Friday, May 5, 2017

The Perennial Man

Ahh, nature, a perfect place to get a sprinkle of ants in your lemonade. Delish.

 Morning Readers,

I find it helpful to keep several running tallies in my life. For example...

Number of milkshakes purchased unnecessarily after 9pm: 350

Number of bobby pins bought and lost: 12,000

Number of creatures I'm trying to keep alive: 11

Some of those figures are more helpful than others. If I want to know why my pants ripped when I sat down, I reference number one on the list. However, if my query leans more towards why I can't see out my kitchen window, I hop right down to number three.

No, we didn't pick up any extra children, but, in addition to four kids, a giant Labrador, and a cat who spends his time yanking the weather stripping off my front door, the Kellermans have branched into botany, and are currently trying to nurture several different potted plants. The hilarity here is the fact I'm barely keeping the children alive, so why not bludgeon some plant life while we're at it?

Husband's taken to planting different things, and because I captain this ship on most hours, he's also trusted me to move them in and out of sunlight, without incinerating any particular one by accident. It's sweet how he trusts me. Especially because my level of finesse with human beings sounds like this:

Me: Go get your shoes on.
Kid: I have shoes on.
Me: Oh, did you need a sandwich?
Kid: You called me in here to help find the remote.
Me: I did?
Kid: Can I leave now?
Me: Sure, Fred.
Kid: I'm Lou.

Nevertheless, Spring called, and the Kellermans answered by sticking different seeds into pots, dousing them, and shoving all adoptees harshly at Mother Nature, while the sun peeks out and wonders what the hell we're doing. So far, success has been had in the area of peppers and pumpkins.

Several plants have been eased on up to Jesus.

Even with several deaths, Husband remains undaunted and has gained my admiration through his sheer persistence to coax tiny shoots out of the earth. It's endearing. But it's also started moving in questionable directions. His enthusiasm for nature is slowly tugging me into conversations like the one we had last night. I jogged down to the kitchen, where I found him, again, shoving more seeds into pots. "What are those?" I asked.

Husband placed the first tiny, terracotta pot under our running faucet and proudly pointed to an open box of seeds on the counter. "These? These are Venus Fly Traps."

Picking up the box and looked it over. "Interesting."

"Yeah, I though the kids would have a great time collecting flies and feeding them."

I nodded. "Finally, an answer to our fly surplus."

"It'll be great. These take six to eight weeks to sprout, but you see that dead fly over there?"

"Uh huh."

"If these were already full grown, that guy wouldn't even be a problem. Right now, he's just taking up space."

It was true. The fly had died several days before. Overcome by laziness, I'd decided to leave him on the white, semi-gloss window sill and name him Howard.

"Well, good luck. Don't let it become Little Shop of Horrors down here."

And then we laughed and laughed, until...

"It's a bird box."

Several days later found us back in the kitchen, staring out the picture window above the sink. I shook my head while we looked at the plastic box suction-cupped to the outside of the glass. "But it's full of worms."

Husband nodded enthusiastically. "Right. So you fill it up with meal worms, and then the birds just flock to your window. It's nature. Up close. Pretty awesome, huh?"

"But there are worms stuck to my window."

"But they're dried."

"But my window is full of worms."

"You'll love it."

"The women in Southern Living never have to deal with this."

So, yes, nature is in full swing over at the Kellerman house. As such, I've been forced to add a new tally to my mental list.

Number of times Husband is going to bring home another living thing that may or may not be a meal worm: Terrifying amount

Until Next Time, Readers!

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Easter Baskets and Ghost Children

I sure hope this lake isn't haunted. All I have is this paddle and a dry clean-only J Crew sweater....

Afternoon Readers,

I hope everyone had an amazing Easter.

Detox is the name of the game around here. Well, that and pulling plastic grass out of everything we own. Why do I talk myself into grass every year?

My Mental Easter Conversation:

Should I buy the grass this year?
No, it's demon grass that clogs the vacuum and makes me want to die.
But it looks cute in the baskets.
It also gets stuck in the heating ducts until Christmas.
I'll take five bags.

Besides wading through green, plastic misery, I'm just glad we survived another year of being woken up at 6am by children with chocolate streaming down the sides of their mouths and shouting about eggs.

