When Autocorrect Can't Hear Your Screams

It's not a lie when I say that I kind of adore the blue-bellied lizards who frequent our back patio. It always makes me smile when they stop outside one of the open sliding glass doors and do a round of push-ups to show off their strength and ward off the threat of the two mesmerized cats on the other side of the screen. When I sit outside to work, I'll sometimes greet them with a "Hey Lizzie," as they scuttle past me. 

Lizards who do push-ups are great. Skinks, not so much. 

If you're not familiar with the skink, it's basically a snake with tiny, almost unnecessary legs—likely descended from T-Rex arms. Skinks have pointier faces than blue-belly lizards, giving them a sort of crocodilian likeness. But it is their long, serpentine tails and erratic way of moving through the world that really makes the pee start percolating in my pants. 

I don't think I've ever encountered a skink in our yard without screaming at least a little. Thankfully, I don't see them very often, but in the past two weeks, I've seen two. Monsters. 

Yesterday, I was taking full advantage of my hiatus from a real job and had planted myself on a towel under one of the plum trees in our garden to write in my journal. The temperature was just right. There was a gentle breeze blowing through the weed field to the south. A hummingbird was chirping out commands from the top of an apricot branch nearby. It was blissful. 

Until—out of nowhere—a skink came whipping at me at 100 mph and slither-bolted ON TO MY TOWEL RIGHT BETWEEN MY FEET. I sprang from the towel like a middle-aged ninja and sprinted across the garden, shrieking all the way. 

As I always do in times of crisis, I then texted my trusty husband who was in LA for work. He responded with "HAHAHAHAHA where did it come from?" Thanks for the sympathy. 

After gathering the courage to shake said skink from my towel, I grabbed the rest of my things and headed to the safety of our patio where I immediately discovered a 4" moth perched on my favorite chair. Remind me who signed me up for this whole country living thing again. 

Inside the critter-free living room, I received another text from my Mr. Wonderful asking what happened with the skunk. 

The Wha? 

At first I thought he'd made a typo. Then I scrolled up to my original message. Sure enough, autocorrect had adjusted my spelling so that my note said a skunk had come barreling across the garden onto my beach towel. No wonder he was confused about where it came from. 

Through much amusement, I replied and explained the whole mix-up. He told me that he'd gotten the message as he and his coordinator were walking into a meeting and they both laughed hysterically picturing me innocently journaling in the backyard and then being charged by an angry skunk. 

It's still up for debate whether I would have preferred the skunk over the skink. At least it would have had a cuter face.