Hey.

Apparently there’s a world out there still.

Don’t worry, I’m not quitting my blog because I’m burned out. I’m not even quitting. I’m just driving to and from the airport all the time (which means I’m going totally crazy in the car all the time), organizing lots of details to death, and plopping down on a squeaky bunk bed to watch the Bachelorette and eat goldfish all night long. I’m doing a lot of things, but I’m not writing blog posts. Except for this one, obviously.

I’m actually on a work trip. I’m organizing a training program in western New York for the next three weeks. Yes, that’s western New York. Like, Buffalo area—the beautiful-but-very-boring part of the state. Not New York City. 

Anyway, I do this every summer, and every time, I feel like I’ve entered a parallel universe. A parallel universe where the only thing in the world is this program. While I’m here, my life has never existed before or after. This is all that exists in the world, and my sole purpose in life is to organize all the tiny parts of this tiny world.

Occasionally I remember that I have a husband (just kidding—I almost always remember that). I never remember that I have a blog.

And then today, I was like, “Hey, wasn’t there some kind of thing on the internet that I was responsible for? No? Huh. Oh, wait. There is something. Some weird little place full of badly drawn pictures. I better find that thing and see if it’s still alive.” It’s like when I got a Tamagotchi pet when I was little and forgot about it for a month. That thing was super dead when I finally remembered it. Poor little guy.

So that’s what’s up.

I vaguely remember a life where I had time to write multiple blog posts every week. It’s like a dream. Is it real? I don’t know. But this new life is okay. I get to eat snacks in bed and watch whatever I want on Netflix, so that’s cool. 

But for real, I’m pretty sure that this program ends in the middle of July, so I’ll probably be back then with some more hilarious things to say, or at least more conversations with inanimate objects. See you then.

Aw, no picture? I know, I’m disappointed too. I kept sitting here hoping one would just materialize in front of me because I don’t have time to draw a whole picture, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. I did draw half a picture, though, so here you go. 

I think it was going to be something about how the rest of New York is not the same as New York City. I know that’s not funny, but just pretend. They say if you fake-laugh for long enough, you’ll start to laugh for real. Try that now. It would have been funny if I had finished it, I swear.

Also, I don’t know why there’s a dinosaur picking his nose. Normally I take that stuff out of my final pictures.

Case in point: I wrote this post three days ago, and then forgot about my blog again. I just remembered that I should post this. Whoops.

A couple weeks ago, Pete and I took a road trip to St. Louis. As you might remember, we encountered America’s worst motel on the way, and I was very worried that I would have to pour honey on my head to keep me awake while driving. It was an adventure. We drove all over the place, and I had to do quite a bit of that driving. Not half—way less than half, actually—but a lot.

And while there was no bees or bears to keep me awake, that doesn’t mean that it was a boring trip. Here’s just a few out-of-context things that I heard us say out loud during the course of the trip:

• “Can you put this back in my shoe for me?”
• “It would be neat if we could shoot the moon with a nuke and make it implode on itself.”
• “Do you ever think that bushes are just little fires that got frozen in green?”
• “My lady parts are excited, but not in a sexy way. They just really want to jump around.”

I’m not even going to give you the context, because it really wouldn’t help that much.

Anyway, as we were barreling through the middle of Kansas listening to baseball commentary and country music, psychosis was filtering into our car. Yes, it smelled like dust and humidity, but we all know that’s just one of those Kansas tricks.

As a person who has been on many road trips, I can see the symptoms of road trip psychosis before it really hits. So, take it from me, the next time you’re on a road trip, watch for this seemingly-harmless progression before you end up as a raving maniacal poop-brain careening down the highway at 90 miles per hour.

It starts out simple enough. You get in the car with the intention of driving for a long time. You know it’s going to be a while. You’re doing it on purpose. Somewhere that you want to go is many hours away. And the evolution begins.

1. Optimism

It’s the beginning of the trip. Stuff is still fun. Stuff like “looking at things out the window” and “steering the car in different directions.” It’s fun because you’re going to places that are not the places you normally go.

