A Springtime Rant

Innumerable abominations abound on this green earth.  In my opinion, many of them are food items.  But today, I speak to you of something different, something more horrendous, more vile, and infinitely more grotesque than any other earthly monstrosity--the spider.

(For those of you who like continuity and a semblance of logic, the following is a loose tie-in for this entry:   Master Jedi showed me the Kansas City Star headline "Exterminators"--an article about KU's decimation of the Richmond Spiders, which, incidentally, seems like an idiotic choice of a mascot.  Who wants to cheer on a creature most people smush underfoot?  And what poor schmuck has to dress up in that costume?  Anyway--that, coupled with the advent of spring, has spiders in the forefront of my mind.)

Now I have not always quaked in terror upon a spider sighting.  Growing up in the country, spiders were commonplace.  Large spiders occupied the lower level of our home (some large enough that even Dad didn't want to step on them), and I was often the spider-killer for my older sister.  While I certainly did not like them, I was, by no means, deathly afraid.

Childhood Home

However, as I grew older, I developed a healthy fear of them.  I credit moving away from home and realizing man-eating spiders don't normally live in houses and drop from the ceiling unexpectedly.

Now as a thirty-something mother of three boys, I have been self-diagnosed with Acute Spider Phobia.  To further exacerbate the problem, we also live in the country (aka Spider Utopia--you'd think I'd learned something from my childhood, but no.).

I can't handle spiders in any way, shape, or form.  I often squeal like a girl when I see them and always scream bloody murder when I try to kill them.  It doesn't seem to matter what kind or size they are.  They're all awful, and, I'm truly convinced, all out to get me.  (Case and point:  Why do spiders always come running toward me when I see them?  It's like they know I'm an easy target and a slow runner.)

I am convinced that if I die in a car crash, it will be due to a spider.  Out here, they seem to find a way into cars and then dangle from the ceiling in your peripheral vision, taunting you with threats of climbing into your ear canal and laying millions of eggs.  Seriously, how can anyone be expected to drive with eight-legged death mocking you?

Just the other day while driving to my mom's, I put my precious children at risk when I discovered a little black spider scampering up my thigh--obviously heading for the jugular--and me going 55 mph.  With unbecoming shrieks and dangerous swerving, I was able to successfully pull over and fling the varmint from my person, then eviscorating it with an ice scraper.  It was a close call.

Even though Spring has not fully made up her mind, the touch-n-go warming trends have started to awaken those loathsome creatures.  Just a couple of days ago, I saw a small black one taunting me from beneath the workshop table.  I responded by hauling out the industrial strength Orthomax spider killer and dousing my entire workshop (parts and all) in poison.

I fear my love of discarded objects, coupled with my artistic disorganization, screams spider sanctuary.  So in response, I say to you spiders, big and small, young and old: 

"May this weekend's weird cold snap kill you savage creatures as you crawl out from your dark chasms of evil!  Die, spiders, die!"

And thus concludes today's Springtime Rant.

The Four Levels of Social Entrapment

In lieu of searching for personal creativity that has been sucked out and destroyed by the trials and tribulations of potty training my THIRD child, enjoy this great post from a fantastically creative blogger:

 

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/09/four-levels-of-social-entrapment.html

Robots Available for Immediate Placement!

And now a word from the newly formed Robot Rescue Coalition:

Did you know that each year, 17 million robots go without arms and legs and that some never get a chance to see through transplanted eyes?  In fact, every day, 4 out of 5 robot parts are cast into landfills to simply rust away.

However, there is hope.  Together, we can break the never-ending cycle of waste and dismemberment. 

At the Robot Rescue Coalition, our mission is to rescue, reassemble, and release robots into the world again.  We firmly believe that all robots are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Personality, and the Pursuit of Appendages.

Please join us in this crusade to end robot cruelty.  Save a life.  Buy a robot.

Now available at www.onlyremnants.etsy.com!

Here's to BYU

With maturity far beyond their tender years, my 7 and 9 year olds helped commentate the BYU game:

"Big Yellow Underwear shoots and scores."  Followed by, "And down the court comes Big Yellow Underwear . . ." (Repeat into eternity with boyish giggles.)

Of course, the clever acronym clarification of BYU came from none other than my highly esteemed husband.

And this is what I have to live with.

March Madness . . . is that like Mad Cow Disease?

March Madness is underway, spawning its own seeds of madness to the residents of our house.

Jedi-8 filled out his bracket with intensity and perhaps some misguided reasoning (i.e. he has San Diego going to the Final Four, and I'm pretty sure it's because he likes the San Diego Padres--yes, he does know they're different sports, but loyalty's loyalty, I suppose).  He is constantly interested in how his bracket compares to everyone else's . . . and loudly accuses teams of cheating if they aren't his pick.

For the first time ever, Jedi-7 rather spontaneously decided to fill out a bracket of his own . . . after asking what a bracket was.  He made snap judgment calls on most match-ups with the confidence of a bracketologist--that is, with the exception of wanting Oklahoma to win.  We had to explain that Oklahoma wasn't even playing.  Today, I'm not sure he even remembers he has a bracket.

Then we have the Jedi-Master--the man who made a poster-size version of the brackets when he was in high school (just for his own benefit).  This man is a true lover of the tournament, a rabid KU fan, and a wrath-filled hater of Duke.  He has filled out two brackets, a more practical one and a slightly crazy one.  Watch out, world!

My personal madness is slightly different.  I fill out brackets simply because Jedi-Master and I are very competitive.  This is an important time of year for us.  We can mock the other's ludicrous choices, revel in our personal victories, and hopefully smash the other one into the ground so I can do a triumphant dance on his grave (not that I'm counting on winning or anything). 

Unfortunately, I don't follow basketball for the most part and, therefore, have a very shallow well of information from which to draw.  In recent years, I've noticed a downward slide in my reasoning, pulling me towards the "girl choices."  What's the team color?  If it's orange, they must be winners.  This year, I even made one choice based on . . . wait for it . . . a mascot.  (Hanging head in shame.)

I know what you're thinking, since when did basketball trump robot parts?  Alas, I have no reasonable explanation.  I suppose that's why they call it Mad Cow Disease March Madness.

American Pickers: What is Picking?

I'm thinking of wallowing. 

Being down in the dumps would normally be a positive for me--think of all the treasures I could uncover in those dumps!--but today, it's more along the lines of crummy, despondent, dispirited, down and out, glum, in a blue funk, lugubrious, melancholy, spiritless, or perhaps just plain unhappy.  

Instead of asking you to wallow with me, I'm introducing you to a life-changing series on the History Channel.  If I weren't already married and weren't so afraid of spiders and could stand to bargain a little, I would travel to Iowa and marry one of these men just to go along on their treks.

The White Stripes - Rag & Bone

 

So this is the theme song for Remnants by RJ.  Just thought it needed to be shared.

All Just a State of Mind

I am unproductive.

I am still wearing my pajamas.  I got those pants in 2002.

(Sidenote:  Boy, I can see the arthritis in my hands in this picture!)

I woke up last night to comfort the tonsil-less and went back to bed with the Agent Oso song in my head.

If you do not know who Agent Oso is, consider yourself lucky.  Very lucky.

I think I need to hire a Muse . . .

Sad Times

Productivity is grinding to a halt.  My little assistant had his tonsils removed last Thursday.  This is the result.
 

Before

After

(I always find a little 

Before & After helpful.

In this case, it's just 

a little pitiful.)

It's hard to find the time (never mind the motivation) to really work when those brown eyes beseech you to just hold him for hours on end.

"You're going to go make robots, Mama?  Why?  Why would you leave me?"