You Should See Me in a Crown

It’s been an eventful birth week. I saved two turtles, got my first crown, and Shea received her first covid vaccine! She was not as excited as I was, so I tried to sell it with perks: “According to some crazy on the people on the internet, you could become magnetic!”
“Mom, no.”
“Or become your very own wifi hotspot!”
“Mom. Stop. That’s not a thing.”
Xander then chimed in, “I can’t wait to get it! I really want magnetic blood!” Fingers crossed!

He was as long as my forearm!

Saturday, as we were driving to pick blackberries, I spotted a giant turtle in the road. “Oh no! There was a turtle! And you didn’t stop!” Justin offered to turn around, but I lamented that he was most likely dead, since 3 vehicles passed us. Justin turned around anyway, and it’s a good thing that he did, because I got to save him! Or her. I don’t know how you tell with turtles. The photo really doesn’t do it justice, but Justin was frantically beeping at me because “cars are coming, and I’m just parked in the road while you take pictures of some random turtle!”

My second turtle rescue happened without photo evidence. A little guy that fit in the palm of my hand was in the road during my dog walk yesterday. I was actually having an “aww, poor dead frog” moment when I realized there was a live turtle that definitely needed my assistance! Of course then my family ruined it when then told me I didn’t really save him, since I put him in the ditch closest to where he was. I was supposed to relocate him based on where he was headed. “I was going to bring him home to show everyone, and relocate him to Isbel, but I didn’t want to take him away from his friends and family.” Justin responded with, “I don’t think turtles work like that.” Sure, that’s what you think, until you relocate a baby 2 miles from his home and announce like the dentist in Nemo, “and I saved him!”

Back to Monday night. I picked up Korean food for dinner, which should’ve been a straightforward task. I just had to walk in and pick it up. But then the woman at the counter asked for my last 4. “Umm….” Panic “the last 4 of my phone number??” I received an eye roll and a yes, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember my phone number! In that moment, I stared at her like a deer in headlights, with Justin’s social, then my social, running through my head. “Wait—I know this. 706-…wait…882…wait…” it was an awkward 2 minutes as I ran through my brain’s Rolodex of every phone number that has ever been mine, or anyone related to me. I was even going to look up my phone number in my phone, but I couldn’t remember how to do that either! Do I call Justin and ask him to tell me?! This is painful. “OH! Wait! It’s…” and I remembered. She was not as impressed with my memory as I was. Please, laugh off this awkwardness. Nope, not even a grin. I also noticed a We’re Hiring sign, and while I would love to work at a Korean restaurant (can I just make kimchi? Teach me how to make everything), I decided that now probably wouldn’t be the best time to ask about it. “How would you like to hire the girl who can’t remember her own phone number!?” Also, I’m not looking to make that mistake again.

Tuesday was Crown Day. I broke a tooth on a peanut butter cup blizzard. Which seems strange, because I don’t know how one breaks a tooth on ice cream. But here we are. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I grind my teeth and am not always good about wearing my night guard. So, once I was good and numb, the dentist said, “we’re going to try and cram this entire massive contraption into your mouth.” I wished them the best of luck, and tried to open wider and wider and wider. “This isn’t working. I don’t think we can get it in.” That’s fine, because I don’t think I could breathe with a 3-in-1 bite block/tongue guard/suction contraption in there!

When I told Justin this part he said, “what the heck!? They didn’t care that it didn’t fit in my mouth! They just went ahead and crammed it in there anyway!” 
“Didn’t you feel like you were choking/dying?!” 
“YES!!!” And THAT is why you avoid military dentists at all cost (apologies to any military dentists out there, but Justin only ever has horror stories).

While I was waiting for my crown to bake, they temporarily moved me to the waiting room (an x-Ray machine repairman was there to fix the machine in the room I happened to be in, and it was beeping angrily–the machine, not the repairman. I didn’t hear him make any noises). I decided this would be the ideal time to apply chapstick….except that I couldn’t feel half of my face. And there was another human in the waiting room. “Act cool, you can do this,” I told myself, as I attempted to apply chapstick to my mouth when I wasn’t even sure I could locate it. He was most likely watching and thinking, “why is that woman putting chapstick on her chin??”

