I’m a morning person.

I’m not exactly sure when this happened because I have clear memories of my Mom having to do everything short of setting off a bomb in my room to get me up when I was in high school.

Now, I tend to wake up between 5 and 5:30…

Yes, that’s A.M.

My husband has become a morning person as well.

But there is one family member who doesn’t get this part of the program. He sleeps in as often and as late as he can. He complains when we try to wake him up. And we hear him pacing many times in the middle of the night.

He’s our dog, Riley.

Even though he’s been with us for a few years now, I’m still stunned that Riley doesn’t want to get up in the morning. He’s the only dog I’ve ever had who has done this.

Our last dog, who will go by the pseudonym Snoopy, got up bright and early—mainly because he had to go out and never learned to master opening the back door on his own. It used to drive us crazy on the weekends because Snoopy would come up to the top of the bed, plop his head on my husband’s pillow, and, if my husband pretended to be asleep, even lick him in the face to wake him up.

This is why we could never sleep in on the weekends.

We joked about constructing a chute from our bedroom window, akin to a giant sliding board, so that we could just get up, and let Snoopy slide right down into the yard to do his business.

But we knew this plan was destined to fail: he’d have no way to get back up to our room and one of us—and when I say “one of us,” I mean my husband—would have to go down and get him anyway.

We had Snoopy for many years before he passed. And you kind of get used to how things in your house work. So when Riley came along, we were in for quite the surprise.

Riley is much like a teenager—he doesn’t want to wake up early. When he does wake up, he literally moans and groans. He yawns. Then, he plops back down on the bed. He will come up in the morning like Snoopy did and plop down on my husband’s pillow. But it’s not because he wants to get up.

Oh no…he has no desire to be counted among the awake and alive yet.

He just wants to rest his head on a pillow.

If he weren’t so darn cute, this would really tick us off.

Until the early afternoon, Riley spends his time taking naps—as many as possible. Forget about “cat naps”; I think my dog has them all beat.

At precisely 8 p.m. each evening (seriously—you could set your watch by our pup), Riley begins running around the living room because he wants to play.

The problem is that with my husband and me being the aforementioned early birds, we’re really tired at this time.

That doesn’t matter to Riley. He will bring my husband one toy. Then another. Then another. He keeps it up until he wears us both down, and my husband finally surrenders. “Okay, okay! We’ll play,” he says.

And they do…until one of them completely tires out.

Sometimes it’s actually Riley.

One thing I haven’t yet told you about Riley is that being a night owl-dog, he then loves to get up in the middle of the night to go out. He won’t just jump on the bed or come up and lick one of us in the face.

No, that would be too easy.

He walks around our bedroom. First, he scratches a lot. Then he yawns a lot. Then he will begin to lick his foot, while making the loudest slurping noises possible.

Don’t worry; he doesn’t have fleas. He’s just doing everything short of hiring a little doggie marching band to wake us up.

One of us will then get up—and when I say “one of us,” I mean my husband—and let him outside.

We’re starting to give that chute a little more thought…

Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not trying to wake her dog up, writes “Wojo’s World®” from her home office.

She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMIcheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

I learned a lot from the pop music of the 1980s.

You can wear your sunglasses at night. (I actually tried this in 7th or 8th grade when the song was out, and in retrospect, not only did I look like a goof, but it also made it really hard to see. But, I digress…)

You can dance if you want to. You can leave your friends behind. That didn’t seem nice, though, because if you’re dancing, you usually want your friends around, right?

Unless you’re in a really bad music video where everyone is headed to the Renaissance Faire. Then, I’m guessing, you probably want them as far away from you as possible.

I also learned about Australia from the band Men at Work. The amazing information that I gleaned from this fun bunch of guys?

That Australia is called “Down Under.” (Yeah, sure, now everyone knows this, but back then we were young and naïve and hooked on MTV.)

It’s also referred to—at least in the song—as the “land of plenty.”

Sound like a great place to go, right?

Well, then, there’s also Vegemite.

In the song, singer Colin Hay says that a man smiled and gave him a Vegemite sandwich.

All our teenage selves could think was “What in the world is Vegemite?”

