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 do/do not condone animal torture (check one)

In theory, I am against animal torture. In practice, I cannot resist making Dexter wait until I give him the ok to eat. It was an especially long wait this morning, as I was trying to get a picture.

Not visible: The pool of drool collecting between Dex’s paws, which I will slip in on my way out of the house.
Barely visible: The thread of drool hanging from Dex’s jowls.
Embarassingly visible: The dirty couch corner peeking from underneath the slipcover, and the bookcase shelf I put in upside down because I was drunk during its construction.

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.

Mockingbirds are not funny at all

I’ve mentioned before the annoying mockingbirds that have taken up residence in my hedge. Not content to be merely annoying, they now pose a threat to my physical well-being.

For a while they had actually fallen off my radar. It’s been pretty hot in NC, so I’ve been spending most of my time inside, enjoying the AC and bonging beers checking out the previous tenants’ newest Highlights magazine practicing my American Gladiator moves catching up on my laundry. While checking the mailbox for my new Netflix movies, I detected a faint breeze and decided to take advantage of the break in the stifling heat and enjoy a cold beer and a book in my rocking chair on the front porch.

Three-quarters of a page and 1/2 of a Bud Lite Lime (I know, I know, they are disgusting but delicious) later, I was dive bombed by a pair of mockingbirds! I’m sure you are aware that birds are not only dirty disease carrying rodents with wings, but they will not hesitate to peck out your eyes with their beaks whilst they beat you about the head with their wings! Needless to say, I freaked. I dove from my chair, spilled my beer all over the porch, and flung my book over the railing into the hedge. I don’t think anyone saw me (“Hey, that crazy white girl just poured beer all down her front!”), but after I was safely inside, I looked out the window to see Hemo dozing on the porch while the mockingbirds dive bombed her, one after the other. She was unperturbed; in fact, she seemed to enjoy the breeze that ruffled her fur as they flew past.

Hemo is a Bad Mutha Fudrucker.

No, we are not dead

Darn you work web filter! The web filter at work has been updated, and blogger wasn’t making it through. That, unfortunately, meant no Bad Mutha Fudrucking updates. Sorry for any sleep you may have lost over my absence of my presence in the blogosphere. Rest assured, I am back, and ready to post inane details of my life and gratuitous pictures of the Mutha Fudruckin’ household. The question is, are you ready? Dexter’s so scared, he can’t even look. He is also afraid of baths, though, so you’ll probably be ok. Probably.

Hemo looks a little worried.