Nerd Conversations and Mustachioed Drinking Glasses

Some things never change including Darling Husband and my stinginess thriftiness. Friends asked us if we wanted to go to Carrabbas for our birthdays. (Darling Husband’s was yesterday, mine is today.)

Well, duh, yes!

But we don’t want to pay for it. I’m sure they’d have offered to treat us, but nah. No extra spending in December is allowed.  Not for us, not for you.

We made an exception to our no-spending rule for lunch today.  Darling Husband, the boys and I went to a local diner for a birthday lunch. Diners are cheap at lunchtime.  We had a glorious nerd conversation about the direction Doctor Who is headed, the plots for the first two Terminator movies (the only ones that count), and The Hobbit book vs. movie. I think there was talk about Harry Potter and the new Jurassic Park movie thrown in there, too.  It was a nerd conversation bonanza.

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My Birthday Gifts:

Drinking glasses with mustaches on them so it looks like you have a mustache while you drink.  Darling Husband is as pleased with getting me that gift as Flick was when he got his dad the flower that squirts water.

All 6 of the old King’s Quest games. The first one is from 1988 and you have to type in what you want your little character to do on the screen. I’m drawing a little map on paper (on paper!) to keep track of where my character is in the game.

My Lunch:

Birthday Lunch

Turkey Salad Melt, Utz Chips, Onion Rings

First Bleary Day of the New Year

After a wild and crazy New Year’s Eve party last night (picture us sitting somewhat droopily playing a never-ending Domino game until 3:00 in the morning) it’s time to wake up and face the day.

Boy11 got 4 hours of sleep last night and is priming himself for a bracing day of Being Crabby.

Boy8 got 10 hours of sleep and is Peopled Out and is bracing himself for a lovely Whine Session because we have dinner plans with friends.  “Why don’t we ever stay hooooome?” This is the kid I have to hide when people ask questions about unsocialized homeschoolers.  Left to his own devices Boy8 would quite happily never leave home again unless the destination involved the words “Pizza Hut.”  A few friends who’ve known him since birth have been shocked to hear his voice for the first time this year.  Honestly.  He’s slowly coming out of his shell but not without the aforementioned whining.

Darling Husband, well, I don’t know what Darling Husband will do today.  He’s one of the most even tempered people I know so he’ll just putter around being his usual pleasant self. 

I got 8 hours of sleep and am about to go on a hunting expedition to find breakfast.  From what I can tell, it’ll be leftover Halloween Frankenberry and chips and salsa for me.  

Happy New Year!

I am Iron Man…er…I mean Igor.

Ah, Walmart.  My parents used to work at Walmart.  They hated it.  The managers would lock them into the building late at night and refuse to allow the workers to leave until all of the items that customers had misplaced had been put back where they belonged.  They’d be locked in there for hours past closing time.  The employees considered calling the police and saying they had been kidnapped but never did.

My parents told me that immigrants from Eastern European countries would work there for a while, but then would quit.  The immigrants said, “We left Chelstezistahn to get away from oppressive regimes.  You Americans who keep working here are crazy!”  No, I’m absolutely not making that up.

I found myself in Walmart the other day, oppressive regime or no. Sometimes I dash in and dash out.  Not this time.  This was a meander up and down the aisles misplacing items willy nilly kind of trip.

As many of you know, I get cold easily.  And I’m cheap.  Bad combination in winter.  This means that I freeze indoors because I’m too cheap to turn up the heater.  I rely on hats and long johns.

I don’t like wearing winter knitted hats inside because the dry winter air makes my baby-fine hair staticy in a knitted cap.  I was wearing my Steelers hat a couple of days ago.  When I pulled it off my hair stood on end and static sparks flew around the room almost igniting Boy8.

I prefer to wear hats that are acceptable to be worn indoors, like my  newsboy hat. (Google it.)  The only problem with my newsboy hat is that it doesn’t cover my cold little ears.

So I meandered to the hat section in Walmart to see what hats they might have that would cover my ears and would be acceptable to wear indoors.  I found this one, put it on, and looked in the mirror:

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Oh my!  If that doesn’t make me look absolutely adorable!  Now I know why people think I’m sweet, I mean, look at me!  Don’t I look like a sweetie pie?   Gosh, am I cute or what? I admired myself in the hat for some time and snapped a few pictures.

But that felt more like an outdoor hat so I didn’t buy it.