2. Boredom

It’s a couple hours in. The GPS is not amusing anymore, and your husband is just sitting there reading books on his Kindle. Apparently he does not exist solely to keep you amused at all times. This is the part where getting a wise-cracking owl to keep you company sounds really good.

3. Everything Is Hilarious

Forced to amuse yourself, everything is funny. And by everything, I mean everything. That piece of popcorn you dropped down your seat? Hysterical. The fact that your window is stuck? It’s like freakin’ Brian Regan is sitting right next to you. Which is also a hilarious thought, even though you’re laughing too hard at things that aren’t funny to think of any of his jokes.

4. Sarcasm/Making Fun of Avril Lavigne

Laughter has turned to cynicism about how you can never think of jokes when you want to, and you talk for an hour about how totally weird Avril Lavigne was acting on the Today Show. This is also a good time to make fun of other things, like the Bachelor or Twilight or vampire books in general. Nothing is off-limits. Low-blows are okay.

5. Stand-Up Comedy and Fake Accents

You remember that one Brian Regan sketch and you look at your husband and say, “It’s a cup…with dirt in it,” and he laughs, and then it turns into things like, “Hey, what’s up with mayonnaise? It’s all goopy, and stuff,” and reading fantasy novels out loud in a bad Russian accent. Comedy gold.

6. Scowling and Flipping Off Semi Drivers

After you’ve run out of jokes, things get angry. Effing semi drivers and their ideas about passing people on the highway. Maybe if they’d stay in their own effing lanes they wouldn’t get flipped off so much.

7. Mostly Eye-Twitching

Your husband is asleep. You are almost asleep as well. There are no more semi trucks to be mad at. Just darkness and your own two headlights on a very long, straight, boring road.

8. Paranoia/Hallucinations

Tall, scary, metal things are blinking in the distance.

They have red eyes right in the center that glow in unison, over and over. Blink. Blink. Bllliiiiiiink.

They’re either an army of angry robots that you are stupid enough to keep driving toward, or the whole town of Salina has become infected with a contagious deadly virus, and those are all warning signals to stay out of the town. As soon as you drive into them, you’ll either be crushed by giant malicious metal arms, or you’ll be locked in a biohazard hospital until you die in agony from whatever killed the rest of the town.

Either way, you’re doomed, there’s no hope for survival, and you need to turn around right now. Right. NOW. The car needs to stop moving forward IMMEDIATELY!

At this point, your husband makes you quit driving before you swerve off the road or into oncoming traffic, and you sit quietly in the passenger seat as your car passes through the field of what turns out to be a bunch of windmills.

It’s here that the evolution of psychosis comes to an end. Unless you’re driving alone. If you are, well, then you’re just screwed. Good luck getting through those windmills alive.

So the lesson is, if you do go on a road trip alone, it might be a good idea to bring that funny owl to keep you company. Or Brian Regan. I bet he would keep you sane, kind of. At least there would be more laughing.

I’m in the middle of writing a post about what happens to my brain during a road trip, but it’s not funny yet. Right now it’s a list of unrelated words and a six-paragraph-long diatribe about mayonnaise that is neither funny nor accurate.

So I’m going to work on it a little more. You’re welcome.

Anyway, today’s post is brought to you by something called honesty.

Honesty is the reason that I mostly write fiction, because when I try to write something biographical, I either make things up or embellish the truth. I have to work really hard to make sure all the stories I tell on here are true. So far, they are (I think).

So as I was driving down the road after work and thinking, “What in the name of mayonnaise am I going to blog about?”, I decided that I should just spill it.

By now you’re like, “OMG, then spill it, already.” And this is where I should have started this post. You see what I mean about six paragraphs of rambling before anything gets going?

Here’s what it is. I tend to have about a three-month attention span when it comes to my hobbies. What I mean by that is that I do something I love obsessively for three months, and then I suddenly hate it and never want to do it again. Well, for a couple of years, and then the cycle repeats itself.

