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More leopard gecko diaries: the surgery edition

Welcome back to another riveting installment of unauthorized private journal entries by our family pet, Batman, the sexually maturing leopard gecko.

If you are just joining us, you should probably read this post first. It’s the introduction to Batman’s diary and it will give you some background on his wiener woes.

When we last left Batman, he was anxiously wondering whether or not his seemingly stuck erection would subside on its own, or if I would attempt to MacGyver it back in with nothing more than a Q-Tip, some KY Warming Liquid, and the bravado of a sleep-deprived veteran mother who watches way too much reality television…

Thursday, February 28, 2013 8:00 AM

Dear Diary,

Worst. Night. Ever. It’s really hard to Wang Chung Tonight when your engorged reptilian rocket has been stuck outside your body, slowly baking under a heat lamp for 11 hours.

My roommate just came to check on me and turn on my daytime light. That’s only going to dry out my unsheathed baby maker even more. I heard him tell his mom that my “hemipenis is still hanging out.” Great. At least HE knows I’m a dude. I could really use another sugar-soak and/or a massage with a happy ending. Anyone? Anyone?

9:00 PM

They’ve given me a few more sugar-water soaks today so my shama-lama-ding-dong isn’t totally dehydrated, but it still hurts and it’s hard to sleep with the constant throbbing.

The mom has spent a lot of time conferring with “experts” on Facebook all day. Apparently one of her Facebook friends used to be a Zookeeper and told her the Q-Tip/lube strategy was legit. Other people are telling her to get me to a vet, pronto. I heard her say she “wasn’t gonna spend no $300 on lizard dick surgery.” Nice language, lady. Do you kiss your dog with that mouth?

Friday March 1, 2013

8:00 AM

Dear Diary,

It’s no use. My prolapsed hemipenis is here to stay! None of the other geckos are going to let me play in any gecko games. I wish I were dead.

9:00 AM

I’m sorry. That was just stinkin’ thinkin’. I don’t wish I were dead. I just wish my roommate’s mom would stop tweeting pictures of my junk and take me to the vet already. In spite of the sugar-water baths, I feel like my boy bulge is starting to dry out a little and that’s making me really nervous. Thank God I have two penises just in case this one is a goner.

10:00 AM

OH HAPPY DAY! There’s an Exotic Vet in the area! Unfortunately, my roommate’s mom thinks that means she’s going to get a lap dance during my exam. If I ever break loose, I am going to pee on her head and make her rue the day she ever exploited my body for Facebook fame.

At least I know the vet won’t try to “MacGyver” my fruit salad back into its hidey-hole with random household supplies. Phew, I feel like I’ve really dodged a bullet.

Holy humiliation, they’re going to transport me in the same disposable food container they use to store leftover macaroni in the fridge. And it’s see-through! Now all the other exotic animals in the waiting room are going to be able to see my party favor.

10:30 AM

We’re at the vet! I’m so excited! This could be the end of my suffering.

They pulled me out of my travel Tupperware to weigh me and I grabbed my chance to scurry up the mom’s arm and onto the back of her head.

It was HILARIOUS! She stared screaming “GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF.” The vet untangled me from her hair before I could finish my assault. I peed on his hand instead. Gecko power! That will show them. You mess with the reptile? You get the teabag.

10:33 AM

WHAT. THE. EFF? The vet just flipped me on my back and jammed a giant dry Q-Tip right into my goodie basket! OW OW OW OW OW. That really hurt! Now I’m kinda wishing I had just let the mom do it at home with her spicy lady lube and saved us the trip. I bet she would have been more gentle. Now I feel bad for trying to pee on her head.

Also, my vet seriously needs a manicure. I’m just saying.

10:34 AM

He added some lube. It’s a little better, but I wish all these people weren’t watching. Kinda weird. My bulge won’t go back in. The vet just flicked a dried sperm plug off my willie and onto a paper towel. Gross! He said sometimes those block the hemipenis from being able to retract. But it’s too late for me. They are discussing other options. I’m scared!

10:35 AM

OMG. The vet whispered something to his assistant, she left, and came back with a bunch of surgical tools. Holy Mary, Mother of God…

10:36 AM

Okay, deep breath. It sounds like my dehydrated love-nugget has got to go. The vet is going to ligate it with surgical thread so dies and falls off. Good thing I have a spare or I would be freaking the freak out right now. At least it won’t hurt for much longer.

