Who doesn't close the door in public restrooms?

Ok, enough about Curly Sue (although she is going strong, hanging in there for day 3). Let's talk about some Important Stuff. Like Stuff that Happens in Public Restrooms.

I never use the handicapped stall. I just can't. Even after downing a bucket of Wild Cherry Pepsi at a movie, when I really have to pee and there is a long line and it is the only stall available, I won't use it. What if a legitimately handicapped person comes in right as I'm, um, getting down to business? If I caused someone in a wheelchair to poop their pants because my able-bodied ass was occupying the handicapped stall, the guilt would follow me around my entire life and I wouldn't even try to argue with St. Peter when he shook his head and turned me away from the Pearly Gates.

There is a lady in my building who always uses the handicapped stall and never shuts the door. You heard that right. She leave the door unlatched. Now, this lady has a handicapped parking tag and sometimes uses a cane, so I am not begrudging her the use of the handicapped stall. But I've noticed that her office door is sometimes closed, so she can't have a disability that would keep her from latching the stall.

Don't get me wrong; I never close the bathroom door at home and only rarely do I close it at Steve's (unless I have to see a man about a horse or taking care of some lady business). When I walk in and see the door unlatched and see her feet under the door (of course I look), I start to question myself. Am I being a prude? I mean, it's not like anyone is going to see anything or even walk past. It's the last stall. But then I snap back to reality. No, it's normal to latch the door in public restrooms, just like courtesy flushes or awkward attempts at conversation. As I occupy my stall, I start thinking that maybe it's a dare. She's daring me to fling open the door. Or maybe she's really germophobic, and the merits of latching the door do not outweigh the sheer amount of pathogens that touching the latch would potentially transfer to her hands.

By the time I leave the bathroom, in my mind she has become this passive-aggressive lunatic who goes back to her office to don tissue-box slippers.

She does have that handicapped placard...

None of this would apply if I could grow a decent handlebar moustache

About every 3 or 4 months, I grow an extra-long eyebrow hair in my right eyebrow. It goes pretty much unnoticed by everyone except for me, as it is always very blonde and very thin. I'll just get a feeling one day, and reach up to check, and yes! It's back!

I love this eyebrow hair, and become obsessed with it as it grows. Every so often my hand will sneak up to stroke it, much like I imagine I'd stroke a beard or a moustache if I had one. I sit in front of the mirror and pull it gently to prove to myself it's still there and attached.

I made the mistake of pointing it out to my roommates once, who immediately offered to pluck it for me. When I refused, they moved from offering help to threatening to pluck it as I slept. I don't have to tell you it was a sleepless night.

I got that special feeling today at lunch as I ate my apple and peanut M&M's (I ate my pb&j at 10:00 because I skipped breakfast). I reached up, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst. My fingers slid across my eyebrow until I was able to detect and wrap my index finger around the renegade hair.

Long, boring budget meeting? Stressfull phone call with my grandmother? It is the MAD Cat to my Dr. Claw. Seriously, this thing is almost better than as good as a cold beer.

I threaten my dogs with knives

I went home yesterday on my lunch break to put some scalloped potatoes in the crock pot so they'd be ready for dinner. The dogs were thrilled; I'm pretty sure they usually spend the day licking each others' genitals.

Thanks for sharing my shame, mother.

Anytime, baby Ernie.

Even though Dexter has a bum knee and sometimes refuses to get off of the couch for a morning potty break, that little bastard is an escape artist. In his younger days he'd climb over 6 foot fences. So when the dogs are in the backyard, I keep a close eye on them. Every so often I stuck my head out of the back door.

"Is everyone still behaving?"

It wasn't until about the 3rd or 4th time that I realized I still had my huge potato-slicing knife in hand, giving my neighbors yet another reason to doubt my sanity.

Seriously, it's not that hard.

As Nancy's birthday lunch comes to a close...

...Dummy McStupidFace makes a fatal mistake.

