Updating Ensueth.

You know I'm working on a paper when I'm updating this...

2011-06-11T08:32:00.002-04:00

It's been too long since my last update.

And by this, I mean "it's been too long since my last writing assignment at Pitt."

I've had high hopes of having this paper written by now. I promised myself at the beginning of the semester, "Sammi - do yourself a favor. Don't get work done on time: get it done early." So far, this promise has been broken at least once a week. In the case of this paper, multiple days in a row.

I received an email from my independent study leader (aka, a teacher for a self-paced class; aka, I should not be taking this). He suggested that, in order to stay on track with the course, it would behoove us to submit paper #1 by the weekend.

That was two weeks ago.

"Behoove," of course, was my word choice just now. Perhaps if he had used that word, I would have attacked the paper immediately, but that's all behind us now.

Last week, I decided to be a good girl and write this paper. Then a friend of mine suggested we go to a bookstore together and both work on our respective assignments and as anyone could guess, that quickly fell by the wayside. Though in my defense, I did try - I got as far as the heading for the paper. I even inserted the page numbers in the footer. According to my own writing process, I'm already a tenth of the way there.

So now I am sitting in the David Lawrence building on a Saturday, having been asked to take my brother to his ACT testing here, and once again I'm faced with the unrelenting temptation - nay, desire, to completely slack off and allow myself to be distracted. I even planned for a way to distract myself: I brought not one, but two novels I have either started or want to start reading. These, however, will be last resorts.

First, I started combing through my hair with my fingers. It's too hot and humid to bother straightening my hair, so it's wavy, tangled mess and certainly needs for this to be done.

Once I can't do that any longer, I decide to at least make a go at the paper. I get out my laptop, my book, my notes. I decide to jot down an outline. I realize I have no pen, no pencil, not even a marker with which to write. But I am in a college lecture building's lobby, so I decide to go on a pen hunt. I've had many classes in this building and have often found abandoned pens on tables, under chairs, or in the middle of the lobby, having fallen from the backpacks or purses of their previous owners.

After about seven minutes of this, I realize I probably look pretty silly crouching about in this way, so I resign myself back to the table with my laptop etc. and decide to just take the notes on my computer in a Word.doc.

And as fate would have it, Facebook calls to me and I waste fifteen minutes checking it and then my email.

And now, we come to this: me updating. I must ask myself the question - why do I do this to myself? I know that I am a good writer, that I could (and do) pull words out of a hat and, with little effort, splatter them on a page like a modern artist. And, like the modern artist's audience, my teachers seem to deem them as masterpieces. Does this make me proud to say this? I'm merely stating a fact. But perhaps even recognizing this fact makes me proud. No - humble writers wouldn't mention this...they wouldn't stall the way I do, either. They'd see this ability as a gift not to be squandered, a weapon only to be used in the most dire of situations, to be held back for only the emergency situations.

I know I'm wasting my potential by doing this. I know I could be putting so much more into my work, so much more depth, so much more detail.

I broke my nail. Great, now I'm a proud, vain writer.

I need to stop this. End of. I need to write my paper.

Photo Book

2011-05-15T17:12:00.001-04:00

Click here to view this photo book larger

Movin' on Up!

2010-11-29T12:45:00.001-05:00

We've changed the date for the better: we'll now be getting hitched on Friday, October 7th, 2011!

Check out what's been keeping me from posting...

2010-11-23T14:10:00.005-05:00

My latest essay for Pitt entitled "Naughty Bones," or "Sinister Ribs."

[[and for some exciting news, see my last post!]]

I decided to take a “from the ground, up" approach to this post, looking not for a question’s answer but rather for a question, and I was surprised at what I found. I tried to think of a word that I knew was used throughout the text, and the word rib came to mind. It turns out that it’s used in many different contexts and is not exclusive to the Adam and Eve story. Rib is first used in Book I’s narration of the establishment of Pandemonium:

…Soon had his crew

Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 690

And digged out ribs of gold.

One definition of rib is “a bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure.” (OED, –8. a.) My original intention, however, was to look at this word in context to Book X during Adam’s angry rant about his disobedience being Eve’s fault:

…But for thee
I had persisted happy, had not thy pride
And wand’ring vanity, when least was safe, 875
Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
Not to be trusted, longing to be seen
Though by the Devil himself, him overweening[…]
And understood not all was but a show
Rather than solid virtue, all but a rib
Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears, 885
More to the part sinister from me drawn,
Well if thrown out, as supernumerary
To my just number found.

Adam then proceeds to blame Eve excessively, wishing God had never created her. Here, rib is used in a very different way – he is referencing it in the anatomical sense (which anybody can tell), but also in a sort of slang, with rib being another word for a person's wife or – more generally put – a woman. (OED, –3.) First, he describes what the anatomical rib looks like: naturally crooked, “bent;” the same way he now sees Eve – “crooked” meaning deceitful. It was at this point that I noticed the word sinister. Today, we usually take this word to mean “given with intent to deceive or mislead, especially so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will.” (OED, I. 1. a.) But while this does fit the description Adam has just assigned to Eve, there is more to sinister than our modern comprehension of the word. It also means “situated on the left side of the body.” (OED, II. 9. a.) This really brings about a separate interpretation when taken into account. The image created by these two interpretations is as follows: Adam saying (1.) that Eve was the evil which was drawn out of him and (2.) that Eve was drawn from his left side. One way this could be read is that God pulled the rib from the left side so that it would be closer to the heart, but another perspective is that God pulled the rib from Adam’s weaker side.* The left side of the body has never been regarded highly throughout Western history. During Milton’s era, many believed that being left-handed, for example, meant that you were demon-possessed; children, therefore, were broken of the habit when they started attending school (this practice – while likely not associated with this superstition any longer – was still in effect even as recent as the 1940s and ‘50s, even in America). In addition to these modern day opinions, Milton has given a more obvious comparison to this scene – in Book II, Satan’s offspring “Sin” is introduced as being

In darkness, while thy [Satan’s] head flames thick and fast
Threw forth, till on the left side op’ning wide, 755
Likest to thee in shape and count’nance bright,

