Just when you thought Succubi didn't exist...

I like to use this blog as an outlet to be witty, sarcastic, and silly. Well, I haven't been feeling particularly witty or sarcastic or silly lately, so good content has been hard to come by. Now bad content? There have been plenty of those ideas. You should probably thank me for stopping myself from posting photo streams of Helo or video of myself playing Rockband or inspiration boards for my office redecoration or my imagined audition for Les Miserables. Yes, all of these things I've considered and then wisely unconsidered. Because not only would they be painful for me down the road (as I'd look back and wonder what the heck I was thinking), they'd be disastrous for my readership.

So for today's post (because I really should be consistent about posting regularly), we're going to get a bit serious. We're going to talk about my sleep disorder.

It all started in high school. I'd wake up in the night, eyes wide open. And I'd see something in my room. Usually, it was a person. Sometimes it was a creature. Always very terrifying. I'd keep staring and staring and staring at it until it dissolved and there I'd be alone in my room.

When this first started happening, I was so freaked out and confused and frustrated that once when I awoke to find a man standing at the head of my bed, looking down on me, I started to talk to him. I asked him what he was doing there. He answered me, though I don't remember what exactly he said, and then he dissolved.

So this...this suspension of the dream world...continued. I experienced it through college, post-college, and I even experience it now (it happened last night, actually). I've come to accept it as part of my sleeping experience. I go to sleep, knowing it's very probable that I'll awaken in the night only to have the crap scared out of me due to some super-sized Helo, or bugs swarming the ceiling, or an old man sitting in a chair. I've accepted this and told few people. Because to be quite honest, this isn't really the type of thing you want people to know about you. Mostly because it sounds like you're demon possessed. And secondly....because it sounds like you're demon possessed.

But then today, my whole world changed.

On Yahoo!'s home page, it had an article that said "Strange Sleep Disorder Makes People See Demons."

You bet I clicked on that thing so fast it were as if I were playing Gopher Bop.

Come to find out, I am NOT demon possessed. I'm not even being haunted by spirits. Turns out I probably have Sleep Paralysis--a sleep disorder in which the mind remains suspended between dream world and reality while the eyes are open. (Okay, it's either Sleep Paralysis, or I'm being stalked by an incubus...which is gross and exactly what the ancients would have told me back in the day had I explained my symptoms).

Sleep Paralysis is also the likely explanation for those who claim to have been abducted by aliens (!) or had ghostly encounters (!).

I can only hope that some night my SP leads to imagined alien abductions and sweet encounters with Casper. In the meantime, I'll settle for seeing antlers grow out of light fixtures and random appearances of my siblings as the foot of my bed.

When Nature Attacks...Again!!!

Just when I thought these ridiculous encounters with nature couldn't get any worse...just when I thought my days of playing Snow White were over...just when I thought I'd had run-ins with every oddball creature in these parts, Helo and I were stalked by a deer. But let me rewind. Because before that, there was a goundhog incident.

ATTACK 6
(For attacks 1-5, please see my other post).

There are two huge piles of wood behind our garage that we can do nothing about. (This is one of the many joys of living in a rental). A*bout a month ago, I heard a weird noise every time I took Helo behind the garage to go potty. It was as if something was thumping on the wood. I got smart and began checking the wood pile as we walked back there. Eventually, I saw a furry butt disappear into the jungle-gym. A big furry butt.

Then one day, I walked Helo back there and heard the thump. I looked at the pile, but instead of seeing a retreating furball, my gaze was met by two beady eyes. A huge groundhog stared me down. We remained locked in this unspoken contest until moments later, he casually dropped into his hole. Message received, groundhog. Message received.


ATTACK 7
Okay, this one happened about an hour ago. It was dusk, and Helo and I were out for a walk. There's this giant forest/woods behind our house with many paths through it. We like to go through the woods on our way home, because one path in particular pops us out near our backyard.

So we're walking, and Helo is sniffing, and I'm daydreaming/duskdreaming and then I see this massive furry body about 20 feet ahead of us. A doe is staring us down. We stop, of course. Helo keeps sniffing (the dog is super oblivious). And this video starts playing in my mind:



So I start thinking about options. I'd like to think that if I were on my own, I would have been more brave. But with a 10-month old Great Dane puppy in the picture, all I could think of were outcomes that involved blood. SO, my mission became to avoid blood. Simple enough.