Here’s a list of defenseless hobbies that I have mercilessly loved within an inch of their lives:

• Yoga
• Cooking (I still like this sometimes)
• Writing
• Reading
• Star-gazing
• Learning Russian
• Eating yogurt
• Running (but who am I kidding – I really hated this all along)
• Playing video games
• Being nice

And guess what, folks? This blog has been up for almost exactly three months. That’s right. March, April, May.

So here I am. I’m on the cusp of doing what I typically do with each and every one of my hobbies, even the ones I really love, like writing and cooking, and I’m about to get burned out. I can feel it creeping in. It’s not that I have nothing to write about—far from it. I have a file with about a year’s worth of blog post ideas. It’s just that it’s starting to feel like work, and not like fun.

Just like when I was cooking a gourmet meal every night of the week.

Just like when I was reading twenty books a month.

Just like when I was going to yoga six days a week, and writing a novel in three months, and playing video games until four in the morning every night.

Because here’s what blogging sounds like in my head. It sounds like, “OMG, I have to write two posts a week, one on Tuesday and one on Friday because then they’ll be nicely spaced out, and they’re each going to be hilarious and have a funny picture to go along with them, and I’m also going to alternate types of posts so that they’re not all stories about my dreams, and then I’m going to comment on all my favorite blogs [which is about a hundred – no joke] and never get behind on my blog-reading, and I’m going to find five new blogs every night and comment on them, and then when I do post, I’m going to promote it on Facebook and on Twitter and Pinterest and Tumblr and Delicious and StumbleUpon and Digg and Reddit and then I’m going to look for other opportunities to submit my writing to different sites online, and then I’m going to tweak my theme again, and then I’m going to check my stats for the billionth time today. And then I’ll start all over tomorrow.”

One might think I didn’t have, like, a job, or a husband, or any of those other hobbies I listed.

But this time, with my blog, I’m going to try something new.

Moderation.

Now, I don’t want to be too optimistic, here, because I’m not really sure how to do “moderation.” But it might start by not checking my stats constantly (except that’s pretty fun). Or by cutting down on the blogs I’m reading (except I love them all), or by toning down the other-blog-commenting (because, let’s be honest, it’s a little creepy if I’m the first one to comment on a blog every single time, right?).

I’m not going to stop blogging—at least I don’t think so. Just maybe dial back some of the peripheral stuff. See how that feels.

Even typing that seems a little foreign  to me. It’s not in my nature to do less than I can. Naturally, I want to do my best and be the best at everything I ever do, forever.

So, help me out. What are some ways that you maintain some balance in your life? Blogging or otherwise? Is moderation even a real thing?

Well, we’re back from our trip. We drove a total of 30 hours over a long weekend to see our friend get married and to hang out with our college friends and then some other college friends. It was a good time. I mostly stayed awake, and did not need any bees or bears to keep me awake.

And while there weren’t any bears, this is the story of the worst motel in all of America. I won’t tell you the name because that feels mean, but you can try to look it up if you want. It’s in central Kansas. If TripAdvisor actually publishes my review, it will be easier for you to find it, but I doubt they will. I think I broke their rules about threats, personal insults, and profanity all in one post.

But it’s okay. Because I’m going to tell the story here anyway.

We left for our trip after Pete finished work on Friday, which was about 5 pm. We had a long way to go. We figured that all we really needed was a bed, so we picked the cheapest room we could find called it good. The pictures didn’t look that bad.

We rolled into town at about 1:30 a.m. Our motel had happily kept their three-story neon sign on all night (a fact that I’m sure their residential neighbors loved), so it wasn’t too hard to find, even though that little town is pretty creepy at night.

We rang the doorbell to alert whatever on-call staff was supposed to be around, and after a few minutes, the light in the lobby flicked on. A potbellied man in wrinkly boxers answered the door. And by “answered the door,” I mean he fumbled with the lock, swung the screen open, and left us standing outside without a word.

We waited at the check-in desk as he stepped into the restroom next to us and peed for a while. We know because we could hear it. It was loud. What we didn’t hear was him washing his hands, which he definitely did not do.