Back then (she says in her 700-year-old lady voice), we didn’t have no fancy interwebs to discover this info. We didn’t have phones to pull out of our pockets and do the Google. We had to walk to the brick-and-mortar building called the library.

Since the song was released in the United States during the summer of 1982, my friends and I had better things to do. Like walk around the neighborhood for hours at a time. Sit on the marble steps and talk. Or go to the local Polack Johnny’s and play video games.

Researching what exactly Vegemite was wasn’t exactly on the top of our To-Do Lists.

Flash forward a mere 32 years.

Let me pause for a minute, as realizing that 32 years have passed since I was singing that song with my friends has rendered me a bit dizzy…

Whew…okay, I’m back now.

Before heading to the 2014 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ annual conference, where I was a speaker, I had a visit from a friend and colleague who just happens to live Down Under.

We asked her things that only goofy Americans would:

Do dingoes really eat babies?

After making her listen to the Outback Steakhouse commercials online, we asked, Does that voice really sound Australian? (Her verdict: No. If anything, she said, it sounds a bit like a New Zealander and a not-great accent at that.)

And what on earth is Vegemite?

“I’ve got some with me? Would you like to try it?”

Oh my gosh! If I had a bucket list—which I don’t because I think that the term “bucket list” is stupid and always makes me think that once you start checking stuff off it, the closer to death you get—I would have this on it: Try Vegemite.

“Absolutely!” I said. Then added, “Um, but what’s in it?”

As she began reading off the label, what surprised me the most was that none of the ingredients were, um, vegetables.

“Yeast extract,” she began as she read the side of the little bottle.

Okay. Now I had another question. “What in the heck is yeast extract?”

This I had to Google. According to YeastExtract.Info, (I’m totally serious about this website.) “Yeast extract is a versatile ingredient that is used in various foodstuffs including soups, sauces, and ready meals. It is made from the same fresh yeast that is used in bread, beer, and wine production.”

Well, that didn’t sound so bad. Until a friend said it sounded like the remains that they scrape off the bottom of the machine when they’re brewing beer.

Bleah…

Vegemite actually has a high amount of vitamin B in it. My friend eats vegemite on toast with butter.

The time had come. I took a bite.

It was said to be savory. It was said to be tasty.

I thought it tasted like a smoky salt-lick and promptly spit it out.

Everyone else who tried it seemed to think it wasn’t bad. They wouldn’t eat it often, but thought it wasn’t too bad.

All I kept thinking was, “People eat sandwiches of this stuff?”

I remembered, though, that during an interview, singer Colin Hay once said, “It’s an acquired taste.”

And acquiring it is definitely not on my non-existent bucket list.

Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s coming close to insulting an entire country by spitting out one of their most favorite foods, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore.

She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMIcheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

I am not a robot.

People who have met me in person can attest to this fact. Well, most of them can anyway.

In fact, the closest I’ve ever gotten to being a robot was during the ‘80s when I attempted to do the dance called “The Robot.” And it was not pretty. Take my word for it.

Yet recently, a social media site, we’ll call it BookFace, decided that I was exactly that—a robot.

It all started on my birthday. One of the fun things about BookFace is that on your birthday, all the folks who are your “friends” (some of whom you’ve never met and never will and you find yourself asking your husband, “Who in the heck is Frieda Blutbut? Do you know her? Why am I friends with her?” But I digress…) are told that it’s your birthday. And a lot of them choose to send you greetings, salutations, and even funny YouTube clips.

It’s really cool. And this part of my story is happy. Lots of folks wished me a Happy Birthday.

A whole lot.

So many that I would have spent a week’s worth of grocery money to send them all thank-you cards if I still had to respond by snail mail.

That’s all good news, right? Well, then came my choice to respond.

My Mom raised me to send thank-you notes. I still send them. So I decided that I would simply thank each person who wished me a wonderful day of entering the world.

Before I get into what exactly happened with BookFace, I need to tell you one other vital piece of information that you may not know about me—I type really, really fast. Which is hilarious, in a way, because in high school, one of the only classes that I had gotten C’s in was, you guessed it, typing class.

Yes, people, they did, at one time, teach typing. They also taught cursive. This was about the time that we were all taking classes in “How to make fire” as well.

