I was still shaking an hour later.... further proof that I'm a Colossal Grade-A Wuss.

But in this situation all I could think of was Spiderman. Yes, you read that right.

Spiderman.

You know; the part where Peter lets a criminal go free, only to discover that same fugitive kills his Uncle Ben (ooops, sorry... I hope I didn't spoil it for you).

So what happened? Well last night as I was leaving home to pick up daughter at work, I noticed two cars stopped up the street, side-by-side facing me. I guess they were having a discussion or getting directions. I wondered how the heck I was going to get past them as they were blocking both lanes. As I walked around the back of our van, the first car filled with young party-goers suddenly left and squealed past me at top speed. I came this close to yelling "slow down!" at them. After all, we're on a residential street with little kids and it was only about 8:30 pm. The second car, also filled with teens or early-20-somethings, pealed past me, following close behind their friends.

And I couldn't believe my eyes. As he passed, the DRIVER of the second car was pulling a long swig from a beer.

Holy crap! I made a mental note of the licence plate. I repeated it over and over and when I got in my car, wrote it down.

Do I follow them? What the heck would I do then?

My mind was in turmoil. All I could think of on my way to the nearby mall was what if something happened, what if someone got hurt, because I DIDN'T do anything?

So when I parked 5 minutes later, waiting for Daughter to come out I did it.

I called 911.

I've never called 911 before.... and asked timidly if this was the right place to report a drinking driver. It was.

After making the report, I began to shake. I felt like a tattletale, scared that somehow this was going to bite me in the butt somehow.

But I know I did the right thing.

On Monday I decided a light brekkie was in order. After a gluttonous weekend of oh so sinful thick-sliced bacon with fried eggs Saturday and French toast slathered with butter pecan syrup on Sunday, a healthy bowl of cereal was just what my clogging arteries were crying out for.

But when I opened the nearly full box of Raisin Bran that's been sitting in the pantry for some time, I swiftly came to the conclusion it had gone stale. Er, I guess it's been a tad more than "Some Time" since I bought it. More like somewhere between "Pretty Gosh-Darned Long Time" and "The Beginning of Time" I would surmise.

Crap.

But then I discovered another box hiding in there, still sealed (obviously we like our Raisin Bran; either that, or it was a two-for-one sale, which is far more likely).

Woot! This one was still fresh - well, freshER.

But how the heck could I justify throwing away a nearly whole box of Raisin Bran? I know! I could save the raisins, obviously THE MOST important part of the whole mix. I mean, without the raisins, it would just be called "Bran". Ick.

So I poured the cereal out on my kitchen counter, picked out the still-edible raisins and threw away the stale flakes.

Oh yes I did.

But then that gave me pause to wonder... what the heck is "Two Scoops" exactly? How does one measure a "scoop"? Because what I extracted certainly fell short compared to the photo on the box:

Then again, once I added them to my freshER box of Raisin Bran, it probably came close.

Good thing I was on vacation. I had and the house to myself and the time for these momentous discoveries that would otherwise go er, un-momentously un-discovered.

The other day I was walking down the sidewalk, close behind a woman wearing an iPod. That in itself isn't such an noteworthy occurance for I have been known, on occasion that is, to actually walk a tad.

It's true!

Like from my office to the parkade, from the car door to my front door... you know; that inconvenient thingy some people call "exercise".

Anyway, what made it noteworthy was that it got me thinking about the hazards of wearing an iPod-like-device in public.

We've all read about the potential for hearing loss, ear infections or being distracted from treacherous traffic conditions... yada, yada, yada.

But I have now discovered the WORST menace yet from wearing ear buds among the general population. And I shall forgo the fame and fortune I would most certainly garner by publishing my findings in some Hoity-Toity Scientific Journal™ to instead announce it here as a public service to all three of my loyal readers.

The absolute most wretched danger from wearing ear buds is:

The wearer not realizing they're singing horribly off-key at the top of their lungs to an awful song they don't even know the words to.

At least it's incredibly hazardous to those of us forced to listen whilst walking behind them.


* The HTSJ is apparently the best one. Or so they claim.

Yesterday Daughter and I returned from a quick four day road trip to Minneapolis. It was our third such trek this year, just Mother, Daughter and of course, Sam.

So what, you may ask (go ahead, ask....) was the bestest part of the past four days and the 1700+ kilometers we racked up?


Was it the two days of self-inflicted leg torture intense shopping yet again at the Mall of America; which apparently, has become our second home?