The bill arrives...

...and the shit hits the fan.

Things get really ugly, really quickly.

The moral of this story? Always, always ask for separate checks.

...and bring some small bills, mother fuckers.

I should be so lucky

image credit: xkcd comics

I'm sensing a pattern. I cannot fucking win. I'm beginning to hate Scrabble, and myself. This weekend Steve spanked me again at Scrabble. I tried all day not to play, and when I lost I was very, very close to pitching a hissy fit. I was also very, very close to cheating.

"Q-U-O-N-E. QUONE. You know, when a patient gets out of hand, you have to quone'em. We need a medical dictionary!"

Granted, I am showing improvement. I only gave him 2 Triple Word Score spaces, instead of setting him up for all 8, and I only lost by about 40 points. But when did I become such a poor loser?

I was never really big into sports in elementary or high school. First out in dodge ball in 4th grade PE? Oh well, I'll just sit over here and read "Incident at Hawk's Hill" again.

On the rare occasion when I wasn't riding the bench on my high school's varsity softball team, my sister and my best friend would eat my sunflower seeds and drink my Gatorade Ice, filling it back up with cloudy water from the team's water cooler, then laughing at me when I came back into the dugout. The three of us were also admonished by out coach for an inappropriate display of mirth on the bus ride home from a particularly bad loss. Apparently the appropriate attitude was one of despair and humiliation. We didn't get the memo. It was Friday, and we had a date with a handle of Aristocrat vodka and a henna home tattoo kit.

I hope our Technology department isn't monitoring my internet usage too closely today, lest they see a spike in Google searches for 'scrabble+tips for winning' and 'how to lose graciously.'

I burned my bangs off with a curling iron. True.

So Andy over at Film, Tape, and Steel Strings offered to humor interview me (ok, really I volunteered because I'm still not in the I-can-totally-write-a-funny-blog-post-no-problem mode). Here are the 5 questions he asked me with my answers. Now I'm supposed to send 5 new questions to anyone else who's interested; just leave me a comment letting me know you'd like to be interrogated interviewed and I'll come up with 5 brilliant and insightful questions and email them to you. It's possible that I've gotten some of this stuff wrong so check out Andy's blog for the real rules.


1) If you have one physical possession that means more to you than all others, what is it?

Growing up as a military brat, my family moved a lot and I ending up losing having to part with a lot of stuff, so I view most of my possessions as replaceable. I won't count the animals, even though legally they are possessions, but if the house was on fire they would probably beat me out of the door (or in Hemo's case, push me down on her way out a la George Costanza). If my house was on fire and I could only grab one thing, I'd probably grab my electric skillet, because that thing makes some AWESOME hash browns and I even made soup in it once. True, I could buy another one at Wal*Mart for $19.99, but what if Wal*Mart burned down, too? I'd be S.O.L.

2)What is an embarrassing High School moment that you had to live through?

In high school, I played clarinet in the marching band, and no, that's not the embarrassing moment. My sophomore year, we marched in the Junior Orange Bowl Parade in Florida. I was so pumped. We were going to DisneyWorld, too. Double pumped. I was getting ready at 4am to get on the bus, going through my usual routine of curling my bangs in the infamous claw-over-the-forehead style, when the stench of burning hair assaulted my nose. All 20 strands of hair that made up my bangs had seperated themselves from my head and were seared onto the curling iron. I lost my shit. Crying, screaming, peeking at my crispy baby bangs through red, puffy eyes, I jammed a Mickey Mouse ball cap on my head and boarded the bus with my bandmates. My bangs have never been the same.

3) Who is your "favorite" blogger/blog and why?

