A Tribute

You may recall I spent Valentine's Day making a robot for my husband.  I finally have my camera back, so I thought it necessary to post pictures.

Mr. Director and his Desk

(The size of the desk is exaggerated in accordance with the amount of work that falls on his shoulders--also, he's REALLY messy!  Sidenote:  The head bobbles!!)


Now on to the unmistakable resemblance . . .

Seriously! Look at the hair!

Of course, my little assistant loves him . . . both the robot and the daddy.

Split Personality?

Lately, I'm thinking about self-diagnosing myself as suffering from a split personality or, as Wikipedia calls it, "Dissociative Identity Disorder": 

[Dissociative identity disorder is a psychiatric diagnosis that describes a condition in which a person displays multiple distinct identities or personalities (known as alter egos or alters), each with its own pattern of perceiving and interacting with the environment.]

Here's my theory.

Rebecca

R to the Ecca

I used to be Rebecca the majority of the time with sprinkled incidences of R to the Ecca.  

Fast forward several years and add in a few kids.  I have heard tales of legendary mothers who have become better organized, more social, willingly involved, and transitioned into grown up clothes.  Alas, I am not one of those.  R to the Ecca has come forward and only lets Rebecca out to fool others (i.e. all those put-together moms).

So here's the problem:  Remnants by RJ needs Rebecca to come in here and clean up this mess!!  I need to actually keep an inventory, record receipts, total sales, write marketing materials, and maintain some level of organization.  Then R to the Ecca can go play with power tools and assemble body parts and find missing limbs.

But can the two co-exist?  Were Superman and Clark Kent ever seen together?  Spiderman and Peter Parker?

Oh, Rebecca and R to the Ecca, why can't we all just get along?

Robots and Rabbits

I intended to write a Valentine's Day post.  But all I could come up with was:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I love robots
And Weldbond glue.

It just didn't seem worth it.  Instead, I worked the whole day on a robot for my husband.  (When I get my camera back, I'll be sure to post a picture of the masterpiece.  Spoiler alert:  It includes a bobble-head and a striking resemblance to the man himself.)

My quietness on the blog front in general can most likely be linked to a redirection of my rather limited creative energy.  My recurrent workshop visits over the past several, consecutive days have allowed my "nearly completed" robot table to reach an all-time-high of seven!  This small, newly established township includes, but is not limited to, a robot rescue dog who wants to be a St. Bernard when he grows up, a newly refurbished mother and daughter duo, a ballerina/jewelry box, and a robot rocket ship.

Hazy ideas of bathtub robot, horse bot, and working robot lamp are simmering and hope to join the flourishing community before long.

Let's hope and pray this unheard of productivity continues and the "nearly completed" robots reproduce like rabbits. 

(Fun Fact:  In one season, a single female rabbit can produce as many as 800 children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.)

Who Let the Dogs Out?

I'm on a new trend . . . at least that's what I'm telling myself.  Armed with multiple caffeine-filled drinks, I'm spending time in the workshop every day--and sometimes I even get something accomplished. 

Today, however, I made slower progress.  My faithful, four-year-old robot assistant bullied me into letting him play Just Dance on the Wii while I worked.  (The bullying went something like this:  "Pleeease."  Note adorable-ness in picture below.)

He danced to "Who Let the Dogs Out?" eleven times before I decided it was either time for lunch or time for my immediate check-in to a mental health facility.

Of course, now (two hours later), I still have that dang song in my head.

If I wore skirts, perhaps . . .

What the SuperBowl Means to Me - An Essay

The SuperBowl is here.

Large men in tight pants will fight to the death for a gold ring.  The multi-million dollar commercials promise to be epic.

However, to me, the advent of this great day means much more. 

Football season is at an end.  I will join in the happy tears of the mighty victors and the bitterly sad ones of the defeated for my workshop will be mine again.

Go Packers!  Go Steelers!  Bring my mighty drill press home to me again!

No Nap?!

Today, I skipped my luxurious, all-important nap . . . on purpose.

Instead, I rescued robots from discarded objects and gave them new life. 

My hands still smell of metal and glue.  It was another good afternoon.