It’s better if there’s no photographic evidence, though. It’s tough to enjoy the loot from prison.

***disclaimer***

No cousins were harmed in the creation of this blog post. The official stance of Becoming Cliche and all its subsidiaries is “Hug your cousins. Don’t drown them.”

In the rosemary. Four of them.

Ficus/alligator plant

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The big ficus

In the butterfly bush, bold as brass.

And since I loaded the pictures into the computer, four more have popped up in the dracaena. Did I plant tomatoes this year? I did not. I have poor luck with this particular fruit, as some of you may recall, and I didn’t see the point in having my heart broken yet again. But here they are. Keep in mind, these plants call home a deck that is about 25 feet off the ground, and all but one has been in the same pot for over a year. Squish and the Padawan wouldn’t touch a tomato with a 10-foot pole, and the Princess of Darkness is just as bumfuzzled as I am.

Is there such a thing as a tomato fairy? And do they visit when you’ve been good, or when you’ve been bad?

Tune in next week when we ask “If spell-check thinks we can’t be bumfuzzled, are we bedazzlement or Fuzzbusters?”

Seriously? Bedazzlement? I am sad. I cannot live in a world where this is a suggested word.

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Don’t forget to visit this post to suggest names for the baby tortoises! If your name is chosen, you could win!

It’s not as if I feed camels everyday. I don’t. They’re on the other side of the zoo from where I work, and I rarely venture that far in a day’s volunteering. But there it is. In the console, waiting to make some camel very happy. Or very sick. That stuff has been in there for at least a year.

The biggest why comes not from the fact that camel food appeared in my car. That would be like asking why there are rocks in my dryer. Duh.  The real question is why it’s still there. My husband cleans out my car all the time. “What a sweetie,” you might say. And he is. But not when it comes to my car. He has very specific ideas about what is allowed to stay in my car and what is not.

Items on the unacceptable list include but are not limited to:

Car books. You know what I’m talking about. Books we keep in the car so we have something to read in the car line at school, etc. They’re too good to throw away, not good enough to devote any real time to.

Napkins. Am I the only parent who stashes fast food napkins in the console for emergencies? Where else am I going to put the boogie that Squish sweetly wipes on my sleeve? I’ve been forced to get creative.

Emergency stash of feminine hygiene products. A napkin is a napkin, no matter how sanitary. I assume these are like kryptonite and must be removed from the little drawer under the passenger’s side seat before it is safe for a guy to drive the car.

The sign with my son’s name on it that allows me to retrieve the kid from school when I am forced to drive.

Any CD by The Wiggles. He may have a point with that one.

Extra pair of shoes for Squish. Seriously. You never know when a sandal is going to go flying out the window break.

Reusable bags. To be perfectly truthful, these are not removed from the car. They are locked neatly in the trunk, so I think they’ve been left behind.

Sunscreen. He might be trying to kill me.

Items that are apparently deemed worthy to stay include:

Any CD by REM. Except for the ones that mysteriously disappear and later turn up in his car.

Camel food.

The only question remaining is why I have not removed it myself. And that’s an easy one. I rarely see it. The bag is usually buried under clean napkins. Maybe I’m not perfect, either.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever found in your car?

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Just a few months ago, they were exploding out of their egg shells. Time flies.

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Getting a first bath

And now they’re ready to move on to bigger and better things.

Here’s the fun part. I have picked out a pair of them that I am hoping to write about. At least in blog posts, but possibly a series of children’s books. And here’s where the contest comes in. They need names. Really cool ones.

Taking a sunbath and having some breakfast. Will they be Moon Pie and Air Mail forever?

Send me your suggestions. I’ll narrow it down to a few of my favorites, and readers will get to vote. The person(s) who submitted the two names that are ultimately selected will win a prize. I have two ideas for prizes at the moment. Neither involves shipping a live animal, but they’ll be cool.

Here’s what you need to know:

Enter by submitting your suggestions in the comments box. One pair of names per comment, but you can suggest more than one pair of names.

Gender-neutral names are preferable. The tortoises were incubated as females, but sometimes surprises happen. If they’re creative and awesome enough, though, I’ll definitely consider gender specific names.

Beware of copyright infringement. These names will be used publicly, so I’ll be skipping over Edward/Bella, Sheldon/whoever the hot girl he’s supposed to be in love with, etc.

Think outside the box. Clever and cute will win me any day. I once owned a red-foot (no, not THAT kind of red-foot, sj! A red-footed tortoise) I named Rigger Tortoise.

Be appropriate. These are names my kids will be reading. And my mom.

The finalists will not be chosen by a robo-number-picker-thingy. The finalists will be chosen by me. So wow me! Knock my non-existent socks off! (it’s Chaco season, you know).

Finalists will be posted for voting on June 1. Or somewhere thereabouts. Don’t hold me to the specific date in case I’m getting my hair done or something. When finalists have been posted, the contest will be closed at that point to new submissions.

