Mixed Bag

For your Friday enjoyment, a couple of random office pictures.

Dexter, stop distracting me. Some of us have to work for a living.
**bonus points if you can spot the office plant I stubbornly refuse to water**


Coworker: Hey, Sarah, do we have any copier paper?
Me: None at all.

Enjoy the weekend!

The Great Pumpkin

The Wandering Writer is having a contest which is really just an excuse to brag about Ernie, and so I am entering. Not that I need an excuse, however...

I don't dress Ernie up too much, which is probably why he is so tolerant of it when I do decide to do it. I had high hopes for this costume; Ernie and I would sit on the porch, bowl full of candy in my lap, and hand out candy to all the kiddies that came by. I wasn't thinking clearly, because it was my first Halloween in Michigan. In case you are wondering, it is cold in Michigan on October 31st. And by cold, I mean holy-smokes-I-think-I-have-frostbite cold.

I lasted about 20 minutes on the porch and got no trick-or-treaters. Apparently, in the village I lived in, everyone trick-or-treats in one area a couple of streets down that really gets into Halloween. We are talking a whole block of houses decked out with a pirate ship complete with skeleton crew, ghostly organ players straight out of Disneyland's The Haunted Mansion, and a pretty impressive electric chair. I ended up giving all my candy to a trio of older boys who wandered past the house on their way home from the "cool" street. Bummer. But Ernie did look pretty cute...

Hey look! I'm all dressed up!

So...when do I get my candy?

I think it'll look better on you *wink*

See? But seriously, about that candy...

I do have a pretty cute picture of Dexter and Ernie all dressed up for Halloween together, taken when Ernie was just a puppy. But it's at home. So maybe tomorrow?

I just hope I spell my name right

Office dynamics are weird. I mean, you're spending upwards of 40 hours a week with people who are not your family or even your friends. You end up finding out things about your co-workers that you really wish you hadn't, like that Nancy in Finance used to have a drug dependency, or Bob in Human Resources cheated on his wife 16 years ago and just found out he has a daughter from the affair. But the worst thing about the semi-intimate relationships you develop at work are the cards that are circulated for various occasions. Birthdays are not too bad, I guess. A quick "haha, you old!" and you're done, right? Boss' day; again, not so bad. "Thanks for not firing me," has seemed to go over pretty well in the past.

The occasion that leaves me chewing my pen, at a loss for something, ANYTHING to say, is when a coworkers' family member dies. In the year that I've been here, two of my office mates have lost a parent. Granted, my supervisor's father was 96 and it came as no surprise, but I was still at a loss. My boss always comes up with something like "Keep him alive in your heart," or "You are a testament to the person he was," both of which make my lame, "So sorry for your loss," look even lamer by comparison, even if I am lucky enough to be the first of my similarly tongue-tied coworkers to scrawl that trite sentiment on our group card. Even worse is when a card circulates for someone in our building who I couldn't pick out of a lineup for a million dollars. How bad is it to write, "You and your family are in my thoughts," when I know I most likely won't think of them at all after I put the card in my office neighbor's inbox for their signature?

The task of getting a memorial plant fell to me when an office mate's mother died after a protracted illness. The office consensus was that we wanted to get him a tree that he and his daughters could plant in memory of their grandmother. Unfortunately, it was January, and every tree I found was dormant and looked like an ugly dead stick stuck in a pot. "Sorry your mom died; here's a twisted twig we stuck in a pretty pot that may or may not bloom in a couple of months." After reporting the dismal selection of potted trees at three local nurseries and 2 home improvement stores, my coworkers urged me to get the "best looking" tree I could find. For $45. *Sigh* I ended up getting the saddest little magnolia tree you can imagine, and putting a big white bow on it before putting it in his office. I cringed when I showed it to the office, and the silence and raised eyebrows that it was met with confirmed my belief that this was not the memorial any of us had envisioned.

Today I signed another sympathy card for a cowoker I have yet to exchange a single "hello" with. At this point, I'm not even sure what I wrote. I'm pretty sure I didn't write "Happy Birthday," but other than that, who knows?

Sometimes good things happen

Yesterday was much better than the day before. At least, there weren't any cops waiting for me when I got home and the house was still locked up. Sweet.

Also, Julie and I picked up our back-up Halloween costumes:


We laughed at each other for about 20 minutes in Joann Fabrics.

Anyway, the BF mentioned that I should blog sometimes about the good experiences I have with the dogs out in public. I tried to explain that it would be boring to read about how I walked the dogs and someone didn't tell me how viscious my dogs are. However, in the interest of fairness, I'm going to give it a try. Here goes...