Check-in went smoothly, considering he only said about two words. He mostly pointed at things and pushed a registration at us. Our “free breakfast” sat in open plastic containers in the corner of the room, and the air was…itchy…somehow.

We laughed and laughed at that weird guy as I tried to unlock our door in the dark. Then Pete tried. And tried. And then he pulled half of a broken key out of the deadlock in the door.

And I said, “There’s going to be a dead body in there.”

We dragged all our things inside and stood in the entryway. The blue chairs near the door sported thick, black stains on the seats and the backs. The carpet was the same.

There was no dead body. Believe me, we looked. But it was musty and smelly and nothing worked. We stood in the entryway trying to muster the courage to touch something. My skin crawled just standing there. I was about eighty percent sure that we would both get fleas and/or bedbugs by just being inside the room for ten minutes.

We peeked in the broken closets and the smelly fridge.

“There’s blood on this wall,” Pete said.

I looked. “Ugh.”

“Yeah. Those are definitely blood spots.”

“It’s on the picture, too.”

We looked at each other. It was 2:30 in the morning. We were so tired.

“I’m afraid I’m going to get herpes from that bed.”

“Pete, there was a broken key in the lock. Do you know what that means? It means that no one even tried to clean this room, and they don’t even know that they’re MISSING a KEY.”

“And there’s blood on the walls.”

“And on those chairs.”

“Yep.”

“We can’t stay here. This is terrible. We’re going to get murdered.”

“Yeah. Um, how did this place get any good reviews?”

“Probably because they kill all their guests before they can post anything negative online.”

“Well, we better get out of here, then.”

So we did. Pete woke that guy up again to see if he’d give us any money back (which we did not expect and did not get), and I sat in the car to guard all our stuff.

We drove around town aimlessly trying to find any hotel that would let us in. We almost slept in our car. The lady at the Super 8 took pity on us and told us about a different motel that had non-smoking rooms and that was cheaper than the Super 8. I will love her forever.

It was 3:15 by the time we found a room. We unlocked our door with ease and crawled into a bed that did not terrify our very souls.

The refrigerator didn’t work there, either, and there was light streaming through the cracks in the door, but we slept, woke up, and didn’t die.

And that’s the story of the worst motel ever. Never stay there. The word “diamond” in the name should have been a clue. No one would give them an award other than themselves.

Or, they stole a bunch of diamonds from their guests and thought, hey, that’s funny. Let’s put that in our name and laugh about it all the time.

Have a nice weekend, everybody.

P.S. – I think that the conversation that we had while I was writing this post was just as ridiculous as this story. Pete was like, “What are you watching?” and I said, “I don’t know. I think it’s the news in Hungarian.” and he was like, “Do we have to watch this? And what do you want on your pizza?” and I said that I wanted corndogs on my pizza and that it smells like corndogs in here, and he said that no, it doesn’t, and then I said that of course it doesn’t smell like corndogs out in the apartment, but deep inside my nose it does, and he asked how he was supposed to be able to smell that.

And then this really old Hungarian movie started playing and Pete went to get the pizza, and I’ve spent the last half hour trying to remember the name of that movie and look it up on the internet, but I can’t find it. It starts with an “S” and ends with a “prost”, I think. If anybody knows what movie that is, please tell me.

Here are two things:

1. We’re going on a trip soon.

2. I am tired.

For some reason, there is no energy anywhere in my body. I’ve literally been about to fall asleep at any moment for the last week and a half. I don’t know what’s up with that. (I was just sick not too long ago, so I guess that could be it.)

The last time I felt like this was about a year ago, and I went to the doctor, and she was all, “Okay, well, go get your blood tested.” And I said I would.

And then I didn’t, because I started feeling better.

Then she sent me a bunch of letters saying, “Hey, go get your blood tested. You said you would.” But I never did, because I wasn’t tired anymore. Now I’m tired again, but I don’t want to ask her about it, because she’s going to be like, “Go get your blood tested,” and I don’t want to.