Again, I digress…

So I’m a fast typist. I have alerts set up so that BookFace will send me an email when someone comments on something. It also would allow me to then respond from my email to the aforementioned comment.

On this most excellent day of the celebration of my birth, I figured, “Hey—I type fast. I can do this from my email and quickly type a thank-you to each person who sent me good wishes.”

It would certainly be good Karma, and it would keep my late Mom from haunting me from the grave. I could just imagine it, I’m asleep one night, and I would wake up to see my Mom standing next to my bed shaking her fist and saying, “You didn’t send thank-you notes!” Because if my Mom, who was my best friend, could come back, that’s what she’d waste her time doing—chastising me for my lack of thanks.

Are you still with me? Good!

I began thanking people. I was typing so fast that if sparks could have flown out of my keyboard, they would have. I was thanking so many people, and I felt great.

Then, BookFace stepped in.

I actually received a message saying that I was being blocked from responding to people because I was responding to too many, too fast.

Um, let’s think about this for a minute.

I was “bad” in their eyes because I was typing too fast so that I could THANK people.

I didn’t understand what was going on. My friend said, “Oh, it thinks you’re a BOT.”

A What?

BookFace thought that I was a “BOT.” Basically, a robot that automatically responds to things or sends out spam or does other dastardly things to people online.

Great. I’m Wojo Bot. Robot of Thankfulness, Love, and Fast Typing Fingers.

So if you ever send me a compliment or other kind words, if I don’t respond, please understand.

In the meantime, I’ll be hanging out with my new friends: R2-D2, C3PO, WALL-E, Rosie from “The Jetsons,” Bender from “Futurama”, and Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot from “Mystery Science Theater 3000.”

Have. A. Nice. Day.

Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not still trying to master The Robot dance (just give it up, please), writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore.

She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMIcheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

I’ve been writing this column for over a decade. Often, friends and readers say, “Did that really happen?”

And I respond, “Life is hilarious. You just can’t make this stuff up.”

Thus begins this week’s column…

I was recently coming out of an office building after a professional meeting. My assistant was with me. I was walking to the car, and I got about halfway across the parking lot, when I noticed something walking across it, going in the opposite direction.

It was a chicken.

You read that right: a chicken.

Not a dog.

Not a cat.

Not even a mouse or rat or some other vermin.

A chicken.

I was so stunned that I literally (and that means I actually did this, as opposed to figuratively, which would mean that I hadn’t—sorry I’m a member of the Grammar Police, and this distinction is important to me…but, um, I digress), and I mean literally, stopped in my tracks.

My assistant nearly ran into the back of me. “What’s wrong?” he asked me.

“Um, do you see that chicken?” I asked.

“What chicken?” he replied.

My assistant is a funny man.

Funny, funny, funny…

Suffice it to say that he saw this chicken too.

We weren’t in a rural area. And, let me remind you, we had just walked out of an office building.

As we looked around to try and figure out where the chicken had come from, the chicken, let’s call her Clara, kept walking across the parking lot. Because there was a busy road at the end of it, I wanted to figure out where she belonged–and soon.

Ernie decided that perhaps the people who lived in the house next door to the office building would know about the chicken. We looked, and while they didn’t have a coop in their backyard, they might know where Clara belonged.

While he went to the house to ask, I followed Clara. I didn’t want her to end up as road kill because she somehow broke out of a coop and made a break for it.

Can you imagine?

Freedom! Smash…

No, I didn’t want to see that happen.

I’m a city girl, born and raised. So seeing a chicken walking across a parking lot was interesting, mysterious, and pretty cool.

Until I decided to call it…

Know, dear reader, that I really didn’t know if one could “call” a chicken or not. I’ve never owned one. I’ve never touched one—well, unless it was on a plate, and that, in this case, doesn’t count.

Since Clara was now getting a bit too close to the road, and I had no idea if she would “make a run for it” and get run over, I began to do that clicking noise that we make with our mouths when we call a dog.

I didn’t expect it to work.

Well, it did. And with the little bit of clicking I did, Clara turned, eyed me up for a moment, and then began to run—and I mean RUN—straight for me.

As I said, I grew up in the city, so I handled this as calmly as any city folks would. I screamed.

“Ernie! The chicken is running toward me!” I yelled.