Now, deer are supposed to scare easily, right?
So, I take a few steps toward the deer.
It doesn't move.
At this point, Helo notices the deer and decides he wants to be friends. He starts jumping up on his back legs, pulling on the leash.
The deer doesn't move.
I calm Helo down and consider continuing on the trail (the deer was standing off to the side of the trail), when it STARTS WALKING TOWARD US.

This isn't a casual, aimless wandering that happens to be in our direction. NO, this deer starts walking a straight line toward me.
At this point, I realize we should leave. So Helo and I turn around.
I glance over my shoulder and here's the part where I almost started to cry...the part where Tad said it's like The Village. The deer is peeking at us from behind a tree.
We pick up the pace.
I look again, and it's behind ANOTHER tree. ONLY CLOSER.
We scurry as fast as we can and eventually lose sight of the deer.

At this point the thrillseeker in me takes over, and I decide to choose another path that will lead us right by where we spotted the deer...only we'd be closer to the edge of the forest and the safety of the better-lit clearing. So we're walking along when Helo comes to a complete stop. He starts doing this low growl and won't go any further, his eyes fixed on a bend in the path before us.

I realize I have no interest in being killed by nature, and so I turn us around again to find our way to the clearing. And Helo practically pulls me along, as he nervously glances behind us.

We make it into the clearing. Don't hear from the deer after that.

But as my friend Kyle Waalen hilariously pointed out. If I AM Snow White, the gatekeeper of nature, perhaps the deer was just approaching me so she could bless me? I mean what else could explain this erratic behavior? Do deer eat people??

When Nature Attacks!!!!!!

Wow, it's been an eternity since I last posted. Sorry about that. I made a promise to post more, and not only did I break that promise, but I broke one of my blogging rules: Never make promises you can't keep.

Again, sorry.

It's not that my life is uneventful or boring or difficult to depict. Aside from busyness (which is the lamest excuse in the world, am I right youth pastors?), I just haven't had anything that was so crazy impossibly convoluted that it couldn't be shared in 140 characters or less.

Until today.

Some background: I'm not a fan of nature. I get scared when I'm in open country, and I really dislike the sun in a very fair-complected-can't-see-without-squinting-can't-exist-without-getting-sunburned sort of way. So I avoid nature at all cost.

But since moving to this house that is in front of a forest (woods? forest? serial killer hiding spot? is there an appropriate term here?), nature has been on the attack.

ATTACK 1
So you may or may not have heard about my snakes (plural!) escapade. I was at home, minding my own business, when Helo had to go outside. So, we went to the side entrance, I opened the door to the landing and noticed something rope-like in the corner. I stared, and stared, and kept staring, thinking I was making it up (it's dark in our landing!), and then I realized. Snakes.

Not one, but two. Two garter snakes had made it into the house and were hanging out by the side door. One was SUPER long. We're talking at least 2 feet. Its body was the circumference of a quarter, and it was trying to slither UP THE DOOR. The other was a little guy. Maybe 10 inches. It kept popping out FROM UNDERNEATH THE WALL.

Now I'm not the screaming type. In a tense situation, I may yell out orders or furrow my brow, but I don't scream. So when I saw the snakes, I shuddered, took an abrupt step back and moved on to thinking about what the heck I was going to do to get rid of them. (Turns out, you can get snakes out of the house the same way you get birds out of the house).

ATTACK 2
While solving the snake problem, I decided to use the FRONT door. (See how smart I am?!). We have a bunch of rocks for a walkway instead of you know...civilized concrete or stepping stones. While making my way to the driveway, I noticed a rock that looked like a brain.

Upon closer inspection I realized that this rock was in fact the top portion of a squirrel's skull. Teeth, eye sockets, brain-y skull ridges. The whole shebang.