My eye happened to fall on a wall of winter hats.  They were in all colors and had those little knitted strings at the bottoms of them.  I’m not sure what those strings are for.  I decided to put on the hat and tie the strings together so the hat would stay on my head.  I looked in the mirror…

…eeep!  Oh my!  I look like Igor from Young Frankenstein.   Or maybe a babushka from Chelstezistahn,  No, really.  I do:

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Of course, it was slightly better without me making the face, but only just.  I mean, I took one look at myself in the mirror wearing the Igor hat and burst into cackles.  I had to get a picture of it, it was just so wonderfully absurd.  Unfortunately there were a few children nearby and I had to turn aside so they wouldn’t see me taking my pictures.  Didn’t want to scare them.  “And then we saw a witch in the hat section!  I swear mom, she was a real live witch! We heard her cackling!”

I didn’t buy that hat, either.

I meandered to the long john section and considered whether I wanted a white undershirt or a black undershirt.

And that’s when I saw it.  Oh, the angels sang and the sunrays burst through the roof of Walmart.

It was a long john-type undershirt, but it wasn’t the regular long john material.  No, it was fuzzy and thick and soft on the outside and the inside. And, get this, the sleeves were long and had thumb holes. (!!!) I’d never heard of such a thing, but it makes sense.  You can’t wear a long john shirt alone; you have to cover it with another shirt.  But thick fuzzy material like that would bunch up in the arms if you tried to put on another shirt. With the thumb hole, however, you can slide your arms into another shirt without bunching.  Oh, brilliant!

And cheap as I am, I bought it on the spot.  I considered telling Darling Husband that he just bought me a Christmas present and then waiting until December 25th to wear it but, nah.  I put it on right away.

Here’s a picture of the thumb hole.

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No wait!  No, no…I’m er…not Iron man.  Not Iron Man.  Nope.  Just ignore that last picture.

Here is a picture of the thumb hole:

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You can see how fuzzy and thick and cozy that shirt is from the picture can’t you?  The only problem is that I love it too much to take it off.  I’ll be pretty rank by December.  Maybe Darling Husband will get me a couple more for Christmas so I can take this one off and wash it.

Homeschoolers can solve all your problems.

A few days ago I posted about my 17 hour school day.  It’s such a long day (but really more like 7 hours) because of the non-stop rabbit trails we take.

A few people responded to my post with compliments saying they thought my homeschool sounded like fun.  And while that’s very gratifying I have to say that I run into people like me all the time, so I’m not really all that special.

See, when I finally stop watching youtube videos with the boys and hand them a worksheet to fill in, I need to stay in the room with them or they get wild.  Sort of like in my 6th grade social studies class with Miss Davenport.  She left us alone in the classroom while she went to make copies on the ditto machine.  While she was gone all of us, the entire 6th grade class, turned into feral beasts.  When she came back she could hear our snarls and calls at the other end of the hallway.  She stood in shocked horror at the window to the classroom unable to believe her eyes: we were out of our seats, we were throwing paper, we were dropping books on the floor.  She stormed in and made us write, “We will not be wild animals when our teacher is away,” 200 times for homework.

What was my point?  Oh yeah.  You can’t really leave kids alone when they’re supposed to be doing schoolwork.  So I sit there, babysitting, while they work.  And I get Bored.  Capital B Bored.

So I do what all the other bored homeschooling parents do while their kids are working on independent work. I head to an online homeschooling forum and read what the other homeschoolers are up to.

And there I find people who are much more advanced in this whole “use whatever you can find to stuff knowledge into their heads” game we play. For example, the other day a woman wrote about her children’s love affair with all things bathroom.  Here’s what she wrote:

“Ok. I give up. I am surrounded by boys and girls who just adore poop and farts! I am so sick of it I am pulling out the big guns….. Ready to kill their love of the subject by requiring it as a unit study.
So, are there any unit studies on poop and farts? Any ideas you wish to share?
My first assignment was a cluster diagram on poop. 3 different kinds…. 3 details. Tomorrow they write the paragraphs! You should see their faces! Wait until they get their spelling list!”

I read it and figured that no one would really respond with anything helpful, but to my surprise post after post after post came in with all sorts of suggestions.  There were links to poop cartoons, to an education video about the “poop cycle” (oh my), and countless book recommendations.  When all was said and done there were 52 responses.  She updated the post a few days later to write:

“UPDATE: It worked!! My youngest has not written poop on one of his books in 4 days!!”

