tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66528657941798316382024-03-05T07:52:24.725-08:00Random Wonderful.Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-20732094749285908342013-07-28T15:06:00.001-07:002013-07-28T15:06:35.121-07:00A few awkward days at Rona. Well helllllooo! <div>
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It's sure been awhile, now hasn't it? </div>
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Did you miss me?</div>
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You missed me.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(disclaimer: you probably didn't miss me.) </span></div>
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So! </div>
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As most of you know, I've been working at my new job for a few months now. </div>
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I often come home with nothing exciting to talk about. People bought stuff, and I ran it through the cash register. That's basically my whole day. </div>
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But there are times while I'm working that some things happen. Whether hilarious, rage inducing, or embarrassing. (but mostly when I get home I forget about them and then they just stay in the back of my brain)</div>
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I'd like to tell you about some of the interesting things while I work. </div>
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Mostly when people come through the doors, John (coworker) will greet them by name.(if he knows them) But instead of saying a greeting back, people will just say what they're looking for. Just once I'd like it to go like this:<br /><br />John: "Hello Bob!"<br />Bob: "Bird feed."<br />Me: "No, that's John."</div>
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There's been a few awkward moments. After I hand someone their receipt, and they're scooting on over to the door I'll say "have a good day" "goodbye" etc. But sometimes my brain (and theirs) are having a particularly bad day.</div>
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Me: "Good bye!" </div>
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Them: "No problem you too!" <br /><br />I'm pretty sure we both want to die at that point.</div>
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Or it will be awkward because we'll both say "have a good day" at the same time. Then there's a long silence as they walk away. That's when I wish I could crawl under the counter. </div>
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At times I'll see a certain something about a customer that I like, but I don't really think they'd appreciate me saying "Excuse me, sir, but may I say how much I LOVE your ears? Like, totes adorbes. THEY STICK OUT MAN." <br /> And then that man never returned to Rona again. </div>
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But really. I mainly keep those things to myself. </div>
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Another awkward thing, some people, you ask for Air Miles and they'll go slack jawed and stare at you with dead eyes. And you're just thinking "It wasn't a trick question. Do.You.Have.Air.Miles?" <br />A few will come too when their brain realizes what you've asked, and then they'll say "Oh yes!" or "Oh no!" and then you can continue with your life. </div>
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A lot of the time I almost *almost* break peoples' hearts. I'll ask for air miles, they'll say "oh yeah!" and start digging crazily in their wallets, struggling to grasp the tiny blue card. And when they finally manage to get it, and hold it up with a look of triumph, I want to say "Well we don't." and then finish the transaction with a straight face. </div>
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Today something happened, and I felt like a blondie. </div>
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A man came in and said "Do you hav G9 bulbs?"<br />I, being my tired blondie self, said "oh no we don't have bulbs."<br />He meant light bulbs. Not the flower. I never wanted to punch myself so hard in the face than at that moment. </div>
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So yeah.</div>
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Those are a few things that happen. :} </div>
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Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-84411627065430177842012-04-28T10:47:00.000-07:002012-04-28T10:47:26.180-07:00Tiana's Dream Blog.(There you go, Sarah.)<br /><br /><br />Okay, so. This blog is going to be about an actual dream I had last night. For those of you who don't know, I have crazy dreams that make no sense.<br /><br />I also dream in colour. Just had to throw that out there. Aren't I special?<br />
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Anywho, so, I will ( once in a while ) tell you a crazy dream I've had. It could be from the night before, or when I was five etc. etc.<br />
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Alright.<br />
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So. It might be a little confusing, because it probably jumps around a lot.<br />
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*ahem*<br />
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There was a party going on at David and Kate's. (what are the odds of that happening?)<br /><br />Jarred Swaslkjdfeful was there, apparently we were meeting him or something like that.<br />I don't remember all who were there, but I do know that Adeena, Heather, Sarah, Linda, Jared, Daniel, Haley, David,Kate, Mom, Jeff (yay Jeff) and possibly other people.<br /><br />Now, I didn't SEE most of you, but I knew you were there. Because, seriously, if David and Kate throw a party of course you all are gonna be there. Except Rachel, apparently. She wasn't there. Or was she? I don't know. Let's say she was so she doesn't miss out.<br />
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Oh, and other people from SoC were there. It was like a LAN party-thrown-by-David-and-Kate-meet-Jarred-party.<br />
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We were getting reading to have a sleepover (I was in a sleeping back and I had a pillow) and I was talking to Jarr-Bear Waffles, because Linda went to get a drink.<br />
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I hit Jarred with the pillow, I don't know why, but it was funny at the time. At least he laughed.<br />
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Then Jay came in and said it was time to go pressure-washing, and Haley and Elena had to come in the truck with us.<br />
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But, Haley, Elena and I were not allowed to go through the front door. We had to go our the doggy-door. Which was tiny.<br />
Jay managed to go through, though. Go figure.<br />
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I didn't want to go through the door first, because I wasn't wearing my proper pants. I was wearing different ones, and I was afraid if I went first the would rip. Going last somehow prevented that.<br />
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There was something about water in there, too. I think somethingorother was flooded. But that's not important.<br />
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I got outside and began to get in the truck, but realized I'd left Jarred all alone. So we all went back inside. Through the doggy-door. And the floor had gravel on it. Wet gravel. Probably from the flood. I was worried about my pants. My new pants.<br />
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I went back inside and got in my sleeping bag. Aaaaaannnndd.<br />
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Um.<br />
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That's all I remember.<br />
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Interesting, eh?<br />
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This concludes the first ever blog-post of <br />
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"Tiana's Dream Blog!!" Da da da da DDDAAA!<br />
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<br />Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-73541879635766655362012-02-27T11:35:00.001-08:002012-02-27T11:36:59.975-08:00Kitchen cleaning Sometimes when I'm cleaning the kitchen, my imagination gets the better of me.<br />
I might start dancing as if I won So You Think You Can Dance, or I might pretend I'm on some kind of show where it's my job to clean the kitchen.<br />
But mostly I'll be my Alter-Ego, Herashiana. Herashiana is an alien who is deaf but can hear through the bottoms of her feet. And she can solve crimes. So when I'm Herashiana, cleaning the kitchen starts out like this: <br />
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And it slowly escalates. </div>
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I'm kicking the dirt. GRIM IS A CRIME!<br />
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> *insert heroic music here* </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">But, sadly, that's not how I actually look while cleaning the kitchen. </span><br />
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That's more like it.<br />
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</div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-71870948300421987772012-02-21T15:17:00.000-08:002012-02-21T15:17:23.502-08:00ORANGE! NOTHING BUT ORANGE!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Weeelll, I changed my blog. Though, if you're so dumb that you didn't notice that you shouldn't be reading my blog anyway. Get out you stupid creepo.<br /><br /><br />I like the new blog look (even if it is a bit orange), 'cause it's different. Nice and a new colour. And bananas. You can't have a world without bananas. And I don't know what I'm talking about.<br /><br />.....<br /><br />Let's move on. </div>
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I enjoyed my other blog look. When I got it I was like</div>
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But NOW since my new blog makes me all like<br />
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<br /><br /> Elena's hilarious redonkulus photo of her typing on the computer was the spur I needed to stop being such a pictureless blog. So now you get hippiepaintpicturesofmeandpossiblymyfamily pictures! *cheer*<br />
So, now that I've been shown how to put my pictures in the white space that words appear in when I press letters on plastic, you'll see a lot more of my writings. I'm so so so sorry.<br />
