I am pleased to report
that the plant I got from my oldest son and his wife as a Mother’s Day gift is
still alive. I repeat: I have not yet
killed the beautiful plant.
As a matter of fact, it is
thriving.
Watching the overnight
temperatures carefully, I periodically bring the planter inside for the
evening, sometimes for most of the day, so I don’t kill the poor baby. I have a rather hardy palm plant that I have
left out for a week or two because I only paid $10 for it, so it’s no harm nor
foul whatever its fate.
 |
| (two weeks ago) |
Until last night. The overnight temperature is predicted to hit
into the 30’s here. My poor babies. I decide to haul them both in, even though
the chunky palm is slightly hefty. I
could leave on the sneakers I wore to work, but I’ve already changed into my
flip-flops. What the heck. I only have to deal with two planters.
What could possibly go wrong?
I should probably clarify
right here that I have known myself for decades. I am notorious for injuries of idiocy, like
smacking the pavement while on roller skates and tied behind a bike, or cutting
my foot on a metal disk hidden in the sand at Craigville beach, or knocking out
my own front teeth when pretending to be a Degas ballerina, or cutting a toe
wide open and breaking a tiny bone in it when an ice cube pops up out of the
tray and lands just right (or wrong).
This is me we are talking about. Of course something is going to go wrong.
The flowers, which sit on
the top step of the back stoop, make it inside without a hitch. The palm plant, stuffed on the patio next to
the front stoop, gives me slightly more trouble. I must lift the entire container up about two
feet to the landing. I’m a reasonably
strong gal, except I’ve been sick and am feeling slightly peckish, so I
overcompensate. I pull the planter
toward my flip-flop unprotected feet rather than deadlift.
Immediately I feel my big
toenail snap back. Crap. I think my little palm tree just ruined my
ability to wear sandals next week when it’s in the 80’s (and the plants can
just stay outside). Not ready to give
up, I hoist the planter to the landing, hop up behind it, and toss that sucker
so hard through the front door that dirt starts flying.
Grabbing my glasses so I
can inspect the extent of the damage, I see a giant chunk of nail hanging off
my toe, but, surprisingly, no blood. I
take out the toenail clippers and decide to snap that sucker off right now
since it already hurts. What’s a few
more seconds of agony between body parts, right? The toenail clippers can only do so much, and
I need to grab the smaller set of fingernail clippers to dig around the inside
edge of the nail and get the broken part off that is about a centimeter down my
digit.
As if that’s not gross
enough, I look at the giant chunk of nail, still disbelieving that I am not
shooting venous blood everywhere. Even
grosser, I pick it up and give it the full scientific CSI treatment. How could a chunk of nail this size peel off
without any lasting damage?
All of a sudden the words
spoken in the classroom by my co-teacher come back to me. “Wow,” she had said the other day, “I’ve
never seen your toenails painted before.”
 | |
| (today) |
The missing piece of
toenail is actually less than half real nail, and the rest is a loose layer or
two of top nail along with a couple of coats of Sally Hansen Chrome nail
polish, which isn’t really as chrome as the ads picture it to be, but it’s
still shiny.
The toe doesn’t hurt me at
all after that, although it feels funky and looks even funkier, but I will tell
you this much: The only planter making the out-in trek today is the flower
pot. That palm plant is staying right
where it is by the front door until tomorrow when it’s 80 degrees outside and
will remain well-above freezing for the rest of the week. At this point, I need every toenail I have
left.
