Tag: Random

Just a bunch of squirrelly everywhere nonsense.

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.

Walking Into Spider-Friends

I foolishly allowed myself to give in to temptation today. Yes, I attempted not one, but two social media debates today. Hi, I’m Sammi Steeves, and I’m an addict.

I don’t even know why I allow myself to get caught up in these things. First and foremost, I love a good debate. My best friend can attest, as she has seen her husband and me battle it out well into the night. However, there is a difference between a debate, and just repeatedly slamming your head against concrete…which is what “debating” on social media usually gets me.

So, while I allow my blood to stop boiling, and let my blood pressure drop below the we’re all going to die level, let’s discuss spiders.

I know. What?! I’ve lost it…possibly.

Yesterday morning went like most. I woke up to Rufus grumbling and bringing me pants (which actually belonged to me AND weren’t sweaty and gross, so we’re making progress on that front). I went downstairs, and opened the garage to feed the–spider?!

When you live in the south, you have to pick and choose what terrifies you. Spiders now fall into two categories: Spiders that might want to kill you, and spiders that can be my friends. Wolf spiders fall into the “friends” category……most of the time.

This friendly neighborhood spider-friend was a little more than I was willing to handle at 5:30 in the morning. I am not exaggerating when I say he would have filled the entire palm of my hand, and I have pretty decent sized hands!

I have concerns…also, I brought you this sock I found. I believe you wore it to mow the lawn.

I froze. I looked at him (or her–how do you even know); it looked at me. I looked at the container of dog food, and then back at Rufus, who was looking extra concerned about the breakfast delay (although honestly, he always looks concerned). Rather than stepping past the giant wolf spider that just whispered to me, “I could eat you and no one would ever know,” I quickly reached over him, grabbed the dog food container, and slammed the garage door as he ran full speed at me!!! I nearly died. The door shut just as he reached the doorway. Maybe he was rabid, because I have never seen them run directly at a human. Hey Siri, can wolf spiders contract rabies??

With dogs fed, and my heart rate back down to normal (well, normal for me–it’s rather high, for no reason other than it likes to see me sweat), I decided that yoga was cancelled for the day. Or maybe for life. I can’t go back out there. Also, Someone better tell the cats that I can never feed them again.

No. I am better than this! I have dealt with Black Widows with more courage than this.

Shea came down for breakfast, and I tried to sucker her into feeding the cats. But, I opened with, “there’s a giant wolf spider in the garage…want to feed the cats??” She turned down that winning opportunity.

I’m not kidding, wolf spiders are all massive. But this was the Godzilla of wolf spiders. Clifford the Big Giant Wolf Spider. Arachnis Deathicus. And again, I conquered my fear of spiders a decade ago! Just ask the jumping spider who visits the living room every afternoon. We’re cool. We coexist. But this particular individual spider was just too big.

When I faced my fears and opened the garage door to feed the cats, he ran under a shelf. Since 7am yesterday, I have been praying to the spider gods every time I go into the garage: please don’t let him run out and touch my feet.

Spider Yoga is not something I am yet prepared to attempt. Thanks, Mr Wolf, you broke me.

Take Me to Court

For the past year, Justin and I have enjoyed multiple Friday morning dates. These aren’t breakfast dates, or movie dates. Oh no–these are court dates.

Let the record show that we are not criminals. We are there as witnesses. Or victims. Whatever you want to call us. It doesn’t really matter why we’re there (I mean, it matters to us, and someday when this is all over, I will be happy to share). The point is, we’re there.

It was exactly one year ago today that I got to sit in front of a Grand Jury (the grandest), and tell them my tale. While it was a relatively uneventful visit, the next three would not disappoint.

In January, we had our very first date in traffic court, which you would think would be for traffic offenses. Oh no, not at all! Justin and I waited for the court room to open, and we were instructed to stand against the wall. Suddenly, a line of prisoner, chained together, were being escorted into the court room. How many traffic stops end in arrests?!

The final prisoner was brought in alone, wearing a Hannibal Lector mask. The officers escorting him kept telling everyone to move back…what in the world is happening!? This kid weighed a solid 85lbs–what could he have possibly done (the answer–resisting arrest, on meth charges, among other things)!? This date is about to get super exciting!

Justin and I love checking the Russell County Mugshots; this was turning out to be Russell County Mugshots in real time! Most of them were what we expected–possession of meth, possession of a controlled substance, public intoxication. And then the judge read the next offense: discharging a weapon into an occupied vehicle. Ooh, can we get some back story?!
The judge said, “remember at the beginning when I said you can request a lawyer? You are definitely going to want to fill out that paperwork when you get back to jail.”

Justin and I also got a kick out of the Judge’s reactions to people. One young lady (from the “I came from prison” side) was there for drug possession. He asked her how she wanted to plead. “Um, guilty??” He responded, “are you sure about that? This is your first offense, and it’s a misdemeanor. I’m going to enter a not guilty plea, and you can talk to a lawyer about taking drug classes.”

