Dramamine Please?

Let's discuss a little thing I like to call motion sickness. In addition to my perversion to all things leather and mayonnaise, my obsession with reality television, coupled with my catastprophic nature and downright awkwardness, I've also been suffering a lifelong battle with motion sickness. Man, am I a great catch?

This has been going on for as long as I can remember. I originally found this out on several trips to visit my gradparents. Usually, at some point along the 12 hour car ride, I would instruct my father to pull over so I could vomit or I'd just use a brown bag. Whichever came first. Most of these trips were spent with me strewn horizontally across the family minivan's backseat, the two seatbelts stabbing me mercilessly in the side.

Throughout elementary school, I was the nerd that sat in the front row of the bus. I was the girl that sat on park benches on choir trips to Hershey Park while her friends rode the rides. I was the girl that could never swing on a swing, play with a sit-n-spin, or even participate in a good round of Ring around the Rosie. For my pockets contained no posies, they carried dramamine for my queasy tummy. I relate my early years to John Travolta's character in "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble." I chose Travolta over Jake Gyllenhall, who played in the remake, because of his 70's feathered hairstyle. Yeah, I dig.

I bring up my lifelong battle with motion sickness because I'm nervous about how that's going to affect my 4th of July plans which consist of KEG BUS ROUND 2!

Kenny's thoughts on the trip: "Keg Bus? I'm scared for you. That was one of the worst nights of my life. Keg Bus is fun but it can become a nightmare. Be careful!" Great! Kenny doesn't even know about my "situation."

KEG BUS ROUND 1 started off innocently enough. Just a few friends getting together to celebrate a couple birthdays. Normally, I pregame the shit out of a night. I pregame if there's no game. I pregame before dinner and I pregame for a nap. This night, however, I know a pregame will not warrant a safe evening so I lay low and hope no one notices I am not enjoying a refreshing cocktail before boarding the bus.

Sidenote: I asked one of my friends why she wasn't drinking once and turns out she was knocked up. I probably don't have to mention that put a serious dagger on my St. Patty's Day festivities.

Upon boarding the bus, I head to the back (mistake #1). We take off and the party begins! I limit myself only to two Yeunglings the entire ride to the group's alma mater; Salisbury. Throughout the trip, the Keg-Bus host taught everyone the Solja-Boy and the boys perfected their bus flips (you can really tell they summered in Ocean City). Still laying low in the back, we arrive at our first and final destination of the evening; The Monkey Barrel.

There was an annoucement made about the potency of the beverages at the Monkey Barrel before exiting the bus. They can really F someone up so BE CAREFUL! The Monkey Barrel, I quickly notice, was named after the enormous monkey cage and their specialty drinks served in equally enormous barrels.

Deciding that I am off the wheels of the bus, it's time to play catch up (mistake #2) and I order myself a barrel. The remainder of our time at the Barrel was spent playing in cages, busting some moves and just having an overall great time.

The ride home is when the shit hit the fan. I mean the shit hit the fan and EXPLODED. Any passerby would have thought we had gone back in time and picked up the bubonic plague. Immediately, Robby and I begin fighting over the restroom to take throw ups in. I pass out with my head on the shoulder of a man they call "Animal." Surprising = No. Embarassing = Yes. I woke up to him stroking my arm. Lovely. I couldn't tell you what else happened on that Keg Bus ride home but I do know this incriminating picture has surfaced.

Basically, what I am saying is that I hope I don't end up like this on the 4th:



Yes, that's three heads in three trash cans.

One word. Petrified.

Romantic Date #7: Stalking the Real World House

Saturday evening Raquel, Bo, Amelia and I meet up in Dupont Circle for some cocktails, gossip and good old fashioned Real World stalking. I warned everyone to wear their bikini's under their outfits so we could be on call for late night hot-tubbing at the RW crib. No one takes me seriously. I, however, am so serious I wear my inauguration ball gown. For realz.

Naturally, upon entering the Front Page, I make my way to the bar to get us all a round of cocktails when a man in a chef's uniform asks me where I get my hair done. I just got it done a few weeks ago so it's still sort of fresh. I also went to the same place Bo, Alli and another one of my friends go and I gotta say I've been pretty satisfied with it.

I tell him PR at Partners in Metro Center to which he then asks how much I paid. He then continues to tell me that it looks like shit and they did a terrible job. I am FURIOUS. Who is this fat, little mexican man in a chef's outfit telling ME my dye job is terrible and that he (a chef) can help me "take care of the situation."

