Spare Me, Spiders

There are many reasons to dislike spiders and various others from the tangled family web of arachnid lineage. However, I have put together a list of things that simply cannot be overlooked when it comes to these frightening creatures that will not leave me/anyone alone ever.

While heights, the dark and Honey Boo Boo's mom's under-chins top my list of valid fears in life, spiders are definitely not something I enjoy on any occasion, except perhaps when squashed in a heap with leg segments twitching.

1. Spiders know when you're sleeping or relaxed or happy and want to ruin these feelings.
 Oh, a nice stroll down a wooded path? Spiders see this as an opportunity to weave a piece of invisible web directly in front of your face, leaving you disoriented and constantly trying to remove the troublesome particle for at least the next ten minutes. Also, your heart rate has increased by nearly 10bpm. Maybe 11 if you actually spot the web weaver. From a personal perspective, there is no worse feeling that a creepy crawley scurrying across your skin while you're sleeping. Spiders, though, are demons, and know when you're deep in a REM cycle. No need for a gentle alarm reminder, my mode is set to seek and destroy after feeling the distinct movement of a spider on me. You've been there: your violent shaking of all bedding materials and exposition of all viable hiding places for the little beast leaves your respective sleep area looking like a meth-house Dog the Bounty Hunter has just busted into. And you usually don't even find the little bug(ger). Or sleep the rest of the night.

2. Spiders know when they are extra creepy looking. 
I am certain there are some tame-looking, somewhat aesthetically pleasing varieties of spiders that exist. However, these are NEVER the ones in sight. For example, the only spiders I've seen as of late are the creepy, white-translucent kind and the bigger-than-a-quarter kind. No. Just no! Where are their microscopic cousins whose eyes and fangs aren't visible to the naked eye!? Probably living in my ear canal, thats where.

3. Bringing me to my next point--Spiders have some kind of broadcast ability to let each other know they have to raise their wicked gamesS. Case in point: an article I read recently, where a woman in China was experiencing ear pain, that doctors concluded was being caused by THE SPIDER LIVING IN HER EAR. You know that spider has eight little data-devices that broadcast, "living in an ear #totescool #spiderprobs," to all its millions of compatriots. So, I fully expect a spider to be living in my brain or eye before this year is over.

4. Spiders can and will live anywhere. 
I'm not speaking as a spider scientist or anything, (they don't deserve their own scientists) but I think anywhere you live, people are inclined to let you know that spiders are extra bad in that location. So, if you're living in the rainforest of Borneo, the indigenous people are definitely going to fashion some kind of drawing, probably using rocks, to let you know that the spiders there are suuuuper scary. Concurrently, your cousin from Muncie, In. will confirm that he/she has, "never seen so many effing spiders ever in effing history," via a poorly filtered Walden photo on Instagram. I once heard/completely made up that you're never more than a foot away from a spider/spider-ish being at any point in your life ever.

Well, spiders, you've won. I do not like you and you are clearly not taking action to change this.

Why I Thought the 1996 Russian Women's Gymnastics Team Was Legitimately Evil

As is customary in any respectable Olympic Women's Gymnastics Team Final, you must have a storyline. In 2008, the Chinese women's Olympic Team were each plucked from their mothers' wombs, and three years later found themselves on the Olympic stage. In 2000, the Romanians had God on their side because everyone lit a candle in Dracula's castle and kissed a big gold cross. So on this day of the 2012 Team Final...I share with you a wondrous tale of good vs. evil (but mostly evil) I call, "96".

The broadcast magic of NBC and the smooth sonata that John Tesh wove into my young psyche meshed together to form a desolate, forsaken place. There were no toys. The sun didn't exist there. Mickey Mouse and Tweet-E Bird appeared awkwardly on most t-shirts. This place was Russia.

