TMI Thursday

Ok, so maybe this isn't really TMI, but it is an embarrassing story none the less.

My sister, aunt, 18 month old niece, and myself were in hour 14 of our 15 hour road trip from North Carolina to Michigan. We were making our way through downtown Detroit when we heard a grinding noise coming from underneath the car. My aunt pulled off on the next exit, and stopped at the first gas station we pass to inquire about the nearest service station. While my aunt was in the gas station, a man approached the Dumpster we were parked next to and urinated on it. My sister and I crouched behind my niece's car seat in the hopes that the black half of her racial heritage would be enough to give us some street cred.

We were pointed in the direction of, I kid you not, the scariest auto repair shop you have ever seen in your entire life. From the oil-spattered walls to the tiny rottweiler puppy tied to a cinder block chewing on a styrofoam take-out tray, everything about that place gave me the willies. I accompanied my aunt to the bathroom, which was no more than a filthy commode stuck in an alcove with half of a shower curtain for a door. I decided I'd hold it a couple more hours, but my aunt was in dire straits so I gamely shielded her as well as I could as she did her best in the cesspool.

We reluctantly left the safety of my aunt's car and crowded into the tiny office as the mechanics took a look at the car. There are two chairs in the front office, but no one sat in them. I was holding my niece when I suddenly felt a warm patch spread slowly across my hip. Her diaper had leaked. After retrieving her diaper bag from the car, we got her in a fresh diaper but I was stuck wearing my urine-soaked road-trip jammies.

That place may have been filthy, but they were quick. I don't even remember what was wrong with the car, but they had us out of there in 90 minutes. As we filed out to the car, one of the younger mechanics grabbed my arm.

Him: "Hey, can I get your phone number?"

Are you kidding me? I thought. My hair hasn't been washed in 2 days and I reek of baby pee.

Me: "Um, well I live in North Carolina, so I don't really think this would work out."

He looked at me with an exasperated look on his face.

Him: "No, I need your aunt's phone number. In case we need to get in touch with her about her car."

I blushed wildly and ducked quickly into the car.

Me: "Aunt Mary, they need your phone number."

You win this time, venison.

Even though nobody asked what Harry Potter yarn looks like yesterday, I know you were all wondering. Here you go, cry babies:

Happy now? Animal abuse really brings my family together. We also bond over red wine and guacamole, but that is a story for another time.

On to some interesting stuff. Wednesday night I spent the night with my BFF, since her boyfriend was out of town and I am a good friend. Also she mentioned in passing that she was going to put a venison loin in the crock pot. Done and done. I'm there.

BFF and her boyfriend are really fun people, and do interesting things like spear fishing and free-diving. Their freezer is always stocked with fish they've speared while diving at a local ship wreck or shrimp they netted from the waterway in their backyard. I do interesting things like eat their fish and shrimp. BFF works in the land management industry and is really conscious of where her food comes from, growing most of her own vegetables, only eating meat if she's killed it herself or knows the hunter personally,* and guilting me into using Blackle instead of Google. I'm making her sound weird and sanctimonious, but seriously she is awesome.

Long story short, the venison and accompanying homemade mac and cheese was delicious. BFF packed some leftovers for me to take for lunch, and I spent the first half of the day bragging to anyone who would listen about how my lunch was going to fucking rock. Unfortunately for me (and my co-workers), I spent the second half of the day camped pretty close to the office restroom as the wild game raced through me. Everyone at work was complaining about how cold it was yesterday, but my intestinal turmoil had my internal thermostat kicked pretty high and I was flushed and sweaty all day. New Year's resolution to lose a few pounds? I'll go ahead and scratch that off of my list.

Confession time: ok, it wasn't the venison. It was the mac and cheese. Damn you, lactose intolerance! I'm still in denial.