I tell the girls what had just happened to me at the bar and tell Raquel to go over and tell him he's fat and she can help him "take care of the situation." Raquel is a life coach/personal trainer. Obviously, Raquel doesnt do this but informs him that it is not proper etiquette to mention these things to a lady. He apologizes with a round of shots.

This part of the story is neither here nor there. Dartmouth is meeting us at the Front Page. He is going to meet the gals and he's flying solo. I AM NERVOUS! He arrives and is as cute as ever in his khaki pants, polo and brown flip flops (not my style, I know). It feels like we've been together forever and I am instantly comfortable with the situation.

Playing my cards right, with Dartmouth, I have been revealing all of my crazy habits and everything very slowly. Interview style. Turning a negative into a positive. Yeah, I put you in my blog BUT I changed the spelling of your name. Your identity is anonymous. Switch up! Positive. I actually think he was flattered.

"Also, there is something else you need to know." I am OBSESSED with the Real World. I have been since my family first got cable in 1992. I can name you every cast member from every season, what the highlights of that season were and my favorite moments from each episode. I, officially, am a stalker. Remember when Flora got her boobies stuck in the window, when she was trying to crawl through to see who was gettin some in Miami? Remember when Stephen gave Irene the bitch-slap heard around the world in Seattle? Remember when Kara sang "Travelin Soldier" after 911? These are the moments that have shaped my life and I profusely thank Mary Ellis Bunim and Jonathan Murray for creating the Real World.

There it is. Out there in the open. What I heard next took me by such surprise, I almost passed out right then and there. "Me too," replies Dartmouth. HOLY F'in SHIT. My soul mate. Well maybe he's not as obsessed as I am but I'll take it. "Let's walk by the house!" After he suggests a stalkerish walk-by, I am ready to sleep with him right then and there.

Obviously, I have the address memorized but for fear of revealing way too much, I pretend I do not know. "Come on Carrie, its right down the street, 2000 S Street, NW."

Oooohhh. Emmmm. Geeee! He knows the address and knows how to get there. I am beside myself. We hold hands, he gently rubs my shoulders and we stop several times along the way for some smooches because he "just cant help himself."

Unfortunately, I am sad to report there were no cast member/crew sightings but I do know that they are there. The lights were on in the basement (crew/production offices) but that was it. It was about 1am and I assume they were out celebrating their arrival to the nation's capitol.

After walking by twice, we decide to go catch up with the girls. Apparently, you cannot get into 18th Street Lounge with flip flops, so Dartmouth and I decide to continue with the Real World stalking and walk by serveral of Dupont's hot spots. After, 45 minutes and no success we call it a night.

The next morning Bo, Raquel and I meet up for some brunch. As we are sipping on our mimosa's outside at the U-lah Bistro, a camera crew rolls up to Ben's Chili Bowl, which is directly across the street. HERE IT IS! The first RW sighting. I send Bo over to confirm and snap a few pics of her talking to a camera man. I was a little bummed to find out that it was some show on the Food Network but there are still 6 more months to go and the possibilities are endless. After all, it is the year of the ox.

RW! RW! RW! DUPONT!

IT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED! The real world is coming to DC. They are coming in 5 days! Filming begins on the 20th of this month. For those who dont know, I am obsessed with this show and have been for years. They will be living in Dupont, which is a mere minutes from me. So many emotions are overwhelming my body as I type...feelings of excitement, nervousness, and fear.

Excited to see where they go, what job they have...if they pick a local and do I know them? The black guy from Austin was from DC and went to Howard (obvi) but thats all MTV has ever had to offer.

Nervous because I may have a run-in with the camera crew. As much as you think I would enjoy this, I think we all know my luck and I'll probably just end up embarassing myself on national television. This would probably happen because I am stumbling drunk somewhere and give someone my stink eye, fights ensue, asses are kicked and Im known all over the city as the drunk girl who got knocked out by a boom mike.

Fear. I fear that MTV will be frowned upon in this city. Ive read a few articles and every journalist seems to have something against this genre in general (Real Housewives is being bashed as well). As much as I am nervous, I am so into it I could skip to the metro for a week straight! So, in spite of all the criticism, I would like to be the first to welcome MTV and the Real World to our Nations Capitol!

