My jeans.....

That ellipsis means "I know some of you are singing right now and I don't want to have any part in it."

Per usual beginning-of-school rush, I had to pay some extra money to ensure that my jeans would arrive at four o'clock on the day before school started. Naturally, in my stupor (when this happened, I interpreted it as euphoria) I tried them on and, after being reassured that they fit, lay them out on my desk.

You can probably imagine how the first day of school went, because I presume everyone else has the same sort of first day of school. (Except that maybe other people are nicer because in their distant land people change over the summer.)

Two days later, once it was the weekend and I was lazing around the house in my nicest clothes (read: skirts) the damage I had wreaked began to sink in.

Tally of things I turned blue:
--My socks. (many pairs)
--My Converse. (inside and out)
--My hands.
--My bedspread.
--My sheets.
--My desk calendar.
--My shirt.
--Parts of the couch.
--Some clean laundry.
--My backpack.

ALWAYS WASH THE JEANS. ALWAYS.

I like words, but. . . .

I was reading an article perhaps a couple of days ago (no, I cannot remember where, I do apologize) and read that there actually is a language up North where they have lots of different names for snow, like the snow on rooftops and snow that has not yet been stepped on.

As I brought this up, my mother mentioned that she had read a book where the main character is a truck-driver in England, and all it ever does is rain. He becomes so irritated that he develops certain names for the rain, like the misty rain, and the rain that, no matter how fast your windshield wipers go, you still can't see through.

It was then brought up that the Romans had a ridiculous amount of words for specific ways of killing people, and that made me think.

What does it mean that in America we have so many words that mean "moron"?

Does anyone else have this problem? Is that even a question I need to ask?

A lot of times, when browsing the web, I find polls.

The vary greatly (What do you think of the new budget plan? to Do you feel prepared for the next natural disaster? to Who wore it better--Pippa or Lindsay?) but they all inspire the same sort of fear.

I can't even answer that question. What kind of natural disaster? I want to say Pippa but that's a kind of ugly dress. . . . What did other people think? I can fit two responses. I don't have an opinion but I want to see the results.

So I choose one result, which is usually pretty close to what I THINK I think but once I see the other answers my opinion immediately changes. Then I freak out and imagine inconsequential events that could stem from this. What if everyone else has this problem and all the data we have in world is wrong? What if all the decisions people make based on online polls are falsely supported?

. . . and that is how you make an online poll into (possibly) the end of the world. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Shredded Apple. . . or not. . . .

After all this ado about breakfast, I decided to try something I had been wondering about for a while: an apple smoothie.

This was about five minutes ago. I recall it vividly.

I was really excited. I peeled the apple and cut it up with three different knives. I put it in the blender and excitedly flipped the switch.

Mysteriously, nothing much happened. I remembered an earlier blenderizing experience where a bit of liquid had been the trick. So I added some orange juice.

After a series of me flipping the switch, nothing happening, and scraping down the sides, I realized something:

I was making applesauce.

I added some lemon juice and cinnamon and a touch of sugar and poured it into a bowl. I have to eat it now. It's not delicious, but it's pretty good.

What I really want is shredded apple. When inspiration next strikes, I am shredding an apple for all its worth and seeing if it is drinkable.

It must be interesting to not have the constant urge to make yummy breakfasts.

lowercaps

today was one of those days when it felt like everyone was talking in all caps.

it was kind of exhausting.

it may have sucked all my energy away. i apologize.

in my apology, i gave you this nice clean blog page: double-spaced and lowercase.

regular posting might resume tomorrow.

Oatmeal, REVISITED

I like the word revisited. It seems like the kind of word one would find in lowercase cursive on a vintage tag in Anthropologie that some color blogger (oh, how I wish) would incorporate into some sort of green, orange, and navy color scheme that would probably include suitcases and trunks and inevitable a meadow.

I digress.

I must confess that I have been lazy about my oatmeal. School started, and even though I wake up an hour and a half before I have to, I still have problems being on time. Well, not exactly that--I always leave on time. Let's say time management, shall we? I have had such problems taking dreaded showers in a hopefully short amount of time that the most I think about my oatmeal is Bleah, this is kind of gross and weird-tasting. And then I should put that thought out of my head because of a lack of options.

Then I got a magazine in the mail (hurrah) and it had this whole article on snacks which I quite enjoyed. Cottage cheese and apricots, crystallized pineapple and pistachios, yogurt with pear or apple slices, pita bread and hummus. . . and oatmeal with maple syrup. So of course I simply had to try it.

Usually I have oatmeal with fruit, depending on what's in season--right now I'm still coasting on blueberries. I used to have raisins, but we don't have some currently and sometimes I do not like them. I also have been cruising with my year-old vanilla sugar, which I made.

Since maple syrup costs $22 I opted, as I usually do, for my mother's pseudo-syrup which is still good. And I must tell you that oatmeal and syrup is delicious. I highly recommend it.