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*After a few drinks a couple of weeks back, BFF confessed to me that she had really been craving bacon lately, and did I want to take up archery with her so we could go bow-hunting for wild boar? I took archery as my PE requirement in college, so of course I said yes. We haven't actually gone any farther with the planning than that initial conversation, but I'll be sure to keep you posted. Though I will most likely fall asleep in the tree blind on the day of the hunt, waking only after someone else makes a kill and throwing up on myself while I watch as the kill is butchered.

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.

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.

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.

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!
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*I know he's dead, but that makes the story even better. Zombie Evil Knieval!

Arr, pirate bars!

Let me preface this post by saying I don't only take the dogs to bars. We go other places, too. Like the beach, the lake, charity dog walks, etc. But it's much easier to take pictures of your dogs when they are 6 feet away from you being cute while you enjoy a beer than it is to take a picture of them while you are swimming away from them and trying not to drown. Also the dogs are like my kids, and while it's frowned upon to bring your kids to the bar, people seem to really enjoy having Bad Mutha Fudruckers at the bar.

Dex made it back safe and sound on Friday. He had a great weekend with his mom, road tripping and hanging out with Other Ernie, Danielle's mom's chihuahua. To celebrate his return, we took the boys to The Barbary Coast, a little hole in the wall bar downtown that is Dex and Ernie friendly. It's definately an interesting place; here are some examples of some of the art work:

Dex was totally in his element:

He even got "behind the bar" privledges:

Now all I've got to do is teach him to grab me a beer while he's back there.

Ernie doesn't have as much fun, because of the Loud Noises coming from the pool tables and the fact that I was constantly moving. He likes his special people to Stay Put where he can keep an eye on them so they Don't Escape.

But then no one had fun because Dex and Ernie got grounded for barking at dogs outside of the bar:

..and I couldn't play pool because I had to keep a close eye on these Mutha Fudruckers. So I took this picture:


Then it was time to go:

I got home and had pasta with meat sauce and dripped pasta sauce all over my shirt. I am a messy eater.

Today can suck it

Barf. Today sucks. It started off rough because I had way too much fun at Tina's house last night, drinking margaritas, eating delicious turkey meatballs, and losing at Scrabble. So I was already planning on hating this morning. When the alarm went off it was still way dark, and Ernie was hogging all the blankets. The lightbulb in my room has been burnt out for a couple days now, but it's too high for me to reach (even on a chair!) and the BF has ignored several requests to bring his ladder over, so my room dark.

By some happy accident I managed to find some stain- and wrinkle-free work-appropriate clothes and a whole pair of underwear. My morning's looking up! I thought. So what if I almost barfed in the shower? Onward and upward! I poured myself some Cranberry Splash Sierra Mist and headed out the door. Hey, the car started! Sweet!

But then shit headed downhill. I sat at just about every stop light between my house and work. I really had to blow my nose and couldn't find a tissue. I forgot to put my check card back in my wallet so no delicious Sausage McMuffin for me. Oh, it gets worse.
You know that funky liquid that collects in your cup holder if you don't clean it out like, ever? Well, I dripped some of that on my pants as I was getting out of the car. That shit stinks. Literally. It smells bad. And now it's on me. I tried to scrub it out in the bathroom, but I just spread the stain around. I'm still smelling the smell now. Yuck. A co-worker brought doughnuts in, and everyone ate the good ones while I was trying to scrub the funk out of my pants. The only two left were a jelly-filled (barf) and a half of a dry non-glazed cake one. Who eats half a doughnut and leaves it in the box?



It doesn't matter anyway; the funk from my pants is turning my stomach.

*Note: I know my day could be much worse. I have a job, a home, friends, family, and awesome pets. But still; a girl's allowed to complain once in a while, right?

I make out like a bandit

When I was little, we had this series of books and tapes geared towards teaching kids morals. Each installment focused on some lesson; responsibility, generosity, honesty, blah blah blah. I don't even know how we got it. I do remember it came with popsicle stick puppets that my sisters and I would use to put on ridiculous plays (which usually offered little by way of storyline and definitely didn't seek to extol any virtue). One particular scene from the "truthfulness" installment sticks with me. A girl walks past a bakery and decides to get a doughnut. A strawberry frosted one (my favorite). She buys one, and realizes that the clerk had given her two much change; now she has enough money to buy another doughnut, but decides to do the right thing and gives the extra change back. Whatever. That story sucks.

