about how stupid that is, even though we have to do it before the "forgive our sins" part.
-No backs. I don't even understand this one. Why would you want to show off your back? And who wants to look at your back?
-No flip-flops. It's very noisy. Even though they were very "in" last year, and they may be the only nice pair of shoes you have, DO NOT WEAR THEM.
-No layers. A nice suit jacket, shrug, or cardigan is okay. Church is cold, yes? But REALLY? LAYERED TANK TOPS?
-No miniskirts. Some of wish you would keep that at home. Most of us, actually.
-No t-shirts or anything else sloppy. I should think this was obvious. If you have nice clothes, wear them. If you don't, go buy some.

My rules for church behavior:

-No excluding people. Well, this is obvi. I pity you.
-No "pretending not to see" the eight-year-old usher. We do not discriminate. If he's the one closest to your entrance, then you receive the pamphlet from him. If you have to crouch on the ground, so be it. I do not pity you, I just hope you're not wearing a miniskirt. See above.
-No agreeing with whatever the minister says to your neighbor every time he says something. Come, come.
-No somersaults. I don't think I have to explain.
-No running. There are lots of sweet elderly people.

I digress.

Yard Mall Sale Expo

Yesterday, we went to the famous "yard sale" at the church near the mall that held the school expo. This is what we purchased:

-White blanket for my sister's bed with a strategically placed sticker to hide stains; my mom's getting them out, though.
-White summer comforter for me!!!
-Three white 'kid' napkins.
-White tablecloth.
-China-floral-Roman numerals clock.
-Pack of doilies (25 cents!)
-Jeweled silver picture frame (for my sister).
-Silver candle holder in a leaf pattern with white glass in the leaves.

My aunt got:

-Four silver candlesticks.
-A "dust ruffle".
-Pretty floral napkins.
-Four empty "gold" picture frames.
-Antique-looking oblong frame.


All before ten o'clock! We went to the wimpy farmer's marker there. I like it as much as--other people, but the one in my town is SO MUCH BETTER.

I'll dwell on that later.

Short and sweet; like my brownies and how long they last(ed)

Hair status: Renaissance Faire-y. Get it?

My little brother still pertains to his opinion that I need a favorite dinosaur. Update soon.

We have a new reading corner and I am relaxing whilst reading in my bean-bag-chair.

I allegedly need new jeans.

I just bought the last of my summer bread. Sigh.

Perry likes to sleep on the stairs. This concerns me.

And, at last, I have a recipe I wanted to share with you.

Makes one 14-ounce smoothie

1/2 cup frozen organic blueberries
1/2 cup frozen organic strawberries
1/2 cup chilled green tea, unsweetened
3/4 cup plain low-fat organic yogurt
2 tablespoons ground flaxseed
Turbinado sugar or other natural sweetener to taste

Combine all ingredients in an electric blender and blend on medium speed until smooth, about 20 seconds. Garnish with fresh berries and serve. Note: For a nondairy alternative, you can substitute cultured soy for the yogurt.

Thank you, Martha Stewart!

And with that, I conclude.

My Corrupt Brownies and Me

RememberyesterdaywhenIhallucinated?Yes?Yes?WelltodayIdecidedtomakebrownies!
Evidentlytheymakemeveryhyper.HAHAHHAHAHAHA!Iseriouslyjustdidlaughoutloudrandomlythere.
:):):)

*deep deep breath*

I made Ghirardelli Double Chocolate brownies because as much as I like making stuff without mixes, Ghirardelli simply is THE BEST chocolate ever, and hello, yummy brownies with some work already done for you=extra-ly scrumptious.

First, I grease the pan. I now know to hold it at least six inches away from the pan unless you want to be surrounded by oil clouds. Very gross. Then I get the egg, water and canola oil. Because I am psychotic, I read the back and discovered. . . THERE IS A SERVING SUGGESTION FOR CANOLA OIL! It is ONE TABLESPOON. I am really hoping this is for people who make up recipes. Really, really hoping.

The brownies are yummalicious, so I had a rather large one whilst I mused upon my eventual taking over of the world before I graduate from my current school. Brownies are very good listeners.

Also, yesterday I discovered this blog which is about this young lady who is renouncing traditional shopping for a year and instead has given herself a budget of a dollar a day for a year to buy really ugly dresses and shirts and the like and sew them into something wearable and stylish. She also has a cooking club of which I am extraordinarily jealous. Here is a recipe she posted for a cake in a mug. I plan on making it this autumn or winter.