My mind began to go on full force—will she peck me? Will she try to fly up into my arms? And then the dreaded—Oh my God, can chickens have rabies?

I could see it now: me calling my husband from the emergency room.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he’d ask.

“I have to get shots for rabies,” I’d reply.

“Oh no! Did a dog bite you?”

“Nope. I got attacked by Clara the chicken in the parking lot of an office building.”

By this time, Ernie had come back over. Clara had stopped right in front of me and was looking up as though to say, “Well, whaddya want?”

Ernie, who has grown up on farmland for a lot of his life, assured me that Clara wouldn’t peck me. And she wouldn’t carry rabies.

In fact, he picked her up and carried her back to the house he had gone to. She was their chicken.

The man who came to the door, took Clara from Ernie while thanking him, then took her into the house, and shut the door.

He took the chicken into the house.

Into. The. House!

I decided that this moment had gotten weird enough. I didn’t want to know if Clara was a pet or if they had a coop in their house.

I got in the car and decided not to speak of this again. Until now…

Even though I met Clara, she didn’t clear up why she was crossing the parking lot or whether the egg came first or not.

I guess some things just need to remain a mystery.

Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not still pondering why in the world that chicken was in the parking lot, writes Wojo’s World® from Baltimore.

She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMIcheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

But some of my actions are different from most folks. If they don’t make me different, they probably make me weird. And if you read this column regularly, you already know that.

As does my husband, Brad, who has been known to roll his eyes when I say that I like doing certain things.

First up: I love to roll change.

Yeah, I know. It’s weird. 

But I’ve loved to roll change in those paper wrappers since I was a kid. I add it all up and take it to the bank. My late Mom used to put change into coffee cans. One afternoon, I wrapped all the change she had save for years—and she actually had enough to buy a new computer.

You can’t make this stuff up.

When those automatic machines came out—where you dump in your change, and they calculate it, give you money, but take a percentage of it—I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “People don’t like to roll their own change?” I gasped as I asked my husband, and Mom, and friends. 

They all answered with a resounding “No,” that no one, it seems, loves to roll change. They don’t even like it. But I do. In fact, if I could make a decent percentage from it, I would do it for other people.

But alas, the machines have beaten me to it.

Perhaps I was a banker in a previous life…

Next up: I love to shred paper.

I have no idea where this love comes from. I really don’t think I was a mouse in a previous life who loved to shred up paper for nests. 

But I keep a box in our kitchen and in my home office to put all the paper that needs shredding. I will let it fill up, and then sit down on an afternoon or evening and shred away! I love when we clean through old paperwork because it leads to more and more and more shredding!

One time, I had a box of paper that I planned to shred over the weekend. When I was doing something else, Brad took the box up to my office and shredded everything.

When I found the empty box later, I knew it had to be him. After all, our dogs don’t have opposable thumbs, and the only paper shredding that one of them does is with his mouth—by pulling papers out of my recycle box and eating them. 

But I digress…

Brad had to be the culprit.

“Hey—did you shred all the paper in the box I had down here?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah. I did that this morning,” he said while acting quite proud of himself.

“Seriously? But I wanted to shred it,” I exclaimed.

“Seriously? You actually like shredding paper?” he asked. Then after a minute, he added, “Is this like how you love rolling change? What is wrong with you?”

I don’t know, my love. I just don’t know.

Final weird thing I do: I love to take stuff to the dump.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that the dump is not exactly the nicest place to go. It’s stinky. It’s dusty. It’s got seagulls and other birds flying all over the place.

But I love getting rid of stuff that we can’t upcycle, recycle, donate, pass on, etc. I also get quite the thrill of throwing boxes upon boxes of recycling into the giant dumpsters they have.

I think that this one is less about the actual action and more about how we’re ridding our home of more things. 

Perhaps this is why I love doing all these things: the change rolling, the paper shredding, and the dump visiting: I’m simply trying to clean up.

Maybe I should go the way of Maria Kondo, the author who famously said, “If it doesn’t bring you joy, get rid of it.”

I think she also said something about keeping only 30 books. I’ve got that many on my nightstand to be read. So perhaps it’s not that I want to clean up.

When it comes down to it, maybe I’m just weird.