I was also reading Jenny Lawson’s book while I waited, and I was on the chapter full of awkward things people have done in public, so I was laughing to myself, which I was trying to stop, so it turned into me smiling like Jack Nicholson’s Joker, while crying. Stop it, eyes! Act normal!

By the end of the morning I was the proud owner of one Unbreakable Princess Birthday Crown—or whatever. Who’s no longer going to cut her tongue because she can’t leave her chipped broken tooth alone? This girl! But really, it’s just one more item in my mouth to worry about. I have had zero teeth emergencies in my life, and while I did chip the corner off a tooth that then required a crown, it was destined to happen eventually. That doesn’t stop me from constantly worrying that I will break a front tooth, knock out a filling, or who knows what. Laugh so hard my permanently cemented crown comes flying out and hits someone in the face? It probably can’t happen, but maybe it could. I don’t know. Weirder things have happened.

That Girl is Poisoned

Two weeks ago, as Justin and I were preparing to head up to bed, Nebula jumped onto the fence. As I made my way toward her, she shouted, “later suckers!” and headed off into the great beyond…or at least she would have shouted at me if she could, because Nebula is sassy.

Justin texted me the following morning (he gets up at 4am; nobody wants to be up that early): “Nebula is limping.” Of course she is. As I headed up to feed them, I saw her at the top of the stairs, but she disappeared before I got to her. I didn’t think much of it. Honestly, Nebula can be a drama queen, so maybe she was just limping for extra pity from Justin. A couple hours later, Xander announced that she was asleep in his chair. Perfect. She’s alive. And she’s asleep.

The day got away from me, and I didn’t give much thought to Nebula and her limping…until around 4pm, when I went in to check on her. And her leg was noticeably swollen.

Well, that leg is huge. So of course I call the vet, only to have their dud vet tech answer (she’s great at her job, she just doesn’t know how to interact with humans). I explained the situation and she told me they couldn’t get me in until Monday, but said, “you should probably find an emergency vet to take her to.” Ughh, that sounds like extra drama for a fat leg. I located a nearby emergency vet, but their website said they were only seeing critical patients. This isn’t critical; this is a fat leg.

I called back (and a more human-friendly receptionist answered). “I just called, because my cat is limping and her leg is swollen. Since the local emergency vet is only seeing critical, can I just go ahead and make an appointment for Monday?” Then the receptionist said, “if it were my cat, I wouldn’t wait until Monday. It could be broken…or she could’ve been bit by a snake.” Oh my glob, did you seriously just say that?! She recommended that I take her to the Auburn Veterinary School, and gave me their number. After calling, I had to catch an angry cat and get her into a crate. If you’ve never tried to put a cat in a crate, you’re missing out on a task that could easily be an olympic event. As an added degree of difficulty, Nebula is the pack leader of the Tailless Trio, with the other two members being 130lbs of boxers, and they were being super nosy. Rufus tried to put his giant boulder head into the cat carrier, which isn’t even possible. But there was a high level of concern.

Seventy-five minutes of psychotic rush hour drivers, and listening to Nebula pitifully cry her pleas. “Set me free. I don’t belong in here. I’m fine, really.” I fell for none of it.

At Auburn, the baby vet student came out to get a history. “And which leg is it?”
“The orange one – I mean, the front left.” This makes more sense if you know I’m terrible with left and right…and also if you can see the cat in question. But she couldn’t see Nebula, so my response just seemed foolish, I’m sure.

I sat in the parking lot waiting…and waiting…and waiting. My Mom texted me, telling me to lock my doors and not get out of my car. Ok, Auburn is a safe little college town. Besides, I’m sure if any predator is coming to Auburn to find their victim, they’re looking for a 20-something college student…not a nearly 40 mom.