My favorite blogger is Dingo over at As I Was Saying. She was one of the first commentors on my blog, and she has become my blog hero. She's had like a million different jobs, from stewardess to attorney to college professor, and has the baddest Photoshop skills you've ever seen. Plus she has a baby pigeon named McJagger (well, maybe he's not a baby anymore, or even a boy, and maybe he no longer resides on her porch or enjoys Dingo Girl's protection, but still, McJAGGER? Come on! That's golden.) Also I want her on my side during the zombie apocalypse, because she's devoted some serious time to planning for and surviving said apocalypse.

4) Your favorite nickname someone else has given you*.


Well, it's definitely not Wine Eye. My sisters called me Sarah Jeanie Weenie when we were little and I hated that, too. My senior year of high school, though, I developed an insane crush on my AP American History teacher, Mr. Tucker. Man, my knees still get weak thinking about him. I had (and filmed, the shame!) a fake wedding in which my Little Foot stuffed dinosaur stood in for Mr. Tucker at the altar. I was convinced that when I saw him at the Homecoming football game the year after I graduated, he'd offer to take me for a ride on his motorcycle, and then propose marriage. I guess I don't need to tell you what didn't happen that night. Sigh.

What we were talking about? Oh yeah, nicknames. There were only 6 people in my history class, and when we were learning about the Battle of Saratoga, Mr. Tucker started calling me Saratoga Jean (my middle name is Jean, if you haven't picked that up already) and it is now my email address, my screen name, and my first and only tattoo. Ok, one of those is a lie. But Mr. Tucker, if you are out there...I love you. Still. Call me.

5) If you had to move to a major city somewhere in the US, what would it be
and why?


I'd move to Honolulu, because I couldn't stand to be anywhere colder than where I am right now. We lived in Hawai'i for 6 years when I was in elementary school, and if money wasn't a consideration I'd moved back in a heart beat. The ocean is beautiful, the water is clear and warm all year long, the food is an absolutely delicious blend of Polynesian and Asian influences, the culture is fascinating, and even on your worst day, you are still in Hawai'i. The best corn on the cob and the best shave ice I've ever eaten were from roadside vendors on the way home from the North Shore. Man, I need to start saving my pennies.

So, who's next?
------------------------------------------------------
*I don't believe in giving yourself a nickname. That's why I slapped several people in the face at a bar who were calling my friend Ashley "A-bomb." It's not a real nickname, guys, she gave it to herself. Stop calling her that. Call her "Smashley." It's funnier.

I know I shouldn't have slapped the innocents who didn't know any better. But I couldn't help myself. My rage blinded me.

I am the anti-Rockwell

For some reason, I think I am invisible when I'm in the car. I have no problems picking my nose and flicking boogers out of the window, or going for a quick crotch scratch. I don't know why; my windows aren't tinted, and my car sits pretty much as low to the ground as you can get and still clear speed bumps.

Come to think of it, I think I am invisible much of the time. Stain on my shirt? Who's looking close enough to notice? Wacked-out hair? Well, I'm just going to Food Lion, nobody really cares. The flip side of this is that I look at people non-stop. Not that I'm necessarily judging people, but I look at and take note of food stains, signs of poor hygiene, unfortunate clothing choices, etc. Let me reiterate--I am not judging. I'm wondering about the thought process behind strangers' appearances. I can understand that comfort might prompt that lady to wear sweat pants to pick up a gallon of milk, but I'm baffled by the high heels. I want to know the thought process.

I mean, I have an excuse a story for the dirt on my pants. Ernie jumped on me when I was on my way out of the door. I don't know about you, but I don't budget an extra 25 minutes to find a backup outfit in the morning. Once the clothes are ironed, on the body, and have passed the mirror test, I'm committed. I can't go through the whole process of imagining an outfit, combing my dirty clothes hamper closet for the necessary articles, assembling the appropriate undergarments, and ironing twice in one morning, simply because I drooled some toothpaste onto my sweater. Who's going to notice, anyway?

ALSO, LBluca77 is continueing the Pay It Forward Contest, and the last day to enter is TOMORROW. Go check it out and leave a comment to be entered.

