Sad cactus

Both my great-grandmothers can make things grow just by looking at the ground hard enough, and my grandmother always had bursting flower gardens while I was growing up.

…Let’s just say that talent hasn’t trickled down through the generations.

Green things do not grow in my presence. Our landscaping is sad because, while I know what I would like to grow there, I don’t have the slightest starting idea of how to make it happen. We have mulch. Do I have to remove the mulch? Can I just plant things through the mulch? Do I have to dig holes or can I just put the plants on top and pile on more dirt until they are buried?

Can I just buy whatever flowers I like and stick them in the ground? Or do I have to put certain flowers in certain places? Can I even plant things in June or is there a special window when things can be planted and I’ve already missed it for the year?

See? It’s sad. There is very little hope for me.

I reminded my mother of this last Christmas when she presented me and the Mister with a small potted cactus. I told her I would kill it, because that’s just what mysteriously happens to plants when they are left in my care. But she was insistent. “It’s a cactus. You can’t kill it.”

(Well we’ll see about that…)

Fast-forward about six months. The Mister and I have attached the small magnetic pot to our refrigerator, in a room that gets a decent amount of light during the day. We have followed the instructions on the tiny hanging card meticulously. The Mister set a recurring reminder on his phone to water “Bob” the cactus every two weeks. I wrote it on the calendar so I could remind him to check his reminders.

We measure exactly two ounces of water into a little scoop and pour it in carefully, making sure nothing spills and the water is evenly distributed throughout the tiny pot.

We’ve probably put more concentrated effort into this minuscule cactus than we have into keeping our dogs alive! (Of course, our dogs clearly let us know when they are hungry. Bob has been strangely silent on the topic.)

All of this, and guess what we discovered yesterday?

One of Bob’s leaf shoots fell out of the pot. Then we touched another and it was completely disconnected too. Then we nudged poor Bob and, lo and behold, he doesn’t have any roots at all! Not even shallow roots in his tiny pot.

So there you have it, folks! Bob is dead. After all this time and all that work, Bob is dead. Bob has probably been dead for a while and we just didn’t know it.

(Although he is still green… a fact we can’t seem to reconcile with his seemingly obvious demise.)

The lesson from this story: If it doesn’t bark, paw, scratch, scream, cry, dance or moan when it’s hungry, I will probably kill it. This extends from plants to include fish, hermit crabs, hamsters and really any other form of silent dependent.

The really sad thing is that we’ve gotten used to having to take care of Bob. We’ve become more attached to him than we have to any other planted thing in our lives. And now that he’s dead, I really don’t know how to process that. So we’ll probably just leave him on the refrigerator and continue to water him faithfully until he finally shrivels up and starts to smell and there is no longer any pretending that he is alive and well.

So I’ll just live in denial until that happens. Happy watering day!

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Train(s) of Thought

Isn’t it funny how the mind works? Stream of consciousness is an interesting rabbit hole to fall into when you really think about it. (Or should you think about it? Because if you think about thinking then you’re really using your brain to think about your brain and… Whoah… That hurts.)

Anyway. While I was in the shower tonight I was thinking about the episode of Gilmore Girls I just finished watching, which led to thoughts of journalism and how I’m sort of in journalism, which then led to my job and whether I will always like my job, then on to how to spice up my job on boring days, which leads us to office games and word of the day calendars. And then, somewhere in the midst of deciding what topic my word of the day calendar should have, my subconscious mind asked me a question.

How does word of the day toilet paper work?

…and this is where my train of thought finally got stuck, because here I am, half an hour later, still thinking about how word of the day toilet paper must work.

I mean, there are so many potential factors to consider.

What is a “standard amount” of toilet paper per person? What if you use toilet paper more than once a day? What if you’re not feeling well and you have a major bathroom incident and need to use more than the “standard amount” of paper?

