Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Snail Reproduction
I have a long time love affair with creepy crawlies. Growing up, my parents instilled an appreciation of the natural world in myself and my sister and this parlayed into our playtime in ways we wouldn't be able to appreciate until we were older.
In the early spring, when the ponding basin near our house was almost full from winter rainfall, little toads, about the size of a pinky fingernail, would start popping up in near biblical proportions. My sister and I would run through the streets with margarine tubs, scooping the little guys up out of the way of traffic. Our yard quickly became known as a toad haven.
On camping trips in the summer we often took hikes though the meadows surrounding our tent site. On this one particularly beautiful day, me, my mom and sister saw what looked like bubbles foaming on tall stalks of Corn Lily. Turned out we were witnessing spittle bug nymphs feeding. Instead of squealing and running away we leaned in closer for a better view.
But sometimes being a scientist's kid who also loves weird things can have unexpected consequences.
The other day I was on my way out the car and I see two snails snuggled up together on the hose winder. Now, I like snails, I really do. in fact, the tinier the snail, the more likely I am to pick it up and let is crawl around on my hand. But they are pests and we are truly overrun by them. Last spring I found hundreds of baby snails clustered at the base of the only rose bush I still own, which was a gift from my parents. The rest of my roses succumbed to frosts and relocation.
So anyhow, seeing two snails out on a very cold day in early February piqued my interest and I decided to pick one of them up. To my mild horror, both of them came up together as they were attached to one another with long, slender yellow stalks. Being an observant person, who is deeply interested in science I thought "Ew ew gross! Snail penis!" Because I am mature like that.
As I shook off the shock of interrupting snail coitus it dawned on me that if they were mating, that would mean more snail caused carnage come spring when the eggs hatched. I tossed the two of them down and stepped on them. Then, I suffered guilt.
You see, even though they are pests, and very very destructive, snails are undeniably adorable to me and in some ways, represent the struggles we all face in life. Stepping on those snails was like stepping on a friend.
A spineless, mucousy friend.
In the early spring, when the ponding basin near our house was almost full from winter rainfall, little toads, about the size of a pinky fingernail, would start popping up in near biblical proportions. My sister and I would run through the streets with margarine tubs, scooping the little guys up out of the way of traffic. Our yard quickly became known as a toad haven.
On camping trips in the summer we often took hikes though the meadows surrounding our tent site. On this one particularly beautiful day, me, my mom and sister saw what looked like bubbles foaming on tall stalks of Corn Lily. Turned out we were witnessing spittle bug nymphs feeding. Instead of squealing and running away we leaned in closer for a better view.
But sometimes being a scientist's kid who also loves weird things can have unexpected consequences.
The other day I was on my way out the car and I see two snails snuggled up together on the hose winder. Now, I like snails, I really do. in fact, the tinier the snail, the more likely I am to pick it up and let is crawl around on my hand. But they are pests and we are truly overrun by them. Last spring I found hundreds of baby snails clustered at the base of the only rose bush I still own, which was a gift from my parents. The rest of my roses succumbed to frosts and relocation.
So anyhow, seeing two snails out on a very cold day in early February piqued my interest and I decided to pick one of them up. To my mild horror, both of them came up together as they were attached to one another with long, slender yellow stalks. Being an observant person, who is deeply interested in science I thought "Ew ew gross! Snail penis!" Because I am mature like that.
As I shook off the shock of interrupting snail coitus it dawned on me that if they were mating, that would mean more snail caused carnage come spring when the eggs hatched. I tossed the two of them down and stepped on them. Then, I suffered guilt.
You see, even though they are pests, and very very destructive, snails are undeniably adorable to me and in some ways, represent the struggles we all face in life. Stepping on those snails was like stepping on a friend.
A spineless, mucousy friend.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Hair in Weird Places
When I was little, I used to take an open glee in "hair spotting." My mom has a small brown mole on her right arm and sometimes the light would glint across it just right and reveal an abnormally long light brown hair. I tended to take notice when we were in the car together and when she was distracted making a left hand turn I would reach over to pluck it without having to worry about her smacking me. Or at least, not worry until the car was straightened out and in that case the hair was gone and smacking me wasn't going to make it grow back.
My dad was a more difficult case. Again, the hair was in a mole, but this one is on the back of his neck. No way would I ever tempt the wrath of dad by yanking a hair from any part of his body, even if, ostensibly, he wouldn't be able to see who had done it.
On and off I struggled with a fascination for pulling hair. I love to see it come out in clumps, I loved to see the roots and how different they looked from hair to hair.
