I own a geranium. His name is Planty. He is the offspring of my good friend’s geranium, Gerry. Planty, bless his little geranium heart, is like my pet. I am not at a stage in my life where I feel remotely responsible enough for a dog, especially consider my cushy living stipend that I call a salary to make me feel like an adult.
I’ve had Planty for about three years now. He’s a little trooper, my plant. He endured a hurricane and later a snowstorm my senior year of college. Even when I thought he was dead, a little green sprout popped back up, and I knew my geranium was a fighter.
Planty, obviously, moved with me to Roanoke. He wasn’t the best travel companion – he didn’t speak much in the car. Regardless, by about day two at work, I felt it was time I bring him to the office. At first, Planty wasn’t incredibly receptive to his new environment, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the stinkbug invasion in southern Virginia. Every day before going to eat lunch, like clockwork, I would water Planty. He seemed to be warming up to his new home, looking content, loving the bright sunny days and fresh air on the second-story porch.
One tragic day the other week, I went to water Planty, and he was not there. Like any good mother, I immediately began to imagine the worst-case scenario. I called for OfficeMate, frantic that someone had stolen my plant, not really taking into consideration the ridiculousness of the notion that someone would go out of their way to steal a geranium. That’s about when I saw him. I saw him on the ground, having taken a two-story jump to his little plant death, surrounded by shattered pieces of his pot.
I had driven Planty to suicide.
I immediately ran inside and put him in the Styrofoam ICU (Intensive Cup Unit). A few days later, I went to Walmart and procured him a new fancy blue pot. He’s kept indoors now, on the kitchen window ledge. I worry about him. I never asked him how he felt about moving, about leaving his plant companions in my mother’s backyard, and now he’s acting out. This incident has also made me worry about my potential as a pet owner, and later as a mother.
For now, we’re hanging in there, Planty and I. We appreciate all the kind words on facebook.
After my busy week of a suicidal plant, moving, discovering only half of our stove works, and my first board meeting, it was so wonderful to be able to go out with some friends for my 23rd birthday last night. It was low-key and perfect, complete with great people, tasty food, amusing conversation and questionable wine.
Upon our return home, OfficeMate and I got to chatting. I was struck with the realization that it was rather chilly, due to the fact that I had opened the living room window earlier in the day. As I innocently closed the window, it shattered on me.
This led to me calling my college roommate who is an EMT, an impromptu trip across Roanoke trying to find an open pharmacy for rubbing alcohol and neosporin, settling for a Kroger and buying juice.
My hands are now covered in bandaids, making it look like I spent my birthday not enjoying some pizza, but kicking someone’s ass in a bar brawl. …a brawl that, I’ll note, it looks like I won.
The glass has been picked up. The landlord has been called. Until then, we just get to enjoy a nice late-October-I-hope-it-doesn’t-get-any-colder-or-we’ll-freeze breeze.
Yesterday, I also got myself a little birthday gift.
Say hello to my new chair.
This is my first purchase of a legitimate piece of furniture. I feel like such an adult! It was sitting at the thrift store, waiting for me, with its $20 price tag. I shoved it awkwardly in Mr. Merlot’s backseat, and he is now sitting comfortably in the living room. We still have no tables, but that’s irrelevant. Eating on the floor is still working out just fine. $20 for an incredibly cute chair! I love this city.
First Board Meeting
I had my first board meeting yesterday, and I can confidently say I feel like I rocked it. I was prepared with packets for each board member and was able to coherently and confidently answer all their questions. All my hesitations from the past two months dissipated when I realized that I’ve begun to pick things up – I may have only touched the surface of nonprofits, but I’m absorbing it all as I go. Not only does the Board of Directors hopefully respect me now, but I also can respect myself for knowing much more than I realized I did.
Today, I return home. For the first time in about two months, I am going to see my long-lost family, hug the dog, and enjoy public transit. And come Sunday night, I have to return back to Roanoke, as I try to make it home.