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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.