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There are dead plants on top of my desk. Two of them. Neither of them actually belongs to me. They were just left there with me as their guardian. Big mistake. I forgot about them (out of sight, out of mind, I guess). Now, one has completely died off and there�s nothing left in the flowerpot except the dried up remnants of a prayer plant, and the other is shedding brown leaves off its stalk slowly. I feel a little bad about this, but I warned both people who left them here that I have a brown thumb. It was a big chance they took. Apparently, it was a bad one.
I fear for my Nana violets. I should just not be allowed to touch anything that has roots and still has a fighting chance at alive.
On the right side of my desk is a plastic covered tray holding 11 shamrock cookies. They were a gift to me from Jennifer, the catering manager at Souper Salad, as a thank you for all the business I send their way from our department. Part of me feels guilty for not having opened them up and shared them with the office. The rest of me knows that no one else woke up from a sound sleep at 3:30 this morning with the sudden terrible feeling that I�d forgotten to order lunch for our noontime meeting today. I hadn�t forgotten. I called Jennifer from home at 7:30 this morning to make sure. I think I earned those cookies.
Not that I need a whole dozen shamrock cookies. But still, it�s the principle of the thing, I guess.
The Boyfriend and I came close to having a fight yesterday. He called me at 4:50 p.m., just before I left work. I had agreed to meet him at the dealership where he bought the Jeep, as he needed to drop it off for an oil change, which isn�t far from my house. Then we were going to drive to Pembroke to the pottery studio where he�s planning to take a class*, stop at his house to get his work clothes for today, and head back to my house where he would spend the night. I wasn�t sure exactly where the dealership was, not being very car-obsessed (or even very car-aware), so I asked him where I should meet him. He said, �Just pick a place on Route 1 that you know.� I asked, �where on Route 1?� He said, �Any place you know. I�ll meet you there.� I repeated, �Yeah, but where on Route 1?� Again, he said, �Anywhere you know.� I took a deep breath and tried not to sound like I was talking to a four-year-old. �Route 1 is miles long. I know places on it all the way from the Walpole Mall to Fontaines, almost in Boston. Where on Route 1 do I have to meet you?�
He said, �Oh. That�swhat you mean.�
There�s a lesson to be learned here. Perhaps we shouldn�t ever try to make plans at the end of the day.
(*Last April, I gave the Boyfriend a pottery class for his birthday. He ran the pottery studio at his college, and has always said he wanted to get back into it, and maybe eventually run a studio of his own, somewhere along the line. He used to sell the stuff he made, and found it to be really relaxing and fun to do. Consequently, I thought it would be a good present, since I know he�d never make the effort to find a place to take a class or get studio time himself. When I gave it to him, he seemed really excited. Three different groups of classes have started since then. He hasn�t signed up for any of them. Finally, I told him that his birthday is coming up again in less than a month, and that it�s pretty much now or never�either he does the next class, or he loses his present. I think that was fair! He looked at me all surprised and said, �Oh, I have to sign up?� Not sure what he thought was going to happen.
Anyway, we went to the studio and met Lisa, the woman who owns it and who runs the classes. She took him on a tour and they talked about glazes and firing and kiln loading and a whole bunch of stuff that made no sense to me. Not that it mattered�I was along for the ride and to sign the check.
He starts April 25. And he�s actually excited about it. I think he was just afraid to try again, since it�s been six years since he last tried to make anything.
It all goes back to �Do one thing each day that scares you.� I haven�t been doing so well with that challenge. Maybe one a month, but certainly not one each day.)
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