Fruit fruit fruit. I like fruit. It is yummy. Nom nom nom.

I'm afraid I'm rather hungry. I cannot wait until green grape season so I can freeze them! }:D
 

I'm still alive (and sucking ice, because it's hot inside)

I'm going to continue weekending.

So I invite you to check out my updated links bar.

And perhaps suck on ice.

It's really cold.

A Redirection to a Redirection

Go here.

My Sincere Apathy for Showering

I do not like showering. This is not logical. I like being alone, and I like being clean. I do not like showering. I wish that there was a way to be efficient while showering, because showering is like a vacuum of time.

I suppose at the root of this is that I have to comb my hair in the shower, which is a dreadful task and makes my showers twenty minutes long. So not only do I have to inflict pain upon myself, I am cold and probably am going to be hated by every eco-friendly person in the world.

It is a terrible thing to be me, my friends.

WHY I AM NOT AN AFTERNOON PERSON

I am trying to be efficient.

School is starting soon. I need to do stuff, and clean stuff, and organize stuff, and write blog posts.

In the mornings I do crosswords.

So I try to write blog posts in the afternoon.

Unfortunately, I have absolutely no energy in the afternoon. (This is a bigger problem when I am in school and have homework.) Anything you ask me to do in the afternoon may not be up to my usual standards.

Also there is a train going by my house. Every time I start to do something productive, the train goes by my house.

productivethoughtsproductivethoughtsproductivethoughtsproductivethoughtsproductivethoughts
WHHHHHHHEEEEERproductivethoughtsproductivethoughtsBRANNNNHHHHHgahproductive
thoughttrainnoisetrainnoisetrainnoisetrainnoisetrainnoisetrainnoisetrainnoisetrainnoiseWHHEEER

The resulting headache enables me to write such sentences of pure genius as the one above.

I had oatmeal for breakfast.

I DID have oatmeal for breakfast. Because it is the best breakfast you can have, according to three magazines and the internet. When I have oatmeal, I get lots of nutrition and fiber while getting very little fat. When I add fruit, which provides Vitamin C, I receive short-term energy.

So I can walk away from my breakfast feeling light and happy.

Except that it's rather depressing to eat oatmeal. I have to force myself to eat it, through a combination of willpower, lots of peaches, and sheer force. Because as nutritious as it is, oatmeal is not a big happiness-inducer. I like mocha-chips muffins much better and they are probably not as nutritious.

I am going to issue a challenge for myself (and y'all too, if you feel so inclined).

I am going to see how many --GAH! I cannot finish my sentence because my father is reading a newspaper article aloud to my brother about animals escaping from the Central Park Zoo.

*closes eyes, makes that hand motion people do when they're meditating (ya know, when they put the tips of their fingers together), breathes* Okay. I want to see how many different way I can make oatmeal so that it's still healthy AND exciting.

I'm going to go look for some cheese.

Have! Lots! Of! Fun! In! Paris!

I would apologize for the lack of posts but it is summer, so I am going to presume you have better things to do with your life, like, for example, vacationing in exotic places without internet connection.

If you've just been sitting at home I have no pity for you, as we're obviously the ones having the most fun. My life is so exciting. I have a very busy schedule--move arm at 10:20, get another pillow at eighteen till eleven, close eyes at 11:02, sigh at 11:03. . . the list goes on. I am like a party of gummy bears. That is how much fun I am having.

You don't believe me? Well, I have brownies. What now.

I haven't been posting not because of a natural disaster or anything not under my control, I've just been lazy. (It occurs to me that that last sentence is not a particularly flattering one, perhaps not even one I want to put on my blog. . . oh well, it's going there anyway, because I'm too exhausted from sitting in an actual upright position to think of a better reason.)

Also I have been doing crosswords.

I think I'm going to end this post before I fall completely asle787888888888888888888888uuyuhjyyyyyyyyyyyyy777eee34htngt n m ;

That was a tortuous assignment until. . .

Instead of brushing up on my athletic knowledge (is there really any difference between an umpire and a referee?!?!?) for my science project a long long while ago, I decided to stick with the Victorian activity of croquet. (I would have done badminton, except all the pictures were of tennis moms and that was most unbecoming.)

It was really quite fun once I decided upon my sport, and I then I got to write the whole thing in Victorian speech, which inspired awe, and then I got to use Victorian pictures, which really were fantastic. I highly recommend searching "Victorian croquet" images and looking at all the pretty pictures I used. :)

I am probably the nicest human being ever.

I would like it to be said that my petit brother's birthday is hereabouts. Unfortunately, as you all know, I am not going to be there.

So, I bought and gave him his present early.

Not to brag or anything, (don't you know what's coming now) but I got him the best birthday present ever. It may have been a bit expensive, but really, in the big scheme of things, surely that doesn't matter. Anyway, it truly was the best birthday present. Thoughtful and long-lasting and delicious. . . .