Or maybe it was when we found ourselves overwhelmed with emotion, staring in awe when within inches of the monolithic rusted hull of the Titanic in the Science Museum of Minnesota?









Perhaps it was witnessing Travis Barker's amazing drum solo as he flew and spun over the mosh pit at the rockin' Blink 182 / Fall Out Boy / Panic! At The Disco concert...








Nope. Believe it or not, it was none of those fantastic events.

The bestest part of the trip was:

relaxing safe and sound at home when I discovered that the two gut-wrenching severe storms I had at times, blindly, just plowed our rented Jeep Liberty through on the Interstate had spawned tornados.


Holy crapoly.

I had a bizarre dream last night. And it was Très Odd.

I dreamt was shopping and came across a frantic crowd grabbing up great deals on Halloween costumes. When I finally made it near the sale display, I spied the last adult getup remaining; a huge Star Wars Wookiee suit hanging high up on the wall. It was so far out of reach, I had to ask the clerk to get it down for me. Then a loudspeaker crackled overhead - announcing that the sale was time-limited and nearly over. I freaked and pleaded for him to hurry; soon I'd be charged more than the 88 cents (yes, CENTS) it had been marked down to.

After what seemed like forever, he retrieved it and I hauled the huge hairy mess to the checkout. Of course, the till I lined up for had broken down, and all the customers had to find other checkouts. I finally found one open, but I was too late; the sale was over and it rang up for it's original $ 79.99. Of course I complained... and after explaining my situation to the manager, he approved the sale price. Whoo Hoo!

Delighted with my find, I left the store dragging the huge shopping bag behind me. It was only then I realized my coat was nowhere to be found.

Crap! It was gone!

Well, I was at a store after all, so I went back in and proceeded to the Women's Outerwear department and found a cute hunter green short-cropped jacket in my size for only $8! Coolness! So I tried it on and went to the mirror to find....

I had no pants on.

And that's when I woke up.

Dammit. I didn't even get to find out if that Wookiee suit saved the day.

A few days back, hubby won two tickets to our local baseball team's home game. We've been to see the Goldeyes play before, but these seats were in row ONE, which was a first.

When we got to the ballpark, I had one thing, and one thing only on my mind. Something I had been eagerly anticipating since I found out we were going.

Was it the thought of seeing all those young, athletic, hunky players up close and personal?
Nope.

Was it the thought of watching the game at field level to catch all the thrilling action?

Nope.

Was it the thought of having a good chance of catching an errant fly ball?

Nope.

But the elderly lady who was sitting beside me thought so. She grinned when she saw me pull out my old southpaw Cooper glove.

"Oh good" she sighed. "At least you'll save me if a ball comes this way." She was very nervous about sitting so close to the field. "I don't think that little fella will be much protection."

I had to agree. The ball boy in front of us was the smallest I had ever seen. But I smiled and nodded to relieve her of her worries.

Little did she know that I only brought my glove to catch something even better. The one thing I had been eagerly anticipating since I found out we were coming here.

The huge bags of hot, sinfully-delicious cinnamon sugar mini-donuts I was about to pig out on during the next nine innings.

Whilst scrubbing out the jacuzzi tub the other day, a job well past-due since I tend to avoid it at all costs, I had a thought (a daft habit I have while performing mind-numbing chores).

I thought: "I never, ever want to be a patient of Dr. Gregory House."


Now you may think it is because of one or more of the following:

1) Dr. House isn't real. Okay, I'll admit that if your physician doesn't exist it would in fact make examinations a titch more difficult.

2) Dr. House only takes extreme, life or death cases that no one else has been able to solve. Which wouldn't be that great in of itself.

3) Dr. House is mean. I would be in tears more than once if submitted to his infamous, so-called "beside manner".


No, it isn't because of any of those albeit semi-valid rationale.

Nope.

The reason I wouldn't want to be a patient of Dr. Gregory House is because of the part in every freaking episode where they break in go to the patient's home to ascertain the cause of the strange illness no one has come down with before.

Talk about painful! I can just imagine the excruciating scene:

********

As House's three Fellows enter her home, they are struck with a strange odor.

"Cat owner." One remarks, screwing up her nose in revulsion.

"Definitely. Could be cat scratch fever..." Another postulates.

"Nah. No tell-tale scratches on the patient. Hmmmm... looks like she has a dog too; and a shaggy one at that." The charming Aussie doc observed in that all-too sexy accent, pointing to the the hair-infested pet bed.

