Waxy alien irradiated dog penis

This scared the pants off me this afternoon:

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I bent forward to look closer at it and actually said out loud, on my porch, “Oh my god. What the fuck is that?”

Morning glories are supposed to look like this (note the smallish, normal-looking pod):

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When I saw the gigantic wrong-looking morning glory penis pod, I really did wonder what was wrong with my plants, and what could have got into them to suddenly make them start sprouting such disturbing-looking buds. It creeped me out. A lot.

I started inspecting the rest of that bunch, and then saw this:

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What a relief. I realized that the waxy alien irradiated dog penis thing was actually a moonflower bud. I had put some moonflower seeds in with the morning glories this year but they hadn’t bloomed until now. So far, these are the only ones I’ve seen, and since it’s late September, there probably won’t be any more this year.

I may not get to see either of them in full flower because that might be around 3 AM. But maybe one will still be in bloom tomorrow morning. If so, I’ll take a photo and add it to this post.

This led to a convoluted conversation with Nitram that started out with my telling him how the moonflower bud scared me and grossed me out and ended with talking about cold medicines from the ’70s and ’80s. In between was the corpse flower; skunk cabbage; how smells can send you back to a memory in an instant; the smell of orange-scented nitrous oxide at the dentist’s when I was a kid (mixed with the smell of the black rubber mask, yum); the taste, smell, and consistency of that glutinous orange-flavored Triaminic cold medicine in the ’70s; the uselessness of Sucrets (made your tongue and punching bag numb but did nothing for your sore tonsils); and the experience of having your mom fight with you to spray Chloraseptic down your throat.

Holy crap. I just looked up all three of those meds and they’re still making them. I’m going to have nightmares about those now instead of the alien flower pod penis.

UPDATE 9.27.14:

Friday afternoon, the moonflower that was trying to bloom gave it up and fell to the ground without fully opening.  Last night, the penile one bloomed:

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It’s still in bloom today, but will probably close up and die once the sun hits it directly:

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Utterly fascinating, I know.

You must be… (take your best guess)

Old school answering machine by aeminphilly on Flickr

I’ve been meaning to write (rant) about this for a while, but a friend’s WTF post over on FB about companies’ and people’s answering messages has re-inspired me.

These are the most common messages — from people who know me — that get left on my home answering machine:

“Hi, I guess you must be in the shower…” (It’s the middle of the day, I’m already showered, thanks.)

“Hi, I guess you must be asleep…” (It’s midmorning, I’ve been up for several hours.)

“Hello, I guess you must be eating dinner or something…” (Dinner? At 4 PM?)

“Hi, I guess you must be… out.” (Well, now, there’s a no-brainer.)

After getting one of these messages, what I sometimes fantasize about having as my outgoing message (other than Carl Kasell‘s voice) is something like, “Hi, I’m either out, in the shower, sleeping, eating dinner at 10 AM, picking my nose, or listening to you right now and not picking up. You just take your best guess from those possibilities and get back to me.”

Why do people feel the need to leave a guess as to your whereabouts and/or whatabouts? Why can’t they just leave a message? Preferably one with actual info in it rather than a guess or just some babble.

Why does this bother me so much? Because I don’t do it myself, and because I also have to listen to people do this in conversations, except they usually say “maybe” or “probably” more than “must be,” and they don’t usually feel the need to guess. I can say something as simple as, “She went to the store,” and get back something like, “Oh, she probably had to get there before it closed.” Well, yes. People do have to get to the store before it closes, if they want to buy anything and not just sit out there in the parking lot. Picking their noses. Or showering.

One and only one person is exempt from my freaking out over this because that person has Alzheimer’s — the fact that they did this all the time before they had Alzheimer’s is irrelevant now, they get a free pass.

None of the rest of you get a free pass.

Dexter in the Lunchroom

So over dinner the other night, Nitram was telling me stories about work. He misses Tim, who’s a real wiseass, and sounds like someone I’d like a lot, though I’ll never get to meet him now since he’s left for greener pastures.

“This guy Greg just does not stop talking, no matter what. I’m having a peaceful lunch, reading the paper, other people are having their own peaceful lunches — even Greg, for once — when Tim walks in and says, ‘Hey, Greg, tell us all about politics in New Jersey!’ and walks out! That bastard!”

Yes, I’d definitely like Tim.

“We’re all trying to eat and Greg’s forgotten about his lunch, he’s just going on and on and on — and no one’s listening! But that doesn’t make a difference to him, he just keeps going. Oh, I swear, I — if I was a serial killer, I’d, I’d… I’d kill him first!”

I burst out laughing. Nitram goes on about Greg and I can’t stop giggling. He gives me the what look, and I say, “That was really funny!”

“It was?”

“Yes! Did you make that up?”

“Make what up?”

“‘If I was a serial killer, I’d kill him first.'”

“I guess so, yeah. But it’s true.”

My mild-mannered, easygoing mate. He’s going to off some guy for talking too much in the canteen at work. Classic sociopath. Gotta love him.

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Image credit: LindaMacphersonPhotography.com