Yeah, I got him two packs of Trident-Layers gum.

I'm an awesome sister.

Cousin Arnold!

Okay, I don't have a real Cousin Arnold. My Sims do.

Since the objective of my game is essentially to achieve stuff, and Laura likes to stretch the limits of her game (How many neighbors can I trap in my kitchen? Will my grandmother pinch the cheeks of her step-son's half-sister's child's best friend? What if I spend all my money putting playground equipment on the roof?) we have to test the negative stuff (mid-life crisis, pranks, skipping school, copying homework, not doing homework, becoming enemies with everyone in town, traps that will potentially kill my Sim, ugly houses) and we accomplish this with Cousin Arnold.

Cousin Arnold wears an orange-and-grey-blotched undershirt with a simoleon necklace-bling and pants with drooping suspenders. He goes barefoot, befriends everyone, and sports a mullet and a mohawk. Cousin Arnold is Evil, Insane, Friendly, Mean-Spirited, and (sometimes) a Kelptomaniac. He lives in the gym when he has no friends. He doesn't often get the chance to take showers. . . .

Cousin Arnold also tests stuff that Laura and I think are vulgar, like retro-car rooms and ugly clothes. He's flunked everything there is to flunk and would probably be Best Friends with a similar character, Grandma Moush.

It's nice to know that the Cousin Arnolds of the world are safely contained in my computer.

So I meant to write a blog post. . . .

I've been attempting to write something for the past thirty minutes now but I keep being sidetracked by the royal family and Canada's government, so I'm going to send you to this frightening video instead.

(Okay, when I mean frightening, I really mean alarming. I am never being a NYC pedestrian ever again.)

Now I'm off to go try to understand the Britishness of Canada. Wish me luck--I'll probably need it. (Sadly. . . .)

Daisy is 3!

Yes, yes, thank you, I'm very proud. *clinks sparkling healthy organic fruit beverage* It's been a long journey. . . .And I must admit *coughs, embarrassed* that there were some times----some times that we just didn't know what we were doing.Some of the time we asked ourselves why we let Daisy ransack our lives.Was it because of her beautiful personality?Her charisma?

Her prestige?

Her ability to squeeze herself into small spaces?Maybe, making some of our past queries null and void, it was her extreme cleanliness.Then, we realized. . . .
She was really really cute and fluffy. We love you, Daisy

June 11,2011--and thanks to Laura for taking a creepy/adorable amount of pictures of Daisy.

ONE HUNDRED POSTS!!!

If I was professional, I would have all sorts of cool stuff to give you all. Like, um. . . giveaways and statistics, maybe? (See. I have no idea what I am talking about. I am a disgrace.)

Unfortunately, I am not a professional blogger. (So. . . yeah, no personalized phone covers. Sorry.)

Therefore, I am going to look at my tenth, twentieth, thirtieth, etc. posts and choose my favorite sentences.

Try to tell me that this is not the best non-kitten picture EVER. 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. My little brother still pertains to his opinion that I need a favorite dinosaur. [. . . ]we should have a big USING UP SUMMER FOOD! party. IMPROV EVERYWHERE I'm off to look through the window, the wonderful window by the door. But until then, we shall wait (and drink tea and eat cookies and read magazines!) Off to buy sunglasses for mah kitties and me to hide our fame. [. . . ]my little sister and mother rented a video called "Kitten Party" which was just kittens running around being cute for 75 minutes.

A summary of my blog in nine sentences. Thanks to all of you for reading, commenting, and pestering me to post when I am (embarrassingly) trying to hide in my hovel, isolated from all mankind including my wonderful friends.

How to Take a Tourist Photograph

I know you all are probably planning some FASCINATINGLY fascinating summer trips around the world. I support this. Even though you don't invite me, I support this. *ahem* Again, even though you don't invite me. . . [:)]

I have decided, then, that I should be a good person and give you a hint as to how to take vacation photographs.

STEP THE FIRST: Find a monument, landmark, or even something totally unimportant--but you need to have skill to pull the last one off.

STEP THE SECOND: Find some people to take the photo or be in it with you. For the reason of convenience, this will usually be a friend or family member. However, if you want to really get into the tourism spirit, I suggest pulling in a random person. Or six.

STEP THE THIRD: Find a pose! The two basic poses here are PERKY and FATIGUED.

• Fatigued: I suggest slumping, putting your head back, yawning, closing your eyes, falling over, etc.
• Perky: I suggest opening your mouth to a grotesque extent and then widening it, so that is may vaguely be fathomable as a smile. You may also pull up the fatigued person, preferably so that their feet dangle in the air, but basically in an enthusiastic manner. You must then decide upon a sign. I suggest either the peace sign or the Justin Bieber hand heart. You will then, preferably, repeat it in all your other pictures. In case you haven't already guessed, it will be advised that you open your eyes as far as they can. Spilling a cup of coffee is optional.
  