10:38 AM

Wow, that was fast. (That’s what she said.) It really didn’t even hurt that much. And the whole thing only cost $50! I heard the mom say it was the best $50 she ever spent. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.

10:45 AM

On our way home now. We all noticed this sign in the waiting room at the exotic vet:

My roommate’s mom laughed and said, “Oh yeah? Well anytime our dog has needed medical care it always costs way more than fifty bucks, and he doesn’t even have two penises! Batman is definitely my new favorite pet.”

Awwwwww! This day turned out to be not so bad after all.

Diary of a Sexually Maturing Leopard Gecko

March 4, 2013 / The Bearded Iris / 47 Comments

If you follow my blog on Facebook, you have probably already heard about my family’s Leopard Gecko, “Batman,” and his recent sexual health scare.

Like any family medical emergency, it was a very harrowing few days of worry, investigation, decision-making, and bonding.

Afterward, my son and I were working together to clean out Batman’s vivarium and we discovered a tiny journal, tucked away under the base of his wooden branch.

I know it’s wrong to read someone else’s journal, but under the circumstances, and given that this someone doesn’t even have opposable thumbs, I just had to know what was going through his tiny reptilian mind.

Please forgive me for breaking our family pet’s trust, but his daily musings were too fantastic to keep to myself. In the name of science, I present to you some of the entries from Batman’s journal.

(Please note: this blog post is intended for mature audiences only.)

Monday, Feb. 25, 2013

Dear Diary,

Today is my 9-month birthday and I finally weigh 33 grams! I’ve decided to start keeping a journal because I’m noticing a lot of strange but exciting bodily changes and I need a place to express myself and deal with all my feelings.

My roommate is 13-human-years-old and he is also going through lots of changes. He is growing a mustache! Humans are so weird.

My roommate’s mom just came in to yell at him for having so many dirty clothes on the floor. She has a mustache too. I don’t know what it is about her, but looking at her makes me feel kinda funny in my downtown area.

In fact, I’m going to go hangout on my basking rock…it’s really warm up there and I like the way the hot rock feels on my belly, if you know what I mean. {WINK WINK!}

Tuesday, Feb. 26, 2013

Dear Diary,

Wow, my body is really changing fast! Sometimes I get this throbbing feeling near my vent. It feels really good at first, but then it starts to ache. I wish I had a girlfriend. I’ve been spending a LOT of time on my branch and basking rock lately. Wiggling helps.

I noticed my roommate getting dressed today. He only has one penis, poor guy. I’m so lucky to have two! I can take turns with them so neither gets worn out or sore. Being a gecko is awesome!

Another difference between geckos and humans is that humans wear pants, so they can get a stiffy without the whole world seeing it. When I get excited, one of my penises pops right out of my vent like the “HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW” sign at Krispy Kreme. Embarrassing, but practical.

I’m wondering if I can get both of my hemipenes to pop out at the same time. Could come in handy if I ever meet twin Doublemint Girl Geckos at a party. SCHWING!

Wednesday, Feb. 27, 2013, 9:15 PM

Dear Diary,

Oh no, I have a big problem.

You know that weird feeling I’ve been having in my crotch? And how I’ve been spending so much time on my rock and branch doing that wiggling thing?

Well a few minutes ago I was doing the humpty hump on my branch and I think I must have rubbed too hard because my love-nugget won’t go back into its hidey-hole! It really hurts and so I was licking it to see if that would help it shrink back up into my body, and that’s when I noticed my roommate staring at my junk and then running down the hall screaming “MOM! Come here! You HAVE TO SEE THIS!”

Oh-em-geeee! Can’t a gecko have some privacy?!

Next thing I knew, my roomie’s mom was holding me and staring at my junk too. Not helping, lady!

You’d think she’d never seen 9 millimeters of turgid gecko groin before because she was all “What the hell?”

Then she took a bunch of photos with her phone. So embarrassing! All I can say is she better give me a cut of the profits if she turns this into a reptile porno.

I heard the mom and my roommate wondering aloud whether it was part of my intestines or a ruptured testicle or some kind of herniated gland. They were clueless. Then they got online for help.

The mom said “Do you think it’s his penis?”

