Yesterday was Sam's birthday. She decided to go camping for a few days, and so I've had some alone time. The sad thing is that it doesn't feel like a break since we see so little of each other anyway these days.

The other sad thing is that ever since I became an everyday Web surfer I have indulged my curiosity for the macabre so much that I now find it difficult to sleep alone. The Zodiac Killer was never caught, ok? San Francisco was his turf. His grisly costume has really embedded itself in my subconscious. It's not use telling myself that his image is just all of my mundane anxieties taking a psychological form. No use at all.

Never one to indulge in sentimentality, I always scoffed at those dumb girls who kept a menagerie of stuffed animals in their beds well into college and beyond. However, after discovering the comfort of Sam's 15-year-old Pooh bear, my hard shell cracked; I have taken to sleeping with a stuffed pink pig.

But Pig is only useful when I know that even though I'll be asleep, Sam will be getting home at some point. Between my gun and her unflappable-ness in the face of adversity, I know that we can give the Zodiac Killer a run for his money.

There are sickos out there.

Since lying awake, ears straining to hear every stray sound for hours and hours is not conducive to a productive life, I've had to get more creative. You'd think that having Isaac sleeping in the crate next to the bed would make me feel safe and secure, but it doesn't. He seems to get into his little lair and totally conk out. He starts to snore in a deep circular breathing cycle not two minutes after he's turned around a few times and made himself comfortable. I just don't feel certain of his quick response time. Plus since he's closed off in there, he couldn't really leap up barking and snarling at some blood lusting serial killer.

So, I've taken to locking myself in the room. This makes sense to me. Even if the murderer did eventually break the door down, I could have the precious seconds to grab my gun and shoot him before he had a chance to get close.

This method is not without its risks. Just this weekend, I forgot to unlock the door from the inside when I left in the morning. Then when Sam got up, she didn't think to check and locked herself out of the room.

When I got home I vaguely asked her what she had done to get in, but I was preoccupied and didn't really listen to her response.

So of course, when I got home to the empty house yesterday afternoon, I went into the bedroom to change into my house clothes. Then, shutting the door behind me, I walked back out into the living room to play with Isaac. A minute later, I heard the phone ring. It sounded like it was in the bedroom. I went to get it and I had locked myself out.

What to do? Cursing myself, I felt a rush of panic, realizing that Sam wasn't going to be around to help me. I wasn't sure I could reach her by cell phone since she was camping out in parts unknown. Cursing myself some more, I realized that I had no idea what she had done to get the door open. Cursing myself still more, I realized that I have become deeply dependent on her, in ways that are disgusting and codependent. I used to deal with all manner of crises on my very own when I lived by myself.

The only thing I did remember her saying was that she used her bendable metal desk ruler. I grabbed it and tried in vain to jimmy the lock. I looked around desperately and noted that the hinge screws were on the other side of the door, of course. Frantically I started hacking at the doorknob. Maybe I could knock it out and unlock it that way.

Options were spinning through my mind -- call a locksmith, sleep on the couch until Sam gets home, try to call her, get a friend to come over. It was clear to me that the best solution was to figure this out on my own.

I stopped for a minute and took a few deep breaths. I examined the door and saw a fresh paint chip on the door jam. I stuck the metal ruler in at that point and the metal hit against the door locking mechanism (is it called a tongue and groove?). I pushed it in, something popped and the door flew open.

I was so relieved. I also felt ridiculously proud of myself. I find myself thinking about the whole incident with a bit of self-loathing. When did I become such a needy, scaredy-cat, helpless GIRL? Why is it so easy to let others deal with things that aren't immediately easy? I used to savor these kinds of challenges. Is it time for me to move out on my own?

I have a lot to think about.