The begonia, planted

I haven’t killed Betty. Thank God. Yep, this is the same begonia my grandma gave me in May. It’s a clipping from a plant her father gave her mother in 1928. Crazy, non? I finally got around to potting her this weekend. Could I have found a shabbier pot? I’m not too sure. Regardless, Betty’s just happy to be tucked on my kitchen shelf and not outside — where my other plants have long since fried in the unforgiving Arizona heat.

This terra cotta pot is painted, another craft I used to love to do. In fact, I once threw a “pot” party, where I invited a bunch of girlfriends over and provided the pots and paints. We had fun being artsy. What most who attended didn’t know was that my friend Rebecca and I had decided to make pot brownies for the pot party. If you know us, you’d know how shocking that is. We are two of the straightest arrows you’ll ever meet. Indeed, it was this shock factor that provoked us. We thought about how all of our friends would nearly die when they found out about the treats we’d provided for the afternoon.
The conversation in finding some marijuana for the baking went something like this:
Me: Um, Rebs, do you know where we can get pot?
R: No. We should ask Ruby! (Our roommate at the time who had, let’s say, “connections.”)
Me: Hey Ruby! Can you get Rebecca and me some pot? We are having a pot party and want to bake some brownies.
Ruby: What the hell is a pot party?
Me: Lengthy description, including an invitation.
Ruby: No. God no. No.
Rebs: Um, you don’t think we are going to get in trouble for just talking to Ruby about pot do you?
Me: Maybe. We shouldn’t talk about this again.

En sum, a story of how two uptight friends hosted a party with Nancy Regan’s voice in the back of their minds.