I mean, how can I stay away from this, people?  This is homeschool gold!  No matter what your problem is, these people can solve it for you.  If you want to read the whole post and all 52 responses, here’s the link.   The website is free.

But beyond solving any and all possible educational challenges, it’s also entertaining. A woman posted the other day about her son who has social issues.  This was posted in the “Learning Challenges” board, so that means he probably as Aspergers, so the issues are real and the woman is honestly seeking help.  She wanted advice on how to teach her son not to make himself a target for teasing.  Turns out that he likes to chew on things, so he took horse chew to his high school baseball practice the other day to chew on.  No, I don’t know what horse chew is either, but she wrote that the boy’s grandparents have horses and the boy figured he could just snack on the chew.  I’m guessing it’s like a chew toy for horses?  Or some sort of treat for a horse that is chewy?  Don’t know.

And here’s where I’m torn.  On the one hand, you feel sorry for the kid who doesn’t understand social situations.  But on the other hand, oh my goodness, imagine the looks on the other kids’ faces when they see their teammate chomping on horse chew?  That’s a little funny…

Sorta like the story my mother told me the other day about my aunt.  I have a branch of the family that I’ve only met once when I was a child.  Apparently my Aunt Barbara is in her 50s and has been into drugs on and off all her life–marijuana all the way to heroin–and her brain is a bit like “swiss cheese” as my mother says.  The other day, she decided to go on a little road trip with just herself and her chihuahua.  She started from her home in Colorado and drove to Moab, Utah.  Somewhere along the way, she turned on to a lonely dirt road in the middle of a lonely town in the middle of a lonely state.  She stopped the car, and attempted to leave it.  But somehow or other, she fell half in/half out of the car. A rancher found her two days later (alive), but stuck face down in the dirt.  When they lifted her up, they found her little Chihuahua, squashed under her (dead).

Part of me is completely horrified and part of me finds that hilarious.  Maybe if it had been anything other than a chihuahua.  And it didn’t help that my mother was laughing so hard when she told me the story that she could barely get it out.

Back to the bored homeschooling parents:  A post I just read today was about a woman who went to the doctor with a painful zit.  By the time all was said and done, she was hospitalized for her zit and contracted MRSA.  Again, I’m torn.  Poor woman with MRSA.  She said she’s feeling miserable.  And yet…a zit?  Hospitalized for a zit?  Kinda makes me giggle.

Anyway just had to share.  I’m not all that different from lots of other homeschooling families out there.  I surely didn’t know you could find so much educational material about poop, but if there’s a topic to be studied, you know that some family is out there studying it and making models of scat out of playdoh  No, really.  Here’s the link to the Playdoh Scat Animal Poop Lab.  The woman’s high school aged kids did an entire study on it.  Maybe they’ll be hunters when they grow up.  Oh, look!  She even gives advice on field work and how you ought to use the macro setting on your camera to get better pictures of the scat you find.

Homeschoolers are weird.  🙂

Chinese Exchange Students at my house!

So…on Tuesday two Chinese exchange students will arrive at my house.  They will stay with us for 12 days.  They’ve come to experience America.  A lot of what they learn about America will be based on my family.

Ok, I can’t even type those words without huge guffaws.  Heaven help them.  Seriously, I can’t stop guffawing.  Hang on while I compose myself.  Hang on…

Think about it.  Think of the warped view of America they’ll receive.  Consider my previous blog posts.   Like the one about how we’re so cheap we allow only a single light bulb to be lit each evening.

Or how about the sock that’s been hanging in the back yard for a few years because we want to see how long it takes to deteriorate?  Speaking of the deteriorating sock, we also have a dead mouse in a glass jar on top of the dryer.  We wanted to watch it decompose for science class.  Unfortunately, with no oxygen in the glass, after 3 years the mouse looks the same as the day we put it in the jar.  Guess that Snow White and the glass coffin story isn’t so far-fetched after all.

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And how about our old technology?  The very first picture I posted on my blog was of me talking on the phone to my mother.  This picture:

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What a great phone.  We call her Rosie.  If there’s a guest in the house when Rosie rings, the guest will look confused and ask, “What was that?”  Apparently people haven’t heard ringing phones that use an actual physical bell and hammer in a very long time.

And let’s not even talk about the manual typewriter in the living room.  Children have stared at it, trying to puzzle out what it is, and finally have to ask.

Or how about the way we sing Happy Birthday like dying giraffes?  In the dustylizard family everyone picks a different tune, or just a general dirge-y moan, and we all warble or wail (or moan) out Happy Birthday.   Luckily for these Chinese students, Dad’s birthday party is scheduled for the weekend they’re here with us.  They’ll get to take part in the birthday tradition.  They’ll go back and tell everyone what bad singers Americans are.

Darling Husband and I heard about the exchange students needing families to host them through our friend Vince, who has 42 children.  I guess when you already have 42 children, a couple more aren’t that big of a deal.

We went to a meeting to find out the details and everything was sounding really good.  We’ll have two boys staying with us, aged 13 and 14.  They’ll be with us for 12 days and will spend only 4 full evenings with us and three weekend days.  They’ll be in classes and on field trips the rest of the time.

Yes, everything was going along smoothly until the guy said, “A lot of times the kids get a little homesick.  They’ll view you as a stand in mom and dad while they’re here.  You’ll want them to feel welcome, so as soon as you meet them give them a big hug.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Whoa.  Scratching record sound.  Time out.

A big hug?  Huh?  You know how I feel about hugs.  Out of the 7 billion people on this planet there are exactly three people that I want to hug—Darling Husband and my two kids.  If I never hug anyone else other than my man and my kids for the rest of my life, I’ll be perfectly content.

Besides…really?  Really?  Do people just go around hugging other people like that?  No.  No, that’s just weird.  Why would I go around hugging someone just because they’re homesick and need a stand in mom?  I mean, that doesn’t happen.  Lemme try to think of one time that someone would ever do that…

Oh.  Wait.

Mrs. Weasly.

Mrs. Weasly would totally hug Harry if he was homesick and needed a stand in mom.  I guess I could pretend to be Mrs. Weasly for a few days and give them hugs.

But!  There is a bright spot!  Remember the blog post where I told you that no one will play board games with me?

When these kids arrive it’ll be a cinch to convince them that all Americans play board games and when I ask them to play, they’ll play!  The only snag is how will I teach them the rules if they can’t speak much English?  There is no guarantee that they’ll speak English at all.

Never fear, mon frère.  Do you doubt my game playing determination?  Ages and ages ago I bought some awesome games from a French company. Each game comes with a 27 page booklet of instructions—each page in a different language.  Check out the table of contents.

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And lookie-lookie at page 25.  I double checked with Jin at Li’s Buffet and he confirmed—Chinese.  Woot!  Doubt no more. Games will be played.

Anyway—you do not want to be around me right now.  I’m so excited about their visit that I’m starting to embarrass myself, prattling on and on to anyone who will listen.  Like Chester in this clip. Yap, yap, yap.

About two weeks ago, I was lamenting the fact that I can’t afford to travel to other countries.  I was considering ways to save up enough money to go to Europe before I die.  People are endlessly fascinating and I’m always trying to work out what makes them tick–especially how cultures shape people.  And here, without having to spend a dime, I get two kids from China dropped into my home.  I hope they can speak English and I hope they’re as talkative as Nephew14 because I’d love to learn as much from them about China as they learn from me about America.

I can’t wait!

But Daddy, there’s an alligator in the stream!

Sooooo….this is my friend, John.

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As you can tell from the picture, John is an excellent storyteller.  And no, he doesn’t read The Blog, so he’ll never know I posted this goofy picture.  Nobody tell him!

I took this picture of John at a party last Saturday.  Obviously, he’s in the middle of telling a story.  John is the sort of storyteller who will act out his stories.  If there’s an angry part of the story he’ll frown angrily.  If there’s a funny part he’ll pause to laugh.  If it’s sad he’ll shake his head and look down.  No, he won’t cry.  He’s a Marine.

This is Shelley, John’s wife.

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She’s 39 ½ years old and I’ve known her since she was 6.  This picture was taken at the moment when we all yelled, “Surprise!” for her 40th birthday party.  We wanted to be sure she’d be surprised so we had the party 6 months before her birthday.  She was pretty surprised!

Shelley also is an excellent storyteller.  But when Shelley tells a story, she stays deadpan.  Her stories will have you falling off your chair in helpless laughter, but she’ll keep a straight face through the whole telling.  How can she tell such hilarious stories with a straight face?  It’s a gift.

At the party I overheard John telling one of Shelley’s Birth Stories.  Men usually recoil in horror when a gaggle of women start the Telling of the Birth Stories.  But this story had a lot of drama with John in a leading role so he tells it whenever he has a fresh audience.  It involved an incompetent ambulance service, an airlift via helicopter, a total blood transfusion, and an army of doctors booking it up and down the hallway drenched in Shelley’s blood.