ATTACK 3
Right after the Snake and Squirrel Skull situations, our back yard was invaded by butterflies. And not like pretty, fluttery things that keep their distance. No, we're talking maniac dive-bombers who would fly right at me and try to land on my shirt or skin. Let's just say for that entire week, I took the long way through the back yard to get to Helo's romping grounds.

ATTACK 4
Number of snakes I have seen slithering around the yard while I'm mowing: 2

ATTACK 5
Today, I was mowing the lawn (an activity that I love yet am quickly growing to hate). I was minding my own business, mowing by this tree that is between our garage and a fence. There are tons of sticks there, so I was keeping an eye out for ... OH MY WORD WHAT IS THAT RUNNING AT ME?!

A crazy squirrel (probably the son of the squirrel whose skull I found), ran at me full speed. He smacked into my bare naked leg and bounced off.

This time, I screamed.

He did a few crazy man spins (at which point I thought he was going to come back for more) before he scooted under the fence and disappeared. (Tad has made the point that he probably had watched Helo do the very same thing to me...bounce off my body before spinning around like a crazy man...but I don't think this particular rodent was trying to play).

Now for the record, squirrels are surprisingly soft and cuddly. But that did nothing to ease my anxiety.

I kept mowing and all I could think about was whether or not I had rabies.

Then this guy was standing on the neighbor's driveway, watching me. I shut off the mower, thinking he was going to ask if I was ok or something.

"Hey," he said, "Have you seen a white cat?"

And then it all made sense.

I am Nature's Gatekeeper.

nubbin' : living a life with nubs

Imagine how much you enjoy and/or tolerate talking to me.

Now imagine how much worse that experience could be if I had little nubs for teeth.

Ladies and gentlemen, that is the fate we all may face if my teeth do not start cooperating.

Almost a year ago, I had some cavities filled. Shortly after, I realized that one of the teeth that had been worked on hurt every time I bit down. I went back to the dentist, and he said that it wasn’t anything alarming. My bite just needed to be adjusted.

No prob, right? Wrong.

I’ve been back THREE times in the past year TO GET MY TOOTH FILED. Yes, filed like a fingernail.

And each time I go, I swear I come out of there with what can only be described as a phantom tooth -- a tooth that I imagine is larger than it really is (because it has in fact been whittled down). Three times this has happened. Which means THRICE my tooth has shrunken in size. And this time was the worst of them all ... I swear I'm beginning to feel an opening where my teeth aren't even pressing together anymore. The nub is on its way.

Needless to say, I am so ready for this madness to end ... for all of our sakes. 

Because I'm pretty sure we'd all prefer that I NOT look like Gollum in the near future. 

P.S. If this post title results in a ton of search engine hits I'm going to laugh so very hard it just may re-set my bite.

P.P.S.S. Points to the person who can come up with the best vampire joke!

how to attract vampires

This is probably the lamest thing I've ever done. Or at least the lamest thing I've ever admitted to.

I'm really trying here, but I just can't seem to come up with anything I've done that's as lame as this. Not even buckling my belt on the side. (Yes, I did this. Because I heard that rock stars did it to prevent the buckle from scratching their guitar. And, well, I wanted people to think I was a rock star. The sad part was I don't even play guitar that much. And when I do, I sit. So imagine just how lame that side belt buckle thing was.)

Well this is definitely lamer.

Do you see that jacket up there in that photo? The one Bella is wearing? Well, here it is again:


That's right folks. I have the official Bella jacket. Now before you make too much fun of me, you will note that I'm not alone. My friend Bekah has it too. So that makes it ok.

And yes, I'd jump off a cliff if my friends jumped off a cliff.

(Here is our emo pose ... life is better when you throw in an emo pose)

I will say, though, that the jacket has this odd magic to it. Because when I was in the dressing room, trying it on, I felt an icy breath against my neck and I turned and for a split-second saw a curious-haired boy dissolve into the shadows.

Ok, that didn't happen, but it IS true that the first words out of my mouth after zipping the jacket up were,

"OK EDWARD, I'M READY FOR YOU TO COME GET ME!"

Bekah can vouch for that one. She was there.

And I believe she also admitted to uttering a similar plea upon zipping up the jacket.

Except she looked at her husband when she said it.

