Did you see "Birds"? Did you hate it? Then don't read this post.

Gather 'round, children. Erin has a frightening story to tell.

Today was awesome: The sun is shining, it's my last day of work for the week, I got a lot done today, I even (on accident) got to sleep an extra half hour this morning. Oops. I drank a Red Bull, I was feeling caffeinated and wonderful by 5:30 when I left work.

No stress. You see that whole paragraph? Not a single thing to be stressed about.

So I pull my car and my not-stressed out self into the parking lot of our apartment, dreaming about tacos and maybe the PBS show we've got from the library on DVD that I'm going to watch, and I'm pretty dang happy that I get to sleep in (not on accident) tomorrow. See, me -- Not stressed out. Happy.

I walk to the door, swinging my purse like I'm not stressed out, because I'm not. I get to the door, which is locked, like it's supposed to be, thus, no cause for stressing out, and I reach into my purse for my apartment keys. Reach, reach, looking around, checking out the dead bugs on the wall (those lake flies), observing how dang hot it still is, reaching in the purse, looking up at the ceiling when -- OH MY GOD -- I AM STRESSED OUT. THERE ARE TWO -- COUNT THEM -- TWO LIVE, HANGING BATS NO MORE THAN MERE FEET ABOVE MY HEAD AND MY KEYS, WHERE ARE THEY?? Dear God, get me inside, please, before I wake these vultures and they attack me a la Hitchcock, I'm screaming inside.

One bat's wing flutters in the wind and I'm hopping around, shaking my purse to hear where my keys can be, and then I remember that "Reading Rainbow" where I learned bats can't see me, but they can use sound waves to know where I am. And I'm shaking my purse for my keys -- OH GOD I AM GOING TO DIE AND MY KEYS ARE AT THE BOTTOM OF MY BAG.

And I reach for them, and the wing is still fluttering in the wind, and I put the key in the door and it won't open. Sweet molasses, it won't open, and by now, it is in my hair, help me, someone I swear I can feel it fluttering in my ponytail, and I turn the key and try, oh god, how I'm trying to get it to open, and it just won't, and of course by now I have rabies.

But, alas, my friends. I do not have rabies. It was just the loose hairs from my ponytail on my neck, and I made it inside OK, and the bats (as they are nocturnal, silly) are still hanging outside the door. Waiting to get in. I am never leaving my apartment.

And of course when I walk in, the lady from the first floor is taking her Doberman outside, and it runs to smell me, and I scream.

It is a scary place, this Wisconsin.