Aloes

I opened a bottle of wine tonight.
I went into my kitchenette and opened the drawer to get the corkscrew, but saw the two-pronged cork puller first.
Two posts ago, I related the disastrous events that resulted from my second, and last, attempt to use that cumbersome beast of a bottle opener.
Tonight, I remembered a comment my friend made to me about that attempt: that the third time's always a charm, except that in my case, there seemed to be a negative progression, and that a third attempt would probably kill me.

I was tempted. Believe me, I was tempted, but that's why I kept the thing.
As a reminder, and as an option. It's good to have options.

Earlier today, I exercised another option that I had: to re-pot my poor, overcrowded and suffocating aloe plant.

The big mama plant had sprouted 6 babies in a six inch pot that I had let live over the winter and spring; they grew larger as the weeks went by. A month ago, I had taped a sign to the pot that read: "re-pot me please!".
The sign did not go ignored, but did remain for a month without attention. After the third week, my friend told me:
"You've had that sign up for three weeks now, and you still haven't done it. Give it to me. I've already got potting soil."

I felt badly. I already had a fern that looked like it was dying, and now my friend had berated me for not taking care of my aloe plant. I became resolved, and that resolve took tangible form today. I bought a bunch of pots and cactus/succulent potting soil (with bone meal!) and I must have been feeling ambitious because I bought myself a new little succulent to sit on my window sill as well.

I spread out newspaper over the laminate floor in my kitchenette, and took to separating the mother and babies from their pot with a butter knife. (an incorrect family analogy. doctor and clones would be more apt, but I'll stick to what's more sympathetic for plot purposes) It turned out that I had purchased enough pots for the mother and four of her babies, but that left the two measliest babies lying on the newspaper, their roots bare and unprotected, only tiny bits of black soil clinging to their bodies. I picked them up and put them in the trash.

I turned back to the empty bags of soil and folded them flat to put in the trash as well. In doing so, I saw the two leftover babies lying at the top of the can. They looked forlorn and sad; I felt really badly for them.
I picked them out and laid them on the newspaper and looked around. I still had a small pile of sandy soil from the agave plant that I'd re-potted with the others. The special soil was gone. I scavenged my studio for containers that would have good drainage, but didn't find any until I came back to the garbage and saw the little disposable container that the new succulent baby I'd purchased had come in (also re-potted; I'm a maniac). There was enough soil to put one of the babies into that pot. I used a ziploc sandwich baggy as the drain tray for it.
That left one tiny, malformed from overcrowding, poorly rooted (it had grown too close to the main stem to form strong roots) aloe baby with no pot and not enough soil left to put it in.
I felt sad for it for a moment, but nothing could be done. I put it into the trash and let go.

I looked over at the others that were freshly re-potted and felt good about them. Two are presents, but the rest are mine. Perhaps I'll try to give one to my neighbor that I so rarely see.

As for now, this glass of wine that I'm drinking (liberated from the bottle with my trusty corkscrew) is for the sad little aloe baby that just couldn't make it.
Bon voyage, my little homie!