And his name isn't Edward. It's Brad.

(Here we are, waiting for Edward to come get us. Apparently, I thought that Edward could fly.
Note the forest in the background)

I must admit, though, that if this coat was just sitting on a rack and had no connection to TWILIGHT, I'd walk right by.

To see our coat in action:

Enemies of the State of Happy Living

I think it’s very good to have a list of enemies. Very handy when you are having trouble knowing who to believe or when you’re bored at night and want to read something that will get you riled up or when you just want someone to know, by passive aggressively saying: “I’m watching you!”, that you’re not happy with them.

I got this idea from President Obama, who apparently has his own list of enemies, and because he's the president, I think it's only fitting that we all follow suit.

Amanda Luedeke Enemies List

1. Mosquitoes - they make us afraid to go out at night.
2. The sun when it's really bright and glaring at you in the eyeballs - it burns our corneas
3. Paper cuts - they ruined postal mail
4. People who don't know how to merge (a-hem, EVERY DRIVER IN INDIANA) - they make things more dangerous than they have to be
5. Asian carp - they're invading Lake Michigan
6. Giant fish (in general) - they make me scared to live
7. Humidity - misery is its only asset
8. Excel - it insists on having codes instead of buttons
9. BP - it doesn't think animal murder is a bad thing
10. Email inboxes that will never empty - they take away from enjoying time online
11. European cars - they cost more than they're worth
12. Buzz cuts - they don't do anything for anyone's looks (except Justin Timberlake)
13. Shakespeare - he cast a spell on high school teachers and now we all must suffer
14. Mushrooms - they grow on poop
15. Calories - they make everyone feel guilty and then tell McDonald's to stop selling Happy Meal Toys (what's up with that?!)

That’s all I’ve got for now. Can’t keep going without beginning to question the meaning of life …

How about you, dear reader? What makes your list?

Gym Rat

The only thing worse than being surrounded by sweaty, farty guys is when the treadmill beside you is suddenly occupied by some chick who just spent the past five minutes outside with Mr. Marlboro.

********************************

It's rude to be judgemental at the gym. Everyone is there for the same reason, pretty much. But going five minutes super fast on the elliptical at a resistance level so low I can hear the wheel inside loosely clanking as it spins isn't going to get you ahead of the pack.

********************************

I may or may not have used a blow dryer in the locker room to rid myself of some of my head sweat before heading to IHOP for free pancake day.

********************************

I may or may not have accidentally been looking at some guy's butt sweat when he happened to catch me in the action thanks to the gym's bazillion mirrors. Oops. (This guy was also wearing a garbage bag shirt...why oh why wasn't I looking at THAT?)

********************************

I may or may not have a fear of butt sweat.

********************************

What would YOU say if you were sweating it out on the elliptical, while totally enamored by this History Channel special on Adolph Hitler's charisma (and how he may or may not have had magic devil powers of persuasion), and out of nowhere some guy comes bustling up, ready to change the channel, and says:

"Are you watching this?"

How do you answer that? Is there any acceptible way of owning up to actually ENJOYING a special on Hitler? Is that even allowed?

"Nein....Uh, I mean no. No. No, I'm not watching that at all. You may change the channel to whatever you like."

(He was unable to find a worker to help him change it, so I had to spend the rest of the workout sneaking glances at the subtitles...because I felt that guy's eyes on me...as if he was saying "Yeah, I knew you were watching that. You horrible, horrible person. You should be ashamed.")

A Tale of Procrastination

In an epic act of procrastination, I was going to provide you with a photo of me climbing out of a sarcophagus.

And in an even epic-er act of procrastination, I just spent 20 minutes tearing the apartment apart, looking for the envelope of photos from my trip to Turkey that I may procure my sarcophagus photograph and retell the epic story of how I climbed into the tomb, got really freaked out, climbed out of a tomb, and then thought my camera had been cursed by evil spirits--or the awakened dead.

Stephen King would have been proud. As would Stephanie Meyer.

But alas! The photograph has been misplaced, meaning one thing:

Though I tried to avoid a New Year Resolution List that included "tidiness" and "organization", I have been bested.

