The High/Low Game

Liz would occasionally have us play the High/Low Game. At the end of the day we'd tell eachother the lowest point of our day followed by the highest point of our day. Here's my high/low for yesterday...

Low...
Almost getting in a fist fight with a nine-year-old.

High... (It's a toss up between...)
Taco Bell lunch and
Softball Practice

WAIT! NO! I changed my mind.

My High Point was...
Seeing Chris in his Spiderman costume!

It doesn't get much better than that.

Mac and Cheese

I do not like Mac and Cheese. It's true. There was a time, of course, when I did. When I would beg my parents for it. Dream of it. At least, I'm assuming there was a time like that. I can't remember. All I can remember is mounds and mounds of Mac and Cheese. We were poor and Mac and Cheese was cheap. So we ate Mac and Cheese. A lot. Mac and Cheese with tuna. Mac and Cheese with Cream of Chicken. Mac and Cheese with extra cheese. Mac and Cheese with tuna and extra cheese. Mac and Cheese with tuna and Cream of Chicken. Mac and Cheese with Cream of Chicken and extra cheese. And on special occasions, Mac and Cheese with tuna, Cream of Chicken and extra cheese. Oh, I do not like Mac and Cheese.

When I went away for college my parents bought me a present. A giant case of Mac and Cheese from Costco. I didn't eat that year. I had had enough of Mac and Cheese.

My Life

My life gets weirder and weirder every day. Maybe Liz is right and I get weirder and weirder every day. But whether the egg or the chicken came first, they both happily coexist. Let's take Friday for example.

Ring! Ring!

I rolled over in my bed to look at my clock. It was well after 9am. Embarrassed about sleeping in so late I sat up, gave a few throat-clearing "ahems" and answered the phone.

"Hello?"
"Hi, Em?"
"Ya..." I tried to sound cheerful and awake.
"This is Chris and I was just wondering if you would rub aloe on my back."
"What?"
"Ya, my roommates usually do it but apparantly they caught on because they're all gone. If I come over, will you do it?"
"Uh... of course. Come on over."

Did Chris really just randomly call me up to ask if I would rub aloe on his back or am I still dreaming? I'd better get up and look presentable (a.k.a. wipe the dried drool off my face) before he gets here.
Was it a dream? No. He came over with his aloe and I rubbed it on for him to try to prevent peeling. My work here is done.

A few hours later...

Ring! Ring!

"Hello?"
"Hi, Em?" It was Chris.
"Ya..."
"Would it be possible for you to take me to Gunnies so that I can buy a cowboy hat?"
"Right now?"
"Ya... we're leaving for the rodeo."
"Well, I'm taking Ann-Marie on some errands... I suppose we could stop at Gunnies..."
"Great!"

A few hours later... on the way to Gunnies... with Ann-Marie, Chris and Duard...

"Thanks a lot for taking me to Gunnies. I just really want a hat for the rodeo."
"No problem."
"Ya, I already have my cowboy shirt. So all I need to get now is a hat, a big belt buckle and a Spiderman costume."
"What??"
"Huh?"
"What do you need a Spiderman costume for? Do you own any normal clothes?"
"Hehehe... well, I'm taking a date to see Spiderman 2 next weekend and we're going to dress up."
"That's a great idea! I think that every Saturday our ward should go to the dollar theater and dress up as characters."
"Yes!!"

Maybe it's just my life with Chris that gets weirder and weirder. No, that can't be it.

Entertaining Two Teenage Deaf Boys for Ten Days

My seventeen-year-old brother and his little friend, Chris, are both coming down to visit me in August. I told them they could come for a week. They added on an extra weekend without letting me know beforehand. I still feel good about it. My mom called today in a bit of a frenzy (a bit early in the game for a frenzy but I'm willing to work with it) because she didn't know how much money she should tell Chris' mom to give him. She wanted to know in detailed form what kind of activities we would do and how much it would cost. She told me to keep in mind that the boys get bored easily and that I should plan on a lot of activities. This is what I sent to my parents...

Lagoon
$31.95 + tax
(Parking is $7)

Seven Peaks
$18.50 + tax
(Parking is $2)

BYU Bowling (please have the boys bring their own shoes)
Mon - Thurs before 5
$2.40/game
Mon - Thurs after 5
$2.70/game
Fri - Sat before 5
$2.65/game
Fri - Sat after 5
$2.95/game

Nicklecade
$2.25 admission fee
$0.05 for each game

Movie Theater (There's a Deaf Night 2x/wk at a local theater with CC)
$4.50 before 5pm
$7.50 after 5pm

Spending Ten Days With My Baby Boys?
Priceless

That comes to a little over $70 for these activites (if we played four games of bowling before 5pm on a weekday, brought $5 of nickles for the nicklecade, went one time to each park and to one matinee movie). Which I'm guessing will be enough to entertain them for 2.5 days. :o) Also, please keep in mind that they are capable of eating more food than I eat in a year. Asking me to pay for their appetite is like asking me to pay to solve world hunger. (a.k.a. Please send money for food.)