Queen of the World signing out.

Athletic Apparel (rhymes with "Christmas carol")

As you all know, I have believed myself to be unathletic. However, I am actually quite good once I get over my fear of the ball, as it turns out. My only REAL problem is that I am not competitive. Not such a big loss, actually, until I realize I'm supposed to CARE if I get knocked out because someone threw a ball in my face. My usual attitude is muted unenthusiasm.

{Okay, I must stray from the topic at hand. Since my computer believes that "unenthusiasm" isn't a word, which it probably isn't. Neither is "unathletic," evidently. So I Googled it and clicked "etymology," which is how the word came to be. (Sparrow grass to asparagus, remember?) And the page didn't explain unenthusiasm, just enthusiasm. Then I noticed a little fact at the top (are these websites trying to suck up to me?) that said: "Do you know what 404 means when your computer says "Error 404: Server not found"? Click here to find out!" or something along that line. It might be "404 not found." Anyway, I clicked "here" and discovered that 404 is slang for. . . wait for it. . . wait for it. . . a stupid or ineffectual person! The question is, who is the 404? The computer? Me/you? The person who set up the server? So many questions.}

However, I now own two pairs of PE shorts, fancy running shoes (which I'm supposed to have anyway; I have weak ankles and no arches), athletic socks, AND I know how to put my hair in a ponytail! Kinda sorta. . . . So I can at least LOOK like I love sports. It's weird, but t-shirts make you want to exercise. Maybe that's just me. And I might be hallucinating, like this morning when I thought I smelled brownies cooking. Sigh.

(I put up a poll! Please vote. . . you can check up to two boxes.)

Quelle surprise! C'est mode!

IT'S THE ONE-MONTH ANNIVERSARY OF THIS BLOG!!!

If no one comments I'm going to start writing my blog posts in French. Seriously. I don't mind.

I also REALLY want your feedback on the new history order.

So, comment, commenter, en anglais ou en francais!

Told ya I didn't mind. I guess, though, perhaps you all aren't commenting people, although my past posts beg to differ. I must assume, then, that ALL of you have decided to go on vacation without a computer. I am happy as long as you are following, but I know that you are reading it when I see your comments, yes? And don't forget, INVITE AND FOLLOW!

Like divide and conquer, kinda, the same tone, but whatevs.

What I had intended to write about today was fashion, so the French fits in nicely. The thing is, I don't understand it. I'd love to say I do, but I don't. Somewhere in the world, some fancy-smancy "genius" designer (who is probably actually a maniac with an inheritance to whom, as a toddler, some stranger said "My, what a clever imagination. You could be a fashion designer," and then laughed, ruffled his hair, and departed from the front of a very "in" store.) is parading innocent people around in hideous shoes, Lady GaGa hairstyles, and outfits that may very well be old blankets like the one he was sucking on in front of that store that fateful day (see above) and then some fashion critic (who probably only became one because his sister said to him, after he criticized her outfit, "Well perhaps you should be a fashion critic, then, and make money while being mean." and walked away in a huff.) says to the people sitting around him, "This is fashion."

Now we go to Suburbia, where people wear tight shirts, jeans, and the skirts with the band and labeled clothes. It does not resemble Mr. Inheritance's line one bit. So what is he doing? I don't know. Do people buy his clothes? I should hope not. Where does he get his income? We probably don't want to know,

And why are tight shirts "in?" The person buys it from the store because they like it/it is "fashionable, the store buys it from the designers for the same reason. . . and why do the designers make it? Does that mean that, if I was a designer, I could make a whole line of sheep-printed skirts? And if the aforementioned critic liked them, everyone would wear them?

I need to go eat breakfast.

This post contains 4% of your daily hodgepodge!

On Saturday we rode a truck to the library and made lovely rubber marks on the road. I got more murder mysteries! On Sunday, I finished all the murder mysteries and went to church AND my cousin's second birthday part, where he devoured the face of a 3-D bear cake.

As it turns out, my favorite piece of classical music is Franz Schubert's Symphony No. 6 in C, D. 589.

Also, my earphones have broken. Snickerdoodle. You will notice my weird capitalization in the title. I don't know why I capitalize my titles oddly. And, I posted a cloud of the labels, so you can read every post about Daisy if you want to.