Or different…

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not way-too-excited about an upcoming run to the dump, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore.

She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMIcheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

But my reference to “bloody” actually refers to the stuff flowing through your veins right now.

Clunk…oh, sorry. I believe I bloody fainted there for a minute. I’ve just never been good with the sight of blood.

So imagine all the fun I have when I need to get routine bloodwork. Yeah, think about that.

I only came close to actually fainting once. In college, my doctor wanted to put me on a medicine that would require routine bloodwork. I went to see the nurse who worked out of a lab that was right upstairs from my doctor’s office. So convenient. Or so I thought.

This was back in the day when health care workers could pretty much stick you as much as the voodoo doll of a jilted lover (I’m happy to say that this has changed). But at the time, many people who took blood, used what I call the “eyeball method.” They looked for veins, and when they saw one, that’s where they poked you.

Problem with me is that my veins aren’t exactly prominent. 

You know how when you see body builders, and they look like they have a bazillion veins just poking out all over? That’s not me. Not. Even. Close. In fact, I’m kind of the opposite.

But I digress…

This nurse poked me near my inner elbow. Nothing. Then the other one. Nothing. Then, believe it or not, near both of my wrists. Nope. No luck there.

She began poking the needle into a vein she saw on the outside of my arm. Nope. Then she tried it on the outside of my other arm. Nothing.

That’s when she made the biggest mistake of all. She held up the test tube and said, “Look, this is all I’ve been able to get,” as she swirled the tiny bit of blood around, much like a wine connoisseur. 

Suddenly, the entire room seemed to turn into black and white spots. I started to lean off the chair. Luckily, my boyfriend at the time was with me, and was able to catch me. I then put my head between my legs to get the blood back into my brain.

Needless to say, my doc and I spoke about other options, and I never got bloodwork there again.

I got better as time went on. In fact, just a few years ago, I even watched as the phlebotomist was taking my blood. 

Yes—as in looked at the blood going into the tubes and didn’t even come close to fainting. But then she had to speak up.

I told her how this was the first time I looked at what was going on. “Be quiet for a second,” she said. “Do you hear that?”

I didn’t know what she was getting at, so I answered, “All I hear is that ‘whooshing noise.’”

“Yeah, that’s it,” she responded. “That’s the sound of your blood going into the tube.”

This time, I got really light-headed, and my husband began to talk so that I couldn’t hear anything but his voice. Thankfully, there was no near-passing out.

Nowadays, when I get annual bloodwork, the phlebotomists find my veins by touch (no longer do I have to hear, “You have small veins.” I don’t. They’re just hard to find). They nail it on the first try, and I can actually watch when the blood flows.

But I still can’t watch them put the needle in.

Clunk…sorry for that again. I guess there are just some things I can’t bloody do.

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, who knows for sure that she could never be a good vampire, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMicheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

Unlike other professions where shadowing can help and get someone excited about a profession, writing is not quite that. Or at least that’s what I told him at the time. But something happened to me recently that showed me how interesting—and quite weird—writing can be.

Or at least what happens when two of us get talking…

It all started in the middle of the night when I got up to use the bathroom. I know this isn’t where the most exciting of stories begins, but this is where mine does.

When I went to wash my hands, I saw a stink bug—ON THE BRISTLES OF MY HUSBAND’S TOOTHBRUSH!

I thought I was going to faint. Not because I’m afraid of stink bugs, but rather because it made me wonder if it had done this before.

Carefully, I picked up the toothbrush, opened the lid of the toilet, flicked the bug into the bowl, and flushed it off to its heavenly reward.

Then I threw out Brad’s toothbrush.

Then I threw out my toothbrush. And the rubber-tipped thing I have to use on my gums.

Then I began to wonder how many other bugs had been crawling on our toothbrushes over the years. I returned to bed, where I was awake for an hour completely grossing myself out with even more bug-related thoughts. But I’ll save those for another column.

The next morning, I called my friend, Rosie, who is a fellow writer, and told her about my nightmare. She laughed and said how bugs don’t bother her. So I began listing off the bugs that do and don’t bother me, and when and where they could—like sitting on my toothbrush.

Then it began. Rosie asked a question which sent me down the proverbial rabbit hold of no return. She simply asked, “I wonder why they call them cobwebs?”