Hurray for time with the baby boy! The Big Sister Taxi will be leaving daily for new adventures. You may call apartment 65 or my cell phone to make reservations to join the Sista Summer Club. (Brothas welcome.)

Needles, Knives and Dr. Mario

I hate doctors. I really do. Except for Dr. Mario who I've found a new fondness for. But perhaps that's because I know that he's not going to jump out of the machine with needles and knives and just start hacking away. With Dr. Mario I know that I'll leave in one piece and without any bad news. But tomorrow I'm going to see Dr. Brown. And he and Dr. Mario are on two very different playing fields. Dr. Brown is a very nice man but I'll be paying him to cut my foot open and fix yet another ingrown toenail. That means we can't be friends. Sad, but true. I'm terrified. Just the thought makes me sick to my stomach and induces all sorts of irrational fears. What if the numbing stuff never wears off and I never feel my foot again? What if he slices wrong and he cuts off a toe? What if I accidentally look down and see blood? Or a needle? Or a knife? Or Dr. Brown with the blood, needle and knife? Or what if my mom is involved somehow and instead of fixing my toe he just removes my whole leg? Oh, dear. Oh, dear. It's going to be hard to keep my cool. It's going to be hard for me to not cry or have a panic attack or sing my comfort songs only in my head. Maybe I'll find my happy place and win Dr. Mario over and over again in my head... Dr. Mario, HELP!!

She Whines

My thumb nail is falling off and the process is disgusting.
But also kind of cool.
I think I may have applied to the wrong program.
Oops.
Transitions are hard.
Really hard.
I think I may go "home" for a few days in July.
Am I stupid?
My parents don't want to see me.
There's a shocker.
My parents do want me to support them financially.
Seriously. What the crap?
My sister still hasn't called.
The Maid of Honor needs some info.
My brother still hasn't responded to my messages.
I'm supposed to be his favorite.
I'm a social reject.
Obviously.
I have a headache.
Again.
I need another job.
Po' white girl.
I'm kind of hungry.
Taco Bell withdrawels.
But at least my mom's not as fat as your mom.
Phew! That was a close one!

Work Free

I don't have to work tomorrow/today. Yep, I've got Fridays off. It's a beautiful thing and the only reason that I've decided to give up my original in-bed-by-eleven plan and fight it out with my laptop instead. I've won the battle... but I hold out little hope for the war. My computer hates me. I'm guessing that it senses it's own guilt-gift status coupled with disappointment that it will never see a graduate level class. I occasionally tell it to suck it up and point at it with disdain, threatening to sell it to some sucker and buy new clothes instead. There are other times that I try being the good cop and attempt to convince it that it still has value even though I really only use it to write meaningless blogs like this one, read/send email and watch Strongbad kick Homestar. Over and over. Important stuff. I've decided that my patience with this machine makes me some kind of hero since I have not yet taken it to the third floor and chucked it down onto the sidewalk below. A vision that brings joy to my heart and has brought me comfort in the last couple of weeks that this stubborn beast has refused to turn on at all. Furthermore, I have also decided that one day, when I have enough money to buy a new computer and eat in the same month, that I will find that Dell intern
(in his prison cell) and punish him further by giving him this computer as his only means of entertainment. Until he dies.

She Works Hard for the Money

So I started a new job. I'm in the "Tadpoles" class at Adventure Time. "Tadpoles" is code for eight children under the age of two. I love babies. A lot. But I can't help but feel aweful whenever I'm in that place. Some of those babies are in this daycare from 7:30am until 6:30pm. Every time they do something cute or funny I can't help but feel bad that their parents are missing it. Or at least somebody that will be a part of their lives for more than a few months. It's a good daycare. The people are nice and the place is clean. There are lesson plans and activities. But I still don't like being a part of it. But do you know what the worst part is? It's not the eight children under the age of two in a small classroom. Or the eight tiny behinds that need to be changed every ten minutes. Or having to clean up the mess after lunch and snack. Or the constant battle to keep little Jaeman out of the trash. No, no. I can handle that. The one thing that drives me up the wall are the other adults in the room that feel it necessary to take their voices up two octaves while talking. Because, obviously, we want the children to learn and mimick us and that can only be done in very high squeaky voices because everybody knows that small children can only hear sounds that are usually only picked up by dogs. It's like the people that just speak louder and slower when confronted by a person that doesn't speak English. The volume and speed isn't the problem, buddy. It's the content. And the face you make when you talk that slow...