I had lots of time to think about what could’ve possibly happened. Since she was acting fine, there was no way it was a snake bite. Also, she had no visible wounds, so obviously she didn’t get into a fight with anyone. Which only left one viable scenario:

Nebula obviously got picked up by a hawk, who didn’t know what he got himself into. She clawed her way loose, and fell to Earth, breaking her leg. It was really the only possibility that made sense.

After an hour, the vet called. “Her leg is noticeably swollen, but she won’t let me get anywhere near it without hissing. The only way I will be able to look at it, is if I sedate her.” Yes, yes, this makes sense. If you get anywhere near Nebula and it’s not on her terms, she will hiss at you. And you will most likely die.

Another hour passed. More patients were showing up, and obviously since it’s an emergency clinic, they deal with the really seriously patients first. Ms Dropped-From-50ft-by-a-Hawk was not high priority. The vet called again: “we sedated her, but she’s still hissing and won’t let me near her. So we have to give her more.” Lady, she weighs 9lbs. Just hold her down and look at her leg, so we can throw a cast on it and I can be on my way!

The upside to spending a random Thursday night in the parking lot at the vet is that there is some great people-watching, along with guessing what everyone is there for. There was a boxer who had to be brought in on a stretcher (and of course I have a huge spot in my heart for sloppy mouthed block heads). An older lady refused to follow the stay in your vehicle rule, and was wandering around at the entrance holding a small dog…or a ferret. Whatever it was, at that hour I can only assume that he was running an animal meth lab and something went wrong. The last of the “honorable mentions” was a large dog that took 3 humans (whose car bragged Creek Life) to control, wearing a muzzle, while the vet student held onto a backup Hannibal Lector cage muzzle – I can’t even imagine what he got into that late at night that required a bedtime visit to the ER.

Finally, after 10pm (which is really 11pm, since Auburn is Central and we live in Eastern, and it’s well past my bedtime), the vet called once more. “We finally got her sedated enough that I was able to fully manipulate the leg. We shaved it, and found that she was bit by a snake.” I’m thinking it’s game over. It’s been 24 hours since she set out into the wilderness to do whatever it is she does when she sneaks out at night. The vet continued, “so we gave her antibiotics, and are sending her home with medicine for pain.” Wait. That’s it??

When the vet student brought Nebula back, I asked, “there’s no worry about venom or anything?” And she blew my mind: “if this had been a dog, it would’ve been a huge deal, and most likely life threatening. But for some reason with cats, they’re usually fine.” She then warned that because Nebula was double-sedated, she would probably be extra sleepy for a few hours.

Thirty minutes into our drive home she came back around and started pitifully crying again. So much for hours of sleepy sedated mini-kitty.

When we finally got home, Nebula was back to her sassy self, full of hiss and spit. I set her free, and discovered that the shave job left Nebula with catpris. She looks like she rolled up the sleeve of her puffy sweater. And below it was this skinny little chicken leg. Justin said, “can you imagine how tiny she would be without hair?!” Yeah, Justin! Let’s just shave her and see! Except, I don’t want to die.

That Saturday, while Justin and I were sitting around being lazy, I said, “I still can’t believe that sassy broad got bit by a snake!”
“Seriously?? You can’t??”
“Justin, the only scenario that made sense was that she got into an air battle with a hawk, and broke her leg. So obviously between the two choices, snake bite is slightly more believable.”

I’m still waiting for her to come home, wearing a dead snake like a scarf. Hopefully she’s learned her lesson, but more likely, she’s out for revenge. Also, I think she might be venomous now, so if you see Nebula, keep your distance.

With a Little Help from a Stranger

I’ve started running again—or at least, I have started working toward running again. My calves and my tibialis anterior are swollen and angry. I’m almost definitely doing everything wrong.

Sunday night I asked Justin a most serious question: “the whole time you’re running, is your brain just telling you to stop? Like, how do you stop your brain from trying to convince you to stop running??”

