"Someone Had Better Be Dying..."

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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)

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.