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 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.

Wine Eye?!? What happened to Notorious?

I was riding with J and Julie to a friend's wedding, when I over heard this half of a phone conversation between J and The Groom:

J: Yeah, we're almost there...I'm with Julie and Sarah.
The Groom: (inaudible)
J: Hahaha, yeah, Wine Eye Sarah.

Me: What? Who's Wine Eye Sarah?

WTF? I'd never heard that particular nickname. I interrogated J and Julie, but neither one of them was copping to any knowledge of the origins of the nickname. I barely made it through the ceremony before rushing The Groom and demanding an explanation. I walked away in a huff after he spilled the beans.

The backstory: I used to date The Groom's best friend a couple of years ago. We met at a local bar that had karaoke and 1/2 price bottles of wine every Sunday. Needless to say, I was there just about every Sunday.

The beans: Unbeknownst to me, drinking an entire bottle of wine all by myself causes one of my eyes to, well, there's no delicate way to say this, drift? Go lazy? How fucking embarassing. Karaoke Boyfriend and his boys were laughing at my lazy drunk eye and calling me Wine Eye. Granted, these boys gave everyone a nickname, but I thought mine was Notorious, since that was what they called me to my face and my signature karaoke song was (and continues to be) Notorious by Duran Duran.

I wanted to punch someone, but since Karaoke Boyfriend was safely in Colorado and The Groom was, well, The Groom, I had to laugh it off and pretend I didn't care. But I did, internet. I did.

But then I reviewed pictures from the wedding after-party and decided the nickname was warranted, after all. Still, that fucking sucks.

Ernie's imitation of Wine Eye Sarah.

Not funny, Ernie.

Anyway, if you've noticed a decline in pictures of the dogs over the past couple of weeks (come one, I know there's at least one of you), it's because Wine Eye struck again and I lost my camera. HOWEVER, Steve rocks and got me a brand spanking new camera for Christmas.

Sorry, internets, I've been an asshole blogger.

Posting on Monday?** Who does that? Certainly not any cool people...

I have a serious case of holiday induced I-don't-feel-like-doing-shit-itis. Actually, I do feel like doing something. Namely, sitting on my couch, reading Breaking Dawn and sipping on some dark hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. Unfortunately, that is not a paying gig and if I want to continue to heat the house and keep dog food in Ernie and Dex's bowls, I'm going to have to do some actual work around here.*

This morning I got stuck behind a school bus. Crappy, I know, but it was made even more crappy because not one but two creepy kids stared at me the entire time. We're talking 5 miles with at least 7 stop lights. At first I pretended I didn't see them, but I kept making accidental eye contact when I'd check to see if they were still looking at me. Then I pretended to be singing along to the radio, but my car stereo was stolen and I haven't replaced it yet. I haven't been able to get Britney Spears out of my head since this weekend, and I felt a little weird mouthing "wo-man-izer wo-man wo-man-izer you're a wo-man-izer" to elementary school kids. At the next stoplight I pretended to be engrossed in the Christmas card my friend Julie had sent me.

Oh, Julie, how nice of you to include Hemo in the card, even though Hemo is a bitch and doesn't celebrate Christmas or any other holiday other than Breakfast and Dinner.

Even though the card was glittery, it wasn't enough to hold my attention for much more than 20 seconds at a time.

Why am I so desperate to put on a show for these kids? Jeez, shouldn't they be picking their noses and wiping boogers on each other? Speaking of picking noses...

*slaps hand away from nose*

No, Sarah, don't set a bad example.

Oh, Swiss Miss and peppermint schnapps, knowing you are waiting for me at the end of the day is hopefully enough to keep me from pulling a George Costanza and napping under my desk for most of today...
------------------------------------------------------
*Not here here, because unfortunately blogging is not a paying gig. It is cheaper than therapy and it makes me sound busy at work, though.
**Proofreading? The cool kids aren't doing this, either, are they? I mean, I know this one isn't.

And the winner is...

...LBluca77!

Yay for you! Email me at badmuthafudrucker [at] gmail [dot] com to let me know what size t-shirt you'd like and where you'd like me to send it. BTW, if you haven't read LBluca77's blog, you are missing out. I've never laughed so hard about someone's food addiction.

Thanks again to Marie, BrazenBareToe, and BohoPoetGirl for pimping the contest; I've got something special for you lovely ladies if you'll send me an email to let me know where to send it.

In other news...