We sat through two hours of drug charges, resisting arrest chargers, and all sorts of other charges. Justin and I were sitting in shock and awe the entire time. “Justin, I’m coming here every Friday! This is better than Dateline!”

The judge asked, “is there anyone whose name I didn’t call?” I stood up, told him who I was and explained our situation. The assistant district attorney said, “oh–that case was continued. You’ll get another subpoena to return February 14th.”

Valentine’s Day Court Date it is! This time. the prisoner chain ended with a young woman sobbing. Absolutely bawling. We were super excited to find out what she did. Whatever it was, she was in a great state of shock, which is how I would be if I had spent the night in jail. When her name was called, the judge said they would be pushing her case until last–oh shoot (three days later, when the mugshots were uploaded, we found out what she was there for: Attempted Murder. Yup, I’d be crying too).

Once again, we waited and waited. The criminals were less criminally the second go-round, but we did get a kick out of a couple who had pressed charges on their neighbor, for supposedly allowing his dogs to jump on and scratch their car.
Judge: “Do you have proof?”
“I have these pictures of the scratches.”
“How do I know his dogs made these scratches??”
Then the man’s Korean wife started yelling about how she saw it. The judge asked her three times to stop interrupting, and to stop talking out of turn. Then she was made to stand in the back. Then she was told to stand outside, and they would allow her back in when they were ready to hear her. Older Korean dependents are my favorite style of Army wife. The sass is intense, the accent is thick, and the inability to listen is expected.
Also, their case was thrown out, because even Justin and I knew it sounded like nonsense.

On this second date, I also made a court friend–the man next to me was a witness in a dog attack case. His neighbor on multiple occasions had set his dog out to attack children on the street. The man said, “he’s a racist.” He also told me he’d heard the judge was super strict. Well, it’s only my second time watching the man in action, but he seems like a super fair gentleman. But I’m not a criminal. Maybe the criminals see him in a different light.

Once again, we wait. And wait. This time, the correct name is called, but then the judge mumbles something and moves on. I stood up: “excuse me sir, I’m a witness in that case.”
“Come up here.”
Can I said I’d rather not? Why do I feel like I’m getting called to the principal’s office? He continues: “this case was continued,” and I sighed. We knew it was headed in that direction, when we looked around the court room and didn’t see the police officer we expected to see.

That’s fine! We’ll be back!

……except that we couldn’t, because of Covid. I had the next court date, which would have been March 23rd. I wasn’t going to be subpoenaed to testify at that one–just wanted to be a fly on the wall and see how it went down. But it didn’t get to go anywhere, because the world came to a halt.

I was beginning to think there would never be an end to this. Or maybe that it would be forgotten (which I would not be ok with). Imagine my surprise when a sheriff knocked on my door and delivered yet another subpoena. We’re so popular.

Today was the big day. And it would be the final day, since the judge told me back on Valentine’s Day that there would be no more extensions. Justin was once again unimpressed with needing to go back. He can’t remember things that happened last month, so how anyone expects him to stand up and tell them what happened nearly 18 months ago is beyond me. But that’s why I’m there–to do the talking. He’s just there to look pretty.

Upon entering the courthouse, Justin was stopped by the security guard. “I can’t allow you in. You’re wearing shorts.”
He’s wearing golf shorts. “Excuse me?”
“You’re wearing shorts. What are you here for?”
“To testify.”
“Go run down to the dollar store and get yourself some sweatpants.”

Wait wait wait. He cannot go to court in his golf shorts, but he can show up in sweatpants? What kind of dress code is this!? I told Justin to just go to work, and I would be the big kid and do this date solo-style.

So, golf shorts are not allowed. Because the dress code says so. But the next person to walk into the court room behind me was a man wearing Pornstar joggers. And for those of you who were not teens in the 90s, Pornstar is a brand that often has the silhouette of 2 naked ladies sitting back to back. So, this man showed up to court in joggers with 100 ladies down the sides of his pants. Also, he had 6 inches of camouflage underwear hanging out when he sat down. I’m pretty sure “No visible underwear” is also on the dress code. As well as t-shirts, and 50% of the men in there were wearing their fanciest dirty t-shirts. Justin’s visible calves were more than the courtroom would be able to handle.

With Coronapocalypse policies still in full effect, the prisoners weren’t brought to court, but instead did their stuff through video conference. Today’s life lesson came when a man was charged with felony possession of marijuana. He asked why it was a felony, and the judge said, “you had synthetic marijuana–that is a felony. You would’ve been better off with the real deal.” This could be an educational show on PBS! I learn so much at traffic court!

The proper name was called yet again, and I told him I was a witness: “do you see the person here?”
“Sir, I don’t even know what they look like.”
And just like that, I was told that I would be receiving a subpoena to come back. Justin will probably never come with me again, which is fine–we wouldn’t have even been able to sit next to each other, and what’s the fun in enjoying Real Time Mugshots, if you can’t gossip with your husband while people are being sentenced!?