I was halfway out the door to get a 10 o'clock snack because I'm starving for some unknown reason, but I got sidetracked by a sister on my bed playing with her virtual baby, Dartanian, and the random thought that I needed to buy another text book... so now I'm blogging.
I spun blood for the first time last week. There were no "Outbreak" moments where I cut my glove and contracted a deadly virus, so I'd say it went well. Other than one little thing that I c o u l d n o t believe I was being reprimanded for at school.
After we spin the blood, the extracted serum is placed in a small box with other blood samples in a huge freezer (about twice the size of a regular fridge). It has 6-7 drawers behind two double reinforced doors of solid steel. Imagine my surprise when I took the little box out of our drawer, walked it over to the table about four feet away to put the new serum in.. a process that would take all of 30 seconds.. and my lab partner very kindly told me to "shut the door when [I] do that". That's like asking someone to remove their tires while they wash their rims!! I'm fully aware that's the worst analogy ever, but I'm trying to convey how INCONVENIENT that is to shut a million heavy doors, only to open them up 30 seconds later. Ugh.
Anyway, almost immediately I broke into laughter at the anticipation of telling my big sister B all about this ("B" is a nod to her anonymity, not to be confused with "bitch"). She's repeated this line to me multiple times during my stay in her village, so I knew she'd get ample satisfaction out of the irony. Admittedly, I'd usually get a little peeved at her request/comments, but in that moment at the lab I realized I must really have a problem. Even though refilling a Britta jug is just a tiny bit less important than blood serum, I'm still going to change my ways.
Oh. The other day I was forced by little sister A (a nod to her anonymity, not to be confused with "awesome" or the grades she makes) to run 120's in an arctic blast. I'm all about helping her get back in shape to kick ass on the soccer field, but I'm not getting paid for this shit. Hearing ice crunching under my cleats was NOT okay. I could feel icicles forming on my alveoli. My toes were turning black from frostbite, close to a point of no return. Never again.
And lastly. I was sitting at the dining room table enjoying some girl talk while baby V (a nod to his anonymity, not to be confused with "viceroy") toddled around screaming at his new high pitch level that only dogs and Andersons can hear, we hope - it's just darling. So in an effort to distract him from his new talent, I dropped to my knees, looked him in the eye and said, "Sweetie. Be a doll and go get the mail. That's what men of the house do." And what does that crazysmart 14 month old do? Walked his butt through the livingroom, around the couch, over to the mail slot in the door and picked up the friggin' mail.
I swear, I live with three geniuses and my little sister.