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<br />Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-13462667385349729262012-01-16T09:19:00.000-08:002012-01-16T09:37:02.354-08:00I'm not dead!Okay, so... the above title has nothing to do with anything. I typed in "I" so I could write "I've been tagged!", but that popped up. And so I'm using it. Just ignore it. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, apparently I've been tagged. Not that I'm upset about it, it actually gets me blogging. So it's awight. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; "><br class="Apple-interchange-newline">1. Describe yourself in seven words.</h5><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span style="text-align: left; "><span ><span style="line-height: 19px;">Compassionate, funny, imaginative, quirky and three more. </span></span></span><span ><span style="line-height: 19px;"> </span></span></div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">2. What keeps you up at night?</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">My brain. It doesn't shut up. I think about everything at night. I think about so much I can't even tell you what I think about because I forget. Then I have weird dreams. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">3. Whom would you like to be?</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">Uh, I'm content with being me, thanks..</div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">4. What are you wearing now?</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">Crocks, pants, a yellow shirt, and a sweater. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">5. What scares you?</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">Spiders for sure. And drowning. And my own mind. And Adeena. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">6. What are the best and worst things about blogging?</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">Best: I get to pour out my thoughts all over the internet. Not that they're always interesting.</div><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">Worst: I can't always think of my thoughts. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">7. What was the last website you looked at?<br /><br />Life by the Creek. </h5><h5 style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><span style="line-height: 19px;">8. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?</span></span><br /><br /><span ><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px;">I'd be more patient. </span></span></h5><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">9. Slankets – yes or no?</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">No. I don't think so. I like a small blanket for my feet and a giant pillow or teddy bear. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">10. Tell us something about the person who tagged you.</h5><div style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; ">I like her. A lot. </div><h5 style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; line-height: 19px; ">Whom are you going to tag to join the quiz?</h5><div>Well, since all of my family is ALREADY tagged, I'm left with one person. </div><div>Savannah, I tag you. :) </div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline">Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-18251301061032112352012-01-06T13:17:00.001-08:002012-01-06T14:33:59.278-08:00So.Umm.... <div><br /></div><div>I just hit post blog before I wrote anything. All I had was "So". Hum. I'm stupid.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Oooookay! So!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm gonna tell you the full and complete story of the dislocating of my shoulder! *sarcastic cheer*<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Elena and I were at our friends' house, having a sleepover. Now, for those of you who don't know this , Jessica and Joy (the friends mentioned) do daycare. All the time. And Elena and I of course helped out. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Not that is was hard. Most of the kids were well behaved and hilarious and adorable.) </div><div><br /></div><div>There were these two kids... I can't remember their names... um.... I'll call the boy "Boy" and the girl "Girl". Not that hard to follow, right? Riiiight?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo, Girl had to be picked up from school, which wasn't that far away. Walkable distance. And of course we all wanted to get out of the house for a bit, so we left early so we could walk slow and talk. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now, keep in mind, surrounding the school is a bowl of a hill. Hill allllllll around. One time, Jessica, Joy, Elena and I were walking to the park, we had all run down one part of the hill. And it was awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, as we came to Girl's school, I remembered this one time that we had all run down the hill. And I remembered it was awesome. And fun. And awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I said, it was a bowl around the school. I decided I wanted to run down the hill to the school for kicks. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I stood at the top of the large hill, debating.</div><div><br />Then Elena said, "Go. Do it."<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So I did.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>At first, everything was going fine. I liked the wind in my face, and the thrill of running down a bowl...ah...hill.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Buuut... I couldn't keep up with my legs. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I fell face first. (at least I assume I did...)</div><div><br /></div><div>I heard a pop, and warning signals flashed through my brain, telling me that there was something wrong with my shoulder, but since I didn't feel anything, I ignored the warnings and got up. Everyone was laughing. Including me. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Man," I thought to myself, "I must've looked like an idiot falling down. Ooooh no! My pretty while shirt! I hope it isn't grass stained."<br /><br />As I got up, the warnings got louder.<br /><br />"Are you okay?" Elena yelled from the top of the hill.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uuuuuuuuuummmm." I put my hand to my left shoulder, and the bone that was supposed to be there wasn't. "N-no..." I then noticed I couldn't bend the fingers on my left hand. "Nooo..I don't think so..." And then I noticed I couldn't lift my left arm. "Guys...something's really wrong!" I yelled. Then the numbness started going away, and I felt a stab of pain. "Ow! Oh no! No, I'm not okay! Something's wrong!"<br /><br />Elena was by my side, by that time. She started coming down the hill at my first "no". </div><div><br /></div><div>I had lifted my arm across my chest and was holding it, but it hurt like heck.<br /><br />"ELENA!! HOLD MY ARM! HOLD MY ARM!!" and she did. She grabbed it quickly. <br />How it was held was, my elbow was in line with my shoulder, and then my forearm was out straight. </div><div>"PUT IT DOWN MORE!!" I screamed. She did. "TOO LOW TOO LOW TOO LOW!!!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Finally she got it at a place it was tolerable. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember who asked, but someone said, "So what do you think is wrong?"<br /><br />"I...I think I dislocated...my...shoulder." I gasped.<br /><br />Then there was some back and forth chitter-chatter about what parent could take my to the hospital and what-not. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, bear in mind that I have a high pain tolerance. Probably from being stubborn. But this really rrreeeeaaally hurt. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And I hyperventilated. Between gasps I said ow. And a couple of tears came out. Not many though. </div><div><br /></div><div>At times I'd tell Elena to adjust my arm, higher or lower. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, there I am, not able to lift my arm or bend my fingers, but to make matters worse I felt awful that someone had to carry my arm. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you okay?" I kept asking Elena.<br /><br />"Yes." she'd reply.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are your arms getting tired?"<br /><br />"No." </div><div><br /></div><div>"But you're carrying my arm."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yup."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you sure they're not tired?"<br /><br />"Yup." </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know how many times I asked her if her arms were okay. I think I kept asking because I knew they were tired. And I felt really bad. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, soon we came to the Cliffords' house. Mrs.Clifford wasn't home, because she was doing her bus-run. So we'd have to wait.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Elena gently escorted me to the kitchen table. And as I slowly sat in my chair, she put my arm on the table. It hurt. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Mrs. Clifford didn't have a cellphone, and Mr. Clifford was at work. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Mom'll be home by 2:30 time." Jessica said. (I don't really remember what time it was, but it was around there.) </div><div><br /></div><div>So everyone sat at the table. Except Elena. Elena wandered behind me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oooh," she said, "She's crooked."<br /><br />"Don't tell me THAT!!" I sobbed. Because I knew if it was dislocated I'd have to have it cracked back in place. And Elena and I watch a hospital show and we both remembered the episode when someone had a dislocated something that needed to be popped back in. And the doctor who popped it back in said "This is gonna hurt a lot, buddy." and when she cracked it back in place the person SCREAMED in so much pain. </div><div><br />So I was terrified my shoulder really WAS dislocated. Which I knew it was. So I was not in the most agreeable mood. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sure enough, though, Mrs.Clifford arrived at 2:30. The girls told her everything. </div><div>"Well, I can't take her." Mrs.Clifford said. "I have to leave again in 15 minutes and finish my school run. You'll have to wait until Mr.Clifford comes home."<br /><br />(Oh, by this time I had frozen peas on my shoulder, which was helping a little.) </div><div>Mrs. Clifford called home, and Dad answered. She quickly told him everything. There was a little pause, then Mrs. Clifford turned to me. "Your dad says you're a goof." </div><div><br /></div><div>I smiled. "I know he does." I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then mom talked to Mrs.Clifford. Then mom wanted to talk to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was done crying, by that time. All I wanted to do was sleep. And barf. And sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember what mom and I said, but I remember some parts.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you want me to come down?" Mom asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No." I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I can, you know."<br /><br />"I know. But you don't have to."<br /><br />"Are you sure? I can come down and take you to the hospital. And I can be there in like, 45 minutes if there's no cops."</div><div><br /></div><div>I smiled a little. "I know. But you don't have to."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you want to stay at the Cliffords after you go to the hospital?" Mom asked.