• Saturday we were sitting outside at the Dock Street Oyster Bar. This place is very Dex and Ernie friendly and our waitress always brings out a bucket of water for the dogs. Two guys were sitting at the table next to us, and one of them came over to pet the dogs and mentioned that his pit bull had been hit by a car and died 2 weeks ago. He told us they were out in the country and his dog had followed a car 2 miles out to the highway and had gotten run over. We offered our condolences, and then the guy asked the dogs' names. He was a little taken aback when we told him; his dog's name was Dexter, too. What a coincidence.
  
  
• Then we went to The Barbary Coast for some beers and some pool. As soon as we walked in, Dex and Ernie were fawned over by some drunk ladies at the bar. Dex made a bee-line for the treats behind the bar, and Ernie was busy giving everyone high fives. Several people commented to me how well behaved the dogs are, and that they wish they could bring their dogs out in public. Later on, a guy brought in his pit bull with the biggest head I have ever seen on a dog in my entire life. He (the dog, not the owner) and Dex had a blast sniffing butts and guarding the front door together.

So there you have it. A completely positive post. A little bit boring, too, but I'm too busy stressing about my Halloween costume and the upcoming NaNoWriMo to come up with much more.

I didn't check the crawl space

Yesterday was not a good day, internet friends. I came home from work to find 3 police officers on my porch and the front door wide open. My first thought was that something had happened to the dogs. As I raced up the porch steps, Dex came waddling out of the front door. Before they could get a word out, I asked the officers if there was another dog here. They told me they had put Ernie in the spare room because they weren't sure how friendly he was.

The police officers said that they had received a call from a neighbor that my front door was wide open. When they arrived, both dogs were in the house, and nothing seemed amiss (other than the cushions being off the couch, but the dogs do that all the time). Either I didn't close the door all the way when I left in the morning, or someone came in to the house and the dogs scared him off. I'm 99% sure I locked the lock on the doorknob, but I know I didn't deadbolt it. The officers walked through the house with me, checking behind every door, in every closet, and under the beds. Once I was satisfied nobody was there and nothing was missing, I packed up the dogs and went to a friend's house.

During the whole ordeal, I was mainly upset that something could have happened to the dogs. I'm surprised they both stayed in the house (which is not to say they didn't go roaming and come back, but it was a little chilly yesterday). They could have been hurt--shot or kicked by some desperate drug addict. I thought back to the guy who cut my grass a couple of weeks ago. What if they had tried to attack the police officers as they came in the house? I wouldn't blame them if they did, but others might not have been so understanding.

It's got me really shaken up today; I didn't sleep very well last night and I'm dragging ass today at work. I just want to curl up with a mug of hot chocolate in the middle of an Ernie and Dexter sandwich. I'm proud of the boys for being so good and staying close to home, but I feel like I've let them down by not keeping them safe.

The one where I touch chicken guts

Internet, meet my dinner. Dinner, say hello:


As I was trolling the ghetto Food Lion yesterday for dinner ideas, I came across whole young chickens on sale. Bingo! A few potatoes and some green beans later, I had a meal plan. Unfortunately for the chicken, he had yet a few more indignities to suffer before retiring to the cleansing retreat of a 350 degree oven.

First, since I bought him at 2:30 and I was determined to eat dinner by 8:00, I quick-thawed him in some warm water until I could pry his legs apart and pull out the neck/gizzards/other disgusting organs I cannot name from his body cavity. Guts disposed of, I mounted him on an upright chicken roaster and rubbed him down with olive oil, black pepper, sea salt, and cayenne pepper, paying special attention to his underarms.

At the suggestion of a neighbor, I decided to give the beer can method of chicken roasting a shot. I opened a beer, poked some holes in the can, poured about half of it out, and sat the chicken down on the beer can. The chicken looked kind of uncomfortable.

We gave him a last drink, then retired him to the oven for 2 hours.


He was delicious.

Now, for a gratuitous picture of the boys.

A couple days late and a few dollars short (pit bull edition)

So I missed out on Wednesday's Vlog Day, because I am behind the times and also I suck a little bit. So to make up for it, I'm posting some videos of the dogs wrestling. First up, we've got the dogs wrestling in the hole in the middle of the yard. Please be advised, the dogs may sound like they are killing each other, but I promise you they are just playing.