Which brings me to the kind of similar but mostly different experience I had the other night at the gas station. I had paid for my gas at the pump already, but went in to get some Gatorade (1 @ $2.09) and Red Bull (3/$5). Don't judge me. Anyway, when my total came to $4.37, I motioned to my purchases:

Me:"For all this?"
Clerk: "Yeah. Powerades are on sale 2/$2. But you got Gatorade."
Me (puzzled): "Um, awesome? And you've got the 3 Red Bulls?"
Clerk: "Uh-huh. They are 3/$5."
Me (laughs nervously): "This is a pretty sweet deal."
Clerk: "Yeah, well..." (looks bored)

I pay with a $10 bill. He gives me $5 and change back.

Clerk: "Hey, that is a pretty sweet deal."
Me (laughs nervously again): "Yeah, that's what I've been trying to tell you."
Clerk (shrugs): "Have a nice night."

I totally felt like I was stealing. I felt bad, but then I remembered that I had just paid $60+ to fill up my Honda Accord, so I felt not so bad. But then I stayed up until 2am on a weeknight, drinking Red Bull and vodka and watching "I Love the 80s" for what must have been the billionth time. In the morning I felt bad again. I should have gotten a doughnut.

Pit bulls are made of sugar

Ernie and Dex got baths this Friday. I know...it's about as much fun as it sounds. First we had fun time, aka Naked Dust Wrestlemania 2008:

'Ah! You're biting my neck!'

'Ah! You're biting my neck!'

'Ah! You're biting my side!'

Ernie got a nice warm bath in the bathtub:

But I had to chase Dex around the backyard with a cookie before he would submit to a cold-water hose-down:

Pimpslap Religion

I saw this driving home from Virginia last night. I'm not sure what else to say about it, other than it shared storefront space in a strip mall with a hair salon called Hairicanes. Across the street is a business called "Granny's Day Care," but I haven't figured out if it's Granny who is doing the babysitting, or if Granny is the one getting her diaper changed. I kind of want to know, but I kind of don't. This block of Market Street is pretty much most of North Carolina in a nutshell. Go 'CANES!

This weekend I was in Richmond with my aunts, sisters, and mom. Every year my Aunt Lisa's company reserves King's Dominion for a Family Appreciation Day, and we get together to enjoy funnel cakes, pretzels, fried oreos (don't ask), frozen lemonade, and the awesomely short lines for the rides. I feel like I'm in that episode of Full House where they go to DisneyWorld and Michelle is named "Princess for the Day" or some crap, and they get front of the line privileges. Seriously, the day rocked. Except no Uncle Jesse. Boo.
It wasn't until I was halfway into the 5 hour drive home that I started thinking about the names of the coasters I'd been enjoying all day. Just to throw a couple out there for you, we have:

1. The Dominator
2. The Anaconda
3. The Shocker

Ok, the last one was technically the "Shock Wave," but still, I'm sensing a pattern. I think King's Dominion wants to violate me. But as long as they keep the fried oreos coming, I guess I'm ok with it.

Riders on the Storm

I heart three day weekends

Things I did that were fun this weekend:

• Saw an 80's cover band
• Ate chicken wings*
• Sang 4 or 5 (I lost count) songs at karaoke in a single night**
• Watched Dane Cook's "Viscious Circle" 2 or 3 million (I lost count) times
• Ate mini burgers*
• Had a frozen lemonade
• Ate hot dogs and bratwursts*
• Took Ernie to the beach
• Bought 2 bathing suits on sale
• Lounged at the pool
• Drank beer (with and without the aid of a beer bong)
• Played with a puppy***
• Drank rum punch

Things I did that were not so fun this weekend:

• Paid rent
• Bought a bra
• Saw a naked man at the beach****
• Took Ernie to the beach*****

*I was involved in the actual cooking of none of these food items. The extent of my participation in all meals this weekend extended only to the purchase of ingredients and the supervision of their preparation. From watching the grilling of meats with a beer in my hand to watching my sausage egg and cheese omelet scramble with a mimosa in my hand, I at no time dirtied my hands with the business of turning raw ingredients into edible meals.