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes." I recall saying it in a "Du-uh" kind of way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mom laughed. "And you know if I come down I'll make you come home with me?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yup." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay." </div><div><br /></div><div>And I don't remember any more of the conversation. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mrs.Clifford then started talking to me. "Maybe it's not really dislocated. Maybe it just hurts."<br /><br />I know she was trying to cheer me up, but the thoughts that went through my head were "It better be dislocated! I had to have someone carry my arm home for me, and I heard a pop and everything! And I told my mother I thought it was dislocated, so it better be!"<br /><br />Another silence followed. Then Mrs.Clifford informed us Mr.Clifford would be here in 15 minutes(or something like that) and she left to finish her bus-route. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Cliffords are very good with time. Mr. Clifford arrived exactly when they said he would. Jessica and Elena (I think) ran out to tell him he had to take me to the hospital and all that jazz. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Is one of you coming with her?" he asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought Elena would be the first to say "ME!" but no. In fact Elena didn't want to go at all. </div><div>As I said earlier, we watched the episode where the guy had the dislocated blah blah blah, and Elena knew that it would be a lot of pain for me. And she didn't want to see that. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I want to go." Joy said. I was happy that Joy came along. (Elena and Jessica still had to pick up Girl from school.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Elena came to my side with the look of dread. She had to pick up my arm again.<br />"I can't do it! I can't!" I said. My shoulder was in so much pain the thought of moving it made me sick.<br />Nevertheless, Elena eversogently grabbed my arm. And with much jaw-clenching and teeth-grinding and gasping, I stood. A wave of sickness hit me. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I-I think I might barf." I choked. </div><div><br /></div><div>Joy ran and grabbed me a bowl for the car trip, and a pillow to support my arm. </div><div><br /></div><div>Elena and I started to walk out. About three feet from the car I told Elena to stop. I thought I was really going to barf. I didn't want to get in the car, I wanted to wait a couple more minutes and clear my head. But Elena told me I had to go the hospital and made me get in the car.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now, getting in the car was SO. MUCH. FUN. (sarcasm)</div><div><br /></div><div>I got in the passenger side, and my left shoulder was dislocated. Hmmm. Oh boy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mr.Clifford was sitting in the driver seat, waiting for my arm. Elena was trying to get my arm in as far as she could, but she couldn't pass it all the way to Mr.Clifford. </div><div><br /></div><div>"GRAB MY ARM GRAB MY ARM GRAB MY ARM!!!" I yelled. Mr.Clifford did. "PUT IT DOWN!" I cried. He did. Gently on the pillow. I sighed with relief. It felt less painful on the pillow. It was like, the perfect spot. And, after getting my seat belt on, we were off! </div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>I'm gonna take a break now. I started this when it was light out. It's not anymore. I'm gonna be evil and make you wait awhile for the next part. Mwahahahaha! </b></div><div><b>Thus ends part one of my blog. :) </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-70612612007274239282011-10-28T11:40:00.000-07:002011-10-28T11:59:35.128-07:00My final words.To the livers of the world:<div><br /></div><div>Just for the record I didn't mean "livers" as in the body part, I meant the "livers" as in<br />"the people who live in".</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Glad we cleared that up.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This is my life story, for you who is reading this. Hmm... perhaps I should make my writing more</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Fancy.</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But no. Not like that. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">My life started when I was conceived, as did my trouble.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">As a fetus I was always in my mother's womb. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">I don't remember being in the womb so I'll leave that part out.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">When I was six years old I had a lisp.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">When I turned seven I still had a lisp.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">I decided not to talk anymore when I turned eight, so I'll leave that part out too.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">In my early twenties I met the love of my life, Polly. Sure, being in love with a parrot is not an easy life, but I chose to live it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Polly ate, slept, repeated everything and pooped.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">..I soon got a divorce. Polly wasn't my true love, after all.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Soon after THAT heartbreak, Mary-Etta-Jane-Anne came into my sad life.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She also soon left. And that I was happy for because M.E.J.A was...well...stupid.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">At least Polly could poop in one spot.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">After lonely sad seconds of waiting, I fell in love again. This time to a woman named Bob.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I'll admit, Bob had a few manly features, but she assured me she was a woman.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I married her in a week.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Bob soon gave birth to seven and a half children.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The half one..well...it was part parrot.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">We named them </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Bob Jr</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Bobbi</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Bobb</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Bob Jr Jr</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Bobby </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Bobetta</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">and Jimmy.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">I'm almost at the end of my scroll, so I'll finish quickly.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">I'm old, therefore dying. Life sucks.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Anyways.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Bob and I stayed married until our deaths. Which is like, in a minute.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Our kids changed their names (who knows why) and Jimmy works in a circus. Life is good. And sucky too, I guess.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Well, I'm still not dead..so..</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Talk to you later!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><b>(For the record I wrote that for Linda 'cause she found a scroll and wanted me to write something on it. Cool, eh?)</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-30630145228894769622011-09-22T14:45:00.000-07:002011-09-22T15:09:19.846-07:00Call the witch doctor!*pretends to put thumbs through suspenders* Weeeeell. I've decided it was high time to write a blog. <div><br /></div><div>*insert sarcastic clap here* </div><div><br /></div><div>Though I must say, for all the time I haven't written a blog nothing really new has happened. Except maybe...I'm taller? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Oooh! I have a demon chasing me around! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>That sounded odder than I meant it to. Hum. Sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I meant was,</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I have a rooster who hates me! *chorus of children going "yay!"* </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Walter. Walter the Rooster. Don't call him Wally or he will find you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo, </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>a couple of months ago mom bought some little day old hen-chicks. (Pullets?)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And I LOVED them 'cause they weren't the regular yellow fuzzy chickies, they were brown, and black, and white and probably other colours but I don't wanna sit here and try to remember it right now. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Soon, the henchickpullets got too big for their temporary pen.<br />So we moved them. (What? Noooooo...)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh my yes we moved them outside in a new pen. And they kept gettin' bigger and bigger and bigger until they were about the size of a small shoe. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was the first to notice one of our ladies was not a lady at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>Elena was skeptical, but I was sure. So I named him Walter. I would say "Good morning, Walter!" and "Goodbye, Walter!" and "My, Walter you looked better everyday!" and "Call me sometime!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I loved Walter. I scattered food for him, and told him he was a fine looking rooster, too. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Then he started to cock-a-doodle!</div><div><br /></div><div>It was ADORABLE! He sucked at it! </div><div><br /></div><div>It sounded like,</div><div><br /></div><div>"COckkkAADInglECOF!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, it sounded like Homer choking Bart Simpson in a mower while eating something.</div><div><br /></div><div>(What was the picture that popped into your head? >:) )</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And, even though he sucked SO bad that it made me flinch to hear him, I would always yell "GOOD JOB, WALTER!!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But all fun and games ended a while after that. I don't remember when he first chased me, but I remember the second. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It had been made known to all at home that Walter hated me.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>One day Linda was grilling something and I was walking to her. I turned and saw Walter like, twenty feet off, so I went "Come at me, bro!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And.He.Did!!!</div><div><br /></div><div>The booger chased me!! I screamed "HOLY HE'S COMING AT ME!!" and ran to Linda 'cause for some reason Walter only hates me. Not Linda. He's a nice chicken when Linda's around. </div><div><br /></div><div>Linda laughed at me. So did I. At me. 