Let me amend that bit about Marines not crying.  They do cry, sometimes.  When he originally told me the story a couple of years ago he admitted to some tears.   He had to stay outside of Shelley’s hospital room during the drama and for a few minutes he was sure his wife was dead.  There was a lot of blood on those doctors.

John always ends the tale with the thrilling $250,000 bill that wasn’t covered by insurance because the hospital didn’t get preauthorization and how he told them, “I’m not paying this bill!” just like the old commercial: “I’m not going to pay a lot for this muffler!”

Wait.  Wait, wait, wait.  That commercial was from 1986?  I swear, that commercial was from 2010, I’m sure of it.  1986?  No…it’s just not possible…

John’s current stories involved the turkey family that lived in their backyard, the bear family that passed through a few times, the solitary cougar stalking in the hills around their house, and the alligator in the stream where the neighborhood kids play.

The alligator escaped from a local zoo.  Apparently, the first to spot him was a small child playing in the stream.  He said, “Daddy!  Look at the alligator!”  His dad murmured, “Billy, don’t make things up.”  “But Daddy!  There’s an alligator in the stream!”

The dad looked up to see a 6 foot alligator waddling through the stream.  SNAP!

The third time the alligator escaped (by making a ramp out of dirt and climbing over the fence), someone “took care” of the problem.  There are a lot of hunters up in the foothills of Pennsylvania.

A lot of hunters.

‘Gator hunters.

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At the party I terrorized all of the guests by taking their portraits.

Here are Shelley’s kids.  Isn’t my new lens pretty amazing?  These pictures turned out so nice that I’m having them printed and giving them to Shelley as a little gift.  I haven’t talked to Shelley in about a year and she has no idea that I’m a budding photographer.  I think she’ll be happily surprised with these.

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A Haunting Picture and White Mismatched Socks

Do you remember all the way back to October?  Me neither.  I’m still struggling to remember when I cooked the chicken fajitas this past week so I can decide whether or not it’s safe to feed the leftovers to the family.

I’ll remind you about last October:

Last October I had done very little portrait photography (very little) and was having a difficult time finding anyone willing to be my victim test subject.  Then Kris asked, “Will you take my son’s senior portraits for me?”  and I said, “I don’t have any experience!” and she said, “I don’t have any money!” and a deal was struck.  I’d use her son, Eric, as a practice subject and Kris ran the risk of getting what she paid for.

Kris warned me that Eric wouldn’t like having his picture taken, so I warned him well ahead of time to expect the photoshoot to take a good two hours.

As it turned out, Eric didn’t mind having his picture taken at all.  Two hours into the photoshoot Eric said we could keep going and he was even willing to schlep the 6 foot tall reflector and stand and tripod all around the grounds.  And the stool.  And the chair.  And the camera bag.  Really, I think that all my photography subjects from now on will be 17 year old, 6’3 football players.  They’re the only people strong enough to heft all that gear around.

After three hours, we were both finally ready to wrap things up.  I asked Kris when she needed the pictures and she said, “Spring.”

And so the pictures sat.

And sat.

And sat.

Until the other day when I saw on my calendar that it was March 20th.  Spring!

And then on March 21nd I realized, “Spring?  Wasn’t I supposed to do something in the spring?”

In a flurry of activity, I cleaned up all 7000 pictures I’d taken of Eric.  It was a tough job.  Here’s what I had to work with:

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Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  Here’s his mother:

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What?  Again?!  I’ve managed to post this picture of Kris four times!  She keeps threatening to de-friend me on Facebook, but I don’t think she really will.  Lesson learned:  never, ever purposely make yourself look silly when a photographer is pointing a camera at you.  It will come back to haunt you over and over and over and over.

With a lot of photoshop-type editing, I managed to change Eric’s picture into this:

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I sent a bunch of the pictures to Kris.  That Sunday at church, I knew that Eric must have liked them, because he  gave me eye contact and a little smile.  No one’s gonna do that if they hate the pictures you took of them.  If they don’t like the pictures they’ll slink away and hope you didn’t see them so they don’t have to lie when you ask, “How’d you like your pictures?”

Kris later confirmed that Eric did in fact like his pictures.  I’m so pleased.  I learned a lot taking all those pictures–some turned out great, some not so great–and in the end Eric has a few decent shots for his senior portraits.