• Astonished: Anyone can adapt this, but if you haven't master it you will end up looking like a lazy perky person. This is an ideal expression for the other tourists that you pull into your photograph. It appears often in that it is sadly realistic.

STEP THE FOURTH: Prop time! Although you may bring in inanimate objects, like food, they are not nearly as fun as REAL LIVE PEOPLE!!! (see above) (NOTE: For food, I suggest lightheaded bliss or staggering appall.) Now that you have your other people with you, the fatigued people can slump on them, the perky people can point to them while mouthing unnecessary phrases, and the astonished people can stagger back at the sight of others of their kind.

STEP THE FIFTH: Now you're all set for traveling, except for one important point: what if you are the one taking the photograph?

• Perky: Shake the camera (in excitement!) or take at least seven photos.
• Fatigued: Focus on something to the far left of the photo scene and tilt the camera.
• Astonished: Take several pictures off-target just a bit--not as much as a fatigued person. You know, cut off the landmark or the people's heads.

I trust that you will now have much fun on your summer vacations.

Even though I am not coming with you. *sniff*

The Best Sunscreen Ever

At our local épicerie, my mother and I were browsing the suncreen aisle (you know, because of the whole aaahhh, sun, ultra-violet waves, aahhhh, skin cancer, roll on the ground, shrivel into a shell thing) and we found the best sunscreen EVER.

This sunscreen is THE best sunscreen ever. (I think my lack of eloquence shows how much you can trust me) It is not slimy; it is grainy (but not in a bad way, in a stick-on-your-skin-and-block-UV-rays-way) and it is skin colored, so you do not have white streaks all over yourself. It is vegan and organic.

So, as a Victorian spinster, I give this suncreen a tap of my parasol for those of you who actually go outside in the summertime.

I struggle with menial activities.....

Last night, it being half-past our accustomed dinner hour, my little sister and I decided to make our customary Sunday night dinner: grilled cheese sandwiches, popcorn, and smoothie.

The popcorn was easy enough (even though I wasn't expecting the loud noise from the popping machine and jumped backwards, therefore banging my back painfully into the oven door handle) and the butter-melting was not alarming at all. (Not like melting marshmallows.) The smoothie was very, very good.

But the grilled cheese...........

I can make fried chicken. I can make loads and loads of desserts. I can make French toast with stale biscuits at six in the morning, but I cannot make grilled cheese sandwiches.

First I toasted the bread without cheese and burned it. Then I covered the surface of the bread with thin cheese slices. Then the cheese burned. Then I put more cheese on top of the burned pieces. Then the bread broke in half. Then the bread burned more. Then you couldn't see the cheese.

Then I was sick of the sandwich and sent it to its doom via slapping it on a plate and thrusting it into my siblings' faces.

They ate them.

My dear friend and I had luncheon..............

It being May and allegedly pretty outside, my friend and I decided to go on a walk to our favorite cafe and sip delightful ice beverages and munch on delicate sandwiches outside under the glorious sky with sunshine, etc.

Except that it was cloudy, but we took it in stride (ha) and went anyway. As soon as we sat down at our lovely table, we realized we were not alone.

No. That would have been too dignified. No, we were sitting right next to a joyful reunion of two families. A rather loud reunion.

Me and My dear friend (MDF): Nom. *eat food, sip delightful organic healthy carbonated icy fruit beverages*
People at table next to us: lady, husband of other lady, infant, 9-month old:
--Lady: Ooh, we're going to France in autumn! Ooh, yay, so exciting. SO expensive. Tsk. We're going to France!
--Husband of other lady: *patting infant* *nodding*
MDF and I: *exchange glances*
People at table next to us: now Other Lady, her six-year-old, and Lady's child join them.
--Little Girls: *holding Lady's phone* Look!
--Lady: Ooh, what did you do? *looks* Sent a message to Facebook?
--Little Girls: *incoherent*
--Lady: Join Facebook! *laughs*
--Little Girls: *louder* Mommy, the baby's eating dirt!
--Lady: Oh. *Swoops up nine-month-old and puts on metal chair* *not even trying to get it out of the baby's mouth*

The baby had been eating dirt for some time now.

--Husband of Lady: Look! *holds out plate with a loaf of bread on it* *French accent*
--Husband of Other Lady: That's some serious bread, dude!
--Husband of Lady: It was for this much money in the deli! *French accent*

MDF and I: *get cookies*
MDF and I: *come back*

People at table next to us:
--Husband of lady: *strollers Infant over to Little Girls, who are poking HUGE dogs*
--Lady: I'm so worried about my little daughter! She's had this horrible rash!
--Other Lady: Oh, usually that's caused by wheat, dairy, or soybeans!
--Husband of Lady: *eats serious bread with knife and fork*
--Lady: I know! I took her to the pediatrician but they didn't say anything. *sigh* I wonder what it could be. I thought it might be strawberries. I've tried taking away foods for a week and seeing if that affects her rash.
--Husband of Lady: *chews*
MDF and I: *exchange glances*

I think we all know what the baby's been eating that gives her a rash. . . .*ahem* dirt *ahem*

--Nine-month-old: *rocks metal chair around, shakes back of chair, falls off, eats dirt again*

My goodness, that poor baby.

