My kind of physics lesson

The Husband drew diagrams just for this post. See, if I'd dared to take physics in high school, this is the kind of lesson that would've had me taking notes that I actually re-read at home. For fun.

The Bluebird of Testosterone

The Boy has begun making the occasional comment that seems to indicate the presence of a completely testosterone-driven portion of the brain.

It started one day when we were driving to the mall, and The Boy said he saw a bird where none could have been. About as elusive as the bluebird of happiness. The Husband went along with The Boy's story, saying it was a bird only guys could see; therefore, it must be the Bluebird of Testosterone.

Today I was buckling The Boy into his car seat, but I couldn't get it to click closed at first. I realized what was wrong, and said, "Oh, your shirt was in the way."

The Boy's response: "And my penis was in the way too."

Uh-huh.

I love them, theoretically

I post this picture only to make a point. A shuddering, gagging point.

Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons

How is it that I can have this reaction to just a picture of an insect...

[disgusted, shuddering scream while covering mouth so bug won't fly out of picture and down my throat]

... and still think Nina Bagley and Jane Wynn's necklace pendants are gorgeous? I just finished reading the latest post on Ornamental, and almost went permanently cross-eyed trying to read the text without seeing the cicada pictures.

Some of my favorite designs they've created are modeled on insects. So on the one hand, I'm reminded that I live in a place where there are

[THANK YOU JESUS]

very few large bugs, but at the same time I like their ornamental representations. I love the fragility of the wing structure, the delicacy of their limbs, but... to have the insect use those wings... to fly near me for some unknown reason...

Can't type. Skin has crawled right off my body.

I'm almost as bad as the "Letty Bell" character from Little Britain who loves frog toys and other paraphernalia. Just not, you know, the real thing. I think the part of my brain that is grossed out by the buggy reality must sit right next to the part that's fascinated by surgery reality shows.