“I took the NASA shirts from the “boys” section from where they were prominently displayed, and put them little kid eye level next to tank tops in the “girls” section 20 feet away. And shared a pic of my tiny-scale, subversive, nonviolent, direct action.”

via (Re)Merchandising NASA as a Feminist Act — Longreads

 

Pretty amazing.  Science and maths are awesoooooooooooooooome!  Little girls loving science and maths is awesooooooooooooomerrrrrr!

another installment in the creepy-crawly saga

Spiders, right?  Spiders, beetles, creepy-crawlies, things that crawl over your hand in the night…  Except that maybe the spider that crawled over my hand wasn’t a dream after all.  Because the night after, my partner screeched out a great yell from the bathroom, and I went running hell for leather to see which leg he’d broken.

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He hadn’t, though.  No, he’d spotted a spider on the wall.  A great, fat, juicy, gross monster of a spider, that looked like it couldn’t possibly be a UK national, must surely have smuggled itself in under a bunch of bananas.  The kind of spider that Brexit was invented for, that’s almost enough to put you off the ideal of the free movement of peoples – and spiders – across borders.

And then he took a newspaper and he splatted it.  No searching about for a cup to coax it into, no throwing it out unharmed into the night.  Poor Mr Spider, I am sorry all over again!  It was a monster, though.  But doesn’t a monster spider have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of Mrs Spider?  Arachnid rights, people!

What’s it all about then, arachnids of my manor?  Spiders of the ‘hood, what’s the word?  What are you trying to tell me?

I think maybe I really ought to begin on my serial of ‘The Entomologist and No-Spidersman’.  I’m afraid of what might come visiting otherwise.

Image – USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab, public domain.

 

Hence, you long legged spinners, hence!

 

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And continuing with the creepy-crawly theme of this blog recently, I had a dream last night.  Well, I think it was a dream, or not.  Or else I woke up in the middle of the night, reached out to the nightstand for my phone to check the time, and –

 

a spider ran over my hand.

 

Checking, this morning, it must surely have been a dream.  Because according to my partner – who sleeps lightly – I did not wake him up by screaming the place down.  And also, there is a curious fogged, vague, indeterminate lack of ending to the memory itself, which doesn’t lend it a lot of credence.

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If it had been for real, then I would have been haring around the bedroom, bashing anything that moved with a rolled-up newspaper and screeching my head off, for sure.  Not that I mind spiders.  Generally, I am pro-spider.  Just not when I’ve that second woken up, and the spider in question is ON MY FUCKING HAND.

That’s all.  I reckon the universe is sending me a message.  Possibly, ‘Crack on with that ‘The Entomologist and No-Spiders-Man’ tale, then, eh?  Where is it?’

 

Image – 1000iu Klvo on Flickr, public domain.

Image – Rob Mitchell on Flickr, public domain.

what have I got in my head AND WHY?

 

THAT!

‘Anyone knows an ant, can’t
Move a rubber tree plant

But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes
He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes

So any time your gettin’ low
‘Stead of lettin’ go
Just remember that ant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant…’

 

I seem to have insects on the brain lately.  I oughta write a gay romance about it – because you can write a gay romance about anything, right?  A superhero saga, maybe, about a mysteriously powered bug-collector and an arachnophobe – ‘The Entomologist and NoSpiders-Man!’

NoSpiders-Man’s spandex would have to be a photo negative of Spiderman’s, of course…

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

I had the windows open this morning, while I wrote.  And while in a daze, wondering whether to throw in a few fifty-buck words just to piss off Hemingway, I became aware of a buzzing.

A buzzing, a rustling, a frantic hum, coming from behind the curtains where they were bunched up.  And when I went to have a look, it was an insect, bouncing around behind there.  Frantic with captivity, wings flickering and building up to an aggressive whine if it didn’t find the exit bloody quick.

A fly.  A fly!  OH GOD A FLY!  I ran and grabbed household antibacterial spray, found fly spray in the cupboard under the sink, ran back and MACED THAT FUCKER.

Then I got a bit of a closer look, once I’d calmed down, and it was all still and quiet and deaded.

Oh, but it wasn’t a fly.  It was a beetle.  A harmless beetle, just faintly wobbling one feeler as he wobbled off this mortal coil.  Damn it.  I’d jumped to conclusions, freaked out a bit, gone into battle: and now one poor beetle had paid the price.  He’d probably come in on a bike or a jacket earlier in the day.  He didn’t mean no harm, honestly guv!

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And now, hours later, I still feel just crummy about it.  Oh, poor Mr Beetle, I feel absolutely awufl.  I’m so sorry.

 

Image – Fowler, W. W. (William Weekes), 1849-1923; Donisthorpe, Horace St. John Kelly, 1870, public domain.

 

 

jaws II

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Teef part Two – it isn’t as if I think that dental work is always a good idea, anyway.  Got to add that rebel thought to my whimpering from yesterday.  I mean, yes, take care of your teeth, get check-ups, all that.  Just bring your critical faculties to bear on the professional opinion your dentist gives you.

I’m just a little sceptical – now – when a dentist tells me that something major needs taking care of.  What I mean, I never had any extensive scaffolding and building work done on my choppers, until the day came that my dentist told me I had a few little holes in my teeth that needed filling.

I’m not talking about conman dentists who do work on your teeth when they literally need nothing done.  That is a thing, and occasionally occurs – check out the odd newspaper report.  But what I mean is the difference between a dentist’s professional assessment – i.e. that there’s some damage to my dentition, and it needs action.  Versus my subjective experience of that fact – which then, was that I had no pain, no loss of function and no perceptible problems.

If I’d read at the time – instead of afterwards – that once a tooth gets drilled, it never has the same functional integrity again, then I might have thought twice.  (I know, it seems obvious.  Duh.)  But the guy had a white tunic and letters after his name, and I was a docile sheep.  A docile sheep with numerous fillings, when he was done.

I might also have said to him, that I barely eat any sugar, and my teeth had been in the same condition for years, and any caries was probably making barely perceptible progress, hardly changing from month to month and year to year.  I should have said that, and invited him to debate whether treatment was strictly necessary.  Woulda shoulda coulda, I blame myself rather than him.

Well, hindsight is a wonder, isn’t it.

Still, don’t listen to me.  Visit your dentist and do what s/he says.  None of this is to be construed as medical advice, no harm no sue, yada yada.  I know nothing, and these are merely the self-serving musings of someone who really doesn’t want to make a dental appointment!

Image – moonjazz, public domain.

 

how sharper than a serpent’s tooth…

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I don’t care what’s sharper.  It’s the tooth that counts.  I’ve got a tooth that needs looking at, after a filling fell out.  I think maybe it’s going to need a crown, and the very thought is an affliction and a scourge.  Damn it.

The thing is, it doesn’t hurt, not a bit.  Who can bring themselves to drag themselves to the dentist for extensive dental work, when nothing hurts?  It’s more than is reasonable to ask of mortal flesh.  Isn’t it?

Thing is, I’m pretty sure the filling fell out after I got fed up with trying to get a vitamin bottle open, and took my teeth to it.

And I’ve got at least three pre-existing chips elsewhere in my dental equipment, due to gnawing away at purse fasteners, bottle ring-pulls, pencils and whatnot.  You’d think the penny would drop the first time, that it’s generally not a good idea, wouldn’t you?

Wouldn’t you?

Teeth.  Huh, what are they good for.  They had the right idea in my gran’s day – whip ’em out and have some nice false choppers installed. Solid oak!