Erin's life just got a lot creepier

Ah, yes, it's Monday.

You can tell because I'm A.) tired, B.) desperately seeking Friday, as in a Friday in 2050, when I should be able to retire, C.) wishing Chris Carrabba would stop being a celebrity.

See, my friends, in the world of journalism, sometimes having your own blog doesn't quite make you as famous as Leno or Letterman. Of course, if Leno or Letterman were interested in Carrabba, well ... OK. Never mind. I'll play nice.

But he's going to force me to write a story based on what I would ask him, and what I think his answers would be, if he doesn't respond to the exactly 372 interview requests. I'm getting a little stressed here. Ugh. Just because you put out a few albums and girls everywhere would be willing to be Mrs. Carrabba (including me, eons ago ... I'm embarrassed by it now) ...

Sigh.

But that's neither here nor there. What's new in my world? Well, we apparently live next to a mediocre trumpet player. He or she only knows one song, so it's not like I can even appreciate the musical talent of the phantom band member. Sigh. It's window-opening time, and he or she is making me wish it were 30 degrees. Why, Oshkosh? Why.

But, in better news, the dog across the hall only barks when its owners leave or return home. And, it turns out, I may be on the dog's side. It appears we're neighbors to the Klopeks. Remember "The Burbs," that '80s movie with Tom Hanks? The neighbors are creepy ... our neighbors are creepy. Their neighbors hate people, our neighbors hate people.

We were walking down the hall of our apartment floor, and just as we got to our door, theirs (which is right across the hall) opened, and the light turned off. Clearly they were on their way out. Charlie, the yipper in this situation, was yipping. And what do they do? The woman looks at me and then backs up into the apartment, and the door closes until there was only about an inch. We looked away and hurried in our apartment, and then heard them leave and slam the door.

I can be described in many ways. Scary, smelly, ominous, intimidating and fear-inducing are not words I think I've ever been called. I'm 5'1''. I'm out of shape. If I were some scary person, I'd be able to chase them like, 3 1/2 feet before I pulled a muscle. Ergo, I think it's them. Not me.

Either the people across the hall have bodies hidden in their apartment, or they're being robbed by burglars with entrance keys to the building. Creepy. I go with the bodies theory.