Anyway, my husband (Pete) and I are going on a road trip in the near future—and we’re both going to have to drive a bunch. Last time I checked, I’m not allowed to sleep much while driving. This is a problem, and I’m genuinely a little scared about this, because there’s not a whole lot that can keep me awake these days.

So, in an effort to keep us from careening off the road in a fiery ball of death, I made a list of things that might keep me awake in the car. Maybe.

1. Caffeine

2. More caffeine

3. A swarm of bees and honey on my head

4. A hungry bear and honey on my head

5. Pictures of cute things, like hedgehogs and puppies

6. A guy poking me with a stick all the time

7. Very loud music

8. Another bear

So, if nothing changes soon, this is what our car is going to look like:

Yep, just like that, except with coffee cups everywhere. Also, I wish we had a car that looked like that.

On the other hand, these are things that will put me to sleep immediately and will be banned entirely:

1. Norah Jones

2. A documentary on the history of fonts

3. Other people sleeping (sorry, Pete)

4. Being warm (sorry again)

5. Books on tape

6. Someone talking to me about different kinds of fishing rods

I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m sure it will be interesting as long as we don’t die.

P.S. – I imagine my husband will look at this picture and say, “Where am I?” and I’ll tell him that he can be the guy that pokes me with a stick and makes sure the bear is having fun. Somebody has to do it.

I think there is such a thing as Bad Poetry Day, or Bad Poetry Month, but my Google search turned up some very conflicting information about when each of these things actually occurs. It seems like lots of people are just going around saying, “Hey, let’s write bad poetry day today, and today happens to be ______.”

So I say it’s Bad Poetry Day today, because I have a bad poem for y’all.

I wrote this poem because one of the other blogs that I read just held a bad poetry contest. I didn’t win, so I thought I’d subject all of you to my poem instead, because I spent about two-point-four minutes on it, which is a lot for a poem.

So here it is. It’s titled “An Ode to Classic Video Games.” It’s dedicated to all the 12-year-old gamers from fifteen years ago, before they all started playing Call of Duty and driving everyone crazy.

Just remember, this was a BAD poetry contest, so don’t be like, “OMG, this is the worst thing ever,” and get all put off by how bad it is, because that’s the point. I could write good poetry if I wanted to, probably. I was an English major, so I technically know the difference between good and bad poetry, or I did four years ago. Anyway.

An Ode to Classic Video Games

Oh Peach, you are my Princess,
Oh Mario, so Super,
Yoshi—you’re a dinosaur,
And Bowser, you’re a loser.

You’re all so very real to me—
The fun just never ends!
Real people, they just can’t compare
To animated friends.

You always want to play with me.
My mother says “No way.”
She thinks that you will rot my brain.
But I say, “Not today!”

I owe it to your kingdom
To save you from the doom
That no doubt would befall you
Were I to leave the room.

I’m getting pretty hungry.
I’ve been in here a while.
I smell a little funky,
But you won’t let me die!

And if I do, then what of it?
The game, it tells no lies.
It says I have three hundred lives,
And who needs more than five?

You all are just the greatest friends
A kid has ever had.
Who cares about the outside world?
I’ve heard real life is sad.

See, that last part is funny because real life is sad, but being friends with video game characters is even sadder (or so I’ve heard). That’s why it’s funny.

But I’m also not mocking those kids, because I totally get the addiction. I wish I had known about Mario when I was twelve. But my parents were all, “Oh, no, no video games in the house.” Which was probably a good call, since even now I play video games until three in the morning on worknights, and I’m twenty-six years old. 

Speaking of that, I’m feeling like some Guitar Hero tonight. Who needs to sleep, anyway?

Also, Yoshi’s a dinosaur, right? He looks like one.

Did you play video games when you were little? Would you let your kids play as much as you did? I’m trying to revel in the fact that I don’t have to be an example to any kids yet. Yay.

My mother has done a lot of things for me, but by far, the most important thing she did was to make me eat.