'Cause it was funny. And I wasn't wearing shoes so I couldn't kick him or anything.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So I have a demon. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now I'm all like "Game on, Newbsta!" which Walter hates.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Can't kill 'im though. I don't know why. Maybe 'cause I still like the stinker. I dunno.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways,</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure there's a lot more new stuff than that. I'll just have to remember it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*taps fingers on desk*</div><div><br /></div><div>Yup.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>That's all.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She gone! </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-10672801823265552752011-04-07T18:32:00.000-07:002011-04-07T18:41:07.281-07:00No, I OWN THE PINE TREE!!Sorry.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>CSI is on and some guy just said he owned a pine tree. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>But I own the pine tree!!</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I didn't know Iora Deniro... no I'm not her boyfriend!!! *slaps* </div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry..</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'll have to shut my brain off to the outside world.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>THE BABY'S ALIIIIIVVE!!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>News.. er..</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I was so hot today I took off my socks! :D :D :D</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>FYI, I have a very cold feet issue. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like, one time when I was little, it was sometime in the fall, and I felt sick. My head was spinning I felt like puking, so I informed Mom I was gonna lay down on the couch. </div><div><br /></div><div>She said fine. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed the nearest blanket</div><div> ('cause let's face it, you can't be sick and on the couch without a blanket) (at least in the fall) (In the summer it's pretty hot) (Unless you have AC) (in which case you shouldn't be sick in the summer you dolt) </div><div><br /></div><div>...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Er..</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed the nearest blanket and buried myself under it. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Almost as soon as my feet were covered I felt better. </div><div><br /></div><div>My feet were so cold I was sick. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I put on socks and lived happily ever after.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Also my pinky toe is always pregnant. And purple. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anywhoo...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yay for warmer weather!! </div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-80920193618658263072011-03-02T15:08:00.000-08:002011-03-02T15:23:43.834-08:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm gonna complain. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So be ready.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Ahem.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm doomed forever to be a picture-less blog. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't have the skillz.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>..or a camera for that matter...</div><div><br /></div><div>..or a cute little boy with really long brown eyelashes or a cute little girl with a blonde ponytail sticking from the top of her head or a curly haired little girl who doesn't stay still when a camera is pointed at her or a curly haired blonde boy who spills soap everywhere! OR their sibblings!</div><div><br /></div><div>I say again, </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm DOOMED to be a picture-less blog! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>All I have is this!!!!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUS8_S1fVf23cXQnXxJS37uDBSjf4YI-JA6uX73TEI8dZxuDSZsqn4bvgYATm06JOFI1YNJtol6JOFOPQZEaH_4iVG9w6LnsIHtGXoTa-i-NtjIPESDHjGYmgR3fvlXTGR0EaSaKvsb30/s1600/090.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUS8_S1fVf23cXQnXxJS37uDBSjf4YI-JA6uX73TEI8dZxuDSZsqn4bvgYATm06JOFI1YNJtol6JOFOPQZEaH_4iVG9w6LnsIHtGXoTa-i-NtjIPESDHjGYmgR3fvlXTGR0EaSaKvsb30/s400/090.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579624852635378850" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> ...............</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On second thought, </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I think I rather like being a picture-less blog....</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-51077892864908428942011-02-21T16:04:00.000-08:002011-02-21T16:13:31.509-08:00Family day!Iiiiiit's family day!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And there's no better way to celebrate this day than to write a blog on the computer away from all relatives! Yay!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>All I have to say is I like my family. Although I doubt I have a choice whether or not I like them because they've always been here.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I suddenly said "I hate big families", well, I'd be an idiot. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I had a better point, but it escapes me now. *sigh*</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I wasn't planning on making a very long blog in the first place, but.. this is pathetic. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd post pictures but I don't know how.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't even know how to hook up the bloomin' VCR! I try, fail, try, get mad, try, give up and go get Critter.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>...who laughs and says it's the easiest thing in the world. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But he hasn't taught me how to do it yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think he likes that fact I go to him and beg. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll bet he imagines himself with a crown and a halo and me in a shabby dress kissing his feet.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>ANYWHOO...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, happy family day, peoples!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>SHE GONE!! </div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-46075319083850996002011-02-15T16:25:00.000-08:002011-02-15T16:55:30.072-08:00My big brother.In honour of valentine's day I'll open this blog with a song.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> "You are my honey bun, sugar plum.</div><div> Pum-mie-um-mie-ump-kin,</div><div> You're my sweety pie!</div><div> You're my cuppy-cake gumdrop,</div><div> snookem snookem, You're </div><div> the apple of my eye!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Ooh! Y'know what would be super awesome mega cool? If I could write something the the shape of a heart. That would be the bomb.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anywhoo.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>To tell you the truth, I didn't realize it was valentine's day yesterday until the middle of the day.</div><div>Though, I did think to myself, "Whew, valentine's day will be here any day now!"</div><div><br /></div><div>And I was mildly right.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So. In honour of valentine's day I will write about someone I love. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have tons of people, but since I have pressure washing on my mind, I'll write about Jay.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I swear he's a six year old trapped in a 27 year old's body.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>When we're out pressure washing, we'll be driving along in silence, when he'll suddenly ask me a question that always starts with: </div><div><br /></div><div>"Tiana, would you be mad if-"</div><div><br /></div><div>And it'll be anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>"-I threw this bottle cap at you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"-I gave you a wet willie?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"-I elbowed you in the face?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Anything he thinks of at the time. Or he thinks about it awhile. I. Don't. Know.</div><div><br /></div><div>He makes me laugh. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'll be driving along in silence, then he'll suddenly say, "Tiana, you know I hate you, right?"</div><div><br /></div><div>And I'll say. "Yup."</div><div><br /></div><div>More silence. A few minutes go by. "Tiana, you know I love you, right?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yup."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And we're good.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>He loves to tell me jokes, but hasn't learned any new ones.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, he'll be like,</div><div><br /></div><div>"Knock knock."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Who's there?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he'll rack his brain trying to think of a joke...nothing..nothing....PLAN B!! PLAN B!!</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's me. I kill you."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>That's his joke. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, after telling you only a teenie weenie itty bitty bit about Jay,</div><div>I'll leave now.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Bye.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Happy valentine's day.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She gone!! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-71058103508866577322011-01-22T13:21:00.000-08:002011-01-22T13:34:23.909-08:00I'm only writing a blog because.....<i>(<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Note to Adeena; I figured it was lego, but when I wrote it like that spell check was all "NO!! NO!! DEEAAATTH!" and so I wrote it the other way. That showed up "NO!! NO!! DEEAAATTH!" too, but I was like "WhatEVEEER.")</span></i><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ahem. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So, now that my word size is back to normal, I'll write.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Rather, I'll type. In an English accent. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">..wot wot? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So old beans, I'm only writing a jolly old blog because when I asked Mom if I could go on her ol' comp she asked "To write a blog?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I answer yes. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But, my good friends, that was not the original purpose of going on, Wot?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was going to read other people's jolly old blogs and if someone didn't write a jolly old blog I would think about how jolly the were not.