I'm not quite sure if I should start this with the flower or potting soil. I'm thinking that since the soil part of the story began to take place before the flower part of the story, I'll start there.
Soil: A few weeks ago, Kyle decided that in order to do yard work, he first needed an organized garage. A good portion of the day was spent in the garage rather than in the yard as planned. I can't make fun of him for this because I do this sort of thing all the time, but you can if you would like. Anywho, in the process, he came across a bag of potting soil with a hole in the bottom. Thank you Smalls. He stuck it in the "Going to the Dump" pile, but me, being the frugal person I am, told him not to throw away a perfectly good bag of soil just because it could no longer be contained in it's original packaging. So, when it came time to load up the trailer, the bag was left standing alone. I was busy pulling weeds and when it came time to clean everything up, I completely spaced about the bag of soil sitting up against our house next to the garage door. It sat there for a good week before I finally put my laziness at bay and pulled it inside the garage, where it sat for another week.
Flower: I believe this part of the story occurred on the same day as above. I took the kids to a friends house, and while there, was given two rose bush starters. I apologize if "starters" is not the scientific term, but I forget what they called them. Julie? Anywho...again...I brought home these two baby rose bushes. Completely scared that I would kill them in two days and bring shame to my family. Well, good news, I HAVEN'T KILLED THEM....yet. I have full intentions of planting them in our front yard once we get the area cleared, but for now, they have to get cozy in some pots.
Before I continue, I want to remind all of you, again, of how picky I am. I have gone to at least four stores now searching for the perfect pot for these flowers. Most pots are too...sophisticated for me. Pots that you would find walking up to a Victorian home, or a home in which the woman who lives there enjoys a high class decorating theme. Not my style. I want a laid back pot. One that's not too plain but yet doesn't like to show off. One that has character. Do you realize how hard it is to find a pot like that?! And if I did find one that lived up to my standards, it was a one ton planter that would intimidate my stick with leaves and force it to kill itself due to the embarrassment. I finally decided to check out Walmart one more time with the intentions of just settling. But I couldn't do it. I just can't settle. I walked away, yet again disappointed, and headed towards the Garden Center checkout stand to purchase my Chapstick and Pop Tarts. That was when I caught a glimpse of it. On the back, bottom shelf, tucked away in the corner was hiding my pot. The universe finally brought us together.
Okay, now I can begin with today's continuation of the story: I laid Broden down for his first nap of the day and decided to use that time to introduce my Coco Rose Bush to his new friend. I grabbed the bag of soil, leaving a soil trail from our garage to the front steps. I start to grab a handful of soil to put in the bottom of the pot and I get stabbed. What the heck! I look inside the bag and there is a bunch of heroine needles just chillin' there. No, not really, it was just a bunch of twigs. I'm thinking, "Oh wonderful, because I was too lazy to move the bag a bunch of the dead twigs from the crap Kyle was piling next to it fell inside. STUPID LAZINESS!" I pull some out and try to scoop out a pretty good handful of soil. SO MANY TWIGS! Then, I come across this ball. What the heck? Is this something they started to add to bags of soil to keep them fresh or something. Can soil go bad? I pull it out and that's when I realize it's an egg. Holy Crap! Keep feeling around...another egg, and another egg. Six eggs total. I just demolished a birds nest! Then it dawned on me, I actually murdered those bird fetuses when I pulled them into the garage a week ago! What makes it worse is that they were quail eggs. I killed six of my favorite birds. The Devil is laughing at his victory.