New Year Resolution #14 - sort through, weed out, and pitch all of my crap (while simultaneously finding homes for the few items that are less like crap and more worth keeping).

In the meantime, here is a photo of the ancient clock tower in Antalya whose nearby trash can was bombed by terrorists during my first week there!

The Birds

Can you count them?


Would you want to?


What's scarier than a billion and one birds circling outside of your window? (Alfred Hitchcock need not answer this one).


The poop they leave behind.

Creep Alert!

There is an unspoken bond between runners.

A smile. A nod. A warm 'hello'.

Regardless of height, age, race, weight or fitness level, passing a fellow runner means you're passing a friend, and all normal tendencies go ignored as you and that person share a moment. A moment in which you know that regardless of his bulging biceps or her graying hair, you are kindred spirits.

So what happens when kindred spirits get creepy?

I heard the pounding footsteps approaching behind me. Staying to one side of the path, I continued my pace, unfazed. I had been passed before. Once, by an elderly Asian man, wearing brown denim and ankle weights. Once by a tall, dark and handsome. I was sure I could handle this heavy-stepped runner.

And then, his steps slowed.

I stayed my course, my eyes straining where my head would not dare to turn, yet he remained out of sight. We continued on for a second or two, before I caught a bit of movement. I turned, and as I did so, he came up beside me.

5'8"
Dark hair
Whiskers
White shirt
Blue athletic shorts
Glasses, maybe

I turned my attention back to running. He was nothing to be afraid of.

And then, he spoke.

"How you doing?"

I didn't know whether to answer. Sure, we were both runners. At times it can be awkward to pass a fellow runner. And yes, there is a runner's code that says we're to be friends and share in our secret knowledge that what we're doing is better than the walkers or the bicyclists or the golfers even if it causes a bit more pain, but THAT DOES NOT MEAN WE HAVE TO BE SPEAKING FRIENDS.

"Alright," I answered--my standard answered when I'm secretly annoyed. Then, because I live by the runner's code, maintained friendliness, "You?"

"Good," he said.

He lingered for a moment before taking off. Then, not 20 paces ahead of me, he looked back.

Now, he could have been being nice.
He could have been looking out for me.
He could have been double checking on whether the tree he passed a minute ago was truly an oak.
But my gut told me, he was being creepy....and it wasn't just the side stitch talking.

I followed him for a bit (there's only one path around this particular park). Then, after he again stole a lengthy glance behind him, I slowed to a walk. And when the opportunity for me to cross over into the bordering neighborhood presented itself, I took it. There was no way I was going to 'happen' to be in the parking lot at the same time as this guy. No way.

And that's my story. Was he a creep? Maybe. Maybe not. Did I get too freaked? Maybe. But probably not.

I'm trying out this new thing where I force myself to react as a normal person would, because the real me lacks a healthy dose of fear. The real me takes unplanned detours into the neighborhoods of Gary, Indiana, and the real me goes to the Shell station off of Pontiac at 10 o'clock at night.

While the new me throws up a red flag at 'hello'.

It's all about balance.

The real me lacks a healthy dose of fear.

On Literature and Those Who Live Forever

Black and white movies. Books with now yellowed pages. Music that crackles and voices that sound altered, tin-like and strange. These are the things of long ago. Things that I associate with a time and place that was before my existence and therefore not a part of my reality.

And then, every now and then, someone from that other world will step in and remind me that what and who is now considered classic and timeless was only a few short decades ago considered new and current.

Elizabeth Taylor. The Dalai Lama.

And yet others will remind me that the evil and unfathomable of the past still lives. Still breathes.

Charles Manson. Fidel Castro.

And then there are times when those who I thought long dead, are proven to be alive. Unexpected in my little world of the present. In my world where the actors and actresses of the black and white movies died with the invention of color. Where the authors and writers of literature now shelved in the "classics" section, ceased to exist with the invention of computer cataloging and success of Stephen King. Where the musicians of verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus songs disappeared with the start of MTV.














In these moments I see the connectedness of things and begin to realize what it is to grow old.

Today, I found that Harper Lee and JD Salinger are still alive. Such a thought does not seem fathomable.