Mintal Hygiene

Ever since my teeth were enslaved by these "braces," I have been ordered to brush my teeth in a certain way. A certain EXTENSIVE way. First, you use the pine-tree brush to clear out the spaces between the metal brackets. Then you floss your teeth, which is complicated because you have to go under the archwires. We clock this at four to five minutes. Then you brush your teeth with water for two minutes. If it's morning or night, you swish with extra-strength mouthwash for one minute. Then you brush with toothpaste for two more minutes. Behold, another five minutes.

IT TAKES SOOO LONG.

Also, because I am me and thus slightly addle-headed, every single dental hygiene thing that I have is either extreme extreme extreme mint or green, to match. The resulting breath is so minty I could probably wilt flowers, especially if I used the mouthwash. I could wilt people's brains.

Off for the first time-consuming ordeal. Sigh.

(Remember the "shellac" story? Well, guess what: shellac is made by bugs. They ooze it onto trees. :) Made you learn!)

(I added something new to the sidebar. --> And I have a whole bar of links for you! I am also trying out a new format for the history. Do you like it?)

{Please note: I have discovered that I cannot invite my friends to follow my blog unless I am following it, which I do not desire to do. If y'all could invite some of your/my friends for me, that would be great and I would REALLY appreciate it!}

Reciprocation. . . erm. . . .

Remember the days of preschool when you would regularly go over to someone you barely knew's house? I'll let you wince while you remember those hectic days of glitter glue and sprinklers. Eek. And remember how you would reciprocate? Key word, that is. Reciprocate. You know, returning the invitation(s).

Well, in my days of why-are-you-so-surprised-that-I-stay-peopled-out-for-three-weeks and I'm-still-friends-with-you-I-just-need-a-break, I have forgotten the art of reciprocation. This only occurred to me in the middle of July, of course. I've been to a couple of people's houses and haven't reciprocated once, and I did not have a birthday party.

Of course, this is just because I found out that I don't like seeing people all the time, but it is a bit embarrassing.

Organizing is nice until SOMEONE messes it up

I am sure that you all already know that I like to organize. Not necessarily my room, but it's a work in progress.

However, my email is so organized that it scares people. I have filters and folders sorted into patterns sorted into colors sorted into labs. It is like the FBI of emails. You know, secret documents in big rooms. All sorted perfectly. Emphasis on PERFECT. But then the hoity-toity Gmail team has to RE-ORGANIZE IT. Well, they redid the layout. Very annoying.

I am an introvert, as I have already expressed many times, and one of the big info-rules is that introverts do not like people messing with their organization. This is why I freak out is someone erases with the wrong side of the eraser or presses down too hard when using my pen.

So now I must live with my ugly email. Sigh.

Oh, the life of the insecure.

Calendaro Ordero

I mapped out everything I want to do so that it will happen. Much easier than manipulating. And it works 99.9% of the time! So, today, for example, we are going to a store in the mall that carries parasols. Very exciting, yes?

The other good thing about my calendar is that I can color-code it. Usually I keep everything in my head. This has lead me to a theory of why I spout out random facts: all the other things that I remember shove them out. I don't mind it, though; I still remember everything. Take that, brain.

In other notes, yesterday my siblings and I had a great deal of fun doing electric stuff. We made a fan, doorbell, etc.

Sorry for all the shortness of late, but I've not been in my best moods.

Hodgepodge and MURDER MYSTERIES *shriek*

I do not remember what I did Saturday. This saddens me.

*mulls*

I went to the library and have since been reading. . . MURDER MYSTERIES!!! Just a tip: it's usually the guy or his wife. Or the guy pretending to be his wife. That was a weird story.

I also found shampoo with trivia on it! So happy! My family has just accepted it as "another of those weird things Emma does." Sigh. Oh well, still happy. :D

Am also wishing that I had an extra $48 lying around. Make that $70. . .no, $93. . . I might need a lot more. Must. . . close. . . tab. . . .

As I am feeling rather hyper and have thus zoomed through my hodgepodge subjects, I shall get a quote from Peter.

"Velociraptor means "swift thief."

There, y'all learned something. And now for Laura's quote:

"Paper towel."

Have fun with your new knowledge.

Thunder, Lightning, and Purring

Last night, as y'all probably well know, there was a huge-o thunderstorm-o. This fact was revealed to me at exactly 12:37 am by a blue flash of lightning and then a crack of thunder--I call it a "crack" because it sounded just like those rice cake things your mom gives you when you're a toddler to occupy you in the grocery store, as opposed to stealing samples. Just a really, really big rice cake, say as large as the atmosphere around the Earth.

