Look ma! I'm famous!

So, you know how, if you have a child, and they get this tiny bit part in a play or musical, you, as a parent, have to go to the play or musical and sit through the entire thing even though you only get to see your child for, like, two seconds? I know my parents had to do it for me...and my brother. And I've seen other parents have to do it, so I (as a non-parent) think that this is actually pretty common. You have children, they are involved in something, it is a Big Deal!! Parents, friends, neighbors, family must attend! Um, okay. Parents. Parents must attend.

Then, after the play, you have to praise your child from here to eternity for being in the play. They were just so adorable! And their part was very important! No one could have done it better!! It was a vital role and the play wouldn't have been the same without them!

This phenomenon also extends to any sort of spelling bee, choir performance, marching band competition, chess competition, etc etc. I'm pretty sure it's an important part of anyone's progression through childhood. At least, it should be.

Eventually most children outgrow this need. I mean, I think they do. Parents generally realize that their child is not the next Picasso or Mozart (even when they're heaping the praise) and the child eventually does too. The profusion of praise and joy trickles out and is reserved only for events that are a Really Big Deal, like some sort of graduation or nationally recognized promotion.

Me? Um, I never outgrew this need. At least, in some situations. Usually completely random, ridiculous situations. In these situations, I get super excited... and when I'm super excited about these little situations, I still want to be patted on the head and told something along the lines of "Emily, that is so awesome! I am so excited for you!"* Or, you know, something along those lines that you would say to a 31-year-old instead of a three-year-old.**

So here are your instructions. Watch the following promotional video for the Humane Society of Indianapolis. After watching, if, you know, you see anything worth commenting on, go ahead and leave a comment on this blog. Go on. I won't mind. Feel free.



*I don't care what you're thinking when you tell me these things. It might be insignificant to you... okay, it's PROBABLY insignificant to you. But I'm excited. Just indulge me :-)
**Even if it's something completely random. I mean, I know it's random, but I'm excited.

Fat Tuesday Self Promotion

So I had this physics exam. And I was super worried about it. It was your basic nightmare of a test. Fifty-five minutes, eight questions, show your work for partial credit. The kind of test that sounds easy unless you've had them before and you know that those eight questions will reduce your brain to a pile of quivering mush by the end of the test taking period.

I've never been a person who had test-taking anxiety. Probably because I never really thought anything was riding on one grade of one test that I took in school. Even with the SATs, I just figured that whatever happened, happened. And everything seemed to work out okay.

But now? Now it's my future. So every test apparently freaks me the hell out. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I tell you that my physics professor said "Begin," and I opened the test and stared at the first question for ten full minutes. Ten. Minutes. Then, when the TA wrote "45 minutes remaining" on the board, something snapped and I was suddenly able to do physics calculations. Still. Ten minutes of a fifty-five minute period is a lot. I did not have high hopes for this test.

We were promised our tests back last night. I've been waiting. Trying to put the crazy out of my head and moving forward with my homework. I had varying degrees of success. Then last night my professor picked up the tests and began the longest speech I've ever sat through. (At least, that's what it felt like.) It contained sentences like, "Class average of 62%" and "Grading these tests breaks my heart because I want to give everyone a 100% and I just can't" and "The other sections had averages of 55% and 51%." He went on to say things like, "The first test always has a lower average. Now you know what to expect and how to study and I expect to see an increase in the class average as we move forward."

My palms were sweating, my heart was pounding, and it took every ounce of self control not to shout, "Stop talking and RETURN THE DAMN TESTS!!" FINALLY he started handing them back to us. In alphabetical order, of course. I sat through the first three-quarters of the alphabet (and all the dejected students who came back to their seats and would say nothing at all except for "It's bad") and then went up to get my test back. (Knocking at least there textbooks off of desks onto the floor in my haste. I wish I were joking.)

All that for an 81%!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I mean, normally I would be SUPER bummed that it's not an A, but after all this forewarning that the grades would be low, I'm just happy to have scored 19 percentage points above the class average. I could not have been more happy, more thankful to my physics study buddy, or more tired after keeping all that happiness inside until I got back to my car and my cell phone and I could squeal to my heart's delight. Ohmigod I am so relieved.

And now I will go and write the Chemistry Formal Report that I put off in favor of physics.

Do-It-Yourself for Daughters

"Hey Dad, how do you install a new door?"
"A new door?"
"Yes. Say I wanted to install a new front door. How do I do that?"
"You go to Lowe's and ask someone to help you. They have contractors that do that."
"Okay. And I also need to... Hey, hold on a sec. Is that the same answer that you would have given [insert little brother's name here] if he had asked you?"
"No."
"What would you have told him?"
"Doesn't matter. You're Emily. Go to Lowe's."
"Seriously?! C'mon. I can do things! I'm capable!"

This is the sort of thing I'm facing when asking about various fix-it issues I'm finding in my new home. Since having that conversation with my father, I found out that you don't need a whole new door to put in a doorknob. Live and learn, right? (originally there was no doorknob...just a handle - like a cabinet handle - and two deadbolts. There is now a doorknob and a deadbolt :-)

BTW - don't judge me on my household ignorance. I was/am content to rent for the rest of my life....spare me the lecture please. I would just as soon call someone to come and fix things and not have to worry about how my yard looks, or if my gutters are hanging, or if that crazy dog dug up the carpet and destroyed the door. (I've seen what crazy dogs can do to homes that people actually own. Yes, Ann, I'm looking at you.) Maybe that will change someday, but for now, I do not want the responsibility. Please. I have enough worries trying to get myself to school and to work and to pay my bills and to take care of my dogs. And my cat.

However, in this place I'm also (hold on to your seats everyone) painting various rooms and walls, as well as purchasing curtains. Why is this significant? Well, it's never been done before. Ever. In the various apartments I've inhabited, I've hung various items on the walls to give color, but I have never painted, and I've never purchased curtains - just left the miniblinds.

I got keys on Monday, so I've been through several times, and my list of to-dos looks like this:

1) Purchase and install three new light fixtures
2) Buy new stove things that go beneath the burners (what the hell are they called? You know...the metal things that catch the soup when I boil it over...)
3) Paint the trim in all rooms
4) Paint one wall in living room, entire kitchen and bedroom
5) Scrub everything
6) Replace various missing screws
7) Purchase some sort of bathroom caddy to hold various girl crap

Some of those things are covered by the landlord in a "you-fix-it-and-give-me-recipts" kind of way. Obviously the painting is all me. The cleaning is because I'm OCD.

This should be an interesting journey, no? I'll try to take before and after pictures, but I promise nothing...

Oh yes. I got lost on the way to volleyball from my new house last night. Theoretically, my commute to volleyball should be shortened by 20 minutes. In reality, it took me just as long as usual because I got lost. My house is 7 miles from volleyball and I got lost. It took me 30 minutes to get there. I'm awesome. And capable. Did I mention capable?