Yeah, I can't do this...

It's a beautiful day. Currently, the temperature is 78 degrees. There is a light and lovely breeze. The sky is blue, the sun is shining and all that other harmonious crap. So, the question at hand is Why am I not outside enjoying this glorious day with my little peapod? Well, if you MUST know, the answer is Because I am an absolute lunatic.

Spring time. Some wait all year long for it - daydreaming of ice-cream trucks, children on swing-sets, flip flops and open windows. Others (myself exclusively) want to hibernate from it while mentally taking a brown crayon and coloring the entire neighborhood barren and still asleep. I'm not ignorant. I know that nearly every creature in the world emerges sneakily during the first sniff of a warm day. I've seen them crawling. I've heard them buzzing. Don't think I haven't killed at least seven of them already. We can't avoid them so we just suck it up and get on with our lives, right? Yeah, no.

Scarlett and I have shared many a session of outdoor play before the height of hatching season. I enjoy bringing her to various playgrounds and especially the beach. Sure, I am most comfortable dressed head to toe in fleece romping around in the freezing cold snow where you can't find an insect with a chisel. I'm also quite popular during the Fall months, ya know after those initial overnight cold blasts exterminate the yard naturally. May is probably the scariest month of the year. Flowers popping up everywhere - not to mention weeds and pollen galore. You can't focus your eyes on a blade of grass without seeing at least six nasty wigglers crawling around from your peripheral vision. And, if you're my neighbor, you can't grill a burger from your deck without seeing me flail and hearing me shriek at least once during your meat flips.

I tried today. I didn't feeeeeeeeeel like going out in the yard. I was crampy and bloated, I had a slammin headache and swollen glands (allergies). And honestly, I'd have rather just taken a walk around the neighborhood in my beekeeper suit. But I feel so guilty keeping Scarlett inside. I know that we'll get ninety other beautiful days but today is kind of a true gem. Plus, she has only used her sandbox once since we bought it and I knew I'd have to conquer that bastard eventually. So I put on my brave face, lathered her up with sunscreen and we headed out.

First, we tried out her new bubble mower... which she made abundantly clear that she hated. Awesome. Next stop was the sandbox. My heart was pounding as I got closer to it. The lid was just covered in leaves and little floofy things that had fallen off the tree. {I reeeeeeally didn't want to put the sandbox underneath the tree but it's the only logical place to put it when it comes down to Scarlett's sun-safety and Gregg's yard work}. I somehow managed to take off the lid and not ONE leaf/floofy thing fell off of it. That grossed me out... why are they stuck to it????? Then I eyeballed the sand. Holyyyyyyyyyy ... really?? Like nine florescent green worms are crawling around in there. Then I see a frigging sand-colored (camouflaged???) spider with like a weird bubble-stomach. I really almost vomited. Various dead gnats or whatever spotted the rest of the sand. I immediately grabbed her sifter and sifted every little asshole out of that box. I dumped them into the gravel and tried to crush what I could. She played for about five minutes until I decided that my heart was about to burst into flames and we were going for a walk.

So hours later here we are... sitting in the upstairs den. She carefully chooses colored blocks from a pile and drops them into a pillowcase. The rest she fits interestingly into the lid of a box. She "reads" her favorite Mickey Mouse Clubhouse books. She does somersaults, runs down the hall from room to room, works her puzzles and plays the xylophone. I think we're okay here. She's being creative, getting exercise, learning and playing. I'm calm, my blood pressure has returned to a safe level and my headache has even disappeared.

I will not deprive Scarlett of the joys of being a kid, playing outside all day and night -the way I always did before I became a ridiculous, irrational maniac. I will, however, pick and choose the time and place and possibly the pill prescription for myself.

Pests

 This is a post that I originally wrote in 2009 and have selected as my favorite post to link up to 

Alison (of Mama Wants This) and Ado (of Momalog)'s First Blogoversary Blog Bash. 

I've chosen this post because it is just one of the best glimpses of me that you'll ever get. It's all true. It showcases my ridiculousness. I can't help but to write about myself a lot of the time simply because it's what I know best. Those who know me know that I'm a stubborn, sarcastic, little whippersnapper but this post will show you the vulnerable side that I often try to keep hidden. 