**Songs for the night began with Li'l Kim & 50 cent's "Magic Stick" and ended with "Possum Kingdom" by the Toadies. I may or may not have warmed up with 2 hours of Rock Band beforehand. I'd put my money on the former.

***Not mine. Mason The Doberman Puppy belongs to Darcie.

****On the semi-deserted side of an island in the Intracoastal Waterway, while walking Ernie and Mason The Puppy (pictures to come), I saw a man unabashedly enjoying the Labor Day sunshine au naturel. Gross is right. Even grosser? Steve egged me into looking to see if balls were visible. I did, and thankfully, they were not. My shame/revulsion is not lessened.

*****Ernie loves the beach. But he hates the water. He also hates watching me swim drown from the shore, so he swims out to me, legs flailing, in a desperate attempt to end our lives simultaneously.
"If you're going, I'm going too! Now hold still while I scratch and try to drown you while others watch from the safety of the dry, dry sand."

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!

For Daniellie

The temperature's been soaring this week, but the dogs still need their walks. We travel the 9 blocks from my house to downtown, the destination being a artisan well located along the riverfront where the boys can get a drink and cool off. Along the way, I get comments of all sorts. I guess it's not everyday you see a girl walking 150 lbs. of dog. Unless you live in my neighborhood. Then you are treated to the Bad Mutha Fudruckin' Parade 7 days a week.

Some people tell me I've got beautiful dogs. I like these people. Some people remark that I've got some really well trained dogs. I feel bad for these people. I mean the boys do walk politely on a leash and sit at crosswalks, but that's pretty basic obedience. I get lots of offers to breed the dogs, or requests for puppies, but since they are both male and fixed that's usually a short conversation. I try to avoid those people.

Lots of people ask me if they bite. I used to laugh and say no, but now I tell people they only bite on command. Then I laugh. I was sitting outside of a coffee shop with the dogs one day, and a guy asked my favorite question. "No," I said, "they don't bite." The boys were laying on the sidewalk under the table, quietly watching the pedestrian traffic.

"They look like biters," the man said and walked away. You look like a child molester and your breath stinks, I thought. But I didn't say it, because I didn't think the mother of the little girl petting Dexter would have appreciated a child molester joke. His breath did really smell like he'd been eating a shit sandwich, though. On second thought, maybe the boys would have bit him. They enjoy a nice turd now and then, and they don't like to share with assholes.

The point of this post was not to wax poetic about the joys of shit sandwiches, however, but to share this picture of Dexter cooling off in the aforementioned well.

I hate birds

Birds and I have never seen eye to eye. Mainly because I am seriously afraid that they will peck my eyes out. I don't get people who keep them as pets--I prefer my companion animals a little less delicate and a lot more cuddly. Plus, you can totally trick birds into thinking it's nighttime by putting a blanket over their cage. Ernie's not the smartest cookie in box, but even he's not so easily fooled. My aunts have a bird they've trained to poop on command, which I admit is kind of a cool trick, but I have two dogs that have trained themselves to poop in the farthest corner of the yard so I don't have to constantly be on the lookout for doggie landmines. I think that makes dogs the winner.

I've taken to hiding from the mocking devil birds that live in the hedge next to my house. They've claimed the front porch by pooping all over the railing, and I refuse to sit out there to be dive-bombed by those relentless sons of bitches. Also I refuse to poop all over the railing. Hemo hasn't given in to their tyrannical ways. She continues to bask in the sunshine and keep an eye on the comings and goings of the neighbors. I tried to get an action shot of the dive-bombing, but I flinched everytime and only got blurry pictures.