I am a chubby chaser, and I hate ranch dressing

Seriously, I love the expression on the old guy's face in this picture.

It's no secret among my circle of friends that I am a chubby chaser. With very few exceptions (including my current beau), I have always been attracted to slightly overweight guys. I'm not sure why; maybe it's because they tend to be funny and I like funny guys. Maybe it's because they are good insulation on a cold night. Or maybe it's because if we ever crashed our plane in the Andes Mountains, they would provide more caloric sustenance.

Yesterday I stumbled upon Man vs. Food, starring Adam Richman. The premise of the show is that this guy goes around the country and takes on local restaurants' eating challenges. After I saw him successfully eat a 72 oz. steak, plus a salad, baked potato, and a yeast roll, in 32 minutes, I was smitten.

**[UPDATE] Adam also ate a shrimp cocktail with this meal. Oh. My. Gosh.**

**[CONTINUED UPDATE] I was wondering what that thing was between the salad and the roll. I guess that's a shrimp cocktail. With at least 4 shrimp. This man is a GOD.**

Half-way into the show, however, I had to break up with Adam. Why, you might ask, when you two are so obviously a match made in heaven? Well, internet friends, Mr. Richman put ranch on his fried chicken. True, it was at the urging of the proprietor of Gus' Fried Chicken, but still. I hate ranch.

My hate affair with ranch started when I was about 11 years old. I was babysitting my 3 younger sisters, when one of them opened up the fridge and out fell a glass, family-sized bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing. It broke all over the floor, spreading under the cabinets and to almost every corner of our little kitchen. I don't know if you've ever tried it, but it is near to impossible to clean up a sea of ranch dressing. After breathing in the ranch fumes for what felt like 6 hours, I was done with ranch. The thought of it made me gag.

Fast forward about 9 years. I'm in college, waiting tables at a rib joint in North Carolina. Every time I turned around, a table was asking for ranch. Their requests blended together until it sounded like the bleating of so many redneck sheep. "Ranch! Ranch!"

*shudder*

My friend decided that ranch is what runs in the devil's veins. My fellow servers and I would complain when we got sat a bunch of likely ranch dressing lovers.

"Dammit, I just got sat an 8 top of ranch eaters."

or

"Fucking ranch eaters--they didn't even leave me 10%."

I'd try to get my petty revenge on these tables. Our menu said that we had a 'low calorie' ranch, which we were always out of, and I loved to bring ramekin after ramekin of the regular 'high fucking calorie' version to ladies at lunch who requested the 'low cal' version.

"Are you sure this is low-cal? It tastes so good!"
"Of course, ma'am. We carry only Ken's Steakhouse Dressings, that's probably why you can't taste the difference."
"Well, do you mind bringing me some extra ranch, then? Since it's low-cal..."

Hahaha...joke's on you, biotch. I'm not even mad you left me a $0.75 tip on your $9 salad.

The ranch dressing icing on the cake was when one mother, in between puffs on her More cigarette, told me her son needed extra ranch dressing on his salad. But of course, ma'am.

"Really, he just wants ranch soup with some lettuce floating in it," she laughs.

*sound of a record scratching*

What?

So, I'm sorry, Adam Richman. Things would never work out between us. You are funny, and charming, and I'd never have to worry about forgetting my to-go box at restaurants, if I could just overlook this one flaw. You are so close to being the perfect man.

Also you have a master's degree from Yale's School of Drama and I think you might be gay.

Is it cliche to say that men are incapable of putting the seat down?

I grew up with three sisters. When I moved out and went to college, I went to a women's college. When I got my first apartment, I lived with 2 other girls. I have never (knock on wood) fallen into the toilet seat because a man has left the seat up. Dating Steve, though, has taught me to never take for granted that the toilet seat is as I left it. Up, down--you better check that shit unless you want to end up dunking your ass in some toilet water at 2 in the morning.

The other night I woke up, having to pee. I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the light. As I approached the toilet, I saw that the seat was down.