I do hope French dirt is healthy.

Barbie Says it All

My great-aunt was a first-grade-teacher. When she passed a away, we inherited a lot of her crafts because we were at the right ages.

This past week, we were organizing our 'party bin' into a 'party closet hanging thing', and we found an 80's Barbie Valentine, which says "You're fun to know!!!" (three exclamation marks not included but implied.) If anything from the 80s should be kept, it is the distinctly impersonal valentines. Even though what you really need is a valentine that says "Yay, free class, enjoy the candy." or "If you eat too much Fun Dip stay to that side of the room, away from me." or "I broke your lollipop. Whatever."

I distinctly remember a year when my little sister and I, having used up all the lollipops with non-attached feeling, gave all the "Hug me" and "Kiss me" lollipops to my four-year-old little brother. (This is why we stick with Dove chocolate now.) No wonder so many of his friends are girls.All that aside, though, who could resist extreme jazz hands, sparkly pants, and creepy braids?

Do NOT do this at YOUR new home

Yesterday, my mother and I went over to our other house, which is usually rented. We decided to clean out the kitchen.

So, after cleaning the sink and organizing the silverware, we open the cabinets to find--I kid you not--

• A glass (crystal?) punchbowl and approximately twelve glass teacups to accompany it.
• A set of china plates, gold-rimmed.
• Two glass candlestick holders.
• A glass butter dish.
• A glass dish-cover.
• At least seven corn-on-the-cob dishes.
• A glass bowl full of corn prongs.
• Fancy silverware, of which at least some must be silver.
  

And all this in a house painted--on the inside--sage green, lime green, and sky blue. The moral of the story is to never ever leave your great-grandmother's prized possessions in one of your houses because people will have to deal with them. And stare at them. And pity your dear great-grandmother.

Poisson d'Avril

It is the first of April. Not being a family for pranks and jokes (although my sister has been trying to convince me that I have a bug in my hair since eight) but feeling that we should do something, my siblings and I decided to do something French: drawing fish and taping them to people's backs. People being my aunt, with whom we are going to have frozen yogurt with at two.Oh no! I have mercury in me!

Help! I ate a plastic bag!

My name is Bob. Even if I tell you otherwise.

Yay Realization.......

I love spring because everything is my favorite color. My favorite color is the color of overcooked mashed green peas.

It's beautiful.

So I am in the car, talking excitedly to my mother about how the world is my favorite color and I how lovely it is that some of the leaves are out and aren't they a beautiful color? To which my mother looks at me and says "Emma. That is the color of pollen."

Yay. I like the color of pollen.

So, while book reviewers can say in their usual exuberant way "While the world's previous colors have been separate gems of their own, 'dark blue' is a color sure to entrance even the youngest of book reviewers." and artist can say "I love all beige. I use it in all my paintings. My masterpiece is going to be a beige canvas" and writers can say. "I like black.", I can say "I like the color that not only makes people's eyes water but makes them sneeze uncontrollably and curse the world from inside their curtained windows."

A Battle in Buy Mode

Before I turned on the computer......

Me: Hey, Peter and Laura, do you want to be on a blog post about your Sims?
Laura: Sure!
Peter: Okay, but you have to spell ten dinosaur names. This is a spelling test. Starting now. Spell 'Tyrannosaurus Rex.'
Me: *exasperated* Do YOU know how to spell that?
Peter: SPELL IT!!!
Me: T-y-r-a-n-n.......