• BlogSecret repercussions continue to be felt here at Bad Mutha Fudrucker Central. For the back story, read here and here. S0, Potential read Anonymous' letter and left a comment saying "there is undeniable potential." Anonymous is taking Potential out to dinner when he gets back into town in two weeks, so hopefully he'll give us an update after their dinner.
  
• It's official--I am way out of shape. I played Wii Fit at my dad's on Thanksgiving, and after 15 minutes of Wii hula-hooping, my abs were killing me and my legs felt like jelly. The next day I felt like I got pummelled by Hans and Franz.
  
• I suck at Scrabble. Or Steve is really good. I'm not sure which one. He definitely knows his way around the rules, though. Current standings: Steve-3, Me-1. It is a sad day.
  
• Marie's pumpkin bread is idiot-proof. I am a terrible baker; I use 1 measuring cup for both my wet and dry ingredients, I do not allow my eggs to come to room temperature before adding them, I don't own a mixer and have to mix everything by hand, the list goes on. Despite these handicaps, I managed to turn out 2 loaves of pumpkin bread and 24 mini muffins. Win!
  
• I've seen Twilight. Twice. One of my girlfriends had a dream in which Edward had beautiful, glowing testicles. Another friend dreamt that he wrote her research paper. I haven't had my Edward dream yet.

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.

It was a fluke, he says

Ok, first up is some bloggy business. If you, like me, have a less-than-private blog and would like to post something absolutely anonymously, Nilsa at SoMi is organizing an anonymous blog swap. By last count there were 60 bloggers participating, and I know I'm looking forward to it. Publish date is the 18th, I think, so there is still time to join.

Now, on to the real news. I finally beat Steve at Scrabble. I attribute it to the power of positive thinking. He's beaten me twice before, but this Sunday I finally got my first win.

**Warning to all you northerners currently experiencing cold/wet/icy/snowy weather. Graphic descriptions of mild North Carolina autumn to follow.**

I'm not really a competitive person by nature. I played one sport in high school, softball, and even then I either played in the outfield or sat the bench. Board games, however, are my jam. Pictionary is my favorite, but I've been known to play a mean game of Taboo, Trivial Pursuit, or Cranium. When Steve challenged me to a game of Scrabble a couple of months ago, I thought I was going to impress him with my mad vocabulary skills. What actually happened was that he blew me out of the water with 10-point "Q's" and his domination of the "Triple Word Score" spaces.

I tried to dismiss this first loss as a fluke, but during a rematch he spanked me again. I had the lead going into the second half, but he shut me down with an 11th hour word blitz. He is convinced I under-estimated him, but in reality, I over-estimated myself. I sadly resigned myself to a future devoid of Scrabble wins.

Until...
Scene: Sunday, around 11:00 am. Rather than watch yet another episode of "Snapped" (my new obsession), I challenge Steve to a Scrabble rematch. It's about 65 degrees and sunny, so we headed outside and squared off across the Scrabble board in dueling wheelchairs, the dogs napping at our feet.

"This must be what it's like in a retirement home," Steve mused.

Stop trying to distract me. Game on.

I came out strong with "EXCUSE" for 20 points. He answered with "ROOKIE." The battle raged on, until Steve challenged my "AB" for a triple word score. Vindicated by the On-line Scrabble Dictionary, I challenged his "OZ" and eeked out a 10 point win. IN YOUR FACE, Steve.

At least until next time.

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!

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.

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.

Trouble

Blogger's "save" feature isn't working for me today, so here's some pictures of me torturing Ernie.

Oh, hi. Just ripping up my toy, nothing to see here.

You want this toy? Why?

Oh.

This sucks.

The one where I give a homeless drug addict $20

I was sweeping the leaves/dirt/broken Old English bottles off of the sidewalk in front of my house yesterday when I was approached by a skinny, bald, black man.

Him: Looks like you could use some help.

Me: (laughs) I could use some help getting my grass cut.

I could use some help convincing the neighborhood lay-abouts that my front lawn is not a glass recycling bin.

Him: Well, ma'am, I'm staying at a shelter right now, but I've done some landscaping and I could cut your grass for you.

I agree to pay him $20 to cut my front and back yard with a lawnmower he'll borrow from a friend. Thunder is rumbling in the distance and it's sprinkling, so I tell him to come back tomorrow around 5:30 to cut the grass.

Him: I-I, uh, I really need that $20 today, ma'am. I have to make my rent or he's going to put me out.

Rent? Are they charging rent at homeless shelters now? And who's 'he'?

I tell the guy it's up to him if he wants to mow in the rain, and he walks down the street to get the lawn mower.