International entries are permitted. I may have to change the final prize at the end if someone outside the US wins, due to cost of shipping. But you’ll get something awesome.

I reserve the right to:

Lose my mind, thereby rendering contest null and void.

End submissions early or late. Or whatever.

Dye my hair purple. Just because. I told you I might get my hair done.

End the contest without a winner because Squish wants to stick with the names “Moon Pie” and “Air Mail.”

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So there you have it! So easy! Now get to suggesting!

We opted to grow our cabbage organically. More because I can’t justify the cost of a bottle of Sevin dust for a single cabbage than because I’m worried about the kids growing a third arm from pesticides. Because it’s not like they’d eat it anyway. Maybe I should have sprung for the Sevin.

Here’s what our organic cabbage farm now looks like:

If Tim Burton had an organic cabbage farm, it would probably look like this.

And what’s this? Ah, yes. Destroying the entire plant was not quite enough. Whatever devoured the cabbage left their turds on the one leaf they didn’t actually eat.

That was thoughtful.

So I bought a card, but Squish and I also spent a morning making her one, cutting and pasting flowers and hearts. The Princess of Darkness carefully transcribed text as dictated by Squish ( Mom, if you’re reading this, that’s why it says “BEDX Nonnie.” ). Sticking it in the mail seemed too impersonal. And too late. Lacking the ability to turn back time, I decided we were going to hand-deliver as a surprise. There was definitely a surprise involved.

I got to my mom’s house and was a just a tiny bit relieved to see her car in the driveway. Because she is retired and actually has a life, so my odds of surprising her at home are never better than 50-50. So far, so good.

Squish and I went in the gate.  Squish wiggled through the tiny little maltese-size dog-door before I realized that the back door was actually locked, rendering me and my tiny tornado on opposite sides.  And I didn’t have my key. Awesome. I mentally calculated how much damage he could do before his Nonnie realized he was there and intercepted. But amazingly, the kid opened the door for me.

And I heard the tell-tale beep-beep-beep of her house alarm. Did I mention that I don’t know the code? Yeah. If I left now before the operator called, the police would come. More awesome. If I stuck around, I’d be standing in the house as the alarm went off. Lose-lose. I waited. The alarm went off. After what seemed an eternity, the operator’s voice sounded through the tele-pad. I gave her the password, which I did know. And which was useless. Without the numeric code, there was no way to shut off the alarm, and it would simply sound again until the police arrived. Did I already say awesome? Fun dilemmas for the morning:

With no pass code, the alarm would summon the police. Dressed in cut-off sweatpants and 15 year old t-shirt, I definitely looked a little shady.

I couldn’t call my mom and get her pass code because the phone lines are totally tied up with the alarm. And I don’t own a cellphone.

If I got arrested for breaking and entering, I would totally blow my chances of being elected PTA president. Wait. Go ahead and book me.

The operator gave me 10 minutes to get in touch with my mom. As she was signing off, that’s when I noticed it. My mom’s key ring. And her purse. And her cellphone. Items she would have needed if she were to leave the house. Things, scary things, started clicking. I don’t freak out easily, but I was close. I begged the operator to stay on the line as I searched the house.

I wandered through the house calling for her, wondering if I was going to find her unconscious. Or worse. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified that I couldn’t find her at all. I finally managed a phone call to my sister, who was just as clueless as I was as to our mother’s whereabouts. She gave me the numeric code, which at least took the police out of the picture.

Finally, after some frantic searching, I noticed some clues. A list of items to take to the hospital, and a page of dietary instructions. She was having a medical test and had left all of her things at home because someone else was taking her. My sister called a few minutes after the pieces clicked in my head and confirmed. My mom wasn’t dead after all. All’s well that ends well, right?

Lessons gleaned from this mess:

Surprise visits may end in surprises of the unpleasant sort.

If your mom tells you her pass code, pay attention. There may be a test later.

Always wear clean underwear in case you are in an accident. That has no direct application to the story other than it’s the kind of thing a mom would say, and it is a Mother’s Day post.

Oh, and Shop for Mother’s Day cards earlier and just stick them in the mail. You’re less likely to summon the police.

Thanks for not being dead, Mommy! Would you like a doughnut?

Look how tiny!

We discussed their hearty appetite, right? Yeah. Feed an Indian star tortoise well, and 7 weeks later, you get this:

Look! I can see myself! I’m pretty!

Yes, they’ve doubled in size, with no sign of slowing down. Impressive, no?

Wait! Don’t EAT the quarter! You might have a problem, little friend. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but…

Aldabra tortoise getting a spa treatment. At least that’s what we humans call wallowing in mud.

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The little Indian Star tortoises do more than tolerate being handled. They seem to enjoy it!

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I interrupted the ploughshare tortoises at dinnertime.

Note the little guy on the right has food hanging from its jaws. Eating is always a good sign that all is well.

Thirty seconds earlier:

And this? This makes my heart so full it hurts.

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Why the CLEAN clothes? You have a bed! And since when do you take naps?

MY CLEAN CLOTHES!