"Mom. Mom? Mommy. We found all the eggs, but the dog ate jelly beans and he's not looking so good. Should we tell him to throw up in here or the hallway?"

"I'm up."

On its face, trying to care for kids on a candy high is one of the most frightening things about being parent, but I'm here to tell you it's not even close to number one. Not even in the top three. The most terrifying thing about being a parent is having to participate in various Children of the Corn moments that hammer you at the least expected of times. Like the one that happened to me a few nights ago. It's actually amazing I'm able to communicate with you guys today, because I was flirting with a bonafide heart attack. It's important that I write about it, if only for therapy's sake. Let's set the scene, shall we?

Imagine it's midnight. Imagine it's pitch black in the house. Imagine you're woken from a dead sleep by something banging around in your kitchen.

"What was that? The kids are all asleep."

Husband groggily rolled over and made a non-committal noise that was supposed to imply I was totally safe.

I wasn't having it. "Did you lock the door?" I asked.

He yawned. "What? Yeah. It's probably a mouse."

"Doesn't make me feel better at all."

"Then it's probably a ghost."

Slowly, I slid back down into the fluffy security of my comforter, before I squeaked out, "This is horrific. I married you to protect me against intruders, and here we lay, ready to be bludgeoned to death."

Husband's snoring shut me out, so while I still had a shred of courage, I crept out of bed and inched down the stairs, intent on checking all the doors. I'd prove Husband wrong, right before a shadowy stranger whacked me in the temple with the wooden cutting board I'd left on the counter.  My feet found the kitchen floor, and I padded through each room, tugging on door handles and trying locks. I made my way to the living room and tried the back door. Unlocked.


As if in answer, a pot banged in the kitchen cabinets, prompting me to throw the lock shut and bolt back upstairs. I skittered back under the covers and waited to die. If it was a mouse, it was a big mouse.

A killer mouse.

Trembling, I crept back out from under the covers, sat up, and, poised to listen, tried to figure out what was going on downstairs. If whatever it was decided to crawl up the stairs, I could, at the very least, use Husband as a human shield.

After all, he'd left us to die while he slept. It was the least he could do.

Like any garden variety idiot in a horror movie, I stared at the open bedroom door for what seemed like an eternity. And, just as everything quieted, a shape ran past my door so fast, I left a wet spot on the bed.

I screamed while my brain processed what was going on.

A.) We had four children asleep and one ghost child.
B.) We had three children asleep and one roaming around.
C.) If A were true, we were moving.

Intent on not being trapped in The Shining, I hopped up and ran down the hall, while Husband laughed in bed behind me. The thought of ghost children, or any ghosts really, doesn't bother him. It's a ridiculous burden I must bear on my own. After a few confused moments, a quick check to make sure the walls weren't bleeding, and double checking that Redrum hadn't been smeared across the bathroom mirror in toothpaste, the wayward four-year-old was tucked back in bed. Doc has a habit of sleep walking. I will never get used to this.

So, here I sit, cramming Tootsie Rolls into my mouth and trying to wrap my head around it all.

Children are cute.

Children can also scare the crap out of you.

So, that's fun.

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, February 2, 2017

If You Have Anxiety, Just Remember The World Is Full of Dog Hair

Morning Readers,

Well, it's time to get 2017 rolling.

And by "rolling," I mean skipping right over January, here at the blog, and jumping straight into February. You can do that when you're not famous. Besides, what really happened in January, anyway?

Cabin fever
I started watching Hell On Wheels, and I'm SO glad I don't live in a covered wagon. Can we just talk about that for a second? I'd like to give a huge shout out to the pioneers because: No indoor plumbing, farm work in dresses, hunting food on a daily basis, and hand-washing underwear.

I think we can all agree Paige Kellerman would've made it about a day before dying of cholera. And my oxen died of cholera. And then my whole extended family. So thanks, Early Settlers!

Now then, I mentioned, back in December, my anxiety was at an all time high. But you'll be relieved to know I was able to get it under control, package it, and carefully move it right into January, where I let it run its course. Sure, I did things to relax, like filing my taxes and cleaning food out from under the kids' beds, but, in the end, it was dog hair that broke up my pity party.

Let's rewind to last year....

Me: I'm ok with getting a dog, as long as it doesn't shed very much.
Husband: Understood. I don't think labs shed a lot.