He shows up 15 minutes later with a gas-powered weed eater, which he cannot get to stay cranked long enough to cut more than 2 or 3 blades of grass. After about 45 minutes of cursing at and tinkering with the weed eater (with Ernie and I watching from the window), he admits defeat and knocks on my door.

Him: I don't know what's wrong with that thing. But I'm almost half-way done (he's not even 1/5 of the way done with the front yard), so if you pay me that $20 now I'll come back tomorrow and do the rest.

Me: Um, I can pay you $5 for what you've done, sir, but I don't feel comfortable paying you the rest until the work is done.

Him: (getting visibly anxious) Look, I'll give you my wallet and leave the weed eater here. I promise I'll be back tomorrow; I really need that $20.

Please, God, let that weed eater not be stolen.

Me: Sir, I'm sorry. I don't want your wallet, and I can't let you leave the weed eater here. If you can come back tomorrow to cut the grass, I'll be happy to pay you the rest of the money.

He leaves, and I start to feel bad. I mean, I not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but $20 on any given day is not going to make or break me. I'm thinking maybe I should have just given him the money and hoped for some good karma.

Cut to: a half hour later, Ernie is freaking out and I hear a lawnmower cranking out front. I look out the window and Mr. I-Need-That-Money-Right-Now has procured a lawnmower from who-knows-where and is cutting the grass with a shit-eating grin on his face. He sees me at the window, waves, points to the lawn mower, and gives me a thumbs up. Sweet. But now I'm faced with a dilemma. I have a 20, a 10, and four 1 dollar bills, minus the $5 I gave to him earlier. I think about trying to get the $5 back from him and giving him the $20 bill, but I know I'd probably just end up giving him all $25. A thorough search of the house reveals nary a stray dollar bill. I have to break into my precious stash of vending machine quarters to come up with the last dollar of the $15 I owe him. Apologizing for the change as I hand the money to him, I am secretly mourning the loss of those four quarters.

Soldiers in the KISS Army

If Dexter were to join an online dating site, this would be his profile pic:

Come on! Look at that tongue. It's obscene. He looks like he's auditioning for the K-9 KISS Tribute Band.

Ernie makes a decent Paul Stanley, don't you think?

I'm embarassed at how long I spent making these pictures. There is no way The Boss can believe I'm working right now.

We've Missed You, too

I am a lazy bad blogger. Life's been a little stressful lately, and I've become seperated (yet again) from my camera. But not to fear--the joyous reunion occured at around 8:45 last night. So, a quick update on the boys. Dexter has become re-attached to his crate--he loves it! Even when Ernie pulls the blankets out in an attempt to uncover hidden nyla bones.

(*Note: I know he looks like he's being punished, but that's because I'm torturing him with the camera, not because of the crate)

In a fit of stress-induced creativity, I made the boys new beds:

(Again, they look extremely put-out, but it's due to the camera.)

The boys also got baths (no pictures) and new collars:
And the feral cat family? They're doing alright, too.

Also, I saw Journey/Heart/Cheap Trick in concert:

...and saw a van with a vagina painted on the back. Enjoy!

I see crazy people

Crazy people are scary. Ever since I was a kid, I've been afraid that some crazy person is out to get me. Not because of something I've done, or said, or am, but because they are crazy. Branches scratching at the window? A desperate psychopath was slowly etching his way into my bedroom with the fingernail he'd sharpened just for that purpose. Unexplained glint in my American Girls Doll's eye? A surveillance camera set up by a maniac so he'd know when I'm asleep.

My bedroom in highschool was over the garage, on the opposite side of the house from the rest of the family. My mom would stand at the bottom of the stairs, turn out the light, and wish me goodnight. I just knew some wacked-out killer was going to echo my mom's "I love you, hon," with his own creepy "I love you, too," as he slid out from underneath my bed and duct taped my mouth.

My paranoia reached its pinnacle with a one-two punch from HBO. I watched a special about BTK, a serial killer in Witchita, Kansas who calmly admitted to murdering numerous women during his trial. In one instance, he stalked a single women in his neighborhood for a period of time, until he felt confident enough to break into her house when she was away from home. He hid in her bedroom closet. When she came home, she had a "male guest" with her; BTK waited hours until the guest left. After she had gone to bed, BTK emerged from the closet, and (according to him) calmly explained to her that he had a "problem" and that she was going to have to do exactly as he instructed her. Then, per his modus operandi, he bound, tortured, and killed her. Oh, and he took some pictures and dumped her body at the chuch where he was a Deacon. At the time, Ernie was going through a book-chewing phase, so I kept him in his crate while I was at work. When I'd get home, I'd check that the basement door was still locked and then let Ernie out of his kennel. We canvassed each room, under beds, behind the shower curtain, in closets, behind doors, and in cabinets until I was satisfied BTK wasn't there. One horrible day it occured to me that if some psycho were to decide to stalk and kill me, all he'd have to do was sneak in every day for a week or so and give Ernie a treat, thereby becoming a friend in Ernie's eyes. I am my own worst enemy.