Duh. Ya think? She’s obviously not the fastest mealworm in the box.

Next thing I heard her saying was “Google ‘reptile penis pics’ and ‘pics of lizard groins.’”

Oh yeah lady, encourage your 13-year-old son to do a Google search for any kind of penis pics. Good luck with that one.

Turns out she’s actually a pretty good researcher. Didn’t take her long to find out that I have what’s called a “prolapsed hemipenis,” hemi meaning “half” because like I said before, I have two of them. But then she insulted my manhood and said something like “We don’t even know if Batman is a boy yet, so let’s call it a hemivagenis.” I swear to God. It’s like she’s never even noticed my pre-anal pores. I’m OBVIOUSLY a male. OBVIOUSLY.

At least she knows it’s not my intestines sticking out of my butt. Now let’s hope girlfriend figures out how to help me get this thing back into my body because this bad boy really hurts.

(Editor’s Note: WARNING – the following photo collage may be unsettling to those with weak constitutions. Please close your eyes and scroll down if you know you will be offended by photos of erect reptile reproductive organs.)

9:30 PM

Dear Diary,

You aren’t going to believe this but I am about to take a bath in warm sugar-water! Wish me luck. I’ve never taken a bath before. Hope I don’t drown. Maybe the mom will dim the lights and put on some Barry White so I can really get my groove on. Brown chicken brown cow!

9:45 PM

Dear Diary,

Wow, that was really nice. A gecko could get used to those warm sugar-water soaks. Sadly, my perma-bone didn’t shrink or pop back in on its own like they thought it would. I must have irritated it too much with my vigorous tree-branch rubbing. Now it’s swollen and stuck! I feel embarrassed, scared, and annoyed at the same time. I overheard my roomie’s mom say the words “MacGyver,” “Q-Tip,” and “Astroglide.” This isn’t going to end well.

10:00 PM

Dear Diary,

OH SWEET JESUS ON A BASKING ROCK, I just heard her say she can’t find the Astroglide followed by “but do you think this KY Warming Liquid would do the trick?” I feel like I’m going to faint.

10:04 PM

Okay, phew. She decided to see if my boy-bulge subsides by the morning before she attempts to poke it back in. THANK GOD. I’d rather just die than have my exposed sweet meat poked and prodded with spicy lady lube.

{end of journal entry}

Well that’s all the time we have for today, you reptile voyeurs! Tune in next time to read more riveting journal entries about Batman’s coming of age tale and how we helped solve his troublesome perma-bone problem.

See you then!
-Leslie

Click HERE to read Part 2 and hear the “Happy Ending” (wink wink!) of Batman’s weiner woes!

And that’s where baby corn comes from.

March 2, 2012 / The Bearded Iris / 40 Comments

I wish you could come over for dinner sometime and see with your own eyes the kind of mayhem that exists around my kitchen table every night.

Just last evening alone, I witnessed:

1.) The Gatekeeper (husband) pleading with the rest of us to have “just one meal without any butt talk or bodily functions.”

2.) Mini-Me (9 y.o. daughter) showcasing a new magic trick: holding her own pinky with the rest of her fingers on the same hand and making it wiggle like a worm. (So freaky and gross! And also, hilarious! Might have to video tape it for you at some point.)

3.) Bucket Head (4 y.o. son) rattling off all the characters from the X-Men cartoon and explaining to us in vivid detail why Jean Grey would never marry Gambit, and then saying “Don’t worry mom, I said GAMBIT, with a G.”

4.) And my favorite moment from the night, a conversation about the origins of baby corn.

baby corn

We were having slow-cooker coconut ginger chicken and veggies discovered earlier this week on Pinterest. (Kids hated it, but The Gatekeeper and I had three bowls each. Delish! Thanks Elliot!)

While picking through the veggies for another bite of chicken, Mini-Me cocked her head to the side and said, “Where does baby corn come from?”

Without missing a single beat, my 12 year old son Nature Boy said,

“Well, when a Mommy Corn and a Daddy Corn love each other very much…”

I swear to God.

The kid is TWELVE years old. He should have his own sitcom.

I’m telling you, I laughed until tears were streaming down my face. And then I saw that look in his eyes, that look of pride indicating, “Yeah, I made my mom laugh. Score!” I know that feeling. It’s the BEST.

