The One Where I Shock My Readers

You opened the post. I’m so glad I didn’t scare you away. Do you ever find comfort in the sameness of things, of knowing exactly what to expect, be it reading a blog or ordering your same vanilla latte every Friday morning from the same employee at the same little coffee shop? Yeah, me, too. And sometimes you walk in to that coffee shop on a Thursday, or that familiar face has been replaced by someone you’ve never seen before, and it’s jarring. The safe place has been compromised. Brace yourselves. The battlements have been breached.

You come here to see this:

Pyxis planicauda. One of the rarest of the Malagasy dwarf tortoises. Critically endangered. Hatched this week. You’re welcome.

 

But today, I bring you this. Click to enlarge them. I double-dog dare you!

Ears are closed

He is the only one who’s not black, so he is usually referred to as “White Boy.” I call him Vanilla Ice and expect he’ll play that funky music.

At the lunch counter

Black puppies are hard to photograph!

This is the little one. He’s tiny, and he doesn’t have a fingernail polish mark on his head. Small? Unmarked? I call him Bill.

 

I know. They’re mammals, not reptiles. Sometimes I need to shake things up.  I do hope you’ll forgive me.

 

*** Just so’s you know, these aren’t my puppies. I have the privilege of puppy-sitting for a friend. Photographing newborn puppies? Sure, twist my arm, why don’t you?

 

I Didn’t See That Coming.

My husband took me hiking on Mother’s Day. The big kids opted to stay home and watch Squish. Mostly so that they didn’t have to go. My Mother’s Day didn’t involve any actual children. I’ll unpack that guilt later. They bought me MoonPies and Junior Mints, so I know they love me. Back to the tale.

As we were hiking, I found a prickly pear cactus that had been squashed nearly flat by the bulldozer that blazed the trail. I never take anything from a park, but prickly pear, a favorite food of many tortoises, is non-native and invasive, so I didn’t feel the least bit guilty for breaking off a small section to take home.

Let me explain a little about me. Spring is in the air, and I have a physiological need to plant as many things as I can. I need to see things growing. If the seeds I planted yesterday aren’t growing yet, I’ll just plant some more. This sad little plant needed me. My hope was to get a bit of it into soil to see if I could get it rooted. It was the ultimate challenge.

Prickly pear. Look at those awesome spines. I wonder if it would keep the neighbors’ dogs from pooping in my flower bed.

2:00 pm Choose the piece with no large spines and put it in my pocket. Wonder if a little rooting hormone might give me a better chance at starting this plant.

2:01 pm  Begin to feel stinging in my leg. Whoa. I forgot I am wearing my Columbia switchbacks. My pocket is mesh. No worries .The spines are so small as to be nearly invisible. How much damage can they do? Wonder if big spines need to be removed before offering to tortoises at Zoo.

2:05 pm Stinging becomes rather uncomfortable. Remove it from my pocket, wrap it in a leaf, and slip it into an outside pocket. I can’t wait to get it home.

2:06 pm My finger is stinging. I can barely see the tiny spine embedded in my fingertip. Wow, this plant is good at defense! I scrape the spine away with a fingernail.

2:06:10 om Spine becomes embedded in the other finger. Good grief! I remove it and carefully wipe it on the ground.

2:08 pm Calf begins to sting as tiny spines are dislodged and work their way through my pants and down my leg. Feel like I am being eaten by fire ants. Check to make sure cactus bit is still nestled in its leaf wrapping.

2:09 pm Dislodge spines from my finger tips with more energy than is absolutely necessary. High-tail it back to car.

2:30 pm Remove cactus bit from pocket and look for something, anything, to wrap it in to get it home. Find box to throw it in. That should keep it safe.

2:31 pm Attempt to scrape spines from fingers and from legs. I vaguely wonder if any of these will penetrate my skin, travel through my bloodstream, and kill me dead. That would be bad.

3:00 pm Arrive home, carefully unwrap cactus bit without touching it and dump it in a pot of soil. Warn kids not to even look in its direction for the rest of their lives. Wash hands in hopes of removing remaining spines. Wonder why I didn’t just buy a potted prickly pear.

10:30 pm Undress for shower and realize that my left leg is still riddled with spines. Remove them to the best of my ability. Leg now looks like a golf course for bedbugs. Throw pants in wash to get rid of any remaining spines.

10:40 pm Remove spines that have relodged in fingertips.

7:00 am Take clean pair of jeans from closet and put them on.

7:01 am Remove pants to dislodge new spines that have somehow become embedded in my leg. When will this end?

Stupid cactus. It is the work of the devil. I hope it dies.

 

It’s A Phase, Right?

I am exhausted. Right now, every tiny thing turns into a senseless argument, even stuff that’s been part of the regular routine for the entire year. It’s a constant struggle to get things done. I don’t understand. My conversations go like this:

“Time to get up!”

“I don’t wanna!”

“Get up. Now”.

*screaming tantrum commences*

Or this:

“Here’s your lunch!”

“I’m not eating that.”

“You like carrots and broccoli. You love salad.”

“No. I want McDonald’s.”

“Forget it.”

*screaming tantrum commences*

Or even this:

“Time for walkies!”

“NO! I don’t wanna go!”

“C’mon! You love to go for walks!”

“No! I won’t!”

“Get up now!”

“NO! You can’t make me! I’m gonna sit here aaaallllll day long!”

“We’re going. Get up.”

