Where Pretty Green Things Go To Die
I just came in from doing some “gardening”, and by that I mean, I just pulled out some thigh-high weeds and threw out a decimated hanging basket. Saying that I’m not much of a green thumb is an affront to the color green and thumbs everywhere. I kill cactus, people. Like, regularly.
When we bought our house seven years ago, our predecessors left us a lush oasis of emerald lawns, towering sunflowers and fragrant rosebushes. Prior to this, we’d only lived in apartments, so gardening was as foreign to me as size 4 jeans.
Having a baby right after moving in, we could only focus on one living thing at a time, so the garden was left relatively untouched. My neighbor had to inform me, towards the end of the first summer, that the assemblage of beautiful wildflowers running along the side of my house was, in fact, a smorgasbord of weeds.
In the last few years I’ve tried to rectify this sad situation: we’ve hired a lawn dude to deal with the plethora of dandelions and clover; I invested in gardening tools to help me pull weeds (although, in my zealously, the sunflowers accidently met an untimely end); and, we even bought a sprinkler (full disclosure: the boy was two-years-old).
I recently attempted some landscape artistry with a bush (shrub?) thing and decorative stone plaque. I thought it looked spectacular. My friend assumed it was a commemorative gravesite for our dead cat.
I still don’t know the difference between seeds and bulbs, annuals and perennials, or mulch and peat moss. What I do know are my limitations and disinterest in all of the above.
My husband can’t understand why it’s impossible for me to keep a few measly plants alive for a couple of months. I tell him it’s the same reason he can’t manage to put a new roll of toilet paper on the holder – there is zero appeal, little will and absolutely no way.