As God created mankind in His own image, Sin was created (spawned) in Satan’s image. When Adam is describing the parallel event to this in Book X, he too remarks that the rib from which Eve was formed came from his left side (even though this isn’t actually ever stated in Genesis). By inserting this memory of Sin’s, Milton plays on the literal and metaphorical meanings of the word sinister, directly linking Eve - and women as a whole - to evil.

~~~~~~~~~~

RIB.

I. The bone, and related senses.

1. a. Each of the series of long, narrow curved bones articulated in pairs to the spine in humans and other vertebrates, enclosing or tending to enclose the thoracic (or body) cavity and protecting the main internal organs within it; usu. in pl. Also (in pl.): the part of the body in which the ribs are contained, the upper torso.
movable, short, skinny-rib, etc.: see the first element.

a1616

SHAKESPEARE

Othello (1622) I. ii. 5 Nine or ten times, I had thought to haue ierk'd him here, vnder the ribbes. 1667

MILTON

Paradise Lost X. 512 His Visage drawn he felt to sharp and spare, His Armes clung to his Ribs. 2005

T. HALL

Salaam Brick Lane i. 15 He suffered a broken nose, five broken ribs and a lacerated ear.

3. With allusion to the biblical account of the creation of Eve from Adam's rib (Gen. 2:21): a person's wife; (occas. more generally) a woman. slang in later use.

1589 KING JAMES VI Let. 19 Feb. in Calderwood's Hist. Kirk of Scotl. (1844) V. 82 Recommending me and my new rib to your daylie prayers. 1732

H. FIELDING

Mock Doctor ii, Go thrash your own rib, sir, at home. 1939 P. STURGES Great McGinty in Five Screenplays (1986) 105 Can you see me telling some rib where I been till two o'clock in the morning? 1991 Washington Post (Nexis) 2 July E5 It's all so confusing, this business of having to be politically correct... Can you still get away with referring to your wife as ‘the rib’?

8. a. A bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure. Also fig. and in figurative contexts.

1600

SHAKESPEARE

Much Ado about Nothing IV. i. 152 Confirmd, confirmd, O that is stronger made, Which was before bard vp with ribs of yron. 2002 J. L. HULL in C. A. Harper Handbk. Plastics, Elastomers, & Composites (ed. 4) ix. 586 Designing parts with thin reinforcing ribs rather than thick sections often reduces or eliminates such distortion.

SINISTER.

I. 1. a. Of information: Given with intent to deceive or mislead, esp. so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will. Obs.

1411 Rolls of Parlt. III. 650/2 And of all that by sinistre information, I havyng doute of harme of my body,..dyd assemble thise persones. 1566 Reg. Privy Council Scot. I. 416 Upoun sinister informatioun maid to thair Lordships,..the said Robert wes lattin to libertie; albeit the saidis Lordis perfytelie now undirstandis the contrarie.

2. Of opinions, etc.: Prejudicial, adverse, unfavourable, darkly suspicious. Obs.

1432 Paston Lett. I. 35 That the said Erle may have knowleche therof, to th' entent that he may..not dwelle in hevy or synistre conceit or opinion. a1713 T. ELLWOOD Autobiog. (1765) 67 Some evil Suspicion or sinister Thoughts concerning me. 1795 Sewel's Hist. Quakers I. Pref. p. xv, This is a very sinister and preposterous conceit.

II. 9. a. Situated on the left side of the body.

c1475 Partenay 3049 The sinistre Arme smote he vppon. SHAKES. Tr. & Cr. IV. v. 128 My Mothers bloud Runs on the dexter cheeke, and this sinister Bounds in my fathers. 1682 DRYDEN Mac-Fl. 120 In his sinister hand..He placed a mighty mug of potent ale.

Comb. a1658 LOVELACE Poems (1864) 158 That which still makes her mirth to flow, Is our sinister-handed woe.

* I cannot take full credit for this idea: we discussed this in another class I’m currently taking. :-)

I'm Engaged!

2010-11-20T20:57:00.003-05:00

I love to write Steve letters. Letters and cards. As often as I can, I mail them, hide them somewhere for him to find, etc.

Friday night I get my Jeep back from a long month of repairs and decide I want to drive. We were going out that night so I picked him up at 6:30. He came out of the house with a USPS shipping box. When I asked, he told me it was his sister's Christmas gift.

We drive to the mall and park, and he asks me to turn on the interior light. From the box, he pulls out seven envelopes, numbered 1-7 on the front. "I know I've said I'd someday write you some notes too, so I'm catching up." As I take them in my lap, grinning ear to ear and eager to rip into them, he adds, "and since it's close to Thanksgiving, I'm sure you'll notice a trend."

I open the first note and find one line of words to the effect of: "I'm SO THANKFUL that on July 4th, 2009, I met you at the Harrisville volleyball tournament." With it were three cute little girl volleyball player clip art pictures. The letters went on, each one further detailing our relationship with the "thankful trend" - "...thankful you said yes when I asked you out," "...thankful I could take care of you after your surgery," "...thankful you put up with my goofiness and faults." So when I read the last note and looked up at him to give him a hug and say "thank you," there he is with a black velvet ring box in hand, and he says, "And I'd be even MORE thankful if you would marry me."

*insert "OMG! OMG! OMG! yes! oooooh my goodness!!! I don't believe it!" [hug, kiss, hug, kiss]*

Happy Hump Day

2010-09-08T12:01:00.002-04:00

How does one find herself going from a nice, cool bed under a soft sheet to a smelly bus stop with a deranged pregnant woman singing along with her iPod and digging at her crotch? Answer: slowly. Painfully, dreadfully, slowly.

This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.

I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.

Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.

These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…

Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.

This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.

The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.

The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.

Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.

Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.

I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.

Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.

Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.

I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.

For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.

Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.

Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.

Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.

Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.

I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.

Happy Hump Day, readers.

Personality

2010-07-28T13:13:00.004-04:00

There is a really cool site I just found from another blog - it's called the Typealyzer, and it analyzes blogs to determine the "personality" of them. Mine took about a second to yield a result, and this is what it said:

For those who know me, this is spot on. Pretty cool! : )

Nostalgia Fail

2010-07-16T07:23:00.003-04:00

I recently had ACL surgery on my right knee, so for the last several weeks I’ve been regularly going to physical therapy a few miles from my house. Since I couldn’t drive myself, my mom or boyfriend Steve had been taking me. Just caddy-corner from the PT office is a Ponderosa.

For those of you unfamiliar with this franchise, it’s a steakhouse/all-you-can-eat buffet. I have the fondest childhood memories of this restaurant: when I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me there for any occasion he could think up. Birthday? Let’s go to Ponderosa! A long day of fishing? Ponderosa! I loved it there. It was a very family-friendly place – no alcoholic beverages, lots of different kinds of food that all kids enjoyed (like tacos, chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese…you get the idea); they even had a “Kids Korner” where children could sit and play after eating, complete with a chalkboard, coloring books, and Etch-a-Sketches. Heck, you even got a free Mr. Swirly cup if you were 12 or younger PLUS pick from the Swirly hat to win fun stuff like stick-on tattoos or crazy straws. Let me reiterate: I LOVED that place. And yes, the food was probably cheap, the potatoes were probably instant, but even as a 12 year-old I still thought it tasted pretty darn good. The best part? The ice cream machines. Picture what you see behind a Dairy Queen counter, only it’s right before your child’s eager, pudgy little fingers. They had chocolate, vanilla, or twist, and you could top it with a variety of toppings like syrup, sprinkles, or nuts. Ponderosa was the bomb.

So a couple weeks ago, my mom and I are pulling out of my physical therapy’s parking lot discussing what we’re going to fix for dinner. And – as we so often do – we both suggest at the same time, “We should totally go to Ponderosa.” Then a warning I heard not too long ago broke through to the front of my mind, and I answered us with, “…actually, I heard they kinda suck now.” So there we sat at the stop sign that separated us from the legendary restaurant of our past. Finally, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go – I mean, how bad could it really be?

We pull into the parking lot – Rule #1, kids: if the parking lot looks like they poured some cement over a mountain top then painted some lines on it, then they obviously care little about what you think of their restaurant externally; and if they don’t give a crap about what you think before you go in for a meal, they really don’t care about what you think once you're inside about to eat their food – finding a legit place to park was almost as hard as the ridiculous leg lifts I had to do in PT.

As we’re entering through the first set of double doors, there’s an old man in suspenders sitting on a bench just outside the building who eerily resembles Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, and he’s glaring at us. We walk through the second door and up to the counter. The girl at the register rings us up for two buffet meals, a water, and a tea. It’s just over $20. I look at my mom and mouth “What the???” Buffets used to be like, five bucks for crying out loud. At this point we’re feeling pretty bummed, but at least we get as much food as we want – we can make it worth nearly ten dollars a pop, right? Wrong. We round the corner and walk into the large seating area which also includes the buffet. My stomach drops as a waitress walking by wafts a wretched smell towards my nose – whether it was her lack of hygiene or the grease-logged food, I can’t be sure. We sit down and are brought our drinks. As I pray for the meal, I close it with, “…and Lord, please don’t let this be as much of a letdown as it has been thus far.” We walk to the buffet, grab a plate, and begin inspecting. Peeking into the covered soup caldron to check out the chicken soup, I pulled the spoon out and let it run over…it was like pouring yellow mud – consider it dodged. Instead, I started with a simple tossed salad with ranch dressing – the salad was limp and borderline SOGGY and the ranch tasted sour. So after two bites of that, I decided it would be best to move on. So I grabbed a new plate and walked back up. Now remember what I said about all that great food Ponderosa had when I was a wee one? None of it was there. And I’m not saying they were out: I’m saying they had all of about 10 dishes on their “buffet.” So I ended up standing at the buffet for a good three minutes waiting for these two cowboy hat-donning old farts to pick out a slice of this Mexican-looking casserole, followed by a scoop of corn. One bite of the casserole disaster and I was done with that dish. The corn, while still hard, was at least edible. Although I so desperately wanted to, I decided I wouldn’t give up just yet – I had noticed that they had soft taco shells up there. So I limped back up to the smorgasbord of epic failure and grabbed myself a soft taco. I cautiously added something that looked a little like ground beef to it and some cheese, but that was it – there was no lettuce or salsa or sour cream to be found. I dragged myself back to the table and tried it. I choked back a gag. I was so beside myself. Ponderosa was a complete and absolute letdown. My mom looked like someone had just shot Max. I suggested we call it quits on the buffet and just get some dessert. So we walked up to the dessert bar and poked around a bit, hoping to have at least one success story we could bring home. My mom took a bite of one of the cookies up there and immediately began looking for somewhere to spit it out. I continued my search until I found the familiar ice cream machine around a corner. I felt the smile creep across my face. Surely they couldn’t mess up ice cream. I got a bowl, pulled down the chocolate lever, and made it swirl at the top as it circled the bowl the third time. I hobbled back to the table, grinning. And just as quickly as that smile had come, it disappeared. Fact: ice cream CAN get freezer burn. We sat silently in utter disbelief for several minutes, Mom sipping her water and I my watered down, incorrectly-refilled as lemonade “tea.” I watched with horror as a family with young children hollered at their rude little boys and how no one in the restaurant seemed to think this was out of the ordinary for the place. The two old John Wayne wannabees were as covered in sloppy food as the floor was. As a pregnant woman walked to the buffet, I leaned across the table to my mother and asked her if I should warn the lady that eating this crap may harm the development of her unborn child.

We finished our drinks and were heading for the door – the door that no one held for us, the door that no one stood at just to tell us “thank you for coming” – and I noticed a “Comments and Suggestions Welcome” box. My eyes lit up. I quickly yanked a scrap of paper from my purse and dug for a pen. Quickly I scrolled my “comments” and “suggestion” – “If you have even a shred of integrity left, you’ll step up this menu and the condition of your restaurant. The food was awful. YOUR STEAKS CAN’T REDEEM YOU.” With glee, I popped that thing into the box, making a point to make eye contact with the young female employee leaning against the wall nearby who looked bored out of her mind. That was the best part of the whole experience. We walked out together, a tad queasy, vowing never to tell the rest of the family of this encounter but to warn anyone who we can ever catch darkening the doorstep of this hell hole.

The good news? If you have a worst enemy, suggest they eat there. Or, better – go get some of their food to go: I’m betting it would work well for pest control since it nearly turned an adult’s stomach inside-out.

DUH.

2009-11-23T09:08:00.002-05:00

Just realized I had a post still listed as "edit" in my "Edit Posts" tab. Lo and behold, a pretty much complete update that I never posted.

Ah well. Here is a link to it in case you're interested. :-)

Bold Only the Truth:

2009-11-20T11:33:00.003-05:00

I am a cuddler.

I am a morning person.

I am a perfectionist.

I am a night person.

I am an only child.

I am Catholic.

I am currently in my pajamas.

I am currently suffering from a broken heart.

I am okay at styling other people’s hair.

I am left handed.

I am addicted to my myspace.

I am very shy around the opposite gender.

I bite my nails.

I can be paranoid at times.

I currently regret something that I have said.

When I get mad I curse frequently.

I like someone a lot.

I enjoy jazz music.

I enjoy smoothies.

I enjoy talking on the phone.

I have a pet.

I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.

I have a tendency to fall for the wrong person.

I have all my grandparents.

I have at least one sibling.

I have been told that I am smart.

I have broken a bone.

I have Caller I.D. on my phone.

I have bathed/showered with someone.

I have changed a diaper.

I have changed a lot over the past year.

I have done something illegal.

I have friends who have never seen my natural hair.

I have had surgery.

I have killed another person.

I have had my hair cut within the last week.

I have had the cops called on me.

I have kissed someone I knew I shouldn’t.

Whoever Invented Tug-of-War Must Have Been the Fat Kid in School Who Always Got out First in Dodgeball

2009-11-13T11:50:00.004-05:00

This Sunday through Wednesday will be our church’s 14th annual Missions Conference. This event is one of the biggest and best of Harvest; but, of course, it could never be made possible without the behind the scenes work done by the wonderful members of our church and its staff. We have families who, out of the goodness of their hearts, open their homes to allow the missionaries and their families to stay with them, eat home-cooked meals, and fellowship; ladies who spend all day in the kitchen cooking and baking for the conferences’ luncheon; a special music team that picks and practices the most amazing and inspiring music to minister; a group of decorators who every year come and hang the flags and trim the auditorium with the most tasteful and lovely accents; and staff and faculty who spend hours upon hours assembling programs, guides, bulletins, and schedules to ensure that all goes smoothly.

It is to be expected, I suppose, that with an undertaking of this magnitude, there will be chaos within the two days prior to the “kick off,” so to speak. So this year and last, I’ve taken the Friday before the Conference off so that I could come into the office with my mom. She is our pastor’s/ church’s secretary and is responsible for MUCH of the organization for these events. Sure, she doesn’t stand behind the pulpit or speak for the groups, but she composes, prints, and assembles the booklets/bulletins/announcements/etc. for those that do. Often she’ll stay until midnight the two nights before the event just to get everything finished. I come in to help with what I can – running places, folding things – whatever I can do to make her life easier.

This morning, I was able to sleep two hours longer than usual, which was a blessing. I got up, grabbed my towel and fresh clothing, and went to take a shower. I closed the door and locked it, then went on with my routine. When I finished, I unlocked the door and tried to exit. This is where the significance of my title comes into play. The lock, which got bent slightly when one of my family members, in a fit of anger, slammed the door while the bolt was sticking out. So when I “unlocked” the door this morning, the bolt didn’t come out of the wall the entire way. Our bathroom door opens inward too, so I couldn’t even through my body against it. So I tugged a couple more times with just my hand, then had to plant my feet and (with two hands) hold the knob and pull as hard as I could. This is how it must feel to play tug-of-war. In my opinion, there can’t be much skill involved: it seems to me that the team with the most weight behind them wins. The Biggest Losers would be the guaranteed winners. It took me four hard pulls before I was able to free myself from the bathroom. Hopefully this is no indication of how the rest of my day will go…

Sunday, Packed-out Sunday

2009-09-23T14:53:00.005-04:00

Sunday, September 20th was our new church building's official first service and doubled as our church's annual Friend Day. I don't have time to post all of the background info needed to understand what an amazing day this was for Harvest, but suffice it to say that last March we took a special offering - just an offering - where people gave whatever the Lord led them to give: that night, we had brought in over $1.1 million dollars, plus an additional ~$2 million in "promise money," money pledged to be given in the future by church members. This was completely voluntary and this was the outcome. It's simply unheard of - unless God's on your side.

It's a year and a half later, and now we're occupying not only the school and office portion of the building, but we are able to transform the gym into an 800+ seated auditorium on Sundays and Wednesday nights.

It turns out we drew some attention our opening day: someone from the Valley News Dispatch wrote an article on the first service. The article can be read on their webpage by clicking here, but who knows whether it will be eventually deleted....so I'll post it on here as well.

Worshippers pack Harvest Baptist Church for first service in
Fawn
By Michael Aubele, VALLEY NEWS DISPATCH
Monday, September 21, 2009

Sunday's service at Harvest Baptist Church broke a common rule about moving a congregation.
Conventional wisdom holds that a congregation should not be moved across a natural barrier such as a river or "people will never show up," Senior Pastor Kurt Skelly told more than 1,200 worshippers who attended the first service at the church's new $5.5 million facility off Route 908.

During his 14 years with Harvest Baptist, he and other church leaders
have been forced by growth to move the congregation several times. This latest
move, however, is the first to break what Skelly described as a hard-and-fast
Bible college rule.

"Thank you for the unexpected," Skelly told the congregation.

Many members got their first look yesterday at the 40,000-square-foot
church, which sits on 28 acres.

Harvest Baptist formally started as a church ministry in 1983 with a
handful of people attending in a storefront along Constitution Boulevard in New
Kensington. When attendance grew, the church moved to Arnold. After several
years, it moved back to New Kensington.

The last place Harvest Baptist called home was along Kenneth Avenue in
New Kensington. Skelly said the congregation moved into the building in 2001 and
"outgrew that facility almost immediately."

Leaders decided to build a church in Allegheny County, across the
Allegheny River. In 2006, the church broke ground on land off the Route 28
expressway. Part of the property sits in Harrison, church officials said.

Members of the congregation said they were in awe of the expansive
building, which also is home to a church-run school with more than 120 pupils in
kindergarten through 12th grade.

Worship services are in what Skelly described as a "transitional room"
that doubles as a gymnasium. A standing-room-only crowd packed the facility
yesterday.

Church officials said Harvest Baptist typically draws 550 to 600
worshippers for a Sunday service.

"This is one of the greatest days of my life," said Bill Holland of
Saxonburg, who has attended the church for more than 14 years. "It's just
amazing to see what God has done with our pastor and the people in the
church."

Holland and other church members said they enjoy Harvest Baptist
because "it preaches the Gospel."

"The new building is exciting," said Gary Waddell of Freeport, a member
for nine years. "But I don't expect much to change. We come to hear the word of
God. We could meet under a tent, and I'd still be excited about the ministry
here."

Bruce and Sharon Ehrler of Cranberry planned to join the church
officially after yesterday's service. The Ehrlers said they had been attending
for about five months.

"We were awestruck the first time we came here," Bruce Ehrler said. "We
really felt God's spirit at work."

"It's a church that totally obeys the Lord," Sharon Ehrler said. "They
have a passion for sharing Christ here. Their faith is so evident."

Most worshippers appeared to be younger adults with new families.

Skelly said he believes that young families are turning to the church
because "they want answers" about things such as how to raise children or make a
marriage work.

More Than a Feeling

2009-08-24T09:13:00.005-04:00

Okay, enough with the Boston jokes, because this is kind of serious to me...

There's a time when a thought becomes more than just a thought. A thought is defined as "a single act or product of thinking; idea or notion." Sure, you can use your imagination when thinking and have images play out in motion, but you don't feel thinking. Your body doesn't get warm, or get cold, and your eyes don't get goo in them. And as far as I know, real life events don't speed through your mind's eyes as if they're really happening, and then several hours later, truly happen.

Same with dreaming, right? Dreams may seem real to you when you're dreaming them; sometimes you even have lucid dreams (dreaming but knowing you are during the process). But I don't think it's normal to feel pain or texture when dreaming, or to dream things and have them happen later that day or month.

Or is it?

Yesterday morning, I woke up and hopped in the shower to get ready for church. I brought my Venus razor in with me to shave my legs. Afterwards, I decided it was high-time to change the razor head. I pushed the cute little eject button and the head popped off and into our open-ended waste bin. I clarify this because we have two waste bins in the bathroom: one for general things, like empty shampoo bottles or tooth paste tubes, nail clippings, etc. Then there is a second bin for things like Q-tips, tissues, personal items that need to be tossed - basically anything that our beloved dog Max could (and would love to) chew. That bin has a lid on it so that he can't stick his little hose nose in and pull anything out. We realized all too fast that he enjoys chewing things like that and would stick his head into the trash at night and pull things out, leaving a trail of trash for us to pick up in the morning. So, back to the razor: when I popped it off into the open trash bin, I seriously had what I'm guessing to be some kind of day-mare: Max sticking sniffing around for food, smelling something tasty, grabbing it with his mouth, but catching the razor up with it...chewing it, cutting himself, bleeding everywhere on our black and white tiled floor...

