Dirt. Yes, dirt. Well, and plants. Specifically transferring plants (and touching their current dirt) into larger pots (filled with more touchable dirt) and hoping they don't DIE.

I've had three plants since I moved into my apartment four and a half years ago; they dwarfed their original containers AGES ago.  (Correction: I dehydrated one to death a couple of weeks ago, but bought two to replace it because I'm good at math like that.)  I had also purchased larger pots and a HUGE 9-liter bag of potting soil.  In hindsight, I also should have purchased gloves, a proper watering can, and probably plant food of some sort.  Whatevs: gives me an excuse for another trip to The Big W!

When I got home, I set everything up on layers of newspaper on my dining room table, just like I'd seen my mom do many times before.  I stood there with my hands on my hips, giving the whole lot the stink eye, trying to intimidate them into knowing who was boss.  Or maybe I was just trying to convince myself that I could do this - who knows?  Aaaaand then I walked away.  For hours.  Because I was intimidated.  Again.  Still.

Eventually I put on my big girl panties, walked into the kitchen like some kind of rock star goddess, and shocked the hell out of that poor plant when I plunged my (shaking) hands into its dirt.

It wasn't that bad.  It was pretty easy.  It's been almost a week, and nothing else has died.  Huh, imagine that!

Next up: conquering my fear of starting a new plant from a cutting.  *gasp!*