Bertie

Bertie’s my spider. She lives in my bathroom. My mother highly disapproves of our friendship.

Okay, I don’t really know if she is a she, but her personality is very feminine. Plus, I don’t really know how to check that kind of thing on a spider.

And she kind of scares me.

But she has a female name, so therefore she is a she.

THE POINT IS


Bertie is missing!

I specifically told her to stay in my bathroom, as my mother so generously allowed her to live as long as she remained there. But I haven’t seen her for three days!

The way I see it, there are three suspects.

1) My mother

She loves me dearly, and she loves allowing me to express myself at all costs. But perhaps asking her to allow me to befriend her mortal enemy was pushing it too far.

2) Figgie

Two nights ago, I looked down the hallway and saw this: 

Right outside of Bertie’s favorite bathroom wall!


Harmless though it may have been, as she often chases flashes of light, Figgie is now a prime suspect.

3) The Green Goblin

I mean, he tried to kill Spiderman. And Bertie doesn’t have crazy anthropomorphic skills with which to defend herself, poor little thing.

SO IF YOU SEE THIS SPIDER

Please call me immediately.

All you have to do is yell my name. My spidey senses will tingle.

Como estoy aprendiendo el español

Folks, I have been in a Spanish class every day for the past seven and a half years. And that doesn’t even count the two after school programs I attended in kindergarten and second grade. But it was not until this semester that I finally felt compelled to fully grasp the language.

And it’s all thanks to my professor. Because he is absolutely freaking gorgeous.

*Sigh* I wish you could see him for real, because that picture really doesn’t do him justice…


Anyways.

Up until this semester, I successfully evaded class participation with my Handy Dandy Guide to Avoiding Getting Called On. I would take a long gulp of water, scribble furtively in my notes, look quizzically at a book as though pondering the answer to life itself, even feign ignorance that my name had been called until a fellow student took pity on me.

But not anymore.

How are you supposed to avoid being called on when you spend the entire class period staring amorously into the eyes of your Latin lover?

It simply isn’t possible. Now I spend every moment attempting to prove my deep understanding of his native tongue in order to gain his respect and adoration so that we can move into the Spanish castle I know he secretly owns and spend our afternoons siesta-ing in the shade of the orchard with our beautiful Spanish stallions grazing nearby.

“Emily, ¿qué dice Callisto a Melibea en auto uno?”
“Él dice que está enamorado con ella. Dice que nada es más importante que ella, ni siquiera dios.”

Translation (for those of you without hot Spanish professors):
       "Emily, what did Callisto say to Melibea in the first chapter?"
       "He said that he is in love with her. He said nothing is more
        important than her - not even God."

He so asked me that on purpose.


By the end of the semester, I’m going to be fluent in the language of love.

Our children are going to be gorgeous.


——————————————————————————————————————————————-

*DISCLAIMER!* If someone mean is out there snooping, please don’t fire my professor just because I live in a fantasy world. He is actually definitely for sure the best Spanish professor I’ve ever had, and I would be very sad if I caused him to be fired because I have an overactive imagination. I would cry. A lot. Please don’t make me cry.

Present for Lindsey

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Lindsey. She had the most amazing, beautiful, intelligent, modest cousin EVER, Emily.

I mean, we were legit bffs.


Then one day, my mom decided to take us to Tennessee to go horseback riding. Actually, it was a free vacation from a time share company, so the trip also included ridiculous amounts of coloring pictures at the kid’s table in the back of a conference room and listening to the nice older couple play “monopoly” in the hotel room next door. But on the second day, there was horseback riding.


Lindsey and I got on our horses and sat delightedly as the nice man on the lead horse taught us how to steer, go forward, and stop. We tugged at our own reins, dutifully following his lessons, fully confident in our ability to control the actions of a creature five hundred times our size.

 

The nice man clicked to his horse and they began to move briskly down the path. Our horses followed lethargically, but Lindsey’s horse started to pick up pace as it rounded the corner toward the petting zoo.


It was at that moment in time that the nice man became the man of questionable ethics (or the mustachioed menace… either or). Why he knowingly gave this demented horse to a small child, we will never know.

“Uh, little darlin’, your horse really likes those llamas over there, so if you could just hold tight to the reins and say ‘whoa’…”


But it was too late.


A wild frenzy radiated from the eyes of Lindsey’s beast like laser beams. While most horses veered off the path in search of fulfilling the unending calls of their stomach, Lindsey’s horse wanted to fulfill his unending llama fetish. Lindsey tugged on the reins and screamed “whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa” until it became some kind of rabid-horse alarm, but her tiny little frame was powerless against such a mighty and determined monster.


Meanwhile, I was laughing hysterically. I would pay for this later, when my horse would lodge my head in the fork of a large branch across the path, but right now I was giggling so hard I could have peed my pants. Lindsey and her horse were far enough from the path that all I saw was a horse trotting towards a cute little llama.

 

Lindsey saw something more like this:

So needless to say, Lindsey was scarred for life. This near-paranoia provided hours of entertainment on my end. That night, she sat wide-eyed in horror as I recounted tale after tale of llama attacks.

I think Lindsey expected it would be like the knock-knock-who’s-there-aren’t-you-glad-I-didn’t-say-banana? joke, where if you put up with the annoying part for long enough,you get a happy ending. But despite a multitude of changes to the story itself, the ending was always the same: the llama’s acid-spit killed the poor, unsuspecting subject of my tale.


For years to come, the word “llama” alone elicited a worthwhile reaction.


Until now.


Because when I got back from my summer trip to Gatlinburg, I brought Lindsey this truly inspirational llama plushie. It even looked menacing. I showed up to the fast food establishment where she works and walked up to the drive-thru window. I bent over and held up my prize so it was the only thing one could see from inside. Then I waited… and giggled a lot. But when she rounded the corner, her reaction?! Only mild surprise! AND SHE HUGGED IT!

I knew it was time to kick it up a notch.


So, Lindsey, dear, here is your new boggart-fuel:

RAWR! *spit* *claw* *death*

Welcome to P.O.R.N.!!!

Why, hello!!! It’s SOOOOOO nice to meet you! My name’s Emily, and I just know we’re going to be the best of friends!!! I’ll be like “Here’s a new post for you!” and you’ll be like “OMG that was so wonderful to read, I really enjoyed that!” and I’ll be like, “OMG REALLY?!?! Lemme write you ANOTHER ONE!!!” And before you know it, you’ll be addicted, and I’ll be super rich and famous. Like a drug dealer, only BETTER. Cuz how many drug dealers do YOU know that get to brag about what they do to the world at large? I only know one, but he got caught. By the po-pos. That means he’s in jail now. And do you know what they eat in jail? Meat that was delivered as liquid. Ew. Noooo thanks. I choose blogger. And therefore, I win. And you do too. Because, since I chose to be a blogger, you totes don’t have to lose your hair and teeth to crack.

We win so much.