Certifiable

I'm still on the mend. I'd probably be 100 percent healthy if (ahem) "Luna" didn't snore like a chainsaw  and I got more than three hours of sleep. The worst part about being up all night? There's little to do. It's too cold to play in the garage. The computer and sewing machine are in the master bedroom. The house is too small to turn on the television without waking anyone. So, I scrubbed the shower and deep cleaned the kitchen. Then I turned to a book.

Anyway, after I write this, I'm going back to sleep. 

Yesterday I was looking for a phone number on the Master Gardener Web site, when, to my surprise, I discovered my status had changed. I'm no longer an "Intern." I've met the requirements necessary and am now a Certified Master Gardener. 

Cool. I can check that off my 2023 Bucket List. 

Next week there's the Master Gardener Christmas party--this is East Texas, nobody does "holiday" parties--where I'm told we will gather and clap over the three of us who achieved their certification thus far. This is a pretty chill group, but I'm okay skipping the whole clapping thing. For that matter, I'm okay skipping the whole give-me-attention thing. 

However, in order to go to this shin-dig, I'm required to cough up ten bucks to pay for a crummy meal I probably won't eat. Trust me, I know exactly where they got this catered chicken spaghetti from. I'm also required to bring a gift "up to $25 in value" for the White Elephant Gift Exchange Dirty Santa game. And oh yes! Everyone is asked to contribute some sort of garden-themed door prize. Fortunately, there's three Dollar Generals within a mile of my home. At the moment, they are all starting to carry their spring line of merch. 

What ever happened to just hanging out and talking plants? Or, just hanging out?  

Marty thinks I should go. I'm thinking I'm too sleep deprived at this moment to make this decision.