---

Laura: You're obviously going to make this funnier than it is.
Me: *types*
Laura: Emma!
Me: *typing*
Laura: And you're probably going to make up lines.
Me: *sigh* No. Okay. So. Um, Peter.... tell me about the Pop Stove family.
Peter: First of all, their middle name is not "Pop" all the time.
Me: So their permanent last name is "Stove"?
Peter: Yes. Second of all, the mom and the dad are aliens.
Me: But their son is not.
Peter: He is not because, well, he landed on a car out of the spaceship.
Me: But he's Caucasian.
Peter: What does Caucasian mean?
Me: Fair-skinned. Wait...how does landing on a car mean that he doesn't have green skin?
Peter: Well, if an alien falls out of a spaceship and they don't really want to, they become a person. They keep their alien traits, though.
Me: And his parents let this happen?
Peter: No! They never knew they had a son!
Me: Oh-kay..... So they adopted a son when they bought their house. Do they like children? Even though theirs is human?
Peter: Yes, because he has a lot of fishing skill, and they like fish. And, they really like that they can finally have somebody that's a Couch Potato in their family.
Me: And that's a good thing?
Peter: Yo, like totally!
Me: Okay. Let's talk about where their son got adopted to in a few minutes. I want to ask Laura about her families. Which is your favorite?
Laura: The artist one I just made with the lady and the guy I made to be her husband.
Me: Yes.... and they are nocturnal?
Laura: Yes. The guy is a Ghosthunter, so he has to get up at all times of night, and the mom is an artist (that's her job) and she works at home. So she can sleep whenever she wants, and stay up as late as she wants. They're going to have kids soon.
Me: Twins? Triplets?
Laura: Singlets!
Me: Oh. What about your other families?
Laura: Oh, well, which one? Do you want to talk about the celebrity one?
Me: There's a celebrity one?
Laura: Yes. She's a five-star celebrity and lives in a cool house--
Me: The one with a dance floor, pool, hot tub, and lots of windows?
Laura: That's the one. She loves to paint and she loves music and she has a butler.
Me: *gasps* Bertram Plunkett?
Laura: No. But, maybe, actually. Um, she is not married (yet) and if there were pets on Sims 3 she would have pets.
Me: Any other families?
Laura: Uh, yes. Well, there's a family with a mom and a dad and the dad is a Police and the mom is an Investigator. Their kids include a child boy and a toddler girl. I think the boy's name is Walter.
Me: And they live in a very small apartment.
Laura: No, I moved them.
Me: Really?
Laura: Yes. Now their apartment is the whole floor.
Me: Ooh.
Laura: Their whole family is good at Logic.
Me: Cool. So, Peter, tell us about the family your guy was adopted into.
Peter: Huh?
Me: The 'naughty boys' household.
Peter: Oh, yeah! Well, the Naughty Boys were pretty naughty!
Laura: Tell them about the nice mom.
Peter: Later. And the baby was a fighter in crime.
Me: Didn't he sleep outside?
Peter: For just one night!
Me: I think that's illegal.
Peter: Let me tell you about a different family.
Me: *sighs* You may talk about the Ninjas later.
Peter: *sigh* Not the Ninjas!
Me: So, what?
Peter: The family that, you know, created the Smasher!
Laura: You mean the Chinese family? Then I get to talk about it too, because I made a character. I made the girl.
Me: Please. Let's move on either to elaboration on the Naughty Boys or your architecture techniques.
Peter: Well, the Naughty Boys *sigh* I don't really know where they live.
Me: *sigh* Let's move on to architecture. I know that both of you like excessive lighting!
Laura: I like lighting!
Peter: Well, I make graveyards a lot! I accidentally made one when I tried to make an outdoor sleeping place.
Laura: He had the graveyard statue.
Peter: Hey! I put Stonehenge in too! I think. But now I'm sure I made beds, too.
Laura: Yes, you did.
Peter: I also put in an outdoor grill.
Me: Do you like basements?
Laura and Peter: Yes!
Me: Do you ever make nine-story-tall houses?
Laura: Five and three, yes.
Peter: No. I can do only three stories.
Me: Do you 'Edit Town'?
Peter: I delete the school. And the Criminal career. I turned it into a nice park, aka accidentally a graveyard.
Me: I thought you did that to the school, too.
Peter: No.
Me: On the Ninjas.
Peter: No, both of them were parks.
Laura: *leaves*
Me: Go get her!
Peter: No. I'm leaving, too.
Me: *dejected*

UPDATE: Kitten movie

I can't remember if I put this on the blog or not, but a long while ago, in December, my little sister and mother rented a video called "Kitten Party" which was just kittens running around being cute for 75 minutes. We LOVED it.

If you have gift cards you simply must go here and buy it--don't forget to read the comments!!!

ILY, ICU. . . .

*cough cough* Okay, so MAYBE getting pneumonia and flu type B was an over-exaggerated way to get out of school, homework, blogging, PE, life, etc., but I have to tell you. . . I love the intensive care ward.

