No, I didn't go and have myself a baby. Or get a puppy.
I got myself a fern. A fern named Kimmy.
From my dad, I inherited my love of sarcasm. From my mom, I inherited my love of ferns. Kimberly Queen ferns to be exact.
It's only right that when she came through Greenwood this weekend, I wound up with a fern.
Not just any fern. The biggest fern ever. So big in fact that it krept out of the backseat and into the front seat on my mom's head when we were driving it home.
She says: You and Brandon are going to wake up one night and that fern is going to have grown so big that it is going to be in your bedroom.
And I say: Eek.
Because the thought of waking up in the middle of the night being face to face with a fern is some scary shiz.
Kimmy was supposed to live on the front steps. But she's way to big. Like waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to big.
So I drug her around to the back and she's now stationed right smack in the middle of the carport.
Is that weird? It might be weird. But I like it. She seems happy there. And she's near the watering hose. And she gets filtered sunlight. And I can look at her while I sit on our little patio. And she's really to big to go anywhere else. Everyone wins.
Welcome to the family, girl.
Now I've just got to get her a pot.