A couple of days later I watched "Sin City" and saw my beloved Elijah Wood dismembering and eating hookers. I'm not a prostitute, but who's to say tastes don't change? I stopped wearing my ipod during walks so I could listen for footsteps behind me, or the sound of sliding gravel as Frodo leapt from the shallow pit he'd fashioned to ambush me as I walked by.

But don't worry. My fears don't keep me from functioning in society. One day, while calmly relaying my fears to a friend, he gave me a really strange look.

Me: Don't worry about me. I'm one step ahead of those crazies.

Him: No, I'm not afraid for you. I'm afraid of you.

Come on. I'm not afraid of aluminum foil or chocolate frosting. Crazy people are scary.

Officer Sarah, reporting for duty

North Carolina has a program, "Swat a Litterbug," that lets meddlesome concerned citizens report acts of vehicular littering. This is the perfect program for me--I get to ride around town, pen and paper handy, and jot down the license plate number of any douche bag I see throwing their cigarette butts out of the window. I then go to the website and report the license plate, along with the date, time, and location of the littering incident. It gives me a small sense of satisfaction to imagine the look on strangers' faces when they get an (unfortunately non-threatening) letter from the NC Highway Patrol, encouraging them to be more responsible about their waste disposal.

My ultimate fantasy would be to retrieve the jettisoned cigarette butt, catch the litter bug at a stoplight, and toss it back into their car yelling, "You dropped this!" But then I would have to run back to my car and try to lose the irate litter bug in Wilmington traffic, which would be difficult with all the stop lights, stop signs, and the occasional stray dog crossing the road. This scenario requires more gumption than I possess, so I usually settle for pressing very hard with my pen as I write the license plate number down and hissing to myself, "I've got you now, sucka."

Sunscreen is cool

Fridays during the summer the city of Wilmington hosts a "Downtown Sundown" concert series, with live bands and expensive domestic beers. A lot of the bands are cover bands, which is awesome for me because I have unsophisticated tastes in music. A couple of Fridays ago "The Frontier," a Journey cover band, played. Like most drunken 20-somethings, I was way into it. Unlike most drunken 20-somethings, I found myself dancing with a creepy old lady. Melanoma Face is a walking skin cancer PSA if ever I've seen one.

All I wanted to do was enjoy Kenny's delicious guitar riffs.

Dreams are boring

I know, I know. Nobody likes hearing other people's dreams, unless it's a sex dream, and then you only want to hear about it if you were involved. But anyway, I had a dream last night that I was a contestant on "American Gladiators." I love that show, and even though I know I would eventually be defeated by the hand-bike and the Travelator (the uphill treadmill), I would have a moment of kick ass glory on the cargo-rope climb and the teeter-totter walk. I digress.

In my dream, I beat the Eliminator and was way excited. I even had to wrestle the male Gladiators (thank goodness, not Wolf) and I still won. I woke up pretty pumped. But then I was disappointed, because I had also dreamed I went grocery shopping and got bananas for my cereal, which did not happen in real life.

Also, yesterday was Ernie's birthday. He is now 3. He used to look like this:


Now he looks like this:

My own adventure

Indiana Jones. Need I say more? I want to see this movie so badly that I'm prepared to brave the Local Multiplex on a Friday Night to see it, armed only with a purse full of Jack Daniels airplane bottles and a bucket of Cherry Coke. I'm not above doling out Karate Chops To The Kidneys to the middle schoolers making out in front of me in the concession stand line, either. I refrained at Busch Gardens, kids, but you only get one freebie.

And no, I will not be the ass hole holding up the line by asking the poor, harried concession stand worker to butter the bottom half of my popcorn as well as the top. We all know nobody eats a whole bag of movie-theater popcorn. And if you are the type who brings their half-empty bag home with them after the movie...sad. Just sad. It will never taste as good as it did staring at a 2 story tall screen.

Shia, Harrison, you better have your game faces on. I'll see you at 9:15.