For an interesting view, see the death list.

Fuhrer Assistance

Thanks again for your email, Julia. Please, let me know if I can be of fuhrer assistance.

Amanda, Customer Service


Gasp! That's bad. That's very very bad. Have I made this mistake before? I use the word "further" in nearly every email...what if I've offered Fuhrer assistance to multiple people? In multiple countries? And what if they cash in?

Fuhrer assistance? What is that? The help of a dictator? The promise of oppression in the name of non-oppression? The squelching of dreams of freedom? The sudden offer to participate in a diabolical plan for world conquest that may or may not, according to some individuals in Iran, include genocide?

Better be sure to proofread from here on out. Don't want to make any promises I don't intend to keep . . .

Why I Will Never Read Walden

In the land of purple mountains and bra-less hippies, there visited a city girl who volunteered to be Lead Paddler on a white water rafting trip down the Arkansas River. That city girl was me. . .

Our raft guide had already selected an ex-marine, Skip, to be one of the Lead Paddlers. She needed only one more. When neither Skip's wife nor his mentally handicapped daughter nor my friend Stephanie (who loves nature things) nor my friend Erin (a Colorado native) volunteered, I tentatively raised my hand. How bad could it be? Just yell "Rock!" every time you see a rock and you're good to go.

"Alright!" Erica, our super hippie guide (yes, she had dreadlocks...we were unsure about leg hair) sang out in her totally melodic, airy, sing-songy voice. "Amanda's our other Lead Paddler!"

"Why did you do that?!" Erin chastised me.

"Are you crazy?" Stephanie exclaimed.

"No one else volunteered," I said. "I felt sorry for her."

"You shouldn't have done that."

Come to find out, the Lead Paddler has to set the pace for the entire team. It's up to them to ensure no one dies, but they're also the first to topple out if things to awry. They have to be the strongest, the best, the most attentive. Ex-marine Skip was a natural choice. Me? Not so much.

I spent the next three hours trying not to get our team killed, trying to prevent the mentally retarded person from doing a sommersault into the water, trying to hear Erica's sing-songy instructions over the roar of the whirlpools, and trying to keep up with Skip's over-compensated, super ex-marine strokes that had us turning too far to the left or the right every time WITHOUT FAIL.

All of that, I could put up with. No problem. For once in my life, I enjoyed being in nature and was loving the great outdoors. I didn't mind the fact that Skip was too deaf to hear the "STOP!" command and sent us spinning or that Erin was being beaten over the head by the "disabled" girls's paddle.

Until....the bugs.

They were everywhere. In swarms of millions upon millions. And I, like any good girl, had applied a layer of sunscreen right before boarding. After passing through a particularly bug-infested area, I turned back to Stephanie to say something when she burst out laughing, pointing at my face. Erin laughed too. Even Skip. EVEN HIPPIE ERICA CHUCKLED A BIT.

From what I was told (and, judging by the level of laughter I created), my face was a gnat graveyard. There had to be at least twenty to thirty little guys splattered on my skin, stuck to the sunscreen. I spent the rest of the trip, turning to Stephanie, asking whether nature was on me and wishing I hadn't volunteered to be Lead Paddler.

I was reminded of this incident today, after coming in from my run. I truly don't like nature.

Tough Questions with Fidel Castro

So . . . Fidel Castro is up and kickin'. Seeing him alive brings back a deep desire I've had for a number of years.

I want nothing more than to meet with the former Cuban Prime Minister and ask him the 'tough' questions. You know, questions like:

- If you could do it all over again, would you? What would you change?
- Do you believe Cuba is better off because of you? How so?
- What about the vast number of emigrants? What of the claims that you are a dictator?

Then, I'd lean in real close, drop my voice a few notches and wrinkle my brow:

- And what about Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, Fidel? He was one of your best friends . . . your most trusted allies. He helped you achieve victory. And yet he died in Bolivia at the hand of the enemy when many sources report he could have been saved. You, Fidel, could have saved him. How often have you thought of your old friend? Do you have any regrets over the choices you made?

