More Proof of the Evil Nature of Spiders

Check this photo out.... What is the tiny little barely visible black dot, you wonder? Well, let me tell you friend... this little black beastie is a black widow spider. Yes, a real one. Where was this phot taken? My back patio.
As you know, I have arachnaphobic tendancies bordering on the insane . This morning, when I was outside making sure my dog didn't fly away in the tornado-like winds we were experiencing at 5:30am, I noticed this little bastard trying to make a run for my back door. I guess he had been de-homed in the winds and he was making his way for the warmth and secure setting that is my house. I, of course, welcomed him with the bottom of my shoe that I scrambled to find in my un-used gym back next to the dining room table. How dare he? Isn't it winter? Aren't the little f**kers supposed to be dead? or in some underground fortress beginning their winter hibernation ceremonies with the devil himself?

Doggy Bling

So here's one of life's greatest mysteries, in my opinion... Doggy clothes. I was at Target not too long ago and noticed they had quite an extensive collection of doggy clothing and accessories. For example, there is a little "Bling Dog Tee" in hot pink. AAhhhhh, and then there is the Leopard Print Doggy PJs. And just in case all those boy dogs are feeling left out (you know how sensitive boys can be...), there is doggy suit. There is everything from your average sweater, to pink shiny raincoats, to denim jackets (you know acid washed is coming back, right?), and lets not forget to get them their tiaras, tutus, and pearl neckaces... Swim trunks, fringe shit, Issac Mizrahi designer dresses, crocheted sweaters, smoking jackets, if you don't belive me - check it out for yourself!!

Have I died and woken up in doggy hell? Because thats exactly where my dog would feel like she was living if I bought her something so hideous. She gets pissed when I even suggest putting a bandana around her neck. So, okay, I remember once when I was a kid I put a doll dress on my cat and put her in the front yard to see what she would do. She rolled over and played dead. How could a person subject their animal to such complete and utter humiliation? I'm outraged!! Okay, so maybe occasionally you throw something fun on for a halloween party. I mean, hey, everyone is doing it so its cool. But damn doggy lingerie? And people actually think I need a hobby. Please, America, lets work together on not becoming so freakin frightening.

My New Addiction

I have a new addiction. A new way to totally waste a day at work. The Onion. I've visited the site before when friends have pointed out various articles, but I've never really spent much time reading through some of the archives and browsing the merchandise. Its beautiful. It really speaks to me. Sarcastic wisdom at its finest. LOVE IT. Some of my favorite articles include "Area Woman Emotionally Invested in Jennifer Anniston's Well-being" and "Action Figures Set Cubicles Apart."

The former summarizes our society's ridiculous obsession with Hollywood. The latter is a fav because I feel like I am the subject of of this article. My coworker (next cube over) and I share a wall that is covered in tiny fuzzy chickens, mini rubber ducks, sticky frogs, a bendable Uncle Sam and frog, a Lucky Cat from Japan (via Epcot), a lucky ceramic frog from Hawaii, an arrowhead shaped like a buffalo, and a ceramic, bejeweled snowman. No shit. I'm not lying. I'd show a picture if it weren't for the fact that one might recognize my office and figure out my oohhh soo secret identify. Course, you see one sterile cubicle, you've seen them all.

In addition to my cubicle figurines, I have decorated the walls with postcards, photographs, posters, magazine cut-outs, bullshit training certificates, tiki voodoo-like totem heads with feather sprouts coming out of the top, a limestone core sample, some unprovenienced artifacts (which can be found in any archaeologist's office), a sugar flower that came off some gross store-bought cookie, and, of course, about 45 sticky notes holding thoughts that can't seem to stay in my brain. This is both an attempt to decorate our boring grey lives and a contest to see who can tacky it up the most before getting busted by facilities management. So far - no one has really said much. I even have a calendar of half naked native Hawaiian guys under my desk - taped to the inside lower wall. Its my little half-assed secret. My friend Peter has a similar calendar sporting some hotty Hawaiian ladies. This is just what a corporate office needs, more half naked people. I think I might suggest that at our next staff meeting.

So in the meantime, check out The Onion if you haven't already.

A Link to Me

Someone found the link to my blog by surfing up "Stupid Vol Fans."

How rude.