This lead to some very strange instances where I ended up with huge holes in my eyebrows and later, while I was busy having a meltdown, I pulled all of the eyelashes out of both eyelids. Luckily, I worked at a beauty supply shop and got an extra good deal on fake eyelashes and glue. But my eyelashes never forgave me and the ones on my right lid grew in straight, and shorter than they had been. Needless to say I learned to stop plucking ANYTHING when I was stressed.
So you'd think that with this obsession with hair, both mine and other's, I'd be thrilled about hair in weird places. But the sad thing is, the day I noticed what looked like a dark brown hair stuck to my neck, and then realised it was coming out of my neck, I freaked. Unfortunately, it was later joined by another hair a little further back. One day I plucked both of them at the same time and the redness looked like vampire bites. I was not amused.
About six months ago, while my body was churning through hormones, getting ready for my monthly cycle, I went to try to clear a blackhead from my cheek. Yes, I know, leave them alone and they'll go away on their own. But this one had been there for 2 weeks and I was at the end of my patience. I gently squeezed, I furiously squeezed, I gave myself a bruise, and gave up. A day later, a short, wiry blonde hair had erupted from the "blackhead." It wasn't a pimple, it was my body smuggling a new hair onto my face. This whisker also gets plucked with both relish and disdain. I enjoy plucking it, I hate that I have to.
This leads me to not the weirdest, but the most regrettable place I have had a hair sneak onto. A part of my body I wanted to remain hair free until I was in my late 40's at least! Or older even, old enough to be mistaken for someones bubbe! That's right, you guessed it. On my 30th birthday, as I sat at a red light, my mother in the driver's seat, both of us going to be moral support for my grandmother at her pre-op appointment, I saw a long, light brown hair on my chin. I stared in quiet horror, quietly wishing for anything besides this, even a grey hair! But the chin hair just sat there in proud defiance. My childhood was over. Womanhood, and all that came with it, crashed through the roof of my car and landed on my chin.
I imagine that as I age, more hairs, in weirder places, will creep onto me, like kudzu in the south. And at first I will hack and pluck and wax, trying to keep the march of time at bay. And then eventually, I will sit back and laugh, brew myself a cup of tea and welcome the hairs as mile markers along the story of my life.
My dad was a more difficult case. Again, the hair was in a mole, but this one is on the back of his neck. No way would I ever tempt the wrath of dad by yanking a hair from any part of his body, even if, ostensibly, he wouldn't be able to see who had done it.
On and off I struggled with a fascination for pulling hair. I love to see it come out in clumps, I loved to see the roots and how different they looked from hair to hair.
This lead to some very strange instances where I ended up with huge holes in my eyebrows and later, while I was busy having a meltdown, I pulled all of the eyelashes out of both eyelids. Luckily, I worked at a beauty supply shop and got an extra good deal on fake eyelashes and glue. But my eyelashes never forgave me and the ones on my right lid grew in straight, and shorter than they had been. Needless to say I learned to stop plucking ANYTHING when I was stressed.
So you'd think that with this obsession with hair, both mine and other's, I'd be thrilled about hair in weird places. But the sad thing is, the day I noticed what looked like a dark brown hair stuck to my neck, and then realised it was coming out of my neck, I freaked. Unfortunately, it was later joined by another hair a little further back. One day I plucked both of them at the same time and the redness looked like vampire bites. I was not amused.
About six months ago, while my body was churning through hormones, getting ready for my monthly cycle, I went to try to clear a blackhead from my cheek. Yes, I know, leave them alone and they'll go away on their own. But this one had been there for 2 weeks and I was at the end of my patience. I gently squeezed, I furiously squeezed, I gave myself a bruise, and gave up. A day later, a short, wiry blonde hair had erupted from the "blackhead." It wasn't a pimple, it was my body smuggling a new hair onto my face. This whisker also gets plucked with both relish and disdain. I enjoy plucking it, I hate that I have to.
This leads me to not the weirdest, but the most regrettable place I have had a hair sneak onto. A part of my body I wanted to remain hair free until I was in my late 40's at least! Or older even, old enough to be mistaken for someones bubbe! That's right, you guessed it. On my 30th birthday, as I sat at a red light, my mother in the driver's seat, both of us going to be moral support for my grandmother at her pre-op appointment, I saw a long, light brown hair on my chin. I stared in quiet horror, quietly wishing for anything besides this, even a grey hair! But the chin hair just sat there in proud defiance. My childhood was over. Womanhood, and all that came with it, crashed through the roof of my car and landed on my chin.
I imagine that as I age, more hairs, in weirder places, will creep onto me, like kudzu in the south. And at first I will hack and pluck and wax, trying to keep the march of time at bay. And then eventually, I will sit back and laugh, brew myself a cup of tea and welcome the hairs as mile markers along the story of my life.
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