Then I told the kids about the classic baby corn scene from Big. You know the one…

And we made plans to watch it together as a family later tonight. I can hardly wait!

(Updated: DO NOT watch “Big” with your kids. Holy CRAP. Totally inappropriate. See comments below.)

By the way, according to the google, baby corn is just immature regular corn that is harvested before it has a chance to develop into big meaty flossable adult corn. Hey, the more you know. Frankly, I’m relieved. I don’t like to think of my veggies bumping uglies, especially in corn fields where dudes like Malachai could be hiding out with their scary sickles and shit.

So that’s the dealio with baby corn. Little red potatoes though? Totally different story…

Whoa...that is one happy sweet potato!

"The Vulvato" submitted by @NotSoSunshine

I was wondering what that thumping sound in my pantry was! Mystery solved.

Special thanks to @NotSoSunshine of TheFlyingWalleeties for sharing her spectacular “vulvato” with me on the twitter.

Have a good weekend, y’all.

jovially yours,

-Iris

WTF Wednesday: The Very Special Halloween Hangover Edition

November 2, 2011 / The Bearded Iris / 42 Comments

{ding dong}

You open the door.

Here’s what you see:

Witch, Orca Whale, Skeleton, Halloween 2011.

Immediately followed by the sound of my little Bucket Head singing:

“Trick-or-Treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!”

Always a crowd pleaser.

But did you know there is a second verse to this classic holiday greeting?

There is.

It goes like this:

“If you don’t, I don’t care. I’ll pull down your underwear!”

WTF?

Who on earth taught that to my sweet, innocent, cherub-faced four year old son?

Uh, that would be me.

Sorry, neighbors.

In hindsight, bad idea. Apparently, pulling down other people’s underwear without their consent isn’t very socially acceptable nowadays.

But when I was a kid? Shoot. We called that “getting de-pantsed.” It was a classic bully maneuver. Naturally, I rocked at it. Just ask my little brother.

Something else you may have heard if you trick-or-treated on my street was Bucket Head shouting “I AM NOT A SHART.”

Bless his little speech impaired heart.

What he meant was “I am not a SHARK.”

And I totally feel his pain. Really I do.

What the fuck is wrong with grown-ups today?

People, if you don’t know the difference between an orca whale and a shark, you need to spend less time chatting up little trick-or-treaters and more time watching Animal Planet.

We're going to need a bigger boat.

I can’t even tell you how many adults told my Bucket Head, “My, what a scary shark you are!” To which he would always reply that he was not a shark, but an orca whale (duh). As the evening progressed, he became more and more frustrated with having to correct so many people.

And listen, the only thing worse than trying to correct an imbecilic adult who doesn’t know their sea creatures is then being laughed at for your mispronunciation by said imbecile. Thanks a lot, neighbors.

But my biggest WTF Halloween moment occurred when one of my kids received this in their treat bag:

Valentine Candy. To: _______, From: Bridget. On Halloween.

Say it with me, friends:

What…

The…

I know what some of you are thinking. It’s kinda brilliant.

Wrong.

That’s jive. (Says the lady who hands out gently used Happy Meal Toys.)

Even though I’m a huge advocate of being green and frugal, giving out personalized Valentine candy treats on Halloween is just plain shitty. That’s like giving out soy sauce packets and used dryer sheets. Don’t be a douche. These kids are working hard to walk all the way to your door and sing the “smell my feet” song. Eight month old off-holiday candy is a TRICK, not a treat. Save it for the un-costumed teenagers who show up after your porch light is off, not the cute little SHART who still says “gank you.”

And now, to answer all those lingering questions.

Did our house get egged?

No! In fact, I observed The Gatekeeper greet the first few trick-or-treaters and whenever he asked them “Would you like candy or a toy?” they always said “A TOY!!!” So there, doubters. Kids love plastic crap. Told you!

Did I dress up?

Yes indeedy. I did. Well, kinda. A hat/wig, lipstick, tattoo sleeves, and a bracelet count, right?

Semi-Biker Chick with her brood.

Good enough. Or as my stapler-wielding Mama says, “Done is better than perfect.”

We even returned to our hippie friends’ 2nd annual Halloween Party, where once again, I was the only adult in costume. No, The Gatekeeper didn’t come. He did dress up though…as an Ohio State Fan. Whoop-dee-frickin’-doo. He stayed home and watched football and drank beer while I bravely battled my social-anxieties alone at a dry party. Awesome.