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Jolly jolly. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">That's enough of me as an Englishman. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Wot wot?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I had to write a blog because mom would want to read my blog and if the purpose of going on the computer was to write a blog but then there was no blog she would have found out that my first intention was not to write a blog but to read other people's blogs thus making me a liar. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Which... I guess I am since I said yes in the first place.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So I guess the final question is..</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Am I insane?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Why yes, yes I am. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-85421347014111016652011-01-20T11:24:00.000-08:002011-01-20T11:58:04.802-08:00Random post time!My blog hates me. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>At least that's what I gathered from when it came into my bed at night when I was sleeping with a gigantic book in it's hand and said, "I HATE you!!" </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But of course I could be wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On a different note;</div><div>don't you hate it when you don't want to know something but then you have to find out if it's really there? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>That happened to me recently. </div><div><br /></div><div>Stupid imagination. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I was in my room, leaning on my bed, and I happened to glance over at our leggo bucket.</div><div><br /></div><div>It hadn't been opened in a while. And I began thinking.</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>Man that's dusty. Hum. I wonder if any bugs where able to squeeze through the lid to make a nest in the leggo. I want to play with leggo- wait....w-what if.. there's a spider in there? And when I open the lid, it'll jump on my hand!!" </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I imagined everything. And of course the tingle went up my spine. I just stared at the bucket.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Oooooh... is there one in there?? Waiting..." </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I actually reached out to grab the handle. </div><div>I picked it up so I could hand it to Elena and-</div><div><br /></div><div>It slipped from my hand and fell.</div><div><br /></div><div>I screamed and, I must say, nearly bolted away from my room.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, there was no spider.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Elena was laughing at me because I screamed.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We caught it all on camera (which was deleted) and I've never seen my face when I scream before. (Shocker!!) I looked hilarious. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If you haven't figured it out yet I was born with the "holy-crud-is-that-a-spider-get-it-away-from-me-before-I-kill-you" gene. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Before I go, I have one more thing to say.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey quarter back, how's about you and me?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"How's about you git some brains?" </div><div><br /></div><div>BRAIN POWER!!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She gone! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-30589691925877158942010-12-06T17:36:00.000-08:002010-12-06T18:05:58.062-08:00*Gasp!* I've been TAGGED!So, I will respond. And why are my letters so darn BOLD?? It's not on bold, stop being bold!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anywhoo. Ignoring the over bold-when-not-supposed-to-be-bold-letters. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">Apple juice or orange juice? </strong>Orange juice. Just because. (just a side note, the letters are back to normal)<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What was your favorite childhood television program?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>I remember loving the Tellitubbies. And Inspector Gadget.<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">Are you a collector of anything?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>Stickers. I like stickers, I don't know why. Most likely because of Uncle Gordy and his letters saying I should stick them on Daniel's head while he's sleeping.<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What is usually your first thought when you wake up?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>"Dangit, where'd the night go?" I dunno, "Nenum nemom.. *stretch*"?<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What do you think about right before you go to sleep at night?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>"Why can't I fall asleep as fast as Spongebob?"<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); "><br /></strong></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What is your favorite color? </strong>Blue, green, and red. Blue more so.<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); "><br /></strong></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; ">Have any bad habits?<span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>I bite my nails, and chew the inside of my mouth. And lips. I chew my lips.<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">Are you a mostly clean or messy person?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>Um.... Sometimes mostly clean other times messy.<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What is your favorite song at the moment?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>I don't know. I like a lot of songs.<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What is your favorite thing to do on a Saturday night?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>Um, watch a movie with da' people..<br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What is your favorite thing to do on a Sunday afternoon? </span>Dance. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(230, 145, 56); line-height: 20px; "><br /><br /><strong>Any hidden talents?</strong> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; ">Umm...I..am a great screamer when I see a spider. Does that count?<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What would be your dream job</strong><span class="Apple-style-span">? </span>I have no clue.<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">Name one thing that not many people know about you?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>I randomly dance on a Sunday afternoon. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(230, 145, 56); line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /><b><span class="Apple-style-span">If you HAD to change your name, what would you change it to? </span>Why would I have to change my name? Did that no good police man steal my licence? Who am I now? </b><br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">W</span><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">hat is your favorite pizza topping?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>I'd say pepperoni. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What songs do you most often sing in the shower? </strong><strong>Anything random that pops into my head. "Oh I got soap in my eye, whoa whoa whoa! It hurts like the BLAZES...." </strong><br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What is your favorite Christmas movie? </strong><strong>How the Grinch stole Christmas. </strong><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); "><br /></strong></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(230, 145, 56); line-height: 20px; ">Do you cry at movies? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; ">Depends on what movie. "Oh LASSIE!! You're so heroic!! *sob sob*"<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); "><br /></strong></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(230, 145, 56); line-height: 20px; ">Do you play an instrument? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; ">Is french-fries and idea? I mean, yes. The piano.<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What music are you listening to right now?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>TV. A movie. "Knight and Day."<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What was the last good movie the you watched?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>Um, "Knight and Day".<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What were you doing at midnight last night?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>Oh, you know, playing a jig on the piano while everyone else was grabbing their shotguns.. S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G.<br /><br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(230, 145, 56); ">What was the last thing that you dreamed about that you remember?</strong><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>Elena found a rat in the barn and thought it was funny to shove it in my face while I screamed. The rat tried to BITE me. It was evil. But Elena liked it 'cause she thought it was SugarBob. And then it jumped into the horse's water and was swimming. I tried to drown in, but it bit me so I ran to Elena and complain and she was heart broken because she had to get rid of it. But, I made the point to her that it'd eat the baby chicks, and so...I woke up. Not the best dream. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; ">So there you go, Savannah. YAY FOR ME!! *high fives* </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">So. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">Um..</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">I'm done. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /><br /></span></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-51056260350517842362010-11-06T18:55:00.000-07:002010-11-06T19:17:35.332-07:00Yay!Okay, I just published "Yay!" as a blog post. Not much 'yay' there. <div>And it's not a very enthusiastic <--I just totally spelt that right- 'yay' either. </div><div>Although the exclamation point suggests otherwise. </div><div><br /></div><div>Darn you, ever so happy exclamation point who laughs in my face because your oh-so very exclamation-y and I'm not. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Because <i>I'm tired.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>See there? I didn't put an exclamation point. I put a period. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Period is my friend. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>He gets to the point. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>He <b>ends.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Exclamation point doesn't. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But period <i>understands</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm tired. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I can't believe I'm still typing properly. Without my head falling on the keyboard which would look like this. asdlj'.,';lwpodlakjfwoiea,/<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(0, 0, 128); "> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm tired because of two reasons.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>1. For four days I didn't get to sleep because of a stupid cold.</div><div>My nose was both runny, and stuffed. I couldn't suck in and I couldn't blow out, but man it was running like crazy! </div><div><br /></div><div>2. Work. </div><div>I had to get up at five after going to bed a 9:30-ish, then got home late and got to bed late. Then I got up at seven for piano lessons.</div><div><br /></div><div>That night I also went to bed late, and got up at five again. And that sleep I had that night was the BEST! Then last night I went to bed...I don't know what time. I had a good sleep, but was woken up at eight-ish because I was supposed to go help a curtain sister move far far away. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now here I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tired. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And blogging of all things to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>And listening to the Star Wars theme song. </div><div><br /></div><div>(BA...DA...Na na na NA na, na na na NA nuh, Ba nuh na naa..)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd post pictures but I don't want to.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not even writing about anything interesting. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But...*yawn* I'm.. okay.. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>asdlj'.,';lwpodlakjfwoiea,/<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(0, 0, 128); "> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Good night. </div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-52679682882289599822010-09-30T17:34:00.000-07:002010-09-30T17:44:25.459-07:00Em-min-Emma is 7!*gasp* *dies* <div><br /></div><div>It's really kind of insane. Really. Just a little bit.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>When Emma was little, she was always on my hip or with me doing something. If Heather came to our house holding Emma, Emma would lean over to me. </div><div>I played barbies with Emma and Becky (still do sometimes). </div><div><br /></div><div>But...</div><div>One of my most refreshed memories of her is when she was... maybe three-ish to four.</div><div>It was co-op, and lunch time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Emma was already at the table, Becky beside her.</div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed my food and went to find a place to sit. </div><div><br /></div><div>I heard Emma screaming my name, and waving franticly. </div><div><br /></div><div>"TIANA! TIANA! SIT BESIDE ME! SIT BESIDE ME! TIANA! BESIDE ME!" and so on. </div><div><br /></div><div>Flattered, I walked over and sat down.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I moved my chair forward a bit, I heard Emma again.</div><div>This time though, she said my name so quiet.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked over at her, and her face was<b> </b><i>soooo</i> solemn. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Tiana," she whispered, "You're sitting beside me." </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Happy birthday, Emma! :D </span></span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-85745180816874601762010-08-17T07:06:00.000-07:002010-08-17T08:02:36.873-07:00Crazy biker guy.Okay, sooo.... once again something has happened that I meant to write a blog about but I was not able to get on the computer. Sigh! <div><br /></div><div>(Go to <a href="http://elena-10of12.blogspot.com/">Elena's blog</a> for her part of the story)<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So I think I'll write about it now.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>A crazy biker-man tried to see if he could go through the truck. He found out he couldn't.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I"ll start at the beginning...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*creepy voice* <i>Once upon a time....muahahahahaha!!! </i> (No. I'm not that crazy :D )</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>After finishing yet another store in pressure-washing, Jay and I were happily driving out of the dock and to the road. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was checking off a tick on an envelope while announcing we only had such and such stores to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hear Jay suddenly go, "Uuuhh.." so I look up.</div><div><br /></div><div>The truck was stopped, it's lights flashing, and Dad was walking around twirling his mustache. </div><div>Dad walked up to us and Jay asked what had happened, and Dad said, </div><div><br /></div><div>"A biker hit us. We'll be here for a while." </div><div><br /></div><div>So Jay parked, and I hopped out of the small truck, and ran to the big truck. I jumped on the stairs by the truck window. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What happen?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently I caught Elena off guard 'cause she jumped. I laughed at her of course. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"A biker hit us." She said, ignoring my laughing. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What?? How? What an idiot!" I said. Not loudly, but quietly. </div><div><br /></div><div>Elena shushed me and pointed to the guy. </div><div><br /></div><div>He had grey hair, some crooked teeth, and a big nose. He was about fifty something. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was talking to some other dude on the sidewalk, waving his hands in our direction. </div><div><br /></div><div>I burst out laughing. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now, anyone who knows Elena and I will know we tease back and forth, and entertain each other in our doing so. And normally anyone who knows us wouldn't care. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As I said, I burst out laughing and began to make up a story of the stupid biker man. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pretended I was on a bike, saying, "I THINK I can, I THINK I can, I THINK I can, I THINK I can!!! <b><i>I'M INVINCIBLE!!! </i></b>*Wham!* Ow.. I thought I could!!" </div><div><br /></div><div>It made Elena laugh, and me laugh. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What an idiot!" I whispered again. (Yes, I'm that evil) </div><div><br /></div><div>"Shhhh!" Elena said. </div><div><br /></div><div>I of course didn't 'sh' and went on teasing quietly. "He ruined our truck! WAAHH! Look at that dent!" There was no dent, but I'm sure you figured that out. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Suddenly I saw a red punch-buggy. I hollered at Jay, "Hey Jay! I see a punch buggy, but since you didn't see it, it doesn't count!!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Jay said, "Whatever!" </div><div><br /></div><div>And Elena and I began talking about punch buggies and how I was winning. Then I saw yet another red punch buggy. This one was coming our way.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey Jay!" I yelled. "Punch buggy red! HAHA!" </div><div><br /></div><div>He stuck his tongue out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then Elena and I began talking about traffic. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Then the cops got here. </div><div><br /></div><div>I suddenly fell quiet. </div><div><br /></div><div>And Elena suddenly had a bunch of jokes to crack about the biker, and I began to franticly shush her!</div><div><br /></div><div>We both fell quiet and listened to the coppers and the dudemanwhothoughthecouldgothroughtrucksbutfiguredouthecan'tandsoheblamesDad. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Sir, are you hurt?" The tall black cop asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't hear what he answered, but Elena and I heard,<br />"And those two have been hurling insults at me!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Elena and I looked at each other with one eyebrow raised and mouthed "What??" </div><div><br /></div><div>But ya' know what? The cops didn't even look around. They both dismissed the comment and asked what happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad came up to me and said I should go to Jay. </div><div>I did.</div><div>He followed. </div><div><br /></div><div>"So, you guys and head on over to Metro and start the bread." He told Jay. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jay said yep, and we were on our way. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the way, I was beginning to feel rage, and my stomach was churning. I ranted to Jay. I don't remember what I said, but I remember talking reeeeally fast and my voice rose up to a shriek.<br /><br />I don't know why, but sometimes when I'm mad and ranting my voices gets really high. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jay didn't say anything about it though.</div><div><br /></div><div>"And, do you know what?" He ranted to me, "Before the cops came he was stomping around angrily, and when the got there he held his back and limped!<br />And do you know what else? When the cops got there he was like,<br />'Oooh, I'm not gonna go near him!' Yeah, because I'm gonna hop out of the truck and beat you up right in front of two cops!" </div><div><br /></div><div>We pulled into the parking lot of out next store. I felt sick. </div><div><br /></div><div>We went into the store to do the bread, which means that rotten or expired bread is thrown in a bin, still in packages. So, we have to go and pick up the bread and take it out of the package and throw just the bread in a bin so cows can eat it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Normally there's three bins full of packaged bread, but not that day. Thirteen packages, maybe less. It went quickly. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we were done, I went to sit in the truck, because we can't pressure wash the bins until they're empty. </div><div><br /></div><div>Suddenly the big truck pulls into the parking lot, and comes to the dock. When Dad was parked, I hopped up to his window. </div><div><br /></div><div>"So?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"He can't press charges." Dad said, "Or else we could charge him for driving on the sidewalk, which is illegal." </div><div><br /></div><div>I felt better, and I went to help Elena dump the bins. </div><div> </div><div>We joked about the guy happily there. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*creepy voice* <i>And so, in the end, the biker figured out he's an idiot....</i><i>muahahahahaha!!! </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-24301431919216839832010-08-10T14:42:00.000-07:002010-08-10T15:06:28.384-07:00A little late....But still, I have a fine excuse! I haven't been on the computer in FOREVAH!! <div><br /></div><div>So...