I blinked and it was over, but I was sweating. I grabbed the razor out of the bin and threw it in the other one.

Fast-forward to 6:30 that night. I had gone upstairs to get a flosser out of the upstairs bathroom's medicine cabinet - my dad had treated me to dinner for helping him on a job a couple weeks ago, and I'd had chicken (which ALWAYS gets stuck in my back teeth). When I got the the doorway, I saw a combination of paper and (what the heck?) a Subway paper wrap (you know - how they wrap the sub in that waxy paper with their logo on it?). Max had been sniffing around in the waste bin again. It was actually half-way tipped over, leaning precariously against the side of the sink, and the wrapper was torn to shreds. The sandwich must have been my brother's since there were remnants of sauce stained into our bathmat that the dog must have trampled into the threads. And then it hit me - that day-mare - Max eating out of the trash. He totally would have grabbed the razor.

Fast-forward to last night/this morning.

A woman gets into her car after loading the trunk with groceries. She pulls away slowly, she and her three children - a boy and two girls. Within seconds, there's a man - lanky, African-American, short braids sticking up like thick strands of hair - grabbing at the passenger door, trying to open it. She screams, setting off an echoing wave of terror in the back seat of her small compact vehicle. The man succeeds in opening the door, but the woman picks up speed, swerving through the parking lot in an attempt to throw him from her car door. He does, and she slams on the brakes, lurching to a stop. "HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP!" she screams, and two men - one tall African-American and one shorter Caucasian man - come jogging over to see what is the matter. The assaulter is limp on the ground. The shaken woman leans toward her still-opened passenger door to see if her attacker is injured or dead while the men get out their cell phones to call 911. She pulls her door shut, hits the "all lock" button on her door, and starts to cry. While trying to calm down her kids, the man is suddenly back at her door and trying to open it. She throws the car into drive to make her second effort to escape the man as he begins to run around the front of the car, probably trying to get to her door or window. She rams him, he falls to the ground, and the police cars arrive. She buries her face in her hands, rests her head against the wheel, and sobs uncontrollably while her kids do the same in the back seat.

Then I wake up, sweating, breathing fast, sitting bolt upright. I don't know what made me dream that...but I did. And it's not like every dream I have comes true, but I've been keeping a journal of the weird ones like this; and it turns out that a heck of a lot of them do. So now, something's making me want to watch the news late tonight...

Deep Conversations

2009-08-23T23:28:00.004-04:00

Before starting this post, let me just say that I've honestly had a drafted post in my "Edit" file for weeks now on the making over of our upstairs bathroom. However, I've held off posting it since I still don't have the pictures to upload (for the extra flavoring).

Now, on to the post.

This is (nearly word for word) a conversation had by my mother and I in front of our local Family Video tonight, arguing over who would take back the movie:

The time - 10:30 p.m.

We're on our way to pick up my brother and need to return a rental by midnight. We're sitting in front of the movie shack - I in the driver's seat, my mom in the passenger's seat, closest to the building. There are no other cars in the parking lot, save for one silver pick-up truck. My mom is in her "pj's," a pair of pastel capris coupled with a robin's egg blue t-shirt. I'm wearing a pair of Nike shorts and a Pitt Zoo t-shirt. These are important facts, so pay attention. Now, on to the dialogue.

me: "You've got the DVD?"

Mom: "Yeah. Here."

"Well no, you go - just stick it in the return slot."

"No?!"

"Yes?!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Look at me! I'm in my pj's!"

"So? I go INTO the store in my pj's all the time."

(look of horror) "Well I'm not getting out the car looking like this."

"C'mon, I'm in the driver's seat."

"So?"

"So?...I don't want to put the car in park."

"Uuuuugh..."

(two seconds of silence)

(unison) "You gonna go? NO!"

me: "Why'd you wanna come?"

Mom: "To keep you company?"

"Wha?...okay, come on. Just go stick it in the slot. You don't even have to go inside."

"But there's a guy in there!"

"Since when do you care?? You're married!"

"I'm in my pj's!"

"Those're barely pj's. I'm in shorts and a t-shirt, and I'll probably wear those to bed, so I'm in my pj's too!"

"I'm not going!"

"C'mon, please? I'll give you a quarter?"

(cocks head) "Uh, no."

"No really, a quarter. (silence) Okay, two quarters, both my own, too."

"What?! No!"

"Okay, three quarters....a dollar."

(silence) "No! Just do it yourself, you dork."

(gasp) "Are you serious? You wouldn't take a dollar to walk, oh, thirty steps to drop a movie in a slot? Are you crazy? You can pick the type of money, change or paper..."

"No."

(long pause)

"...would you pay ME a dollar?" (grins)

I ended up doing it. *sigh*

These Sleepless Nights

2009-08-19T14:58:00.004-04:00

Last night and early this morning, I couldn't sleep. What little sleep I did get involved dreams such as hunting down a Grigori and saving a small child from a marsh-dwelling crocodile. Red flags should have been shooting into the sky when I (a.) couldn't sleep and (b.) kept dreaming about topics involving water since around 3:30 a.m. the whole family was sounded for by my dad into the upstairs hallway. I jumped off the bed and ran to the door. As soon as I opened it, it sounded like someone was taking a shower with the bathroom door open...no, like someone was taking a shower in the hallway. When I ran to the bathroom, I saw the problem: the cold water hose under the sink had burst and water was literally shooting straight out, hitting the back wall and toilet tank. My dad tried to tighten the valve to shut off the water running through the hose, but the knob had rusted itself open. So we all took shifts I stood there in the waterlogged bathroom keeping watch over a bucket I had rigged beneath the sink, careful to empty it when it got too full, while Dad worked his way through each room in the basement searching for the big-mama shut-off for the cold water. About 30 minutes later, the water slowed to a stop. He'd found the lever that shut off not just the cold water, but all the water. I emptied the bucket and made quick use of the mop that was propped in the hallway. After mopping up the bathroom, and went downstairs to investigate.

Now, that part about us all rushing to Dad's aid when he hollered for us? Yeah, let me back up and clarify that a bit: when I got downstairs, I looked over the railing into the livingroom to find my brother, Rob, snoozing away. He'd been sawing logs through this entire ordeal. I saw a bucket in the middle of the floor and (knowing the answer already) yelled, "ROB! IS THIS BUCKET BEING USED?!" His whole body shot up straight and his eyes flew open. He looked around, looking slightly frightened. His eyes lazily met mine and he answered with a: "Uuggghhh, uh." And with that, he keeled right back over onto the couch. Incredible.

So while Rob slept away, I continued to assess the damage. Here, the water had flooded the upstairs bathroom, forcing it to flow through the upstairs hallway, down the stairs, and into the entryway, causing the now river of water to fork off towards both the livingroom and the kitchen, and from the kitchen down the hidden stairs and into the basement. It was a royal mess. Mom swept the water near the front door out onto the porch while all the mayhem of Dad in the basement and me upstairs with the bucket was going on. Finally, around 4:30, we all fell back into bed.

And yet I still couldn't sleep.

Useful Forwards (Yes, There Is Such a Thing)

2009-07-22T08:35:00.002-04:00

I hate getting forwards. In fact, I generally move them to my trash folder without ever opening them if I see the "FWD:" in the subject line. But this morning I was sent this one* about WD-40 and was intrigued since the drummer from my dad's band just recently told me that the product would remove tar stains from our car. So if you have a problem, read on. WD-40 can probably fix it.

(*This is not the exact forward. Some grammar and spelling has been modified and corrected, and some extraneous content has been omitted.)

WD-40, or "Water Displacement #40." This product came about in an attempt to create a rust preventative solvent and degreaser to protect missile parts. It was created in 1953 by three technicians at the San Diego Rocket Chemical Company. Its name comes from the project that had been started to find a "water displacement" compound.. They were successful with the fortieth formulation, thus WD-40. The Convair Company bought it in bulk to protect their atlas missile parts.

NOTE: Ken East (one of the original founders) says that there is nothing in WD-40 that would harm you (so fret not as you read any uses that involve topical use).

Here are some common (and uncommon) uses:
1. Protects silver from tarnishing.
2. Removes road tar and grime from cars.
3. Cleans and lubricates guitar strings.
4. Gives floors that "just-waxed" sheen without making them slippery.
5. Keeps flies off cows.
6. Restores and cleans chalkboards.
7. Removes lipstick stains.
8. Loosens stubborn zippers.
9. Untangles jewelry chains.
10. Removes stains from stainless steel sinks.
11. Removes dirt and grime from barbecue grills.
12. Keeps ceramic/terra cotta garden pots from oxidizing.
13. Removes tomato stains from clothing.
14. Keeps glass and plastic shower doors free of water spots.
15. Camouflages scratches in ceramic and marble floors.
16. Keeps scissors working smoothly.
17. Lubricates noisy door hinges on vehicles (and doors in homes).
18. Removes black scuff marks from floors.
19. Displaces the moisture on your car's distributor cap and allows the car to start.
20. Gives a children's playground gym slide a shine for a super fast slide.
21. Lubricates gear shifts and mower deck levers for ease of handling on riding mowers.
22. Rids rocking chairs and swings of squeaky noises.
23. Lubricates tracks in sticking windows and makes them easier to open.
24. Lubricates the stem of an umbrella, making it easier to open and close.
25. Restores and cleans padded leather dashboards in vehicles, as well as vinyl bumpers.
26. Restores and cleans roof racks on vehicles.
27. Lubricates and stops squeaks in electric fans.
28. Lubricates wheel sprockets on tricycles, wagons, and bicycles for easy handling.
29. Lubricates fan belts on washers and dryers to keep them running smoothly.
30. Keeps rust from forming on saws, saw blades, and other tools.
31. Removes splattered grease on stove tops.
32. Keeps bathroom mirrors from fogging.
33. Lubricates prosthetic limbs.
34. Keeps pigeons off the balcony (they hate the smell).
35. Removes all traces of duct tape.
36. Relieves arthritis pain when sprayed on arms, hands, and knees .
37. Removes crayon marks from walls. Spray on the mark and wipe with a clean rag.
38. Takes the sting away immediately and stops the itch for fire ant (and other bug) bites.
39. Attracts fish. Spray a little on live bait or lures. Also, it's a lot cheaper than the chemical attractants that are made for just that purpose. (Keep in mind though, using some chemical laced baits or lures for fishing are not allowed in some locations.)

FUN FACT: New York's favorite use? WD-40 protects the Statue of Liberty from the elements.

So yeah, I think I'm going to go out and buy a can to keep in my purse.

P.S. The basic ingredient of WD-40 is FISH OIL.

Surf Girl Meets Turf Gril

2009-07-20T09:17:00.000-04:00

Friday night was special for me, not only because my siblings were out of the house for the night (teen group version of "Survivor Man" = memories of what it was like to be an only child), but also because I had my first ever steak.

My mom found out about this while making a list of meals for the next week before sending me grocery shopping. "You mean you've never had a steak before? In your entire life?"

"Nope. Well, wait. There was that one time when [my Family Life Skills teacher] brought back a small piece of filet mignon from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse and let me try a bite....does that count?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh..."

"And you've never even ordered it when you've gone out to eat?"

"Well, no. I almost always order something spicy and/or seafood...I don't get that often, so I always like to get something with shrimp. I never thought to get steak."

"That's it. We're going to get you some steak Friday."

And so we did.

We were running errands that evening, so we headed out to Applebee's for their 2 for $20 deal. We both got the 7 oz. House Sirloin. I ordered mine medium rare, hoping they'd undercook it to a perfect rare; instead, I got it the other way around and ended up being delivered something that looked more like medium - there was very little pink. But I couldn't complain: I sunk my teeth into that piece of juicy, savory meat and let it linger there, clamped by my jaw, allowing the juiciness to flow freely into my mouth. It tasted amazing; better than I had imagined.

I opened my eyes - I hadn't even noticed I had closed them - and looked directly at my mom, grinning with satisfaction. "How could you keep this from me for so long?" I asked, with a frustrated but playful tone.

I couldn't finish it all, having eaten my fair share of our boneless buffalo wings appetizer plus the smashed potato side that came with my hunk of meat. But after two hours I attacked it again with just as much excitement. Maybe it's just because I'm new, but it tasted just as good cold.

It sucks having a picky dad and (so-called) vegetarian sisters (interpret "vegetarian" loosely...it's more like "vegetarian...except for bacon and pepperoni"). We have very little options when it comes to planning "carnivorous" meals. So now I'm definitely going to have to add steak to my eating-out menu.

YAY FOR STEAK!

New Favorite T-shirt Site!

2009-07-16T12:50:00.002-04:00

it's called vigtees.com and their t-shirts are awesome.

My personal favorite can be found here.

They're a little more expensive than the other t-shirt sites I've found, but this shirt is totally worth it.

Introduction

2009-07-12T01:04:00.004-04:00

It was late Saturday night - or, as some would say, early Sunday morning - as she climbed the stairs. She stepped softly, careful to keep her right wrist as steady as she could to keep her gigantic tea cup of hot water from tipping. She had boiled and poured it several minutes prior and was hoping that it had cooled sufficiently so that, once she reached her room at the top of the last platform, she could rip open her new teabag, place it in the cup to steep, and then sip from it soon after without burning her tongue. As she crab-walked her way up, she could not help but think that this was what it was like to feel "old," should one be able to properly define such a word. Her knees ached, but (in her mind) for all the right and most honorable reasons. She smiled inside as she realized she was wearing the prize she had earned at the same time she had earned the sore knees: the ten-hour volleyball tournament in Harrisville. She was still recovering from the severe sunburn she had received from that affair, but despite the pain she suffered that week (and the peeling she was still trying to get past), it was all worth it to her - even if all first place won was a t-shirt.

She reached her room and made a right through the open door. Her wrist quivered a bit as she gently set the flower pot-sized mug down on the round, metallic coaster at the edge of her large, black wooden desk. She felt relieved to have made it successfully to her final destination of the day without spilling any scalding hot water on herself - she was, after all, carrying it with her opposite hand. Roaming about her desktop, her eyes finally fell on the sky blue packet of tea. She picked it up and read it to herself: "Harney & Sons. ORANGE PEKOE." What is "Pekoe"? she thought aloud. She turned over the now opened packet to read the description: "A classic Assam laced with Ceylon." A load of good that did me...I don't know what Assam is either. She shrugged and slowly tugged the teabag out by its string. Then, as if it were someone easing into a jacuzzi after a long day's work, she slid the teabag into the steaming cup of water, guiding it down the side until it finally rested flat along the bottom of the mug. Without lifting the cup, she leaned in and allowed her nose to linger just above her mammoth mug and the aromatic waves of heat that were now drifting upwards into her room to serenade her senses, both with the sweet smell and the warm yet intangible touch as it wafted against her face. She then sat down in front of her laptop (situated in the very center of her desk) and began to type a new and quite overdue blog entry.

Relient K!

2009-06-09T09:26:00.003-04:00

I cannot even begin express how excited I am about this. I haven't seen RK in concert since my 17th birthday(!!!).

By the looks of the tickets site, it seems to be Toby Mac's tour (technically speaking) - the "Winter Wonder Slam" - but either way, it's still an opportunity to see Matty T and the guys live.

If you have no clue who I'm talking about, check out their website or YouTube them. Some excellent songs to search would include: "Pressing On," "For the Moments I Feel Faint," "Mood Rings," "Getting into You," "Be My Escape," "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been," "Must Have Done Something Right," "Deathbed," and "The Lining Is Silver."

This clip is their song "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been."

Cookin' up a Storm

2009-06-03T14:07:00.003-04:00

So I was supposed to go to Kennywood today with some friends, but since it was a 70% chance of thunderstorms, we decided we'd rather wait for a day that was forecasted to be sunny so our $40 tickets would be worth while. I was so pumped to go though, so I'm kind of frustrated that it isn't POURING outside right now. (If Sammi ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.)

On a brighter note, my mom and I are assembling something of a cook-book gone cook-three-ring-binder. We're tired of the pages of all our cookbooks getting wet and wrinkled or splattered with food and such; plus, so many of the recipes we use have been altered over time that they're not even the recipe we use anymore. So we're typing them all up the way we actually cook/bake them then and keeping them in clear plastic sleeves so they stay nice.

So. If anyone is interested in leaving some favorite recipes in the Comments section of this post, feel free! Maybe I'll share some of my favorites.

Retiree

2009-06-02T21:16:00.000-04:00

So this morning went as usual: I arrived at work around 7 a.m. with my small, soy white chocolate mocha in hand. I entered my office, turned on the computer, and logged in. But when I tried to open the office's network email, I couldn't log in for some reason. I decided it must be a fluke and instead tried to open one of our database systems to enter some data. To my surprise, I couldn't use that either. I figured the server must be down or that the computers had been updated and thought it might work better if I just restarted my computer. I did so, and was shocked to find that now I couldn't even log on to my user's account. Even more astounding was the a notice window popped up saying "Your account has been disabled. Please see your administrator for help." So when one of my co-workers got in, and paid her a visit and told her my problems. She pulled up a program and found my name. After a three-second pause, she said, "Huh, that's funny."

"What?" I asked.

"It says here that you're retired," was her reply.

I leaned forward from my seat and craned my neck around to view the screen; sure enough, I was listed as retired. It turned out that when I was changed from a "temporary employee" (through a group called Temp. Services) over to a "Pitt student employee" (same thing, but paid by someone else), the computer system was never notified and therefore decided my time here at UPMC had expired. I still can't figure out why it chose to do it that way though.

While I was waiting for my request for an account to be processed, I decided to walk down to the hospital and collect some data for the study. My dad, who works there, happened to be just leaving his office, and we had a chance to stop and talk. "So guess what?" I asked him, "Apparently, I'm retired!"

"Wow," was his response. There was a pause, then, "sooo....do you get a pension?"

I laughed and explained to him what had happened and that it was being taken care of while I was out. He sighed, and with a laugh said, "Sure wish I could retire!"

So now I'm back to work. Nothing's changed, just what the computer says. Though I feel a bit of that rush that Brett Favre must have felt the x-number of times he's come back from retirement. LET'S DO IT AGAIN!

Live...Sorta.

2009-05-12T15:00:00.002-04:00

In response to some of my co-workers, I'm posting this video clip as a sample of my singing. It came up during a mini birthday celebration today that I sang at a wedding over the weekend and one of our doctors wanted me to sing an excerpt. Having already taken that first bite of cake, I knew she would be greatly disappointed with what she would have heard after that point. :-)

So here's an older music clip of me singing with a quartet; hopefully I will be able to upload the video of my performance at the wedding later this week. (For anyone interested in the song I sang at the wedding [because it is a beautiful song], it's called "I Will Be Here" by Steven Curtis Chapman.)

Why I'm the Favorite

2009-05-09T10:38:00.004-04:00

REASON #1:
For months now, my brother has been on a Coldplay kick. And for the past several months, he's been saying how much he wishes Coldplay would come to Pittsburgh so he could see them live in concert. Thanks to the annoying (but in this instance, helpful) ads on Facebook, I noticed that they were coming to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette Pavillion at the end of May. Although his birthday is in August, I decided to get him tickets as an early birthday gift. But I was trying to decide how to tell him...I mean, it wouldn't be as fun to just hand over the tickets. So I spent a whole night doing nothing but Googling Coldplay lyrics to use as scavenger hunt clues for him. And when I say I went all out, I went all out. Needless to say, he had a blast looking for the clues. I was able to use the video recording feature on my dad's camera to film him looking, but I still haven't uploaded them yet. [[drat.]] So stay tuned for an "updedit" with the clips.

REASON #2:
I secretly requested Friday afternoon off for my mom so that I could take her (and my sisters) out to Alexandra's Tea Room as a surprise Mother's Day gift. We had such an amazing time: the food was delicious, the atmosphere was relaxing, the tea was fantastic, and the company was -- as always -- great. The first teas we selected were "Buckingham Palace Garden Party," "Goddess of Mercy Oolong," "Amore," and "Peach Apricot," but you can have as many different flavors brewed for you as you want. Here are some pictures from the trip.

And the Saga Continues...

2009-04-24T12:39:00.006-04:00

Last Monday I received an email via my Pitt webmail from a mysterious sender "Duane Dangerous." Tuesday's class was canceled and we were to come Thursday "as scheduled," even though on the syllabus we were scheduled not to come. Confused as I was, I came anyway. Instead of my professor showing up though, a woman came to our class telling us that "[my professor] is gravely ill" and that she would be finishing out the term with us as our sub. We discussed possibilities for the final since it had not yet been assigned, and we all agreed on a take-home final that would be emailed to us the next week.

Fast-forward to Thursday the 16th. I get a Facebook message from a friend in that class saying our professor WAS BACK and ended up holding class for a party. I checked my Pitt webmail (which I never check) and sure enough, there in my inbox was the invitation to the class party along with 5 paragraphs-worth of essay topics for our new final that would be due the next week on Wednesday by midnight. I got this email Monday the 20th. Luckily I was able to write it and turn it in on time, but boy am I relieved to be done with that class.

In other news, my mom pawned off a bunch of assorted teas that she had acquired on me the other day - one of which was this white vanilla grapefruit tea by Harney & Sons. Conclusion: BEST TEA EVER. It was so smooth...like silk...the vanilla perfectly accented the hint of citrus from the grapefruit. Both existed harmoniously in this perfect sweet and fruity blend....sort of deal....or whatever. I can't even put it into words how good this tea was. All I can say is that you need to try some for yourself!