Oh yeah, and I finally got some comments on my blog - and it was spam.

sigh...

For only One Thousand Dollars....

Today me and one my co-workers were looking up topsoil for sale online and we found this website that had a little bit of everything for sale.

We were cruising through the pics of pets and came across this sphinx for sale for a thousand bucks (not the same as the photo to the left - but just as hideously ugly).

Why would someone pay $1000 for a wrinklied, raw, rat-like looking creature that looks like this? It reminds me of my dog when I first found her on the side of the road - all mangy, pink and full of scabs. I paid $700 to make her not look like that anymore...

It kinda makes me uncomfortable, like that feeling you get when looking at your friend's newborn baby - who isn't very cute, but you have to pretend it is. It makes me want to sew a tiny little fur coat so that it won't be embarrased in front of his animal friends. He actually looks like Mr. Furley from Three's Company. Wait, he's starting to grow on me.... Ew. Just goes to show you money really doesn't buy good taste.

People never cease to amaze me.

Its My Lucky Day...

I just found a 5 leaf clover in my backyard when I was grilling. I think this means I'm going to have extra good luck or make lots and lots of money or something. Or perhaps that a leprechaun may jump out of my ass (ouch). Umm...I'll take the cash, thanks.

Look...Its real! I swear I didn't glue a tiny little leaf in the center.

Lucky in Love Sounds Good to Me

So I am back from a weekend camping trip with some friends. I had a really great time (in spite of the fact that I have chiggers, I branded my neck with a marshmallow poker, and it poured down rain on us all last night=). We went for a 12 mile hike (or was it 15?) and ate lots and lots of food that is bad for you. I discovered the joys of grey meat and the drawbacks from eating marshmallows for every meal (grasshoppers do add protein, but its still not advisable). Oh yeah, and I'm a total cheater at trivial pursuit. I also met a suicidal stick bug. Excellent fun. It’s good to spend time with friends.

When I came home tonight, I got some interesting information from my Daily AOL horoscope, too:

It might be easy for you to make more money these days, but this isn't about any sort of get-rich-quick scheme. It's just that people in power are going to be more inclined to favor you over others. Love is not full of surprises now. Rather, you get what you deserve and you can count on what you receive as being the real thing.

What an amazing horoscope! First, the whole lucky at work thing sounds great. Who doesn’t want to be make more money and be favored. But the best part of this horoscope is what it says about love. I have had a bad go at love lately. Most recently – I have had my heart broken. Not so much broken as crushed – the kind of hurt that leaves you feeling alone when you are in a room full of people. I fell for this guy who had become my friend– only to later come to terms with the fact that he never really liked me and that he was in love with someone else. I wasn't even mad – given the circumstances. All I could do is say goodbye and wish him the best because I want him to be happy even if it means that I have to walk away forever. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is. Talk about tragic Lifetime television for women (bleh). Its easier when you can just punch them in the stomach, call them a son of a bitch and walk away with a smile. Love can really complicate things sometimes.

Back to the horoscope, though, cuz it sounds like my luck is going to change =) I especially like the part about how it says I deserve it. Perhaps Mr. Fantastic is right around the corner. Maybe its cute parking lot guy... That would be excellent… Or maybe horoscopes are full of crap. Either way, it never hurts to keep an open mind.

Hope everyone has a great week!

I'm turning into a Man....HELP!!

I come home, crack open an ice cold beer, flop down on the couch with my pants unbuttoned, turn on the news, occasionally snore as I zone in and out of consciousness, yell into the kitchen "bitch where's my dinner!"

Okay, so maybe its not that bad. Its more of the pathetic bachelor man-type. I've previously mentioned that my refrigerator once stored only things like earthworms (for fishing, not eating, in case you were wondering), pickles and beer. Well, this type of thing is what I'm talking about. Taking current inventory of the fridge I have: block of old parmesan cheese, 4 jars of pickles, rotten milk, orange juice, empty jar of applesauce, tupperware container of what I believe to be baked beans from several months ago (ewh), and .... beer.