Next, Ernie gets the zoomies and Dexter does a face plant (but shakes it off like a truly Bad Mutha Fudrucker).

And finally, Dexter gets the wiggles.

Enjoy your weekend!

Random Joke

I was driving home from work yesterday and I passed a parked car with "Want to hear a joke? Call KL5-1234" painted on the rear window. Well, it wasn't a KL5 number, but I don't want to blow up some stranger's phone with internet spizam (ok, that word sounded cooler in my head than it looks typed. Oh well.). Also, I've wanted to use the "KL5" prefix ever since I read my first Baby Sitter's Club book. How cool was Claudia? Check out What Claudia Wore.

I digress.

I'm sitting in traffic with nothing better to do than pick my nose and pretend no one can see me (did I mention my radio was stolen from my car? for the third time? almost a year ago? and I still haven't replaced it?), so I called. Seeing how close we are to the election, I thought it'd be something along the lines of "Want to hear a joke? Have you hear the one about how Barack Obama has secret makeout parties with anti-American terrorists and serial killers?" Either way, I figured it would be something to blog about.

*ring ring*

Mysterious Jokester: Hello?
Me: Um, I was hoping to hear a joke.
Mysterious Jokester: What kind of pants does Super Mario wear?
Me: I have no idea.
Mysterious Jokester: denimdenimdenim

Get it?

Okay, maybe you had to be there, but I just said 'thank you' and laughed all the way home. Or maybe it works better if you say it out loud. That joke is almost as good as my favorite joke.

Q: What kind of bees make milk?
A: BOOBIES!

Man, it gets me every time.

You may be right. I may be crazy.

The small women's college I attended my freshman year bragged about the extensive screening and matching process the recruitment officers go through to determine which two incoming freshmen would be best suited for each other as roommates. I was pumped, although apparently I didn't convey my true personality, because my roommate and I were no match at all and had nothing in common other than a shared major (Biology, which she promptly changed to Business after our first dissection lab). I should have suspected my roomie wasn't going to be a barrel of laughs when she contacted me shortly before move-in day to coordinate which twin extra long comforter sets we were going to purchase, "so we'll match."

"Jenny" was a huge dork who went home every weekend and had a small desktop zen garden. I blasted Ben Harper, dyed my hair purple, and snuck beer into my mini fridge that my friends at nearby Wake Forest had provided for me. I raked the sand in her zen garden into what I hoped were disruptive patterns in her absence and blamed it on our neighbor, who we both couldn't stand but was always stopping by. It was during this time I developed the habit of talking out loud to inanimate objects, as I had the room to myself 98% of the time.

Oh, Papa John's Pizza with ham and pineapple, you are so delicious.

Screw you, printer! Don't you know I have a paper due in 45 minutes?!?

When I left Salem College and moved to Wilmington, waiting tables didn't help. I cursed my pens for exploding in my apron, gave the tea urns the finger when they overflowed, and begged my car to start for me in the morning. Mop bucket! How about not tipping over and drenching my shoes for once?

All bets were off, however when I got Hemo. She is the talking-est cat I know. She'll have a full on conversation.

Me: Hey Hemo, did you have a good day?

Hemo: No.

Me: How about some dinner?

Hemo: Now!

Me: There you go.

Hemo: Fuck you.

Ok then.

My cookie tastes like a pen

Inspired by Ben's work-related post, here's a peek into my office:

• A coworker's response to a remark about his habit of clipping his nails at his desk:
  "What? At least you know I'm well groomed."
  What I know is to avoid your office during your grooming sessions, lest I get a nail clipping in my eye.
  
  
• From the mail room lady:
  "Would you like some cheese and jalapeno grits?"
  Yes. A thousand times, yes.
  
  
• A local restaurant dropped off "goody bags" with coupons and pens to drum up some lunch business. I high-five a coworker about our good fortune--coupons and a pen!?! I find out later that each of the bags also had a cookie in them, but the fat bitch switchboard operator took them all out and ate them over the next 3 days. Now I think my pen sucks.
  
  
• The boss is on vacation this week, and I had to show him how to set up his automatic email "away" message. For the fourth time.
  
  I will not be watering his plants in his absence.

Mondays. *barf*

Mondays are a real bummer. Especially when you have a kick ass weekend that included Beer Fest (where much delicious beer was consumed), and a Sunday night dinner of hot italian sausages.

It was chilly this morning (for North Carolina, anyway; I think it was 51 degrees) so that made it harder than usual to get out of the shower. I was finding things to do so I could justify not getting out.