Mommy, guess what I learned in class today!

2009-04-02T21:45:00.006-04:00

So today went as any other Thursday does: work for two hours in the mornings, then head to a long day of classes. My third class of the day is Advanced Shakespeare, and for the most part, it's pretty interesting. The professor is definitely young at heart - he has us addressing him on a first name basis, jokes around the entire class time, swears incessantly, and loves to show random films as long as they make even the smallest reference to Shakespeare. We all know he's a goof-off, but something was just not right today.

He made his grand entrance five minutes late, pushing his way through the desks rather than walking around them. He then proceeded to wrench the contents from the torn jeans he was wearing and throw them across the room, completely missing the table onto which he was (I'm assuming) trying to toss them. After fumbling with his manbag, he ripped a DVD from it and threw open the entertainment cabinet. The door kept falling shut, and this must have ticked him off because he kept slamming it back against the wall with his hand (and then eventually with his foot). Although the air conditioner was blasting, he decided to open all the windows to let in the forty degree air. The hair at the nape of his neck was wet with sweat, as was the back of the stained white tshirt he chose to wear to class. And even though his eyes were darting about wildly, he would suddenly begin nodding off (sometimes right in the middle of speaking).

He turned on the film (which was, by the way, Vincent Price's "Theatre of Blood"), stayed long enough to mutter a few incoherent phrases having to do with amphetamines and morphine, then left the room for the rest of the hour and fifteen minutes of class.

And this is the education I'm getting for thousands of dollars a semester.

April Fools!

2009-04-01T11:50:00.002-04:00

So I stayed home from work this morning with a sore throat, stuffed up nose, and horrible cramps. I woke up somewhere around 10:30 and someone had left whatever channel "The Ellen Show" falls on. I sat up and slowly gained consciousness to it just as she did a segment where she surprises a fan of hers by giving them "Ellen Bailout Bucks." She has apparently been doing this for awhile now because it sounded like it has been a regular deal. So since the twins were still asleep, I ran to their room screaming and hollering "THE ELLEN SHOW! SHE CAME! ELLEN CALLED US AND THEY'RE OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE! C'MOOOOOOOOOOON! HURRY!" Lexi sat up, bleary-eyed, and Ali tripped to the window. "APRIL FOOLS DAY!" I shouted.

They both gave me a dirty look and fell back into their beds.

Tee hee.

Happy Birthday to Me...

2009-03-30T00:25:00.003-04:00

Well, today marked the beginning of my 20th year of life...and it started out drippy.

I had my alarm set for 8:00 this morning to get up for church, but, as always, I hit the snooze a good two or three times. The third time, I noticed I could hear the rain...but I had been hearing the rain earlier -- just outside. This time it sounded like it was coming from inside. My mom and I had fallen asleep downstairs, so I (from the loveseat) called over to her on the couch: "Mom. Mom, wake up. Do you hear that?"

"Yeah, it's raining."

"No, I know. But something isn't right...it sounds like it's raining in here."

"Someone probably just left the window open; it's probably hitting the windowsill."

"No, Mom, you don't hear that? I'm saying it sounds like it's raining in the living room!"

*stops and listens* "Oh. Wow. Yeah..." *looks up* "OH MY GOSH, IT IS RAINING IN THE LIVING ROOM!"

And that's how the day started. I came downstairs to see my dad had stationed two buckets and a small pot under the three major drippy areas. He went outside later that morning and determined the leak to be a result of a bent-up shingle. ALL THAT FOR ONE FREAKING SHINGLE. So hopefully we'll get that fixed before the infamous "April showers" we're likely to be getting within the next couple days. [yikes]

Otherwise though, great birthday. Not one of those milestone ones like 16, 18, or (in the future) 21, but hey, I can't complain. After church I was able to take a nice nap, then headed out to get my free coffee that Caribou owed me. Turned out that I could make it ANY drink of ANY size. So naturally I got the biggest thing they offered, a large, of my favorite specialty drink - the white chocolate mocha. Ordinarily, I get it skim, but today I got it soy since it was free (HA! Cuz there's no way I'm spending an extra 35¢ on a drink just to make it soy). After that, we (my mom and I visited the Old Navy that was nearby. I, being the moron that I am at times, forgot to bring along the gift card that I got in the mail from my cousin, so all I could do was look around. Still, we had a good time. On the way back, we stopped at a local DQ to pick up my ice cream cake (my favorite). I told my mom that I wanted to pick what was written on the cake, and she agreed; but when I asked if I could get "Happy Birthday, you sexy thang," she said no. She also turned down "Happy One Year Away from Being Legal" and "Happy Birthday to the Awesome Daughter." Not sure why... :-)

So we had pizza for dinner, ice cream cake and coffee for dessert. I got (apart from some $) a green PINK tote, a pair of layered butterfly earrings, a v-neck Tink tshirt, and [GASP!] the first season DVD of my all-time favorite TV show. I also got this really cool homemade crown that said "Princess Sammi" on the front and "--> I'M AWESOME <--" on the back, but I gave myself that gift, so I guess that doesn't count. After gift opening, we played a few rounds of Catch Phrase, which is hilarious with my family. I've got two nearly deaf grandfathers and a grandma who can't help but spell the word out under her breath if you don't catch on fast enough - it's always so much fun. We walk away with so many inside jokes after every time we play it.

So now that I've walked Max, it's time to look for that episode of "Lie to Me" that I missed last-last Wednesday...thank God for Hulu.

Quote of the Day:

2009-03-19T08:35:00.006-04:00

[commercial for the new Osbourne family show comes on]

Ali: I hate them. They’re so dumb. And Harry Osbourne is so creepy!

Me: Uh, Al? Harry Osborn is from Spiderman. And he was played by James Franco who is so NOT creepy. I think you meant…

Ali: Oh, yeah, right. I meant Jimmy. Jimmy Osbourne.

Me: Ali? It’s OZZY.

Ali: Oh.

Close, Ali. Very close.

T-SHIRTS!

2009-03-18T10:23:00.009-04:00

As Skythrock would say, UPDEDIT:

check out this awesome tshirt site: Rethink Clothing.

I love t-shirts. In fact, I think I may have too many of them. There are just so many good ones out there though, you know? Band tees, funny tees, cute-tees (pun intended), team tees (especially Pitt!)...the list goes on and on.

It was only today that I realized just how many t-shirt websites I like to visit. Here's the short list:

Anyway, tees are awesome. This is the one I most recently would die for: the Three-Eyed Owl.

Dream a Little Dream of Me...

2009-03-17T07:46:00.006-04:00

Mama Cass sang it best...

Since Friday, I've been having moderate to freaking-awful pain in my right ear (and some in my left ear). Consequently, I had been taking copious amounts of Ibuprofen and lots of naps (to take my mind off the ache). The combination of the two resulted in, I'm not gonna lie, some majorly trippy dreams, one of which involved me (as some kind of operative for a secret in-the-know organization) being assigned the job of disabling a giant machine designed by the Priceline Negotiator (aka, William Shatner). He was, apparently, planning on overthrowing the U.S. government with his negotiating skilz with his next step being to destroy other nations with this machine he had built (which was coincidentally being stored behind a stage on which he was giving a big pep rally for his cause). So I was given orders to scale the gigantic hunk of metal and you know, clip all the right wires and whatnot, but for whatever reason, in my dream, I accidentally knocked one of the pieces off? And it fell into what very much resembled the Reflecting Pool by the Lincoln Memorial in DC? And nobody there seemed to notice or hear it? Yeah, strange....either way though, I got the job done and looked really cool doing it.

There were other strange dreams, but it would take a long time to post them all. So instead, I wish you all a Happy St. Patrick's Day and enjoy this hilarious YouTube video done by one of my favorite "kid" stars, "Fred."

The Frog Prince

2009-03-12T06:25:00.009-04:00

I was listening to my Keane CD "Under the Iron Sea" while I was getting ready this morning and the track "The Frog Prince" came on.
It reminded me of an old boyfriend for whom I assembled a scrapbook. Some of the themes included the whole frog prince/knight in shining armor plus princess concept, and I had the cutest sticker collection that I bought for it of these frog princes/knights/princesses portrayed by little cartoon kids. It was adorable. But when I think about it anymore, a feeling of anger follows a smile. Guess that's what happens.

An old fairytale told me
The simple heart will be prized again
A toad will be our king
And ugly ogres our heroes
Then you'll shake
Your fist at the sky
"Oh why did I rely
On fashions and small fry?"
All promises broken
Feed your people or lose your throne
And forfeit your whole kingdom
I'd sooner lose it than still live in it alone
Your prince's crown
Cracks and falls down
Your castle hollow and cold
You've wandered so far
From the person you are
Let go brother, let go
'Cause now we all know
Soon, someone will put a spell on you
Perfume, treasure, sorcery, every trick they know
You will lie in a deep sleep
That's when...
Your prince's crown
Cracks and falls down
Your castle hollow and cold
You've wandered so far
From the person you are
Let go brother, let go
'Cause now we all know

Happy Spring Break to me...

2009-03-05T11:44:00.003-05:00

With the submission of this paper, I thee (Spring Break) wed...

Symbolism in The Crying of Lot 49 and The Scarlet Letter

Who would have ever thought there could be so much meaning placed in such inanimate objects as an uber-geometric doodle of a “muted” horn or a red and gold piece of “A”-shaped fabric? In nearly all of the books our class has read during the course of this semester, there has been at least some semblance of symbolism (or some similar literary device) in each of the stories that all of us could identify. Having said this, I feel that two of the more recent books we have read, Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, have exhibited not only copious amounts of symbolism, but also have displayed it in ways that (though I’m sure the authors never intended this) are relative to one another.

I would first like to discuss the “main” symbols and their meanings (and by “meanings” I mean “potential meanings, or lack thereof” since, in many cases, we are never explicitly told what they mean). I would first like to establish them as symbols of fixation. In Pynchon’s Lot 49, the muted horn surfaces fairly early on as the object of Oedipa (the main character)’s obsession – from the moment she first spots the horn penciled onto the bathroom wall (Pynchon 38), she is from then on consumed by curiosity and desire to find out what it means. Both likewise and in contrast, in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter, the Puritan townspeople are obsessed with Hester (the main character)’s ornate crimson “A” that has been sewn front and center onto her dress and constantly mock, chastise, and shun her because of it (at least in the early part of the book). However, their fixation over the scarlet letter is not one of curiosity – everyone knows that Hester wears the letter as a symbolic reminder of the sin she has committed: adultery.

As stated previously, I would like to present some of the meanings given to these symbols throughout both books. The muted horn seems to claim multiple meanings since it has multiple groups using it as their trademark. What Oedipa feels is that it belonged to the “Trystero,” an old mail distribution organization. She believed that, after following the trail that horn left, she had possibly uncovered the centuries old conflict between the Trystero – a fictional company dreamed up by the author – and its rival company, “Thurn und Taxis” – a company which actually existed. The muted horn also served as the symbol for some sort of swingers group (being advertised on the wall of a bathroom) looking for free love and multiple partners, and again as the “emblem” for the anonymous inamorato’s “society of isolates (Pynchon 94).” Although we are given several various possibilities for the use of this symbol, we are never made known of its initial working use or of its original purpose. We could assume that its origin was that of the Trystero, but the book is so chaotic and wild-goose-chase-esque, that it is hard to tell; we are left dangling. We react similarly to Hester’s “A” in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter in that the author never actually comes right out and says that “A = Adulteress” (or some such form of the word). I believe, however, that we can assume it is what the author wanted us to at least think it to mean. Plus, it is what the townspeople believed, and they are mightily responsible for many of the opinions produced throughout the book (of Hester’s betrayal of loyalty to her husband, of her pride, of her inability to raise her child well, etc.). On the other hand, further down the road when Hester begins to reintroduce herself into society as a working member, the townsfolk change how they interpret the meaning from “Adulteress” (assumedly) to “Able” – by that, we can guess they mean any number of things: “able to overcome adversity,” “able to make herself useful,” the list could go on and on. By the end of the story, the people of the New England town see her “A” as a symbol to be revered. So just as in The Crying of Lot 49, the symbol of The Scarlet Letter morphs in and out of different meanings, taking on new definitions constantly.

I would like to focus next on the way symbols contrast the themes (perhaps not the themes, but certainly possible themes) of their respective stories. In The Crying of Lot 49, I see a major theme of “chaos” throughout. Moving away from the muted horn, I would like to postulate the idea that the story’s “Maxwell’s Demon” can serve as a symbol of order. The issue with the Demon is that it cannot be operated because it requires a certain unattainable level of communication (or a “sensitive” person). Since another theme would undeniably be “a breakdown in communication,” I feel as though this supports my theory when including this idea of a theme, as well. In The Scarlet Letter, I see the theme of “human frailty and sorrow” handed to us at the closing of the book’s first chapter (Hawthorne 46). In contrast, the rose is portrayed as a symbol of endurance and hope, or as the author would phrase it, “some sweet moral blossom (Hawthorne 46).” Just as Hester’s “A,” we are never actually told the true significance of the rose, though it is mentioned a few more times within the story; yet, like so many things in The Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne seems to like to keep some matters a secret from his audience.

Lastly, I find a similarity in the use of evocative names by both authors, whether it be blatantly intentional (like Pynchon) or perhaps not intentional at all (like Hawthorne), though we don’t know. In Pynchon’s work, the mailing system “W.A.S.T.E” is in fact a “waste” of time since only a few people actually know of it and because its users are required to deliver mail once a week even if they have nothing to say. The main character’s name is “Oedipa,” which is strikingly similar to Sophocles’ character “Oedipus,” a Theban king whose curiosity got the best of him when he dug too deep trying to find answers to a crime which turned out to be one of his own. His unearthing of the information drives him mad; likewise, Oedipa feels as though she either is going insane or perhaps already is insane by the end of her story. Her doctor, Dr. Hilarious, lives up to his surname as he does, in fact, go insane by the end of the book. The Crying of Lot 49 is rife with sexual references, and Pynchon does not limit the boundaries of said references. Oedipa’s husband Mucho’s radio station, for example, is named “KCUF,” which if read backwards, spells out a vulgar word. Mike Fallopian’s last name is an obvious reference to a part of a woman’s anatomy. Professor Dribelette, whose last name resembles the word “dribble,” is a weak character that gives information to Oedipa in spurts, much like the meaning of “dribble,” a weak, unsteady stream of saliva. Stanley Koteks shares his last name with a brand of feminine supplies. John Nefastis’ last name is fairly close to the word “nefarious,” which means “extremely wicked” – a definition I think I would happily apply to the man after he tried to force Oedipa to have sex with him. The list could obviously go on and on; there is a trick to each character’s name. In The Scarlet Letter, however, I only found a few. Hester, I noticed, is very close to the name “Esther,” a Biblical heroin, if you merely move the “h” down between the “t” and the “e.” Since Hester is the heroin of this story, I feel this to be a possible play on the name. Her husband, who decided to take on the alias name “Chillingworth,” did do his share of “chilling” the other main characters of the book, and even the townspeople since they soon were fearful of him and thought he was the devil. Dimmesdale’s name – who, if you take the first three letters of his name, you get “dim” – seems to suggest his “dimness” or weakness (physically, emotionally, etc.). Finally, there is Hester’s daughter Pearl whose name we know to be intentionally symbolic from Hester who named her thus because she was her only treasure. I also see a subtle Biblical reference in Pearl’s name that evokes allegorical device—the “pearl of great price” used in relation to Christ purchasing us on the Cross, or salvation.

In conclusion, I would like to clarify that not everything I have stated is solid fact; much of it is opinion. Yet I feel that much of the purpose of symbolism is that the reader is to take it in and decide for himself whether or not there is more to it than just its surface meaning. In both stories cases, I believe the authors have done just that: wrote riveting works that serve as excellent works of literature for both audiences – those who take the text at face value, and those who like to read between the lines.

Works Cited

Pynchon, Thomas. Crying of Lot 49. New York: Harper Perennial, 2006.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. New York: Penguin Books, 2003.

(PS: Posting this, I didn't feel like going through and re-italicizing everything, so you can just imagine it to be there since it didn't copy over.)

More than just a picture...

2009-03-04T08:13:00.006-05:00

I'm willing to admit that I didn't find these cool pictures all by myself -- they came to me in a forward. But I was just so amused by them, that I took just a few of my absolute favorites (there were a lot more) and decided to post them here. Enjoy!

This is incredibly entertaining...

2009-03-01T20:26:00.000-05:00

1 - Follow the link to a site of random articles drawn from Wikipedia.

The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to this Quotations page.

The last four or five words of the very last quote on the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Follow the link to Flickr for their explore the last seven days photos.

The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover (unless you're uncomfortable with the nature of it...I got one of those the first time I did it, go figure).

4 - Use Photoshop or similar to put it all together.

5 - Post it on your site, be it Blogger, Xanga, Facebook, etc. with this text in the name of the band and the album name.

Have fun!

Oh, and here's my latest --

Band: Dora's Dream

Album name: Using Truth to Deceive the Public

The Walk

2009-02-27T13:22:00.003-05:00

(experimenting with some second person perspective writing…)

She stepped onto the escalator marked “DOWN” and, due to state of her sopping (and now sagging) pant legs which had worked their way underneath her shoes, nearly missed her footing. She steadied herself by grabbing on to both sides of the moving staircase and thought to herself That was a close one – I have a feeling rolling down these steps would hurt much worse than tumbling down the wooden ones at home. She was having a relatively good day, all things considered, and not much was going to get her down that Friday afternoon. Pittsburgh’s wintry weather streak had finally been broken and that day and the previous one had been a comfortable fifty degrees. For Friday, however, there was some off-and-on rain tacked on to the forecast.

She reached the bottom of the last escalator and exited the Victoria Building. As she did so, she flipped open her phone, scrolled down through her list of previously called numbers, and hit “SEND” when she reached the contact “Dad.” After a short wait, she heard the cheery voice of her father on the other end. “Hello, Sammi!” he greeted. “Hey, Dad, how’s it going?” she asked.They chatted back and forth as she walked, heading down towards Fifth Avenue. About a minute into the conversation, she cut herself off mid-sentence: “Oh crap, wait a minute – it just started raining out of nowhere.” She dug deep into her tote bag, if one could even call it that anymore. It was more like a threadbare, faded, stained sack with an “Alice in Wonderland” theme in silver on its black canvas body; but it was her favorite. Her fingers stumbled across the parachute-like object that she recognized as her umbrella and yanked it out of the depths of her bag. “Man,” she continued, “it’s been really off and on today, the rain. One minute, it’s fine; the next, it’s a torrential downpour.”

She wrapped up her conversation with her father then pocketed her flip-phone so that she could better grip her flimsy, two-dollar miniature umbrella. The wind whipped all around her as she turned left onto McKees Place. Denying it the pleasure of doing it for her, she rested the thin pole of the umbrella against her forehead to keep the wind from sending it back and hitting her in the face. She looked down and examined herself as she trudged through the rain: her brown velour pants were now even more wet than before, soaked all the way up to her knees. Just my luck again, she thought. Every time I wear these, it rains. And every time, the material sops up all the water like a sponge. She also noticed that she not only picked the wrong pants to wear, but also the wrong shoes. Her green plaid Chuck Taylor “lo-tops” – also canvas, like her shabby tote – were absorbing just about as much of the rain as her pant legs, as though they were in some kind of strange competition. She rolled her eyes to herself as she reached the revolving door to her office building. As she made the half-circle to enter, she let out a sigh of relief, knowing that within a few moments she could rid herself of her wet shoes. She boarded the elevator and rode it to her floor.

She proceeded to her office suite, unlocked the door, and headed straight for her office. When she finally stepped through the doorway, she tossed her bag onto the chair nearest her, rolled up her pant legs, pulled off her shoes and socks, and plopped herself into her own seat. Bending down, she turned the knob to activate the little fan she kept underneath her desk for the summertime and aimed it at the wall next to her; then, feeling resourceful, she propped her shoes against the wall, draped her socks over them, and adjusted the fan so that it was angled in her footwear’s general direction. Then, leaning back in her chair, she began to type.

I found my calling...

2009-02-25T15:37:00.001-05:00

You can become a super hero too here.

Blank.

2009-02-25T09:23:00.004-05:00

So I decided to update, but for the first time ever, I'm at a loss. Usually lots of fun and exciting things are floating around in my head and I have but to reach in and pull something out. But alas, nothing is coming to mind today.

In fact, I'm at such a loss for words, I actually went back through my Twitter feed just to see if anything really had happened that I had just forgotten. But nothing! (Well, lots of things, but nothing worth writing home -- or on this blog -- about.)

Then this came to me:

Setting: last night in the car, in the drive-thru of DQ.
Ali: So Saturday was fun - we went to [our volleyball coach's] house for a pizza
party then watched a DVD of our tournament in Indiana!

Lexi: Ali. It's "TOUR-na-ment," not "TER-na-ment." Gosh.

Ali: Nuh-uh, it's "TER-na-ment." Anyway, you can say it either way, right?

me: Al, I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be "TOUR-na-ment." Think about it - it's spelled like "tour"...like, "going on a tour."

Conversation continues throughout wait...

DQ worker: Here's your order!

me: Thanks...could I get another straw? This one has a hole in it....well, three holes actually, but one isn't supposed to be there, haha.