My carpet has 4 layers of dog fur. My laundry has stacked up for 3 weeks (had to do some wash this weekend in order to have adequate amounts of underwear for week). Piles of newspapers on the floor. Collection of shoes by the door (the variety and number of these certainly seperates me from my male counterparts, but its still getting out of control). Junk mail piled high on the dining room table. Pot of old broccoli, random wrappers and coffee cups on the counter. Hairball in the spare bedroom. Piles and piles of unread and boring books scattered across bedroom floor. Little piles of dead spider carcasses by the back door. Dog toys EVERYWHERE.

Okay so perhaps I exaggerate (or maybe not so much) - but I think its time for an intervention. I have the home of a 24 year old college fratboy graduate. Somebody please come shoot me. Or atleast go get that nasty hairball out of the spare bedroom. bleh.

I Have a Vacation Hangover

You know how when you travel sometimes (especially when its in a different time zone) and you come back you feel like a zhombie, you wake in the middle of the night and don't know where you are, you sleep for 12 straight hours, you wake up feeling groggy, you're sitting in your pajamas drinking coffee while staring at your computer when you're supposed to be somewhere in 20 minutes?
Thats me today. I've also somehow managed to forget all the wonderful stories I was going to share with everyone. I'm hoping this memory lapse will go away with the application of some much needed caffeine and a little bit of time to settle back into the real world.
Until then...happy Sunday!

Dial #0 if You are Just Stupid

So I was a little bored this morning and was playing with my cell phone because I had nothing better to do. I noticed, for the first time, a tiny little image just above the pound sign in the bottom right corner of the phone. It’s a little tiny lock. I think….cool….I can lock my phone. I’d been wondering about this (because I had let my niece play with my phone a few weeks ago and I was looking for a way to keep her from dialing 911…or an ex or something).

So I got so excited, I pressed the button – held it down – and locked up my cell phone. Sweet. It works. Know what else? It requires a pass code to unlock it. Ain’t security great? Wait. What? Pass code? I don’t have a pass code? I dial up every single pass code I’ve every used in my life – from my ATM code, my voicemail code, my social security number, my birth year, everything. Nothing. I find my owner’s manual (which is a miracle I still have) and find that the default code is 0000. Whheeeww. Crisis averted. I punch in the default and I get…..nothing. Still locked. Dammit.

I can fix this, I think. I can go online. I surf up the Verizon.com website and type in [what I think is] my user name and password and get nothing. I try again. Nothing. I’ve got 25 different user names and 10 passwords for 40 online accounts. None of them work. I’m getting ready to lock up my Verizon account. So I click the forget password? Link. It sends it to my email. Great. But wait, no email. Oh yeah, I use my work email. Now I have to go to work and get my damn password to log on to my account so I can try and find out why they let stupid people have cell phones. Dammit.

Okay. Think… What’s that weirdo think next to the computer that allows me to slowly connect to this damn internet….oh yeah….a real phone. An ancient artifact that’s become something like an 8-track in our technologically advanced society. They probably have one at the Smithsonian – right next to the hot-rollers and the Walkman. Fortunately for me, the non-technological mutant, I still have one. I not only have one but depend on it for my connections. For once having something old fashioned has saved me from complete embarrassment (which it would have been for me to drive down to the Verizon store and tell the cute guy behind the counter that I had somehow managed to lock myself out of my phone. So I look for a number. Need help, it asks? Just dial *89 on your cell phone. That helps. Dammit

So after 15 minutes of searching I find a 1800 number. When I call it, I'm given a series of choices…press 1 for billing, 2 for technical service, 3 for blueberries and other fruit and snacks, 4 for blah blah nano blah something pods, 5 for yadayada vcast something music players, blah blah....I press 2. It’s a technical problem. Then I'm connected to another list of choices. I don’t understand any of them. I don’t have any of these problems. Where is the default choice for “all other technical issues a.k.a. stupid people”. I randomly pick a number. I wait another 15 minutes for a kind woman who was gracious enough to tell me that, oh yeah, it’s just the last four numbers of my phone number. Sure. Yeah. Thanks. Dammit.

Moral to the story? #26 on my list ….Catch up with Technology before I lock myself out of society.