"Aw," I thought. "Steve put the seat down. He really is such a thoughtful guy."

I got closer, thinking nice thoughts about Steve, but I soon noticed that something was amiss. The seat was sparkling like Edward in the sunshine. As this is not typical of Steve's toilet, I investigated further.

I think you know where I'm going with this. Steve had, in fact, not put the seat down, or up for that matter, but in a sleepy stupor had peed all over the seat. Thank goodness I turned the light on and noticed the sprinkle. Or I would have had to suffocate him in his sleep.

Birds are the devil

It's no secret that I hate birds. Those bitches are mean and disgusting. Just the other week I in my car, reading the last of When You Are Engulfed in Flames, when a flock of mockingbirds swarmed my car. Mostly they just pooped all over it, but one of those fuckers tried to get in through the window I'd left cracked. He kept trying to squeeze his diseased-ridden body through the 1 inch opening, and when he finally realized he wasn't going to make it in, he hurled himself repeatedly again the window before attacking his reflection in my side-view mirror. I was so shocked by the initial onslaught I spilled my delicious apple cider in my lap. After the birds left, I sat in my car, shaking, and looked around the parking lot to see if anyone else had witnessed my "When Animals Attack" experience. Seriously, I think the kamikaze one had rabies.

Dr. Zibbs from That Blue Yak posted a truly horrifying story yesterday about some hillbilly who passed out in the desert and woke up as a TURKEY BUZZARD landed on his chest. Dr. Zibbs touted it as a "funny story" but it was actually a terrifying story. After I read it I threw up on my desk. Well, maybe I didn't actually throw up, but I was seriously disturbed. I tried to shake it off and leave a funny comment, pretending that I wasn't way freaked out, but all I could think about was a huge-ass vulture sitting on my chest, getting ready to use his sharp beak to peck out my eyes AND EAT THEM. I'm getting goose bumps just thinking about it.

Even if I didn't like to eat poultry I still would do it, just to show those fuckers who's the boss.

I'm sorry I said 'fuckers' twice. Well, now three times. See what birds do to me?

The one where vampires cause me to break into my own car with a screwdriver and an American flag

I am an idiot.

I left work during my lunch break yesterday with two goals in mind: mail my rent check and buy a copy of New Moon. I was unsuccessful in both endeavors.

I went to the Wal*Mart up the road where I thought I would have the best luck buying both the book and some stamps. I'd looked at both Barnes and Noble and Books-a-Million, but every 13 year old girl, her mother, her maiden aunt, and her 20-something sister has been buying up these books so they are pretty scarce. As I grabbed my purse, I glanced at my copy of Twilight sitting on the passenger seat. Visions of Edward-crazed tweens played out in my head, and I decided to lock the doors.

Inside Wal*Mart--no New Moon. Dammit. Defeated, I bought some stamps from the vending machine and headed back to the car. Where I had unfortunately locked the doors with the keys still in the ignition. Double dammit. Spare key? Nope. With the whole of Wal*Mart at my disposal, I figured I could find something to help me break into my own car.

Trolling the aisles, I settled on a flat head screwdriver and a 3 ft. dowel, which unfortunately had an American flag stapled to it. Back at the car, I managed to wedge my door open enough to stick the dowel into the car and push the 'unlock' button on the door handle. After, of course, I had ripped the flag off while cursing the entire Cullen clan and my own stupidity.

It's not everyday you see someone desecrating the American flag and cursing Stephenie Meyers in the Wal*Mart parking lot.

On an up note, writing this post reminded me to mail my rent check.

Fact or Fiction Tuesday

Item 1:

Statement: Because you caught me updating my Netflix queue at work, I have enough time on my hands to help you organize your Mortar, Concrete, and Grout Test Reports.