DQ worker: Sure! [hands me a new straw]

me: Okay, and one more thing.

DQ worker: Okay?

me: T-O-U-R-N-A-M-E-N-T. How do you say that?

DQ worker: Uh, "TOUR-na-ment"?

me and Lexi: YES! Ali: WHA?! But...!

me: Thanks for that - have a nice evening!

I think we pretty much made her night. She had the biggest grin on her face and was still laughing when I drove away from the window.

PS: if anyone was wondering, I ordered the 4-piece buffalo chicken -- they have excellent dipping sauce there -- and a mocha MooLatte.

Sick.

2009-01-27T21:32:00.004-05:00

So last night I passed out way earlier than usual (around 11:00). I figured that maybe I was just really worn out from the long session I had with a research study in which I had enrolled, which another thing entirely.

Monday afternoon, I had my first appointment with a researcher who was doing a one-time study with the students from my Intro. to Psych. class for credits. I'm not real big into the idea of studies, but it's a requirement for the course (yeah, required to volunteer...hm). So I spent an hour and a half playing "Cyberball," looking at ink blots, and deciphering recipes (where I have to guess what the meal would look like after made), all done on the computer. Turned out that it wasn't a "visualization" study at all but instead was a "ostracization" study. What the bloody heck did you need to have us look at shapes and recipes for an extra hour then??? Very annoying, and quite a waste of my time, in my opinion.

So today I woke up with a headache, just like yesterday. I took 400 mg Ibuprofen and went to work, then went to class at 9:00. I was still SO tired though. I actually fell asleep in class. Between my first class (West. Civ.) and my next class (American Lit. Traditions), I tried to take a nap. I did, but it didn't do the job. By the time I got to class, I was sweating bullets, and twenty minutes into class, I had to run out for fear of wretching all over the Israeli nationality room's floor. So I bussed it home and crawled right into bed. I ended up sleeping from 1:30 to 6:30, got up and watched American Idol with the family, and am now so wide awake that I don't know what to do with myself. So I'm about to watch the season premiere of Burn Notice that I'd missed. Hopefully that will tire me out since I've got to get up again at 5:30. *sigh*

Of Spicy Subs and Juicy Jumpers

2009-01-21T23:36:00.005-05:00

As I said in my previous post, I've set up my class schedule so that I can work eight-hour days on Monday and Friday, have off Wednesday, and have all my classes on Tuesday and Thursday. While it's nice to be able to work without interruption and have that extra day-off like a mini-weekend, the whole classes-from-nine-to-five is pretty intense. I'm so glad they're all fun classes, because if this were my schedule last semester, I think I would have blown my brains out by now.

Because of these long Tuesdays and Thursdays, I no longer have the luxury of riding home with my dad those evenings. Usually we commute back and forth since he works at Magee Hospital (and I work only a block over from him). It's always worked out well because I've made a point to schedule everything to end by 4:00 so that I could leave with him. So how do I get home now? The public transit system, of course.

I'm no germaphobe, but I'm not gonna lie: those buses are sick. There's gum, graffiti, and God-knows-what everywhere. It's populated by crabby old codgers and creepers. Did I mention creepers? (...so then what does that make me? *shudders*) The bus stops aren't much better: it seems like 75% of those waiting at my bus stop are freaking chain smokers. And, as Fate would have it, no matter which direction I choose to angle myself away from that corrupt fog, the wind blows it right into my face.

[I despair, I really do.]

In the past, when I'd get fed up with it, I'd just step inside the Subway (restaurant) that's on that block to save my lungs. Unfortunately, the little Indian manager caught on to me and actually stepped out from behind the counter to tell me so. About five bus stop waits later, I figured it out: to get in and be allowed to stay in, you've got to buy something. Ah, I now see how his foul little mind works...

So since then, when I have to take the bus and I know it's going to be awhile, I just pop in, buy myself a flavored Aquafina, and chill by the window sipping my water like a good girl until my bus comes. Occasionally, I'll even by dinner (turkey bacon sub with lettuce, green peppers, cucumbers, and lots of jalapenos) there since I don't get home until 7:00 now. Although, I'm not even sure if I'd have to do even that anymore. There's a new manager, at least for the new time I get down to the bus stop. It's always the same two guys working now: two Hispanic guys, about my age, who look almost identical (and who do they look like? ADAM RODRIGUEZ from CSI: Miami!). And they both speak crystal-clear English, but only when waiting on customers. Otherwise, they're chatting fluently in Spanish to one another. The first time this happened, I have to admit: I felt uneasy. Hey, wait a minute? What are they saying that they don't want me to understand? Is there something on my face? *checks*

This Tuesday when I came back, same thing. Only this time the other guy took my "order." While making change though, he kept shooting me these sheepish grins (that and -- again -- speaking casually yet intensely to his co-worker in Spanish). Finally, after having taken his blessed time making change for $1.50 out of $2.00, he held out the two quarters, palm facing up (presumably so I had to pick them out of his hand) instead of just dropping the money into my hand. He then looked up at me, blushing, and said (and I quote): "I -- I love your sweater...it's....very....JUICY!" Taken aback, my head jerked downward almost involuntarily to remind myself of what I was wearing: a fitted hooded hunter green knit sweater with other colors stitched in around the cuffs and neckline, which plunged deeper than I guess I'd noticed before. Could he have meant "juicy" as in "sweet"? Like the way we use it now as "cool"? Or is he referencing...? Nahhhhh...OH GOSH.

"Um...thanks!" I mustered awkwardly. Flustered and blushing, I shot an absent glance towards the store front as if there were a teleprompter over there waiting for me. "Gotta go...uh...thanks...er, for the water...I mean..." At that point I figured you've dug the hole already, you idiot -- now don't throw yourself into it! and just darted out the door.

"Juicy."

Yeah...

NEW POST?! COULD IT BE TRUE?!

2009-01-20T10:39:00.003-05:00

Yes, 'tis true. So let's dive in.

I'm finally a sophomore, so I guess I should change that in my profile. :-)

This semester, I'm taking:
*Western Civilization (History)
*American Literary Traditions (Literature)
*Advanced Shakespeare (Literature)
*Introduction to Psychology (Psych.)

I'm only taking 4 classes this time so that I can stay home and help my sisters with their homeschooling, which is working out nicely.

I'm about to run to class, so here's a paper I just pounded out in the last half hour (feedback is welcome). Hope to post again soon!

Wealth and Social Strata

I think it was the lyrics of the song Gatsby’s pianist played – “The Love Nest” – that said it best: “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer/ The rich get richer and the poor get – children.” Such was the case in the early 1900s society; such was the case for Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan.

The first time we meet Daisy, we are told that she’s married to a real jerk, Tom, and that she has a young child. Daisy reflects on when she first had the baby that she had wished the child to grow up to be a “foolish girl” since the foolish women wouldn’t notice or care that their husbands were having affairs. Even though Daisy was considered “sophisticated” and “fashionable” (her husband had gone to Yale, was successful, and they lived in East Egg – a ritzy area), she felt poor in that there was an emptiness inside her.

Gatsby, likewise, had everything a man could wish for, yet had not the only thing he wanted in life: Daisy. In fact, the whole reason he even bought that gaudy mansion by the Sound was so that he could show off for Daisy and feel closer to her (staring out at the “enchanted” image of the green light on the dock). When he left for war (if I was reading this correctly), it seemed as though he lost his purpose in life and didn’t care whether he lived or died. It turned out that he, in his depressed state, led a group of men into a heated area of battle and made it out alive; he was even decorated and rewarded. That, combined with what his family left him and the business he conducted, made him a very wealthy man; he was able to turn his dreams of success into a reality (which is what, I’m guessing, makes him “the Great Gatsby”). This is something he really enjoys showing off, perhaps too much. Because of that, I feel as though Gatsby’s dreams of fame and fortune came true but then got in the way of his dream to be with Daisy. I think Nick – or F.S. Fitzgerald – is both directly and subtly implying that when the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of wealth collide, something’s got to give. Both were rich by society’s standards, but when they looked inside their hearts, they were as poor as peasants.

Wow.

2008-12-16T10:27:00.002-05:00

It's been so long since I've updated - apologies!

Now that I've wrapped up this semester, I promise to post something soon.

Until then, here's a picture of a cute little cat.

Boo-ya.

2008-10-27T09:26:00.005-04:00

I took a quiz. :-)

"You are Schroeder:
You are extremely dedicated and have a passion for the arts. Music is the key in your life and you were designed to follow your dreams. People find you extremely talented. Many people like you not just for your skills but for your amazing heart."

I'll update soon, I promise.

Everything I Touch Gets Ruined (So Why Should My Blog Be Any Different?)

2008-10-14T13:09:00.003-04:00

Sorry that the formatting on the previous post is so whack. I copied and pasted it from a document then couldn't seem to get it to look right in both Internet Explorer and Firefox. After toying with it for a good 10 minutes, it looks crappy in both. My work here is done, I guess.

The Final Product

2008-10-14T12:39:00.008-04:00

Here's the final copy of my article on Pitt's Fall Fest (previously referenced) Primanti Brothers eating contest. I'll post my grade later if it's any good. Well, even if it isn't, I'll just fib and make up a good, round number to post as my grade. *wink*

Anyway, feedback is welcome - both praise and criticism (but by all means, praise away).

Pitt’s Fall Fest brings Primanti to the table

"The show must go on" - never a statement rang more true for the Pitt Program Council than last Saturday during Pitt's annual Fall Fest when one of the sandwiches for a competitive eating competition was stolen from its table on Bigelow Boulevard.

However, despite the setback, the Primanti Brothers eat-off was still a huge hit.

Allie Miller, PPC's Recreation Director, has been organizing competitive eating competitions since she first became part of the PPC team. Before, it was always perogies or hotdogs, but this year, Miller wanted to go bigger and better.

And that she did: this year, Miller arranged to have real Primanti Brothers cheesesteaks for the eat-off's ravenous participants. "It's intense," said Miller. "The people that do want to do it really get into it." Miller noted that having Primanti's cheesesteaks works both ways: it reels in interest from those who already love the sandwiches and also works as some free advertising for the business.

If those delicious cheesesteaks weren't reason enough to compete, the prizes certainly were: the first place winner would be awarded a $100 Visa gift card with second and third place winners being awarded $50 and $25 cards. "We like to give [students] incentive to sign up and compete," Miller explained. "We want to be up to par with other contests like these."

It goes without saying that PPC spares no expense for each year's Fall Fest. Even the cheesesteaks were paid for by the Pitt Program Council, bought at regular price. "We're looking to expand upon getting donations," was all Miller had to say about the subject.

Perhaps having to pay for each sandwich is what impacted the decision of how many sandwiches would be used for the competition. Whatever the reason though, some who came to watch what they expected to be an "all-you-can-eat" contest could be heard complaining about "false advertising" when they saw just one sandwich at each place setting.

But Miller wasn't paying attention to the few griping crowd members - she was too busy trying to hunt down the thief who had stolen one of the cheesesteaks off of the fenced-in table.

Upon questioning some who had come early to watch the event, Miller discovered that someone had seen the man who took the sandwich and could name him. Blushing, Miller admitted, "I know this kid." Grabbing a nearby megaphone, Miller shouted for the thief - identified as Jesse King - to "bring me back my sandwich," threatening that if he didn't she would tell everyone not to join his fraternity.

The sandwich was never returned, and Miller was forced to make the decision that someone would have to bow out. With only 14 cheesesteaks left, one of the men who had registered to compete volunteered to drop out and was given a Fall Fest T-shirt as compensation.

Since the race was not timed, it came down to whoever was first to raise his or her hand. After only a minute or so, Pitt senior Ben Gillespie, eyes pinched shut, threw his hand into the air, followed shortly thereafter by two other men.

When asked about the techniques used to bring about his success, Gillespie said that the secret was all in smashing the sandwich flat then pouring water over it to make it "nice and soggy." In addition, he "warmed up" the night before by eating three pounds of pasta and drinking a gallon of water.

This wasn't his first victory for this kind of competition: Gillespie has won three other types of competitive eating contests, one which involved eating an entire pie in 30 seconds, another which involved eating 20 hotdogs in five minutes.

Overall, students seemed to be in agreement that the event was a success and that they are looking forward to what PPC will dish out for next year.

Slight Update:

2008-10-10T11:01:00.003-04:00

So I'm taking the bus home this afternoon. We'll see how that goes. Knowing my luck, the bus driver will probably be hung over and will hit a fire hydrant or something, leaving me stuck at the scene for three hours or so...

I hate Fridays.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round...

2008-09-28T13:58:00.013-04:00

...until they hit someone. Then they stop. For a very long time.

Fridays now are always my least favorite days of the week. "Why?" you may ask - "it's the last day of the work and school week! You should be happy!" Well, maybe I could be if it weren't for my statistics recitation. Any joy and happiness that could possibly come from knowing that it's the last day of work and school for the next two whole days literally gets sucked from my soul by my Dementor-like recitation TA. Don't be fooled by her seemingly meek exterior: this chick is cruel. When I first came to her to get help with catching up (from previous posts, you'll remember that I missed a class and recitation and, as a result, fell majorly behind with homework), she wanted me to turn in three (3) weeks worth of homework plus the homework due the coming recitation all in one day! I'm thinking, "Lady, there are ~20 problems per homework assignment. You do NOT expect me to get these all done in 18 hours." But she did. And when I didn't turn them in because I was so busy with the homework actually due for that week, I asked if they could be turned in late and she wasn't even going to accept them(!!!) until I pleaded with her! She has the grumpiest attitude and makes you feel stupid if you even dare raise your hand to attempt to answer a question but get it wrong. The Hungarian accent only further exacerbates the problem since half the time I can't understand her and am having to ask, "Come again?" or "Can you repeat that?" She gets angry at me because I can't understand her broken English.

Well Expecto Patronum to you, TA. Expecto Patronum to you.

Okay, now that I'm way off topic...

So last-last Friday (two Fridays ago) I had to take the bus home. I literally chased the bus as it was pulling out, but those [expletive] Port Authority drivers wouldn't stop for a little old lady if she were waving them down. So I had to wait an extra half hour for a bus I could have taken immediately if she would have stopped for me.

To make matters so much worse, I board the second bus, it rounds the bend, and he "hits" a lady getting onto the bus. Seriously, we didn't even make the turn fully and this happens. I didn't see the entire thing because I'm so freaking short, but by the talk of the riders who did see, some woman (who they recognized from her daily riding that bus as well) was getting onto the bus, but she claims it was still moving and knocked her down as she was stepping up. One of the passengers thought aloud that she was probably doing it for some good lawsuit money.

Seriously. Of all the buses in downtown Pittsburgh to do this to, it had to be mine.

So the bus driver is trying to figure out if she's okay - "Ma'am? Are you hurt? Can you stand up?" - and, naturally, this lady is milking it for all it's worth and is groaning and mumbling that "[her] back and neck hurt." Well everyone knows that when someone says their back/neck hurts, then you shouldn't move them. Nice move, homie. Twenty-five minutes later, the Port Authority police and the Pittsburgh police arrive at the scene and are asking the lady, the driver, and the other passengers what happened. People are getting frustrated by this point (I already was 20 seconds after her act), and they're checking their schedules to see when the next bus comes. I hear the girl next to me say that one should be coming in about 10 minutes. Ten minutes, huh? Well I gather up my stuff, walk to the front of the bus, leap gracefully over the faking pile of flesh - aka, the homeless-looking woman - and walk all 15 steps back to my bus stop. Within five minutes, I hear the sirens of the ambulance. (It's about time - good thing the woman wasn't REALLY hurt.) Traffic is all backed up now since the bus is straddling two intersections and the ambulance and police cars are hogging up the rest of the road. I see them carry her off on a stretcher and figure the bus is going to get moving after all. But I'm sure you've already guessed it: I walked over, as did two other riders, and waved what the driver must have taken as "bon voyage" to the bus.

Long story short, I boarded the third bus which made it all of 10 stops before declaring that we were going to take some of the second bus's passengers since it's schedule was backed up; and that anyone going straight to Tarentum could go get on the other bus since it was going to go straight there, no stops. Yeah, well that wasn't the most even exchange. We gave two, we got thirty-two. So I rode home next to a man reeking of whiskey. How did I know it was whiskey? Because the guy, with one eye half shut and breath smelling of booze, looked over at me and slurred out, "What a day. When I get home, I'm drinkin' a whole bottle of whiskey."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Fast-forward to this past Saturday.

As you'll see in a soon-to-come post, I took my sister Ali with me to Pitt's annual Fall Fest since I was going to be covering an event there for a journalism project. We had to take the bus. If it wasn't bad enough that our local creepy cross-dresser was on the bus (talking to himself and playing with his hair, as usual) on the way out and back, the bus heading home was driven by the Abominable Snow Monster. We could see our breath on the bus, it was that cold. And he completely ignored the hollers from the back of the bus as two girls called out to him to turn on the heat. But the best part had to be the adventure of Clumsy, the little-known eighth dwarf in Snow White's posse (the guy had the height, the roly-poly belly, the long white beard, and even the funny little hat). The poor guy pulled the "Stop Requested" line and started walking to the front of the bus, but the driver slammed on the brakes and poor little Clumsy was projected forward. Luckily, he was able to grab on to one of the poles and hold on for dear life. But just as he steadied himself and started walking forward, AGAIN, the bus driver slams on the brakes; this time however, Clumsy wasn't so lucky. He went sailing towards the front of the bus, BACKWARDS. He tried to catch himself on anything, but failed and instead landed on his butt then slipped effortlessly into a backwards tumble, knocking his head on something next to the driver. If it weren't so sad, I'd have laughed, and if he weren't so old, I'd have given him a 9 (he didn't stick the landing well enough for a 10). He stood up, and it was at that point with him holding his wrist and rubbing his head that I thought we were going to go through this all over again. I called my mom and made her aware of the situation and that we may be awhile. Ali was mortified. Thankfully, the man didn't ask to be checked out and got off the bus at his stop.

Twitter says it best:

Killing me softly...

2008-09-18T08:49:00.003-04:00

...with homework.

Here's how my life has been this week:

Sunday: working until 2 a.m. on an article discussing a book reading for my journalism class.

Monday: class all day, then coming home and working on a critical reading essay and anthropology essay until 1:30 a.m. then studying statistics until 2 a.m.

Keep in mind I leave for work every morning at 6 a.m.

Tuesday: class all day, then working on an article discussing a family selling their farm for my journalism class, then working some more on that anthropology essay until 1:30 a.m. then studying statistics until 2:30 a.m.

Wednesday: class all day, church, finishing that anthropology essay, then being too whooped to even look at my statistics book.

Today: work until 10 a.m. then studying statistics for the EXAM I have today. Yeah. Then anthropology lecture at 11, anthropology recitation at 12, stats exam at 1 (!!!), and critical reading at 2. Then I've got to make a trip to the campus bookstore to pick up the newest book for my critical reading class. Then I have to catch a bloody city bus into downtown Pittsburgh THEN catch ANOTHER one into my town since my dad has a gig tonight (I usually ride home with him). Then I have to work on some homework for stats before going out to the gym to play volleyball until God knows how late to work out all my frustrations. Of course I'll probably just bring my homework to the gym and work in the lobby. It will be more peaceful there than at home anyway.

Lord, help me harness my emotions long enough today to keep from killing someone.

The only instance in which laziness pays off:

2008-09-16T07:32:00.006-04:00

I absolutely love Caribou, but I don't like using my debit card there because the receipts are so large and therefore difficult to cram into my wallet for safe-keeping until I balance my checkbook. The solution? 'Bou Bucks, of course! It's like a refillable gift card for yourself. Problem is, I drained mine two weeks ago and haven't gotten around to refilling it yet. So last week I was like the typical alcoholic, not wanting to drink but not being able to help it when passes right by the bar (or in my instance, coffeehouse) each day on the way to work. And dang it, my wallet is stuffed full now of these mile-long receipts that I have to plug in now to my checkbook. (In Caribou's defense, they're only long because either a.) there's a survey code at the bottom or b.) they're attaching a coupon, so it's very nice of them to be so thoughtful, but it gets bothersome after awhile.)

So to address my drinking problem, I've had to come up with an alternative route to work so as to bypass Caribou completely to avoid temptation:

As you can see, my new route (in purple) takes me through the creepy alley behind Caribou. So much better. But hey, I've done it the past two mornings, and I'm still making it to the office $3.48 richer each day than I would have been had I gone my usual route.

See how laziness saves you money?

Just for the health of it.

2008-09-15T07:53:00.012-04:00

This past Wednesday was Pitt's annual Panther Wellness Carnival. Each year Pitt hosts a day of carnival-like activities that promote and spread awareness of good health practices. There was free food, candy, games, and door prizes, including a "Go Green" tote, a gigantic magnet with the Student Health Services phone number on it, a gift card to Chipotle (rock on), and best of all? Free OCCs! (Out of Class Credits)
Booths were set up outside the William Pitt Union displaying brochures, facts, and games with prizes to help communicate the purpose of their table.

Here's a t-shirt I got at one of the booths that was promoting wise drinking habits. I still have no clue what OHEP stands for...

And here's the booth at which I got the shirt! You'd pick a rubber ducky out of the pool, tell them the number that was written underneath it, and they'd ask you that number question off the quiz sheet (all of which pertained to drinking habits). For playing, you got a free shirt.