*screaming tantrum commences*

I know logically that this phase will pass. One day, I will grow up and do the things that I know are good for me. One day.  But for now, don’t you tell me what to do!  Because I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!

I think I may need a time out, or a nap. They tell you about the Terrible Twos, but no one thinks to warn us about the Terrible Forties.

 

If the Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions…

I came home the other day and found a package on my doorstep. And it had my name on it. I hadn’t ordered anything, so it was completely unexpected. I checked the return address, and it was from one of my favorite people in the world. When it comes to surprise packages, I’m like a four year old. I ran inside (I did hold the door for my actual four year old, so I’m not totally thoughtless) and ripped into it. Turns out that the people I love know me and love me anyway.

It was a get-well package. I’m feeling better already.

And she said I don’t have to share. Which is good because I wasn’t going to. And now there’s no guilt.

I feel the love!

The road to hell  may be paved with good intentions, but it turns out that the road to recovery is paved with MoonPies.

 

It’s Not For Everyone, But It Rocked My World

I am always in search of the next great book. I found it. The best book I have read in 2013 (that’s the year, right? I’m a little out of sync.) Anyway, I’ve reviewed it over at sj’s place. Come over and take a peek. Please? It would make me so happy!

 

Innocence Lost

I went to the hospital last week. It was horrible. The emotional scars may never heal.

It wasn’t the doctors, though they did get my diet orders mixed up. Carbs are essential for managing my condition. When I started to have a flare-up, my personal doctor asked me to take in about 80-120 grams of carbs per meal. That’s a loaf of French bread, folks. I love my doctor. But the hospital team got my condition confused with a related one and had me on a diabetic diet. I had to choose between a muffin or a glass of juice. They did get it straightened out within a couple of days, so no harm no foul. And in the meantime my peeps kept sneaking me in stuff to keep me from dying. The doctors weren’t the issue.

The food wasn’t bad, either. “Not bad” doesn’t actually imply “good,” but I could eat it for the most part. Eventually they gave up trying to calculate carbs and just sent icky vanilla Ensure shakes on every tray. I am now using them as bowling pins. But the food didn’t ruin me forever.

The nurses were amazing. And the CNAs. They have to do some pretty awful and uncomfortable jobs in the course of their day, but they were always pleasant and accommodating and tried to help maintain my dignity. I didn’t know for three days that there were no sodas available on the floor because every time I asked my nurse for a Coke, one magical, lifesaving beverage appeared. With a smile. They made my stay bearable. Hug a nurse or CNA today. I really mean that.

The television was the problem. I knew I was a goner when we were admitted through the ER and were trapped in a room with cable television. My doctor had called ahead to get treatment set up, but it was still a lot of hurry up and wait. The TV was stuck on ESPN. The announcers continually blabbed on about NFL drafts. Which wouldn’t happen for another eight hours. Grown men playing pretend. “What will happen if Team Z chooses this quarterback? And then this team chooses that guy over there? And then they’ll invite Roger Staubach (the only football player whose name I actually know) over for  a tea party, and they’ll all wear fancy hats?” I think that last part happened. Anyway, I thought Sports Center was bad. And then someone changed the channel.

They finished my treatment and were trying to decide if I was well enough to go home. Picture it. My husband had to leave to pick up kids from school. The medical team left to let me get some “rest.” I was flat on my back, unable to stand on my own. And the Kardashians came on the screen. No remote control. No emergency call button.

I have heard of Kardashians, of course. But I thought maybe they were a line of expensive shoes or handbags or something. I was taken quite by surprise. After watching those hate-filled Barbie dolls for five minutes, I was writhing in a whole new agony as my brain cells spontaneously combusted . I begged for an anti-emetic. And for someone to change the channel. Good grief! I had been forced to pee in front of five different people with my tushy hanging out of the back of my gown, and I still had more dignity about me than that sad family.

An angel of mercy did finally appear. Though she declined my fervent request to hit me over the head with a croquet mallet, she did at least change the channel. And I am grateful. But I will never be the same.

 

*** I couldn’t bring myself to include any images of Kardashians. Their dead, haunted eyes give me the willies. If you’ve never heard of them, count yourself lucky. Or just Google them.

 

Now Where Did I Put My Groove?

I just got back from the weirdest spa. I think it was a spa. I had a nice, quiet room and an entire staff at my beck and call. I even had cable television, including a special station called “Hand Washing to Avoid Infection.”. I highly recommend the acupuncture. One needle stick, and I was out for hours. I was a little surprised at how often they asked for a urine sample or poked around for my blood, and they woke me at all hours to check my blood pressure. There were never any mints on my pillow, either. Maybe the occasional alcohol wipe or specimen cup, but whatever. Got to take the bad with the good, right? And at least this time they didn’t give me a baby when I left.

So now I’m home. Yay. I am slowly getting back into the swing of things. Yesterday, my husband took me for a car-ride, which perked me right up and confirmed my long-held suspicion that I am part golden retriever. I am no longer taking meds that restrict my ability to drive, so in theory, I am good to go. So for the first time in two weeks, I am alone with Squish. And I am terrified.

It seemed like a good idea. I can safely operate heavy machinery, after all, so how much more trouble can it be to keep up with a four year old? Quite a bit more, as it turns out. I’ll take the heavy machinery. It’s easier to win an argument with a belt sander than with a preschooler, and table saws come with an off-switch. Pray for me. I did not think this through.

Yeah, he’s laying on the back of the couch. Because why not. He’ll be good, right?