FICTION
Sure, I have a little time on my hands. I'm efficient. That doesn't mean I have time to do your job, too. Just to clear something up--when I helped you out a month ago clear off the landfill you call a desk, I wasn't setting up a standing date. Stop hinting that you could really use my organizational skills again. Buying me lunch isn't going to entice me back into the no man's land that is your office. It smells like onions and feet. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a couple of hundred unread blog posts to attend to in my Google Reader. Good day, sir.

Item 2:

Statement: I enjoy coming home to find 3 or 4 pairs of underwear scattered about the house, sans crotch.

FACT
Obviously. Otherwise why would I leave my underwear on the very top of my tall dresser, easily accessible to any passing pitbull with a vertical leap of 6' or more? Clearly I am too good to wear any single pair of panties more than once.

Item 3:

Statement: Traffic signs displaying 'SPEED LIMIT 45' should be interpreted to mean 'drive as slow as you'd like, preferably 30 mph.'

FICTION
Surprising, I know. Even though one of my headlights burned out last week so I am forced to drive with my brights on to avoid a ticket until I can convince Steve to help me replace the bulb, know that I would be driving with my brights on behind you even if it this wasn't the case. Because I'd like to be home at 5:45 on a Friday evening, not crawling behind your slow ass, watching as you gab on the phone and toss your cigarette butts out of the window. You probably can't tell because my bright lights are in your rear view mirror, but I'm giving you the finger.

Item 4:

Statement: I would kick ass at Wheel of Fortune.

FACT


POLYNESIAN RESTAURANT. Got it.
PLUS I would not be a greedy spinner, risking bankrupting myself while trying to up my winnings for the round. I would be content win a couple thousand each round, and really clean up in the 'toss up' rounds. I wouldn't scream or lose my cool when I landed on a big money space, either. I'd calmly collect my cardboard pie piece which represented a trip to New Mexico, and laugh all the way to the bonus round. Which I would win. Then I would give Pat Sajak a high-five and smile at Vanna as she opened the door to the brand new Chevy convertible I had just won. I'd pretend I was driving and honk the horn as the program faded to commercial.

Item 5:

Statement: You can win cool stuff just by commenting on this blog.

FACT

Click here for details.

I know it's just a t-shirt and a couple of coozies, but we are in an Economic Crisis!

You know that scene in Erin Brokovich where her biker boyfriend presents Julia Roberts with a pair of earrings after giving her a speech about how he had been planning on giving them to her the next time she said 'thank you' or did something nice? And how that never happened so he was just going to give them to her now, as he broke up with her?

Well, I told myself last night that I'd do a bloggy give away as soon as I won something. Lo and behold, Lump gave me an award! Sweet. Happy Friday to me!

To prevent my Fabulous Crown from being snatched from my head as I cry and run stumbling from the catwalk, scalp bleeding and mascara running, I am to list 5 of my addictions, and pass it along to 5 other fabulous bloggers.

My addictions:

1. Tetris - Steve has two bathrooms in his house; one is the regular, public bathroom and the other one I call the 'poopy bathroom' in my head because it is in the master bedroom and this is where I go when I need to see a man about a horse. In addition to the Maxim magazines, there is a Game Boy. I have sat there, pants around my ankles, for upwards of 45 minutes playing Tetris and trying to beat his high score. I have been as of yet unsuccessful, but maybe I'll make some chili this weekend and get in some quality time with the Game Boy.

2. Serial novels - I cannot pass up a book series. Sometimes this is good; the Dune series, the Chronicles of Narnia, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Harry Potter, etc. Some times this is not so good. See: Clan of the Cave Bear. The first book was good alright, but the series quickly devolves into soft core housewife porn. I couldn't stop, though. I slogged through to the end of the series, however, and towards the end it seemed like every other page was a mammoth on human rape scene. When I finally finished, I felt dirty.

3. Socks - I need to have socks on ALL THE TIME. Even if I kick them off during the night, I have a hard time falling asleep without socks on. These little piggies get cold.