I promise to keep all you readers (all two of you) abreast of everything RW. Praise the Lord!

The Traps.

So last Saturday was the first and last annual Shenandoah Valley camping trip.

Alli and I ride down together and really are not to pressed to get there quickly. Upon our arrival, Nick and Pete set up our tent. We put everyone else's significant others to work since we have none of our own. Since the tent has two rooms, we dubbed one the living room, while the other was our bedroom. We also had a front porch. During these charades a bee stings me in the forehead.

Bo and Joe are the last ones to arrive. We had decided that I would help her with the doggies over the course of the trip. I pick up Addy, her yorskire terrier, to hold her while Joe parks the car and gets everything situated. Addy pees on me twice. I change my clothes and get back into the swing of things.

Pete eventually gets a fire going and we begin the traditional wiener/marshmallow roasting, all the while sipping on some beers. I make a pact with Dede that this fatgirl will eat 6 hotdogs. I tell her that I will even dip them in water to sog up the bun like the championship eaters do. I AM NOT AFRAID!

By the time I get to my third wiener, it begins to downpour as I am puttin all the fixings on it. Allison and I run and sit in the car to wait out the rain. In the car, we make fun or Nick's poncho and Pierre's sisters Gilligan hat. Eventually the rain subsides and we continue with our bonfire festivities.

About 15 minutes later a MONSOON arrives. Alli and I head back to the car. Our car is directly facing our tent. After about 30 minutes we notice that the two sides of our tent are waterlogged and look like they may cave in. We run into the tent where Allison takes charge of the living room and I am captain of the bedroom. Right away I notice our sleeping bags are wet.

Allison and I spent about 30 minutes poking the top of the tent with sticks to allow the river on our roof to run down the sides of the tent. It begins to rain harder and I obviously freak out. The walls are caving in from the water collections. "Alli this tent is going to cave in and we are going to suffocate and die in here. No one is helping us and we would be left for the bears, bobcats and other woodland creatures." The only thing left to do was abandon ship.

Sidenote: Kayce was also staying in Camp Catastrophe and was no where to be found during the great flood. An entire beer, may or may not have been spilled onto her sleeping bag. Never tell! For realz it was an accident!

At this point Alli and I are soaked, pissy and ready to throw in the towel. So thats what we did. We packed up the car, rolled up the tent and drove off of the mountain following Kristin and Pete, who also decided they had had enough.

The way home was nice and relaxing - minus the fact that the three hot dogs I ate gave me "the traps." The Traps is a term Alli and I coined/patented/trademarked on the way home. It is inescapable gas that feels like appendicitis. You know it's "trapped."

Dillon, Bo's chihuahua, hated camping also so he decided to ride home with us. I spent the entire ride petting him in my lap. "Dillon, you know I hate it when you lick me, it tickles!" My right upper thigh is tickling so bad. "Dillon! Stop it!" Finally I cant take it any more and look down. At the moment I look down, we pass a street light, which lights up the chunky, white liquid in my lap. Yes, Dillon was so scarred from this trip (and my traps) that he had taken a throw up in my lap. An excellent way to bring this camping trip to an end.

So next time, I propose we venture to something a little more waterproof, like a cabin...or a spa.

Search and Rescue

I am so stoked up for this camping trip, you have no idea. I may have to refrain from any hiking or other types of adventure seeking. Knowing me, Ill probably fall off the mountain and die. Reasoning being:

Exhibit A: The California death hike. For further clarification please refer to the Cali blog entry entitled "The death walk."http://rachel-socaltripnov08.blogspot.com/

Exhibit B: My ankle is still not right from the time I rolled it tripping off the curb in front of the Austin Grille in Bethesda. For those of you who do not recall this incident, it occurred on the way to meet Pec when she was last in town. High heels are still a problem.

Exhibit C: My Earth Week biking mishap. For those who do not know about the biking please refer to "Dude, What Happened to Your Face." Anywho, I still cannot kneel on hard surfaces from that one. I' sure all you pervs get a kick out of this one but the knee remains tender. Read up.

Which brings me to Exhibit D: This is the main reason I will be refraining from the hiking activities camping weekend. My father was an Eagle Boy Scout so every summer we would go on an intense camping trip. The worst was the week long canoe trip in bear country Michigan. We still have those goddamn canoes in the backyard shed and I still have nightmares of bear attacks.

