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. . . .