This giant rice cake crackled into little pieces, accompanied by flashes of lightning that were hotter than the sun (really truly, they are. I force you to learn.) and possibly brighter as well.

So I kinda hid under the covers until Perry came over, crawled into the nook of my legs, and went to sleep. Having a purring kitty relaxes you. I strongly recommend it.

So peopled out. . . I might need some excuses.

Berries, Cobblers, and Pies

As part of my goal to accomplish something every day before school starts, I requested a berry-picking expedition Monday. My wish was granted.

Being fair-skinned, we applied our sunscreen religiously. Of course, I did not know that this was a new kind of sunscreen, and it was spray-on 100+ SPF. IT WAS LIKE SHELLAC. I could not move my arms. I had an exoskeleton. And it was greasy. It pooled in the dents between my knuckles. Worst of all, it gave us a temporary yet still horrifying spray-tan. Fortunately, I was still able move my arms enough to pick a couple of pounds of blueberries.

Then we made a blueberry pie and a peach-blueberry cobbler. I'd elaborate, but eating pie makes me tired.

Bribes

As an older sister with a brother five years younger than me and a sister two years older than him (do the math, y'all, you know how old I am, 72, of course) I have found bribes to be essential in everyday life, especially since one is very, very, popular and the other has her ears pierced. My only claims to in-charge-ness/big sister rights are a) I'm taller than them and b) I'm older than them. Here are three few such scenarios:

Me: *plays on computer*
Peter: *whines* EMMA!! GET OFF!
Me: Make your cute face!
Peter: *makes cute face*
Me: Aww, he's so adorable!!!
Peter: *continues making cute face*
Me: You are the cutest wittle Petew in da whole wide world! How about I find a game for yooou and I'll play it for you in case it's hard!
Peter: *smiles and makes cute face*
Me: *celebrates internally*
(Note: Unfortunately, the game Peter chose is this: http://www.youdagames.com/Zoo-Escape-game-info-4497 Click "Play Online" and turn on the sound.

Me: *steals chocolate-chip cookie from top shelf of pantry*
Laura: *catches me* EMMA, what are you doing?
Me: *thinks fast, puts finger to lips, hands her a cookie*
Laura: *munches away happily*

Me: PETER!!!
Peter: No.
Me: I'll give you a gummy worm!
Peter: An orange one?
Me: Sure. . . .
Peter: Yippee!!!


Et cetera. Do with this what you will.

Cream Puffs, the evil time suckers of doom that taste yummalicious

See above for what I did yesterday. For six hours.

My mother has decreed that no one can go on the computer on weekends, to set a good example for my little brother, who is embarrassingly on the computer quite often. I hang my head in shame, etc.

My mom made Playdough Saturday, which we have adored to pieces. :) It is a nice distracting activity from TCOD.

We're going berry picking today, yay.

This is a rather roundabout post, with no real point. But I have lots of posts with points coming up, including rules from Laura's Master of Piercing's complimentary slip. Which reminds me: I may have forgotten stuff in that post, such as she can wear hoops immediately, get in the water, and got a lollipop after she got her ears pierced.

It's "Change the way you see yourself, not the way you look" week, and I wanted to tell y'all. http://operationbeautiful.com/

We got Perry a soft fluffy wand-toy which is now covered with cat spit. We also got SimCity Society, which we are very excited about. It's not the new Sims games, but still.

I am so glad I already went school shopping.

I'll be pointier tomorrow. From now on, Mondays will be Hodgepodge Day. And my favorite day.

I should really press "Publish Post."

Reaching. . .

Oh yeah, FOLLOW!!!

REACHING. . . .

Laura's UPDATED ears (yup, she did it)

Yesterday at four o'clock, Laura departed with *GASP* the intention of getting her ears pierced. (Yup, at the tattoo parlor, see here) and she did. She actually went through with it.

On his business card, Laura's piercer had "Super Wicked Awesome Master Piercer," which just shows that we did indeed get the right person to pierce her ears. It reminds me much of my cousins--the dealer from whom they bought the car had "The Master" on his business card, and thus provided a name for their car.