As it turns out, the Labrador Retriever, or Canis Familiaris, sheds enough to build several more Labradors. Consequently, any time I endeavored to feel sorry for myself in January, Ned Yost's coat activated and exploded on anything I remotely cared to keep clean. But, as with any animal Husband brings home, a year into the process is entirely too late to do anything to remedy the situation. Like mail him to Antarctica.

I'll let you be the judge as to which one I'm talking about.

Laundry time is my favorite time to reflect on all the ways life has been unfair to me, so of course this most special mental alcove of my day has been ruined by what dog information websites have informed me is, "moulting season." And it goes a little something like this...

"Ugh, student loans are due again. Why was it I needed higher education?"
*Opens washing machine*
"Because the interest is where they get you. Sure, the degree is nice, but maybe I should've looked into apprenticing as a blacksmith or a glassblower. Those people make a killing at renaissance festivals."
*Grabs wet laundry and strains to open dryer*
"Maybe I can barter some of this wet cra-"
*Stares at open dryer and lint trap in horror*
"Sweet mother of all that's good and holy."

Poof. And, just like that, I'm scraping eighty pounds of dog hair out of a machine, and piecing together a new, less mobile dog.  (Dog hair sculptures available on request.)

It's been extremely frustrating, having to push aside drowning in puddles of self-loathing, in favor of meticulously pulling chocolate hair off couches, beds, dishware, mobile devices, the refrigerator, toilets, and some inexplicably stray strands in a fresh sports bra. *falls over dead*

No one has time to feel sorry for themselves in these conditions. And that's just sad.

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, December 1, 2016

I'd Buy That For A Dollar

Nothing to see here. Just burnin' a hole in your pocket, girl.

Morning Readers,

How was everyone's Thanksgiving?

As far as the Kellermans were concerned, it was another red letter holiday, trademarked by me eating too much, my kids not eating at all, and everyone complaining they were hungry at bedtime. I ventured out to exactly one Black Friday sale, and dragged a still-attached Mrs. Jones out with me so that everyone in the ridiculously long line could ask if she was a boy.

(This didn't anger me, as I'd been the one to zip her so totally into a hand-me-down boys hoodie, she resembled an androgynous, blue potato. Whatever it takes to get fifty-percent-off a coat.)

And while we're on the subject of deals, the drabness of winter is starting to rear its head, which means my dollar store roaming is in full swing. Some people are iffy about frequenting their local discount spot, but I'm on the other end of the spectrum. I probably think about it too much. As in...

Husband: Did you go to the grocery store?
Me: Uh, I ended up going to the dollar store.
Husband: But you were gone for three hours.
Me: You don't know my life.

At thirty-two, it takes a sizable effort to convince me to leave the house for any type of social engagement, but if you tell me I can wear my TOMs with the holes in both toes and we're going to go make it rain at Dollar General, suddenly, the world seems rife with possibilities. A delicious, bargain oyster.

Now, I'm not into public service announcements, per se, but if you've written off your local dollar store because it's probably just full of crap, I'm here to tell you...

It is!

But a lot of it's crap you can use, and I've spent a solid year experimenting with what happens to be safe crap, and crap that ends up shoved in a car's console. (That stuff's kind of awesome though. For instance, when risking your life by giving a hitchhiker a ride, it's always nice to break the ice with, "If you don't kill me, you can have the five, plastic wind-up dolphins I threw in my glove compartment.)

Paige's List of Useful Crap

1. Toilet Paper

This is entirely subjective, but my recent experience was good and two-ply. Husband had his doubts, but I switched his regular brand, while he wasn't looking, so all's well. I think. He looked at me suspiciously for a week but couldn't quite figure out what was going on. Who says 'no' to four rolls for a dollar? Not this girl.

2. Baking Utensils

Need a measuring cup? Spatula? Weird sifting thing for sifting stuff? Giiiiiiirl, if you got three dollars and some gas to get there, you could be channeling Ina Garten right now. Just make sure the milk you use is from quinoa-fed mountain goats who've been journaling their feelings on a consistent basis.

3. Wrapping Paper

Never. I repeat, NEVER buy wrapping paper, gift bags, or gift boxes from regular stores again. Once you buy your first gift box for a dollar, it's like the heaven's open and your veins are hit with some type of bargain opium.

