Terrifying or terrified?

Happy Halloween from the most humiliated little shark on the planet.

Thanks to Aunt Suz for passing along Hanny's old costume.

Gives "spooky" a whole new meaning

What started out like this...

...was planned like this...

...and then turned into this...

I call him: "The Diabolical Redneck." Who needs all their teeth anyway?

Happy Halloween, y'all.

The finished products:

Just...no.

That is what popped up on my TV this morning.

I thought to myself, "Lisa, you have never seen an episode of Jersey Shore. I know your initial reaction is UGH HATE, but maybe give her a chance."

So I did.

And now I hate myself.

But not as much as I hate the word "guidette."

Apartment of death

Tonight, it rained it Chicago and everyone forgot how to drive.

I don't know why. I don't make the rules.

After sitting in traffic for about an hour, I finally got home to my apartment. As I walked up the back stairs, I heard a faint beeping...

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP...BEEP-BEEP-BEEP...

That's not coming from my place, is it? I thought.

Okay, it definitely is.

I threw my key into the lock and pried it open (janky old door), wondering just how long the beeping had been going on and how bat-shit-crazy-insane Rocco probably was after hearing it nonstop.

That's when I realized it was my carbon monoxide detector.

And my place smelled like gasoline.

OH MY GOD WE ARE GOING TO DIE.

In one fluid motion -- that's what it felt like, but I bet I looked more like an epileptic on meth -- I grabbed Rocco by the collar, swiped his leash from the couch and hauled ass outside.

Standing in the rain, I frantically called Dave and told him about how our apartment had turned into a beeping deathtrap. He told me that carbon monoxide doesn't smell and that I needed to call our neighbors to tell them what was going on. I demanded that he come home immediately and marched upstairs with my confused dog. We hug out with our cool neighbors while trying to describe what that smell was. Gasoline? Poisonous gas? GASOLINE? Totally gasoline.

We also brainstormed the source of the problem -- no question there. It was our "handyman." He sets up shop in our basement and makes random shit for our landlord. The latest project has been a pair of doors. Whatever.

Anyway, Tony soon decided I should go downstairs and open the windows while Lindsay decided she would call our landlord and give him a piece of her mind. I did, and also took a time out to put on some sweatpants and grab a few beers because, duh.

By the time Dave came home, our place didn't smell as bad and he decided it was safe to head back down to our floor. Also, he determined that the weird smell was clearly spray paint that our "handyman" had been using on the doors he was building.

So here we are.

The apartment's been aired out, I don't think I'm high and our dinner just arrived. All is right with the world, but just in case we don't wake up tomorrow, it's been nice knowing you.