At 8 years-old, I believed that the Russian women's gymnastics team trained in some kind of abandoned Communist militia warehouse or an old bread factory. Back at the beginning of time, like 1970, they stacked a pinetree on some cinderblocks, and called it the balance beam. They had to step out into the cold tundra to begin their vault runs. They always looked tired. They always looked mean. They often ate borsht.

Yelena Grosheva could only land by taking huge, aggressive hops forward. Couple these bounds with a jagged thrust of her arms, into a jagged thrust of a salute and I was literally pissing myself in terror. She looked as though she'd just gotten in a street fight and lost. You may know her from her work as "girl who nearly fell off beam" in Team Optionals.

Roza Galieva scared me mostly because of the 'z' in her name. I knew something was unnatural about its placement...tremendously unsettling. Once she mounted the beam, though, fuhgettaboutit. She was like some kind of evil mantis creature, woo-ing a young male (probably 8) onto her branch. She did what would later become known as, "The Jerk" on balance beam. I also felt a deep distrust of her sharp, barely-able-to-actually-classify-as, pony tail. I knew she had worked her evil to somehow weave a hairband around that nub and then somehow mask it with a Russian Federation scrunchie.

Then there was Svetlana Khorkina. To me, she was a skinhead with large hoop earrings who had lost the use of her facial muscles. I'm also fairly certain she was on stilts.

Sure, there were four other girls on this team, but I didn't need to bother with them. I could tell, and NBC verified, that they were some kind of ancient (1970s) sect that had extra chromosomes and usually not much hair. I was also certain they were evil because of the comparisons I could draw to the American team.

Kerri Strug might have had the hair of a Russian, but the voice of a lollipop guild representative. I was willing to give her a chance in hopes of candy. Dominique Moceanu was constantly floating down a lazy river in a really big inner-tube. I wanted an inner-tube that big. Amanda Borden did her 'come hither' kneeling grind action. Shannon Miller had been in the gym nearly every day since 1992. Wait, what? Jaycie Phelps had car music. Amy Chow had lost her eye at Olympic Trials.

I mean...What more do you need? A classic case of good versus evil as painted by my 8 year-old mind.

Tonight, I cannot wait to see NBC produce a novella of epic proportions. They heard that McKayla texted Aly that she tweeted Jordyn and Jordyn just quote tweeted McKayla not RT'd so Aly was upset that Jordyn would do that to McKayla and not hashtag #HOTPINK either. And Gabby was like, "You know what?" And Kyla wasn't invited.

Say It With Me...Gym..nast..ics. Good!

Gymnastics finds its way back on the map of Joe Homemaker and Suzie Plumber every four years with the Olympic Games. Newsstands around the world are currently cramped with compact, muscled bodies under 5’6”. Could you imagine if a Kardashian did something like gymnastics (or anything for that matter)? The sport would seriously gain an E! series and a lip gloss line faster than a meme gets 7 Likes on Facebook. But, alas, gymnastics will have to settle on being the fifth runner up on the eighth season of The Bachelor to the majority of the public a majority of the time.

Before your uncle texts you from his flip phone, telling you your cousin Madison is the next Nay-de-uh Cuma-nietch, remember that this year’s Olympic Games are unlike any other in terms of gymnastics. Viable crops of fifteen American men and women were decimated narrowed to five member squads. Yes, gone are the days of seven-member teams with two-flipping, two-twisting Amy Chow & baby wah-wah, sassy smile Dominique Moceanu—and six member squads featuring twin, redhead bowl-cut Hamm brothers for that matter, too. The road to London was more congested than the 405 on a day ending in -day. 

Teams have been selected, so America is going to win gold, right? In everything, right? Well, the Americans are fielding the most-talented (or a close second to '08's) pool of athletes that I’ve seen in my six Olympiads on this Earth. However, the rest of the world is no slouch in 2012, either. 

Look for the American women—all of whom lack prior Olympic experience to get some jitters and wobbles out of their system during the preliminary round. Defending Olympic Champion China is fielding their top pre-school program in 2012. I kid, I kid. However, their team lacks an international resume that would suggest defending their title. Former communist powerhouses of Russia and Romania look to pose the biggest threat in derailing American success in London. I heard a rumor that Russia will be outfitted in a leotard composed entirely of iron curtain. Names to know: Jordyn with a 'y', Gabby with a 'y', Kyla with a 'y', McKayla with a 'y' and Aly with a 'y'. 

Gymnastics is difficult! It always has been—that’s what makes it so awesome. However, so often it’s easy for the general public to turn this demanding sport into elements consisting of proper names like: twisty-thing, octuple back flip and -a-ma-bobber. This year more than ever, there are expert resources at your fingertips—Twitter, Facebook and even your on-television commentary will provide awesome insight, but you’ve got to pay attention. Another one of the beautiful aspects of gymnastics is that it’s a four year soap opera, take that Khloe and Lamar! It’s even more thrilling when you’ve followed athletes since they were first accidentally in the background of an NBC shot.

On to the men…before that same uncle sends you a double-length text talking about how weird it is to see those little dudes prancing around in spandex and twirly-ma-bobbing, give him this basic test: two hours of intense, mostly upside down cardio, followed by a dynamic strength circuit till failure and five minute splits on each leg. If he passes, he’s clearly a former Soviet Olympian and I’d like his autograph. Otherwise, let him know that his analysis of men’s gymnastics is nothing new, albeit unfortunate.

I recall nearly breaking a couch and developing an Adele-esque vocal nodule during the men’s team finals in 2008—and that was during the first rotation. The American men of 2012 are flashy and fun to watch. Though the Japanese and Chinese ranked above the U.S. in 2011, everyone loves an underdog team...especially an American one. Names to know: Sam like Samuel, Jon like Jonathan, Jake like Jacob, John like John and Danell like nothing. 

I realize most who are reading this are probably, like, so above this in terms of your knowledge and technical understanding of the sport of gymnastics. I’ve been there, too, waiting hours on end for a Shanfan .gif to load on dial-up internet, but please find the humor, excitement and joy in this monumental stage for our sport! And if you’re one of those fair-weather fans, more power to you! But at least attempt to be an extended forecast fan in the future, okay?

Ain't No Rest(Room) for the Weary.

Wandering around downtown Seattle on my day off, I came into contact with many public facilities. The train, the escalators, even stairwell bannisters. I ain't no fool, and my momma done raised me right, so before I sat down to a questionable meal of food court orange chicken, I stopped by the restroom to take care of some business and wash my (inevitably) already germ sodden hands. What I encountered, though, was a little bathroom 'a horrors.

I am pretty easy going by nature, don't get me wrong. But, what is up with these HALF-SIZED stall doors? Being a busty 5'5", I am already (inevitably) looked down upon in public. I get it. You're taller, it doesn't take much. BUT! ^3, this does not mean I would like to be gawked at while I'm sitting and shittin. Graphic, but everybody poops. Local library.

This bathroom stall door was not a rectangle. Aren't all doors rectangles?! Apparently not. This was a square piece of material. So, once a person doth enter this stall, the proper coverage needed is not attained. I was sitting there, being quick about my business. When a bustling herd of bathroom goers thought it necessary to acknowledge my prescence in this precarious box of awkward. Do, dee, do. I felt like a first-grader waiting to cross the street. Frozen for fear that I'd get hit by a car, or, in this case, wiping out. Literally. Library. Get over it.

Once the coast was finally clear, (Sidenote, in my childhood, I definitely, totally thought that saying was, "The ghost is clear" Ugh. Idiot.) I made a valiant escape to the haven of the sink. But OF COURSE, things continued to be tragic. This sink, for some dim-witted environmental reason, I'm sure, only dispensed water when you turned the knob and immediately, infuriatingly, entirely ceased to do so once let go. So, there I am, giving soaping and lathering with one hand the old college try. I succeed, as always. But can we not find it appropriate to allow our fellow man the liberty of maybe 5 seconds of solid water dispersal? Can we not?

My hands were now a washed Church and State. I made my way for my arch-bathroom-nemesis, the paper towel dispenser. Now, I like to have my hands completely dry before exiting the bathroom. Call me crazy. Alright, except for the times when I'm just achin' the spritz the remaining liquid from my just-washed hands onto someone (usually someone I know) and say, "Ew, sorry, I peed on my hands!" These cases are sporadic. I am a big fan of the air blades, which are kind of revolutionary. So, A. they get shit done and B. I feel trendy using them. Win/Win. Was there a hand-dryer worthy of PerezHilton immorality present? Le no. I stepped up to battle, the motion-sensor automatic paper towel dispensor looming in the foreground. I have a letter just WAITING to be angrily addressed, lick-sealed, postmarked and sent away to whomever came up with these demon thangs.

I would mainly like to know, whose hands does an index card sized piece of paper towel dry? If you can find me these prevalent elfin folk, I will shut the front door. But until then, I will be that guy standing in front of the machine, repeatedly swiping my hand until I have ample paper product present to perform the task at hand. Ha.

Object to the Adject...ives.

Social cues and interactions are some of the most interesting things to observe. Especially when people reveal their indelible density when socializing with others. It's so sad to think that social media and the age of technology have so far removed us as human beings from each other than when faced with actually having to interact, we cannot. Or at least cannot do so appropriately.

I was at the store the other day, and heard a man beckon to a girl. He said, "Hey little girl, excuse me." First of all, think about that statement, mister man. A majority of people would now expect you to remove K-Mart brand candy from your pocket and invite her into you Club Wagon. However, he didn't. But I was now on (amber) alert. The interaction was simply because she had dropped something, or an event of little importance. What struck me as odd, though, was that he used an arbitrary adjective to acknowledge her/get her attention. I realize that age probably had something to do with this interaction, but what if this "young" girl was actually a 19 year-old petite wonder. And here is this middle aged man, basically handing her a tea-set with his overarching utterance.

This use of adjectives is a lot of what I feel is wrong with the world today. And, frankly, I object. (See, Elle Woods, Blonde comma Legally.) When is it appropriate to assign a word you see as a fit descriptor of another person? Probably never, as I will now display in completely over the top examples.

"Hey, morbidly obese woman, your roll is on my arm."
"Hello, entirely too bleach blonde woman, you just sprayed self-tanner in my mouth."
"Ahoy, awkwardly smiling man, your smile is scaring me."

I realize that these seem pretty far fetched in relation to the exchange that I witnessed. But are they really any different? We as people need to acknowledge each other on an even playing field. Whether ageism, sexism, racism, homophobia, or otherwise, we must stop looking at the outward display of the person, and maybe take a step back and just see the person.

The Air I Breath

As the recent recipient of a Yankee Candle air freshener, I've been exposed to a new world of molecules in my room. I can't help but wonder, though, what is up in the realm of air fresheners?

First of all, we've gotta talk scents. Now, in my world, Clean Cotton, is pretty much the only acceptable choice. I like this scent because it's homey. Like, I was that kid who crawled into the dryer because it smelled good. The fact that I was the size of Thumbelina did not hurt matters, though, either. Can't you remember those soothing times spent as a child, or middle-aged person (oops) (not), grinding your germ ridden nose and oil ridden face into the lush scent of a warm, freshly washed towel? Clean Cotton it is. Also, when in this naturally occurring world are we surrounded by the scent of fruit? "Ah, yes, in Jamaica, the air smells like Coconut! It's so sweet. Our Beaches Resort vacation was an A+!! :D"

Now, I was really excited about the addition of this freshness factory to my room. It has three settings, of which I am guessing increase the amount of spritz freshness you get. I feel like Abercromie could stock these pieces with "Jake" or "Mandi" or whatever they're calling their trendy par-fumes nowadays, and put tens of thousands of clothing-spritzers out of work. Pretty hobos, anyone? Since I refuse to read INSTRUCTIONS for an AIR FRESHENER, I put it at the mid-setting. Safe route? NO. I believe I could feel the alveoli bursting within my lungs after walking into my room having let this thing do its thang for a couple hours. I am not certain, but I am confident. So now we're at the lowest setting and I've learned to keep my distance. It's not like I was cuddled up next to my Yankee Candle Air Freshener, begging it to play Dream Phone with me at 12:30AM, but it's roughly near my bed.

Air fresheners have really begun to boom in the past couple years. Lest we forget Febreeze brand's bold attempt at combining pop/country crossover sensation Shania Twain's new jams with some kind of freshening cartridge? My guess is you wanted to invest in neither. And for that, you're smart. But, man, Febreeze. That is a lucrative business. It's lucrative until, you spray so much concentrated, odor-blocking scent into the puke/piss/mildew ridden fabric, that you begin to equate the good scent as the bad one. "OMG, I'm gonna puke." "Awww. Sick! It smells just like Febreeze Spring Rainfall!!" "Did the cat pee on the carpet while we were gone?!" "Yes, can't you smell that awful Lavender Meadow coming from our closet!?"

The fact of the matter is, it's a nice change from my previously unscented room. I can't but help to think.. Is there a market for air fresheners that are advertised as, Clean AIR scent? Like, why do we need to scent our air? "Ohh, this air is just too much Nitrogen. I just need an extra burst of oxygen. Thank goodness for Yankee Candle's new O2 scent. Phew!!"

Reality Recipe

I dabble in reality television. Whether it be a weekend marathon, or a Monday off of work (oops, today), I highly enjoy watching others' lives and subsequently judging them. I have a pretty extensive knowledge of what it takes to be watchable--and more importantly, good.

First and foremost, you need to be stubborn. You've got to be so stuck in your normal ways that you cannot wrap your head around even the suggestion of pushing your limits or cutting three inches off of your processed hair. Stubbornness is a quality which can make you a star. And by star, I mean enable me to watch you for the duration of your respective episode. Take for example, maybe, a 15-year old social outcast wanting to be Made into a cheering, tumbling, LipSmacker-ing, pretty girl. Initial meetings past, we run into trouble! Who saw this coming!? She doesn't have any friends. She hates to exercise. Her parents laugh at her goals. She like anime. And she enjoys being this way. Sorry, sorry. She just "wants to be different, but didn't know it would be like this." Don't bother tuning into MTV's Made for a couple weeks...I just ruined them for you.

Another thing you need in reality television is a good script. I mean, a creative mind. I mean, be somewhat creative. If you can think of something completely ludacris to say on a regular basis, in semi-applicable situations, you're golden! Think, "That's hot." This phrase has little to know actual substance, but you can say it all the time!
"Here is your pizza, sir." "That's hot."
"Dad's heart surgery went really well!" "That's hot."
"Is that cocaine in your purse?" "That's hot."
Gold, I tell you. Gold! Or, or! If you can have one explosive scene that will most definitely get you into the mags and (most) importantly, The Soup. See, Tanisha from The Bad Girls Club, screaming at the top of her lungs (verbatim) "I ain't get no sleep 'cause of y'all. Now y'all ain't gon' get no sleep cause of me." whilst banging pots together in "the clubhouse". Smell that? Yeah, that's a Nobel Prize coming on.

You need a past. I am a huge proponent of life changing, come to Jesu moments, but I want an EXPLOSION right before we get off the exits for them. Like, if you could cheat on your best friend's boyfriend or girlfriend or could find your birth-mother, after being given up for adoption at birth, right around a 42-minute climax, you've got a check mark and a nod of approval from me.