Who did we trick-or-treat with this year?

We trick-or-treated with Mama Cloud and her kids again and it was delightful, as usual. She and I have similar parenting styles and it’s so refreshing to not have to be the lone bad cop all night shrieking things like “DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH? THEN GET OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE GOD DAMN STREET, Honey.” (Because tacking “Honey” onto any rant makes it not quite so negative, right?)

Did Nature Boy trick-or-treat with his friends and no adult supervision?

Aw HAYLE NO. He just turned 12. He and his best friend came with me and Mama Cloud and our combined broods. And it was a good thing, too, because he almost peed his pants at the local haunted house…it was that scary. I ended up going through it twice because he was too afraid to come with me and his best friend the first time. Pussy. Kidding. We held hands the whole time, but it was totally dark, so his best friend couldn’t see what a scaredy-cat he was. Too cute.

Was alcohol involved?

What are you, slow? Of course. I had to make up for the withdrawal I was experiencing after the hippie Halloween party.

So that’s that! I hope your Halloween was a happy one too and that you got only treats and no tricks in your goodie bags! And by goodie bags, of course I mean vaginas.

I’m linking up with Sellabit Mum and Fourplusanangel for Boo in the Blogosphere and Nicole at By Word of Mouth Musings because I obviously need to make some new friends.

with kisses and consensual de-pantsing,

-Iris

An auspicious sign!

September 19, 2011 / The Bearded Iris / 19 Comments

“If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever. If it doesn’t, it never was.” ~Chinese Proverb

Remember this guy?

He was Bucket Head’s favorite trick-or-treating loot last year, until he lost him in the yard and Ike, our insatiable dog, gobbled him up like a rubbery green Snausage.

We sure were sad about losing that cheap little stretchy green skeleton. And when I say “we,” of course I mean “he”…because frankly, I couldn’t give a shit.

Unlike my dog, who did give a shit… a very entertaining shit, in fact. And finding that favorite little toy encased in that foul crypt a few weeks later was just the closure “we” needed to move on and find a new favorite toy. Goodbye stretchy green friend.

{Insert sound of screeching tires.}

Not so fast.

Lookie what Nature Boy found in our garden the other day:

Nice.

Looks like the worms and dung beetles picked him clean. Well, pretty clean. Cleaner, let’s say.

Like I care. Shoot, that formerly-poop-entombed toy is one of the least disgusting things that kid touched all day. He’s in middle school now, don’t you know.

I guess that means this cheap little toy is ours forever, according to ancient wisdom.

Now, some might take this as an affront, a cruel twist of fate. As in: “THIS is what I get back? Really? Not the tennis bracelet I lost on a walking tour of Asheville in 2002? Or the dreamy future Hollywood movie and television star I briefly befriended in high school?”

No. Not me. I’m not bitter.

One of the few things I have control over in my life, theoretically, is the way I respond to life’s little curveballs. So instead, I choose gratitude and joy.

I think it is very auspicious that this little green toy keeps coming back to me. I’m certain it is a sign of resiliency. It reminds me that no matter how crappy things sometimes get, if you wait long enough, it will get better. Now of course I’m talking about “the small stuff” we all sweat, not that suspicious lump growing on your neck, Aunt Betty. Get that checked out, for Pete’s sake.

The other reason I take delight in the reappearance of this little toy is that I’m pretty sure it firmly cements my position in the blogosphere as the Princess of Poop. The Queen of Crap. The Duchess of Doo-Doo. So be it.

Hey, we all need a niche. I’m just trying to go with the flow.

So I’m going to wash the daylights out of this resilient little green skeleton and then put him in my “Shit My Kids (and Dog) Ruined” box. Maybe someday I’ll take all those little partially eaten and melted and broken tchotchkes and turn them into ornaments for a funny little “Holy CRAP, Parenting/Dog Owning is HARD” themed Christmas tree. Maybe I’ll do that when Mini-Me is in high school, as a supplemental form of birth control. Yes. I like that idea. I like it a lot.

But until then, it’s poop, poop, poop, poop, poop, poop, and more poop for me. Bring it. I will survive.

My toilet bowl is half full,

~Iris