Also, is this nice, thick, two-sheets-per-visit toilet paper that rich people buy? Or is this the paper-thin, need-a-whole-roll kind purchased by poor college students (and college employees, and colleges themselves, for that matter)? 

At first I was thinking it would be like a calendar, but that would be disasterous! What if you had an aforementioned bathroom incident and used two days’ worth of paper? Then it might be Sept. 21 in the real world but Sept. 23 on the roll! You could never fix that! Also, if it were like a calendar, you would have to be sure to buy the appropriate roll for the week you are currently in and put the rolls on in consecutive order so as not to get your Christmas-themed December words in the middle of October. 

And what would stores do with all the leftover August toilet paper on Sept. 1? Nobody wants outdated roll words. Such a faux-pas. 

And you’d definitely have to memorize your newfound vocabulary pretty quickly because once it’s been used, you’re not going to want to reference it again.

And you also have to consider the…

Oh, just a minute – I have to go to the bathroom.

They told me it would happen…

This week’s Monday post was going to be about our experience with buying an island car and driving for the first time, but that’s going to have to wait for another day because last night, as we were drifting off to sleep, I was suddenly slapped in the face with another blog topic.

 

The Mister: “Are you ok?”

Me: “My nose feels funny.”

The Mister: “Well does it feel sad?”

*moment of silence while I process this*

Me: “What?”

The Mister: “You said it feels funny. Does it feel sad?”

Me: “Did you really just ask that?”

 

My first thought: “OH MY GOODNESS I HAVE MARRIED MY FATHER!”

My second thought: “This has to be a blog post.”

 

People told me it would happen – that girls look for husbands that remind them of their fathers. To everyone’s credit, I had been warned.

Now, just to clarify, I have been blessed with a wonderful father and am a hopeless daddy’s girl in most scenarios. I always wanted to find a man that was about 40% my dad and 60% my grandfather, and I think I did. The Mister is attentive, kind, affectionate, hardworking, resourceful, intelligent and I can totally see him helping me up and down the stairs after two knee replacements when I’m older.

And while the Mister has always made me laugh, it’s only in the last few months that his sense of humor has become drier and alarmingly more like my dad’s somewhat warped sense of the hilarious. My brother and I grew up telling our dad on a probably daily basis, “Daddy, that’s not as funny as you think it is,” and now I find myself mentally telling my husband the same thing. I had hoped the Mister would not scar our children for life by telling them that black olives are monkey eyes and bananas are moldy spider legs, but that may still be in my future (as well as in my past. . .  *shudder*).

Of course, I turned out alright I guess, despite my dad’s strange jokes, dry sarcasm and affinity for awkward comparisons, so I suppose the Mister turning out the same way wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

. . . Until our son stands up in the middle of a restaurant one day after asking what his dad’s eggs-over-easy are and yells, “THAT’S NOT BUZZARD PUS!” for the whole world to hear. Maybe then he’ll learn. . . just like my daddy did.  🙂

How to make your veterinarian love you

This is a post from a blog I read regularly called “Veterinarianess.” The writer is a student preparing to graduate, and this particular post is very funny, and very true. I can see the Mister saying any and all of these things to me and/or his clients one day. The video is especially funny, and 99.9% clean language. 🙂 Enjoy.

Veterinarianess

Just a few helpful tips to make you and Fluffy your veterinarian’s favorite clients.

1. Do not tell them that you once wanted to be a veterinarian. We hear this from every single person who walks through the door. Ditto on telling them that your brother’s wife’s cousin’s daughter wants to be a veterinarian. Also, definitely do not tell them that the reason you chose a different occupation was because you love animals too much. Show me a veterinarian who doesn’t love animals in the extreme and then explain to me exactly how loving animals so much kept you from your dream.

2.Do not attempt to hold your own animal in the exam room. Some small animal veterinarians will have signs posted to this effect, but either way it is a liability for the veterinarian to have the client hold Fluffy, especially if Fluffy decides to bite someone…

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