"More likely THIS is the culprit" the first Resident calls from the bathroom. As the other two enter they shake their heads in agreement, wincing at the soap scum and black mold growing around the jets in the tub.

"Yup, that's gotta be it alright. Take a sample for the lab" the ravishing Aussie instructs, grabbing his rucksack and pulling out a test tube and swab, offering it to the female Fellow.

"YOU take the sample! I'm not touching that!" She squeals, backing away in disgust.

So he shoves it at the Junior Fellow. Snapping on a pair of extra-thick latex gloves, he swears under his breath. "I always get stuck with the crap jobs..."

********

Which simply confirms that I need to cut back on watching medical dramas. Either that, or stop letting my mind wander while cleaning.

Or perhaps just simply cutting back on mundane chores in the first place. Yeah. I can do that.

As long as I'm not stricken with some horrible heretofore unknown sickness. Then I'm scrubbing MY House from top to bottom.

Just in case.

It was a typical evening. Or so I thought.

After working all day doing household chores blogging most of the day away, it was finally time for bed. So I went through the usual routine:

1) Turn off the laptop.

2) Turn off the lights in all three aquariums.

3) Turn off the outside lights and lock the front door.

4) Kiss hubby goodnight as he stared at the TV movie that, as usual, he'll never stay awake through to the end.

5) Wash up, brush teeth, change into PJs.

6) Climb into my comfy waterbed with a satisfied *Ahhhhh!* and head off into a blissful sleep, perchance to dream of Johnny Depp.

7) Bolt upright and swear at the high-pitched whining, informing me yet again I forgot to let the dog out.

8) Stumble in the dark to retrieve my slippers, weave down the hall, wince at the bright lights of the kitchen and then the garage as Casey scampers outside in the dark.

But this is where the routine stops. At least on this night. For as I wait for the canine to return, I get a silly notion to check if any plants on the deck need watering.

And before I head out the back door, I stop dead in my tracks.

For there, hanging at face level just inches from my nose, is The Arachnid.

GAH!!!! One more step, and I would have had smacked right into the damn thing.

So, being the Incredibly Brave Blogger that I am (you can just refer to me as IBB), I hastily backpedaled and ran inside to grab my camera. When I returned he was still there, dropping slowly on a single shimmery thread. So I take a few shots. Okay, a tad more than a few.

Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash!!!!

FLASH!

I must have been blinding all eight of his eyes, for soon it had enough and began to swing back and forth until it landed on the Virginia Creeper growing up the wall on the right side of the door. Before he could find refuge behind a leaf from the paparazzi accosting him, I finally got a good shot:

Ewww... at least he was gone in the morning, leaving no Indiana-Jones type cobweb I'd have to machete my way through.

And at least I didn't have dreams of creepy spiders crawling into my mouth that night. At least, not that I can remember.

But crap, I didn't dream of Johnny either. At least, not that I can remember either.

Dammit.

Cats.

Flies.

The combination can be hazardous. Or at the very least, Uber Gross.

The other day while making some birthday cards, all three cats as usual had to be right in the thick of things "supervising" my every move. Which reminded me exactly WHY I preferred to do this at the scrapbook store on cropping night - no pesky paws to get in the way.

So when their catty instincts became too powerful to overcome and the knocking of tiny, sparkly brads onto the floor commenced, I attempted to distract them with spare lengths of shiny ribbon.

Which satisfied their curiosity for all of two seconds, until they decided whatever I was touching was far more interesting.

But then something else suddenly attracted their undivided attention.

A housefly.

As soon as it entered the room, the insect was doomed. The trio of cats chased and swatted at that damn fly all over the desk, the shelves, the chair ... and me. Soon Tawnee got one good slap in and sent it reeling, finally dazed on the carpet, the occasional "Buzz! Buzz!" shaking its prone body.

And true to feline fashion, she retrieved her trophy, proudly swaggering around the room with prize in teeth for all to behold.

Concerned that she might eat the pestilent bug, I tried to grab it away from her.

She would have none of it. Swiftly dodging each unsucessful grasp, it became a game. After many failed attempts,

Gulp!

down it went after a sickening crunching of its exoskeleton and papery wings.

She seemed quite pleased with herself as she paraded out the door, Queen of The Fly Killers.

* Gak. *

And then I came across the latest episode of Simon's Cat just a day later: