Adventures at Wildwood Canyon.

"Oh, this is going to be awesome!" Eric said, swerving the car back onto Oak Glen Road, and frantically scanning the ground from the windows.
"What? What??" I kept asking, failing to see what had caught his attention. Cars whizzed by, other drivers befuddled by the maneuver.
"I saw a Tarantula in the dirt over there" he turned the car around once more "...dang it. I can't find him anymore." Seemingly defeated, he motioned to turn homeward again.
I quickly weighed the possibilities and asked "Should we just get out and look for him?"
"Really?" Obviously he had been hoping for such an answer.
"Um.. yeah, sure." I said.
So, we trekked a few yards up the road, and there he was... Furry and crumpled (by his own wishes, not by the impression of a tire-track) in the middle of the right-hand lane. Eric did what any self-respecting male would do and threw some rocks at it, meanwhile searching for a stick with which to poke the little guy. I kept a safe distance, and we both jumped and backed away whenever our arachnid companion decided to mosey over in any direction.
Then Eric moved from Stage 1: Intimidation, to Stage 2: Confiscation, and we ran back to the car for "some tupperware" which Eric says every car should have, and ours-apparently- doesn't, which left us rifling through the junk left over from long days at work and trips for fast food. I had thrown away my Starbucks cups the night before, so we settled for a plastic bag. The bag actually turned out to be a good choice, since it was virtually invisible when placed, open, on the ground. Once we had tricked him into walking into our trap, we quickly panicked, realizing we had nothing to close the bag with, and spidey was pretty angry... so Eric clutched the top of this bag and we ran towards the car, again bewildering -or amusing- other motorists with the sight of a lanky fellow in 1880's clothing holding a plastic bag at arm's length and running down the road with me trotting at his heels.
Then we used my ponytail to close up the bag, and I felt sheepish for not thinking of that in the first place.

And that's why there's a Tarantula (now in tupperware) on our kitchen table.

This is NOT the Tarantula we caught, but he looks like this.

We were supposed to bring him with us to work, to show the boys and then release him in an empty field, probably near where we found him... but somehow we "forgot" him and I worry that Eric may have more intensive plans... *Dun dun Dun*

Stuck

It's a Small World.

The Mission Impossible Theme.

An acquaintance's jangling and unidentifiable ringtone.

Earworms, in addition to their obviously frustrating ability to become stuck in one's head, are all--rather uncannily-- uncool. Today, I am battling the sickeningly sweet strains of The Fox and The Hound's "Best of Friends" and it makes me feel utterly lame. Why can't I have some almost-unlikable but patently-cool indie song stuck in my head? That way, if anyone hears me humming, I'll be beyond reproach...

What's your personal love-to-hate Earworm?

No Snake Oil, Thanks

It's really too expensive.

So, the Husband and I (and my family and some friends as well, and well, pretty much everyone) were present for Rep. Adam Schiff's Obamacare Townhall in Alhambra last night. It was pretty crazy to see the event swell from a hundred or so scattered picketers to what was rumoured to be nearly 3,000 people. It was utterly insane, but a good experience.

My husband is très cool.

The Two-Month Mark

Wow. I've had a husband for two months. Wow.

A friend and I were talking earlier today, and she asked me if it felt like a long time, or if it felt like it went by quickly. I was stumped. Sometimes, due to the fact that we've settled into a routine, it seems like we've been together forever---in a good way, no major fights or even any bickering. We're pretty comfy, and tend to spend most evenings watching Smallville and attempting to tame our wild Iguana.

But then, sometimes I wake up and my knee-jerk reaction is "Where am I?" and "Who is this man?" ...and after about a .9 seconds I remember and I'm all happy and stuff.

So far we've had a couple major adventures: Like the other night when I suddenly decided that I wanted peaches, and Eric actually went out with me at ten o'clock at night to buy some; for some reason I convinced myself that someone was going to try to kill us on the way home, and proceeded to warn him anytime a car behind us got too close ("They're following us!") or remind him that we still had watch out as we walked from the driveway to the house. You never can be too careful. Another fascinating episode was the Case of the Feminist Social Security worker, who took the liberty of informing me that it was my choice to change my surname, and if I wanted to keep-or hyphenate-my maiden name, it was socially acceptable. The boy said we should go back and ask her if I can change my full name to Drazin Drazin Drazin. I opted for the normal option and retained my first name, which he afterwards concluded was the best way after all. (He likes my name).

We have also attempted to give George the Iguana a bath. That was by far the most dramatic episode of our story so far.

I don't quite remember the point of this post, but Happy Two Months, husband. I love you.

Nerve-wracked

I'm photographing my former music teacher's wedding today. They're old friends of the family (played music for both mine and my parents' weddings) and now they're tying the knot!

I am so nervous. I'm more nervous than I was about getting married.

Wedding memories are pretty much a lifetime thing, and the thought of managing to capture them all without missing a beat is making me a tad uneasy.

(I hate the picture above, but it accurately describes this morning's mood)

Pain vs. Discomfort.

Before I begin this tirade, I will redefine, for the sake of my argument, one of my subjects: By discomfort, I do not mean the type that your doctor or dentist will use to describe a feeling you may have as a result of a procedure they are about to perform on you (often used interchangeably with the word "pressure"); that feeling is actually "pain," the other subject of my argument.

I submit that pain is most often better than discomfort.
"What?" you say, "Blasphemous!" you say, and perhaps I am being a tad twisted (I have been known to laugh through a charlie horse or two), but here's the reasoning of this:
The single sharp sensation derived from being poked by a pin could never compare to the constant annoyance factor of a too-tight waistband or a pair of shoes that aren't exactly too tight, but chafe just enough to make themselves a nuisance. I would rather deal with a headache than the uncomfortable sensation of being stuck to a leather couch on a hot day. The marked contrast between these feelings is two-fold:

1. Ability to concentrate on the task at hand. When one is in pain, pain becomes the task. With an enormous toothache or a throbbing cut on one's finger, other things are irrelevant and inconsequential, affording your full attention and ability to the ordeal you are currently suffering through. On the other hand, to be uncomfortable is only a distraction from something that is important and must be done. Recall, if you will, the last time you had a ball of sweat rolling down your forehead or a stray hair tickling your neck while your hands and shoulders were otherwise occupied. A nagging sneeze or plugged ear is distracting, but does not require the immediacy of response that an open wound would afford. Therefore, you must continue with your task in a state of mind that is, in some ways, rather tortuous... as you cannot give your task your full attention, but cannot drop your task to see to your annoyance. Which brings me to,
2. Ability to complain or avoid work. A painful stomach flu gives you every opportunity to evoke the sympathy of others while meanwhile diverting any chance of manual labor---whereas complaining about or drawing attention the fact that you um..have an uncomfortable wedgie is completely out of the question.* A well-deserved pity-party over something that is causing you obvious pain is almost always joined into by your friends and family, whereas any frustration expressed over a slight--but looming--discomfort makes you seem like a baby.
   

Do you see what I mean?

Now to see if I'm crazy...
Your turn:
Given a choice (and fully understanding the variables at hand) which would you choose,

Minor Pain or Major Discomfort?

*as a side note, I have found that, often, the most uncomfortable things are also the most embarrassing things

Pondering Placing Poetry (here)

I wonder if this little blog could handle some of my ridiculously bad free-verse. It might even be angsty.

Somehow, I think that would fulfill multiple blog stereotypes and shoot me directly back to fifteen years old on the maturity scale.

**pondering continues**

I'll post my verdict soon.