INTENSIVE CARE:
-Nobody ignores me
-Everybody is nice
-People do things to make me get better
-People do not ignore me
-Big window
-Electric bed (whee!)
-People CARE
-I eat food for the first time
-I get to wear my own shirt again
-I get a second IV
-I get poked with a needle which is raked around in my hand nine times
-I get both IVs taken out
-I get a nose tube in
-I get my nose tube out
-I have to be on constant drug so I am constantly hyper, anxious, obsessive, nauseous, high heartrate, etc.
NON-INTENSIVE CARE, AKA REGULAR HOSPITAL, WHICH THEY CALL THE FLOOR:
-They say you hit the floor. I wish we'd punched it.
-Nobody cares about me
-I do have a shower.
-I have my own bathroom
-Everybody ignores me
-They keep telling me I have asthma. "You MIGHT have had the flu." Heck ya I had the flu, I took the disgusting medicine, didn't I?
-Impersonal nurses.
-Gross medicine
-Call me beautiful, leave me alone, wake me up every four hours to drug me again. Blek.
NUMBERS:
-1: The amount of times I wanted to take gross medicine.
-2: The amount of nights I had with the ever-awesome Tina, who helped me get well. Also the amount of nights I was sedated into lucid dreams in which I decorated socks in my bedroom with Justin Bieber and my French and Social Studies classes as well as played tag with everyone my brain could come up with in a certain huge neighborhood near my school. The recurring theme, though, was me forgetting and/or not doing my homework, which preceded my doom. Grr. Make-up work. And sometimes I just went to school.
-3: Number of meals a day I had. Now I have to drink just orange juice, because everything else tastes like hospital.
-4: The number of pounds I lost. Grr. THANKS A LOT HOSPITAL, NOW MY CLOTHES ARE BAGGY.
-5: Times 10, approximately the speed of the air forced up my nose. I think, don't go around spreading that. It was fast and I heard the number 50.
-6: The number of shows I watched on TLC (Toddlers & Tiaras, Cake Boss, Kitchen Boss, Say Yes to the Dress, DC Cupcakes, and Moving Up) for, like, I dunno, 29 hours?
-7: The amount of days I spent in the hospital. I miss you all SO much.

I don't know these people. . . .

Let's cut to the chase. I've been saying my sibling's names wrong.

At eight o'clock, which is pretty late, I came downstairs and lay on the couch. Peter was already downstairs and he jumped on me. "PETER," I yelled, "GET OFF." Except that, instead of saying "Peter" I said "Peder".

Me: Peder.
My mother: No, Peter.
Peter: Yes. Peter.
Me: PEE-ter.
Peter: PeterPeterPeterPeterPeter!!!
Me: Pete-er.
My mother: Good.
Peter: Goodgoodgoodgood!!!
Me: Pete-er. Pete-er.
Peter: Or you could call me Pete.
Me: I refuse.
Me: (time has elapsed, during which I practice saying Pete-er.) What about Laura? (Except that I pronounced it Lorra.)
My mother: Emma! You can't pronounce Laura's name!
Me: I can so too pronounce it! Lorra!
My mother: No, it's Lahruh.
Peter: Lahruh!
Me: (long painful time has passed, with un-typeabale pronunciations) I'm going to go ask Lahruh.
My mother and Peter: Good!
Me: *runs upstairs* Say your name!
Laura: Lorra. . . .
Me: Uh-oh. . . . Say Peter.
Laura: Peder. . . .
Me: Why don't you come downstairs. . . .
Laura: Uh. . .okay.
Laura: (after briefing) I'VE BEEN SAYING MY NAME WRONG!?!?!?!?! And Peter's?
My mother: I think you learned it from Emma.
Me: But what about Peter?
My mother: You were at school, not teaching him.
Me: Bah.

People. This will take practice. (And we have to correct all of our friends, whom we taught to say their names wrong.)

Peanut Butter Mousse Chocolate Cake. . . .

May have had a moment last night. . . .

Me: *sways back and forth* *eating cake* *euphoric*
Laura: Emma.
Me: *la la la la la dee lah*
Laura: Eh-muuhhhhhh.
Me: Mm?
Laura: We're about to go.
Me: *Stops eating cake, of which about half is left, and commences scraping chocolate syrup off the plate*
My Darling Mother: Here, Emma, put the rest of the cake in this. *hands me a leftover box*
Me: *laughs like a maniac, with syrup and mousse on nose* *flips cake into box*
My Darling Mother: Why don't we put the rest of my cake in there too, for later. *puts 1" by 1" square of chocolate cake into box*
Me: * laughing crazily* Yeah, for later. . . . *finger air quotes around later*
My Darling Family: *exits restaurant*
Me: *walks into door*

I love peanut butter mousse chocolate cake. . . too bad I only get it every other year or so.

Poll results and the Great Oil Spill

It occurs to me that it wasn't really smart of me to have so many options.

So, here are some more:

• I cancel out the options no one voted for and have a new poll.
• You all comment below telling me why I should use your specific idea.
• I have a poll for what to do about a poll.
• We pretend this never happened and do nothing.

So. . . what should I do?

In the meantime of me trying to write this post, we had an Incident.

Like most families do, we have a bottle of Canola oil in our kitchen (Yes, with a serving suggestion. Ick.) and it is made of plastic. When I see plastic, I think oh, plastic. When Perry sees plastic, he thinks CHEWABLE. I'll let you guess what happened at 11 p.m. two nights ago. We're still getting it out of stuff.

Paparazzi: Daisy

This works best if you have some Lady Gaga in the background. The song starts at 2:00 or so, so the whole first two minutes will NOT be a fitting background. (And yes, I have finally accepted Lady Gaga, even though she runs on the principle that people should wear less clothes and I run on the principle that people should wear MORE clothes. Sigh. . . .)
If we had some motivational quotes from the model, we could send this to a magazine.

Daisy Looks at Shoes

I don't know when Pet Day will be, but here's a Daisy story I hope you won't find tedious.