Here’s where our writers’ brains kick in. We had to know. Back in the day, I would have run to the encyclopedia or dictionary or even called my local library’s information hotline. Now with Google, I was able to find out in a few keystrokes.

(In case you’re wondering, the word “cobweb” comes from the time when Old English was used. The word for spider was “coppe,” so that became cop then cobwebs.

As they say in infomercials, but wait, there’s more…

I also found out that only certain spiders spin what we refer to as “cobwebs.” Only Theridiidea (known as cobweb spiders) and Linyphiidea (known as money spiders) spin webs that are cobwebs. All the rest of them are known as “spider webs.”

Well, Rosie and I thought that this was just too cool. But then she followed up with, “I wonder what a money spider is.”

Note: Rosie was not near her computer, so I ended up Googling all this. But the reason I didn’t mind is that this stuff is like a compulsion for writers. If we ask or think of a question that is easily answered, we simply must know what that answer is—as soon as possible.

I’m sure that many due dates have been just barely made because writers were down rabbit holes looking up who knows what…or cleaning their entire homes. We also do that to avoid working.

Um, unless any of my editors are reading this. If that’s the case, please know that I never procrastinate and do these other things that would take me away from my work for you. Did I mention how nice you look today?

But I digress…

So then I had to look up money spiders so that our brains would be satisfied. Turns out that Linyphiidea or money spiders, which they are called in the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and many other places that aren’t the United States, get their names from superstition. If one runs on you—and they’re also called “sheet weavers,” but I ended up following another rabbit hole which I’ll get to in a minute—it meant that it had come to spin you new clothes…which meant a financial reward was coming your way.

Oh…My…God! This was so interesting!

Finally, Rosie mentioned that she wasn’t afraid of shield bugs. 

“What’s a shield bug?” I asked. She said it was the same as a stink bug.

Back to Google again…

Shield bugs are in the same family as sting bugs—they’re known as Pentatomoidea—and also include burrow bugs and giant shield bugs.

I made the mistake of looking up giant shield bugs. They can be as big as two-inches long and two-inches wide.

Clunk…sorry. I think I fainted there for a minute. They wouldn’t just sit on Brad’s toothbrush; they would be using it themselves.

Do they have teeth? I wonder…

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not Googling “Do giant shield bugs have teeth?” and falling down another rabbit hole, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMicheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

I usually write all these thoughts down on tiny scraps of paper, and put them in a file folder for Wojo’s World. Some of these thoughts, while interesting, unfortunately don’t warrant an entire column written about them alone.

Ready? Here we go…

Why are models either so happy all the time or they look like they’re just smelled something disgusting? (I’m guessing this is the “sexy look”?) What are they happy about? Are their watches really that wonderful? 

And why are they often looking off into the distance and pointing at something—sometimes when there aren’t any other models around? Do they realize that no one else is near them? Do they care?

Or are they just showing off their aforementioned watches?

What about the underwear ads? You usually see women by themselves. But guys? Guys are often standing around in groups of three—in their underwear—laughing at something. 

I asked my husband and our neighbor about this. They’re both guys. Here’s the verdict: guys only do this in ads. Not in the locker room at school. Not at the locker room at the gym. And certainly not at the locker room in a country club.

Fun fact: I read that you are twice as likely to be killed by a vending machine than by a shark.

A VENDING MACHINE.

So here’s what I want to know: how come I read quite a number of stories each year about shark attacks, but not a one about a vending machine falling over and killing someone.

I did what I always do when I’m befuddled these days. I Googled it. What I found was astonishing…

Rather than actual stories of someone getting taken out by vending machine, I found tons of stories asking if this fact was true. According to various studies, anywhere from four to 13 people are killed by vending machines each year.

That brings me to these questions—if this is true, why are there no Vending Machine Weeks on the Discovery Channel, and why hasn’t anyone made the campy film Vendingnado?

It makes me wonder…

Another fun fact: Humans share 50% of their DNA with bananas. 

I ate a banana this morning. Does that make me a cannibal? Did I just potentially ingest part of a relative?  Is that why Bananas in Pajamas became a thing? Seriously?

Will I ever be able to eat bananas again?

