It is What it Is

Heathens and Happy Hernando

A few weeks ago, the SO and I took a trip to DeSoto Caverns outside of Childersburg, Alabama. (I like to do really cheesy things, and the SO likes to take pictures, and amazingly, these two interests often coincide.)

For those of you who don't know, DeSoto Caverns is the country's first recorded cave (I don't know what this honor means either), and it's a rather amazing natural phenomenon full of stalactites, stalagmites and the like. (By "the like," I mean stuff I didn't bother to pay attention to in either science class or the guided tour.)

The good people who own the cave have seen fit to fill the area around it with attractions like panning for gemstones, a maze and water gun shooting forts. The attractions are pretty fun, and a good way to drive up the price of admission. Of course, rock candy and fudge are for sale in the gift shop, too.

The SO and I had a good time. We engaged in some archery. (I say we didn't keep score. The SO claims victory.) I fed some llamas, and of course, there was the panning for gemstones, maze-running (that I did kick ass at) and cave-touring. But, there were two rather troublesome aspects to the whole adventure.

1. The mascot for DeSoto Caverns is Happy Hernando. Now, while I have no problem with lying to children in some respects -- the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, "Of course Mom and Dad never smoked pot" -- I have my limits. And turning Hernando DeSoto into Happy Hernando, the cutest of the conquistadors, just seems wrong. After all, we're talking about a man known for his cruelty in wiping out and enslaving indigenous peoples wherever he went. Dressing him in all primary colors and adding a jaunty hat doesn't seem like enough to whitewash that past. 

Attacked at the Aquarium

I love a good aquarium.

There are many exotic fish I've had the privilege to see up-close and in person -- including a hammerhead shark. When I was 18, my parents took my sisters and I to the Great Barrier Reef.

(Whenever anyone asks about your trip to a reef, they always say, "Did you get a piece of the reef?" as if the first rule you learn on the reef isn't "Never, ever step on the reef." Those things are far more fragile than they might seem on TV.)

There are also some less than-exotic fish I've had the opportunity to see up-close and in person. My father took me to the Bass Fishing Museum in Eufala when I was a child, too.

So, a few weeks ago, when I went to Atlanta, the aquarium was one of my first stops.

Predator at the Door

I won't lie to you. As soon as I found a boyfriend, I stopped killing bugs. Sure, I could still kill my own bugs (by "kill," I actually mean "draft a carefully worded detente understood by me and the bug granting the bug all rights of access to my home and yard provided said bug will not take up residence inside my shoes, fall on my head in the middle of the night or appear in glasses of red wine"). But I don't want to kill bugs, and I don't have to now. I see it as one of the best perks to dating.

But, every so often, I stumble on a bug that I can't even ask the Significant Other [SO] to kill. Pictured is one such bug.

This is the actual spider that spun a web outside my back door (while I won't ask the SO to kill all bugs, I will ask him to photograph them). The spider is huge. His butt is bulbous (which I interpret as being full of poison -- I CAN do science). And he has very long legs leading me to believe that he could outrun me if necessary (not really a challenge, but still).

The Great Outdoors

In so many ways, I was never destined for the outdoors. My fair skin and appeal to mosquitoes are only the beginning -- direct sunlight hurts my eyes, I don't like being hot and I try to avoid dirt whenever possible. If there's not a pool within a five foot radius, I'd just rather be inside. (FYI: that puts you closer to the bar and reality TV, too.)

Which is why any urge I have to do yard work always surprises me. (Keep in mind I said "urge." It's rarely fulfilled -- hence my lawn looks the way it does. I'd like to blame the stolen lawnmower, but I had lost the battle against weeds and growth long before that.)

I think it's the Type A/OCD side of me that wants to work in the yard. I like things to be neat and ordered. My yard tends to be anything but. Some would call this laziness. I blame the aforementioned genetics/quirks.

But, lately, not even I can ignore how bad my yard has gotten. I dream about towering weeds, creeping vines and sink holes. So, for the past two days, I've ventured out. Gardening gloves on, clippers in hand, rake by my side, I decided to do yard work. 

Some Things I'd Like to Forget

Now, this probably doesn't need to be said, but I wasn't exactly a "cool" kid.

I went to private school. I tended to either duck or swat my hands frantically in front of me whenever any sort of ball came my way in gym class or on the playground. I spoke nonsense to myself in my room pretending to be French. And, I really liked to wear a tiara whether it was appropriate or not, as was immortalized in my kindergarten class picture.

"Cool" definitely isn't the right word. And, I also had a period when I really enjoyed conspiracy theories, not realizing that most of these ideas were espoused by the "crazies" of the world. (In fairness to me, my nannies always liked to watch a lot of daytime television, and if you live in the world of daytime television -- Phil Donahue, "All My Children," etc. -- you are much more likely to believe the impossible is probable. Twins with two different fathers? No problem. Men who dress as women and work for phone sex hotlines? Of course. Sisters who are also cousins who are also aunt and niece who also happen to be neighbors? Tell me more.)

After a particularly impressive interview on the local news morning show (that's right, local, I wasn't even smart enough to get most of my ideas from the Today show), I became convinced that Elvis was indeed still alive. I mean, supposedly the sideburns fell off of his corpse before the funeral. If that doesn't say wax dummy substituted for a body while Elvis runs off to live a peaceful life of anonymity, I don't know what does.

Pacific White-Sided Dolphins and Me

Monday afternoon, I took a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in downtown Chicago.

Other than the penguins, one of the biggest attractions at the aquarium is the dolphin show. After all, who doesn't love a good dolphin? And, because most people do love dolphins, it's quite a popular exhibition. My friends and I barely got seats, and once we did, we still had to wait about half an hour for the show to start. So, full of excitement and animal kingdom wonder, I waited for the big event.

Unfortunately, the show was hosted by Alison*, who, clad in her Shedd Aquarium-issued polo shirt and mom khakis, and equipped with a wireless microphone over the ear, leads the audience on the journey into the "mysterious" world of dolphins. (From here on out, all words placed in quotation marks will be Alison's choices and not mine.)

Even though we never actually met and Alison was never less than 20 feet from me -- we did not get along. She opened the show with an intro she must have stolen from an old show on the Discovery Channel, but embellished with what I assume to be a background in amateur theater. (I will say this for her -- someone taught her to enunciate and someone taught her sweeping hand motions.)