Attempt # 32,705,841

All righty, kids - today, I've begun yet another attempt to grow something that isn't a human child. My track record with this is...well, suffice it to say "not good."

But yesterday we went to the farmer's market, and I found petunias on sale for $1.50 each. And I have such a weakness for petunias. Spent six bucks, got three wave petunias in pink, deep blue/purple and a pinky-purple mix, and some regular petunias in a clean, pure white.

Stopped at the store today and picked up an extra pot as well as 40 pounds of potting mix, then spent an hour on the balcony, getting dirt under my fingernails. I also had seed packets as gifts from someone earlier in the spring: some shasta daisies and some zinnias. I think zinnias are ugly as homemade sin and hate them with a passion bordering on irrational, so I let the boychild plant them with hubby.

Results as of today:

The pink waves, the pinky-purple mix and one of the plain white petunias:


Again, from another angle:


The deep blue/purple waves, and the pot the men planted the zinnias in:


And the other three white petunias, as well as the daisy pot:


We'll have to see how* this garden grows, yes?

* Or rather, IF it grows...

A good weekend...mostly.

A few days off, a long weekend, school ended for Boychild, we saw my Baby Sister, we hit up the farmer's market, we went to see the last installment of the Shrek saga, and we planted some green stuff.

Then came the drama. Boychild went into his room to put something away, and called us in. His gargantuan, ancient goldfish has finally - finally - had the sense to swim to that celestial fishbowl in the sky.

This made Boychild nearly hysterical. Too hysterical to repeat most of the prayer I fed him as he knelt over the "burial site" (aka "toilet"); he managed a few words here and there, and the rest of it was, "What she said." Then came some kitchen-chair sitting, head bowed and tears flowing, and the occasional head rested on my hip when I came close enough while clearing up for dinner.

I had no idea he was quite so attached to a twelve-cent, seven-year-old, six-inch goldfish that had a murderous streak when it came to other aquatic beings. Apparently, however, this was an event for which - while aware it was coming - he simply wasn't prepared.

Luckily, he calmed down and giggled when I, being the unsympathetic wretch I am, made a joke about zombie fish biting my ass when I go to the bathroom next. We now have an appointment with the boychild to visit the pet store tomorrow evening and collect more fish.

Although this time, I think we'll skip goldfish - twelve-cent or otherwise - and try something else.