As I sit in my quiet apartment (quiet is a miracle, actually) it’s hard to imagine the millions of moms around the world that are trying to feed their kids at this very moment. I’m sure my mom spent hundreds of hours wheedling, cajoling, bribing, and threatening me and my siblings to get us to eat when we were little.

And in almost every household, this is how it’s going:

Year One:

“You have to eat. Here comes the airplane.”
“No.”
“Mmm, look, Mommy’s eating it! It’s so good! Your turn!”
“No.”
“How about some peaches instead? You like those.”
“Noooo!”

Then of course there’s a lot of throwing food and smearing things around, and maybe enough gets in that baby’s belly to keep her alive until tomorrow, when it will start all over again.

Year Five:

“You have to eat.”
“I’m a dog. My name is Puppy.”
“Oh yeah? Dogs have to eat dog food, you know. Do you want that, Puppy?”
“No.”
“You know what else? Dogs don’t get dessert.”
“I’ll be a girl again for dessert.”
“Yeah, I bet. But you’re not going to get any if you don’t eat this first.”
“How much?”
“All of it.”
“Half?”
“No, all, or there’s no dessert.”
“I want to eat on the floor.”
(Sigh.)
“Like a puppy!”
“You still have to eat it all.”
“I’ll eat it all on the floor.”
(Sigh.) “Fine.”

Then, if that kid is anything like I was, there’s a lot of barking, yipping, nipping and growling under the table. Most of the food ends up on the floor, since it’s hard to eat when all you have is paws. The real dog eats most of it.

Year Twelve:

Do we really even need to go there? In my case, any conversation ended with a lot of eye-rolling, slamming things, sulking, and sarcastic comments directed into the air. My mom just wanted me to eat. I just wanted to read. Lots of fun was had by all.

Year after year, mothers do battle against her kids’ iron wills, their indiscernible palates, and their terrible attitudes, all to get them to eat.

But once a year, those kids wake up early. One cracks a dozen eggs into a pan and another burns a loaf of bread. They cut the best flowers off of the bushes outside. They microwave that coffee that was sitting on the counter from last night. They sneak up the stairs and push open the door.

They tiptoe on staticky socks and shimmy the tray through the thick feather comforter. They pile themselves one on top of another in their mother’s bed, and snuggle into the pillow, giggling and wiggling. Mom sits up and rubs her eyes. She yawns a big yawn and stretches, immediately wide awake. Her children beam. What a surprise.

But this is no surprise for any kid. It’s commonplace, and they know what to do.

They’ve been watching.

So, I’ve been pretty sick lately. Not that there could have been any doubt (there’s plenty of evidence), but just in case anyone needs to test in the future whether I’m actually sick or not, here’s some ways to tell:

1. If I suddenly have no interest whatsoever in the internet, I’m probably sick. When I’m sick, I’m perfectly content to watch Friends and sleep instead of worrying about Facebook and email and all the blogs I’m not reading. (Speaking of which, after two days of no internet, I have approximately 110 unread blog posts to get through. Maybe I should cut back. That’s a little out of control.)

2. If cute things don’t make me laugh hysterically, I’m definitely sick. Pictures of puppies and babies can’t even cheer me up. That’s a seriously bad sign.

3. If I can’t think of anything funny or imaginative to write, I’m extremely sick. This post is evidence of that. I have nothing funny or imaginative to say about anything. But read the rest of this post, because there’s a picture at the end, and it would be sad if you stopped now.

However, one thing seems to be enhanced by my being too sick to move. Since my imagination can’t operate while I’m awake and miserable, it goes crazy at night. My dreams are so much more fun than normal.

Like last night, when I dreamt up this elaborate video game where I was a gumdrop riding a bee through a magical land of candy and mindgames. First, you had to create your bee using math (which was fun somehow), and then you had to speed through this castle set in the middle of the SugarOtter Forest (which was apparently home to otters made of sugar, or otters that ate sugar, or something), and there were all these puzzles and games for your bee to solve near the end. I don’t know how you won.