I truly believe I'd get away with it because I'm nothing more than a silly girl with an odd interest in the Cuban Revolution and no real media ties or ulterior motives. Just a girl who wants answers. All I have to do is put together some snazzy letter with some sort of persuasive bent on why it would be a good political/PR move and presto. Lo tengo.

And face it, now that he's a weathered old man with less of a gusto toward muerte, I stand a good chance.

Now, if I can only dig up my old address book . . . where did I put that thing . . .

Also, this is a rather odd endorsement. Doesn't really give the warm and cozies about health care, now does it.

Candenstein

July 15, 2009:

Oh, look at the children, playing in their yard! Why, that's what we used to do when we were children. All the neighbor kids would come over and we'd play and play until one by one our curfews would call us inside. What fun that was! How I miss playing in the yard! How I miss having a yard!

Oh! Wouldn't it be grand if I had pockets full of candy that I may sprinkle the grass with goodies as I ran past? My, that would be magnificent! I would be known as the Candy Runner! Or, Goodie Goodie Run-Drops! Yes! Yes, that would be grande!

But I must devise a way to avoid parental fears of poison . . .

July 20, 2009

There is one of the little children now! Oh, fiddlesticks! I have forgotten my candy.

Oh, wait! Wait, little boy! Why are you running inside?! Why do you continue to look at me with those terrified eyes? I am just a runner, little boy. I am of no harm. Don't go inside! Don't hide behind your dog!

Ah! But it is too late. I am a monster.

I now fear my primary adversaries are the children themselves.

Of Vampires, Aliens and Super Evil Guys

Today, for some unknown and crazy reason, I decided upon the following:

1) That my lunch-time Easy Mac would be best enjoyed outside, and
2) That I should give Twilight another try.

For anyone who claims to know anything about me, you'd quickly remember that:

1) I hate nature, and avoid the outdoors like the plague, and
2) I have zero tolerance for poorly-written, teenage faux-smut.

I cannot explain this strange activity other than to suggest that an alien life form has overtaken my body. Seriously. Watch it shoot out of my stomach.

All we can do now is hope and pray that:

1) When the mothership comes to retrieve its exiled Being it does so in my sleep, causing minimal pain, and
2) I don't completely bore you to death with my running commentary about how bad Twilight is and how ashamed Stephenie Meyer should be.

*As I was thinking about how nice it would be if the mothership would take Kim Jong-il and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad along for the ride, I realized that, based upon his Wikipedia photo, the role of Ahmadinejad in any movie should be played by Steve Carell.

Look! It's Shredder!

As I limped across the parking lot toward Britton (work) today, I had a sudden and terrifying realization:

Should one of my co-workers haphazardly careen into the parking lot, I would be a goner.

Should zombies, Terminators, or Uruk-hai appear in the distance, there would be nothing I could do. I would be dead. I would be so dead.

I'm on day 3 of Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred, and the suffering is immeasurable. My knees give out mid-stride, my arms shake under the sheer weight of a laptop case, and my ability to maintain forward motion is embarassingly unreliable. Why, only last night, Tad had to physically help me off the couch because I was incapable of standing up on my own. My legs and arms simply would not oblige.

So, I'm a sitting duck--a perfect target for any of the aforementioned monsters. I am unable to save myself from the throes of terror because I am unable to move. Yes, that's right. UNABLE TO MOVE.

So until my muscles kick in and resume their position of allowing me to walk without looking like an idiot, I'll leave you with a quasi-appropriate quote from John Conner . . . yet the only thing I could think of as I hobbled across the parking lot and glanced over my shoulder for any sign of red eyes or squealing tires:

"We are dead! WE ARE ALL DEAD!!"

Sunday Musings: The Ice Cream Man

Generally, when a middle-aged, shirtless, shaggy haired, white (or occasionally Hispanic) male drives by an okay-looking girl between the ages of 17 and 30, jogging steadily down the sidewalk, his natural inclination is to slow down.... just.enough....so.that.he.can.take.it.all.in...without....being....creepy.......slower....slower...