4. Karaoke - Karaoke is like a drug to me. Once I sing one song, I want need to sing another, and another, and another, until I'm signing up for songs under various pseudonyms in a desperate attempt to trick the DJ into letting me sing more songs, boasting proudly that "karaoke is 2% singing ability and 98% song choice," and loudly promising to vomit on the next person who sings "Strawberry Wine."

5. Biting my fingernails - Hi, my name is Sarah and I am a nail biter. It's disgusting, I know, but I CAN'T STOP.

I'm passing this along to the following bloggers:

Katie @ save the pitbull, save the world because I am in awe of all the fabulous work she's done with her adorable pitties, Luce and Mushroom.

LBluca77 for her fabulous bacon eating abilities.

BrazenBareToe for pointing me in the direction of the torture fabulous experience that is NaNoWriMo.

Dolce @ La Dolce Vita for her fabulous ability to make my co-workers doubt my sanity as I laugh out loud not-so-quietly at my desk.

Finally, to Nilsa @ SoMi for organizing and hosting the fabulous BlogSecret.

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Ok, so the first Bad Mutha Fudruckers' Pay it Forward Give Away.

The prizes: A t-shirt and two coozies from Wilmington's Most Awesome Dex And Ernie Friendly Bar, The Barbary Coast.

*actual t-shirt/coozy design may vary slightly, as I just made these up from memory in MS Paint today*

How to win: Leave a comment starting today (11/21) and ending Sunday, November 30 to be entered in the contest. One entry for each comment (multiple comments=multiple entries, up to 2 per post). If you have a blog and pimp this contest on it, you can earn yourself another entry (leave me a comment letting me know you are a pimp). Feel free to use this badge:

The winner will be determined by a random number generator and announced Monday, December 1st. The winner is expected to host their own Pay It Forward Give Away, with their own prizes and rules, thus Paying It Forward.

Questions? No? Good.

If you have a question and are too embarassed to ask in front of the entire class, you can email a Mutha Fudrucker at badmuthafudrucker [at] gmail [dot] com.

My life as a drinking game

When I was a kid, I desperately wanted a dog (shocking, no?). My parents didn't cave until I was 13, when they bought my sisters and I the craziest Dalmatian you've ever met; however that is a story for another time.

For years I tried to trick them into letting me get a pet. When kittens were born (every 4 months) under the dumpster behind our elementary school, I'd bring the mewling, flea-covered kittens to my mom's office and dare her to look into their crusty little eyes and deny them a home. Every science fair I begged my mom to let me get mice to train in a maze. Actually, if we're being truthful here, first I asked for rats, thinking she'd never go for that and then I could maybe bargain her down to mice.

Thus began my unhealthy obsession with lab mice and rats. Reading "Flowers for Algernon" only intensified my longing; of course my little mouse would be a genius. I re-read the description of the mouse habitat built by the Grandmother in Roald Dahl's "The Witches" and fantasized about the tunnels and mazes I'd make so my mice minions could follow me around the house, safely out of the grasp of my little sisters.

One of my favorite movies as a kid was "The Secret of NIMH." I still have a VHS copy that I watch sometimes as I fall asleep. I popped it in to watch again last night. As I lay there, waiting for my bed to warm up and fighting the dogs for blankets, I found myself devising a drinking game to go along with the movie.

Take a drink every time Mrs. Brisby is referred to as "Mrs. Jonathan Brisby."

Take a drink every time Jeremy the Crow sneezes.

Take a drink every time Auntie Shrew r-r-r-r-r-rolls her R's.

Take a drink every time Cynthia says "Timmy's sick!"

I could go on. Not only was I laying in bed making up drinking games that no one besides me would ever want to play, I started thinking about what a great blog post it would make.

Clearly I am scraping the bottom of the barrel for post ideas.

Lauren wins BIG!!