Also, there was something about a dinosaur orphanage, but I’m not sure how that fits in. It sounds like a pretty good idea for a movie, though.

Anyway, I drew you a picture of my dream, since that’s the only remotely interesting thing going on around here right now. Other than this, it’s mostly Sprite, sleeping, and watching weird shows on TV.

Have a nice day.

The bathroom in my office has tile on the floors. (Don’t worry, this post will get more interesting.) I imagine that this is some kind of standard in bathroom design, and it’s a good one. I bet that most bathrooms in most offices have tile flooring, which is why I feel comfortable sharing this story.

It’s just that if tile in bathrooms is as common as I think, then there’s no doubt that other people have succumbed to the same kind of mental wildness that I am about to reveal. Or, at the very least, after having read this, it will whiz through your head the next time you’re in a public restroom, and I will have succeeded in sucking you into my delusions, at least for a second. Accept it. Enjoy it. Bwahaha.

Anyway. Besides tile on the floor, another bathroom standard is the idea that it’s pretty rude to try and guess who is in the stall next to you, even in your head. I agree with this. No one should ever do that, and I don’t.

However, since I can’t very well just turn off my imagination all the sudden just because I’m in the bathroom, my mind wanders to interesting places. Not gross places, just…interesting.

It starts out innocently enough. In my head, it goes like this:

— Hey, look, I’m the only one in the bathroom. That’s special.

— Squeaky door. Clunky shoes. Clop, clop, clop, clop. Could be heavy loafers, or it could be a horse that wandered in here. Yeah, it’s probably a horse. How’s it going, horse?

— Whoops, someone else. Getting busy in here. Ah, I can hardly hear this one. Like they’re wearing slippers. Probably ballet shoes, or maybe there’s fur on her feet. Probably a very large bunny rabbit. Pad-pad-pad. Are those floppy ears I see? This is getting a little strange.

— This is nice. Hanging out with the horse and the bunny.

— Wow, that door is squeaky. Here comes another. Flap-flap. Sounds like flip-flops. You’re not supposed to wear those to work. Which is why it’s probably a duck instead. I think webbed feet make that sound. Hey there, duck.

— It’s quite the zoo in here. And I’m the leader! Like Noah and his ark. Oh, no! Don’t go, horse. You were my only tall animal.

— Sigh. Wait. There’s something coming. It’s a clack-clack-clack. It’s coming down the hall.

— It’s a giraffe! Or stilettos. Hooray, the tall animal problem is solved. You can’t have a zoo without a tall animal, and giraffes are the best ones. What luck.

— Now everybody stay put. We’re all full up here on Lisa’s Ark. Don’t be scared. Just stay in your stalls. It is raining pretty hard out in the hall. That’s right, stay calm. Nobody panic. Good job, guys.

— Hey, bunny, where are you going? Come back here! You’ll drown out there! Stay in the ark! STAY IN THE ARK, BUNNY!

— Bunny—no. Please no. Don’t turn on that faucet. Don’t let the water in here! Do you want us all to drown? Everyone—flush! Flush the water out!

— It’s not working. The water’s rising! We’re all going to diiiieee!  Oh, bunny, you are a cruel beast. I’m sorry, animals. Save yourselves, if you can.

And they do. One by one, they clack and flap and pad out of the ark, and I’m alone once again, the sole survivor of a massive, office-wide flood, exhausted, but thrilled to be alive.

I step off of the tile and onto dry carpet. People click at their desks unaware.

I should probably get back to work.

Our upstairs neighbors are out of control. They have three tiny children, a dog, and, if my ears are to believed, a baby rhinoceros that they like to drop on the floor over and over all day long. They are literally noisy from four in the morning until midnight. It’s incredible, actually, that a family can make SO MUCH NOISE.

Also, they are hopeless chain-smokers, and apparently they have never heard of either an ashtray or of laws against littering. Our deck is covered in cigarette butts, and they’re burning holes in our patio furniture.