Gurrrlll, You Got Some Stinky-ass Feet

I inherited many things from my father, including his work ethic of a mule, sneezes that echo for miles, giant eye balls, a fondness of home brew, and, apparently, his stinky-ass feet. Yesterday I made my annual visit to that doctor that all women must eventually see. Bleh. Its not that I dislike going to my doctor – but nobody likes to get naked, lay on a board for several hours draped in a paper dress and have someone take a bright light and metal poker to their nether regions. But we must all do it – it’s just plain good for ya.

So on this day, I make the mistake of wearing my favorite shoes – a pair of Sketchers that are like a cross between a mountain climber shoe and slipper. They are very comfortable. The only problem with these shoes is that, since I have to wear them without socks, they tend to make my feet smell horrid. And by horrid, I mean knock the wind out of you horrid. This is esp. true when I’ve worn them for a few days in a row without washing the insoles. I didn’t really think about it until I step into that little pre-game room where they take your vitals, blood, etc. The nurse instructs me to take off my shoes so that she can weigh me and I think….Oh Holy God…what have I done? I slowly slip them off and quickly jump on the scale, looking nervously at the lady. As she takes my weight (good news – I lost 5 pounds!!) and height, I start to catch a whiff of the scent. I’m absolutely horrified!! As soon as she is done, I put the bloody things back on and notice she’s rubbing her nose. I’ve nearly killed the nurse with the stench of my dad’s hand me down feet.

I’m completely panicked by the time I get to my actual room because I realize – my feet are going to be propped up RIGHT NEXT TO my doctor’s head. All you ladies out there know what I’m talking about. How ridiculous would it be for me to keep my shoes on – when the rest of me is buck naked wrapped up in a large, moo moo shaped paper towel? What to do, what to do…..I search the room for anything that can help and it occurs to me – the room has a sink! So, as quickly and neatly as possible – I lift my big, nasty feet up to the sterile counter and start washin. When I’m done – I’ve left a huge puddle all over the floor that has to be mopped up with about 30 paper towels. I had just finished cleaning up my mess when I hear the knock on the door. Safe. I take my place on the gyno-throne and get ready for party time. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized I had thrown my paper towel mess into the garment-only bucket. Oh well, by the time they clean that thing out, I’ll have been long gone.

P.S. Those who know me may not question why I have troubles keeping a boyfriend – with conversations such as this. But hey – I’m woman enough to admit when my shit stinks…

Stupid people make me smile...

I love photos like this.

I was having a craphole day and someone sent me this picture.

I don't know if its real or not - but its an example of how stupid people were put on this earth to make us laugh.

Hope everyone is having a great day =)

No More Visits to the Crack House Kids

I have, just now, finally mowed my yard. This was a stupendous feat for me – given its current condition and my ginormous fear of the big dirty spiders that like to lurk in the tall grasses. My dad loaned me one of his spare mowers (he has a thing about collecting them). Its funny because this mower has some serious horsepower compared to my old Yardman and I nearly took out a bush and ran the thing off into the road a few times it was so powerful. My “self propelled” button on the old one barely got the thing in motion. My dad’s mower could quite possible pull a sled. So an hour and a half after I begin, I have the lawn short, the edges trimmed, and the big milkweed cacti removed. I have a giant, manly sized blister on the palm of my hand to remind me not to wait so long to take care of my yard again. My yard is, once again, halfway presentable. It no longer looks like the home of a crack ho.

I also sprayed down the black widow on the front porch. I was too afraid to step on it (I have this fear that it will eject a web onto the soul of my foot as I move towards it – swing around just before the stomp, and run up into my pant leg. I know it’s just sitting there plotting my murder as I stare it down – trying to figure out the best way to dispose of it. Luckily I found this bug spray that will squirt out a fairly good stream of pure poison from distances of up to 6 feet away. I can keep a safe distance and destroy the bastard in one fell swoop. As I sprayed him down, he ran up into a crack – but I sprayed the crack for a solid 10 minutes. I feel confident I’ll have a dead black widow carcass on my stoop in the morning. Dirty mother %&*@!!!….

Cool thing is – apparently one cure for a burned out, grassless yard is to just let it run wild for a few months. Lots of weeds and shit growing in there, but hell, its green, I’ll take it. Uncool thing – I discovered a wasp’s nest on my side garage door. Apparently it’s been there awhile cause it’s about the size of a downtown condo building. I have no idea how to dispose of these little nasties – other then pour gasoline on them and set em on fire. This might be a bad idea, though, me not having any fire protection coverage and all. I guess I’ll have to think of something else.