Next booth over was the smoking awareness table. They had a breathalyzer set out to test how much smoke was in your lungs.

As you can see, there were a bunch of local businesses who helped out with donations for the activity. There were lots of prizes involving gift cards (one of which was a $15 Target gift card...I wanted that one).

This had to be the strangest of all the tables. This is the HIV awareness booth. The game involved popping "condom balloons" (yes, I saw the girls blowing up the balloons - and they were ribbed. It was nasty.) with a dart and then answering the question number off of the sheet based on the number behind the balloon you popped (make sense?). To give you a window through which to look through that should tell you a little about myself, I got probably the easiest question: "What does HIV stand for?" and I couldn't answer it. I did, however, get a free pack of condoms for trying (which I nonchalantly tossed back on the table in passing). Go abstinence. :-)

This was the coolest table. It was a handwriting analysis booth. And the guy seriously knew what he was doing. He pretty much nailed me. And not just the ultra-vague "I see that you had a dark time in your past" mumbo jumbo; this guy was very specific. He was able to tell the girl next to me that she had either broken or sprained an ankle in the past year (just based on her handwriting!) and he was correct. He was able to tell me my favorite color, that I sing, and lots of other facts about myself. It was pretty impressive...

This was another cool one. It was a DUI awareness booth where you'd toe the black line as shown then try toeing it again but with the "Fatal Vision Goggles." Seriously, it was hilarious to watch people do this. They would try to walk straight but end up walking off towards a tree or the group of bystanders, not even realizing it.

This guy was especially fun to watch: he nearly fell over twice.

All in all, fun session! I got lots of cool stuff from it, the best of which was an awesome pen. I love pens. I'll steal your pens the first chance I get if I think it writes nicely. Must be a left-handed thing...

Go Pitt!

...like a chicken with its head cut off.

2008-09-12T15:36:00.003-04:00

Life went from busy to nearly-out-of-control-losing-my-mind busy (wow, that WORD was busy).

Since the last time I updated (read "really updated"), school has started back up for me here at Pitt. I really love it here: there's such an atmosphere about it. Everything from the buildings like the Cathedral of Learning to the faculty and staff - all is wonderful. Well, actually, I can't say that. But we'll come back to that in a bit.

Anyway, school has also started up for my siblings. In fact, we all started the same day (the 25th). To be honest, this fact alone has made my life a living hell - even trumping my college homework - over the past two weeks. Between my brother needing help with geometry and the twins needing help figuring out how to work the PA Cyber school online program PLUS all of their homework, I barely have enough time to do my own. It's actually resulting in a lot of last-minute (what I like to call) "puke-up" homework where I pretty much BS my way through the assignment to get enough length on it even though I probably didn't do the reading needed to write the essay/paper/short answer well. Alas. But I am apparently good at it though, because I haven't had any poor gradings on them yet.

On the other hand...

I don't think one needs to be a Hindu to believe in the idea of Karma, which is (as one definition reads) "the effects of all deeds actively create past, present, and future experiences, thus making one responsible for one's own life, and the pain and joy it brings to him/her and others." I usually see this mostly in the teams I end up on when playing volleyball on Thursday nights: I get on the elite team at the beginning of the night and we dominate every other team, laughing in their faces and making them kiss our big toes (okay, I embellish); then Karma kicks in and I get stuck with the clumsy, uncoordinated people of the group, and we lose every game.

Anyway, back to how this relates to school.

I'm taking a Statistics course and my teacher is positively off the wall. On top of being down-right scary looking, she's flighty, absent-minded, and clueless to the fact that all the students know it and are making fun of her. I missed my very first recitation for this class due to circumstances outside of my control. I told her this and asked if there were a way to make it up. She told me to just wait a week and go to the next one. I did this (already a week behind in homework, mind you) and lo and behold! No one was there! Apparently, they moved recitation and didn't tell me. So that's two weeks of homework in the hole. Finally, I am able to make it to the third week. The TA is Hungarian and very soft spoken, so I had a difficult time making out what she was saying over the two air conditioners in the room. The period seemed short: she spent the first 15 minutes milling about jotting things on the board and the remainder of the class was spent showing us how to take a survey on the Stats website and assigning a quiz to us (which I ended up taking and definitely bombing). I met with her afterwards to schedule a meeting to get me caught up. The guy next to me was nice enough to give me the website with the homework syllabus on it. I was ready to pull all of my hair out.

So one bogus class out of five isn't bad, right?

...right? :-(

How I'm feeling right now...

2008-09-11T07:36:00.001-04:00

So help me, I will update this over the weekend.

Today's Rant: the USPS's Approach to Returning Mail

2008-08-18T08:19:00.009-04:00

I work for a research study. One of my jobs is to send out a professional mailing to different area doctors to promote the various studies for which we are currently recruiting in the hopes that some of the DRs/RAs/MAs/nurses will refer some of their suite's patients to us. Technically, it's a "monthly mailing" but in reality - because a life and a million other tasks that are much more important - it's between a bi-annual and a tri-annual mailing. As of the last time I did the mailing, I was still working part time as a full time student and the addresses (of which there were well over 300) were having to be hand-written. You can imagine how long this took me since I was only working four-hour days PLUS juggling the other tasks they would throw my way AND what I was already doing (recruiting, data inputting, scheduling, etc). Now, we have over 500 names on our mailing list, but at least we've come up with mailing labels to save me time. No matter what though, it's always a pain to assemble these. It's perfunctory and very time-consuming stuff.

What really gets my goat - glazes my donuts - harshes my mellow - however you wish to put it - is when the USPS returns our packets to us looking as though they had to tether-sticker it down from breaking free and fleeing. They do this to not only the packets, but also to any boxy item I try to send. If I've been given a faulty address or the person is no longer at that practice, the mail gets sent back to be COVERED in "RETURN TO SENDER," "INVALID ADDRESS," and my favorite "UNDELIVERABLE AS ADDRESSED" stickers. As you can see, it must be like art class when someone gets the chance to return our stuff. They get really creative in where they can put the stickers and stamps and sometimes even draw all over the front of it, crossing out the address, drawing a line through the auto-presorted stamp, whatever they can think up. Anything goes. And this picture isn't even the worst I've seen, really. It just happened to come in today. Usually they've written all over it with a "HE'S NO LONGER HERE" or some such thing in big red letters; the top is often half-ripped as well as if they wanted to take a quick look inside! Which really makes me mad, because I'm all about not wasting; and when they give me one of those giant mailing envelopes back in this condition, it makes me want to slap somebody because there is no way I'm going to be able to salvage it for a second attempt.

*FUMES* But I digress.

In other news, I squashed a cockroach this morning that was the size of a small child. Okay, more like a cell phone (no kidding on this one). I was standing in front of my building's lobby's elevators waiting for one to come down (which is absurd since there's no one in the freaking building that early, but today there must have been because...) when a girl standing next to me nudged my shoulder and muttered, "You know you godda giant bug on yo shoe, miss." Reflex caused me to kick my right foot out violently at this new-found knowledge and I jumped back into almost a crouch. I looked down to see the thing crawling towards me again (Lord, those things are fast!). I've never liked squashing bugs. I don't like the sound, and I REALLY don't like the guts that go everywhere when you do it. But this thing was going to eat me if I didn't act fast, so I took the front cover of my Pitt newspaper, threw it over top of the little nasty, and stomped down as hard as I could (the thing looked practically armour-plated, so I gave it some "oomph"). I pulled the newspaper back to find a splatter of green slime the size of a coffee mug on the marble floor. Where did it GO??? I flashed over to the underside of the paper where I found the little monster. Dead soldier.

Now I'm walking around our suite with extra caution, quickly scanning the room and its corners for critters then slowly proceeding, eyes ever roaming. I'm sitting on my desk chair Indian-style to keep my feet up off the ground. All was going well until about 30 minutes ago when I reached for my jacket and realized it was not on the back of my chair, but on the floor. I grabbed it and immediately started shaking it like a red-headed step child. Then, not wanting to have my hand bitten off, I peeked inside the pockets to see if any little monsters had hidden inside. Fortunately I was safe. Still though, I can't relax. Bugs are so disgusting. Any and all bugs. I hate them all. And I will judge you, by the way, if you've got them. If lice was good enough to be one of the seven plagues in the Bible, then roaches should've been in there, too. And I will avoid you like the plague if you've got either (and especially both). Lice and roaches = filthiness. I'm sorry, it's just the way I am.

Okay, now that that's out of my system, I think I'll go take these data sheets to the back...and I'll be watching the ground the whoooole time...

Party-Hardy

2008-08-17T14:12:00.000-04:00

How was your Saturday evening? Good? Great.

How was mine? Glad you asked.

My Saturday evening was spent down at the church practicing an a cappella piece with four friends. Why, you might ask, would people be down at a church on a Saturday night doing nothing but practicing music? Well, to answer your question, we're not organized. That's really all it comes down to. Also, in our defense, the song was picked three weeks in advance to Saturday, which is a real achievement for our bunch. Anyway, we're down there practicing and it's just not happening. We couldn't keep it together for some reason. So we were at the proverbial crossroads: keep practicing our current song and hope it shapes up, pick a different song but one that's familiar to everyone, or...

One of my friends is home from the West Coast. She's in her college's tour group. "There's this awesome song - ah man, you guys would love it - and it's in five parts and it's a cappella too and wow, is it amazing; we should totally sing it!" We all stared and blinked.

"Okay...well, what's the name of it?"

"'Forgiven.' We did it on tour."

Tour groups are big on 1.) picking familiar songs and jazzing them up, 2.) picking really unique songs that you probably haven't heard in a while, and 3.) picking songs that no one in the world knows but the tour group themselves. This "Forgiven" song was obviously falling into the category 3 because none of us had ever heard of this song before, despite her attempt to hum a few bars in case it would jog a memory or two. No such luck. She looked very pointedly at me. "The harmony just flows. You could probably pick it up without ever looking at the music, Sam." At that moment, I saw - not with my eyes, but with my senses - that this was do-able, that this could work. It was just a matter of getting the other two on board (our bass didn't care, he just wanted us to fix it). I drove her up to her house, she ran in and got the music, and we were back down at the church in five minutes.

The song did come together, as I'm sure you figured out by now. If I'm lucky enough, I might be able to swipe a copy and slap it on here. Beautiful song...very intricate harmony, very mellow, but very easy to learn. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

To be safe, we decided we should meet a little early. You know, just to go over the song once or twice before the real thing in case someone needed a little warming up or just all together forgot the melody (which HAPPENED, by the way). Since early would have required waking up earlier, my mom wasn't interested. So to leave them a vehicle, I called to hop a ride with Vick. She said she'd be at my house to pick me up at 8:30. I didn't understand this at first since I live mere blocks from the church and we didn't have to be there until 9:00. But I didn't mind, so I told her I'd see her then.

Fast forward to 8:42. I keep checking my phone to see the time and she's still not here. I finally call as she's pulling up. I walk over to open the passenger door but stop short to instead lean in to see the many balloons floating and bobbing about in her backseat. She glanced back too then turned back to me and grinned. I got in without asking and she explained that it was her Sunday school class's head teacher's birthday today (she's a co-teacher to the class) and she wanted to throw a little surprise party. Vick doesn't do anything "little." So we get to the church with five minutes until practice time. The balloons were being quarantined in a very large clear bag with only the strings exposed (to minimize the chance of them escaping when the doors opened. Unfortunately, she has a small two-door car, so the balloons needed to come through her side with her seat smashed down as low as it would go. I helped by pushing from behind as she tugged from the front. Finally, our worries subsided when the bag exited the vehicle with no popped balloons. She loaded my arms up with goodies for her class then gathered up all she could carry as well. It looked as though she had packed enough food for two classes. So we were able to move all of the goods inside, park the car, practice, perform, and then go to our respective classes. In the second service, we were ready to do it again. We were all sitting on the front row when Vick leans around the back of our tenor and mouths: "OOPS," pointing at my borrowed dress and shrug she was wearing. There against the white was a huge streak of yellow. "The little girls kept hugging me and they still had icing on their mouths!" she whispered intensely. Never a dull moment. Luckily, she had - ba dada da tada - Tide to Go! Thank you, Tide to Go, you saved our lives.

SUCCESS!

2008-08-15T09:14:00.011-04:00

Rob's birthday was last night.

For months, he'd been hinting that he wanted a cell phone for his birthday (he just turned 16 yesterday). Then for the past few weeks, he's been simply begging for one. My mother all along had been planning on getting him one but never once let on to it. She's got a great poker face. Much better than mine since, when I try to hide something, my mouth involuntarily contorts into this twisted mess of a smile (which only gets worse when I try to smooth it out into a straight-faced line). I'm so pitifully obvious. Luckily, I can keep a secret as long as no one asks, so my family hasn't completely dismissed the idea of including me on things like surprises.

Anyway.

We sneaked off to the Verizon store last Saturday and went cell searching (kinda like soul searching but more fun). He had expressed interest several times in getting a phone with a full keyboard, something like a Glyde or a Voyager. When we looked at the prices for those though, we came to the quick conclusion that it was a very expensive piece of plastic to ruin in a toilet or lose in a theme park. (Rob is notorious for "misplacing" things such as his wallet, mp3 player, etc.) To see how responsible he would be with a phone, we opted to start him out small. We picked out the Samsung SCH-u340, which is the model directly beneath my Samsung SCH-u410 (it includes Bluetooth), which I love. In addition (to help with the MIA issue he has with his belongings), we purchased him a belt clip for the phone (which he'll hopefully use).

So last night, when my mom got him out of the house to pick up his cake so we could decorate, I wrapped up the box with the cell phone all nice and pretty in pink and blue argyle paper. The twins and I finished decking the dining room with lots of streamers (hung low enough to clothes-line a midget...not sure why we did that) and balloons just in time for him to come through the door.

People started arriving around 6:30. It was a nice little party; mostly just family, though our two of our neighbors (who we're very close to - they're like an extra set of grandparents) came over to celebrate along with one of Rob's friends, Raeven, who may as well be family after the amount of time he's spent at our house this week. Once everyone had arrived, we sang "Happy Birthday" to him and it took him four tries to blow out his candles.

And no, they were not trick candles.

And no, he his not asthmatic.

And no, you do not get as many wishes as chances it takes to blow out birthday candles.

So he started opening his gifts after we had the ice cream cake. He got money from the grandparents and my aunt and uncle's family; money from our neighbors (along with a Matchbox Lamborghini as a joke on the car they wish they could get him, which was cute); a rockin' card and Penguin plush Webkinz from me (inside joke); and...a sentimental card with a pack of basketball cards from my mom and dad. He looked a little down about that one. Well, we were all done with the gifts, so he started piling them in a neat stack and chatting with his guests when all of the sudden: there was a rattling noise and Stewie's voice coming from a little pink and blue argyle package on top of the armoire. Hm, what could that be? *wink, wink*

In a nutshell, he was ecstatic. I had passed out and emailed his number to a bunch of his close friends so they could text him or leave him voicemails to find once he got the phone. I think, in the end, he had about 15 text messages and 20 voicemails. He hasn't put the thing down since. This morning he was asking me about charging it - he wore it down that fast! You'd think it was the first time he'd seen a cell phone before. I guess he's just easily amused. I'm glad he had such an enjoyable birthday though - he's a cool kid.

PHOTO UPDATE

2008-08-11T08:52:00.000-04:00

Here are those before pictures I promised (along with a bonus picture of the stenciling we did on one of the walls).

Rob holding the inspiration piece: an Outer Banks hoodie

Rob's closet area before the transformation...

Rob's bed space before the transformation...

Rob's crapped-up corner before the transformation...

An accident befell us Wednesday evening when the paint can tipped over onto Rob's old sheets (which were NOT meant to be drop cloths...but that's exactly what they turned out to be).

"LIVE YOUR LIFE" - American Eagle

Changing Rooms: Shambley Edition

2008-08-08T07:44:00.001-04:00

My brother left for a conference in Kentucky this past Monday. To save his friend's mom a 45 minute trip in to drop her son off at the bus, my mom invited Rob's friend over for the night. While they watched "Never Back Down" upstairs in his room, my mom and I watched "P.S. I Love You" downstairs. (As a sidenote, what a sweet but downer movie.) By the time we were finished movie-watching, I let the boys have the downstairs while I went up to Rob's room and played his Game Cube. Then it hit me. My mom and I had been considering redecorating his room while he was away at this thing.

So I sat back and thought about my options: do it or don’t do it. Easy enough. I really wanted to surprise him, but we JUST finished doing the twins’ room over. I figured I’d consult the idea with my mom. By Tuesday, I had her convinced not only on the idea but also on the color scheme: rust orange, also and grunge green, and dark chocolate brown. Yeah, if you can’t see it, it’s okay. She couldn’t either at first. I got the idea from this rockin’ hoodie he got down in OBX and the inspiration just flowed. The twins decided they wanted to be in on it, too. There was a lot of painting, and in amongst that was a lot of shouting, music blasting, shoving, late-night runs to department stores, energy drinks, and memory-making. So three days later, this was the product of our crazy efforts.

BEFORE:

[COMING SOON...]

AFTER:

Nice, huh? The camera doesn’t properly portray the color…imagine more the color of a rust-orange Pontiac Grand Am GT. Yeah, hot. Then the brown is a much richer chocolate…like a truffle kind of tone. I’ll see if I can get some better representations of them in the future. He was pretty surprised though.

As a side note, here’s a book I saw at Borders that just recently went on the market. It’s called “Stuff White People Like: the Definitive Guide to the Unique Taste of Millions” by Christian Lander. I looked at the cover and thought I read it wrong. Then I picked it up and sure enough. “Stuff White People Like.” So I flipped through the first few pages. I couldn’t believe the stuff that was in there – this guy is off his rocker. For a snippet or two, here’s a couple I remembered that were especially out-there:

#8 : Barack Obama.
#11:Asian Girls.
#14: Having Black People for Friends.

(Not that liking Obama, Asian women, or African Americans is bad - I just think it's random and kind of prejudiced in the context they're noted.) I don’t know what this guy was thinking when he wrote this book…he’s going to be so hated by so many and the book probably won’t even sell well. At least I hope it doesn’t. Anyway, if you’re interested in seeing it for yourself (or ordering it, heh), here it is.

More catch up...

2008-07-29T20:08:00.013-04:00

First, let's start off with the pictures: I've uploaded a bunch to my Flickr, which you can view here (and there are still more to upload?!).

Okay, now for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of the trip - the final three days.

FRIDAY:

A pretty laid-back day, Friday. It was fairly overcast and, therefore much cooler. Rob and I went down to the beach and did a little boogie boarding then came back in time to get showers since we were going to be eating out that night with the whole group. It was going to be at the Down Under again, which we didn't mind. We liked the atmosphere there, the Australian theme and decorations.

When we got there, everyone ordered his food. Sitting next to me, my uncle and I heard my grandma order "sautéed shrimp" which wasn't actually on the menu by that name; rather, it was "shrimp - sautéed or deep fried." So when the food arrived and my grandma started arguing with the waiter about her shrimp being sautéed instead of deep fried, my uncle and I were just as gobsmacked as the poor, blushing waiter. My uncle finally spoke up to reassure the waiter that yes, she did in fact order the sautéed shrimp, and that it wasn't his fault ~~that our grandma is going senile~~. He walked back to the kitchen, and we reminded Grandma of exactly what she said when she ordered. She denied it and pouted instead. My uncle offered to order her another plate(!) but she refused. Instead, she allowed my brother to eat all of her shrimp.

That night, Rob and I watched a few movies then finished packing our bags so that we would be ready for the next day.

SATURDAY:

Since the realty peeps needed us out of the house by 11:00 so that they could begin cleaning it up for the next group, we decided we'd plan to leave at 10:00 when, in reality, we knew it'd be more like 10:30 or later. Which did end up being the case.

Since the Californian members of the group had to leave about 5:30 that morning to drive up to Norfolk (to catch a plane), it was up to us Pennsylvanians (not to be confused with "Transylvanians") to do the kitchen clean up. There was so much leftover food; it was shameful. Luckily, there's a food bank that takes all unopened food not used by tenants, so we were able to take advantage of that for some items. Others though, like bread, were fed to the seagulls...which was SO MUCH FUN. I stood out on the balcony and tossed some out to the two or three that were on the ground below. Within seconds though, there was a FLOCK of about twenty circling the sky above me, looping 'round and 'round to snatch some out of my hands or catch it as I flung it up in the air.

Then it was time to load our things into the vehicles. Rob was having trouble with his mp3 player, so I was trying to help him figure it out. My grandparents - who drove with us this trip - had been a little...out of sorts this week. My grandpa had been in discomfort the whole trip due to his hip, but he was for the most part content with just getting out and rarely complained. My grandma, on the other hand, was suffering from symptoms of gout and was therefore in a very grouchy state for most of the week. She waddled around, badgering us to get our stuff out to the minivan and not to forget anything.