I just learned about this last part yesterday, and I was pissed. My instinct was to gather up all the cigarette butts and lighters, mix them into a cake mix and bake it for them and see how they liked that. Yum, nicotine cake.

My husband said this was “probably not the best response.” It would have been fun, though.

So, in light of that, I’ve come up with some other solutions to common neighborly issues. I hope to get the chance to implement one of these someday.

Problem #1: Your neighbors get their son a drum set, and he is just the worst musician ever.

Solution: This kid is terrible, and must be stopped. One night while your neighbors are out, break into their house, drill a hole in the wall in his room, and place a recording device inside. Turn it on with some kind of remote when your neighbors get home. Record his music, and then the next time he gets all crazy on the drums, play your recording, softly at first. When he stops to see what it is, cut the power. Each time he plays, amp up the volume, until the recording is shaking the entire house.

Eventually, he’ll get really scared, and he’ll either decide that the walls have absorbed his music and it’s compromising the structural integrity of the house, or that there’s a drum set ghost living in his room, in which case, he’ll go totally crazy and never touch the thing again.

Problem #2: Your neighbors’ dog poops all over your yard, and you can never catch him in the act.

Solution: Easy. Get your kid to go poop in their yard. Your kid will think it’s hilarious. If your neighbors get mad, just say that you’ll stop when they stop. And then when they say, “Hey, there’s a big difference between a dog and a kid,” then you can say, “Yeah? Clearly there is NOT.” That will shut them up.

If they still don’t stop, you could always resort to setting up all of your barbecues and garage sales on their lawn, and then explain that you were confused and thought they wanted to switch yards since they use your so much.

Problem #3: Your neighbors are way too involved in your life.

Solution: They may be very nice people, but you just moved in, and they keep coming over to suggest home improvement projects to “keep the street looking presentable.” So here’s what you do. Be very secretive. Close your curtains all the time, only drive places at night, and play loud chanting music from your basement while your neighbors are grilling outside in the evenings. And never let anyone in your house.

Once they can’t take the curiosity anymore, send out invitations for a baby shower or something seemingly harmless. Make it clear that gifts are expected, and then pick all the really expensive stuff at Babies R Us. Then, when everyone shows up, struggling under the weight of the massive gifts they’ve bought you just to get inside your house, act totally normal. Serve good food and keep the conversation going, but don’t let anyone into any other part of your house. Keep it all closed off with scary “Keep Out” signs.

Every few months, throw another one of these lavish parties requiring people to spend lots of money on gifts, and one time, maybe accidentally open a door into a dark and foreboding closet, and when you see them looking, demand that everyone leave immediately. You can keep this up for years, and you’ll end up with lots of free stuff. Also, your neighbors will be terrified of you, and they’ll completely leave you alone.

Problem #4: Your neighbors are a bunch of over-privileged college students who never go to class and think drugs are lots of fun.

Solution: Once those kids are super high, dress up in last year’s Halloween costume. It helps if it was something nostalgic like Super Mario. Don’t even knock. Just burst in, totter into the center of the room, and announce that, congratulations, they collected all the gold coins, so Mario is here to take them home to Super Mario Galaxy. They’ll get really excited, and then you can prance out of the house. The stoners will follow you around like you’re the Pied Piper of potheads.

Once you’re halfway down the street, stop, turn, and smell them suspiciously. Then say, “Oh, no, this will never do. This is no good. You all smell like power-up mushrooms. Princess Peach is going to be pissed that you ate all her mushrooms. I can’t take you back with me now. You’ll NEVER get into my world!” Then they’ll all start crying and swear off drugs forever. Oh, and then get a friend to dress up as Yoshi so that you can jump on his back and ride off into the darkness. Works every time.

I wish that I could put a few of these into action, but my husband is going to be on the look-out since I told him I would bake a cake out of cigarettes. Next time, I just won’t tell him before I do it.

I guess I’ll just continue to bang on our ceiling with a broom to get them to shut up. It hasn’t worked so far, but it’s pretty fun.

Have you ever had an annoying neighbor? What did you do about it? Were you nicer than me?