My sister went on a gambling cruise this weekend. This is the email she sent me this morning when I asked how it went:

Hey sarah...we did go gambling and it was a terrible time...who would of thunk I'd get sick..darn motion sickness...i took 2 Dramamine but I still threw up..twice!! And lost 20 bucks! And then when we were getting off the boat it started torrentially raining on us..so I had to ride back from s.c soaking wet..and I wanted to just take my shirt off to let it dry, but thought it might me inappropriate since it was me, A, her brother and their mom..but I should of just did it..cause now I think I'm dying of pneumonia

Ooh, details please!

i was sitting at the slot machine, we had just hit international waters so we could finally start gambling and I told A that I was going to barf..i said "it's coming" and she said..well let me get u a bag...(a barf bag)...it seemed like an eternity before she came back, enough time for me to throw up 3 times in my mouth and have to swallow it back down...when she finally came strolling back up with the relief bag, I was pretty much done...but I had some spit I could pack the bag with. We then decided to move to the other side of the ship. I sat in the stool for about maybe 30 more minutes..when this old lady came and sat next to me..then I threw up by her...it didn't seem to faze her because she stayed and played some more..much to my disappointment..i wanted her to leave me be...when she finally moved I threw my 2nd and last barf bag away. At this time the swaying of the boat was making my eyes real heavy so I laid my head on my arms up on the front of the slot machines. Much to my amazement I fell asleep sitting in a backless stool swaying with the 3 ft swells of the ocean. I didn't wake up until an old black man sat next to me and woke me up. He then apologized for doing so, and I thought in my head...wtf? There are a million other open slots...but then I just went back to sleep. The boat finally turned around and we were going with the waves, so I felt slightly better. I moved over by A and her mom at the electronic poker seats and laid out there.

And her description of the ride home? Priceless.

Ya..5 hours on that boat...but after I threw up 2 times...i just laid on the slot machines and went to sleep. And what's really funny is I was trying to look cute on the trip because I have a secret crush on A's brother...but if u didn't know already...vomit=not cute. I had to learn the hard way...

Don't we all.

I want to see Hulk Hogan beat up Danny Bonaduce

I think my blog is going to join Maxie's and go renegade. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo and the 2500 words a day that are going into my crap novel are sucking all of the life out of my blog. I can't seem to get it together enough to write a coherent, let alone mildly entertaining post.

A few thoughts I've had which, given a little time or effort on my part, could have blossomed into full-fledged posts:

• Hulk Hogan.
  When I was younger I was a serious Hulk-a-maniac. My mom wouldn't let me get the WWF magazines, but my cousin Michael who lived down the street did. My sister Lauren and I poured over those magazines and begged our dad to teach us wrestling moves. Fast forward to the present day. I may or may not have watched every single episode of Hogan Knows Best. I strong armed my boyfriend into letting me watch American Gladiators at his house every Monday night. Now Hulk has a new reality show on CMT, Hulk Hogan's Celebrity Championship Wrestling. Danny Bonaduce gives me nightmares, but I still tune in on Saturday nights, if I can stay up until 10.
  


• Netflix is messing with my mind.
  I currently have 42 movies in my Netflix queue. Why? Because I'll go through periods in which I'll add a ton of movies that Netflix recommends which I've never heard of. When these movies arrive 4 weeks later, I get all amped up for a pizza and movie night. Unfortunately, I open my little red envelopes to find I've got MirrorMask and Elling waiting for me. Two good movies, don't get me wrong, but not exactly beer-and-pizza fare. On a Friday night, I'm not really in the mode to watch a Norweigan film with subtitles about a neurotic mama's boy and his simple-minded, sex obsessed roommate. Sounded good a month ago when I was bored at work, though.
  


• Orange Soda.
  I'm addicted to the stuff. Sure, who doesn't enjoy a Sunkist every now and then, but I'm going through it like gang busters and I'm not sure why.
  


• Kath and Kim.
  Is anyone else watching this show besides my friends and I? I love Molly Shannon and I want the show to be a success, but it kind of sucks.

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.

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.