Instead of getting studs, she got a hoop. Not a big hoop, but it goes just-under her ear and back up again. As my mom keeps reminding her, she would have gotten the same mini-hoop if she had gotten her eyebrow or belly button pierced. She also got it pierced in a different way than my mom had. I'm not sure if this is widely used nowadays or what, so please voice in if you know. The guy used a hollow needle, so a tiny hole of her ear is in the compost as we speak.

Last night, we accomplished the difficult task of soaking her ear in salt water--five minutes per ear. The ordeal was awkward for her--seeing as leaning sideways isn't very comfortable--but great for Peter and me, who got to watch more television online. Television is evidently very good at distracting you from the eerie fact that salt water is dripping down your neck. We also got cream-cheese brownie pieces, which I fed to her.

She attests that getting her ears pierced hurt quite sharp for a second, and the first hurt less than the second. My little brother compares it to being clawed by a crawfish. And she can wear hoops immediately after getting the mini-hoops off at the end of September. And they make her look more grown-up, which is weird for me, because I am losing more of my big-sister rights.

So far, no infection or pain. . . I have the lovely joy of being asked to "smell her ears" because they have watermelon-scented antibacterial-soap.

As for a Perry update, last night he and Daisy stole a bag of compost left on the counter and took them upstairs to munch on--because it had bread in it. Sigh. And they ate it by my room, so that just proves what a lovely person I am. I bet all you lucky people can't say that, so. . . yeah. I'm awesome.

Perry: the unwanted feline alarm clock

Y'all know me: I love waking up early. However, I like to sleep into seven o'clock when given the chance.

Then comes Perry, who has pushed "Waking Emma up and 5:15 or 5:49" into #2 on his to-do list, right after "FOODFOODFOODFOODFOOD!!!!!" unfortunately for me. Every morning he prances into my room and commences nudging my face, chewing everything plastic, and mewing. Of course, once the sun comes up he sits down and purrs whilst I give up on getting my two hours of sleep back.

My mom has started locking him on the screen porch. And Daisy, because once Perry pries the door open, she loves to come in and bathe herself, hygienic little kitty that she is.

I'll update you on a future post along with Laura's soon-to-be-updated ears.

My Sticky-Note Obsession

A couple of weeks ago, my mother forced me to clean my room. (See here.) I was not pleased. She was.

While I groaned and moaned, my mom organized my desk drawers. She thus discovered that the amount of Sticky Notes that I possess was larger than half the drawer. It included "E" sticky notes, heart sticky notes, sticky notes from my grandfather's health conferences, accordion sticky notes, mini sticky notes, sticky notes for school, sticky notes for home, apple sticky notes, sticky notes for lists, sticky notes for trips, sticky notes from hotels. . . the list goes on.

As my mom wedged stack after stack of sticky notes in my drawer, she began warning me about my obsession. I then reminded her about her own collection of index cards. She was suddenly satisfied with her work and ABANDONED ME in the ROOM OF GLOOM.

But yeah, I cleaned the rest of my room, and I now can sleep in peace, knowing that all ten million of my sticky notes are safe in their drawer.

I really hope my little sister collects desk dividers. . . .

Interview with Peter: Sauropods & Food

Ah, the whimsical life of we who boink our noses into our bed headboards on the one day our cat doesn't wake us up. . . . I'm not sure why I made an entire post about breakfast yesterday. A short one, too. Hm.

Here's the interview.

