My hands are full so you get a boutonniere. Don’t fuck up at the prom, kids!
After I bicycled home this afternoon, the house smelled stale to me, so I marched from room to room, opening windows. I was opening the window below when the kitten threw herself at my dainty rump. Fortunately, I was still a little sweaty, so her claws penetrated my jeans and my epidermis. All I could do was stand there, gasping, until Darla got bored with hanging from my hamstrings. Man, I love her.
Those potato plants look a little piqued to you?
I am a champion fretter. I have medals for fretting. I’ve been fretting for weeks about the potato plants as about half of them died back. Half the plants are still green and look like ridiculous weeds, but the plants around the garden’s edge died back and I worried. I waited and I worried. Every day for a few weeks, I looked at them and fretted. Finally, last night, I could stand it no longer and did what modern people do: took a picture, put it up on Facebook and asked for advice. Wendy the Good Witch said to stick my hand in the dirt and pull up something. It was well past dark, so Pete grabbed a flashlight and out we went to find out what was up.
In a startling turn of events, potatoes actually grew beautifully. Last night in the dark, we dug up the spuds in the colander and did a happy dance in our kitchen. We were also sure there would be more if we checked today, so after work, I ran my hands through the soil again and out came over a pint more of potatoes. I’m thrilled! Not failing to grow potatoes is great! In even better news: we still have half a dozen plants to go.