This may be utterly shocking to you, but someone likes my shoes. And by someone, I mean Daisy. And by likes, I mean "views as prey". The rest is pretty much literal.

Saturday morning, at approximately 5:14 AM, I awakened to a very irritating sound. [You must understand that with loads of homework and an overzealous Perry who wished to eat my carpet, I had had little sleep last week. So much that sometimes I slept in (gasp) ten minutes and thus couldn't edit my blog.] Hearing this, I turned over to see Daisy nuzzling my boots.

Me: Dai-syyyyyyyyy. Nooooooooooooooooo. (obviously tired)
Daisy: *jumps backwards and crouches behind scratching post*
Me: *falls back onto mattress, groaning*
Daisy: *leaps at my ballet flats*
Me: *sigh* Daiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisy.
Daisy: *treadles ballet flat*
Me: Go awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.
Daisy: *gets bored and commences eating boot*
Me: *buries self in comforters*

How many cats like shoes? (Probably a lot more than we need to know.)

Bon Anniversaire à Scout. . . .

Martin Luther King, Jr. Day is Scout's birthday, and he is a big six-year-old!Noble-ness!!! Hahaha. . . .

Dog food with peanut butter slathered over a cheese rind, covered in Chicken and Rice baby food and more grated cheese on top. Delicious, right? Much better than Gastrointestinal Health Food.

I need more brownies, stat!

AGAIN I have forgotten the anniversary of this blog. The six-month one, I think.

Sob, sob, etc.

Let's have some points of interest.

1. You all know (hopefully) how I love love love the etiquette/food/English language/fashion area at the library. You also know (probably much more so) that I am a bad conversationalist. This has led me to read two conversation books, which were interesting but told me that at least 80% of what I say isn't worth a thing. Joy.
2. This book also informed me that people do not like hearing cat stories 24/7. I already knew this, but with a lot of people all we have in common is that they think my cats are cute. . .
   
3. . . . so I think that there should be a designated day of the week for me to monologue about the week's adventures involving Daisy and Perry. See Poll.
   
4. I think the only reason "Je t'aime, l'ete" is the most viewed page is because I can never remember what it is about. I assume that this happens to you all as well.
5. I made Ghirardelli brownies. Nom.
   
6. MY SIMS GAME IS BROKEN!!! (More on this later.)

Kitchen Crime. . . .

Allo Bloggees! Emma here, apologetic and lazy. I've broken out the ol' camera to bring to you live footage of the newest addition to a file we call "Daisy and Perry Victims." Please note the lovely light and authentically distressed wood (yup, I contributed). Let's take a closer look, shall we?
Isn't it gory? We presume that Daisy did the damage, as Perry was in a cage and the corpse was found in Laura's room. Of course, Daisy mustn't get all the limelight: I present to you Perry's food. Blandness, anyone? (This picture actually turned out really well. I flatter myself as much to say that it looks magazine-esque.)

Perry=Stitches out=Elated Vets

Perry got his stitches out. I assume that it must be very annoying to have someone ogle over their cat for two weeks and such, but now you won't hear about Perry until he catches some muffins.

Perry still smells like the perfume of the vets who coddled him. Seriously. Reminds you of the Daisy story, perhaps?

*I go back to search for Daisy story in order to link it and find I have not posted it.*

When we first got Daisy, we obviously had to take her to the vet. (I AM sure that you all remember Daisy's cuteness.) Upon us letting her out of the carrier, the vet scooped her up and took her to the back room where the other vets/assistants were, and yes, we could hear them coddling. For a while. (We have great vets.)

Off to buy sunglasses for mah kitties and me to hide our fame. :)

Misc. Perry Day

By now, you all know that when I say "misc" I mean anywhere from 2 to x subjects. And guess what? Today is a one-sub-two-er-day-er-thing.

So, Perry gets his stitches out Friday, but he has also had a relapse, which I am very worried about. Ya know, I used to not like people who spent lots of money repairing their cats, but then I realized I just didn't like the people. Therefore.

Then we took him to the vet. Turns out, when the hospital told us to get him "Science Diet: ID" they meant "Science Diet: Intestinal Disorder" and not "Science Diet: InDoor". Plus he has more meds, as expected. Poor little caged kittum.

Horrible Sunshine

Something horrible has happened.

I am very tired. I AM NEVER TIRED! I AM THE QUEEN OF NOT TIRED!!! I am the person who can feasibly go to bed at ten and wake up and 5:45 feeling LIKE SUNSHINE. Then I would read the newspaper as I ate a lovely breakfast. Now I am never hungry and always tired. Horrible, I tell you!

I suppose I'll be happy when I'm taller.

Perry undid one of his stitches, resulting in the placement of a cone on his head. Unfortunately, I am the only one who understands how to put it on, so my lovely slumber is frequently interrupted.

Ta-ta! 1.1.11!!! Happy New Year!!