She even tried to encourage me to reclaim the porch, but I'm a chicken. I sat on the guest bed with Ernie and watched the mocking birds crap all over the porch from behind the safety of the window.

I heart cuddly animals

Yesterday, when I went to put my trash bin on the curb, I saw this:

I did not put my trash bin on the curb. Wikipedia says it's a female Writing Spider and is not harmful to humans. While she may not be physically harmful, she is not much of a writer. She hasn't been spinning any cool messages for me into her web ("What's up, Ninja!?" or "The neighbor kids stole your Netflix again"), nor is she putting a noticeable dent in the mosquito population. This causes me me mental anguish, aka harm. Too bad Wikipedia has blocked my work IP address from editing entries.

As I was dealing with the disappointment that I was not starring in my own version of "Charlotte's Web," I noticed some kittens playing in the hedge by the trash bin. So I brought out some Hemo food for them.

They ate, and I felt good. But then I felt bad, because they wouldn't let me pet them. I got to thinking that maybe Hemo could give those alley kittens some motherly advice, like how important it is to clean your vagina in front of company during dinner thoroughly, or how to trick people into feeding you 6 times a day by pretending to be starving. But Hemo was already pissed that I have given away some of her food, so she would probably have only taught them to play tag in the street. And maybe the alley kittens don't even have vaginas.

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.

Mad Mutha Fudrucker

I had planned on blogging about how, when I was little, I wanted to have twins (a boy and a girl) and name them "Cowa" and "Bunga" after my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' catchphrase. You're going to have to wait for that story, because all I can think about it how someone at the Lance Cracker Factory is messing with my head.

Work sucks on Mondays (usually), so I like to bribe myself with treats thoughout the day to keep from strangling myself or others with the vines of the Boss' philodendron. A semi-brief look at my task/treat schedule:

7:30-7:45am: Catch up on my favorite blogs (this is my reward for getting to work).

7:45-8:00am: Take care of all the odds-and-ends work I didn't feel like doing after 4:30 on Friday of last week.

8:00am: Walk to the adjacent department to see what baked goods Susan has brought for this week. Today--some sort of chocolate cake. Try to remember to wipe the crumbs off my face.

8:05am: Answer emails, return telephone calls, pound some numbers into my adding machine, blah blah blah boring stuff.

11:20am: Walk to upstairs to get some Lance Toast Chee Crackers (no, not a typo; I'm looking at the package right now and it is really spelled this way). These are delicious cheddar cracker sandwiches with peanut butter filling. Trust me when I tell you that the blinding neon orange color of the crackers in no way reflects how good these sandwich crackers are. Plus, a package of 6 costs only 40 cents!

But wait, did I say 40 cents? Because today, to my astonishment, my Toast Chee Crackers were clearly labeled 60 cents.


I'm glad no one else was in the 2nd floor break room, because I stood there for a good 2 minutes just staring at the vending machine, wondering what had I done to deserve this. I'm still reeling. To add insult to injury, after wasting spending 60 cents on Toast Chee, I only had 40 cents remaining, which is not enough for a can of Coke. So I had to walk back downstairs and dig a couple of nickels out of my purse. I'm glad no one stopped me to ask how my day was going, because I think I would have said something along the lines of "shitty," which is not really acceptable work place language (at least not at my current workplace; when I waited tables, if you weren't having a shitty day at work that meant you were making lots of money, and that made everyone jealous and hate you). I came close to unloading some expletives on a co-worker who was in the break room when I took a picture of the offending Crackers. But she seemed genuinely sympathetic about the outrageous price hike, so I kept my rage in check. No reason to make an old lady cry, or showcase myself in an unflattering light. Not if it can be helped.

So there you have it. Lance Toast Chee crackers are now an astonishing 60 cents. Also, if I had twins now, I would not name them "Cowa" and "Bunga." Although "Pea," "Bee," and "Jay" are still in the running if I have triplets.