I must have been about 14 years old when my family went on our last camping trip to Rocky Gap State Park (same location we will be attending). I think we camped for 4 days...always one day too long. One morning, we packed up some bottled water and trail mix and set off on a hiking excursion. There was a total of 3 grown men and 6 children. We hiked up to the cabin where a hermit lived for an unreasonably long time with no contact with civilization. It was pretty tight, we all imagined what it would be like living on top of a moutain and off of the land. Time to head back. Only no one has any clue where we are. We are lost. We are lost for 5 hours. We are panicking. It is becoming dark and I think that my imagining the hermit lifestyle may quickly become a reality.

We were hoping our mothers would send out a search and rescue team. Finally, we find a break in the moutain. FYI-it was just as steep as the hike to the H-Wood sign. We slowly inch down it, pass a family of wild turkeys (I thought about having to butcher one of them for food) and eventually make it home. This was a terrifying terrible experience and to make it worse there was a lizard in the toilet. This all occurred at Rocky Gap.

So to answer your question of what I will be doing while everyone is on the hiking excursion...It will be me and my two BFF's hanging out at the site...Myself, a book, and good old Samuel Adams....maybe some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies! Hey I need a little adventure this weekend! Livin' on the edge.

Are You Superman?

What a way to start off hump-day! A nice little surprise on my morning commute. So, as I mentioned before, I switch trains at Gallery Place/Chinatown. Today, I ascend the escalator, take my normal place leaning up against a column towards the end of the track while sporadically wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip/forehead/neck area. This is when I catch myself mid yawn, eye up a familiar face. I quickly straighten up, cover my mouth and stand there in all my wrinkled skirt glory. Yes, Darmouth, my boyfriend from last weekend, is waiting for the same train.

“Hey,” he says and quickly explains to me that he is on his way to one of his sisters graduation, hence, the suit jacket. He’s embarrassed! I eye him up and down. Full on nerd potential today for Dartmouth. He’s really embracing the scientist within. The suit jacket is brown and looks like it has been made out of recycled materials and he’s wearing glasses. Yes, glasses. Oh, how I love a man in glasses!

If you haven’t heard my take on a man in glasses here goes: they have that superhero appeal . They remind me of Clark Kent, who at any time may rip off their white collared button up to reveal the red, blue and yellow superman uniform. They then fly off and save the nearest damsel in distress/save the world from perishing. We then meet back at the daily planet as if nothing has happened, yet there is this strange sexual attraction…uhh maybe this is just my fantasy?? Anyone?

Dartmouth looks me up and down as well. Besides my wrinkled skirt, I am surprisingly well put together today. I am wearing my stewardess costume which the gentlemen at my work seem to enjoy. So we board the train and shoot the shit for a few minutes (still discretely swabbing the sweat from my face). He gets off at Metro Center (one stop) and I let out a huge “whhhhhhhhhheeewwwww!” HUGE sigh of relief. This is too much for a Wednesday Morning! I sit down next to the woman in front of me who smiles at me. It’s unsaid but we both know what just happened on this particular morning commute. “It’s hot as balls in here this morning,” I say to her. “Don’t I know it. Girl, don’t I know it.”Now I shall spend the rest of my humpty dump day with butterflies in my tum tum. Happy Wednesday!

Homicide, Life on the Streets

There has been a homicide on my street. I know this because I walked by this tree that was covered, leaves to roots, in stuffed animals. Usually seeing this sort of scene would make one think, car accident. We've all seen them on the side of the road with the crosses, flowers, teddy bears, etc. I also knew it was a shooting because I heard it said in a passing conversation. There were TONS of middle school aged children hanging around the memorial and I heard one say"yeah yo, those bitches shot him and ran like an m-f'er."

For some reason, this didn't scare me at all. I guess it really didn't sink in until I walked by today and there was a reward on the tree along with all the memorial paraphernalia. REWARD: $25,000 to anyone with substantial information regarding the homicide of this person (picture).

This brings me to another thought. A baffling one at that. Let's dicuss memorials of unfortunate deaths such as a shooting or car accident. Flowers, I get. Crosses, Im right there with you. Teddy bears and other stuffed animals, I do not understand. What, are we at a carnival? Six Flags? What is up with all the oversized, flourescent kiddie toys? The person that passed, at least in this homicide situation, was not a child. I feel like the street vendor across the street should switch from hot dogs to cotton candy and funnell cakes. Shit, let's send a 3 ring circus down the street while we're at it.