Me: PETER. Come over here so I can interview you.
Peter: Interview me?
Me: Yeah.
Peter: ANNNH!!! I was going to say the word but then I forgot it because of YOU!!!! Hmph.
Me: *waits a while* Peter?
Peter: What? What does what and you're saying mean. 'Cause if you don't tell me anything, then I'm not going to talk to you.
Me: Okay, Peter, would you please come over here? Or do you want me to ask you from here?
Peter: I not talking. And you didn't tell me what that means.
Emma: COME ON.
Peter: What's an interview?
Me: It's where you ask questions and someone else answers.
Peter: Okay. I'll start.
Me: No! I ask the questions!
Peter: I won't interview otherwise.
Me: Fine.
Peter: What was the biggest dinosaur?
Me: Um, a sauropod.
Peter: What type of sauropod?
Me: I thought sauropod WAS a type.
Peter: Remember this, Emma. There are two different types of sauropods. Wait, make that three. There's a long one, a procerapod--
Me: My computer doesn't think that's a word.
Peter: There's a titanosaur, and a big one. You might be spelling them wrong.
Me: Fine. My turn. So--
Peter: You have to guess!!!
Me: I have to guess?
Peter: Yes! It's not the titanosaur, a procerapod, or a long one.
Me: Oh. So it's the big one?
Peter: Yeah.
Me: Can I ask the questions now?
Peter: I already did!
Me: But I--
Peter: Why is there a big "L" and a small "A?" *laughs*
Me: Where?
Peter: Already. *points*
Me: That's a little "L."
Peter: I mean small "A."
Me: But I already capitalized the "I."
Peter: I want you to answer the question: what was the biggest dinosaur?
Me: A big one.
Peter: NO!! No. No, no no.
Me: Um. . . the one that swims and is as big as our house?
Peter: Brachisaurus? No way.
Me: My computer doesn't think that's a word, either.
Peter: Emma, you spelled it wrong. Do you want me to get my book?
Me: Fine. Get the book.
Peter: Do you think it's this one?
Me: That's Brontosaurus. It's not real.
Peter: Yes it is! It's Apatosaurus!
Me: Whatevs.
Peter: This is how you spell sauropod. See?
Me: Yeah.
Peter: Pooey.
Me: I already spelled sauropod correctly.
Peter: On every single one?
Me: Yes.
Peter: Answer my question!
Me: Fine. I give up.
Peter: Lee-o-lee-o-lee. It's U-tral-SAURUS. (Note: pronunciation guide only, as I'm too lazy to find the real name.
Me: It's Utahraptor? I don't think I spelled that right.
Peter: NO!! RAPTORS ARE TOO SMALL. I can't find my other book, Emma.
Me: *sigh*
Peter: It's Utralsaurus. Just put them together.
Me: No. Let's move on. Can I ask a question now?
Peter: Okay. *sigh*
Me: So, Peter. What is your favorite food?
Peter: Don't do so before my name!
Me: But that's what I said.
Peter: *laughs at accidental keyboard shortcut that italicizes stuff by surrounding them in code*
Me: What is your favorite food?
Peter: I like Pete. And I won't tell you for a long time.
Me: This is an interview. You're supposed to answer questions.
Peter: You did for long time!
Me: Well, yeah, now it's your turn.
Peter: Okay! It's tangerine. Wait, it's not tangerine. It's. . . um. . . what's that thing called that you didn't want, Emma?
Me: It's an apricot, and it has no flavor.
Peter: I love apricots. My turn.
Me: No, let's continue this another time.
Peter: No.
Me: Yes.
Peter: N-O N-O N-O!!!
Me: Yes.
Peter: Hmph!
Me: But we'll continue it later!
Peter: No!
Me: Hmph.

Breakfast

I love breakfast. It's my favorite meal of the day. However, having the same thing every day is tiring, so I have reviewed various breakfasts for you here.

Pancakes: All my sister will eat, so they disgust me. We have them all the time.
Waffles: I love them, but my little sister's best friend requires whipped cream with them. A LOT of whipped cream.
Fried Egg: Yum, although sometimes my mom messes them up because the pan and flipper are messed up.
Bacon: Yummalicious all the time. Especially good with a fried egg.
Cereal: Meh.
Toast: Yum; it depends if it's ding toast or not.
Muffins: Chocolate ones, usually. :D

I must go; OGTSGS is still in progress.

Earning Mah Keep (Being Good For A Better Cause): Morning Version

So, as you know, my sister and I (and my mom, which does help) love love LOVE the Sims 3. We have all the expansions. But there's a new one coming out this autumn (eep) and so Laura and are being SUPER GOOD. Thus, our activities include:

--Making our beds (Both): I think we're supposed to do this all the time. However, to kill dust mites, I leave it messy while I eat breakfast. Then I make it. But sometimes I forget. . . . :-/ Laura hasn't forgotten since she found a big black spider in her bed. }:)
--Limiting our computer usage (me): Oh well, my mom awards computer time if we're good. . . the blog helps.
--Folding the laundry (me): And shooing mah kittums away from the hair-free laundry.
--Putting away the laundry (me) Ditto.
--Putting away clean dishes (me): While I wait for my mom to make me breakfast (fried eggs and bacon, yummay) I get bored of staring at dinosaurs.
--Putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher (me): I get bored waiting for my mom to make me breakfast. . . still. . . people are SUPPOSED to eat breakfast at SEVEN, not EIGHT FORTY-FIVE.
--Making breakfast for everyone(me): I think we all know who's earning this.
--Setting the table (me): I should be getting this game early, yes?