It's pretty tough to look cool, calm and collected whilst flailing, shrieking and zig-zagging through life. Hope you enjoy...

Pests:

When I was a little girl I really enjoyed living in the "country". For the first six years of my life my family called Richmond, Rhode Island home. We had it all: the poison ivy, the blueberry patch, the gypsy moths, the neighbors who made moonshine and conned people out of money with a cleaning products scheme. Ahhh, it was bliss. Being young and carefree, I didn't mind the snakes or the bugs ... or even the constantly flooded basement (my parents hogged up all the "minding" on that one). But for some reason, as I grew older I grew less fond of things that slither, buzz, crawl and creep.

One of the first insects I learned to LOATHE was the almighty cricket. These terror-evoking creatures would ninja around our basement and plant themselves somewhere super scary so that when my guard was down they could scare the shit out of me. I would be "studying" for school exams (listening to my headphones and reading Teen Beat) and see one sitting on the end table. Heart attack. I carried aerosol cans of Lemon Pledge with me so that I could spray the last breath out of them. It caused them to turn white and slide off the table. And I will never, ever, ever, EVER forget 'bare-footly' slipping on my little, white Chuck Taylor's to find that horrifyingly unpleasant, squishy surprise. I ran, like my life depended on it, straight to the toilet and gagged my guts out. In fact, just writing that now forced a full body shiver and facial expressions that should probably be mocked on You Tube.

There were dozens if not hundreds of times that I called for my mother to kill a spider or a bee. She would take off that classic "mom slipper" and smack them dead for me. One night, or more like early morning, I woke my father to kill a moth that was aimlessly zipping around my bedroom. He couldn't find it and groggily assured me that it was gone. Well that was clearly unsatisfying to me. There was no way in hell I was getting any rest. So there I sat, on my bed with a can of Lysol in one hand and the vacuum attachment in the other. I waited him out. He never showed. I ended up finding him months later, dead, behind my bookcase. Why I almost never cleaned my room is a story for another time.

The glistening cherry on top of my paranoia sundae came when I had the joy of experiencing the House Centipede. I won't even attach the link - just Google it if you've never seen one. Vomit town. The horror took place in our first apartment and we had lived there only a few weeks when I saw the first dirtbag. I had just put my yoga mat on the floor for some Pilates when out of the corner of my eye I saw something scurrying like it's ass was on fire. The shape and color  petrified me. A jillion-legged, antennae-clad, beer colored demon bug. It came out from under the television and sprinted across the room. My heart stopped. I had NEVER seen anything move that quickly. Frozen, I called Gregg's work - begging for them to put him on the phone. I called my upstairs neighbor leaving a message so tragically hilarious she played it for everyone at work the next day (and weekly for years after). I called my mother pretty much insisting that she should take the twenty-five minute drive and save me from this sinister creature. But I was left alone on this one. Grabbing my trusty can of green apple Lysol, I inched my way back into the depths of hell. Roughly twenty minutes passed before I mustered the courage to start spraying him. I DRAINED that can leaving a puddle about the size of a Papasan chair cushion in the center of the living room. This was the first of MANY standoffs. It got to the point where I became so terrified of them that I wouldn't enter a room without scanning the walls and floors first, clutching Hot Shot Kitchen Bug Killer (which didn't repel them but would inevitably kill them when sprayed directly on their nasty asses). I also wore shoes all the time, refusing to walk barefoot. This horrific time in my life actually caused some permanent damage. If I notice so much as a tiny piece of a leaf or even lint on the floor I immediately assume it's a scary bug. A simple hole left by a nail or tack, a scuff mark or ANYTHING out of place on the wall triggers instant panic. And just yesterday, happily picking apples with the family, I was a flailing, yelping mess as "things" buzzed by my cranium in the orchard. I'm a broken woman.

Final thought - Please note that I do realize that not only am I a rotten human being for killing off scores of innocent, disgusting creatures but I also know that I am single-handedly ruining the environment with chemicals and aerosol death spray. You're welcome, everyone.

11 Things

I was tagged by lovely Lisa of The Splattered Apron
Let's see if I can handle this...