I’ll wrap this up with a few more pictures of Eric:

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It was tough getting him to smile.  But the non-smiley pictures look really good in black and white.

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No, don’t ask about the socks.  Just don’t ask.

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That little sparkle in his eyes is from the reflector.  Boy10 was supposed to aim the reflector at Eric through the entire shoot, but it kept toppling over on him.  The reflector was 6 feet tall after all, and Boy10 was only about 4.5 feet tall.

There are Monsters in my Basement

Wait until you see what I found in my basement this evening.

So there I was being a Good Wife and making my husband a chicken and egg salad sandwich for his lunch tomorrow.  Awwww.  What a great wife I am.

Don’t go getting all excited.  Poor Darling Husband has to make his lunch all the other 364 days of the year.  Today was a fluke.  He usually makes his lunches on Sunday afternoon, but this past Sunday afternoon was our Easter Feast.  We ending up passing out right at the dinner table after disgustingly stuffing ourselves during our festivities.  I had to prod Darling Husband awake the next morning with the ham bone that was stuck to his shirt and he staggered off to work with only a leftover biscuit covered in I Can’t Believe it’s not Butter for lunch.

Oh wow.  What an awesomely exaggerated paragraph that was.  I have missed writing this blog so much.  There are very few places in life when you can get away with outright lies as in that above paragraph.  So refreshing.

Ok—back to the story.

So…there I was being a Good Wife, making him a sandwich for his lunch.  And of course it was egg salad (with just a bit of leftover chicken thrown in.)  Part of the Easter Festivities had involved dyeing 589 eggs.  Hoo-boy, that’s a lotta eggs.

Nephew14 and his family wouldn’t touch the eggs and sidled out the door before they’d even all been dyed.  They’re smart like that.  They didn’t want to have to eat egg salad sandwiches for the next six months like we’re going to have to.  Mom and Dad took one egg each.  That left 587 eggs for me and mine. I wonder if egg salad freezes well?

I hollered out from the kitchen to Darling Husband, “Yo!  I’ve made up the egg salad.  Do you want me to slap it on some bread for you?”  That’s the sort of lovey dovey talk that goes on in this house.  Ah, l’amour.

He yelled back, “Not unless you know where the bagels are.”

I don’t know where the bagels are but since I was on a roll I looked around for them.  They weren’t anywhere upstairs.  Maybe they were in the basement freezer.  I made my way down the rickety basement stairs.

And then, “Bam, Shazaam! Holy arachnids, Batman!” What do I see but a monstrous beast in the basement.

Here’s a picture of it.

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Now I know you’re thinking, “I can barely make out that tiny little dot in the middle of the picture.”  Just wait.

I called out to Darling Husband, “We’ve got a tarantula in the basement!  Check it out!”  He came to behold the wonder with his own eyes and said, “Quick–take a picture. Grab an action figure so there’s a frame of reference.  I’ll watch it to see that it doesn’t get away.”  Snort.  As if he’d be able to stop it if it wanted to get away.  Maybe with a lasso and a stun gun.

I ran back upstairs to grab an action figure.  It had to be one that wouldn’t fall over on The Beast and enrage it.  How about The Hulk?  He’s easy to stand up.  Darling Husband gingerly placed The Hulk sort of near The Bug.

But not too near.  Darling Husband leaped back before the Mighty Monster could react.  He noted, “It’s sluggish.  Maybe because it’s so stinkin’ cold in this house.”  You’re preaching to the choir, Darling Husband.  I haven’t been warm in this house since 2005.

I tried to take the picture, but taking a picture while cowering in the farthest corner well out of range of a mighty leap wasn’t working.  Back upstairs to put the zoom lens on the camera.

Here’s the picture.

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The problem is that the Hulk action figure is larger than normal sized action figures.  That’s what happens when you have the word “hulk” in the very name of something.  It was messing up the Frame of Reference.

So…back up the stairs. I grabbed the Iron Man Lego Mini-Fig.

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As you can see the spider is, like, five times the size of a Lego Mini Fig.  Maybe even nine times the size, I just don’t know.

I’m wondering what caused the spider to grow so large?  Maybe a steady diet of million leggers.  Oh, shudder at the mere thought.  I’m sending Darling Husband out tomorrow for a Hazmat suit for me.  That’s the only way you’re getting me in that basement when I’m home alone.

Maybe he can pick me up a taser while he’s at it.