"Saaaaammiiiii, don't forget your suitcase" - my only piece of luggage - "that's still in the bathroom here," she'd moan out to me as I tried some futile repairs on Rob's music player. I finally got frustrated after awhile and probably, to her, got a little out of character when I hollered back after the third or fourth whine, "I know, Grandma, it's just that I'm busy doing something for someone else right now!" (This hit home for her because she's one of those grandparents who are like the kid with a new toy that needs assembled: you need to do it now - they think - or it's never going to get done.) So finally I had to give up hope on Rob's silent mp3 player and hauled both our luggage out while he spruced up our sleeping area. I finished loading up the van and walked around to the front of it to see my grandma sitting on a lawn chair pouting. Ugh. That made me feel bad and angry, both at the same time.

Everyone finally piled into his respective vehicle and pulled out around ten 'til eleven. As we neared the end of our street and turned onto the main road, Highway 12, I realized that I was glad to be on my way home. Unfortunately, going home was just going to have to wait for awhile...

[CUT: remember that post a few entries back? The one about that phrase "Someone had better be dying"? That statement was used in the context of what is about to follow.]

It suddenly seemed as though there was tons of traffic. Not uncommon - it was a Saturday, it was the afternoon, and it was a typical day for checkout for a lot of realties. But then we sat...and sat...and sat some more. Soon we realized it wasn't ordinary traffic. Something was wrong. As I was poking my head out the window to get a glance at the traffic up ahead of our van, a man came over to the driver's window to report that there had been an accident about 30 miles ahead and that they'd be closing down the road for about three hours from the time of the incident just to manage the problem. The accident was at 9:00. It was only just 11:00.

"So we're going to be stuck here for another hour?" Rob asked. I involuntarily reached back and thwapped him on the side of the face for whining, even though I was subconciously asking the same thing. Luckily, the traffic inched along slowly until we made it to an intersection that had a souvenior shop we liked. So instead of sitting in traffic, we popped into the shop. I was able to pick up a beautiful cedar box for my friend and a nice "beachy" picture frame for my mom (to put a picture of Rob and I from the trip in it). Rob got a really sharp brown hoodie and had a decal slapped on it of "OBX" in rusty orange and sage colors (okay, so I picked it out, but where else would he be getting such good taste? *wink*).

We finally were on our way home in more like 40 minutes, which was a relief. We and the other group met up in Nagshead around 1:00 at the Slammin' Sammy's sports bar (where my uncle had bought me a cool t-shirt since 1: it was purple and 2: it had my name on it). Nagshead is famous for its horses that it has scattered across the island, posing in front of businesses, brightly decorated. There was one at the Slammin' Sammy's with a racer theme painted read and bearing a "motor" on its back and the number "3" which I'm guessing was significant (I don't know a thing about racing).

Seven hours later, we were in Philadelphia. I'm sure my sigh of relief was more than audible when we pulled into the driveway. The trip back to eastern PA had been so difficult - Rob's mp3 player had broken, so he was bored - I'd given him mine, so I was then bored. Soon though, Rob figured out a way to pass the time: he pulled his sleeping bag from its case in the back, laid it out on the long back-back seat of the van, and curled up in it across the seats. He remained in the same spot for the rest of the 5 hour trip...boy, that kid can sleep.

SUNDAY:

That day was one of the worst days of my existence. My grandfather asked me to drive the rest of the way back home from Philly (since his hip was hurting and my grandma's feet were hurting). So he sat in the front while my grandma and Rob sat in the back. OH MYYY GOSH. My grandmother probably has a kink in her neck from straining the ENTIRE trip to be able to keep an eye on the spedometer. And when she wasn't chastising me for going over the speed limit, it was something else. Something dumb that I already knew. I was really getting ticked with her. After the first two hours of driving, I honestly felt like pulling over on the side of the three-lane highway and getting out of the front, ordering her, "FINE! YOU DRIVE!" but I held myself back. We were almost to Breezewood when my grandfather woke up and realized we needed to make a pit stop and he couldn't wait until "the midpoint" (Breezewood). So we stopped at a service station that was right off the road because Grandma saw a Roy Rogers (curse you, Roy Rogers, I hate your filthy cowboy guts). Poor Rob, who had been feeling ill since the evening before, very sweetly said, "Grandma, do you think we could maybe stop at Wendy's for lunch? It'd be cheaper..." But she cut him off with "Roy Rogers is a FINE restaurant, and we'll eat there. You can't just stop at a different place for each person, Robbie." My blood started boiling. My poor little brother wanted Wendy's - I found out later that he'd wanted to get something light like a salad because he was still sick - and she was making him eat at a bloody Roy Rogers! I've always hated that place, mainly because anytime I travel anywhere with them, my grandma loves to stop there. I really don't see the draw. I mean, really: their food is over-priced, looks so disgustingly greasy (and small, as far as portions), and from what Rob said, it still tastes bad too. He got a Philly steak sub and threw most of it out. It was only about six inches, but he paid about $7 for it. Ridiculous.

So after Rob and I called my mom and vented to her for a few stolen minutes while the grandparents ordered their food, we all piled back into the little car and finished the last 2.5 hours of the trip. After taking a few more annoying jabs from grandma, my brother tried standing up for me. First, he took the defensive stance by attempting to assure her that I was an excellent driver and that I knew what I was doing.

[CUT: from this post, I'm sure you're probably all thinking I'm a horrible driver when - in reality - I'm not. My grandma would call me a "better driver" if I went 45 mph on the turnpike, but I'm sure you can all imagine what that would be like, so instead I get called a "risky driver" because I go 70 in a 65 zone to stay with the pack. *sigh* I can't win with her.]

Next, he tried distracting her by asking her questions (to which I knew he didn't care about the answer) or pointing to different things on the side of the road. Finally, he gave up and started making fun of her. Rob's way of poking fun is different though: he did it so subtly that she didn't even realize he was doing it. He'd mimic things she said as if he felt the same way; i.e., bursted into a state of panic and exclaimed, "SAM! You NEED to SLOW DOWN! You're going 67 in a 65 zone!" Finally, after casting a couple mean glares at him (which he didn't process as "the evil eye" meaning "stifle yourself"), I glanced back at him and said something to the effect of "Rob. Shut your piehole."

We finally made it home around 6:00, but not without having to sit through Grandma discussing everything from politics to racism to gay rights. And strangely, none of it was brought up by us. We try to steer those kind of conversations away from Gram. Anyway, it just made it all that more "good to be home."

Oh, and PS: we realized once we got in the house that we'd somehow swapped bags with my grandma: her dirty laundry *ahem* and our souvenirs(?!?!?!). I didn't like the thought another visit so soon after this, so I drove down and made the swap while they were moving their luggage into their house.

Playing Catch Up on the Updating

2008-07-27T10:25:00.007-04:00

Okay, folks, this is going to have to be done practically bullet style to fit it all in before I leave, but I’ll try my best to put it into sentence form before then. Here it goes:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday was definitely a lazy day. Almost everyone else had day trips planned for other islands (some went as far as Nagshead, others went to Kitty Hawk to see the Wright Brothers’ museum). With nothing to do but play pool, gin, and black jack all day, Rob decided we should go in the pool (as I mentioned in a previous post, we had an in-ground pool just outside our room). As it turned out, the pool was a good diversion – someone had left some pool-friendly sports equipment outside by the water’s edge, which we grabbed and used for lacrosse (didn’t stay with that very long) and also badminton. Well, the lacrosse game wasn’t working well with only two people, but when we switched to badminton, we couldn’t smack the little ball far enough across the pool. Therefore, we decided to combine the games: use the badminton’s sponge rackets but the lacrosse’s wiffel ball. This seemed to work for us, and we got some really good volleys going. We decided to call it quits after awhile, but not before I took a wiffel ball to the head – I had just reached around to pick up the first wiffel ball that had been floating in the water behind me when I turned around just in time to take Rob’s spare wiffel ball serve right between the eyes. I had happy little wiffel ball holes imprinted on my forehead for the next several minutes.

Rob thought it would be fun to switch it up a bit and rent some bikes to cycle over to Avon and see The Dark Knight at the Avon theatre. Good idea, except that when I Googled the directions, it would be an 18 mile bike. Up hill. Eh…

Luckily, my grandfather and uncle were heading that way to go watch the ships come in (as mentioned in the previous post) so we hopped a ride with them. That night, we went and watched it AGAIN with our cousin Dan. It was just as awesome.

Wednesday, we finally got the bikes. The rental place was about two blocks distance from our – it feels like I should be saying “penthouse” for some reason? – beach house (yeah, beach house), so Rob and I walked over. We were figuring on getting gear bikes this time since they’re a little lower to the ground for me and have handlebar brakes for Rob. Win win, right?

Wrong.

We got there and all of the midget gear bikes were taken. BLAST! So we spent ten minutes looking for a bike I could manage to get up on. Finally I decided to suck it up and take a cruiser bike, which ended up being just as difficult, but I didn’t want to put the poor woman through any more trouble to find a different one. It ended up that for the rest of the day, I had to get a running start with the bike and then hop on while the peddles were turning (yes, it’s as hard as it sounds). About a mile later, Rob hollers up to me to stop and that his bike is “gay.” I reassured him that no, it was just in unisex color and that no one would question is orientation for riding a light blue bike. He didn’t think that was funny. Here, his gears on his bike were stuck. On the toughest gear to ride. Dang it. So what else would we do – we rode all the way back down and swapped his bike out for a cruiser. (I couldn’t believe how many times that morning I felt like screaming expletives at the top of my lungs, and all over these stupid bikes). So we started back out, and what do you know, it’s black as night up (x) miles ahead. I had seen on the forecast that it was going to rain, but it had said that the day before and didn’t so I hadn’t really taken it seriously. We made the decision to just turn around and head for the Salvo-Waves area instead of going towards Avon. Surprisingly, we must have just missed the rain that was following us, because as we road back through our town and into the next, the roads were nothing but puddles. Deep puddles. Puddles that, as we road through them, splashed up onto our clothes and faces. Gross. And to top it off, Rob was hungry (no surprise there). We stopped at the famous (to our family) Down Under restaurant, looking a mess. I grabbed an old stretchy book cover from my backpack and used it to wipe off our faces, which were covered in sand and mud. Rob ended up getting this burger called “the Great Australian Bite,” which was a giant ½ pound burger with everything on it and topped with a sunny-side-up egg. We stopped at some other shops up the road from that, searching for souvenirs, and ended up popping in to the Seaside Treasures shop again to ~~torment the boy at the register~~ get some ice cream. We ate the ice cream outside; when we were finished, I ran down to unlock the bikes while Rob made one last attempt to screw with the poor shop boy’s head, asking him, “You look just like Jesse McCartney! Has anyone ever told you that???” to which he replied, “I hope not?!”

After that, we crossed the street to another shop, "Reef," and got Rob a sweet henna tattoo across his shoulder blades. We then pix-messaged a picture of it to our mom who then called us back, freaking out that I had been his consent to get a real tat. Rob proceeded to lead her on for another few minutes until I finally put her out of her misery and reassured her that it was only temporary. That was so much fun. :-)

When we got back to the house, Rob went down to the beach to do some boogie boarding while I chilled in the hot tub. Rob came back to report that he had successfully swum out to the anchor and had touched it; and also that he had ridden a monster wave that broke his boogie board in half. Go Rob!

We played a hilarious game of Taboo that night - I say hilarious because anytime my grandma plays with us, we're going to have some hilarious clues given. Some of my favorites from that night were:

"It rhymes with...'balloon'!" (answer: babboon. and technically, you're not allowed to say "sounds like" or "rhymes with" but grandma heeds no laws)
"Well, first of all, he's black." ("black" said as though it were "he's a serial killer." I don't even remember what the answer was for this clue because I laughed during the entire duration of the clue)

Some other funny answers thrown out by the group were:

jockette n. a girl version of a jock (according to my aunt and uncle who yelled that out simultaneously...the answer was actually "cheerleader")
fulcrum n. a point of rest, on which a lever turns (but guessed by Rob when all my grandma could say was "it kinda does this thing wherrrrre...")

That was a great night; I laughed so hard that evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The higher-ups decided that Thursday would be a good day to take a trip over to Ocracoke (or as Rob first thought it was pronounced, "Oprah-copes") and spend a day shopping and playing on the beach. To get over to Ocracoke, one must take the ferry which is conveniently stationed next to tons of great shops where one can blow all his money. My uncles found some really cool stunt kites that they picked up, assembled, and flew while waiting for the ferry. Since it was "kite festival" day there, they had little stations set up for little kids to "build their own kite" by coloring a piece of paper than tying it to some other sheets of paper and a ribboned tail. It was actually a pretty good kite - Katrina, my little buddy of 6 years - made one and really had it soaring. We got over to Ocracoke and stopped in at Captain Ben's restaurant where Rob finished his meal in less than five minutes and helped everyone else eat their meals too (they would pass down anything left over and dump it on his plate, which he loved).

From there, we went to the beach. Everyone flew their kites while I read my book and my aunts built sand castles. Rob even got chased down and pecked to death by a killer stunt kite (seriously, he get hijacked from behind). On our way back, it was just my grandma, my uncle, and I. We were making light conversation when my grandma asked, "Jim, do they have any deer out here?" (The way she asked made it sound as though she was asking whether or not they were in stock...) Just as she got the last word out of her mouth, my uncle slammed on the brakes and swerved.

"What was THAT?" she asked.

"That," he replied coolly, "was a fawn. Any more questions?" I stifled a guffaw.

We stopped at a Food Lion so my uncle could run in for some groceries. My grandma and I waited in the van and saw a nice couple walking to their car. "What a shame. She's such a pretty girl, too," my grandma mumbled. I wasn't sure what she was referencing, so I just sat there. Moments later, she asked out loud, "Why can't they just find boys in their own color?!" I realized what she was talking about.

"Grandma, there's nothing wrong with a white girl being with a black guy." Her head turned to me as far as it could as she whispered, "Yeah, well it just ain't natural!" Again, I held back the giggles.

Dark Knight and Nights

2008-07-22T20:02:00.004-04:00

Today is Tuesday.

Saturday night, as stated in my previous post, we went down to the beach.

Sunday we went to the beach early the next morning. It was nice to get down there before the sun came up and before the masses came to sun-bathe. We spent about two hours there then.

By Monday morning, my legs were nothing but bumpy white flesh. The sand fleas had massacred them while down at the beach those two single instances. I'm practically bathing in Caladryl now.

Today, they've dried up significantly, though I can't say that for my cousin. He's scratched them so badly, it's a miracle he has any skin left. Who'd've thought you'd have to worry about sand fleas?! Now I know how horses feel about regular fleas. Poor things.

Yesterday, Rob and I borrowed the bikes my aunt and uncle had rented and went souvenir hunting. As soon as I get home, I'll post pictures (wouldn't want to give it away for anyone from my family who's reading this).

This morning, we thought we'd rent the bikes again and do a looooong trip. We figured we'd go see The Dark Knight since I found out there was a theatre in Avon (the next town over). Instead, we bummed a ride off of my uncle who was taking my grandpa to the docks to watch them bring in the fish. Anyway, the movie was AMAZING. I highly recommend it. In fact, I think we might go again tomorrow with my cousin; it was that good.

Perhaps we'll go bike tomorrow. In the meantime, here is a link to my Flickr where you can check out some of my pictures from the week so far.

Undercover Restroom Police

2008-07-19T23:47:00.002-04:00

So today was the big day to travel down to Salvo. We loaded up and pulled out just before 11:00. Of course, not without complications.

We'd decided it would be more cost-efficient to rent a mini-van than to take two cars, but what we didn't foresee was the level of difficulty our grandma would have when trying to enter and exit the vehicle. She's about 4'10" (you can see where I get my height) and has horrible knees. 1 + 1 = can't get into the van. So we ended up finding some paint cans in the house that we could use to boost her into the van. We later figured out that we could pull up alongside the curb to help her in, too.

Sooner or later, we had to take a break. The first place we stopped was an Arby's. We got inside and placed our orders and, naturally, made sure everyone had emptied their bladders before piling back into the car. When Grandma came out, she told me all about how horrible the restroom accommodations were and how she would have asked to see the manager if we weren't trying to budget our time.

Next time we stopped, it was a Hardee's (I didn't pick these places). Again, Grandma had to use the facilities before we left. We waited and waited and waited... Finally I decided to go have a look. She was just coming out, muttering under her breath something about paper towels. I think that if someone offered my grandma the position of "undercover restroom police," she'd take it in a heartbeat.

We got to the house around 8:00 and unloaded our stuff. We've got the gameroom. It's got its own refrigerator, sink, microwave, television, bar, pool table, couch, easy chair, and coffee table. And bathroom. Boo-ya. It also has a door that gives us direct access to the in-ground pool and hot tub.

Double boo-ya.

So then later tonight, Rob, my cousin Dan, and I all went up to the beach. I saw something out there that looked huge but it didn't move, so I've got no clue what it could be. I guess we'll find out tomorrow if it's still there. Watch it be a pirate ship. Arrrrr....

Fancy-Shmancy

2008-07-18T22:21:00.003-04:00

My Thursday evening was spent playing volleyball until the ripe hour of 1:00 a.m. then coming home to pack my brother's and my bags for the beach. I finished around 3:30 then went to my hair appointment at 9:00 (which was supposed to be for noon, but - long story short - there was a change in plans on the departure time). So my sister Lex decided to tag along with me to the salon where I got my hair trimmed and even got some sweet bangs (I'm really branching out). From there, I went to make a withdrawal for my brother so that he would have some spending money for the trip, then whipped over to Donut Connection to get Lexi some chow. I realized how close I was cutting it: it was 11:00 when I pulled up to my mom's office to drop off the car. I would have just run back like I had planned, but I forgot that I had Lex, and that would have slowed things down a bit... I decided to ask my mom to run us back up home (which I felt bad about). Twenty minutes later, I was changed and ready to go. We got in to Philly around 5:00. My grandmother had been talking of nothing but this "fancy restaurant" my uncle wanted to take us to and how wonderful it was, and "fancy," and how it had such amazing food. And did I mention she said it was fancy? Rob and I gathered the level of fanciness and decided we probably would need to bring something a little nicer than a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. So fast-forward again to arriving in Philly. We unload the car and get settled down. Then my uncle asks, "So are we ready to go eat?"
"Oh," I replied, "well, we've got nicer clothes in our trunks. Just give us a minute to change."
But he caught me off-guard when he said, "No, no, you're fine in what you're wearing now."
I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
Rob was wearing a pair of swishy shorts and a mesh top.
What brand of "fancy" is this?
I should have suspected something, if not after this, then after my grandmother chimed in, "I love this place - they make the best buttered carrots."
A place that's widely acclaimed for their buttered carrots just doesn't sound fancy to me.
So we hop back in the car, this time with my grandpa, Rob, and I in my uncle's car. My uncle was excitedly showing my grandpa his GPS which would lead us straight to the restaurant. About a mile out, my uncle pulls over and tells me to get in the driver's seat and just "follow the GPS's lead" to get there, just to show my grandpa how it really works (I couldn't tell if that was a "so easy a caveman could do it" kind of thing or not). So I did exactly as it told me. And it got us there alright.
"Saville's Diner."
I swiveled my head back to look at my brother who appeared to be as surprised as I was. Not that we expect fine dining, but when it's been so talked up, you kind of get the idea that that is what you're going to see.
So we went in and took a number (as though we were in the deli section of the grocery store) and waited until they called us. As we waited to be seated, I looked around at all the signs on the wall, most of which read "NO SMOKING, NO SPITTING" or my favorite: "We will NOT serve Pancakes or French Toast for breakfast."
Rawr.
"84!"
Thank God, I thought.
We were seated and had our drink orders taken. I think the waitress had some kind of grudge against my aunt that none of us knew about: she continuously "forgot" to wait on her, and only her. When her fork fell, it took three times to get a new one; it took asking twice to get a packet of sweet & low for her iced tea, and then another two times to get a refill; not to mention that she was the last to get her food. Poor auntie. But these fancy waitresses just can't be bothered, right?
And speaking of fancy, my uncle was right: we were actually some of the nicer dressed people there - the vast majority of the customers were in tank-tops and shorts. Or wheelchairs. Rob and I were the only people there under the age of 35.
On the ride back to the house, my uncle asked me to remind him to send my aunt flowers for her birthday since we would already be gone at the beach when her birthday rolled around. My grandma reassured him that it would be okay if he forgot, "because you can always take her to a fancy restaurant when you get back."
I wonder which she had in mind this time? I'm thinkin' Arby's.

"Someone Had Better Be Dying..."

2008-07-11T10:52:00.000-04:00