 Rules: 

1. Post these rules

2. You must post 11 random things about yourself
3. Answer the questions set for you in their post
4. Create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer
5. Tag them on Twitter, Facebook or their blog

11 Random Things About Me:

pests...

When I was a little girl I really enjoyed living in the "country". For the first six years of my life my family called Richmond, Rhode Island home. We had it all: the poison ivy, the blueberry patch, the gypsy moths, the neighbors who made moonshine and conned people out of money with a cleaning products scheme. Ahhh, it was bliss. Being young and carefree, I didn't mind the snakes or the bugs ... or even the constantly flooded basement (my parents hogged up all the "minding" on that one). But for some reason, as I grew older I grew less fond of things that slither, buzz, crawl and creep.

One of the first insects I learned to LOATHE was the almighty cricket. These terror-evoking creatures would ninja around our basement and plant themselves somewhere super scary so that when my guard was down they could scare the shit out of me. I would be "studying" for school exams (listening to my headphones and reading Teen Beat) and see one sitting on the end table. Heart attack. I carried aerosol cans of Lemon Pledge with me so that I could spray the last breath out of them. It caused them to turn white and slide off the table. And I will never, ever, ever, EVER forget 'bare-footly' slipping on my little, white Chuck Taylor's to find that horrifyingly unpleasant, squishy surprise. I ran, like my life depended on it, straight to the toilet and gagged my guts out. In fact, just writing that now forced a full body shiver and facial expressions that should probably be mocked on You Tube.

There were dozens if not hundreds of times that I called for my mother to kill a spider or a bee. She would take off that classic "mom slipper" and smack them dead for me. One night, or more like early morning, I woke my father to kill a moth that was aimlessly zipping around my bedroom. He couldn't find it and groggily assured me that it was gone. Well that was clearly unsatisfying to me. There was no way in hell I was getting any rest. So there I sat, on my bed with a can of Lysol in one hand and the vacuum attachment in the other. I waited him out. He never showed. I ended up finding him months later, dead, behind my bookcase. Why I almost never cleaned my room is a story for another time.

The glistening cherry on top of my paranoia sundae came when I had the joy of experiencing the House Centipede. I won't even attach the link - just Google it if you've never seen one. Vomit town. The horror took place in our first apartment and we had lived there only a few weeks when I saw the first dirtbag. I had just put my yoga mat on the floor for some Pilates when out of the corner of my eye I saw something scurrying like it's ass was on fire. The shape and color  petrified me. A jillion-legged, antennae-clad, beer colored demon bug. It came out from under the television and sprinted across the room. My heart stopped. I had NEVER seen anything move that quickly. Frozen, I called Gregg's work - begging for them to put him on the phone. I called my upstairs neighbor leaving a message so tragically hilarious she played it for everyone at work the next day (and weekly for years after). I called my mother pretty much insisting that she should take the twenty-five minute drive and save me from this sinister creature. But I was left alone on this one. Grabbing my trusty can of green apple Lysol, I inched my way back into the depths of hell. Roughly twenty minutes passed before I mustered the courage to start spraying him. I DRAINED that can leaving a puddle about the size of a Papasan chair cushion in the center of the living room. This was the first of MANY standoffs. It got to the point where I became so terrified of them that I wouldn't enter a room without scanning the walls and floors first, clutching Hot Shot Kitchen Bug Killer (which didn't repel them but would inevitably kill them when sprayed directly on their nasty asses). I also wore shoes all the time, refusing to walk barefoot. This horrific time in my life actually caused some permanent damage. If I notice so much as a tiny piece of a leaf or even lint on the floor I immediately assume it's a scary bug. A simple hole left by a nail or tack, a scuff mark or ANYTHING out of place on the wall triggers instant panic. And just yesterday, happily picking apples with the family, I was a flailing, yelping mess as "things" buzzed by my cranium in the orchard. I'm a broken woman.

Final thought - Please note that I do realize that not only am I a rotten human being for killing off scores of innocent, disgusting creatures but I also know that I am single-handedly ruining the environment with chemicals and aerosol death spray. You're welcome, everyone.