Humidity: 57.3% Humiliation: 100%

Ok so...outing number 3....The Cook-Out at Dartmouth's pad. As you can see from previous entries I was scared shitless, slightly hungover but, I gotta admit, still lookin pretty bangin. I put on my favorite maxi dress and mapquest the directions. It cant be that far, we live in the same metro stop area. TWO MILES. I'll walk it. I decide there are three upsides to this:

1. Time to relax.
2. Get some exercise.
3. Its absolutely gorgeous outside.

So I grab my phone, a bottle of water, my humidity detector and walk out the door, directions in hand. At this point I realize I really need to up my game. I look and feel like I am living in 1998. I copied, in pencil, the directions on a peice of pink, wide ruled notebook paper. Why, oh, why do I not have a blackberry? Carrie, step into the 21st century.

My walk took me through Howard University. I could not understand why everyone says its such a bad area. Its beautiful and I got to stop into my favorite clothing store, Up Against the Wall. It the largest one I have ever been in so you can imagine my excitement. Is it kind of cliche that Howard University WOULD be home to the largest Up Against the Wall in America? Enough pondering that, I am grateful. I browse and then head on my way, noting that this is a great spot for an emergency outfit.

This is the point when I really start sweating. It's pouring down my face. I will relate it to Sarah's sweat attack at her engagement party. Hopefully, I looked as collected as she did.

An hour later, I arrive at the BBQ. After meeting all of Dartmouth's friends, who all look like they just stepped out of a sailing competition (I guess Dartmouth will do that to you), I take a seat in a lawn chair. Not knowing anyone and feeling a little shy, I strike up a conversation with the gentleman seated next to me. Obviously, he asks me “what do you do?” I cant stand this question. Well I DO a lot of things but I assume you are asking me about my work so I guess Ill start there. I explain to him that I work for a property management firm…yadda, yadda, yadda….I actually have an air quality tester in my purse. I cant stay long because I need to head over to my girlfriends house and give her a reading.

I realize something else about myself at this moment. Not only do I get nervous around professional athletes (Ovie), I also get nervous at BBQ's. Clearly, I was mute again. Several embarrassing moments later after telling my Alex Ovechkin pole dance story, the weather comes up in conversation. “It’s a beautiful day out. Not really humid. Perfect for sittin outside, having some brews and relaxin in the sun.” “Yeah,” someone else chimes in, “I wonder what the temperature is.” All of a sudden my new friend pipes up and announces that I can let them know the temperature and the humidity. Kill. Me. Now.

All heads turn in my direction with inquisitive looks on their faces. How does this random girl know the humidity levels? Do I have a sixth sense? Can my breasts tell it's raing a la Karen from Mean Girls? At this point I wish any of the above were plausible. I undesirably pick up my purse and ever so slowly pull out the tool. I grabbed the part that shows the read and pull from there. The next thing everyone sees is a long, thick phone cord and finally the fan. People are laughing at me, or at this device. I am not too sure. I. Want. To. DIE!

Sidenote: This humidity decetor device looks like what soldiers used in WWI to call for backup. Think, the musical South Pacific. Take a look: http://www.grainger.com/Grainger/items/4PC72 (the one I have has a fan, not a probe)

What I did next, I know John, the engineer who lent me the tool, will appreciate. After turning it on, I flick my wrist like never before. Flicking your wrist is key to humidity detection. I am laughing, not because it was funny, but because I am so embarrassed. As I am flicking, someone asks me a question about the device. I didn’t answer because at this point I am laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face. They then retort that using this 1953 time warped looking device requires mayjah concentration. Still flicking, I announce that the temperature is 82 degrees with a 57.3 percent humidity. Normally, I would not have cared about being laughed at but:

Number 1: I am completely sober.
Number 2: This all occurred in front of my new manfriend (who graduated from Dartmouth and is a scientist). Needless to say, the first thing I did this morning was call up Jon and give him the device back. I want nothing to do with that EVER again. So bad luck. So over it.

Connor, as in Roseanne.

Announcement! I did something last night I haven't done in YEARS! I, Carrie Cooper, went on a date. (Raquel and I are currently arguing the meaning of the term date but that's neither here nor there) So I took Alli to the Nationals game for her birthday last week where we spent the entire game at the Red Loft Bar. Being as it was a Tuesday evening, everyone came straight from work. I spot an extremely good looking man there where we eyesex each other for hours. I write my number down on a napkin and slip it to him on the way out the door. Ballsy, I know! I haven't been this bold since the time I wrote my number down on a stripper's card, hired a body guard and slipped it to a man with the longest mohawk in America. Moving on...

