A Rosie Story

18 May

I need to re-pot an African Violet that Cool gifted me with.

This is easier said than done: My bigger pots are in storage in Nevada. I live at an apartment complex so have no yard to collect dirt. I also do not have rocks near my house.

So, I decide to collect rocks during my lunch break at work. But what to put them in? I’m afraid if I just put them in a bag or something some do-gooder will take them for trash and toss them. So I use an old Swiffer-Wet box. I go to write “rocks” then my initials at the top so everyone can see my plan, but without my brain’s involvement, my hand writes “Rosie.”

I thought that was sort of random and funny, and wondered where I got the name Rosie.

When I went outside to get the rocks it was raining. But more importantly, there were not really any rocks around. Being from Nevada, where there are rocks EVERYWHERE I still find this very difficult to believe. But luckily, the house next door was torn down recently and they left a huge hold with boulders around the edges.

NV rocks

I figured where there were boulders there must be smaller rocks too, so I walked to the edge of work’s driveway. And there were smaller rocks among the big ones. I picked up a copper-colored rock and plunked it in my container, I grabbed a brown rock and dropped it in, I grasped a gold. . .

No, not a rock. Rock picking is OVER! I grasped a gold piece of rained-upon poo along the side of the feline-exclusive driveway. With my bare hand. Not cool. Not awesome at all.  But wouldn’t it be funny if whatever animal that left the $hit was named Rosie?!

I went inside, I hope to re-pot the pretty flower, and after this much trouble, it had better live. The End.

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