(That last one I already know the answer to—a resounding Yes! I like them too much!)

Final fun fact of this column: The probability of anyone drinking a glass of water that contains a molecule of water that has also actually passed through a dinosaur—a freaking dinosaur!—is 100%.

Not 50% like our friend, the banana. 

Nope. 100%.

Considering how much I love dinosaurs and fossils and such, I just can’t decide if I’m thrilled or totally disgusted.

I’m going to go with thrilled. Primarily because I drink a ton of water all the time and don’t want to stop.

I mean, it’s been filtered and all. So it’s not like I’ll be drinking a glass of water and spit out a tiny dinosaur tooth.

Gag…sputter…spit…

Okay. We’ve moving on…

My last thought for this column: when your printer begins to run low on ink, do you do what I do? I call it The Ink Dance. When the laser ink runs low in my printer, an annoying light goes on on the top of it.

I used to freak out and immediately run to my local office supply store and spend a ton of money on a new one.

Now, though, I don’t change it right away. I usually would order one within a week or two, but now I don’t even do that.

Why? You may be asking yourself. Because that light is a liar.

Here’s what you do: you take the ink cartridge out. And then you begin to shake it around. Really get into it. Move that body! You’re probably burning at least a couple of calories.

Even better, though? You’re extending the life of your ink cartridge.

ALL DUE TO THE POWER OF THE INK DANCE!

Last time, I did The Ink Dance, I bought a backup cartridge about a month later. Every so often, I would do this dance. And you know what?

It took nearly a year—an entire year of printing!!!—for the cartridge to actually and finally run out.

And I print a lot…

Thanks for joining me in this week’s journey through my head. Your regular type of Wojo’s World column will return next week.

Unless, that is, I start thinking of a bunch of non-sequiturs again. Because it could happen…

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not scrawling notes down on little pieces of paper to get the thoughts out of her head, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMicheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe.

I am. Sorta. But I’m not a morning morning person. Let me explain.

In high school and college, I wasn’t a morning person at all. My Mom had to do everything short of sending in a marching band to get me to wake up.

Oh, and she did. Not the marching band part, but everything just short of it.

First, she’d be nice. She would open my bedroom door, and say, “Michele. It’s time to get up.”

Well, of course, I was ignoring that. Back to snoozeland.

And this was all after my alarm had already gone off, and I had turned it off.

Next, she would come in, turn on my overhead light, and say a little more loudly, “C’mon, Michele. You need to get up!”

I was the Queen of ignoring anyone or anything who was trying to get me out of my comfortable bed. Once again, I went back to sleep—after pulling the covers over my head to block out some of the light, of course.

The final thing she would do is that one that got me up—primarily because it drove me absolutely crazy and made me want to scream.

She would come in, as the door was already open. Didn’t need to put on the light; she had done that. But she would start to sing at the top of her lungs, “It’s time to get up! It’s time to get up! It’s time to get up in the morning!!!” Then she would start singing what my old Raggedy Ann and Andy clock used to say to me as a kid when those little jerks tried to wake me up. 

“We were sent to wake you. So here we are to say: Please get up, brush your teeth, and start your happy day!”

How could my day be happy when two little ragdolls were bugging the crap out of me to wake up? Then brush my teeth?

It was bad enough when they did it, but my Mom had to join in?

And when the batteries in the clock were dying, Mom would imitate how their voices began to drag and sound more like something out the The Exorcist rather than Happy Dream Land.

When I started my first real job, which was in public relations, I learned to somehow become a morning person. But like I said earlier, I’ve never been a morning morning person. What do I mean?

Well, my husband is a morning morning person. He could open his eyes, and if there were a refrigerator right next to the bed, he could wake up, sit up, open the door, and start eating.

That is soooooo not me.

I get up. Sure, I can wash my face and brush my teeth. I stumble into my home office and begin checking social media. By the time I’m ready to actually work, I’m awake.

But if I get up and go downstairs, and Brad has already been awake for a while, chaos ensues.

Him: Hey, you’re awake! What do you want for breakfast? What do you want to do today? Did you see the latest in the news?

Me: …

Him (without stopping his previous seemingly stream-of-consciousness-style of talking to me): The dogs have already eaten and gone out. Did you get the Wordle? Do you want pancakes? I could go for pancakes?