Sometimes, these creepers brake just slightly, as to not appear perverted. Other times, they crawl by at a pace so sluggish that the running girl must also slow down just to get them to pass by. And still other times, after they've passed the poor girl, their slowing will bring them to a complete stop at an intersection . . . even though the light is green and even though the runner is a hundred feet behind them . . . it's like you can see them thinking . . .

"If I wait here long enough, she'll eventually catch up. Then, I can harass her with my devilish charm. Or just follow her until she gives me her phone number and begs me to call. OR! I could take a right here, go around the block, and come up behind her AGAIN!" And so, the right turn is made. Yes, I have actually experienced someone drive around the block only to pass me even more slowly than they did the first time.

Today, as I ran in the sun-scorched neighborhood of Southwood Park, I kind-of sort-of had one of these experiences, only it involved an Ice Cream Man. Let's just say I finally realized why some men are willing to give their summers to driving crappy vans and selling overpriced ice cream to middle and lower class citizens:

It gives them an excuse to drive slowly.

As I ran and as the Ice Cream Man passed me at a rate that would make a grandma in a Buick look good, there was nothing I could do. He was, after all, just doing his job. It's not like he knew our paths would cross. And it's not like he suddenly put the brakes on when I appeared up the road. No, he was doing what he was paid to do....drive as slowly as a snail scoots. It just so happened that for that brief minute on Beaver Avenue, the scenery changed and he had a little more to think about than whether the children would be enticed by his totally awesome and loud song. It was probably no different than watching old couples taking a stroll, squirrels dashing up trees, dads cleaning out garages...

Then, once he passed me, I heard him speed up.

What a sick, creep.

How many days would I survive a Zombie apocalypse?

I took a facebook quiz today, and . . .

You've survived the entire Zombie Apocalypse!!

You are the ultimate zombie killing deity. You kill them by the thousands, with strategic traps and land mines. Not to mention all of the weapons you've stored in your closet in case of a zombie invasion. The only cost is all of your friends and family. You spend so much time locked in your house you never see them. When the invasion happens you send one of your friends to get food, but you know what your really did. You used him/her to lure zombies away from the house. You smirk as you watch him/her get devoured.

Good to know. Good to know.

I think the problem here, is that while I may know how to survive, there's no guarantee I'm going to have an M16 on hand with a zillion land mines AND the guts to sacrifice my friend.

Better get working on that before the Swine Flu gets any worse. Seriously, people. We're at PHASE 6. That means PANDEMIC. look here

And pandemic means zombies. It's happened before. Think Black Death.

I would invite you all to chill with me, but as one of the quiz questions made me realize, I'd rather hole up alone . . . one other person max. Can't risk having too much stupid present when it's life and death.

A Hodgepodge of Funny

Weekend Recap

It isn't everyday you see grown men in Lederhosen do this:

I realize it's hard to see, so allow me to frame the picture more thoroughly . . . 6 men congregate backstage at Germanfest (in front of the bathrooms) to practice their upcoming show-stopper: a traditional German polka dance. The dance involves lots of leg-smacking and over and unders. I don't know how to explain it any better. I was able to capture this moment, as we were seated a mere 10 yards from the excited entertainers.



Also, I'm feeling quite popular these days, as suddenly all these straight-faced lawyers are graveling for my attention. If you're a daytime TV-watching Fort Wayne resident, you may recall the shifty-eyed Dr. Kelso look-alike with Glaser and Ebbs? Or, the hard-nosed gangster from Blackburn & Green? Or perhaps the comfortable down-to-business McNally?

Yeah, they all want me.

They want to make sure to turn wrongs into my rights! I mean, there's "thousands" in claims I'm overlooking! Laws I cannot even fathom! Sleep I'm missing out on! A settlement that isn't in my best interest! AND I'm being given the "runaround"!

Well, it's a good thing my initial call and consultation won't cost a thing. Now, who to call . . .

Well these guys know about a secret law that passed July 1, 1991 . . . wonder what that is . . .

Oooh! This one has supplied me with a 29 question quiz to test whether they're legit . . . wonder if they can pass . . .

And these people went to prestigious law schools and graduated top in their class . . .

Aha! Here's a plastic business card from Glaser and Ebbs that already has my name on it! (see photo above)

No one else put in that much TLC!