It's 9:51 am. . . off to be good again. . . .

Cutest Picture: Daisy

Try to tell me that this is not the best non-kitten picture EVER.

No, I don't mean actually SAY that.

Meet the Kitteh: Periwinkle

Periwinkle is your typical little brother, just in cat form. He is often described by my mother to be a fraternity boy: he loves to eat, sleep, and be coddled. We adopted him from a "cat preserve," called so for its acre or so of woodlands for the outdoor cats. My mom is always threatening to take him back to he "kitty orphanage." The elderly Italian lady who evidently founded it informed us that that unless we were willing to "leek her fur" we need to get another cat to keep Daisy company. When we finally adopted him, (after holding him for an hour as he purred) she kissed him on his kitty-breath lips and said "They always leek mah keeses" which indeed he did do. But kudos to her, for owning sixty cats and loving them all. Periwinkle loves to eat, to the point of his throwing up. He also make little noises of pleasure when he eats, aka inhaling his kitty food. Periwinkle loves to jump onto my bed at 6:45 in the morning and nuzzle me until I give him food. He doesn't know how to clean up after himself in the litter-box and often pesters Daisy, who patiently and gracefully ignores him. Periwinkle's nicknames include "Perry," "Peristinkle (for his unusual odor upon adoption, although it helped Scout adjust to him)" "Peritwinks," "Peritwinkle," "GP," and "Agent P." His birthday is October 8, 2009 (08.10.09,) and he is almost one year old.

I have to go feed my pirahnas, yup, that's why I can't come over. . . .

Evidently, once you become acquaintances with someone, they expect you to invite them to your house. Or, if you are particularly obstinate, they will invite you to their house.

This alarms me. So every time someone invites me to do something, I try to find a lame excuse to get out of it. Sometimes it works. Other times it makes people hate me.

I am an introvert, meaning I like to be by myself. Extroverts like PEOPLE. PEOPLE PEOPLE PEOPLE. And they want to talk, which I'm fine with. I can talk a lot. But I also like to sit down and read with my friends. Surprisingly, no one else likes this. IT WOUNDS ME DEEPLY.

I also am infamous (meaning famous in a bad way, not very famous. Mother Theresa is NOT infamous.) for getting out of sleepovers.

Maybe someday people will come over and read with me outside. . . .

Someday. . . .

Meet the Kitteh: Daisy

I do talk about them all the time.
This is Daisy, circa four months old. Today she is a slightly plump fluffy kitty who is very shy. We imagine that if she was a person, she'd be a supermodel. She is a very pretty kitty. She loves Purina cat food. Her foster parents (since she and her siblings, Melon [brother] and Patches [sister] were found as newborns; Daisy was the oldest) were neighbors to one of my little brother's friends, and they introduced us to her. When we adopted her, we fed her organic healthy expensive cat food. Daisy tolerated it, but she really only wanted to eat kitty junk food. One day, my mom came across some Purina and thought Daisy might like it. She bought it and mixed it in with the healthy food. Daisy picked all the healthy food out of the bowl and ate the Purina. My parents then switched her to only Purina, and she is a happy little kitteh who never overeats. When we first got her, she was so tiny she got stuck in my little sister's Barbie castle, crawled through her collar, and could fit under the decorative grooves on the bottom of my sister's dresser. Her birthday is June 11, and she is 2 years old. She weighs eight pounds, although we are sure that a large percentage of her weight and slightly heavy appearance stems from her soft static-cling fur. Her pet names (ha) include "Pretty Kitty, "Kit Kat," "Daze," "Da Cootumsy," and "Da Vewy Pwettiest Kitty In The Whole Wide Wowd." Ever since my sister was little, perhaps only a toddler, she would draw pictures of orange kittens with captions such as "I LOVE YOU KITTEN." It was very cute. My mom thought she was allergic then, though, but seriously, we have boxes and boxes of kitten art. Probably wondering why we took three bajillion pictures of her. Aw, so cute. <3
One of her favorite nap places, Daisy also loves to stare out the window at such fascinating sights such as birds, squirrels, and the ever-entrancing phenomenon of one of our sweet elderly neighbors' offspring moving their car away from our mailbox. Daisy has since discovered the crack between the chest and the wall--perfect for eating mosquitoes.Rolling around, spreading her fur.


Please note that the pictures are in a vague sort of chronological order; she is the youngest at the top, and the oldest at the bottom.