Goodnight kids!

Welcome to my Jungle said the Spider

Picture a hot, sunny desert-like plain rich in red clay and asphalt with small, shoebox shaped houses tightly bound across the surface. In the midst of this setting - there is one shoebox that sits above all others. And by "above" I do not mean quality. The "grassy lawn" surrounding this shoebox is thick with small budding cedar trees, luscious crab grass, and unidentifiable milkweed-typed cacti growing in the shapes of small Christmas trees. In the midst of the "lawn" there are very large, brown, bastard spiders running wild and free amongst the luscious weeds and its nourishing canine shit. Black widow spiders have come in search of peace and quiet, june bugs, and empty cigarette butt-filled flower pots to drape their homes. It’s a harmonious little woodland to all the most hideous creatures of the world.

What the F you say? Its been a long week and I've just come home to the yard from hell. My lawnmower broke about 2 months ago and my once crap-hole, grassless yard has become a huge jungle of weeds. My neighbors drive by yelling obscenities and throw trash at me. I've become the crazy lady down the street, with my unkempt yard, a house full of dirty animals and minimal sitings of me outside the humble abode. They wonder…."what is that crazy lady doing in her house? Is it true that she's running a meth lab?"

About a month ago I hired an Elvis impersonator to mow it - but he charged too much money and gave me a small lecture on letting my grass get too out of control, so I've been hesitant to call him. Last week I was on vacation and when I got back I realized black widow spiders were living on my front porch and some crazy new weeds are sprouting up in the front yard. The aphids and beetles have completely eaten all the bushes and trees in the back yard. Its reached maximum trashiness. I'm certain my neighbors hate me. Where is my tall handsome man-servent when I need him?

Twenty Five things I must do before I die…

I’ve been in a rut lately and haven’t been accomplishing much so I decided to set some goals for myself for things I want to do in the upcoming months. My list got carried away and became more of a lifetime goal project. This list is by no means laminated and can be altered at any time. In no particular order….These are the things that I would like to do before I die:

1. Learn to dance
2. Fly first class
3. Join a book club
4. Ride a Harley
5. Get a tiny tattoo (with meaning)
6. Publish something
7. Go Kayaking
8. Run a half marathon
9. Take a camping/road trip out west
10. Learn to cook like a professional
11. Spend a few days at a spa
12. Move to a new town
13. Learn different types of wine
14. Go to Tahiti
15. Buy a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes
16. Travel around Europe
17. Buy an old house and fix it up
18. Travel around South America
19. Buy a Cabin in the mountains
20. Fall in Love
21. Go to Australia
22. Move into a retirement village with Serrabee!!
23. Own a swimming pool
24. Get a puppy and name him Fuggle
25. Get UT Football Season Tickets

On the flipside - Fifteen Things I probably WON’T do before I die…

1. Visit Olduvai Gorge in Africa (where they found a lot of hominid fossils…)
2. Have children
3. Own an Hummer
4. Live in a downtown apt. in a big city
5. Star in a movie
6. Meet Ewan McGregor
7. Read all the books I own
8. Learn to Surf
9. Bungee jump or jump out of a plane
10. Win a pie eating contest
11. Sing well
12. Own my own horse
13. Have a hot pool boy (although maybe I shouldn't count this one out...)
14. Marry Andrew DanJumbo
15. Get UT Season Tickets

Brittany and the Big Burp of Society

What the hell is wrong with our culture? I was sitting at my computer this reading CNN.com as I usually do while I drink coffee and pretend to be working in the mornings when I see in the top news stories that Brittany spears burps and talks stupid shit on a home video clip. This is on the breaking news clips. Everyone is going nuts about this video. People are in shock. NEWS BULLETIN: Brittany Spears is kinda dumb. I know some of you might think this news shocking. Leave the idiot woman alone, people! She has not become famous for her scholarly nature or her ladylike manners. She has become famous for being blonde, half naked with an acceptable singing voice and "daring" dance moves. And besides, who doesn't believe you can time travel in a Delorean fueled by a head of cabbage. Hello? Give her a break now. I think people just miss her half naked music videos. But relax big fans - I hear she is back in the studios recording.
I just can't believe that this made it as one of the top news stories on CNN. I fear I'm going to have to switch to the conservative based Fox News (as much as I hate it - they don't have quite as much crap on their site). The problem is that when I start reading the news - I get distracted by all the bs articles on celebrity woes - that I forget to read the actual news. I'm becoming one of them - the superstar obsessed American who wants to know all the intimate details of every big star out there. Our role models have become rich, outspoken, and fame obsessed dumb asses that surround the world of Hollywood. Why?Why?Why?

