Secret life of wiggles.

The Secret Life Of Otters is on right now, and I want a pet otter. Of course, the pet otter will have to come after the pet chicken, which I am still trying to convince Bobby is a necessity for our yard/garden. I was about to comment on how much better I've gotten at typing with my gimp hand since the dreadful dish accident, but then it took me about eight tries to get that last sentence out. My policy teacher benefited greatly from that, though. I had to type my entire take home final instead of fill in the blanks with a writing utensil, so maybe that (and walking in with a brightly pink bandaged hand) will get me some bonus points. One more final to go, and the semester will be complete! One of the perks of attending BYU.

AUGH! THERE WAS A DEAD OTTER ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD! Oh. My. Gosh.

Speaking of which, we watched "I Am Legend" the other day with Lori and Devin (our amazing landlords of loveliness) and when his german shepherd died, I definitely cried in front of everyone. It made me absolutely adore Lori, because she told me she can watch the commercials with the kids you can sponsor that are designed to tug at your heartstrings, and she gets sad, but when she watches the commercials for the dogs and cats in the shelter, she feels devastated and wants to do something immediately to help. She's grown up in Utah and doesn't act like a Uthoid, so I can understand why she feels that way. When you're surrounded by crazy all the time, it's hard to grow attached to humans in an empathetic sort of way. My excuse is that I'm emotionally damaged thanks to my mother's indifference, but I'm learning to cope through therapy (Yay, Dr. Isakson!).

Peli's trying to eat Chuck. Again.

I tried to post pictures the other day, but since the computer plugs in and I notoriously fight with technology, I shall try again.

Excellent! This is us at Peli's graduation. Peli looks absolutely thrilled to be the only one at puppy class that was forced to dress up for the big day.

Golly. I'm about to start singing Avril's "Complicated," but I'll try to refrain, as losing any dignity that may be left after constantly hurting myself seems to be a better survival tactic. Here's a picture of Bobby at his very first race, getting ready for warm up. His heart rate was at 130 before the race even started (his resting is 54). He was a wee bit nervous.

And now he is sitting next to me, giving me evil glares of doom because we're supposed to go hiking. Ta.