By this time, I have regained the ability to speak, and I usually am holding my head when I say this: For the love of all that’s holy, please just stop talking!!!

Him: Oh okay. You’re not awake yet. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…Have you decided if you want pancakes?

Because I dearly love my husband—and I’m not totally awake during this—I haven’t ever thrown anything at him. But I’ve thought about it.

I just need a little time. Just 10 minutes. Just a little bit to clear my head and fully wake up.

And I don’t drink coffee or any type of caffeine in the morning either. But that’s a whole other column.

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not yelling at everyone in the world to shut up until she’s more awake, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore.

She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at TheMicheleWojo@gmail.com to subscribe. 

Then, you know, you’d show up. Easy Peasy.

Not anymore. 

Let me give you an example. When I see my dentist for a checkup, the person at the front desk gives me a card with the date and time written on it. This tells me when my next checkup is. I bring this card home, and I write the appointment in my calendar. (Yeah, I’m old school when it comes to calendars. Get Off My Lawn!) Then I text it to my husband, who puts it in his e-calendar. (He is not old school when it comes to calendars—big whoop.)

As a grownup, I would then assume that all I need to do is show up on the proper day and time for the aforementioned next appointment. Right? Seems reasonable.

But before I’m even home, my dentist’s office has texted me, reminding me of this appointment that will take place six months from now.

Then I get an email about it.

A month before, I get another text about it.

A week before, I get another text about it.

I think that even once, I got another text about it on the night before.

When I went in for my checkup, I told the front office staff that they didn’t need to remind me so much. I would remember to come.

“We have to because most people don’t,” a staff member said. 

“Even if you tell them the day before?” I queried.

“Yes. We have sent the automated text reminder the day before only to have the person not show up the next day,” she replied.

So here’s my question—WHAT EXACTLY IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? 

If it were due to an emergency, I would totally understand. 

I think this all started, when we began storing phone numbers in our smart phones. I know folks who have no idea not only what their phone number is, but what anyone else’s is either. So if they need to call someone because they’ve lost their phone, they’re screwed.

And there is no phone book to look up numbers in. Besides that, you can’t Google the person because you’ve lost your smart phone. 

Yet no one remembers anything anymore…

But it’s not just my dentist. He’s a great guy, and I’m not going to throw him under the “remind me 75,000 times at all cost” bus. 

Here’s another example: I had to see an eye specialist. But one day, because of an issue—which turned out to be nothing—I had to see him at another office.

So now, that office and his regular office keep reminding me to get an eye exam. That’s two emails and two texts every single time. 

The kicker is that he’s a specialist and not even the doctor I go to for my regular yearly checkups.

The only good thing about the double notices is that they both send me “Happy Birthday” wishes via email each year. But nothing cool like a free doughnut or something like that…

But I digress…

Do you want to talk about pharmacies now? I do. I’m not going to name any names because I’ve checked with friends, and it’s not just my pharmacy that does this. So they can all take the blame.

My husband and I (and even one of our dogs) each get a monthly prescription. Here’s how it works: first, I get a text saying that my prescription is ready. We want to wait for all of them to be ready before we pick them up, and even though we’ve signed up for the program to do this, we each get text message.

Except for the dog. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

Then I get a text saying something to the effect of “Your pharmacist has filled your prescription. Please come pick it up.”

Next is one telling me that it’s 8 days until they will reshelve the prescription. No pressure.

Then the countdown really begins: 5 days, 4 days, 3 days…you get the picture.

But so do the phone calls. And they get progressively more urgent.

“You only have three more days to pick up your prescription!”

I know! I’ve been busy.

Even our dog received an automated phone call.

When I put the phone up to his ear, he gave me the nasty side-eye. 

See, not even our happy pup wants a reminder.

If they ever get a dog who actually answers the phone, though, I’d love to hear about that. 

Send me all the reminders of the talking dog that you want.

Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s fielding phone calls and texts from her pharmacy or doctors’ offices, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

Did you know that Wojo has a newsletter? It’s full of fun stories, facts, and contests. And she won’t spam you because she doesn’t know how, and it’s bad Karma. Email her at Wojo@WojosWorld.com to subscribe.