Can You Hear Me Now?

There are certain dangers associated with cell phones,

On the way to Florida a few months ago, my teenage daughter went to use the airplane facilities, and as she hit the flush button, she realized that clunk she’d heard a few seconds earlier wasn’t the passing of the crayons she’d eaten in first grade, but was actually her cell phone. It had fallen from her back pocket into the toilet and had been sucked into the bright blue world of chemical sanitation with the touch of a finger.

I had a near miss myself, the other night. In my sprint to the throne room (literal translation—potty emergency), I didn’t recall that my phone was in my back pocket until I heard the thud as it hit the ground. Better a thud than a splash, I say. Being a mature adult (literal translation—I forget things really quickly) by the time I finished, I forgot the phone had fallen and walked away.

The next day, when I went to get my phone from the charger, the cord was there but the phone was MIA. I couldn’t even call it to find it, because having spent 5 ½ hours on it the day before with a client, it was dead—the phone, not the client.

Fortunately for me, I drink a gallon of water a day (plus a wee bit of Diet Coke) so I am a Frequent Flyer on the Porcelain Express. Lo and behold, behind the toilet, next to a hair ball the size of Rhode Island, lay the phone, oblivious to the unsanitary conditions in which it dwelt.

Sometimes you’re better off dead—if you’re a cell phone in a back pocket.

Terri, Terri, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

I wanted a garden this year. Not just a few tomato plants fighting the morning glory at the side of the house where all the snakes vacation—but a real garden.

My husband complied. Armed with scrap wood, his trusty drill and a 14-year old son with ADHD, he built a bevy of beautiful garden boxes. If three can be considered a bevy. The box-buildin’ is a totally different story, however.

I go out to check my seedlings on a semi-regular basis. We have some of the usual problems—like the soak-hoses splitting, causing a flood, and washing away half of the dirt and many, many sproutless seeds. Oh, and forgetting to water it for several days at a time—luckily June was a rainy month this year.

But lo and behold! Things are growing! The tomatoes are doing great and so are the other crops-to-be such as peppers (three kinds—which I hate) and the cantaloupe and the watermelon. Only one of the cucumber plants survived, sniff.

I eagerly watched the sprouts—the cauliflower is pathetic with only two plants from the whole package of seeds. But the broccoli! I AM A BROCCOLI-GROWING WONDER! I watched the blossoms and eagerly anticipated the fresh fruit—I mean vegetables. Whatever—I’m excited!

It has been a few days since I checked on my precious leafy stalks. Was I ever surprised by what I found. LOOK AT THE BOUNTEOUS BROCCOLI! It’s a proliferous cruciferous, indeed.



Now look at broccoli stripped of its lush leaves:





Yep. I figured out the broccoli were really radishes. I took a taste of one. Like a middle-aged hag weeding in July and discovering her beloved broccoli were radishes—they were hot, tough, and bitter.

I’ve been wondering where the radishes were planted. What other surprises will I reap, since I can't remember or recognize what I've sown...

WHAT THE...?

My three-year old granddaughter has a new catchphrase. She learned it from her mother, who refrains from swearing (most of the time). When something surprises her, shocks her, or she just can’t figure it out, she exclaims loudly, “WHAT THE…?”

Her two-year old friend is a little more daring. When he heard the aforementioned “WHAT THE…?” he restated it in a more complete form, “WHAT THE HECK?”

They thought it was so funny they practically blew their macaroni and cheese out through their little noses.

Which you may think is not possible.

I assure you it is.

When my youngest daughter was about one year old, she was happily stuffing her little face with spaghetti. She loved the stuff and made a huge mess.

The next morning as the whole family was sitting around the breakfast table, breakfasting, she lets out a mighty sneeze. We looked to make sure she’s okay and there was a spaghetti noodle hanging out of her nostril. We were not eating spaghetti for breakfast.

“WHAT THE…?”

If spaghetti can travel mouth to nasal cavity to nostril, so can macaroni—they’re from the same family of pasta products.

Which brings me to the picture at the top of this blog: My son invented the perfect nose-guard for wayward pasta (and he doesn’t even know it). Turn those extra surgical gloves into a practical use and conversation-starting fashion accessory. Don’t have any extra surgical gloves lying around? Don’t worry, the dentist has a whole box of them. At least mine did.

Yes, I know…we have to watch him at all times. My son, not the dentist.