We have a quick chat on the way out of the stadium. I find out that his name is Connor (like Roseanne) and he lives in my neighborhood! Last night we flirtatiously text and meet up at a bar in the neighborhood. Raquel and I part ways after a little while and Connor and I venture to the Chi Cha lounge. At Chi Cha, Connor orders a strawberry houka and 2 miller lights. We relax, sip, smoke and get to know each other. "Im sorry, I just cant help myself," he says as he plants one on me, while gently grabbing my face in the way that makes us ladies weak in the knees. We are into each other. Hand holding and further kissing ensues as we continue to get to know one another.

He is sexy. I know I always date hideous looking creatures but he is the first guy that everyone might agree is good looking. Raquel can vouch. He is from Virginia and went to Dartmouth. From this moment forward he will now be referred to as "Dartmouth." Again, sexy. We are now dancing. The entire time, he is not letting go of my hand. "Wanna come over?" Shit! I am not ready for this. As Kelly Clarkson says in her new song, I do not hook up. I lay it out there and let him know that I am NOT sleeping with him and at most, heavy petting, is all he will get. So, Ive kiss and told too much already but I woke up in the nook. AM snugglefest at its finest. As my boss woud put it, I have turned into a "Big P."

My phone is vibrating out of control. I check it and find out that Raquel has lost her keys. She is locked out and sleeping on the neighbor's (who we do not know) couch. I will take her text to verbatum, "SAVE ME!" I obviously finish up the snuggling and then hop in a cabby (thats what we do in DC). It was my first inner city hook-up. I call Raq to tell her I am home and she meets me on the front stoop. We descend the stairs to our apartment where I immediately notice Raquel's keys left carelessly in the front door. Welcome to my life.

So in conclusion, I am not going to marry this guy but I'll take it as practice. Mr. and Mrs. Connor and Carrie Cooper. I dont think so.

La Cucuracha!

Some of you may have noticed my new Facebook status. It reads "times like this, I wish I had a boyfriend. Times like this."

So, as mentioned in my previous blog, I take a personal day today. I passed it by watching a movie, doing minimal work from home and looking for part time jobs. This is a recession and if Im going to keep up my dirty habits, Imma need some extra cash flow.

Sometime around noon, I decide the least I can do is clean the house for Rachel. I decide to start in the kitchen, first filling up my glass of water. "OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!" La cucuracha the size of Dani's big toe.

Sidenote: I have recently learned that La Cucuracha is spanish for cockroach. I find this interesting. So the childrens song I sang growing up was about a goddamn cockroach.

Sidenote 2: In my college days, we gave Dani's feet the nickname "booger pickin' toes." They are long, boney, slender and pretty much resemble a a chickenfoot.

Ok back to the roach in my kitchen. Petrified, I decide I need to flush it down the toilet like I normally do. Ugh yes, I do this normally. I grab the dustpan and throw it down next to La Cucuracha only to find all of its legs start squirming for dear life.

This brings me to my dilemma. Do I try to scoop it up taking chances that it may flip itself over, run its big toed looking ass toward my face and bite me, giving me a terrible flesh eating disease that I die from in an hour. OK Overdramatic I know but what would you do?

So now I am sitting on the couch typing this. Raquel is on her way home and has already informed me of her massive PMS. Im scared times two! I need to get this cockroach and I need to get him fast! I have 15 minutes. Back to square 1. Say a prayer....

I just tried again. I ended up screaming and ran out the front door. Its legs are moving in double time now. I cant squish it. The crunch sound will make me throw up. My heart is in overtime too.

Did I kick it and not realize and that's why its belly up? Jesus. What if it flips itself over and runs away. How can I sleep knowing that its in my house somewhere...in my bed...at my feet. Im freakin out! Does anyone care!?!?!? I have approximately 3 minutes before my roommate comes home.

Oh and the neightbors arent home. I checked when I ran out the front door like a sissy.

I have now placed a cup over it. So if, in fact, it does turn itself over it now cannot attack me in my sleep.

Seriously, look at your thumb (Dani - your toe) its that long. No joke. No exaggeration necessary.