Hey, haven't shaved my legs in a while, and I might as well scrub the grout while I'm in here.

I mentally rifled through my closets trying to decide what I was going to wear to work, trying to delay until the last second my departure from the warm humidity of the bathroom. Of course, the shirt I had picked out doesn't exist and the pants I want to wear were dirty. Oh well. But then my iron wouldn't get hot. I guess I'll be sitting at my desk a lot today, hoping that no one notices the wrinkled mess that I'm calling pants.

A good thing about Mondays is that one of the ladies in the next department always bakes up a storm on the weekend and brings in a smorgasbord of banana bread, oatmeal cookies, and spice cake. A bad thing about this is that she puts out a donation cup, with the proceeds supposedly going to cure cancer. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about curing cancer, but I never know how much is appropriate to leave. 50 cents a cookie? I've got a couple of dollars in pennies that have collected in my desk drawer; should I dump all of that in? It is money, after all, but I'm having a hard time spending it. No one wants to be that girl, counting out pennies at Food Lion for an AriZona Rx Herbal Tonic and some King's Hawai'ian Sweet Bread. I usually end up putting a couple of dollars in the cup by the end of the week, unless I've been especially gluttonous and then I make myself put in a fiver.

Oh, and did I mention Beer Fest? It was the site of my very first Hula Hoop FAIL.


But I didn't spill any beer. Win.

Pile drived? drove? driven?

Either way, it happened to me last night. Hulk Hogan would be proud.






Sorry; it's Friday and that's all I've got. Enjoy the weekend!

Crabs!

Last night the neighbors had a 3 hour screaming match. From what I could gather as I sat on my front porch with a glass of wine a book and pretended to read, He's been talking to some other girl who means nothing to him, and She's been talking to several guys who may or may not be her cousins. I'll let you know how it ends. Hemo is on the shit list for peeing on the dogs' leashes, but look what I found in my backyard:


A crab spider! Well, Steve calls them crab spiders but I call them pirate spiders because to me it looks like they have a skull painted on their bellies. I've been wanting one of my own ever since he pointed a baby one out to me on his porch.

I was a smart kid

When I was younger, I remember being aware of a big "Don't Drink and Drive" campaign. I couldn't have been more than6 or 7. At the time, my parents were attempting to enforce a "no eating or drinking in the car" rule, so I just thought that this campaign was part of a movement to keep the nation's vehicles from looking "like a fucking dumpster" (in my father's words). It made sense to me; my sisters and I frequently spilled our drinks in the car, and we weren't even driving. My mom, however, had (and still has) a serious Diet Pepsi addiction. You know how some smokers need a cigarette as soon as they wake up? That's how Mom was with Diet Pepsi. The sound of a Diet Pepsi can being popped open in the morning is as natural to me as the smell of coffee brewing. Naturally, there was always a Diet Pepsi at hand in the car as she ferried the four of us around.

My mother drinks and drives all the time! I would think to myself when I saw the PSAs with the stern cops cuffing the guilty parties. She didn't even seem to care, taking a big swig from the can right next to police cars. In my mind, it was only a matter of time before she was caught and arrested. But the thought of separating my mom from her beloved caffeine was too much for my 6 year old brain to handle, so I just prayed that no cops would notice my mom's brazen consumption. She didn't spill very often, I reasoned, so maybe they'd let her off easy.

In another flash of childhood brilliance, I announced to my mother one day that I knew why the handicapped parking spaces were so close to store entrances. I'd been eyeballing these spaces for months, knowing there must be a good reason for these spaces to sit empty while our caravan of strollers, diaper bags, and crying toddlers trudged past.

"So handicapped people can get into the stores quickly without everyone in the parking lot staring at them," I proudly informed her. Hey, it made sense to me. I knew that I personally had a hard time looking away from someone with an obvious handicap, and my younger sisters certainly were no better. I don't know what I thought happened when the handicapped patrons actually got in the store; would people be so engrossed in deciding between Scooby Doo- or Flintstones-shaped Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that they wouldn't notice someone speeding past in a motorized wheelchair?

"Well, that may be part of it, but it's probably because people who are handicapped typically have a harder time getting around in the first place," my mom patiently explained.

Oh. I guess that makes sense, too.

What Bad Mutha Fudruckers do (pt. 1)

I'm not sure how, but the BF has acquired 2 wheelchairs. I'm pretty sure he hasn't been mugging cripples, but I'm not asking any questions. All I know is, on warm afternoons after we've had a couple of beers while we wait for the coals to get hot, we bust out the wheelchairs.

Sometimes (ok, one time) we attempted to have a chariot race with Ernie supplying the horsepower; unfortunately Ernie was more interested in licking faces than pulling wheelchairs, so I ended up running in front of the wheelchair getting Ernie to chase me while Steve sat and enjoyed the wind whipping through his hair at 0.5 mph.

I think the kids playing basketball down the street enjoyed the show.

Most of the time, however, we just sit around and take turns trying to do wheelies on the "good" wheelchair. So there is a lot of this:

And this:

And finally this...



I would help you up, but first let me snap a few pictures.

...which is why we only play Wheelchair Wheelies on the grass.

Ernie hates World Hunger

The Mutha Fudruckers were a philanthropic group this weekend. On Friday night I went to a cancer benefit, which, was actually to raise money to cure cancer. It was held at El Scorpion, a local bar usually known as the only place in Wilmington to hear live Mexican bands on a weekly basis. $1 from every $3 glass of wine they sold went to the cause, so against my better judgement I drank white wine all night, which I promptly blamed for my poor performance at the pool table. Also, there was what I am sure was a vomit stain on the felt, which also played a part in my defeat. When no one claimed one of the prizes in the raffle, I thought it was hilarious to call across the room, "Julie! You won!" She had not won.

On Sunday I participated in the Crop Walk, an event to raise awareness of and money for world hunger. Ernie and I were standing with our team, waiting for the walk to start, when a lady walked past us with her dog. Her dog, dressed as an angel, stopped to sniff noses with Ernie. The lady looked down, pulled her dog away, and looked at me.

"That dog looks mean," she said, and walked away. She didn't say it in a nice, "Oh, your dog looks tough but is obviously a sweetheart," kind of way. She said it in a "I don't think your dog should even be alive, let alone allowed out in public," kind of way. My immediate reaction was to tell her that she looked like a bitch, but I thought that it wouldn't be in keeping with the spirit of the day, so I held my tongue. I know I should have a thicker skin about this stuff by now, but it pisses me off every time.

So I steamed about it for the 5 miles of the walk, and by the time we got to the finish I had made my peace with it. A piece of pizza and a Chik-fil-a coupon later, and I had all but forgotten the incident. I turned to my friend and inquired whether or not it would be funny if I ran through the "Stop World Hunger" banner like it was the finish line.

"Yeah," he said. "About as funny as when you told Julie she won the raffle the other night."

My bad.

Dexter hearts Tyra Banks

All those Saturday mornings watching ANTM marathons have not been wasted on the dogs. They've learned to make subtle, but crucial, differences in their poses during photo shoots to give me a wide variety of shots. My friend's dog, Desi...not so much. She's sticking with what she knows.


For Dex, it's all in the face.

Happy Friday!

I heart Sharpies (NSFW)

Sharpie tattoos are awesome (awesome to give, I mean; I don't want someone drawing all over me with a permanent marker). Once I caught my niece drawing on herself with a Crayola marker. She had some scribbles on her face, so I helped her out and gave her a sweet curly mustache and some chest hair, and called her Pierre for the rest of the day.

So when the BF lets me give him Sharpie tattoos, it is like the best gift he could give me. I get to use a Sharpie and draw on someone? Count me in.

Me: "What do you want?"

Him: "A naked chick sitting on top of the globe with a recycling symbol on it."

Me: "Okay..."

**This is the NSFW portion of the post**

Too funny. I was very sad the next day when he had sweated it off.

Click here for the uncensored picture.

**Edited to add:


I forgot! I gave Ernie a Sharpie tattoo, too:

Opportunity FAIL

I have a smart mouth and a very dry sense of humor, the combination of which can get me into trouble. I have a really hard time passing up opportunities for a good story, even it the story isn't at all entirely true. Is that skull and crossbones tattoo on my dog real? Of course! We got them at the same time; I wanted it to be a bonding experience. If an opportunity to tell an awesome story falls in my lap, I won't let something like the truth keep me from spinning a yarn the likes of which you've never seen. Truth shmuth. The people want to be entertained!

And so I give you: Story Opportunity FAIL #1

I mentioned that we went to a wedding this weekend. Seated at our table was a girl who had a scarf wrapped around her wrist. I'm not sure how the conversation started (I was too busy eyeing the martini glass full of ranch dressing that was in front of me and daring it to fall onto my salad), but the BF managed to get her to take off the scarf and show us the pins that were in her wrist.

Holy smokes! I thought.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did that happen?" I asked.

"I fell," she said, and shrugged.

You fell? There has got to be more to the story than that. I mean, the girl had like 6 pins and three bars sticking out of her wrist. Even if all you did was fall while running in the rain in flip-flops, make something up! You're at a table full of strangers who are all drinking. Say a circus elephant stomped on your arm while you were saving conjoined twin babies from certain death. Evil Knieval ran over your arm*...you sustained an injury in the semi-finals of an arm wrestling championship...SOMETHING! Not only is a wedding pretty much a carte blanche for making up an alternate personal history, when you've got a robo-arm for a prop you should be making the most of it.

Opportunity FAIL #2 happened the other day when we were seated at a restaurant bar waiting for a table. The bartender asked me what I'd like to drink, and I told him to bring me his most delicious beer.

"Um, we've got Miller Lite draft pints for $2."

FAIL.

I said your most delicious beer, sir. Don't get me wrong, I love a Miller Lite, and I appreciate you looking out for my wallet, but if it's your most delicious beer than you need to have a word with your bar manager. At least offer me your house brew. Or a Chimay. Upsell! Earn that tip!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
*I know he's dead, but that makes the story even better. Zombie Evil Knieval!

:(

Sorry about the lack of a Monday post, internet friends. We went to a wedding Sunday night that was an hour and half away, and this Bad Mutha Fudrucker didn't feel like going to work Monday morning. Instead, I did some cleaning up around the house. By cleaning up, I mean that I drank Miller Lite and ate dry Crispix out of the box while I waited for the current load of laundry to be dry. Also I watched the special features on my Lord of the Rings Special DVDs and laughed along with my good friends Dominic Monoghan and Billy Boyd as we recounted that time Orlando Bloom fell out of his canoe. Hilarious!

I am a dork.

I took some sweet pictures this weekend, too. I got my hands on a sharpie and gave Steve a "I Heart Recycling" tattoo. Ernie got a skull and crossbones tattoo. I took pictures of wheelchair wheelies and wedding dances that I'd love to share with you, but sadly my camera cord is sitting on Steve's desk and not in my purse. So no pictures for you. Ok, maybe one.

With help like this, it's no wonder I never get any laundry done.

Award-winning blogger saves family of 4, solves economic crisis

So maybe I didn't save anyone, but I did win an award! Thanks to The Wandering Writer...and her dog I am in receipt of my very first blog award. Because I am a rule follower do not want my award revoked, I am awarding it to the following 7 people who read my blog bloggers:

Danielle at Yachting and Yapping
Dingo at As I Was Saying
Nilsa at SoMi
Maxie at i hate so much
c.watson at Things and Stuff
Kate at New Life in South Dakota
Charlotte at Pup Speak

Thanks for entertaining me during my day at work, guys. Pass it along to 7 other bloggers, if you are so inclined.

Pirates pay for drinks with dubloons

It is the first day of October and I am getting way excited about Halloween. I usually make my costume each year, and in the past I've been:

a member of Sparkle Motion (okay, I didn't make this one)

Frodo Baggins

a mermaid

Roxy of the Misfits

One year I went as a pirate and paid for all my drinks with Sacagawea dollar coins that I called "dubloons." I thought it was hilarious and the bartenders thought it was annoying. This year I think I'm going to go all "Eagle vs. Shark" and be a Great White Shark. Even though I hate sharks and I am even afraid of them in the pool. Seriously. When I jump off of the high dive I haul ass to the ladder because I am just SURE someone has opened the underwater gate and let the sharks out. It's going to be an awesome costume, though.

Speaking of sharks and pools and being crazy, I have this reoccurring nightmare about sharks and pools. In my dream, my mom drags me and my sisters to see Jaws, who has been captured and is being kept in the pool by our house. Well, she really only drags me because my sisters are all about it. I beg and beg and try to convince her that it is a BAD IDEA, but we go anyway. One by one, my sisters keep leaning over the side of the pool and falling in, and I have to keep jumping in and saving them. Over and Over. All Night. Whenever I have this dream I wake up exhausted and mad at my mom. Come on, Mom! I warned you. Sharks+kids=Worst Idea Ever. Jeez.

I also frequently have a dream where my mom makes me live under the stairs a la the Dursleys and Harry Potter, and won't let me have any of the brownies she just made. Which is weird, because my mom would never deny me brownies. She is a very nice lady.

I think I'll go to JoAnn Fabrics this weekend and get some supplies.