A Fuggle Full of Mullets with a Side of Mustache Please

After another brief hiatus I am back to share more daily thoughts. I spent the last week on vacation in Arkansas (visiting family) and spent my weekends in Memphis hsnging out with my good friend Serrabee.

On my first weekend in Memphis, I ate at a really neat restaurant in Midtown called Dish where we ate tapas in a bed (so Sex in the City). It was great! Then we went and had drinks at an old beauty shop turned bar down the street. Midtown is a great place to hang out!

I spent the week taking care of my sister’s four sweet children while she went back to work. I was really nervous about this at first – feeling confident that I had lost all traces of any maternal gene that may have resided in my system. I was terrified that I was going to lose one of them somewhere, catch the house on fire, or something else horrible whereby I could never forgive myself. No fear, I turned into Nanny McPhee (only I hope slightly better looking) and whipped the little kiddos into shape. I didn’t even end up getting tired. Guess me and kids aren’t so bad together after all. Who knew?

The next weekend I was back in Midtown. Saturday night we went to a couple of really great bars in downtown Memphis (including Blue Fin and Automatic Slims Tonga Club), meeting cool new people and listening to local bands perform. It was good times….excellent people watching with reminiscing about the good ole days. We drank some beer made from “Fuggles and Kent Goldings English hops” and had some lively discussions about mullets and their intentions in society.

Afterwards, we headed back to Midtown and hit the local Karaoke bar where it was “frat daddy and his drunk bitchy ho night.” Why is it that whenever I go out – I always end up in a Karaoke bar? I’m going to do an anthropological study where I go to different cities and study the types of clientele that visit the local karaoke bars. I wonder if it differs by region. It’s these things that keep me up at night. Anyway, I was driving so I didn’t have much to drink and after a few rounds of some seriously bad renditions of Nancy Sinatra, Madonna, and Grease Lightening – I made a vow to myself to never, ever do drunk-karaoke again. I know I’ve done it …many…many times, but…no more.

I had a good time on my trip. I learned about things like Blumpkin, ironic wife beaters and “Old School Country Revival” bands and I will never think the same about mustaches again. It was great. Good friends. Good times.

So now I’m back with some good blog ideas and I will return soon with more totally random daily Rockgirl thoughts…

Has Pink Gone Too Far?

I read this article the other day about women and fishing and I have to share it and discuss because I find it too interesting pass up. The Fishin'Chix have been promoting a line of pink fishing rods, pink fishing boots, etc. to encourage women to take on the sport. Its an interesting concept. Now before I get started, I want to say that I think it would be great for more women to participate in outdoor sports and I'd like to give a "shout out" to the whole idea.... but PINK fishing rods? Call me a little cynical and perhaps butch, but what the hell? As at outdoor sportswoman, I'm a little grossed out.

If you are a woman and you've ever needed outdoor gear (such as good waterproof hiking boots, rubber boots, gloves, etc.), you know its sometimes difficult to find these things in ladies sizes. In the last few years, there has been a movement towards adding clothing and shoe lines for women and I'm very excited about this, but I've also noticed that they make women's sized items - often - in "women's" colors. For example, the last time I went to buy new boots for work I found a selection of 4 boots for women compared to 37 for men. The brand that I wanted, the ones with the steel toe and real gore-tex had one style for women and the boot was, I swear God, Smurf blue. It was so hideous, I nearly wrote a letter to the boot company asking them what the hell they were thinking. I imagined walking into the office the next day (where I work with middle aged somewhat good ole boy men), sporting Smurfett boots. I ended up buying the men's version of the boot - in brown. The same is true for gloves. I went to Walmart the other night to buy some gloves for work and the women's leather gloves came in pink, blue, purple, and green. Then there was the set of coveralls that my lovely male office mates bought me a few years back. They came in women's sizes and they were even brown - but they had boob pleats. As if a woman who wears coveralls is going to feel inadequate about her breasts. Who is the marketing rep in these companies? Am I wrong?