Never mind, that was a terrible analogy. Don't use cheap opium. Or any opium really.

4. Decorations

My current addiction, grabbing seasonal decorations at Dollar Tree makes me almost as happy as the time I threw my winter boots in the washing machine, regretted it when the banging noises hinted the whole thing was going to explode, but all footwear ended up coming out intact and clean-ish. If you leave now, you can nab...

Christmas mugs
Door hangers shaped like snowmen who look so optimistic, you want to divulge your deepest fears just so they can soothe you into some sort of passive state, facilitating the purchase of even more garlands

I own so many fake poinsettias, it's clear I have a problem. I know it. The neighbors know it. More on that later.

5. Food Stuffs

This is tricky and requires a lot of trial and error. For instance, dollar candy is generally awesome and makes me fat like any other candy. However, cookies, chips, and beef jerky should be approached with caution. If you're like me and have a four-year-old, go ahead and let them try the jerky first. Doc still seems fit as a fiddle, so I may be able to add dried beef to my list of successes.

I could go on, but I won't. Surprisingly, this post isn't sponsored by a dollar store of any kind. I'm simply a woman who's found a nirvana of sorts and dug her way out of cheap paint brushes (did I mention those?) long enough to share her joy.

And now I'm off to drink coffee out of my $1 mug. 

Until Next Time, Readers!

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Holiday Goals and A Giveaway from Basic Invite

(A beautiful card from Basic Invite) I'd love to do a card like this with husband, but we'd have to find an empty field to hide from the children in.

Morning Readers,

I hope everyone's in a veritable candy coma from yesterday. Is it possible to eat your weight in Reeses?

Because I ate twice that.

Which basically means I'm writing this post while my hands are shaking, but fear not because it's time to jump straight into the holiday season. No pressure, right? *sighs heavily and drools chocolate*

Sooo, it's around this time of year I make bold declarations. After pouring a hot cup of coffee, I gesture around to all my off-spring and say, "Stop hitting your brother." But follow up with, "This year, we're doing Christmas cards. We shall stand together as a family, smile, and spread our awkward Christmas joy."

Last year, Sundance was critical. "We are ?"

"Of course," I laughed.

"But we don't do that."

"Hush child."

"Well, we should. Other people do that."

"Ok, less feedback. More eating your Lucky Charms. Oh, and that milk's dual purpose. You can use it to wash down half this Pop Tart. I'm glad we're doing pictures and not a holiday letter to everyone about our eating habits. Merry Christmas, all the Kellermans have diabetes."


Life gets in the way. I marvel at my friends and family who send out a beautiful holiday card every season, but I fail every, single time. I blame egg nogg. It makes me lazy. Also, organizing all my children into outfits not covered with food and then sifting through which ones won't scare the people I'm sending them to is overwhelming. Oh my gosh, and then I have to stop yelling long enough to put those cards in envelopes. Slowly. Curling. Into. Fetal. Position.


This year is different. This year the good people at Basic Invite reached out to me and were all like, "Look at this vast array of wonderful products we offer. We even offer free samples and speak softly so we don't scare you off like a frightened deer."

They dig this blog, but they also dig you and me because they're kicking off my season of giving things away by offering 25 FREE cards of your choice.

That's it. No strings attached. So, if you're like me and want to actually send fantabulous cards out this year, they've got you covered. No excuses, people. All you have to do is send them to your Great Aunt Jane who owns the dachshund farm in Wisconsin.

Another beautiful card you could send to Aunt Jane and her dachshunds.

What? Well, even if you're not doing holiday cards, you can use your winnings to get 25 beautiful...

Shower Invitations

Wedding Invitations and Announcements

Party Invitations

Or "Happy Half Birthday" cards for people you have a highly vested interest in

Basic Invite is also amazing because they offer 180 different color options to tweak your particular product, and 40 different color envelopes, so you can find just the right one. And remember, you can get a free sample before you commit, so you can neurotically pick out the right colors, just like me!

Y'all know what to do. Go get your Raffelcopter on. I'm off to steal Reeses from the four-year-old.

Until Next Time, Readers!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, October 27, 2016

How To Make A Festive Fall Wreath of Self-Loathing

It should come out looking something like this. Fun!