“What?? None of that is happening. I’m just thinking 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. The entire time.”

“That’s it?! Oh my gosh, at about :30 in, all I’m thinking is, ‘that’s enough. You can stop now. This wasn’t a smart idea to begin with. You gave it your all. How long has it been? :45?! There’s no way I can keep doing this.’ And on and on, until I eventually give in and stop.”

Another day, another run. I already wasn’t feeling it, but I know me: if I skip one day, that’ll be the end of this…again.

It started just like any other run: 2 minutes of walking, and then away I go. As usual, nothing was really going on. There was a woman walking her dog, and a little grandma walking to the end of the street…with mail??

Suddenly, I was being flagged down. “Excuse me! Can you help me??” This little Italian grandma, in a raccoon sweater was standing in the road, with papers and an iPhone. “Can you help me make a phone call? My daughter left me directions, but I do not know how to make this work. And my real phone isn’t working, so my daughter told me I have to call this number, but it won’t let me make a phone call.”

Psh. Between my two moms, I am a professional when it comes to assisting with what some might consider easy. Making an actual phone call might be the easiest task I have ever been asked to assist with.

“She said type this number in. And then look!? I can’t make a phone call! There’s no keypad! Where do I type in the numbers.”

Easy grandma, one step at a time. I point to the phone icon, and explain she has to click this. “Oh! Ok, now this is the number. I cannot really read it.” As I was about to type the number in, I realized she had obviously made it to this step at least 3 times. The long line of numbers across the phone was proof of that. I deleted, deleted, deleted, until I got down to one phone number.

“Ok. That’s the number—now you just press this button.” I point to it, and let her complete the final step (it’s like with kids—you want them to leave feeling like they accomplished big things). We hit a brick wall.

“See?! It will not let me call! It just says this!” I honestly don’t know what she did, but she lost her button pressing privileges. I backtracked and hit the button, and you would’ve thought Bob Barker just announced that she was the next contestant on The Price is Right!

I continued on my run, having only made it one minute into the damn thing when I got flagged down. For the rest of my run, my brain switched between, “oh my god this is terrible,” and “what the hell was that little old lady going to do if I didn’t run by?? Do you think she was going to flag down a car? Do you think she was going to cross the street and start ringing doorbells until someone answered and helped her with the most impossible task of using an iPhone to make a phone call?!”

On my way back, she was no longer standing at the road, so I’m guessing she managed to contact the phone company.

Word of advice to any children/grandchildren: if you need to assist someone with using a smart phone for the first time in their entire life, do not just write directions on a piece of paper and think they’ll be able to follow along. No matter how large you write the words, and no matter how simple the task is for you, this will most likely be the most difficult task they have to complete all day. Remember: this is the generation that left their VCRs blinking 12:00, because no one could figure out how to set them. They deserve patience and understanding.

I’m adding “patiently assists seniors with iPhone issues” to the skills section of my résumé.

Tell Me Why You Cry

Ok, I’ll tell you.

Eight years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s Christmas cactus. It has moved from New York to Kentucky, and then on to Alabama. This sucker is pretty darn big. And glorious.

The first bloom, in my care.

A few weeks ago, Justin pointed out that it was looking……not great. It was wilty and sad. I shrugged it off–we’ve been through hard times before, and there have been some segment losses along the way, but it always turns out ok in the end.

Except, it wasn’t turning around.

I thought maybe it needed a change of scenery. It has lived by our front door for over a year. Maybe it wanted more direct sunlight??

Entryway home – Before things got bad.

I swapped it out with another Christmas cactus, one I got 2 years ago on sale after Christmas. That one was happy; it was budding! Maybe this old broad just needed a vacation.

It simply wasn’t perking up. This morning I climbed up on a chair to see what was going on in there. I gently picked up one limb, and…it broke off! Not only did it break off, but it was slimy and smelled. What is going on here!?!? I picked up another limb, and this one oozed…and then fell off. I killed it!!!

