Friday, May 31, 2013

Regret

My husband and I were trying to come up with a name for my blog. He thought it was important to get the domain name as well, and I agreed. Unfortunately, many of the names we came up with were taken. This is not surprising, but it is annoying.

So we spent a weekend watching Dexter (season 7) and trying to come up with blog/domain names. Dexter had just dropped a deceased, heartbroken Russian into the ocean, and my husband hit pause.

Husband: Regret.com.
Me: Too dark.
Husband: And someone probably has it.
Me: Yeah.
Husband: Wonder what’s there.
Me: Whatever it is, I bet they wish it were something else.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Some People Do Like Bugs

I had a guy do my hair once who had a tattoo of an Asian long-horned beetle on his arm. Pretty cool tattoo, if you’re into tattoos and bugs. Turned out he loved bugs and had several other tattoos of other bugs. His absolute favorite was one of a dung beetle he had somewhere I couldn’t see. He explained to me why the dung beetle was so awesome and so important, ecologically speaking, to life in the great plains of Africa. 

Anyway, the dung beetle eats poop. Loads of it. It’s pretty much all it does (aside from reproduce). Which, it turns out, is extremely important when there are lots of large animals running around eating each other and pooping. Life without the dung beetles would be gross. It would be like living in a city without trash or sewer service.

The guy made perfect sense. I could totally see why this bug was a very necessary, good, and important bug. But the question I couldn’t push completely out of my brain was, “If you tattoo a dung beetle on your person, are you not announcing to the world that you are a pile of poop?”

Monday, May 27, 2013

I Don’t Like Bugs

I don’t like bugs. That sounds pretty innocuous, but I really don’t like bugs. I spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about them. The house we currently rent has silverfish. They make my skin crawl. We’ve had the place treated, but they’re still here. I find a couple every day. Five or six when it’s hot out. The problem with me is that if I see one, I spend the next hour looking for them, regardless of what else I’m doing. They’re usually dead (yay!) but sometimes they’re not (boo!). If you’ve ever killed a silverfish, you know they have a coating of silvery-brown dust. Don’t know why, don’t care.

I mention it because when I find them on a wall up high, I have to get them somehow. They system I devised involves a four-foot ruler and a lint roller. I take a sheet from the lint roller, reverse stick it to the end of the ruler, and then use the ruler to pick up the silverfish like pet hair. It works for spiders too.

The freaky thing is that sometimes, because of the silvery-brown dust, the silverfish won’t stick. Which, in and of itself, is not so freaky, but now the lint roller tape has a perfect little Shroud-of-Turin image of a silverfish. It’s unnerving. And I still have to find and kill the little fucker, who is now somewhere else because I knocked him down.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

You’re the Coffee I Want!

I love Philz Coffee. Their coffee is so good it makes me want to blather like those kids in the AT&T commercials and make up songs* celebrating its greatness. Even when I’m paying, I’m thinking to myself, “Totally worth it!”

There is a strong alternative element in the staff. And at first, I feared for the coffee. How can this clearly disaffected youth possibly care about my coffee as much as I want/need him to? He can’t be expected to play by the rules of this oppressive society. He has blue hair AND an earring! He will look down on me and my hopelessly bourgeois decaf Swiss Water Peru!

But no, blue-haired youth is a serious fucking cat when it comes to my coffee. Turns out he’s new. He makes my coffee and watches me carefully as I taste it. It is very, very good, but not as good as I’m used to at Philz. I say, “It’s good.” Blue hair is unconvinced.

“You don’t look too sure,” he says, reaching to retrieve my coffee. I assume he’s just going to add something and hand it back, but he’s starting over from scratch. I am horrified. I am not someone willing to offend anyone with the ability to spit in my food. And, as I said, it was very, very good.

His second attempt is spot on and sans spit. We are both happy. I feel good about the blue-haired youth, the person who trained him, and the company that fostered the small universe they exist in. I want them all to succeed so much I buy a t-shirt to match my coffee.

The place is not flawless. Depending on location, the parking can be horrendous, the music too loud, the lines too long, the system for placing an order confusing, but they are on to something uncommon and lovely: the active, furious pursuit of something truly excellent.


*Song celebrating Philz:
-----
(Sung to the tune of Olivia Newton-John's

I got Philz
Now Pete's is crying
'Cause they’re losing control
Of the coffee the Bay is buying
Philz is more satisfying!

Just close the Starbucks
'Cause there's no Philtered Soul
And their decaf tastes like poo
Don't close the Pete's too
'Cause sometimes Philz is far
And a distant second has to do

Until I can
Until I can get my Swiss Water Peru

You're the coffee I want!

-----

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Spiders - Wookin Pa Nub

I’m ok, strangely, with large fuzzy tarantula-type spiders. I say strangely because I am very not ok with many other bugs. Not that I want to find a tarantula in my home, I don’t. But they are easily dissuaded. Don’t want to find a tarantula in your house? Close your door. So much more respectful than so many other bugs.

In AZ, tarantulas come out by the dozens once a year for about a week or so in the summer. It’s pretty shocking to the uninitiated, but then you figure out that they move very slowly, aren’t anywhere but on the ground, and don’t want anything to do with you if you aren’t a pretty girl tarantula. They are also in grave, grave danger.

Because of the tarantula hawks. A tarantula hawk is not a huge, flying, carnivorous spider, but it might as well be (or something that would sound approximately that terrifying) to a tarantula. A tarantula hawk is an overgrown wasp-like bug that wants to do unspeakable things to the tarantulas. I’d speakable them here, but I’d have to use lots of caps and excessive punctuation and my head hurts so I don’t want to. Just know that once you’ve seen one of these bastards dragging a paralyzed tarantula off to it’s own private Tarantino movie, you too will root for the tarantulas.

Eventually, the tarantulas started to look like little animated stuffed animals to me. Just fuzzy little dudes out looking for fuzzy little chicks, completely oblivious to the terrors of the tarantula hawk. I even had my husband relocate one tarantula that wandered into our courtyard so the spider wouldn’t fall prey to all the bug killer I’d put out for the scorpions (regarding scorpions: no redeeming qualities, fuck ‘em).