Are there really that many Garfield fans, or are people just unable to figure out how to remove the suction-cup paws from the backseat window?

In my desperation to get out of the house this week, I lay in bed one night fantasizing about my escape. I would somehow get the church to give me an advance on my pay, which shouldn't be too hard, since everyone there loves me. Plus, my mother is the bookkeeper, so I might be able to get her drunk or something. Anyway, once I had the cash to get myself a few miles down the road, I would disappear from my job and steal a bike from my parents' garage.

[Note: Yes, I realize that the stealing-a-bike bit is a skosh reminiscent of all those plans I made to run away from home as a seven-year-old and then again as a ten-year-old and then again as a fifteen-year-old. Bite me.]

Actually, scratch the bike thing. In my original daydream, I was walking and possibly hitchhiking. I would leave my cell phone near a river bank somewhere, buying a pay-as-you-go phone instead. I was originally going to go by the name of Aurora, but some people might remember that I have always wanted that to be my name. Then I thought of going as Beth, but then people might remember that I hate the name Beth.

[Another Note: If you have ever watched Gilmore Girls, you will understand that last line. If not, well, shame on you.]

At that point, I actually thought, "Umm, this is ridiculous. I can't just steal money from the church and run away from home. And what the crap would be the point? I'd be running from the law for a while, get caught, go to jail, and it would take that much longer to see my friends. DUMB IDEA, SKIRTS. Plus, I can't even think of an alias. Weak."

And then I blogged about it. The end.

I frequently pass a tree and firewood place on the way to work. The business has one of those signs out front where you can change out the letters to spell whatever quirky message best suits your mood. The owners seem to struggle with a terrible sense of humor, and I always want to smash my head into a wall when I read their sign.

Here are three examples, starting with the one from last winter, followed by the one from this summer, and ending with the current one:

• "Our firewood roars, and we aren't lion!"
• "We're sweaty, and we're ready!"
• "For more information, call Pete."

The last one is what I saw this morning, which caused me to do a neck-breaking double-take. What happened, guys? Run out of horrible puns and slightly disturbing rhymes? And who is Pete? Is he the new, mean manager who decided to take a "more professional" approach to marketing?

These are the things that keep me up at night.