Not only did I kill it, but what’s remaining looks like Danny DeVito!

See the DeVito resemblance?!

By this point, I was panicking and crying. This is so ridiculous, why am I crying over a damn plant!?

Before you start thinking these tears are because I had some amazing relationship with my grandmother, let me just stop you there. We were not close. In fact, my Mom was one of the Disowned Children. I didn’t see my grandparents from before my teen years, until I was in my 20s. I really just loved the plant, and I loved the idea that it was almost as old as me. The fact that it had been my grandmother’s was more just a neat plant history tidbit. Christmas Cactus: The Early Years.

Now it has root rot, and this is so 2020, it hurts.

To top it all off, as I was driving to pick up supplies, in an attempt to revive the damn thing, I passed Xander’s school and instantly remembered that today was picture day! And I didn’t bring him at 8:45 for pictures!!!

So now I have a dying cactus that looks strangely like Danny DeVito, a son who who’t get school photos this year, and I found out I didn’t get the job I applied for two years ago!

Wait. Stop. What?!

I received two email notifications this morning, about an aquatics job I applied for in 2018. One informed me that I am unqualified and ineligible; the next informed me that I am qualified…and ineligible. I honestly don’t know what is happening at this point. Did someone wake up this morning and decide it was time to clean out their inbox, because believe me, I figured out some time in the beginning of 2019 that I obviously didn’t get the job. So, that’s for the weird emails with conflicting informations. I wouldn’t have taken the job anyway.

Then, after picking up the supplies I need to hopefully salvage some portion of this poor, old ass cactus, I went grocery shopping at Aldi…where multiple people were buying mass quantities of eggs. Fifteen dozen, 20 dozen, and thirty-four dozen!!! Is there some crazy Thanksgiving tradition that I’m unaware of, that requires hundreds of eggs (to be fair, the woman who announced, “I have 34” dozen eggs also had about 15 jugs of hand soap. So maybe she’s just doomsday prepping)?!

So now I’ve killed my ancient cactus, missed picture day, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with hundreds of eggs, I didn’t get a job I applied for two years ago. Oh! And I dressed for cold weather (since it’s been in the low 60s all week, and it was 80º! I was wandering around in the world, in a fleece turtleneck thing, that I couldn’t take off, because I decided it would be smart to wear a tank top that should only ever be worn as an undershirt. Which I was. But it left me with zero options for removing layers.

This day! This year!

A happier time.

Enjoy my glorious Christmas cactus, back when it was beautiful. I’m going to try to save what’s left of it.

Grandma Got The Covid From Her Grandkids

True confessions: I hate that “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” song. It’s obnoxious. However, if people continue to be selfish, we’ll get a whole new parody, Covid-style.

What I am really having a hard time with, is the fact that a majority of these people have never missed a single family holiday get-together. So, as a person who hasn’t had Thanksgiving with family (beyond my husband and kids) since 2014, I am here to tell you, you will survive.

In 15 years, Justin and I have made it home for one Thanksgiving, back in 2006, before our wedding. In 15 years, we have made it home for 7 Christmases (ok, I managed to make it home for 10, but Justin doesn’t always have the luxury of just flying home). Ask any military family, and they can attest: you will survive.

And maybe you’re in the mindset, “it won’t get me.” Well, that is great for you, and I’m proud of your ability to stay positive…or, negative?? Either way, how much of a jerk will you feel like, if your need to spend the holidays with your relatives, ends up with a senior member of your family sick, or worse, dead? Will it have been worth it??

So, this holiday season, since so many people out there love to throw around the phrase “support our troops,” let’s play a game. Let’s all pretend we’re too far away to make it home for Thanksgiving, or Christmas. Let’s act like the soldiers stationed overseas, who don’t have the luxury of selfishly asking, “should I risk killing grandma??” We can all play soldier and spend one holiday season away from our immunocompromised relatives. If hundreds of thousands of military families stationed around the globe can do it year after year, I’m pretty sure you can suffer through this one.