Morning Readers,

Sorry I haven't checked in for the last month or two, but I needed some time to feel sorry for myself. This was essential because, as we enter the season of being thankful, I try to make a point of carving out time to make sure I'm miserable.

Some people start putting out decorative gourds. I make festive wreaths of self-loathing and anxiety. Ever seen a mason jar filled with worries? Boom. Trademark that mother.

How did it start?

I can't pin point the exact date, but, for posterity's sake, let's say it was September 2nd. Traditionally, September 2nd isn't offensive, however, with a little tweaking, I can carefully mold any position on the calendar into twenty-four hours of irritation and inconvenience. I get into a funk sometimes. This happens to everyone, but, when given the opportunity to miserable, I like to really drive the point home.

What I don't do when I'm irritated and anxious:

Any type of self care
Work out
Smile at the mailman, unless he's delivering coupons for free burgers or custard
Leave my house
Type happy things on the internet

Election season got ya down? Impending cold weather a reminder you hate gloves? Can't handle the fact Thanksgiving is around the corner and the only thing you're thankful for is blankets you can crawl under to hide from the world?

I've got you covered. One spare afternoon, and you, too, can build your own decorative wreath. 

Supplies Needed: Hot glue gun

Let's go!

How To Make A Festive Fall Wreath of Self-Loathing

Step 1.

For a good, sturdy base, make sure you begin this project without any gratitude whatsoever. I like to start by weaving together zero optimism with the bleakest outlook on life I can muster.

Step 2.

As you braid your terrible attitude into a fun circle, try to add some anger on every third pass. If you're having trouble coming up with things to be angry about, here are some suggestions:
  • Everyone in the world has more stuff than you do
  • Everyone has a cleaner/nicer house than you
  • No one has problems as bad as yours
  • Everyone always has a good hair day and you perpetually look like Helen Hunt in the last scene of Twister. Except girlfriend's hair didn't look that bad at the end, and her abs were totally on point. Ugh. Be angry about that. Be angry at Bill Paxton too.
Step 3.

Having woven a great base, it's time to get out that hot glue gun and start adding a layer of resentment. I prefer leaves and vines made from ill-will I've gathered from the internet.
Fun tip: The internet is a fantastic place to grab discounted irritation and 50% off indignation.

Step 4.

Carefully overlap and hot glue the leaves and vines to give your wreath a look of robust sadness. Watch out. If you don't add enough resentment, the wreath starts to look sparse and lets gratitude show through the holes. Hideous. How are you going to Pin that?

Step 5.

Head back to the internet. It's time to gather accent pieces. (My fave part!) In some other wreath-making tutorials, I've seen crafters add flowers or decorative wheat. I prefer to add berries of jealousy and despair. Specifically, head over to Instagram and peruse how others live their lives. Some types of accent pieces that worked for me in the past are:
  • Realizing everyone's makeup always looks perfect and I never have the time to put any on
  • Admitting I'm the only person in the word who's not a size two
  • Coping with the fact that, with the exception of my own kids, every child in the world is impeccably styled 
  • Accepting the hard truth that everyone in the world is rich
  • Making peace with the sad reality every other person on the planet is on vacation in the Bahamas, except me
Step 6.

This is the critical step of choosing the focal point for your wreath. Remember, the right object can make or break all your hard work, so pick wisely. This season, I tried to focus on the fact I wasn't doing or achieving enough. Crafter's Monthly said this was more indicative of the 2015 craft season, but I say go with your gut. Things I used as my focal point included:
  • Reminding myself I'm thirty-two and haven't done anything groundbreaking, like discovering a cure for a disease or winning the Nobel Prize for literature
  • Worrying I don't parent nearly as well as other parents and becoming positive I'm ruining all my children in some way I'm not sure of yet (have narrowed this down to more affection/less affection/more time helping with homework/less time with homework to inspire independence/ yelling less/yelling more to prevent death on part of people who climb and fall off everything
  • Accepting that every other human has a beautifully decorated house, while I'm on my third month of painting kitchen cabinets, my linoleum is curling, and hand prints cover our walls from ceiling to floor
  • I have split ends
Step 7.

Now that your wreath is done, make sure not to hang it on the front door. Let it sit inside your house and gather  dust. Showing it to other people might lead them to comment on it and bring up their own wreaths. Downer, right?