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">HAPPY BIRTHDAY CRITTER!</span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">AND MATTHEW!</span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">AND HEIDI! </span></i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In honour of their birthdays, I'll write about what I did with them when we were little.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Christopher: </b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember why, but he and I were doing something we apparently needed aprons for. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was about six-ish, and he was about three-ish. </div><div>We had hunted everywhere for aprons, and then I found two. </div><div><br /></div><div>I somehow managed to "tie" them on us both, and as we were on our way downstairs, Critter asked, "What are these things called?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I had absolutely no idea.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I couldn't tell him that! </div><div><br /></div><div>I was the big sister!</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to know these things. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I racked my brain trying to think of a name for them. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh...er...um...well... They're called aprons!" I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>Satisfied, he went downstairs with me behind him. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, </div><div><br /></div><div>for a while it didn't cross my mind again until I saw Linda putting an apron on. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What are those called?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Without really thinking about the answer she replied, "Aprons." </div><div><br /></div><div>I was shocked. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't lie. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't have to confess to Christopher I had no clue what they were called. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was still the big sister who knew it all! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now I have told him about that day when we were little, and we both laughed. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had invented a word that was the real name for aprons! I"m a genius! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Matthew and Heidi: </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>They were little, and big. Little enough that they still could sit in a car seat, big enough that they could eat baby cereal. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whenever Rachel came over with them, I was always there with them. Begging to hold one and such.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day she was over I volunteered to feed them. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, while I was getting their cereal ready I gave them a rice cake. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I walked to them, they saw the cereal. They stopped eating the rice cakes and began demanding rice cereal. </div><div><br /></div><div>I picked up the rice cakes and handed them back to Matthew and Heidi.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No." I said in a stern manner, "You must finish your rice cakes first, and THEN you get the cereal!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I heard Rachel laugh behind me, so I turned. She was watching me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had no clue what on earth she was laughing about, so I just went back to taking care of the twins. </div><div><br /></div><div>They obeyed and ate their rice cakes, now and then demanding some cereal, but I never gave them some until the rice cakes were gone. :) </div><div><br /></div><div>Christopher is now eleven, Matthew and Heidi are three. Where did the time go? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-29558360738744184762010-08-03T18:33:00.000-07:002010-08-03T18:57:04.114-07:00As most of you know, we kill our own chickens.<br /><br />It's not really fun. (Big shocker there, eh?) <div><br /></div><div>Especially my job.<br />I have to hold the chicken as the ax comes down.<br /><br /> No matter what. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the ax does its job, the chicken will wildly flap and kick.<br /><br />It's not fun to hold a dead, bloody, flapping chicken. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As the chicken flaps, bloods shoots out from where the head used to be. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>And everywhere. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On ME! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Not fun.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday was one of those days. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div>The chicken spurted blood ALL OVER ME!! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div>My pants, my face, my arms, and my feet.<br /><br />I stood there in shock as I looked at myself.<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I sighed, because, really, what could I do about it?</div><div><br /></div><div>("<i>DARN CHICKEN! I'M GONNA KILL YO</i>.....oh...wait....") No.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As I shuddered in disgust, I hear Christopher's voice.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now, listen..or read... Critter has one of the easiest jobs.<br /> All he has to do is hold the rope that is around the chicken's head as the ax comes down.<br />Then he has to put the head in a bucket. That's it. So simple.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>While I'm there dripping with blood, I hear him say,</div><div><br /></div><div>"EW! GROSS! I got some blood on me!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I look to see.</div><div><br /></div><div>One dot.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>One.<br /><br />One tiny dot on his pants. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Weeeeelll now! That's just to baaAad!" I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>He looked at me.</div><div><br /></div><div>His face looked hilarious. </div><div><br /></div><div>I continued to tease. "It's so sad you ruined your pants with that speck."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I walked away to get the next chicken, while Linda was laughing. </div><div><br /></div><div>20 more chickens to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yea. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-78048072036488232932010-06-22T07:46:00.000-07:002010-06-22T08:41:50.670-07:00Happy belated birthday, Linda!!<i>Yes, I know yesterday was her real birthday, but I couldn't go on the computer to write anything!!<br /></i><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> This is about the only picture I could fund of us together. That's sad. </div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div> Feel the love. </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhua4Yga9na3E7VWaibcQ7Bs3ex2i5MYXhmZm5LLBUZvyQxhB5M6WHL4GWhZs-WXng4rBdEbgCgrMFMwJp8XHm0AdUoSXbS8Em86hum_6iiEf0HHnZhdNovZ0e5q9xTenaJNyP3sEq-Wvo/s1600/fish+093.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhua4Yga9na3E7VWaibcQ7Bs3ex2i5MYXhmZm5LLBUZvyQxhB5M6WHL4GWhZs-WXng4rBdEbgCgrMFMwJp8XHm0AdUoSXbS8Em86hum_6iiEf0HHnZhdNovZ0e5q9xTenaJNyP3sEq-Wvo/s400/fish+093.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485617511227697394" /></a> </div><div> Anyways.....</div><div> <br /> </div><div><br /><br /> </div><div> Did you wish her a happy birthday? If you didn't...</div><div><br /></div><div> ...she'll stalk you! </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzl0NiGftUZ5PvZ2NMg72I_A4v53I-DSdR5PHwsmdHvm-W7XdxZ7WSZUGLe_CtTlYI8Q660yVHnVRFqQk2tMmxG9NQi3rvQJgyY6B90cP1vjYD7tX7M-5DubMl6NNTfTlJt0gFaEWxPg/s1600/Jester.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzl0NiGftUZ5PvZ2NMg72I_A4v53I-DSdR5PHwsmdHvm-W7XdxZ7WSZUGLe_CtTlYI8Q660yVHnVRFqQk2tMmxG9NQi3rvQJgyY6B90cP1vjYD7tX7M-5DubMl6NNTfTlJt0gFaEWxPg/s400/Jester.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485615666926466434" /></a>Happy (belated) birthday Linda! :D </div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-27071567265802432642010-06-08T14:55:00.000-07:002010-06-08T15:12:26.370-07:00Waaatermelllooon!<i> Just a quick note, that title has absolutely </i><b><i>nothing </i></b><i>to do with the post. </i><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, so..</div><div><br /></div><div>Today I realized how silly I am! </div><div><br /></div><div>When I make tea, I always squeeze out the teabag because I like my tea to be tea and not coloured water.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I never use a spoon to do it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I use my fingers.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I grab the super hot teabag out of the cup and begin to squeeze it with my middle finger and my second finger.</div><div><br /></div><div>I then yelp in pain because poor little fingers don't always like to be pressed on a boiling hot teabag. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I flinch, I transfer the bag from on hand to the other, then I squeeze with my middle finger and thumb on that side. </div><div><br /></div><div>After doing that I wait a second for the heat to wear off. </div><div><br /></div><div>..then I do it with my thumbs and second fingers on both hands!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I throw the used teabag out and shake my hands. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sigh happily as if that stuff never happened, then I take my tea, and drink happily. </div><div><br /></div><div>(But, for some strange reason, I never do it to Dad's tea or anyone else's. Only mine.) </div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-48176993487425483692010-06-04T17:12:00.000-07:002010-06-04T17:27:26.411-07:00Ookay, so I admit...I'm an awful blogger. :P<div><br /></div><div>I have nothing to write, really. I'm boring. Very boring. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And yet you're still reading. Hum. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I had some fun with Micheal-man today. The day before yesterday was his birthday, he turned 6. *face screws up trying to make brain compute* </div><div><br /></div><div>I was teasing him today, saying he turned 5. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well!" I said happily to him in the kitchen, "Aren't you glad you turned five?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I turned 6." He calmly said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You...turned...5." I said, acting confused.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Six."</div><div><br /></div><div>"OH! -five?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, six."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You mean you'll be six <i>next </i>year." I said, nodding my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Si-ix." Micheal said in a sing song voice.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Five."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Six." </div><div><br /></div><div>"OH! I get it! You're....seven!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"*Sigh* Six."</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned to Adeena. "Micheal's seven, right?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, he's five." Adeena said, giving a look that said 'doesn't everybody know that?' </div><div><br /></div><div>"See? Told ya'. Five." I said triumphantly. </div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>Six</i>."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You're mom said you're five."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I turned <b>SIX</b>."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh oh oh oh!!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> ....five?" </div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-87908967203944626402010-04-26T17:32:00.001-07:002010-04-26T18:32:09.823-07:00Music has been played in Walkerton.And it was played well, I might add.<div><br /></div><div> We got there and my stomach was doing somersaults inside me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Linda and Mom went out to the car to get something, and I huddled with Critter. </div><div>'People everywhere...' </div><div><br /></div><div>Mom and Linda got back, and we went to the main room. We found a bench, and sat down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Critter had to go and sit in the very front, on the right. On the left there was a piano. </div><div><br /></div><div>My leg was bouncing like crazy. My heart was pounding, I was so nervous.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally Critter was called to play. My heart jumped for him. I chewed my lip as he announced his piece. </div><div><br /></div><div>There.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christopher is done!! </div><div><br /></div><div>One by one the others went. </div><div><br /></div><div>The judicature was so nice. I felt more relaxed while he was judging them. He made everyone laugh. </div><div><br /></div><div>He said some of the kids had hands like brooms, when you want to have your hand like a mop. </div><div><br /></div><div>He said, if you break a window, you can't fix it. When you miss a note, don't go back.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally he was giving the third place paper, the second..and....</div><div><br /></div><div>Christopher got FIRST! </div><div><br /></div><div>I was so happy!</div><div><br /></div><div>He came back and sat down. One minute later, my class was up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bam. My calmness was gone. My heart pounded again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sat in the number five place, even though I was number four, because someone didn't show. </div><div><br /></div><div>A girl named Lisa sat on my right, and a girl named Emily sat on my left. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first person was up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then the second.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then Emily. </div><div><br /></div><div>She came and sat down again, and I thought, 'That was a cool song.' </div><div><br /></div><div>I gasped silently as I realized, I am next.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stared at the woman who would tell me it was my turn. </div><div><br /></div><div>'Oop, I'm staring..' I thought, and looked in front of me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Slowly, I turned my eyes back to her.</div><div> </div><div>She saw me staring.</div><div><br /></div><div>I quickly looked at the ground. </div><div><br /></div><div>I once again looked at her. </div><div><br /></div><div>She saw.</div><div><br /></div><div>I pretended I didn't stare.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked at my hands, and looked at my feet, and..I looked at the woman. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay Tiana." </div><div><br /></div><div>My heart jumped into my mouth. It was my turn.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got up, and walked to the stage. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm going to play the Sonatina in G-major by Beethoven, the second Movement."</div><div><br /></div><div>My hands were shaking as I sat down. </div><div><br /></div><div>Breathe in and breathe out.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I began to play.</div><div><br /></div><div>Going good so far..</div><div><br /></div><div>OH NO! Missed that note. Don't stop though.</div><div><br /></div><div>Uh oh. I slowed down way to much there.. no.. no.. no.. But I can't stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah! I got that part right!</div><div><br /></div><div>And....done.</div><div><br /></div><div>Get up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Go bow.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sit down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Emily whispered "Good job." </div><div><br /></div><div>I whispered "Thanks, and I liked that song you played. I thought it was cool."</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lisa's turn. </div><div><br /></div><div>She's done.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait some more.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the judicature came up. </div><div><br /></div><div>He said again that we had to have loose hands. </div><div><br /></div><div>He said to some that you shouldn't play forte too loud. But it depends on the song. He told me I shouldn't slow down too soon. I was kicking myself because I knew I did slow down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, just like before, he started with third place. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't remember who got what.</div><div><br /></div><div>Second place.</div><div><br /></div><div>I held my breath...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>FIRST PLACE! </div><div><br /></div><div>My smile was hard to contain as I walked back to Mom. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then Mom got pictures with us and the judicature, and we left for Linda's recital.</div><div><br /></div><div>We got there and sat down, Critter and I feeling a lot more relived.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was still nervous for Linda though.</div><div><br /></div><div>After two people had gone, Linda's class was up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Linda was the second person to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>She walked up and announced her piece and sat down at the <i>brand new grand piano </i>and played. </div><div><br /></div><div>There. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was done.</div><div><br /></div><div>She didn't mess up.</div><div><br /></div><div>The others went, and then the judicature came.</div><div><br /></div><div>He talked to everyone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, he gave the third place away.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't Linda.</div><div><br /></div><div>Second away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not Linda.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hold your breath...</div><div><br /></div><div>LINDA GOT FIRST PLACE!</div><div><br /></div><div>She got her picture taken with her judicature, and then we left. </div><div><br /></div><div>We got pickles before we went home because we were hungry. </div><div><br /></div><div>We had three pickles each. Yammay.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then we stopped at Mrs. Lear's.</div><div><br /></div><div>We made her guess our scores, then we showed her. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was quite happy with us. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, after getting pictures with her, we left for home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well,</div><div><br /></div><div>that was what happened in Walkerton. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's a lot of stress off.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then, I still have a recital to go to, and then an exam. *Siiiiigh.* </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6652865794179831638.post-21599575236639477342010-04-19T11:24:00.000-07:002010-04-19T16:42:28.164-07:00It's happened...This morning the old, rotten, grub-filled tree has been brought down.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I can see the field!! </div><div><br /></div><div>We got up this morning to move things out of the way for a truck. Sifto was out, and so was Hunny. The truck rolled into view, so we popped Hunny in the house. Sifto was by the tree in question. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got the chicken's eggs as the truck backed up toward the tree. It was red, and quite big. It had a 'cherry picker', which is the basket that lifted them up.<br /><br /></div><div>I put the eggs in the fridge, and Elena and I ran to our room where we got the full view. The two men were lifted up. They started with the branches on the bottom, which were small. Slowly they worked their way up the tree.</div><div><br /></div><div>All the while Elena and I were giggling with each other as the third branch fell.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, there goes Sifto's first life." </div><div><br /></div><div>I counted the seconds it took for the branches to fall. Some were only two, some three. I don't think it took longer than that.</div><div><br /></div><div>I liked when the bigger branches fell. It was cooler to see. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another branch, and another.<br /><br /></div><div>"Tee hee hee... Sifto was just about to get out too.." </div><div><br /></div><div>Soon it was a naked tree. No branches, nothin'. It looked very sad.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mr. Chainsaw-Man began working on the trunk. </div><div><br /></div><div>He got one chunk off, then was working on another. He stopped a moment, and pushed the top. The whole tree shook. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mr. Chainsaw-Man turned to Mr. Chopper-Man and said something. Mr.Chopper-Man nodded and then grabbed a rope. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey! They're practicing their lassoing!" I said happily. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mr. Chainsaw-Man and the other got slowly to the ground. They tied the cable onto the truck. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mr.Chopper-Man went into the truck, and Mr.Chainsaw-Man went to the tree. He began sawing the tree. He cut a small chunk out of it. Mr.Chopper-Man inched a little forward.</div><div><br /></div><div>The tree went CRACK! and it fell.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hurray!!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, now we have the tree laying on the ground surrounded by branches. It's fun to climb. So the tree's gone. And I'm happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>...oh, and Sifto was out of the way the whole time. But as soon as the tree was on the ground, he jumped on it. :) </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05127645292739732976noreply@blogger.com2