"He sounds short." -- Nina

I think I have fibers of dental floss stuck in my teeth.

Oh, the irony . . .

Happy birthday, Heather!

Highlight of the day: Presenting Heather with a birthday card that read something like this:

(on the front): I wanted to get you For A Special Guy on Your Birthday

(inside): May your every wish be already on the way! Happy Birthday. Dinner will have to wait. He's coming at 5:40. Love, Jennifer. P.S.  I suggest you wear jeans.

Few times have I heard her scream so shrilly.

She's out on a motorcycle ride right now.

Sister of the Year Award? Why, thank you. I accept. :)

"Just smile into the carpet!"

I don't know what you're talking about. I definitely did not run a Starburst through the dryer, and I certainly didn't contemplate tasting the melted morsel for .04 seconds before tossing it in the trash.

Erm, I mean, ::shifts eyes::, what Starburst?

"As little as one pound of [bread] dough can be used to suffocate a mouse."

In the spirit of sharing way too much information on the internet, despite the fact that I'm not entirely certain who reads this, let me say this:

Oh, gross! My scalp is peeling!

This'll teach me to wear a hat to the football games.

"Check out my armpits!"

Now that I have partaken of some sustenance, I can share the story I've wanted to tell since 1:40 this afternoon. Are you all at the edges of your seats? Good.

Today, I took The Challenge. I've taken The Challenge before (haven't I told you that story? No? Ask me about it sometime -- it's hilarious.), and I just had to take it again today, because it was going to fulfill one of my childhood dreams. Plus, the Powers That Be were going to throw in a free t-shirt to sweeten the deal, and we all know how I can't pass up one of those. (And it's actually a free t-shirt that I might even wear in public! Those are few and far between.)

I suppose I'm being a bit vague. Allow me to explain: Every semester (I assume), BYU sponsors an Accessibility Awareness Week, in which students spend two hours with a disability, such as using a wheelchair, or wearing an eye patch, or having their hand taped up so they can't use it. When I participated winter semester, I chose the wheelchair.

This time around, I knew that the crutches would be my disability of choice.

You see, when I was a wee tot, I was envious of all the kids who had to use crutches because all of the other kids were especially nice to them and wanted to be their friend. I used to jump off the slide in an attempt to twist my ankle so I could use crutches, too, but all that did was hurt my feet and get grass stains on my knees.

So today was my chance to use crutches, once and for all. And let me tell you, it was not nearly as fun as my six-year-old brain imagined it would be.

Part of the problem is that this particular set of crutches was made for individuals taller than myself. Even adjusting the legs to the shortest setting made it so they would accommodate an individual that was 5'10".

I'm 5'8" -- on a good day.

Cramming the crutches into my armpits, I set off to do one of the tasks -- going down a flight of stairs. Never mind the fact that my backpack was about 85 thousand pounds today (note: if you're going to hobble around on crutches, do not pack your laptop, a large book, and a set of scriptures -- and we're not talking about any small-print fun-size set of scriptures, either; this is the full-size quad of goodness -- into your backpack. It will only cause you grief.). I could suddenly see why they had me sign a release form. With my luck, a real broken leg or possibly even death was a possibility.

Five minutes later (pathetic? Yes.), I managed to maneuver my way to a couch to do a bit of studying. Already, my armpits were protesting the abuse. I told them to suck it up and I set about my business.

After I had recovered sufficiently (read: a long time), I decided I should tackle the second part of the task and go up a flight of stairs. This intention was quickly dashed when I realized I would have to raise the crutches another 4-6 inches to go up a single step, a feat that was rendered physically impossible, as I would've had to raise the crutches through my shoulders, and there's quite a bit of flesh, bone, and sinew that got in the way. So I retreated and took the elevator instead.

In the end, I spent way more time studying than I did using the crutches. Was I a whanny? Perhaps. But I have the battle wounds of a warrior now -- my underarms are marked with nasty red lines even four hours after I returned the crutches.

I don't think I've ever had welts there before.

"I've never pooped a party." -- Cari

Late night facials: yet another reason why having roommates is amazing.

And now my face is fresh, smooth, and kissably soft. Except for maybe the kissable part and the part where I still have chunks of -- I'm not quite sure . . . facial? -- in my eyebrows.

"Remember that time I wrote cream, comma, ice on our shopping list?" -- Me

The second I smashed my finger in a bathroom door at work yesterday, I knew it wasn't going to be any ordinary Monday.

Well, that's not quite true. The second I smashed my finger in the door, I probably thought some exclamation of pain, such as "Yowch!" or "Ow!" or "Papapishu!" I didn't know it wasn't going to be any ordinary Monday until a few seconds after the incident occurred and the initial pain subsided.

I was not to be disappointed.

First, I had the thrill of riding around in the back of a golf cart from the central building at Wyview to the apartment building we were cleaning. Since I was the second-to-last person to hop in, I had the premium opportunity to choose my seat: on top of a telephone, conveniently padded with a questionable-looking scrap of cloth that barely passed as a sweatshirt, or on top of utensils and other sharp, pointy objects.

I chose the telephone.

Curled up in the back of the golf cart, twisted like a pretzel, in a space that even Genie would've found cramped, I clung to the side of the cart and hoped that we wouldn't catch air when we flew over the speed bumps. What a rush.

Then, at my second job at the HFAC, I was given a special assignment to clean all of the drinking fountains before performing my usual duties. Now, this may not seem very exciting to the average Joe, but when you consider my daily tasks (Check bathrooms. Vacuum. Clean glass doors. Dust mop. Lather, rinse, repeat for four hours), it was almost refreshing to clean drinking fountains for a change. Almost.

For FHE last night, we played inner tube water polo. Granted, I was not exactly feeling very keen on it at the beginning ("don't boys know that girls need more than 15 minutes notice if they're going to have to shave before an activity?"), but it was a lot more fun than anticipated. It was a lot more tiring than anticipated, as well. As such, when my roommate Karlie and I -- the only two girls who participated -- weren't busy distracting the men with our feminine charm, splashing around and making waves, and cleverly throwing the ball toward invisible targets nowhere near the goal or where any other teammates were, we were content to just hang onto our inner tubes, float around, and breathe much more heavily than is socially acceptable.

(Okay, I have to give Karlie some props. She was actually pretty good at making goals. I made a couple of goals, too, but I think that's because the goalie was starting to feel sorry for me or something.)

So there you have it.

(Insert snappy conclusion here.)