Now it may be different with fishing. There are a lot of hot fishermen out there and I would probably not wear my dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans out on the river - just in case I need help from the cute fishermen next to me when I pull in a 18 pound catfish :). But how much respect would this guy have for me if it looks like I stole Barbie's tackle box?

I'm not saying that pink is bad. I own a lot of pink clothes (including dresses, frilly tops, and a fabulous pair of Steve Madden heels with pink bows) and I like to be girly and sexy. I guess I just think there is a time and a place for these things. I realize I'm overreacting to this article. I'm just trying to fight for equality in women's field gear! So to the companies out there... go ahead and make your purple rubber boots with lipstick pockets and cell phone holders or shiny blue shovels for "women gardening," but for God's sake, please take the damn pleats out of perfectly good coveralls!!

Thats all I'm sayin...

My Irrational Fear

I have a severe case of Arachnophobia. And by severe case, I don't mean I'm one of those girls who just thinks spiders are gross. I mean that I am absolutely terrified of the species. I am sharing this irrational fear because I have, just now, killed a spider in my home that was as big as my fist. Okay, so it wasn't that big. But it was atleast the size of a half dollar. Perhaps maybe even as big as a poker chip. It was ginormas and it was in my house trying to kill me. It had made it as far as the entertainment center where, luckily, the dog intercepted it.

I was sitting at my computer when I heard a noise that sounded like dog claw on wood - which is not a pretty sound to someone who still owes money on their furniture. But I have to give the dog credit in this case, she was attempting to save my life. My heart started pumping, my chest started compressing. I made a shrieking sound. I grabbed the nearest shoe and pounded the ground until the bloody thing lay crumpled in a wad. I have no sympathy for them. I have my space, they have theirs. PETA will just have to get over it.

I have two explanations for my irrational fear. My first experience where I can remember being terrified by a spider was when I was about 12-13 years old. In these amazing woods in our neighborhood, my friends and I would pretend to be characters from Star Wars Return of the Jedi fighting the evil droids on the moon of Endor (the woods looked exactly like the Ewok village and I'm once again sharing some insight into my geeky childhood). I remember being high up in a tree when a spider the size of a donut ran across the tree trunk at my eye level. The bloody thing was so big I could hear its joints creak. So what did I do? The girly thing - I fell right out of the tree.

My second spider horror was when I was around the same age, maybe a little older. I was staying in a cabin in the mountains with my grandmother and aunts. We were sitting out on the screened porch playing cards late one night when I noticed a spider above our heads. It wasn't a great big spider - about average size - maybe as big as a cert. I'm keeping an eye on this thing as I didn't trust it being right above us. As I watched, I noticed it had a sack of babies attached. The spider is moving around this sack doing something and I started watching it obsessively. I start commenting to my aunts about the situation - not getting much response. Next thing I know, this sack opens and 8 billion baby spiders start falling out of the sky. Its raining f*%@@@g spiders on my head. I point this out to my aunts, in a not so calm tone, and they laugh it off like I'm the biggest wuse. Call me crazy, but who wants baby spiders in their hair? Eventually we all get up as the little nasties come down to the ground. Some of them died. I killed as many as I could while no one was watching, but many lived on to pass on their progeny and terrify more arachnophobes like myself.

The Package

So I arrived at my desk this morning and found a box waiting in my chair. Expecting a huge stack of reports from one of my contractors - I picked it up to toss it to the side of my cubicle with all the other reports and noticed the box weighed no more then a half a pound. The outside of the box indicated that the package indeed came from the contractor. Curious as to what it could be, I quickly opened it up to find one used, slightly stretched, stained white t-shirt.

Turns out the post-office somehow managed to damage the package and lose the reports. As a consolation prize - someone apparently took off their dirty t-shirt and sent it to me to comfort my loss. I've never seen anything so completely random in my life. Somewhere someone is opening up a package, expecting to find their favorite nasty shirt and will, instead, receive a stack of somewhat confidential and intensely boring archaeological survey reports.