BUT, now that I'm done making crafts, it's time to head into the holiday season and get some great posts up on this here blog. I've got fantastic giveaways coming up, and I'm all about giving you guys free stuff before Santa season.*

*Will not be giving away any wreaths

 Until Next Time, Readers!

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Ned Yost Sort of Wants To Live Here

Ned Yost before he gained eight-hundred pounds. He ate those glasses before he ate the rest of the house.

Afternoon Readers,

"Your dog spent all day trying to escape."

The neighbor laughed while he said it, but as I tried to keep Mrs. Jones from leaping to her death on the patio, I also searched desperately for humor amid the chewed-up garden hose and a Barbie doll with no legs. "Did he?" I yelled back across the fence.

He nodded. "Yep. He nudged the lock on the fence for about twenty minutes. For a minute, I thought he had it. That dog's really something."

"He's something, all right. Thanks for telling me."

"Good luck!"

"Luck has nothing to do with it," I mumbled. "We're gonna need an exorcist."

Ned Yost, as it turns out, is a little more than we bargained for.

Ok, a lot more.

Getting a puppy is kind of like playing the lottery. You either win and the dog you picked out grows more or less to expectation. OR, the creature you bought on Craigslist ends up weighing eight hundred pounds and eats your oven. There's not really an in-between, at least where the Kellermans are concerned.

Flea literally gave us fleas. Ned Yost is literally giving me a nervous breakdown. And Husband needs to quit giving me animals. Especially animals who, unfortunately, are too smart for their own good. Someone should've warned me chocolate labs....

Eat everything not nailed down
Eat everything that's nailed down
Eat actual nails

That's correct. All worldly possessions the Kellerman children see fit not to break, Ned Yost trots behind and ingests. That leaves Husband and I with exactly one pair of socks each and a 401k we're hoping the dog doesn't figure out how to log into. I've stopped waiting for the sun to wake me up, and, instead, listen for one of the children to shout, "Ned ate your mascara, Momma. How you gonna look pretty?"

I'll never look pretty again, children.

This is due to the fact, when he's not eating dryer sheets, the dog is thinking up ways he can escape the yard and and run toward freedom. Possibly the cat. No one's sure on this particular point because we don't know it's happened until it happens. And, by that point, I have a beleaguered old woman on my porch, trying to wrestle a muscular, Hershey-bar-colored lab up the porch steps. Last night wasn't any different.

"Oh. Hi, Sue."

"He got out again."

I shifted Mrs. Jones to my opposite hip and surveyed the situation. My small, greying neighbor looked like she'd just done a steeple chase and hit every ditch on the way down. Hair stuck out all over her head, and little beads of sweat trembled and splashed on the doorstep. "You took little bit to open the door. Everything ok?"

Quickly, I reached out and grabbed Ned by the collar, before I apologized. "Sorry. The baby was trying to base jump from the top of the stairs. I only have a few rules in life, but catching my offspring first and answering the door second is a non-negotiable."

Relieved, the little woman slumped against the house. "Can he jump the fence now?"

"I hope not."

"But you're not sure?"

"The only thing I'm sure of is that the baby is eating the credit card bill behind me. Thanks, Sue. We'll work on it."

Either the dog was getting the locks open or jumping fairly tall fences. Both options lacked appeal, but I decided to brief Husband about it the next day.

"Our dog's a menace to society."

Husband nodded sympathetically yet didn't pack the dog up and adopt him out immediately.

"He's getting out a lot."

"Mmm hmm."

"We need to tie everything shut or build him some sort of fiberglass cag-"

But that thought was interrupted by two loud thuds and a squeal. Three seconds later, glass tinkled on the ground as Ned Yost came flying into the house through the basement window.

Husband ran downstairs. "What the hell?"

I turned back to the stove and poked at almost-cooked hot dogs. "So, as I was saying. Maybe we enlist him in the Navy and see if they can straighten him out."

The moral of the story here is that we don't need anymore animals. Gerbils or hamsters might be ok, but even then. Are they good with locks?

So it's settled. We need a hamster.

Or a gerbil.

Or an exorcist.

Until Next Time, Readers!

                                                                  Buy Some Beer!
And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: