The great 2010 annihilation of Waspopolis

I just moved into a new apartment. It's nice. Not the fanciest place in the world, but who needs fancy anyway? I have two pretty cool (if slightly bonkers) roommates who come with four cats. Two of them are awesome, and the other two are elitist bitches who make me feel self-conscious. Cats have this way of judging that is uncannily intimidating.

Anyway, I've noticed that there are some wasps at this complex that have a propensity for chilling on my front door. This is upsetting to me. I don't like things that fly and sting, and I have an uncontrollable urge to kill any such organism that invades my personal space. It hasn't been a huge deal, but sometimes there's a wasp sitting on my front door and I am compelled to remove a shoe and beat the hell-beast into oblivion with it. Today, however, there were a SHITLOAD OF THEM, all huddled together in a corner above my door, obviously plotting my demise as vengeance for the serial murder of their brethren. That, or building a nest so as to propagate their species. I am not okay with either of these scenarios. There were little wasp skyscrapers under construction. They were ruled by a parliamentary democracy. It was terrifying; I think they might have been close to establishing a viable economy that would rival our own.

I did the only sane thing one can do when confronted with a fight-or-flight situation involving THESE THINGS: I drove to Kroger and bought some Raid Wasp/Hornet Spray. The citizens of Waspopolis refer to this as a WMD. Luckily they didn't have time to impose any sanctions or challenge my sovereignty because I proceeded to chemically obliterate their society with my superior weaponry. It was amazing. I knew it would work, I just severely underestimated the potency of this particular pest control product. Within seconds, my doorstep was littered with the corpses of the direct victims, as well as the writhing, agonized bodies of the survivors of the initial attack. It was a glorious victory for humanity. Toby Keith should write a song about it.

So I guess this whole post has been one long advertisement for Raid Wasp/Hornet Spray. Have a terrifying insect problem? GET THIS SHIT!

I am now an art expert.

Something about doing laundry makes me want to write. Most of these posts have been written while doing laundry, hence the title of this blog. This is no exception, as I'm currently waiting for the dryer to finish so I can change out of my pajamas. That's right, friends. It's after noon and I'm still in my pajamas. Sue me.

Anyway: I went to an art museum yesterday. It was fun. They had an exhibit of some of Ansel Adams's photographs...the things that man could do with black and white film are pretty mind-blowing, and the difference between seeing them in a book and seeing them in person is staggering.

We also saw a bunch of abstract art, which was explained to us in detail by a very enthusiastic (if slightly eccentric) volunteer at the museum. He was a trip. We were just minding our own business, making jokes about the paintings, and I think maybe he got tired of hearing us (it doesn't matter how quiet you are in an art museum; people will still hear you), because he insisted on giving us a private mini-tour of the whole abstract wing of the museum.

Abstract art can be a tough nut to crack, but lucky for you, I am now one of the world's foremost authorities on the subject. Allow me to help you decipher one of the more cryptic works in the collection (this is all made possible by Carly, whose ninja skills go far beyond my original estimates), Rosa Acle's Norte:


(Click image for full size)

See? It's perfectly clear, once you know what to look for.

Why it sucks to be kind of good at the tuba

I play the tuba. I'm pretty good at it. In fact, I enjoy the instrument so much that I've dedicated my entire adult life to learning about music and the tuba so that I can live a happy, carefree life as a professional tuba player.

You know what's wrong with that plan? There are approximately 7,635* other people in this country alone who can describe themselves in the exact same way. Now, would you like to guess how many tuba playing jobs there are in this country? I don't know, but it is significantly less than 7,635. Basically what I'm trying to say is that I have a master's degree in a pipe dream.

So what do all those extra tuba players end up doing? Drinking. And finding other ways to make money. If you're lucky, you'll be able to get a job teaching at a college. Or you might swallow your pride and just become a band director at a public school somewhere, because that's a much more reliable source of income than teaching part time at a college, private lessons in 4 or 5 different school districts, and trying your damnedest to never have to work in a cubicle. But here's the problem with being a band director: this is a job that requires you to control upwards of 350 children at any given time, all of whom would like nothing more than to pierce your soul with their laser beams of pure evil and feast upon the goo that spews forth.

Here's a chart, representing all of the tuba players in the United States:




I fall somewhere in the yellow/orange sections, and I make very little money.

Monetary and job satisfaction considerations aside, there's also the fact that I live in Texas. I do not want to spend the rest of my life here. Let's take a look at these different professions and the degree of freedom they offer in terms of where you can live:



And that, friends and family that can't seem to understand, is why I'm going back to school at 29 for a computer science degree.

*I have no idea how accurate that number is. It's just the first number that popped into my brain. The point is, there's lots of people that are very good at the tuba, and very few well-paying jobs for tuba players.

Sometimes I am a moron.

When I am relaxing, I occasionally like to sit with my forearm resting on top of my head. I'm aware that this is strange. It's also comfortable. Here's an illustration I made using my mad MSPaint skills:

Today I was sitting like this on the couch, browsing the internet and I happened to glance over to my left, only to see a GIANT HAND hanging right beside my face. This scared the crap out of me until I realized I was looking at my own hand and not that of a zombie, serial killer, or some kind of freaky hand-ghost.

Apparently I need to be more aware of my extremities.

Childhood fears never truly go away

When I was little I had a very....healthy imagination. Mostly this was a good thing, as it kept me entertained at school in ways that wouldn't get me in trouble. But it also led to a rather bizarre set of phobias, the most pervasive of which was this idea that somebody (or someTHING) was either:

a) Constantly behind me, just out of sight and always moving with me so I could never see it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to eviscerate me

or

b) Waiting in plain sight, seemingly innocuous and benign, sneaking closer and showing its true colors when I looked away, much like this cat, except more murderous and less adorable:

Option "a" was the more terrifying of the two, but each were among the regulars in my dreams. I called this creature "Snake Man" because his limbs were long and spindly, like snakes, and he tormented me mercilessly. Sitting in a chair watching TV? Better check over your shoulder every now and then; Snake Man might be behind you! Tall skinny old man at the supermarket? Not even the relative safety of Mom's grocery cart can save you from Snake Man!

Growing up and setting some boundaries between reality and make-believe has lessened Snake Man's effect over the years. In fact, I thought I was over him entirely. And then, today I stumbled across this:

Say hello to Slender Man. He first showed up on an internet forum about a year ago and has since worked his way into several urban legend-type websites, in addition to striking fear into the hearts of thousands via a series of YouTube videos. That picture is so close to how I imagined Snake Man that it's like someone broke into my subconscious and started taking photos. Part of me wants to find his creator(s) and congratulate them; the rest of me wants to punch them in the face for reminding me of the horror. I know he's fictional, the product of some talented Photoshoppers, but that image strikes a nerve so deep in me that no amount of logic can stop the fear. I'm 5 years old again, keeping doors shut and blinds closed in a vain attempt to keep out what is probably already in the house, watching and waiting.