We all have little inside jokes and catch phrases with friends and family that we use quite often either to make a joke or a point. For example of a point, I offer you the phrase "Don't drop the baby," made popular by my mother. She'd use it in response to her mother when she would make no-brainer statements to my mom, one particular instance being when she actually told my mother not to drop the baby she was holding. So now, "Don't drop the baby" has become a household idiom for "duh" and everybody knows it and uses it. Another funny (though borderline morbid) phrase we use a lot is "Someone had better be dying," which was first used by my father on the ride into work one morning with my mother when they both worked in Pittsburgh. There had been some kind of hold-up in traffic that was going to make them both late, and in frustration, my dad blurted out (not meaning to be insensitive), "Someone had better be dying - there must have been an accident for a traffic jam this bad," insinuating that "there's no excuse for such an irritating situation, with the exception of a fatality." So now, "Someone had better by dying" has been added to the list and is used anytime one of us is severely put out. It has evolved over the years to various other phrases, including "There had better be blood!" in response to someone screaming bloody murder for no (real pressing) reason.

Lately, our house (which is very old) has been experiencing some issues with what we believe to be plumbing. We have a bad leak somewhere in our upstairs bathroom (which houses the shower) and, consequently, we have a bad drip which will get you wet if you are coming in or out of the house while someone is showering (our bathroom is right above the entryway). We've had a few plumbers come in and "fix it" already, but it continues to drip...even drizzle on occasion. The younger members of the family have come up with a "solution" - throw a bath towel on the floor to sop up the water. A nice thought; but not only does it not work, they don't pick the towel up afterwards.

Okay, pop quiz, everyone! What happens when a towel gets wet and then doesn't get hung up to dry? Anyone want to take a stab at the answer?

...no? Alright, well I'll tell you. Only because I can't show you. The towel mildews. And it stinks to high Heaven.

I tried to make sure I picked up the towel on the floor when I saw it, but I couldn't be there every time. I wanted to install a hidden camera to find out who kept putting it there.

Then someone had a better idea: why use a whole bath towel when you can just grab the hand towel off the rack and throw that on the floor?

Fact #1: I rule.

Fact #2: I use the hand towel to dry my face off after washing it in the morning.

Guess how gross it is to blindly grab the towel off the rack and wipe your face on it, only to find it stinks like vomit AND has made your clean face stink like vomit? Answer: WAY GROSS.

My mom had been continuously reprimanding them as these problems continued to arise, but it was never stopped. So this morning, I went upstairs to wash my face and found this:

Go, Mum, go. :-)

Marvel Babysitter

2008-07-10T17:41:00.003-04:00

Here's an excerpt of two tweets from this morning:

And here's an excerpt of a...conversation...I had via Gmail chat with my mom soon after:

And yes, these are both referencing the same instance.

Work this morning began as usual: I got in around 7:00 and worked until it was time for "the morning meeting," which is simply all of us meeting together in our conference room listening to one of the clinicians review what we would be doing and such. I always keep my ears perked for key words like "kids" and "babysitter needed." When these words do pop up - like they did today - I check to see what time it is that our patient is coming in and make sure that I "take a lunch break" or "go pick up data" just before our patient and her children arrive so that I don't get recruited to watch them. But when I looked at the schedule this morning, I found that there was no getting out of this one. Our first patient was arriving at 9:00. I pulled out my cell phone to check the time, and my stomach lurched when I realized it was already 8:53. I began silently weighing my options.

"I could always slip out of the meeting now like I have to go to the bathroom but then just not come back," I thought to myself. This may have worked except that our bathroom is within eyeshot when sitting in the conference room. Darn. Therefore, I had to resort to Plan B.

Immediately after the meeting, I bolted to my office, shut the door, and plugged my iPod's earbuds into my computer tower. I always have the overhead light off anyway, so after quickly accomplishing those tasks, I had successfully made it look like "no one is home." Quietly I sat at my desk milling away, listening to music on my Pandora radio station. After a couple minutes of peace and quiet, the silence was broken - no, shattered - by the sound of two little monsters. And I heard them before they ever made it through the office door. One child - a boy from what I could make out - was screaming at his mother who was correcting him for hitting his sister while what I assumed to be the sister shrieked as if her brother had actually bludgeoned her with a baseball bat rather than slapped her.

"Surely," I thought, "she wouldn't think I'm in here...or at least she'd think I was extremely busy and not to be bothered." I rarely have my door closed; and, trust me, if I could keep it closed when I wanted, it would be shut at all times. This rarity, I figured, would definitely get the point across that I didn't want to be bothered.

Wrong.

There came a knock at the door. But not just any knock. One of those super-petty and light "tut_tut-tut_tut_tut...tut_tut" knocks. I sighed and threw my head back on the chair - I knew who it was: my hyper-happy co-worker. And I knew what she wanted: me to babysit.

"Hello? Sam? Are you in there?"

"Maybe if I don't say anything, she'll just go away..." I pondered. I was actually quite shocked at myself for having thought that, though the next thing to cross my mind wasn't any better.
"I think I'll just yell 'NO! GO AWAY!' then she won't ever ask me to watch kids ever again." I decided to go with the latter of those two plans, but for some reason it didn't come out quite right.

"Come in," I said in a low moan. She didn't hear me. "Come in, I said," I repeated in a less-than-welcoming tone. She heard me this time and cracked the door, peeking her face inside.

"Oh, uh...I have some babysitting for you...um...they're older kids, 7 and 10...they'll probably make their own fun...er...you probably won't have to do much...so...if you want to...bring some work in with you...maybe you can just keep an eye on them so that they don't..."

"...'kill each other'?" I wanted to help her finish her sentence. I figured that must be what she was thinking anyway. Instead, I just replied, "Yeah, I'll be in in a minute," in the flattest voice I think I've ever let out. Even if she didn't know exactly how I felt just then, I think she walked away with at least an idea. So I packed up my supplies I'd been using (I've been working on our 500 person mailing list for our research study, and it's a nightmare) and hauled them all in to the playroom. After setting down my goods, I looked up at the two little urchins. They had only been in the playroom five minutes, and yet they had completely ransacked the place. There were blocks, toys, and coloring books everywhere. I figured I'd try to win them over with my dazzling charisma.

"Hey guys, my name's Sam, what's yours?" The girl, who was the older of the two, answered my first with what sounded like "Alicia," to which I replied, "Oh, that's a pretty name."

"I say-ed 'Den-EE-sha'," she snapped back. I guess I don't have quite the same effect on children.

The boy proceeded to tell me his name and then immediately followed up with yanking a toy horse off his sister and laughing maniacally. I decided Plan B was to pretend nothing was happening and started back to work stuffing giant envelopes with fliers and brochures. This plan didn't last long since moments later I looked up just in time to see the boy shove the tail-end of the same toy horse into his sister's face and declare, "See this? It's a horse's a** just like YOOOOOOUUU." That did it.

"WHAT did you say?" I stood up and marched over to him, standing as tall as I could (all 4'11" of me) and looked him straight in the eye. "I don't think your mom would be happy if she heard you using words like that, understand? Don't use those words here. It makes me very angry. And you don't want to see me angry..." I glanced over at one of the coloring books on the floor: it was a super hero activity book in which all the super heroes were portrayed as their kid version. On the cover included Captain America, Spiderman, and the Hulk. "...or I'll turn green like the Hulk!"

It got very quiet after that. In fact, minutes later, the sister walked over to one of the couches, laid down, and fell asleep. I think it was the only defense mechanism she knew. The brother on the other hand played quietly by himself. I was able to get lots of work done. It was only about a half an hour before they left that he started warming to me, coming over and chatting. He flitted from subject to subject, first discussing his favorite animals, then jumping to what kinds I liked to eat, THEN jumping to whether or not I liked to eat people and "what's the best part to eat?"

Kids sure are funny.

Upcoming Holiday

2008-07-09T07:07:00.001-04:00

BIG NEWS: In exactly eight days, my brother and I will be leaving for our week-long trip to Outer Banks (OBX), NC. Half of me truly is excited for the chance to get away, but the other half…well, I’ll just try to keep myself from keeping me from having a good time, if that makes any sense.
Our house this year is located in Salvo, just below the towns Waves and Rodanthe for any of you who have ever visited the OBX before. The name of our house is “Casa Verde,” which is Spanish for “Green House.” (Thank you, Mrs. Brockett, my ever patient Spanish teacher.)

For a view of the house and a few other views of the inside of it, visit my Flickr site here.

Or, you can visit the Sun Reality website here, scroll to the bottom of the screen, and type “S-100” in the Unit ID# box (visiting my Flickr sounds easier if you ask me).

Because we’re leaving next weekend, foresight tells me I should actually pack this weekend because every night but Monday of next week is going to be busy. If I’m lucky, my brother and I will go on a little “date” to the local Wal-Mart to pick up a buttload of travel/trial-sized items to toss in our luggage then come home and do loads of wash so that we’ll have clothes to wear in the meantime (since all the rest will be packed away).

Next Friday, we’ll leave in the evening (tentatively) for Philadelphia to pick up my uncle then drive down together to our beach house where (hopefully) everyone will have already checked in and moved in their stuff. Good and bad: good in that I won’t have to deal with the mayhem of suitcases, totes, cranky children, and grumpy adults who’ve been driving for the past ~11 hours. Bad in that I’ll probably have last pick on a room and will (as Fate will have it) probably get stuck with an impossibly annoying child or my brother (oh wait, that may be the same person?). All kidding aside, my brother rocks, and I’m glad it’s he that came out of the three. We’ll have loads of fun together.

Anyway, DO check out the house – it’s breathtaking.

The Adventures of Vinny and Christine

2008-07-07T14:12:00.010-04:00

My sister and I had a very successful trip to the mall on Saturday: I stopped in at Hot Topic and picked up a Paramore CD for way cheaper than I would have had I gone to Borders (sorry, Borders, I love you but it’s true). After browsing around the sales racks, we moved on to Payless where – after what seemed like hours of trying on every black ballet style shoe they had – she picked out these.

When we got home, I gave Max a bath (for which he was ever so grateful). He really is the most hilarious dog to watch when he’s feeling frisky, especially after bath time: he goes tearing down the stairs at breakneck speed and then proceeds to leap – no, pounce – from one piece of furniture to the next as fast as he can, digging his nose into the cushions to dry off/ itch his little bearded snout. In our living room, we sort of have the Bermuda Triangle set-up going on where the couch, loveseat, and easy chair are all within jumping reach for him. Technically, he’s not allowed to do that. But he’s SOOOOO CUTE.

After changing out of my “wet dog” scented t-shirt and shorts number, I decided to make that fudge I promised my grandpa. He’s hilarious in that he has this cute and yet annoying habit of repeating stories he’s told before anytime he hears (which is rare to begin with) certain “trigger words.” So the evening before, I had to listen to him retell his tales of attempting to make fudge but never being able to get it to set up. I, being the amazing cook and baker that I am (HA) would never make that error.

Psh.

I decided to use the directions that had come with the monstrous jar of marshmallow fluff I had picked up the night before. I found it strange that it didn’t include any particular temperature to which it needed heated, since usually it’s like 300* or something of that sort. Shrugging while putting away my candy thermometer, I thought to myself, “I guess this is why the recipe’s name is “Never Fail Fudge” – there’s no temperature reading required…”

Au contraire, my friends.

Typically, fudge sets up in 2 to 3 hours. Five and a half hours later, the stuff was still goo. “Sludge Fudge” is what I named that horrible batch of blech. The next morning at church, I saw my grandpa standing in the choir loft. We made eye contact and, in his only-pappy fashion, he began to pantomime eating my fudge with a spoon right in front of the entire congregation. I would be embarrassed except for the fact that it’s Pappy. Pappy could probably get away with murder.
So after church, I took him home since his car was in the shop, at which time he commented on the tastiness of the fudge and how he appreciated me chopping the walnuts smaller this time so he wouldn’t choke. I laughed and apologized for how runny it was and advised him to keep it in the freezer to harden. He smiled and used another one of his little catch phrases, one that I particularly love: “Sam, you know why they put erasers on pencils?”

“Because everyone makes mistakes,” we said together.

And isn’t that the truth.

As far as the rest of my weekend went, my mom, my brother, and I watched – back to back, mind you – “My Cousin Vinny” (which was hilarious) and Steven King’s “Christine” (which was more freaky than scary, but still great). Something tells me that would have been quite a dream sequence for someone once it came time to go to sleep.

In closing, Happy Monday!

Busy, busy, busy

2008-07-05T13:57:00.005-04:00

First off, happy belated fourth.

Moving on.

So here's my timeline of the past three days:

Thursday: work - home - volleyball until 2:00 a.m. - LotR on Gamecube until 4:30 a.m.
Friday: tennis with my dad and twin B until 1:00 p.m. - MAJOR in depth weeding of the back and front yards - trees and rhododendron bushes - running the lawn mower on both lawns - running out to Giant Eagle for fudge ingredients (to make for my cute begging grandfather) - stopping in at Family Video for National Treasure II (I had seen it, family had not) - coming home and watching NT II until 1:30 then popping in Robin Hood, too [w00t!]
Saturday: trip to J&S with dad and twins

CURRENTLY: taking twin A to the mall to follow through with a deal I made her.

Being the negotiating girl that I am, I "paid" her to clean my room, but with shoes instead of money. So now we're off to the mall to pick out a good pair. Pictures will be posted once they've been purchased. I also need to wash the dog today and find time to work on my draft for class and loaf. MUAWHAHAHAHA...

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2008-07-03T13:33:00.008-04:00

So today marks one week since my sister ended up in the emergency room. Every Thursday – glorious, beautiful, wonderful Thursday – I go play volleyball with a bunch of people in the area at a local church’s gymnasium. It’s a lot of fun; there are quite a few experienced, skillful players which makes it all worth it when you get to seriously play hard. Last week, my 14-year-old sister wanted to tag along. She’s on her school’s volleyball team, so sure, why not. Since I’m nocturnal, I’m always among the last to leave the gym. My sister knew this and didn’t mind. So around midnight or so (actually an early night for the lot of us, but we were getting kicked out this week), she and I packed up and headed home. About half-way home though, she mentioned that she was thirsty. Being the amazing sister that I am, I pulled into the Sheetz that we always pass to and from and popped in, snagging her a bottle of flavored water and ordering a MTO soft pretzel with nacho cheese for her dipping pleasure. When I returned to the car, she was delighted to see what I had brought her. She was finished with both before we pulled into the driveway. I unlocked the door and we were both greeted most exuberantly by our little mutt, Max. I went upstairs to take a shower, and she went to bed.

Fast-forward five hours. My dad and I are on our way in to work. He keeps yawning for some reason. “Tired?” I ask.

“Well, yeah, kinda. I mean, I just got home awhile ago from the ER,” he replies nonchalantly. WHA??? How did I miss this? Here, while I was in the shower around 1:00, my poor sister was in my parents’ room barely able to breathe. And from what my dad was able to get out of her on the way there, this wasn’t the first time she’d felt this way – it was just “the worst it’s been yet.” Great. So they took an x-ray of her throat and chest to see if there were any obstructions of any sort. When they showed nothing, the nurse asked her what the last thing she ate was. Go figure: pretzels, I guess, wreak havoc on the lining of one’s esophagus when they scrape their way down and often get lodged in the back of kids’ throats. I suppose that may have been a suitable enough explanation if she were, say, 8 years old? No, this seems a little more complex than crunchy food not being chewed well enough. (Plus, hello? It was a soft pretzel, dufus!) After a few hours, they decided to go home. When we took her to a follow-up at the family’s PCP, though, I heard stranger news.

“He ordered a pulmonary function test?!” I asked.

“Yeah…why?” my mom questioned.

“Well, she said so herself that it wasn’t in her chest. She made it pretty clear that it was her throat. So why in the world would he be running tests for asthma?”

I told my friend this last night after we pulled a girls-night-out at Starbucks after church. She admitted that it seemed odd and commented that at the college she attends, it seems “asthma” is the answer to everything, and that “no lie, you come in with any symptom – be it cold, flu, or GI issues – and they give you an inhaler script.” How retarded is that? They tried “diagnosing” her with asthma when she came in with a fever after she forced herself through her PE class.

Retards…

My prognosis? I think she has panic attacks. At work, I get to see firsthand what a lot of our patients are experiencing, and panic attacks in that age group are quite common. And if you spent two hours with my sister, you’d probably agree that it was a possible solution: on top of being OCD, having several “phobias,” and possessing a constantly intense personality, she had an especially high amount of caffeine that evening.

Anyway, it's just a theory. Could be right, could be wrong. Still, it makes me feel less guilty about the idea of almost killing my sister with a soft pretzel.

Hi again...

2008-07-02T10:17:00.008-04:00

I brought my books from last semester with me to work today, fully intending to take them to either the Pitt Book Store or other neighboring book shops to see which would give me the best deal (and then end up going back to the first I visited because that's just how it usually plays out). My co-worker, however, informed me that not only does the Pitt Book Store RIP YOU OFF when you buy the books, but it also jips you when you're trying to sell them back. So I checked that stop off my list, which meant that the other three I could think of were probably just as bad. Then I saw the light bulb come on in her head. A second later, she was excitedly filling me in on Amazon.com and all of its wonder. So as of now, I'm kind of sold on the idea of selling my books online. Of course, who really wants to buy a book called "The Foundations of Early Modern Europe"? I think I'll put them out there for awhile, but if they're not sold by the school year, I'll probably just take them down and sell them back to the store for pennies anyway.

In other news, the song "Wave of Anguish" by Lacuna Coil just flashed across my Pandora radio which reminded me of Guitar Hero (since, in fact, Lacuna Coil is one of the artists featured in the bonus tracks in Guitar Hero III....yeah, I'm a fan). And Guitar Hero reminded me of the fact that Guitar Hero - Aerosmith just came out on the 29th. MUST HAVE! I'm a huge fan of both Guitar Hero and Aerosmith. Put them together, and the consequences could be amazing. So I definitely want to look into getting that for PS2.

And now for a little rant. I do a lot of data input at my job, so I'm frequently working with addresses: I'm SICK of reused city and street names. It really grinds my gears. C'mon, people, there are millions - gajillions! - of words out there, and the best you can do is "Greenville"? I mean really, how green is that town? Since I know someone in almost every Greenville along the East Coast, it can get confusing. Likewise but more so with street names. Using numbers in the street names (i.e., "Fifth Avenue") is so lame. Still, I could handle it if there was only one out there like it. But no, there's a Fifth Avenue in practically every town! I can't tell if people are talking about the block above my office or the area about ten blocks from my house (about a 25 mile difference). Either way, I think I'd rather live on Sillypants Lane than drive myself mad researching directions to my friend's house who lives at 1234 Main Street.

Ode to Office Supplies

2008-07-01T08:00:00.004-04:00

I'm not ashamed to admit that I often use office supplies for more than their original design while I'm at work. For example, I frequently use those smaller binder clips as hair barrettes when I need to pin my bangs back. Also, I have once or twice turned a giant paperclip into a safety pin when necessary. Even though these basic office materials come in handy for everyday "me" malfunctions, I would never venture into the realm of body piercings by way of these means. I didn't really have an option, though, this morning when I picked up the corner of a stapled sheet of papers only to find that the "arms" of the staple hadn't folded. No, instead, they bit their way into my left index finger. Luckily, I'm not a bleeder, ha. Still, how did that happen? Hopefully I won't start frothing at the mouth or anything.

Reminiscing about this reminds me of the time I was (yet again) sporting the binder clip bobby pin and forgot I was wearing it when I left the office. Since my dad and I work within a block of each other, it just makes sense for us to carpool. So each day, I leave the office at 4:00 and wait outside for him at an Exxon across the street from my building. That particular day, he was uncharacteristically late, so I waited outside - with my fancy little hair accessory - for a good fifteen minutes. When I hopped in the car, he glanced over at me and stopped mid-"how was your day" to comment, "Oh. Nice hair clip."

"What? OH!" As if there were others in the car who might see it, I quickly yanked it from my hair. It was too late though. And here I was thinking everyone at the gas station thought I was having a smashing hair day and just couldn't look away! Sigh...

By far though, my favorite utensil at the office is my PAPER MATE© red pen. Old faithful. Unlike my other pens, it's the only pen that doesn't "stutter." Plus, it's great for sticking behind my ear to hold my side bangs back. Come to think of it, I went out in public with my pen behind my ear once, too, though that's not quite as embarrassing if you ask me. Maybe I should ween myself off of doing this? Or I could just eliminate the temptation by getting real bangs, that's always an option.

On our next episode of "Other Useful Uses of Office Supplies," see Sam decorate her room in post-it notes!

...juuust kidding.

Twitter is the most fun a girl can have (without blogging)

2008-06-30T20:29:00.002-04:00

Okay, I'm going to come right out and say it: I'm horrible about updating consistently. Oh, and by "consistently," I mean "daily." I tried the daily thing for awhile, but unfortunately, (a.) I don't always have time and (b.) I don't always have something about which to blog.

This is why, for people like me who would write if they had more time, Twitter is so great. It's one of the four tabs I have open at all times on my desktop at work and on my Macbook at home. I can update at any moment when something catches my attention. Added bonus? Twitter mobile. It's always there to satisfy my withdrawals when I feel the need to update and am away from a computer. Plus, it's a means by which to update when Twitter is down (which is 94% of the time).

Either way: do read, do comment. And if you have a Twitter account, you can add me here.